The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Ten

Taliesen led Caswallon to a long room beneath the Vallon caves. The walls were lined with shelves of old oak, some of them twisted and cracked with age. Upon some of them were parchment scrolls, leather-bound books, and sheafs of paper bound with twine. Others were stacked with metal cylinders or small glass bottles sealed with wax. On the far side of the hall two druids were sitting at one of the many tables, poring over scrolls and scribbling notes with quill pens.

Maggrig, Leofas, and Maeg were waiting there when the druid and the clansman arrived. While Maeg examined the shallow wound in her husband’s shoulder, Maggrig pressed Caswallon about his journey through the Gateway. He told them of the baby, and the old man who had been carrying her.

As she spoke the old man’s name Taliesen sank to a chair, eyes wide, mouth agape. It was the first time Caswallon had seen him so surprised. “You did not tell me it was Astole,” he whispered. “Still alive!”

“He’s not alive now,” said Caswallon. “He died there in that forest.”

Taliesen shook his head. “Unlikely. He had remarkable powers of recuperation,” said the druid. “He is twice as old as I am. And I once saw a spear pierce his chest, the point emerging alongside his spine. He made me draw it from him; I did, and watched the wound heal within seconds.”

“Alive or dead, he cannot help us now,” said Caswallon. “So what do we do?”

“We try again-if you feel strong enough. Do you?”

“Is there a choice, druid?”

Taliesen shook his head. Maggrig loomed over the druid. “Except that after the last mistake,” he said, “you might now waft him away to the center of the Aenir camp, and he can demand their surrender.”

“It was not a mistake,” snapped the druid. “It was destiny.”

“Well, if there is a moment of destiny, ” promised Maggrig, “I’ll pierce your scrawny ears with your teeth!”

“That will be hard to do-after I’ve turned you to a toad!” Taliesen countered.

“Enough!” said Maeg sharply. “Go back to the Gate-all of you. I need to speak to my husband.” Maggrig swallowed his anger and followed Taliesen and the old warrior Leofas from the room.

When they had gone, Maeg took Caswallon’s hand and looked deep into his sea-green eyes. “I love you, husband,” she said, “more than life. I want so much to ask you-to beg you-to refuse Taliesen. Yet I will not… even though my heart is filled with fears for you.”

He nodded, then lifted her hand to his lips. “You are mine, and I am yours,” he said. “You are the finest of women, and I have not the words to tell you what you mean to me.” He fell silent as a single tear rolled to Maeg’s cheek. “I love you, Maeg. But I must do what I can to save my people.”

The clansman stood, and hand in hand he and Maeg walked to the Gate. It stood open, the bright sunshine of another world blazing down upon hills and mountains. Taliesen stood waiting on the other side. Maeg kissed Caswallon and he felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek. Maggrig gripped his hand. “Take care, boy,” he said gruffly.

Recovering his sword, Caswallon stepped through the archway onto the hillside above Citadel town.

“Remember, Caswallon,” said Taliesen, “the Queen must have her army assembled within ten days. Take her to the falls where we fought the demons. Tell her Taliesen needs her help.”

“You think she will remember you after all these years?”

“She saw me only yesterday,” said Taliesen. “Well… yesterday to her. And now it is time to go. Come back here at dawn in four days and report on your progress.”

Leaving the druid behind him, Caswallon set off down the slope toward the city. There were sentries at the gates, but many people were passing through and the clansman was not challenged. As he walked Caswallon gazed at the buildings; they were not like the houses of Ateris, being higher and more closely packed, built of red brick and stone, the windows small.

There were narrow, open sewage channels on both sides of the street, and the stench from them filled the nostrils. Crowds of revelers were gathering on every side, drunken clansmen and mercenaries, many singing, others dancing to the tune of the pipes. Caswallon threaded his way through them, heading for the Citadel above the town.

At the gates he was stopped by two guards wearing bronze breastplates and leather kilts. Both carried lances. “What is your business here?” asked the shorter of the two.

“I seek the Queen,” replied Caswallon.

“Many men seek the Queen. Not all are allowed to find her.”

“It is a matter of importance,” said Caswallon.

“Do I know you?” asked the guard. “You seem familiar.”

“My business is urgent,” said Caswallon. The man nodded once more, then called a young soldier from the ramparts. “Take this man to the city hall. Ask for Obrin.”

The soldier saluted and walked away. Caswallon followed. The man stopped before a wide flight of marble steps, at the top of which were double doors of bronze-studded oak. Before the doors were four more guards in bronze breastplates; each of these wore crimson cloaks and leather breeches cut short at the calf. The soldier led the way up the stairs and whispered to one of the sentries; the man tapped at the door and passed a message inside. After a wait of several more minutes the door opened once more and an officer came out. He was tall and of middle years, his beard iron-grey, his eyes a frosty blue. He looked at Caswallon and smiled. Taking the clansman by the arm, he led him inside the hall. “The Queen is holding a victory banquet,” he said, “but you will not find her in a good mood.”

The hall was vast, with ten high-arched windows. A huge curved table was set at the center, around which sat more than two hundred men and women feasting on roast pig, swan, goose, chicken, and sundry other meats and pastries. The noise was incredible and Caswallon found himself longing for the open mountains. Swallowing down his distaste, he followed the officer forward.

At the far end of the hall, where the table curved like an upturned horseshoe, sat the Queen. She was a tall woman, silver-haired and yet young, and she wore a plain dress of white wool. Caswallon had seen this woman die in the Farlain three years before. Then she had been handsome but old; now she was a beauty, proud and strong, her clear grey eyes sparkling with life and energy. The eyes turned on Caswallon and Sigarni rose from her seat, a delighted smile on her face.

She hesitated, as if not believing what she saw. Then she was running to meet Caswallon. “Redhawk!” she shouted joyously. “You’ve returned!”

Caswallon returned the Queen’s embrace, his mind racing as Sigarni gripped his shoulders.

“Let me look at you, Redhawk. By Heaven, how is it you have become young again? Have you dyed that beard? It was almost pure silver the last time we met.”

“I hear you have done well,” countered Caswallon, his mind racing.

“Well? Now, that is an understatement. The Outland King is slain, his army in ruins. The war may not be won, but we have gained valuable time. Time! Morgase is defeated-but she has vanished. Not one word of her in six months. But enough of that. Where have you been these last two years? I needed you.”

“I have been in my own land, among my own people.”

“You are ill at ease, my friend. What ails you?”

“I am merely tired, my lady.”

She smiled. “Join us at table. We’ll eat and hear a few songs,” said Sigarni, leading him forward. “Later we’ll talk.”

The feast seemed to last an eternity, and great was his relief when eventually it ended. A servant led him to an upper bedchamber. It was small, with a single window and a long pallet bed. A fire was burning in the hearth. Moving to the window, Caswallon pushed it open and gazed out over the mountains. Confused, he remembered again the Queen’s death near Attafoss, and her last words.

“Now the circle is complete,” the Queen had said. “For you told me you would be with me at my death.” And then at the last she had asked, Was I truly the Queen you desired me to be?” The cold winds of approaching winter made him shiver. Closing the window, he crossed the room to sit on the rug before the fire. He thought he had been prepared for anything, but the sight of the Queen had shaken him. She was stunningly beautiful, and despite his love for Maeg, he found in himself a yearning for Sigarni that he would not have believed possible.

For some time he sat there, then felt the draft on his back as the door opened.

Sigarni entered. She was dressed now in a simple woolen shirt of white that showed the curve of her breasts, and dark brown leggings that highlighted her long, slim legs. She sat down on the bed. No more the Queen, she looked now like a clanswoman-tall and strong, fearless and free. Her mouth was astonishingly inviting, and Caswallon found his heart beating wildly.

“What are you thinking, my wizard?” she asked, her voice more husky than he recalled from her greeting in the hall.

“You are very beautiful, lady.”

“And you are changed,” she said softly, her grey eyes holding to his gaze.

“In what way?” he countered.

Sigarni slid off the bed to sit next to him by the fire. “When I greeted you I saw the surprise in your eyes. And now I am here beside you-and yet you do not seek to hold me. What has happened to you, Redhawk? Have you forsaken me for another? I will understand if that is true. By Heaven, I have said my share of farewells to lovers. I would hope to have the strength to accept similar treatment. Is that what is happening here?”

“No,” he said, his mind reeling. Moving back from her, he stood and returned to the window. The moon was high over the mountains and he stared up at the sky, fighting to make sense of her words. They were lovers! How could this be? For Caswallon loyalty was not like a cloak, to be worn or discarded, but an iron code to live by. And yet. ..

“Talk to me, Redhawk,” said Sigarni.

He swung to face her. Once more her beauty struck him like an arrow. “Taliesen told me that you understood the Gateways. You know, therefore, that they allow us to move through time as well as to other lands?”

“Of course,” she told him. “What has that to do with you and me?”

He took a deep breath. “In all my life I have seen you only four times. Once as a babe in the forest, the second time by Ironhand’s Falls, the third”-he hesitated and looked away-“in my own realm… and the fourth tonight in the great hall. Everything you say to me-about us-is… new and strange. If we are to be lovers, it is not now but in a time-for me-that is yet to be. As I stand here I have a wife, Meg, whom I adore, and a small child, Donal.” He saw she was about to speak and raised his hand. “Please say nothing, for I know I would never betray Maeg while she lived. And I do not want to know what the future holds for her.”

