The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Five

Lennox sat with his back against a tree as they stitched his shoulder and strapped his broken arm. His face was grey with pain, but he uttered no groan, merely squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.

His father, Leofas, said nothing, but pride shone in his eyes. Layne lay beside his brother, enduring the stitches in his chest in the same stoic fashion. Away from the others sat Badraig, tears flowing and head in hands. His son Draig had been killed the day before.

Even through his own immense relief Cambil felt the other man’s sorrow, and leaving his son Agwaine, he walked over to sit beside the hunter. He put his hand on Badraig’s shoulder.

“I am sorry, my friend. Truly.”

The man nodded, but neither lifted his head nor answered.

Caswallon stood with the other clansmen looking down on the beast. Even in death it was a terrifying sight, its great jaws drawn back in a last snarl, its fangs, as long as a man’s fingers, bared and bloody.

“I have never seen the like,” muttered Caswallon, “and I pray I never shall again.”

They buried the Queen deep, marking the grave with flat white stones. Cambil promised to have a headstone carved. Then the men split into two groups, Badraig leading the five hunters back to the falls and burying what was left of the bodies; Cambil, Leofas, and Caswallon staying with the boys. It was decided they would rest in the clearing until morning and then attempt the long walk back to the village.

The main worry was Lennox, who had lost a great deal of blood. Gwalchmai, though stunned by his fall, was back on his feet and unhurt. He alone of the boys had missed the Queen’s last battle.

That night around the campfire the boys were unnaturally silent. Lennox, in great pain, sought refuge in sleep, but the others sat together staring at the flames. Agwaine had lost friends and suffered the terror of being hunted; Layne had seen the leadership of the group taken quietly from him by the former Lowlander; and Gaelen had discovered in his heart a strength he had not known existed. Only Gwalchmai was untouched by the drama, but he remained silent, for he sensed his friends’ needs.

Caswallon prepared a strong broth for them all. His own thoughts were many. Through his sorrow at the death of the three lads he felt a surging pride at the way the others had tackled the beast, and a sense of joy at the manner in which Gaelen had conducted himself. Thinking back, he did not know if he could have duplicated the feat at Gaelen’s age. But overriding these thoughts he could not help but remember the words of the Queen. At first he had thought the woman delirious, but her eyes had been clear.

Caswallon had always enjoyed an ability to read character truly, and he knew instinctively that the dying warrior was a great woman, a woman of courage, nobility of spirit, and great inner strength. That she was a queen was no surprise.

But queen of where? And how did she know him?

Beyond the Gate. What was beyond the Gate?

Only Oracle knew. And Taliesen.

The night wore on and Caswallon strolled away from the fire, seeking solitude and a place to think. But Cambil joined him and they sat together on a high hillside under the clear sky.

“Badraig is a broken man,” said Cambil softly, gathering his green cloak about his broad shoulders.

“Yes. What can one say?”

“I feel a burden of guilt for it,” said Cambil. “Last night I prayed that Agwaine would survive. I would willingly have exchanged any life for his. When I saw he was alive I didn’t care anything for Badraig’s loss; it only struck me later.”

“That is understandable.”

“Don’t patronize me, Caswallon!” snapped the Hunt Lord, eyes blazing.

“I was not trying to. How do you think I felt when I saw Gaelen?”

“It’s not the same thing, is it? You may be fond of the boy, but he’s not of your blood. You didn’t watch him take his first faltering steps, hear his first words, take him on his first hunt.”

“No, that is true,” admitted Caswallon, realizing the futility of the argument.

“Still Gaelen did well,” said Cambil. “He proved his right to be a clansman.”

“Yes.”

“But he can never be Hunt Lord.”

Caswallon turned then, catching Cambil’s eye, but the Hunt Lord looked away, staring into the woods. At once Caswallon understood the man’s meaning. Gaelen had planned the battle with the beast, had taken over leadership from Layne. Agwaine had done his bidding. On such talents were future Hunt Lords built. Cambil’s dream was that Agwaine would succeed him, but now he was unsure.

“Be content that your son is alive,” said Caswallon. “The future will look to itself.”

“But you agree it would not be fitting for a Lowlander to lead the clan?”

“The Council can decide on the day you step down.”

“So, it is your plan to supplant Agwaine with this boy?” accused Cambil, face reddening.

Caswallon sighed. “Nothing could have been further from my mind.”

“It was Agwaine who found the sword.”

“Indeed it was.”

A long silence enveloped them, until at last Cambil stood to leave. We will never be friends, Caswallon,” he said sadly.

“You see ogres where there are none,” Caswallon told him. “I have no ambition, cousin-not for myself, nor my sons. They will be what they desire to be, and what they are able to be. I want to see them happy, married well, and content. All else is dross, for we all die and there is no evidence we take anything with us when we go.”

Cambil nodded. “I wish I could believe you, but I see a different Caswallon. I see a man who could have been Hunt Lord. Children imitate your walk, tales are told about you around the campfires. And yet what have you done? You steal other men’s cattle. What is it about you, Caswallon?”

“I have no idea. I never listen to the stories.”

Caswallon watched as Cambil walked slowly down the slope toward the fire. Gathering his own cloak about him, he stared at the stars, mind wandering.

After about an hour he felt a cold wind blow against his neck, but the leaves about him did not stir. He turned. Behind him stood Taliesen, wrapped in his cloak of shimmering feathers and holding a staff of oak entwined with mistletoe.

“Three boys are dead,” he told the druid, gesturing to a place beside him on the flat boulder. The druid sat, leaning forward on his staff.

“I know. The Queen also.”

“Who was she?”

“Sigarni the Hawk Queen. Did she say anything before she died?”

“She said she would come again, so the boys tell me. And she thought I was someone she once knew.”

