The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Nine

In the early-morning sunlight the clanswomen stripped the Aenir dead of all weapons and dispatched those warriors still clinging to life. Caswallon walked into the forest with many others of the attacking party, stopping at a fast-moving stream and removing his blood-covered clothes.

The night’s work had appalled the new War Lord. More than six hundred Aenir warriors had been butchered in their sleep; it was no way for a man to die.

Caswallon stepped into the stream, shivering as the icy mountain water touched his skin. Swiftly he washed, then returned to the bank, sprawling out alongside Leofas and the young raven-haired warrior Onic, the finest quarterstaff fighter in the mountains.

“A fine night,” said Leofas, grinning. Stripped of his clothing, the old warrior looked even more powerful. His barrel chest and muscular shoulders gave evidence of his great strength, yet his belly was flat and taut, the muscles of the solar plexus sharp and clean.

“It was a victory, anyway,” said Caswallon wearily.

“You’re a strange man, Caswallon,” said Leofas, sitting up and slapping the younger man between the shoulder blades. “These swine have come upon us with murder and rape and now, I sense, you regret last night’s slaughter.”

“I do regret it. I regret it was necessary.”

“Well, I enjoyed it. Especially watching you gut that tall son of a whore.”

A group of clanswomen, led by Maeg, came to the stream carrying clean clothes for the men. Caswallon dressed, and spotted Taliesen sitting on a fallen tree; the War Lord joined him in the sunshine.

“There is the smell of death in this forest,” said Taliesen. “It reeks of it.” The druid looked impossibly old, his face ashen, the skin dry. His cloak of feathers hung limply on his skeletal shoulders, the colors faded and dust-covered. “But still, you did well, War Lord.”

Caswallon sat beside the old man. “Who are you, druid? What are you?”

“I am a man, Caswallon. No more, no less. I was a student centuries ago and I joined the trek from the stars to see more of life. I wanted to learn the origins of man. The Gates were a means to an end.”

“And what are the origins of man?”

Taliesen chuckled, his tired eyes showing a glint of humor. “I don’t know. I never will. My teacher was a great man. He knew the secrets of the stars, the mysteries of the planets, and the structure of the Gates. And yet, he never learned the origins. Together we journeyed and studied, and ever the great mystery eluded us. I sometimes fear the cosmic force I cannot see, and he laughs at me in my vanity.

“My teacher, Astole, became a mystic in a far land. It happened soon after the Prime Gate failed. You see, we could never travel back far enough, anywhere, to find the first man. The Gates would always be pushed back. Wherever we went, there was a man, developed to some degree. Several hundred years ago I developed a theory of my own, and I left Astole in the deserts of his world and journeyed to a northern land, a Highland kingdom. The people there were under threat, even as you are, and I led them to the Farlain to watch them grow and to see how they would develop. I thought the development would assist my studies.”

“And did it?” asked Caswallon.

“No. Man is a singularly irritating creature. All that happened was that I grew to love the people of the Farlain. My studies were ruined anyway two hundred years ago, when the last of my people wed into the race. We had no women, you see, and every man needs companionship. I recruited many of their children, and so the order survives, but many of those now practicing the skill do not appreciate any longer the… arts behind the machines.

“You, Caswallon, are of my race. You are the great-grandson of the daughter of Nerist. A bright man was Nerist. He alone of all my pupils said we would never reopen the Great Gates. You cannot understand the awful sense of separation and loss we experienced when those gates closed. You see, what happened was an impossibility.”

“Why should it be impossible?” asked Caswallon. “All things have a beginning and an ending.”

“Indeed they do. But when you play with time, Caswallon, you create circles. Think of this: Today you will see the last of the Middle Gates. Today. Now. You will gaze upon it, and your people-our people-will pass through it. But tomorrow, let us say, the Gate disappears. We are worried at first, but then we think: It was there yesterday. Therefore we step through a Lesser Gate into yesterday. What should we find?”

“ The other Gate should once again be there,” said Caswallon.

“Aye, it should-for we saw it yesterday… passed through it. But that is the mystery, my boy. For when the Great Gates disappeared, they vanished throughout time. Impossible, for it does not correspond with reality.”

“You told me,” said Caswallon, “that magic was impossibility made reality. If that is true, there should be no problem accepting the reverse. What happened to your Gates was simply reality made impossibility.”

“But who made it happen?”

“Perhaps someone is studying you, even as you study us,” said Caswallon, smiling.

Taliesen’s eyes gleamed. “Astole believed just such a thing. I do not.”

At that moment Gaelen entered the clearing, calling Caswallon’s name. The War Lord leaped to his feet, opening his arms as the young man ran to him. They stood there for several moments, hugging each other. Then Caswallon took hold of Gaelen’s shoulders and gently pushed him away.

“Now, you’re a sight to ease my mind,” said Caswallon.

“And you. Deva and I thought to find you cut to pieces by the Aenir. We saw you from the peaks yonder.”

“Just for once we out-thought them. You look tired, and there is dried blood on your tunic.”

We’ve been chased over the mountains for three days.”

“But you came through.”

“You taught me well.”

Caswallon grinned. “Where is Deva?”

“Upstream, washing the grime from herself.”

“Then you do the same. Much as I am glad to see you, you smell like a dead fish. Away with you!”

Caswallon watched the young man walk to the stream and his eyes glowed with pride. Taliesen stood beside him. “He is a fine young man. A credit to you.”

“ A credit to himself. You know, Taliesen, as I carried him on my back from the destruction of Ateris I wondered if I was being foolish. His wounds were grievous-and he was all skin and bone anyway. My legs ached, and my back burned through every step. But I’m glad I didn’t leave him.”

“He is tough,” agreed the druid. “Oracle did well to heal him.”

“Yes. I hope the old man survived the assault.”

“He did not,” said Taliesen.

“How do you know?”

“Let us leave it that I know. He was a strong man, but vain.”

“That is not much of an epitaph,” said Caswallon.

“It is the best I can offer. Now get the clan ready. We must cross the bridge before dusk.”

Almost six thousand people thronged the shoreline as the sun cleared noon. Silence fell upon them as a druid appeared on the island’s shore, some forty yards across the foaming water. He tied a slender line to a sturdy pine, then looped the long coil over his shoulder and stepped out on the water. A gasp rose from the watchers, for the man was walking several feet above the torrent. After some twenty paces he stopped, reaching down, and stroked the air in a vertical line by his feet. Then he looped the twine around the invisible post and walked on. This he did every twenty paces, and amazingly the twine hung in the air behind him. Slowly the man made his way to the waiting clan, stopping to tie the end of the twine to a small tree. Then he approached Taliesen and bowed.

“Welcome, lord, it is good to see you again. How many of the clan survived?”

“Just under six thousand. But there could be more hidden in the mountains.”

“And the Pallides?”

“No one knows. But the Haesten were crushed, and I don’t doubt many lesser clans were annihilated.”

“Sad news, lord.”

The druid, who seemed almost as ancient as Taliesen, turned to Caswallon. “You will instruct your people to hold on to the twine and follow it. There is no danger, and the path is wide enough to make a line of five men. Let them approach slowly. All children to be carried. If anyone falls they are dead. They will be carried over Attafoss within seconds. Instruct your people.”

Caswallon was the first to cross, the clan filing slowly behind him. It was an uncanny sensation, placing weight upon solid air. He soon found it inadvisable to look down, for his sense of balance threatened to betray him.

Behind him the clan followed in silence and there were no mishaps.

Once on the island the clan spread out and pitched their camps. They found dried meat and fruit waiting for them, sacks of grain and oats, bags of salt, and huge tubs of honey, warm blankets and soft hides: all the product of Caswallon’s land that had so mysteriously disappeared the previous autumn.

Caswallon himself called a War Council and they met in a cavern beneath Vallon’s highest hill.

At the center of the cavern was a long table of pine, around which were fifty chairs. These were soon filled. Caswallon took his place at the head of the table, flanked by Leofas and his sons Lennox and Layne; beside them sat Gwalchmai and Gaelen, and beyond them Onic and the pick of the Farlain warriors.

“Before we begin,” Caswallon told them, “there is a matter to settle. It is our custom to elect our leaders. Most of the Council were slain with Cambil in the valley. We here now constitute a new Council. I offer myself as War Lord, but if there is any here with a hankering to lead, let him speak.”

No one stirred.

“It is accepted then that I lead the Farlain until this war is concluded?”

“Of course it is, Caswallon. Do you think us fools?” said Leofas.

“Very well. Then let us begin the real business of the day. How best can we hurt the enemy?”

Asbidag gazed at the ruin that had been his son. Maggots writhed in the dead flesh, and the sharp beaks of crows had torn at the body, but still it was recognizable as Ongist. In full armor, his helm held in his hands, Asbidag stood before the tree soaking in the sight, feeding his fury and his hatred. Behind him stood Drada and Tostig and beyond them twenty-five thousand Aenir warriors.

Asbidag felt no remorse, no sadness at the death of his child. He had not liked Ongist; he liked none of his offspring. But the boy had been his: blood of his blood. He could hear him praying for vengeance at the door of the Grey God’s hall.

