It started when he tripped and fell headlong. Gasping with horror, he rose, his face and head smothered in the white, clinging powder. That was not the worst: under the surface apparently there was a stream, and his legs were soaked with freezing water. He must keep moving, to try to keep warm; to stay alive.
With a new resolution, he set off again at a faster pace, his forehead wrinkled with the concentration of his effort, straining with determination. He would not die – he must not!
The ground now was worse. It was broken, with granite stones liberally sprinkled under the white covering, which now itself became a serious obstacle, not only hampering his movements but hiding the stones beneath. He could hardly move more than a few yards without stumbling, and he was so tired he would inevitably fall.
At one point he felt that he would never reach the fire. After yet another tumble, as he lay sobbing in frustration, he lifted his head to find that the rising land before him hid the flames, as if its promise of warmth and rest had been snatched away as he approached.
Gasping with the effort, he slowly rose to his feet and began to carry on, the breath shuddering in his throat in a continual, weeping groan, his face turned towards the fire. All his energy was gone. His boots kept striking rocks, and his toes were bruised, creating a blunted, numbed ache of pain that managed to seep over even the dulled senses of his frost-bitten feet. His stick grew heavier with each step, and the energy used to lift it and place it down, lift it and place it down, sapped his failing resources, but he kept hold of it as if it was a talisman offering some support and strength of its own.
He breasted the hill and could see the fire again more clearly. Standing still for a moment, he savoured the sight as he caught his breath. It lay under an overhanging rock, at the entrance, apparently, of a cave, and the cheerful flames beckoned to him, promising peace. His breath caught in his throat, and he was not sure whether to laugh or sob. Letting his breath out in a great sighing gasp, he started off again, down the slight incline to the bottom, then up the other side to the fire, to safety and warmth.
It was when he was almost at the upward slope that he heard the howling. The voices of wolves calling to each other – and realised that he was their quarry.
“I think you’d better get up here a little faster,” came a contemplative voice from above. “They sound a bit hungry!”
The rest of the way was a mad scramble up the hillside. He dropped his staff, his satchel fell from his shoulder, pulling his blanket with it, and it may have been this that saved him.
As he reached the top of the slope he slipped and fell, slithering face-first into a depression ringed by rocks. Behind him he heard a sudden snarling and snapping, and when he managed to rise, staring with terror, he saw four wolves tearing and ripping at his package and attacking his blanket. They had attacked his belongings rather than following and attacking him immediately.
Suddenly his legs gave way and he fell to his knees in petrified horror at the thought that the animals could have been on him, their teeth at his throat, their hot breath in his nostrils as they tore at him, savaging him like the bag they had just ripped apart. He gave a small cry, and was faintly surprised by how high and childish it sounded. Then he saw them turn.
“Ah, they’ll be coming here now.” The Bourc spoke calmly. After years of hunting wolves in Gascony, he knew how to defend himself, and now he watched carefully – he was prepared for them. Before him was a handful of arrows, their points in the ground, standing like a makeshift fence. When he gave Greencliff a quick, appraising glance, the farmer saw his dark eyes glittering in the shadow under his hood as the firelight caught them.
The Bourc gave him a nod, then pointed to the fire with his chin. “You get back. Warm yourself. Don’t think you’ll be any help right now.” He turned back to the scene below, pulling an arrow from the ground and nocking it on his bowstring, his hands moving with the assurance of long practice.
Greencliff felt his head move in slow acceptance, and he began to walk, stumbling in his tiredness and chill. His limbs felt leaden, his head heavy, and he moved as if in a dream, his feet moving automatically like heavy metal weights in a great machine. But as he got to the fire he heard a roar, and spinning round, saw a huge animal streak forward. The bowman seemed to stand still, the wolf running straight for him, and then there was a thrumming sound and the wolf fell, an arrow in his head.
Even as he seated a fresh arrow on the bow and drew it back, two more of the evil-looking animals appeared, but they were undecided, slinking from side to side at the edge of the camp like cavalry trying to see a weakness in a line of foot-soldiers, while the Bourc’s arrow-tip followed them.
With a snarl as if to boost flagging spirits, both streaked forward, and the Bourc hesitated a moment, as if unsure which to attack. Then, quickly drawing the bowstring again, he let his arrow fly at the leading animal, but perhaps in his haste, perhaps because of the darkness, his shot missed its mark.
To Greencliff’s horror, the wolves rushed on, and one of them launched itself at his saviour’s throat. To his astonishment, he saw the man fall back, one arm held up to protect his neck, and the wolf caught his arm in its mouth, his leap carrying the man backwards. But almost as soon as the man had dropped, he rolled, then sprang back to his feet. The farmer’s shocked eyes shot to the figure of the wolf, which lay shuddering as it died, and when he looked back at the Bourc, he saw the short sword in his hands, now flashing and glinting as it dripped red in the firelight.
The last wolf had followed almost on the heels of the first, but had held back when it had sprung, and now hesitated, circling the man warily. Its eyes flitted from the Bourc to Greencliff with uncertainty, and while it paused, the Bourc dropped his sword, snatched up his bow, nocked an arrow to the string and fired in one smooth action. This time he made sure of his target. The wolf dropped as if felled by a pike.
When he had stood for a minute or two, the Bourc slowly lowered his bow and sighed. Holding a fresh arrow in place, he cautiously walked to each of the figures, kicked them briefly, then strode to the perimeter of the camp and peered into the darkness. Seemingly the view satisfied him, and he sauntered back to the bodies with a low but cheerful whistle. Dropping the bow, he collected his sword and went from one body to the next, slitting the animals’ throats.
Looking up, he gave a quick grin. “Always best to make sure with these evil buggers!” he said contentedly. The last thing Greencliff saw as he slowly toppled sideways was his grin slowly fading in perplexed surprise. The farmer’s exhaustion had won at last.
Simon and the troop were mounted and ready early the next morning just after light. He felt stiff and had a kink in his back from sleeping on a bench, but it was, as he knew, a great deal better than how he would have felt if they had tried to sleep out in the open.
They were soon back at the trail and Mark Rush began his careful perusal of the prints once more. He was convinced that today they would find a corpse at the end of the trail. It was easy to see why.
The steps were almost like a pair of long lines with deeper indentations where the boots had dropped. Between the footprints were scraping drag marks where the man had been too tired to lift his feet. Simon had no doubt that Mark Rush was right. The boy had little chance of surviving.
When they had been riding for an hour, they came across the flat area where the boy had lain. After this the steps changed direction, seeming to stagger and falter into the trees, and they found the byre. Dropping from their horses, Tanner and Mark Rush slowly drew their swords and walked in, half expecting to find Greencliff’s body. While they searched, Simon glanced around at the snow nearby, then gave a cry.