“The old man you know as Oracle brought this upon us,” said Taliesen. “I only hope I can make it right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seek Oracle and tell him you have spoken to me. Tell him that it pleases me for you to know his story. But when you have heard it, promise me you will repeat it to no one. Do you agree to this?”

“I do.”

Maeg ran from the house, Kareen beside her, as the men appeared on the far hill. Other women streamed from crofts and homes. Men working in the fields dropped their tools and joined the rush.

Within minutes the hunters and the boys were surrounded. Cambil answered all questions and Caswallon led Gaelen through the throng to where Maeg waited. She moved forward, cupping Gaelen’s face with her hands.

“Are you well, my bonny lad?”

“Yes.”

She read the sorrow in his eyes and linked her arm in his for the long walk to the house. He had suffered so much in his life and now it was obvious that he had endured more pain. Her heart ached for him.

At the house the crofter Durk was waiting for Kareen. He asked after Gaelen and then left, taking the girl with him to walk up the hillside.

Gaelen was exhausted and stumbled to his bed while Caswallon and Maeg sat together by the hearth. The clansman told her of the ordeal in the mountains and how well the boys had handled themselves.

“He is a lad to be proud of, Caswallon,” she said.

He grinned sheepishly. “I know. I was close to tears as he told me the tale.”

“He’ll be a fine man.”

“Sooner than you think,” said Caswallon.

“And how did you fare with Cambil for so many days?”

He shrugged. “The man fears me, Maeg. He thinks I plan to supplant Agwaine with Gaelen. Is it not madness? His doubts must sit on his shoulders like a mountain.”

“He is a sad, lonely man. I’m glad you harbor no ill will.”

“How can I hate him? I grew up with him. He was always the same; he believed his father liked me more than him. Always he strived to beat me, and he never did. Had I been wiser, I would have lost at least once.”

“It’s not in you to lose,” she said. “You are a clansman. And a proud man-too proud, I think.”

“Can a man be too proud? It harms no one. I have never insulted another man, nor abused my strength by destroying a weaker opponent. I do not parade my talents, but I am aware of them.”

“Nonsense. You’re as vain as a flamingo. I’ve seen you trimming your beard by the silver mirror and using my brush to comb it flat.”

“Spying on me now, is it?”

“Yes, it is. And why shouldn’t I? Am I not your wife?”

He pulled her to his lap and kissed her. “Indeed, you are the best thing I ever stole from the Pallides. Except for that bull of your father’s.”

“When I think that Intosh proposed to me,” said Maeg, tugging his beard, “and instead I ended up with you, I wonder if the Gods hold a grudge against my family.”

“Intosh? He was my rival? You’d have hated it, Maeg. The man has ticks in his bed. I was scratching for days after I stole his sword.”

“You dog! So that’s where they came from.”

“Now, now, Maeg my love,” he said as she pulled from his grasp, eyes blazing. “Let’s not have a row. The boy needs his sleep, he’s been through much.”

“You’ve not heard the last of this, my fine Farlain,” she said softly.

“And now, while you’re quiet for a moment,” he said, pulling her to him once more, “perhaps you’ll welcome me home. It’s been a tiring journey.”

“Then you’ll be wanting to sleep?”

“Indeed I do. Will you join me?”

“You can bathe first. I’ll have no more of your ticks.”

“Is there any heated water?”

“There is not.”

“You’d not expect me to bathe in the yard in the cold?”

“Of course not. You can sleep down here and bathe tomorrow in the warm water.”

“Sleep here?” Their eyes met and there was no give in her. “It’s the yard then,” he said.

Later, as Caswallon slept, Maeg heard Gaelen moaning in his sleep in the next room. She rose quickly, wrapping a blanket around her naked body, and made her way to his bedside. It was a familiar nightmare and she knew he was once more running from the Aenir, his legs leaden, his wounds bleeding.

She sat beside him stroking his hair. “It’s all right, Gaelen,” she whispered. “You’re here with Maeg. You’re safe. Safe.”

He groaned and rolled to his back. “Maeg?”

“I’m here.”

“Dreaming,” he whispered and his eyes closed once more.

She remembered the first time Caswallon had brought him home. He had been nervous then, and his eyes had flickered from wall to wall as if the house were a prison. And he had avoided her. When she showed him his room, his delight had stunned her.

“This is my room?”

“Yes.”

“My very own? To share with no one?”

“Your very own.”

“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

“You cannot bewitch me,” he said suddenly.

“I see,” she said, smiling. “Caswallon has told you about my spells?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn’t tell you my powers faded soon after we were wed?”

“No.”

“It happens to women once they’ve snared their men.”

“I see,” he said.

“So let us be friends. How does that sit with you?”

“I’d like to be friends,” he said, grinning. “I’ve never had friends.”

“It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to,” she told him.

“I don’t talk very much,” he said. “I never had anyone to practice with. I’m not terribly clever at it.”

“It’s not clever that counts, Gaelen. Clever comes from the mind, truth from the heart. Now I will begin our friendship by telling you the truth. When Caswallon first rescued you I was worried, for we have a son. But I have thought long about it, and now I am glad. For I like you, and I know you will be happy with us. For our part, we will teach you to be a clansman.”

“I may not be very good at that either,” admitted the boy.

“It’s not a matter of being good at it. Merely being is enough. It will not be easy for you, for Caswallon is not a popular man, and some will make it hard-perhaps even unpleasant-for you.”

“Why is he not popular?”

“That is a complex question. He is independent, and it has made him all that he has. He holds to the old ways of raiding and stealing from other clans. But there are other reasons that I think it best you find out for yourself.”

“He is a thief?”

She chuckled. “Yes. Just like you.”

