Chapter 2

M agnus 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 been a 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 of the 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?”

The figure turned. “My, my, lad. That’s a lot of questions before we’ve even been introduced.”

Magnus’s brows rose in surprise. This was no desperate brigand or black-hearted outlaw sitting calmly in front of him. It was an old woman.

She was so short that her legs dangled from the rock she sat on, and she was shrouded in a brown wrap held closed with a deer-shaped brooch. Her face was round and withered like an old apple and dark eyes peered out from a nest of wrinkles. A wide smile lit her face as she gazed up at Magnus.

“Well?” she said. “Are ye going to sit down? It’s giving me an ache in my neck staring up at ye.”

Magnus opened his mouth and closed it again. The old woman was such an incongruous sight surrounded by the detritus of an outlaw camp that, for a moment, he was lost for words. What, by all that’s holy, was she doing here?

She appeared harmless enough, but he had learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving. Finding his voice again, he cautiously asked, “What is this place?”

She gestured at the cave. “What’s it look like, my lad? An outlaw camp. The outlaws ye are seeking, in fact, unless I miss my guess. From the looks of things, I reckon they left perhaps a day ago. Scurried off like rabbits at the scent of a hound, I’ll warrant.”

She placed a gnarled hand on the rock and pushed herself to her feet, revealing her true height—shorter than him by a good two feet or more.

“And before ye ask,” she added, straightening out the hem of her coat and dusting it off with quick, precise movements. “I’m no hostage. I came here of my own volition. Now, I have some broth warming on the fire. Come in, come in, ye look half-frozen to death.”

Magnus hesitated a moment longer, his gaze sweeping over the cave one more time before he finally moved closer to the fire. He didn’t sheath his knife, merely let his hand drop to his side.

The old woman puttered around the fire, stirring a pot that hung from a crude tripod.

“What are ye doing up here?” Magnus asked. The last thing he’d expected to find in this wild and desolate place was an old woman. Did she live up here? Surely not. She should be sitting snug in a warm home surrounded by grandchildren, not tending a fire in a cave in the middle of the wilds .

She glanced at him from where she was busy ladling broth into two pottery mugs. “Two things. Firstly, I’m looking for my cat.”

“Yer...cat?”

“Aye. Ye havenae seen him have ye? Big fat tabby. Ye couldnae miss him.”

“Er...nay,” Magnus mumbled. “I havenae seen him.”

“That’s a shame. I could have sworn he’d be around here somewhere.” She handed over one of the cups and Magnus took it with a nod of thanks, cupping his big hands around it and enjoying the warmth.

“The second thing is,” the old woman continued. “I was looking for ye.”

Magnus jerked, nearly spilling the hot broth over his hand. “For me?”

She settled down on the rock, cupping her knobbly hands around her own mug of broth. “Aye. Ye are Magnus Kerr, are ye not?” She took a sip from her cup and then sighed contentedly. “Ah, that does the trick. I can feel my innards thawing.”

Magnus stared at her with suspicion. Was this a trap, after all? “How do ye know my name?”

She rolled her eyes as though this was a stupid question. “It wouldnae do much good looking for someone if ye didnae know who they were, would it?”

Magnus put down his broth and rose. She didn’t look the least intimidated by his hulking presence. “Who are ye? Why were ye looking for me?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” she replied, taking another sip of her broth. “I’ve been looking for ye because I wish to speak to ye. As for who I am, my name is Irene. Irene MacAskill.”

Magnus’s jaw dropped. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach or stabbed him in the gut with an icicle.

Irene MacAskill?

“Ye...ye canna be...”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Can I not? That’s odd. I could have sworn that was my name.”

Magnus licked his lips. “It’s...it’s just...” he began, struggling to speak coherently. “I...I’ve heard stories about ye. Folk tales. Myths, almost.”

She chuckled softly, a warm sound that echoed in the confines of the cave. “Myths, eh? Sounds like I’ve been busy in my absence. Tell me lad, what do these myths say about this Irene MacAskill?”

Magnus stared at her, his brain still trying to catch up. He felt ridiculous standing there with his mouth hanging open, but for the life of him, he could not close it.

The stories say ye are Fae , his thoughts whispered. Ye are spoken of with both awe and fear in tales the Order of the Osprey has passed down through the centuries. They say yer appearance heralds great change for those who meet ye and that their lives are about to get blown wide open.

