Quietly,” said Sören as he shortened his stride.
They had reached the woods where the English were based, about half a mile east of Dalkeith. Between the dark lines of the trees, red light from their campfires flickered up to the tree canopy. A column of smoke, which had led them here from the surrounding hills, billowed up towards the black sky. A breeze swept the ground, and only the sound of rustling branches interrupted the night’s calm.
The group had waited until the town was asleep to move out. They hadn’t wanted to raise any suspicion and got ready in Deorsa’s room. Ever since he’d learned that Sören wanted to take Fillan with him, the spy seemed extremely stressed. He hadn’t ceased trying to convince the mercenary chief against it, but was met with a wall of ice. Resigned to the fact, he could only pace around the room to the beat of Fergus’s tunes while the group gathered their equipment.
For the occasion, the Norwegian had given Fillan a black gambeson padded jacket.
“It won’t stop a direct stab,” he’d explained, “but it might see off an attack from height. Anyway, it’s better than that chiffon you’re wearing. It’ll let you keep your agility and discretion.”
The young man, who had been wearing the same clothes since he’d left Berwick, thanked him timidly. Moira had seen to it that the padded armor fell perfectly on his shoulders and fit his form. She then gifted him the tartan she’d been lending him since the start of their journey. He slung it over and around his shoulder, above the rest of his clothes.
They were just about to leave when Deorsa tried one last time to reason with Sören, and Kyle pulled Fillan aside. She had pulled her hair up into a neat bun and wore leather armor which came up to her neck. Like all of them, she had covered her face in dark color. She should have looked terrifying, but Fillan thought it suited her.
“Here, this is for you,” she said as she handed him a piece of cut bone hanging from a string.
“A pendant?”
“Yes. It’s Ogme, the Celtic god.”
Fillan stared at her silently, trying to figure out what it meant.
“You don’t know much about religion, huh? Ogme is one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the ancient gods. He’s a warrior god, but also a great speaker. Legend says he could guide the souls of the dead to the Sidh with just one word.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“You remind me of him a bit. You never stop talking. I thought I was going to murder you this afternoon.”
After Sören had informed him he would be going on the raid, Fillan had bombarded them all—the Norwegian aside—with questions to try and understand what awaited him. He was full of apprehension. Kyle had humored him the most, but when he asked her the same question for the third time, she pushed him over.
“Don’t look at me like that, I’m just messing with you. Talking is useful, sometimes, but other times you must know how to react. I’m giving it to you as a good luck charm, so he can watch over you tonight. And also so you remember, just like Ogme, that sometimes talking isn’t enough: you have to fight.”
Fillan felt torn, both touched by her gesture and worried about its deep meaning and what awaited him.
When Sören made them slow down in the darkness of the woods, Fillan took a moment to touch the pendant under his clothes. It made him feel like someone was watching over him as the air felt like it was closing in on him.
The camp was only about ten yards away when Sören silently indicated for them to draw their swords. Then he told them to wait and disappeared into the shadows.
Whenever a leaf moved too quickly, Fillan feared seeing an English soldier—or worse, an antlered helmet—burst out of the trees. The moon was almost full, but its light could barely penetrate the trees which shifted sinisterly in the wind.
A moan rang through the night, but it was only a soldier yawning.
Sören came back from his scout and whispered a few words to Kyle and Edan. Then he firmly grasped Fillan’s shoulder.
“Now is the time to prove you’re not afraid, kid.”
Fillan gritted his teeth.
“Kyle, Edan and I will take care of the English who’ve woken up. You head straight for the one asleep in that tent.”
“Even a coward could handle that,” said Edan. “Meal is already cooked.”
Fillan could hardly see Kyle’s eyes in the darkness, but he liked to think they were full of encouragement. They left him there and headed towards the camp, soon disappearing into the darkness of the foliage. He mustered up the courage to move. With every step he crept closer to the camp, he thought he could hear rumbling of horses’ hooves, but it was only the rapid beating of his own heart in his chest. His legs and hands trembled lightly. He thought about Ailéas, who would surely not have faltered in such a situation. Instead of making him sad, this thought now gave him a burst of courage.
The voices of the English were getting clearer. They were gathered around a fire, and one of them was even singing a song while banging a beat on a tree stump. The sound was a relief for Fillan, who was worried he’d be discovered if he stepped on a twig. He moved forwards quickly and with flexibility, using the cover of the trees.
His heart almost exploded in fear as he knocked the tip of his sword against a rock. His body was instantly drenched in sweat as he dropped down, hiding. Unless any soldiers walked around the back of the camp, they couldn’t see him, which was reassuring.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what happened.