“Well, I like him. I don’t care about the others.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Here is a first lesson for you, Gaelen: Care. That is what the clan is. We care. For one another. Even if we dispute matters, we still care. I tell you this. If Caswallon’s house burned to the ground, even those who disliked him would gather around and help rebuild. If Caswallon died, I would be cared for should I need it. If Caswallon and I both died, little Donal would be taken in by another family-perhaps one that disliked us both-and raised with love.”

He had been hard to convince, especially after the early trouble with Agwaine. But at least he had found friends. Maeg sat by the bedside for a while, then moved to the window.

The moon was high, the mountains silver, the valley at peace. Behind her, Gaelen stirred and opened his eyes, seeing her silhouetted against the sky. “Maeg,” he whispered.

She returned to the bedside. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For caring.”

Leaning down, she kissed his brow. “Sleep well, young warrior,” she said.

Caswallon strolled up toward the cave, aware that the old man was watching him. Oracle’s sunken blue eyes looked hard at the clansman. “You look tired, man,” said Oracle as Caswallon sat beside him in the cave mouth.

“Aye, I am tired. And hurt by the suffering of those poor boys.”

“A bad day,” agreed the older man. For a time they sat in silence, then Oracle spoke again. “It is always good to see you, my boy. But I sense there is something on your mind, so spit it out.”

Caswallon chuckled. “As always, you miss little. Taliesen told me to speak to you; he said it would please him for you to tell the story of what happened beyond the Gate.”

“Aye, please him and shame me.” Oracle stood and wandered back into the cave, sitting beside the glowing fire. Caswallon joined him. Oracle filled two clay cups with watered wine, passing one to the younger man. “I have told no one else this tale in twenty-five years. I trust you not to repeat it while I live.”

“You have my word on it,” Caswallon assured him.

“I wanted to be High King,” said Oracle. “I felt it was my right after the battles I had led-and won. But the people rejected me. This much you know already. I took my followers and we overpowered the druids guarding the Vallon Gate. We passed through. At first it seemed that nothing had changed; the mountains remained the same, High Druin still stood sentinel over the lands of the clans. But it was different, Caswallon. In a land beset by war, a woman had become High Queen. Her name was Sigarni. For reasons which I cannot explain now-but which you will understand later-I shall say no more about her, save that my men and I helped her in her battles with the Outland army. We stayed for two years. I still wanted to be a king, to found my own dynasty. I returned, with the survivors of my men, to the Vallon Gate, and passed through once more. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

The old man drained his wine and refilled the cup, this time adding no water. Looking at Caswallon, he smiled grimly. “Cursed is the man who achieves his dreams. In this new land-after ten blood-drenched years-I did become king. I led my armies to victory after victory. Great victories, Caswallon. Great victories…” He fell silent.

“What happened?” asked the clansman.

“Failure and flight,” responded Oracle, with a sad smile. “I was betrayed-but then I deserved to be. Just because a man desires to be a king, it does not necessarily follow that he will make a good one.” He sighed. “But this is not what Taliesen wanted me to tell you. While I was fighting for my kingdom I made an alliance with a butchering killer named Agrist. I told him the secrets of the Gateways. After he had betrayed me, and plundered his way across my kingdom, he led his army through another Gate.” Oracle licked his lips. “They arrived here forty years ago; they are the Aenir, Caswallon. I brought the Aenir to destroy us all.”

“They haven’t destroyed us yet,” Caswallon pointed out.

“They are demons, Caswallon, unsurpassed in violence and terror. I have seen them fight. I told Gaelen the clans were strong, like wolves. It’s true. But the Aenir will outnumber us by twenty to one. They live to conquer and kill.” Oracle looked up. “Did Sigarni speak to you before she died? Did she mention me?”

“No, but she knew me, Oracle. Can you tell me how?”

Oracle shook his head. “I could-but I won’t. Trust me, Caswallon. All will be revealed to you. I can say no more.”

During the months that followed the horror in the mountains the five survivors found their lives had changed substantially. They were now young men, accepted as clansmen, but more than this they were “Five Beast Slayers.” A Farlain bard named Mesric had immortalized them in song and their deeds were the envy of the young boys of all clans.

The mystery of the Queen was much discussed, but upon that theme the druids remained silent. Taliesen had questioned the boys at length on their conversation with the woman, but he gave them no further hint as to her history. All five spent a great deal of time thinking back over the Hunt, and the changes it forced on them.

Layne, the deepest thinker, saw Gaelen with new eyes, seeking his company often and recognizing in the scarred youngster the signs of a natural leader.

Lennox drove himself hard once his broken arm had mended. He hauled logs, lifted rocks, spent all his spare time building up his strength. The huge frame gathered power and added muscle and still he drove himself on. His strength had been something he could rely on in a world where his wits were not as keen as his brother’s. The beast had been stronger and Lennox was determined no enemy would best him again.

Gwalchmai no longer feared being unpopular, born as this had been from a sense of inferiority. He had always known Gaelen was a leader, and been happy to follow. But he watched Lennox pushing himself to greater limits and recognized in the young giant the kind of fear he once had himself.

For Gaelen the world had changed. He realized now that his life of loneliness in the city had been, by a freak of chance, the perfect apprenticeship. He had learned early that a man had to rely on himself. More than this-that such a man was stronger than his companions. And yet, having tasted the chilling emptiness of a life alone, he could value the clan as no other clansman ever would.

There was a natural arrogance now about the tall young man with the white blaze in his red hair. He ran like the wind, reveling in his speed. And though his bowmanship was merely average, he threw a spear with more accuracy than many tried warriors. He boxed well, emotions in check as Caswallon had taught him, and his sword work was dazzling. Yet the arrogance he showed in his skills was missing in his life, and this made him popular without effort on his part.

The wise men among the Farlain marked him well, watching his progress with increasing interest. All of which hurt Agwaine, who saw in Gaelen a rival for the ultimate prize.

