Battle with MacHaddish

Chapter 17 Part 2

Sorry for the wait, copying this over takes sooooo long!

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And in the same instant, he realised how he could conceal his approach from MacHaddish.

He beckoned Horace closer, pointing in the direction the sound had come from.

"He's gone that way," he whispered. "I can hear him. Follow behind me but stay back ten to twenty metres, and make a bit of noise, all right?"

Horace frowned. Will could see the question forming in his mind and answered it before his friend could ask.

"He'll hear you coming," he said, "but he won't hear me."

He saw understanding Horace's eyes and he plunged off into the woods again, hearing his friend resume the pursuit behind him. Horace stayed far enough back so that he didn't drown out the sound of MacHaddish shoving through the trees and bushes and now Will sensed that he was gaining on the fugitive. He redoubled his pace, the noises made by MacHaddish becoming cleared while those made by Horace faded slightly as Will widened the gap between him and his friend. 

This time, the Scotti's ignorance of  Ranger skills were working to Will's advantage. MacHaddish continued to plunge headlong through the undergrowth, not realising his pursuer was gaining on him, not realising that rangers could move through country like this making virtually no sound. Far behind, MacHaddish could hear occasional sounds as someone barged through the forest, and he could tell the sounds were becoming further away. But the sounds he could hear were coming from Horace, not Will. And Will was gradually closing in.

Then Horace, knowing what Will had in mind, had a flash of inspiration. He began calling encouragement to himself, shouting out vague directions and instructions. 

"There he goes! I see him! This way, lads!"

He said whatever came into his head. The words didn't matter, but the sound, the noise, was all important. Horace had the good sense not to shout continuously. He knew that might mask for the sound of MacHaddish's movement so he called out sporadically leaving well plenty of opportunity to listen to the Scotti's movement. He also began to intentionally stray from the direct line of pursuit to give MacHaddish impression that his hunter for losing track of the position of hardest friends voice and he smiled what he was doing.

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A hundred meters ahead of him MacHaddished smiled too. The shouting  was far away now, moving to the west and growing fainter. His pursuers were gradually losing contact. Yhe general pause for a moment in a small clearing, leaning against the bole of a tree. His arm throbbed painfully and his breath was ragged with exertion of his escape and the shock of the wound Carefully he unwound the blood-soaked out tartan from his wrist and examined the injury. He tried to flex his fingers. There was no movement. Shock had numbed the wound.

He tried again and this time but he felt a slight movement, which encouraged him. Then the numbness in his arm receded suddenly as he tried once more. A blinding flash of agony shot along the inside of his forearm. He gasped in pain and surprise, but he was encouraged nonetheless. Anything, even the pain,mwas better than that frightening lack of feeling. If his right hand was permanently crippled, that would be the end of him. Among the Scotti even generals had to take part in the hand to hand fighting. Trying to ignore the pain, he took a deep breath and looked up from the wounded hand. 

There was a shadow figure moving towards him, barely three meters away.

 MacHaddish's hand may have been crippled but his reflexes were still razor sharp. He reacted almost without thinking, hurling himself towards the dim figure. He saw the man's hand drop to his waist and realised he was reaching for a weapon. Again, in an instinctive decision MacHaddish realise his ruined right-hand be useless in combat.He lowered his shoulder and drove it into the cloaked figure.