Runestone (79 page)

Now they camped for the night. It had become too dark to untangle false trails.

“We will do better tomorrow,” promised Heron. “We know them better now, and they are less than a day ahead.”

It now appeared that those they followed were really headed north and west. An old trail meandered in that direction, used by deer and elk. It was roughly parallel to a more well-traveled trail along the river in that direction. The river
trail, although plainer and usually easier, lay low and muddy at some seasons. This year, the heavy autumn rains had caused flooding, and the lower trail was virtually impassable in spots. In a time such as this, it was customary to revert to the higher trail, which followed along the uplands that paralleled the river. This upland trail was harder going, rocky and steep in places. But there were advantages to the fugitives. Higher points of observation allowed them to observe any possible pursuit. The rocky terrain allowed more opportunities to tangle and confuse their trail. There were, of course, more opportunities for ambush, so those who followed must be more cautious.

But how do they know this?
White Heron asked himself angrily.
Are they not outsiders here?

There was a glimmer of doubt in the back of his mind. Was this strange light-haired holy man
really
as powerful as his one-eyed assistant claimed? Surely not. The changing color of the stone … a trick of some kind. The seeing of the Star-That-Never-Moves, a lucky guess. The fire from a stone … well, he could not deny that it had happened. Maybe the shiny charm that had been used in the one-eyed man’s hand.

But even as he thought of all these things, Heron had no thought at all of turning back. In fact, he was all the more determined. It would never do to let a party of outsiders such as this to cause him to lose face.

Originally, he had only mildly opposed the capture of the woman and child by Otter and his brothers. It might even be amusing to have a beautiful woman from an entirely different people around the village. Otter or one of his brothers could take her as a wife, and adopt the boy, who seemed strong and fairly quick. Heron would have had no objections.

His feelings had changed after the arrival of the men who sought the woman and child. The newcomers were obviously quite different from anyone who had ever been here before. Heron had had an uneasy feeling about it, and had urged Otter to give up the woman and be done with it. That, he now knew, would have been best. But Otter was stubborn, and the woman had been
his
captive.

If they had been able to foresee the events that had happened since, the council might have forced Otter to give her
up. But the party of outsiders, even with the strange powers of the white-hair, seemed to present little threat. After all, three men, one with only one eye and one appearing old and maybe blind …

It had become apparent before morning that he had been wrong about them. The strangers had apparently known all along that they had lied about the woman. They had freed her and the boy, killed seven people, burned one of the lodges, and actually escaped. He still could not believe it.

Heron tried to console himself with two thoughts: One, the outsiders had not escaped without injury. The warrior who had seemed most capable of the three was now dead, even though the man had managed to take Otter with him. His other consolation was more of an anticipation. When they caught up with the fugitives, vengeance would be sweet. He hoped they could capture all of them alive, and played out in his mind what indignities could be inflicted. Slowly … yes. They could take plenty of time for the torture and debasement. Let the woman see the destruction of her husband’s manhood, and then let
him
watch while the warriors administered
her
punishment. Heron smiled, an expression that reflected no humor, only vengeful rage.

E
ach day now seemed a little brighter, more hopeful. It was three sleeps since they left the dying Snake behind with regret, and pushed on to save themselves. There would be time later to mourn, to sing for the friend who had given his life.

They avoided contact with any of the towns or groups of lodges that they passed. They could easily skirt around such
dwellings. Sometimes they encountered other travelers on the trail and could not avoid a brief interchange in hand signs. There was always risk that those they met would later contact the Shaved-heads and tell of their whereabouts, but that could not be avoided.

It was not even certain that they were pursued. After the first day they took fewer pains to conceal their trail. Either they were followed or not, and there was nothing much to do about it. They even risked a fire each night, sheltered from view and well off the trail. This allowed them to cook what game they were able to take as they traveled. Rabbits, squirrels, once a turkey. The adults took turns at watch, to allow rest for each. They were falling into a pattern of travel, hunt, sleep, move on.

There was the gnawing doubt, though, about whether they were followed.

“We hurt them badly,” Nils observed. “Would that not keep them from following?”

“I am made to think,” said Dove, “that it might
make
them follow us. These Shaved-heads seem very proud. They would look for vengeance.”

Odin nodded. “That is true, what little we saw. Dove saw more of their ways, and she is right. But maybe we need to be sure.”

“How can we do that?”

“Well, how far back could they be?” Odin pondered. “A day’s travel? I will go back and see.” He glanced at the position of the sun. “It is a little past midday. I should reach where they would camp for the night by about dark, then travel back to you by morning.”

“But you would have no sleep,” Nils protested.

“It is only like a longer watch,” Odin said. “We must be sure, Wolf.”

He rose from where he had rested, waved a quick goodbye, and trotted away on the back trail. Dove shouldered her pack.

“Let us go,” she said simply.

Nils was not comfortable with this, but realized that it must be. They had succeeded with their original escape, but it
was essential for them to know whether they were hunted by vengeful Shaved-heads. It would make a great difference in their manner of travel, not to mention their possibility for survival.

They camped fairly early, near the trail and with no fire. Nils would take the first watch, and Dove the second, close enough to watch the trail and greet Odin some time near daylight. It had been agreed that if he did not overtake them by full daylight, they would travel on. Odin would rejoin them when he was able.