Sigarni rose, her face thoughtful. “You are a good man, Redhawk, and I love you. I will say nothing of Maeg…” She smiled. “Just as you hesitated about our meeting in your own realm. I will leave you now. We will talk in the morning.”

“Wait!” he called out as she opened the door. “There is something I must ask of you.”

“The debt,” she said. Then, noting his incomprehension, she smiled softly. “You always said there would come a time when you would ask me a great favor. Whatever it is, I will grant it. Good night, Redhawk.”

“You are a rare woman, Sigarni.”

Turning back, she nodded. “You will one day say that to me with even more feeling,” she promised.

Taliesen sat alone in the semidarkness of his viewing chamber. It was cold, and idly he touched a switch to his right. Warm air flowed through hidden steel vents in the floor and he removed his cloak. Leaning back against the headrest of the padded leather chair, he stared at the paneled ceiling, his mind tired, his thoughts fragmented.

He transferred his gaze to the gleaming files. Eight hundred years of notes, discoveries, failures, and triumphs.

Useless.

All of it…

How could the Great Gates have closed?

And why were the Middle Gates shrinking year by year?

The Infinity Code had been broken a century before his birth by the scientist Astole. The first Gate-a window really-had been set up the following year. It had seemed then that the Universe itself had shrunk to the size of a small room.

By the time Taliesen was a student his people had seen every star, every minor planet. Gates had been erected on thousands of sites from Sirius to Saptatua. Linear time had snapped back into a Gordian knot of interwoven strands. It was a time of soaring arrogance and interstellar jests. Taliesen himself had walked upon many planets as a god, enjoying immensely the worship of the planet-bound humanoids. But as he grew older such cheap entertainment palled and he became fascinated by the development of Man.

Astole, his revered teacher, had fallen from grace, becoming convinced of some mystic force outside human reality. Mocked and derided, he had left the order and vanished from the outer world. Yet it was he who had first saved the baby, Sigarni. Taliesen felt a sense of relief. For years he had feared a rogue element amid the complexities of his plans. Now that fear vanished.

He understood now the riddle of the Hawk Eternal.

“You and I will teach him, Astole,” he said, “and we will save my people.” A nagging pain flared in his left arm, and rubbing his biceps, he rose from the chair. “Now I must find you, old friend,” he said. “I shall begin by revisiting the last place Caswallon saw you.” His fingers spasmed as a new pain lanced into his chest. Taliesen staggered to his chair, fear welling within him. He scrabbled for a box on the desktop, spilling its contents. Tiny capsules rolled to the floor… With trembling fingers he reached for them. There was a time when he would have needed no crudely manufactured remedies, no digitalis derived from foxglove. In the days of the Great Gates he could have traveled to places where his weakened heart would have been regenerated within an hour. Youth within a day! But not now. His vision swam. The fear became a tidal wave of panic that circled his chest with a band of fire. Oh, please, he begged. Not now!

The floor rose to strike his head, pain swamping him.

“Just one more… day,” he groaned.

His fingers clenched into a fist as a fresh spasm of agony ripped into him.

And as he died the Gates vanished.

During the week that followed Caswallon’s departure Maggrig led his Pallides warriors on a series of killing raids, hitting the Aenir at night, peppering them with arrows from woods and forests. Leofas, with four hundred Farlain clansmen, circled the Aenir force and attacked from the south.

Whenever the Aenir mustered for a counterattack the clans melted away, splitting their groups to re-form at agreed meeting places.

The raids were no more than a growing irritation to Asbidag, despite the disruption of his supply lines and the loss of some three hundred warriors. The main battle was what counted, and the clans could not run forever.

But where was Barsa? Nothing had been heard of his son and the Timber Wolves he led.

Drada trapped a raiding party of twenty Pallides warriors in a woods twelve miles from Attafoss, and these-bar one-were summarily butchered. The prisoner was tortured for seven hours, but revealed nothing. He had been blood-eagled on a wide tree. But the main force, led by Maggrig, escaped to the north, cutting through the ring of steel Drada had thrown around the woods. Still, twenty of the enemy had been slain, and Drada was not displeased.

In the southeast Gaelen and his companions had found more than eighty Pallides warriors in the caves of Pataron, a day’s march from Carduil. These he had persuaded to march with him on his return. It was a start.

On the fifth day of travel Gaelen and his group entered the thick pines below Carduil, and as they climbed they felt the chill of the wind blowing down from the snowcapped peaks. As they neared the opening to a narrow pass, a tall woman in leather breeches and a hooded sheepskin jerkin stepped out from the trees, a bow half drawn in her hands.

“Halt where you stand,” she commanded.

“We are seeking Laric,” Gaelen told the clanswoman.

“Who are you?”

“Gaelen of the Farlain. I come with a message from the War Lord Caswallon and his friend Maggrig of the Pallides.”

The warrior woman eased down the bowstring, returned the shaft to the quiver, and moved forward. “I am Lara,” she said, holding out her hand. “Laric’s daughter. My father is dead. He led the men on a raid to Aesgard; they were taken and slain to the last man.”

“All dead?” asked Agwaine, pushing forward.

“Yes. The Haesten are finished.”

“I am sorry,” said Gaelen, his heart sinking.

“No more than we are,” said Lara. “We are camped within Carduil. Join us.”

The companions followed her into the pass, and up to the winding trail below the caves. Once within the twisted caverns Lara pushed back her hood, shaking loose her dark hair. Leaving the companions at a fire where food was being prepared, she took Gaelen to a small rough-cut chamber in which lay a bed and a table of pine.

“There used to be a group of druids here,” she said, stripping off her jerkin. Tossing it to the bed, she pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat.

Gaelen sat on the bed, his misery evident. “You thought you’d find an army?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“How many Farlain warriors escaped?”

“Close to four thousand.”

“And Pallides?”

“Less than a thousand.”

“They’ll fight well,” said the girl. “Would you like something to drink?” Gaelen nodded. She stood and crossed the chamber, bending to lift a jug and two goblets from behind a wooden chest. The soft leather of her breeches stretched across her hips. Gaelen blinked and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

She passed him a goblet of honeyed wine. “Are you warm?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Your face is flushed. Take your jerkin off.”

She really was quite striking, he realized as he removed the garment. Her eyes were the blue of an evening sky, her mouth wide and full-lipped.

“Why are you staring?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“I saw you run in the Games,” she said. “You were unlucky to miss the final.”

“Luck had little to do with it,” he said, happier to be on firmer ground.

“I heard-you were attacked. Still, the clans won.”

“Yes.”

“They will win again.”

“At this moment I don’t see how,” said Gaelen. “Nothing has gone right for us. We have lost thousands and the Aenir are hardly touched.”

“I have eight hundred warriors at my command,” she said.

“What? Where are you hiding them?”

“They are not hidden. They are here, with me.”

“You mean the women?”

“If that patronizing look does not fade soon, you Farlain pig swill, then you’ll be leaving here faster than you came.”

“I… apologize,” he said.

“Well, stop apologizing!” she snapped. “It seems you’ve done nothing else since you arrived. You’re the Lowlander Caswallon brought home, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then, this once, I will forgive you for not thinking like a clansman. All our women are skilled with the bow. We can also use knives, though swords are a little unwieldy. Our men are dead and our clan finished. None of us have any reason to go on living like beasts in the mountains. Even if we survive and smash the Aenir, there will be no Haesten. Our day is gone. The best we can hope for is to find husbands from other clans. Believe me, Gaelen, that is not a happy thought.”

“Let us start again, Lara,” he said. “I did not wish to insult you. And though I was once a Lowlander, I am well aware of the skill of clanswomen. I will accept your offer, if you still hold to it. You must forgive me. It has been a long spring and much has happened; I have been hunted, attacked, and have seen my closest friend slain. The enemy that destroyed your people did this to me when I was a child in Ateris,” he told her, pointing to the blood-red eye and the jagged white scar above. “I had few friends in that city, but those were brutally murdered. Youngsters I grew to like among the Farlain are now rotting corpses. I was sent here to gather an army that could descend upon the enemy and, perhaps, turn the tide of battle. I do not patronize you, I admire you. But still I am disappointed.”

“That I can understand,” she said, her voice softening. “You were one of the Beast Slayers, were you not?”

“That seems so long ago now. There were five of us-and one of those lies dead back in the forest… or at least he would, had he not been devoured by another demon beast.”

“Who died?” she asked.

“Layne.”

“The handsome brother of the mighty Lennox,” she said. “That is indeed a loss. You say there are more of these creatures still roaming the mountains?”

“One only. We slew the others.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “You know you are now part of clan myths.”

He nodded. “A small part.”

“The Lowlander and the Ghost Queen.”

“Is that what they call her?”

“Yes. The story is that she was the daughter of Earis returned from the grave.”

“I don’t know about that,” he told her. “Her name was Sigarni, and she was a mighty warrior queen-the sort of woman you would follow into the caverns of the damned.”

“I like the sound of her. I’ll get us something to eat,” she said, rising and taking his empty goblet.

“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “was your man killed?”

“I had no man.”

“Why?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I…”

“And don’t apologize!”

He watched her leave the chamber, too aware for comfort of her sensual grace and the sleek lines of her body.

Maggrig was horrified when the young druid, Metas, brought him the news of Taliesen’s death. The Pallides leader was still reeling from the trap that had been sprung on him that morning when the Aenir encircled his force. He had escaped, but only by good fortune.