Through his anger he felt frustration. How could he wreak vengeance upon the clans? Already his armies had slain four thousand. Many were the blood-eagles decorating the countryside. But he wanted-needed-more.

The clans feared him now, but terror was his desire.

He turned to Tostig.

“Fetch Agnetha from Aesgard. Do it now.”

The color drained from the warrior’s face and he thought of asking his father to send another. But Asbidag’s eyes were cold and distant and Tostig knew from experience that he was on the edge of a killing frenzy. He nodded and backed away to his horse.

Drada stood silently as his brother departed. He had scouted the hill where Maggrig made his stand, and had received reports from the foresters as to the ploy the Pallides used. It was a clever plan, but it would have failed against any captain less impetuous than Ongist. Maggrig had gambled the lives of his people on one perilous venture, and he had succeeded. But it proved the measure of the man, and Drada knew he could best him when next they met.

Two serious errors had been made by Maggrig. On the night of the first attack he had led his warriors on a suicidal charge to protect a few women and children, and now he had staked everything on one battle. He was obviously a man ruled by his heart.

Drada hoped his success would make him bold.

Asbidag stalked from the tree, and several warriors moved forward to cut down the body, preparing it for the funeral pyre on the hillside.

Drada joined his father in the black tent at the base of the hill. Asbidag was drinking heavily, and Morgase sat in the background saying nothing. “We will not catch the Pallides before they link with the Farlain,” said Drada.

“Good,” said Asbidag. “I want them all together.”

“Do you want to press on today?”

“No, we will wait for Agnetha.”

Drada left his father and wandered through the camp to where his own tent had been pitched. Once inside, he stripped off his armor and spread his blankets upon the ground. It was early yet, but weariness was upon him and he slept through the afternoon. He awoke to the smell of cooking meat. One of his carles brought him a platter of beef and some bread and he joined the men outside.

For the first time in many years these fierce warriors were fighting not for gold, nor women, nor glory but for land. And he sensed the difference in them.

“It will not be easy,” said his carle captain Briga, a swarthy black-haired veteran who had been Drada’s first Aenir tutor.

“Nothing worth having comes easy,” Drada told him.

The man grinned. “They fight well, these clansmen.”

“Did you expect less?” Drada asked him.

“Not after the Games.”

“No.” Drada finished his meal and returned to his tent. Briga watched him go. He had been Drada’s carle captain for five years, and before that his sword master. He liked the boy; he was unlike his brothers, but then he had been brought up as a hostage in a foreign city and upon his return was less Aenir than foreigner. He was soft, and his learning sat heavily upon him. Asbidag had made him Briga’s charge.

In the years that followed Drada had learned of battle and death, horror and hate. But blood had run true and he had become, outwardly at least, as much an Aenir as his brothers. Only Briga knew of the lack.

Drada did not love war. He loved the planning of war.

Briga did not care. He sensed that Drada would one day rule the Aenir, and he waited patiently for the day to come.

The Aenir warriors were anxious to push on, but Asbidag gave no orders to move. For ten days they remained in camp until, on the morning of the eleventh day, Tostig rode in alone, reining his lathered mount outside his father’s tent. Asbidag hauled him from the saddle, eyes blazing.

“Where is the witch woman?” he stormed. “If you have failed me I’ll kill you! Your body will hang on the same tree as your brother.”

“She is coming, Father, I swear it. She refused to ride, said she would come in her own way.”

Asbidag hauled him to his feet. “She had better,” he hissed.

At midnight, as the fires burned low, a bitter wind blew up, flashing sparks from the coals. Men shivered as dark clouds obscured the stars and Asbidag, sitting alone before his tent, drew his red cloak around him. A shadow fell across him, and glancing up, he saw the old woman standing before him leaning on a staff. She was as grotesque as ever-almost bald, the remaining greasy white patches of hair hanging like serpents to her emaciated shoulders. Her teeth were broken and black, and her face adorned with wrinkled, leathery skin, as if her skull had shrunk to half its size, leaving the flesh around it to sag monstrously. She wore a matted cloak of human scalps and her tattered gown was said to have been made from the skins of flayed maidens. Asbidag believed it to be true.

“What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice a sibilant hiss.

“Terror among the clans.”

“You have brought terror to the clans. What do you want of me?”

“I want your sorcery.”

“And what will you offer the Grey God?”

“Whatever he asks.”

Her eyes gleamed. “Whatever?”

“Is your hearing going, woman? Whatever!”

“A hundred virgins slain by midsummer.”

“You shall have it.”

“And seven of your strongest men slain tonight.”

“My men?”

“Yours. And I’ll need your war dogs. Bring them to the woods in an hour.”

Asbidag’s carles roamed the camp until the seven men had been chosen, bound, and gagged. Together with the Aenir Lord’s Hunt Master Donic, and his seven hounds, they were taken to a circular clearing within the woods. Asbidag was waiting there with Drada, Morgase, and Tostig; the woman, Agnetha, sat close by on a round boulder.

The bound men were forced to kneel before the woman and she waved away Asbidag’s carles who returned, relieved, to the camp. Agnetha called Donic forward, ordering him to set each dog before a bound man. He did so, then ran back to his blankets and the guttering fire behind Asbidag’s tent.

In the clearing the kneeling men were sweating freely as they stared into the eyes of Asbidag’s hounds. Agnetha glanced at the Aenir lord and nodded.

“Kill!” he shouted.

The hounds lunged forward, ripping at the exposed throats before them.

Agnetha ran along the line of dying men, hurling a grey misty powder over them and chanting. One by one the dogs sank to the earth, their teeth embedded in the flesh of the slain men. The witch woman lifted her arms to the night sky, screaming the name of the Grey God over and over again.

“Vatan! Vatan! Vatan!”

By her feet the hounds began to writhe and swell, while the Aenir corpses twisted and shriveled. Morgase turned away. Drada swallowed hard, flicking a glance at his father. Asbidag was grinning. Tostig squeezed shut his eyes.

Within seconds the dead warriors were bone-filled husks, while the hounds had grown to triple their size. Their front paws had stretched into taloned fingers, and their dark fur-covered forms parodied men-long muscular legs, deep powerful chests, and round heads ending in elongated maws and sharp fangs.

Agnetha danced around them, bidding them rise. Releasing the empty husks, the beasts pushed themselves to their feet, red eyes scanning the clearing. Their gaze fell upon Asbidag and their howling rent the night. Tostig stepped backward in terror and fell. Morgase gripped Drada’s arm.

“Is this what you wanted, Asbidag?” said Agnetha.

“Yes.”

“Once unleashed they can never be brought back. They will follow no one. They are created out of hate and they will kill any man they find, be he Aenir or clan. Is this what you want?”

“Yes, curse you! Just send them north.”

“They will go where they will. But I will send them north. Have you done with me now?”

“I have.”

“Remember your promise, Asbidag. One hundred maidens by midsummer. Or the werehounds will hunt you. ”

“Don’t threaten me, hag,” thundered Asbidag.

The woman cackled and turned to the silent beasts. Lifting her arm, she pointed north and the ghastly pack loped away into the darkness.

Asbidag walked forward, pushing his boot against a shriveled corpse. A dried bone split the skin and fell to the grass. He shook his head and began to laugh.

Agnetha stopped him, placing her bony hand upon his arm. “What is so amusing?”

“This,” he answered, pushing the corpse once more. “This was Anias, son of my brother Casta. Only yesterday I told him he was empty-headed. Now his body matches his head.”

Drada approached Agnetha. “How can those things live?”

“In the same way as you, Lord Drada. They breathe and they eat. It is an old spell, and a fine one, taught to me by a Nadir shaman in another age.”

“But what are they now, hounds or men?”

“They are both-and neither.”

“Do they have souls?”

“Do you?”

“Not anymore,” said Drada, gazing down at the corpses.

The pack made their first kill that night, drifting silently through the pine forests in the northwest. The leader’s head came up, nostrils flaring in the breeze. His red eyes turned to the northeast and he led the group deeper into the trees.

A young Haesten clansman and his two daughters were hidden in a cave. Having escaped the assault on their valley, they had met a Farlain scout who told them to head for Vallon. The clansman traveled by night carrying his youngest child, a girl of six years. His other daughter was eleven and she walked beside them. On this night, exhausted and hungry, they had made an early camp in the pine woods after spotting the Aenir army to the south.

The man had fallen into a light sleep when the werebeasts struck and he died without a struggle, his eyes flaring open to see wide jaws lined with fangs flashing toward his face. He had no time to scream.

His elder daughter, Jarka, took hold of her little sister and sped from the cave-only for talons to lance into her back, dragging her to a stop. In the last moment of her young life, Jarka hurled her sister into the undergrowth. The child screamed as she crashed through the bushes; then she was up and running, the awful sound of howling echoing behind her.

For an hour or more the beasts fed, then they slept by the remains of their kill. At dawn they left the cave, their hunger not totally appeased.

The leader dropped to all fours, sniffing at the earth around the cave. His head came up as the breeze shifted. And they set off in pursuit of the child.

