Page 21 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

T he forest grew darker the deeper Raff went, the clouds overhead adding to the gloom.

The trees here leaned in close like old men huddled in secret counsel.

The trail was faint but familiar—he had traveled these woods as a boy, his father laughing beside him, calling greetings to Clan MacCannish men when they’d been kin in all but name.

Each step fed the storm in his chest. He clung to the echo of Ingrid’s voice. He didn’t know how she’d reached him, only that she had. And if she could reach him… she was still alive.

He ducked beneath a low branch, heart pounding, jaw clenched.

Then a whisper of sound, too close, too wrong. He spun, hand to sword?—

Only to find her standing there… the witch.

One breath she wasn’t, the next—there she was, as if she’d risen from the roots beneath his feet. Her dark cloak swirled without wind, her eyes sharp as frost, mouth curled in disdain.

“You dare walk into MacCannish lands alone?” she asked. “You’ve grown dafter by the hour.”

He didn’t flinch. “I don’t need you.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow, amused. “You think the wish is done with you? That you can just toss it aside like a stone from your boot?”

“It’s my will that drives me now. Not your cursed magic.”

She snorted. “Idiot.”

He took a step closer. “You don’t frighten me anymore.”

“You should be afraid. Of what you face. An entire clan ready to burn a woman alive. You can’t stop them.”

“Watch me.”

“Fool.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You’re not invincible, Raff. You’ll die before you even reach her!”

“Then I’ll die with her name on my lips. But I will reach her.”

They stood, eyes locked, the air between them thick with defiance.

Then, softer, he added, “Unless you plan to stop me.”

Her expression flickered.

“Nay,” she said. “I plan to watch you fail.”

“Then watch closely,” he said, brushing past her.

But she turned with him, her voice losing its edge for the first time.

“You’d risk everything… for one woman?”

He stopped.

“She’s not just one woman. She’s mine. And I’d burn every cursed thread of fate you’ve spun if it meant keeping her alive.”

A silence stretched through the forest as if it held its breath in anticipation of what would come next.

And then… the witch gave a slow nod. “You’re still an idiot. But a useful one, perhaps.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you offering help?”

“I’m offering options. There are ways to turn the tide, warrior. But they come with a price.”

“I’ve already paid.”

“Nay,” she said, stepping toward him. “You haven’t even begun to pay.”

The clouds had thickened as they neared the outer edge of Clan MacCannish land, hanging low and dark, promising rain or worse. The task pressed heavy on Raff’s shoulders, but not as much as the weight of achieving his first goal… getting past the guards.

The witch walked beside him, hood drawn, her silence sharper than any blade. When she finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth.

“You mean to just… walk in?”

“Aye,” Raff said, eyes fixed ahead. “A tired son and his ailing mother seeking shelter from the coming storm.”

She chuckled. “You think they will actually believe me to be your mother?”

“You’re old enough,” he shot back, then added before she could curse him, “and you’ve got the temper to match.”

She glared. “And you’ve got the brains of a tree stump.”

“It doesn’t matter what they think. What matters is that they see what we want them to see. Lean on me. Cough, limp, whatever it takes. Play the part. What difference does it make as long as we gain entrance?”

She bristled but took his offered arm with the air of someone agreeing to hold a dead fish. “Remember, I’m your mum, so treat me properly?—”

“Just limp,” he growled, cutting her off.

They made their way toward the outer watchtower where two guards eyed them warily. Raff kept his head low, his voice humble.

“Storm’s rolling in. My mum and I need shelter, no more than a day or two if you please.”

The guards exchanged a glance, but the storm clouds above helped his case.

One grunted. “Aye, you can stay. There’s space in the stables. Stay away from the keep.”

Raff gave a grateful nod and led the witch inside. The minute they passed through the gates, the smell hit him—an abundance of dried, aged wood that took easily to flame once torched.

Near the center of the courtyard stood a stake.

Rough-hewn, tall, and cruel. A pile of kindling spread out at its base and more wood had been heaped upon that.

The kindling would catch fast and spread to the upper layer as it crept toward the person tied to the stake.

The smoke would choke her first, then the fire would lick at her feet and grip her garments, and flames would cover her.

And Raff had no intention of seeing that horror visited upon his wife.

“By order of Laird Chafton,” a guard shouted, catching everyone’s attention and people quieted with excitement. “The witch burns today.”

The witch’s hand dug into Raff’s arm hard enough to bruise.

“They speak of killing like it’s a feast,” she hissed. “Do they not know what it means to burn a soul alive?”

A group of children skipped past, giggling, pretending to light an imaginary fire, one of them screeching, “Witch! Witch!” as he ran in circles.

The witch closed her eyes. “Barbaric little monsters.”

Raff urged her to an area where they had a wider sight of the area, leaving them to contemplate the next steps.

