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prisoner.
    MacColla hissed low in his throat at the thought of Jean.  Frail, without guile, and lovely as the dawn, with shining black hair and a shy cast to her eye.
    Lovely Jean. His sister.
    He vowed he'd die at the hands of one hundred Campbells before allowing her to remain another day captive to the brutish bastard. Word was, the Campbell wasn't even in residence, and if the blackguard was fool enough to abandon his precious prisoner, MacColla would avail himself of the opportunity.
    He stooped, walking the perimeter of the cramped attic room, tracing his hand along the damp stone as he went, shuffling a foot tentatively forward with  each step to see with his body what his eyes couldn't make out in the dark.
    The building would be in the old style  - one -room floors connected by a spiral staircase  - and it would do no good to announce his arrival by tumbling down the attic steps.  Campbell's room would be on an upper floor, and would likely be empty. But he'd need to tread with care as he approached the lower floors. It was late, and MacColla hoped either sleep or drink  - or perhaps both  - would make easy work of dispatching his enemy's men.

    MacColla wagered he'd find his sister in the cellars on the ground floor. Rather, it was where he   hoped   he'd find her.  The guards wouldn't want to spend much time in the vaults beneath the castle, likely thick with rats, urine, and damp. If they used  Jean even now, it was above ground that MacColla would find her, and he'd prefer finding his sister bound and untouched than being used for sport in the castle hall.

    He sensed the opening in front of him, even before his toes slid over the lip of the first step. MacColla took his dirk in his left hand and felt his way down the tight spiral stairs that had been hacked crudely into the stone. He came to a landing and, shifting his dirk back to his right hand, gave himself a moment to let his eyes adjust to the fall of light and shadow in what was a much larger space.
    Every floor will look this way , he thought, easily imagining the castle in his mind's eye. One of the lower stones would house whatever family Campbell chose to keep close, below that would be a great hall, and the kitchen and cellars would be on the ground level.
    He scanned the room. A wardrobe, some chests, and a desk emerged from the shadows. It was well appointed, considering. This one would be the chief's then. MacColla spat in the direction of Campbell's bed, a gray hulk faintly illuminated by what was less a window than a rectangular hole to the outside.

    MacColla continued down, opening his senses wide. Men were close, and he'd rather keep the benefit of surprise.

    Eyes wide in the dark and nostrils flared, he was like a wild hunting thing, taking the measure of the floor below through pure instinct.
    Distant snores. The quiet rumble of two men's voices speaking in a hush. Firelight licking at the bottom steps, too weak to cut through the  black shadows of the stairwell.  The charred bite of wood smoke in his inuses, overlaid with the sour tang of ale gone foul.
    A voice jarred the relative calm. Much closer than the others. A third man, then, sitting just out of view of the staircase. MacColla crept down and into the orange firelight of the landing. Two sat at their ease in chairs in front of the fire, nursing their cups. The third sat on a small stool, his back to MacColla.
    MacColla slid behind him and, for one strange moment, felt the rumble of the man's low laugh reverberate through his own chest as he slipped his hand around the Campbell's forehead, pulling him close to slit his throat.
    The man's death was silent, but the scrape of his stool was not, and he soon had the attention of the  other two  Campbell clansmen. The taller one raised a call of alarm, but MacColla was unfazed.

    He dropped their dead kin to the ground and stepped over him to assume a ready posture. He'd let the first move be theirs, as that was often