Now he was thunderstruck. He sent a message to Leofas and retired with Intosh to the forest caves to await him. It was late afternoon when Leofas was led to him; with the old warrior was his giant son, Lennox.

“You have heard?” asked Maggrig, rising and gripping the old man’s hand.

“Yes.” Leofas was grey with fatigue and he slumped to the ground beside the crackling fire. “How could it happen?” he asked.

“Damned if I know. Druid magic. Taliesen was found dead in his chambers; they’d run to him to report the disappearance of the Gates. Metas tells me they’ve tried all the words of power, but none work anymore.”

“All our women and children gone. Caswallon trapped in another land. Gods, it’s hopeless,” said Leofas.

“The druids are searching through Taliesen’s records. So far they’ve achieved nothing.”

Leofas rubbed his face, scratching at his iron-streaked beard. “It seems as if the Gods are riding with the Aenir.”

“Let them,” said Maggrig. “I’ve never had a lot of time for them. A man stands alone in his life; if he stops to rely on some invisible spirit, then he’ll fail.”

“Luck has a way of changing,” said Intosh. “I don’t believe we should do anything rash. We must proceed with the original plan.”

“And commit suicide?” asked Maggrig. “The whole point of the Axta strategy was so that Caswallon could bring the Queen’s army down on the enemy. Without that we will be wiped out within the morning.”

“They could still reopen the Gates,” said Lennox.

“I wouldn’t trust those druids to open a pouch,” snapped Maggrig. “It’s hard to have faith in a group so prone to panic. Metas doesn’t know his buttocks from a lump of cheese. And as for the rest, they’re running around like headless chickens, so I’m told. If they reopen them in time, we’ll stay with Caswallon’s plan. If not-we must think again.”

“There’s worse news,” said Lennox. The three men turned to him. “We caught an Aenir scout last night. He told us that Laric and his Haesten launched an attack on Aesgard. They were repulsed and trapped in Southwood by Orsa and two thousand Aenir, and were all slain. Laric’s head was left on a spear. There will be no help from the south.”

“Well, that’s about it,” said Maggrig. “All we need is a plague in our ranks and the day will be complete.”

The four sat in silence around the fire, the burden of despair weighing them down.

A young Pallides warrior entered the cave. “The Loda Hunt Lord has arrived,” he said.

“Bring him to me.”

“I need no bringing!” said Dunild, pushing past the young warrior. The newcomer was short, but powerfully built. He had no beard, and his yellow hair hung to his shoulders beneath a woolen bonnet edged with leather and decorated with an eagle’s feather.

Maggrig stood and forced a smile. “Well met, you poaching rascal!”

Dunild laid his round shield on the ground and gripped Maggrig’s wrist. “You look fat and old, Maggrig,” said the Loda Hunt Lord.

“That’s because I am old and fat. But still a match for most men-including you. How many follow you?”

“Three hundred.”

“Good news.”

“I hear you’ve been suffering.”

“I’ve had better days,” admitted Maggrig. “What of Grigor?”

“I know nothing of the thieving louse,” hissed Dunild.

“Now, that is not the whole truth, my friend,” said Maggrig, “for you’d not have brought your clan and left your own valley unprotected.”

Dunild grinned. “He says he will come and fight alongside you-as long as he doesn’t have to fight alongside me! ”

“How many will he bring?”

“He’ll match me man for man, so I told him five hundred.”

“I trust neither of you will leave any behind to raid each other’s lands?”

“On the contrary. We’ve both done just that.”

“I think you might be right, Intosh,” said Maggrig. “Perhaps our luck is changing.” The swordsman grinned and the newcomer joined them around the fire.

The discussion carried on into the night, and the men were joined by Patris Grigor, a skeletally lean, balding warrior and Hunt Lord to the Grigor clan. There were few better sword killers in the mountains than this taciturn clansman. He sat as far from Dunild as he could, and the two men exchanged not a word during the discussion, all comments directed at Leofas or Maggrig. The atmosphere was tense.

At dawn they received a report from the druid Metas. There had been no success with the Gates, and Taliesen’s files had offered no solution. The Gates, he said, were closed forever.

For a time none of the leaders spoke. Their families gone, their hopes dashed, they sat in the silence of despair. Finally Leofas said, “All we have left now is to die-and take as many of the enemy with us as we can. Now is the time for a decision, Maggrig. Axta Glen is out of the question. So where do we make a stand?”

His words hung in the air. Maggrig, forcing his mind from thoughts of Maeg and his grandson, lost in time, glanced at Dunild and Grigor. The men had brought their warriors to fight alongside the other clans-not to throw their lives away. Maggrig saw the concern on their faces, and he knew what other thoughts would be stirring in their cunning minds. The Farlain and the Pallides had lost all their women and children. If, by some chance, they were able to destroy the Aenir they would then be forced to raid for women from other clans.

“We will find a way to open the Gates,” he said, surprised at the confidence in his voice. “And more than that. I don’t intend to merely lash out like a dying bear. I want to win. By the Gods, we’re all clansmen here. Brothers and cousins. Together we will destroy Asbidag and his ragtag band of killers.”

“A pretty speech, Maggrig,” said Dunild softly. “But how-and where-will this be achieved?”

“That is for us to decide at this meeting,” answered Maggrig. “Who will begin?”

An hour of discussion followed as the clan leaders suggested various possible battle sites, mostly occupying high ground. None of the sites offered even the possibility of a victory. Then Intosh suggested a mountain pass some twenty miles east. It was known as Icairn’s Folly, following a battle there hundreds of years ago when a young chieftain had followed his enemy into the pass and been destroyed.

“We could man the pass walls with archers and lure the Aenir in upon us,” said Intosh. “The mountain walls narrow to two hundred fifty paces apart at the center, and a small force could hold a larger one there.”

“And what when we are pushed back? The pass is blocked and we would be like cattle in a slaughter pen,” said Maggrig.

“Let’s not be pushed back,” said Intosh.

“But can we win there?” asked Grigor. “I don’t like the idea of hurling my clan to doom on one battle.”

“Can we win anywhere?” asked Leofas.

“The Folly does have one advantage,” offered Maggrig. “Our archers will wreak a terrible slaughter among the enemy. The Aenir could break and run. They’ve done it before-when the Pallides crushed them.”

“Even so, is it wise,” asked Dunild, “to choose a battle site with no avenue of retreat?”

“All other areas are ruled out,” said Intosh. “Although we cannot retreat, they cannot encircle us.”

“We could continue to hit and run,” suggested Lennox, who had remained silent for much of the planning.

“But we can’t win that way,” said his father. “I hate to admit it, but it seems we have run out of choices. I vote for Icairn’s Folly.”

The other leaders nodded, then Grigor spoke. “This is your war, Maggrig, not mine. I have come because we are all clan. But I’ll not watch my men cut to pieces. My archers will man the left-hand slope of the pass. If you are crushed, we can still escape.”

“What more could be expected from the Grigors?” snapped Dunild.

Patris Grigor started to rise, reaching for his sword, but Maggrig stopped him with a raised hand.

“Enough!” he said. “Patris is entirely correct. Dunild, you and your Loda warriors will hold the right-hand slopes, Patris the left. The Pallides and the Farlain will stand together at the center. If we are pushed back or scattered, the rest of you must get away with as many men as you can. Take to your own lands. But for the sake of all clansmen, do not go back to war with one another. For your lands will be next, I think.”

“We are decided then?” asked Leofas.

“It seems so,” said Maggrig.

Caswallon’s first realization that anything was wrong came early on the fourth morning of his stay in Citadel. Borrowing a horse, he rode into the hills seeking Taliesen and the Gate. He was anxious to hear of the Aenir advance.

When he arrived at the slope he found no entrance. At first he was unconcerned and returned to the city, spending the day with Sigarni, listening as she talked warmly of her youth and the early days of her rule-days of bloody war and treachery, and close encounters with disaster. Through the conversations Caswallon’s appreciation of the Queen grew. She was a natural tactician but, more than this, knew men, their strengths and weaknesses, and what drove them.

She had a close-knit band of followers, fanatically loyal, led by the powerful Obrin, the Queen’s captain, a man of iron strength and innate cunning. Sigarni talked of a black general called Asmidir, who had died holding the rear guard against the Earl of Jastey and his army, and of a dwarf named Ballistar who had journeyed through a Gateway in the company of Ironhand’s ghost. But of the Redhawk she had known she said little, save that he had appeared following the death of Asmidir and had helped her to train her men, leading the left wing against Jastey and his thousands.

“Do I have friends here?” he asked.

“Apart from me?” she countered with a quick smile. “Who would need more? But yes, there is Obrin. You and he became sword brothers. I think he is a little hurt that you have spent so little time with him.”

The Queen had agreed to lead her warriors into the Farlain, but said she could gather only four thousand. The call went out, and the muster began.

At dawn Caswallon tried again to find the Gate. This time an edge of anger pricked him.

What was Taliesen doing, closing the Gate at such a time?

Taking supplies for three days, he rode north to the great falls of Attafoss. Leaving the horse tethered on a grassy meadow he swam across to the isle of Vallon and entered the deep honeycomb of caves beneath the hill. Near the entrance he was met by an elderly druid he had seen with Taliesen.

“Why has the Gate been closed?” asked Caswallon. The man wrung his hands. His face was pinched and tight as if he had not slept for days.

“I don’t know,” he wailed. “Nothing works anymore. Not one word of power.”

“What does this mean?”

“The Middle and Lesser Gates have vanished-just like the Great Gates of yesteryear. We are trapped here. Forever.”

