Page 55 of Hold Me Fast
Or perhaps they thought the open moors would be less familiar to the villagers than their own fields, being ignorant city fools who did not know Jowan’s people.
Certainly, they had reckoned without the blanket bogs and valley mires that every villager who lived on the edge of the moors knew how to recognize and negotiate. Whenever the two managed to evade the hunt, all Jowan and his allies had to do was cover the heights and wait for one or the other to get caught as the grasses over the peat gave way and the bog beneath captured a boot or even both legs in liquid mud that oozed away whenever its victim struggled.
Every time, the man who had been trapped yelled—for help, or just in fear and surprise. So far, the boggy snares gave up their captives before one of the hunters could reach them, but it was only a matter of time. And so far, the St Tetha side had followed Jowan’s instructions not to use their guns. If Coombe still had any ammunition left—he had been shooting less regularly as the night wore on and had so far missed everyone he shot at—he would be most dangerous when cornered.
The full moon was at its zenith, but the mists had grown thicker. They could be at this all night unless something changed. But Coombe and the valet must be tiring faster than the St Tetha crowd. Quite apart from the energy sapped by the bogs, they were two city dwellers of sedentary habits.
The risk was that they’d make it to the edge of the moors at a time when none of the pursuers was close enough to prevent them from leaving, but so far, the hunt had driven them farther in.
Driving. That was a point. Up until now, they had not been herding Coombe and valet, but letting them set the direction. A destination popped into Jowan’s mind. “Let’s drive them towards Aermed’s Hollow,” he said to Bran.
Two other searchers who were close enough to hear turned to Jowan with a grin even as Bran chuckled. “Nice,” he said.
Legend said that Aermed’s Hollow had been created when a hero had fought a dragon there, to rescue the maiden Aermed. The hollow had been formed by the stroke of the hero’s sword that split the dragon nearly into two, and the rocky walls on to north, west, and south were, so the story said, the bones of the dragon. Certainly, a rock near the entrance to the little valley looked, from a certain perspective, like the skull of a dragon.
If the mist cooperated, and Coombe and his man could be pushed in the right direction, they would find themselves trapped with near vertical walls on all sides but one, and no way out past those who waited on that side. And the walls confined one of the deepest mires on the moor—one that would, after the recent rain, be even deeper than usual.
The men who had heard his plan drifted away into the mist to set the word spreading. Perhaps it was Jowan’s imagination, but a new sense of purpose hovered over the moor, and a rising triumph as the quarry took the paths left unguarded and avoided the villagers who let themselves be seen at carefully chosen locations.
It may have taken an hour, perhaps more, from the moment Jowan thought of Aermed’s Hollow to the moment Coombe, with his valet right behind him, stumbled through a thicker-than-usual patch of mist and found pursuers close behind them and walls on either side.
“Gotcha,” said Bran, in an undertone low enough that only Jowan could hear.
“I’m going to the far end,” Jowan told them. “Will you keep them moving till they are too far in to climb the walls?”
“Trust me and the lads for that,” Bran told him.
Jowan flashed him a smile. He could trust any of them, and Bran most of all.
He guided his horse through the tangle of rocks that marked the top of the hollow until he reached the far end. Below, he could hear Coombe and his valet bickering.
“It is a trap, Signore,” the valet complained.
“The walls grow wider,” Coombe snapped back.
“Twice you have said this, and each time…”
“Shut up,” Coombe ordered. “Damn. Another bog. Keep to the side, Marco. It is shallower at the edges.”
Not this time. In fact, from the sounds of them squelching in the mud, they had chosen the deepest side.
They were invisible in the heavy mist, but here on the heights the air was clear, and Jowan could see the villagers lined along the top of the cliffs to either side. They grinned at him, and he lifted his finger to his lips, enjoining silence, though in truth, none of them were making a noise.
“We must go back, Signore,” Marco whined.
“We would like that, wouldn’t we, men?” Bran replied from somewhere in the mist behind them, and a few others agreed.
“Forward,” Coombe ordered, his voice grim. Only a few paces farther, and they’d be up to their thighs. Deeper, perhaps, after the persistent rain of the past few days.
“Signore, it is too deep!” Marco was panicking. “I am sinking.”
The time for silence was over. “It gets deepest just under the cliff,” Jowan commented. “The one in front of you. There is no way out, Coombe. My men block the only exit. The cliffs are too steep to climb, and my men are lined along the tops of them. You are trapped.”
Coombe was silent for a long minute, then he yelled, “What do you want, Trethewey? Tammie? Let me out and I’ll promise to leave her alone.”
“Signore!” Marco sobbed.
“You cannot be trusted, Coombe,” Jowan replied. “Lying and cheating are your natural behaviors.”
