The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Two

Unaware of the controversy, of which he was now a part, the boy Gaelen sat in the cave slowly unwinding the bandage around his head, gently easing it from the line of stitches on his brow and cheek.

With infinite care he rubbed away the clotted blood sealing the eyelid and gently prized the eye open. At first his vision was blurred, but slowly it cleared and perspective returned, though a pink haze disturbed him. By the hearth was a silver mirror. Gaelen picked it up and gazed at his reflection. No expression crossed his face as he looked upon his scars, but something cold settled on his heart as he saw the eye.

It was totally red, suffused with blood, giving him a demonic appearance. The top of his head had been shaved to allow the stitches to be inserted, though now the hair was growing again. But it was growing white around the scar.

A change came over him then, for he felt the fear of the Aenir drift away like morning mist, making way for something far stronger than fear.

Hatred filled him, instilling in his soul a terrible desire for vengeance.

For three weeks Gaelen stayed in or around the cave, watching the rain and the sunshine that followed it turn the mountain gorse to gold. He saw the snow recede from the mountain peaks and the young deer emerge from the woods to the fast-flowing streams. In the distance he saw a great brown bear stretching to claw his territorial mark on the trunk of a wiry elm, and the rabbits hopping in the long grass of the meadow in the pink light of dawn.

At night he talked to Oracle, the two of them sitting on a rug before the fire. He heard the history of the clans, and began to learn the names of the legendary heroes-Cubril, the man known as Blacklatch, who first carried the Whorl stone; Grigor, the Flame-dancer who fought the enemy even as his house burned around him; Ironhand and Dunbar. Strong men. Clansmen.

Not all of them were from the Farlain, that was the strange thing to Gaelen. The clansmen hated each other, yet would glory in tales of heroes from other clans. “It’s no use trying to understand it yet, Gaelen,” the old man told him. “It’s hard enough for us to understand ourselves.”

On the last evening of the month Oracle removed the boy’s stitches and pronounced him fit to rejoin the world of the living.

“Tomorrow Caswallon will come, and you’ll meet with him and make your decision. Either you’ll stay or you’ll go. Either way, you and I will part friends,” said Oracle gravely.

Gaelen’s stomach tightened. “Couldn’t I just stay here with you for a while?”

Oracle cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. “No, lad. Much as I’ve enjoyed your company it cannot be. Be ready at dawn, for Caswallon will come early.”

For much of the night Gaelen was unable to sleep, and when he did he dreamed of the morning, saw himself looking foolish before this great clansman whose face he couldn’t quite see. The man told him to run, but his legs were sunk in mud; the man lost his temper and stabbed him with a spear. He awoke exhausted and sweat-drenched and rose instantly, making his way to the stream to bathe.

“Good morning to you.”

Gaelen swung to see a tall man sitting on a granite boulder. He wore a cloak of leaf-green and a brown leather tunic. Slung across his chest was a baldric bearing two slim daggers in leather sheaths, and by his side a hunting knife. Upon his long legs were leggings of green wool, laced with leather thongs crisscrossed to the knee. His hair was long and dark, his eyes sea-green. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, though he could have been older.

“Are you Caswallon?”

“I am indeed,” said the man, standing. He stretched out his hand. Gaelen shook it and released it swiftly. “Walk with me and we’ll talk about things to interest you.”

Without waiting for a reply Caswallon turned and walked slowly through the trees. Gaelen stood for a moment, then grabbed his shirt from beside the stream and followed him. Caswallon halted beside a fallen oak and lifted a pack he had stowed there. Opening it he pulled clear some clothing; then he sat upon the vine-covered trunk, waiting for the boy to catch up.

Caswallon watched him closely as he approached. The boy was tall for his age, showing the promise of the man he would become. His hair was the red of a dying fire, though the slanted sunlight highlighted traces of gold, and there was a streak of silver above the wound on his brow. The scar on his cheek still looked angry and swollen, and the eye itself was a nightmare. But Caswallon liked the look of the lad, the set of his jaw, the straight-backed walk, and the fact that the boy looked him in the eye at all times.

“I have some clothes for you.”

“My own are fine, thank you.”

“Indeed they are, Gaelen, but a grey, threadbare tunic will not suit you, and bare legs will be cut by the brambles and gorse, as naked feet will be slashed by sharp or jagged stones. And you’ve no belt to carry a knife. Without a blade you’ll be hard-pressed to survive.”

“Thank you then. But I will pay you for them when I can.”

“As you will. Try them.” Caswallon threw him a green woolen shirt edged with brown leather and reinforced at the elbows and shoulders with hide. Gaelen slipped off his own dirty grey tunic and pulled on the garment. It fitted snugly, and his heart swelled; it was, in truth, the finest thing he had ever worn. The green woolen leggings were baggy but he tied them at the waist and joined Caswallon at the tree to learn how to lace them. Lastly a pair of moccasins were produced from Caswallon’s sack, along with a wide black belt bearing a bone-handled knife in a long sheath. The moccasins were a little too tight, but Caswallon promised him they would stretch into comfort. Gaelen drew the knife from its scabbard; it was double-edged, one side ending in a half-moon.

“The first side is for cutting wood, shaving, or cleaning skins; the second edge is for skinning. It is a useful weapon also. Keep it sharp at all times. Every night before you sleep, apply yourself to maintaining it.”

Reluctantly the boy returned the blade to its sheath and strapped the belt to his waist.

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“A good question, Gaelen, and I’m glad you asked it early. But I’ve no answer to give you. I watched you crawl and I admired you for the way you overcame your pain and your weakness. Also you made it to the timberline, and became a child of the mountains. As I interpreted clan law, that made you clan responsibility. I took it one stage further, that is all, and invited you into my home.”

