A MAN BLUNDERED OUT of the trees further up the path, between Hagan and the others. Directly behind him came four more men. Hagan could see their spears. Behind them came riders.
‘No!’ the first man just had time to cry out before one of those pursuing him drove his spear into his guts. With a strangled cry of anguish the hunted man dropped to his knees.
‘That’s one of them,’ Hagan heard one of the riders say.
‘Look,’ one of the men on foot said. Even in the gloom Hagan could tell the man’s raised arm was pointing in his direction. ‘There’s the other one!’
The hunting horn blew again and the company began moving down the path.
Hagan did not need to think about what to do. In the Army he had often had to travel unobserved into enemy territory. Several times Hagan had been in the situation of needing to escape an enemy force and the one thing he knew was that the fastest way to get caught – and die – was to freeze while you worked out your next move.
He ran for his life.
Hagan pounded downhill along the path, back the way he had come, heedless now of the danger of tripping in the dark. Caution was irrelevant. If he fell they would catch him. If he slowed down to avoid falling they would catch him as well. His fate was now completely at the mercy of whatever whim the Dísir who wove his destiny had in their great minds at that moment.
His first priority was to get as much distance between himself and his pursuers, as fast as possible. Later, if he got away, he could stop and think about what to do. Right now it was all about speed and luck.
Hagan pushed himself on, ignoring the burning in his already tired thighs and his lungs. Behind him he heard excited shouting and guessed he had been spotted. The horn blasted once more. This time it was joined by a second horn and the soft thrumming of hooves on the earth as horses broke into a trot.
He knew he could not stay on the path much longer. The horses would run him down. It was time to move to the trees where branches, tree trunks and the uneven ground would remove their advantage.
Hagan shot sideways off the track and scrambled down the bank into the forest. As the trees closed in around him the darkness did too as their branches cut out what little light filtered down from the moon and stars above. He kept going while there was some ambient light near the path but soon that was gone and he was forced to slow down. Then his foot struck a fallen branch and he went sprawling headlong to the ground.
He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and tried to twist sideways as he fell, attempting to limit any injury he was about to sustain. His left shoulder struck the ground but the landing was soft as he crashed into damp earth and countless years of fallen pine needles. Throwing his hands out he felt around until his left palm struck the rough bark of a tree trunk. Hagan rolled across the forest floor, turning himself around so he lay behind the tree trunk, putting it between him and the way back to the path behind him.
He peeked around the side of the tree trunk to see what was going on behind him. While he lay in darkness the ambient light from the night sky now lit the track for him to get a clear view of it.
The hunting party, four on horseback, perhaps twenty on foot, were still on the trackway. They went past where Hagan lay and for a moment he felt elation at the thought they might not have seen him come off the path and continue on down it. This died almost immediately, however, as they stopped just a little further down the hill.
‘He went in here somewhere, lord,’ one of the men on foot said.
‘Fritigern has already blooded his spear tonight,’ one of the riders said. Hagan recognised the voice of the strange, one-eyed old man, Wodnas. ‘Athaneric, Gundioc and Sigismund: you too have completed your training. Now prove you are worthy to join my Raven Warriors. Go in there. Find this man and bring me his head.’
Hagan swallowed. The rumours were true. Wodnas really did blood his warriors by having them hunt down human quarry.
Four of the men on foot began to scramble down the bank from the track into the woods. Hagan could see they wore hooded cloaks and carried spears. Every instinct screamed at him to get up and run but his training told him to do the opposite. The hunters were perhaps thirty paces away. Any movement on his part would make noise and alert them to where he was. The other thing he needed to do, was cover his face.
For some reason men can always see your face, Faustus, the centurion who had trained him had said. It’s something men are born with. No matter how dark it is, or how well you think you’re hidden, men can always spot a human face.
As quietly as he could, Hagan grabbed a handful of wet earth, heedless of the pricking of hundreds of pine needles, and smeared it over his face. He had no idea how effective it was but he needed to do something to obscure his pale visage. Then he pulled his cloak around himself and lay as still as he could.
The candidate Raven Warriors entered the trees. Hagan could tell they were trying to move with stealth but in this terrain it was impossible not to make some noise and he could work out where they were by the crack of fallen branches being stepped on and the occasional heavy thump of a stumbling footfall.
Hagan, lying in the dark wrapped in his cloak, ears straining for any noise that might indicate one of the Raven Warriors was approaching him, felt as if every nerve in his body was stretched to breaking point.
As he listened, he heard the hunters go past where he was, moving deeper into the trees. They were good, he judged. Most men would be crashing and flailing around in the dark, making a racket and telling everyone where they were. All he heard from these four were the occasional snap of a random branch, the odd soft footfall or sharp intake of breath. It was enough though for Hagan to judge their positions.
After a little while longer, Hagan dared to peek out. By now his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and he was able to make out some things in the Stygian gloom, especially if he used the edge of his vision and did not look directly at whatever he was trying to see.
He caught sight of movement perhaps forty paces further into the trees. Looking back at the track he saw that the rest of the hunting party still waited. This really was a test of the new lads.
Well, my friends, Hagan thought to himself, this is one test I will do my utmost to make sure you fail.
