The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Three

Gwalchmai listened as Agwaine planned the downfall of the Lowlander. Around the Hunt Lord’s son, in a wide circle, sat fifteen other youngsters-the sons of councilmen, who would one day be councillors themselves. They listened as Agwaine spoke, and offered no objections. Gwalchmai wasn’t happy with such conversation. An orphan child of the mountains, he knew what loneliness was, the pain it brought, and the inner chill. He had always been popular, but then he worked at it-jesting and joking, seeking approval from his peers. He ran errands for the older boys, always willing to help in any chore, but in his heart his fears were great. His father had died when he was seven-killed while poaching Pallides lands. His mother contracted lung fever the following year and her passing had been painful. Little Gwalchmai had been sent to live with Badraig and his son, and they had made him welcome. But Gwalchmai had loved his parents deeply, and their loss hurt him beyond his ability to cope.

He was not a big child, and though he approached fifteen, he was by far the smallest of his group. He excelled in two things: running and bowmanship. But his lack of strength held him back in both. At short distances he could outpace even Agwaine, and with a child’s bow at twenty paces he could outshoot the Farlain’s best archers. But he had not the strength to draw a man’s bow, and failed in tourneys when the distance grew beyond thirty paces.

Agwaine was talking now about humiliating Caswallon’s new son. Gwalchmai sat and stared at the Hunt Lord’s son. He was tall and graceful, with a quick and dazzling smile, and normally there was little malice in him. But not today. Agwaine’s dark eyes glittered, and his handsome face was marred as he spoke of tormenting the Lowlander. Gwalchmai found it hard to understand, and he longed to find the courage to speak out. But when he looked inside himself he knew that his nerve would fail him. Nervously his eyes sought out Layne. While all others would follow Agwaine blindly, Layne would always go his own way. At the moment the son of Leofas was saying nothing, his aquiline face showing no emotion. Beside him his giant brother Lennox was also silent. Layne’s grey eyes met Gwalchmai’s gaze and the orphan boy willed Layne to speak out; as if in answer to prayer Layne smiled at Gwalchmai, then spoke.

“I think this Gaelen has already been harshly treated, Agwaine,” said Layne. “Why make it worse for him?” Gwalchmai felt relief flow through him, but Agwaine was not to be persuaded.

“We are talking about a jest,” said Agwaine smoothly. “I’m not suggesting we kill him. Where’s the harm?”

Layne ran a hand through his long, dark hair, his eyes holding Agwaine’s gaze. “Where is the good in it?” he countered. “Such an action is beneath you, cousin. It is well known that your father has no love for Caswallon, but that is a matter for the two of them.”

“This is nothing to do with my father,” said Agwaine angrily. He swung to Lennox. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you side with your brother?”

Lennox shrugged his huge shoulders. “Always,” he said, his voice deep as distant thunder.

“Do you never think for yourself, you ugly ox?” snapped Agwaine.

“Sometimes,” answered Lennox amiably.

“What about the rest of you?”

“Oh, let’s have a little fun with him,” said Draig, Gwalchmai’s foster brother. “Where’s the harm? What do you think, Gwal?”

All eyes turned to Gwalchmai and his heart sank. He spent his life avoiding argument, and now whatever he said would hurt him. Layne and Lennox were his friends. Layne was stern of nature but a loyal youth, and his brother Lennox, though strong as an ox, was a gentle companion. But Agwaine was Cambil’s son and the accepted leader of the Farlain youth, and Draig was Gwalchmai’s foster brother and a boy given to hot temper and malice-bearing. Of the other five, all were larger than Gwalchmai.

“Well, what do you think?” urged Draig.

“I don’t mind,” mumbled Gwalchmai. “Whatever you think best.” He tried not to look at Layne, but his eyes were drawn to the other’s gaze. Layne merely smiled at him, and he felt the pity in that smile; it hurt him more than he could bear.

“Then let’s do it!” said Agwaine, grinning.

The plan was a simple one. Kareen had innocently told them that Caswallon planned to send his son to the meadow that morning to meet the other boys of the village. Agwaine had suggested they take his clothes and chase him back to his house, lashing him the while with birch sticks.

Now Layne and Lennox moved away from the group to lounge on the grass. Gwalchmai sat miserably on a fallen tree, wishing he had stayed at home.

He looked up as the conversation died. Coming toward them was a slender boy in a green woolen tunic edged with brown leather; his hair was red, with a white flash above the jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face. He wore a wide belt and from it hung a hunting knife. There was no swagger in his walk, but he seemed nervous. Layne and Lennox ignored him as he passed, and Gwalchmai saw the boy’s jaw was clamped tight.

He approached the group with eyes fixed on Agwaine. Gwalchmai saw that his left eye was filled with blood and he shivered.

“I am Gaelen,” said the boy, addressing Agwaine.

Agwaine nodded. “Why tell me?”

“I see from the way your friends are grouped around you that you are the leader.”

“How observant of you, Lowlander.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

“To what purpose? You will never address us directly, you are like the wolf pup you brought home-of no account to those with pedigree.”

Gaelen said nothing but his mind raced. In Ateris there had been many thieves and many gangs, but he had always been alone. This scene was no different from many in his life. There would be a little more talk, then tempers would grow and the violence would begin. The difference was that in Ateris he always had somewhere to run; he knew every alley and tall building, every rooftop and hiding place. As he had approached the group he had scanned them, making judgments, deciding which were the boys to be feared, which to be ignored. Two were lounging on the grass away from their comrades; one of these was slender, but athletically built, his face strong. Beside him was a veritable giant, bigger than most clansmen Gaelen had seen. But since they were apart from the group Gaelen ignored them. His eyes had been drawn to a small boy sitting with the others. Slight of build, with short-cropped ginger hair, he had seemed nervous, frightened. Gaelen put this one from his mind. The others had gathered around the young man now facing him. These would not act-only react. Therefore everything depended on the outcome of this confrontation with the leader. Gaelen took stock of him. His face was strong, the eyes dark, the gaze steady. And he was proud. In that instant Gaelen knew that he was facing no cowardly bully who could be browbeaten, or dominated by words. His heart sank.