“I will not accept that!” said Caswallon, fighting down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. “Now be calm and tell me about the words of power.”

The man nodded and sank back on his narrow cot bed, staring at his hands. Caswallon’s enforced calm soothed his own panic and he took a deep breath.

“The words themselves are meaningless, it is the sound of the words. The sounds activate devices set within the hillside here. It is not dissimilar to whistling for a hunting dog, which responds to sounds and reacts as it has been trained to do. Only here we are dealing with something vastly more complex, and infinitely beyond our comprehension.”

“Something is… broken,” said Caswallon, lamely.

“Indeed it is. But we are talking about a device created aeons ago by a superior race, whose skills we can scarce guess at. I myself have seen devices no bigger than the palm of my hand, inside which are a thousand separate working parts. We do not even have the tools to work upon these devices, and if we did we would not know where to start.”

“So we cannot contact Taliesen?” asked Caswallon.

“No. I just pray he is working toward a solution on the other side.”

“Are you one of the original druids?”

The man laughed. “No, my grandfather was. I am Sestra of the Haesten.”

“Are there any of the elder race on this side of the Gate?”

“None that I know of.”

Caswallon thanked him and returned to the mare. Two days later, weary to the inner depths of his soul, he rode back into Citadel town. Not to see Maeg again, and feel the touch of her lips on his. Not to see Donal grow into a fine man. Never to know the fate of his people. Doomed to walk the rest of his life in a foreign land under strange stars.

He sought the Queen, finding her in her private rooms at the east wing of the hall. He told her nothing of the disappearance of the Gates, but questioned her about the priest who had first brought her to the forest as a babe.

“What of him?” asked Sigarni.

“Did he survive?”

“You know that he did.”

“I am tired, my lady, and my brain is weary. Forgive me. Does he still live, is what I meant.”

“Only just, my love. He is the abbot of the Dark Woods, a day’s journey to the east. But the last I heard he was blind and losing his wits.”

“Can you spare a man to take me to him?”

“Of course. Is it important?”

“More important than I want to think about,” said Caswallon.

With two horses each, Caswallon and a rider named Bedwyr rode through the day, reaching the Dark Woods an hour after dark. Both men reeled from their saddles and Bedwyr hammered at the door of the monastery. It was opened by a sleepy monk, whose eyes filled with fear as he saw the armor worn by the riders.

“Be at peace, man,” said Bedwyr. “We’re not raiders, we ride for the Queen. Does the abbot live?”

The man nodded and led them through narrow corridors of cold stone to a small cell facing west. He did not tap upon the door but opened it quietly, leading them inside. A lantern flickered upon the far wall, throwing shadows to a wide bed in which lay a man of great age, his eyes open, seeming to stare at the rough-cut ceiling.

“Leave us,” ordered Caswallon. Bedwyr escorted the monk from the room and Caswallon heard the rider asking for food, and the monk’s promise that he would find bread and honey. Caswallon walked forward and sat beside the abbot. He had changed much since Caswallon first saw him; his face was webbed with age and his sightless eyes seemed preternaturally bright.

“Can you hear me, Astole?” asked Caswallon.

The man stirred. “I hear you, Redhawk, my friend. There is fear in your voice.”

“Yes. Great fear. I need your help now, as once you needed mine in the forest.”

The man chuckled weakly. “There is no magic left, Redhawk. With all the wonders my mind encompassed I can now no longer lift this pitiful frame from the bed, nor see the brightest sunset. By tomorrow I shall have joined my Lord.”

“The Gates have closed.”

“That is ancient history.”

“The Middle Gates.”

“Again? That is not possible.”

“Believe me, Astole, they have closed. How may I reopen them?”

“Wait a moment,” said the old man. “When last did you see me?”

“You were in the forest with the infant Queen.”

“Ah, I understand,” said Astole. “It is so long since I played with time, and my mind is growing addled.” His head sank back on the pillow and he closed his sightless eyes. “Yes, it is becoming clear. The Farlain is still under threat, the Queen has not yet passed the Gate, and you have yet to learn the mysteries. I have it now.”

“Then help me,” urged Caswallon. “Tell me how to reopen the Gate. I must lead the Queen through, or my people will perish.”

“I cannot tell you, my boy. I can only show you, teach you. It will take many years-eleven, if I remember correctly.”

“I don’t have years,” said Caswallon, hope draining from him. The old man was senile and making no sense. As if reading his mind Astole reached out a hand and gripped Caswallon’s arm, and when he spoke his voice was strong with authority.

“Do not despair, my friend. There is much that you cannot understand. I made the Gates in my youth and arrogance. I discovered the lines of power that link the myriad pasts, the parallel worlds, and I made the machines to track them and ride them. It was I who allowed the Great Gates to close. My race was using the universe as an enormous whorehouse. I rerouted the prime power source to feed the Lesser and Middle Gates. But all power sources are finite-even those that flow from collapsed stars and make up the Sipstrassi. It is-in the Now that you inhabit-running to its finish. There are other sources, and I will teach you to find and realign them, and then the Gates will return. The man you see now is but the last fading spark of a bright fire. He will die tonight, and yet he will not be dead. We will meet again and he shall teach you.

“There is a cave behind this abbey; a chalice is carved upon the entrance. Let the muster of the Queen’s men continue, and on the appointed day walk into the Chalice Cave and approach the far wall. It will appear as solid rock, but you will pass through it, for this Gate has not vanished but only shifted. On the other side, I shall be waiting.”

“But you are dying!”

“We are speaking of events which have already happened, my boy. I was working upon a complex formula in my study when the Gateway flickered and you appeared. You told me that I had sent you, and you told me why. More I cannot say.” The old man sighed, then gave a weak smile. “We are to be great friends, you and I. Closer than father and son. And yet I must say farewell to a stranger who is yet to be my friend. Ah, the tricks time plays…”

The old man fell silent and his eyes closed. Caswallon sat beside him, his mind tired, his burdens heavy. Was the abbot to be trusted? How could he tell? The future of his people rested with the promise of a dying monk. He sat with Astole until dawn’s first light seeped through the wooden shutters of the window, then he lifted the abbot’s hand from his arm.

Caswallon stood and gazed down at the old man. He was dead. The clansman lifted the blanket and pulled it over the abbot’s face, pausing to study the man’s expression. A faint smile was on the lips and a great feeling of peace swept over Caswallon.

He walked to the window, pulling open the shutters. The woods beyond shone in the early morning light. Behind him the door opened and the lancer Bedwyr stepped into the room.

“Did you find what you hoped for, Redhawk?”

“Time will tell.”

“The old man died then,” said the lancer, glancing at the bed.

“Yes. Peacefully.”

“They say he knew great magic. Does that mean his spirit will return to haunt us?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Caswallon.

Unaware of the growing drama, Gaelen led the Haesten women northwest, stopping only to meet the Pallides warriors. The eighty-man force had now swelled to one hundred ten, as other warriors crept in from the mountains and woods where they had hidden their families in derelict crofts or well-disguised caves. Ten men were to be left behind, to hunt and gather food for the hidden children, but the others were set to follow Gaelen.

The young clansman was truly concerned now, for he had never led such a force and was worried about the route. He conferred with Agwaine, Onic, and Gwalchmai. It was one thing for a small party to thread its way through the Aenir lines, quite another for an army numbering almost a thousand.

“We know,” said Onic, “that the main army is before us, pushing north. We should have no real trouble for at least two days.”

“You are forgetting Orsa,” said Gaelen. “His force destroyed Laric in the south. We don’t know if he will head north now and join his father. If he does, we will be trapped between them.”

“Ifs and buts, cousin,” said Agwaine. “We will solve nothing by such discussion. We are expected at Axta Glen and one way or another we must move on. We cannot eliminate all risks.”

“True,” admitted Gaelen, “but it is as well to examine them. So be it, we will head due north, and then cut west to Atta, and then on to the glen. That way we should avoid Orsa. But we’ll push out a screen of scouts west and east, and you, Gwal, shall go ahead of us in the north with five men to scout.”

The self-appointed leader of the Pallides, a burly clansman named Telor, caused Gaelen’s first problem. “Why should you lead, and make such decisions?” he asked when Gaelen told him of the plan.

“I lead because I was appointed to lead.”

“I follow Maggrig.”

“Maggrig follows Caswallon.”

“So you say, Blood-eye.”

Gaelen breathed deeply, pushing aside his anger. He rubbed his scarred eye, aware that Lara and the others were watching this encounter with detached fascination. Such was the way of warriors among the clans. Telor had now implied that Gaelen was a liar, and the two men were hovering on the verge of combat.

“Your land,” said Gaelen at last, “has been overrun by an enemy. Your people are sundered and preparing to fight alongside the Farlain in a last desperate battle for survival. If they lose, we lose. Everything. And yet here you are debating a point of no importance. Now I will say this only once: I lead because I was chosen to lead. There is no more to discuss. Either draw your sword or obey me.”

“Very well,” said Telor. “I will follow you north, but once the battle is sighted I will lead the Pallides.”

“No,” said Gaelen.

The man’s sword hissed from his scabbard. “Then fight me, Farlain.”

The onlookers backed away, forming a circle around the two men.

“I do not desire to kill you,” said Gaelen hopelessly.

“Then I lead.”

“No,” said Gaelen softly, drawing his sword. “You die.”

