Runestone (81 page)

Why should there be a problem, anyway? His party outnumbered the fugitive warriors four to one. Even if the woman was a fighter, which seemed a good possibility, those three could not prevail against eight skilled warriors. He almost hoped that the woman
would
prove to have spirit. It would make the process of subduing her more interesting. And she
was
quite beautiful, of course. Heron had agreed with the unfortunate Otter on that point. Even muddy and exhausted, with her hands tied, her dignity of bearing had been apparent. There was a look of eagles in her eyes. This was too good a woman for the likes of Otter and his brothers anyway. Maybe that was why Heron had felt so strongly that she should have been released when her man came searching for her.

Now it was different. Her fate was secondary to the primary goal, the capture and death of the men who had shamed his warriors. Even so, he hoped that they could take the woman alive. Maybe he could claim her. Yes, that would be good.

“Come,” he called to the sleepily moving warriors. “Let us get started. Maybe we catch them today. If not today, maybe tomorrow.”

   The little party of fugitives was already on the trail, knowing well the importance of distance. They were becoming discouraged. Food was scarce, and they had not been able to stop and hunt for several days. All of them suspected now that there must come a day when the pursuit would end in a battle to the death. Their goal would be to maintain as much control as they could over the circumstances of that final meeting.

Odin, in the lead, stopped and seemed to be studying the trail.

“What is it?” called Nils from the rear. He moved forward, and the four gathered at a point where the trail branched. It was not a plain division of the path. The smaller of the trails was vague and difficult to see, winding off through the bushes that grew in profusion here. It was exactly the sort of place that Odin often chose to plant a false trail.

“Break a few twigs?” asked Nils.

“No,” said Odin thoughtfully. “We have done that, and it
slowed them only a little. I am made to think, though … What if we lay a false trail, and then
follow
it?”

“Where does it go?” asked Dove.

“I do not know, my sister. Here, it goes that way, away from the river. They know we are following the river, and to leave it might mislead them. We can head west for a while, then turn back north after we lose them.”

If we lose them
, thought Nils. But there seemed no harm in trying. It would be hard to worsen their situation.

Odin now took several steps down the main trail, leaving a plain track or two. He then stepped to his left, a long stride to an outcrop of rock.

“Wolf, you follow me a step or two, then step back into your own tracks, and all three start down the little path. Break twigs, make it plain. I will cut across to meet you on that trail.”

It was done in a short time and they moved on, away from the river, heading into rough country, hoping it would take their pursuers some time to figure out the ruse. With luck, maybe they could escape altogether. None of them really thought so, but it was a good feeling, a change from the day-after-day sameness.

Even better, Odin was able to shoot a deer that afternoon. It had appeared on the trail ahead, a fat yearling, its spike horns sticking up like pointing fingers. It turned to flee, but stopped for another look, its last. Odin’s arrow struck just behind the left ribs and tore forward through heart and lungs. The animal dropped, almost in its tracks.

Hastily, they butchered out all of the choicest cuts that they could carry, pausing only to perform the ritual apology. Packs of meat wrapped in pieces of deerskin were prepared for all to carry. Even Bright Sky would bear his own small pack of meat. They moved on, feeling better about the world and everything in it now.

Behind them, a buzzard turned an extra circle and dropped a little lower to see what lay so still in the clearing on a dim game trail. It folded its wings partway and dropped to land in a dead pine not far from the carcass. Another bird, a tiny speck in the distance, saw the descent, and veered in that direction, followed by another, and yet another. From a distance
that would be a day’s travel for humans on foot, the great black creatures began to gather.

   “What is it, Ferret?” asked White Heron. “Another trick?”

The tracker was standing, staring at a dim game trail that branched away from the main route.

“I am not sure. I am made to think that this trick is the real trail.”

“What? That makes no sense!”

“No, stay back, everyone. This trick, the little path, it is too easy, maybe. Let me go down the main trail a little way.”

Ferret walked down the trail, stepping carefully, trying not to obliterate the trail he sought. He was completely out of sight among the bushes, a bowshot away now. Heron was growing impatient. Ferret suddenly reappeared, trotting carelessly and pointing to the west.

“They did take the other trail,” he said.

“
Away
from the river?” Heron demanded. “Why would they do that?”

“Maybe because we did not think so. This man is very clever, Heron. He overdid the
false
false trail only a little. I might have missed it.”

They hurried on, Ferret in the lead.

The day was half gone when they stopped at the top of a rise. The tracker stood staring at the sky ahead.

“What is it this time, Ferret?”

“Buzzards. A big kill. See?”

At least six or eight of the giant birds circled on fixed wings, riding the rising currents of air.

“That is a long distance away,” noted one of the warriors.

“Yes,” agreed Ferret. “But it could have to do with those we seek. Maybe they have made a kill, maybe they
are
the kill.” He turned to Heron. “I am made to think we can hurry now. This trail seems to lead there, and we can gain distance by moving fast.”

“It is good,” grunted Heron.

They moved on at a distance-eating trot.

• • •

On another rise, well beyond the circling column of scavengers, Odin paused to stare along the back trail.

“We have made a great mistake, Wolf,” he said sadly.

“What?”

Odin pointed to the circling birds. “They will tell the Shaved-heads.”

“What?”

“The buzzards, over our kill. The Shaved-heads will see them too, Wolf,” Nils said.