Now at last it was the time to move. Sooner or later the men in the woods would come back, or the ones on the path would come into the trees. It was now or never.
With careful movements, Hagan rose to a crouch behind the tree trunk. He felt around him on the ground until his fingers found a broken branch that was just about large and heavy enough to use as a cudgel. Then, judging that his hunters had gone deeper into the forest perpendicular to the path, Hagan set off in an uphill direction, walking at an angle away from the path rather than straight away from it. He walked with slow, deliberate steps, planting his toes first and rolling forward onto his heels. If he felt a branch he was careful to avoid bending or breaking it. That would result in some of the loudest noises that could be made in a forest and immediately announce his position.
Every ten or so steps he stopped, standing still and peering into the dark around him. At the same time he listened for any sound that meant someone was nearby. Finally he breathed in through his nose, trying to detect any smells that meant one of the hunters was close. If all was clear he moved on another ten paces.
He had not gone too far when the sound of running water came to him. There was a river somewhere nearby. Rivers could be dangerous for men on the run. They tended to be a gathering point for people and animals. On the other hand he could perhaps use it to hide any tracks he might be leaving. Hagan decided to move in the direction of the sound.
He had only travelled seven paces when he froze. His nostrils twitched. There was a faint smell in the air that was familiar and did not belong in a forest. Then he realised what it was: butter. There was someone close by who had either been eating butter or had, as some of the younger folk liked to do, smeared their hair with it in order to make a style.
Hagan stood still as a stone, his ears straining for the slightest noise. A branch snapped mere paces away. Hagan lashed out with the branch, swinging it as hard as he could in a vicious arc. His shoulder jarred as the branch connected with something solid. He heard a man’s voice cry out and knew he had hit his target. The fact that he could still cry out meant he had not hit him hard enough, however.
Hagan rushed towards the source of the cry. He raised his left hand, grasping in the darkness until he felt the unmistakable touch of human skin. He felt a nose, lips and something warm and wet – either blood or snot. Now sure where the man’s face was he unleashed three more hard blows with the branch in short succession. Then the man was not there any more. Hagan’s fifth blow swiped thin air and he almost fell off balance. There was a crash of breaking sticks and a heavy thump which told Hagan his opponent had fallen down.
He didn’t wait to see if the man was out of the fight or not. Cries from his companions floated out of the dark to Hagan’s right and he heard their footsteps coming closer. Hagan started to run away then stopped almost straight away.
He had to think. The hunters were close. He could stumble off into the dark but how far would he get before they caught up with him? He could well fall himself and break a leg or ankle and then he was done for. He could fight them but there was three of them, with spears. He could not take all of them by surprise.
He dropped to his hands and knees and felt around the forest floor for the spear of the man he had felled but it was nowhere to be found. He felt the man’s legs and could tell he was lying flat on his back. The hunter began to moan and Hagan cursed to himself. The noise would bring the lad’s friends to him even faster.
Hagan briefly thought of dealing the fallen hunter a few more blows to shut him up but realised he did not have the time. The others would be here in moments. If Hagan was going to survive this the only way would be if he could out-think his opponents. He had to do what they would not expect.
Trackers always look down, the voice of old Faustus surfaced in Hagan’s mind again. They look for footprints, trails and traces of the person they are hunting. No one ever looks up.
Hagan felt around him for tree trunks. The nearest was too thin – a stripling that would not be able to bear his weight. There was another close by that was much bigger. Hagan reached up, found branches above him and hauled himself up. Once he got his feet onto the branch he reached above himself again, finding another branch to haul himself up higher.
He did this twice more until the sound of rushing footsteps came from below. Hagan stopped moving and hugged the tree trunk, bracing his feet on the branches below. Then he just stood still.
‘Gundioc? Is that you?’ Hagan heard one of the hunters below say.
‘There’s someone on the ground,’ a second voice said.
There then came a mumbling half-groan from the man Hagan had struck.
‘It is him,’ a third voice said. ‘The bastard must have jumped him.’
‘Either that or the idiot ran into a tree in the dark,’ the first hunter said.
‘Not Gundioc,’ the third man said. ‘He’s the best of all of us.’
‘Come on,’ the second hunter said. ‘The bastard can’t have got far.’
Then the unmistakable sound of branches cracking underfoot drifted from further off amid the trees, the sound of someone with no training in stealth craft moving through the forest.
‘There he is,’ the third hunter said, dropping his voice to a low whisper.
Thanking his lucky stars, Hagan listened as they moved off. He did not know who the newcomer was, but most likely it was the second of the two unfortunate prisoners Gunderic had gifted Wodnas that night for his deadly hunt.
Taking advantage of the respite he hauled himself on up the tree further, until he came to a stout branch growing out from the main trunk that was big enough for him to straddle with some comfort. He threw his arms around the trunk and rested his head against it.
The men below might be back, or their quarry might lead them off. It was impossible to tell. All Hagan could do now was stay where he was and wait. If his luck held then sooner or later they would give up and leave or move on to try to find other quarry. Then he would climb down and there would be nothing to do but walk back to the city.
Either way it was going to be a long night.