Together they lifted the second dead man and carried him to the stream, slipping the corpse into the slow-moving water as quietly as they could. Camlin grabbed the spear and with the butt-end pushed the body down into a snare of reed. Then they checked the area for any evidence of their having been there, Camlin emptying one of the dead men’s water skins over a pool of blood, diluting and dispersing it. Vonn picked up the straw man and slung him over his shoulder, then they were moving off into the reeds, shadowing the stream.

Camlin froze suddenly, turned and looked back.

‘What?’ Vonn hissed, hand going to his sword hilt.

Camlin stood still as stone, head cocked to one side, eyes scanning the twilight and mist that curled languorously amongst the shadows. All he could hear was the gentle flow of the stream. Then a splash, almost nothing.

More long moments listening, then he shrugged and walked on.

‘Wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Vonn muttered.

Camlin ignored him.

‘So what now?’ Vonn asked him.

‘Do it again,’ Camlin said. ‘They’ll be strung out in a loose line, but we’ll move faster than them. We’ll set up again in half a league or so, snare us some more scouts.’ With each trap Camlin had edged his way back towards the lake and Dun Crin’s ruins, imagining that Braith and his huntsmen would be inching their way ever so carefully inwards. So far he’d been right.

‘How many of them are there?’

‘Don’t know,’ Camlin shrugged. ‘At least ten, probably closer to a score.’

‘What if they come in bigger groups?’

‘Doubt it. Braith always sent us out in twos – enough to watch each other’s backs, not too many to make a racket or leave a trail.’

‘How do you know where to put the straw man?’

‘Don’t know,’ Camlin said. ‘Just a feeling, mostly.’

‘Most of this is guesswork, isn’t it?’ Vonn said.

‘And a bit of luck.’ Camlin grinned back at him.

Dawn came damp and grey. Camlin emptied his bladder, prodded Vonn awake and checked their straw man.

Just before full dark he’d found a spot that felt right. A cluster of alders beside a stream, a gentle rise in the land screened by a snarl of dogwood and briar.

‘C’mon then,’ Camlin grunted. He leaned the spear against an alder, adjusted the straw man so he appeared to be sleeping, then picked up his bow, slung his quiver over his shoulder and headed off towards the cover of the dogwood. He heard Vonn’s footsteps padding behind him.

They settled behind the bushes, Camlin stabbing arrows into the spongy turf, and waited. Time was hard to measure, the clouds too thick and bloated for any sign of the sun. ‘What do you think about that mad bird?’ Vonn asked him as he strung his bow.

‘Craf?’