Chapter Thirteen The Gate of Pride
Mist lay thick over the border camp, muffling hoofbeats and turning torchlight into dull halos. Liam welcomed the hush. Quiet made men careful, and careful was what this plan required.
Beyond the ridge, the mountain pass narrowed and the southern outpost sat like a clenched fist at its throat.
A palisade, a gatehouse, a raised platform for bows, and the heavy chain that barred the road.
It was not a castle, but it did not need to be.
It only needed to make trade costly and hunger constant.
Roderic had built pressure instead of war, and it had nearly worked.
Liam stood with Murdo near the ridge line, watching his chosen archers melt into heather and stone. He had selected steady hands, not the loudest. Arrows today were for shaping movement, not collecting bodies. If the outpost turned this into a bloodbath, Roderic would win even if Eamon died.
Footsteps approached, measured, purposeful.
Anya came up the slope with two Kincaid guards several paces behind her, the arrangement Gavin insisted upon.
Not a cage, Gavin had said, protection. Liam did not argue with the need, but he hated what it looked like.
He had spent too many days watching her forced to stand inside decisions made by men.
She stopped beside Liam and kept her gaze on the outpost. “The runner returned?” she asked.
“He reached the gate at first light,” Liam said. “If Eamon is as vain as you believe, he will come out to prove he can.”
Anya’s mouth tightened. “Vain, greedy, and eager to impress his lord,” she said. “He will want to carry something back. A signature, a hostage, a story.”
Liam watched her face for fear. It was there, tucked behind her calm, but it did not rule her. She looked like a woman who had decided that if she must be bait, she would choose her hook.
“You can still refuse,” Liam said, though he knew she would not.
Anya’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and steady. “If I refuse,” she said, “this becomes your defiance alone. Kenan will call you softened. Gavin will feel cornered again. I will not let you stand in front of that storm without me.”
Murdo cleared his throat and gave Liam a look that said he had heard enough to understand more than either of them would like.
“Positions are set,” Murdo reported, shifting the conversation back to steel. “Archers high. Spears low. Kenan and his men are hidden near the bend.”
Liam nodded. “No arrows unless I signal,” he reminded. “And no killing unless we have no other choice.”
Murdo’s jaw flexed. “Aye,” he said, not pleased, but obedient.
Anya drew in a careful breath. “If he tries to seize me,” she said, quiet now, “you do not hesitate.”
Liam’s throat tightened. “If he reaches for you, you drop,” he said. “Hard and fast. It clears the line.”
Anya’s brows lifted. “Drop,” she repeated, and then nodded once. “Aye.”
Liam wanted to take her hand. He did not. Touch could be misread, and misread things became weapons in the mouths of men like Kenan.
They descended toward the road with a small escort, moving like diplomats rather than soldiers. The outpost watched from its platform. Liam could feel eyes tracking them, judging numbers and posture.
Kenan met them at the last fold of ground before the road straightened. His stance was coiled, impatient.
“This is madness,” he muttered, glancing at Anya as if she were the madness itself. “A lady and a letter.”
“It is a trap,” Anya said evenly. “For a man who thinks walls make him untouchable.”
Kenan’s mouth curled. “Walls make most men untouchable.”
“Then we touch him,” Liam said. “With discipline. You close the road behind the gatehouse when I signal twice. Not before.”
Kenan’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a single nod. “If it fails,” he said, “I take the gate my way.”
Liam did not answer. There was no time to argue and no point. Kenan would obey until he believed obedience had become danger.
They moved on.
At a flat stretch of road just beyond bowshot, Liam raised his hand and the party halted. The outpost loomed ahead, chain stretched across the road, links thick as a man’s wrist.
Eamon stepped onto the platform with a smug smile. “The lady returns,” he called down. “And the wolf walks beside her.”
Anya lifted her voice, calm, formal. “Captain Eamon, I received your lord’s offer.”
Eamon leaned forward. “And?”
“My father considers it,” Anya said, letting the words hang like bait. “But he will not renounce Kincaid without written guarantees. Sealed. Witnessed. In plain terms, safe passage for our caravans and protection from reprisal.”
A ripple of murmuring moved along the platform. Eamon’s smile tightened.
“You think your father bargains?” he scoffed. “He should be grateful for mercy.”
“Mercy without proof is a chain,” Anya replied. “If your lord’s offer is true, you can sign a guarantee and return it with me.”
“With you,” Eamon repeated, eyes narrowing. “You mean you want to walk out of Kincaid camp and claim the South welcomed you.”
“I mean I need to return to advise my father,” Anya said. “If you refuse to let me leave safely, he will assume Roderic’s peace is a trap.”