Still, one thing he had learned early was that you never allow the enemy to dictate the pace of the game. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he told Agwaine, forcing a grin, “teach this wolf pup the lesson you have planned.”

“What?” said Agwaine, momentarily taken aback.

“It’s obvious that you and your mongrel playmates have already decided how this game is going to be played, so let’s be at it. Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Casually he stepped forward and then, with a lack of speed that dulled Agwaine’s reflexes, punched the other boy full in the face, toppling him backward to the grass.

Gaelen drew his knife and leaped back as the other youths surged to their feet. Agwaine shook his head and slowly rose, eyes glittering. He too drew a knife.

“I’ll kill you for that, Outlander,” he said. His face was set and he moved forward, perfectly in balance. The other youths drew their blades, spreading out in a half circle.

“That’s enough!” said the tall young man Gaelen had seen sitting apart from the others. Walking forward, he stood by Gaelen. “In fact, it is more than enough. The joke has soured, Agwaine.” Another figure moved to the other side of Gaelen; he was enormous, towering above all the other youths.

“Do not interfere,” Agwaine warned them. “I mean to cut his heart out.”

“Move behind me,” Layne told Gaelen.

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Move behind me!” The voice was not raised, and yet had great authority. Even so, Gaelen’s anger was so great now that he was ready to refuse. Then the giant laid a massive hand on his shoulder and Gaelen felt the power in the grip.

“Best do as he says,” said the huge youth softly. “Layne’s usually right.”

Gaelen obeyed and Layne stepped forward until his stomach pressed against Agwaine’s dagger.

“Do you really want to kill me, cousin?” he asked.

“You know I will not.”

“Then think on it. The boy did well. He knew you planned to thrash him and he took you all on; he has courage. It would not be fitting to punish him now-would it?”

Agwaine sheathed his blade. “He is a Lowlander, and I will never accept him. Neither will my friends. He will be shunned by all who follow me.”

“I’ll not shun him, Agwaine. Neither will Lennox.”

“Then you are my friend no longer. Let’s go!” he told the others. As they trooped away Gwalchmai hung back, but Draig spotted him and called out.

“I’ll see you later,” Gwalchmai replied.

Draig trotted back to his side. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “You heard what Agwaine said.”

“I stay with my friends,” said Gwalchmai.

“You’re a fool, Gwal. No good will come of it.” Draig strode off. Gaelen slid the knife back in its sheath. The tall youth with the dark hair and grey eyes turned to him, holding out his hand.

“I am Layne, son of Leofas,” he said. “This is my brother Lennox and my cousin Gwalchmai.”

Gaelen shook hands with them all. “Why did you do this for me?” he asked.

“It wasn’t for you, it was for Agwaine,” Layne told him.

“I don’t understand.”

“Agwaine is a fine friend and a brave one,” said Layne. “He acted in anger and would have regretted slaying you. He is not evil, not malicious. But he has the conceit of his father and he loves to lead.”

“I have caused you trouble. For that I am sorry.”

Layne shook his head. “You caused nothing. It was not you they were seeking to humble, but your father. Caswallon is not liked.”

“Why?”

“It is not for me to prattle on with gossip. I like Caswallon but others do not, and among the clans such matters usually end in bloodshed and family feuds. We are a violent race, Gaelen, as you have discovered.”

“Caswallon is not violent.”

“Indeed he is not. But he has the capacity for it, as you saw in the mountains with the Aenir.”

“You heard of that?”

“Who has not? My father led the hunters that escorted them from the Farlain.”

The lads settled themselves on the grass, enjoying the sunshine. Lennox and the ginger-haired Gwalchmai said little.

Layne asked Gaelen about life in Ateris, and the Aenir invasion. Gaelen found the memories too painful and switched the conversation back to Caswallon. “I know you don’t want to gossip,” he said, “but I am a stranger here, and I need to know how my… father earned such dislike.”

“Caswallon is the richest man in the valley. He has the largest herds and his fields carry more wheat than any save Cambil’s. But he holds himself apart from other clansmen, and the Hunt Lord hates him.”

“He doesn’t appear rich,” said Gaelen. “In Ateris rich men have. .. had… marble palaces and carriages of gold. And many servants. They wore rings and necklets, bracelets and brooches.”

“We have no use for such finery,” Layne told him. “We live free. Caswallon supports more than one hundred crofters. If he desired, he could start a new clan. That is rich-believe me.”

“Then why doesn’t he? I mean, if he’s so disliked it would seem to be good sense. Then he would be his own Hunt Lord.”

“He would have to surrender his valley land and find somewhere else to live, and that is no longer easy. To the northeast the Haesten control the land bordering the Lowlands. North of them are the Pallides. The rest of the land for a six-day march is all Farlain, and beyond that the minor clans-the Loda, the Dunilds, and the Irelas-fight over territory. Anyway, Caswallon is Farlain and always will be.”

“I’m damned hungry,” said Lennox suddenly.

Gaelen fished in his leather hip pouch and produced a thick slice of cold meat pie. He passed it to Lennox. Thanking him, the huge youth wolfed the pie down at speed.

“My father would also be rich,” said Layne dryly, “were it not for my brother’s appetite.”

“He’s big,” said Gaelen. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone his age bigger.” Lennox was already more than six feet tall, with a bull-like neck and an enormous frame. His face was broad, his eyes deep-set and brown. His chin and cheeks were already darkening with the promise of a beard.

“And he’s as strong as he looks. Also, despite what you will hear, he’s no fool. He just says little. Isn’t that right, brother?”

“Whatever you say,” said Lennox, grinning.

“I don’t know why, but he likes to play the fool,” said Layne. “He lets people think he has no brains.”

“It does no harm,” said Lennox mildly.

“No, but it irritates me,” replied his brother, scowling. Gaelen would not have guessed them to be brothers. Layne, though tall, was of more slender build, his face fine-boned.

“I can’t think why it should, Layne,” said Lennox, smiling. “You are the thinker in the family.”

“Nonsense.” Layne swung to Gwalchmai. “Why so silent, little one?”

“I was thinking about Agwaine,” answered Gwalchmai. “I don’t like to make anyone angry.”

“He won’t be angry with you for long. And besides, I’m proud of you. What do you think, Lennox?”