His sword-brothers Kai, Conall, Oskar and Emeric could swear to the truth of that. They had all, at some time or another, met this woman. And true enough, upheaval had followed her appearance. In his experience, it was wise to avoid the gazes of those who wielded power, especially those as capricious as the Fae .

Instead of answering her question, he responded with one of his own. “What do ye want with me?”

She nodded at his mug. “Yer broth is getting cold, lad.” When he didn’t move, she sighed. “What do I want with ye? Only want I always want, lad. Balance.” She paused to take another sip from the mug. “Choices weave our fate, Magnus Kerr. And ye are at a crossroads.”

Her eyes glinted strangely in the light of the fire. Magnus felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine. “What do ye mean?”

She cocked her head. “Why are ye here, lad?”

“To track outlaws.”

“If that is the truth, then why are ye alone? Why are yer sword-brothers not with ye?”

Magnus’s nostrils flared. “That’s none of yer concern.”

“Isnae it? Choices are never isolated events. They ripple across lives, and sometimes we choose a path that brings imbalance, not only to ourselves, but to the world as well.”

She rose from her seat and approached him. He forced himself to stand his ground, even though he wanted to back away. She craned her head back to look up at him, so short that the top of her head barely reached his chest.

“The choice ye make in the coming days,” she said, patting his arm, “could change everything.”

“What choice?”

“Of which path yer life will take. The path of a man at odds with himself, or the path of one who forgives himself. The first path is easy, the second one long, and hard, and dark. But one leads to darkness and one leads to light. Sometimes we need help to make these choices. Sometimes we need someone who sees through the masks we wear and sees us as we truly are. Whether ye have the strength to see it too will decide which path ye take.”

He stared at her, mouth dry. Aye, his choices haunted him every day, but he didn’t need some strange old woman reminding him of it.

“Is this...is this why ye sought me out? To tell me this? To speak yer cryptic nonsense?”

He stepped away from her to retrieve his mug of broth from where he had left it on a rock. It had cooled considerably, but he gulped it down anyway. It warmed his belly and provided some semblance of comfort.

“Perhaps it is nonsense,” Irene agreed with a nod. “Only ye can decide what ye believe. Choose well, lad.” Her gaze suddenly shifted to the cave mouth and a wide smile broke over her face. “Ah! Here he is!”

Dumbfounded, Magnus watched as a large, striped tabby cat sauntered into the cave with tail held high and began weaving around Irene’s feet.

What the—?

Irene leaned down to scratch the cat’s ears. “There ye are, Baxter! Ye’ve led me a merry chase this time, my lad!”

The cat closed his eyes and purred loudly, his body vibrating with the sound.

“I should be on my way,” Irene said, dusting herself off. “Remember what I’ve told ye, my lad,” she said, fixing Magnus with a stare that seemed to skewer him on the spot. “Choices and balance are everything. ”

With a friendly nod and a soft murmur to Baxter, Irene MacAskill turned and walked out of the cave. Baxter watched Magnus for a moment and then trotted after Irene.

Magnus followed. Outside, the wind had picked up, swirling his hair around his face and making it difficult to see. It was only midafternoon, but the lowering clouds made it look more like twilight. He turned in every direction, searching for the form of the old woman amongst the rocks, but could see no sign of her. He ran this way and that amongst the boulders, but could find no evidence of which way she had gone. Both Irene and the cat seemed to have disappeared like a puff of smoke.

“God’s blood!”

And then he spotted something. Footprints, many of them, in the mud by his feet. He knelt. The footprints were large, suggesting they were not Irene MacAskill’s, but were made by men. The prints had sunk deeply into the mud, as though whoever had made them had been carrying heavy goods. A scan of the area suggested there had been at least ten men here, and they’d recently headed off to the south.

The outlaws he was tracking. It had to be. Who else would hide in this desolate place?

Pushing his unsettling encounter with Irene MacAskill to the back of his mind, he focused once more on his mission.

He set off at a brisk pace, moving along the crest of hills that hugged the slope on one side and opened up to a sweeping vista of valleys and gorges on the other. He guessed the prints were at least a day old, so he had to move quickly if he hoped to catch up with his quarry before the weather erased the trail.

Suddenly, a sound caught his attention. He stopped, head cocked as he listened. It sounded like...barking? And it was coming from behind—

He slewed around just as a hound the size of a donkey slammed into him, sending him crashing to the ground with an impact that knocked the breath from his lungs.

A black muzzle thrust into his face, a long tongue came rasping out, and Magnus was suddenly covered in slobber.