Page 82 of Bound By Deception

But during her time at Duncrag, as she’d read Fia’s diary, Bree had come to know her. And despite everything, it pained her that the woman had departed from Baldeen filled with dreadand sadness, believing that she was to be wedded to a man incapable of caring for anyone.

“You might have liked him in the end,” she whispered. “You’d certainly have caused him less trouble than me.”

Putting the diary away, Bree forced down a crust of bread. The gloaming was deepening now, and soon darkness would cover the land. She thought about lighting a fire, but the wet weather would make it difficult to find dry wood. It was warm and dry under the boughs of the ancient oak. She’d be comfortable enough here overnight, and a fire might attract too much attention to herself anyway.

She was dozing against the tree trunk, close to falling asleep, when a chattering noise brought her sharply awake.

Blinking, Bree glanced about her.

Nearby, Flint had raised his head. The garron then snorted.

Slowly, she reached for one of the iron blades strapped across her front. A moment later, she caught sight of a silhouette creeping toward her through the shadows. It was shorter than an adult Marav and thickset. And as the figure drew closer, she caught sight of a pikestaff gripped in its left hand and the outline of a cap upon its head.

Bree rose into a crouch, her gaze narrowing. Shades, was that a powrie?

A chill slid down her spine then as she glanced about her. Powries were known to hunt in packs, although they usually never strayed far from ruins. Bree was in the midst of woodland and hadn’t seen any buildings nearby.

Iron slay her, she should have checked properly before making camp. Tiredness and a chafing conscience had made her careless.

And as the powrie crept closer, three more shadows detached themselves from the dark wall of bramble and blackthorn on the western edge of the clearing.

They resembled stout old men, and they grinned as they approached, revealing long prominent teeth. Flint squealed in warning, but the powries ignored the pony. Their fiery-red eyes glowed in the gloaming, and lank grey hair streamed down their shoulders. The caps upon their heads were a dark red—stained from the blood of their victims—and long thin fingers tipped in claws wrapped around the hilt of their pikestaffs.

In their free hands, all four of the powries gripped rocks.

Bree’s pulse quickened. She knew the tales, of how they’d stone their victims first before stabbing them with their pikes and setting upon them with their nails and teeth.

No one who fell foul of powries got a clean death. And only a fool tried to outrun them, for despite their thickset appearances, powries were said to be fast. They also liked the hunt, and a fleeing victim just excited them even more.

Bree’s mouth twisted, and she drew a second blade from her knife belt.

She wasn’t running.

And then, before they drew any nearer, she flung both knives. They hit two of the powries in the throat.

The creatures gave strangled squeals, reeling backward. Two bright bursts of flame illuminated the clearing, and the powries she’d hit disappeared, her knives thudding onto the wet grass.

Upon seeing their companions felled, the remaining two powries let out screeches of rage and hurled their stones at Bree.

One hit her on the shoulder, and the other grazed her right ear.

However, Bree had already drawn two more knives, and moments later, another two bursts of flame lit up the gathering dusk.

Cursing, Bree crouched there, waiting for more powries to emerge from the shadows and attack her. But none did.

Rubbing her sore shoulder, she rose to her feet and moved forward, retrieving her fallen knives. Then, she crossed the clearing and pushed her way through the brambles and blackthorn.

On the other side was the ruin of what had been a small tower with a few outbuildings. The stone was blackened with soot, indicating that the tower had been razed by fire. The four powries had likely lived here, and she’d just unwittingly stumbled into their territory.

Jaw clenched, Bree returned to the clearing and resaddled Flint. The pony was skittish now, and she didn’t blame him. She’d sleep within a circle of salt tonight, with an iron blade clutched in her hands.

But it wouldn’t be in this clearing. It looked as if she’d killed all the resident powries, yet she couldn’t be sure.

“Come on, lad,” she said, shouldering her pack and then swinging up onto the garron’s broad back. She’d let thoughts of the chief-enforcer distract her, dull her instincts, but she couldn’t let that happen again. “Let’s find somewhere else to spend the night.”

35: UNEASY

CAILEAN WALKED THROUGH the encampment, Skaal padding at his side.

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