Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon Page B

have time to fit another arrow.
    ‘I see him. Spread out. Don’t let him get around our flanks.’
    A fallen tree blocked Wayland’s path. The trunk was too high to hurdle, too long to run around. He vaulted up, and as he gathered himself to spring down the other side, a blow between his shoulders knocked him over.
    ‘Got him! Hit him fair and square!’
    Wayland sprawled winded on the far side. He knew he’d been hard hit. The fact that he felt no pain meant nothing. He’d seen deer shot through the heart run a hundred yards before their legs folded. He spat dirt from his mouth and staggered on, his breath sawing in his throat. The ground fell steeply towards the edge of the ravine and he had to brake his descent by grabbing at trees. A dead birch snapped off in his hand. Arms flailing, he careered down the slope. The mouth of the ravine rushed up towards him. He threw himself on his side and tobogganed feet first through the mulch. His right knee hit a stump with a sickening wrench. He clawed his hands into the earth and managed to halt only a few feet from the drop. He turned and saw four Normans on foot slip-sliding down the slope. When he stood, the pain in his knee made his leg buckle. He abandoned his plan to climb down into the gorge and lie up until nightfall.
    He limped right, downstream, towards the Pot. The cliffs upstream of the pool leaned close together and for as long as he could remember the gap had been bridged by a fallen ash. He remembered his mother’s fright when she’d found him and Edith playing dare in the middle of the bridge. That had been years ago. By now the tree might have rotted and collapsed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the mounted Normans keeping pace with him on the crest of the slope.
    The tree was still there, carpeted with mosses and bracketed with fungi. Wayland looked back to see how much time he had left. Even wounded and lame, he’d outpaced the dismounted soldiers. He felt his back. The bolt had penetrated his pack. His hand came away sticky with blood. The wound must be fatal, but it seemed important that he use his remaining strength to drag himself out of his hunters’ reach. It was the instinct of a mortally wounded animal.
    The shouts of the soldiers grew louder. The horsemen above wereguiding them. One of them stopped and took aim with his crossbow. Wayland watched him as if trapped in a dream. The bolt leaped from the track. He dived headlong and heard it fizz past and splinter on the other side of the gorge. He hauled himself onto the trunk. The spongy wood came away in handfuls. Fifty feet below, the river spouted into the black waters of the Pot where he’d recovered his sister’s body.
    Ignoring the pain in his leg, he crossed the tree at a delicate run. As he jumped off, another bolt tugged at his sleeve. On this side of the gorge the forest understorey was choked with holly and hazel. He threw himself into cover and dragged himself up the slope until he reached the base of an alder. He sprawled against it, sobbing with exhaustion and pain. He felt sick and light-headed and guessed that he’d lost so much blood that he would soon pass out. The dog nuzzled him and then began to lick at his back. Wayland was so shocked that he smacked it across the jaws. It retreated and lay down with its head couched on its legs, watching him with unblinking reproach.
    Wayland could read the dog’s mind. Tentatively, he felt for the pack. Strange. He expected it to be pinned to his back, but it moved freely. He reached over his shoulder, took hold of the crossbow bolt and pulled. The pack lifted. Understanding struck. He threw back his head and laughed. Unnerved by the strange sound, the dog moved away and curled up at a distance.
    Wayland struggled out of the pack. The lower part was sopping with blood. He could smell its sickly odour. He unlaced the pack, dug his hand into it and scooped out a handful of bloody porridge. The gore came from the boar they had