“I told you!” Sofia hissed at Duncan.

Duncan rubbed his eyes and didn’t quite suppress a soft, frustrated grumble.

“Fine. We were both right.”

The scarover tribe had stopped a few yards west of the Old Highland Road, just inside the Black Forest. Duncan and Sofia circled the campsite until they located a spot behind a collection of boxwood and star-laurel bushes on a small rise that would conceal them, yet allow a good view of the tribe. A modest stream ran down the rise to their left, between the tribe’s phosphor lanterns and into the camp proper.

Eleven scarover vans, wagons enclosed by enormous twelve foot tall tortoise shell shaped rooftops, comprised the camp. Ten of the woodland-toned vehicles sat in a half circle around a central fire pit. The eleve...

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