A Bonnie Feast

by Clark Williamson

After the death of Mary, Queen of Scots, Elisabeth I sent troops into the land to weed out supporters, thus eliminating future rebellions, she hoped. Angus Ross, a highland duke -- pledged to the Catholic Church and Mary -- was one of the last holdouts. His first born had died in France while in service to the exiled Queen. The second son, Robert, showed great promise and skill and was sent to Edinburgh to study medicine. His third son, Brian, was groomed for battle and was keen on arms, an expert fighter. The youngest, Andrew, was to take the title from his father.

The English troops ravaged the land killing innocent townsfolk in an effort to break the will of the people by intimidation. They began to meet with resistance, which lasts to this day.

Angus was a defender of his people. When the English came to his lands, he drove them off; however, they returned with superior forces and defeated the small army. Trapped in his castle, Angus sent his wife and several small children with his younger brother, Nelson, and his family out a secret exit from the castle which opened onto the sea, where they took a boat to the low lands, and some eventually migrated to New Amsterdam.

Angus, in a valiant battle, lost, and in an effort to stop bloodshed, laid down his arms. He was forced to watch as his sons, Andrew, 18, and Brian, 19, were tortured for days and then killed in a gruesome fashion. He was then treated to a similar death.

Before he died, however, he laid a curse on the castle and all Englishmen who tried to occupy it. (Male rape was used extensively over the centuries by victorious armies to humiliate vanquished foes, and for the victors' pleasure. Torture was not used by the Scotts much in battle. They made sure, by hacking with axes and the swinging claymore swords, that there were few survivors. One of Scotland's shortcomings has been a lack of understanding of political subtleties, such as torture. However, they do have the ability to return deeds, measure for measure.


By the fall of 1940, the war was going badly for the British. An invasion was possible and lookouts had to be maintained at all possible points. The castle of Angus Ross, which had remained unoccupied since his death, had a good vantage point to watch the sea. A descendant, Marcus, lived in a cottage near the castle, retired now after long years as a civil servant. He had children living in a nearby village and grandsons in the army in North Africa and India.

The old gentleman had heard the truck rumble up beside the low stone wall surrounding his now dried garden. He had waited for the knock at the door before investigating. It was a year and a month since the Huns had attacked Poland. Once again he saw war, only this time it had come to his homeland's shores.

He unbolted the top section. It creaked open. The young Lance Corporal, only 19, stood at attention. Blond shocks peeking below round topped MK1 helmet, red, blue, yellow insignia and a shield with lightning bolt identified him as a radio corpsman.

"Mr. Marcus Ross, sir?" he asked smartly.

"Aye, son, tis myself, and you?"

"Lance-Corporal Hawks, sir, at your service, sir."

"I need no service, young man," Ross said softly and rolled his rrrs, in contrast to the proper sounding English of the young soldier.

"Command center tells us you have the key to the castle over there." The youth pointed to the still usable remains of free Scotland, a twelfth century moated castle on a cliff overlooking the sea at the end of this north highland peninsula.

"Aye, yonder tis me ancestral home. We na live there a'more. Tis haunted, it is, ya know. None with accursed English blood in them can a stay the night."

"You're a Scot?"

"Aye, mostly, a bit of the wrong blood is in me veins. I go there by day only. I told the others."

"Others, sir?"

"Are you in charge here?"

"No, sir, Sergeant-major Wilkins is, sir."

"Well, fetch him in here. I have important explainin' to do."

The young soldier turned sprightly and ran to the truck. Soon, other young men followed, dressed similarly; broad brimmed, round topped helmets, khaki shirts with wide pockets, pants with pleated side pockets bulging with supplies, folded neatly in webbed anklets over lace boots. Long overcoats with large pockets, too. Each boy/man soldier with a Mark One rifle. They bounced out the tailgate, equipment webs rattling gas masks, canteen, and dagger. They leaned against the wall, stretching, chatting, smoking.

Most seemed younger than the lance-corporal -- good looking lads, away from home the first time, eager for the battle, as only untested youth can be. Some removed their helmets, revealing red, brown, black and blond hair, few signs of shaven skin on their soft young faces, bright eyes surveying the bleak, wind blown, harsh landscape and the towering, dark stoned menacing castle looming against the greying sky. A storm was predicted for the night; they wanted to be inside, away from the cold North Sea's fury.

The sergeant-major, obviously annoyed, climbed out of the cab, leaving the driver. He rounded the truck, briskly walking to the cottage, the lance-corporal at his heals.

"Sergeant-Major Wilkins, sir." He raised his hand in salute.

"Aye, and welcome ya are." The old man opened the lower door and bade them come in, "I have tea on the stove, always hot." He motioned to the coal cook stove with a blackened pot on the back puffing steam.

"A spot would warm us, thank you," Wilkins replied.

Ross directed them to chairs at the cloth covered wooden table as he placed cups with saucers before the men. He removed a tin of Robertson's biscuits from the shelf, opened it, placed it at table center, then poured a black brew from the boiling pot. The old man sat opposite the brown haired sergeant-major, who was fresh from college, where he trained as an engineer. The army put him to the best use they could. He was athletic, goalie on the football squad, tall, well proportioned, self assured. He didn't ask for the war, but he was going to get more than NCO out of it, one way or another.

Hawks sipped at the tea. Wilkins, smarter, stirred it, gently. "Do you have a bit of milk, sir?" asked the young lance-corporal.

"Sorry, laddie, not used to real tea, are ya?"

"Now then, Mr. Ross," the sergeant-major began. "Corporal Hawks here says there are others at the castle?"

"Not now, but others were there a month ago, came like ya, they seemed to have disappeared, I warned them, like I shall yea, sir. A few weeks back, two laddies came for the truck they left." The old man sat back.

"You tell me there was another team here, and they went away?"

"Not went away, laddie. Let me explain the castle."

"Please do." The sergeant-Major removed a pipe from his shirt pocket. The old man nodded and reached for a wick which he poked into the open stove front. He handed the lighted stick to Wilkins, who lit the pipe.

"I am the Duke of Ross, a title that's no longer used. It goes back to King Alexander, the kin of Richard I. Me many times great uncle was lord of the manor when Elisabeth was Queen. Her henchmen came looking for Catholic supporters of dead Mary. The Highlands are not for either Henry's or the Pope's church. They cared little; they were looking for blood, and blood they found. The slaughter was complete. Me many times great grandfather pushed off in a boat with village women and kin for refuge in the lowlands. Most went to America; some came home, to here."

The blond youth sipped the strong tea, wishing for both milk and sugar to weaken the brew. He watched the old man's arm motioning, accenting his words. Fascinated by the tale, he slipped another biscuit, for later, in his pocket.

"The lord was captured with two of his sons. A third studying medicine in Edinburgh was killed later. The master was forced to watch the debasement of his kin, then their slow deaths. Before he too faced humiliation and the sword, he placed a curse on the castle. Any person with English blood in them, no matter how little, will face him and his sons, in spirit, and die, if they sleep in the castle. Many Englishmen over the years have been found dead in the morning, horribly dismembered. Others ran screaming, forever mad, from the castle. Most are never seen again, as if the Master of the house dragged them back to hell with him. I warned the other company of soldiers, told them the tale. I go to the castle by day, in years past, but I have a drop of English in me. As a boy I ventured close at night, once heard weird noises, saw lights, I did. I have no wish to die before me time, and not at the hands of a long dead ancestor. My father, who lived in this house his entire life, told me he felt coldness in the night when English disappeared from the castle. He warned them; he charged me from his death bed to warn all others."

Sergeant-Major Wilkins puffed quietly, wishing the interview would soon be over. The old man was obviously daft. He wished to get onto the castle so camp could be made before dark. He stirred his tea and politely listened, unimpressed.

"This I've told ya, keepin' me death bed promise. I'll tell ya this, too - on the night the others were there, I heard nothing; however, I could not sleep, a chill filled me body, even a glass of spirit could not warm me. I went close by day, the draw-bridge was closed. I am too old to climb from the cliff base as the two who retrieved the truck had to."

The old man rose and poured himself another cup of tea and eyed his listeners. He realized that he should have been talking to the men, not the leader, but decided he could do no more.

"I assume your mission be the same, lookout for the enemy, radio contact with headquarters."

"This it is. That we shall do," Wilkins said.

"There is a storm a brewing out there. Fog will obscure the castle with swirling rains, cold winds. A storm here can last a couple of days. Yer welcome to set camp in the yard, contact headquarters and arrange an outpost outside the castle walls."

"We need the height the turrets afford and we need the comfort of the castle, such as it is in the storm. All the more reason for us to go on without further delay."

