There had still been little rain in the eastern hills; the grass was dry and the tender yellow leaves showered down at the touch of the hot wind in the trees. An empty stillness was on the land. The fields of stunted grain were deserted of harvesters and as the men and the girl on the pony approached, they roused herds of deer feeding on the ruined crops. Large flocks of ravens perched in the forest trees and on the chimneys of the deserted earth villages and rose reluctantly at the sight of the invading humans. Flann walked with his chin on his chest, lost in his thoughts, and even Barra’s chattering was joyless as though he, too, had no stomach for the desolate journey. A fearful stealth seemed to greet them at every clearing, the valleys filled with the dry rustling wind of the drought. Doireann thought with scorn of the Picts who hid in the mountains while their harvest spoiled. No Northman would come to attack them here, so far from the coast. Still, the party was spared the villagers’ endless questions and perhaps even their superstitious violence.
