Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ T here, down the path.”

Lucia followed Callum’s gaze, spotting the lonely traveler in the distance. From the top of the hill, they could see the entire valley and the man was just a small speck in the vast landscape, but one that was easily recognizable.

They had been travelling for an entire day and a half, and now that they had stopped to rest, Callum had wasted no time before finding her and Alaric a task. To prove themselves, he said. To show him and his men they were truly part of the gang.

As far as tasks went, it was an easy one. The man was travelling alone and she and Alaric were more than capable of dealing with him swiftly and efficiently. All they had to do was rob him, take whatever valuable items and gold he carried back to Callum, and hope it would be enough to gain some of his trust.

Lucia glanced at Alaric, who stood next to her, his gaze glued to the moving shape in the distance. Already, he seemed reluctant, his apprehension showing as though he wasn’t even trying to conceal it. That was not what she needed from him in that moment. She needed him to be ruthless and practical, and to stop worrying about whatever misplaced pity he felt for that stranger.

Callum must have sensed it, too, as he asked, “Is there a problem, Alaric?”

To his credit, Alaric wasn’t rattled by the question. His tone was calm and level when he said, “A problem? Why would there be a problem?”

Good. At least he has some sense left.

For a few moments, the two men stared at each other without speaking a single word. In the end, it fell to Lucia to break the silence, grabbing Alaric by the shoulder to drag him away.

“We will wait fer him at the top o’ the hill,” Lucia said. “Unless ye have a better idea.”

“Well, there is two o’ ye,” Callum said with a small shrug. “I should hope ye willnae need any clever ploys or help.”

“Dinnae fash,” said Lucia coldly. “We willnae.”

With that, she and Alaric hid behind a set of large bushes that lined the path at the top of the hill. Around them, the Ravencloaks found their own hiding spots, undoubtedly to observe the newcomers as they worked. They had to prove themselves to them, to show that not only were they capable and skilled, but also that they were hardened, that they would not hesitate when the time for violence came upon them. To the Ravencloaks, they were little more than peasant people who happened to know how to fight. Neither Lucia nor Alaric had given any explanation for their skills or any information on their lives, but Lucia had heard the men speculate— Alaric used tae be a soldier who fell from his master’s grace an’ taught Lucia what she kens; or Lucia was a beloved mistress o’ a powerful laird an’ Alaric stole her away; or I heard Alaric’s faither was a blacksmith an’ he learned tae wield a sword as a wee laddie .

Let them speculate, Lucia thought. It suited her just fine if the Ravencloak men came up with their own explanations, their own legends regarding her and Alaric. The less she had to explain, the safer they would both be. If the men wanted to think of them as peasants or disgraced soldiers or concubines, then so be it.

As they waited behind the bushes, neither she nor Alaric said a single word. Never before had the men watched them so closely and with such anticipation. It weighed in the air around them, settling heavy over their shoulders, an oppressive atmosphere that she could hardly stand. She wished they would all relocate far away; far enough that they couldn’t observe them, for no other reason than the fact that the tension was so palpable, she feared their target would know something was wrong.

They waited and waited, the traveler riding leisurely up the path. At the hand signal of the scout who was perched up on a nearby tree, Lucia unsheathed her hidden blade and ignored the look of disbelief Alaric gave her.

Did he truly think I would be unarmed?

Even now, knowing what he did, he underestimated her. Or perhaps it was less about underestimating her and more about distrusting her. In that case, Lucia couldn’t blame him. He was right to withhold his trust. For all she was trying to gain it, she would have been equally surprised and disappointed if he had given it freely.

Lucia readied herself, fingers closing securely around the blade in her hand. Next to her, Alaric shifted back and forth, a gesture that the others could interpret as impatience, but which Lucia took for what it truly was.

He was nervous.

She doubted it was because of the act itself. Alaric was a seasoned warrior, a man forged in battle, and this simple attack surely wasn’t enough to rattle him. What was bound to rattle him, though, was the nature of the act, the disgrace and dishonesty of it. Alaric may be used to hurting men, brigands and enemies and those who deserved it the most, but he was not used to hurting innocents. He could already feel the weight of his actions, Lucia knew, and he had done nothing wrong yet.

She didn’t try to talk to him or calm him. It was simply something he would have to endure. Besides, they were not going to kill the man. They would simply rob him, maybe render him unconscious if he put up a fight, and then he would be on his merry way, just a little poorer than he was before. As far as crimes went, it was far from the worst.

The horse’s hooves sounded closer and closer. Dust rose in the path as their target came into sight, and Lucia, as weary as she was determined, jumped out of the bushes.

She was like a goddess of war, her tunic fluttering in the breeze as she jumped out of their hiding spot. Alaric watched her for a single moment, mesmerized, unable to take his eyes off her.

She wore that tunic short, he thought, and wondered how he hadn’t noticed before. He had questioned so much about her character and her motives that her appearance—save for the striking beauty of her features—had remained largely unnoticed by Alaric until now that he was seeing her in action. Her clothes were all patched, well-worn but also well-loved, unlike the threadbare tunics he chose to wear whenever he travelled so as to not make himself a target. His sword always gave him away to the trained eye—obviously well-crafted and sharp, oiled according to a strict schedule, but he couldn’t bear to part with such a blade and it rarely posed an issue. Lucia, on the other hand, sported a knife now that must have been decades old, possibly passed down to her by someone else. Her brother, Alaric wondered? Some other person that was dear to her? Or perhaps a poor victim, much like the one they were about to attack now?

