The bolt hole smelled like earth, rot, and rat piss.
Cadarn pressed himself against the wooden support beam in the cramped space beneath the barn, trying to control his breathing. Above him, he could hear the muffled sounds of hoofbeats, shouting, and something heavy being dragged across the barn floor.
Bram had shoved him down here through a hidden trapdoor beneath a pile of moldy hay, then disappeared back up with nothing but a whispered "Stay silent or we all die."
That had been maybe five minutes ago.
Or an hour. Time moved strangely when you were buried alive in someone else's hiding spot.
The space was barely four feet high and maybe eight feet long—just enough room to crouch or lie flat. Support beams crisscrossed overhead, holding up the barn floor above. Daylight leaked through gaps in the planking, casting thin bars of light across the dirt.
Cadarn's hands were shaking worse now. Withdrawal combined with pure terror made his whole body feel like it was vibrating apart at the joints. He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to steady them.
Breathe. Count your breaths. Four in, hold, four out.
It was what he used to tell panicking soldiers before surgery. Back when he was still Doctor Vex, not just Cadarn the drunk.
The technique didn't work any better now than it had then.
Above him, the barn door slammed open.
"—checked the house, ser. One man inside. He's being questioned now."
Boots on wood. Multiple sets. Heavy military boots by the sound of them.
"Search everything," a woman's voice commanded. Sharp. Aristocratic. Used to being obeyed. "The horses were here. Their tracks lead straight to this farm. Check the loft, the feed stores, every shadowed corner."
"Yes, Commander."
The boots scattered in different directions. Cadarn heard hay being kicked around, feed sacks torn open, tools clattering. One set of footsteps passed directly over his head—so close he could see dust filtering down through the floorboards.
He held his breath.
Don't cough. Don't sneeze. Don't even think loudly.
"Commander Vane!" Another voice, calling from outside. "The man in the house—he's not talking. Captain Roth is... encouraging him."
A pause. Then the woman's voice, closer now: "How much encouragement?"
"Broke two fingers so far. Man just keeps saying he's a farmer, doesn't know anything about riders."
"Then break more fingers. We don't have time for gentle persuasion."
The boots walked away. The barn door slammed again.
Cadarn's stomach churned. Bram. They're torturing Bram because of me.
And Garrett—what about Garrett? The voice said "one man inside." Where was—
A sound cut through his thoughts. Soft. Deliberate.
Three slow knocks on wood.
Pause.
Two faster knocks.
Pause.
One long scrape.
The trapdoor above him shifted slightly, and a voice—barely above a whisper—came through:
"Doctor. It's me."
Garrett.
Cadarn nearly sobbed with relief. "Are you—"
"Shut up and listen. They're searching the barn. When I give the signal, you're going to crawl through the tunnel at the back of the bolt hole. It leads to the drainage ditch behind the property. Follow it east until you hit the tree line, then wait. Understood?"
"What tunnel? I don't see—"
"Far back corner. Left side. There's a board that slides away. It's tight but you'll fit."
Cadarn looked into the darkness at the far end of the bolt hole. He couldn't see anything.
"What about you?" he whispered. "What about Bram?"
"I'll handle it. Just get to the trees. Don't wait for me. Don't wait for anyone. If I'm not there by midday, head north toward—"
A voice from above, much closer: "Captain! Found something!"
The trapdoor dropped back into place with a soft thump.
Boots running. Converging.
"What is it?"
"Blood, ser. Fresh. Trail leading from the house to here."
No.
Cadarn looked down at himself. In the thin light, he could see it—dark stains on his sleeve. Not his blood. From when Garrett had caught him during the dismount, probably. Garrett must have been wounded already and Cadarn had been too exhausted to notice.
"Follow it," the woman's voice commanded.
The barn erupted in motion. Tools being thrown aside. Hay bales kicked over.
Someone was moving methodically across the floor above, clearly following the blood trail.
Coming straight toward the trapdoor.
Move. Now.
Cadarn scrambled toward the back of the bolt hole, hands searching desperately in the darkness. His fingers found the back wall—rough wood planking. He pressed, pushed, felt along the seams.
There.
One board was different from the others. Thinner. It slid sideways when he put pressure on the right spot, revealing a black gap barely wider than his shoulders.
Above him, something heavy scraped across the floor.
They were moving the hay pile.
Cadarn squeezed into the gap, ignoring the splinters tearing at his shoulders and the scream of his already-abused body. The tunnel—if you could call it that—was more like a coffin you had to crawl through. Bare earth on three sides, rotting boards above, and darkness so complete he might as well have been blind.
He pulled himself forward with his elbows, inch by agonizing inch.
Behind him, muffled through earth and wood: "There! Trapdoor!"
Shouting. The sound of the trapdoor being ripped open.
"Bolt hole! Someone's been here—the dirt's disturbed!"
"After them!"
Cadarn scrambled faster, panic overriding pain. His shoulders scraped against the walls. Something sharp—probably a root—gouged his ribs. He could taste dirt in his mouth, feel it in his eyes.
The tunnel seemed to go on forever.
Then—
Fresh air.
Cold and beautiful and impossible.
He pulled himself forward one more time and half-fell, half-crawled out into gray morning light. The drainage ditch. Overgrown with weeds, slick with stagnant water, and absolutely the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Cadarn lay there for half a second, gasping.
Then survival instinct kicked in and he forced himself to move.
The ditch ran east-west, cut deep enough that if he stayed low, he'd be invisible from the farmhouse. He crawled east like Garrett said, hands and knees squelching through mud and gods-knew-what-else.
Fifty feet. A hundred. His lungs burned. His vision swam.
Behind him, from the direction of the barn: "The tunnel! Follow the tunnel!"
Faster.
Two hundred feet. Three hundred. The tree line was getting closer—a dark wall of pines and blackthorn maybe another hundred yards ahead.
"There! Movement in the ditch!"
No no no no—
Cadarn threw himself flat as an arrow hissed overhead, so close he felt the wind of its passing. It buried itself in the mud three feet in front of him.
Military fletching. Black and red.
He scrambled up and ran.
Not crawled. Not tactical. Just pure, animal panic running through ankle-deep muck while arrows started falling like deadly rain.
One hit the water beside his foot.
Another punched through a reed cluster to his left.
A third—
Pain exploded in his left shoulder, spinning him half-around. He hit the mud face-first, tasted blood and dirt, couldn't breathe, couldn't think—
Get up get up GET UP—
He staggered upright. His left arm wasn't working right—just hanging there, wrong somehow. But his legs still moved so he ran, stumbling, falling, getting up, running again.
The tree line.
Closer.
Fifty feet.
Twenty.
He crashed into the underbrush like a drunk ox, branches whipping his face, roots grabbing at his feet. Behind him, more shouting. Orders being given. The thud of boots hitting ground as someone jumped down into the ditch.
Cadarn ran deeper into the trees.
No plan. No direction. Just away.