The wretched beast had picked a poor night to take his measure. He was angry, and it would suit him just fine to be wearing a new fur cloak come dawn.
A low growl rose up in the night. And then a second. Neither originated from the wolf in front of him—they came from the other side of the camp. The wily beasts had surrounded them.
Aiden stepped back. Without taking his eyes off the big white wolf, he kicked his brother’s sleeping form. “Niall, wake up.”
His brother threw off his blanket and surged to his feet, his sword in hand. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze darting about, his voice rough with sleep.
“Wolves. Several of them.”
Niall bent and shook Cormac’s shoulder. “Wolves,” he said to the bowman’s startled face.
In a moment, the entire camp was awake, each man staring into the woods with their weapons aloft. The big white wolf gave a deep snarl, then edged backward.
“That’s a bloody big one,” Cormac said, taking aim with his bow.
“Hold off,” ordered Aiden.
“No wolf disturbs my sleep and lives,” Cormac said, drawing hard on the bowstring.
“I said hold.” Aiden loaded the words with chilly authority. He did not enjoy repeating himself. When he gave an order, he expected it to be obeyed. Without question.
Cormac lowered his bow and his gaze. “Aye, laird.”
The white wolf stood up, shook its head, then turned and loped off into the woods. Judging by the sudden lack of snarls and growls, the rest of the pack followed its lead. Aiden was about to comment on the strangeness of the encounter when he caught another movement in the shadows, this one much taller and shaped like a man.
He kept his weapon at the ready.
As the stranger neared the fire and his facial features became visible, the tension drained from Aiden’s body and he sheathed his sword. “Bhaltair.”
A white-haired man garbed in an ankle-length lèine and a dark wool cloak strode into the camp. He carried a tall staff and sported a belly-grazing white beard. His face was heavily wrinkled, but he looked no older than when Aiden had last seen him. Some three or four years ago.
“What brings you here?” he asked the old man.
Niall added, “We thought you were long gone to the Maker.”
Bhaltair extended gnarled fingers toward the flames of the fire. “I go where I must.”
Aiden sighed. The old man was fond of speaking in riddles, no doubt due to his exalted age. He claimed to be a druid, one of the ancient holy men that once roamed the north quite freely, but Aiden had never witnessed him perform any of the so-called miracles that were attributed to such men. “Quite a coincidence, meeting you here.”
“Not a coincidence at all,” the old man said. “Do you have any tea?”
“Nay,” said Aiden, a little annoyed. “Are you suggesting you planned to meet us here?”
“Of course not,” Bhaltair said. “What about ale? I haven’t had ale in quite some time.”
Niall offered the druid his oilskin.
“Thank ye,” he said after he’d quenched his thirst. He appropriated some blankets and sat down before the fire. “I’m relieved to find you precisely where I thought you’d be. My legs are weary.”
Niall exchanged a look with Aiden. They’d told no one where they’d planned to camp for the night. Indeed, they’d chosen this spot only upon reaching it.
“How did you find us?” Aiden asked.
“The same way I find all things that I have misplaced,” he responded. “By reading the stars.”
Aiden glanced at the night sky. It was clear, and a thousand stars competed with the brilliance of the moon, but none of them pointed anywhere. Yet the man had found Aiden’s party... assuming he’d actually been looking for them.
“Why have you sought us out?”
