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“Ach, it’s broken.”
One glance is all it takes. He stepped in a hole and broke his leg. It’s clear as day even without my albeit limited medical training. I look back, and though I hear them approach I don’t see our pursuers yet. Three women have stopped close by, watching the old man and me.
“Come, help,” I say motioning them closer. “Find two stout sticks. Do you have any leather strips?”
“Aye,” one of the women says, lowering the pack on her back and digging into it while the other woman rushes off searching through the grass.
The woman with the pack produces two leather strips but the other woman comes back empty-handed.
“There’s no wood to be had.”
I frown, looking around. “Anything straight and stiff? Do you have anything solid? A butter churn handle, something like that?”
The two women run around to the other people who are not far away and a few moments later they return with what looks like a butter churn handle and a broken sword.
“Will this work?” she asks.
“It has to,” I say, grabbing the items. The older man is clenching his teeth and not crying out in pain, but I know how badly this must hurt. “I’m sorry. This is going to be bad.”
He nods his understanding. The women stand in a loose circle watching as I work. I lay the wood and sword on either side of his leg then work the leather strip beneath it. Once I have all the parts in place, I run my hands gently down the leg. The man grunts when I reach the area of the break.
My stomach clenches as part of me resists the idea of what I’m about to do. It’s revolting but I also know it’s the only way to save him. If he stays here, he’s dead. If I don’t set it, he’ll never walk again. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply and hold it as I grab onto his shin. I exhale sharply as I jerk down on his leg.
The man cries out and the women gasp but the bone lines up. I move the items close to his leg and then bind them to either side of the leg with the leather strips. They keep shifting; no matter what I do I can’t get them to stay in place.
“Here, hold that sword there,” I say, nodding at one of the women.
She stares with wide eyes, and I have to tell her again before she finally kneels and helps. The extra set of hands is what I need. At last, I’m able to wrap the leg tight. Once we finish, I stand up and grab the man. The other woman follows my lead, and we get him on his feet.
“Aye,” the man says, huffing in pain. “I can walk. God bless you.”
“Go,” I motion to the onlookers and the howling of dogs is all the encouragement they need.
The walls of the valley continue to creep closer. This is bad. I know it is, but I look for an alternative and there’s nothing. We either go deeper or we turn back, but behind us are the hunters. Their shouts grow louder, and the dogs are close enough I would swear I hear them growling. Any moment their going to break free of the mists and run us down. Once that happens we are screwed.
The old man with the broken leg is slow. He stumbles over the rough ground and grunts in pain with every step. I don’t have anything to serve as a crutch, but the two women who assisted are helping support him. I try to pull magic like the Druid taught me but when I do it feels like I’m inhaling smoke that burns its way through my veins. I can feel the energy there and almost grasp it but then it slips away. It’s like trying to grab air.
I walk backwards as much as I do forwards. I don’t have a plan for what I’m going to do when it happens, but I want to see trouble coming. The sky is a perfect azure blue over the gash this valley is forming. Wispy white clouds float lazily overhead, unperturbed at the horrors happening below them. The contrast of the beauty around me and the horror I’m in the middle of feel as if they’re trying to break my brain.
I bump into someone and jump around to a sight that makes my heart drop. A dead end. A sheer cliff rises before us. Thick moss covers the rock face, showing no sign of a handhold. It is at least twenty feet tall, not insurmountable with strong men and some gear, none of which I have at hand.
“We’re doomed,” someone says.
The words give voice to everyone’s emotions, and it sweeps through the group, causing them to become a mob. They push and shove, turning and moving back the way they came. The itching in my head explodes into pain. A blinding migraine that blurs my sight and takes my breath away.
The crowd pushes past while I press my hands to the sides of my head and try to stop the sensation that it’s going to explode at any moment. I clench my eyes tight and try to breathe through it but there’s no time.
“Here! Here! Here!”
A man’s voice echoes from the walls and the growling howls of dogs fill my ears. I force my eyes open as the people jostling around me retreat towards the cliff wall. A dozen armed men march on us holding dogs on long leashes. The dogs snap and snarl, biting at the air and howling as they strain to be free.
Bile rises in my throat. This is it. We’re trapped. One look back and I know there is no escape.
“MacGregors!” A deep, booming voice fills the air, too loud for a mortal voice.
A man on horseback rides into view. He’s thin, tall, with a long scar that runs the side of his otherwise handsome face. He has slicked back black hair and cold eyes, but the smile on his face is what makes my blood run cold. His horse rears back and he sits astride as if this is nothing new. The horse paws at the air whinnying. The man draws a black blade and points it at our group.
“Kill them,” he orders.
