Free The Golden Flight by Michael Tod Page B

self-appointed chief. He turned up-trail and reached the Little Pool as a disappointed Malachite arrived from the other direction.
    Sitka reported what he had found.
    ‘Right,’ said Malachite, ‘just what I expected. They’ve sneaked away. That’s good news. Now we can have a proper hunt – I always enjoyed those. An exhilarating chase across country, overtake the quarry, surround them, outnumber them, then the Kill. Great sport! The quarry probably enjoys it too. Good fun all round. Who said natives are all bad? Follow me.’
    The Grey force followed Malachite along the scent trail, and through the Hazel Copse to the trees on the edge of the Dogleg Field where the trail had come to a dead end. They sniffed around, some going down to the ground where the horse droppings obliterated any more delicate scents, but even when searchers had ventured out into the field beyond the trees there was nothing to indicate which way the quarry had gone.
    ‘Crafty little tree-rats,’ Malachite declared. They must have back-tracked. We will rest for a while, then fan out and search either side of the trail. Someone wake me after High-sun.’
     
    Rowan kept looking over his shoulder, fearful that their trick with the horses might not have worked and they would soon hear the sounds of pursuit. He urged his party on, though they were making good time, all being strong and fit, with no very young or old squirrels to slow their progress. He would not be happy until they were safe on his Eyeland in the pool that was named after him – Rowan’s Pool. They would hide up there and, if they were found and attacked, they would have the advantage of being able to defend the Eyeland from firm ground while attackers would be wading ashore. All he needed now was a Woodstock.
    He scanned every clump of hazel and goat-willow as they followed humans’ pathways and old overgrown tramways across the Great Heath. He chose a route to the south of the direct line to his pool – he would overshoot and work back towards it with as many false trails as they could lay. These would help to confuse any possible pursuers.
    There were a lot of bushes on which honeysuckle was growing, but nowhere could he see the tight strangling spirals that forced the host plant to grow the bulging twists of wood that trapped the Life-Force and gave the Woodstocks their power. Most bines trailed loosely through the branches or, if they did twist, were too slack to affect the host. Twice he thought they were lucky but, on climbing up, he found that the honeysuckle had won the battle and strangled the life out of the hazel. The Woodstock that had once formed was now just a hollow of dead bark filled with fragments of rotten wood.
    In another place they found a rotted Woodstock lying on the ground. The success of the woodbine in killing its host had resulted in both the woodbine and Woodstock collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap.
    The squirrels checked briefly when the fresh scent of a fox drifted across their path, inducing Fox-dread.
    ‘Up off the ground,’ Rowan ordered, and they scurried up the nearest tree, a stunted pine. Hickory keeping just behind Bluebell. They were safe here, but they could not stay indefinitely. Rowan asked for two volunteers to join him in a scouting party to establish if the fox was far enough away for them to pass. He hoped they would not have to lose time by back-tracking.
    The entire party volunteered and he selected the twins, Rosebay and Willowherb to come with him. It was time these two came more to the fore. They tended to stay behind the others, always whispering to one another. Rowan explained his plan.
    They would drop to the ground, then work upwind following the scent. He would lead. The others were to keep him in view but stay well behind so that if he was ambushed they could report back. If this did happen, they were not to attempt a rescue – their job would be to inform the others.
    At ground level the scent was quite strong