We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers to pack their belongings ready for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on rough-built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled on to the wagon.
The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees and the Naeser Abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey of the souls to the Far River. Many tears were shed.
At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the Tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.
‘They are coming!’ he said, between great gulps of air. ‘Maybe a hundred horsemen.’
Word spread swiftly and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away towards the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.
‘Time to go,’ said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the north-west and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand: his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he too carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand-axe was thrust into this wide leather belt.
As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money-pouch and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-coloured woollen shirt. In truth I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the axe had built muscle to my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.
Which was just as well – for as we reached the hillside we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding towards us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.
Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree-line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.
Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.
Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider dragged on the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.
Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the
undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy further into the forest.
Within the hour all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.
The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with colour and life. From the high mountain-sides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.
For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares and, on the third day, Jarek killed a big-horn sheep and we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.