Taken Away (A Swept Away Saga Origins Story)

Three

Suddenly, Arth stopped, nostrils flaring as he pawed the ground, his muscles twitching nervously. Looking around for what had startled his ride, Will saw nothing, the beat of his heart increasing tenfold at the sudden change in atmosphere.

"What?" he asked the horse, trying to calm the animal as he continued to search for the source of panic.

A high pitched scream filled the air, the sound traveling from just ahead of them—from the direction of the old hut.

Jumping from the horse's back, Will grabbed his sword and ran the rest of the way up the overgrown path, frowning as what sounded like fighting reached his ears. As he rounded the last bend, the cabin came into view.

The roof was partially caved in, the long branches of the trees around it weaving together overhead, dipping down and punching through the rotting thatch. On the same end, the stone wall had fallen, the rocks scattered across the ground. Still, it was clear that someone was living in the ruins. Smoke gently trailed from the chimney on the intact side, a roughly put together, wooden door sitting open. The scent of breakfast oats hung lightly in the air, briefly reminding him of his own hunger. A makeshift fence led out from the side of the house, the assorted branches and ropes ringing a tiny garden, where the dirt had obviously been worked through at some point. Footprints marked the mud all over and a water trough rested under one of the trees, a long, white piece of linen resting in the branches, drip drying.

Shouts came from inside the hut, along with the clanging of dishes and crashing of objects. Readying himself to join the fray, with the worst possible scenarios running through his mind, Will stepped forward, taking in a deep breath to shout his arrival to whomever was inside. Before he could utter a single word, though, a man was catapulted through the entryway.

Sprawling across the ground, the man coughed, clutching his side in pain, eyes wild. It appeared he had tried to rob the shack; his sporran had popped open during his flight, spraying silverware, candlesticks, and all other sorts of little trinkets across the ground. Among them, a beautiful, emerald broach rested, smeared with mud during its landing.

Recognizing the blue and green color of the man's tartan as that of a Campbell, Will winced. It was never a good day when a Campbell got mixed up in your business.

The same, high pitched scream from before sounded in the house and Will turned his attention there, clearing his throat once more. Whatever was going on here was about to end, one way or another. However, before the words had even formed in his mind, a second Campbell appeared in the doorway, his face bloodied. With a shock, Will realized the screaming was coming from the man.

Clutching his nose, the second man tripped outside, grabbing his counterpart by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

"Did ye think I'd let ye get away that easy?" a woman's voice roared from inside, an Irish lilt present in her speech.

"Run, lad!" The second Campbell took off like the Devil himself was after him, not even bothering to look and see if his friend was following. He was, limping slightly as he peered back over his shoulder.

In the doorway of the hut, the woman appeared, her red, curly hair tied back in a messy bun at the nape of her neck, stray strands surrounding her face and sticking to her skin. Rage covered her angular features, a large, wooden hammer at least half her size gripped in her fists. The brown fabric of her dress hugged her slim torso tightly, the full skirt ripped down one side and revealing her shift. Dashing from inside, she held the mallet up, yelling angrily as she chased the would be robbers down the road. As she caught up with the limping Campbell, she struck him in the side again with her weapon, in a surprising show of force. The man cried out, stumbling, but continued on, disappearing around the bend.