The Hunt had changed Agwaine more than any of them. He had been schooled to believe he was more than special, a talented natural leader to follow his father. And nothing that had transpired in the mountains had changed that. All that had changed was that Agwaine feared Gaelen was the better man. Before the encounter with the beast he would have hated Gaelen for bringing home such a truth. Now he could not.

They took part in their first Games together in the five-mile run, Gaelen beating Agwaine by forty paces, the boys arriving home in ninth and tenth place.

Cambil had been furious. “He is faster, Father,” said Agwaine, toweling the sweat from his face. “There is nothing more to it.”

“You must work harder: drive yourself. You must not let him beat you ever again.”

Agwaine was stricken, and for the first time he saw his father in a fresh light. “I will work harder,” he said.

Layne and Gwalchmai delighted the younger clansmen by competing to the finals of their events, Layne in the spear tourney and Gwalchmai in the bow. Layne took third prize, beating the Loda champion into fourth place; Gwalchmai finished last of the eight finalists, but was satisfied, for by next year he would have added height and strength to his frame and believed he could win. For Lennox the Games were a sad affair, for his injured arm robbed him of the chance to lift the Whorl Stone.

Summer drifted into a mild autumn and on into a vicious winter.

Caswallon and Gaelen spent their time forking hay to the cattle and journeying high into the mountains to rescue sheep trapped in snowdrifts. It was a desperately hard time for all the clans, yet Gaelen absorbed the knowledge Caswallon imparted readily.

In winter, Caswallon told him as they sheltered from a fierce blizzard high on the eastern range, it is vital not to sweat. For sweat turns to ice beneath the clothing and a man can freeze to death in minutes. All movement should be slow and sure, and all camps prepared hours before dusk.

That afternoon, trapped by a fierce snow squall, Caswallon had led them to a wooded ridge. Here he had pulled four saplings together, tying them with thongs. Then he carefully threaded branches between them and built a fire in the center. As the snow continued it piled against the branches, creating a round shelter with thick white walls. The fire within heated the walls to solid ice and the two men were snug and safe.

“Make the storm work for you,” said Caswallon, stripping off his sheepskin jerkin and allowing the fire’s heat to reach his skin. “Take off your outer clothes, Gaelen.”

“I’ll freeze,” answered the young man, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Clothes keep heat in, but similarly they can keep heat out. Remove your coat.”

Gaelen did as he was told, grinning sheepishly as the heat in the shelter struck him.

Later Gaelen found himself staring into the glowing coals, his mind wandering. He rubbed his eyes and scratched at the jagged scar above.

“What are you thinking?” Caswallon asked.

“I was thinking of the Queen.”

“What about her?”

“About her coming again.”

“She is dead, Gaelen. Dead and buried.”

“I know. But she seemed so sure. I wonder who she was.”

“A queen-and I would guess a great one,” said Caswallon. Silence settled around them, until Caswallon suddenly grinned. “What’s this I hear about you and Deva?”

At the mention of Agwaine’s sister Gaelen began to blush.

“Aha!” said Caswallon, sitting up. “There is more to this business than rumor.”

“There’s nothing,” protested Gaelen. “Really, there’s nothing. I’ve hardly even spoken to her. And when I do, my tongue gets caught in my teeth and I seem to have three feet.”

“That bad?”

“It’s not anything. I just…” Glancing up, he saw Caswallon raise his right eyebrow, his face mock-serious. Gaelen began to giggle. “You swine. You’re mocking me.”

“Not at all. I’ve never been one to mock young love,” said Caswallon.

“I’m not in love. And if I was, there would be no point. Cambil cannot stand me.”

“Do not let that worry you, Gaelen. Cambil is afraid of many things, but if young Deva wants you he will agree. But then it’s a little early to think of marriage. Another year.”

“I know that. And I was not talking about marriage… or love. A man can like a girl, you know.”

“Very true,” admitted Caswallon. “I liked Maeg the first moment I saw her.”

“It is not the same thing at all.”

“You’ll make a fine couple.”

“Will you stop this? I’m going to sleep,” said Gaelen, curling his blanket around him. After a few moments he opened his eyes to see Caswallon was still sitting by the fire looking down at him.

Gaelen grinned. “She’s very tall-for a girl, I mean.”

“She certainly is,” agreed Caswallon, “and pretty.”

“Yes. Do you really think we’d make a good couple?”

“No doubt of it.”

“Why is it that whenever I talk to her the words all tumble out as if they’ve been poured from a sack?”

“Witchcraft,” said Caswallon.

“A pox on you,” snorted Gaelen. “I’m definitely going to sleep.”

The winter passed like a painful memory. Losses had been high among the sheep and calves, but spring was warm and dry, promising good harvests in summer.

Cambil accepted an invitation from Asbidag, leader of the Northern Aenir, to visit Ateris, now called Aesgard. Cambil took with him twenty clansmen. He was treated royally and responded by inviting Asbidag and twenty of his followers to the Summer Games.

Caswallon’s fury stunned Maeg, who had never seem him lose control. His face had turned chalk-white, his hands sweeping across the pine tabletop and smashing pottery to shards.

“The fool!” he hissed. “How could he do such a thing?”

“You think the danger is that great from twenty men?” Maeg asked softly, ignoring the ruined jugs and goblets.

Caswallon said nothing. Taking his cloak and staff, he left the house and set off in a loping run toward the hills and the cave of Oracle.

Taliesen sealed shut the door to his private chambers and opened a small, hidden recess in the wall. Reaching in he touched a sensor and light bathed the small room, radiating from panels set in the four walls. With another touch he activated the viewer. The oak veneer of his crudely carved desktop slid back and revealed a dark screen, which rose into a vertical position. Taliesen moved to the rear wall. Scores of paper sheets were pinned to the paneling here, each covered in lines and scrawled with symbols. To the unskilled eye the drawings would appear to be of winter trees, with hundreds of tiny, leafless branches. Taliesen stared at them, remembering the perilous journeys through the Gateways that each represented. Here and there, on every sheet a branch would end with a single stroke drawn through it. By each was a hastily drawn star. Taliesen counted them. Forty-eight. On the desktop, beside the dark screen, was a newly drawn tree that showed no stars. Taliesen pinned it to the wall.

