The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Seven

Gaelen stood on the lip of a precipice looking down on Vallon from the north, listening to the faint sounds of the falls echoing up through the mountains. Spring had finally arrived after yet another bitter winter, and Gaelen had been anxious to leave the valley to stretch his legs and open his heart to the music of the mountains. He had grown during the winter, and constant work with axe and saw had added weight to his arms and shoulders. His hair was long, hanging to his shoulders, and held back from his eyes by a black leather circle around his brow. Kareen-before her marriage to the west valley crofter, Durk-had made it for him, as well as a tunic of softest leather, polished to a sheen, and calf-length moccasin boots from the same hide. His winter cape was a gift from Caswallon, a heavy sheepskin that doubled as a blanket. During the cold winter months he had allowed his beard to grow, shutting his ears to gibes about goose down from Maeg and Kareen. It had taken long enough but now, as he stood on the mountainside in the early morning sunshine, it gave him that which he desired above all else-the look of manhood.

Gone was the frightened, wounded boy brought home by Caswallon two years before. In his place stood a man, tall and strong, hardened by toil, strengthened by experience. The only reminders left of the hunted boy were the blood-filled left eye, and the white streak in his hair above the jagged scar on his forehead and cheek.

The black and grey war hound by his side growled and rubbed against him. Gaelen dropped his hand to pat its massive head. “You don’t like these high places, do you, boy?” said Gaelen, squatting beside the animal. It lifted its head, licking his face until he pushed it away laughing.

“We’ve changed, you and I,” he said, holding the dog at bay. It had the wide jaws of its dam and the heavy shoulders of its breed, but added to this it also had the rangy power of the wolf that had sired it.

The wolf in it had caused problems with training, and both Caswallon and Gaelen had despaired at times. But slowly it had come around to their patient handling, until at last Gaelen had walked it unleashed among a flock of sheep. He told it to sit, and it obeyed him. But its eyes lingered over the fat, slow ewes and its jaws salivated. After a while it had hunkered down on its haunches and closed its eyes, unable to bear such mouth-watering sights any longer.

Under Caswallon’s guidance, Gaelen taught the hound to obey increasingly complex instructions, beginning with simple commands such as “sit,” “heel,” and “stay.” After that it was taught to wait in silence if Gaelen lifted his hand palm outward. Finally Caswallon built a dummy of wood and straw, dressed it in old clothes, and the hound was taught to attack it on Gaelen’s command of “kill.” This training was further refined with the call “hold,” at which command the dog would lunge for the dummy’s arm.

Painstakingly they honed the dog’s skills. Once it attacked, only one call would stop it: Home. Any other call, even from Gaelen, would be ignored.

“This,” said Caswallon, “is your safeguard. For a dog is a creature of instinct. You may order it to attack, but another voice may call it back. ‘Home’ should remain a secret command. Share it not even with your friends.”

Gaelen called the beast Render. The hound’s nature was good, especially with Caswallon’s son Donal, now a blond toddler who followed Render-or Wenna, as he called it-about the house, pulling its ears and struggling to climb on its back. Attempts to stop him would be followed by floods of tears and the difficult-to-answer assertion, “Wenna like it!”

Maeg was hard to convince that Render was a worthy addition to the household, but one afternoon in late winter it won her over. Kareen had ventured into the yard to fetch wood for the fire, but had not secured the kitchen door on her return. Donal had sneaked out to play in the snow, an adventure of rare magic.

He was gone for more than half an hour before his absence was noted. Maeg was beside herself. Caswallon and Gaelen were at the Long Hall where Caswallon was being elected to the Council in place of an elderly clansman who had collapsed and died soon after the Games. Maeg wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the storm. Within minutes it had grown dark and as she called Donal’s name the wind whipped her words from her mouth. His track had been covered by fresh snow.

Kareen joined her. “He’ll die in this,” yelled Maeg.

Render padded from the house. Seeing the hound, Maeg ran to it and knelt by its side.

“Donal!” she shouted, pushing the dog and pointing out past the yard. Render tilted his head and licked her face. “Fetch!” she shouted. Render looked around. There was nothing to fetch. “Donal! Fetch Donal!” Render looked back toward the house and the open door that led to the warm hearth. The hound didn’t know what the women were doing out in the cold. Then its ears came up as a wolf howled in the distance. Another sound came, thin and piping. Recognizing instantly the pup child of Caswallon, Render padded off into the snow.

Maeg’s hands and feet were freezing, but she had no idea if the dog had understood her and she had not heard the faint cry, so she continued to search, terror growing within her and panic welling in her mind.

Render loped away into a small hollow hidden from the house. Here it found the toddler who had slipped and rolled down onto a patch of ice and was unable to get up. Beyond him sat two wolves, tongues lolling.

Render padded toward the boy, growling deep in his throat. The wolves stood, then backed away as the war hound advanced. Canny killers were the grey wolves, but they knew a better killer when they saw him.

“I cold, Wenna,” said Donal, sniffing. “I cold.”