"Suit ya selves, you'll find little comfort inside those walls tonight," Ross said, finishing his tea. The soldiers rose and turned for the door.

"Then there is no key? Just a draw-bridge?" Lance-Corporal Hawks asked.

"None, laddie. With the bridge drawn up, and high tide, or a storm tide like tonight, no one can get in, or out."

"Thank you for the tea," Wilkins said. "And the history story. We have our orders; it's war you know."

"Aye, I hear the planes coming and going over the cottage by day and night. I have me windows blacked out so no light can be seen."

"Good man. I shall see you in the morning, or if the storm is bad on the next," Wilkins said, opening the door.

"I'll say a prayer for ye. Any last messages for yer kin?"

"Thank you, but like you, I am not ready to die."

The soldiers walked briskly back to the truck.

"Best not share that tall tale with the men. We have enough to worry about. We need no ghost stories on a stormy night."

"Ah, twas a dark and stormy night, the book began, eh sir?"

"Only a bad story would begin that way. I'm surprised the old fool didn't start his tale that way. It's rubbish. Get the men in smartly, Mr. Hawks."

The lone truck moved on up the road, which beyond the cottage became bumpy, little more than a lane. The wind picked up as they neared the cliff edge. The men in the back of the truck rolled down the canvas cover for protection.

The draw-bridge was down, leading to the castle proper. The pointed spikes of the castle gate were visible in the arched entrance way. One of the privates and the lance-corporal walked the wood bridge, looking for cracks in the stout beams. He didn't see any, so he motioned the truck forward. The bridge was just wide enough to accommodate the truck which slowly ventured across, through the stone arch, into a small courtyard. The men piled out, craning their necks and looking up at the high walls topped with battlements. There were two low towers forming the castle gate, then the curtain walls going north and east to the sea, where other towers, somewhat taller, were. The main housing in the place was in a curved building, built on the cliff overlooking the sea.

The sergeant-major quickly surveyed the place. "Davis, Hills. You two find the staircases to the seaward towers. We shall have outposts in each."

"Aye sir." They snapped to attention, took torches and headed to the obvious doorway of the northern tower.

"Bilkins, Clark. There should be a room in one of the gate towers with a mechanism to lower the grating over the door and draw up the bridge."

"Sir!" They moved toward the entrance.

"Mellon, Nelson. Set a fire going in the great hall, which should be behind those massive doors straight ahead. O'Brien, Taylor. Set the generator going and start running the electric. Wilson, Wright, set the radio up in the far end of the great hall, get the antenna ready to string around the battlements. We should get a great signal from there."

The men quickly fell to their assigned tasks. Wilkins walked over to the blond lance-corporal. "We shall take a little walk through this place and look for signs of ghosts. Bring your torch."

The men walked across the stone courtyard to the left tower at the entrance. They checked on Clark and Bilkins who were struggling turning the giant capstan with stout prongs for four men to turn, slowly drawing the bridge to a closed position.

"The counter weights must be missing, sir," Clark said.

"Good work men, put your backs to it," cheered Wilkins.

They ascended the staircase, which curved, conforming with the tower's shape. They found small rooms with windows overlooking the plain leading to the castle. Hawks raised the floor door leading to the battlements, which when opened, showered them with dirt. They walked along in the late afternoon cloudy light, the fog beginning to come in, the wind chilling them.

"Think of it, man. Men fought and died right here where we are standing, using primitive weapons, which are useless today," Wilkins said, striding along toward the east sea tower.

"Sir, I think a crossbow still can bring down a deer as good as a rifle, when one gets to know how to use it," Hawks ventured.

"I mean they died with bloody cross swords rammed through their guts, arms severed by battle axes, arrows through the throat, hand to hand combat, strength prevailing."

"Yes sir!"

"Nowadays a bomb falls from a bloody plane two miles up and kills 500 with one blow. We fire cannons at men we never see, only when we go in and clean the guts off the trench walls, and bury them."

They walked along in silence. Each of the sea towers had ample room for a man to be comfortable with binoculars. The windows gave a full view of the sea. The northern tower view was of the sea and the bay entrance; no vessel could go by undetected. They descended through the castle living quarters, rooms with high ceilings, huge mantled fireplaces and large doors on rusty iron hinges, heavy drapes disintegrating and falling away from the windows. There was a general lack of furniture. It must have been removed when the place was abandoned. The great hall, a high beamed ceiling room, had tall slender opaque glass windows on the courtyard wall, and two fireplaces, one large with a built-in spit large enough for an ox, and swinging brackets for iron kettles, on one side a double oven. The other had a decorative mantle, obviously for heat only. The rough long table remained with four chairs, one apparently new, possibly made of castle doors. This puzzled the sergeant-major.

He found himself quarters in what may have been a kitchen. There was a large fireplace, similar to the large one in the great hall. Along one side a wood topped ledge ran the length of the room and there were curious rings bolted in at several places, in pairs.

Lance-corporal Hawks set himself up in the pantry, which had a door to the sergeant-major's room, and one to a hallway, which led to the great hall and the rest of the castle.

Electric lights were being set up, the fires were going strong, fed by fresh peat, oddly found stacked near each fireplace.

The men setting up the radio equipment found something startling. "Sir." Wilson was in the sergeant-major's quarters. "We've found an antenna already strung round the battlements - it's recent issue."

"Very good, is it usable?"

"Seems so. We've made contact with base command."

"Excellent, I shall send a message soon. Carry-on."


Wilkins was troubled but he couldn't show it to his men. Maybe there was something to the old man's story. Why didn't command say something to him? Did they know the story, too? And believe it? 'Bloody Huns, fucking up my life,' he thought.


In the courtyard near the outside stair to the battlements, one lone door was in the wall, leading to the escape stair which ended beyond the iron grill at the sea. It quietly opened. Darkness had fallen in the courtyard, even though there still was much ragged grey sky showing above the walls. Shadowy figures moved along the wall and entered into the base of the northern sea tower.

"Aye, tis evident that these bloody sods tend to stay the night," the taller man said.

"That they seem, father," a stocky shorter man said.

"I think I shall have a visit with the leader," the tall man said, brushing off the front of his tartan kilt of several shades of green, blue and orange/red fabric, adjusting his red flowing beard.

"Brian, ye and Andrew take care that the grid is down. I heard the bridge being drawn up slowly. If there are any there, eliminate them; we need no attack from the rear, and bring parts for the haggis. We may have a bonnie feast tonight."

"Aye father, tis good to feast; we'll be ready," the red-haired youth said, slapping the dirk sheathed at his side.

"Aye Andy, and we'll have our fun with the bastards afore we oft 'em, eh?" the other youth said as they moved in shadows.

"Aye, Brian, me belly is empty, me balls are full."

The youths laughed and set out walking for the north castle gate tower. Their father moved on through the castle towards the room occupied by Sergeant-Major Wilkins who was sitting on his sleeping cot, clipboard in hand, crossing out his latest effort trying to figure the proper wording to ask, respectfully, about any previous parties sent to this castle, without alarming the men. Noticing the door bolt sliding closed, he quickly looked at the door leading to Hawk's room. The bolt was closed. He rose to change the bolt, but stopped dead in his tracks, seeing a tall man, forty-ish, long flowing red hair cascading over broad shoulders. He was wearing triubhas style shirt and a kilt with matching belted plaid slung over his left shoulder. High socks to the knees, ankle boots, under the socks, a ribbon. A small dirk at the left calf, a long dirk hanging from his side. He was leaning on a claymore sword, his beefy hands resting on the two handed hilt.

"Be ye a goin' laddie," the man spoke.

"I... how did you get in here?" Wilkins spoke, his throat suddenly dry.

"I may be dead near 400 years, laddie, but tis my own castle it is, and I come and go at my pleasure."

"Who are you?" "I think ye know. Me descendent told of this castle to you this very day, did he not?"

"Not by name."

'Beggin' your pardon, sir. I'll speak to the man. I am Angus Harold William Richard Ross, Fifth Lord of this mighty hall, at your service. And you?"

"Sergeant-Major Phillip Wilkins, Yorkshire Light Infantry, His Majesty's Royal Army."

"Yes, bloody George VI if I haven't lost count. Maybe the Norsemen will slit his scrawny throat for me."

"Sir, he is our King."

"Yer King, maybe. My King and the rightful one for these lands would be the descendent of James, Mary's child."

"Sir, there is a war going on, I have to be about my business."

"Yer need not worry about the war; you'll not face the Norsemen. I have business to be about, also, and only this evening to conduct it." Angus handed the sword to Wilkins. "Hold this, I hear someone at the door."

