The Siege of Macindaw

17

"Where the blazes did he go?" Horace said. "I hardly took my eyes off him."

But Will was already crouching over the spot where the general had fallen, his eyes following the clear trail that the escaping Scotti had left in the new snow. In addition to the footprints, now becoming difficult to see in the failing light, there was a bright red trail of blood drops. He started forward in pursuit, then hesitated, looking down the track to where the Skandians surrounded the surviving Scotti warriors.

Gundar was off to one side, being calmed down by the man who had dragged him away from the Scotti. Will wanted to make sure someone was left in charge of the prisoners.

"Hold them there, all right?" he called. He gestured to the warrior Horace had knocked out. "This one too."

One of the Skandians stepped forward. To his surprise, Will recognized Nils Ropehander. The scar-faced man had been one of the first Horace had chosen for the ambush. In Horace's experience, men like Nils, at first cynical and reluctant, often became the most dependable followers once they were converted to a cause.

"You go after Blue Face, Ranger," he said now. "We'll keep an eye on these beauties until you get back."

Will nodded once, then plunged into the trees, closely followed by Horace. He had a moment's hesitation when he realized that he had left his bow by the side of the track, then shrugged it aside. In the close quarters of the forest, the bow would be next to useless. His saxe and throwing knife would be more suitable weapons in these conditions.

He ran in a half crouch, frowning with concentration as he searched for MacHaddish's tracks in the snow. At first, the bright blood trail made progress easy, even in the near dark. But then the general must have realized he was leaving a trail that a blind man could follow and bound the wounded hand up to stop the flow. Probably in the massive tartan he wore around his shoulders, Will reflected.

He had no sooner had the thought than he saw the broken arrow shaft caught up in a bush to one side, where the Scotti had thrown it. Will winced. The task of removing the arrow must have been agonizing.

Now, without the blood trail to follow, tracking MacHaddish grew more difficult. In daylight, a tracker of Will's ability would be able to read the footprints in the snow without hesitation. But now it was almost full dark.

In addition, he realized, MacHaddish was actively trying to throw them off the trail, at times standing still, then leaping as far as he could to one side or the other before continuing. At other times, he had laid false trails, heading off to the side for a dozen or so paces, then rapidly backtracking, stepping backward in the same footprints, or jumping or using overhanging branches or occasional rock outcrops to change direction without leaving footprints. The Scotti had the luxury of being able to head in any direction he chose at any time.

In normal light Will would have instantly detected the signs of backtracking and ignored the false trail. But at night, in winter, in the woods, he had no choice but to follow the trail as he saw it.

He stopped as he came to a point where the trail twisted hard left. Instinct told him that MacHaddish had laid another false trail here. He'd noticed that the man seemed to instinctively return to the same general direction each time he threw out a false lead. He was heading north, for the border. And north was straight ahead, not to the left. Will was tempted to continue that way, ignoring the footprints angling off to the side. He could see a bare patch of rocks straight ahead, where MacHaddish could have headed to obliterate his tracks. In the intervening space, there was plenty of ground litter – fallen branches and leaves lying on the snow – that he could have stepped on to conceal his trail. Probably, on the far side of the rocks, the footprints would resume.

But if they didn't, if this were the real trail, he would waste precious minutes locating it again in the dark. He hesitated, unsure of himself, sensing that the Scotti was drawing farther and farther away from them with each minute.

"Which way?" Horace asked, but Will instantly signaled him to remain silent. He had heard something in the forest, ahead and to the right. He turned his head slightly from side to side, trying to pick up the noise again. He cupped his hands behind both ears to capture any slight sound that…

There! He could just hear a body forcing its way through the trees and the tangled undergrowth. He had been right. The trail to the left was a false one. And now he saw how he could gain ground on MacHaddish. Not by looking for his trail. But by listening.

In the same instant, he realized how he could conceal his approach from MacHaddish.

He beckoned Horace closer, pointing in the direction the sound had come from."He's gone that way," he said. "I can hear him. Follow behind me but stay back ten to twenty meters. And make a bit of noise, all right?"

Horace frowned. Will could see the question forming in his mind and answered it before his friend could ask.

"He'll hear you coming," he said. "He won't hear me."

Will saw understanding in Horace's eyes and he plunged off into the woods again, hearing his friend resume the pursuit behind him. Horace stayed far enough back that he didn't drown out the sound of MacHaddish shoving through the trees and bushes, and now Will sensed that he was gaining on the fugitive. He redoubled his pace, the noises made by MacHaddish becoming clearer, while those made by Horace faded slightly as Will widened the gap between him and his friend.

This time, the Scotti's ignorance of Ranger skills was working to Will's advantage. MacHaddish continued to plunge headlong through the undergrowth, unaware that his pursuer was gaining on him, not knowing that Rangers could move through country like this making virtually no sound. MacHaddish could hear someone crashing noisily through the forest, far behind him. He didn't realize it was Horace.

Then Horace, knowing what Will had in mind, had a flash of inspiration. He began calling encouragement to himself, shouting out vague directions and instructions.

" There he goes! I see him! This way, lads!"

He said whatever came into his head. The words didn't matter, but the direction was all important and Horace was intentionally straying from the direct line of pursuit.