Render stopped by the boy watching the wolves carefully.

They backed away still farther, and satisfied, Render nuzzled Donal, but the boy could not stand on the ice. Render ducked his head, taking the boy’s woolen tunic in his teeth. Donal was lifted clear of the ice and the huge dog bounded up the slope and back toward the house.

Maeg saw them and waded through the snow toward them, but Render loped past her and into the kitchen. He was cold and missed the fire. When Maeg and Kareen arrived Donal and Render were sitting before the hearth. Maeg swept Donal into her arms.

“Wolfs, Mama. Wenna scare ’em away.”

Maeg shuddered. Wolves! And her child had been alone. She sat down hurriedly.

Neither of the women told Caswallon of the adventure, but he knew something was amiss when Maeg explained she had given his own cold meat supper to the hound.

Caswallon’s activities during the summer and winter puzzled many of the clansmen. He drove no cattle to Aesgard, nor delivered grain and oats. The fruit of his orchards disappeared, and no man knew where, though the carts were driven into the mountains by trusted workers. There, it was said, they were delivered to the druids.

In the meantime, Caswallon gathered around him more than a hundred clansmen, and several of these he paid to scout around Aesgard and report on Aenir movement.

Cambil had been furious, accusing Caswallon of amassing a private army. “Can you not understand, Caswallon, that such deeds make war more likely?” said the Hunt Lord. “You think me foolish for trying to forge friendships among the Aenir, I know that. As I know they are a warlike people, harsh and cruel. But as Hunt Lord I must consider the long-term well-being of my people. We could not win a war with the Aenir; they would swamp us. What I have tried-and will continue to try-to do is to make Asbidag aware of the futility of war in the Highlands. We have no gold, no iron. There are no riches here. This he understands. What is more important is that he must feel no threat from us. It is in the Aenir nature to see enemies all around. If we can make them our friends, there will be no war.”

Caswallon listened in silence until Cambil had finished speaking. “Under different circumstances I would agree with every word, cousin,” he said at last. “War is the last beast an intelligent man would let loose. Where I think you are wrong is in believing that the Aenir see war as a means to an end. For them it is the end in itself. They live to fight, they lust for slaughter and blood. Even their religion is based on the glory of combat. They believe that only if they die in battle will their souls be blessed with an eternity of pleasure. Now that their war with the Lowlanders is over where else can they turn for war, save with us? I respect you, cousin-and I mean that truly. You have acted with honor. Yet now is the time to open your eyes and see that your efforts have been in vain. The Aenir are massing troops on the southern borders.”

Cambil shook his head. “Asbidag assures me that the troops are being gathered in order for the majority of them to be disbanded and offered land to farm, as a reward for loyal service. You are wrong, Caswallon. And the wisdom of my course will be appreciated in the years to come.”

Despite Cambil’s assurances Caswallon advised the Council to marshal a militia against a spring invasion. They refused, agreeing with the Hunt Lord that there were no indications the Aenir nursed any hostile intent toward the clan. The feeling was not unanimous. Badraig and Leofas supported Caswallon openly. Beric, a tall balding warrior from the northern valley, voted with them, but said nothing.

“You have a hundred men, Caswallon,” said Leofas as the four met after the spring banquet. “I can muster eighty crofters. Badraig and Beric the same between them. When the Aenir come it will be like a sudden storm. Three hundred men will not stop them.”

“Let us be honest,” said Badraig. “The Farlain united could not stop them. If every man took up his sword and bow we would have… what?… five thousand. Against a force five times as great.” Badraig had changed since the beast killed his son. His hair was grey and he had lost weight, growing haggard and lean.

“That is true,” agreed Caswallon, “but we can wear them down. We’ll fight no pitched battles; we’ll harry them, cutting and running. Soon they’ll tire and return to Aesgard.”

“That will depend on why they’re here,” said Beric. “If they take the valleys we’ll have no way to support ourselves. We’ll die in the mountains, come winter.”

“Not necessarily,” said Caswallon. “But that debate can wait for a better time. What worries me is not the long-drawn-out campaign, but the first strike. If they hit the valleys unawares, the slaughter will be horrific.”

“There is not a day we do not have a scout watching them,” said Leofas. “We should get at least an hour’s warning.”

Six hours’ march to the east, the crofter Arcis breathed his last. His arms had been nailed to the broad trunk of an oak and his ribs had been opened, splaying out from his body like tiny tattered wings.

The blood-eagle had arrived in the Farlain.

One Aenir army burst upon the villages and crofts of the Haesten, bringing fire and death into the darkest part of the night. Homes blazed and swords ran with blood. The Aenir swept into the valley of Laric, hacking and slaying, burning and looting. The Haesten had not time to group a defense, and the survivors streamed into the mountains, broken and panic-stricken.

