John Flanagan: Oakleaf bearers

A frown creased his forehead. Evanlyn had left well before noon to check the snares. Even allowing for the fact that they had moved the trapline farther and farther away from the cabin, she should have had time to reach the line, check the snares and return by now. She must have been gone for at least three hours-possibly more.

Unless she had already returned and, seeing him sleeping, had decided not to wake him. He stood now, his stiff joints protesting, and checked inside the cabin. There was no sign that she had returned. The game bag and her thick woolen cloak were missing. Will's frown deepened and he began to pace the small clearing, wondering what he should do. He wished he knew exactly how long she had been gone and silently berated himself for falling asleep. Deep down in the pit of his stomach, a vague uneasiness stirred as he wondered what could have become of his companion. He reviewed the possibilities.

She could have lost her way, and be wandering through the thickly growing, snow-covered pines, trying to find her way back to the cabin. Possible, but unlikely. He had blazed the paths leading to their trapline with discreet marks and Evanlyn knew where to look for them.

Perhaps she had been injured? She could have fallen, or twisted an ankle. The paths were rough and steep in places and that was a definite possibility. She might be lying now, injured and unable to walk, stranded in the snow, with the afternoon drawing on toward night.

The third possibility was the worst: she had encountered someone. Anyone that she ran into on this mountain was likely to be an enemy. Perhaps she had been recaptured by the Skandians. His pulse raced for a moment as he considered the thought. He knew they would show little mercy to an escaped slave. And while Erak had helped them before, he would be unlikely to do so again-even if he had the opportunity.

As he had been considering these possibilities, he had begun moving around the cabin, collecting his things in preparation for setting out to look for her. He had filled one of their water skins from the bucket of creek water that he brought to the cabin each day, and crammed a few pieces of cold meat into a carry sack. He laced on his thick walking boots, winding the thongs rapidly around his legs, almost up to the knee, and unhooked his sheepskin vest from the peg behind the door.

On the whole, he thought, the second possibility was the most likely. The chances were that Evanlyn was injured somewhere, unable to walk. The chance that she might have been retaken by the Skandians was very slim indeed, he realized. It was still too early in the season for people to be moving around the mountain. The only reason for doing so would be to hunt game. And it was still too scarce to be worth the trouble of fighting through the thick drifts of snow that blocked the way in so many parts of the mountain. No, on the whole, it was most likely that Evanlyn was safe, but incapacitated.

Which meant his next logical move would be to put a bridle and saddle on the pony and lead him along as he tracked her, so that she could ride back to the cabin once he found her. He had no doubt that he would find her. He was already a skilled tracker, although nowhere near the standard of Halt or Gilan, and tracking the girl through snow-covered territory would be a relatively simple matter.

And yet:he was reluctant to take the pony with him. The little horse would make unnecessary noise and a nagging doubt told Will he should proceed with caution. It was unlikely that Evanlyn had encountered strangers, but it wasn't impossible.

It might be wiser to travel unobtrusively until he found out the real state of affairs. As he came to this decision, he stripped the beds of their blankets, tying them into a roll that he slung over his shoulder. It might prove necessary to spend the night in the open and it would be better to be prepared. He picked up a flint and steel from near the fireplace and dropped it into one of his pockets.

Finally, he was ready to go. He stood at the door, taking one last look around the cabin to see if there was anything else he might need. The small hunting bow and a quiver of arrows leaned by the doorjamb. On an impulse, he picked them up, slinging the quiver across his back with the roll of blankets. Then another thought struck him and he crossed back to the fireplace, selecting a half-burned stick from the ashes.

On the outside of the door, he printed in crude letters: "Looking for you. Wait here."

After all, it was possible that Evanlyn might turn up after he had left and he wanted to make sure she didn't go blundering off, trying to find him while he was trying to find her.

He took a few seconds to string the bow. Halt's voice echoed in his ears: "An unstrung bow is just something extra to carry. A strung bow is a weapon." He looked at it disdainfully. It wasn't much of a weapon, he thought. But that and the small knife in his belt were all that he had. He moved to the edge of the clearing, picking up the clear trail of Evanlyn's footprints in the snow. They were blurred after a morning of spring sunshine, but they still showed up. Maintaining a steady trot, he moved off into the forest.

He followed her trail easily as it wound up into the higher reaches of the mountain. Before too long, his pace had dropped from the steady jog and he was walking, breathing hard as he went. He realized that he was in poor condition. There had been a time when he could have maintained that ground-eating lope for hours. Now, after barely twenty minutes, he was puffing and exhausted. He shook his head in disgust and continued to follow the footprints.

Of course, following the trail was made easier by the fact that he already had a good idea of the direction Evanlyn had been heading. He had helped her relocate the snares a few days earlier. At that time, he recalled, they had gone at an easier pace, resting frequently so as not to tire him out.

Evanlyn had been reluctant to allow him to walk so far, but had given in to the inevitable. She had no real idea how to place the snares where they might have the best chance of trapping small game. That was one of Will's areas of expertise. He knew how to look for and recognize the small signs that showed where the rabbits and birds moved, where they were most likely to poke their unsuspecting heads into the looped snares.

It had taken Evanlyn about forty minutes to reach the trapline that morning. Will covered the distance in an hour and a quarter, stopping more frequently as the time went on to rest and recover his breath. He resented the stops, knowing they were costing him daylight. But there would be no point pushing himself until he was utterly exhausted. He had to keep himself in condition to give Evanlyn any assistance she might need when he found her.

The sun had dropped over the crest of the mountain by the time he reached the blazed tree that marked the beginning of the trapline. He touched one hand to the cut bark, then turned to head off the track into the pines when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something that froze his heart in midbeat.

There was the clear imprint of a horse's hooves in the snow-and they overlay the tracks that Evanlyn had left. Someone had followed her.

Forgetting his weariness, Will ran, half crouching, through the thick pines to the spot where the first snare had been laid. The snow there was disturbed and scuffed. He fell to his knees, trying to read the story that was written there.

The empty snare first: he could see where Evanlyn had reset the noose, smoothing the snow around it and scattering a few grains of seed. So there had been an animal in the snare when she'd arrived.

Then he cast wider, seeing the other set of footprints moving into position behind her as she had knelt, engrossed in the task of resetting the snare and probably jubilant at the fact that they had caught something. The horse's tracks had stopped some twenty meters away. Obviously, the animal was trained to move silently-much as Ranger horses were. He felt an uneasy sense of misgiving at that. He didn't like the idea of an enemy who had those sorts of skills-and by now he knew he was dealing with an enemy of some kind. The signs of the struggle between Evanlyn and the enemy were all too clear to his trained eye. He could almost see the man-he assumed it was a man-moving quietly behind her, grabbing her and dragging her back through the snow.