Breacán knew it was going to be a bad day when he spied the towering rocks to either side of the trail. A perfect place for an ambush, he reckoned and he nervously scanned the surrounding rocks. There was a menacing silence that permeated the air and it made him nervous.
Sweat trickled from beneath the small helm covering his plaited black hair. The blueness of his eyes was muffled by the filtering of the light. With a firm grip on his axe, he took a few tentative steps forward.
A slight breeze brought the cloying scent of decay to his nostrils and he coughed. Bearing the weight of the scale mail jack that covered him neck to waist, he plodded on, the red and black kilt brushing at his knees. Thick leather boots made soft noises in the dry earth.
Breacán had endured discomfort and pain in his twenty four years of life. Having been trained from childhood in the path of the Fenia, he was adept at tracking and weaponry, able to move silently; to do tricks from a chariot. Solitude, however, was something he still had to get used to.
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