“That is true. They see what we see. But they will know by now which way we went, and that the buzzards may have something to do with us. This lets them hurry. We already took much time to butcher the kill. This lets them get closer yet.”

Nils was nodding agreement, seeing the situation before Odin finished his explanation. “So what is to be done?”

Odin gave his usual noncommittal gesture, then began to speak slowly. “I am made to think that it is meant for us to face them.”

“Face them? Odin, that is madness. They would not talk. They hunt us like animals, to kill us.” He glanced sideways at his wife and son, thinking but not speaking of other fates reserved for them.

“Yes, I know. We must fight for our lives.” He paused and chuckled. “Wolf, we have faced worse!”

“But we did not have a woman and child with us. We had Svenson.”

“That is true. But, as before, we can choose the time and place. For a while, we can still stay ahead of them. Then, a plan will come. Maybe attack
them
, as they sleep.”

“No, that is too dangerous. Too many—”

“Maybe not, Wolf. There are no more than nine or ten. Kill one or two at night. An arrow from the darkness … Soon there are only seven, maybe.”

“But we would have to separate, or all four try such a thing. No, it is too dangerous,” Nils protested.

“I could go back, find their night camp,” Odin insisted.

“And if something happened to you?”

Odin smiled, amused. “That is true. You are helpless, no?”

Nils smiled. “No, but—”

“I understand, Wolf. But let me go back to see where they are. Then we keep going. A plan will happen.”

   It was well past dark in their cold dark camp when Odin rejoined the other three.

“How is it, my brother?” asked Calling Dove eagerly.

“One less,” Odin said. “Their sentry. This will make them cautious, slow them some.”

“How many now?” asked Nils.

“That, too, is something to speak of,” Odin said, sounding a bit puzzled. “I counted only eight men. Seven, now. Some must have gone home.”

“But why?” Nils asked.

“Who knows what a Shaved-head thinks? But maybe their leader is losing his power. I am made to think that this is good, Wolf.”

“There are still seven,” Dove reminded dryly.

“Yes, my sister. But remember, we will choose the time and place to fight. You can still use your war club?”

She started to retort, but realized that her brother was teasing her.

“Maybe,” she said. “But only if you need help.”

Still the situation was more serious than that, and they were all well aware of it. They quickened their pace the next morning, starting before it was fully light. They were well aware that their pursuers, too, would be sure to start as early as possible. The Shaved-heads would also have an additional motive for vengeance. Odin had furnished them that, with the arrow that had struck down the sentry.

But that could not be helped. One advantage the fugitives had this morning. It was no longer necessary to try to lay false trails, for the pursuers were too close.

This, of course, provided an advantage that was available to the Shaved-heads as well. This was no longer a contest of skill and wits, but one of speed.

No one mentioned, but all of the fugitives were well aware, that the war party was unencumbered by a woman and child.

T
he land was a little different now. The broad flat flood plain along the river had given way to rougher country. Rocky hills and ravines rose in seemingly endless array. The traveling was rougher, but to balance that disadvantage, there were more and better places to hide, or to elude pursuers.

The trail they followed had turned and twisted, branched, and joined others. It was practically impossible to decide which was the main trail, or if such a thing actually existed. All were probably game trails, used since the beginning of time and appropriated for use by whatever humans happened along. This would explain their wandering nature, the seeking for the easiest path in a general direction. Nils thought of an expression from home, “as crooked as a cow path.” For the first time he fully understood it. True, the animals involved were deer and elk rather than the cattle and sheep of his homeland, but the principle was the same. The meandering, the search for the easiest way … not a bad way, really.

The network of these dim trails allowed the fugitives to maintain their general direction. Odin insisted that they maintain their northwesterly course, which would eventually bring them closer to the People. It was not a matter of great discussion. Direction was not particularly important anyway, compared to escape. The northwest direction did, however, take them out of the territory of the Shaved-heads. At least, they thought so. There was no way to know for sure.

Twice they had resorted to the sun-stone to reestablish that direction. When the sky had been overcast and fog lay heavy in the hollows, it was hard to maintain a sense of direction. It was at such times that Nils felt enclosed, entrapped by the trees and rocks around him. He longed for open skies and
far horizons, the high seas, with a fast ship under his feet, responding to the wind in her sails.

Increasingly, however, their position seemed to become more hopeless. They had not discussed it, but it was apparent that they could not play cat and mouse in the rocky hills and glens indefinitely. Food was in short supply, and they could not pause for very long because the Shaved-heads dogged at their heels. Several times they had seen the war party behind them, perhaps crossing the bare knob of a hill that they themselves had crossed earlier in the day. It was hard for Nils to estimate distances, because much of the travel now was up and down the hills, rather than across the land.

They were tired, bone-tired, gaunt and drawn, and sometimes it seemed that they could not go on. They would stop to rest, and fall asleep for a few moments from sheer exhaustion. Only the fear of what lay behind would thrust them back on their feet to move on.

Each morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, things seemed a little brighter. Enough so that they kept moving, at least. All of the adults knew, however, that the time was drawing near when they must choose the place to make the last stand. Probably sooner, rather than later, because each day they grew weaker.

   The level, grassy valley was pleasant to see. They came upon it from the south, and it stretched for some distance northward. To their right, the valley was bordered by a ridge of hills like those they had been crossing for several days.

“Wait,” said Odin. “Let us consider this.”

“The travel will be easier in the open,” Nils observed.