“You’re getting rusty, Shea. I expected you to figure that out several days ago.”
Shea watched him with a calculating expression. It was true that she should have picked up on the divergent path earlier, but grief had made her slower than normal. “That’s the Dragon’s Tail. You would never take a group like this through that ridge to reach the keep, so where are you taking us?” she asked.
Fallon folded his reins over his hand and leaned forward, his hawk-like gaze drilling into Reece. His expression was fierce. “Yes, please, enlighten the group.”
Reece gave Shea a half-smile. “Come now, doesn’t any of this look familiar?”
Shea’s lips pursed as she considered Reece and then their surroundings. Yes, it did, but much of the Highlands was familiar. Like an old friend you had seen over and over again. Only this friend was crotchety and grumpy and would kill you should you take it for granted.
“Birdon Leaf.” It made sense given their relative geographic location, the direction they were traveling and known areas of interest this path would lead to.
Reece’s smile was wry, like a teacher bestowing a student with praise. “Very good.”
“Why would you take us there?” Shea asked.
“Why, to visit the place where this all started.” Reece prodded his horse forward, taking off before Shea could question him further.
Caden rode up on the other side of Fallon and stopped his horse as he stared after Reece. “I thought the whole point of this little trip was to go to this Wayfarer’s Keep and meet with the pathfinders.”
“I guess we’re taking a little side trip first,” Shea said, before kicking her horse into a slow-paced trot to follow Reece.
Fallon followed, though he looked no more thrilled at this turn of events than Shea.
Caden shook his head and spit to the side of his horse before he too started up the large back half of the mountain. “Oh goody.”
*
One week later, Shea crested the last hill before the land flattened, giving rise to the small spit of plateau where Birdon Leaf perched. It would have taken less time had they been on foot, but the jagged ravines and steep hills were not friendly terrain to a horse. As a result, they’d been forced to take the long way around.
Shea reined her horse to a stop on the ridge and looked down on the flattened top that contained the little village. The Trateri were spread out behind her as they made their way up the last small incline.
The land between them and the village was mostly long grass, as the altitude made trees rare. From this distance, the village looked picturesque, like an innocent painting of a simpler world. One untouched by strife and pain.
Shea snorted. That couldn’t be further from the truth, especially given the wasps nestled in the very heart of this little village.
There was the faint clop of hooves behind her as Witt came up on her right side. He, like she, had experienced a rather complicated relationship with this place. It should have been home, but its villagers had betrayed the two of them in one of the worst ways imaginable.
“Home, sweet home,” Witt murmured.
Shea made a sound of derision.
“I wonder what they will say when they see us come riding up with an army behind us,” he mused.
“Probably kick themselves for not ensuring we were dead before they handed us over.”
He grunted. It was half laugh and half acknowledgement. “I would like to see Dane again, though.”
“Yeah,” Shea’s voice was soft. She’d forgotten that he’d been close with the other man, too. The three’s relationship had been short-lived, but for a short time they’d been on their way to becoming friends.
“You think he made it back?” Shea asked.
“I hope not. I hope he found a place far from here to hole up.”
Shea nodded. Yeah, that sounded about right.
On both of their minds was the question of what waited down there. Would they find a thriving village, unhappy that the prodigal son and daughter had returned, or would they find a grave site? After all, the pathfinder’s guild was not known for its forgiveness, and Birdon Leaf and its elders had broken the covenant in every way that counted. One way or another, there would be a reckoning.
Shea looked over at Fallon, who stared down at the village with a hard expression, one that lacked even a shadow of understanding or gentleness. Yeah, one way or another.
“Let’s get this over with,” Shea muttered. She flicked her reins, taking the lead down the hill. Fallon wasn’t far away, though he stayed a few lengths behind her. Shea appreciated it, though a big part of her would rather not have returned here at all.
The journey down the hill and across the meadow seemed to take forever. The village and its wooden exterior wall grew as she rode closer. Jagged holes of splintered wood in the wall put paid any hope that the inhabitants had fared well over the last few months.
No villagers came out to greet them and there was no movement on the walls, something that would have been unheard of when Shea had lived here.
Shea let out a heavy sigh. Guess it was option two then.
She led Fallon and Witt and the rest around the wall. The Trateri followed, eyeing it with a deep reserve. More than one man and woman withdrew their blades and strung their bows.
Shea arrived at the entrance of the village. Normally, there would have been men standing on the wall who would give the order to open the double doors, ones so heavy it took several men working in tandem to force them to creak open.
Today, those doors lay broken and splintered, so much tinder on the ground. The village was wide open to any beast or raider who wanted to walk right up.
Shea dismounted and slid the reins over her horse’s head. She left him grazing by the entrance.
“Shea,” Fallon warned, looking at the village with a deep mistrust. One echoed on many of his men’s faces.
She held up a hand. “I’m fine, Fallon. Whatever did this is long gone.”
Fallon made a sound of frustration before dismounting and throwing his reins to Caden. He unsheathed his sword as he strode over to Shea. She didn’t wait for him to reach her, crossing into the village proper as Witt, Eamon, and several of the Anateri dismounted to follow them.
Shea walked into the village, feeling cold and disconnected at the sight of the destruction awaiting her. The wooden buildings had been torn apart, the windows broken, and the doors torn off. Some were burnt, only a few timbers remaining.
Even the town hall, a building that predated the village by many hundreds of years and had withstood many attacks, looked like it had seen better days. The roof had been ripped off the top, and the heavy wooden door at its base breached.