Battle with MacHaddish

Chapter 17 Part 1

Just copying down the book for now... sorry! Skip to the first named (Horace) section for a small amount of original content, and the first Chapter 19 part for all new stuff

Note: the chapter numbers are congruent with the books, there aren't actually chapters 1 through 16 anywhere here, but they are written in the published book 6 of the Ranger apprentice series (as is 17)

So if you want more context, honestly just read the whole series

Or minimum books 5 and 6 as they are a duo-ology

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"Where the hell did he go?" Horace said. "I hardly took my eyes off him."

But Will was already crouching over the spot where the general had fallen, his eyes following the clear trail that the escaping Scotti had left in the new snow. As well as the footprints, now becoming difficult to see in the failing light, there was a bright red trail of blood drops. He started forward in pursuit, then hesitated, looking down the track to where the Skandians surrounded the surviving Scotti warriors.

Gundar was off to one side, being calmed down by the man who had dragged him away from the Scotti. Will wanted to make sure someone was left in charge of the prisoners.

"Hold him there, all right?" He called. He gestured to the warrior Horace had knocked out. "This one, too."

One of the Skandians stepped forward. To his surprise, Will recognised Nils Ropehander. The scar-faced man had been one of the first Horace had chosen for the ambush. In Horace's experience, men like Nils, at first cynical and reluctant, often became the most dependable followers once they were converted to a cause.

"You go after Blue Face, Ranger," he said now. "We'll keep an eye on these beauties until you get back."

Will nodded once, then plunged into the trees, closely followed by Horace. He had a moments hesitation when he realised he had left his bow by the side of the track, but he shrugged it off. In the close quarters of the forest, the bow would be next to useless. His saxe and throwing knife would be more suitable weapons in these conditions. 

He ran in a half crouch, frowning with concentration as he searched for MacHaddish's tracks in the snow. At first, the bright blood trail made progress easy, even in the near dark. But then the general must have realised he was leaving a trail a blind man could follow and bound the wounded hand to stop the flow. Probably in the massive tartan he wore round his shoulders, Will reflected.

He had no sooner had the thought than he saw the broken arrow shaft caught up in a bush to one side, where the Scotti had thrown it. Will winced as he saw it. The task of removing the arrow must have been agonising. 

Now, without the blood trail to follow, the task grew more difficult. In daylight, a tracker of Will's ability would be able to read the footprints in the snow without hesitation. But now it was almost full dark and he had to search more carefully.

In addition, he realised, MacHaddish was actively trying to throw them off the trail, at times standing still, then leaping as far as he could to one side or the other before continuing. At other times he laid false trails, heading off to the side for a dozen or so paces, then rapidly backtracking and either jumping or using overhanging branches or the occasional rock outcrop to change direction without leaving footprints. The Scotti had the luxury of being able to head in any direction he chose at any time, they were forced to move more slowly as they had to follow his footprints, which at times disappeared.

In normal light Will would has instantly detected the signs of backtracking - stepping backwards in the same footprints - and ignored the false trail, but at night, in winter, in the woods he had no choice but to follow the trail as he saw it.

He stopped as he came to a point where the trail twisted hard left. Instinct told him MacHaddich has laid another false trail here. He'd noticed the man seemed to instinctively return to the same general direction each time he threw out a false lead. He was heading north, for the border. And north was straight ahead, not the left. Wills was tempted to continue that way, ignoring the foot-prints angling off to the side. He could see a bare patch of rocks straight ahead, where MacHaddish could have headed to obliterate his tracks. In the intervening space, there was plenty of ground littler + fallen branches and leaves lying on the snow - that he could have used to conceal his trail. Probably, on the far side of the rocks, he was find the footprints resuming again.

But if he didn't find them there, if this were the real trail he would waste precious minutes locating it again in the dark. He hesitated, unsure of himself, sensing that the Scotti was drawing farther and farther away from them with each minute.

"Which way?" Horace asked, but Will instantly signalled for him to remain silent. He had heard something in the forest, ahead and to the right. He turned his head from side to side, trying to pick up the noise again. He cupped his hands behind both ears to capture the slightest sound that...

There! He could just head the sound of a body forcing it's way through the trees and tangled undergrowth. He had been right. The trail to the left was a false one, and now he saw how he could gain ground on MacHaddish. Not by looking for his trail, but by listening.