Sebastian’s camp.
Torches burned in a half-circle, their flames licking upward into the cold air. Several tents, more than Kieran prayed to see, were staked in the muddy ground. Men moved between them like restless shadows, armored and armed, the McDawson crest glinting on their cloaks.
And in the center, near the largest tent, sat the man himself.
Sebastian was huddled in a thick cloak, puffing from the exertion of simply walking across the encampment. His gait was stiff, his shoulders hunched, his breaths labored. Kieran knew his uncle’s health had been failing for years, but seeing it laid bare against the violent purpose of this march filled him with a strange, cold revulsion.
“A frail man still dangerous as the devil,” Kieran mumbled.
Michael rode up beside him, his face pale under his hood. “I count at least sixty men. Possibly more. Yer uncle’s scraped together every loyal dog he’s got left.”
“Aye,” Kieran answered softly, jaw tightening. “And they’re far too close to Castle McMurphy.”
Too close to Lydia.
He forced himself to steady his breath though fear had coiled in his gut like razor wire.
They were outnumbered at least four to one. Attacking would be suicide. Staying here, mere shadows between the trees, they would be discovered before long. Sebastian’s scouts might already be sweeping the ridge.
Kieran glanced at the men behind him—just a dozen. Loyal, skilled, but too few to break a wall of forty trained swords. He hadn’t expected Sebastian to have so many forces with him. Acouple of men, maybe half a dozen, but not so many that he could storm the keep.
“We cannae charge,” Michael said, reading his thoughts. “And we cannae stay.”
“Nay,” Kieran murmured, “we cannae.”
Silence stretched, broken only by the distant crackle of torches and the moan of the wind threading through the pines.
“What are our options?” Michael asked.
Kieran’s gaze stayed fixed on Sebastian’s camp, his eyes narrowing slightly as he counted movements, evaluated terrain, searched for even a sliver of advantage. The forest wrapped around the valley in thick, dark stands. A narrow gorge split the ground just south of camp. The river, half-frozen, ran farther east.
“Attackin’ is impossible,” Kieran said quietly. “And retreatin’ would mean leavin’ them unchecked, able to move on the keep at any moment.”
Michael nodded grimly. “Then we must stall them.”
“Aye.”
“And send for help.”
“Aye.”
Kieran exhaled slowly, his mind racing. The camp was too large to attack, too alert to infiltrate, too close to the McMurphy borders to ignore.
They needed to buy time.
“I have an idea,” Kieran said at last, his voice low, and Michael’s spine straightened.
“We split the men.”
Michael stiffened. “That’s dangerous, Kieran.”
“Everythin’ tonight is dangerous,” Kieran replied. “But listen… half of us stay hidden in the treeline, keepin’ watch on the camp. The other half circles around to the small gorge.”
Michael frowned. “The gorge is narrow. Too narrow for a fight.”
“Aye. But perfect for illusion.” Kieran turned his horse slightly, pointing to the shadowy cleft in the earth. “We’ll light torches along the ridge. Spread them out, move them often… make it look like there are far more men waitin’ beyond the gorge than truly stand here. A whole McDawson patrol. Or worse… McMurphy scouts gatherin’ to defend their lands.”
Michael’s eyes widened, understanding dawning. “Ye want to make Sebastian believe he’s surrounded.”