“I don’t want a father. I never did.”

“And I already have a son of my blood. But that is neither here nor there. In clan law I am called your father, because you are my responsibility. In terms of Lowland law-such as the Aenir will not obliterate-I suppose I would be called your guardian. All this means is that I must teach you to live like a man. After that you are alone-should you so desire to be.”

“What would you teach me?”

“I’d teach you to hunt, and to plant, to read signs; I’d teach you to read the seasons and read men; I’d teach you to fight and, more importantly, when to fight. Most vital of all, though, I’d teach you how to think.”

“I know how to think,” said Gaelen.

“You know how to think like an Ateris thief, like a Lowland orphan. Look around and tell me what you see.”

“Mountains and trees,” answered the boy without looking around.

“No. Each mountain has a name and reputation, but together they combine to be only one thing. Home.”

“It’s not my home,” said Gaelen, feeling suddenly ill at ease in his new finery. “I’m a Lowlander. I don’t know if I can learn to be a clansman. I’m not even sure I want to try.”

“What are you sure of?”

“I hate the Aenir. I’d like to kill them all.”

“Would you like to be tall and strong and to attack one of their villages, riding a black stallion?”

“Yes.”

“Would you kill everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Would you chase a young boy, and tell him to run so that you could plunge a lance into his back?”

“NO!” he shouted. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“I’m glad of that. No more would any clansman. If you stay among us, Gaelen, you will get to fight the Aenir. But by then I will have shown you how. This is your first lesson, lad, put aside your hate. It clouds the mind.”

“Nothing will stop me hating the Aenir. They are vile killers. There is no good in them.”

“I’ll not argue with you, for you have seen their atrocities. What I will say is this: A fighter needs to think clearly, swiftly. His actions are always measured. Controlled rage is good, for it makes us stronger, but hatred swamps the emotions-it is like a runaway horse, fast but running aimlessly. But enough of this. Let’s walk awhile.”

As they strolled through the woods Caswallon talked of the Farlain, and of Maeg.

“Why did you go to another clan for a wife?” asked Gaelen as they halted by a rippling stream. “Oracle told me about it. He said it would show what kind of man you are. But I didn’t understand why you did it.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said the older man, leaning in close and whispering. “I’ve no idea myself. I fell in love with the woman the very first moment she stepped from her tent into the line of my sight. She pierced me like an arrow, and my legs felt weak and my heart flew like an eagle.”

“She cast a spell on you?” whispered Gaelen, eyes widening.

“She did indeed.”

“Is she a witch?”

“All women are witches, Gaelen, for all are capable of such a spell if the time is right.”

“They’ll not bewitch me,” said the boy.

“Indeed, they won’t,” Caswallon agreed. “For you’ve a strong mind and a stout heart. I could tell that as soon as I saw you.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all,” he answered, his face serious. “This is not a joking matter.”

“Good. Now that you know she bewitched you, why do you keep her with you?”

“Well, I’ve grown to like her. And she’s a good cook, and a fine clothes-maker. She made those clothes you are wearing. A man would be a fool not to keep her. I’m no hand with the needles myself.”

“That’s true,” said Gaelen. “I hadn’t thought of that. Will she try to bewitch me, do you think?”

“No. She’ll see straightaway the strength in you.”

“Good. Then I’ll stay with you… for a while.”

“Very well. Place your hand upon your heart and say your name.”

“Gaelen,” said the boy.

“Your full name.”

“That is my full name.”

“No. From this moment, until you say otherwise, you are Gaelen of the Farlain, the son of Caswallon. Now say it.”

The boy reddened. “Why are you doing this? You already have a son, you said that. You don’t know me. I’m… not good at anything. I don’t know how to be a clansman.”

“I’ll teach you. Now say it.”

“Gaelen of the Farlain, the… son of Caswallon.”

“Now say, ‘I am a clansman.’ ”

Gaelen licked his lips. “I am a clansman.”

“Gaelen of the Farlain, I welcome you into my house.”

“Thank you,” Gaelen answered lamely.

“Now, I have many things to do today, so I will leave you to explore the mountains. Tomorrow I shall return and we’ll take to the heather for a few days and get to know one another. Then we’ll go home.” Without another word Caswallon was up and walking off down the slope toward the houses below.

Gaelen watched until he was out of sight, then drew his dagger and held it up before him like a slender mirror. Joy surged in him. He replaced the blade and ran back toward the cave to show Oracle his finery. On the way he stopped at a jutting boulder ten feet high. On impulse he climbed it and looked about him, gazing with new eyes on the mountains rearing in the distance.

Lifting his arms to the sky he shouted at the top of his voice. Echoes drifted back to him, and tears coursed from his eyes. He had never heard an echo, and he felt the mountains were calling to him.

“I am going home!” he had shouted.

And they had answered him.

“HOME! HOME! HOME!”

Far down the slopes Caswallon heard the echoes and smiled. The boy had a lot of learning to do, and even more problems to overcome. If he thought it was hard to be a thief in Ateris, just wait until he tried to walk among the youths of the Farlain!

A Lowlander in Highland clothing…

A sheep to be sheared…

And being the son of Caswallon would make life no more easy.

Caswallon shrugged. That was a worry for tomorrow.

For three days the new father and son wandered the Farlain mountains and woods, into the high country where the golden eagle soared, and on into the timberline where bears had clawed their territorial marks deep into the trunks of young trees.

“Why do they do that?” asked Gaelen, staring up at the deeply scored gashes.

“It’s very practical,” Caswallon answered him, loosening his leather pack and easing it to the ground. “They rear up to their full height and make their mark. Any other bear in the vicinity will, upon finding the mark, rise to reach it. If he can’t he leaves the woods-for the other bear is obviously bigger, and therefore stronger, than he is. Mind you, the bear that lives here is a canny beast. And he can’t reach his own mark; in fact, he’s quite small.”