“Wait!” shouted Lara, stepping forward with hands on hips. “It is well known that the Farlain are arrogant numbskulls, and that the Pallides have too long interbred with their cattle, but this is sheer stupidity. If you must fight, then fight, but let it be clear that if Gaelen conquers, then he leads ALL.”

“What if Telor wins?” asked a young Pallides warrior.

“Then he leads the Pallides alone,” said Lara. “I’ll not follow a man with the brain of a turnip.”

“You miserable Haesten bitch,” snapped Telor. “You seek to rob the contest of any merit.”

“It has no merit,” said Gaelen. “Thousands of clansmen and their wives lie butchered by invaders, and you seek to add more clan blood to the soil.”

Telor gave a harsh laugh. “Frightened, are you, Farlain?”

Gaelen shook his head. “Terrified,” he said, dropping his sword and stepping forward, his forehead thundering against Telor’s nose. The Pallides warrior staggered back, blood drenching his yellow beard, as Gaelen moved in with a left cross exploding against Telor’s unprotected chin. The Pallides warrior pitched to his left, hitting the ground hard. Gaelen rolled the man to his back and drew his hunting knife, touching the point to Telor’s throat. “Make a choice, live or die,” he said coldly.

Telor lay very still. “Live,” he whispered.

“The first wise choice you’ve made,” said Gaelen. Rising, he gripped the man’s right arm, hauling him to his feet. Telor staggered, but remained upright, blood dripping from his ruined nose. “Now, pick twenty Pallides to follow Agwaine and Onic. I want scouts east and west of us. Then you go, with three of your choosing, to the north to make sure our route is clear. Is that understood?”

Telor nodded.

Turning on his heel Gaelen set off, and the small army followed him. Lara moved up alongside him, grinning. “That was close,” she said.

“Yes. Thank you for your help; it took away his concentration.”

“It was nothing. I didn’t want Telor to cut your ears off; he’s second only to Intosh with a blade.”

“Then I thank you again-with even more feeling.”

“Are you a good swordsman?”

“I’ve recently learned to tell the point from the hilt.”

“No, truly?”

“I am as good as most men.”

“Have you killed any Aenir?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Gods, woman! What does it matter?”

“I like to know who I am following.”

“I’ve killed five and wounded another.”

“Five? That’s not bad. Hand to hand, or with the bow?”

“Hand to hand. The wounded man I hit with an arrow.”

“Marksmanship’s not your strong point, then?”

“No. And you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, we seem to be talking about numbers killed, so I am asking you the same question.”

“I see. Why?”

“Because I like to know the caliber of my followers,” said Gaelen, grinning.

“I haven’t killed any. But I will.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Do you have a woman?” she asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Why?”

“She refused me.”

“I see,” said Lara.

“What do you see?”

“I see why you are so nervous around women.”

“I am not nervous around women, I am nervous with you,” he said.

“Why is that?”

Gaelen was growing hot and beginning to feel like a hunted rabbit.

“Well?” she pressed.

“I have no idea, and I don’t wish to discuss it,” he said primly. She laughed then, the sound deep and throaty, which only added to his discomfort.

On the first night of camp Gaelen avoided her, talking long into the night with Gwalchmai, who had returned from his scouting trip with Telor. Telor and his companions had remained in the north, and Gwal was due to rejoin them at first light.

“It was an uncomfortable day,” said Gwalchmai. “I think we only exchanged three words.”

“I’m sorry, Gwal. How does it look?”

“So far the route is clear. That Telor gives me cold chills, though.”

“Yes. Let’s hope he saves his anger for the Aenir.”

“Let’s hope they cut his damned heart out,” muttered Agwaine, joining them.

Gaelen shook his head. “No wonder the clans are always at war,” he said.

“How are you getting on with Lara?” asked Agwaine, his mouth spreading in a lecherous grin.

“What does that mean?” snapped Gaelen.

“She likes you, man. It’s obvious.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Not beautiful exactly, but gorgeous. And those breeches…”

“Will you stop this?”

“I wish she liked me.”

“I cannot believe this conversation is taking place. We are marching toward a battle, I’m trying to think about tactics, and all you can think about is… is… breeches.”

“What about breeches?” asked Lara, moving up to sit with them.

“Yes, Gaelen, tell her about the breeches tactic,” said Gwalchmai.

Gaelen closed his eyes.

“Well?” she said.

“You’re the authority, Gwal. You explain it.”

Gwalchmai chuckled. “No. If I’m to be with Telor by dawn, I’d best tuck up in my blankets. Excuse me.”

Gwal moved off to fashion a bed below an overhanging pine. Agwaine grinned and also moved away-despite Gaelen’s imploring gaze. “So?” said Lara. “What about breeches?”

“It was a jest. The clouds are bunching-there could be rain tomorrow.”

“Come with me,” she said, taking his hand. He followed her into the trees and they stopped some forty paces away in a circular clearing, screened by dense bushes. She led him to where she had placed her blankets and pulled him down beside her. The clansman was supremely ill at ease.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked huskily.

“I don’t want to talk, Gaelen.” Leaning forward, she curled an arm around his neck and kissed him.

Thoughts of Deva vanished like ice on fire.

Leofas and Maggrig walked the length of the Folly as darkness gathered around them. The slopes on either side were steep and pitted with rocks and boulders, while the pass itself showed a steady incline toward the narrow center. The Aenir would be charging uphill and that would slow them. But not by much.

The two men were joined by Patris Grigor and a dozen of his archers. “It’s a magnificent killing ground,” said Grigor. “They’ll lose hundreds before they reach you-if they come in, that is. What if they bottle up the mouth of the pass?”

“We attack them,” declared Maggrig.

“That’s not much of a plan,” said Grigor, grinning.

“I’m not much of a planner,” admitted Maggrig, “but I think they’ll come at us. They’ve yet to learn fear.”

“When your arrows are exhausted, we leave. If we can,” said Grigor.

“Understood,” said Maggrig, walking back toward the campfires in the wide pass beyond.

The walls of the box canyon rose sheer, reflecting the red light from hundreds of small fires. Leofas, who had remained silent on the long walk, sat back on a boulder, staring out over the clan army as they rested. Some men were already sleeping, others were sharpening sword blades. Many were laughing and talking.

“What’s wrong, my friend?” Maggrig asked.

Leofas glanced up. In the flickering firelight Maggrig’s beard shone like flames, his blue eyes glittering, his face a mask of bronze.

“I’m tired,” said Leofas, resting his chin in his hands and staring out over the campfires.

“Nonsense! You’ll be leading the victory dance tomorrow like a first-year huntsman.”

The Farlain warrior looked up, eyes blazing. “Will you stop for a moment? I’m not a first-year huntsman, and I don’t need you trying to lift me. I’m old. Experienced. I’ve seen war and death. Anyone who can tell a sword point from a hole in the ground knows we have little chance tomorrow.”

“Then leave!” snapped Maggrig.

“And where would I go, Maggrig? No, I don’t mind dying alongside you. In fact, I don’t mind dying. My hope is that we cull their ranks enough for the other clans to have a chance of defeating them.”

“You think I’ve been foolish?” asked Maggrig, slumping beside him.

“No. We ran out of choices, that’s all.”

For a time they sat in silence, then Maggrig turned to his companion. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“I don’t mind if you ask,” said Leofas. “I may not answer.”

“Why did you never remarry? You were only a young man when Maerie died.”

Leofas switched his gaze to the stars and the years slipped away like falling dreams. He shook his head. Finally he spoke, his voice soft, his eyes distant.

“I miss her most at sunset, when we’d go to the ridge behind the house. There was an old elm there. I built a seat around the base and we’d sit there and watch the sun die. I’d wrap us both in my cloak and she’d rest her head on my shoulder. It was so peaceful, you could believe there was not another living being in the world. I felt alive then. I never have since.”

“So why not remarry?”

“I didn’t want anyone else. And you?”

“No one else would have me,” said Maggrig.

“That’s not true.”

“No, it’s not,” admitted Maggrig. “But then Rhianna and I didn’t watch many sunsets. In truth we spent most of our life together squabbling and rowing. But she was a good lass for all that. Maeg was four when Rhianna died, she wouldn’t have taken to another mother.”

“We’re a pair of fools,” said Leofas again. “Do you regret not having sons?”

“No,” lied Maggrig. “And we’re getting maudlin.”

“Old men are allowed to get maudlin. It’s a rule of life.”

“We’re not that old. I’m as strong as ever.”

“I’m ten years older than you, Maggrig, and according to tradition, that makes me wise. Between us we muster a century or more. That’s old.”

“I never used to be old,” said Maggrig, grinning. “Strange how it creeps up on a man.”

They let the silence grow, each drifting on a river of memories. It was, they believed, their last night alive under the stars and neither wanted to talk about tomorrow.

Drada was angry, more angry than he could ever recall. The clans had mounted a series of raids, retreating always to the east. He sensed a plan behind the attacks and now it had become clear.

That morning Aenir scouts had reported a movement of the clans toward a pass six miles east. Drada, who had scouted the land personally some days before, knew that the pass was blocked and impassable to the north. Surely the clans would not consider a battle there? But they had, and now the Aenir force was waiting in the mouth of Icairn’s Folly-and Drada was crimson with rage.

“But why attack, Father? It is unnecessary. There is no way out for them; if we wait they must attack us.”

“I command here!” thundered Asbidag. “Why do you plead caution when we have them where we want them?”

