Read Chapter 29: The Powder Wagon

The heather thrummed under Callum’s boots as he lay flat against the ridge, watching the road below. Six wagons, canvas-covered, flanked by a dozen redcoats on horseback. The lead wagon swayed heavy on its axles—powder, sure as winter snow. He counted the guards again. Twelve. He had nine men.

“They’ll pass through the cut at dusk,” he whispered to Eilidh, who crouched beside him, her dark hair bound tight beneath a bonnet. “We hit the rear wagons first. Cripple the horses. The powder’s in the middle—we take that one and melt into the trees before they can form ranks.”

“And if they don’t stop?” she asked.

“Then we make them.”

He slid backward into the cover of the pines, where the rest of the team waited—crofters and shepherds turned soldiers, their faces lean with hunger and resolve. Angus, a former miller with arms like oak limbs, hefted a rusted pike. Young Davy, barely sixteen, clutched a hunting musket that had likely never fired in anger.

“Remember,” Callum said, keeping his voice low. “We’re not there to fight a battle. We take the wagon and go. Don’t be a hero—be a ghost.”

They moved into position along the tree line as the convoy approached, the rumble of wheels and the jingle of harness growing louder. Callum’s heart hammered against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He thought of the Laird’s ring, of the weight of command it had placed on him. He thought of Duncan’s list, of names that could still turn the tide if the rebellion survived long enough to use them. And he thought of his brother, somewhere in the bloody aftermath of Inverness, whose life was bound to every choice Callum made now.

The lead wagon reached the marked oak. Callum raised his hand, held it for a single breath, then dropped it.

Angus and two others surged from the undergrowth, pikes swinging into the legs of the rear horses. The animals screamed and reared, tangling in their traces. Redcoats shouted, wheeling their mounts, and the convoy ground to a confused halt. Callum was already moving, weaving between wagons, his claymore low and ready.

He reached the powder wagon just as a corporal dragged back its canvas. The man’s eyes went wide; his musket came up too slow. Callum caught the barrel and shoved it aside, driving his forehead into the soldier’s nose. The corporal crumpled. Callum vaulted onto the driver’s seat and slashed the traces with a single stroke of his dirk.

“Davy! Take the reins!” he shouted.

The boy scrambled up beside him as gunfire crackled through the cut. A musket ball whined past Callum’s ear, close enough to feel the heat of its passage. He looked back—Eilidh and the others were falling back in good order, dragging two wounded men between them. The wagon lurched forward, wheels grinding over stone, and for a moment Callum allowed himself to believe it would work.

Then a shot rang out—not the scattered fire of the escort, but the clean, practiced report of a rifle. The horse beside Davy screamed and dropped, its neck torn open. The wagon slewed hard left and slammed into a boulder with a shuddering crack.

Callum pitched forward, catching himself on the seat. When he straightened, Captain Thorne was riding through the gap in the trees, his scarlet coat immaculate, his pistol trained on Callum’s chest. Behind him came forty men, bayonets glinting in the fading light.

“MacRae,” Thorne called, reining in his horse. The man’s smile was thin, almost regretful. “Did you think I wouldn’t learn to bait a trap with cheese I could afford to lose?”

Callum dropped from the wagon, drawing his father’s knife from his belt—a long, dark blade with a stag-horn grip. He said nothing. There was nothing to say that a sword could not speak louder.

Thorne dismounted, handing his reins to a sergeant. He drew his own saber, testing its balance with a practiced flick of his wrist. The redcoats formed a loose circle, blocking any retreat, while Callum’s men—those who still stood—found themselves penned against the trees.

“You’ve caused me considerable trouble,” Thorne said, stepping forward. “Rab McLaren was manageable. You… you are merely stubborn.”

Callum circled left, forcing Thorne to turn. “McLaren was a good man. You killed him because you feared what he might become.”

“I killed him because he was rallying the clans. That, I cannot permit.” Thorne lunged.

The saber scraped along Callum’s blade as he deflected, the shock of impact jarring up his arm. They broke apart, then came together again—steel ringing against steel, boots scuffing in the mud. Thorne was quick, his academy training evident in every precise flick and thrust, but Callum had spent his life hunting deer through these hills. He knew patience. He knew the moment when an animal exhausted its strength.

Thorne saw it too. His attacks grew wilder, his breath ragged. He lunged high, overextending, and Callum twisted inside the arc of the saber. His father’s knife found the gap between Thorne’s ribs and the edge of his coat.

The captain stiffened. His saber dropped from loose fingers, thudding into the mud. He looked down at the blade buried in his chest, then up at Callum, his mouth working around words that never came. He fell backward, and the ground swallowed him.

“FIRE!” a sergeant bellowed.

Callum tore the knife free and spun. A volley erupted—but he was already moving, vaulting onto the wagon’s seat and sawing at the remaining traces. Eilidh appeared beside him, firing her pistol into the redcoat line, buying him a heartbeat. The wagon lurched free.

Something burned through his side, hot and sharp. He looked down. A musket ball had torn through his plaid, and dark blood soaked his shirt.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The wagon crashed through the underbrush, bouncing and shuddering, carrying him and the powder and whatever remained of his men into the darkening woods.