“I don’t understand,” said Gaelen. “How then did he make the gashes?”

“Think about it for a while. Go and gather some wood for a fire and I’ll skin the rabbit.”

Gaelen scoured the clearing for dead wood, snapping each stick as Caswallon had taught him, discarding any that retained sap. Every now and again he glanced back at the tree. Could the bear have rolled a boulder against the trunk? He didn’t know. How clever were bears? As he and Caswallon sat by the fire he told the older man his theory about the boulder. Caswallon listened seriously.

“A good theory,” he said at last, “but not true. Now look around you and describe your setting.”

“We are in a hollow where our fire cannot be seen, and there is protection from the wind.”

“But exactly where in the hollow are we?”

Taking his bearings from the mountains, as Caswallon had taught him, the boy answered with confidence, “We are at the north end.”

“And the tree, how is it placed?”

“It is growing ten paces into the hollow.”

“Where does the wind come from in the winter-the freezing wind?”

“From the north,” answered Gaelen.

“Picture the hollow in winter,” prompted the clansman.

“It would be cold, though sheltered, and snow-covered.”

“How then did the bear make his mark?”

“I see it!” yelled Gaelen. “The wind whipped the snow into the hollow, but it built up against the bole of the tree like a huge step and the bear climbed up the snow.”

“Very good.”

“But was that just luck? Did the bear intend to fool other bears?”

“I like to think so,” said Caswallon. “You see bears tend to sleep through the winter. They don’t hibernate as other animals; they just sleep a lot. Mostly a bear will only come out in winter if it’s hungry, and then it wouldn’t be thinking about territorial marks.

“But the lesson for you, Gaelen my lad, is not about the bear-it’s about how to tackle a problem. Think it through, all the way. A question about the land involves all four seasons.”

As Gaelen rolled into his blankets that night, beneath the hide roof Caswallon had made, his mind overflowed with the knowledge he had gained. A horse always kicks the grass back in the direction from which it has come, but the cow pushes it down in the direction it is facing. Deer avoid the depths of the forest, for they live on saplings and young shoots which only grow in strong sunlight, never in the darkened depths. Never kill a deer on the run, for in its terror its juices flood the muscles making it tough and hard to chew. Always build your fire against a cliff wall, or fallen tree, for the reflected heat will double its warmth. That, and the names of all the mountains, floated through his mind and his sleep was light, his dreams many.

He awoke twice in the night-once as it began to rain, and the second time when a large fox brushed against his foot. In the moonlight the beast’s face seemed to glow like some hellish demon of the dark. Gaelen screamed and the fox fled.

Caswallon did not stir, though in the morning as he packed their makeshift tent he told Gaelen grimly, “In the mountains a man can pay with his life for a moment’s panic. That was a good lesson for you. In future, make no noise when faced by a threat. You could have been hiding from the Aenir, and felt a snake upon your leg. One scream, one sudden movement-and you would face death from both.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Caswallon ruffled the boy’s hair and grinned. “It’s not a criticism, Gaelen. As I said, it’s a valuable lesson.”

Throughout the morning the companions followed the mountain paths and trails. Gaelen listened to the older man’s stories of the clans and learned. He learned of the Farlain march to the island of Vallon and the mysterious Gates, and their entry to the mountains. He learned of the structure of the society and how no kings were permitted within the clans, but that in times of war a High King would be elected: a man like the legendary Ironhand. But most of all he learned of Caswallon of the Farlain. He noticed the smooth, confident manner in which he moved and spoke, the gentle humor in his words, the authority in his statements. He learned that Caswallon was a man of infinite patience and understanding, a man who loved the high country and its people, despite lacking the harsh cruel quality of the former and the volatile, often violent passions of the latter.

Toward the afternoon Caswallon led the way into a small pine woods nestling against the base of a towering rock face. As they entered the trees the clansman stopped and Gaelen started to speak, but Caswallon waved him to silence. They could hear the wind swishing the leaves above them, and the rustle of small animals in the dry bracken. But inlaid into the sounds was an occasional squealing cry, soft and muted by the trees, like an echo.

Caswallon led the boy to the left, pushing his way through intertwined bushes until they reached a larger clearing at the base of the cliff.

Here, before the cave mouth, lay the evidence of a mighty struggle. A dead mountain lion was locked in a grotesque embrace with a huge dog, the like of which Gaelen had never seen. The dog’s jaws were clamped together in the throat of the lion that in its death throes had disemboweled the hound with the terrible claws of its hind legs. The dead animals had already begun to putrefy, the lion’s belly bloated with gases.

“What kind of hound is that?” asked Gaelen.

“The best there is,” answered Caswallon. “That is Nabara, the War Hound, she who belonged at one time to Cambil, the Farlain Hunt Lord. But she was a vicious beast and she ran away to the hills the day before she was to be slain.”

Gaelen walked close to the bodies. “Her jaws are huge, and her body is long. She must have been formidable,” he said.

“There are few war hounds left now. I don’t know why. Maybe because we don’t have the old-style wars. But yes, they are formidable. Terrifying, in fact. As you see, they can even be a match for a lion.”

The squealing began again from within the cave.

“Her pups are inside,” said Caswallon. “That is why she fought to the death. Little good it will do them.”

“Are you going to kill them?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“She’s been living in the mountains for over a year. The only animal she’s likely to have mated with is a wolf. But we’ll see.”

The cave ceiling was low and the companions entered warily on hands and knees. Inside, the cave narrowed into a short tunnel bearing right. Beyond that was a deep cleft in which the hound had left her pups. There were five small bodies and a sixth struggling to stand on shaking legs. Caswallon reached over, lifted the black and grey pup, and passed it back to the boy. Then he checked the bodies. All were dead.

