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.