“The invaders measure their lands and count their wealth,” Raphael said. “They plan to stay.”
Percival rejoined them. “Istvan watched them from the woods,” he said. “Then he rode after. He’s turned wolf.”
No more needed to be said. Cnán also went to the verge to study the tracks of Istvan’s roan, and when she returned, they mounted. The woods here were thick with berries and nettles, the ground boggy, which discouraged passage by riders and possibly all but the local bears. Earlier, Cnán had caught the spoor of several of those. One, interestingly enough, appeared to have briefly tracked Istvan.
“A regular caravan,” Raphael observed. “Whom shall we greet first?”
Eleázar and Percival suggested they follow Istvan and not the tax collectors.
“We will meet with both soon enough,” Cnán said.
Raphael and Percival saw her meaning. The dense woods would soon bring quarry and prey together. Did Istvan truly believe he could outfight such a group?
Eleázar took this news glumly.
Percival nodded. “Istvan is our quarry. It matters not whom he hunts—for now.”
“He rides quickly,” Eleázar observed.
“And so will we, now that we’ve found his trail.”
Cnán had thought she knew the general lay of this country, but she was taken by surprise when the forest spread wide around a shallow oxbow. The greater width of riverbed was a long swale interrupted by mounds of boulders. The swale ran generally west to east, and their little party had fetched up along its southern verge. It did not have a bank as such, for the floodplain was broad, interrupted by a complicated plait of rain-fed streams and willow marsh.
The forest kept well back from this intermittent course, but several farmers had lately taken advantage of the rich soil, and of not having to clear trees, to lay out fields of green oats. They had plowed around the cromlech-like rocks and between the low, damp runnels thick with reeds.
It was late in the day. A warm breeze sprang up from the southwest, spreading waves across the reeds. A low habitation was visible on the opposite side of the river, about a verst away. There was no sign of human activity. Perhaps the locals had planted, then hid—from both tax collectors and war parties.
“There must be a ford we can use,” Raphael said, scanning up and down the bank.
“Let’s not linger,” Percival said. “No high vantage, lots of opportunities for sudden attack.”
Before them the riverbed was overgrown with tall, winding stands of reed and willows through which riders moving east or west, following sandy or shingled shallows, could pass unseen. Warriors, even mounted ones, could rely on scrub-hidden pickets and spring out with complete surprise. Higher banks and even low mounds complicated an already confused landscape—the worst place imaginable for tracking, finding, and avoiding surprises.
Cnán surveyed the skies above this tangle and spotted the greatest concentration of crows and other birds—starlings, blackbirds, even robins—wheeling to the east. No buzzards—yet. She sniffed the air, but the westerly breeze was unhelpful. “Horses and cows that way,” she said. “Another bigger farm, maybe. Birds pick the dung.”
Eleázar gave a low whistle. “Can you tell whether it’s cattle or horses from here?” he joked.
Cnán pursed her lips.
Percival rode between them, wheeled, and looked south into the trees from which they had only just emerged. “Devil’s own woods,” he said. “The fur traders must have crossed—and Istvan behind them. Let us go and find whatever ford they used.”
They arranged their tack and gear for a crossing.
“Istvan won’t fight us, will he?” Eleázar asked.
“Those hellish mushrooms—” Raphael began but didn’t finish his thought. Percival looked downriver, then spun his horse about and suddenly plunged ahead toward the sun-warmed side of a boulder pile.
The rest followed.
“There’s a war party on that hill,” he explained. “Thirty or forty of them. Sun’s in their eyes. Don’t see us yet, I hope. We’re the prey now.”
They skirted into the long shadow of the outcropping and gazed east through the sheltering fronds of tall reeds. Percival was right. The war party consisted mostly of Mongols, riding an assortment of horses.
“The main body, as Illarion predicted,” Eleázar said.
“Maybe. They’re going the same way we are—maybe even tracking us. We can’t go back.”
“Following Istvan too,” Raphael said, and it was difficult to tell whether this was meant as question or assertion.
Percival shook his head. “We can use these rocks to our own advantage—unless they track as well as Cnán. But we must warn Feronantus.” He struggled with a difficult decision: whom to send, whom to keep here to protect their guide and their doctor—whom to sacrifice. He stroked his horse’s neck, his brows drawn tightly together. “The last bloody thing we need is a pitched battle,” he said.