Page 52 of Ashes of Betrayal

The fine hair on the back of his neck prickled.

Over the past few years, Gateway had grown increasingly dangerous for the Marav. As a child, he’d known it was best to keep indoors on the night that the dead came out to dance, but of late, stories of attacks, disappearances, and killings, had become more common.

It was as if The Slew, and the other restless spirits that stalked the night when autumn slid into winter, grew bold, hungry.

Cailean cast a glance at Evina, reassured to see that she still wore a serene expression. Indeed, he’d been relieved she’d agreed to join him, for most folk preferred not to stray from their hearths tonight. Nevertheless, the ale-hall keeper’s daughter appeared confident that she’d be safe in an enforcer’s company—that and she was attracted to him.

Aye, he wasn’t oblivious to such things.

He paid little attention to the looks she kept stealing him though. Instead, the air tonight put him on edge, and he’d be relieved when he safely delivered the lass home.

They turned the final corner before the ale-hall, and Cailean quickened his step. The shrieks in the sky above were getting louder. After his brush with The Slew in the summer, he had no wish to face them this evening, not when they were ravenous.

However, when he fixed his gaze once more upon his destination, he spied a small bent figure crouched upon the dirt-packed lane, feasting upon the tray of honeyed seedcakes that had been left outside a doorway.

Cailean drew to a sharp halt, bringing Evina with him. Her shocked inhale warned him that she’d seen it too.

The creature hadn’t noticed them yet, for it was too busy stuffing a large cake into its mouth.

“The Hag’s tits,” Evina muttered. “A trow.”

Cailean’s mouth compressed.Shit. He was bone-weary and his head felt as if it were filled with porridge. All he wanted to do was crawl into the furs. All the same, a lone trow shouldn’t be too difficult to deal with.

He hadn’t seen many of them over the years. Nonetheless, the wiry imp, which stood around just over four-foot in height, was the sort to take advantage of the cakes left outdoors at Gateway. The Uplands were said to be full of trows. Troublemakers—only coming out at night, for daylight turned them to stone—they dwelt in the hills and on the edges of peat bogs. Over the years, during his many campaigns to the north, Cailean had made a point of choosing his campsites carefully, looking out for the tell-taleknowes—earthen mounds—where trows lived. It was odd to see one here, so far from its burrow.

Pushing Evina behind him, he drew the dagger at his hip. “Back up, slowly,” he ordered. “I’ll deal with it.”

Then, stepping forward, he cleared his throat.

The trow dropped another cake it was about to sink its teeth into and turned.

A sagging face, covered in warts, dominated by a huge hooked nose regarded him. The creature’s deep-set eyes glinted in the light of the brazier burning by the wall of the ale-hall as they regarded each other.

“Move away now,” Cailean greeted the trow, raising his iron blade. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Like most faery creatures, trows were leery of iron, and it drew back its lips, revealing a set of yellowed stumpy teeth. However, instead of backing away, as he’d expected, the trow withdrew a stone-bladed hand ax from its belt, which it then hurled at him.

The imp’s aim was deadly, and only his enforcer reflexes saved him. Jerking sideways, he felt the brush of stone just a whisper away from his right ear. Pushing its advantage, the trow then whipped out a long-bladed knife. It gleamed in the firelight, and Cailean frowned.

Sheehallion steel.

What was a trow doing with such a fine Shee weapon?

With a whoop, the imp launched itself at him.

Cailean met it, the clash of iron and steel reverberating down the empty wynd. Gods, the wee bastard was fast, and it kept trying to drive its blade into his lower legs. Fighting something much smaller than him had its challenges.

Muttering a curse, his temper rising now, he drew one of his fighting knives from across his chest with his free hand and slashed at the trow. It danced back, easily dodging him, its beady eyes glittering with savage joy.

A shape moved past Cailean then, catching him by surprise.

Evina darted forward and, snarling a curse, threw a handful of salt into the creature’s eyes.

The trow shrieked, the sound slicing through the air, dropped its fine dagger, and clutched at its face. It then turned and fled, howling, down the wynd.

Cailean watched it go before casting Evina an incredulous look. The young woman no longer wore a dreamy expression. Instead, she stood, hands on hips, her gaze fierce.

Meeting his eye, and seeing his reaction, she arched an eyebrow and patted the leather pouch upon her belt. “We Cannich lasses never go anywhere without our salt. It’s the best way to send imps running.”

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