Gaelen and Deva spent their second night in a shallow cave, the entrance hidden by a hastily-erected screen of bushes. The day had been fraught, and their trail had been picked up by a second band of Aenir foresters. At one stage they had been sighted and chased for almost a mile before slipping their pursuers. Deva was exhausted, her feet grazed and blistered. Gaelen sliced strips of leather from her jerkin and she set to work shaping them into moccasins; but the leather was soft and they would not last long in the mountains.
They could light no fire and the night was cold. They spent it together, wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket.
Gaelen was desperately worried now. The enemy were all around them and there was still open ground to cross. They would never make it. Deva slept on, her head resting on his shoulder. His back was cramped and sore, but he did not move. She was more tired than he, and needed the rest.
What would Caswallon do, he wondered? There must be a way to escape the Aenir net. Closing his eyes, he pictured the route to Attafoss. There were four sections of open ground, where the land dipped away into broad valleys with little or no cover. There was no way to avoid crossing at least one of them. Travelling by day would be suicidal. By night it would be almost as hazardous for, up to now, Gaelen had seen no sign of the Aenir camp-fires. They could blunder straight into an enemy camp.
In two days Gaelen had killed five enemy warriors. He had often dreamed of the day when he would pay them back for his terror and his wounds. But now he realised there was no joy, or satisfaction to be found. He wished they had never come to the Farlain. Wished it with all his heart.
Render stirred beside him, his great head coming up with ears pricked. Gaelen gestured the hound to silence and woke Deva gently, his hand over her mouth.
‘Someone’s coming,’ he whispered. Carefully he crept to the mouth of the cave, easing aside the leaves and branches masking the entrance.
The Aenir had returned and were once more scouring the hillside for tracks.
With infinite care Gaelen withdrew his hand, allowing the branches to settle back. Then he drew his knife and waited. Render moved to him, laying his head on Gaelen’s shoulder, nostrils quivering as he scented the Aenir. The cave was marginally below ground level, the entrance only three feet high, and Gaelen had uprooted two thick bushes, pulling them into the cave roots first. From outside they would appear to be growing at the base of the cliff.
For an hour or more the Aenir continued their search, then they moved further down the mountainside out of sight. Gaelen relaxed and crept back to Deva, putting his mouth close to her ear.
‘We must wait until nightfall,’ he whispered. She nodded. Outside the sun shone brightly, but its warmth could not penetrate the chill of the cave and they sat wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket throughout the long afternoon.
Just after dusk Gaelen pushed aside the bushes and climbed from the cave, eyes searching the mountainside. The Aenir had moved on. Deva passed out his pack and bow, then joined him in the open. Gaelen pushed the bush screen back in place.
‘We may need to get back here,’ he said. ‘It leaves us one hiding-place.’
They set off in silence, threading a path through the trees towards the first valley. The night was brighter than Gaelen would have liked, a three-quarter moon shining in the clear sky. They stopped at the timberline, wary of leaving the sanctuary of the trees, and remembering the hidden Aenir scouts of the day before.
Stepping out into the open, Gaelen started the long walk to the shadow-shrouded valley. Deva, an arrow notched to the bow, walked just behind him, while Render loped out in a wide circle, content merely to be free of the narrow confines of the cave. The wind was in Gaelen’s face and that pleased him, for Render would pick up any scent. Frequently Gaelen glanced at the hound, seeking sign of alarm. But there was none.