They had gatheredwhat could be moved, the animals nestled into lidded baskets strapped securely to the horses. Fawn rode close beside Rhodes, Sprig curled safely in her cloak pouch, while the men followed, the crunch of hooves muffled by the snow. The cottage was already fading behind them, the air heavy with the promise of more snowfall.
They had not gone far when a figure appeared on the path ahead.
An old man, stooped and hollow-eyed, leaned on a crooked staff as he trudged through the snow. His cloak was threadbare,his beard unkempt, his boots patched too many times to keep the cold at bay. When he lifted his head, his eyes turned wide.
“Keep back!” he shouted, his voice cracked with warning. “Keep back, for witches walk these woods! They brought sickness on my village, illness that cut folk down one by one. I left before death could take me too.”
The horses shied, snorting at his ragged cry. Rhodes’s men muttered low, unease passing from one to the next as they reined their mounts a step away from the path.
Rhodes’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing. “Illness, you say?”
The man jabbed his staff toward the trees. “Illness and death! The witches cursed us. And now one follows me even here. She sends her raven to track my steps.”
At that, the cry of a raven split the stillness, sharp and hollow, echoing above them. Every head snapped up, the men’s gazes sweeping the pale sky, searching the branches heavy with snow.
The warriors stiffened, some crossing themselves, others clutching at amulets strung around their necks. Hooves shifted in the snow, restless with their riders’ fear.
Fawn’s breath caught. Her hand tightened on the reins, her heart hammering. If they knew that the raven they feared did not wheel overhead, but rested silent and watchful inside one of the baskets she had secured, its dark eyes gleaming through the weave… what then?
The old man stumbled closer, still muttering of curses and death. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his cloak, his steps unsteady in the snow.
“Bloody superstition,” Rhodes said, his voice carrying sharp and certain. He straightened in the saddle, his tone pitched to every man within earshot. “An old man’s raving of witches and birds. If sickness came to his village, it was from thin broth and colder nights, not from creatures of the sky.”
A few of the men shifted, relief sparking in their eyes at the firmness of his words. Others muttered agreement, glancing at one another as if reassured that their laird feared no shadow, no curse.
Rhodes looked down at the old man, who leaned heavily on his staff, shivering beneath his worn cloak.
“You cannot leave him to wander the woods. He will freeze,” Fawn whispered.
“He could bring illness with him or worse…”
Fawn shook her head. “Or he could be an old man who his clan tossed out because he was the rare one who didn’t take ill. At least shelter him for a few days until you can learn more, or do you not care if you send him to his death?”
“My concern is for the safety of my clan,” he snapped.
“Then you should learn more about him before discarding him in case he knows or saw something that might help you solve the wolfhound problem.”
That she made sense annoyed him and that he conceded to her logic only added to it.
“Your name,” Rhodes demanded.
The old man’s shoulders turned in with fear. “Cander, sir.”
“You’ll not survive the winter alone, Cander. Come with us to Clan MacBrair. You’ll find food, warmth, and shelter there.”
Cander’s eyes gleamed with surprise and a hint of suspicion, then he dipped his chin. “You are generous, my lord. I will not forget it.”
Rhodes urged his horse forward, signaling the column to move again, though unease twisted through him. He let his gaze sweep his men, steady and unflinching.
“If a witch dares to cross our path, she’ll find MacBrair steel waiting. Until then, save your fear for something worthy of it.”
They settled then, shoulders eased, reins slackened, and the horses pressed forward once more.
But as the column moved, Rhodes’s jaw tightened. His gaze slid briefly to the lidded baskets strapped to the packhorses, one in particular where a pair of dark eyes sometimes gleamed through the weave.
The raven.
What if they knew?
