Gaelen cursed and moved. He broke into a lunging run for the gorse, angling to the right, his knife in his hand. Surprised by the sudden sprint, the hidden archer had to step into the open. His bow was already bent.
Deva drew back the bow-string to nestle against her cheek. Releasing her breath slowly, she calmed her mind and sighted on the motionless archer. Gaelen threw himself forward in a tumbler’s roll as the man released his shaft. It whistled over his head. Deva let fly, the arrow flashing down to thud into the archer’s chest. The man dropped his bow and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft; then he toppled sideways to the earth.
Coming out of his roll, Gaelen saw the man fall. The second Aenir, a huge man with a braided yellow beard, hurled his bow aside and drew his own hunting-knife. He leapt at the clansman, his knife plunging towards Gaelen’s belly. Gaelen dived to the left – and the Aenir’s blade raked his ribs. Rolling to his feet Gaelen launched himself at the warrior, his shoulder cannoning into the man’s chest. Off-balance, the Aenir fell, Gaelen on top of him. The blond warrior tried to rise but Gaelen slammed his forehead against the Aenir’s nose, blinding him momentarily. As the man fell back Gaelen rolled on to the warrior’s knife-arm and sliced his own blade across the bearded throat. Blood bubbled and surged from the gaping wound, drenching the clansman. Pushing the body under thick gorse, Gaelen rolled to his feet and ran back to the first man. Deva was already there, struggling to pull the body out of sight into the bushes. Together they made it with scant moments to spare.
Huddled together over the corpse, Gaelen put his arm round Deva, drawing her close as the Aenir force breasted the slope. ‘If they find the other body we’re finished,’ he said. His knife was in his hand and he knew with bleak certainty that he would cut her throat rather than let them take her.
The enemy moved down the slope. Grim men they were, and they moved cautiously, many notching arrows to bow-strings, their eyes flickering over the gorse. Gaelen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm; his heart was thudding against his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes, Deva leaned against him and he could smell the perfume of her hair.
The Aenir entered the gorse, pushing on towards the east. Two men passed within ten paces of where they lay. They were talking and joking now, content that the open ground was behind them.
The last of the Aenir moved away out of earshot. Gaelen felt cramped, but still he did not move. It was hard to stay so still, for hiding was a passive, negative thing that leached a man’s courage.
‘You can let go of me now, clansman,* whispered Deva.
He nodded, but did not move. Deva looked up into his face, seeing the tension and fear. Raising her hand, she stroked his cheek. ‘Help me get this swine’s jerkin,” she said.
Gaelen released her, smiling sheepishly. He pulled her arrow from the man’s ribs and they worked the brown leather jerkin clear. Deva slipped it on over her tunic. It was too large by far and Gaelen trimmed the shoulders with his knife.
‘How do I look?’ she asked him.
‘Beautiful,’ he said.
‘If this is beautiful, you should have been struck dumb at the Whorl Dance.’
‘I was.’
Deva giggled. She looped the man’s knife-belt round her waist. ‘You were so forlorn, Gaelen. I felt quite sorry for you, with your swollen leg.’
‘I felt quite sorry for myself.’
‘What are your plans now? Why are we heading north?’
‘With luck the clan will be there.’
‘Why should they be?’
‘I believe the war has begun. The Aenir will have raided the valleys. But Caswallon has a plan.’
‘Caswallon!’ she snapped. ‘Caswallon is not Hunt Lord!’
‘No, but he should be,’ hissed Gaelen. A sound in the bushes jolted them, but relief swept over Gaelen as Render’s great black and grey head appeared. Kneeling, he patted the dog affectionately, using the time to let the angry moment pass.