“Listen to me, Father. The slopes within could hold a thousand archers. They will take a huge toll. The main army will be near the center of the pass, where the mountain walls narrow, which means our weight of numbers will be lessened. We will be fighting one to one. Of course we’ll win-but we could lose thousands in there.”

“They brought me Barsa’s rotting corpse this morning,” said Asbidag. “Now I have two sons calling for vengeance. And you want me to sit and wait.”

“The clans have made a terrible mistake,” said Drada. “They are hoping we will do exactly what you are planning. It is their only hope.”

“What are you, a prophet now? How do you know what they are planning? I believe we have surprised them in their lair. Get the men ready to charge.”

Drada swallowed his anger, and it tasted of bile. He turned away from his father then, so that he would not see the burning hatred in his eyes.

You are dead, Asbidag, Drada decided. After the battle, I will kill you.

The Aenir line assembled in the mouth of the pass, shield straps being tightened, sword hands rubbed in dust for better grip. Twenty-five thousand men peered at the rock-strewn slopes and the towering mountain walls beyond. There was no enemy in sight.

The war horns of the Aenir sounded and the armor-clad mass began to move slowly forward, Drada and Tostig together at the center, Asbidag’s other sons to the left and right of them. Asbidag himself stayed at the mouth of the pass surrounded by his forty huscarles. Morgase stood beside him, her eyes bright, her heart hammering as she waited for the killing to begin.

The Aenir army moved on warily, with shields held high, scanning the slopes. Ahead of them the pass narrowed and still there was no sign of the enemy…

Suddenly the Folly was alive with noise as the Farlain and the Pallides moved into sight to man the narrow center. A great roar went up from the Aenir as they surged forward, beating shields with their sword blades. On either side of them rose archers from the Dunilds and the Loda. Goose-feathered shafts filled the air. The screams of wounded men rose above the war cries and now the clans roared out their own battle cry that echoed in the mountains, booming and growing.

Dark clouds of hissing death flashed into the Aenir horde in a series of withering volleys. Some warriors broke from the ranks to charge the archers, but these were cut down by scores of shafts. The charge slowed, but did not stop.

At the front of the Aenir line the giant Orsa felt the baresark rage upon him. Hurling aside his shield, he raced ahead of his men bellowing his anger and swinging his broadsword above his head. An arrow sliced into his thigh but he ignored it.

Lennox leaped from the line to meet him, holding a long-handled mace of lead and iron. He too threw aside his shield as Orsa ran forward slashing his blade toward the clansman’s head. Lennox made no move to avoid the blow but lashed the mace into the blade, smashing it to shards. Orsa crashed into him and both men fell to the ground, Orsa’s hands closing about Lennox’s throat. Releasing the mace, Lennox reached up to cup his hand under Orsa’s chin; then punching his arm forward, he snapped the Aenir’s head back, tearing the man’s grip from his neck. Rolling, Lennox came up with the mace and delivered a terrible blow to Orsa’s skull, crushing the bones to shards and powder.

With scant seconds to spare Lennox rejoined the line, standing beside his father, Leofas, and the Pallides War Lord Maggrig. The front line of the Aenir bore down on the waiting clans. Maggrig lifted his sword, grinned at Intosh, then screamed the battle cry of the Pallides.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!”

The chant was taken up and the clans surged into the charging Aenir. After four years of war in the Lowlands the Aenir believed they were the finest fighters under the sky, but never had they met the fierce-eyed, blood-hungry wolves of the mountains. Now they learned the terrible truth, and as the blades of the clans slashed and cut their first line to shreds, the charge faltered.

Maggrig powered his way into the Aenir ranks, cleaving and killing, an awful fury upon him. Many were the Pallides dead whose faces he would never forget, whose souls hungered for vengeance. The War Lord forgot the plan to hold the center and forged ever deeper into the enemy. Intosh and the Pallides had no choice but to follow him.

Leofas gutted one warrior and parried a blow from a second, backhanding his shield into the man’s face. Lennox aided him, braining the man with his mace.

“Sound the horn!” yelled Leofas. “Maggrig’s gone mad!”

Lennox stepped back from the fray, allowing Farlain warriors to shield him from the enemy. Lifting his war horn to his lips, he blew three sharp blasts. The sound filtered through Maggrig’s rage and he slowed in his attack, allowing the Pallides to form around him. The weight of the Aenir numbers was beginning to tell and the clans were pushed back, inch by murderous inch.

The deadly storm of arrows had slowed now, for the archers on the slopes were running short of shafts.

Dunild hurled aside his bow, lifting his shield and drawing his sword. His men followed suit. Now was the time to withdraw, for the battle could not be won; the Aenir had not broken.

Three hundred clansmen joined him, swords in hand. Looking across the slopes to where his enemy Patris Grigor had also drawn his sword, Dunild felt a strange calm settle on him. He lifted his sword in silent farewell to his enemy. There would never be peace while they both lived, for their hatred was stronger than any desire to beat a common foe.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” yelled Dunild as he led his three hundred down the slope to reinforce the Farlain.

Patris Grigor could not believe his eyes. His enemy of twenty years had just surrendered his lands. Patris was now the undisputed lord of the northwest.

“What does he think he’s doing?” yelled a man on his left. Grigor shrugged. Twenty years of hatred, and now Dunild was hurling his life away on a futile charge in a doomed battle. Grigor shook his head and dropped his bow.

“Do we leave now?” asked a clansman.

Grigor laughed. “You know what’s happening down there?”

“The Aenir are about to win through. It’s all over.”

“That’s right. And that brainless idiot Dunild has gone down there to die.”

“Then we are leaving?”

“What do you think?”

The man grinned. “If we charge now we might just be able to hack our way through to Dunild and then, while no one’s looking, I’ll cut his throat.”

Grigor chuckled and hitched his shield to his arm. “Yes, by damn. Let’s do something noble for a change!” Raising his sword, he began to run down the slope. Five hundred Grigor warriors took up their swords and followed him.

The front line of the Aenir slipped and slithered over blood-covered rocks and sprawled bodies, only to be cut down by the slashing iron blades of the clansmen. Leofas, his cold blue eyes glinting with battle fever, stood at the center of the defenders, Maggrig and Lennox on either side. Again and again the Aenir swarmed forward, only to be turned back by the sharp blades and steadfast courage of the defenders.

Drada alone among the Aenir was not surprised by the resolute defense, but he had been a part of many battles and knew what must happen now. The clans would fall back, there was no choice. Their strength was failing fast and their losses were enormous. The two at the center were both old men and their stamina suspect. Once they had fallen, the line would break.

Beside him Briga was poised for the final rush. He had been a warrior for more than twenty years and always, he knew, there came a point where the fight could be read like a game, where the ebb and flow could be charted like a steady current. They had reached that point now.

And the clans were ready to break…

The feeling swept among the Aenir and the battle cries began again. Once more the forces clashed. The clansmen fought silently now, leaden-legged and heavy of arm, and inch by inexorable inch they were forced back toward the open pass beyond.

Briga felt joy surge in his veins. No army in the world could hold now. It was over. The clans were finished!

Maggrig felt it too, and he cursed aloud as he clove his sword through an Aenir neck and ducked under a slashing blade. Well, if he had to die he was damned if it would be in the open ground he had fought so hard to defend. Dropping to his haunches he hurled himself forward into the Aenir, cutting and stabbing. Caught up in the frenzy of the moment, Leofas joined him, with Lennox and Intosh.

And the clans rallied, surging forward to join their leaders. The ferocity of the assault stunned the leading Aenir warriors and they fought to pull back. Briga, just behind the front line, turned to Drada. “It’s impossible!” he shouted. Drada shrugged.

As the Aenir front line backed away from him, Maggrig raised his sword defiantly. “Come on, you Outland scum. We’re still standing!”

A huge warrior in a wolf’s-head helm leaped from the Aenir ranks, sword raised. Maggrig parried the blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into the mail shirt and snapped. Dropping the useless hilt, Maggrig grabbed the man by his mail shirt and hauled him forward, butting him savagely and crashing his fist into the man’s belly. The warrior doubled over, his head snapping back as Maggrig’s knee came up to explode against his face.

Intosh threw Maggrig a sword, Maggrig caught it by the hilt and sliced the blade through the back of the wolf’s-head helm. The Aenir died without a sound.

“You lice-ridden sons of bitches,” shouted Maggrig. “Is that the best you can do?”

A roar rose from the Aenir and the line lunged forward.

The battle raged once more and now there were no bloodcurdling battle cries-only the screams of the dying and the grim determination of the living to survive. The clansmen had been forced back, but their enemies had to climb a wall of their own dead to force a path to the dwindling band of defenders.

Asbidag had climbed into the saddle, the better to see the battle. His trained eye knew it had reached its final stage. A carle beside him screamed suddenly, pitching forward to the ground with a black-feathered shaft in his back. Arrows hissed through the air around him. Asbidag swung in the saddle, tearing his shield from the saddle horn.

At the mouth of the pass Gaelen lifted his war horn and blew three blasts. Eight hundred bows were bent and a dark cloud of shafts ripped into the horde.

Maggrig crashed his shield into the face of an attacker, hurling him from his feet, lancing his blade into a second man and dragging it clear.

“It’s Gaelen!” shouted Lennox. “He must have a thousand men with him.”