A branch cracked behind him, and he waited for the shout to raise the alarm. One second, two seconds. He didn’t dare breathe. Three seconds. Four seconds. A strange sense of calm remained in the air. Five seconds. Six seconds. Still holding his breath, Fillan slowly turned his head. One of the English stood less than a yard away from him with his back turned. He was urinating against a moss-covered tree trunk.
He knew the man would head back to camp if he turned right, and he couldn’t miss the feeble glint of the man’s sword. He would have to take a breath soon, and he thought about the arrow attack Kyle had taught him if the man discovered him. Luckily, the man turned to the left and disappeared out of sight.
He took deep breaths to calm down and waited, waving away Sören’s signal to move in. His head was so sweaty that it slipped down his weapon. The chatter in the camp reverberated through the trees.
“I only went to piss, and you’re finishing all the wine!” exclaimed the soldier who’d rejoined the others. “You’re an asshole, Callum! Give me that!”
“Ugh, we’re going to Dalkeith tomorrow anyway. We’ll show off our swords to all those bumpkins in the town and take whatever we want.”
“You’re so sure of yourself,” said a third with a Continental accent. “They don’t seem to like us too much around here.”
“Who cares? We'll get rid of a few.”
“I can’t wait until we leave this area. I’m not feeling it.”
“Well, that’s because all you can feel with your tiny dick, Frank, are the cheapest brothels.”
They all burst into laughter.
“What were they thinking, sending us so far from the advance guard?”
“It’s those damn Red Warriors!” said Callum in annoyance. “I don’t understand why our good king even cares about them. All they’re good for is wasting our time. ’Ere we are chasing shadows, and the military campaign is going on without us. I’m telling you: they must be traitors!”
“And I’m telling you, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut about it when we get back to camp,” warned the Continental man. “These guys don’t mess around. They cut down a guy who let the kid get away.”
“And the commander let them do it?”
“You’re so naïve, Frank! Do you think he had a choice? They’ve got their noses in everything! Did you hear the latest? They went back to the ashes of Berwick.”
“What were they looking for there?” Callum interrupted and burped noisily. “The bodies of the kids?”
“Not even! Knick-knacks, weapons, cash, I don’t know! But I bet it was for weapons.”
“We’re going to miss the best bits of this war with all their messing around.”
A bird hooted nearby, but Fillan didn’t pay it any attention. He was too absorbed in what the soldiers were saying.
“Look!” groaned Frank. “Barely a sip left!”
There was another hoot, and Fillan understood. As soon as he moved into the darkened tent, the noise outside became muffled. There were no screams, not even the sound of clashing weapons, just a succession of strangled gasps. Sören and the others killed the English without a fight.
Just like assassins, thought Fillan, remembering the discussion he’d had with the mercenary chief.
He approached the one he was supposed to take care of and found a boy barely older than him. He gripped his sword tightly and willed himself with all his might to spring into action. The wind was tinged with the smell of burning wood and blew through the tent, disturbing the tent flap. In the corner, he thought he saw Ailéas, staring at him with her green eyes, the scar on her forehead crumpled with a severe look.
The wind flapped the material again, he blinked, and the sight disappeared.
Something in Fillan was screaming at him to move, but his emotions paralyzed him. First terror of taking a life like that. Then shame too, of becoming a murderer. Like all the soldiers in Berwick.
Two hands grabbed his own. Fillan panicked but it was only Sören, who’d crept into the tent without a sound. The Norwegian’s fingers squeezed tight. They were covered in blood. He glared at Fillan icily and pushed their hands to lower the blade. The tip pierced through the ribs of the soldier who awoke with a gasp of surprise.
His horror only lasted a second, as the mercenary hit his heart.
“Fois dhut*,” he whispered as the body gave a final spasm.
Fillan tried to stop his trembling hands.
“You’re afraid,” said Sören, staring at him with wolflike eyes. “Something in you makes you doubt yourself.” He traced a line of blood with his finger down Fillan’s chest. “Right here. What is it?”
“I don’t know,” lied Fillan.
“Well, find it. And sort it out quickly, or you’ll get yourself killed. Because of you, others could die too,” he concluded and then headed out of the tent in silence.
Fillan pulled his sword out of the motionless body, and a drop of blood bubbled feebly.
Before he left the tent, he glanced over again at the corner where he thought he’d glimpsed Ailéas and saw nothing but shadows. His heart skipped a beat.
* ‘Fois dhut’ means ‘rest in peace’ in Scottish Gaelic.