Once back in the sunlight Caswallon retrieved the pup, tucking it half into his tunic where his body heat would warm it.

“Build a fire over there, Gaelen, and we’ll see if the beast is worth saving.”

Gaelen built a small circle of stones, laid his tinder, and struck sparks from his dagger and a small flint block. The tinder began to smoke. He blew on it softly until the first tongue of flame rose, then he added small twigs and finally thinner sticks. Caswallon eased his pack from his shoulders, pulling out the strips of dried meat packed by Maeg.

“We need a pot to boil some thick broth,” he said. “And here is another lesson for you. Cut me a long strip of bark from that tree over there.”

Gaelen did as he was bid and watched amazed as Caswallon shaped the edges and then twisted the bark into the shape of a deep bowl. Half filling it with water from the canteen, he laid the pot on the small fire.

“But it will burn away,” said Gaelen. “It is wood.”

“It will not burn as long as water is in it and the flames stay below the waterline.” Taking his dagger, Caswallon sliced the dried meat into chunks and added them to the pot.

Before long the stew began to bubble and steam, the meat expanding. Caswallon added more meat, stirring the contents with his dagger. Gaelen moved beside him, reaching to stroke the small dark head poking out from Caswallon’s tunic.

As the sun sank behind crimson clouds, bathing the mountain peaks in glowing copper, Caswallon ordered the lad to remove the bowl and allow the stew to cool. As they waited, the clansman opened his tunic and lifted the pup to his lap. Then he cut a section of the dried beef and began to chew it. “Can you give some to the pup?” pleaded Gaelen. “He is starving!”

“That’s what I am doing, boy. It’s too tough for him. I am doing what his mother would do.”

Removing the half-chewed meat from his mouth, Caswallon shredded it and offered a small amount to the pup. Its tiny tongue snaked out, nose wrinkling at the smell of the meat. The tiny beast ate a little, then its head sank against Caswallon’s hand. “Still too tough for him,” said the clansman. “But see the size of his paws? He will be big, this one. Here, hold him.”

The pup began to whine as Caswallon passed him over, but he settled down as Gaelen stroked behind his floppy ears.

“As I thought, he is half wolf,” said the clansman. “But there’s enough dog in him to be trained, I think. Would you like to keep him?”

Gaelen lifted the pup to his face, staring into the tiny brown eyes. Like him, the helpless beast was an orphan, and he remembered his own long crawl to the high ground.

“He is a child of the mountains,” said Gaelen. “I shall adopt him. Is it my right?”

“It is,” said Caswallon gravely. “But first he must live.”

After a while Caswallon tested the stew. When it had reached blood heat he passed it to Gaelen. “Dip your smallest finger into it and get the beast to lick it. He’s obviously too young to take it any other way.” The stew was thick and dark and Gaelen followed the instructions. The pup’s nose wrinkled again at the smell, but its tongue licked out. The boy continued to feed the animal until at last it fell asleep in his arms.

“Do you think it will live?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow we will have a better idea.”

“I hope it does, Caswallon.”

“Hope is akin to prayer,” said the clansman, “so perhaps it will.” He rose to his feet. “Wait here, there’s something I must check. I should not be long.” With that he was gone into the undergrowth. The sun had set, but the moon was high and bright in the clear sky, and Gaelen sat with his back against a tree, staring into the flickering coals of the fire.

This was life, this was a peace he had never known. The little pup moved in its sleep and he stroked it absently. In the distance the mountains made a jagged line against the sky like a wall against the world-deeply comforting and immensely reassuring.

Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.

“We have a small problem, Gaelen,” he said. “I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the pup. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.”

“Who made the footprints then?”

“The Aenir. They are in the mountains.”

In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew that had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.

“How many are there?” he asked the clansman.

“Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they’re just scouting, but they’re headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.”

Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon’s eyes. “I am not afraid today,” he told the clansman. “Last night I was trembling. Today I am ready.”

“Good,” said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaff and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. “Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.”

“What is it?”

“Do not be impatient. I’ll not spoil it with words.”

The clansman set off toward the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.

Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen’s heart hammered.

“Is it a beast?” he asked.

“No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths. The Rainbow bridge to the home of the Gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.”

Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down toward the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slablike ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.

There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and onto one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood openmouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.

Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned. “Come on,” he bellowed.

Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.

Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the center of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree line.

“That is Vallon,” he said, “and upon it lies one of the magic Gates through which the Farlain passed hundreds of years ago. We came in winter when the water was frozen solid, and we walked upon the ice.”

They stayed the night above the falls, and Gaelen fed the pup with dried meat that he had first chewed to softness; this time the hound ate with relish. The following day Caswallon led them south toward the Farlain. The boy saw that Caswal-lon moved more cautiously, scanning the surrounding countryside and waiting in the cover of woods, checking carefully before moving out into open country.

Twice they came upon Aenir tracks, and once the remains of a campfire. Caswallon worked his fingers into the grey ash, and down into the earth beneath.

“This morning,” he said. “Be watchful.”

That night they made camp in a narrow cave and lit no fire. At first light they moved on. Caswallon was uneasy.

“They are close,” he said. “I can almost smell them. To be honest, Gaelen, I am worried. I may have underestimated these Aenir. For all that there are twenty of them they leave little spoor, and they avoid the skylines in their march. They are woodsmen and good scouts. And that concerns me; it could mean the Aenir are preparing to march upon us far earlier than I anticipated.”

By dusk Caswallon’s unease had become alarm. He didn’t talk at all but checked the trail many times, occasionally climbing trees to scan the horizon.

