Chapter Thirteen The Long Run Home #3
Halfway through the valley, a sharp whistle sounded.
Not a camp whistle. Not Valerius’s signal. This one was short, clipped, a clan call.
Caelan froze. Ewan’s knife rose. Elara’s breath caught.
From the tall grass ahead, figures emerged, crouched and armed, bows half drawn. Kincaid tartan showed faintly beneath cloaks.
Morna’s knees nearly gave out.
A man stepped forward, sword low but ready. He was tall, broad shouldered, his hair pulled back, his gaze sharp. Liam.
Caelan exhaled, a sound that held weeks of strain. He lifted his hands slowly to show they held no threat.
“Hold,” Liam called, voice rough. “Name yourself.”
“Kincaid,” Caelan said, hoarse. “Caelan. Quartermaster.”
A flicker crossed Liam’s face, surprise and fierce relief. “Saints,” he breathed. Then his gaze snapped to Morna, to Elara, to Ewan, to Ivor. “Who are they.”
“Morna,” Morna said before Caelan could, voice steady despite shaking. “Healer. Neutral clan. Captured with them.”
Elara stepped forward, chin lifted. “Elara Kincaid.”
Liam’s expression tightened with protective anger. “We have been searching.”
Ewan stepped forward, jaw tight but steady. “It’s Ewan.”
Liam’s gaze flicked over him, recognition immediate. “You look like you’ve marched through hell.” His eyes then flicked to Ivor.
Ivor lifted his hands with a grin that did not reach his eyes. “I am simply lucky.”
Liam’s mouth tightened. “Lucky men often bring trouble.”
Caelan took a step forward, and Morna saw the tremor in his hands, exhaustion finally breaking through. “Blackwood is near,” he said, pointing back toward the smoke haze. “Valerius runs it. Roderic is using it to break prisoners for intelligence. He raids supply lines, takes rather than kills.”
Liam’s jaw clenched. “We suspected.”
Caelan’s voice went lower. “He is efficient. Not cruel for sport. Cruel for profit. He will not stop until Roderic stops paying.”
Morna watched Liam absorb the words, the strategic mind behind his warrior frame shifting into motion. Liam glanced over his shoulder and signaled to a man behind him. The man vanished into the grass, likely to run for Gavin or Anya with the news.
Liam looked back to Morna, softer for a heartbeat. “You’re safe now.”
The words hit Morna like a wave. Safe. She almost did not believe it.
Elara swayed, and Morna caught her elbow. Ewan stepped in to help without being asked.
Caelan’s gaze flicked to Morna’s hand on Elara’s arm, then to Morna’s face. His eyes held something like gratitude and grief tangled together.
Liam noticed the look. He stepped closer to Caelan, voice low. “What happened.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “I will tell Gavin. Everything.”
Liam nodded once, understanding that the story would carry blood and compromise. “Then we move. The patrol camp is an hour east. Food, blankets, horses. You can sleep with guards around you instead of wolves.”
Ivor exhaled as if he had been holding breath for days. “That sounds like heaven.”
Liam’s gaze hardened. “You will be watched.”
Ivor’s grin returned, thin. “I would expect nothing less.”
They began to move with the Kincaid patrol surrounding them, a protective ring that felt unreal after weeks of being surrounded only by enemies. Morna’s body wanted to collapse on the spot, but she forced herself forward, step by step.
As they walked, Caelan moved closer to Morna, close enough that his sleeve brushed her arm.
“I did not do it alone,” he murmured.
Morna glanced at him. “No,” she said. “You did not.”
He swallowed. “When we reach Gavin, he will look at me and see the man I was. I do not know if that man still exists.”
Morna’s throat tightened. “He exists,” she said. “He is simply not untouched anymore.”
Caelan’s eyes flicked to hers, searching. “And you.”
Morna breathed out slowly. “I am not untouched either.”
For a moment they walked in silence. The forest around them felt different now, not a trap, but a road. Not a place that hid pursuit, but a place that led home.
Ahead, the Kincaid men moved with quiet competence, weapons ready, eyes scanning. Behind them, smoke still stained the sky, but it was farther now, less immediate, like a nightmare receding at dawn.
Morna kept her hand on Elara’s shoulder, steadying the girl as she walked. Ewan stayed close, protective without hovering. Ivor muttered occasional remarks, but even he sounded subdued, as if the presence of true warriors reminded him that charm had limits.
When the sun climbed higher, the first hint of a patrol fire reached Morna’s nose, clean wood smoke and broth.
Her knees weakened. She nearly stumbled.
Caelan’s hand caught her elbow again, firm. This time he did not release immediately. His grip held for a heartbeat, warm through damp cloth, grounding her.
Morna looked up at him. “We made it,” she whispered.
Caelan’s throat worked. His eyes looked briefly glassy, then hardened again as he forced himself to stay upright. “Aye,” he said. “We made it.”
And in that simple statement was the truth of their new vow. Not clean. Not innocent. Not free of thorns. But theirs, chosen in the dark and carried into the light.