Chapter Eleven Smoke and Stone #2
Caelan stepped in first, wading without hesitation. “In the water,” he whispered. “It will hide the trail.”
Elara followed, jaw clenched against the cold. Ewan stepped in last, face tight with discomfort. Ivor muttered something under his breath that sounded like a prayer and a curse.
They moved downstream in the streambed, careful on stones, letting water erase footprints. The cold seeped into Morna’s bones, but she welcomed it. Cold was honest. Cold did not bargain like Valerius.
Torchlight flared above the bank.
A patrol moved along the ridge, scanning.
Morna froze instinctively. Caelan lifted his hand, signaling them to crouch. They pressed themselves against a cluster of boulders where the stream widened slightly, using the rocks as cover.
Voices drifted down.
“No tracks here.”
“Check the bend.”
“Keep the hound near water.”
A bark cut through the night.
Elara stiffened. “Hound,” she whispered.
Morna’s healer’s mind snapped into motion. “Pine,” she murmured. “Crush needles. Sap. It burns the nose.”
Ewan followed immediately, grabbing handfuls from the bank and crushing them between his palms. Elara did the same, smearing sap along her wrists and neck. Morna rubbed crushed needles into her shawl and cloak, forcing the sharp scent into the fabric.
Caelan did not question. He copied them, grinding pine against his hands, smearing sap along his forearms and the torn edge of his shirt.
Ivor watched with a thin smile. “Look at us,” he whispered. “Like foxes rubbing themselves in muck.”
“Quiet,” Morna hissed.
The torchlight above shifted.
A man began to descend toward the stream bend.
Morna’s pulse hammered. She could see the outline of boots against rock. The torch’s glow threw jagged light across the water.
If he stepped two paces closer, he would see them tucked behind boulders.
Caelan’s body tightened beside Morna, coiled like a spring. His hand slid to his blade.
Morna’s breath caught. She did not want another death. She did not want Caelan to add more blood to the weight already dragging him down.
But she also knew the truth: if the man saw them, he would shout, and then the net would close.
The guard stepped closer.
The hound barked again, impatient.
Caelan shifted, preparing to move.
Then a shout came from above, sharp. “Back. Valerius wants you at the wall line. Now.”
The guard paused, irritated. “We’re close.”
“Now,” the voice repeated.
The guard cursed, torch jerking as he climbed back up.
The patrol moved on along the ridge, their light sliding away.
Morna’s lungs burned with the need to breathe. She waited until the last footstep faded, then exhaled slowly.
Caelan did not relax fully. He looked down the stream, eyes narrowed. “They will return,” he whispered. “This was only a sweep.”
Ewan nodded. “They’ll tighten.”
Elara’s voice was small but steady. “Then we move before they do.”
Caelan motioned them upstream now, away from the bend and toward higher ground where rock broke the soil. They waded quietly, then climbed out where the bank rose steep and the trees thickened.
Morna’s legs shook as she pulled herself up, fingers slipping on wet roots. Ewan steadied her elbow briefly.
They moved through denser forest, pushing through bracken and low branches. The smoke was thinner here, but the air felt colder. Morna’s wet clothes clung to her, stealing warmth.
Behind them, the camp’s horn sounded again, then another whistle. The hunt was reorganizing.
Caelan halted at a rise and crouched, peering back.
Torchlights moved in deliberate lines now, not scattered. Men were spacing themselves, coordinating. Valerius had regained control.
“They’ll cut us off from the ridge,” Ewan whispered.
Caelan nodded. “Aye. They’ll force us into open ground.”
Ivor’s eyes gleamed. “Then we do the opposite,” he murmured. “We force them.”
Caelan’s gaze flicked to him, cold. “No games.”
Ivor spread his hands. “No games,” he agreed, though his tone suggested he would play one anyway if it saved him.
They moved along the rise, angling toward a narrow pass between two rocky outcrops. Caelan chose it because stone meant fewer footprints and fewer places for hounds to read. It also meant a choke point.
Morna saw the danger immediately. “If they’re ahead of us,” she whispered, “we’ll be trapped.”
Caelan did not look at her. “If they’re behind us,” he replied, “we’re trapped anyway.”
It was not reassurance. It was reality.
They reached the pass, a narrow cut where rock rose on both sides and the ground dipped into shadow. Wind funneled through it, cold and sharp. Morna’s wet sleeves clung to her arms like ice.
Caelan lifted his hand, signaling them to slow.
He listened.
At first Morna heard only wind and distant shouts.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps. Not behind, but ahead. Controlled, measured, more than one set.
Torchlight flickered at the far end of the pass, reflecting off stone.
Morna’s stomach dropped.
Caelan’s shoulders went rigid. Ewan’s face went pale. Elara’s fingers clenched around Morna’s hand.
Ivor leaned forward, peering. His grin vanished for once, replaced by a tight, calculating stare.
A voice carried through the pass, smooth and calm.
“Quartermaster.”
Valerius stepped into view at the far end, torchlight warming his face without making him kind. Men flanked him on both sides, silhouettes against fire. Behind Caelan, another torchlight flickered, and Morna realized with a sick twist that they were not only blocked ahead.
They were being closed in from behind.
Valerius smiled slightly, as if amused that they had walked into the trap he had already built.
“You run well,” he called. “But you run like a man who believes the land belongs to him. It does not.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. His hand slid to his blade.
Morna felt the shift in him, the quick tightening that meant he was already measuring violence, already considering how many men he would have to cut down to make a gap.
Elara’s breath came quick. She swallowed and steadied herself, eyes fixed forward.
Ewan’s shoulders lifted. His fingers tightened around his small knife. He looked like a boy trying to become a man in a single breath.
Morna’s mind went blank with cold clarity. They were in a stone throat with enemies at both ends. No brush to vanish into. No stream to erase tracks. No space to scatter.
Cornered.
Valerius’s voice remained calm, as if he were offering a simple bargain at market. “Come back,” he said. “Now. Or I begin to take what you care about, piece by piece.”
Morna’s chest tightened until it hurt.
Caelan did not answer him.
He only turned his head slightly, just enough to look at Morna.
In his eyes was something dark and heavy, something that had been growing since Fergus, since the lie, since the fire. Not fear. Not even anger.
Decision.