Fillan prided himself on certain qualities.
For starters, he was an excellent speaker and knew how to use his words to convince hesitant clients in the shop. He was also a skilled climber who had scaled most of the buildings in Berwick. Heights didn’t scare him. He was a charmer, and both of the aforementioned skills had come in handy in this regard: the first to win someone over and the second to turn heel and run from them.
However, he couldn’t say that he was a good horseman. He was the opposite, in fact. As far back as he could remember, he had never liked horses, and horses had never liked him. A scar in the shape of a horseshoe on his left butt cheek was a testament to that fact. He even felt the pain of that scar reawaken as he learned that they would be leaving the woods on horseback.
But he couldn’t argue: they had to put distance between them and Berwick.
He snorted almost as loudly as the black stallion whose reins they’d given him, and stood frozen while the others mounted their own horses.
“Try not to panic,” advised Moira the druid as she came over. “If you panic, he’ll sense it and he’ll panic too.”
“And what if I panic because he’s panicking?”
Moira forced a smile, thinking he was joking, though in fact he was deadly serious.
A few mean comments and an insult from Edan left him feeling terribly alone. He finally decided to put his foot in the stirrup and pull himself up. There was a neigh and then a yelp. Whether it was the stallion or Fillan who panicked first, no one could say, but the horse took off at a triple gallop and barely missed decapitating his rider on a low-hanging branch.
“We drew the short straw with this idiot. I told you so!” The bald man roared with laughter so loud that a few birds fell out of their nests.
They followed Fillan at pace and his mount slowed in the presence of the other horses. He felt even more miserable and out of place as he watched Sören and his companions—he was barely clinging on to his imposing beast while they sat proud and impressive atop theirs. Once they left the woods, he turned one last time to see the silhouette of Berwick in the sunrise. The thick cloud of smoke, and everything it represented, seemed to follow him like a bad omen.
“Farewell…” he whispered to himself.
The word was lost on the wind.
He had no idea what he was feeling. He thought he couldn’t feel anymore. All the same, tears streamed down his cheeks.
From dawn to dusk, they rode at a fierce pace, spurred on by the wind and rain. Sören was at the head leading them, avoiding the main routes. Whenever he could, he cut through woods, zigzagging between thickets and ditches. After the fields and pastures came valleys and vast plains that were green despite the overcast weather.
Fillan soon realized that he’d been wrong to hate horses his whole life. These beasts weren’t so bad after all. Sure, they smelled terrible, but he’d been in enough taverns. No, the worst thing was how much pain he was in from riding. He discovered buttock muscles he never knew existed. Muscles which begged for mercy.
When night fell, they stopped in a forest clearing far from any dwellings. Sören forbade Edan from lighting a fire, which provoked several insults.
When she saw Fillan shivering, Moira lent him an old tartan blanket that smelled stronger than all the horses put together. But he didn’t care, since all he wanted was to sleep. He was exhausted. But just as he was lying down on the grass, Sören called him over.
“Come over here and eat something before you go to sleep.”
He placed a portion of dried meat into his hands.
Everyone except the druid was also chewing a piece, all sat together on the ground. A leather flask was being passed around.
“You should get to know those you ride with,” said the Norwegian.
Fillan nodded in agreement as he chewed the meat. It had a nice salty taste. He tried to stretch out his legs and almost groaned.
“This brute here,” said Sören, indicating the bald one, “is Edan. He won’t be nice to you. He isn’t nice to anyone. A panther is more friendly.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah!” replied the concerned party with a finger up his nose as though he was searching for treasure. “This guy isn’t exactly cheery either!”
“I bet you haven’t ever even seen silk,” said the young woman with the plait as she threw a branch at him.
“You nearly took my eye out!”
“Don’t exaggerate, you wimp.”
“And that’s Kyle,” continued Sören. “I would advise that you don’t annoy her, or you’ll regret it.”
“Huh?” gasped Kyle. “I’m not a monster, either!”
Fillan took a swig of the flask he was handed. A harsh liquid burned his throat. He spluttered, his nose on fire.
“Oh, you’re worse than that!” Edan cackled. “Yeah, way worse than a panther yourself!”
“Ah, but that doesn’t mean anything!” retorted Kyle, completely ignoring the teenager choking next to her.
“I say what I want! Give back the booze, little maggot!”
Kyle and Edan carried on bickering as Sören and Moira watched them in amusement.
Fillan took the time to watch Kyle.