“What is wrong?” Gaelen asked him as he pored over a near-invisible series of scuffs and marks on the track.

“They have split up into small parties. Three have gone ahead, the rest have moved into the woods. My guess is that they know we are close and they have formed a circle around us.”

“What can we do?”

“We do not have many choices,” said the clansman. “Let’s find a place to make camp.”

Caswallon chose a spot near a stream, where he built a small fire against a fallen trunk and the two of them ate the last of the food Maeg had prepared. Once again the night sky was cloudless, the moon bright. Gaelen snuggled into his blankets with the pup curled against his chest, and slept deep and dreamlessly until about two hours before dawn when Caswallon gently shook him awake. Gaelen opened his eyes. Above him knelt Caswallon, a finger held to his lips, commanding silence. Gaelen rose swiftly. Caswallon pointed to the pup and the boy picked it up, tucking it into his tunic. The clansman filled Gaelen’s bed with brush and covered it with a blanket. Then he added fuel to the fire before moving into the darkness of the woods. He stopped by a low, dense bush in sight of the clearing and the flickering fire.

Putting his face close to Gaelen’s ear, he whispered, “Crawl into the bush and curl up. Make no sound and move not at all. If the pup stirs-kill it!”

“I am willing to fight,” whispered Gaelen.

“Willing-but not yet ready,” said Caswallon. “Now do as I bid.”

Dropping to his knees Gaelen crawled into the bush, pushing aside the branches and wrapping himself in the cloak Caswallon had given him. He waited with heart hammering, his breath seeming as loud as the Attafoss thunder.

Caswallon had disappeared.

For more than an hour there was no sign of hostile movement in the woods. Gaelen was cramped and stiff, and the pup did stir against him. Gently he stroked the black and grey head. The tiny hound yawned and fell asleep. Gaelen smiled-then froze.

A dark shadow had detached itself from the trees not ten paces from the bush. Moonlight glistened on an iron-rimmed helm and flashed from a sword blade in the man’s hand.

The warrior crept to the edge of the clearing, lifted his sword and waved it, signaling his companions. His view partly screened by leaves and branches, Gaelen could just make out the assault on the camp. Three warriors ran across the clearing, slashing their swords into the built-up blankets.

As the boy watched the Aenir drew back, realizing they had been fooled. No word passed between them, but they began to search the surrounding trees.

Gaelen was terrified. The bush stood alone, out in the open, plainly in sight of the three hunters. Why did Caswallon leave him in such an exposed place? He toyed with the idea of crawling clear and running, but they were too close.

One of the warriors began to search at the far side of the clearing, stepping into the screen of gorse. Gaelen’s eyes opened wide as Caswallon rose from the ground behind the warrior, clamped a hand over his mouth, and sliced his dagger across the man’s throat. Releasing the body, he turned and ducked back into the gorse.

Unsuspecting, the remaining hunters checked to the west and east. Finding nothing, they moved toward the bush where Gaelen sat rigid with fear.

The first warrior, a burly man in bearskin tunic and leather breeches, turned to the second, a tall, lean figure with braided black hair.

“Fetch Karis,” said the first. The warrior moved back toward the clearing, while the leader walked toward Gaelen’s hiding place. The boy watched in amazement. The man never once looked down; it was as if he and the bush were invisible.

The warrior was so close that Gaelen could see only his leather-clad legs and the high, laced boots he wore. He did not dare look up. Suddenly the man’s body slumped beside the bush. Gaelen started violently, but stopped himself from screaming. The Aenir lay facing him, his dead eyes open, his neck leaking blood on the soft earth.

The dead man began to move like a snake, only backward. Gaelen looked up. Caswallon had the man by the feet and was pulling him into the undergrowth. Then, dropping the body, the clansman vanished once more into the trees.

The last Aenir warrior, sword in hand, stepped back into the clearing. “Asta!” he called. “Karis is dead. Come back here.”

Caswallon’s voice sounded, the words spoken coldly. “You’re all alone, my bonny.”

The warrior spun and leaped to the attack, long sword raised. Leaning back, Caswallon swiveled his quarterstaff, stabbing it forward like a spear. It hammered into the warrior’s belly and with a grunt he doubled over, his head speeding down to meet the other end of the iron-capped staff. Hurled from his feet, he hit the ground hard. Groggy, he tried to rise. Strong fingers lifted him by his hair, ramming his face into the rough bark of an old oak. He sank to the ground once more, semiconscious.

Ongist could feel his hands being tied, but could find no strength to resist. He passed out then, returning to consciousness some hours later for the sun had risen. His head ached and he could taste blood in his mouth. He tried to move but he was bound to a tree trunk.

Several paces before him sat the two he had been tracking, the man and the boy. Both were obviously clan, but there was something familiar about the lad although the warrior couldn’t place him.

“I see you are back with us,” said the clansman. “What is your name?”

“Ongist, son of Asbidag.”

“I am Caswallon of the Farlain. This is my son Gaelen.”

“Why have you not killed me?”

“I like a man who makes his point swiftly,” said Caswallon. “You are alive by my whim. You are here to scout Farlain lands. Your instructions were probably to remain unseen, or kill any who discovered you-in which case you have failed twice. You had us encircled, and the circle is now tightening. Therefore if I leave you here you will be found, and you can give this message to your leaders: Leave now, for I shall summon the Farlain hunters before the day is out and then not one of you will live to report to your lord.”

“Strong words,” muttered the Aenir.

“Indeed they are, my friend. But understand this, I am known among the Farlain as a mild-mannered man and the least of warriors. And yet two of your men are slain and you are trussed like a water fowl. Think what would happen if I loosed two hundred war carles upon you.”