A Pallides hunter, camped on the hillside inside Haesten territory, watched stunned as the Aenir charged into the valley. As if in a dream he saw the warriors in the garish armor and winged helms race down to the homes of the Haesten, thrusting burning brands through open windows. And he viewed with growing horror the massacre of the clan. He saw women dragged forth, raped, and then murdered; he saw babies speared; he saw small pockets of Haesten resistance swallowed up in rings of steel.

Then he rose and began to run, stumbling over tree roots and rocks in the darkness.

He reached the grey house of Maggrig two hours before dawn. Within minutes the war horn of the Pallides sounded. Women and children hastily packed clothing and food and were led into the mountains. Thinking there was only one Aenir army, Maggrig miscalculated, and the evacuation was still under way as a second Aenir force, led by Ongist, fell upon them.

Maggrig had eight hundred warriors at his back, with messengers sent for perhaps five hundred more. As he stood on the hillside, watching the Aenir pour into the valley, he reckoned their numbers were in excess of five thousand. Beside him the grim-eyed swordsman Intosh, the Games Champion, cursed and spat. The two men exchanged glances. Whatever decision they made now would lead to tragedy.

The enemy were sweeping down toward the last file of women and children. If Maggrig did nothing they would die. If the Pallides countercharged they would be cut to pieces. In his heart Maggrig knew it was sensible to leave the stragglers and fight a defensive retreat, protecting the majority.

But he was Clan, and these stragglers were his people.

He lifted his sword, shifted his shield into place, and began to run down the hillside toward the Aenir. Eight hundred Pallides warriors followed him without hesitation. Seeing them come, the Aenir turned from the line of women and children. Their deaths would come later.

The two forces collided. Swords clashed against iron shields, against close-set mail rings, against soft flesh and brittle bones. The clansmen wore little or no armor and yet the speed and ferocity of their assault made up for it. Intosh, fighting with two swords and no shield, cut a bloody swath through the Aenir, while Maggrig’s power and cunning sword craft protected his right flank.

For some minutes the clan held, but then the weight of the Aenir pushed them back. Maggrig parried a wild cut from an axe-wielding warrior, countering with a swift thrust to the belly.

He glanced back at the mountainside. It was clear. With no way of estimating the losses among the warriors, Maggrig bellowed, “Pallides away!” The survivors turned instantly, sprinting for the mountainside. Screaming their triumph, the Aenir swept after them. Halfway to the trees, Maggrig glanced left and right. There were five hundred still with him.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” he roared. At the sound of their battle cry the Pallides swung about and flung themselves on the pursuing warriors. In their eagerness to overhaul their enemy, the Aenir had lost the close-compacted formation of the battle in the valley. The swiftest of them had outdistanced their comrades and they paid with their lives.

“Pallides away!” shouted Maggrig once more, and the clansmen turned, racing for the relative haven of the trees.

The Aenir surged after them. A leading warrior screamed suddenly, his fingers scrabbling at a black-shafted arrow that hammered into his throat. Another died, and another. The Aenir fell back as death hissed at them from the darkness of the woods.

Within minutes, Maggrig sent his men forward to catch up with the clan, then beckoned Intosh to join him. Together they eased their way through to the women archers hidden by the timberline.

“Well done, Adugga,” said Maggrig as a dark-haired woman rose up before him, bow in hand. “It was good thinking.”

“It will not stop them for long. They’ll outflank us.”

“We’ll be long gone by the time they do. They may be fine warriors, but they’ll not catch us.”

“That may be true, Hunt Lord. But where will we go?” asked Adugga.

“To the Farlain.”

“You think we’ll get a friendly welcome?” asked Intosh.

“Unless I am mistaken, the Aenir will be upon them before we arrive.”

“Then why go there?”

“My son Caswallon has a plan. We’ve spoken of it often, and at this moment it seems to be the best hope we have. We are making for Attafoss.”

Maggrig stepped forward, parted the bush screen, and gazed down upon the burning valley. The Aenir were sitting on the hillside just out of bowshot. “They’re waiting for dawn,” said Maggrig, “and that will not be long in coming. Let’s away!”

In the first valley of the Farlain, Caswallon was awakened before dawn by a frenzied hammering at his door. He rolled from the bed and ran downstairs.

Outside was Taliesen. The old man, red-faced and wheezing, leaned on his oak staff. Catching his breath, he gripped Caswallon by the arm.

“The Aenir are upon us! We must move now.”

Caswallon nodded and shouted for Maeg to dress Donal, then he helped the druid into the kitchen, seating him by the hearth. Leaving him there, Caswallon lifted his war horn from its place on the wall and stepped into the yard.

Three times its eerie notes echoed through the valley. Then it was answered from a score of homes and the clarion call was taken up, at last reaching the crofts of the outer valleys. Men and women streamed from their homes toward the Games field, the men carrying bows, their swords strapped to their sides, the women ready with provisions and blankets.

Caswallon opened the wooden chest that sat against the far wall of the kitchen. From it he took a mail shirt and a short sword. Swiftly he pulled the mail shirt over his tunic and strapped the sword to his side. Taking the war horn, he tied its thong to his baldric and settled it in place.