This was the tree of the Hawk Eternal.

The tree where Sigarni regained her sword that was stolen. Where she did not die in some last despairing battle, but survived to reach the Farlain and save the children. Taliesen gazed at the drawing. “Simple to see,” he said, “but where are you? Which of the Time Lines will bring me to you?”

Seating himself before the screen, he opened the right-hand desk drawer and removed a round earring with a spring clip. It was in the shape of a star. Clipping it to his ear, he closed his eyes. The screen flickered, then brightened. Taliesen took a deep, calming breath and opened his eyes.

“Be careful,” he warned himself. “Do not seek to see too much. Concentrate on the minutiae.” The screen darkened, and with a soft curse Taliesen reached up and touched the star upon his ear, pressing it firmly. The screen leaped to life, and the old druid stared hard at the scene that appeared there.

For more than an hour he watched, occasionally scribbling short notes to aid his memory. Then he removed the earring, touched a button below the desktop, and stood. The screen folded down; the oak veneer covered it once more.

Taliesen studied the notes, adding a line here and there. Rising, he moved to the wall, pinning the notes alongside the tree of the Hawk Eternal. He shook his head. “Somewhere there is a rogue element,” he said, “and it has not yet shown its face. What, where, and when?” A thought struck him and his mouth tightened. “Or perhaps I should be asking: Who?” he mused.

“Pah! Do not be so foolish,” he told himself. “There is no one. You are the Master of the Gates, and the rogue element is a figment of your paranoia. If there was someone you would have found him by now. Or seen greater evidence to point toward him. You are an old fool! The secret lies with the Hawk Eternal-and you will teach him.”

His eyes were drawn to the stars scrawled on the sheets. Focusing on each, he dragged the painful memories from the depths of his mind. The most galling of them was the last. Having defeated Earl Jastey, Sigarni contracted a fever and died in the night. By Heaven, that was hard to take. Taliesen had all but given up then.

For several months he had made no attempt to scan the Lines, in order to find a new Sigarni. The quest felt hopeless. Yet as he gazed down on the valleys of the Farlain, and at the butchery taking place in the Lowlands, he knew he had to struggle on.

Intending to make more notes now, Taliesen returned to his desk. Weariness swamped him as he sat, and he laid his head on his arms. Sleep took him instantly.

What had once been the gleaming marble hall of the Ateris Council was now strewn with straw and misty with the smoke from the blazing log fire set in a crudely built hearth by the western wall. A massive pine table was set across the hall, around which sat the new Aenir nobility. At their feet, rolling in the straw and scratching at fleas, were the war hounds of Asbidag-seven sleek, black, fierce-eyed dogs, trained in the hunt.

Asbidag himself sat at the center of the table facing the double doors of bronze-studded oak. Around him were his seven sons, their wives, and a score of war councillors. Beside the huge Aenir lord sat a woman dressed in black. Slim she was, and the gown of velvet seemed more of a pelt than a garment. Her jet-black hair hung to her pale shoulders and gleamed as if oiled; her eyes were slanted and, against the somber garb, seemed to glitter like blue jewels, bright and gold; her mouth was full-lipped and wide, and only the mocking half smile robbed it of beauty.

Asbidag casually laid his hand on her thigh, watching her closely, a gap-toothed grin showing above his bloodred beard.

“Are you anxious for the entertainment to begin?” he asked her.

“When it pleases you, my lord,” she said, her voice husky and deep.

Asbidag heaved himself to his feet. “Bring in the prisoner,” he bellowed.

“By Vatan, I’ve waited a long time for this,” whispered Ongist, swinging around on his stool to face the door.

Drada said nothing. He had never cared much for torture, though it would have been sheer stupidity to mention it. The way of the Grey God was the way of the Aenir, and no one questioned either.

Drada’s eyes flickered to his other brothers as they waited for the prisoner to be dragged forth. Tostig, large and cruel, a man well known for his bestial appetites. Ongist, the second youngest, a clever lad with the morals of a timber wolf. Aeslang, Barsa, and Jostig, sons of Asbidag’s long-time mistress Swangild. They remained in favor despite Asbidag’s murder of their mother-in fact they seemed unmoved by the tragedy-but then Swangild had been a ruthless woman as devoid of emotion as the black-garbed bitch who had replaced her. Lastly there was Orsa the Baresark, dim-witted and dull, but in battle a terrible opponent who screeched with laughter as he slew.

The sons of Asbidag…

The great doors swung open, admitting two warriors who half dragged, half carried a shambling ruin of a man. His clothes were in rags, his body covered in weeping sores and fresh switch scars that oozed blood. His hands were misshapen and swollen, the fingers broken and useless, but even so, his wrists were tied together. The guards released the man and he sank to the floor, groaning as his weight fell on his injured hands.

Drada stole a glance at his father’s mistress. Morgase was watching the crippled man closely. Her eyes shone, her white cheeks were flushed, and her tongue darted out over her stained red lips. He shuddered and returned his gaze to the man who had commanded the Lowland army. He had met him once at court; a strong, proud warrior who had risen through the ranks to command the northern legions. Now he lay weeping like a babe at the feet of his conquerors.

“Now that is how an enemy should look,” said Asbidag. Dutiful laughter rose around him as he left the table to stand over the prisoner. “I have good news for you, Martellus,” he said, turning the man over with his foot. “I’m going to kill you at last.”