Will heard his friend's voice and smiled, realizing what he was up to.

Not far ahead of Will, MacHaddish smiled too. The shouting was far away now, moving to the west and growing fainter. His pursuers were gradually losing contact, confused by the false trails he had left.

The general paused for a moment in a small clearing, leaning against the bole of a tree. His arm throbbed painfully, and his breath was ragged with the exertion of his escape and with the shock of the wound. Carefully, he unwound the blood-soaked tartan from his wrist and examined the injury. He tried to flex the fingers. There was no movement. Shock had numbed the wound.

He tried again and this time thought he felt a slight movement, which encouraged him. He tried once more, and a blinding flash of agony shot along the inside of his forearm as the numbness faded.

He gasped in pain and surprise. But he was encouraged nonetheless. Anything, even the pain, was better than that frightening lack of feeling. If his right hand was permanently crippled, that would be the end of him. Among the Scotti, even generals had to take part in hand-to-hand fighting. Trying to ignore the pain, he took a deep breath and looked up from the wounded hand.

There was a shadowy figure moving toward him, barely three meters away.

MacHaddish's hand may have been crippled, but his reflexes were still razor-sharp. He reacted almost without thinking, hurling himself forward at the dim figure. He saw the man's hand drop to his waist and realized he was reaching for a weapon. Left with one hand useless, he lowered his shoulder and drove it into the cloaked figure.

The sheer speed of the attack took Will by surprise. As he had approached the Scotti, he had heard the man's low-pitched grunt of pain, and seen his obvious distress as he tried to move the injured right hand. The impression was of a man who was virtually helpless. Will's lack of experience with these fierce fighting men from the north now led him to make a second mistake. An injured hand would not put a Scotti warrior out of action. The Scotti would fight with hands, feet, head, knees, elbows and teeth as the need arose.

MacHaddish's shoulder hit him just below the breastbone and drove the air from his lungs with an explosive hoof. Will staggered, felt his legs go from under him and crashed backward into the thick snow. Unsighted for a moment, he rolled desperately to the side, sure that the Scotti would be following up his advantage. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that the other man was doubled over awkwardly, his right knee raised as he scrabbled at the top of the boot with his left hand.

It was the fact that MacHaddish had to reach across with his left hand to draw the dirk in his right boot that probably saved Will's life. It was a clumsy action, and it gave Will time to regain his feet.

Almost as soon as he did, he had to leap aside to avoid MacHaddish's slashing attack with the dirk. He felt the blade slice easily through his cloak and kicked out flatfooted at the Scotti's left knee. MacHaddish danced sideways to avoid the crippling blow, giving Will the moment he needed to draw his saxe knife.

MacHaddish heard the sinister whisper of steel on leather, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the heavy blade gleaming in the dull light under the trees.

They circled awkwardly. The dirk was almost as long as the saxe, although the blade was narrower. Normally, the two might have closed, grappling with each other, each seizing the other man's knife wrist with his free hand and turning it into a contest of strength. But the fact that MacHaddish was using his left hand against Will's right made this impractical. For either to grab the other's knife wrist would mean turning his unarmed side toward the enemy, exposing it to instant attack.

Instead, they dueled like fencers, alternately darting their blades forward, lunging at each other, clashing blades as one lunged and the other parried. Their feet shuffled in the snow as they made sure they retained their footing, not daring to raise their feet in case they landed on uneven ground. As they circled, the two antagonists' eyes narrowed in concentration. Will had never seen an enemy move as quickly as this Scotti general. For his part, MacHaddish had never before faced an adversary who could match his own lightning speed.

Left hand or not, Will thought, this man is very, very skilled. He knew that if his concentration lapsed for an instant, the Scotti could well be upon him, the dirk sliding through his guard and between his ribs. He could die here tonight, he realized.

He tried to reach for the throwing knife in its concealed scabbard beneath his collar. The movement nearly cost him his life. The cowl of his cloak impeded the movement and as he fumbled, trying to clear it, MacHaddish lunged forward with the dirk.

Desperately, Will skipped backward, feeling the blade slash through his jerkin, a trickle of blood running down his ribs. His mouth had gone dry with fear. He slashed sideways at the Scotti, driving him back in his turn. Then they began circling each other again.

The problem Will faced was that he needed to take MacHaddish alive. Not that killing him would be any easy matter, he reflected grimly. MacHaddish, on the other hand, was under no such restriction. He had one aim only: to kill his opponent as quickly as possible and fade away into the forest before reinforcements arrived.

Where the devil is Horace? Will thought. He realized that the young warrior may well have lost touch with them. He'd given Will the chance he needed to catch up to MacHaddish, by making as much noise as he could and moving off to the west so that

MacHaddish would think he had given them the slip. Now, the chances were that Horace had no idea where he was or what was happening. Will realized that he was going to have to do this alone – and that there was a distinct chance that he would lose this fight, and be left here among these gloomy trees, his lifeblood leaking away into the snow.

If you worry that you'll lose, you pobably will. Halt's words came back to him now, and he realized with a shock that he was actually preparing to lose. He was letting MacHaddish dictate the fight; all he was doing was reacting to the other man's attacks. It was time to go on the offensive. Time to take a chance.