“How long do we have, Taliesen?”

“Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less.”

Caswallon nodded. Maeg came downstairs carrying Donal, and the four of them left the house. Caswallon ran on ahead to where hundreds of mystified clansmen were gathering.

Leofas saw him and waved as Caswallon made his way to him. “What is happening, Caswallon?”

“The Aenir are close. They’ve crossed the Farlain.”

“How do you know this?”

“Taliesen. He’s back there with Maeg.”

Caswallon helped the druid push through the crowd to make his way to the top of the small hill at the meadow known as Center Field. The old man raised his arms for silence.

“The Aenir have tonight attacked the Haesten and the Pallides,” he said. “Soon they will be here.”

“How do you know this, old man?” asked Cambil, striding up the hillside, his face crimson with anger. “A dream perhaps? A druid’s vision?”

“I know, Hunt Lord. That is enough.”

“Enough? Enough that you can tell us that two days’ march away a battle is taking place. Are you mad?”

“I don’t care how he knows,” said Caswallon. We have less than an hour to move our people into the mountains. Are we going to stand here talking all night?”

“It is sheer nonsense,” shouted Cambil, turning to the crowd. “Why would the Aenir attack? Are we expected to believe this old man? Can any of us see here what is happening to the Pallides? And what if the Aenir have attacked them? That is Pallides business. I warned Maggrig not to be bullheaded in his dealings with Asbidag. Now enough of this foolishness, let’s away to home and bed.”

“Wait!” shouted Caswallon, as men began to stir and move. “If the druid is wrong, we will know by morning; all we will have lost is one night on a damp mountainside. If he is right, we cannot defend this valley. If Maggrig and Laric have been crushed as Taliesen says, then the Aenir must attack the Farlain.”

“I’m with you, Caswallon,” shouted Leofas.

“And I,” called Badraig. Others took up the shout, but not all.

Debates sprung up, arguments followed. In despair Caswallon once more sounded his war horn. In the silence that followed he told them, “There is no more time to talk. I am leaving now for the mountains. Those who wish to follow me, let them do so. To those who do not, let me say only that I pray you are right.”

Cambil had already begun the long walk back to his home and a score of others followed him. Caswallon led Maeg and Taliesen down from the hill and through the crowd. Behind him came Leofas, Layne, Lennox, Badraig, and many more.

“Ah, well, what’s a night on the mountains?” he heard someone say, and the following crowd swelled. He did not look back, but his heart was heavy as he reached the trees. Of the three thousand people in the first valley more than two thousand had followed him. Many of the rest still stood arguing in Center Field; others were returning to their homes.

It was at that moment that a ring of blazing torches flared up on the eastern skyline.

Cambil, who was almost home, stopped and stared. The eastern mountainside was alive with armed men. His eyes scanned them. At the center on a black horse sat a man in heavy armor and horned helm. Cambil recognized the Aenir lord and cursed him.

“May the Gods preserve us,” whispered Agwaine, who had run to join his father.

Cambil turned to him. “Get away from here. Now! Join Caswallon. Tell him I am sorry.”

“Not without you, Father.”

Cambil slapped his face viciously. “Am I not Hunt Lord? Obey me. Look after your sister.”

On the hill above Asbidag raised his arm and the Aenir charged, filling the night air with strident screams that pushed their hatred before them like an invisible wall. It struck Cambil to the heart and he blanched. “Get away!” he yelled, pushing Agwaine from him.

Agwaine fell back a step. There were so many things he wanted to say. But his father had drawn his sword and was running into the valley toward the Aenir. Agwaine turned away and ran toward the west, tears filling his eyes.

In Center Field hundreds of stragglers drew swords ready to charge to the aid of their beleaguered kin, but Caswallon’s war horn stopped them. “You can do nothing for them!” he yelled in desperation. “Join us!”

The valley beyond was filled with Aenir warriors. Fires sprang up in the nearby houses. The clansmen in the Center Field were torn between their desire to aid their comrades and their need to protect their wives and children beside them. The more immediate love tie took hold and the crowd surged up the hillside.

Cambil raced down the slope, sword in hand, blinking away the tears of shame filling his eyes. Memories forced their pictures to his mind-unkind, ugly pictures. Maggrig, calling him a fool at the Games. Taliesen’s eyes radiating contempt. And, way back, the cruelest of all, his father, Padris, telling him he wasn’t fit to clean Caswallon’s cloak.

His feet pounded on the grass-covered slope. The Aenir force had swung ponderously around, like a giant horseshoe, to begin the encirclement of the defenders who waited, grim-faced, swords in hand.

Cambil increased his speed. Another hundred paces and he could die among the people he loved, the people he had betrayed with his stupidity. At least the enemy had not yet seen the exodus led by Caswallon.

Breathless and near to exhaustion, Cambil joined the circle, standing beside the councilor Tesk. “I am so… sorry,” said the Hunt Lord.

