Continuing along the lower trail, I traverse wild undergrowth that bears no visible sign. Here, at the base of the ridge, the woods are shadowed, the birdsong subdued. The dark spaces between the trees loom with menace and the threat of enemies lying in ambush. Now, more than ever, I regret the absence of a companion, an able man to guard my back or stand beside me when danger rears its head.
After a stretch of wary steps, cautious pauses and constant prowling, the woods begin to narrow. Scattered snatches of Glenn Ceoch can be glimpsed through the trees to my right. To my left, the ridge draws closer and closer, the steepness of the slope abruptly transforming to cliff face.
At the sight of the cliffs, an uneasy feeling shifts in my stomach. I know then I’ve called it wrong. I’ve followed the woods to the end of the valley and seen no sign of the scouts: no tracks, no disturbance of the undergrowth, no evidence of passage … Nothing!
The scouts have made a sudden change in direction and I’ve missed their sign or – more likely – they never came this way in the first place. I’ve made a poor judgement and, in my foolishness, left it too late to backtrack. By the time I return up the valley to find their trail, the scouts will surely have completed their task and departed.
Leaving me to return, red-faced, to Fiacail.
And inform him of my failure.