Maggrig was angry. An hour before he had been furious. Caswallon had calmly told him that the clans would fight as one, and the one would be led by Caswallon. Maggrig could not believe his ears. The two men had been alone in a tiny cell, the bedchamber of a druid. Caswallon sat beside Maggrig on the narrow cot outlining his plans.

“I have plans of my own,” said the Pallides’ chieftain. Caswallon had been dreading this moment and took a deep breath.

“I know it is hard for you, but think about it deeply. The death toll among the clans has been enormous. I have perhaps four thousand fighting men, you have eight hundred. Even together we are no match for one fighting wing of the Aenir army.”

“I accept that, Caswallon. But why should you lead? What experience do you offer? Great Gods, man, you’ve turned down responsibility all your life! Granted you’ve led us here, and our women and children are safe. But to lead in war calls for more than that.”

“It calls for a cool head,” said Caswallon.

Maggrig grunted. “You’ll not lead the Pallides.”

“Let me make this clear to you. You are on Farlain land, under the protection of the Farlain clan. If you do not accept me, then I will require you, and all your people, to leave tomorrow.”

“And where would we go?”

“Wherever you choose. Those that remain will follow me without question.”

“You would really do this thing? Turn out women and children to be slaughtered by the Aenir?”

“I would.”

“What have you become, Caswallon? I mean, I’ve always liked you, boy. You were different, yes; but you were a clansman. Now you sit here and calmly say you would sacrifice my people for your ambition?”

“No, that is what you are saying,” Caswallon told him. “During the Games you made an agreement with Laric that you would support him in any war-as long as you became War Lord. You reached that decision on the grounds that your men outnumbered the Haesten. That argument should surely still apply, can you not see it? If I were to agree that you lead, then most of the Farlain men would quit and go; they would not follow you.”

“You think the Pallides would follow you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What makes you so different?”

“I am your son by law, for I wed your daughter. That gives me the rights of a Pallides warrior. They cannot argue.”

“All right,” said Maggrig at last, “I will follow you. But only as long as I think you are right.”

“No,” said Caswallon. “You will take my hand and swear allegiance to me as War Lord. You will offer me your life, as your carles have done for you.”

“Never!”

“Then prepare your people to move.”

Maggrig had stormed from the room seeking Intosh and together they walked among the trees of Vallon, avoiding the dark entrance to the Druids’ Hall. Maggrig emptied himself of fury, his words tumbling over one another as he poured scorn on his son-in-law, the Farlain, the Druids, and the One Angry God for bringing him to this pass.

Intosh remained silent, merely walking beside his lord and absorbing his words. Finally exhausted, Maggrig stopped and sat by the water’s edge, staring into the torrent. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“Of what?” answered the swordsman.

“Where can we go?”

“There is nowhere.”

“We could go north,” said Maggrig.

“And fight the Dunilds, the Loda, and the Sea Clans?”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Agree to serve Caswallon.”

“Are you serious?”

“He has done well.”

“I know that-and all credit to him. But to serve my own son-in-law

…”

“He has the power,” said Intosh, shrugging. “It makes sense.”

“He demanded I swear the vassal oath.”

“You would have done the same.”

“That’s not the point,” snapped Maggrig.

“No, Hunt Lord?”

An hour later Maggrig swore the vassal oath and was amazed his tongue did not fall out.

That same afternoon Caswallon and Maggrig led the women and children of the Pallides into the Druids’ Hall entrance and down into the broad underground chamber housing the Middle Gate.

Maggrig blinked. At the end of the hall was a black marble archway. Yesterday a solid wall of stone had stretched between the pillars. Now that wall was gone and the Pallides Hunt Lord gazed down on the first valley of the Farlain, where already men and women were pitching tents and felling trees for shelter. The archway was twice the height of a man and ten paces across. The two men stood in the Gateway looking down on the valley. Within paces of them a tall pine was waving in the breeze, but no breath of wind touched their faces.

“Where are the Aenir?” asked Maggrig as his people bunched behind him, looking down in wonder.

“That is the Farlain ten thousand years ago,” said Caswallon.

Maggrig’s eyes widened. “This is sorcery, then?”

“It most certainly is,” Caswallon told him.

Maggrig stepped through the Gateway, flinching as rushing colors blinded him momentarily. Caswallon walked through behind him, waving the women to follow.

On the other side the breeze was cool, the sunlight warm and welcoming.

“It is not possible,” whispered Maggrig, watching his people materialize from the air. From this side there was no sign of the Gate, only the rolling green countryside.

Caswallon led the Pallides down into the meadow where Leofas was supervising the building work. “I’m glad to see he survived,” said Maggrig. “He always was the best of the Farlain.” The old warrior grinned as he saw Maggrig, stepping forward to grip the Hunt Lord by the hand.

“So you got here, you dog,” said Leofas.

“Did you expect a few Lowlanders to stop me?”

“Certainly not. I expected you to chase the swine from our lands, leaving nothing for the Farlain to do.”

“I was tempted,” said Maggrig with a broad grin.

Caswallon left the men talking and sought out Gaelen; he found him chatting to Deva by the river’s edge. Apologizing for disturbing them, Caswallon led Gaelen up into the timberline and they sat beneath the pines.

“I want you to do something for me,” said Caswallon, “but it is hazardous.”

“Name it,” said Gaelen.

“Don’t make hasty judgments. I want you to take some men and head back into the Haesten, gathering as many warriors as you can. I want you to bring them to Axta Glen in three weeks.”

“Why the glen?”

“It is there we will tackle the Aenir.”

“But that is open ground.”

“I know. Have faith in me. I am hoping there will be upward of a thousand clansmen still in hiding. I have sent messages to the Dunilds, the Loda, and many other smaller clans, but I don’t know if they will come to our aid. But we must get more men; you must find them.”

“I’ll do the best I can.”

“I know that, Gaelen.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are known as an outsider. You are accepted within the Farlain, there is no doubt about that. But similarly you are not Farlain; the Haesten may follow you.”

“Even if I did add a thousand to our army, we would still be outnumbered five to one. And on open ground…”

“I am also going on a journey,” said Caswallon. “If it is successful, we will have another ally.”

“Where will you go?”

“Through the Gate. I am seeking help from the Queen Beyond.”

Gaelen shivered. “You mean the daughter of the woman who saved us from the beast?”

“No, the woman herself.”

“She is dead.”

“As we sit here in this valley, Gaelen, neither of us is born. Our birth cries are ten thousand years in the future. Is it so strange then to think of seeking a dead queen?”

“Why would she come?”

“I don’t know. I only pray that she does-and that her strength will be sufficient.”

“What if she does not?”

“Then the clans will face a difficult day in Axta Glen.”

“What are our chances?”

“Taliesen says they are minimal.”

“What do you say?”

“I’d say Taliesen was being wildly optimistic.”

Gaelen returned to Deva at the stream and told her of his mission. She listened quietly, her grey eyes grave. “It will be dangerous for you. Take care,” she said.

“I would be the more careful,” he said tenderly, “if I knew you would be waiting for me when I returned.” She looked away then, but he took her hand. “I have loved you for such a long time,” he told her.

Gently she pulled her hand clear of his. “I love you too, Gaelen. Not just because you saved my life. But I can’t promise to wait for you, nor for any Farlain warrior. I know you think me foolish to believe in the prophecy-but Taliesen confirmed it; it is my destiny.”

Gaelen said nothing more. Rising, he moved away and Deva returned to the waterside. Her thoughts were confused as she sat, trailing her hand in the stream. It was senseless to refuse love when all she had was a distant promise, Deva knew that. Worse, her feelings for Gaelen had grown stronger during the time they spent together, being hunted by the Aenir. All her doubts surfaced anew, and she remembered confiding in Agwaine. He had not scoffed, but he had been brutally realistic.

“Suppose this father of kings never comes? Or worse. Suppose he does, and he does not desire you? Will you spend your life as a spinster?”

“No, I am not a fool, brother. I will wait one more year, then I will choose either Layne or Gaelen.”

“I am sure they will be glad to hear it,” he said.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“It is not I who am being cruel, Deva. Suppose they don’t wait? There are other maidens.”

“Then I will marry someone else.”

“I hope your dream comes true, but I fear it will not. You sadden me, Deva, and I want to see you happy.”

“A year is not such a long time,” she had said. But that had been before the Aenir invasions, and already it seemed an eternity had passed. Her father was dead, the clan in hiding, the future dark and gloom-laden.

Gaelen chose six companions for the journey south-Agwaine, Lennox, Layne, Gwalchmai, plus Onic and Ridan. Onic was a quiet clansman, with deep-set eyes and a quick smile. Almost ten years older than Gaelen, he was known as a fine fighting man with quarterstaff or knife. He wore his black hair close-cropped in the style of the Lowland clans, and around his brow sported a black leather circlet set with a pale grey moonstone. His half brother, Ridan, was shorter and stockier; he said little, but he had also fought well in the retreat from the valley. Both men had been chosen for their knowledge of the Haesten, gained from the fact that their mother had come from that clan.

Taking only light provisions and armed with bows, short swords, and hunting knives, the seven left Vallon before dawn. A druid guided them over the invisible bridge, for the twine had been removed lest the Aenir march to the island.