Maggrig staggered as an axe blade shattered his shield. He hammered his fist into the axe-man’s face, feeling the man’s teeth break under the impact. A lean Aenir swordsman pushed himself past Maggrig. Leofas blocked his blow, but lost his grip on the sword. Grabbing the man by the neck and groin, he hoisted him into the air and hurled him back among his comrades. The man vanished into the mass. Leofas recovered his blade, wincing as a sword cut into his shoulder. Lennox leaped to the rescue, his blood-covered club smashing the swordsman’s spine.

At the mouth of the pass Gaelen signaled for the women to scale the slopes on either side of the fighting men. Lara set off to the right with four hundred Haesten women behind her. As she climbed, Gaelen turned to Telor.

“Now let’s see what you can do with that blade,” he said.

Hitching his shield into place Gaelen ran at Asbidag’s carles, a hundred Pallides warriors yelling their war cry behind him.

His horse rearing and kicking, Asbidag saw death running at him. An arrow knocked his helm from his head, another thudded into his shield. Panic overwhelmed him. Kicking his heels to his horse’s side he rode through his own men, smashing their line, then veered away from the advancing clansmen. Arrows hissed around him and he ducked low over the horse’s neck.

Lara saw his flight and notched an arrow to the string, drawing smoothly and sighting on Asbidag’s broad back. The shaft sang through the air, punching through the Aenir’s mail shirt at the shoulder. Then he was through and clear and riding south. His horse carried him for a mile before collapsing and pitching him to the earth. He rolled to his feet. Three arrows had pierced the beast’s chest and belly; leaving it to die, Asbidag began the long walk south.

In the Folly, Asbidag’s panicked flight had opened the way for Gaelen and his warriors to smash the shield wall and engage the carles. Gaelen ducked under a two-handed cut and drove his sword home into the man’s chest. Beside him Telor leaped and twisted, his sword flashing in the sunlight, cleaving and killing. Two men ran at Gaelen. He blocked a blow from the first, gutting the man with a reverse stroke; his sword stuck in his opponent’s belly, he saw the second warrior’s sword arcing toward his head. Telor parried the blow, chopping his blade through the man’s neck.

The burly Pallides grinned. “Be more careful, Farlain. I can’t be watching out for both of us.”

In the valley all was chaos as Drada fought to hold the Aenir steady. Arrows rained upon them from both sides of the pass and the clans were fighting like men possessed. But it was a losing battle. Drada could feel that success was but a matter of moments ahead. Once they pushed the enemy back into the wider pass beyond, nothing could prevent an Aenir victory.

Glancing about him, the young Aenir warrior was horrified at the losses his force had suffered. Considerably more than half his warriors were down: twelve thousand men sacrificed to Asbidag’s stupidity!

But against this Drada had seen his father’s flight and it filled him with joy. No need to kill him now, and risk death from his carles. No Aenir would follow him ever again. He would be a wolf’s-head, disowned and disregarded.

Now Drada would have it all: the army, the land, and the magic Gates. He would build the greatest empire the world had ever seen.

“On! On!” he yelled. “The last yard!”

And it was true. The Aenir pushed forward once more.

Maggrig fell, slashed across the thigh. From the ground he stabbed upward, gutting his attacker. A blow sliced toward his head but Intosh blocked it-and died, an axe cleaving his skull.

Maggrig staggered to his feet, plunging his blade through the axe-man’s chest. A sword lanced his side and he stepped back, lashing out weakly. Lennox bludgeoned a path to stand alongside him, mace dripping blood.

Above the noise of battle came the sound of distant horns. Then they felt the ground beneath their feet tremble, and the rolling thunder of galloping hooves echoed in the mountains. For a moment all battle ceased as men craned to see the mouth of the pass. A huge dust cloud swirled there, and out of it rode four thousand fighting men with lances leveled.

At the center was a warrior in silver armor. In her hand was a mighty sword of shimmering steel.

“The Queen comes!” yelled Leofas.

Maggrig could not believe his eyes. Blood streamed from the wound in his side and his injured leg, and he stepped back from the fray, allowing two Pallides warriors to join shields before him. Slowly he climbed to the top of a pitted boulder, narrowing his eyes to see the horsemen.

The Aenir moved back from the clan line, straining to identify the new foe. Drada was stunned. What he was seeing was an impossibility; there were no cavalry forces on this part of the continent. But it was no illusion. The thunder of hooves grew and the Aenir warriors facing the charge scrambled toward the rocky slopes on either side of the pass. Their comrades behind them threw aside their weapons and tried to run.

Other more stout-hearted fighters gripped their swords more tightly and raised their shields. It mattered not whether they ran or stood. The terrible lances bore down upon them, splintering shields and lifting men from their feet, dashing them bloody and broken to the dusty ground. Horses reared, iron-shod hooves thrashing down, crushing skulls and trampling the wounded.

The Aenir broke, streaming up onto the slopes into the flashing shafts of the Haesten women.

Leofas urged the Farlain forward, shearing his sword into the confused mass before him. The battle became a rout. Aenir warriors threw down their weapons, begging for mercy, but there was none. With swords in their hand or without, the Aenir were cut to pieces.

Dunild and Grigor fought side by side now-the remnants of their clans, blood-covered and battle-crazed, hacking and slashing their way forward.

The Aenir struggled to re-form. Drada sounded the war horn and the shield ring grew around him. An arrow punched through Tostig’s helm to skewer his skull. With a bellow of rage and pain he slumped to the ground beside his brother. Drada raised his shield.

Sigarni, her silver-steel blade dripping crimson, wheeled her grey stallion and led her men back down the pass. The Aenir watched them go, sick with horror. At the mouth of the Folly the Queen turned again, and the thunder of charging hooves drowned the despairing cries of the enemy.

Thrice more she charged and the shield ring shattered.

A lean Aenir warrior ran forward, ducking under Sigarni’s plunging sword, stabbing his own blade into the horse’s belly. It screamed and fell, rolling across the man who had ended its life, killing him as it died. Sigarni was thrown to the ground in the midst of the Aenir. She came up swinging the double-handed sword, beheading the first warrior to leap to the attack.

The Aenir closed around her. Gaelen and Telor, fighting side by side, saw the Queen go down.

“No!” screamed Gaelen. He cut his opponent from him and raced into the mass. Telor followed him, with Agwaine and Onic and a dozen Pallides.

“Hold on, my lady!” yelled Gaelen. Sigarni flashed a glance toward him, momentarily puzzled, then blocked a slashing attack from a long sword. Twisting her wrists and returning the blow, she clove the man from collarbone to belly. But the Aenir were all around her now. She swung and twisted and, too late, saw a blade slashing toward her neck. Gaelen’s sword flashed up, parrying the death blow. “I am here, my lady!” he shouted above the clash of iron on iron.

Sigarni grinned and returned to the business of death.

Drada, with all hope of victory gone, tried to forge a path to the mouth of the pass. Beside him his carle captain Briga fought on, though a score of minor cuts poured blood from his arms and thighs. “I think we are done, Drada,” shouted Briga. “But by Vatan there’s been some blood spilled today.”

Drada did not answer. Ahead of them a woman had climbed to a tall boulder and drawn back her bow. The arrow hissed through the air, thudding into Drada’s throat, and with a look of surprise the Aenir leader fell sideways. Briga tried to catch him, but a sword slid between his ribs and he jerked upright.

He did not know it, nor would he have cared, but he was one of the last Aenir still alive in the Folly. His breath rasped in his throat and he dropped his sword as a great rushing noise filled his ears. Around him the pass was choked with bodies of the fallen, and Briga thought he could see the Valkyrie descending from the sky-the winged horses and the chariots of black. What tales he would tell in the Hall of the Dead…

He toppled from his feet, eyes still fixed on the black mass of crows and buzzards circling in the sky overhead.

Far to the south Asbidag, unaware of the clan victory, entered a thickly wooded section of hills. He was breathing heavily and tired to the bone. Stopping by a stream, he tore the arrow from his shoulder and stripped his mail shirt from him. He leaned over the water to drink. Looking down, he saw his reflection and just above it a face out of a nightmare.

Asbidag rolled to his back, scrabbling for his knife, but the werehound’s talons snaked down, ripping his throat to shreds. Blood bubbled from the ruined jugular and the creature’s jaws opened. Asbidag’s eyes widened as the fangs flashed down. The creature backed away from the body and squatted on its haunches, staring down at the ruined face. In its mind vague memories stirred, and a low whine came from its throat.

Pictures danced and flickered. Racing ahead of the pack and the horsemen, leaping at the stag as it turned to face them. Curling up in the day by the stables, warm and comfortable. But other, stranger images confused it. A young woman with fair hair, smiling, her head resting on a cotton pillow. A child running, laughing, hands stretched toward… toward… it?

Lifting its head, the beast howled its despair at the night sky. Then moving back to the corpse the creature stretched out its taloned claw, pulling the dagger loose from the sheath. Turning the point to its breast, it plunged the blade home.

Pain, terrible pain…

Then peace.

Obrin found her hiding behind a boulder. He was tempted to slit her throat and be done with it… sorely tempted. He knew what she was, had always known.

The tall rider dragged her out by her hair. She was strangely quiescent, and her eyes were hooded and distant. “I’d like to kill you,” he hissed.

Holding her hair, he led her past the bodies and out to the plain.

Sigarni was seated on a high-backed saddle placed before a small fire. She was drinking wine from a copper goblet and chatting to three of her lancers. She glanced up as Obrin hurled the woman to the ground at her feet.

“A surprise, my lady,” said Obrin. “She was with the Aenir, I’m told.”

Sigarni stood and pulled her gently to her feet. “How are you, Morgase?” she asked.