Wilkins tried to lift the heavy six foot long sword, but could only manage a few inches off the floor. Angus opened the door to admit a tall slender young man with dark red hair, topped by a bonnet with long white feather. Over his shoulder he carried a large bag of the same tartan as his belted plaid. He wears a large brooch on the shoulder, his blue triubhas is lighter than the dark blue trews he is wearing.

"Robert, tis time yea got here." The men embraced.

"Father, even a spirit takes time to travel from Edinburgh."

"We feast tonight, I thought a wee bit of music would be good. This man has the wind of a piper. Do ye think you could make us a set of pipes for our entertainment?"

"Of him?" Robert circled Wilkins. "I think I could do something. Medical school taught me much, but I can improvise."

"Good lad. Brian and Andy are fetchin' sausage for the haggis. I have to find a likely candidate. I'll leave you to your work."

"Mr. Ross," Wilkins interrupted. "Do you think I am going to sit in here all night while you entertain? What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to die, you damned of God, bloody Englishman," Angus said, taking back the sword with one hand, then disappearing in the dark.

Wilkins reached the door, but found he could not budge the bolt. A firm hand on his shoulder drew him toward the ledge. The young sergeant-major was cold from the touch. He felt sick with fear. His mind raced trying to come up with a logical explanation for what he had seen and was feeling.


Bilkins and Clark were raising a sweat. As cold as it was, their clothes began to hang cold and damp on their young muscled frames. The two of them turning the gears, lifting the drawbridge was more work than they had done in weeks. "Gawd damned fuckin' Scotts," Clark exclaimed. "Au'd the built a friggin cas'le anyway." The black haired, round faced youth leaned against the capstan, bracing himself on the push bar. He wiped the sweat from his light skinned brow. His tall slender frame bent over the bar, pushing his round buttocks out. "Guess we 'ave to pull 'at friggin' chain ta lower ta grate."

"Not till I take a pee," Bilkins said. He was shorter and rather slim. He was unbuttoning his pants, fishing his short cock out to let a stream flow against the wall.

"Ya cood bloody 'ell do that at ta bridge, Gawd damn tenement boy," Clark snarled.

"Don't take on so. I'll piss off, leavin' ya to lower the bloody thing yourself."

They didn't get on well after a misunderstanding over a whore outside the barracks at Aldershot.

"We may 'ave grown up in the same Liverpool tenement, but I learned me manners," Clark added.

"You could learn to speak English..." Bilkins stopped short. He had glanced over his shoulder speaking to Clark. "Jamie, I think we're not alone."

Clark turned and received a thick fist to his belly from Brian, the beefy muscular Scottish youth. Clark doubled over, reaching for the floor to steady himself. Puking, gasping for breath, he was raised up by a shock of hair, a bare knee rammed up between his legs, followed by another firm fist to his midsection. Clark fell face down to the floor.

The younger, wiry, strong brother grabbed the still pissing Bilkins by the arm, quickly twisting the wrist between the shoulders, then bending the hand backwards. Bilkins gasped and groaned as the bones in his hand and wrist snapped, broke, popped, pulled out of joint, sending electric shocks of pain up the scrawny youth's arm. He went to his knees.

"Now that's not a way guest should act, pissin' on the floor."

Andy raised his foot and stomped the back of Bilkins' neck, forcing his face into the warm puddle.

"Now then, ye lick it up."

Bilkins' tongue swabbed the wet, cold stone. The taste of his piss brought vomit spilling from his mouth.

"Tis na good, a bigger mess he's makin," Brian said. "Let's use the gate chain while we tend to the other."

Andy lifted Bilkins by the good right arm, placed his foot against the upper part and bent the elbow backwards, shattering the joint. This brought a scream from the soldier. He was lifted by the armpits. Andrew held the scared young soldier as Brian rammed his fist into his exposed neck. "That'll end the brayin'."

The hapless man was then hung by his arms, by chains hanging from the ceiling, wrapped around the twisted broken limbs. He was unable to speak. Tears streamed down his face and mixed with the piss and puke over the front of his uniform.

Clark was lifted and dropped over the waist-high push bar from the capstan. Brian took his dirk and slit the equipment belt, pants and gym shorts Clark wore for underwear. His round white butt was exposed as the cut clothing was peeled down to his boots.

"He's yours, brother, I'll take the pisser," Andy said.

"Then you play with his face. I don't want to hear the brayin' like I was fuckin' a sheep."

"No please," groaned Clark, realizing what was in store. "Not that, please, no, I'm not a bloody queer, no." He struggled to get up, but Andy wrapped his arm around the soldier's neck, holding him tight to his kilted waist. Brian stood in front, having tucked his skirt on the folds of the belt. He stroked his fat cock, the moist skin sliding over its round head.

"Would ye like ta wet it a bit, make it a wee bit easier on ya?"

Clark's eyes bulged at the size of the young man's cock. Clark was known for having a large tool himself, but this Scottish boy, no older than his own 18 years, was thick as a forearm and long as a dagger.

"Please, not that. What do you want of us? Not that." Clark was sobbing in a weak voice.

"Shut this blubberin' up," Brian said.

Andy had a cobblestone in his right hand and brought it firmly into Clark's face, not hard, but enough to break the nose, sending blood splattering over the young man's face.

Clark bucked hard, screamed, muted by the young squeezing arm around his neck as the older youth rammed his whole cock into the virgin hole with one shove. Bilkins watched helplessly as the giant prick reamed his mate's butt. Andy started to match his brother's thrusts with cobblestone face smashes, shattering teeth, smashing cheek bones, and crushing forehead.

The cock rammed, humiliating the soldier while he struggled to protect his head from the relentless attack. Brian grunted as his load flooded the torn, bleeding asshole.

Andy let the near lifeless head fall after a last strike shattered the lower jaw, causing it to hang by torn flesh. Brian wiped his dick on the soldier's shirt tail. Then he reached between Clark's shivering legs, pulled back the large flaccid cock and low hanging balls, and with a swift move, his sharp dirk separated the young man's genitals from his body, creating a stream of blood pouring from the wound.

"Father will like these. They'll add to the flavor," Brian said, laying the severed equipment on the dying man's bare back, holding them in place by sticking the dirk into the dark pubic patch which was cut away with the prick. Trickles of blood ran from the severed cords and formed a crazy pattern on the white skin.

Bilkins hoarsely cried out in terror as the brothers approached him. When his bonds were removed and his feet touched the floor, he sprang, running from the tower room, but mistakenly turned right to meet the closed drawbridge. Andy, young, strong, swift, was on Bilkins' tail at once. The light brown haired soldier was quickly subdued. Andy ripped apart the open pants, tore the wool knit long underwear apart and pulled them down to Bilkins' ankles. He flopped him face up on the entrance road.

"Lower the grid," called Andrew.

The iron grid which covered the entrance came slowly down as Brian pulled the chains which had bound Bilkins. Andy positioned the struggling soldier on his back and called for Brian to stop when the points pressed into Bilkins' belly, chest, and cheek.

"I'll not offer ya a spit; ye pissed on me home." Andy raised the soldier's legs, tying them with the torn uniform to the grid. He raised his kilt, revealing a hard cock equal in length to his brother's, but slender, upward curving. He reached between the raised legs, roughly grabbing Bilkins' cock and balls, lifting him, then entering coarsely. Bilkins struggled, but could not move because of the points pressing him to the road bed. With quivering fingers, Bilkins opened his shirt, and after a struggle, he raised a small gold cross on a chain round his neck.

"You must be of the devil. See this, Lord help me, I'm not a woman."

The soldier was crying as the young Scott rammed his passion into the ripped asshole, filled the bowels with his cum, spit on the cross, then withdrew his bloody cock and quickly separated Bilkins from his cock and balls.

Brian, who had watched the assault from the doorway, returned to the chain and lowered the spike pointed grid to the ground. The spikes pushed through the twisting man's belly and chest, causing spurts of blood to gush out around them. The one penetrating his face pulled the skin aside in a grotesque pattern, exposing teeth and ripping an eye loose. The man struggled a bit, blinking his good eye, gasping some inaudible words, blood pouring from between his raised legs. He died quickly. The youths took their prizes and left to join their father, who would prepare the Haggis.


"That'd be a Yankee truck, is it?" said O'Brien, resting his foot on the front bumper.

"Yes, something they sent us on lend lease," Taylor answered, pointing under the open hood.

"Got two motors, one to drive and the other's a generator. They tried it on field hospitals and radio outposts."

