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“What are we going to do?” a British soldier asks, a ranking one judging by his uniform but I never studied the insignia of the British army.
I frown, wishing I had an actual answer. Before I can speak though a booming voice that warms my heart answers for me.
“We’ll go to Urquhart castle,” Chief Johnne says, walking up to stand at my side.
“That’s in ruins,” the soldier says.
“Aye, for the most part,” Johnne agrees. “But it’s still got walls to hide us and behind which we can mount a sight better defense than out here on the open fields. There are some serviceable rooms too.”
Murmurs go through the crowd, but no one has a better idea to present, including me.
“That settles it then,” I shout. “Once we’re there, we’ll reformulate our plans.”
Arguments settled, we make our way towards the castle. Conversations are few and muted. The only constant sound is the heavy footsteps of the weary and the wounded marching. Otherwise, there is an eerie silence that seems to engulf the world, as if reality itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next big event.
“Quinn,” Dugald whispers my name, breaking me free of my own dark, spinning thoughts. “I’ll be back.”
“What? You’re leaving, now?”
“I must,” he says, a faraway look in his eyes. “Get to the castle. Regroup. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
“Aren’t we past the mysterious dark stranger phase?” I ask, but I’m louder than I intend and the eyes of those closest dart in our direction. Dugald has the decency to look hurt for all the good it’s going to do because, along with that pain on his face, is resolve. He’s leaving no matter what I say or do. “Fine. Go.”
I make a dismissive gesture, but Dugald catches my hand in his.
“I am sorry about Duncan,” he says, squeezing my hand tight. “He is a good man. I do understand why you have chosen him.”
My throat swells shut, and tears threaten to fall but I don’t have time for those emotions, so I swallow them hard and nod. Dugald spins around, and in moments he disappears into the shadows while I’m left to herd these survivors.
ChapterThree
A chill breezepicks up and then a light drizzle begins. As if we weren’t miserable enough. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, certain each time that the horde of monsters is going to be on our trail, but the road behind us is strangely empty.
The emptiness worries me more than if I did see them. If I saw them, then I’d at least know what is happening. As it is I’m left with a mystery wrapped around the fear of the unknown.
As the castle comes into sight the Brit was right. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing. The walls are crumbling, but still tall. I watch from a hill as the line of people crosses a crumbling stone bridge over what once might have been a moat but now is an empty gash in the land. The road winds on, marching to an entrance gate.
I move along with the crowd until I too reach the opening, which is a tall, arching tunnel burrowing through the stone wall. Of all the castle, this is in the best shape of what I’ve seen so far. The men continue to file through, and I hold back, watching the land behind us. The cold breeze pulls at my skirts and tosses my hair as I wait and worry.
I give up on seeing anything at last, turn, and walk through the tunnel. I study the tunnel, the walls, and everything around me trying to assess the defensibility of our position. As if I’m some great military mind or have the slightest clue what makes a good defense. A pre-med dropout and an archaeologist in training, neither of which gives me any idea how to lead an army or set up a defensive position.
When I reach the midway portion of the tunnel there are sharp, iron teeth of what I assume is a portcullis protruding from the ceiling. Military mind or not, I know we need to see if that will close, and if not, what it will take to fix it.
Past the portcullis are rooms. They are open doorways, the wood of the doors themselves scavenged or rotted away long ago. The rooms themselves are stone and appear sound. A few men have claimed each of the spaces, huddling together in the dark. As good a guard as we’re likely to have tonight.
I emerge from the tunnel into the main courtyard, which is much bigger than I would have expected. Chief Johnne and a British Commander are ordering men and assigning some to guard duty and others to repairs. I pause just inside the gate and watch. The two men are working surprisingly well together, and perhaps even more surprisingly, no one is arguing with them. I’m glad to let them take control. All I want right now is to get out of this drizzle and find a place I can be alone to collect my thoughts.
“Quinn,” Chief Johnne calls when he sees me gazing around the open spaces.
I walk towards him, still making note of the layout of the grounds. East of the gate, down an incline, are tall buildings to explore, but to the west, closer to the loch, is a rising tower, at least five stories tall that looks mostly intact.
“Yes?” I ask, stopping in front of the Chief and the British commander.
“You look the devil,” Chief Johnne says.
“What is a female doing here?” the British commander asks, looking me up and down.
I give the man an appraising look for the first time. He’s skinny, too skinny in that way which while it may be genetic, makes him look malnourished. He has a hooked nose that’s been broken at least twice, a high brow accented by receding, thin blonde hair. He has soft, blue eyes but manages an air of authority if by no other means than of looking down his nose at the world around him.