“What are your two hundred?” spat the warrior. “What are your two thousand, compared to the might of the Aenir? You will be like dry leaves before a forest fire. The Farlain? A motley crew of semisavages with no king and no army. Let me advise you now. Send your emissaries to the Lord Asbidag in Ateris and make your peace. But bring presents, mind. The Lord Asbidag appreciates presents.”

Caswallon smiled. “I shall carry the words of your wisdom to the Farlain Council. Perhaps they will agree with you. When your men find you, tell them to head south. It is the fastest way from the Farlain.”

The warrior hawked and spat.

“Look at him, Gaelen. That is the Aenir, that is the race that has terrorized the world. But for all that he is merely a man who smells strong, whose hair is covered in lice, and whose empire is built on the blood of innocents. Warriors? As you saw last night they are just men, with little skill-except in the murder of women, or the lancing of children.”

Ongist’s eyes flashed in recognition. The boy was the lad Asbidag had speared at the gates of Ateris. He bit his lip and said nothing. His brother Tostig had told them all how the boy had crawled to the mountains and been rescued by twenty clansmen. It had worried Asbidag.

“Would you like to kill him, Gaelen?”

Ongist felt the hatred in the boy’s gaze, and he stared back without fear. “I see we made our mark upon you, boy,” he sneered. “Do they call you Blood-eye or Scar-face?”

The boy said nothing, but the cold gaze remained. “Did someone cut your tongue out?” hissed Ongist.

Gaelen turned to his father. “Yes, I want to kill him,” he said. “But not today.”

The man and the boy left the clearing without a backward glance and Ongist settled back to wait for his brother and the others. It was nearing midday when the Aenir found him; they cut him loose and hauled him to his feet. His brothers Tostig and Drada supported him, for his head was dizzy and his vision blurred as he stood.

“What happened?” asked Drada, his elder by three years.

“The clansman tricked us. He killed Karis and Asta.”

“I know. We found the bodies.”

“He told me to leave Farlain lands. He says he will alert their hunters.”

“Good advice,” said Drada.

“Asbidag will be angry,” muttered Tostig. Ongist rubbed at his bruised temple and scowled. Tostig was the largest of the brothers, a towering brute of a man with braided yellow hair and broken teeth. But he was also the most cautious-some would say cowardly. Ongist despised him.

“What was he like?” asked Drada.

Ongist shrugged. “Tall. Moved well. Fought well. Confident.”

“Then we’ll take his advice. Did you talk to him, try to bait him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“No reaction, he just smiled. I told him the Aenir would sweep his people away. I advised him to come to Asbidag and beg for peace. He just said he would take my words of wisdom to the Council.”

“Damn,” said Drada. “I don’t like the sound of that. Men who don’t get angry make the worst enemies.”

Ongist grinned, draping his arm over Drada’s shoulder. “Always the thinker, brother. By the way, the boy he claimed was his son is the same lad Father speared at the city gates.”

Drada swore. “And still he didn’t get angry? That does make me shiver.”

“I thought you’d enjoy that,” said Ongist. “By the way, Tostig, how many men did you say rescued the boy?”

“I couldn’t see them all. They were hidden in the bushes.”

“How many could you see?” asked Drada, his interest caught by Ongist’s question.

“I could see only the leader clearly. Why? How many men did he say he had?”

“He didn’t say,” answered Ongist, “but I know.”

“A curse on you!” shouted Tostig, storming to the other side of the clearing.

Drada took Ongist by the arm and led him to the fallen trunk where Caswallon had made their fire. The two men sat down and Drada rubbed his eyes. “What was the point of all that?” he asked.

“There were no twenty clansmen,” sneered Ongist. “Just the one-the same man, I’d stake my life on it.”

“You are probably right,” Drada agreed. “Did he give a name?”

“Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“Caswallon. Let’s hope there are not too many like him among the clans.”

“It won’t matter if there are. Who can stand against thirty thousand Aenir warriors?”

“That is true,” agreed Drada, “but they remain an unknown quantity. Who knows how many there are? Our estimate is less than seven thousand fighting men if all the clans muster. But suppose we are wrong?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think we ought to deal with them gently. Trade first and earn a welcome among them. Then we’ll see.”

“You think they’ll be foolish enough to allow us into the mountains?” asked Ongist.

“Why not? Every other conquered nation has given us the same facility. And there must be those among the clans who are disenchanted, overlooked, or despised. They will come to us, and they will learn.”

“I thought Father wanted to attack in the summer?”

“He does, but I’ll talk him out of it. There are three main Lowland areas still to fall, and they’ll yield richer pickings than these mountains.”

“I like the mountains. I’d like to build a home here,” said Ongist.

“You will soon, my brother. I promise you.”

Oracle sat alone, gazing into the fire, lost in yesterday’s dreams when armies swept across the land with their lances gleaming and banners raised.

A red hawk on a field of black. The Outlanders streaming from the battlefield, broken and demoralized. Sigarni raising her sword in the sunset, the Battle Queen triumphant.

Such had been the glory of youth when Oracle crossed the Gate to the kingdom beyond. The old man drew his grey cloak about his shoulders, stretching his legs forward, soaking in the heat from the burning beech in the hearth. He stared down at the backs of his hands, wrinkled and spotted with the drab brown specks of age.

But once upon a time…

“Dreaming of glory?” asked Taliesen.

Oracle jerked up as if struck, twisting in his seat. He cursed softly as he recognized the ancient druid. “Pull up a chair,” he said.

The druid was small, and skeletally thin, his white hair and beard sparse and wispy, clinging to his face and head like remnants of winter mist. But his eyes were strangely youthful and humorous, antelope-brown and set close together under sharp brows. From his skinny shoulders hung a cloak of birds’ feathers, many-hued, the blue of the kingfisher flashing against raven-black, soft pale plover and eagle’s quill.

