The Zealot was almost to the foot of the slope when he heard Batik closing on him. He whirled and fired, the shell whistling past Batik's ear. Batik took aim and pulled the trigger, but there was a dull click. He cocked the pistol and tried again. It was empty. The Zealot grinned and raised his own pistol. .
A small hole appeared at the centre of his forehead, and the back of his head exploded.
As the Zealot tumbled to the ground, Batik spun round to see Shannow kneeling at the top of the slope, his pistol held two-handed. Batik cursed and ran back to the camp.
'You son of a slut,' he stormed. 'You left me like a sacrificial goat!'
'I thought you needed your sleep.'
'Don't give me that, Shannow; you planned this. When did you climb that damned rock?'
'About the time you started snoring.'
'Don't make jokes; they don't become you. I could have died tonight.'
Shannow moved forward, the moonlight glinting from his eyes, giving them a feral look.
'But you didn't, Batik. And if you want the lesson spelt out for you, it is this: while you were berating me, you failed to notice an eagle circling above us for over an hour. You also missed the reflection of sunlight on metal west of us before we found the bones, which is one of the reasons I was happy to stay hidden in the gully. You are a strong man, Batik, and a brave warrior. But you have never been hunted. You talk too much and you see too little. Dead if you remain with me? You won't live a day vnthout me!'
Batik's eyes blazed and he raised his pistol.
'Load it first, boy,' Shannow told him, moving towards his saddle and blankets.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jacob Madden crouched on the hillside above the Hellborn camp and watched the men below gathering in line for the evening meal. There were almost two hundred men already in the camp, and over the last two days he had estimated that a further fifty were scattered over the surrounding countryside.
Griffin had asked him to study the discipline in the camp, and Madden had to accept that it was good. There were twenty-eight tents set in two rows on the banks of the river. A latrine trench had been dug downwind and earthworks had been thrown up around the camp to a height of around four feet, these were patrolled at night by six sentries working four-hour shifts. The horses were picketed in three lines north of the latrine trench, while the cooks' tents were set at the other end of the camp. Madden was impressed by the organization.
A skilled hunter himself, Madden had found no problems avoiding contact. His horse was well-hidden and the bearded farmer had never approached within sixty yards of the camp. His scouting had been conducted with patience and care.
But this morning six men had ridden into the camp, and from the moment of their arrival Madden had felt an increasing sense of disquiet. In appearance they seemed little different from the other Hellborn riders, dark armour emblazoned with a goat's head, black leather cloaks and high riding boots. But on their heads they wore dark helms which covered their faces, all but the eyes. For some reason that Madden could not pinpoint they had made his flesh crawl, and he was filled with an unreasonably burning desire to move to their tent and find out more about them.
With infinite patience Madden bellied down and dragged his long, lean frame into a tight circle of bushes to wait for nightfall. As he lay overlooking the camp, he worried at the problem of the riders. One of them had swung his head and seemed to be staring up at the hidden farmer.
Madden had frozen in place, allowing not a flicker of movement, yet he was convinced the man had seen him. Common sense — a commodity Madden possessed in quantity — told him he must have been virtually invisible, but still. .
He had waited for the inevitable pursuit, but nothing happened. The man could not have seen him. Yet the notion would not desert him.
He ignored the growing discomfort as the damp soil seeped into his clothing, and thought back to his farm near Allion. It had been a good site, and his wife Rachel had given birth to their first son there. But Brigands had driven them out, just as they had from his other four homes.
Jacob Madden was a tough man, but strength was not enough against the wandering bands of killers which moved across the lands like locusts. Two of his homes had been burnt out, and the third had been taken over by Daniel Cade and his men. Burning with shame, Madden had packed his belongings in an old wagon and headed north.
He would have taken to the hills for a guerrilla war, but he had Rachel and the boys to consider.
So he had run, and tried not to notice the disappointment reflected in the eyes of his sons.
Now he would run no more. Griffin had sold him on the idea of Avalon, a land without Brigands; a land rich and verdant, with soil so fertile the seeds would spring to life as they touched the ground. His boys were older now, almost ready to stand alone against the savage world, and Madden felt it was time to be a man again.
The moon rose, bathing the hillside with silver light. Madden looked to his left where a rabbit was sitting staring at him. He grinned and snapped his fingers, but the rabbit did not move.
Madden turned his attention back to the camp where the sentries were out now, patrolling the earthworks. He eased himself into a sitting position and stretched his back. The rabbit remained and Madden picked up a small stone and flicked it at the little creature. It jumped aside, blinked, saw him and scampered away into the bushes.
A rustling in the tree branches over his head caused him to look up. A brown owl was sitting on a branch above. No wonder the rabbit ran, thought Madden.
It was close to midnight and he eased himself from the bushes ready for the descent to the river camp. Suddenly a shimmering figure appeared before him. Madden leapt back. The figure became a small man dressed in white — his face round and kindly, his teeth almost too perfect.
Madden drew his pistol and cocked it. The figure pointed at Madden, looked at the camp, then shook its head.
'Who are you?' whispered the farmer. In response the figure pointed to the east of the camp; Madden followed his direction and saw a black-cloaked man creeping into the woods. The little old man then pointed west and Madden saw two other Hellborn warriors moving into the shadows.
They were surrounding him! He had been right all along — they had seen him.
The spectral figure vanished and Madden moved back and started to run towards the hollow where he had hidden his horse. He leapt boulders and fallen trees, panic rising with every step.
'Be calm!' said a voice, whispering in his mind. He almost fell, but righted himself and stopped by a thick oak tree, resting his hand on the bark. His breath came in great gulps. He could hear little above the beating of his heart and the roaring in his ears.
'Be calm,' said the voice once more. 'Panic will kill you.' He waited until his breathing steadied.
His hat had fallen from his head and he bent to retrieve it.
A shot spattered wood splinters from the oak and Madden dived to the ground and rolled into the bushes. He moved forward on his elbows to a safer position, hidden in the undergrowth. A second shot sliced his ear.
'Kill the owl,' whispered the voice.
Madden rolled to his back to see above him the brown owl perched on a tree branch. He pulled his pistol clear and aimed it and the bird leapt into the air. Madden blinked. The bird had known!