Chapter 2
Magnus Kerr knelt in the mud to examine the trail. Down in the valleys and lowlands spring was on the way but up here winter still held the land in its icy grip and his knee sank into half-frozen slush. He ignored the discomfort as his eyes narrowed on what had caught his eye. Aye, that was definitely a boot print. Someone had been up here recently.
He looked around. All he could see for miles in every direction was a rumpled landscape of high ridges, wind-scoured rock, and heather-covered moorland. An eagle soared a thermal far above, but all other evidence of life had taken shelter from the driving wind that was coming down off the heights. Only fools would venture into the unforgiving peaks of the Dragon’s Back on a storm-swept day like today. Only fools or the desperate.
Magnus wondered which he was.
Climbing to his feet, he paused to take in the wind. It was veering round to the north, which meant another snow storm was likely on the way. He had to find what he was looking for before it hit and he lost all evidence of the trail.
He loosened his sword in the scabbard strapped across his back, checked the brace of knives strapped around his waist, and set off, scanning the ground as he moved.
It felt like he’d been on this journey forever, but in truth it had only been a few months since he’d left Dun Saith. It had been autumn then and the halls had been filled with warmth and camaraderie following the defeat of the Order of the Osprey’s greatest enemy, the Disinherited. It had beena time of celebration—but not for him. Not when he heard what had been happening in the area around Glynn Vale, the area where he’d grown up.
He came across no more boot prints—the weather having no doubt washed them away—but he found other evidence of recent activity. A dropped heel of bread, frozen solid. A belt-buckle discarded in the mud.
He was getting closer. He could feel it.
A trail of sorts wound its way through the rocky landscape, little more than an animal track and all but invisible unless you knew what to look for. Magnus carefully followed it as it began to climb up towards a sharp peak strewn about with boulders larger than a man.
Up ahead, in the lee of a peak where it was sheltered from the wind, he spotted firelight. The hairs rose on the back of his neck.
His footsteps scraped faintly in the stillness as he climbed higher, boots slipping slightly on the frost-kissed rock. Sweat trickled down his back despite the chill, and he forced himself to breathe steady, slow breaths to keep himself calm. He barely noticed the biting wind that whipped through his torn cloak or the sharp sting of cold against his skin.
A cave, hidden cunningly in the natural cleft of two great stones, came into view ahead. The fire burning within cast leering shadows that danced and writhed on the walls ofthe cave mouth. He ducked low as he neared, moving from boulder to boulder in a stealthy crouch, wary of any sudden movement. His hand found the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around the cold metal.
A scent hit him then—a charred and acrid smell that pricked at his nostrils. It was a smell akin to when a blacksmith leaves iron in the forge too long, burning away all impurities until only carbon remained. Magnus slowed his pace, allowing him to study the entrance from a safer distance.
The cave entrance was a squalid sight, choked with refuse and discarded scraps that spoke of habitation. He could see the remnants of food, empty skins that once held wine or ale and now lay crumpled and discarded, even bits of shredded clothing that seemed to suggest a hurried exit. The fire in the cave glowed brighter now—and revealed the unmistakable shadow of someone sitting beside it.
Magnus tensed, suddenly wary of a trap. He eased himself down behind a rock and looked around, trying to figure out if this was an ambush.
He was exposed here, on the side of the peak. If there were archers lurking, he would be an easy target. Yet he detected nothing but the empty, barren landscape: a few scrubby bushes shivering in the wind, patches of snow clinging stubbornly to the rock, slabs of granite stained with moss and lichen. No movement caught his eye, save for the flickering fire within the cave. Slowly, he exhaled.
Magnus released his sword hilt and reached for one of his knives instead. It was more suited for close quarters combat.
The figure by the fire didn’t move—didn’t so much as twitch—as Magnus stood up slowly. But as he was about to creep closer, a voice spoke.
“Ye had best come inside and get warm, lad, before ye catch yer death. Dinna worry. The brigands are long gone.”
The voice was rich and friendly—not at all what he’d expected—and sounded faintly...amused?
Magnus did not relax his guard. He’d been in enough skirmishes and ambushes to know all the tricks in the book and he wasn’t about to fall for any of them. Keeping a tight hold on his knife, he edged closer, eyes and ears straining for any sign of movement in the rocks around him. There were none.
Finally, he reached the cave mouth and peered within. A small figure sat on a rock, back to Magnus, leaning over the fire with hands outstretched. A quick survey of the cave revealed nobody else, just the scattered refuse that suggested a hastily abandoned camp.
“Who are ye?” he demanded. “What are ye doing here?”