"We can use some comfort in this fucking tomb. That's what these stone buildings are, bloody tombs," Taylor mused. He went round to the back to get something from a tool box. When he turned round the front of the truck, he saw two kilted forms binding O'Brien. Taylor turned to run, but was quickly tackled by the younger brother and silenced, first a blow between his legs, forcing the wind out of him, a second to his jaw. When the soldiers were bound, they were set in the back of the truck for safe keeping. The brothers edged on toward the great hall.

In the meantime, their father had gone wandering the upper corridors when he heard Davis and Hills noisily setting up comforts in the north sea tower. He approached quietly, armed with a double edged ax taken from its mount on the stair wall, the steel blade bound in the notched wood end by finely braided flax, a sturdy twine that would last centuries.

"That'll give a bit of comfort with his makeshift table, eh, Danny?" Hills asked. He was short, dark curly haired, boyish looking because of his short stature, yet he was older than most of the soldiers in the company at 20.

"That it does. I'll bring me up one of those barrels from the courtyard to sit me bottom on during the watch," Davis answered. He was the youngest, an average sized boy, younger than Angus' youngest, Andrew. Wide set blue eyes under blond curls, strong build for so young, yet something vulnerable about him.

The youths had torn the door from the tower room and fashioned a table with crates. Davis eyed the shorter, older young man, dark hair messed over his wide forehead, dark hair showing at the neck, a small, but firm body.

"Do you think we could do a fast one, Ronald?" Davis asked, reaching out for the other man's hand. "I'm very lonely. I haven't told a soul. I need you."

Hills turned red at the remembrance of a drunken indiscretion with the winsome youth. "I tald ya I'm nat in a queer way." Hills jumped back from the advance. "I'm nat a friggin' homo - 'hat you do can suit yourself 'ithout me." The short man turned and bolted out the door.


Angus was waiting with his ax poised. He swung the weapon with full might. The blade entered on Hills' equipment web, tearing through the metal buckle. The youth uttered no sound as his belly was split open, his arms thrown forward by the blow, knocking his feet from under him. The blade sliced through the soldier's mid-section, stopping in the spinal column. The force of the blow reversed Hills' direction and his torso, arms, and head fell back into the tower room. The hips and legs followed, tearing away from the rest of the body as it fell writhing on the floor. Hills twisted a few times, his intestines spilling from under his shirt. He reached for Danny with one arm, and clutching air, his feet and legs bucking independently, then still.

The giant Scott looked down at the youth and spit in his pain twisted, blood vomit covered face. "Were ye an enemy on the field o battle I would put ye out o misery, but yea be English invadin' me home. I'll let life leave on its own."

Angus set the ax by the door and stepped over the shuddering, choking, gasping young man, creating a large pool of innards and blood, and eyed the blond boy.


Danny Davis had joined up as soon as he could after his brother had not made it from Dunkirk. The boy swore revenge on the Germans. His mother reluctantly signed the release on his 15th birthday when assured he would see no front line duty for three years. He had never seen violence, blood, or death. A gentle loving, lonely youth, he dreamed of others his own kind at night in the barracks of a hundred other youths. He felt the warm urine cascading down his legs, his blue eyes giant bubbles, drool dribbling from his fear frozen open mouth. He could not defend himself even with a plea for mercy.

Angus pushed the 18 year old onto the table and carefully cut away the youth's uniform, stripping the slender boy naked, revealing a near hairless, firm boy's body. He was not without compassion, pulling the terrified youth's mouth under the kilt, forcing his giant cock in the red wet lips to lubricate his tool so as to minimize the pain of entry. The boy took the prick deep and did not choke on something he was used to doing. His legs were thrown in the air, his butt split as it had never been with the youths he played with.

Angus thrust with kindness at first, but then, recalling the torture he witnessed Andrew suffer at an age not much more, he became violent. Again he heard his son scream for the relief of death as he was split by the company of Elisabeth's men, then slowly burned by torch, his tender, youthful parts seared first, then his extremities, finally placed on a pointed stake next to his brother to slowly die over two excruciating days.

Angus worked his giant cock tearing the silent boy who only blankly stared at his attacker and offered no resistance when the Scott placed his large calloused hands on his neck and began to close them, cutting off the air supply first, then the blood flow to the blond boy's head, bringing a dark hue to his face.

Davis' tongue darted out from blackened lips and his eyes rolled back as life left his body. Muscles contracted involuntarily; the young cock exploding a last time, bringing a jolt from Scott's hips as he emptied his balls in the youth.

When he was done and withdrawn, letting the naked youth slump on the table, removing his dirk, he sliced the boy's hard cock and balls away from his body. He hung the genitals by a small hook, through the small blond bush. A few quick slices and the remaining clothing on Hills' body was removed and his cock and dark haired balls hung beside Danny's.

'Too young,' thought Angus, surveying the youth he'd just fucked. 'These Norsemen must have the crown in trouble; time for the Scotts to raise up,' Angus continued thinking as he hiked the boy under his massive arm, grabbed Hills' foot in that hand and in the other, took Hills' hair, dragged them to the parapet and tossed their bodies into the storm raged sea.


Mellon and Nelson had set the fires, cleaned the great table and benches, set out the cots in a row near the large fireplace and now were doing a bit of exploring of their own. The wind whistled around the castle as the storm grew. In the corridor they found a large cabinet which could be of use, and they began to slide it along the stone floor to bring it into the great hall. They moved with great care as they got to the door leading to the lance-corporal's room so as not to disturb the sleep he was taking now to be ready for the late watch. They were unaware of Angus approaching with the claymore in his left hand, dirk in the right. When he heard the scraping noise he knew not what to expect.

While the brothers were depositing O'Brien and Taylor in the truck, Wilson had left the hall, following the antenna. The once clear signal was now broken. Angus had, unknowingly, ripped the slender wire at the top of the outside stairs near the tower, while dumping the bodies in the sea, severing the signal.

The brothers waited in the shadows, watching in the great hall. Wright came out to call to his partner, when he was grabbed from behind, a beefy arm around his neck silencing him. Andrew drove his slender fist into the teen soldier's belly hard. The wind blew out from his lungs and Wright fell to his knees. Brian grabbed some of the antenna wire and bound the black haired youth, his own age, left him in the corner and stealthily ran to the battlements, where they saw Wilson crouched, splicing.

Brian's foot came hard against the blond boy's butt. Wilson rolled to his back. Brian landed knee first on the young soldier's mid-section. The lightening speed at which the attack took place left the 18 year old soldier tied, then carried down to the great hall entrance where he was dropped next to his companion. Bits of torn uniform stuffed in their mouths gave them a terrified look.

Angus took aim and threw his dirk. It entered Nelson's raised right arm, tearing through the underarm flesh, pinning him to the wood chest. Dropping his end, crying out loudly, he tried to reach under his chest with the left hand to pull the dagger out.

Mellon stepped around to see what had happened and gasped to see the red haired Scott flying at him full speed with the Claymore held as a lance. When he saw he was seen, Angus let loose a cry, a scream of victory which could scare an enemy into surrender. Mellon stood terrified at the unholy sight, wetting and messing his gym shorts and supporter he wore for underwear, speechless from fear. Only when the pointed blade entered him at the navel, sending burning sensations through his belly, did he scream or resist. Mellon grabbed at the blade with his hands in a firm grip, severing his fingers and thumbs from both hands, causing ten red fountains to blossom at the ends of his arms. The sword slid in and upward through the thick diaphragm, shredding lungs and ripping out through the neck.

The claymore blade widened from a point to eight inches in breadth in a short distance down the six foot blade. The point rammed on upward, through gristle and bone, into the man's brain, stilling his life. The wide blade tore the head from the shattered neck as the wide, sharp blade ground through gullet, wind pipe and vertebra with ease.

"Ye will do fine for me haggis, laddie," Angus said as he approached Nelson, still struggling to free himself.

"What'd ya go'an do thet afor?" Nelson asked.

"He didn't have the meat on his bones yea has." Angus felt his captive, squeezing arms and thighs, poking the man's belly, with cupped hand holding buttocks. Nelson squirmed but could do little, even though he was by far the best physical specimen of the lot. Angus pulled the dirk from the chest, freeing Nelson's arm. He directed the redheaded 19 year old into the great hall. Andy and Brian came through the other door, having heard their father's victory call. "Get the block and fall ready, we'll hoist him up," Angus instructed.

The boys went to the wall near the larger fireplace and pulled some heavy ropes from where they were tethered. Nelson was held firmly by Angus as his sons tied the rope around the struggling soldier's ankles. The boys pulled together, lifting the soldier upside down in one pull, his hands just touching the floor.

"Is Robert here yet?" asked Brian.

