before we’re
done here, so get used to it.’
Usher felt his cheeks glow as he realised how he
must appear to the old archer. He drew in a deep breath, and then mumbled, ‘I’m
sorry.’
‘ Shh ,’ Meryn silenced him,
and then cautiously waved him forward to the tree line around the camp.
Eight children were huddled close to the wagon with
just one Pict warrior standing guard over them. They looked cold, wet, and
bereft of any life; Usher recognised several. Crouched together, they were
silently staring towards the warmth of the distant fire where the majority of
the Picts were eating and relaxing. Usher counted them, quietly mumbling the
numbers, ten. There were ten of them including the one guarding the children.
It suddenly dawned upon Usher the enormity of the
task ahead of them. Even if they did manage, by some miracle of the spirits, to
get the captives away, how long would they be able to evade the Picts who would
be sure to follow? He glanced at Meryn, sensing he must have come to the same
conclusion long ago, yet here he was still helping them. Usher only hoped he
had a plan. If they survived, then beholden to him they certainly would be.
As he studied the Picts, one of them got to his feet
swaying happily, tipped up a jug, and emptied it in a series of greedy gulps.
Usher felt a wave of relief as he realised the man was drunk. The warrior
tipped the last of the ale into his open mouth then hurled the jug into the
forest, swaying slightly as he listened to the sound of it falling through the
branches. He belched loudly, and then shouted something in the Pictish tongue, which
brought laughter from the others. With another happy belch, he turned and
started into the forest, probably seeking a little privacy to relieve
himself.
Indicating Usher should stay where he was, Meryn
slipped away towards the disappearing warrior.
Moments later, he returned. ‘Nine’ was all he said
before continuing his vigil of the camp.
‘Will you be able to kill a man?’ The question came
as a warm breath, whispered into Usher’s ear. It took him with such surprise
that he pulled sharply away; rubbing furiously at the tickle the words had
left. Meryn chuckled softly in the darkness. It was something he had been asking himself since first seeing the Picts
at camp and he honestly didn’t know the answer.
Meryn thrust his polished bow into Usher’s cold
hands. ‘Here, when the shouting starts, kill him first.’ He pointed to the
guard standing over the children. ‘Then turn and kill any of the others that
you can.’ Wordlessly Usher accepted the quiver of arrows and, with fumbling
fingers, placed one ready against the bowstring.
It wasn’t long before the Picts around the fire were
calling out to their missing friend, his absence finally noticed. The calls
quickly went from laughing taunts to cries of concern and as two warriors stood
up to investigate, Meryn bent to whisper, ‘Good
luck, my young friend, the game is about to commence.’ He then crept
soundlessly away to intercept them. Now alone, Usher watched and waited for the scene to unfold as
the wind whistled through the branches above him and another shiver travelled
the length of his spine.
It had taken Cal
some time to work out how best to get the warriors angry enough to follow him.
He had skirted the path on either side, gathering moss and wet leaves until he
had a good armful, and then crept as close as he could to the camp. With a
silent prayer to the spirits of the forest, he ran towards the fire and,
dashing between two lounging Picts, dumped the soggy mass into the flames,
plunging the campsite into near darkness. He took a mighty leap, cleared a
sleeping warrior, and began hollering and screaming as he ran before stopping
at the edge of the path. Being drunk, the Picts were slow in reacting, but a
few well-aimed rocks brought four of them up on their feet, and they lurched
after him while two others spluttered and cursed as
done here, so get used to it.’
Usher felt his cheeks glow as he realised how he
must appear to the old archer. He drew in a deep breath, and then mumbled, ‘I’m
sorry.’
‘ Shh ,’ Meryn silenced him,
and then cautiously waved him forward to the tree line around the camp.
Eight children were huddled close to the wagon with
just one Pict warrior standing guard over them. They looked cold, wet, and
bereft of any life; Usher recognised several. Crouched together, they were
silently staring towards the warmth of the distant fire where the majority of
the Picts were eating and relaxing. Usher counted them, quietly mumbling the
numbers, ten. There were ten of them including the one guarding the children.
It suddenly dawned upon Usher the enormity of the
task ahead of them. Even if they did manage, by some miracle of the spirits, to
get the captives away, how long would they be able to evade the Picts who would
be sure to follow? He glanced at Meryn, sensing he must have come to the same
conclusion long ago, yet here he was still helping them. Usher only hoped he
had a plan. If they survived, then beholden to him they certainly would be.
As he studied the Picts, one of them got to his feet
swaying happily, tipped up a jug, and emptied it in a series of greedy gulps.
Usher felt a wave of relief as he realised the man was drunk. The warrior
tipped the last of the ale into his open mouth then hurled the jug into the
forest, swaying slightly as he listened to the sound of it falling through the
branches. He belched loudly, and then shouted something in the Pictish tongue, which
brought laughter from the others. With another happy belch, he turned and
started into the forest, probably seeking a little privacy to relieve
himself.
Indicating Usher should stay where he was, Meryn
slipped away towards the disappearing warrior.
Moments later, he returned. ‘Nine’ was all he said
before continuing his vigil of the camp.
‘Will you be able to kill a man?’ The question came
as a warm breath, whispered into Usher’s ear. It took him with such surprise
that he pulled sharply away; rubbing furiously at the tickle the words had
left. Meryn chuckled softly in the darkness. It was something he had been asking himself since first seeing the Picts
at camp and he honestly didn’t know the answer.
Meryn thrust his polished bow into Usher’s cold
hands. ‘Here, when the shouting starts, kill him first.’ He pointed to the
guard standing over the children. ‘Then turn and kill any of the others that
you can.’ Wordlessly Usher accepted the quiver of arrows and, with fumbling
fingers, placed one ready against the bowstring.
It wasn’t long before the Picts around the fire were
calling out to their missing friend, his absence finally noticed. The calls
quickly went from laughing taunts to cries of concern and as two warriors stood
up to investigate, Meryn bent to whisper, ‘Good
luck, my young friend, the game is about to commence.’ He then crept
soundlessly away to intercept them. Now alone, Usher watched and waited for the scene to unfold as
the wind whistled through the branches above him and another shiver travelled
the length of his spine.
It had taken Cal
some time to work out how best to get the warriors angry enough to follow him.
He had skirted the path on either side, gathering moss and wet leaves until he
had a good armful, and then crept as close as he could to the camp. With a
silent prayer to the spirits of the forest, he ran towards the fire and,
dashing between two lounging Picts, dumped the soggy mass into the flames,
plunging the campsite into near darkness. He took a mighty leap, cleared a
sleeping warrior, and began hollering and screaming as he ran before stopping
at the edge of the path. Being drunk, the Picts were slow in reacting, but a
few well-aimed rocks brought four of them up on their feet, and they lurched
after him while two others spluttered and cursed as
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