Then came the smell. Sharp and acrid. Smoke. "They're burning it." Ayla whispered. "Good.
Let them think we're still inside." The smoke thickened quickly, seeping through the cracks in the trapdoor. The temperature in the cellar climbed. Ethan could hear the fire spreading above, wood crackling and popping as the flames consumed the house he'd built with his own hands. He felt nothing, just cold, hard focus. "How long do we wait?" Ayla asked.
"Until they stop watching. Until they think we're dead." Minutes dragged past. The heat became unbearable. Sweat poured down Ethan's face, soaking his shirt. The air tasted like ash.
Above, the house groaned and shuddered, timbers collapsing, the roof caving in with a thunderous crash. Finally, the voices outside began to fade. Orders were given to pull back, to regroup at the ridge. Ethan moved to the tunnel entrance. "Stay close.
Stay quiet. If anything goes wrong, you run. Don't stop. Don't look back. Understand?" "I am not leaving you." "If I fall, you run.
That's not a request." Ayla glared at him, but she nodded. The tunnel was narrow and low, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees. Ethan had dug it himself over the course of 2 weeks, 20 ft long, angling up toward the surface behind the barn. The walls were shored up with scrap wood, the ceiling braced with planks. It wasn't pretty, but it held.
They crawled in silence, the lantern light flickering behind them. Ethan's shoulders scraped the walls, dirt raining down with every movement. His breathing was loud in the confined space, echoing back at him. After what felt like an hour, but was probably only minutes, they reached the exit. Ethan pushed against the wooden cover, lifting it slowly, just enough to see out.
The barn was still standing, untouched by the fire. Beyond it, the militia had gathered near the remains of the house, watching it burn. Most of them had dismounted, rifles lowered, talking among themselves. They looked tired, satisfied. Vance stood apart from the others, staring at the flames with his arms crossed.
Ethan counted. 18 Men still standing. Five were dead or wounded, scattered across the property. Not good odds, but better than 23. He turned to Aela, kept his voice barely above a whisper.
We circle around the barn, come up on their flank. I'll draw their fire. You take the ones on the right. That is a terrible plan. You have a better one?
She didn't answer. Ethan crawled out of the tunnel, staying low, moving through the scrub brush toward the barn. Aela followed, silent as a shadow. They reached the corner of the building and paused, catching their breath. The militia was still distracted, focused on the burning house.