Gaelen had mixed feelings about the trip. The responsibility placed upon him weighed heavily. He loved Caswallon, and trusted him implicitly, but to battle the Aenir on the gentle slopes of Axta Glen? Surely that was madness. During the last two years Gaelen had enjoyed many conversations with Oracle about battles and tactics, and he had learned of the importance of terrain. A large, well-armed force could not be met head-on by a smaller group. The object should be a score of skirmishes to whittle down the enemy, disrupting his supply lines and weakening his morale. Oracle had likened such war to disease invading the body.

Agwaine was content. For him the mission provided an outlet for his grief over the death of his father and a chance to achieve victory for the Farlain. He didn’t know if a Haesten force survived. But if it did, he would find it.

The group moved through Atta forest, past the swelling Aenir corpses and on into the first valley. They moved warily, knowing the Aenir could be close. Only in the high passes, where the woods were thick and welcoming and they trusted their skills above those of the enemy, did they relax.

Toward dusk Lennox scouted out a hollow where they made camp. It was set within a pine woods and circled by boulders and thick bushes. There was a stream nearby and Gaelen lit a small fire. It was a good campsite and the fire could not be seen outside the ring of trees. Lennox, as always, was hungry, having devoured his three-day rations by noon. The others mocked him as he sat brooding by the fire watching them eat.

Lennox had grown even larger in the last year, his shoulders and arms heavy with muscle, and he now sported a dark beard close-cropped to his chin. Coupled with the brown goatskin jerkin, it created the appearance of a large, amiable bear.

“We are comrades,” he pleaded. “We should share a little.”

“I saw some berries on a bush back there,” said Gwalchmai. “I am sure they will prove very tasty.” He bit into a chunk of oatcake, and swung to Agwaine. “I think the honey in these cakes is better this year, don’t you, Agwaine? Thicker. It makes the cakes so succulent.”

“Decidedly so. It gives them extra flavor.”

“You’re a bunch of swine,” said Lennox, pushing himself to his feet.

Laughter followed him as he walked into the darkness in search of berries. The woods were quiet, moon shadows dappling the silver grass. Lennox found the bush and plucked a handful of berries. They served only to heighten his hunger, and he toyed once more with the idea of appealing to his comrades. His stomach rumbled and he cursed softly.

A movement to his right made him turn, dropping into a half crouch with arms spread. He saw a flash of white cloth disappear beneath a bush, and a tiny leg hastily withdrawn.

Lennox ate some more berries and then ambled toward the bush, as if to walk past. As he came abreast of it he lunged down, pulling the child clear. Her mouth opened and her face showed her terror, but no sound came out. Lennox took her in his arms, whispering gentle words and stroking her hair. She clung to the goatskin tunic with her tiny hands clenched tight, the knuckles white as polished ivory.

“There, there, little dove. You’re safe. I didn’t mean to frighten you. There, there. Don’t worry about Lennox. He’s big, but he’s not bad. He won’t hurt you, little dove. You’re safe.” All the while he stroked her head. She burrowed her face into his jerkin, saying nothing.

Lennox made his way back to the camp. Instantly his companions gathered around, plying him with questions. He shushed them to silence. “She’s terrified,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “She must have lost her parents in the woods.” Looking at his comrades, he silently mouthed the words “Probably killed by the Aenir.”

Gwalchmai, always a favorite with children, tried to get the girl to speak, but she pushed her face deeper into Lennox’s jerkin.

“I have never seen a child so frightened,” said Agwaine.

“Where are you from?” whispered Lennox, kissing her head. “Tell your uncle Lennox.” But the child remained silent.

“I don’t recognize the girl,” he said. “Do you, Gwal?”

“No. She could be Pallides, or Haesten, or even Farlain. Or even a crofter’s daughter from the Outlands.”

“Well, we can’t take her with us,” said Ridan. “One of us must take her back to Vallon.”

“I’ll do it in the morning,” Lennox agreed.

The fire burned low and the companions took to their blankets, ready for an early rise. Lennox sat with his back to a boulder, cuddling the child who had fallen into a deep sleep. He felt good sitting there. Children had never been easy around him-Layne said his great size frightened them-but whatever the reason, it had always hurt Lennox, who loved the young.

In sleep the child’s face relaxed, but her left hand still clutched his tunic. He pushed her yellow hair back from her eyes, gazing down into her face. She was a pretty little thing, like a doll stuffed with straw. As the night grew chill Lennox wrapped his blanket around her.

A strange thought struck him.

This was probably the most important moment of his life.

He was not normally a man given to abstract thoughts, but he couldn’t help thinking about the child. Here she was, tiny and helpless and full of fear. She had been suffering the worst days of her young life. And now she slept safe in the arms of a powerful man, content that he would look after her. With no more action than a gentle embrace Lennox had ended her terror. What in life, he wondered, could be more important to her?

If her parents were still alive and making for Vallon they must be sick with worry, he thought. But what if-as was likely-they were dead?

Lennox chewed the problem over for a while. He would take her to Maerie; she was a fine lass with only one child, who would take the girl in and love her into the bargain.

The girl’s eyes opened, she blinked and yawned. Lennox felt her move and glanced down, stroking her hair. Her eyes were brown and he smiled at her.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“You’re not my papa.”

“No, little dove. I’m your uncle Lennox.”

“My papa’s gone. Wolfs et him up,” she said, tears glistening. She blinked. “Et up Jarka too.”

“Wolves?” asked Lennox.

“Big wolfs. Big as you. Et him up.”

“You’ve been dreaming, little one. There’s no wolves, and certainly none as big as me.”

“Lots of wolfs,” she persisted. “They chased me, to eat me up.”

“Uncle Lennox won’t let them. You’re safe now. Go back to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Did you know my papa?”

“No. Was he nice?”

“He played games.”

“He sounds like a good man. Where is your mama?”

“Men with swords took her away. She was all bleeding.”

“Well, it’s over now. You’re with your uncle Lennox, and he’s the strongest man in all the world. Nothing will harm you.”

“Are you stronger than the wolfs?” she asked.

“Aye, lass. And I swear upon my soul no harm will come to you while you’re with me. You believe me?” She smiled, closed her eyes, and put her thumb in her mouth.

In the bushes beyond the firelight, bloodred eyes watched for the flames to die down.

Taliesen took Caswallon deep underground to a small chamber set with walls of shining silver and gold. Soft light filled the room, but Caswallon could not see the source. The druid beckoned him to a tall chair of white leather, then sat upon an oak-topped table.

“This is my inner sanctum,” he told the warrior. “Here I observe the Farlain and I keep my notes-notes no one will read in my lifetime.” He gestured to the shelves, but there were no books there, only small silver cylinders neatly stacked from floor to ceiling. The far wall was covered with sheets of paper, upon which were curious drawings and symbols.

Caswallon studied them. “What do these represent?” he asked. Taliesen joined him. “They are Time Lines, and chart my attempts to aid Sigarni.”

Caswallon ran his eyes over the symbols. “And the stars?”

“Each time Sigarni dies I mark the spot and pursue a new Time Line-a different reality. It is very complex, Caswallon. Do not seek to stretch your mind around it.”

“When must I seek the Queen?”

“As soon as you are ready.”

“I’m ready now.”

“Then observe,” said the druid. Turning, he walked to the wall by the door and opened a hidden panel. The desktop slid back and a screen rose silently from it. Lights blazed from the screen, forming the image of a walled city.

“That is Citadel town, where the Queen currently resides-currently being a relative term,” added the druid with a dry chuckle.

“How is this done?” whispered Caswallon.

“It is merely an image. It is summer and Sigarni has won a great battle. She has returned to the north to celebrate with her captains. The enemy has been pushed back… for now. But the Outland King is gathering a huge force against her. Now, before I send you through, you must understand this, Caswallon: We will meet again on the other side of the Gate. Ask me nothing of the events that are transpiring now. Do not speak of the Aenir invasion.”

“I don’t understand.”

Taliesen sighed. “Trust me, Caswallon. In other… realities. .. our meeting beyond the Gate has already taken place. Many times. And I have found it disadvantageous to view the possible futures. It all becomes too confusing.”

Caswallon stood silently for a moment, then his green gaze fastened on the druid’s dark eyes. “And I have died in these other realities?” he asked.

“Yes,” admitted Taliesen. “Do you still wish to go?”

“Can we win if I do not?”

“No.”

“Then let us go.”

Taliesen pressed a button on the screen and the image of the city disappeared. He stood and led Caswallon back to the Druids’ Hall and the black-arched Gate.

Maeg was waiting there. She stood as he approached, opening her arms, and Caswallon walked into her embrace.

She kissed him, her eyes wet with tears. “The world has changed, as you said it would,” she told him.

“We’ll change it back.”

“I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “Even if you beat the Aenir, nothing will ever be quite the way it was.”

He did not argue. Instead he kissed her. “There is one constant fact, Maeg. I love you. I always have. I always will.”

“I have something for you,” she said, pulling away from him. Turning, she lifted a buckskin shirt from the back of a chair. The skin was soft and beige while on the chest, in crimson-stained leather, was a cunningly crafted hawk with wings spreading to each shoulder. “If you are to meet a queen, it is fitting you look your best,” she said.