They had made it in. That was one victory.

But his heart pounded with a steady, rising fury.

Ingrid had to be in the dungeons, somewhere in the bowels of this keep, frightened, awaiting her fiery death.

He would not let that happen.

The village buzzed with twisted energy. Word had spread that the witch would burn shortly. Many speculated that Laird Chafton wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible, especially with the dark sky promising rain, and the people agreed. There would be no delay and no mercy.

Raff paced the area where they stood watching, his jaw tight, his fists tighter. “Once she’s out of the dungeon, in the open, it will be easier for me to grab her, slip her through the stables, cut through the woods before anyone realizes?—”

“Stop being a fool,” the witch interrupted, seated with her legs crossed, calmly sipping from a cracked mug of ale she’d pinched off a passing tray, drinks being provided for everyone.

“There is little recourse left to me. You can make yourself useful and the rescue easier by using your magic to divert everyone’s attention.”

She sighed and looked at him like a tired teacher with a particularly dense pupil. “That is a brilliant suggestion if you’re trying to get both of you killed as well as me. But if you want your wife alive—actually alive—then follow my lead.”

“Why should I trust you?” he asked, wondering if it had been wise of him to bring her along.

“Because you got more from your wish than you realize. And because, whether you believe it or not, I care more about her fate than yours.”

“Why is that?” he demanded.

“You are dense,” she said, shaking her head. “Stay close. Don’t interfere. When I give you the signal, be ready to move.”

“What signal?”

She smiled faintly. “You’ll know.”

The square had been cleared, villagers packed shoulder to shoulder, faces flushed with excitement, fear, or some grotesque anticipation that roiled Raff’s stomach.

The sky loomed dark and thick with ash-hued clouds, and the wind had turned strong.

That meant the fire would catch faster. Time was not on his side.

“MAKE WAY!” came the echoing shout.

The people parted for Laird Chafton, cheering him as he strutted through the opening, his cloak snapping behind him, and his head tilted in noble style.

He made his way to a stone platform where he addressed the crowd. “Today, we rid ourselves of the darkness that’s cursed our lands. The witch will burn, and with her, every shadow and spell she cast!”

Cheers rose, raw and eager.

From the far end of the courtyard, the heavy door groaned open.

Ingrid appeared.

Her hands were bound in front of her, her hair wild, her dress torn and streaked with dirt. Two large warriors flanked her, one at each side, their grips bruising as they dragged her forward. She stumbled once but refused to cry out, lifting her chin despite the jeers and shouts from the crowd.

Raff’s heart dropped to his boots. He took a step forward, the witch catching his arm.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Let it play. Let them all look. Let them all see.”

His pulse thundered. “If they lay one more hand on her?—”

“They will,” she said coldly. “That’s how this works.”

He looked at her, sick with fury. “Whatever your plan, it better work.”

She didn’t answer.

Ingrid was forced up the steps to the stake. The kindling creaked beneath. The executioner stood nearby, torch in hand, waiting for the order.

The ropes were already in place.

Raff held his breath.

The witch shifted at his side, her eyes flashing with something deep, ancient, and dangerous.

Whatever she was about to do—she better hurry.

Raff was losing patience.

Laird Chafton raised his hand, and the crowd fell into a hush, the kind that made even the wind hesitate. He cast a sweeping glance over the villagers before turning to Ingrid, already bound at the stake, her eyes fierce despite the bruises.

“This woman,” he called out, voice sharp and righteous, “is no simple weaver. She spins spells with every thread. Her wool carries charms—hexes—poison disguised as comfort. She is the cause of our misfortunes, and her fire will cleanse this land!”

A murmur rolled through the crowd.

Then—someone shouted.

“But her blankets heal!”

Raff was shocked to see it was Edith.

All eyes turned toward her. She clutched a worn blue blanket to her chest. “When my son had the fever, no brew helped him. We wrapped him in her wool, and he slept. He woke. He lived.”

Others began to shift, uncertain.

Another voice rose—a man this time.

Raff saw it was Latham. Her friends had not deserted her and there were other friends of Ingrid spread out in the crowd. Her friends hadn’t failed her.

“My wife’s bones ache all winter, but not when she sleeps under Ingrid’s weave,” Latham said.

“She made one for my bairn when she was born,” a young woman from Clan MacCannish said. “It still smells like lavender. Not death.”

Laird Chafton slammed his fist against the wooden rail of the platform. “You are being tricked! That is how witches work—they lull you. They make you believe in kindness before they strike!”

The witch, standing among the crowd in her tattered cloak, smirked.

Raff saw her fingers twitch subtly, the air around her seeming to bend, shimmer—just for a heartbeat.

“Let me show you,” she muttered under her breath, low enough only Raff could hear. “What a real witch can do.”