Now he heard the dogs barking away down the valley, the cries of the hunters as they rode in pursuit. How long could a man on foot outrace trained hunting hounds and horsemen? He dared not look back, and flung himself onwards. Something tripped him and he fell face-first into damp earth and black water, but clawed his way up and ran again. He could feel the strength leaking from him like blood flowing from a wound.
He began to climb again, the ground drier and more solid underfoot. Above him, through the mist, he could see a rocky hillcrest lined with trees like the bristles on a hog’s back. Every drawn breath punched at his lungs, and he stared only at the ground immediately ahead of him, trying to force himself on, trying not to think about the beasts racing after him. The sword in his hand was soft iron, the blade blunted and bent where he had used it to pull himself up the slope. It was little more than a metal club now, but it was the only weapon he had. Grabbing at the brambles and thorn bushes, he dragged himself towards the rocks. The mist thinned here, and he could see the bulge of the land, the bare slopes of the moors. He came to a patch of level ground below a wall of exposed rock, black twisted trees hanging over the brink, and turned at bay.
There were two dogs after him, huge grey beasts galloping up the slope. A single rider he could see, some way behind them coming up out of the mist. Castus tried to straighten the blade of his sword against a rock; then he pulled off his leather cape and wrapped it tightly around his left arm.
The first dog was already bounding over the lip of the level ground. It was almost the size of a man, with powerful legs to spring and powerful jaws that could rip out a victim’s throat with one bite. Castus planted his back against the rock. The dog snarled and then crouched back to leap. Castus threw himself forward, feinting with his bound left arm, and as the animal sprang forward he dodged sideways and swung the sword. The flat of the blade smacked against the hound’s snout, breaking its jaw.
The second dog was already springing: Castus turned just in time and the heavy body struck his shoulder, claws gripping the leather cape that wrapped his arm. He shoved against it, keeping on his feet, and for a moment he heard the jaws crunch close to his neck, felt the rank rotten meat-breath filling his face; then he punched low and level with his sword. The dull blade grated against the animal’s hairy ribs, and he struck again and again as the claws mauled at his shoulder. Then he shoved again, knocking the animal back off him. A wheeling stroke with the sword, and he heard the snap of bone and the spatter of blood.
Already the horseman was surging up the last slope towards him, cloak swinging behind him, spear raised in his fist. Castus stamped down on the neck of the wounded hound, scrambled across the level and dropped down onto the stony slope below a thicket of thorn bushes. He heard the pony blowing hard as it cantered up onto the level, the harsh grunts of the rider urging it on. He raised his head a little and saw them standing above him, the rider bare-chested under his cloak, spike-haired, craning from the animal’s back and staring into the darkness. The pony shied as it scented the blood of the dogs, and the rider kicked at it and pulled the rope reins. Around the lip of the level ground they came, until they were almost directly above where Castus lay, only the thorny scrub between them.
Come on, Castus prayed silently. Don’t stop there. Don’t wait for the others. Already he could hear the cries and whoops of other riders down in the valley, the bray of hunting horns. He shrugged his left hand free of the cape and closed his fingers around a fist-sized rock. The horseman above him had no horn, but turned and shouted, waving his arm. His voice was swallowed by the mist.
The pony moved forward again, hooves kicking loose stones down over the lip and through the twisted branches to where Castus lay. He waited, flat on his back, breath held tight in his chest, until the Pictish rider had moved across the level ground above him. Then he tossed the rock out into the darkness down the slope, and heard it thud and crackle through the scrub. At once the rider cried out and urged his mount forward, down over the lip of the level ground and past the thorn bush towards the dark slope where the rock had fallen.
With his head turned to his shoulder Castus could see the pony kicking down over the lip, its hooves almost close enough to reach out and touch. He stayed lying still until the animal had almost passed him. Then he rolled up off the ground with the sword in his hand. In one forward lunge he seized the rider’s hanging cloak and dragged him backwards, striking up with the blade of his sword. The rider only managed a single strangled gasp before he tumbled off the pony with the blunt tip of the blade jabbing hard into his kidney. He fell heavily, the cloak flipping over his head, and Castus slammed the sword down over the top of his skull and then flung the bent blade aside. The pony had carried on down the slope a short way, but it tried to rear back as Castus bounded out of the darkness. He paused to snatch up the leather cape and the fallen man’s spear, then he caught the pony’s bridle, dragged its head down and managed to vault up onto its back.
The rider was on his feet again, bleeding from the head, reeling on the slope. Castus pulled back on the reins, turning the pony and kicking at its flanks. As the rider staggered closer, blinded and yelling, he stabbed the man in the chest with his own spear and then booted him down.
‘Yah!’ he said through his teeth, screwing the pony’s head round and directing it at the crest of the ridge to his right. ‘Yah! Come on!’ He kicked his heels into the animal’s flank again, but the pony was terrified, backing and shying. He could hear the pursuing riders coming up the valley behind him, their cries gaining volume as the mist thinned. The pony had no saddle, and Castus felt himself sliding on the coarse blanket across its back. He pulled up his aching legs and slapped the pony’s flank with the shaft of the spear. Still it refused to advance – rather it was trying to turn on the slope and gallop back into the valley. This, Castus thought, is why I was never a cavalryman…
‘Have it your way then.’
He pulled the hood of the leather cape back over his head, swung the pony round and let out the reins. The animal leaped at once, and Castus locked his thighs tight around its flanks and leaned back as it plunged down the slope, hoping that in the gloom he could pass as a Pict. The mist rose around them, and he could see the forms of the other riders coming up from his right. He swung the spear flat, gesturing away to one side; then he kicked at the pony again and let it carry him on across the head of the valley.
The riders cried out in triumph, their dogs bounding along beside them as they cut left up the slope away from him. Hardly daring to believe that his deception had worked, Castus drew in the reins, turning the pony as gently as he could and urging it upwards away from the hunting pack. He kept his head down, hunching against the pony’s braided mane as the land rose again beneath him. Back on the far slope he could hear the shouts and yells of the hunters: they had found the butchered dogs, he guessed, and their speared comrade.
‘Come on,’ he was whispering, ‘come on,’ shunting against the pony’s spine, and this time the animal responded to his commands. They gained the ridge, dropped down the far side, and then the mist swept over them and the sounds of the hunt died suddenly into the silent dark.
12
All night he rode, across the bare hills and the boggy moors, splashing through streams and skirting tangled woodlands. The mist receded as he moved away from the estuary, and between the clouds he saw the moon just past full. At times, when he dismounted to rest his legs and let the pony drink water or crop at the tough spiky grass, he tried to work out the direction he was travelling. Southwards, roughly, he guessed. Now and then he thought he heard the sound of dogs, or the distant horns of the hunters, but he saw nobody. By the time the moon sank and the sky lightened to the east, the shore of a vast body of water lay ahead of him, the far side still lost in night. He secured the pony to a low tree, lay in the grass at the waterside and slept.