Tesk shrugged. “We all make mistakes, Cambil, my lad. But be warned-I might not vote for you again.” The older man gently pushed Cambil back into the circle. “Get your breath back and join me in a little while.”

Grinning, Tesk shifted his shield into place, transferring his gaze to the screaming horde almost upon them. He could see their faces now, feel their bloodlust strike him like a malignant breeze.

“The stars are out, Farlain!” he yelled. “It’s a fine night for dying.”

The Aenir broke upon them like waves upon a rock, and the slaughter began. But at first it was the flashing blades of the Farlain that ripped and tore at the enemy, and many were the screams of the Aenir wounded and dying as they fell beneath the boots of their comrades.

Cambil forced himself alongside Tesk and all fear left the Hunt Lord. Doubts fled, shredding like summer clouds. He was calm at last and the noise of the battle receded from him. A strange sense of detachment came upon him and he seemed to be watching himself cutting and slaying, and he heard the laughter from his own lips as if from a stranger.

All his life he had known the inner pain of uncertainty. Inadequacy hugged him like a shadow. Now he was free. An axe clove his chest, but there was no pain. He killed the axeman, and two others, before his legs gave way and he fell. He rolled to his back, feeling the warmth of life draining from the wound.

He had finally succeeded, he knew that now. Without his sacrifice Caswallon would never have had the time to escape.

“I did something right, Father,” he whispered.

“Bowmen to me!” shouted Caswallon. Beside him the silver-haired warrior, Leofas, stood with his sons Layne and Lennox. “Leofas, lead the clan toward Attafoss. Throw out a wide screen of scouts, for before long the Aenir will be hunting us. Go now!”

The clan began to move on into the trees, just as the sun cleared the eastern peaks. Many were the backward glances at the small knot of fighting men ringed by the enemy, and the eyes that saw them burned with guilt and shame.

Three hundred bowmen grouped themselves around Caswallon. Each bore two quivers containing forty shafts. They spread out along the timberline, screened by bushes, thick gorse, and heather.

As the light strengthened Caswallon watched the last gallant struggle of the encircled clansmen. He could see Cambil in with them, battling bravely, and some of the women had taken up swords and daggers. And then it was over. The sword ring fell apart and the Aenir swarmed over them, hacking and slashing, until at last there was no movement from the defenders.

Asbidag rode down the valley and removed his helm. He summoned his captains.

Caswallon could not hear the commands he issued, but he could guess, for the eyes of the Aenir turned west and the army took up its weapons and ran toward the mountainside.

“Do not shoot until I do,” he called to the hidden archers. Caswallon notched a shaft to the string as the Aenir spread out along the foot of the slope. They advanced cautiously, many of them lifting the face guards of their helms the better to see the enemy. Caswallon grinned. He singled out a lean, wolfish warrior at the center of the advancing line. At fifty paces he stood, in plain sight of the Aenir, and drew back on the string. The shaft hissed through the air, hammering home in the forehead of the lead warrior.

The Aenir charged…

Into a black-shafted wall of death. Hundreds fell within a few paces, and the charge faltered and failed, the enemy warriors sprinting back out of bowshot.

Caswallon walked out into the open and sat down. Laying his bow beside him he opened his hip pouch, removing a hunk of dark bread. This he began to eat, staring down at the milling warriors.

Stung by the silent taunt of his presence, they charged once more. Calmly Caswallon replaced the bread in his pouch, notched an arrow to his bow, loosed the shaft, and grinned as it brought down a stocky warrior in full cry, the arrow jutting from his chest.

The Aenir raced headlong into a second storm of shafts that culled their ranks and halted them. Caswallon, still shooting carefully, eased his way back into the bushes, out of sight. The Aenir fled once more, leaving a mound of their dead behind them.

A young archer named Onic crept through the gorse to where Caswallon knelt. “We’ve all but exhausted our shafts,” he whispered.

“Pass the word to fall back,” said Caswallon.

In the valley Asbidag walked among the bodies, stopping to stare down at Cambil’s mutilated corpse. “Remove the head and set it on a spear by his house,” he told his son Tostig. The Aenir lord unbuckled his breastplate, handing it to a grim-faced warrior beside him. Then he looked around him, eyes raking the timber and the gaunt snow-covered peaks in the distance.

“I like this place,” he said. “It has a good feeling to it.”

“But most of the Farlain escaped, Father,” said Tostig.

“Escaped? To where? All that’s out there is wilderness. By tonight Drada will be here, having finished off the Haesten. Ongist will be harrying the Pallides, driving the survivors west into our arms. Once they are destroyed we will take our men into the wilderness and finish the task-that’s if Barsa doesn’t do it before we arrive.”

“Barsa?”

“He is already in the west with two thousand forest-trained warriors from the south. They call themselves Timber Wolves, and by Vatan they’re a match for any motley ragbag of stinking clansmen.”

“We took no women,” complained Tostig. “Most of the young ones killed themselves. Bitches!”

“Drada will bring women. Do not fret.”

