The training yard came into view as he pushed through the outer gate.
Warriors still moved about the yard, some sparring while others cleaned weapons along the wooden railing. The afternoon sun hung low over the hills, casting long shadows across the packed earth. Ian barely acknowledged the men as he crossed toward the stable.
“Ian!” Flynn’s voice rang across the yard.
Ian stopped and turned as Flynn hurried toward him, his stride quick and purposeful. The look on his face told Ian immediately that something had happened. Flynn slowed only slightly when he reached him.
“Scouts returned from the northern ridge,” Flynn said.
Ian’s eyes sharpened. “And?”
“They found tracks. They're close.”
Ian felt something dark and eager stir inside him.
“Possibly the raiders,” Flynn confirmed.
A grim smile tugged at the corner of Ian’s mouth. “Well,” he muttered. He turned toward the stable doors. “They couldnae have arrived at a better time.”
Flynn followed close behind him. “I thought ye might say that.”
Several stable lads looked up in surprise as Ian moved quickly to his horse. He grabbed the saddle without hesitation and began fastening the straps with swift, practiced motions.
“We need ten riders,” Ian said.
Flynn nodded. “Already called for them, they're comin'.”
Ian swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. “Good.”
Within moments, the selected warriors gathered, mounting their horses with eager energy. The possibility of battle always stirred excitement among the clan’s fighters. Flynn rode up beside Ian as the last rider joined the group.
Callum adjusted his reins and grinned. “Been too quiet lately.”
“Aye,” another warrior added. “Let’s see if these ghosts bleed like the Laird says.”
Ian’s eyes flashed with fierce anticipation. “They bleed,” he said firmly. “If we catch them.”
Ian lifted his hand. “Onward to the north ridge,” he called.
The riders spurred their horses forward as one. They thundered through the castle gate and onto the winding trail that cut through the hills. The wind rushed against Ian’s face as his horse surged forward beneath him. The pounding of hooves filled his ears while the cool air burned in his lungs.
For the first time all day, the tension inside him found an outlet. The rhythm of the ride steadied him. His blood coursed hot through his veins, every sense sharpened by the hunt. Behind him the warriors rode hard, their laughter and shouts carried on the wind. Flynn guided them across the narrow ridge path that overlooked the valley below.
After nearly an hour of riding, Ian raised his hand. “Tracks here!”
The riders slowed quickly as they reached a patch of soft earth near a stream crossing. Ian dismounted immediately and crouched beside the ground. Hoofprints cut deep into the soil, several horses passing through in a hurried line.
“How many?” Callum asked.
Ian studied the marks carefully. “Six… mayhap seven,” he said.
Flynn scanned the surrounding hills. “Fresh?”
Ian pressed his fingers lightly against the edge of a print. “An hour,” he estimated. “Two at most.”
Flynn cursed under his breath. “Close then.”
Ian rose and swung back into the saddle. “Spread out along the ridge. If they’re headin' east, we’ll cut them off.”
