I find sign of the scouts several hundred paces up the deer trail; one full footprint on a sliver of mud that’s half-concealed by fern. Soon, I’m following swiftly in their wake, moving uphill at an angle to the slope.
Of course, they’ve taken the high ground! They’ll want a vantage point to see into the ráth, to get a sense for its inhabitants and the weak points in its defences. On the lower trail, they may have got closer, but they’d be faced with the open ground, separating the treeline from the ditch and embankment. From the trees, any view of the settlement would be obstructed by the palisades but crossing that open space would reveal their presence immediately.
I climb the slope all slow like, throwing quick glances at the footprints to guide my way but mostly watching the forest undergrowth for any sign of movement. It’s unlikely the scouts know of my presence but caution costs nothing - nothing but patience and time.
Further up the ridge, the steepness eases where the ground levels out. Enclosed by tightly-packed trees, it’s hard enough to detect any change but I can tell for my breathing becomes less ragged. I’m down on all fours now, creeping through fern and patchworked shadow like a whipped hound. Crawling’s a bastard on the hands and knees and my movement’s slower than I’d like but I’d like a javelin to the belly even less.
I’m breathing hard when I finally stumble across the scouts and it’s pure good fortune I see them first. Both men are huddled in a hollow, below the summit of the ridge, a little cleft partly shadowed from the branches overhead. Less than twenty-five paces from my own position, if I hadn’t caught the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, I’d most likely have passed them by.
I immediately drop flat, pressing hard into the mouldy ground. When several heartbeats pass without a hue and cry, I know I’ve not been seen. Taking a chance, I use my fingers to part the ferns in front of me. The resulting gap is minute, just wide enough to see the distant hollow and the two figures inside. Taking my time, I allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom and make sense of the shadows beneath the tree.
The first scout I see is a young buck: sleek, muscular and in his deadly prime. At a guess, I’d put twenty years or less on him but it’s hard to judge because of the fierce facial tattoos. He carries a metal sword across his back, a set of knife scabbards on the belt at his waist. Squatting on his haunches, he faces a seated comrade who’s resting with his back against a tree. It takes time and sweat but I make the painstaking crawl several paces around to my right. From there, I can see the second scout. It’s always good to know the face of the man you mean to kill.
The look of this second scout surprises me. Beneath a rough, wolf-skin cap, his hair is grey, his features withered. He’s far older than I’d expected, certainly far older than I’d have imagined for a scout. Slumped back against the tree, he looks gaunt and jaded. Nevertheless, despite that weary aspect, he removes his cap and leans forward, speaking to the younger man in a low, urgent voice.
Keeping my belly to the ground, I edge a little closer, slithering slow and quiet to a thorn bush fifteen paces from the hollow. Close enough now to catch their voices, I can clearly hear the younger one speaking. His accent is harsh and guttural. It rings strangely in the silence of the Great Wild. Even stranger, his words sound wrong and make less sense than when they were muffled.
The presence of the older man disturbs me for it has an ‘off’ air about it. It’s the clever man who learns battle-guile from grey-haired warriors, but scouting’s a young man’s game. The frantic pace means it’s no place for an elder, particularly a sick one.
I frown and rub my chin as I study him from the cover of the thorn bush. This, then, is my brother in sickness, the man who spits blood in bushes and hides the reality of the rot on his insides. Now, consumed by its ruinous effect, it seems he can no longer conceal it. Bending forwards, he coughs and gurgles, hawking up blood and sputum from his phlegm-choked lungs. My own chest heaves in sympathy as I watch him cough his life out. Enemy or not, if he feels the pain I’ve felt at such moments, I pity the bastard.
The younger man reaches over and murmurs, placing one soothing hand on his comrade’s shoulder. Observing that simple gesture, I finally understand why the elder is here, why sick and dying, he’s taken on the strenuous task of scout.
He’s father to the younger man.
I rest my forehead on the ground, my limbs all loose and suddenly wearied. Closing my eyes, I feel the Great Mother’s firmness against my brow, the beads of sweat dripping down my back.
What am I doing on this isolated hillside? What are these two scouts doing here? Everything I’ve done this morning: the hiding, the stalking, the killing – now they all strike me as laughable, senseless actions more suited to children. It’s odd how one’s noble intent loses its sheen in the doing.; Here, in the vastness of the forest, we are but little men, foolish men that follow the command of other foolish men. Our antics are sad, our actions pathetic and utterly futile.
When I finally raise my head again, the father and son look to be parting ways. The young buck gives the elder a tender slap on the back and then quietly slithers off, slipping into the shadows like an agile ghost.
I remain in hiding. At two to one, the balance remains unequal and, despite the older man’s illness, I have no taste to test him. Back in the day, when I strode the forests with my son, I was always ready to tackle anything that threated him. So will it be with this man.
My thoughts are torn by what I’ve seen, my purpose undone by the simple display of affection between a man and son. This is not what I expected when I struck out to slay the enemy.
And, debt to Fiacail or no, I find myself loathe to kill the son of another father.
I sigh quietly, locking all the turmoil inside. At least I have some luck in it. The young buck’s task will keep him absent long enough for me to make a choice. Even at this distance, I can hear the old man’s wheezing and ponder my dilemma. I’m no longer certain what I should do.
