The young buck’s no easy quarry for his step barely leaves a trail. Several paces from the hollow, I catch a single heelprint but then nothing for another seven paces or so. This younger scout moves like a ghost. His father, it seems, has taught him well.
Despite the faintness of the trail, it’s a simple enough task to fathom the route he’ll take. The ridge’s south-eastern slope overlooks Glenn Ceoch. It makes sense that he’ll venture southwards from the starting point of the hollow to find a better viewpoint.
So that is where I’ll follow.
In my own head, the scout’s few tracks bear the heat of his footsteps as I follow, weaving a twisted route along the southern slope. Because of his rapid gait, it takes some time to catch him up but I locate him at last, in a clearing where several trees have tumbled from a violent storm. That open space is spotted with seedlings but offers the only decent outlook on the settlement I’ve seen. Even so, despite the height, the view’s restricted to the ráth’s southern side.
The scout is poised on an angled boulder at the centre of the clearing, his outline tall and lean as he peers into the valley. With a frown, I pull back, regretting my decision not to bring a javelin. The stretch of ground between the treeline and the boulder is open and exposed and this young buck looks an able opponent, best taken from a distance.
I peer through the leaves of my bushy refuge. The muscular build of the second scout is enough to give me pause. At his physical peak, this buck’s strong and able and half my age. He’s not an opponent I’ll best in a bloody face-to-face.
Dealing death from the shadows is never my choice but then, neither is dying. I may be on a path to the Dark Lands but there’s no hurry on me. Tired and cranky, after a morning of tension and crawling through scrub, I just want an end to it. Rising to a crouch, I edge to the left to align with the shadow of the pines. Loosening the knife in my scabbard, I heft the axe in my right hand and settle in to wait.
It’s all a matter of timing now. When the scout is satisfied his task is done, he’ll return this way, passing the very shadows where I lurk in hiding. Keen to return to his father and share his findings, his mind will be elsewhere as he slides me by.
Several moments pass, then another several moments. The scout remains on his boulder, studying the valley, leaning this way and that to get a better view. Despite my nervousness, I find myself impressed, for the youth reminds me of Murragh: meticulous with his tasks, diligent in his duty, complete in his undertakings. As I continue to watch him, I cannot help but think that, had he lived, my son would have that scout’s age, probably his height and muscle too.
Without warning, the scout turns and leaps lightly from the boulder. From the way he moves, I can tell he’s happy for he’s ambling at ease, singing softly as he approaches. My heart grows cold as I grip my axe, suck air in through my nose. Nearing my position, I catch sight of his face and the breath momentarily catches in my throat for I imagine my son’s features beneath the twirl of those tattoos.
Shaken, I clutch my weapon tighter, the weight of it trembling in my fist as my quarry draws closer. Raising it to strike, I watch him come, disappear behind the bulk of the pine to reappear on the other side. Into the range of my axe.