Asbidag began to move among the bodies once more, turning over the women and the young girls. Finally he stood up and walked toward the house of Cambil.

“Who are you seeking?” asked Tostig, walking beside him.

“Cambil’s daughter. Hair like gold, and a spirited girl. Unspoiled. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. And I told you to set Cambil’s head on a spear!”

Tostig blanched and fell back. “At once, Father,” he stammered, running back to the bodies and drawing his sword.

Durk of the Farlain was known as a morose, solitary man. He had no friends and had chosen to spend his life in the high country west of the valley, where he built a small house of timber and grey stone and settled down to a life of expected loneliness. Durk had always been a loner, and even as a child had kept himself apart from his fellows. It was not, he knew, that he disliked people, more that he was not good with words. He had never learned how to engage in light conversation. Crowds unnerved him, always had, and he avoided the dance and the feasts. Girls found him surly and uncommunicative, men thought him standoffish and aloof. Year by year the young clansman felt himself to be more and more remote from his fellows. Durk found this hurtful, but knew that the blame lay within his own shy heart.

But that first winter alone had almost starved him out until his neighbor Onic introduced him to Caswallon’s night raids on bordering territories.

In the beginning Durk had disliked Caswallon. It was easy to see why: they were night and day, winter and summer. Where Caswallon smiled easily and joked often, Durk remained sullen with strangers and merely silent with companions.

Yet, for his part, Caswallon seemed to enjoy Durk’s company and little by little his easygoing, friendly nature wore away the crofter’s tough shell.

Through Caswallon Durk met Kareen, the gentle child of the house and, in spite of himself, had fallen in love with her. In the most incredible slice of good fortune ever to befall the dark-bearded Highlander, Kareen had agreed to marry him.

She transformed his dingy house into a comfortable home and made his joy complete by falling pregnant in the first month of their marriage. With her Durk learned to laugh at his own failings, and his shyness retreated. At their marriage he even danced with several of Kareen’s friends. Laughter and joy covered him, drawing him back into the bosom of the clan, filling the empty places in his heart.

Four days ago, in her eighth month, Kareen had returned to the valley to have the babe in the home of Larcia, wife of the councillor Tesk and midwife to the Farlain.

But last night Durk had heard the war horns blaring and he had set out for the valley, filled with apprehension. In the first light of dawn he had met the column of fleeing clansmen.

Tesk was not among them.

Caswallon had run forward to meet him, leading him away from the column. There Durk heard the news that clove his heart like an axe blade. Tesk had died with Cambil and almost eight hundred others. With them was Kareen. Caswallen had seen her in the circle at the last, a hunting knife in her hand, as the Aenir swept over them.

Durk did not ask why the rest of the clan had not raced back to die with them, although he dearly desired to.

“Come with us,” said Caswallon.

“I don’t think that I will, my friend,” Durk replied.

Caswallon bowed his head, his green eyes sorrowful. “Do what you must, Durk. The Gods go with you.”

“And with you, Caswallon. You are the leader at last.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“No, but you are suited to it. You always were.”

Now Durk stood at the timberline, gazing down into the valley, past the gutted homes and the Aenir tents, and on to the mounds of bodies in the center of the field.

He left the trees and began the long walk to his wife.

Two Aenir warriors watched him come. They stood, discarding their food, and moved to intercept him. He was walking so casually, as if on a morning stroll. Could he be a messenger, seeking peace? Or one of Barsa’s Timber Wolves, dressed like a clansman.

“You there!” called the first, holding up his hand. “Wait!”

The hand vanished in a crimson spray as Durk’s sword flashed through the air. The return cut clove the man’s neck. As he crumpled to the grass the second drew his sword and leaped forward. Durk ducked under a whistling sweep to gut the man.

He walked on. Kareen had been no beauty but her eyes were soft and gentle, and her mouth seemed always to be smiling, as if life held some secret enchantment and she alone knew the mystery of it.

In the valley Aenir warriors were moving about, eating, drinking, and swapping stories. The invasion had gone well and their losses had been few, save for the night before against the ferocious clan sword ring. Who would have believed that a few hundred men and women could have put up such a struggle?

Durk moved on.

No one stopped him or even seemed to notice him as he walked to the mound of bodies and began to search for Kareen. He found her at the center, lying beneath the headless corpse of Cambil. Gently he pulled her clear and tried to wipe the blood from her face, but it was dried hard and did not move.

By now his actions had aroused the interest of five warriors who wandered forward to watch him. Durk felt their eyes upon him and he laid Kareen to the ground. He stood and walked toward them, his face expressionless, his dark eyes scanning them.

They made no move toward their swords until he was almost upon them. It was as if his calm, casual movements cast an eldritch spell.

Durk’s sword whispered from the scabbard…

The spell broke.

The Aenir scrabbled for their blades as Durk’s sword licked into them. The first fell screaming; the second tumbled back, his throat spraying blood into the air. The third died as he knelt staring at the gushing stump of his sword arm. The fourth hammered his sword into Durk’s side, then reeled away dying as the clansman shrugged off the mortal wound and backhanded a return cut to the man’s throat. The fifth backed away, shouting for help.

