He followed the tracks all the way to the border stone. He could see the boar about fifty yards in front of him. It was right there, hardly inside the English territory at all.
He could fire an arrow and the beast would be dealt with before anyone knew what was happening. He wouldn’t even have to cross the border. Leave the corpse for the English to deal with.
The boar was snuffling amongst thistles, not looking his way. It truly was a monster, covered in dried mud that looked much like plate armor. Would one arrow be enough? He had his sword ready if charged. Once it was in Scotland, all wagers were moot.
He drew his bow, closing his left eye, the world turning still and silent. One slow breath, then a second. On the third he loosed his fingers.
The arrow flew straight for the boar’s head. At the last possible moment it shifted position and the arrow embedded itself in the beast’s flank.
The boar did not fall. It roared, looking for the source of its discomfort. Lennox stood up, getting ready.
The beast began thundering his way. He held his nerve, waiting as the ground began to shake under him. "Come on," he muttered. "Let’s end this."
With his sword drawn he braced himself. Another second and the boar would be upon him. Taking a deep breath, he tensed, ready to strike. The boar shifted left at the last second, seeing the sword sweeping toward it.
He lashed out but only caught it a glancing blow to its flank as it ran by, the beast surprisingly fast for its size. It skidded to a halt about ten yards past him, twisting around to run straight back.
He braced himself, sword ready, knees bent. Just as the boar reached him, he swung, bringing the blade down but the boar had already learned his technique. It shifted its shoulder, avoiding the blade while catching him with a tusk, sending him flying into the air.
He landed with a thump, seeing the boundary stone inches in front of him. The boar shook itself, freeing its tusk from his flesh. Blood dripped from it as the beast roared, stinking breath hitting Lennox’s nostrils, making him queasy.
His sword was some distance away. He’d dropped it when the boar pierced his shoulder. What could he do?
The beast thumped its right foot into the ground, scraping at the dirt, taunting him. Then it lowered its head and ran at him. There was no time to do anything. He was going to die.
The boar hit him but there was no strength to its movement. He looked up, frowning. Two arrows stuck out of the boar’s head. What had happened?
Lennox glanced around, his heart sinking as he saw three English archers emerging from a copse of willow trees to his left.
"MacGregor," one of them shouted, the other two pointing their bows directly at him. "You breach the treaty by entering England and hunting our boar. Walk over here now."
Lennox pushed himself out from under the dead beast, grunting with the effort.
"The truce holds," he shouted back as he got to his feet. "I was tossed over the border by yon beast there."
"Tell your excuses to the king. I will say it only once more. Come over here to face justice or be struck down where you stand."
Lennox took one look at them and then made his decision. He turned to run, ducking low and zigzagging left and right as he went, making sure he was never in a straight line for more than a second at a time.
Arrows flew past him as he went. He only had to make it a few more yards and then the woods would protect him. The woods favored the Highlanders.
An arrow whistled past his scalp. He did not stop. Diving forward, he rolled down the hillside and into the wood, his lungs burning from the effort.
He could hear them yelling behind him. As he disappeared into the trees, he spotted a bog and leaped straight into it, dipping down until only his nose and eyes broke the surface of the brackish water. He scooped up filthy leaves and draped them over his head. It would not hide him for long but hopefully it would do.
The English archers crashed past. "He went this way," one shouted.
"The tracks have gone. We should go back. If we should get caught on their land-"
"We say we got lost and had no idea we’d crossed the border."
"The truce though, what of it?"
"We have a Highlander to hunt. Balls to the truce."
They ran on, their voices slowly fading away. Ross waited a quarter of an hour before climbing out, listening hard as he did so just in case. There was only silence.
Once he was certain he was alone, he examined the wound to his shoulder. The bleeding had stopped. That was lucky. The tusk had dug deep but he’d suffered far worse before.