He leaned his long staff against the cave wall and seated himself beside Oracle. “The boy came then,” said the druid, his voice soft and deep.

“You know he did.”

“Yes. And so it begins: the destruction of all that we love.”

“So you believe.”

“Do you doubt me, Oracle?”

“The future is like soft clay to be molded. I cannot believe it is already set and decided.”

The druid gave a low curse. “You of all men should know that the past, present, and future exist together, woven like a cloth, interweaving. You crossed the Gate. Did you learn nothing?”

“I learned the error of pride. That was enough for me.”

“You look old and tired,” said the druid.

“I am both. How is it that you still live, Taliesen? You were old when I was a babe at the breast.”

“I was old when your grandfather was a babe at the breast.”

For a while both men sat in silence staring into the flames, then Oracle sighed and shifted in his seat. “Why have you come here?” he whispered.

“Sigarni has crossed the Gate. She is at the cave on High Druin.”

Oracle licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “How is the girl?”

Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “Girl? She is a woman near as old as you. As I said, you do not understand the intricacies of the Gateways.”

“Well, how is she anyway, damn you?”

“Gravely wounded, but I will heal her.”

“May I see her?”

The druid shook his head. “It would not be wise.”

“Then why come to me at all?”

“It may be that you can help me.”

“In what way?”

“What happened to the sword you stole from her?”

Oracle reddened. “It was payment for all I had done for her.”

“Do not seek to justify yourself, Caracis. Your sin led to more wars. You cost Sigarni far more than you were worth; then you stole Skallivar. You told me you lost it in the fight that brought you back to us, but I no longer believe you. What happened to it?”

Oracle rose and walked to the rear of the cave. He returned carrying a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Placing it on the table, he untied the binding and opened the bundle. There lay a shining sword of silver steel. “You want it?” Oracle asked.

Taliesen sighed, and flipped the cloth back over the blade. “No. Damn you, man! You crossed the Lines of Time. You will die and never know the chaos you gave birth to. I have tried to put it right, and have only succeeded in creating fresh paradoxes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Without the sword Sigarni was crushed, defeated, and slain.”

“But you said she was here!”

“As she is. I tried to help her, Caracis, but she died. I crossed the Lines finding another Sigarni, in another world. She died. Time and time again I traveled the Gates. Always she died. I gave up for a long while, then I returned to my quest and found another Sigarni who was fated to die young. She defeated her first enemy, and then the second, Earl Jastey. She did it with the help of Caracis. You remember that, do you not?” Oracle looked away. “And Caracis, once again, stole her sword. But this time she asked me to return it to her. That had never happened before. I did not know what to do. And now-suddenly-she is here. A victorious queen carrying this sword.”

“I did not want to part with it,” whispered the man who had been Caracis.

“You had such talents, Caracis,” said Taliesen softly. “How was it that you became such a wretch?”

“I wanted to be a king, a hero. I wanted songs sung about me, and legends written. Is that so shameful? Tell me, did she rule well?”

“She won the final battle, and held the clans together for forty years. She is a true legend and will remain so.”

Oracle grinned. “Forty years, you say? And she won.” Hauling himself to his feet, the old man fetched a jug of honey mead and two goblets. “Will you join me?”

“I think I will.”

“Forty years,” said Oracle again. “I could not have done it. Forty years!”

“Tell me of the boy Gaelen.”

Oracle dragged his mind back to the present. “Gaelen? He’s a good lad, bright and quick. He has courage. I like him. He will be good for Caswallon.”

“How does Caswallon fare?”

“As always, he walks his own path. He has been good to me… like a son. And he eases my shame and helps me forget…”

“Have you told him of your past?” inquired Taliesen, leaning forward and staring hard at Oracle.

“No, I kept my promises. I’ve told no one of the worlds beyond. Do you doubt me?”

“I do not. You are a willful man and proud, but no one ever accused you of oath-breaking.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because men change. They grow weak. Senile.”

“I am not senile yet,” snapped Oracle.

“Indeed you are not.”

“What will happen to the Queen?”

Taliesen shrugged. “She will die, as all die. She is old and tired; her day is gone. A sorcerer long ago sent a demon to kill her. He made a mistake and cast his spell too close to a Gateway. The beast is almost upon her.”

“Can we not save her?”

“We are talking of destiny, man!” snapped Taliesen. “The beast must find her.” His stern expression relaxed. “Even should the demon fail, she will die soon. Her heart is old and worn out.”

“At least she achieved something with her life. She saved her people. I’ve destroyed mine.”

“I cannot make it easier, for you speak the truth. But it is done now.”

“Is there truly no hope?” Oracle pleaded.

The druid sighed and stood, gathering his long staff. “There is always hope, no matter how slender or unrealistic. Do not think that you are the only one to feel regret. The Farlain are my people, in a way you could never comprehend. When they are destroyed my life goes with them. And all the works of my life. You! You are just a man who made a mistake. I must bear the cost. Hope? I’ll tell you what hope there is. Imagine a man standing in Atta forest at the birth of autumn. Imagine all the leaves are ready to fall. That man must reach out and catch one leaf, one special leaf. But he doesn’t know which tree it is on. That is the hope for the Farlain. You think the idiot Cambil will catch the leaf?”

“Caswallon might,” said Oracle.

“Caswallon is not Hunt Lord,” said Taliesen softly. “And if he were… the clans are sundered, and widely spread. They will not turn back an enemy as strong as the Aenir.”

“Did you come here to punish me, druid?”

“Punish you? I sometimes wish I had killed you,” said Taliesen sadly. “Damn you, mortal! Why did I ever show you the Gate?”

Oracle turned away from him then, leaning forward to add fuel to the fire. When he looked back the druid had gone.

