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| "It would only be a matter of seconds to untie Father’s cords ..." |
Banac crouched low as he made his way towards the torches. He felt energised. No longer were they lost or aimless. He had a fresh purpose now, a mission to accomplish. He tried to think like a hero, and moved as silently as he could.
When he was close enough to the torches to feel the heat of the flames he dropped to his belly and wormed his way past them, squirming along the ground until he could look out into the camp beyond.
As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw that he was lying just above head-height on the lip of a steep bank that dropped into a wide semi-circular depression, a dark clearing dotted with figures and firelight. It was hard to make out details, but he could see horses tied on one side, and a number of camp fires here and there. About ten feet to his left a small group of figures was huddled around a fire. He lay still and tried to hear what they were saying.
“How much longer?” someone grumbled. “I’m starving.”
“We’ll stay here ‘til we’re told otherwise,” someone else replied. “You should be be grateful to get five minutes’ peace today.”
“Damn savages!” Another voice joined the first two. “See what they did to Farod?”
“Aye. Terrible thing to happen. At his age, too ...”
The group turned their heads, and Banac turned with them to see what they were looking at.
Ten feet away was another camp fire, this one with only two figures beside it; one of them lay on his back, whilst the other, a boy who could not have been much older than Banac, mopped at his forehead with a cloth and a bowl of water. The rest of the men avoided them, and turned their faces away whenever the boy looked up, as if they were ashamed to be caught staring.
“Damn fool,” muttered one of the men in the group closest to Banac. “What did he go and get himself killed for?”
“He’s not dead yet.”
“Just a matter of time, though, en’t it?”
There was a cry from the injured man, cutting through the still night air. Banac saw him convulse, and the young soldier dropped the cloth and started scrabbling at the man’s torso, piling on what looked like rags. When his hands reached near the fire for more Banac saw blood on them. He looked away, feeling sick.
The man’s cries had begun to attract attention. All around the hollow men were standing up, their heads craned to see what was going on, while on the side furthest from Banac a smaller, huddled group sat with their faces turned inwards, ignoring the goings-on. Banac supposed they must be the leaders: Aedwyc, Berethel, and the Scholar.
He tried to ignore the cries of pain and squinted round the edges of the camp, trying to focus on the reason he was here. Where would they be holding Father? Where would they put prisoners? For a few minutes his eyes flicked backwards and forwards, scanning every inch of visible ground twice, three times, while the dying man screamed in agony.
He was about to give up and go back to Balor when he saw a shadow move against the other shadows a little way round the edge of the hollow to his right. He looked closer. It was a figure — no, two figures, lying tied-up next to each other on the ground. It was Father, he was sure of it! His heart leapt, and it was all he could do to stop himself from shouting out in victory. He had done it! He had found Father!
* * *
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