"Aye, that he is, in yonder room, making us a special entertainment for the evening, practicing his medical knowledge at the same time; and you two, are there any others about?"

"None we know of," Andrew spoke up, then laying the severed cocks and balls on the table.

"We got some sausage for the meal and satisfied ourselves before offing two bloody Englishmen."

"Ye may be satisfied," Brian smiled. "We have four in the yard, all bound and quiet, waiting for later, unless we need them for the dinner."

"I too am satisfied, and I have some meat for the meal," the elder man said, tossing down the cocks and balls he had severed.

Nelson, seeing the male organs tossed around, became really fearful for his own end, which he had decided was out of his control and soon to come, but he declared to himself to die a credit to the regiment, and somehow take one of these unholy bastards with him.


The youths entered the room where Robert was working diligently. The sergeant-major had been strapped to the rings in the wood topped ledge, his clothing cut away. First his legs were tied off at the hip with leather thongs, twisted till they were buried in the flesh of each thigh, cutting off the blood flow to his legs. A strap of fabric had been placed in the soldier's mouth to lessen the sounds of the surgery which followed.

Robert carefully opened the right calf, cutting away the skin from that section, but cutting across at the knee and ankle, then connecting these cuts with a long slice. The skin pealed back, exposing the muscles. He worked his way up to the knee, exposing the bone. With a sharp knife he cut away all the flesh from the bone, then cut into the grizzle around the foot. With hammer and chisel he smashed the fibula, freeing the tibia, then, using the chisel for prying, he popped the bone from the knee. He cut open the thigh in a similar fashion, deftly slicing away the muscles from the knee joint and from near the hip. Using the hammer and chisel, he freed the femur from the body, then twisted it free from the knee joint. This done, he repeated the operation on the other side.

Wilkins passed out several times during the painful surgery. However, he regained consciousness only to be greeted with more excruciating pains as another bone was removed.

Robert cut the bones so the joints were removed, using a stiff wire. He cleaned the marrow out, then he rammed a long, sharp, slender file into each bone, enlarging the interior to the size needed, then they were set to dry near the fire. The left arm was opened next in one long slit. The hammer and chisel were used to break up the bones in small pieces so they could easily be removed. This done, the hand was severed at the wrist, the opening sewn shut, as was the incision used to remove the bones.

Robert was ready for a rest at this point and also wanted some relief. He removed the clothing from the man's mouth, to be greeted by constant groaning. Robert lowered his trews, exposing a long, slender cock with bulbous, covered head. He straddled the soldier's face, plunged his cock into the helpless man's throat, muffling the moans. Wilkins struggled some against the unnatural act, but he was too weak to resist, and finally just let the Scott, about his own age, commit the sin against his body.

Relieved, Robert cut away the legs and the right arm, using a candle to stop the flow of blood and sealing the wounds with wax to keep fluid from oozing out. Wilkins shook his head from side to side as his limbs were severed. Even with the tourniquets, he had much feeling as the nerves were severed and the flame sutured the blood flow.

There were hugs all around when Andrew and Brian entered the room. They admired their brother's technique. Both playfully tugged at the soldier's manhood, then stood back to watch as Robert continued his task.

With great care he sliced open the man's belly from just above the pubic hair straight up to the sternum, then a cut on each side, from the pubis across to the buttocks. Next, from about the navel up around the ribs almost to the armpit, the skin was pealed back. He made similar cuts in the muscles lining the abdomen. This was also carefully folded back, revealing the man's intestines.

Quickly, Robert cut away the small and large intestines, pulling them out to fall on the floor. He sliced away the liver, which he set aside, He closed the wounds where intestines had been connected, fished around till he had the kidneys, which he also set aside. He then cut away the rectum and bladder, and pulled out any other bits and pieces of flesh. He sealed the dumdum to the diaphragm, took a funnel, placed it in Wilkins' mouth and flushed the contents of his stomach out, which he sopped up with the victim's uniform. He replaced the muscle tissue and carefully sewed it shut, sealed the wound with wax, closed and sealed the skin in similar fashion. Then he severed the balls, laying them on Wilkins' chest where he could see his manhood close up, sealing the wound the same way.

"I have more work to do on the bone. Take these organs to father; he will want them."

The brothers returned to the great hall where their father, too, had been busy. On the table were the cock and balls of Mellon, as well as his liver, heart and kidneys. His body lay in parts by the fire, the claymore, cleaned, resting against the wall.

Nelson was stripped naked. He had suffered greatly as a torch was used to remove all body hair from his muscular well developed body. The long hair from his head had crackled as it burned away. The red down on his round pectoral muscles had sizzled, making the nipples stand tall.

Nelson was sobbing incoherently as the sons entered the room. Angus grabbed the long skinny cock. Nelson screeched as the dirk cut his manhood away, quickly followed by testicles, which joined the other body parts on the table. Blood began to pour over his upside down hanging body, front and back, crisscrossing his rippled belly, massive chest, shoulders, and neck, into a puddle on the floor. Nelson groaned loudly, still howling like a wounded animal, which he was. Angus held his long dagger he had removed from his side, placing the point in the hole where Nelson's prick had proudly stood. With one clean cut, he sliced deep into the man's belly, opening him up from between his legs all the way to his sternum.

Nelson's shrill voice was heard throughout the castle. Wright and Wilson fearfully looked at each other in the cold dark outside where they were being drenched with cold rain. In the truck, O'Brien and Taylor did the same, wondering which of their company was being so terribly tortured, fearing, rightfully so, that they would meet a similar fate.

Down the road, Marcus Ross was roused from his troubled sleep by what he thought was the screaming of a banshee, only to wonder if it was the wind. He rose, used the chamber pot, then looked out the shuttered window through the slats at the foreboding castle, only partially visible through the clouds and fog. The wind blew sheets of rain against the cottage's stucco walls. His heart was heavy, for he feared the worst for the bright young boys in the truck. He returned to an unsettled sleep.

Angus pulled the intestines out, cutting away the liver, kidneys and gall bladder - something for extra flavor. Nelson's howl was now a whimper. He was bleeding fast as the rest of his belly was pulled to the floor.

The muscular man gazed at the upside down images surrounding him, laughing at his plight, ashamed, knowing he would take none with him. He died seconds later as Angus slit the man's throat from ear to ear to allow the blood to drain better. He was now reaching under the massive ribs, ripping out stomach and lungs, then cutting the heart free from the web of veins, tossing it on the table.

Next, Andrew and Brian held the carcass as Angus slid the metal pole through the man's anus, carefully threaded it up the throat, popping it out the top of his head. Nelson was let down now, his hands and feet tied to the pole. They all lifted him onto the prongs each side of the fireplace, then Andy began basting the hairless muscular body with a cup of ale from a keg. Then they all had a drink.

"Ye say ye have others in the courtyard?" Angus asked.

"Aye, father, two sets."

"One for each of us, later," Brian added, a cruel smile on his face.

"Aye, later. Bring them in, strip them, hang them from the candle holders," Angus said, indicating four foot in diameter wrought iron rings hung from the beamed ceiling-chandeliers, each with fifteen candles. "We'll light them and get these things they brought out."

The boys moved quickly. They brought in Wright first, stripping his wet clothing off, using their dirks. Then they strung each man's hands to the four foot diameter rings, lighting the thick candles and hoisting them aloft. When each man was suspended, the lights, radio, and cots were removed, tossed into the yard, and Andy, after fiddling with the truck controls, turned off the chugging motor. All was quiet, save for the howling wind and dashing rain.

Wilkins was suffering unimaginable pain throughout his body from all the incisions, stitches, wax and the loss of his innards. He softly moaned, watching the young man cut and shape what had been his legs until a few hours ago. Angus was dicing the cocks, balls, and other body organs, onions and pepper in a bowl.

The brothers drank their ale after having taken Mellon's remains, along with those of Clark and Bilkins. They dragged them to the sea side of the battlements and dumped them into the churning sea.


The quiet bothered Hawks. He flashed his torch around the room. He had slept deeply, dreaming of the old man's words, hearing screams in his dreams. The hall door would not open - he didn't know the chest blocked it. He didn't wish to disturb the sergeant-major, but it was near time for him to assume the watch. He peeked through the keyhole looking into the room. His view sat him back on his tail, covering his mouth for fear of puking. He looked again to be sure his eyes did not deceive him. It was real.

Wilkins was fastened down, legless, his left arm limp across his sunken body, seemingly fastened to the right hip. A pile of guts lay on the floor, along with what looked like boneless legs. Wilkins was watching a man in ancient dress working at something, partially out of his view. He decided that silence was best - after all, he had not been spotted. If the ghosts didn't know he was there, he might be able to survive. He sat back in a cold sweat, thinking for some time, then went to his cot, knelt, praying for his mates. He feared them all dead.


