Page 50 of The Crown of Moonlight
Gradually, the runes release their grip, but a hard knot settles in my chest, and I’m left with a bitter taste on my tongue.
Camhrain of Locharn was—is—a good man.He and his clansmen have fought at our backs for the best part of a year, and despite his own losses on the battlefield, he never took revenge once the fighting stopped.In Glashu, where the population supported Vheara, Locharn kept our army from sacking the city in punishment until the Riders and I arrived to help.They still ring the bells there on Sundays to honour him.More personally, he’s a friend.This past year, he’s grown closer to me than anyone apart from the Riders ever has.
My throat aches at the waste and the cost of this bloody war.
“Locharn was wounded at Culodur,” I say.“We saw his men carry him off the field.After that, I don’t know what became of him.”
Flora’s shoulders go soft, and she takes a ragged gulp of breath that I can feel against my chest.“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Did you know him well?”
“He’s as good as an uncle.”Her voice breaks.“I haven’t seen him recently.He and my father fell out about the war.Locharn tried to argue him out of supporting the queen, and—at least at first—he was one of the few who agreed that we shouldn’t fight on either side.”
“He thought we didn’t have enough men to win against Vheara.He was right, but even believing that, he invited us to stay at Aknacaery with him while we waited for the clans to rise.Then we persuaded him to change his mind.”
Flora leans back against me, her hair soft beneath my chin.We both sink into our thoughts, lulled by the steady rhythm of hoofbeats and the occasional tick of rain against our plaids and saddles.A hawk screeches overhead and circles low above us.
We pick our way through scrub and fallen pines, then turn south and east again to avoid Vheara’s garrison at Dun Uilleum.It’s the safer path, though it will take us through the heart of the Camhrain territory, closer to the smoke and any of Vheara’s forces that haven’t finished looting and burning yet.
The hills grow steeper, a vivid blue-grey in the rain.They provide a natural defence as we draw closer to Aknacaery.We pass a signal beacon site at the top of a hill, part of the old defences that still extend all the way to the Sound.We used them to signal the clans when the Riders and I first arrived from Tirnaeve last year, and they were always kept stacked and ready to fire.There’s nothing but ash within the stone circle now, as though it’s been recently used and not reset.And there are no sentries to challenge us as there should be.
Flora and I are both silent as we pass the site.The track through the glen below and over the next few hills feels increasingly hushed and ominous until the roar of a red deer stag cleaves the silence.
Flora sits up, her back rigid.
“Is that a signal?”I ask.
There’s no time for her to answer.Two men separate themselves from the hillside, not ten feet from us, the drapes of their plaids drawn over their heads to blend in with the brush and yellow furze.I’m off the horse in a stride, my blade drawn and ready.
“No, don’t!”Flora jumps down to stay my hand.“They’re Camhrain men.”
They turn to her and incline their heads, throwing back the plaids to reveal their faces.
“Lady of Dunhaelic,” the shorter one says.
He’s broader and shorter, with dark hair worn short and a thick jut of forehead and deep-set eyes, while the other is red-headed, lanky, and narrow-jawed.I don’t recognise either of them, but I see the moment they realise who I am.
The redhead’s gaze drops to my sword for confirmation.“You’re the—”
“Rider, yes,” I acknowledge.“And I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.Is there news of Locharn?We lost sight of him when he was carried off the field.”
The men stare a moment too long before the redhead replies.“He was alive the last we heard.They got him out before the Raven bitch and her Butcher—” He spits on the ground.“Before they made the wounded beg to be allowed to die.”
Flora inhales sharply, and her hand closes around my forearm.Her face has lost its colour.
The shorter, darker man turns to her.“There were Dunhaelic men coming south with him,” he says more quietly, “a fair number along with ours, but I don’t know any names.We’ve heard nothing these past two days.”
“Aye, the news is slower than the Raven’s redcoats and filthy sorcerers,” the redhead says, then spits again.“The Butcher’s here already.”
“The Butcher himself?”Flora rocks back on her heels.“We saw the smoke.Was it Aknacaery burning?”
“The castle, aye, and the villages and farms around it.”The redhead’s voice is raw, and he swallows slowly.For the first time, I can see how young he is, still more boy than man.
“The Butcher swept in too quickly,” the other man says in a voice that comes out shaking through gritted teeth.“They flayed the skin off the men before they killed them, then drove the women and children into their own houses.Burned them alive.”
Flora makes a thin, raw sound and sinks as though her knees are giving out.I go to catch her, but she raises her chin and pushes me away.Rain softens to a hiss through the gorse growing on the hill.
“What do your people need?”Flora asks the men.“I can send word to mine.We’ve no labour to help you rebuild, but we still have sheep and cattle.”