“I think it took nerve to stay with us. You’ll not regret it, Gwal, my lad.”

“Do you think they’ll attack Gaelen again?” Gwal asked.

“No,” replied Layne. “When he has had time to think on it, Agwaine will realize that Gaelen acted like”-he grinned-“like a Highlander,” he said. “He will respect that.”

Gaelen blushed and said nothing.

“Well,” said Layne, “I think it’s time we told Gaelen about the Hunt.”

Caswallon stood nervously outside the door biting his lip, a habit he thought he had left behind in childhood. But then standing before the door of Leofas brought back memories, none of them pleasant.

When Caswallon was a child he had stolen a dagger from the home of the Sword Champion, Leofas. His foster father, Padris, had been furious when Cambil informed him of Caswallon’s misbehavior-and had sent the boy to Leofas to confess.

Caswallon had stood before the door then as now, on edge and fearful. The clansman chuckled. “You fool,” he told himself. But it didn’t help.

Rapping the door with his knuckles, he took a deep breath.

Leofas let him in without a word of greeting and pointed to a chair before the hearth. Removing his cloak, Caswallon sat down. The room was large, strewn with rugs of goatskin and wolf hide, and on the far wall hung a bearskin, dust-covered and patchy with age.

Caswallon stretched out his legs before the fire. “The last time I was here, you thrashed me with your belt,” he remarked.

“I recall that you deserved it,” said Leofas. He was a big man, not tall, but wide in the shoulder with a thick neck and heavy beard streaked with grey. But his blue eyes were keen, the stare forbidding.

“Indeed I did.”

“State your business, Caswallon,” snapped the older man.

Caswallon pushed himself to his feet, a knot of anger deep within him. “I don’t think that I will,” he said softly. “I am not the child who stole your knife, I am a man. I came here because Maggrig advised it, and it seemed sensible, but I’ll not sit here swallowing your discourtesies.”

Leofas raised his eyebrows, waiting as Caswallon reached for his cloak.

“Would you like a drink, boy?” he asked.

Caswallon hesitated for a moment, then dropped his cloak across the back of a chair and turned to the older man. “That would be pleasant,” he said.

Leofas left the room, returning with two jugs of ale. Then he sat opposite Caswallon. “Now will you state your business?”

“Before I do, let’s clear the air. When you were young you raided all over the Druin to build your herds. So why are you set against me?”

“That’s easily answered, and I like a man who states his grievance swiftly. When I was a lad there was open warfare between the clans.

“No man knew what it was like to be rich. Raiding was often the difference between starvation and small comfort. But times changed and clans prospered. I applauded you when you began, I thought you were spirited and cunning. But then you grew rich, and yet the raids continued. And then I knew that the raids were not a means to an end but the end itself.

“Sometimes in life a man must risk death for the sake of his family, but you risk it merely for pleasure. Most men in the mountains value their clan, for it is like a great family and we depend on one another to survive. Children of the mountains are cared for; no one man starves while another gluts himself. But you, Caswallon, you don’t care. You avoid responsibility, and your very existence eats away at what makes the clan strong. Children imitate you. They tell tales of your exploits and they want to be like you, for you are exciting, like a clansman out of time. A myth from the past.

“Cuckoo Caswallon they used to call you, because of your amorous exploits. Women yearn for you and I can understand that and don’t begrudge it. But when you creep into the bed of another man’s wife, and sire him a son, all you have done is destroy that man’s life. He cared for his wife deeply, loved her and cherished her. She surrenders all that for a few nights of passion with you. You don’t stick by her, so she despairs. And her life is ruined too.

“As for your raids… you encourage other clans to copy you. Last autumn I caught three Pallides poachers making off with my prize bull. I had to mutilate them, it was the law. But why did they do it? Why? Because Caswallon had stolen their bull. Now state your business.”

Caswallon leaned back in his chair, his heart heavy for he could not refute a word of Leofas’s damning indictment.

“Not yet, Leofas. First let me say this: Everything you accuse me of is correct and I cannot gainsay it. But I never intended evil. Cuckoo Caswallon? Sometimes a man gives in to selfishness, telling himself there is a nobler reason-he is bringing a little happiness into a dull life. But since I married Maeg I have been faithful, for I learned by my mistakes.

“As for the raids, they too were selfish, but I don’t regret them for I enjoyed every moment. If men suffered by imitating me, then it is on their heads, for my risk was as great as theirs. But that too is now a thing of the past.

“I came to you because of the Aenir; that is my business with you. I seek not your friendship nor your approval. I care for neither. The Aenir are killers and they will invade the clans.”

“Cambil is Hunt Lord,” said Leofas guardedly. “Have you seen him?”

“You know I have not. Nor will I. If I told Cambil that sheep ate grass he would deny it and feed his flock on beef.”

The older man nodded. “That is true enough. And I agree with you about the Aenir, but Cambil thinks differently. He seeks new trade agreements, and he has invited an Aenir captain to watch the Hunt.”

“He didn’t see the sack of Ateris,” said Caswallon.

“No. But you did and it changed you.”

“I won’t deny that.”

“How is the boy you brought home?”

“He is well. Your lads helped him, I think, though he has not spoken of it.”

“Neither have they, but I heard. They’re good boys. Layne would not allow Agwaine to harm him and Lennox stood by him. That made me proud, for it’s hard bringing up boys without a mother. And they’ve turned out well.”

“They are a credit to you.”

“As is Gaelen to you,” said Leofas, “for he took them all on.”

“He is a credit to himself. Will you argue against Cambil on the Council?”

“On the question of the Aenir, I will.”

“Then I’ll take up no more of your time.”

“Man, you haven’t finished your ale. Sit and be comfortable for a while. I don’t get many visitors.”

For an hour or more the men sat, drinking ale and swapping stories. It came to Caswallon that the older man was lonely; his wife had died six years before and he had never taken another. On the death of Padris three years ago Leofas had refused to stand for Hunt Lord, claiming it was a young man’s duty. But he remained on the Hunt Council, and his words were heeded.

“How long do you think we have-before they invade?” asked Leofas suddenly, his eyes clear despite the jugs of ale.

