matter of seconds.
A particularly loud clap of thunder sounded and rumbled through the mountain, and Angus’s horse bucked his front feet off the ground about a foot. Angus patted his neck, but the horse continued to prance around and make snorting noises.
“Ciaran, we need tae get tae lower ground,” Angus shouted.
“Go! I’ll catch up.” Ciaran waved Angus, Greer, and Ram away, then looked back at Patrick, who was just getting on his horse. “What arenae ye telling me?”
Patrick shook his head like he always did when Ciaran asked about their technologically advanced enemy. Totally dismissing the question, he dug into his saddlebag, pulled out a leather pouch, and tossed it at Ciaran. “You need to come by the cottage sometime. Marcus misses you.”
“What is this?”
A stray lock of blond hair blew across Patrick’s face, and he batted it away. He smiled, but still the weariness around his eyes did not dissipate. “Shortbread.”
Ciaran grinned and stuck the pouch into his own saddlebag. Marcus and his sweet tooth. Marcus couldn’t cook to save his life, but he was quite skilled at sweet-talking the Campbells’ healer into baking for him. He had always had biscuits waiting for Ciaran and Ram after they spent the day in the lists. Ciaran missed him. “I’m surprised it made it all the way here.” Marcus usually hid the sweets from Patrick, claiming Patrick had a sweet tooth worse than he did and that there’d be none left—which was usually true.
With a chuckle, Patrick shook his head. “You don’t know how much there was when he packed it. Get out of here.” He turned his horse, ready to leave.
Douglas and Robbie waved and started toward the Campbell stronghold.
Ciaran lifted a hand in farewell, but then called out, “Patrick, wait.”
Patrick wheeled his horse back around.
“Does all of this have tae do with ye past?”
For a moment, Ciaran was certain he wouldn’t answer, but then Patrick shrugged. “I can’t find any evidence that it does.”
“But ye think so.”
“Yes.” His voice was low, but Ciaran heard it over the storm, and it was more haunting than the whistling wind.
As Ciaran watched his mentor ride away to meet his clansmen, he couldn’t help but think that this situation was about to get so much worse. They were already fighting for their lives, but something told him they might also be fighting for their freedom.
CHAPTER TWO
“Blankets should never be worn as clothing.”
—Timothy on fashion.
If this planet had buzzards, they would’ve already started circling by now. Bannon looked back at the billowing black smoke over the gloomy gray horizon. It was like a death knell, announcing they were going to perish just as surely as the pilot and the delegates had. Skye had a harsh beauty best viewed from a painting, and the fact that he didn’t want to be the one to capture the scene in paint was a testimony to his pain and fear. Timothy, his muse, was suspiciously quiet at a time Bannon could use him most. He needed something to take his mind off the harsh reality of their situation and the impending doom they faced, even if it was just his own fanciful thoughts.
Louie tugged on his arm. “Come on, Bannon, w-w-we have to keep moving.”
Did they? This place was desolate, and everything looked the same. Maybe they should’ve stayed by the wreckage. At least the burning ship would’ve offered warmth if they could stomach the stench of charred flesh and the fumes from the fuel didn’t suffocate them. Walking wasn’t getting them anywhere, because the waist-high grass and thistle made progress slow, and the craggy ground made it painful. The high-peaked mountain looming like an angry giant in the not so far distance presented a whole other challenge, assuming they actually made it that far. No buildings, no bridges, not even a large tree for protection against the wind.
A drop of something landed on his cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was cold—his face was already half-frozen from the brisk wind. Come to think on it, he couldn’t feel his feet anymore either, but in all fairness, that could be due to pain rather than cold. It was a contest to what he did more, shiver or sniffle. Blood oozed from a cut stretching from shoulder to elbow on his left arm, and his knee hurt something awful, having been wrenched the wrong way in the wreck. He tried hard not to limp and scare Louie, but it got more and more difficult the longer they walked.
Bannon looked