Page 64 of Blood & Claw

Maol shot her a veiled glance, his rawboned features harsh in the fading light. He was the unofficial leader of this group—heavily tattooed warriors with southern accents. She’d tried to discover more about them over the past days, but every question had met a stone wall. His eyes glinted then. Lifting a hand, he pointed north. “We won’t have to.”

Kayla shifted her gaze north, to the top of the rise they were cresting. The road had left the loch-shore a while back, taking them through woodland of oak and ash. But there ahead, rising above the trees, she caught sight of a scattering of low stone roundhouses crouching in the lee of a rock-studded hill.

Braziers burned in the gloaming. The scent of smoke reached them on the wind.

Her heart jolted. Dunfyne.

They’d actually made it. Shelter and safety were just ahead. All wasn’t lost. She could rest, could regain her strength, and plan her next move.

Maol urged his mount ahead of the group, dark braids swinging between his shoulders in time with his horse’s stride, reaching the market ground at the heart of the village first. Here, a ring of braziers burned brightly; fire to keep the Slew and other malevolent spirits at bay. Then he hauled his mount to a halt, the others fanning out behind him, their horses blowing hard, flanks lathered. They’d ridden like hunted beasts all day.

Kayla knew why.

Ailsa.

Her gut clenched, worry arrowing through her. Stubborn lass. What did she think she was doing? Coming after her was idiocy. Ailsa would only get herself killed. The lass was just another reason why Kayla had to get free. She couldn’t let her get dragged into this.

All these years keeping her safe, ensuring she was protected—and now, she was completely alone.

Maol had recognized her apprentice in an ale-hall in Farnoch.

They’d left that night, had ridden like fiends, although Kayla doubted that Ailsa’s pursuit was all that worried Maol. He clearly had somewhere he wanted to be—and he was so desperate to reach it that he’d pushed on straight into Gateway.

A thin, distant shriek carried across the darkening sky, and her belly pitched.

They needed shelter. Now.

“That one,” Maol ordered, pointing to the largest of the roundhouses.

A weasel-faced warrior named Seoc dismounted and strode to the dwelling, hammering his fist against the timber door. “Open up!” he bellowed.

Only silence answered.

He struck again, harder. Another of the men, Car, tried the door of another roundhouse. Then a third before he shouted, “Open the fucking door!”

Nothing.

Kayla glanced around them. The village had gone to ground. They weren’t opening their doors to anyone until daybreak—and although she wanted to take refuge too, she couldn’t say she blamed them.

“They’ve barred themselves in,” Car snarled, his blunt-featured face flushing the color of liver.

Gerrad, the youngest of the group, spat on the ground. “Cowards.”

“They’re not,” Kayla ground out. “They just don’t want to risk their lives for strangers.”

None of her companions answered her.

Instead, Maol stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the darkened doorways. “Let us in,” he called, voice carrying. “Or we burn you out.”

A long pause followed.

Wind sighed through the village. Somewhere inside, Kayla heard the faint scrape of movement. Her breathing grew shallow; she could almost taste their terror.

Still, no one answered.

Maol nodded to Car. “Do it.”

The warrior snatched a torch from his pack and thrust it into one of the burning braziers. Sparks leapt, the torch caught fire, and flame flared bright in the gloom.