Caswallon fought to clear his mind. “I’d say a year, maybe two. But I could be wrong.”

“I don’t think so. They’re still fighting in the Lowlands. Several cities are holding out.”

“We need a plan of our own,” said Caswallon. “The valley is indefensible.”

“Seek out Taliesen,” Leofas advised. “I know these druids raise the hairs on a man’s neck, but he is wise, and he knows much about events outside Druin.”

For two months Caswallon took Gaelen with him on every hunt, teaching him more of the land and the creatures of the land. He taught him to fight hand-to-hand, and to wrestle and to box, to roll with the punches, and to counter swiftly. The lessons were sometimes painful, and Gaelen was quick to anger. Caswallon taught him to hold his fury and use it coolly.

“Anger can strengthen a man or destroy him,” he told the youth as they sat on the hillside above the house. “When you fight, you stay cool. Think with your hands. When you strike a blow it should surprise you as well as your opponent. Now pad your hands and we will see what you have understood.” Warily the two circled each other. Caswallon stabbed a straight left to Gaelen’s face. Gaelen blocked it, hurling a right. Caswallon leaned out of reach, the punch whistling past his chin. He countered with a swift left that glanced from the boy’s jaw. Off balance, Gaelen hit the ground hard, rolled, and rose to his feet with eyes blazing. Caswallon stepped in to meet him, throwing a right cross. It never landed, for Gaelen ducked inside the punch and caught the taller man with an uppercut that sent him reeling in the grass.

“Good. That was good,” said Caswallon, rubbing his jaw. “You are beginning to move well. A little too well.” Reaching up, he took Gaelen’s hand and the younger man pulled him to his feet. “Let’s sit for a while,” he said. “My head is still spinning, I think you’ve shaken all my teeth.”

“I’m sorry.”

Caswallon laughed. “Don’t be. You were angry, but you kept it under control and used the power of your anger in your punch. That was excellent.” The two sat together beneath the shade of an elm.

“There is something I have been meaning to ask you,” said Gaelen, “about the bush you hid me in when the Aenir were close.”

“It was a good hiding place.”

“But it wasn’t,” insisted Gaelen. “It was out in the open, and had they looked down they would surely have seen me.”

“That’s why it was good. When they attacked their blood was up. They were moving fast, thinking fast, seeing fast. You understand? They didn’t examine the clearing, they scanned it swiftly, making judgments at speed. The bush was small and, as you say, in plain sight. It offered little cover and was the last place, so they believed, that anyone would choose as a hiding place. Therefore they ignored it. Similarly that made it the best place to hide in.”

“I see that,” said Gaelen, “but what if they had stopped to examine the clearing?”

“Then you would probably have been slain,” said Caswallon. “It could have happened-but the odds were vastly against it. Most men react to situations of violence-or threatened violence-by animal instinct. Understanding that instinct allows an intelligent man to win nine times out of ten.”

Gaelen grinned. “I do understand,” he said. “That’s why when you raided the Pallides you chose to hide in the village itself. You knew they would expect you to flee their lands at speed, and so they raced from their village to catch you.”

“Ah, you’ve been listening to the tales of my wicked youth. I hope you learn from them.”

“I am learning,” agreed Gaelen. “But why did you choose the house of Intosh to hide in? He is the Sword Champion of the Pallides, and everyone says he is a fearsome opponent.”

“He is also a widower with no children. No one would be in the house.”

“So you had it planned even before you did it. You must have scouted the village first.”

“Always have a plan, Gaelen, always. ”

Later, as they sat on the hillside above Caswallon’s house, awaiting the call to the midday meal, Caswallon asked the boy how he was settling in with the other lads in the small village.

“Very well,” Gaelen told him guardedly.

“No problems?”

“None that I can’t handle.”

“Of that I have no doubt. How do they compare with the boys of Ateris?”

Gaelen smiled. “In the city I used to watch them play games: hunt-seek, spider’s folly, shadowman. Here they play nothing. They are so serious. I like that… but I always wanted to join in back in Ateris.”

Caswallon nodded. “You joined us a little late for children’s games, Gaelen. Here in the mountains a boy becomes a man at sixteen, free to wed and make his own life. It is not easy. Two in five babes die before their first birthday, and few are the men who reach fifty years of age. Childhood passes more swiftly here. Have you teamed yet for the Hunt next week?”

“Yes, I travel with Gwalchmai, Lennox, and Layne.”

“Fine boys,” said Caswallon, “although Gwalchmai is a little timid, I think. Are you content with the teaming?”

“Yes. We are meeting today to plan the Run.”

“What problems will you face?”

“Lennox is strong, but no runner. We may not beat Agwaine’s team to the first tree.”

“Speed is not everything,” said Caswallon.

“I know.”

“Which of you will lead?”

“We’re deciding that this afternoon-but I think it will be Layne.”

“Logical. Layne is a bright fellow.”

“Not as bright as Agwaine,” said Gaelen.

“No, but you are. You should enjoy yourselves.”

“Did you lead when you ran in the Hunt?”

“No. Cambil led.”

“Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“Was Cambil a good leader?”

“In his way. He still is. And he has been a good Hunt Lord for the Farlain.”

“But he doesn’t like you, Caswallon. Everyone knows that.”

“You shouldn’t listen to idle chatter. But you are right. He doesn’t like me-but then he has good cause. Three years ago I robbed him of something. I didn’t mean to, but it worked out that way, and he has not forgotten.”

“What did you steal?” asked Gaelen.

“I didn’t actually steal anything. I just refused to stand against him for the position of Hunt Lord. I didn’t want the role. So he was voted to it by the elders.”

“I don’t understand. How can he hold that against you?”

“That’s a difficult question, Gaelen. Many people assumed I would try for Hunt Lord. In truth I would have lost, for Cambil is-and always was-worthy of the role. But had I stood and lost, he would have known he was considered the better man. Because I did not stand he will never know.”

“Is that why Agwaine doesn’t like me?” asked Gaelen. “Because his father doesn’t like you?”

“Perhaps. I have been very selfish in my life, doing only that which I enjoyed. I should have acted differently. If I am nominated for the Council again I shall accept. But that is not likely.”

