I quickly found the path I had taken down the hill and began the ascent. I walked a long time, but came ho nearer the top. I stopped and peered into the swirling blankness and, try as I might, I could not make out where I was on the hillside.
I called out… and heard my cry muted and silenced by the thick, damp vapours.
What to do?
There was no telling how long the mist might last. I might wander the hill-track for days on end and never find my way. Worse, and far more likely, I might stumble over a rock in the path and break a leg, or step over a cliff and fall to my death. I sat down to think it through.
It seemed obvious that I had been walking in a circle – and equally obvious, as I sat there, that the fog was settling in. I had no better choice than to set off once more, as I did not relish spending a cold, wet night alone, clinging to a rock on the side of the hill. So I started walking again, but this time slowly, making certain that each step led upward. In this way, though it might take half the day, I would eventually reach our camp at the top.
And in this way I did eventually reach the hilltop – only to discover our camp abandoned and no one there. I dropped the waterskins and looked around. The mist was not as thick as in the valley, so I could, with a little difficulty, make a complete survey of the hilltop. The others were gone, leaving not a trace behind.
Strange. And frightening.
I called again and again, but heard no answering call. I went back to the place where we had eaten our meal, thinking to find some token of our presence, however small. But, try as I might, I could not locate the place. Not a crust or crumb remained to show where we had been; there was not a single hoofprint, not a blade of grass disturbed…
I had climbed the wrong hill! In my blind haste to escape the fog, I had lost my way, and now would have to wait until the mist cleared and I could see where and how I had made my mistake. In the meantime, I had no choice but to do what I should have done in the first place – stay put.
My cheeks burned with shame at my stupidity. I could make a stone circle dance in the air, but could not find my way to the top of a simple hill without getting lost. It was too absurd for words.
FIVE
Finding a nest among the rocks, I wrapped my cloak around me and settled myself to wait, knowing full well that I might have to spend the night there. But I did not like to think about that. Would the hollow hills claim another victim?
I did not like to think about that, either.
Later, as the deepening mist darkened towards dusk and I sat hugging my knees and trying not to be afraid, I heard a faint tinkling sound – the light jingling of a horse's tack – one of the warband coming to find me! I jumped up and called out. The sound stopped and I did not hear it again, although I stood still to listen.
'Are you there? Blaise! Who is it?'
My words fell to earth where they were spoken and there was no answer. I retrieved one of the water skins and returned to my huddle among the rocks, miserable now. I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and wondered how long it would take the wolves to find me.
I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed, and in my dream I saw a tall, gaunt man sitting in a room painted with strange designs. His hands were stretched flat on the table before him and the eyes in his long, withered face were sunken and closed. His hair was uncut, falling around his shoulders like a net of cobwebs, and he wore a rich robe of darkest blue with a brooch and pin of silver inset with tiny moonstones.
Before him on the table was an object shaped like a large egg – a polished stone, perhaps, cradled in a holder of carven wood. Two wasted candles stood on either side of this egg-stone, guttering in the fitful wind wafting through the cracks in the walls and windows.
This man was not alone; there was another in the room as well. I could not see this other person, but knew, as one simply knows in a dream, that she was there with him. Oh, yes, the other was a woman. I knew this, too, before I saw her stretch her hand slowly across the table to entwine her young fingers with those of the man. He opened his eyes then, for I saw the glint of light from the candles, but his eyes were wells of darkness… darkness and death.
I shivered and woke.
An unusual dream, but even as I felt its lingering presence, I knew it to represent a real place, and that the man I had seen and the woman's hand I glimpsed were real.
I blinked and looked around.
Night had fallen full and darkness was complete. The wind stirred, swirling the mist and I heard again the light jingling sound. This time I did not call out, but remained silent, crouching among the rocks. The sound came nearer, but in the fog there was no telling how close it really was. I waited.
Presently, I saw a lighter patch floating in the darkness, swinging towards me through the thick, damp air. The light brightened, intensified, divided into two glowing orbs, like great cat's eyes. The jingling sound came from the lights swimming nearer.
Only when they were almost on top of me did the lights stop. I moved not a muscle, but they knew where to find me – by scent, I think, for the darkness and mist obscured all.
There were four of them, two to a torch, swarthy men in rough skin jerkins and kilts. Their bodies were well-muscled and compact, Two had huge armbands of iron and carried iron-tipped spears; all had bronze daggers in their belts. But I was not frightened of their weapons, for though they were men full grown, none were bigger than myself, a boy of but twelve summers.
Their eyes were dark, and cunning like weasel eyes. And the men stood gazing at me through the mist, shadows nickering over their faces. The torchbearers held their brands high and the other two advanced together to stand over me, jingling lightly as they moved. I looked and saw a chain with brass bells tied just below the knee of the foremost stranger. He squatted on his haunches and stared at me for a long moment, dark eyes glittering. He pressed a finger into my chest, felt the flesh and bone there and grunted. Then he saw my silver tore and raised his hand to stroke it.
After a moment he rose again and barked a word over his shoulder. The others behind him parted and I saw another figure approaching out of the mist. I stood slowly, hands loose at my sides, and waited while the newcomer came to stand before him. He was smaller than the others, but carried himself in the way of chieftains everywhere; he wore his authority like a second skin, and I had no doubt that he possessed rank among his people.
He motioned one of the torchmen closer, so that he could see me properly. In the fluttering light I saw that this chieftain was a woman.
She, too, looked long upon my tore, but did not touch it, or me. She turned to the one with the bells and uttered a short, harsh bark, whereupon he and the one beside him took me by the arms and we started off.
I was more carried than dragged, for my feet scarcely touched ground. We descended the hill and reached the valley, splashed across the stream and, from the sound of running water close by, followed the stream for a time before beginning another ascent. The slope was gradual, eventually levelling out to become a narrow track or gorge between two steep hills.
This track led a fair distance and we walked a time, one torch ahead and one behind; my companions on either side did not push me, neither did they loosen their grip, although escape was not possible – could I have seen where I was going in the mist, I would not have known where to run.
At last the track turned upward and we began a steep ascent. It was a short climb, however, and I soon found myself standing in front of a round, hide-covered opening in the hill itself. The chieftain entered and it was indicated that I was to follow. I stepped through the opening and found myself inside a large mound dwelling of timber and skin. Covered with dirt and turf on the outside, the rath, as it is called, appeared in daylight just like any of the innumerable hills around it.