Chapter Three The Gate of Mockery
The road to the pass narrowed into a hard ribbon of stone and frozen earth, flanked by pines that leaned over the track like silent judges. Wind slid down from the heights and found every gap in cloak and collar. Liam rode at the front, letting the cold bite his face because it kept his mind sharp.
This stretch of ground was made for killing. The hillside folded inward, forcing men into a channel. The ridgeline offered cover, and the bends offered surprise. Liam had learned long ago to distrust any place that seemed to invite a traveler forward.
Behind him, the Kincaid riders kept disciplined distance. No chatter, no laughter, no careless shifting. Gavin had not sent boys hungry for stories. He had sent men who understood that a border could turn into a battlefield without warning.
Anya rode in the middle, not protected like a lady, but held within the formation because Liam refused to give any enemy a clean angle on her. Ronan rode close to her, watchful and angry, like a guard dog that did not trust its own pack.
Liam told himself that Anya’s presence was a complication, nothing more. She had attached herself to his mission, and his job was to finish it without letting her slow him or provoke his men into foolishness.
Still, he noted how she handled the cold. She did not complain, did not ask for a halt. Her posture stayed upright, her reins steady. That did not make her suited for the pass, but it meant she would not break at the first discomfort.
The toll-gate appeared as the road rose, a dark slash across the pale slope.
Timber spines braced with stacked stone, spikes angled outward, a watch platform perched above like a sneer.
Men stood on that platform, silhouettes against the sky.
Liam counted bows, then the unmistakable bulk of a crossbow.
He lifted a hand. The formation slowed and stopped where the road widened. His men obeyed without hesitation.
“Eyes on the ridge,” Liam said quietly. “No one rides ahead unless I say.”
A few murmured acknowledgements followed.
Anya’s gaze stayed fixed on the structure. “It is larger than it was,” she said.
“It was built to be seen,” Liam replied.
Ronan leaned forward. “Built to be burned.”
“Quiet,” Liam said.
Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Do not speak to me like I am one of your men.”
“If you ride with us, you follow our discipline,” Liam answered, voice flat. “Or you turn back.”
Anya did not intervene. She did not soothe her brother, and that told Liam she understood the stakes. One reckless move here, and Eamon would have exactly what he wanted.
Movement near the base of the gate drew Liam’s attention. A man stepped into view with deliberate ease, cloak trimmed with fur, boots too clean for a place like this. Eamon did not look like someone who built walls. He looked like someone who enjoyed standing behind them.
He spread his arms, smiling broadly as if welcoming honored guests.
“Well,” Eamon called, voice carrying down the road, “Kincaid steel and MacFarlane manners, together at last. The hills are full of surprises.”
Liam did not move. He had learned that distance was sometimes the only advantage you had. He turned his head slightly toward Anya.
“You wanted to speak,” he said. “You speak from here.”
Anya’s mouth tightened, but she lifted her chin and called, steady and clear. “Eamon. Lieutenant of Lord Roderic.”
“Lady Anya,” Eamon replied, as if her name was a sweet taste. “You return. Have you come to pay your toll properly this time?”
“The pass is not yours to tax,” Anya said. “It has always been open to the clans of these hills.”
Eamon sighed, exaggerated. “Always, yes. Until now. Times change.”
Anya kept her voice controlled. “We come to discuss terms that restore proper passage without bloodshed.”
Eamon’s gaze slid to Liam. “And who speaks for the Kincaids?”
Liam let silence stretch. It was not politeness. It was a test, and he watched Eamon’s smile thin at the edges.
“I do,” Liam said at last. “Liam of Clan Kincaid. I lead the force sent to assess this gate.”
Eamon’s eyes brightened. “Ah. The quiet one. Gavin’s careful hand. I expected Kenan.”
“Kenan does not waste words on gatekeepers,” Liam replied.
Eamon laughed. “Gatekeeper. A fine insult. But you stopped where I can see you and not touch you. That is caution. Or fear.”
A few of Liam’s men shifted, irritation tightening their shoulders. Liam did not glance back. He kept his focus on Eamon, refusing to be pulled into the man’s game.
Anya spoke again, as if filling the space before tempers rose. “Lord Roderic can withdraw his men. We will not challenge his southern holdings if he does not challenge the Highlands. We will restore trade agreements and offer coin for road repairs and escorts.”
Eamon’s expression turned mock thoughtful. “Coin is charming. Coin is what I already take.”
“Then name your price,” Anya said.
Liam’s jaw tightened. He did not like the offer. Name your price was a door, and doors could hide knives.