From the house below they heard Kareen calling. Gaelen waved at her, but Caswallon remained where he was.

“Go and eat,” he said. “I will be down soon.”

He watched the boy running down the hillside and smiled, remembering his own Hunt Day fifteen years before. Every lad in the Farlain over the age of fourteen, and not yet a man, was teamed with three others and sent out into the mountains to recover a “treasure.” Skillful hunters would lay trails, hide clues and signs, and the teams would track them down until at last one team returned with the prize. For Caswallon the prize they had sought was a dagger, hidden in a tree. Often it was an arrow, or a lance, or a helm, or a shield. This year it was a sword, though none of the lads knew it.

Every year Caswallon helped lay the trails and delighted in his work. But this year was special for him, for Gaelen would be taking part.

He removed from his pouch the strip of parchment Taliesen had given him and he reread the words written there. Seek the beast that no one finds, always roaring, never silent, beneath his skin, by silver wings, bring forth the long-lost dream of kings.

After the meal Caswallon would read the verse to his new son, even as, all over the Farlain, fathers would be doing likewise. There were times, Caswallon considered, when tradition was a wholesome thing.

In the wide kitchen Caswallon’s young son Donal lay on a woolen blanket by the hearth. Beside him slept the pup Gaelen had brought home; it had grown apace in the last two months, showing signs of the formidable beast it would be in the years ahead. Kareen sat beside Maeg opposite Gaelen, and they were all laughing as Caswallon entered.

“And what is amusing you?” he asked.

“Rest your poor bones at the table,” Maeg told him, “and tell us, gently, how Gaelen here dumped you to the earth.”

“It was a wicked blow and I was unprepared,” he answered, seating himself beside the boy, who was blushing furiously.

“Have you been bragging, young Gaelen?” he asked.

“He has not,” said Maeg. “Kareen herself saw the deed done as she fed the chickens.”

“Fed the chickens, indeed,” said Caswallon. “It could not be seen from the yard. The lazy child climbed the hill and spied on us, for a certainty.” Now Kareen began to blush, casting a guilty glance at Maeg. “In fact,” said Caswallon, smiling broadly, “on my way back here I saw two sets of tracks. One had the dainty footprints of young Kareen, the other I could not make out except to say the feet must have been uncommonly large.”

“So!” said Maeg. “It’s back to gibes about my feet, is it?”

“You have beautiful feet, Maeg, my love. There isn’t a woman in the Farlain who could match them for beauty-or length.”

Throughout the meal they good-naturedly sniped at each other, and only when she began to list Caswallon’s faults did he open his arms in surrender and beg her forgiveness.

“Woman,” he said, “you’re full of venom.”

After the meal he gave leave to Gaelen to seek his friends, and read him the druid’s parchment. “Do not be home late. We’ve an early start tomorrow.”

Later, as Maeg and Caswallon lay arm in arm in the broad bed, she leaned over him and kissed him gently on the lips. “What troubles you, my love?” she asked him, stroking his dark hair back from his eyes.

His arm circled her back, pulling her to him. “What makes you think I am troubled?”

“No games, Caswallon,” she said seriously. She rolled from him and he sat up, bunching a pillow behind him.

“The Council has voted to resume trade with Ateris, and allow an Aenir group to visit the Farlain.”

“But we had to trade with them,” said Maeg. “We always have dealt with Ateris, for iron, seed corn, seasoned timbers, leather.”

“We didn’t always, Maeg. We used to do these things ourselves. We’re no longer dealing with merchant Lowlanders; this is a warrior race.”

“What harm can it do to allow a few of them to visit us? We might become friends.”

“You don’t make friends with a wolf by inviting it to sleep with the sheep.”

“But we are not sheep, Caswallon. We are the clans.”

“I think the decision is shortsighted and we may live to rue it.”

“I love you,” she said, the words cutting through his thoughts.

“I can’t think why,” he said, chuckling. Then he reached for her and they lay silently enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies and the closeness of their spirits.

“I cannot begin to tell you what you mean to me,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

One moment the mountainside was clear, rolling green slopes, the occasional tree, two streams meeting and foaming over white boulders. Sheep grazed quietly near a small herd of wild ponies.

Suddenly the air reeked with an acrid smell none of the animals recognized. Their heads came up. Blue light replaced the gold of the sun. Rainbows danced on the grass and a great noise, like locust wings, covered the mountainside. The ponies reared and wheeled, the sheep scattering in all directions.

For a fraction of a second two suns hung in the sky, then they merged and the golden sunlight bathed the mountain. But all was not as it had been…

In the shadow of a great boulder stood a towering figure, six-inch fangs curving from a wide snout, massive shoulders covered in black fur, huge arms ending in taloned fingers. The eyes were black and round, the brows deep, and it blinked as its new surroundings came into focus.

Lifting its shaggy head, the beast sniffed the air. The sweet smell of living flesh flooded its senses. The creature leaned forward, dipping its colossal shoulders until its talons brushed the earth. Its eyes focused on a three-year-old ewe, which stood trembling on the hillside.

Dropping fully to all fours, the beast bunched the muscles of its hind legs and leaped forward, bearing down on the sheep with terrible speed. Startled, the ewe turned to run. It had made only three running jumps before the weight of the hunter smashed its spine into jagged shards.

Taloned fingers tore aside the ewe’s flesh and the blood ran.

The beast ate swiftly, lifting its shaggy black head often, peering shortsightedly around the mountainside, ready for any enemy that might chance upon it. It was uncomfortable out in the open, unused to shimmering horizons and bright light. But the blood was good upon its tongue, the flesh rich and greasy. Casually it ripped out the ewe’s entrails, hurling them far from the body, concentrating instead on the flesh of the loins. Slowly, methodically, the giant creature fed, snapping bones and sucking out the marrow, splitting the skull with one blow and devouring the brains.

Hunger satisfied, the beast sank back to its haunches. It blinked in the sunlight as an image fashioned itself in its mind. A bright image. Grunting, it shook its head, then gave a low growl. Dimly it remembered the circle of stones and the red-clad sorcerer whose fingers danced with fire. The fire had entered the creature’s breast, settling there without pain. The beast howled as hunger returned.