Or if he is able
, thought Nils, and quickly thrust such an unpleasant idea from him. Odin was experienced, and had proved himself a survivor repeatedly. He shifted his position against the tree, and glanced back over his shoulder at the two sleeping forms behind him. His heart was heavy at the danger he had brought on his wife and son.

Both were holding up exceedingly well, it seemed. There was no complaint from Sky, who now seemed to regard this as an adventure like the river trip.

The larger of the still figures behind him, Dove … His heart was filled with love for her. He had been so fortunate to find such a woman, here in a strange world so far from his own. Was there ever another such woman,
anywhere?
And he had repaid her love and trust with this. They were fugitives, in danger of their very lives, and she did not seem to blame him. That made his guilty feelings lie all the heavier on his head.

Dove stirred, sat up, and glanced at the sky. The Seven Hunters, in their circle around the North Star, showed it to be about midnight. She stepped a little way from their cold camp, behind some bushes to relieve her bladder. She had drunk much water before retiring, Nils knew, to cause her bladder to awaken her for the second watch. It was a practice of the People, one he had used himself.

She returned to pick up her robe and moved toward him, snuggling beside him with a short greeting.

“How goes it?”

“Good. I have seen nothing.”

“Our son sleeps well.”

“Yes. He is a good son, Dove. Much like his mother.”

He spread the edge of his robe and drew her into its warmth, holding her close and enfolding them both.

“Good! You are warm to hold,” he said.

His wife chuckled. “You thought I would be cold?” she asked.

“No. But it is good that you are warm.”

She laughed softly again, the musical sound that warmed his heart and sent him into flights of fantasy.

“And you,” she said. “Stay with me a little while to warm
my
robe?”

“I am made to think, woman, that it is not robes you want me to warm,” he said seriously. He kissed her lips, moist and warm and eager. …

   “You must get some sleep,” she said a little later. “I

should not have kept you up.”

“I did not complain,” Nils reminded her. “I will sleep well.”

“And I must stay awake,” she sighed, teasing him.

“You want me to take your watch?”

“No, no. You know I only tease you. I have slept.”

He gave her a last kiss and rose to spread his sleeping robe where Dove had been before.

   It was still some time before dawn that Dove came alert, at the sound of someone or some
thing
approaching on the back trail. She rose quietly and readied her war club. In a few moments, though, she thought she recognized the lone figure that trotted easily toward her in the dim starlight.

“Odin?” she called softly.

The man paused in midstride and turned toward her.

“Dove?”

“Yes. Over here. Sit.”

Both sank to a sitting position and Odin glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping forms on the ground a few steps away. His breathing was a bit labored from prolonged trotting.

“They come,” he said simply.

“I thought so. We did not look for you until morning. They are close?”

“No, but close
enough
. A half day, maybe less.”

“How many?”

“Ten, twelve.”

“Should we wake White Wolf?” she asked.

“No, let him sleep.” Odin looked at the sky. “Maybe I will sleep a little. Are you all right?”

“Of course. Wolf took the first watch.”

“It is good. I sleep, now.”

Odin spread his robe and rolled warmly for a very short night’s rest.

At dawn’s first light all four were awake and moving. It was no real surprise to find that they were followed. In a way, it was a relief, because now they had some sense of
what
they faced ahead. It is far better to meet a real danger than to approach the unknown.

“We will try to confuse the trail,” Odin said, “but not all the time. Just sometimes. Then they must be careful, be sure of
everything
, because they will not know which is real.”

They moved on, Odin pausing sometimes to suggest a strategically placed footprint. At one rest stop he seemed to be studying a fallen tree that was balanced precariously on the steep slope above the spring where they drank.

“What is it?” asked Nils.

“Do you remember,” Odin mused thoughtfully, “that people where we stayed one winter, who used deadfalls so well?”

“Yes. What—”

“Look at the log, there. It is almost a deadfall big enough for a bear. Those rocks above—”

“Odin, we cannot stop to hunt bears.”

“Not bears, Shaved-heads.”

“You are
serious!”

“Yes, maybe. Something to slow them up.”

“But it would slow
us
, too.”

“A little. But if there were fewer of them, it helps us.”

“They would never stumble into such a trap!”

“True,” Odin agreed. “It must not look like a trap. The bait must be somewhere else.”

He rose, walking to look here and there from various angles.

“They will reach this place just before dark,” he said, half to himself. “That is good … the light …”

Even as he moved around, he began to prepare the trap in his mind.

   White Heron and his war party came down the trail a little before dark. He had been on this trail long ago, and seemed to remember that there was a spring, a clearing—a good place to spend the night.

It seemed now that the fugitives were aware that they were still followed. Ferret had painstakingly unraveled the misleading trail, but it was slow.

“They are very clever,” the tracker protested, excusing himself from the wrath of his leader. He had just spent quite some time assuring himself that those they followed had gone straight ahead. Ferret thought so, but there was a broken twig and one incomplete footprint.

Now it drew near time to stop for the night. The tracker moved on ahead, making sure that the main party did not wipe out any significant tracks or signs that would have been useful. He was certain, too, that they were gaining on the fugitives. The tracks seemed fresher.

Ah, yes, there was the spring, ahead. That must be the one that White Heron remembered. This was, of course, a good place for an ambush. He had no real concern for that, because three adults and a child would not waste a half-day’s escape time to attack the dozen well-armed men of a war party.