Durk staggered and gazed down at the wound in his side. Blood flowed there, soaking his leggings and pooling at his feet. More Aenir warriors ran forward, stopping to stare at the dying clansman.

“Come on then, you woman killers! Face a man!” he snarled.

A warrior ran forward with sword raised. Durk contemptuously batted aside his wild slash and reversed his own blade into the man’s belly.

The clansman began to laugh, then suddenly he choked and staggered. Blood welled in his throat and he spat it clear.

“You miserable whoresons,” he said. “Warriors? You’re like a flock of sheep with fangs.”

Dropping his sword, he turned and staggered back to Kareen’s body, slumping beside her. He lifted her head.

A spear smashed through his back and he arched upward violently.

His vision swam; his last sight was Kareen’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been here.”

Orsa gazed down at the body, then tore the spear from the clansman’s back.

“He was a madman,” muttered a warrior behind him.

“He was a man, ” said Orsa, turning and pushing his way through the throng.

The Aenir milled around the corpses for a while, then drifted back to their forgotten meals.

“He was a fine swordsman,” said a lean, wolfish warrior, dusting off the chicken leg he’d dropped in the dirt.

“It was stupid,” offered a second man, gathering up a bulging wineskin.

“He was baresark,” said the first.

“Nonsense. We all know what happens to a berserker-he goes mad and attacks in a blind frenzy.”

“No, that’s what we do. The clansmen are different. They go cold and deadly, where we are hot. But the effect is the same. They don’t care.”

“Taken to thinking now, Snorri?”

“This place makes you think,” said Snorri. “Just look around you. Wouldn’t you be willing to die for a land like this?”

“I don’t want to die for any piece of land. A woman, maybe. Not dirt, though.”

“Did you enjoy the clanswoman you took last night?”

“Shut your stinking mouth!”

“Killed herself, I hear.”

“I said shut it!”

“Easy, Bemar! There’s no need to lose your temper.”

“It’s this place, it gets under my skin. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I felt it in my bones. Did you see the look in that clansman’s eyes? Like he thought we were nothing. A flock of sheep with fangs! You could laugh, but he had just slain seven men. Seven!”

“I know,” said Snorri. “It was the same last night with their sword ring. It was like hurling yourself against a cliff face. There was no give in them at all; no fear. That scout Ongist caught and blood-eagled-he didn’t make a sound, just glared at us as we opened his ribs. Maybe they’re not people at all.”

“What does that mean?” asked Bemar, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“The witch woman, Agnetha. She can turn men into animals. Maybe the clans are all animals turned into men.”

“That’s stupid.”

“They don’t act like men,” argued Snorri. “Have you heard one clansman beg? Have you heard any tales of such a thing?”

“They die like men,” said Bemar.

“I think they are more. You’ve heard Asbidag’s order. Not one man, woman, or child to be left alive. No slaves. All dead. Doesn’t it strike you as strange?”

“I don’t want to think about it. And I don’t want to talk about it,” muttered Bemar, hurling aside the wineskin.

“Wolf men, that’s what they are,” whispered Snorri.

Caswallon watched helplessly as Durk walked back toward the valley. He knew the clansman was seeking death, and he could not blame him for it. Kareen had been his life, his joy. Even as Maeg meant everything to Caswallon.

The clan column moved on and Caswallon took his place at the head alongside Leofas. Crofters from outlying areas joined the exodus as the day wore on, and many were the questions leveled at the new lord.

Where were they going? What would they do? What had happened to one man’s sister? Another’s brother? Why did they not turn and fight? Why had the Aenir attacked? Where was Cambil? Who elected Caswallon?

The clansman lost his temper before dusk, storming away from the column and running quickly to the top of a nearby hill. Around him the dying sun lit the valleys of the Farlain, bathing them in blood. Caswallon sank to the ground, staring out over the distant peaks of High Druin.

“It’s all a lie,” he said softly. Then he began to chuckle. “You’ve lived a damn lie.”

Poor Cambil. Poor, lonely Cambil.

“You should not have feared me, cousin,” Caswallon told the gathering darkness. “Your father knew; he was wiser than you.”

The night before the young Caswallon had left his foster father’s house for the last time, Padris had taken him to the northern meadow and there presented him with a cloak, a dagger, and two gold pieces.

“I will not lie to you, Caswallon,” Padris had told him, his keen eyes sorrowful. “You have been a disappointment to me. I have raised you like my own son and you have great talents. But you are not worthy. You have a sharp mind, a good brain, and a strong body. You will prosper. But you are not worthy. There is in you a fear that I cannot fathom. Outwardly you are brave enough, and you take your beatings like a man. But you are not clan. You don’t care. What is it that you fear?”

“I fear nothing,” Caswallon had told him.