Caswallon slipped out of his woolen shirt, donning the buckskin. The fit was perfect.

Leofas stepped from the shadows with Maggrig.

“Are you sure about this plan, Caswallon?” he asked.

“No,” admitted the War Lord. “But Taliesen is, and I can think of no other.”

“Then may the Gods guide you.” The two men shook hands.

Taliesen walked to the archway, lifted his hands, and began to chant. The view of the Farlain vanished, to be replaced instantly by a sloping plain and a distant city.

Maggrig curled his arm around Maeg’s shoulder. “He will come back,” he said.

Caswallon stepped into the archway-and vanished.

Suddenly the view from the Gate disappeared, a blank grey wall replacing it. Maeg moved forward and touched the cold stone.

Caswallon found himself in a forest glade in the last hour before dusk. Shafts of sunlight lanced the branches of mighty oaks and birds sang in every tree.

But there was no city in sight. Perplexed, he stepped back to where the Gate had been.

It was gone…

Cursing, he drew his short sword and started prodding the air, seeking the entrance. After a few minutes he gave up and sat back on a jutting tree root. He was loath to leave the spot, and had no idea what plan to pursue.

His thoughts were broken by the sounds of shouting. Looking around him, he marked the spot in his mind and set off toward the sound. Perhaps the Gate had merely sent him too far, and he had come out on the other side of the city. He seemed to recall seeing a woods there.

The shouts became triumphant, and Caswallon guessed the men to be hunters who had cornered their prey. Then a voice cried out. “Lord of Heaven, aid your servant!”

Caswallon broke into a run. Ahead of him three men had surrounded a bald, elderly man in robes of grey who was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms.

“Surrender it, priest,” ordered a tall man in a red cape.

“You cannot do this,” said the old man. “It is against the laws of man and God.”

The red-caped warrior stepped forward, a bright sword in his hand. The sword flashed forward. The old man twisted the bundle away from the blade, which lanced into his belly. He screamed and fell.

Caswallon hurdled a fallen tree, his own short sword glinting in the dying light. “What vileness do we have here, my bonnies?”

The three spun around and the leader walked forward, his sword dripping blood to the grass.

“It is none of your concern, stranger. Begone.”

“Frightened as I am to face three heroes who can so valiantly tackle old men, I feel I must debate the point,” said Caswallon.

“Then die,” shouted the man, leaping forward. Caswallon parried the lunging blade, his own sword flashing through the man’s neck. The remaining warriors ran forward. Caswallon blocked the first thrust, hammering a punch to an unprotected chin, and the attacker staggered.

Pushing past him Caswallon engaged the third, slipping his hunting knife into his left hand. He ducked beneath a vicious swipe, sticking his sword behind the man’s knee; with a scream he fell. Caswallon whirled as the second man was almost upon him, sword plunging for his chest, but Caswallon parried the blow, punching his hunting knife through the man’s tunic. The blade slid between the man’s ribs, cleaving the heart. Dragging the knife free, he saw the third man crawling toward the bushes, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Ignoring him, Caswallon ran to the old man, gently turning him.

“Thank the Source,” said the priest. “For He has sent you in my hour of need.” Blood was seeping fast, drenching the old man’s clothes.

“Why did they attack you?”

“It wasn’t me, my son; they wanted the babe.” The old man pointed to the bundle by his side. Caswallon lifted the blanket and there lay a sleeping infant no more than a week old. She was tiny and naked, her downy hair pure white.

“Lie still,” urged Caswallon, ripping open the priest’s robes, seeking to stem the outflow of blood from the wound. The assassin’s sword had ripped down through the man’s lower belly, opening the artery in his groin. There was no hope for him, and his face was already losing color.

“Where are you from?” whispered the dying man.

“Another world,” said Caswallon. “And I am lost.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You passed through a Gate?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Mordic sent you?”

“No.”

“Cateris, Blean, Taliesen…”

“Yes, Taliesen.”

“Take the babe back through the Chalice Gate.”

“I do not know where it is.”

“Close by. North. I opened it myself. Look for a cave on the hillside; it has a goblet fashioned in the rock of the entrance. But. .. beware… Jakuta Khan will follow.”

“Who are you?”

“Astole. I was Taliesen’s teacher.” Horns sounded in the forest to the south. “They are coming for the child. Take her and run. Go now! I beg you.” The old man slumped back.

Sheathing his sword and knife, Caswallon scooped the bundle into his arms and began to run. Behind him he could hear the barking of dogs and the shrill call of hunting horns. He was angry now. Thwarted from his quest, he was being hunted by an enemy he did not know, in a forest that was strange to him.

Dropping his pace to a gentle jog, eyes scanning the undergrowth, he searched for a way to lose his pursuer. He could hear running water away to the left and he cut toward it. A small stream gurgled over rocks. Splashing into it, Caswallon followed it upstream for about thirty paces and then left it on the same side, walking through soft mud to stop before a massive oak.

Without turning he looked down and walked backward, placing his feet in his own prints. Slowly he backtracked to the stream, then carried on walking through the water. It was an old trick, which in daylight would fool no skilled tracker, but with dusk approaching fast it could hold up the pursuit.

The child opened her eyes, pushing her tiny fist into her mouth. Caswallon cursed. She was hungry and that meant there were scant moments left before she began to cry for food.

Turning again toward the north, he scanned the hillside for the cave the old man had spoken of. The babe in his arms gave out a thin piercing wail and Caswallon cursed again. The sun was slowly sinking behind the western peaks. As it fell below the clouds a shaft of bright light lit the hillside, and Caswallon saw the dark shadow of the cave entrance, some thirty paces above him and to the right.

The barking of hounds was closer. Twisting, he saw four sleek black shapes emerge from the tree line below, no more than fifty paces behind him. Holding firm to the child, Caswallon sprinted up the slope and into the cave. It was like a short tunnel. Behind him the dying sun was bright against the rocks, yet ahead was a forest bathed in moonlight.

Caswallon spun, for the first of the hounds had reached the cave. As it leaped his sword slashed down across its neck, smashing through flesh and bone. Turning again, he saw the moonlit forest begin to fade. Taking two running steps he hurled himself through the Gateway. He fell heavily, bracing his arm and shoulder so that the babe would be protected.

Rolling to his feet he swung to face his enemies-and found himself staring at a solid wall of grey stone. The sound of a waterfall came to him and he sheathed his sword and walked toward it. I know this place, he thought. But the trees are different. This was Ironhand’s Pool, and if he climbed above the falls he would see High Druin in the distance. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of wood smoke to his nostrils. Moving to his left into the wind, the smell grew stronger. Ahead was a cottage of stone, with a thatched roof, and a cleared yard containing a small flower garden and a coop for chickens. Caswallon ran to the cottage, tapping softly at the door. It was opened by a young woman with long fair hair. “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.

“Food for a babe,” he answered, handing her the child. Her eyes changed as she gazed at the small face.

“Come inside.”

Caswallon followed her. At a pine table sat a large man with a heavy beard of red-gold.

“Welcome,” said the man. Caswallon noticed that one of his hands was below the table, and guessed a blade was hidden there.

“I found the babe in the forest,” he said lamely.

The man and woman exchanged glances. “Do you know whose child it is?” the man asked.

“I know nothing of her,” said Caswallon.

“We lost our own daughter three days ago,” said the man. “That is her crib there, in the corner. You can leave the child with us, if you will. My wife is still milk-swelled-as you can see.” The woman had opened her shirt and was feeding the babe.

Caswallon pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite the man, looking deep into his clear grey eyes. “If I leave her with you, will you care for her as you would your own?”

“Aye,” said the man. “Walk with me awhile.” He rose, sheathing the hunting knife he had held below the table. He was taller than Caswallon, and broader in the shoulder. Stepping out into the night he walked to the far side of the cabin, seating himself on a bench crafted from pine. Caswallon sat beside him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your clothes are clan, but you are not Loda.”

“I am Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“I have dealings with the Farlain. How is it I have never heard of you?”

Caswallon let out a sigh and leaned back against the bench. “Is there a town near here, on the edge of the Lowlands, called Ateris?”

The man shook his head. “There is Citadel town. The Outlanders control it now. And I ask you again-who are you?”

“I am a clansman, as I have said.” He laughed suddenly. “Were our positions reversed, my friend, and you were to tell me the story of how you found the babe, I would think you mad.”

“I am not you,” said the man. “So speak.”

Quietly Caswallon told him of the Aenir invasion and of his journey through the Gateway, of the dying priest, and the men and hounds who had sought the death of the child. The man did not interrupt, but listened intently. As he finished Caswallon stood and looked down into the man’s deep-set grey eyes, awaiting a response.

At that moment the ground trembled. Thrown off balance, Caswallon lurched to the right. The moonlight brightened and gazing up, both men saw two moons shining in the sky. For moments only the land was bathed in silver brilliance, then the second moon faded.

As it did so the figure of Taliesen appeared beside them. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees as the crofter leaped to his feet, his knife snaking into his hand. “No!” shouted Caswallon. “He is the druid I told you of.”

