the large wolf dog moving through the thick growth of pines, birch, and aspen a few feet to her right like a graceful, tarnished-silver ghost.
Most of the winter’s snow had melted, and the day was a temperate one.
The breeze hushing through the canopy overhead and the still damp forest floor beneath eighteen-year-old Lady Catriona Mackintosh’s bare feet made keeping silent easier than it would be after warmer temperatures dried the ground and foliage.
When a fat furry brown vole scurried out of her path and two squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, she smiled, feeling a stab of pride in her ability to move so silently that her presence did not disturb the forest creatures.
She listened for sounds of the fast-flowing burn ahead. But before she heard any, the breeze dropped and the dog halted, stiffening to alertness as it raised its long snout. Then, trembling, it turned its head and looked at her.
Raising her right hand toward it, palm outward, Catriona stopped, too, and tried to sense what it sensed.
The dog watched her. She could tell that the scent it had caught on the air was not that of a wolf or a deer. Its expression was uncharacteristically wary. And its trembling likewise indicated wariness rather than the quivering, bowstring-taut excitement that it displayed when catching the scent of a favored prey.
The dog turned away again and bared its teeth but made no sound. She had trained it well and felt another rush of pride at this proof of her skill.
Moving forward, easing her toes gently under the mixture of rotting leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, as she had before, she glanced at the dog again. It would stop her if it sensed danger lurking ahead.
Instead, as she moved, the dog moved faster, making its own path between trees and through shrubbery to range silently before her.
She was accustomed to its protective instincts. Once, she had nearly walked into a wolf that had drifted from its pack and had gone so still at her approach that she failed to sense its presence. The wolf dog had leaped between them, stopping her and snarling at the wolf, startling it so that it made a strident bolt for safety. She had no doubt that the dog would kill any number of wolves to protect her.
That it glided steadily ahead but continued to glance back told her that although it did not like what it smelled, it was not afraid.
She felt no fear either, because she carried her dirk, and her brothers had taught her to use it. Moreover, she trusted her own instincts nearly as much as the dog’s. She was sure that no predator, human or otherwise, lay in wait ahead of her.
The jay still sang. The squirrels chattered.
Birds usually fell silent at a predator’s approach. And when squirrels shrieked warnings of danger, they did so in loud, staccato bursts as the harbinger raced ahead of the threat. But the two squirrels had grown noisier, as if they were trying to outshriek the jay.
As that whimsical thought struck, Catriona glanced up to see if she could spy the squirrels or the bird. Instead, she saw a huge black raven swooping toward the tall pine and heard the larger bird’s deep croak as it sent the jay squawking into flight. The raven’s arrival shot a chill up her spine. Ravens sought out carrion, dead things. This one perched in the tree and stared fixedly downward as it continued its croaking call to inform others of its kind that it had discovered a potential feast.
The dog increased its pace as if it, too, recognized the raven’s call.
Catriona hurried after it and soon heard water rushing ahead. Following the dog into a clearing, she could see the turbulent burn running through it. The huge raven, on its branch overhead, raucously protested her presence. Others circled above, great black shadows against the overcast sky, cawing hopefully.
The dog growled, and at last she saw what had drawn the ravens.
A man wearing rawhide boots, a saffron-colored tunic with a large red and green mantle over it—the sort that Highlanders called a plaid—lay facedown on the damp ground, unconscious or dead, his legs stretched toward the tumbling burn. Strapped slantwise across his back was a great sword in its sling, and a significant amount of blood had pooled by his head.
The dog had scented the blood.
So had the ravens.
Sir Finlagh Cameron awoke slowly. His first awareness was that his head ached unbearably.