The raven-haired woman shrugged. “As you see me. Alone.”

“I know how that feels,” said Sigarni. “Accept that the war is over, and you may return with us. I shall restore you to your father’s lands.”

“In return for what? My promise of allegiance? My mother’s soul would scream out against it. You saw my father slain, my mother raped. Kill me, Sigarni-or I will haunt you to your grave!”

Obrin’s sword hissed from its scabbard. “This once I’ll agree with the bitch!” he said. “Give the word, my lady.”

Sigarni shook her head. “Fetch her a horse. Let her ride where she will.”

Two soldiers took hold of Morgase and led her away. Twisting in their grip, she shouted out, “I will find a way back, Sigarni. And then you will pay!”

“Your decision burdens my spirit,” said Obrin. “She is evil, Sigarni. There is no good in her.”

“There is little good in any of us. We live and we die by the grace of God. A great wrong was done to her. It twisted her mind-as once such a deed twisted mine.”

By dusk the druids had come out from hiding in the woods around the Folly and had begun to administer to the wounded clansmen. Maggrig, ten stitches in his side and twelve more in his thigh, sat on a boulder staring at the fluttering crows who were leaping and squawking over the stripped bodies of the slain.

The clan dead had been carried out of the Folly and laid together on the plain. A cairn would be built tomorrow. So many dead. Of the eight hundred Pallides only two hundred survived, many of these with grievous wounds. More than a thousand Farlain warriors had died, and another four hundred from the Loda and Dunilds. By a twist of fate both leaders had survived, fighting at the last back-to-back.

Maggrig sighed. The place looked like a charnel house.

Leofas, his wounds stitched and bandaged, joined him at the boulder. “Well, we won,” he said.

“Yes. And we old ones survive. So many young men gone to dust, and we old bulls sit here and breathe free air.”

Leofas shrugged. “Aye, but we are a canny pair.”

Maggrig grinned. “Have you seen Caswallon?”

“No. Come on, let’s seek out the Queen. The least we can do is thank her.”

Leofas helped Maggrig to his feet and the two made their way through the bodies. The crows, bellies full and heavy with meat, hopped out of their way, too laden to fly.

At the mouth of the pass, beyond the tethered mounts, were the campfires of Sigarni’s lancers, set in a circle at the center of which sat the Queen and her captains.

Sigarni rose as the clansmen approached. “Pour wine for them, Obrin,” she told her captain.

Maggrig thrust out his hand. “Thank you, my lady. You have saved my people.”

“I am glad we were here in time. I owe much to Redhawk, and it was a relief to part-settle the score.”

“Where is Caswallon?” asked Maggrig.

“I know not,” said the Queen. “He asked us to meet him at the island of Vallon.”

Two riders brought high-backed saddles that they placed on the ground for the clansmen. “Be seated,” said Sigarni. I wish to meet one of your clansmen; he saved my life today.”

“I think it will be hard to find one clansman,” said Leofas.

“Not this one. He has a blaze of white hair above his left eye and the eye itself is full of blood.”

“I know him,” said Leofas. “If he lives I will send him to you.”

Obrin brought mulled wine and they drank in silence for a while.

The following morning, as work began on the cairn, most of the lancers had returned home through the Gate that had appeared in a blaze of light on the plain the night before. Sigarni remained behind with twenty men, including Obrin.

Leofas had found Gaelen sitting hand in hand with the Haesten girl in the woods skirting the mountains. “Well met, young Gaelen,” he said.

Gaelen rose, introducing Lara to the older man.

Leofas bowed. “I have seen you before, girl, but never prettier than now.”

“Thank you. I am glad you survived,” said Lara.

“We might not have done, had you not appeared with your archers.”

“A freak of chance,” Lara told him. “We struck north to avoid the Aenir, and that meant we had to pass the Folly. How is it that the Queen arrived? Gaelen told me she was due at Axta Glen, and that’s a day’s ride from here.”

Leofas shrugged. “I don’t know, neither does the Queen. Caswallon’s the man to answer the riddle. Now get a move on, boy, the Queen wishes to see you. But tell me, where is Layne?”

Gaelen looked into the old man’s eyes, but could find no words. The smile faded from Leofas’s face, and he looked suddenly so very old.

The white-bearded warrior sighed. “So many dead,” he whispered. “Tell me how it happened.” Gaelen did so, and could find no way to disguise the horror of Layne’s passing. Leofas listened in silence, then turned away and walked off alone toward the trees.

Gaelen watched him, and felt the comforting touch of Lara’s hand. “Come,” she said, “the Queen wishes to see you.”

He nodded and together they approached the Queen’s camp. Sigarni strode out to meet him, hand outstretched. “Good to see you alive, my lad! There are a few questions I have for you.”

Gaelen bowed, introducing Lara. The Queen smiled warmly at the clanswoman. “Now, what were you doing risking yourself to save me?” she asked, turning on Gaelen, her grey eyes glinting with humor. “I expect that from my lancers, but not from strangers.”

“I owe you my life,” said Gaelen simply.

“For coming here with my lancers, you mean?”

“No, lady. But I cannot speak of it. Forgive me.”

“More secrets of the enchanted realm? You sound like Redhawk. All right, Gaelen, I shall not press you. How can I reward you for your action?”

Gaelen stared at her, remembering the day she had saved them from the beast. In that instant he knew where his road must lead. Dropping to one knee before the warrior Queen, he said, “Let me serve you, my lady. Now and forever.”

If Sigarni was surprised she did not show it. “You will have to leave this realm,” said the Queen, “and fight beside me in a war that is not of your making. Do you desire this?”

“I do, my Queen. More than anything. I love this land, but I have seen my friends slaughtered, their homes burnt, and their children massacred.”

“Then rise, for my friends do not kneel before me; they walk beside me. Will your lady come too?” she asked, turning to Lara.

Gaelen rose and took her hand. “Will you?”

“Where else would I go?” she answered.

“I love you,” he whispered, pulling her to him.

The Queen moved away from them then, joining Obrin at the fire.

With a high cairn now covering the clan dead, Leofas led the survivors back to Attafoss. Despite the victory the men were heavy of heart. Their loved ones were lost in the past, their friends dead in the present. Maggrig rode beside Sigarni, while Gaelen and Lara joined Lennox, Onic, Agwaine, and Gwalchmai at the head of the column.

Gaelen was the only one of the surviving Beast Slayers to have emerged unscathed from the battle. Lennox carried a score of stitches, while Gwalchmai had taken a spear in the shoulder. Agwaine had been stabbed in the leg and he walked with a painful limp.

“Are you really going to go with the Queen?” asked Agwaine. “And leave the mountains?”

“Yes,” answered Gaelen. “I promised her years ago that I would follow her.”

“Will she take me too, do you think?” Gwalchmai asked.

“I believe so.”

“I shall not go,” said Agwaine. “There is much to do here.”

“Without Layne there is little to hold me here,” said Lennox sadly. “I’ll come with you, Gaelen.”

An hour before dusk the column arrived at the invisible bridge to Vallon, and spread out along the banks.

A man appeared on the far shore, a tall man with greying hair, wearing a velvet robe the color of dark wine. He lifted his hand. Glittering lights rose from the water to hover in the air around the invisible bridge, which darkened, gleaming like silver in the fading light. Stronger and stronger grew the bridge as the light coalesced, shimmering and sparkling, until at last it seemed built of silver and gems. The man lifted his hand once more and stepped out upon the silver walkway. From behind him came the men and women of the Farlain and the Pallides.

A great silence settled on the clansmen as hope flared again in their hearts.

The man approached, his grey-streaked hair billowing in the breeze. He was full-bearded and his eyes were the green of a distant sea. “Caswallon!” shouted Gaelen, running forward to meet him.

Caswallon opened his arms, tears sparkling in his eyes. The two men hugged each other warmly, then Gaelen pulled back to look at his foster father. Caswallon seemed to have aged ten years since last they met.

“What has happened to you?” whispered Gaelen.

“We will talk later. First let us enjoy the reunion.”

Wives and children ran to husbands and fathers, sons and brothers, and laughter swelled through the trees of Atta forest. “A long time since that sound was heard,” said Caswallon.

Maeg was one of the last across the bridge. Silently she approached her husband, little Donal beside her riding on the back of the great hound, Render.

“Leave us for a while, Gaelen. I will see you later,” said Caswallon. He took Maeg’s hand, kissing her palm. Her eyes were full of tears and she leaned into him.

“What have they done to you?” she asked, holding back the sorrow and stroking his greying hair.

“They? There is no ‘they,’ Maeg. Time has done this. But it was necessary, for otherwise I would never have found you. It took me eleven years to learn all that I needed to fetch you home. But every day of that time I thought of you and I loved you.”

Donal slipped from Render’s back and tugged at the hem of Caswallon’s velvet robe. He was crying. Caswallon lifted him to his chest and hugged him tightly.

“We won, Caswallon,” said Maeg. “But the price was terrible.”

He nodded. “It always is. But we are together now, and we shall rebuild.”

Maeg caught sight of a silver-armored woman staring at them. “Who is that?” she asked Caswallon. He turned and saw Sigarni swing away and walk alone toward the trees.

“That is the Queen, Maeg,” he said, taking her into his arms. “She saved us all.”

“She looked so sad,” said Maeg, then turned back to her husband. “Welcome home, my love,” she whispered, kissing him.

He couldn’t reply. Tears ran from his eyes and she led him away into the trees.