The man’s swollen eyes fought to focus and his mouth sagged open, showing the remains of his teeth, black and broken.

“Are you not going to thank me, man?”

Just for that one moment Drada saw a glint of anger in the man’s eyes. For a fleeting second manhood returned to the ruined warrior. Then it passed and tears re-formed.

“How should we kill him, Morgase?” asked Asbidag, swinging his body to face the table.

“Let the dogs have him,” she whispered.

“Poison my dogs? No. Another way.”

“Hang him in a cage outside the city walls until he rots,” shouted Tostig.

“Impale him,” said Ongist.

Drada shifted in his seat, forcing his mind from the spectacle. For more than a year one task had filled his waking hours: planning the defeat of the clans.

The problems were many. The clans had the advantage of terrain, but on the other hand, they lacked any form of military discipline and their villages were widely spaced and built without walls. Each clan mistrusted the others and that was an advantage for the Aenir. They could pick them off one by one.

But it would be a massive operation, needing colossal planning.

Drada had worked for months to be allowed to enter the Farlain with a small company of men. Always his requests had been politely refused. Now, at last, Cambil had agreed they should be guests at the Games. It was a gift from the Grey God.

All the clans gathered in one place, a chance to meet every chieftain and Hunt Lord. An opportunity for the Aenir to scout valleys, passes, and future battlegrounds.

Drada was hauled back to the present, even as the hapless prisoner was dragged from the hall. Asbidag’s shadow fell across him. “Well, Drada, what do you think?”

“Of what, Father?”

“Of my decision with Martellus?”

“Very fitting.”

“How would you know that?” snapped Asbidag. “You were not listening.”

“True, Father, but then you have planned his death for so long that I knew you would have something special for him.”

“But it doesn’t interest you?”

“It does, sire, but I was thinking about that problem you set me today, and I have a plan that may please you.”

“We will talk later,” said Asbidag, returning to his place beside Morgase.

“They’re going to skin him,” whispered Ongist to Drada.

“Thank you.”

“Why must you take such risks?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking about something else.”

“It is good you are a thinker, brother. For you know Father cannot stand you.”

“I know-but then I think he likes none of us.”

Ongist laughed aloud. “You could be right,” he whispered, “but he raised us to be like him, and we are. If I thought I’d get away with it I’d gut the bloated old toad. But you and my other dear brothers would turn on me. Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. We are a family built on hatred.”

“And yet we thrive,” said Ongist, pouring mead into his cup and raising it to toast his brother.

“Indeed, we do, brother.”

“This plan of yours, it concerns the clans?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you suggest invasion. Boredom sits ill with me.”

“Wait and see, Ongist.”

“We’ve waited a year already. How much longer?”

“Not long. Have patience.”

The following afternoon Drada made his way to the ruins of the Garden of the Senses, a half acre of blooms, trees, and shrubs that had once been a place of meditation for the Ateris intellectuals. Many of the winding paths had disappeared now, along with a hundred or so delicate flowers choked by weeds and man’s indifference.

And yet, so far, the roses thrived. Of all things Drada had yet encountered on this cruel world, the rose alone found a place in his feelings. He could sit and gaze at them for hours, their beauty calming his mind and allowing him to focus on his problems and plans.

As he had on so many such afternoons, Drada pushed his way through the trailing undergrowth to a rock-pool fringed with wooden benches. Unclipping the brooch that fastened his red cloak, he chose the west-facing bench and sat in the sunshine.

Unwilling to incur Asbidag’s displeasure, he had spent the morning watching the flaying of Martellus. The scene had been an unpleasant distraction to the young Aenir warrior; he had seen men flayed before, indeed had witnessed more barbarous acts. And they bored him. But then most of what life had to offer ultimately left Drada bored. It seemed to the young warrior that the journey from birth screech to death rattle was no more than a meaningless series of transient pleasures and pain, culminating at last in the frustration of missed moments and lost opportunities.

He thought of his father and grinned wolfishly. Asbidag, the destroyer of nations, the bringer of blood. The most brutish warrior of a generation of warriors. He had nothing to offer the world, save ceaseless agony and destruction. He had no genuine thoughts of empire, for it was alien to him to consider building anything of worth. He lived to fight and kill, dreaming only of the day when at last he would be summoned to the hall of the Grey God to recite the litany of his conquests.

Drada shivered, though the sun was warm.

Asbidag had sired eleven sons. Three had died in other wars, one had been strangled by Asbidag soon after birth during a row with the mother. She had died less easily.

Now seven sons remained. And what a brood, cast as they were in the image of their father.

Of them all Drada hated Tostig the most. A vile man of immense power, Tostig possessed all the innate cruelty of the natural coward. A pederast who could only gratify himself by killing the victims of his lust. One day I will kill you, thought Drada. When Father is dead. I will kill you all. No, he thought. Not all. I will spare Orsa the Baresark, for he has no ambition, and despite his frenzy in battle, carries no hate.

Drada leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight.

“So this is where you plan your campaigns.”

Drada opened his eyes. “Welcome, lady. Please join me.” He didn’t like to be disturbed here, but with Morgase he was careful to mask his feelings.

As always she was dressed in black, this time a shimmering gown of silk and satin. Her dark hair was braided, hanging over one marble-white shoulder. She sat beside him, draping her arm along the back of the bench, her fingers hovering near his neck. “Always so courteous, Drada. A rare thing among the Aenir.”

“My father sent me away as a child to the court of Rhias. I was brought up there.”

“You were a hostage?”

“More a viper in the bosom of a future enemy.”

“I see.” Her hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing the firm flesh of his upper arm. “Why do you not like me?” she asked, her bright eyes mocking him.

“I do not dislike you,” he countered, with an easy lie. “But let us assume that I made love to you here and now. By tonight my bloody corpse would be alongside the unfortunate Martellus.”

