Chapter Twenty-ThreeThe pass stretched before them with the track winding to the head of a granite ridge. Melcorka walked in front, ready to draw Defender, but the way was clear. There was no mist and no grey men, only the sough of the wind over sparse heather and the tinkle of small burns across the granite. Above, a golden eagle circled beneath a cold blue sky.
“That was easier than I expected,” Melcorka said as they crested the ridge and looked northward. “There was a prosperous glen last time we were here.”
“The Grey Glen,” Bradan said.
Astrid shook her head. “There has been no prosperity here for many years, perhaps for a century or more. Picts, Albans and Norse have fought over this glen too often. Now it is a wasteland.”
“It is,” Bradan agreed. The glen was empty, with weeds cho
