Page 34 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)
He led the horse in the direction of the copse of trees. They moved slowly and carefully. As predicted, the mist had thickened. It would be easy to become disoriented. To the right he knew the cliff dropped away sharply. A wrong step and he’d surely fall to his death.
He squinted into the gloom, the movement of the shadowy branches in the distance barely visible. He hoped Iain was right and that there weren’t enemies about. Fighting in the mist was a dangerous endeavor. One to be avoided if at all possible.
Bram stopped, frowning into the night. Even the shadows of the trees had disappeared.
Silence surrounded him, only the soft hiss of the horse’s breathing filling the air.
He strained for some sign of the camp ahead.
But there was nothing. No firelight. No neighing from the horses.
Just the heavy weight of the mist as it swirled around them.
He led the horse forward again, their movements louder now as their footsteps rang against the stones, the sound still smothered by the mist. Each step was taken slowly, Bram’s eyes locked on the ground in front of him.
He trusted his sense of direction, but even so, knew it was easy to lose one’s way in this heavy a fog.
Behind him stones rattled, and his horse reared in fright.
Bram whirled around, pulling his claymore from the sheath against his back.
The mist entombed them, the clearing gone quiet again.
His horse skittered nervously, but held its ground.
Bram waited, listening, and then chided himself for being so jumpy.
He slid the claymore back into its sheath and then picked up the horse’s reins. Best to get on with it, before Ranald and Iain came looking for him. He’d never hear the end of it if they believed he’d managed to lose himself in the mist.
He took a step forward. And then another.
Then something hit him hard from behind.
He stumbled forward as the horse screamed in fear and reared again, hooves flying through the air.
He tried to turn to face his attacker, but instead he felt himself teetering at the edge of the cliff.
Still reeling in fear, the horse pivoted and ran, the motion sending Bram backwards, arms flailing as he tried to find purchase, something—anything—to stop him from falling.
For a moment there was nothing but air, and then he felt the solid strength of an arm, fingers closing around his wrist as he was yanked from the precipice back onto firm ground.
Iain’s face swam out of the mist. “Steady on. I’ve got you, now.”
Bram released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Holy Mary, mother of God, I thought I was done for. You always did have excellent timing.”
Iain grinned. “I aim to please.”
“How did you find me?” Bram asked. “You can barely see your hand in front of your face.”
“You’ve the mare to thank for that. We heard her all the way from the encampment. She sounded like a banshee. Which had to mean trouble.”
“I’m afraid she ran off.” Bram grimaced, turning slowly to search for the horse.
“Dinna fash yourself. Ranald and Frazier have gone to find her. And if they miss her for the mist, she’ll no doubt find her way to the other horses.” Iain frowned. “So what happened to spook the beast?”
“I canna say for sure. We heard rocks fall and then I’m fairly certain someone pushed me. Although it could have been the horse. You’re right. She was a wee bit crazed. In truth, I had no idea we’d gotten so close to the edge.”
“’Tis easy enough to lose your bearings in a fog like this.” He waved at the swirling mist.
“I’m just happy that you found me in time. I dinna think I could have saved myself.” His heart had settled back to its normal rhythm, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of how close he’d come to losing it all.
“I don’t know.” Iain shrugged. “I’ve seen you pull yourself from worse predicaments.”
“Aye, but no’ where I had to sprout wings.”
Iain sobered, squatting down to inspect something in the muddy turf.
“What do you see?” Bram asked.
Iain shifted back, pointing at the ground. “It looks like it wasn’t the horse.”
Bram knelt beside his cousin, his breath hitching as he recognized the shape of a footprint. One that most definitely wasn’t his.
Behind them something scraped against a stone.
Both men sprang to their feet, weapons drawn.
“Hold,” Ranald called as he and Frazier emerged from the mist. “We come bearing gifts.”
Bram sheathed his claymore, his pulse pounding again as he examined the man struggling between Ranald and Frazier.
“And who have we here?” Iain queried as he too sheathed his weapon.
“Canna say. The man willna talk to us,” Ranald said, his eyes glittering with anger. “But I’m willing to bet he’s no’ here to make friends.”
As if to prove the point, the man made a concerted effort to break free. But he was no match for Ranald and Frazier.
“To be sure, laddie,” Frazier spat out, his grip tightening on the man’s arm. “He’s wearing Comyn colors.”
Bram studied the man for a moment, noting the worn plaid. “Aye, but his eyes are dark and his hair a reddish brown.”
“Not all of them are black haired and green eyed,” Frazier grumbled.
“True enough,” Iain nodded, his eyes too locked on the prisoner. “But whoever he may be, I’d be willing to bet he’s the one who tried to push Bram o’er the cliff.”