“Perhaps,” she said, interest fading from her eyes. She took her hand from his shoulder and glanced around the garden. “A pretty place.”

“Yes.”

“Are you planning a war against the clans?”

“They are not the enemy.”

“Come now, Drada, do you think I never talk with your father? Do you see me merely as a mistress? Someone who shares only his bed?”

“No, lady.”

“Then tell me.”

“I am planning for our visit to the Farlain. We have been invited to view the Games.”

“How dull.”

“Indeed it is,” he agreed.

“Tell me, then, if you were planning a war against the clans, how would you go about it?”

“This is a game?”

“Why not?”

“Very well. First tell me how you would plan it, lady, and then I shall add my own refinements.”

“Are you always this cautious?”

“Always,” he said, smiling.

She leaned back, closing her eyes as she relaxed in thought. She was beautiful but Drada instantly quelled the desire that surged within him. It confused him momentarily, for in the six months she had been with Asbidag, Drada had never been attracted to her. Her eyes flickered open and the answer came to him. There was something reptilian in those eyes. He shuddered.

“Extermination,” she said triumphantly.

“Explain,” he whispered.

“Conquering a city can be considered in a number of ways. You may desire to take over the existing enterprise of that city; therefore you would take it with a minimum loss of life and make the inhabitants your servants. In this way you would merely transfer ownership of the enterprise. But with the clans it is a different matter. The Aenir desire only the land, and obviously the livestock. But not the people. They are a wild race, they would not tolerate serfdom. Therefore an invasion against the Farlain would be a prelude to the extermination of the people.”

“You would not advocate taking the women as slaves?” asked Drada.

“No. Use them by all means to satisfy the lusts of the warriors, but then kill them. Kill all the clans. Then the land is truly Aenir.”

“That is fine as the object of the war. How would you go about invasion?”

“I don’t know the terrain, and therefore could not supply answers to logistical problems,” said Morgase.

“Neither do I.”

“And that is why you plan so carefully for your visit to their Games?”

“You speak of logistical problems, Morgase. You have been involved in the planning of war?”

“Are you surprised?”

He considered the question for a moment. “No, I am not.”

“Good. We should be friends, Drada, for we have much in common.”

“It would appear so, lady.”

“Tell me then, as a friend, what do you think of me?”

“I think you are intelligent and beautiful.”

“Don’t speak the obvious,” she snapped. “Speak the truth.”

“I do not know enough about you to form a stronger opinion. Before today I thought you were merely an attractive woman, bright enough, who had seduced my father. Now I must think again.”

“Indeed you must. For I have plans of my own-great plans. And you can help me.”

“How so?”

“First the Aenir must take the Farlain. Then we will talk.”

“Why is that so important? You have no dealings with the clans; they can mean nothing to you.”

“But then, my dear Drada, you do not know all that I know. There is a prize within the Farlain beyond the understanding of lesser mortals: the gateway to empires beyond counting.”

“How do you know this?”

“It is enough that I know.”

“What do you seek, Morgase?”

Her eyes glittered and she laughed, reaching out to stroke his bearded face. “I seek revenge, my handsome thinker. Simply that, for now.”

“On whom?”

“On a woman who murdered my father and ordered my mother raped. A woman who stole an empire that ought to have been mine-that would have been mine.” Her reptilian eyes glittered as she spoke, and her tongue darted over her lips. Drada hid his distaste. “Will you be my friend, Drada? Will you aid me in my quest?”

“I serve my father, lady. But I will be your friend.”

“I admire caution, Drada,” she said, rising. Her fingers stroked the skin of his throat and he was amazed to find arousal once more stirring his blood. “I admire it-as long as it is accompanied by ambition. Are you ambitious?”

“I am the son of Asbidag,” he said softly.

As he watched her leave, the fear began. He had underestimated her. She was chilling, clever, and utterly ruthless. Yet another viper in our basket, he thought.

Caswallon was gone for three days, returning just after dawn as Maeg administered to the infant, Donal. He stood silently in the doorway, listening to the gentle words she crooned as she cleaned and oiled him. Caswallon closed his eyes for a moment, his emotions rising and threatening to unman him. He cleared his throat. She turned, her hair falling across her face, then she swept it back and smiled.

He knelt beside her. The child reached for him, giggling. Caswallon lifted the boy and patted his back as his son’s small chubby arms tried to encircle his neck.

Caswallon returned Donal to his mother, who dressed him in a woolen undershirt and a light tunic, and they moved downstairs to the kitchen where Kareen was preparing breakfast. Leaving Donal with the girl, Caswallon took Maeg by the hand and they left the house to watch the sunrise over Druin. Maeg said nothing as they walked, sensing the weight of sadness Caswallon carried.

They reached the crest of a hill and sat beneath a spreading oak. “I am so sorry, Maeg, my love,” said Caswallon, taking her hand and kissing it.

“For what? A man will give way to anger now and again.”

“I know. But you are the one person in the world I’d never seek to hurt.”

“Foolish man, do you think you can hurt me with a little broken crockery?”

“Why did you marry me?” he asked suddenly.

“Why are men so foolish?” she countered.

“No, I mean it. Why?”

She looked at him closely and then, seeing the sorrow in his green eyes, sensed the burden he was bearing. Reaching up, she stroked his beard and then curled her arm about his neck and pulled him down to kiss her.

“No one can answer such a question. I didn’t like you when you approached me at the Games; I saw you as an arrogant Farlain raider. But after Maggrig sent you away I found myself thinking about you often. Then, when I awoke that day and found you in my room, I hated you. I wanted you slain. But as the days passed thoughts of you grew in my mind. And when you walked into the Long Hall on that winter’s night, your beard stiff with ice, I knew that I loved you. But now tell me why you risked your life to wed me.”