It would always be hungry-until it devoured the image-woman. Angrily the beast slammed its hands against the ground.

Away to the left it saw the line of trees that merged into the forest above Vallon. Hunger returning, it began to lope toward them, stopping at a stream to drink. The trees were smaller than the ones it had known and climbed, less closely packed and strangely silent. No chittering monkeys swung from the vines, few birds sang, and there was no sign of fruit upon the boughs.

The wind shifted and a new smell filtered to the beast’s flaring nostrils. The black eyes glittered with the memory of salty-sweet flesh and marrow-filled bones. The sorcerer had implanted a soul scent upon its senses-and this creature was not the victim ordained. Nor was the spell scent close by. Yet it could almost taste the sweet meat of the approaching man-beast.

Saliva dripped from its maw and its dark tongue licked out over its fangs. The smell was growing stronger. There was no need to stalk, for the simpleminded creature was moving this way.

A hundred paces to the west Erlik of the Pallides, a tall young hunter from the house of Maggrig, leaned on his staff. Beside him his war hound Askar growled deep in his throat. Erlik was puzzled. An hour ago he had seen the blue haze across the mountains, and the two suns appear in the sky. And despite this being Farlain land he had ventured here, led by the curiosity of the young. Less than a year before Erlik had gained his manhood in the Hunt, and was now a contender for the Games.

And where a more seasoned veteran would hesitate, Erlik, with all the confidence of youth, had crossed the border and ventured into the lands of the enemy. He did not fear Farlain hunters, for he knew he could outrun them, but he had to know why the air burned blue. He sensed it would be a fine tale to tell his comrades at the evening feast.

He leaned down and stroked Askar, whispering it to silence. The hound obeyed unwillingly. It didn’t like the idea of moving with the direction of the breeze, and it sensed danger ahead that made the fur on its shoulders rise. With the natural cunning of the canine it began to edge left, but Erlik called it back.

The young hunter moved forward toward an area of thick bracken and gorse. Askar growled once more and this time the dog’s unease filtered through to the man. Carefully he laid down his quarterstaff, then swung his bow from his shoulder, hastily notching an arrow to the string.

The gorse exploded as a vast black creature reared up from the ground at Erlik’s feet. A taloned arm flashed out, half severing the hunter’s left arm and hurling him to the ground. The war hound leaped for the beast’s throat, but was brutally swatted aside. Erlik drew his hunting knife and struggled to rise, but the talons flashed once more and his head toppled from his shoulders.

Minutes later the war hound came to its senses, pain gnawing at its broken ribs. The great head came up slowly, ears pricking at the sounds of crunching bones.

With infinite care the hound inched its way to the west, away from the feeding beast.

In the valley of the Farlain fourteen teams of youngsters were packing shoulder sacks with provisions ready for the hunt. Families and kin thronged the Market Field.

The brothers Layne and Lennox were seated side by side on a fallen oak while Gaelen lay on his back, eyes closed, nearby. Beside him sat the slender Gwalchmai, whittling with a short dagger.

“I wish they would announce the start,” said Layne. “What are they waiting for?”

Gaelen sat up. “Caswallon said the druid must give his blessing.”

“I know that,” snapped Layne. “I meant why the delay?” Gaelen lay back on the grass and said nothing. Layne was not normally this edgy.

“Are you looking forward to it?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen could see that the ginger-haired youth was worried by Layne’s tension and seeking to change the mood.

“Yes, I am,” said Gaelen.

“Do you understand the meaning of the riddle?”

“No. Have you deciphered it?”

Gwalchmai shrugged. “Maybe it will be clearer when we find the second clue.”

In the house of Cambil, beyond the field and the waiting teams, sat the Druid Lord, Taliesen. Opposite him, pacing before the hearth, was the tall Hunt Lord Cambil, a golden-haired, handsome young man wearing a leaf-green tunic and a red cloak.

By the hearth sat a stranger clad in leather shirt and breeches, his long blond hair braided beneath a round leather helm. He too was handsome, but unlike Cambil, there was no softness in him. His eyes were the cold blue of the winter sky, and upon his mouth was a mocking half smile. That the druid disliked him was obvious and seemed to amuse the Aenir; but for Cambil the meeting was a monstrous embarrassment.

The druid was angry, though he showed nothing of it as he sipped water from a clay goblet. Cambil was uneasy and pulled at his golden beard. The stranger sat back in the leather-covered chair, his face expressionless.

“It is rare,” the druid said at last, “for a stranger to be present at the Youth’s Hunt-though it is not without precedent. There shall be no blessing today, for the words of power cannot be spoken in the presence of Lowlanders. In this there is no disrespect intended for your guest, Cambil, it is merely the weight of tradition which forbids it.”

Cambil bit his lip and nodded.

“May I ask,” continued the druid, “that we speak privately?”

Cambil turned to the man beside him. “My apologies, Lord Drada, but please feel free to join the men at the food table beyond and refresh yourself.”

Drada stood and bowed to Cambil, then he turned to the druid. “I am sorry to have caused you problems. Had I known my presence would disrupt the ceremony I would have turned down the invitation.” Neither Taliesen nor Cambil missed the stress he placed on the word invitation, and the Hunt Lord felt himself blushing.

The Aenir warrior carefully hung his black cloak upon his broad shoulders and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The ancient druid turned his dark eyes on the Hunt Lord and leaned forward across the table. “It was not wise to invite him into Farlain lands,” he said.

“He is friendly enough,” insisted Cambil.

“He is the Enemy to Come,” snapped the druid.

“So you say, old man, but I am the Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and I alone decide whether a man is a friend or enemy. You are a druid and as such are to be respected in religious matters, but do not exceed your authority.”

“Are you blind, Cambil, or merely stupid?”

Anger shone in the Hunt Lord’s eyes, but his response was calm. “I am not blind, druid. And I make no great claims to be wiser than any other clansman. What I do know is that war brings no advantage to either side. If the Aenir can be convinced that we offer them no threat, and that there is no wealth to be found in the mountains, I see no reason why we cannot exist together-if not as friends, then at least as good neighbors. Keeping them out will only cause suspicion, and make war more likely.”

