Huntsekker chuckled at the memory. Not that he would ever admit to enjoying the affair. However, his good humour faded as his mind returned to the task at hand. If Jaim Grymauch was with Chain Shada then Huntsekker would be forced to take his head. There would be no choice. He hadn’t wanted this mission, but no-one refused the Moidart. It was not healthy – as Shada and his comrade had discovered. Huntsekker had taken no joy in hanging the fighter Gorain. The man had been blubbing and begging as he had been taken to the tree. Huntsekker had struck him a blow to the back of the head, then looped the rope over his neck. Dal and Vinton had tried to haul him to the bough, but the unconscious Gorain had been too heavy, and Huntsekker had been forced to help them. Then he had left the note the Moidart supplied, and had returned home. He had no idea what the note said, being unable to read, but he had heard the stories the following day. They irritated him. He had seen Grymauch fight the man. How could anyone believe such nonsense? Yet they had. They had lapped it up like dogs at the gravy.
Huntsekker caught signs of movement on the far hill. Two men were moving into sight. They cut away to the right, entering the trees. Easing himself back the big man ran down the hillside to where his men were waiting. Dal Naydham was sitting with his back to a tree, eyes closed. Vinton Gabious was hunched in his cloak. The brothers Bass and Boillard Seeton were asleep. Huntsekker nudged them awake with his boot. Bass surged upright, a double-edged knife in his hand. Huntsekker stepped back as the knife flashed out. ‘They are coming,’ he said.
Turning away he strolled to where Dal Naydham was rubbing his eyes. Dal was a small man, round-shouldered and balding. He had been with Huntsekker for more than twenty years. ‘Is it Grymauch?’ he asked.
‘Too far away to tell.’
‘I do hope not.’
‘I share that hope,’ Huntsekker admitted.
Boillard Seeton joined them. He was tall and thin, long black hair framing his sallow face. He looked like a priest, thought Huntsekker, his large deep-set brown eyes radiating compassion. ‘Can I take the heads, Harvester?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never taken heads.’
Huntsekker disliked being called Harvester, and he was already regretting hiring the brothers. ‘I take the heads, Seeton. It is what I do. Now adopt your positions.’
‘Just one head, then?’
Huntsekker reached down and grasped the black handle of the scythe at his belt. It leapt clear, moonlight gleaming on the crescent blade. The point pricked Boillard’s skinny throat. ‘Anger me further, scumbucket, and I’ll take yours,’ he said.
‘No need to get tetchy,’ said Boillard Seeton, stepping back. ‘No harm in asking.’
His men hidden in the undergrowth, Huntsekker moved back to a large, gnarled oak and primed his blunderbuss. He was on edge. The breeze whispered through the leaves above him, flowing up from the old log bridge. The air smelled fine, and Huntsekker felt a moment of peace settle on him. He glanced back to where moonlight was glinting on the river. He had seen the old bridge a thousand times since he had moved to the highlands twenty-four years earlier. Yet somehow he had never really noticed it. It seemed to him curiously beautiful now; ageless and solid in an ever-changing world. Huntsekker wondered who had built it.
Damn, but I should have found a way to avoid this mission, he thought. When Chain Shada had refused to pound upon the crippled highlander Huntsekker had known a surge of pride. It had largely erased the shame he felt at the foul blow Gorain had hammered to Grymauch as the highlander was kneeling on the boards. Now here he was ready to take the man’s head.
It wasn’t always this way, he realized. When he had first used his tracking skills it was to catch murderers and thieves, men who were seeking to escape justice. His success had brought him to the attention of the Moidart. Huntsekker laid his blunderbuss against the trunk of the tree and scanned the crest of the hill. Still no sign of them. Idly he tugged at the twin spikes of his silver beard. Don’t come, Grymauch, he thought.