Free The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price Page B

of the hills. The dark sky above them was barely lighter. It could be that the Grannams wanted to lead them into that dark and narrow valley because they had laid an ambush there.
    Per’s mouth was clamped hard shut, his eyes wide as he stared into the dark. He breathed deep and felt close to trembling. Keen as he was to ride on, if he guessed wrongly here, he could get himself and every man with him killed. Or—nearly as bad—they could lose the Grannams and let them get away to boast that Sterkarm farms were easy targets.
    He glanced around at the dim, dark shapes near him: the men, sitting their horses, waiting—impatiently, scornfully, he thought—for his decision.
    Follow the Grannams into the valley, hoping that they were too intent on making their best speed to bother with an ambush? No. Even if he were killed, he couldn’t bear the thought that Andrea and his mother and father might learn that he’d been so stupid.
    Sending scouts to climb the slopes above the valley, to check for any sign of ambush, would mean waiting for the men to scramble up the steep slopes in the dark—and while they waited, the Grannams would be going on their way.
    He sat back in his saddle, rose again in impatience, sat again. Fowl turned restively. Quicker for the whole party to climb to the moors above the valley, since that was where the Grannams were headed, but they’d lose the trail in the valley. The sleuthhound might be able to cast about and pick it up again, but they’d be lucky to find it once they’d left it.
    No, better to follow the trail in the valley as far as they could. Even if they had to wait for the scouts, they could still travel faster than the Grannams, who were hampered with sheep. “Ecky! Sim!”
    The men urged their horses close to Fowl. The animals tossed their heads and long manes a little, but they were herd mates, and soon calmed. Briefly, Per explained what he wanted the men to do, but was disconcerted and irritated by the way they grinned through their beards and glanced at each other while he talked.
    Sweet Milk, watching and grinning himself, could see it was Per’s new, wide-eyed earnestness that amused them—and all the others. Some long-lived jokes were being prepared, at Per’s expense, for when they got back from the ride.
    Sim and Ecky gathered up their reins. Ecky reached out and flicked his fingers against Per’s chin, making him snatch back his head. Grinning, looking back over his shoulder, Ecky rode away after Sim.
    Sweet Milk brought his horse close to Fowl and, when Per looked around, gave a barely noticeable nod. Sweet Milk looked forward, when this miserable business was over, to telling Toorkild that the lad could spot an ambush before he fell into it, and pick the right men for the job. Toorkild would fly up into the rafters with pride.
    Per put his lance down on the turf and slipped down from Fowl’s back, to spare the horse his weight for a little while. He peered into the darkness, searching for any sign of his scouts’ movement. Around him other men dismounted. Some led their horses up and down. The cold became more noticeable as the waiting drew out.
    Per fidgeted, drawing his sword half from its scabbard and sliding it back again. In his mind he was with the scouts he’d sent forward, trying to gauge how far they’d traveled—and then with the Grannams, going forward at the slower pace of the stolen sheep. Had they reached the end of the valley yet? Had they climbed to the moors above? He wanted to bring back the farmer’s sheep, and at least a few of the men who’d stolen them and burned his farm.
    Fowl had been amusing himself by buffeting Per with his head, almost knocking him from his feet, but now he lifted his head, his ears up, and tugged at the reins about Per’s arm. Somewhere behind them the sleuthhound growled. Some sound that the men couldn’t yet hear had disturbed