Taliesen tried to stand, failed, and sat glumly on the ground. “I think the journey almost killed me,” he grumbled. As Caswallon helped him to his feet, the little sorcerer sighed. “You have no idea of the energy I have expended to arrive here. Who is this?”

“I am Cei,” said the crofter.

“I must see the child,” said Taliesen, shaking himself free of Caswallon’s support and moving off to the cabin.

Cei approached Caswallon. “You were wrong. I did not think you mad. Yesterday an old man came to us as we were mourning the death of our babe. He told us he would come, and that he would bring us joy-and sorrow.”

“This man, was he bald and wearing grey robes?”

Cei nodded.

Both men returned to the cabin, to find Taliesen kneeling beside the crib where the baby was sleeping. When Caswallon and Cei looked closely they saw that the child’s silver hair was now corn-gold.

Taliesen stood and turned toward the crofter. “Enemies will come after this babe,” he said. “Be warned. I have changed the color of her hair. As I have told your wife, you must raise her as your own; no one must know how she came here. Your wife says the death of your child is not known among your friends in the clan. Keep it that way.”

“Who is she?” asked Cei. “Why is she in danger?”

“She is your daughter. You need know no more than that-save that she is of the blood royal,” said Taliesen. “Now we must go.”

Lennox added fuel to the fire and the flames leaped and twisted. He wasn’t cold, he merely wanted to see the child’s face in sleep. Her thumb had slipped from her open mouth and she was breathing evenly. Lennox carefully hitched her into the crook of his right arm, stretching his back.

Gaelen yawned and stretched, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Seeing Lennox still awake, he moved around the fire to join him. “How is she?”

“She is all right now. She says her father was eaten by wolves.. . and her sister.”

“It’s unlikely,” said Gaelen. “She would not have escaped a pack. A dream, do you think?”

“I don’t know. She said the wolves were as big as me.”

“Wolves attack at night and they move fast. A child that small might think them overlarge.”

“I agree, Gaelen, but she’s clan; her father was clan. How could he be surprised by wolves? It makes no sense. I can’t remember a clansman ever being killed by a pack. Wolves don’t attack men. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Perhaps he had no fire, or had been forced to flee without weapons. Perhaps the wolves were starving.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, then Gaelen spoke. “More likely it was the Aenir and the child was confused. Many of them wear wolfskin cloaks. And at the Games I saw a man with a wolf’s head for a helm. An attack at night?”

“She says her mother was killed by men with swords. I don’t think she’s that confused. I think you should walk warily tomorrow,” said Lennox.

“We’ll miss you on the trip,” said Gaelen, gripping Lennox’s shoulder.

“Yes, but you don’t need me. She does. I’ll get her to the island and then join my father. We’ll see you in Axta Glen.”

“I hope so. I pray there is an army of Highlanders ready to be gathered. But if not I shall still see you there, Lennox. Even if I am alone. I promise you.”

“I know you will, cousin. I’ll look forward to it.”

Soon after dawn the companions bade farewell to Lennox and the child and set off to the south. Lennox hoisted the girl to his shoulder and headed north.

As they walked he discovered that her name was Plessie and her clan Haesten; she was the niece of Laric, the Hunt Lord. He was tempted to run back and find the others, for Laric would be well disposed toward a group that had rescued his niece. But Plessie’s fearful glances behind them forced him to dismiss the idea.

Whatever had happened to her had left a terrible scar.

Throughout the morning he climbed through the timberline, and they stopped to eat at a rock pool below a small falls. The companions had given Lennox some oatcakes and these he shared with Plessie. The child sat upon a rock dangling her feet in the water, giggling at its icy touch. Lennox smiled-and froze. He slowly climbed to his feet, aware suddenly that he was being watched. Fear grew in his heart-not fear for himself, but for the child. He had promised she would be safe and a promise was a sacred thing among the clans.

Casually he glanced around at the thick undergrowth. He spotted a patch of darkness beyond a blossoming heather, but allowed his eyes to skip over the bush. He had the feeling the dark patch was fur, and if that was so the thing was either a bear or a wolf.

Plessie was sitting in the shade of a tall pine, and a long branch extended above the water. Lennox scooped her into his arms and lifted her high onto the branch.

“Sit there for a moment, little dove,” he said.

“Don’t want to,” she wailed.

“Do it for your uncle Lennox. And be careful now.”

Even as he spoke a werebeast charged from the undergrowth, jaws wide, taloned fingers reaching for the clansman. As it leaped it gave a terrifying howl. Beasts of the wild always roar or screech on attacking their prey. The sound freezes the victim.

But Lennox was not a hunted animal. Nor even an ordinary man.

He was the most powerful warrior in the long history of the Farlain.

As the beast broke cover Lennox whirled, bellowing his own scream of fury. He charged it, smashing a right cross to its open jaws. Fangs snapped, the jawbone disintegrating under the impact. The beast screamed and fell, rolling to all fours and howling in pain. A second creature leaped forward, and twisting to meet it, Lennox charged again. Talons lashed across his shoulder, scoring deep through the flesh. The jaws lunged for his face, and throwing up his hand, he fastened his fingers to the furry throat. The downward lunge was halted, the fangs inches from his face. Lennox could feel hot, rancid breath on his skin. The power of the beast was immense. He threw a left-hand blow that thundered against the werebeast’s ear; the creature fell back, then leaped again. This time Lennox stood his ground until the beast was almost upon him. As it rushed forward he caught it by the throat and groin, and hurled it with all his strength against the trunk of a pine. It hit with a sickening thud-spine exploding into shards, ribs splitting and piercing the great lungs beneath. Blood flowing from his wounds, Lennox drew his sword. The first beast attacked again, its jaw hanging slack. As its talons lashed out, Lennox ducked beneath the swinging arm and hammered his sword into its unprotected belly.

The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and drew his hunting knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.

“Stay in the tree, Plessie. Uncle Lennox won’t be a moment.”

“No,” she wailed. “Don’t leave me. Wolfs eat me up!” Her tears cut through him, but he moved on, searching the tracks within the undergrowth. Satisfied there were only two of the creatures he returned to the weeping child, lifting her down and cuddling her.

“There, there! You see, I was only a moment or two.”

“Don’t leave me again, Uncle Lennox.”

“I won’t. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl and help me to stop this bleeding. Can you do that?” With a grunt of pain Lennox removed his ripped shirt. There were four deep slashes across his right shoulder blade, but he could reach none of them.

“There’s lots of blood, Uncle Lennox.”

“The bleeding will clean the wounds,” he said, moving to his pack. “Can you sew?”

“Mother taught me,” said Plessie.

“That’s good, little one.” Rummaging into his pack, he found needle and thread. “I want you to close these little scratches for me. Then we’ll move on. Will you do that for me?”

“I don’t know how.”

Lennox could see the fear returning to her. “It’s easy,” he told her, forcing a smile. “Trust me. I’ll show you. First thread the needle. My hands are too big and clumsy for it.” Plessie took the thread, licked the end, and carefully inserted it into the eye of the needle. She looked up expectantly at Lennox. Twisting his head, he could see the ragged red line of the first cut on the top of his shoulder. Taking the needle, he pricked it through the skin. “You do it like this,” he told her, as a wave of nausea hit him. “Just like this.”

Plessie began to cry. “You’re not going to die, are you, Uncle Lennox?”

“From little scratches like this? No. Now come around to my back and show me your sewing.”

Taliesen led Caswallon away from the cabin, and on into the trees. It was not cold, but the breeze brought a promise of autumn in the air. “The child will be the future queen-if she lives,” said the druid.

Caswallon stopped. “What do you mean, if she lives? We know she lives. I watched her die after killing the beast.”

Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “My boy, you saw one Sigarni. But it would take too long to explain the infinite possibilities when one deals in time, the paradoxes created. Merely hold to the concept of impossibility made reality. This child is in great danger. First and foremost is the sorcerer Jakuta Khan. He was hired to bring about the fall of the King, Sigarni’s real father, and in exchange he was offered wealth-and the life of the King’s daughter. He is a gifted magicker, Caswallon. He will track her down; the crofter cannot stand against him.”

Caswallon sat down on a fallen tree. “The thought fills me with sorrow, Taliesen, but what can we do? My people need me. I cannot stay here and protect the babe. Nor can you. We do not have the time.”

“That word again-time,” responded Taliesen, sitting beside the taller man. “It matters not how long we wait here, for when you return no time will have passed in the world you know. There is a small settlement close by; we will rest there, and be offered food. Then we will journey back to the falls and make camp by the rock face where the Gateway opened. There you will see in one day what few mortals will ever see.”

The following evening Caswallon built a small fire by the rock face, and the two men sat eating a meal of honey biscuits and watching the fragmented moon dance upon the rippling water of the falls pools.

“How long do we wait?” asked Caswallon.

“Until I feel the magic of Jakuta Khan,” said Taliesen. “But now there is someone I must summon.” Rising, the little sorcerer moved to the poolside. As Caswallon watched, Taliesen began to chant in a low voice. The wind died down and a mist formed above two boulders close to the pool’s edge. Caswallon’s eyes widened as the mist rose into an arch some ten paces in front of the sorcerer. Tiny lights, like fireflies, glittered in the archway, and then a man appeared, tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, wearing a silver breastplate and a shining mail shirt of silver steel. His hair was moon-white, his beard braided.