"Andy, lad!" Angus called out. "Afore ye leave them be, I think they should be sealed up so they don't mess the table like frightened birds on a roost."

"Aye father, I got a candle."

The youth jumped onto the table and reached up past the naked. O'Brien, a youth about the same age as Andrew, with dark red hair, his body stretched, twisting.

"Brian, give a hand. They'll be twisting and turning, and bring the bungs," Andy said.

The boys approached the first man, Wilson, a slender blond haired youth of 18, who had the strong thighs of a runner with an equally lithe body.

Brian lifted the youth at the waist, laid him across his shoulder, then forced the fat cock and balls back between his runner's legs. Andrew drew the cock upright, pulling on the foreskin to keep it closed as he began to dribble wax onto the organ, sealing the opening. When the first drop hit the tender flesh, filling the small hole the skin made over the prick head, Wilson let loose with an agonizing scream. Andy laughed, filling the hole till wax ran down over the flaccid shaft, then he blew on the wax to speed the cooling. Next he took a large cask bung and forced the oak dowel into the soldier's asshole. He pushed till the wood cork was swallowed by the anus, then he sealed that with more hot wax. The bung entering was painful enough, but still, Wilson was able to hold his screams. He just looked mortified at the defilement of his most private parts, but when they once more burned and stung tender flesh, he sobbed out a cry of anguish.

They moved on down the table after letting Wilson drop to the hanging position, his body weight almost yanking the arms from his shoulders. Another blond haired youth, Taylor, was next. He had up till this time been silent. Not seeing what had caused the scream from Wilson, he feared the worst.

"Bloody, fuckin' Scotts. All you should be done in," Taylor spoke loudly.

Brian, who was about to lift the youth, instead punched his gut so hard he swung back 10 feet, bumping his ass into Wilson's sore cock, causing another scream from Wilson. When the breathless boy swung forward, Brian sent a second fist to the 19 year old's rippled midsection, sending him painfully colliding with his mate once more.

"Hold 'em steady, laddie," Angus said, leaving the basting of Nelson's carcass after giving the spit another turn. He raised a poker from the fire. The curly haired youth, seeing the red hot metal in Scott's fist, raised like a sword, panicked. He tried to run for escape, his feet treading air. Long before the hot tip seared away his left nipple, he was screaming for mercy, apologizing for what he said. The words fell on deaf ears. The right nipple, a flat round button, sizzled away to a burn mark, then his deep set navel, bringing deep voiced painful howls of agony.

Angus stabbed the drawn up scrotum, yanking downward with a large cooking fork, each testicle skewered on a point. Taylor's head swung wildly in an effort to shake the unending pain away. Vainly, he tried to lift his legs, held securely by the brothers. Angus applied the poker till the flesh had disintegrated, baring each ball, which fell from the sack, dangling by cords. Each nut was roasted like marshmallows by the still red poker.

The Scott, now done, took the youth's fat, strangely hard cock in his rough, calloused hand and forced the poker into the piss hole, burning down into the cock two of its five inches. By the time all this was completed, the boy had passed out and did not feel the bung being forced into his hole and sealed.

The other two remained silent about their thoughts of Scotsmen before they were sealed. Wright cried, begging for mercy as his piss hole was sealed with wax. The last cock, Andy noticed, was different - there was no head covering skin. Just to be sure with the redheaded O'Brien, Andy shoved a wood splinter, like a chair dowel, into the piss hole of the circumcised cockhead. The splinters tore the tender tube, causing considerable blood to flow before the hot wax sealed, crowning the cut cock, giving it a new protective covering.

O'Brien, biting his lower lip to a shred, uttered no sound as his average sized dick was mutilated. He dared not to raise the wrath of one of these wild men. Tears streamed down his yet unshaven cheeks. He gasped, hating the violation of his butt hole, wondering how long he must suffer before he ended up like Nelson, who he now recognized as the spit was turned, revealing his death twisted face.

Even though he could still feel the physical pain and mental humiliation of his own death, and therefore hated all Englishmen, Andy gained respect for this boy, his own age, and resolved to be the one to take his young life painfully, violently, returning humiliation to this proud young man.

The boys now turned their attention to Nelson, turning him constantly, basting him so that his meat would not burn or become too dry, as he had been cooking long enough to have been hot throughout. Angus finished dicing the human giblets and genitals and was ready to mix the haggis. He had carefully cut Nelson's stomach out and sealed the lower, opening and sewing it shut. The esophagus opening he enlarged a little, enough so a large spoon would fit in. He then soaked it in salt water. In the bowl he stirred the cut body parts, now unrecognizable chunks of flesh, the onion, ground pepper, and a few secret herbs each Scott keeps to himself, so that each clan's haggis has a special flavor and smell. He added a cup of oatmeal, and after blending this mixture well, he spooned it into the opening. That done, he poured in a pint of ale, folded over the flap, sewed it shut, finishing by gently massaging the bag a bit to ensure the ale was mixed well with the other ingredients. Then the stomach was dropped into a pot of boiling water on a bracket over the fire.

In the other room, Robert was finishing the hardest part of his task. In one femur he had drilled seven holes on one side and one on the other at well known, but precise locations, then carved one end small to a point and inserted it where Wilkin's asshole had been, then sealed the bone in place with candle wax.

From toenails and fingernails he had fashioned reeds and inserted them in all four bones at the right positions for different tones in each. Now he was sewing Wilkins' lips shut around each of the three remaining bones. To ensure stability, he had first sewn the sergeant-major's tongue to his upper lip and had sewn a loop around each bone to the tongue. The man had protested vigorously, but his protest soon became a senseless wail of pain as one of the last parts of what was left of his body was now wracked with tortuous pain. Candle wax sealed the bones in place. A strange wailing sound came from the bones, weak, a wheeze like noise, as Wilkins exhaled through his mouth rather than his nose, where he was breathing in.

"I'll have to ask ye not to do that when I am playing a song on ye. You might sound the drones at the improper time." Robert was stern, talking to the helpless man who now realized he was becoming a human bagpipe - an instrument he richly hated.

There was more to be done. The blow hole had to be perfected, and no set of pipes would be complete without decorations. A rope to hold the drones in place was fashioned from braided skin taken from a leg, and colorful ribbons were made from the shredded uniform. Finally, Wilkins' testicles were hung from the lead drone in a position where he could watch his balls bounce as he was played. Then, with vegetable dyes, Robert carefully painted the skin in the greens, deep blue, and orange/red of the Ross tartan. Then he hung the man/bagpipe to dry from a hook in the ceiling, by the left arm, which was carefully sewn to the soldier's hip, forming a carrying strap.


Robert joined the others by the fire for a cup of ale from one of the many casks, never opened all these years. A fine strong brew it was, and soon all were mellow. Angus began to sing, then suddenly jumped on the table, cup in hand. He called out in a loud voice, "A call to rouse men of the Clans," as he began to recite the ancient Scottish traditional chant. The boys applauded the recitation and they knew there would be more before the evening was through. Their father was full of short poems and long tales of the past wars, of gallant men and bold deeds, a lack of which burned in the youth's hearts, for they had all died before a real taste of manhood had been theirs.

"What er ya fockin' wit us fur - 'ave ya na pity?" asked O'Brien whose muscular body was stretched closest to the fire. Sweat was running over his well toned muscles. The pain in his cock, swollen from the bleeding, watching Nelson cook, and fear of the unknown had loosened his tongue.

"Laddie, ye not speak or ask of pity here. My two young sons," Angus said, nodding to Brian and Andrew, "and myself were captured in this very hall after slaughtering several English guards apiece. We surrendered, thinking there could be a peace. The captain asked our surrender to save others, as we were hopelessly outnumbered and eventually would die in battle. Ah, if it was the case. Then were bound, me young males used as they were women by every man in the regiment who wanted a whore's ass or mouth. Stripped naked they were better specimen at their young ages than the English bastards - in this very room, debauched before my own eyes, me bound, unable to help me own kin. When that was done they were gelded in most painful ways. Andrew's was burned away with a torch and Brian's manhood was crushed with hammers till he had but a bloody sack hanging between his legs where proud it had stood. Then they were both placed on stakes, rough wood with splinters into their bleedin' torn bottoms, left to twist and slide slowly for two days till they died. Twas my turn then. I, too, was used, then gelded with my own dirk. Then the table was used for a head block, and with my own claymore, this head was severed in one quick blow. Before that occurred I placed a curse on this place and all of the blood of that bitch Elizabeth and all their descendents, you being some of those. Yea may have red hair, laddie, but your words mark you from the west shore towns, say Liverpool. I swore that no Englishman would live after spending a night here. I have been joined by my three trusted sons, all slaughtered by the bitch queen. Robert a medical student at Edinburgh, taken to the gallows for no crime, save being my kin. He na touched a sword in life, but in death he has become a warrior of valor, without fear. The curse is in force, granted by a God hearing a father's cries for his own, or a devil of vengeance. I gladly serve either to spill English blood. A few have escaped our wrath, but they left here changed so that they might as well have met our swords. Now yea know the reason for ya fate. Tis out o me hands. I made the vow near four hundred hears ago, I'll not change for anyone."