And he had taken the sword…

“You are a little unfair on Caswallon,” Maeg told her father as he sat in the wide leather chair, chuckling as the infant Donal tugged at his beard. Maggrig was well into middle age, but he was still powerful and his thick red beard showed no grey. Donal yawned, and the Pallides Hunt Lord brought the babe to his chest, resting him in the crook of his arm.

“Unfair to him?” he said, keeping his voice low. “He married my only daughter, and still he raids my herds.”

“He does not.”

“I’ll grant you he’s stayed out of Pallides lands recently-but only because the Aenir have cut off his market.”

“It is tradition, Father,” argued Maeg. “Other clans have always been fair game; and Caswallon is Farlain.”

“Don’t give me that, girl. That tradition died out years ago. By God, he doesn’t need to raid my cattle. Or Laric’s. And sooner or later someone will catch him. Do you think I want to hang my own son-in-law?”

Maeg lifted the sleeping child from Maggrig’s arms, laying him in his crib and covering him.

“He needs excitement, he does it because he enjoys it.” The words sounded lame, even to Maeg. For all his intelligence and quick wit, Caswallon refused to grow up.

“He used to enjoy taking other men’s wives, I hear,” said Maggrig.

Maeg turned on him, eyes flashing. “Enough of that!” she snapped. “He’s not looked at another woman since we wed… well, he’s looked, but that’s all.”

“I can’t think why you married him. Did you know he’s got my prize bull in the meadow behind the house? Now there’s a sight to greet a visitor, his own stolen bull!”

“Take it with you when you go,” said Maeg, smiling.

“And be seen by all the men of the Farlain? I’d sooner they thought it was a present.” He shook his head. “I thought you’d change him, Maeg. I thought marriage would settle him.”

“It has. He’s a wonderful husband, he cares for me.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” admitted Maggrig. “Damn it all, I like the boy. There must be other ways to get excitement.”

“I’ll talk to him again. Are you sure that’s your bull?”

“Sure? Of course I’m sure. The night he took it, Intosh and seven others chased him for hours-only he and that damn crofter Arcis had split up. Caswallon led Intosh a merry run.”

“He must have been furious,” said Maeg, keeping the smile from her face.

“He’s promised to have Caswallon’s ears for a necklace.”

“That wasn’t because of the bull,” said his daughter. “It is said that when Intosh came back to his house he found his bed had been slept in and his best sword stolen.”

“The man is unreasonable,” said Maggrig, unable to suppress a grin. “I gave Intosh that sword after he won the Games.”

“Shall I get it for you, Father? I’m sure Intosh would like it back.”

“He’d bury it in pig’s droppings rather than use it now.”

“Caswallon plans to wear it at the Games.”

“Ye Gods, woman! Has he no shame?”

“None that I’ve noticed.”

From the hearth room below they heard a door open and close, and the sound of whistling floated up the stairs.

“Well, I suppose I’d better see him,” said Maggrig, pushing himself to his feet.

“Be nice,” said Maeg, linking her arm with his.

“Be nice, she says. What should I say? ‘Been on any good raids lately?’ ”

Maeg chuckled, looped her arm around his neck, and kissed his bearded cheek. “I love you,” she told him.

He grinned at her. “I was too soft in the raising of you, child. You always had what you wanted.”

The two of them walked downstairs where Caswallon was standing before the hearth, hands stretched out to the flames. He turned and smiled, green eyes twinkling. “How are you, Father?” he asked.

“Not a great deal better for seeing you, you thieving swine,” snapped Maggrig. Maeg sighed and left them together.

“Is that any way to talk to the husband of your daughter?” Caswallon asked.

“It was a miserable day when you crossed my doorway,” said Maggrig, walking to the far table and pouring a goblet of honey mead. It was full-flavored and rich, and he savored the taste. “This has a familiar feel to it,” he said. “It is not unlike the special mead that Intosh brews.”

“Really?” said Caswallon.

Maggrig closed his eyes. “That is all I need to complete my day-my own bull grazing in your meadow, while I drink mead stolen from my comrade.”

“You must give him my compliments. It is the finest mead I’ve tasted.”

“I’ll do that. Where is Gaelen?”

“I’ve sent him out to meet the other lads.”

“Was that wise?”

The smile faded from Caswallon’s mouth as he moved to Maggrig’s side and poured himself a goblet of mead. “It had to happen sooner or later,” he said, gesturing Maggrig to a chair. Sitting opposite him, Caswallon gazed at the golden liquid, then sipped at it slowly. “He’s a good boy, Maggrig, but he’s been through much. I think they’ll make him suffer. Agwaine will lead them.”

“Then why send him?”

“Because he has to learn. That’s what life is-learning how to survive. All his life he has done that. Now he must find out that life in the mountains is no different.”

“You sound bitter. It is not like you.”

“Well, the world is changing,” said Caswallon. “I watched the Aenir sack Ateris and it was vile. They kill like foxes in a henhouse.”

“I hear you had words with them in the mountains?”

Caswallon grinned. “Yes.”

“You killed two.”

“I did. I had no choice.”

“Will they attack the clans, do you think?”

“It is inevitable.”

“I agree with you. Have you spoken to Cambil?”

Caswallon laughed aloud. “The man hates me. If I said good day he would take it as an insult.”

“Then talk to Leofas. Make plans.”

“I think I will. He’s a good man. Strong.”

“More than that,” said Maggrig, “he’s canny.”

“He sounds like you, Maggrig.”

“He is.”

“Then I’ll see him. And you needn’t worry about your herds. Those days are behind me. After watching Ateris I lost my appetite for the game.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Caswallon refilled their goblets. “Of course I might just sneak back for some more of Intosh’s mead.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Maggrig.