The runner heard his approach and whirled with an arrow nocked on his bow. Torin was preparing to strike when the man lowered his weapon, then tucked and rolled to avoid being trampled by the horse.
Torin turned the stallion about, nearly unseating himself in his haste, and his gaze swept the moonlit grass. The man with the bow was easy to find, a thin shadow rising from the ground, brushing dirt from his clothes.
“That’s the second time you’ve almost killed me, Torin.”
Jack’s unmistakable, peevish voice.
“Dammit, Jack!” Torin could have strangled him. “What are you doing?”
“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.