The boys raised their drinks in salute to the vow, reaffirming their intention to continue through all eternity.

O'Brien's muscles were crying for relief. He ached everywhere and suspected he would face worse indignities. There was one way out, he thought. "I cood 'spect as much from a blady Scott. Yer all alf animal anyway," the boy said loudly.

"Jamie, be still," Taylor called out. "His wrath hurts terrible."

Angus was on the table, dirk drawn, the point already cutting the flesh above the youth's cock, shrouding his red crotch hair with dark blood.

"That's yer game, is it?" Angus said, removing the point. "I'll not aid in a fast death. Ye will suffer long. I'll not end it for ya in a fit of rage."

Angus then forced his thumb into the boy's right eye, tearing the lid up. He sliced the blade across the eye, blinding O'Brien, then quickly did the same with the other, sending streams of bloody tears over the never shaved, soft, round cheeks.

Now unable to see and prepare himself, O'Brien received the forceful blow to his nuts, unprepared, and thus much more painful. The blow was followed by several more till the boy's head hung from loss of consciousness and his bellowing had ceased.


The haggis was ready. Angus laid it out on a tray, then carved the chest and thigh of Nelson for his sons and several ribs for himself. They sat round the table end by the fire. Angus cut open the steaming haggis. The oatmeal had absorbed the ale, the stomach was swollen fat, and a whoosh of aromatic steam came out when he cut into the delicacy, scooping out spoonfuls for each. It was a bonnie feast. The meal was finished after the haggis had been depleted and second carvings from Nelson's well cooked thighs and chest had been devoured. Angus marveled at how ale tenderized even the toughest meat.

Robert rose from the table to fetch the musical entertainment. Wilkins groaned loudly as he was removed from the hook where his skin had dried, then uttered a muffled scream as wind was forced into his abdominal cavity when Robert blew into the limp cock, which was the blow stick.


Hawks heard the noise which sounded like a distant bagpipe. Each groan and scream forced wind through the drones, drowning out most sounds the man made. Hawks crept over to the door. He was almost sick at the sight of his former commander, now legless, minus an arm, the other more a holding strap, over the player's shoulder. Three conical carved bones were sticking from his mouth, with green fabric streamers, and a set of balls hanging from the lead. A man blowing furiously on the sergeant-major's long skinny cock, causing his belly to inflate. And the horrid green color he had been painted.


When there was sufficient air inside the belly and stomach, Robert struck up a march song and paraded out into the great hall. O'Brien was mystified at the gasps of his confederates as the piper came into the room. Wilkins looked pleadingly at his men, hanging, stretching from the chandeliers. He was helplessly carried around the room, an infernal noise coming from his mouth and ass. Each time the air was forced into his belly the torn nerve ends shocked his brain, and as the arm squeezed the air out, the pain was greater. He began to moan a deep groan which became almost loud enough to be a forth drone.

"Great sound," called Andrew. "He is even trying to sing with ye."

"Tis been years since you played. You've not lost the touch," cheered Brian.

Angus stood saluting his eldest son. "Tha biadh is ceol and seo mar thubhairt am madadh ruady se ruith air balbh leis s'phiob." (Translation: There is beat and music here,' said the fox as he made way with the bagpipe.)

Angus took the pipes and played a bright jig which brought the boys to their feet in a rousing high stepping dance. That done, Andy climbed to the wide mantle and tossed down the crossed swords hanging there. Brian took them up and crossed them over his head while his father played a spirited dance. Brian stepped high as he flashed the swords overhead and at invisible enemies, then he crossed them on the floor and danced around them. They all sat down, winded, and drank more ale, laughing heartily.

"I see by yer raised kilt that ye be ready from more sport, eh Brian?"

"Aye father, I am ready for one of these sons-o-English-bitches to satisfy me lust," Brian said, holding the stiff outline of his hard cock.

"We shall each have our turn," Angus said. "Robert, ye the oldest, choose yours. We go by age."

Robert hung the groaning Wilkins on a hook near the other chamber door where he could watch the debauchery of his once proud English soldiers. He looked over the three and decided to get one to match his own height. He took hold of Wilson's leg, shaking the man violently, wracking his body with more pain, as all the hanging men's muscles had cramped up under the strain of suspension.

Brian quickly chose Taylor and Andrew took the redheaded O'Brien, leaving Angus with Wright, not necessarily a lucky draw. The men jumped to the table and cut the bindings, allowing the captives to fall to the table, each landing in a lump. They were so weakened they could neither defend themselves nor escape.

The fucking began at once, none waiting on ceremony. Angus threw Wright to the floor, rolled the dark haired man to his belly, tearing the wax and bung out. then he reached under, taking the balls in his hand, and lifted the soldier so he could be taken like a dog, a position Angus did not let Wright forget.

Andrew pulled the blind youth to his back, raised his cramped legs, ripped the wax cover away, pulling out thick dark red hair. He forced fingers into the helpless youth's mouth to still his screams and rammed his cock deep in the hole which received him easily, causing Andy to revile his victim for not being a virgin, but an English boy whore.

Brian pulled Taylor to the table edge and dropped the man's legs to the floor, grabbed his nuts and placed them between the table and his pubic area, stabbing at the wax with his dirk, bloodying the asshole as he spiked the bung, removing it. Then he began an assault on the youthful blond's butt hole, even after he filled the butt hole.

Robert also used the table. Laying Wilson on his back and standing on the floor, he screwed the victim harshly. Only able to remove the wax, not finding the bung, he found it with his cockhead and forced it deep in the man's bowels, even though Wilson made a plea about hemorrhoids, which Robert knew under the term asshole warts, which he guessed the man was talking about. He moved his cock in a manner to be as painful in his fucking as possible, not forgetting what his younger brothers must have felt before their deaths.

The fucking done, Angus announced that daylight was approaching and they needed to complete their tasks. Brian and Andy decided to off the men with sexual violence. Robert and Angus leaned toward more traditional ways. They dragged Wright to the courtyard where a post, nine inches across and four foot in height, stood, its ragged, pointed end waiting to be used again.

Andy took the blind boy, swung him around and jumped off the table. He took the youth's hair, dragged him so his head hung off the edge, then proceeded to urinate in the bloodied face, grabbing hold the nose. When the mouth popped open, he rammed his pissing cock deep in the throat, choking the twisting youth.

Brian, taking a cue, pulled Taylor to a similar position and forced his butt in the man's face, farting, and shitting a load into the puking mouth. Much of the turds fell to the floor. Brian picked them up and shoved them down the gagging throat. Then he jumped to the table, dropped his knee in Taylor's midsection and grabbed the sore, swollen testicles, dragging the young man's butt to the edge of the table. Holding fast to the balls, he rammed his shitty hand deep in the violated asshole. He forced his fingers in deeply, then spread them and yanked out. He pushed deep into the creaming man's insides with his fist repeatedly till the hole opened easily for his entrance. He pushed deeper each time and pulled out quickly, creating a suction which pulled the large intestine into the bowel. It began to loosen these organs from their positions in a most painful way.

Finally, tiring of this sport, he pulled hard on Taylor's sack, pushing the balls into his asshole, then ramming his cock in for a final fuck. When he was firmly in, rocking about, he took his dirk and began to slice the cockhead open. He split the soft prick down the middle, to its base, in a shower of blood. He plunged the blade in at the dick base and cut upward through Taylor's blond pubic bush up to the navel. The young man shrieked. His guts were sliced through. Brian did not stop till the blade hit the sternum, then he rammed the blade through Taylor's right palm, planting it to the table. Then, as his hips still rammed forward, he took the loose folds of flesh and tore the belly open wide, randomly pulling guts, slinging intestines, kidneys, bladder, liver, anything he could grab onto the floor.

Andrew kept his prick in O'Brien's lips, ramming deep till he entered the throat and there he stayed. Taking hold of the thick neck, he began to squeeze till he could feel his own dick in the gullet. He pressed hard on the neck, forcing it to the table edge, cutting off the air supply at first. Then the blood began to slow to a stop.

