There’s a trick to ambush that’s always served me well. Strike the quarry at their ease – that’s the nub of it. A quarry at ease is an easy kill.
For a quarry to be at ease they must see the best of what they expect: an easy path, the absence of danger, a familiar or a cheering sight. Here, on this isolated height, the scout’s ignorance of my presence gives me my single advantage, and one I must make use of. On his return, he’ll have the excitement on him, the keenness to share his findings with his father. He’ll also expect to see his father waiting.
Without a bloody wound in the head.
To address the issue of that blood-spattered gash, I manoeuvre the old man back up against the tree, surprised by the lack of weight to him until I realise all meat and mass has been eaten away, consumed by the black flux. It’s a wonder he’s lasted as long as he did. I can only imagine he drove himself through sheer resolve alone.
Bracing the corpse against the tree, I place the fur cap on his head at an angle to disguise the damage, fix the cloak around the front to hide the bloodstains. Lifeless and limp, his head lolls onto his chest but by crossing his legs at the ankle and laying his sword all casual-like across the knees, I make it appear as though he’s dozing. Up close and wary, such a ploy would fool no-one. From a distance however, for a quarry at his ease … Well, that’s another story.
Given the scout’s departure to the south and the lay of the land along that ridge, it seems a safe assumption he’ll return from the same direction. Searching about for a position to meet my needs, I settle on a shadowed nook in the undergrowth, behind a curving set of pines. Several paces south of the hollow, it lies next to the path of the returning scout. It’s the first point where the hollow becomes visible, where the slumped form of the “dozing” scout can be seen. Propelled along this path by the excitement of an accomplished task, the young buck’s eyes will see his sleeping father. They will not see me.
Prompted by a grumbling belly, I dump the contents of the dead man’s food satchel onto the ground in front of me. In the dappled light it’s hard to make out the fruit and meaty rations for the contours seem twisted, ill-formed and wrong. Reaching for a pig trotter, I yank my hand back with a gasp, choking down a cry of horror.
It’s not a pig trotter! It’s a hand!
They’re all hands!
Hands!
That gruesome discovery triggers a coughing fit and for several moments I’m bent over, hacking and rasping and wheezing for breath. Covering my mouth with my palms, I struggle desperately to stifle the phlegmy barks. In such a state, I’m completely helpless and if the young buck’s nearby, I’ve given my position, and my life, away.
The wheezing convulsions subside at last, and I can finally breathe easy. Choking down my revulsion, I force myself to examine the objects I’d mistaken for food. There are five hands in total. Four of them form two recognisable pairs. The single hand is that of a young woman. The fingertips on three of them are missing, reduced to ragged tears where they’ve been nibbled away to stumps of flesh and bone.
I feel the rage engulf me as I look towards the dead scout arranged by the tree. It’s a struggle to restrain myself from jumping up and chopping that corpse to bloody pieces. Recalling my earlier sympathy for that old man’s bloody coughing, my heart turns cold and hard, my compassion to revulsion, my empathy to hatred.
A distant rustle of vegetation along the ridge alerts me to the second scout’s return. It also pulls me from my spiralling rage. On instinct, I draw back, withdrawing into the shadows of the pines but I can feel my anger growing, redirected at this new arrival.
Light-footed and agile, the second scout suddenly emerges from the trees, moving at an easy lope in the direction of the hollow. Despite my fury, the reality of danger has calmed me, channelled its heat to concentration as I time my attack to my opponent’s approach.
The scout momentarily disappears behind the far side of the pines, swiftly reappearing into my line of attack. This time there’s no hesitation. I lunge from my position, the axe cleaving its lethal arc. The scout doesn’t even have time to cry out before the blade connects, slamming into the side of his head. Stunned, but somehow still standing, he totters sideways and I follow up my attack with another blow, this time to the throat with enough force to whip him off his feet.
He falls to the ground with a crash and, discarding my axe, I’m on him at once. Drawing my knife as I straddle him, I punch the blade deep into his chest.
The young buck stares up at me with horrified incomprehension but there’s no pity left in my heart. This is a man who’d kill children.
My mind turns to mist as I give into the anger and stab again and again and again.
When the red fog clears and reason returns, I flop sideways off the lifeless corpse, the punctured chest a tattered, crimson mess.
For a long time, I remain on my back, sucking air into my tattered lungs, staring up at blue cracks in the forest canopy. I’ve survived. I’ve achieved my task. Ráth Bládhma is safe.
For a few days more at least.
Rising to my feet with an ancient weariness, I take my axe and get to work, using the blood-sated blade for the grisly task of taking the two scouts’ heads. There’s a certain sense of numb satisfaction when I add them to the food satchel.
The trill of birdsong grows strong and sweet as I make my way down to Glenn Ceoch. Father Sun hangs in the sky like an ember and beneath the trees the grey shafts of light have turned golden. It may be down to my own reprieve, but I sense a tangible release from the surrounding forest, as though it’s finally exhaled after holding its breath.
The heft of the axe is a comforting burden, the weight of the food bag much less so. Despite my actions and the success of my task, I know the settlement remains in danger. The fian lurks somewhere beyond the valley and they’ll be looking for vengeance when their scouts don’t return.
But I have plans of my own for those bloody trophies. A plan and a purpose and a few days of reprieve.
My work in Glenn Ceoch is clearly not done.
