Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Twenty-Four: A Foreshadowing

Staring out of the carriage window, I noted that the last of the smaller beacons to punctuate the land between Cuan Caoineadh and Calafort Scoite sat upon a ridge to the west of the highway. We were almost at our destination, and a sense of relief washed over me at the realisation.

Thank the gods.

Sitting alone in my wooden box had rendered me so mind-numbingly bored that I would've even preferred the princeling's scorn over spending another moment in my lonely, rattling cage. All day, I had nothing to do but pick at the already frayed tassels of my cushion or stare at the woodgrain opposite. That quickly became tedious. If Lord Styrkr insisted on running all the way to Móinéarglas, leaving me to the wanderings of my mind, I'd lose the will to live.

No. I refused to allow that. If he insisted on staying in his fur, then I would run in my fur too. At least that would keep me occupied. I decided as much as I glared out the window at the flash of silver and charcoal fur that kept pace with my coach, then I reverted my attention to the beacon, determined to ignore the princeling for as long as possible.

The structure on the ridge represented an unfortunate truth; the Tírgardaí and their watchtowers weren't enough on their own to protect Tírlaochra. Certainly, a carriage could travel between one watchtower and the next in a day, but while the beacons atop the towers were the biggest and brightest of all, they couldn't always be seen from one tower to the next. In reality, conditions rarely leant themselves to one tower seeing the next even with a beacon ablaze. On the clearest of winter nights, it might be possible, but against the glare of the summer sun? Or in mist or fog? Or when heat haze blurred the horizon? Then it became impossible to rely on the ability of one tower to signal another directly.

For that reason, a line of five smaller beacons ran between each tower, spaced as equidistantly as possible depending on where the best topography lay to allow clear lines of sight. Those smaller beacons were built directly onto hills or ridges, and had their own rotation of guards assigned to them; always manned, always ready to react to an impending invasion. That was even true across Stanholl, although the dwarves responsible for tending those beacons were unreliable allies. But that was another matter altogether.

I frowned at I studied the beacon, though, finding it strange that the squat building next to it had no smoke rising from the chimney. The small bunkhouse would house the guards who watched for the lighting of pyres further down the line. They were supposed to keep a hearth fire burning in their barracks at all times, both so they could cook and to ensure a ready flame was always available to light the beacon, even if someone misplaced their flint and steel while rushing to react. It seemed the guards stationed on the ridge had let their fire die, however, and I only hoped they all had pouches containing flint, steel, and tinder on them. Perhaps everyone had grown lax.

Part of me wanted to go up there and reprimand whichever human or elven soldiers were keeping watch, but this wasn't my region to manage. Gods, I didn't even have a region anymore, not with regard to our coastal defences.

Closing my eyes, I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach, but my unease only continued to swell. I didn't know if it was my own removal from the Tírgardaí or the lack of hearth fire at the beacon outpost that had a chill sliding down my back and anxiety knotting my stomach, but my sense of dread solidified minute by minute until I couldn't sit still. Not that fidgeting did anything to help.

An ache settled in my joints, warning me that my body wanted to shift. My inner wolf pressed forward, just under my skin, and I felt the sharp tips of my fangs lengthen, becoming more prominent as I struggled with the urge to take my more resilient form. If something endangered us, then I wanted to face it with my claws out. Especially as fur would hide my existing injuries, masking them from the eyes of anyone who might otherwise see an opportunity in them.