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We reach a small copse of trees, and he slides to a stop. He sets me down but has an arm over my shoulders and forces me to the ground next to him. I’m not stupid so I keep my mouth shut. He’s aware of something I missed, then I hear it.
Someone is approaching. More than one someone, someones. Fear is quickly becoming such a constant companion I’m not sure I’d know what to do if it was gone. My heart hammers loud in my ears and my blood pressure soars, making me dizzy. I look around trying to see in all directions at once and spot the source of the sounds. The cliffs and rock make it hard to tell where any particular sound is coming from because of the way they echo the smallest noises.
What good is being the Destroyer if I can’t do anything?
Doubts assail me but I don’t have an answer to them except a tinge of regret that maybe I should have stayed with the Druid and trained longer. If I had, would I be in control of my magic? It’s an assumption, but probably a safe one.
It’s not the path I chose, and a life can be one filled with regrets or you can move forward. I’m going to move ahead. Period. Even in my head I snort at myself because I know these are brave words, much easier thought than put into practice.
“You didn’t see nothing,” a voice sounds from the darkness, spiking a cold stabbing fear into my heart.
“I’m telling you I saw it,” another voice answers. “It was a MacGregor. I’m sure of it.”
“You’re drunk and blind.”
“I am not,” the other voice says. “Blind, that is. Drunk, I might very well be.”
“I’m not going to tramp around in the dark when we have a perfectly good fire to return to.”
“You want to miss your chance? You know what a MacGregor head means to us?”
“You think I don’t know?”
The voices are moving closer. Flickering orange flames dance on the air as they approach our position. My bladder suddenly feels full and it’s all I can do to not squirm. The two men are close enough I can see their faces.
They’re dirty, unkempt, with ragged hair and clothes, but they’re also both armed with pistols and swords on their hips. I’m guessing by their accents and weapons that they’re English, not Scottish. Probably deserters from the army.
“If’n you do, then how can you talk of not finding this one?”
“I want to clear our name as much as anyone, but I’m also not a fool.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“How do we know that whole idea isn’t a trap to fool us into coming into town? We show up with our MacGregor head to clear our name, but the truth is they kill us anyway. Then they have a dead MacGregor and two dead thieves. Win-win for them.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Right. You don’t think or we wouldn’t be in this mess. Besides it’s chilly and the rum at the camp will go right nice with the fire, don’t you think?”
Rob’s hand clenches on my blouse, bunching it up in his fist and holding me close to the ground and him. Listening to these men talk I know they’re telling the truth, even if the one man doubts it. One of the effects of outlawing the MacGregor name was to offer amnesty to those who brought in a dead MacGregor. Bile rises in my throat. The inhumanity of it all is so much more real lying here hiding from men who will cut us down for no more reason than Rob is a MacGregor by chance of birth. More real than studying it in a history book.
“Rum does sound good.”
“Let’s go back. We’ll look in the light.”
The one man looks in our direction. I swear he’s looking right at me. The low thrum of power in my guts swells and then, as if on command, a thick mist rolls down the mountain.
“I’m sure I saw something.”
“You probably saw a stag.”
“Didn’t look like no stag.”
“A goat then.”
“Looked less like a goat then a stag. Looked like a MacGregor.”
How exactly do you tell a MacGregor from any other person in the dark from a distance?I wonder but I don’t think it matters to these two. They’re willing to kill anyone if it will clear their name.
