Eleven
In the afternoon, the village gave a feast and served us all in the hall. The clan leader named Alean was a remarkably young man, muscular and tall, a blonde beard covering the elongated face. He was the son of the leader who had died only months ago. Area Two had existed for over three decades, and lived in peace except for the regular raids that soldiers from Glasgow or Edinburgh staged, imprisoning a dozen people every year. Those were the people we rescued, at least those who survived the ordeal. But a decent number of people amongst the prisoners was from other areas.
Throughout the rest of the day, Alean asked questions—about the camps, our journey, our attack strategy. Caleb, sitting next to him at the table, entertained him with the answers while I remained absent, caught