She mustn’t have been much older than him. She must be eighteen, maximum, but she acted with a confidence that made her seem like she was at least twenty. She had thin eyebrows above a blue stare that could be sweet but tried hard to be stern. A few strands of her auburn hair had fallen out of her braid across her face. She kept blowing them out of her face through the corner of her mouth.
“And the druid is Moira,” concluded the Norwegian.
The young man was burning to ask them a thousand questions, but he could barely keep his eyes open.
He laid his head on the ground.
“We’d all do well to get some sleep,” said Sören.
“The kid’s already asleep,” finished Moira.
“So shut up. Edan. First guard duty.”
“Ah, crap!”
Fillan did not sleep peacefully. He woke up three times, convinced he’d find himself in his own bed under the beams of the roof of the shop in Berwick. The biting cold of the night and the nocturnal noises always brought him back to harsh reality and brought a tear to his eye every time. He fell back into his fears, always pulled by strong arms. Everything was smoke and screams.
The second day was exactly like the first, split between riding and brief rests, but the only difference was that two other mercenaries joined them on the way. One was a stocky warrior by the name of Craig who wore a strange axe on his back. The other, Fergus, didn’t seem to be a great fighter and traveled with a spruce-wood lute.
As dusk fell, Sören let them know they’d be stopping in the approaching woods for the night. He briefly conversed with Kyle mid-gallop. A little while later, Fillan was surprised to see the warrior departing the group to take a different direction. He dared not ask questions in the middle of a ride.
He noted nonetheless that an incredible tension had fallen over the group. Edan, who this time had the go-ahead to light a fire, was more restless than ever. Everyone kept their hands near their weapons, as though a threat was nearby. Only Fergus, leaning against a tree and occasionally playing a few notes on his instrument, seemed at ease.
They ate sparingly and night fell.
Exhausted and rocked to sleep by the warmth and crackling of the fire, Fillan soon passed out. With no idea of how much time had passed, he jumped up at the sound of clashing metal. The stillness of the night was broken.
A string of curses rang out from somewhere in the forest.
Sören quickly unsheathed his sword. Edan and Craig, too. Fillan expected Moira to brandish her walking stick and Fergus his lute, but both remained peacefully by the fire as though nothing was wrong.
Another sound rung out. One sword hit another.
Fillan wished he had a weapon. He grabbed the first branch he could get his hands on.
Between two trees and in the light of the fire, an English soldier appeared. Fillan almost threw his stick at his face, but then he saw a dagger glinting against the man’s throat.
Kyle was standing just behind him.
“You took your time!” grumbled Edan to the young woman. “I’ve been needing to pee for an hour.”
“There were three of them following us. I came as quickly as I could. Move, you!”
She pushed the English man into the light.
“Add another log to the fire,” ordered Sören, “so we can see him better.”
Fergus complied, sending up a few sparks.
Sören saw the branch in Fillan’s hand and smiled.
“You wouldn’t have needed it,” he chuckled. “We’ve known we were being followed since yesterday afternoon. We don’t leave anything to chance.”
Fillan understood. He realized that the fire had attracted the English like moths to a flame. The tension from the group was because of the risk of an attack. During that time, Kyle had taken them by surprise.
They tied up the soldier and made him sit on a tree stump.
“You and your friends are following us. Why?” demanded Sören in an icy tone.
Fillan didn’t even see the hit. The noise, however, reverberated clearly in the forest.
“I’ll repeat my question, but I warn you, every time I have to ask, I’ll hit harder. And not just with my fist.”
The soldier stayed firm. For the first minute.
He decided to cooperate when Sören pushed a dagger into his thigh as he gagged.
Fillan almost ran for the hills as he watched such a show, but Moira sat by him in support.
The soldier looked at him with hatred.
“The kid.”
“What do you mean, ‘the kid’?”
“He’s the one we’re following. We recognized him when you passed through Deans Burn. His description has been passed on from the commanders. They’re after him.”
Sören glanced at Fillan.
“Do you know why?”
“No. Orders from the very top.”
“No.”
The Norwegian pulled out his dagger and got up to discuss with the others.
“What is this crap?” growled Edan. “They recognized this idiot?”
“From a simple description,” added Kyle with a furrowed brow.
“You’re right,” said Sören, scratching his beard.
What followed happened very quickly.
Sören unsheathed the soldier’s sword and ran him through. The man didn’t even have time to cry out. There was just a small gargle that made Fillan want to be sick. Then the Norwegian jumped on him just as the Englishman’s body fell.
Fillan was frozen in terror, seeing the weapon come down on him in the firelight. He felt the pain, the blood in his mouth, and passed out.