Page 44 of A Crown of Lies

“Aye,” Ewan said, nodding. “I know, lad. I know. This won’t be easy, going back there. But I’m with you. We’re all with you. Focus on the task at hand, and you’ll be fine.”

Rowan nodded and slid on the mask. “Thank you, Ewan.”

Ewan snorted. “You can thank me by winning this damn war as fast as ya can. I’m getting too bloody old for these midnight rides.”

They finished donning their dark robes and light armor before exiting the shrine and heading straight for the stables, where Billy waited with eight saddled horses. Ewan ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him on his way back to bed while they mounted up and rode out of the castle through a secret side gate.

If all went well, they’d drive the bandits out of Dagh Cairn before the sun ever came up. And if it didn’t… Well, there would always be the next time to try again. He hoped.

Eight horses carrying eight men in billowing black cloaks trotted through the countryside with Rowan and Ewan taking point. Sleepy farmhouses and rolling green hills sped by unacknowledged. Even dogs seemed to know better than to bark at their passing. The night was silent but for the hoofbeats against the packed dirt, the sound a racing heartbeat in Rowan’s ears. Breath erupted from horses and men alike in pale white clouds like fog.

There was nothing like the thrill of the hunt. Even when he was young, Rowan had loved the chase more than any other element. Yet that night there would be no hunting, no riding aimlessly through commonly attacked crossroads, hoping to catch highwaymen red handed. That night, they rode for their stronghold.

Perhaps they should have waited, stuck to the plan Ieduin had crafted. It was a sound plan, even if it didn’t account for superstition and belief. If he let the Crows ride in and clear it out, however, Greymark might be seen as weak. This was his land, his people, his duty to protect it, and he would see that through.

Dagh Cairn sat in a small valley surrounded by rocky slopes. There was only one way in or out of it, making it a highly defensible position, and the bandits were dug in hard, according to scout reports.

They rode for a small outcropping of trees that stood on the hill nearby and waited, sending two ahead to get a more accurate count. From the hill, Rowan could just make out the burial ground below, and the two guards patrolling the entrance.

Behind the guards, walls of mossy white stone rose high in the air, the formation constructed rather than natural. Rowan’s ancestors had built it thousands of years ago, long before the first foreigners came to those shores bringing their Eight Divines with them. Those walls were older than the written record, and a drunken bandit was pissing on them.

Leather creaked as he curled his fingers into a fist resting on his thigh as he watched from under the shadow of a wych elm. The wide canopy of leaves had already begun their annual shift from green to yellow. The wych elm’s golden arms blended seamlessly into the bright red fiery leaves of a rowan tree, his namesake. Everything on the tree had a use in local folk medicine from the bright red berries dotting the boughs—used to treat stomach ailments—to the bark, which could improve the complexion. It was a sacred tree in a sacred place. The last time Rowan had been under it was the day he’d buried Ambra.

“Steady,” Ewan advised, in a low whisper.

Rowan glanced over at him and forced his fingers to relax. They were waiting for Peter’s signal. He and Connor had broken away from the rest of them to approach from the other side.

The signal came, the quiet hoot of a tawny owl.

Rowan lifted two fingers. Bowstrings strained, the only sound in the dark. The whisper of fired arrows followed, and each found their mark, striking down the guards. He waited for them to hit the ground before he drew his sword, and they charged out of the tree line.

Six riders became eight as Peter and Connor rode down to join them, Peter falling in at Rowan’s side. They would be the vanguard, Rowan with his sword and Peter with his magic. Hooves thundered, echoing off the high narrow walls that marked the entry to Dagh Cairn. Those walls quickly fell away, revealing an open area coated in thick fog. Voices shouted and steel sang freely alongside surprised curses.

The riders split up, each pair with their assignment. Connor and Liam were supposed to go in search of any useful goods and take what they could, while Gregory and Peter focused on causing general chaos and confusion. Klaus and Thomas were supposed to herd the bandits toward the exit, chasing them down and acting as crowd control while Rowan and Ewan did the bulk of the fighting.

Rowan rode straight ahead with Ewan at his back. A figure emerged in the fog and Rowan cut him down with a quick and decisive strike at his head. An arrow whizzed by, too close. Ewan nearly fell out of his saddle, trying to avoid being hit.

“It’s the Wild Hunt!” someone shouted. “Run!”

They came up on a set of carts so quickly Rowan’s horse reared. Three bandits jumped from the top of the cart onto Ewan, forcing him from the saddle. Rowan fought to get his horse back under control and brought the horse around, slashing the bandit that had fallen on Ewan in the face. Ewan had found his feet and swung his two claw hammers with bone smashing force. He struck one bandit in the arm, then brought it back and caught the other in the temple with the claws. Rowan finished the one with the broken arm, cutting his neck so deep it nearly took his head from his shoulders.

“You all right?” Rowan asked.

The big man huffed out a heavy breath and wiped sweat from his brow. “Aye. Just bruised pride so far.”

Another bandit broke through the fog into their little clearing, wielding an ax. An arrow to the back of his knee brought him down and Ewan finished him with a hammer to the back of his skull.

Rowan’s horse suddenly screamed and went down. He leapt to the side to avoid being crushed beneath the weight of it. Rowan turned over just in time to see the massive two-handed great sword swinging down at him. He brought his sword up, just barely catching the blade before it split him in half.

“Fucker!” growled the big man behind the sword.

A voice Rowan recognized.

Simeon? But it couldn’t be… Could it?

A claw hammer spun through the air, claws raking over Simeon’s eye. He roared and pulled away, reaching for his bloody face. Ewan’s powerful grip pulled Rowan to his feet.

Simeon spun on him with a snarl, swinging his giant sword as if it were a bat. Rowan deflected the sword and stepped out of Simeon’s reach, goading him to follow. Ewan brought one of his hammers down, aiming for Simeon’s arm, but Simeon kicked Ewan back and charged Rowan. He was fast for a man his size.

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