Cambil walked to the door, wrenching it open. “Now, the boys are waiting and I shall send them off, and I don’t doubt the lack of your words of power will affect them not at all.”

At the edge of the field Caswallon sat with Maeg and Kareen, watching the boys line up for the first race to the trees. Once there, they would find a leather pouch hanging from the branch of the central pine. Within the pouch were four clues, written on parchment. The first team to reach the tree would be able to read all the clues, and remove one. The next team would find three clues, and remove one. And so on until the fourth team would find only one remaining.

Gaelen, who could not yet read, would be useless to his team on this first run, but they had chosen Gwalchmai to lead the sprint, and he was almost as fast as Cambil’s son Agwaine.

The teams sprinted away at Cambil’s command and Caswallon watched as Gwalchmai and Agwaine forged a lead over the rest, with Gaelen loping beside the lumbering Lennox at the rear.

At that moment Caswallon caught sight of the black-coated Aenir warrior standing by the grey house. Leaving Maeg and Kareen, he walked the short distance to the building. As he walked he gauged the man. The Aenir was tall and well built, but slim of hip. He looked what he was-a warrior. As Caswallon approached the man turned and the clansman knew he was undergoing the same appraisal.

“The lads move well,” said the Aenir, pointing toward the youngsters who were now halfway up the hillside.

“I see your men took my advice,” said Caswallon. “That was wise.”

Drada smiled. “Yes, I always listen to wise counsel. But I saw no sign of the Farlain hunters you promised to send after us.”

“They were there.”

“I was surprised to find you are not a councillor, Caswallon.”

“Why so?”

“I gained the impression that you were a man of influence but Cambil tells me this is not so. He says you are a thief and a bandit.”

“What do you think of the Farlain mountains?” Caswallon countered.

“They are beautiful. Most especially this valley.”

“There are many valleys in the Farlain, and a vast number more in the Druin range,” said the clansman.

“I have no doubt I shall see them all eventually,” Drada told him, with a wolfish smile.

“Travel alone when you do so.”

“Really, why?”

“The mountains can be tranquil and a man alone can best enjoy their harmony.”

“And if he is not alone?” asked Drada.

“If he travels with many, then the mountains can be hostile, even deadly. Why, even now two Aenir corpses are rotting in the mountains. And there is room for many more.”

“That is no talk for new friends, Caswallon.”

Caswallon laughed with genuine humor; then the smile faded. “But then I am not your friend, my bonny. Nor ever shall be.”

More than fifty youngsters pounded up the slope, feet drumming on the hard-packed grass-covered clay of the hillside. Gwalchmai tucked himself in behind Agwaine, fastening his eyes on the other boy’s pack and running on grimly. After forty paces he loosened the straps of his own heavy pack and let it fall to the ground behind him. Then, as Gaelen had instructed him, he once more moved up behind Agwaine.

Here the hillside was at its steepest and the young Agwaine was breathing heavily, his legs began to burn as the body’s waste acids settled to the muscles of his calves. He did not look back. He could afford no wasted energy. And besides, he was the fastest runner for his years in the Farlain.

Back down the slope, Lennox scooped up Gwalchmai’s pack and continued to lope alongside Gaelen, way to the rear of the other runners.

“I hope this is allowed,” shouted Lennox.

Gaelen said nothing. Caswallon had told him that the rules were specific. All runners had to start the race carrying their own provisions. Well, Gwalchmai had done that.

Layne had not been easy to convince, for he was a youth who lived on traditions of honor and would sooner lose than cheat. But Gaelen had called a vote, as was his right, and had won the day. Layne seemed to harbor no grudge.

Gwalchmai and Agwaine had now increased their lead over the following pack to fifty paces, and it was obvious that they would reach the trees well ahead of their rivals.

As the timberline neared Gwalchmai sped past his astonished opponent. Agwaine was furious. Sweat-soaked and near-exhausted, he released his pack and set off after the sprinting youth. Fury pumped fresh adrenaline to his tired legs and against all the odds he began to close the gap.

Fifty paces from the trees Agwaine was running in Gwalchmai’s shadow, but the canny youngster had one more ploy. As Agwaine came abreast of him Gwalchmai kicked again, releasing the energy he had held in reserve. Agwaine had nothing more to offer. In an agonizing effort to match his opponent, he stumbled against a stone and pitched to the earth.

Gwalchmai ran ahead, eyes flickering from tree to tree, seeking the pouch. It was in plain view, fastened to a low branch. He pulled it clear, removing the small pieces of paper it contained. Reading them all, he selected one and tucked it in his belt. Then he rehung the pouch and wandered back toward Agwaine.

The Hunt Lord’s son ignored him, racing past to tear the pouch clear. He read the three remaining strips, took one, and replaced two. Then he turned after Gwalchmai.

“You dog!” he shouted, his breathing labored. “You… cheating

… cur!”

Frightened, Gwalchmai backed away and opened his hands. “The rules did not forbid it, Agwaine.”

Other runners came between them in the last frantic dash for clues, and Agwaine turned away to sit in the shade of a spreading elm.

Gwalchmai was grinning broadly as Layne reached him and he handed the parchment over. Layne read it, nodded, then walked over to where Agwaine was sitting.

“Well run, cousin,” he said, squatting beside him.

“Thank you. That was a devious strategy. But, as Gwalchmai says, it was within the rules and therefore I can have no complaint.” Layne offered Agwaine the parchment. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“There may be nothing in the rules against our tactic,” said Layne, “but I am not happy with it. Here. Read the line, and from now we start level.”

“No, cousin,” said Agwaine, gripping the other’s shoulder, “though I thank you for your courtesy. I must confess that were I not the fastest runner it is likely I would have used the tactic myself. I take it the Lowlander conceived it?”

“Yes.”

“He has quick wits, I’ll give him that.”

Layne nodded. Then he stood and returned to the others, who had been watching the scene, puzzled. “Let’s find a place out of earshot and discuss our next move,” he said, walking past them to the trees. Gaelen bit back his anger and followed. He had seen Layne offer the clue to Agwaine and noted the other’s refusal. It was confusing and deeply irritating.

In a deep hollow, away from the crowds, the four squatted in a huddled circle. Layne nodded to Gwalchmai, who began to speak in a hushed whisper. They were all aware that those teams without clues would now seek to follow and spy on the leading four.