Bile rose to the back of Alaric’s throat. He was no stranger to violence—he, a trained soldier, a warrior since the first moment he could wield a sword, was not the kind of man to balk in the face of brutality, but the sheer dishonor of the act they were about to commit was staggering. This man was no brigand, nor was he a lord who wouldn’t miss whatever they stole from him. He was a simple man; Alaric could tell from the moment he saw him down in that valley, riding unknowingly to his doom. How much gold could they get from him? What valuable items did he carry? Did he have his entire fortune with him or barely enough coin to pay his way while on his travels?

Alaric couldn’t possibly know the answers to his questions, nor could he do anything to stop what was to come without destroying their cover and Lucia’s plan. This is what happened out there, in the wilderness. Brigands had no mercy, no morals. They didn’t concern themselves with the future of their targets and so Alaric couldn’t concern himself with it either.

And yet it was easier said than done. At the end of the day, he was no brigand.

As Lucia sprang out of their hiding spot, Alaric hesitated for only a moment before following her. With a confident maneuver, she brought the horse to a halt and Alaric grabbed the man, pulling him off the saddle and tossing him to the ground. He tried to give it as little thought as possible, but it was difficult when the man stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful as he lay on the ground, clutching his hands over his chest as though in prayer; as though it would help him.

“Please!” the man said, trying to squirm away from Alaric, shifting farther and farther back. Alaric followed him idly, expression schooled into neutrality even as his heart drummed in his chest, fast and erratic and regretful. “Please, nay… nay, I dinnae have anythin’ o’ value.”

Alaric sighed, the hand holding his knife coming up to scratch at the corner of his brow. So this is how it was going to be , he thought. He couldn’t blame the man for groveling, but he wished he wouldn’t make it so hard on him.

Behind him, Lucia hummed and Alaric heard the jingle of coins in a pouch. “I think he’s lyin’ tae us.”

Curse him! Now the Ravencloaks will expect violence.

Brigands needed no real reason to hurt someone other than being in the mood for it, but now that they would perceive the man’s lie as an insult, they would expect Alaric to roughen him up a little; to show him his place. It was regrettable, but it needed to be done if Alaric wanted to keep his head attached to his shoulders. He would simply have to seek the fine line between making his attack look convincing and being as gentle as he could.

“Please!” the man said again. “That is all I have! I have naethin’ else in the whole world! I swear it! I swear it on me maither’s memory.”

A serious oath, that. Not one Alaric could take lightly. When the man spoke again, his words were like a punch to the gut.

“If ye take it, ye may as well kill me,” he said. “I’d rather die now than starve.”

It was then Alaric knew for certain it wasn’t a lie, but what was there he could do? As a few of the other men emerged from the shadows, one of them taking the horse as the others looked through the man’s belongings, Alaric swallowed around the knot in his throat and took a deep breath before stomping towards the man.

In his terror, the man scrabbled to get away, but Alaric grabbed him by the leg and dragged him back to where he was, much to the amusement of those around him. This is what they wanted, he realized. They wanted a show and he had no choice but to give it to them.

“Shut up,” he growled as he leaned over the man and punched him across the cheek. His head snapped to the side even with the little force Alaric used, and from up close, now that he could observe him, he could see he was an older man. His dark hair and thick beard had deceived him at first, as they gave him the appearance of someone younger, but the lines around his eyes and forehead, the frailty of his body, and the lack of several teeth spoke of a man around middle age who had had a rough life—perhaps even an innate weakness of the body or an illness that had rendered him weak later in life.

Alaric couldn’t leave him there like this. The man would truly starve. Though the nearest town was not too far—several hours on horseback and thrice as long, if not longer, on foot, but still a manageable distance—he didn’t know if the man could rely on the kindness of strangers. It was too much of a risk. If no one helped him there, he would truly starve.

Bracing himself, Alaric landed another punch on the man’s cheek and leaned in close as he swiftly reached into his pocket. There, he found the gold ring he always carried with him, even though he couldn’t wear it all the time; a family heirloom, one his brother would instantly recognize, and plucked it out along with two coins.

“Take these, hide them,” he whispered to the man as he shoved everything into his hand. “The coin should be enough tae buy ye food, shelter, an’ passage. Take the ring tae Castle MacGregor an’ the laird will repay ye fer the gold.”

The man’s eyes widened even further and at first, Alaric feared he didn’t comprehend anything, the shock and the pain clouding his mind too much. It would have to suffice, though. There was nothing else he could do with the entire gang there waiting for a spectacle. Even this had been way too risky, threatening to expose everything to the Ravencloaks.

He punched the man a third time for good measure, and he seemed dazed enough for Alaric to discard him. He didn’t want to knock him unconscious nor did he want to deal too much damage. He had already split the man’s lip and bruised his nose, blood fountaining out of both wounds as he walked away.

For all he knew, the man would sell the ring instead of taking it back to Evan. Alaric would miss it dearly, but there was nothing else he could give the man. Even those two coins were the last he carried on his person, though he supposed that mattered little now that they had an entire pouch of coin.

He must have been relocating, Alaric thought, perhaps trying to find a better life. If that was truly everything he owned, then it was barely anything. The gold ring alone would be enough to buy him a good life.

That was more important to him than seeing his ring again. He had been the source of misfortune for this man, no matter how reluctantly, and the shame that came with his actions gnawed at him. He had seen the man’s distress when he realized he was being attacked. He had seen him look at Alaric as a villain, and it hurt to know there was truth in it. The ends didn’t always justify the means.

Walking away from the man, Alaric caught Lucia’s gaze, hard and cold and calculating, and he knew she had seen what he had done.