Chapter Thirteen: The Laird Without a Keep
By dusk, the keep stood shrouded in fog and silence once more. No trumpets greeted Talon’s return. No horn sounded. Only the low creak of the outer gate swinging in the wind and the tired clip of a single highland steed’s hooves on worn stone. Talon dismounted quietly. Behind him, his brother’s body lay wrapped in the green and black tartan of their house, strapped within a cradle of birchwood and cloth tied behind the saddle. His form looked small in death, tucked and still—like a warrior sleeping before battle. At the great oak doors of the keep, a figure stepped forward into the lanternlight. “Master Talon,” said Brannoc, the old houseman. “You’ve returned.” Talon nodded once. “The others?” “Gone to their clans. Or hiding. The world turns sour now. You’ll be called rebel by nightfall.” “I already am.”
The Interment at the Cairn Together, the two men crossed the ancient stone bridge—the only passage between the keep and the forested rise across the loch. The loch waters below were still, black as slate, disturbed only by the faintest breath of wind. Mist clung to the shore as they reached the O’Coyle Cairn, the resting place of lairds and honored kin, built into the side of a wooded hill—stone-stacked and sacred. There, beneath the shadow of pine and frost-shrouded branches, they opened the old cairn gate. A passage led inward, torchlit and damp, lined with the carved names of generations past. The air was cool, smelling of peat and stone. They carried the body to the final alcove, where a bare stone slab awaited. It was tradition: when a laird died before his mark was made, the stone would remain blank until history carved it. Talon knelt beside his brother, laying his hand to the wrapped body. “Sleep in O’Coyle stone,” he said quietly, in the old tongue. Far off in the cairn’s depths, something echoed—like the distant scraping of claws on stone, or a breath behind water. Talon did not hear. But Brannoc… he did. He smiled faintly and touched the wall beside the grave.
The Last Steward
As they emerged back into the grey light, Talon stood on the bridge for a long moment. He looked to the sky—clouds rolling, wind stirring the pine boughs above the cairn. “I have to leave,” he said. “The south will come.” “I know,” Brannoc replied. “There’ll be no defense. The people must go to the mountain. The caves on the southern edge—they can be sealed. I’ll take nothing with me. Just sword and shield. Let the rest go to the earth.” “I will take what can be saved,” Brannoc said. “The heirlooms. The banners. The horn. It will sleep beneath the mountain until the land calls it again.” “You’ll come with me?” Brannoc shook his head, a smile behind his beard. “No, my laird. My bones belong here. The keep cannot fall completely empty. Someone must keep the fire lit… for as long as it lasts.” He turned back toward the keep, stepping back across the bridge. Talon watched him go, the old man’s figure shrinking against the dark stones and gathering mist.
The Departure
Talon stood at the cairn gate a final time. No army behind him. No riches, no standard bearers. Just the O’Coyle sword and shield strapped to his back, a single green cloak draped across his shoulders. He looked once more at his brother’s resting place, then turned to the path ahead. The highlands waited.
The Last Song Brannoc returned to the great hall that night, now hollow with silence. He passed beneath the oak archway, his hand brushing the old wood, his voice low. He began to hum—not a war song, not a hymn, but an old lullaby, once sung to Talon and his brother in their youth. “Cu Sith waits in shadow deep, For laird to wake, for kin to weep. When stars are gone and wolves draw near, The green one comes, with none to fear…” And deep beneath the cairn, where moss crawled over ancient stone, the carved hound of Cu Sith stood silent… watching. The forest whispered. The highlands had been stirred.
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Chapter-Fourteen: The Empty Seat
Far from the high stones of the ancient slab, where once oaths had weight and blood meant bond, a new place had risen—a rough-built town by the loch, a southern tradepost turned council seat. Stone buildings and timber halls had replaced the wind-blasted plateau, and though the banners of the clans still hung, their colors faded and their meanings twisted. Here the seven clans gathered, or what remained of their lairds and envoys. The meeting was called swift—quiet riders sent in every direction after word reached the south that Talon O’Coyle had returned. And more—he had killed eight of the king’s men. That could not go unanswered. The council hall, newly built of grey pine and river stone, rang with voices before the fire was even lit. “He’s a wild dog,” barked Laird MacBran, his cloak lined in white wolf fur. “His father was no better. They listened to spirits instead of law. And now, his boy slaughters sworn men of the realm?” “Sworn men who came cloaked and armed,” countered Laird Dunnach, fists resting on the pommel of his hound-headed cane. “If they took a laird and tortured him, then perhaps O’Coyle was right.” “Right?” snarled Lady Muirnath, eyes sharp like ice at sunrise. “To spill blood again? The king has only just begun opening his gates to us. Trade flows. Coin returns. Must we shatter peace for pride?” From the back of the room, a voice cracked like old stone: “Better pride than chains,” said Old Caibre, the elder druid-laird whose skin was bark-thick and eyes clouded but sharp. “We once held this land in honour, not under the purse of lowland lords. The king offers coin, yes. But he takes sons and gives steel.” Murmurs echoed. Some heads nodded, others looked away. “Talon O’Coyle should have stayed dead,” someone muttered. “Or buried with his cursed hound,” spat another. The fire popped. The banners fluttered in a draft none could find. Then came the voice of Laird Blaer, merchant-proud and wrapped in coin-braided velvet. “We speak of rebellion. Dangerous words. Let’s not pretend we can win this time. We rise now, we burn again. We wait, we may have some say in how things fall.” The room quieted. Silence lingered like mist. And so, they did what cowards dressed as wise men do. They voted. A decree was signed, pressed with the wax seals of the six present clans. It read that the Clans of the Highland Gathering recognized the authority of the crown, condemned the slaying of the king’s men, and pledged to watch the O’Coyles closely for signs of sedition. As was custom, the chair of each clan was marked and accounted. But one seat—blackwood, carved with the Cu Sith and the wild thistle of O'Coyle—sat empty. Unclaimed. Unbowed.
As they left the hall, some lairds whispered among themselves: “He’s not a man anymore, they say.” “Walks with the beast now.” “Perhaps the old blood truly lives in him.” “He’ll bring fire again.” “Or doom.”
And far to the north, beyond the ridges of the Muirnath Vale, across the frost-torn hills where the hawks cried and the lochs steamed under morning light, Talon O’Coyle walked deeper into the Highlands, his back to the world of votes and voices, his hand on the hilt of an old sword. The wind moved beside him. Like something waiting.
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