Gently he eased her from him, cupping her face in his hands. “Because before I saw you I had no life to lose,” he said simply.

For a long time they sat beneath the tree, saying nothing, enjoying the warmth of the risen sun, until at last Maeg spoke. “Now tell me truly, Caswallon, what is troubling you?”

“I cannot. I have given a promise. But I can say this: The old days are finished, and what we have here is perhaps the last golden summer of the Farlain. I know this, and the knowledge destroys me.”

“The Aenir?” she asked.

“And our own stupidity.”

“No one lives forever, Caswallon. A man, or a woman, may die at any time. That is why today is so important.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you do. But you’ve not lived it. Suppose you are right, and the Aenir destroy us next month, or next year. Suppose, further, that they kill us both…”

“No! I’ll not even think of that!”

“Think of it!” she commanded, pulling away from him. “What difference all this heartache? For the Aenir are not here today. On this morning we have each other. We have Donal and Gaelen. We have peace, we have love. How often have you said that tomorrow’s problems can be dealt with tomorrow?”

“But I could have changed it.”

“And that is the real reason for your sorrow. You refused to be considered for Hunt Lord, and denied yourself a place on the Council. Now you suffer for it. But one man will not thwart a race like the Aenir. They are killers all. What do they seek? War and death. Conquest and bloodshed. They will pass, for they build nothing.”

“I have made you angry,” he said.

“Yes, you have, for you have allowed fear to find a place in your heart. And there it has grown to fill you with defeat. And that is not what I expect from you, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“What do you expect?” he asked, smiling.

“I expect you to be a man always. You are angry because Cambil has allowed an Aenir company to attend the Games.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they will scout our lands and learn that which should have cost them blood.”

“Then see they are escorted here. Surround them with scouts.”

“I cannot do that. The Council…”

“A pox on the Council! You are one of the richest men in the three valleys. As such, you are a man of influence. There are others who agree with you: Leofas, for example. Find a hundred men to do your bidding. And one more thing. Kareen was walking on the east hills yesterday and she saw men running around the walls of Ateris. Others were practicing with the bow and spear.”

“So? The Aenir have Games of their own.”

“We’ve not seen such a practice before.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“The Aenir are bringing twenty men. I think they will ask to be allowed to take part in the Games.”

“For what purpose?”

“To win.”

“It would never be allowed.”

“Cambil is Games Lord this year,” she said.

“It is unthinkable,” he whispered. “But there could be many advantages. If they could prove themselves superior it would boost the morale of their warriors and, equally, diminish our own. And they would earn the right to travel the mountains.”

“That is better. That is the Caswallon I know.”

“Indeed it is. I should have spoken to you before, Maeg.”

Caswallon took Gaelen and Gwalchmai with him to observe the strange antics of the Aenir. It seemed that half of Asbidag’s army at Aesgard was at play. The plain before the city was sectioned off by tents, stalls, and ropes, creating a running track, an archery field, a series of spear lanes, and a vast circle at the center of which men wrestled and boxed, or fought with sword and shield. Strength events were also under way.

“It is like the Games,” said Gwalchmai. “How long have they been doing this?”

Caswallon shrugged. “Kareen saw them yesterday.”

“They have some fine athletes,” observed Gaelen. “Look at that white-haired runner leading the pack. He moves like the wind.”

On the plain below Drada and Ongist were watching the foot races with interest. Ongist had wagered ten pieces of gold on Snorri Wolfson to beat Drada’s favorite, the ash-blond Borak. Snorri was trailing by thirty paces when they reached the last lap.

“A curse on the man!” snarled Ongist.

“He is a sprinter,” said Drada, grinning. “He’s not built for distance.”

“What about a wager against Orsa?”

Drada shook his head. “No one will beat him in the strength events.” The brothers wandered across the running track to the twelve men contesting the weights. They were drawing lots to decide which man would first attempt the hurling and Drada and Ongist settled on the grass as the draw was decided.

One man approached a cart on which was set a block of marble. It was shaped as a ball and carefully inscribed with the names of Ateris’s greatest poets. Before today it had rested on a velvet-covered stand in the city library.

It weighed over sixty pounds.

The man placed his hand on either side of the sphere, bent his knees, and lifted it to his chest. He approached the marker stake, hoisted the sphere above his head, and with a grunt of effort, threw it forward. With a dull thud it buried itself in the ground some five paces ahead. Three officials prized it loose with spears and rolled it back to the marker stake, lifting it for the next thrower.

Drada and Ongist watched with scant interest as the men took their turns until, at last, Orsa stripped himself of his shirt and stood grinning by the stake. He waved to his brothers.

Two officials lifted the sphere into his arms. Even before they were clear Orsa shifted the weight to his right hand, dipped his shoulder, and hurled the sphere into the air. It sailed over the other marks by some three paces; as it landed it shattered into a score of pieces.

“Must have hit a buried rock,” muttered Ongist.

Orsa ambled across to them. “Easy,” he said, pointing at the ruined marble.

Drada nodded. “You are still the strongest, brother.”

“No need for proof,” said Orsa. “Waste of time.”

“True,” Drada agreed.

“I’m hungry,” said Orsa, wandering away without another word. Drada watched him go, marveling anew at the sheer size of the man. His upper arms were as large as most men’s thighs.

“By Vatan, he’s a monster,” said Ongist.

Drada looked away. In a family of monsters it seemed ironic that Ongist should so describe the only one among them who hated no one.

High on the hillside the three clansmen stood to depart. They had seen enough. “I think Maeg is right,” said Caswallon. “Tell me, Gaelen, do you think you could beat that white-haired runner?”

“I fear we will find out next month,” said Gaelen. “I think I can. But he wasn’t stretched today; he set his own pace. Still, if they do bring a team I hope that giant comes with them. I’d love to see him against Lennox.”