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.
“Do you hear that?” she said, whirling to where her cottage smoldered in a heap.
“It’s just the wind, my love,” Hendry Elliott said. He sounded desperate to get her away from the fire and the clan line. “Let’s get you up on the horse now.”
“No, it’s Eliza,” Grace insisted, pushing away from her husband. “Eliza! Eliza!”
The hair rose on Jack’s arms as he watched Grace Elliott stride through the grass, screaming for her missing daughter.
Hendry trailed her, tearing his hands through his hair. “Grace, please. Stop this.”
“Don’t you hear her, Hendry? She’s calling for us!”
Jack listened. He took a step closer to the ruins. “Wait!” he said. “I hear it too.”
Their party fell painfully silent. The wind was gusting, and the fire was still crackling, but there was a small voice, calling in the distance.
Shouts rose. The watchmen had now heard it, or perhaps had seen something.
Grace and Hendry broke into a frantic run to their demolished home. Jack was behind them, the Elliott brothers and the guards in his wake. They darted through the ruins, emerging on the other side of the yard, facing the dark, looming southern sky.