“Who calls Ironhand?” he asked, his voice low and deep like distant thunder. Caswallon rose and walked to stand beside Taliesen.

“I call upon you, High King,” said the sorcerer. “I, Taliesen, the Druid Lord. Your daughter lives, but she is in peril.”

“They killed me here,” said the ghostly warrior. “My body lies beneath those boulders. They killed my wife, and I cannot find her spirit.”

“But your daughter lives: The babe sleeps in a cabin close by. And the hunters will come for her, the demons will stalk her.”

“What can I do, Taliesen? I am a spirit now.”

“You can do nothing against men of flesh, Ironhand. But I have planted a seed in the child’s mind. When the demons materialize she will flee here. The creatures, though flesh, are also summoned through spirit spells. You can fight them.”

“When you need me, call upon me,” said the Ghost King. The archway shimmered and vanished, and Caswallon once more felt the night breeze upon his skin.

“She is Ironhand’s daughter? Sweet Heaven!”

“Aye,” whispered Taliesen, “she is of the blood most royal. Now let us return to the fire. There is a spell I must cast before I leave you.” The druid banked up the fire, and once more began to chant. Caswallon sat silently until he had finished, then Taliesen took a deep breath. “There is a man I must see. He is a dreamer and a drunkard, but we will need him before long. Stay here, and do not for any reason venture from the fire.” He smiled. “I think what you are about to see will keep you well entertained until I return.”

Rising, he ambled away along the line of the pool. Caswallon leaned back against the rock face. Suddenly the moon sped across the sky, the sun flashing up to bathe the pool in brilliant light. Then as suddenly as it had come the sun fell away, and the moon reappeared. Astonished, Caswallon gazed around the pool. There was no sound now, but night and day appeared and disappeared in seconds. Beyond the firelight the grass grew long, withered and dried, died and was replaced. Trees sprouted branches before his eyes. Leaves opened, glistened, withered, and fell. Within the space of a moment snow appeared beyond the fire, thick and deep. Then it was gone, instantly replaced by the flowers of spring.

He watched the seasons pass by in heartbeats, in blazes of color and streams of light.

When the snow had appeared for the sixth time, the rushing of time began to slow. The moon reared up and stopped in mid-heaven.

The cold of winter now whispered past Taliesen’s spell and Caswallon shivered. Movement to his right caught his eye and he saw Taliesen trudging through the snow toward him. The old man was carrying a short hunting bow and a quiver of arrows. “How did you make the seasons move so fast?” asked Caswallon.

“Not even I can do that,” answered Taliesen wearily. “You are sitting beside a Gateway. I merely activated it. It flickered you through the years.”

“It is a memory I shall long treasure,” said the clansman.

“Sadly, we have no time to dwell upon it,” Taliesen told him, “for the evil is almost upon us.” He squatted down by the fire, holding out his long, thin fingers to the flames. “I am so cold,” he said, “and tired.” He handed Caswallon the bow and arrows.

“What are we facing?” asked the clansman, stringing the bow and testing the pull. It was a sturdy weapon.

“Men would call them demons, and so they are, but they are also flesh and blood from another dimension… another land, if you will. They are huge beasts, Caswallon, some reaching eight feet tall. In build they are much like great bears, but they move with greater speed, and are upright, like men. Their fingers are taloned, each talon the length of your hunting knife. They have fangs also, and short, curved tusks. They do not use the tusks in combat; these are for ripping flesh from the leather-skinned beasts they have hunted in their own world.”

“Should we not make our way to Cei’s cabin? He cannot face them alone.”

Taliesen shook his head. “Cei’s life is over, boy. It was over the moment he agreed to take the babe. The beasts will materialize there.”

“What?”

“They will be conjured there,” snapped Taliesen. “Jakuta Khan is a spellmaster; he has located Sigarni and will cause the beasts to appear inside the cabin. I have observed him, Caswallon. He has used these beasts before; he makes them invisible to the human eye. The first moment the victim knows of their existence is when the talons rip out his heart. Trust me, we do not want to be inside the cabin when that happens.”

“How then do we save the babe?”

“She is no longer a babe. You have seen the seasons fly by and she is six now. And she will make her way here. I planted a seed in her mind, and that of her mother. As soon as the terror manifests itself, both will act instinctively. The child will run here.”

Caswallon rose and tied the quiver to his belt. “And how am I to fight these invisible beasts?” he asked softly.

“As best you can, clansman. Come, kneel by me, and I will give you all that I can.”

Dropping to one knee, Caswallon looked into the old man’s eyes. The druid was more than tired. His eyes were dull and purple-ringed, his skin dry. Lifting his hand, Taliesen covered Caswallon’s eyes and began to chant. Heat emanated from his fingers, lancing into Caswallon’s brain like an arrow of fire. The clansman groaned but Taliesen’s voice whispered to him: “Hold on, boy, it will not last much longer.”

The hand fell away and Caswallon opened his eyes. “What have you done?” he whispered. The trees by the pool had changed now, becoming sharp and unreal, like a charcoal sketch upon virgin paper. Taliesen’s features could no longer be seen; he was merely a glowing form of many colors, red in the belly and eyes, purple over the heart, the rest a shifting mix of orange, yellow, and white.

“Now you will see them, Caswallon,” said the shimmering druid. “They will come from the south, hard on the heels of the child. Best you find a place to smite them.”

“How many will come?”

“I would guess at two. It needs a mighty spell to summon just one. Jakuta Khan will expect little resistance from a crofter. But there might be more; he is young and arrogant in his strength.”

Caswallon moved out onto the frozen pool and headed south, moving high into the tree line. An old oak stood beside the trail, its two main branches-some ten feet high-spreading out like the arms of a supplicant. Caswallon climbed to the right-hand branch and sat with his back to the tree bole.

His thoughts were many as he waited for the beasts. He had never lacked physical courage-in fact, he had often courted danger merely for the thrill of it. But now? The Farlain were under threat, and his wife and child were in peril in another world. No longer able to afford the luxury of danger, he felt fear rise within him. What if he died here? What would become of the Farlain, or Maeg, and Donal? His mouth was dry. His thoughts swung to the child, Sigarni: an innocent hunted by demons. Yet what was her life when set against his entire clan?

“I will fight, but I cannot die for you,” he said softly. “I cannot risk that.

His decision made, he relaxed. Looking down at the glimmering colors that were his hands, he realized that the fingers had become difficult to see, and they were cold. He rubbed his palms together and looked again. For a few heartbeats they shone with a dull red light, then faded once more. Tugging his fleece-lined gloves from his belt, he pulled them on. Ice formed in his beard as he waited in the tree. Glancing back, he saw the shimmering colors he recognized as Taliesen moving across the ice. The old man must be frozen, he thought. The cloak of feathers would do little to keep out the bitter cold.

A bestial scream tore through the silence of the night. Caswallon removed his gloves and notched an arrow to the bowstring. For some moments there was no movement, then a small figure ran into sight, the colors glowing around her bright and rich. The figure stumbled and rolled in the snow.

Pulling his gaze from her, Caswallon looked back up the trail. Something huge loomed over the hillside, then another. To his left was a third, moving through the trees. Caswallon cursed, gauging the beasts to be around eight feet tall. The first of the creatures lumbered down the slope. Its colors were strong, mostly purple, orange, and red; the purple area spread from the neck to the belly in two vertical circles joined by a red ridge. Caswallon drew back on the bowstring until it touched his right cheek, then he let fly. The arrow hammered home in the upper circle of purple and instantly the color changed, flowing from the wound as golden light. Caswallon loosed a second shaft that punched through the lower circle. The creature gave a terrifying shriek, tottered to the left, and fell heavily.

Twisting around, Caswallon saw that the child had reached the poolside. Two beasts were converging on her. Of Taliesen there was no sign. Dropping from the tree, Caswallon notched an arrow and raced down the icy slope. His foot struck a tree root hidden by snow and he was pitched forward. Releasing the bow, he tried to roll over and stop his slide, his hands scrabbling at the snow. Another tree root saved him, his fingers curling around it. Scrambling to his feet he saw the first of the beasts almost upon the helpless child. His bow was some twenty paces up the slope. Drawing his short sword and hunting knife Caswallon ran forward. As the beast reared up, he ducked under a sweeping slash from a taloned paw and stabbed his knife hilt deep into the creature’s belly. A backhanded blow took him high on the shoulder, lifting him from his feet and hurling him through the air. Falling hard, he struck his left shoulder against a tree trunk, paralyzing his arm. The mortally wounded beast staggered and fell, but the third demon reared up and advanced on the clansman.

With an angry curse Caswallon rose, eyes glittering.

“Run, you fool!” shouted Taliesen as the beast loomed before the clansman. Deep in his heart Caswallon knew that he should take that advice. There was so much to live for, so much still to be achieved.

The beast turned away from him-toward the child at the water’s edge. In that moment Caswallon felt relief flood over him. He was safe! I live and she dies, he thought suddenly.

