Three days after the massacre the doors of the great hall crashed open like thunder on the highland wind.
King Duncan I of Alba stood by the hearth, cloaked in sable furs, his breath visible in the cold stone air.
Around him, thanes and messengers pressed in, their voices sharp, their faces pale.
The firelight cast jagged shadows over the walls as another frantic scout was shoved into the center of the room.
"They've gone, Your Majesty," the man gasped, dripping with snowmelt and blood. "Crossed back over the southern border before dawn. Horses half-dead. They left the village smoldering."
The king's jaw clenched. "And the dead?"
"Two score, at least. Women. Children. My brother among them."
A silence fell, thick and choking. Duncan turned, slow and deliberate, toward his council. His voice, when it came, was low, not quiet, but sharpened to a blade's edge.
"Was it Norse?"
The scout shook his head.