Eamon’s smile widened. “My price is obedience. Your clan bends so beautifully, Lady Anya. It would be a shame to see it break.”
Ronan made a low sound, rage slipping free. Liam lifted a finger. Two Kincaid riders shifted just enough to block Ronan’s horse without drawing steel. Ronan’s nostrils flared; he fought his own mount as much as his temper.
“My clan does not belong to Lord Roderic,” Anya said, steady despite the insult. “Nor does this pass.”
Eamon’s gaze returned to Liam. “And yours? Do the Kincaids wish to pay toll, or do you prefer to watch your merchants limp along with empty wagons?”
“We prefer open roads,” Liam said.
“Then pay.”
“We will not,” Liam replied.
Eamon’s eyebrows rose. “Bold,” he said, savoring the word. “And yet you remain distant. It is easy to be bold when you cannot be touched.”
Liam had no intention of proving anything to a man who stood behind a wall.
He kept his tone calm. “We will camp within sight of this gate. We will watch who comes and goes. We will keep record of every theft and every demand. When this ends, Lord Roderic will not be able to pretend he did not know what his men did here.”
Eamon’s smile turned thin. “Record,” he repeated, amused. “Will you write it on parchment and wave it at me?”
“You will see,” Liam said.
Eamon leaned forward slightly, performing secrecy while his men on the platform watched.
“Here is what you will see, Liam of Clan Kincaid. Hungry men. Merchants who grow tired and begin to bargain. Neighbors who turn on each other. Gates do not fall because of righteous anger. They fall because someone decides the price is worth paying.”
Anya’s voice tightened. “We are not for sale.”
“Everyone is for sale,” Eamon replied, shrugging. “Some for coin, some for pride, some for safety. Your clan is already paying. You simply do not admit it.”
Liam felt heat rise in his chest, a dangerous flare. Eamon was not only taunting them. He was planting words like seeds, hoping they would sprout into doubt among Liam’s men, hoping they would sprout into despair among Anya’s.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, to stay in control.
“We are done,” Liam said.
Eamon spread his arms again. “Already? I was enjoying our parley. If you wish to pass, bring coin. Bring wool. Bring your pride wrapped neat. Otherwise, turn around and go home.”
Liam held Eamon’s gaze one last time, then turned his horse.
“Back,” he ordered.
His men turned in disciplined unison. No rush, no swagger. Retreat could look like weakness if done poorly. Done with control, it looked like restraint.
Eamon’s laughter followed them up the road, light and confident. Liam hated the sound more than he hated the gate.
They rode until the toll-gate was hidden by trees and rock. Liam called a halt in a sheltered hollow where the wind softened and a narrow stream cut through frost. Men dismounted and moved with efficient purpose. Sentries climbed to the ridge. A small cookfire was built behind stones.
This was the border camp Gavin wanted, close enough to be seen, far enough to avoid a sudden charge.
Anya dismounted and walked a few steps away, as if needing air that did not taste like Eamon’s mockery. Ronan trailed her, still simmering.
Liam watched the ridgeline while his men worked, forcing his mind to stay practical. Eamon had revealed more than he meant to. He had shown confidence, yes, but also dependence. A man like that did not fear death. He feared failing his lord.
And Eamon had wanted them angry.
That part was familiar. Liam could almost feel the old memory pressing in, the way it always did when talk turned sour. A hall, a table, promises of safe passage. A laugh. An arrow. Blood on stone. Liam pushed it away hard. He had paid for trust once. He would not pay again.
A crunch behind him made him turn.
Anya approached, face composed in a way that looked almost cold. Liam had expected humiliation to crack her, or anger to drive her toward Ronan’s hunger for violence. Instead, she looked like a woman who had just taken measure of a threat and found it worse than rumor.
“You were right not to ride closer,” she said.
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “He wanted us nearer.”
“Yes,” Anya replied. “And he wanted me speaking enough that he could twist my words into a story that serves him.”
Liam gestured toward a flat stone near the fire. “Sit,” he said.
Anya hesitated, then sat, smoothing her skirts with practical hands. Ronan hovered behind her like a shadow, arms folded, eyes hard. Liam stayed on his feet a moment, then crouched near the fire, close enough to hear her without making it look like he sought her company.
“What did you see?” Liam asked.
Anya’s gaze moved to the men on the ridge, as if she was learning to watch the way warriors watched. “Eamon is performing,” she said. “Not collecting toll. Performing power. He wants us to feel helpless. He wants your men restless.”
Liam felt the truth of it like a bruise pressed. “He called me fearful.”