Like grasping at smoke

Chasing them was like grasping at smoke.  We had followed their tracks for three days now.   Although we knew the paths and hillsides of the Grey Moors, all we could see of them was black figures barely-seen, darting in the half-light.  Sometimes we caught a glimpse of their spears, or heard the sharp cry of our cattle, stolen by them.  But more often, we heard nothing but the sound of the wind and the shriek of the ravens.

Only on the fourth day did we trap them, near the fell-side where my grandfather told me the Enemy had fallen long ago.  

They were nearer now.  We could hear their snarls and shouts in the heavy air.  They sounded more like animals in pain than men.  In the sharp shafts of seldom-sunlight, we could see their painted faces, stretched and twisted in anger and rage. 

Their horsemen goaded us, spears stretching in the fierce wind towards our braced shields.  Their children and young-bloods darted in the heather, snapping darts from strange bows, their javelins darkening the sky.