O'Brien's legs kicked; his arms flung about to no avail. Andy's grip was solid. He fucked the closed neck, like masturbating himself. The youth's body was turning blue, and if Andy could have seen the face between his legs, he would have seen the blind eyes twitching around. The skin grew darker, almost black, as the blood caught in his head turned blue from lack of oxygen. Andrew gave a great roar as his juice flowed into the young man's throat. Shortly after, his limbs stopped quivering and shaking. Andy did not withdraw. He held his position and squeezed more to be sure of the kill. When he finally did take his still hard cock out, he took the dead youth's jaw, forced his weight on it in a downward fashion, yanking it out of joint and snapping the neck.


In the courtyard, Wright screamed as he saw the intent of them carrying him. They dropped him, face down, on the rain wet stones, smashing his features in the process, unintentionally dulling his senses. He was quickly tied, arms behind back, hands to elbows, then bound with the rope around his waist. He screamed for mercy, having seen in museums this form of torturous death in wax and having read, as an excited boy, about such painful endings. He lost all ability to control himself when faced with the reality of his own life ending this way.

Angus and Robert held the struggling man by the shoulders and buttocks. At a signal from Angus, they dropped Wright on the point which was rammed a foot into his belly, tearing the anus apart, shredding open the rectum and plunging through the bowels, setting in motion the poisons of the body which would kill the man were he not to sink fast on the pole.

Robert rolled an ale keg over to the great hall where he was met by Angus, who had a hammer and square cut iron spikes, most six inches long. The end of the barrel was removed with a few whacks of the hammer, the wood pieces saved. Wilson was now moved from the floor where he had fallen after being fucked, lying under the table in a daze, hearing the screams and moans of his mates as they were dying.

Angus stood on Wilson's thighs as Robert picked up his feet and bent the legs up, shattering the knees, then Angus stood on the arms so that the lower arms could be ripped out of the elbow sockets. Wilson was folded up, his knees forced into his belly, then forced ass first into the barrel. His feet were forced downward between his beefy thighs, his backward bent arms were folded in, and last, his head forced down until chin touched chest, cracking his neck. The broken end was placed in its spot, nailed secure.

Robert drove nails into the barrel slats at random places. He drove them into the wood, but not deep enough to enter even the closest pressing flesh farther than a fraction of an inch. When the nails had been placed randomly all over the barrel, ends too, he and his father took it up the stairs in the east gate tower.

"Are ye in there, ye bloody bastard?" asked Angus, knocking on the barrel he held on edge at the top step.

There was a whimpering painful voice answering yes, and asking not to be left that way.

"Then enjoy the ride," Robert said, kicking the barrel from his father's grip. It rolled, end over end, down the first steps, then sideways, bouncing on steps and walls, rounding the corners, gaining speed and height with the length of the stairs. Each time the barrel hit ground, a nail was driven deep into the quivering flesh, eliciting painful screams as nails rammed buttocks, thighs, hand, face, shoulders, back and arm. One tore through an ear, another ripped into a trapped ball, the next one rammed the man's prick. More punctured his face, blinding an eye, shattering a tooth. The barrel rolled and bounced down the stairs, nails pounding into flesh all the way down. Angus and Robert ran down the steps close behind.

Andy and Brian, now finished, waited as the barrel rolled to a stop near the truck. They picked it up, held it over their heads, then, as the others arrived, they dropped it to the ground, shattering it as the staves popped open.

Wilson lay on the ground, bleeding from open puncture wounds all over, blinded in both eyes, and even one nail deep in his brain. Wood pieces stuck to arms and legs where the nails held fast. He flopped around some on his broken joints, writhing in agony, watched by Wright who wished he had been a victim of the barrel, for he knew Wilson's suffering would be over quickly compared to his own.

Silently, Angus motioned to his sons it was time to leave. They left as they had arrived, through the side door leading to the staircase down to the boiling storm ridden sea, satisfied that the carnage they left behind would be in good payment for the curse.


Hawks remained silent for a time in his room. Between storm peaks, he thought he could hear moans from the great hall which sounded like a man and a bagpipe playing a mournful duet of death.


Wilkins squawked with each groan, and Taylor could only moan. He was very weak as gravity pulled more of his innards out to spill on the floor.


The storm was still raging later in the day when Hawks had heard nothing for some time. He could see slips of light in the room next to his. So, even though it was storming, he knew it was day. He used his penknife to slide the bolt across the stays, a fraction of an inch at a time, all the door crack would allow. After hours of stealth the bolt was free, but for what, he feared. He quickly passed by the pile of Wilkins' guts and body parts which were stinking by now, and threw open the door to the great hall. He dimmed his torch - he could see all he wished in the dim light from the opaque windows on the opposite wall.

Taylor, dead now, guts also spilled on the floor, hand stuck to the table with a knife, face twisted in agony, eyes popped out, blood flowing over chin, evidence of a most painful death. Young O'Brien, his red hair streaked with blood from ruptured vessels in his head contrasting his dark toned face, also twisted from pain.

Hawks jumped, screaming when the drones made a noise from behind him.

Wilkins was still alive, but just barely.

"Sir, it's you," Hawks said nervously.

There was a faint squeak from the pipes.

"Gawd, you must hurt," Hawks said, looking into the tear filled eyes. I'll put you out of misery's way."

Wilkins blinked the tears away, trying to say something, which only came out a toot. He painfully nodded his assent.

"Goodbye, sir. It's been a pleasure servin'," Hawks said, plunging his knife into the right side of the stout neck, slicing deeply across to the other ear. A fountain of blood poured over him. He stood, being bathed in the pulsating blood flow, stroking the fevered brow. Then as the eyes closed, he gently kissed the green cheek. He continued the caresses till the blood only trickled out and he could see no more heartbeat in the bare chest. 'Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' he thought. 'I hope none of the others are alive if this is how I'll find them.'

He next found the last of Nelson on the spit, still warm as the fire was not completely out. Hawks tossed more peat on the coals so there would be warmth at night. He turned and brushed O'Brien's hair from his unseeing eyes and went out the open great doors to see if he could revive the truck motor and get a call for help out. In the courtyard he found Wright.

"You still alive, I thought they got us all," Wright gasped out.

"You look horrid, I'll cut you down somehow," Hawks said.

"No, please," he said slowly, gasping each word painfully. "End me quickly; there's no hope... my guts are ruined... I'm torn from asshole... to navel... the bloody point... is pressing on my chest... it's hard to breathe... there's no hope... after they set me on this."

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints preserve us," Hawks said, stumbling onto Wilson, dead with puncture wounds peppering his flesh, twisted grotesquely in a rain diluted pool of blood. The lance-corporal hurried to get his side arm; it could do the job faster than the throat slit, and if he was going to find more mates about in need of ending it. He didn't want to think about that. He retrieved the forty-five automatic his father had given him with instructions not to leave bed without it, and returned to Wright, who was finishing a prayer, crying.

"Do it quickly, mate, I want out of this sufferin'."

"A message for any relatives I might find?"

"Don't tell them how I ended... please don't fuck around." Wright's voice became shrill. Hawks placed the gun at the man's mouth and quickly emptied the clip, bits and pieces of bones, and flesh showering him along with blood. There was little left but a sagging jaw.


It was nearly a month later when another company came to the castle. Hawks was found naked on the table in the great hall, insanely talking to O'Brien's decomposing body. They were lying on a pile of excrement, in a lovers' embrace, Hawks' prick deep in the rotting asshole, himself covered with maggots crawling from the dead youth's mouth into his own. The fire was still going and most of Nelson had been devoured. Only his head stuck on the spit, the rest of his bones stripped clean of meat on the floor near the table.

Hawks spoke of the curse and the ghosts that must have done all this. He became furious when he was separated from the dead boy, claiming he was breathing life into the corpse.


Marcus was tending to his yard, cleaning up the broken twigs from the latest fall storm for kindling when the truck passed, loaded with the bodies of Wilkins, Taylor, Wright, Wilson, O'Brien, and a bag of Nelson's bones. Hawks was securely tied and covered with an officer's topcoat, riding the front. He spotted Marcus.

"There he is, the man who told of the ghosts and the curse."

Ross looked up and nodded to the passing truck, recognizing the blond youth who had shared tea and biscuits less than a month before.

"He's as bloody bats as you, mate. Calm yourself, lad. We'll be at the hospital soon and you'll be OK," the officer said. "That old man belongs in the loony bin, the tales he tells."

Marcus Ross raked the yard and looked to the castle. "Angus, I think I'll warn them no more, which will give ye many more a bonnie feast

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