“Ye are a problem, Hazel,” the chieftain said then, his tone almost regretful. “One I must solve.”
“What if the seer is wrong?” She surprised herself by finding her voice. It came out calmer and steadier than she’d expected. Her pulse thudded in her ears, slow and hard. Strangely, it steadied her. “What if killing me changes nothing?”
His gaze snapped wide. He hadn’t expected her to know about that. A moment later, he recovered, and his lip curled. “The Crone is wise, lass. Even now, I see she speaks the truth.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye. “Ye will ruin me if given the chance. This alliance between our clans will bring the Macquaries the power and influence we deserve. Butye” —his gaze glinted, fevered and too bright— “would destroy it.”
He took a step forward then, his dirk rising.
Hazel spun on her heel and fled, leaving her precious basket behind her.
Two strides took her across the bubbling burn and onto the mossy bank on the other side. And then she was sprinting down the gorge as if the hounds of Hades were pursuing her.
They were.
The Macquaries howled as they took up the chase.
Her throat clamped tight at the feral sound, the joy in it. They wanted her to flee. They wanted to run her down like a deer.
They thought she’d be easy prey. But she wasn’t.
Hazel was fit and strong. She was used to walking, and she had long legs. Unhampered by her basket, she picked up her skirts with one hand and gripped her dirk tight with the other as she ran.
Even so, they closed in.
As fast as she was, the hunter always had the advantage.
The gorge opened up then, and she plunged back into a hazel thicket.
Her breath tore at her chest, and the world around her became a blur of green and gold. Branches ripped at her arms, caught her hair. Behind her, the howls had slid into ragged shouts—and they drew ever closer. They crashed through the undergrowth, their boots pounding on the earth.
God save me!
Every gasp burned her throat. She couldn’t seem to drag in enough air. Sunlight flickered through the canopy in broken flashes, blinding her as she stumbled over roots and stones, her palms slick with sweat.
A branch snapped somewhere to her right—and she veered left, heart hammering, pulse roaring in her ears. Sweat trickled down her back now, not from exertion but terror.
She didn’t dare look back; if she did, they’d catch her. The woodland pressed in on all sides, alive with movement and sound, but there was no safety among these trees. Only the desperate hope that she could stay ahead of the Macquaries.
And then something heavy slammed into her back.
A man’s body. Hard and lithe. One of them had caught up with her.
Together, they went down, a tangle of limbs on the ground littered with tree roots.
Hazel snarled a curse, twisted under him, and without hesitation drove her blade up into the base of his throat. Stabbing a man was harder than she’d ever imagined. Flesh, sinew, muscle, and bone gave way reluctantly. But fear gave her strength, and the sharp blade punched through.
The bearded face leering down at her went slack. Grey eyes snapped wide.
Hazel snarled a curse, pushed him off her, and rolled to her feet. Her knife was still embedded in his throat, and so she ripped the dirk from his hand, ducking as another warrior grabbed for her.
And then she was running again.
Her stamina was nearing its limits, but her mind was sharp, whittled to a single sliver of purpose: survive.
She barreled through the trees, ducking low, breath labored, legs burning. She was tiring, but she couldn’t slow down. Not now.
The Macquaries crashed behind, closer.
“Come here, bitch!”
