“I’m going to assist the Elliotts.”
“How did you know they were being raided?”
“I saw ten Breccans ride by my mum’s croft. Heading this way.”
Torin frowned, his thoughts reeling. “Ten? I sensed only five crossing the clan line.”
Jack approached the horse. Torin could barely discern his face in the celestial light, but he was frowning as well. “I clearly counted ten of them.”
Something was off, Torin thought with a huff of air. Perhaps he had been too distracted when he was searching the trail on the hill, when the pain in his hand had flared.
“Are you going to give me a ride?” Jack drawled.
“You should go home, Jack.”
The bard released a scathing laugh. “Not tonight, captain. You need my help, and I’m eager to spill some blood.”
Torin couldn’t refute it, and they were wasting time. He gave Jack a hand and hauled him up behind the saddle. Torin didn’t wait to ensure the bard was holding on before he nudged his stallion onward again.
He and Jack saw the rosy hue on the horizon at the same moment. It speared Torin with dread, filling him with cold silence, but Jack muttered, “My gods, what is that?”
Torin didn’t answer, saving his voice. They crested the hill to see that the Elliott cottage, storehouse, and byre were burning. The flames had just been set, the smoke rising in great white billows. This was new, Torin thought, assessing the valley. The Breccan raids had always followed the same pattern in the past: they crossed the clan line, they raided, stole food and livestock and anything else of worth, and they retreated. Quick bursts of violence. They never killed, although they sometimes wounded, and they never set fire to buildings.
“Why?” Jack snarled. “Why is the west sabotaging itself when Adaira wants to trade?”
“Because they will never change,” Torin replied tersely.
The watchmen were already present. Torin could see them on their horses, chasing the last of the Breccans away while the Elliott family ran across the yard, salvaging what little they could from their burning home and yard.
There were more than five Breccans riding with their torches, hurling them onto the thatched roofs. Torin was astounded when he counted eleven blue plaids in the limited view that he had on the hill.
He directed his horse down to the valley, where the heat of the fire met him like a hot summer day. The flames were growing at an alarming rate, perilously fed by the hay and the wind. Torin dismounted, sword in hand, and ordered Jack to stay on the horse, where he had the best chance of remaining unharmed. The last thing he wanted was for Adaira’s new husband to get himself killed.
Torin didn’t glance behind to see what the bard did, although he did notice an arrow streak by, harmlessly hitting the cottage.
Satisfied that they had plundered what they wanted and set fire to everything, the Breccans retreated into the woods, melting into the darkness like cowards.
Torin coughed as he rounded the burning house. The air was thick, the smoke stinging his eyes. He gave half of his guard orders to begin hauling water from the nearby stream, to put the fire out. He motioned his remaining guard, the watchmen, to pursue the Breccans into the Aithwood, all the way to the clan line.
“Take prisoners if you can!” he shouted. He craved answers.
The trees of the forest grew thick, the air sweet and dark. Torin ran on foot, weaving around the trunks and kicking through patches of bracken. The clan line was close; he could feel it, humming in the earth.
Suddenly, he realized he was alone. None of his watchmen were with him.
He came to a stop, his eyes cutting through the night. It was quiet, but his breaths were ragged, his pulse thundering in his ears.
The Breccan seemed to come from the shadows, his boots making no sound on the loam. Torin saw him a moment too late, raising his sword to deflect a blow. The Breccan’s steel sliced his forearm. The pain was bright and merciless.
Torin fell to his knees, gasping. He felt the coldness seep into him—the sting of an enchanted blade. He parried another cut with his sword, driving the Breccan back. But then he was stung again in his shoulder, just beneath the protective drape of his plaid.
This pain was cool too, but sent a flare to Torin’s mind.
Run, escape, hide, run.
The orders permeated him. He staggered up to his feet, abandoned his sword, and ran, the fear rotten within him. Behind him someone spoke, an amused and cruel voice—“A fine captain you are”—and it only fueled Torin’s irrational desire to run, escape, hide.
He lost track of his direction, weaving deep into the woods. The forest eventually ended, spilling him out into a stark landscape. He could hear the roar of the coast nearby. The fog was rolling in from the ocean, cold and thick and hungry.
Torin ran into its embrace.
Jack sprinted through the Elliotts’ yard with a bucket of water. He had been useless with the bow and arrows, but this was something he could do. He dumped the water onto the house, which continued to roil with flames. Back and forth he ran, following a line of guards. From the stream to the yard, from the yard back to the stream, his skin grimy with sweat and flecked with ash.
The cottage continued to burn.
Jack panted, hurling another bucket of water onto the fire. He heard someone wailing and turned to see Grace Elliott on her knees, rocking. Her husband Hendry was beside her, trying to comfort her. Their two sons were quiet with shock, the flames reflected in their eyes.
For a moment, Jack was terrified someone else was in the house, and he approached the family.
“Did all of you make it out?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hendry said. “All of us but … Eliza. She’s missing, though. Hasn’t been home in almost three weeks now.”
Jack nodded. His mouth was dry and his eyes stung.
The Elliotts had salvaged an old cow, but they had lost everything else. Jack stumbled away, his eyes peeling the darkness. His vision was blighted from the fire, but he could faintly see the Aithwood. He wondered where Torin and the rest of the watchmen were and fought the uneasiness he felt, deciding he would keep running to the stream until ordered otherwise.
The command came minutes later, when the wind began to howl from the north. The fire billowed and the charred remains of the house began to crackle.
“Move back!” one of the guards shouted.
Jack scrambled to help the Elliotts escape the yard as the cottage collapsed in a burst of sparks and a wash of blistering heat. There was nothing more he could do; he remained beside the family in the grass and continued to look around, searching for Torin, particularly when a few of the watchmen rode in from the woods.
No Breccans had been caught or taken prisoner.
All of them had escaped.
Torin failed to appear, even as the stars began to vanish. The eastern sky was laced with gold when a few of the guards approached the family.
“We’re still waiting to hear from the captain, but we feel it’s best to escort you to the castle,” one of them said. “The laird and heiress will want you looked after until we can rebuild. Come, mount our horses and we will take you to Sloane.”
Grace Elliott nodded in defeat, clutching her shawl at her collar. She looked so weary, her eyes rimmed in red as she moved to the closest horse. She was about to slip her foot into the stirrup when she froze.