The horses powerful haunches bunch beneath them as they attempt the steep descent. The loose grey slates and scree slither beneath their hooves, clattering together as the unstable hillside slowly begins to slide.
My men are tense, alert to the shifting rocks. Words are short and pointed. This descent tries even a skilled horseman. It is well that my men are almost as assured a-horse as I, the presence of the northmen in their bolt-hole forcing us in this wide arc around them, onto this difficult mountainous route.
At the bottom, the scree gives way to scrubby bushes, trying to find a hold on the bare rocky fragments, before opening out onto the brown North Downs. Winter, the grasses stand dead and drained of summer life, mutter to themselves like forgotton promises as the sharp north wind blows through them. As we ride on, faster on the firm ground, the grasses grow taller between rocky outcrops in the folded hidden dales around the old green route.
The man roars in rage, even as he half-falls from the low rock above us. This eagerness to engage us making his arms and legs flail between hand-holds and the pathetic weapon in his hand. His jerking movement like a cut-stringed puppet, spilling him to the ground. He is up on his feet instantly, running now, foam-flecked. An unlovely peasant made crude by his twisted mouth - the cry is part animal scream of challenge, part roar of maddened hatred.
He rushes towards us, the dull sickle in his hand waving wildly, driven by rage and not by skill. His eyes are white and wide, the cords of anger bulging at temple and neck.
My Hound leans a little from his horse and, with a lazy grace, swings his sword. The body scarce touches the earth before he observes drily,
'Seems we are getting close, my lord '.