Eamon stared at her, insulted by the suggestion he could be doubted. That was the crack Anya had promised.
He barked an order.
The gatehouse door creaked open. Two soldiers stepped out, scanning the road. Then Eamon strode out as if the ground belonged to him. Four guards flanked him, and a scribe followed with a satchel. Liam’s chest tightened at the sight. The satchel meant letters, seals, proof.
Eamon stopped near the shadow of his palisade. “Speak,” he commanded. “From there.”
Anya stepped to the line they had agreed upon. Liam stayed half a pace behind and to her right, close enough to pull her back, far enough to avoid making her look owned.
Anya repeated the conditions, crisp and unsentimental. Eamon mocked, postured, and then, as she predicted, grew greedy.
“And why should I send you back at all?” he said, voice lowering. “If you stay, your father may accept faster.”
Anya’s gaze did not waver. “If you threaten me,” she said, “you prove my point. I will advise him to refuse.”
Eamon’s smile turned ugly. “You will advise him to obey,” he said, and he stepped forward, hand lifting as if he were reaching for a prize.
Anya’s eyes flicked once to Liam.
Liam gave the smallest nod.
Anya dropped.
Not a delicate swoon, but a fast, hard fall that turned her cloak into a blur. Eamon’s fingers grasped only air.
Liam stepped forward, blade half drawn, and shouted one word. “Now.”
A sharp whistle answered, followed by the hiss of arrows.
The first volley struck the road behind Eamon’s party, thudding into dirt in a tight line. The second volley landed closer to the gatehouse, cutting off retreat without piercing flesh. Eamon’s guards froze, startled by the sudden fence of death.
Kenan’s men surged from the bend, shields up, closing the road behind the outpost’s party. Not a wild charge, but a fast wall.
Eamon jerked back, eyes wide. “Ambush!”
Liam hauled Anya up by her forearm, keeping her low behind his shoulder. “Stay down,” he hissed.
“I am,” she snapped, breath quick but controlled.
Eamon drew his sword in panic and rage and swung at Liam. The blow was clumsy but strong. Liam parried and stepped inside the swing, using his shield arm to shove Eamon off balance. He wanted to end this without killing, but he would not let Eamon reach Anya again.
Eamon lunged a second time. Liam twisted Eamon’s wrist down and struck the man’s shoulder with his pommel. Eamon cried out and dropped his sword.
“Bind him,” Liam roared.
Kenan’s warriors seized Eamon, wrenching his arms behind his back and forcing him to his knees. The scribe tried to run. Murdo grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back, snatching the satchel as it fell.
“Letters,” Murdo called.
Relief flashed through Liam. The plan’s spine was intact.
The outpost’s platform erupted in shouts. Bows rose. Arrows began to fly, some close, most wild. Liam lifted his shield and signaled.
“Phase two,” he snapped.
They moved fast toward the winch platform where the chain’s mechanism sat exposed. Liam kept Anya close, not behind him, but beside his shoulder, where he could feel if she stumbled.
Kenan grunted as they ran. “Finally.”
“This is not a siege,” Liam warned. “We break the mechanism and the stores. Then we leave.”
Kenan’s expression said he would rather burn the whole outpost, but he obeyed.
Two southern soldiers guarded the winch platform.
One hesitated at the sight of Eamon bound, and that hesitation cost him.
Kenan’s men slammed into the platform with shields, knocking spears aside.
Liam vaulted up, kicked one soldier’s legs out, and shoved the other flat with the edge of his shield.
Both were disarmed and bound before the outpost could send reinforcements.
Liam seized an axe and hacked at the wooden brace that held the winch arm. The first blow bit deep, the second cracked, the third snapped the joint. The winch sagged, the chain jerking, then dropping in a heavy clatter to the road.
Behind him, Anya’s voice snapped, “Left!”
A crossbowman burst from the gatehouse door, bolt already cocked. Liam twisted, but Anya moved first. She grabbed a fallen shield and shoved it forward. The bolt hit the shield with a brutal thunk and lodged, saving Liam’s back at the cost of her arms shaking from the impact.
Kenan barreled into the crossbowman and slammed him down. “Stay,” Kenan snarled, wrenching the weapon away.
Liam’s stomach turned at how close it had been. He forced himself back to the chain. “Pry the anchors,” he ordered. “Drag it off the road.”
His men worked with crowbars and axes, wrenching bolts loose and hauling the chain into a useless heap. Arrows continued to rain, but shields held. One Kincaid man took a shallow cut along his shoulder and gritted through it.
Murdo shoved the scribe’s satchel into Liam’s hands. “More papers inside,” Murdo said. “Copies. Seals.”
“Take them back to camp,” Liam ordered. “Fast. Keep low.”