Without further thought he took three running steps and hurled himself at the beast, plunging his sword into its broad back. The creature screamed and spun. The sword was ripped from the clansman’s hand, but remained jutting from the beast’s rainbow flesh. Talons ripped into Caswallon’s shoulder, pain searing through him as he was thrown to the ground.

In that moment a bright light blazed and Caswallon saw the massive, shimmering figure of Ironhand standing over the child, sword held two-handed and raised high. The beast gave a low growl and sprang at the ghost. The dead King stepped forward to meet it, his silver sword slashing through the air in a glittering arc; it passed through the creature seemingly without leaving a wound.

But the demon froze, tottered, and toppled backward to the snow.

Taliesen emerged from his hiding place in the undergrowth and ran to the child. Caswallon’s vision blurred, the spell placed over his eyes fading. He blinked and saw the druid kneeling beside Sigarni. The girl was sitting silently, her eyes wide open and unblinking. Taliesen placed his hands on the child’s head. “Is she hurt?” asked the Ghost King.

Taliesen shook his head. “Her body is safe, her spirit scarred,” he said.

With a groan Caswallon pushed himself to his feet. Blood was flowing freely from the gash to his shoulder. “What will happen to her now?”

“There is one coming who will look after her. His name is Gwalch; he is a mystic,” Taliesen told him.

“I hope this is an end to her adventures with demons,” said Caswallon.

“It is not,” whispered Taliesen. “But the next time she must fight them alone.”

“Not alone,” said the King. “For I shall be here.”

With time against him, Gaelen led the companions over the most hazardous terrain, skirting the Aenir army on the third day of travel. From their hiding place on a wooded hillside, the companions gazed down on the horde moving through the valley.

The size of the enemy force dismayed the clansmen. It seemed to stretch and swell across the valley, filling it. There were few horsemen, the mass of fighting men striding together, bearing round shields painted black and red, and carrying long swords or vicious double-headed axes.

Gaelen was worried. For the last day he had been convinced that the companions were being followed. Agwaine shared his view, though when Gwalchmai and Layne scouted the surrounding woods they found only animal tracks. Onic and Ridan, anxious to push on, accused Gaelen of needless caution.

That night they made late camp on open ground and lit a fire. The moon was hidden by a dark screen of storm cloud and the night covered them like a black fog. Gaelen was glad of the darkness and curled into his blanket. Onic had suggested they head for Carduil, a jagged, unwelcoming series of peaks to the east, and Gaelen had agreed. The companions had moved south at first, hugging the timberline, gradually veering toward the distant mountains. Tomorrow they would head into the rising sun over the most dangerous stretch, wide valleys with little cover. Making a cold camp in a hidden hollow, Gaelen took the first watch. After an hour Layne moved through the darkness to sit beside him.

“Can’t you sleep?” asked Gaelen.

“No, cousin. I wish you had brought Render with you. I feel uneasy.”

“He’s well trained,” said Gaelen, “but he’s still a hound, and his hunting might have alerted the Aenir.”

“It is not the Aenir that concern me,” whispered Layne.

“You are still thinking about the wolves?”

“Aye-and the beast which killed the Queen.” The moon cleared the clouds and Gaelen looked at his friend. Layne’s hair glinted silver in the moonlight.

Gaelen shivered. “You think they might be demons?”

“I hope not,” said Layne. “But if they are-and they continued to follow the child-I fear for Lennox.”

Gaelen put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “If any man can survive against such beasts, Lennox will. I have no fears for him.”

Layne smiled. “He is uncommonly strong.” For a time they sat together in silence, then Layne spoke again. “Did you propose to Deva?”

“Yes. She spurned me.”

“Me too. Some nonsense about birthing kings. I think she’ll grow out of it. Will you continue to court her?”

“No, Layne.”

“I shall. Once we have crushed the Aenir, I shall pursue her with such ardor that she will melt into my arms.” He grinned, looking suddenly boyish again.

Gaelen smiled. “I wish you good fortune, my friend.”

“I think I’ll get some sleep now,” said Layne.

“Layne!” whispered Gaelen as his friend rose.

“What?”

“I never really thanked you for standing up for me on that first day, when Agwaine drew his knife. You made me feel welcome among the Farlain and I’ll not forget it. And if ever you need me, I will be there for you.”

Layne said nothing, but he smiled and then moved back to his blanket. Gaelen kept watch for another two hours, then he woke Ridan.

“You’ve ruined a fine dream,” muttered the clansman, sitting up and yawning.

Gaelen crossed the clearing and lay down. Sleep came instantly, but a faint rustling brought him awake. Was one of the others moving around? He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and listened again.

Silence.

No! There was the sound again, away to the right.

An animal? A bird?

Gaelen curled his hand around the short sword lying next to him, gently easing it from the leather scabbard. He felt foolish, thinking back to the first night he had spent in the open with Caswallon, when the fox had terrified him.

A crunching noise, followed by a bubbling gurgle, brought him to his feet and the clouds above moved away from the moon. A scene of horror met his eyes. Five huge beasts were crouching in the camp. Ridan lay dead, his throat ripped apart, while another body was being dragged toward a screen of bushes.

Gaelen froze.

One beast, red eyes glinting, reared up on its hind legs and ran silently toward him. Gaelen shouted a warning and Onic rolled to his feet, his arm flashing back and then forward. His hunting knife shot across the camp to plunge deep into the beast’s back; it howled then, rending the night silence. Gaelen leaped forward, ramming his sword into the beast’s chest. Talons lashed at him and he jumped back, releasing the blade. Then Gwalchmai ran forward and hurled his knife, which thudded into the creature’s neck.

And the clouds closed, darkness blinding them all.

Gaelen dived for his pack, scrabbling at the canvas lip. Delving inside, he produced his tinderbox. There were only a few shredded leaves inside, but he was desperate for light. Twice the sparks jumped and then a tiny flame licked out. Holding up the box like a flickering candle, Gaelen turned. He could see Agwaine, Onic, and Gwalchmai standing together with swords in hand. On the ground nearby lay the hideous corpse of the dead beast. Elsewhere there was no sign of the pack.

The others joined him, gathering twigs and branches, and they built a fire, heedless of any danger from the Aenir. Agwaine took a burning branch and moved to the spot where Layne had slept. The ground was wet with blood, and his body was lying some twenty feet away. Ridan’s corpse was nowhere in sight.

Gaelen moved to where Layne lay and with trembling hands turned over the corpse. Layne’s throat had been ripped away, but his face was untouched and his grey eyes were open, staring at nothing. Gaelen sank back. Gwalchmai knelt by the body and reached out, his fingers tenderly brushing the skin of Layne’s face. “Oh, God,” said Gwalchmai. Gaelen lifted Layne’s hand, picturing him as he had been only a few hours before-tall, handsome, and in love.

“I promised to be there for you, and I wasn’t,” he said. “I am so sorry, Layne.”

“We must bury him-deep,” said Agwaine.

“We can’t,” said Gaelen. “The fire will have alerted the Aenir, and the beasts could return at any time. We must push on.”

“I’ll not have him devoured by those creatures!” stormed Agwaine.

Gaelen rose, tears shining in his eyes. “You think I do not feel exactly the same, Agwaine? But Layne is gone. His spirit has fled; all that is left is dead flesh which, even if we bury it, will be devoured by maggots. The Farlain need us, Layne does not. Now let us move.”

“But we don’t know where those creatures are,” objected Gwalchmai. “We could run right into them.”

“And if we don’t,” snapped Gaelen, “then by morning we’ll all be blood-eagled to the trees.”

“Gaelen is right. It’s time to move,” said Agwaine. “Kill the fire.”

Donning their packs they set off toward the east, where the dark line of the Carduil range could be seen against the sky. They walked with swords in hand, saying little, and the journey was fraught with fear. The storm clouds passed over them, lightning flashing to the south, and the moon shone bright.

“By the Gods, look!” exclaimed Gwalchmai.

On either side of them, some twenty paces distant, dark shadows could be seen moving from bush to bush.

“How many?” hissed Agwaine.

“Four,” answered Onic.

Swiftly they doffed their packs, stringing the short hunting bows.

“Wait!” said Gaelen. “Let us each pick a target, for once they learn the power of the bow they will be more wary.”

Gwalchmai eased back on the string. “All right. I’ll take the one on the left at the rear.”

Choosing their targets they waited patiently, Gwalchmai and Onic kneeling, Agwaine and Gaelen facing right with bows half drawn.

The werebeasts crouched in the bushes, confused and uncertain. They could not see the shining talons that had cut down their comrade, only long sticks of wood. But they were wary. The leader edged forward, raising his head. The scent of warm flesh caused his stomach to tighten and saliva dripped from his maw. He moved into the open on all fours, edging still closer. A second followed him. On the other side a third beast was in view.

More clouds bunched above them, the sky darkening.

Gaelen cursed. “Let fly… NOW!”

Shafts hissed through the night air. The leader howled as the missile sliced into his chest, spearing his lungs. Blood filled his throat and the howling ceased. Behind him the second thrashed about in the bushes, an arrow through his eye.

To the left Gwalchmai’s target had dropped without a sound, shot through the heart. Only Onic had not let fly. His target had remained in the bushes. Alone and frightened, it sprinted away to the west.