“The clues were simple to understand,” whispered Gwalchmai. “The one we have is the simplest: ‘That which Earis lost.’ So, it is a sword we seek. The other clues confirm it: ‘A King’s Sorrow,’ ‘The Light that brings Darkness,’ and ‘The Bane of Eska.’ The question now is, where is it hidden?”

“It’s hidden at, or near, Attafoss,” whispered Gaelen.

“What?” said Layne, astonished. “How do you know?”

“The rhyme: ‘Seek the beast that no one finds, always roaring, never silent…’ When Caswallon took me to Attafoss it sounded like a great monster, but when we arrived there was no monster, merely a roaring fall of water.”

“It could be,” said Layne. “What do you think, Gwal?”

“I agree with Gaelen.”

“Lennox?”

The youth raised his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.

“So,” said Layne, “we are agreed. Well done, Gaelen. If we look at the rest of the verse it becomes even more obvious. ‘Beneath its skin, by silver wings, bring forth the long-lost dream of kings.’ The blade is hidden under the water, guarded by fishes. But where? Attafoss is huge.”

“There will be other clues,” said Gwalchmai. “We must follow the right tracks.”

“True,” said Layne. “All right. We’ll make camp higher up in the trees, then slip away before dawn and strike for Vallon.”

Dawn found the four of them miles from the first timber and well on their way. Layne led them down rocky slopes and over difficult terrain, constantly checking on what tracks they were leaving. By midmorning he was content. Even the most skillful hunters would have difficulty finding them, and above all, the task would be time-consuming.

As they strolled through patches of yellow-gold gorse and across meadows bedecked with blooms, Gaelen rediscovered the strange sense of joy he first felt when Caswallon formally adopted him. He was home. Truly home.

Beside him Gwalchmai was whistling a merry tune and ahead Layne and Lennox were deep in conversation. Gaelen rubbed at his scarred eye, for it itched now and then, usually when he was tired.

“Is it troubling you?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen shook his head and Gwalchmai resumed whistling, but his thoughts remained on the youngster beside him. Gwalchmai had liked Gaelen from the first. He didn’t know why, but then he rarely rationalized such things; he relied on his emotions to steer him and they rarely played him false. He remembered his shock when he first saw the boy, his red hair streaked with a white slash, his left eye filled with blood-for all the world like a ruby set in his skull.

He had been prepared to dislike the Lowlander, having listened to Agwaine speak sneeringly of Caswallon’s rescue. But there had been something about the way Gaelen carried himself-like a clansman, tall and proud. Gwalchmai stopped whistling as he noticed a track some ten paces from the trail.

“Layne!” he called. “Hold on.” Gwalchmai stepped from the trail and knelt by the soft earth beside the gorse. The three companions gathered around him, staring in wonder at the footprint.

“It’s as long as my forearm,” said Gwalchmai. “And look, the thing has six toes.” All four lads scouted back along the line of tracks, but they found nothing. The earth by the gorse was soft, but the surrounding ground was rocky and firm.

“What do you think it is?” asked Gaelen, whose knowledge of mountain animals was still sparse.

“It isn’t anything I’ve ever seen,” said Gwalchmai. “Layne?”

The leader grinned suddenly. “It’s perfectly obvious, my friends. It’s a hunter’s joke. When they were laying the trails for our Hunt they made a jest of the rhyme ‘Seek the beast…’ the footprint points toward Vallon and the print was created to show we’re on the right track.”

Gwalchmai’s freckled face split into a grin. “Yes, of course,” he said.

An hour before nightfall Layne scouted a small hollow where they could build a fire against a towering granite stone. The tiny blaze could not be seen from any distance and the four travelers unrolled their blankets and settled down for a light meal of oatcakes and water.

As the night closed in and the stars shone bright, Lennox curled up like a dozing bear and slept, leaving the others seated by the fire talking in low voices.

“Who was Earis?” Gaelen asked as he fed the fire with dry sticks.

“The first High King,” Layne told him. “Hundreds of years ago the Farlain lived in another land, beyond the Gates. There was a great war and the clans were nigh obliterated. Earis gathered the remains of the defeated army and launched one last desperate assault on the enemy, smashing their army and killing their leader, Eska. But it was only one of several armies facing him. The druids told the King of a way to save his people. But it was hazardous: They had to pass a Gate between worlds. I don’t know much about that side of it, but the legends are many. Anyway, Earis brought the Farlain here and we named the mountains Druin.

“During the journey a strange thing happened. As Earis stepped through the Gate of Vallon, into the bitter cold of winter, his sword disappeared from his hand. Earis took his crown and hurled it back through the Gate. The sword, he said, was the symbol of kingship, and since it had gone so too would his position. From henceforth there would be no king for the Farlain. The Council voted him to the position of Hunt Lord and so it has remained.”

“I see,” said Gaelen. “So ‘the Bane of Eska,’ that is a clue I can understand. But why the light that brings darkness?”

“The sword was called Skallivar, meaning Starlight on the Mountain,” said Gwalchmai. “But in battle whoever it touched found only the darkness of death.”

“And that is what we seek? Skallivar?”

Layne laughed. “No. Just a sword. It makes the clues more poetic, that’s all.”

Gaelen nodded. “There is much still to learn.”

“But you will learn, cousin,” said Layne. Gaelen felt a surge of warmth and comradeship within him as Layne spoke, but it was shattered by a sound that ripped through the night. An eerie, inhuman howling echoed through the mountains.

Lennox awoke with a start. “What was that?” he asked, rolling to his knees.

Gaelen shuddered and said nothing.

“I’ve no idea,” said Layne. “Perhaps it’s a wolf and the sound is distorted.”

“If it’s a wolf,” muttered Gwalchmai, “it must be as big as a horse.”

For several minutes they sat in silence, straining to hear any more sounds in the blackness of the night. But there was nothing. Lennox went back to sleep. Layne exchanged glances with Gwalchmai.

“It wasn’t a wolf, Layne.”

“No, but it could have been a hunter trying to frighten us.”

“I hope so,” said Gwalchmai. “I think we should stand watches tonight, though.”