he leaped over the pile of firewood. He came down awkwardly on a twisted root and fell. The magic of the ring hummed through him, and he bounced to his feet. Before he could take another step, however, a heavy body slammed into him, and he and Bruni tumbled together onto the forest floor.
Kerrick twisted and nearly broke free. Magical energy surged through his sinews as he grasped the woman’s big hands and pulled them apart. He whipped his head back, cracking into her chin, while his feet clawed and kicked at the rough ground. Even with her weight on his back he managed to rise to his knees, then his feet. One more twist, one frantic leap, and he would be gone.
Except that Bruni’s grip still wasn’t broken. It felt as though a bracket of iron had been clamped around Kerrick’s waist. Panicking, he kicked wildly, again feeling that pulse of magical strength. She grunted, but held him as tight as a manacle.
Moreen and Tildey stumbled toward the fracas. Finally the elf broke Bruni’s grip. The big woman fell back as he scrambled forward, only to be simultaneously tackled by the other two. Before he could react Bruni was back, bashing him on the head with a heavy piece of firewood. He fell, stunned, his skull throbbing as they dragged him back to the tree.
“Be still, now,” warned the big woman, shaking the log as though it was a mere twig. “I only hit you ’cuz you made me.” She rubbed her chin. “You know,” she admitted to her companions. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“Are you sure you can keep him here?” Moreen asked Bruni. She spoke to the big woman quietly, as they stood under a cluster of cedars two dozen paces last night’s campfire. Dawn’s gray light filtered through the trees, creating a dim murk on the forest floor. Still, it was enough light that they could see their prisoner lying as though dead. They had bound his hands with extra loops, noting with surprise that he had apparently broken the original ropes. Tildey remained near the fire, keeping a closer watch.
“Oh, sure,” Bruni agreed, rubbing her bruised chin. “He’s a tough one, all right, but now that we have his arms tied real good I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere. We used plenty of rope, too. He’s probably sorer than I am and needs a long rest.”
“I hope so!” the chiefwoman snapped.
“Now, you can’t really blame him,” Bruni said good naturedly. “You or I would have tried the same thing.”
Moreen snorted. “He’s not much of a hunter, though.” For some reason she was irritated by Bruni’s sympathy for the unwary captive. “All we had to do was make a little noise in the brush. You’d think he expected to shoot a bull elk, the way he was creeping around.”
“Well, hurry up and bring the rest of the tribe,” said the big woman cheerfully. “Don’t worry about us.”
Still feeling those misgivings, Moreen nodded and started toward the south. She stayed on the beach, where the way was easiest, and as soon as she emerged from the cedar forest she broke into a steady, loping jog. It was a cold and murky day, but her exertion kept her warm. Curls of surf crunched into the beach, but there was no trace of the sun behind the leaden overcast.
Unencumbered by the need to explore or to accommodate slower companions, the chiefwoman made excellent time, and as the pale gray day finally slipped toward the deeper gray of nightfall she spied a familiar figure waving to her from an inland hilltop.
“Moreen! Up here! It’s Mouse!”
She began to feel the fatigue as she climbed. The youth trotted to meet her.
“The rest of the tribe is just over the hill,” he explained. “I’ve been staying close, scouting, like you told me to do.”
“Good job,” she said, pleased that the Arktos had made such progress on their northward trek. “Any sign of the Highlanders?”
“Well, yes,” Mouse reported. “That one, the redbeard with the wolf-cape, was hanging back there, one valley over. With a dozen of his men. I spied on them from the hilltop, but they didn’t see me. They know where the tribe is, though. They kept coming up to the ridge to watch.”
“You did well not to let them see you,” Moreen said sincerely. “Now, take me to the others.” She followed the boy around the hill to find Garta and Dinekki engaged in conversation while the rest of the tribe were starting the evening fires.
After welcoming embraces, the women looked at their chief with curiosity. “You’re alone, but I can tell you don’t bring bad news,” the shaman observed shrewdly.
“No, it might be that Chislev has smiled upon us with a rare opportunity,” Moreen declared. “How tired are the people? Is there any chance they could march through the night?”
Garta’s eyes widened at the question, but Dinekki all but cackled in amusement. “Of course we could!” she replied. “The walk would do us good, give us a chance to stretch those cramped muscles.”
“Yes-yes, I think we could keep going, if we had to,” the other woman agreed. “But we’re hungry and just got good fires going. Why do you want us to move on?”
Moreen consciously avoided looking up at the inland ridge where, she felt certain, Lars Redbeard or one of his men was watching. Instead, she answered with the plan that was still taking shape in her mind. “Go ahead and build the fires. Cook dinner. I want it to look as if we’re going to camp just like any other night. We won’t be moving out until it’s been dark for awhile, in any event.”
“Just so those Highland eyes are fooled, eh?” said Dinekki with a sly grin.
“I knew you’d understand, Grandmother,” the chiefwoman replied.
She joined her tribe for a meal of smoked whale, watercress, and roasted clams, making her way from fire to fire, greeting people. Feathertail proudly displayed a clean, soft sealskin she had prepared all by herself. Hilgrid showed her an ivory whistle she had been carving. To each in turn, Moreen explained her idea, and the Arktos played along, even unrolling their bedrolls in the growing darkness. By late afternoon it was fully dark but, for once the chiefwoman was grateful they’d have long hours of concealment ahead.
Finally Moreen took Hilgrid, Garta, and Dinekki aside for a whispered conference. She told them of the cedar grove, describing the unobstructed route along the beach that would lead them to the woods. “It’s important to make haste, as much as you can,” she encouraged. “If you haven’t reached the woods by dawn, keep going. Get under the cover of the trees before the Highlanders catch sight of you.”
The tribeswomen gathered their possession, taking care to stay away outside the dying light of their small fires. Satisfied they would be underway soon, Moreen again consulted with Little Mouse, who directed her toward the nearby ridge where he had last seen the Highlanders.
Despite the dark and the clouds, she made her way up the rise, and was rewarded by the sight of another campfire crackling brightly barely a quarter mile away. With no attempt at secrecy she began to walk toward it, making noise by scuffing stones and treading over the crackling dry brush.
Despite the fact that she was ready, she gasped in surprise when a human form rose from the shadows ten yards away. Something white flashed in the darkness, and she knew a speartip was being waved in her direction.
“Stop right there! Who are you?” demanded a gruff voice in the crisp Highlander accent.
“Moreen, Chiefwoman of the Arktos,” she replied sternly. “Who are you to accost me?”
“I … I am Daric Sheepskinner,” replied the sentry. “I am watching the approach to our camp. You startled me.… That is … what do you want, Moreen Chiefwoman?”
“I would speak with Lars Redbeard. He is here, is he not?”
The man seemed even more flustered than before at this statement and at her obvious lack of fear. “I … yes, yes he is.”
“Well, take me to him!” snapped Moreen.
“But … of course.” The man turned toward the glowing fire, and she could see other forms silhouetted in the dim light, men obviously roused by the commotion. “Be careful,” Daric warned. “There are sharp rocks here. It is easy to fall.”
“I have walked around rocks before.” She was grateful that the darkness concealed her half-smile. It pleased her to keep these burly Highlanders surprised and off balance.
“Lars Redbeard!” shouted the sentry, as they advanced toward the camp. “It is the chiefwoman of the Arktos. She has come to see you.”
“Moreen, daughter of Redfist Bayguard!” Lars Redbeard exclaimed, as he hastily adjusted his wolfskin cloak.
