Act 4: Alliance
The next two weeks are the most useful I've felt since the frost.
I'm not a leader. I'm not a fighter. A relay point. A translator. The person who takes Hugh's intentions and turns them into schedules that other settlements can actually follow.
It starts with the patrol data. I sit down with Mhairi from Killin and walk through our attack records. Every hit. Every pattern. Every failed convoy. She does the same with their data. By the end of the first day, we have a combined map that shows what neither of us saw alone.
The attacks aren't just coordinated. They're concentric. Pushing inward from multiple directions toward a single point.
"They're herding us," Mhairi says, staring at the map.
Toward what?The answer comes when Kirsten sends her data from Balloch. Same pattern. Same direction. A slow, deliberate compression toward the central settlements.
"MacLeod's not just raiding," I tell Hugh that evening. "He's clearing territory. Pushing people inward. Making the central area more crowded, more desperate, more competitive for resources. Then he picks off whoever's left."
"That's a long game. MacLeod doesn't play long games."
"Maybe it's not MacLeod. Or maybe someone's helping him play one."
Eleanor.The thought is constant now. Not obsessive. Just present. Every coordinated attack, every precise ambush, every supply line that gets hit at exactly the wrong moment. The spy I let go is out there, turning everything she learned into someone else's strategy.
Hugh doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. We both know the shape of the problem.
I start riding between settlements. Two escorts from Mugdock, rotating through the different groups so everyone sees our faces often enough to recognise them.
The rides are cold and long and uncomfortable. The roads are dangerous. Every trip is a calculated risk.
But it works.
Drymen shares their medical supplies because they have a nurse and no antibiotics. We share antibiotics because we have a pharmacy and no one who can properly set a broken femur. Killin shares their patrol schedules because they need our people to cover a gap in their northern route. We need their crossbow makers because our wall defences are stretched thin.
Piece by piece, the alliance takes shape. Not through grand gestures. Through small, practical exchanges that solve immediate problems.
This is what military coordination looks like when nobody's shooting.I understand it now. The logistics. The supply chains. The communication networks. I spent years in the reserves thinking this was the boring part. The part you endure between the exciting bits. Turns out it's the part that actually matters.
Hugh watches from a distance. Checks in occasionally. Mostly lets me work.
"You're good at this," he says one evening, finding me in the warehouse surrounded by manifests.
"I'm good at spreadsheets."
"Spreadsheets win wars." He picks up one of the manifests. Skims it. Nods. "Kirsten wants to talk about joint patrol schedules. Can you be at Balloch by Thursday?"
"Thursday. Yes."
"Take Marcus's people. The east route's been quiet."
"Quiet doesn't mean safe."
"Quiet means we take the opportunity while it lasts."
The crisis comes on the second Thursday.
I'm at Balloch, working with Kirsten's logistics team, when a runner comes through the gate. Breathless. Bloody. One arm hanging wrong.
"Raiders," he gasps. "Hit the Drymen supply convoy. On the road. They need help."
Kirsten looks at me. I look at the map on the wall. Drymen's convoy route passes within three kilometres of Balloch's territory. Close enough to reach. Far enough that by the time we get there, it might be over.
"How many raiders?" I ask the runner.
"Dozen. Maybe more. They pinned the convoy down. People are hurt."
I turn to Kirsten. "Do you have people you can spare?"
She doesn't hesitate. "Six. Armed. On horses."
"Send them. I'll coordinate from here."
The next hour is logistics. Kirsten's riders head north. I'm on the radio to Mugdock, to Killin, to anyone who can hear. Relaying positions. Coordinating approach routes. Making sure the rescue doesn't walk into an ambush of its own.
When the riders come back, they've driven the raiders off. Two of Drymen's people are wounded. None dead. Kirsten's people took one injury, a crossbow bolt through a shoulder. Not fatal.
A convoy that didn't get wiped out because someone answered the call.
But when I walk back into Balloch's main hall, Kirsten is waiting for me. She doesn't say anything profound. Doesn't make a speech.
She nods once. That's it.
Six riders and a nod.I stay at Balloch that night. Too late to ride back. Kirsten gives me a room. Small, cold, clean.
There's a knock at the door.
Anya. She came with me to Balloch to run a support session for Kirsten's people. I'd almost forgotten she was here.
"You're still up," she says. Not a question.
"Couldn't sleep."
She sits on the edge of the narrow bed. Careful of the space between us.
"I heard about the convoy. You did good."
"I didn't do anything. I sat in a room and talked on a radio."
"That's exactly what you did. And it worked." She looks at me. That clear, steady gaze. "You know that, right? What you did tonight? That's the thing you were trained for. The real thing. Not the rifle. This."
She's right. The radio. The maps. The logistics. This is what I was actually good at. I just never knew it because the other part was louder."I'm starting to figure that out."
"Good." She stands. Pauses at the door. "Jamie."
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Not just for the alliance work. Just... glad."
She leaves. The door closes. The room is quiet and cold.
I lie on the narrow bed and stare at the ceiling. My chest feels lighter than it has in months. The knot is still there. Just looser.
I'm glad you're here too.I didn't say it out loud. I should have. Next time.
I close my eyes. Sleep comes easier than it used to.