An underlying gleam to the greyness of dawn bears the promise of fair weather. Silver shafts of early sunlight penetrate the canopy. Beneath the trees, the undergrowth is wet, clotted with a viscous dew that soaks my leggings below the knee. Ignoring the damp discomfort, I edge slowly through the woods, skirting small clearings and keeping to the shadows.
Although the trees screen the settlement from view, a sudden burst of boyish laughter rings loud above the birdsong - the Ráth Bládhma boys at play. That unexpected sound halts me in my tracks, and I find myself sagging for support against the bulk of the nearest oak. Such unconstrained jocularity makes me shiver for the boys, for they’re oblivious to the menace skulking in the woods around them.
With the morning’s grey and silver beauty and the laughter of children, it’s hard to believe there is evil in this world, that there are men nearby who’d slash infant throats without hesitation.
For a time, I lean against the tree, pondering the possibility these men might form part of the war-band that raided Seiscenn Uairbhaoil. In truth it seems unlikely. The raid that claimed my son took place five years ago, two years to the day the fevers claimed my woman. Most fian and díberg disperse soon after violent actions so the chances are poor to say the least.
My son Murragh was a good boy, trustworthy and sensible. He did everything I taught him, running for the forest when the raiders hit Seiscenn Uairbhaoil. And still the raiders claimed him. I buried Murragh beside his mother on the hills outside the settlement. Despite years of searching, never found the men who killed him. Since that day, whenever I’m in combat, I convince myself my opponent is one of those raiders for such thoughts help prompt the fire in my heart, raise a hunger for blood and give me an angry edge that’s kept me breathing till now.
I reach one hand up to touch the axe looped across my back, a single contact to bolster my resolve. I have a task to fulfil and any blood spilled this day will not be that of children.
Because of the dew, the ground is damp and marks of passage are clear to see. Using rock and hard ground, I do my best to avoid leaving a trail . With luck, the dew will soon disappear as the air grows warmer. That warm air will also help me breathe more easily, reducing the risk of a fresh coughing fit.
A soft breeze rustles the leaves above. The trill and twitter of birdsong swells with the rising sun but I keep one ear cocked for any change to its inflection. Birds withdraw and grow quiet in the presence of men. Their sudden silence is often warning enough to go to ground.
A little further north of the ráth, I discover my first sign of the scouts: a footprint, little more than half a heel in the mud. After I find one, the others appear quickly enough and in sufficient quantity to discern that there are two scouts, not three as originally feared. The tracks also tell me something of the men I follow. One of them is young, athletic and agile. I can tell this from the scattered pattern of his prints, the abrupt and nimble movements he uses when he leaps from one spot to another. He’s full of teaspaí, then. Full of vigour. Eager, and if I have the luck, rash and impetuous to boot.
Hah!
I’m too long in the tooth to believe that. Scouts don’t tend to rashness for rashness doesn’t favour a long life.
I consider the tracks of the second man with interest. This one moves slower and treads more warily. The pattern to his prints suggests he picks his steps before placing his full weight on them. An older man, then. More experienced. More … careful.
I’m about to continue when an unexpected splash of red against the background of the nearby foliage pulls my eye. Curious, I lean into the bushes, searching the leaves for what seems like unseasonal fruit. Poking through the leaves, I spot it again then pause as I realise what I’m seeing: several droplets of blood, spattered across the leaves. Thick and gleaming, they’re closely mingled with flecks of sputum.
Startled, I pull back to examine the ground once more. It takes some time to work out what’s happened. The tracks tell me the older scout was standing in this position. The scrape of his prints shows the sharp twist where he turned, abruptly. Probably to hack his lungs into the bushes. But why? Why would he conceal the fact that he …
And then I understand.
This one’s got the black flux. More advanced than mine but on his own path to the Dark Lands, just as surely.
I crouch in the shadows and think, chewing on my thumbnail as I chew on the thoughts in my head. The older scout turned fast, desperate to hide how bad he’s ailing. I chuckle bleakly at the irony of that. The scout’s doing exactly what I’ve been doing more and more over the last two seasons. Here we are – two walking dead men, one stalking the other through the woods so that we can die, just that little bit faster.
With a grunt, I shift the axe under one arm to wipe damp palms on my tunic. Returning that comforting weight to my hand, I rise with fresh purpose. My arse may be aching from a rough night of sitting and my lungs may be rotting but I still have a task to fulfil.
And an axe-blade thirsting for the blood of child-killers.
A hundred paces from the blood spatter, the woody terrain begins to change. The ground grows rougher, the Great Mother’s mantle increasingly pierced by rocks and stones. The trees grow more dispersed, the light beneath the canopy clears and brightens. It’s here that the easy tracking ends, the footprints dwindling until I’m left struggling to find prints on ground too hard to leave a trace of passage. Just a little further on, the most obvious route through the trees comes to a fork. A ragged deer trail cuts off to the left, heading in an uphill direction. Directly ahead, the wider, grassy route continues, weaving its way through the trees at the base of the ridge.
I squat in the shadows and toss both options a sullen eye, wondering which one to choose.