“Wrong. Now I see two fears. The one that you hide, and now the fear of showing it. Go in peace, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“You were right, Padris,” Caswallon whispered to the sky. “This is what I feared. Chains. Questions. Responsibilities.”

Giving judgments over land disputes, settling rows over cattle or sheep, or thefts, or wayward wives and wandering husbands. Sentencing poachers, granting titles, deciding on the suitability of couples in love, and granting them the right to wed. Every petty problem a double-edged dagger.

And so he avoided the elections.

But what had it gained? The Farlain invaded and thousands dead throughout Druin. And what price the future?

He swore as he heard footsteps approaching. Leofas slumped down beside him, breathing hard. “No sign of pursuit,” said the old warrior.

“Good.”

“Talk, boy. Shed the burden.”

“I would shed the burden if you agreed to lead.”

“We’ve been over that before. I’m not the man for it.”

“Neither am I.”

“Whisht, lad! Don’t talk nonsense. You’re doing fine. So far we’ve saved the greater number of our cousins, and with luck there’s another two thousand crofters who would have heard the horns and taken to the hills.”

“Damn you, old man. I never gave you much of an argument before, and I should have. You’ve been on the Council since before I was born. You’re respected, everyone would follow you. You’re the natural choice. What right have you to shirk your responsibility?”

“None whatsoever, Caswallon. And I cannot be accused of it. A man needs to know his strengths if he is to prosper, and his weaknesses if he is to survive. I know what you are going through but, believe me, you are the best man we have. I’ll grant that you would make a bad Hunt Lord; you don’t have the application. But this is war. With luck it will be a short, sharp exercise, and you’re the man to plan it. Think of it as a giant raid. Ye Gods, man, you were good enough at that.”

“But it isn’t a raid,” snapped Caswallon. “One mistake and we lose everything.”

“I didn’t say it was easy.”

“That’s true enough.”

“You have faith in Taliesen, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he said you were the only man capable of pulling a victory from this catastrophic beginning. And I believe him.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

“It’s because you don’t that convinces me,” said Leofas, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’m going to say this once, boy, for I’m not given to compliments. There’s a nobility in you, and a strength you’ve not begun to touch. Rescuing Gaelen showed it to me. It was a fine, bonny thing. But more than that, I remember when we hunted the beast. You lifted Cambil that night when his fear for his son threatened to unman him, and among men who despised you it was you they followed when you walked to the north. When the Queen was dying and delirious you gave her words of comfort. You it was who planned the victory at the Games, and you again who brought us out of the valley.

“So don’t sit here bemoaning your fate. You are where you should be: War Lord of Farlain. Do I make myself clear?”

“I should have spoken to you ten years ago,” said Caswallon. “Maybe I would have been different.”

“Ten years ago you wouldn’t have listened. Whoring and stealing filled your mind.”

“Good days, though,” said Caswallon, grinning.

“Don’t say it as though you’re letting me into a secret. I was whoring and stealing before you were born. And probably making a better job of it!”

Gaelen awoke, rolling to his back and rubbing his eyes. The night was silent, save for the movement of bats in the trees above him and the skittering sound of badgers in the undergrowth off to the left. These were sounds he knew well. But something else had pierced his dreams, bringing him to wakefulness. His mind was hazy, confused. It had seemed as if horns were blowing far away, whispering in the night breeze.

But now there was silence as Gaelen sat up and looked around him. Render was gone, hunting his supper, and the fire had died down within its circle of rocks. Gaelen added fuel, more for light than heat. As the blaze flared he pushed back his blanket and stood up, stretching the muscles of his back. He was hungry. The sky was lightening and the dawn was not far off. Gathering his bow and quiver, he made his way to the edge of the woods, looking down onto a gently sloping field, silver in the waning moonlight. Upon it were scores of rabbits nibbling at grass and clover. Gaelen settled down on his knees and strung the bow; he then selected an arrow and notched it to the string. Spotting a buck some twenty paces distant, he drew and loosed the shaft. As the buck fell, the other rabbits disappeared at speed. Returning to the fire he skinned the beast, gutting and slicing it for the pot. Render loped through the bushes, jaws bloody, and squatted down beside him, waiting expectantly for the remains.

Gaelen threw the offal to the hound, who set to work on his second meal of the night. As dawn light seeped into the sky, Gaelen found himself thinking of the Queen Beyond. Often her face would come to him, sometimes in dreams but more often as he went about the chores of the day. She had died for him-for them-and Gaelen wished, with all his heart, that he could have repaid her. And what did she mean when she promised to come again?

By midmorning Gaelen and Render were picking their way down a wooded slope alongside a tumbling stream. Every forty or fifty paces the water hissed over rocky falls, gushing at ever-increasing speed toward the valley below. Birds sang in the trees, and crimson flowers bloomed by the water. Every now and then, as they came to a break in the trees, Gaelen stopped and gazed on the mountains, still snowcapped, like old men in a line. Gaelen knew he should be feeling guilty about his leisurely pace and the wide western swing he was making, for there was plenty of spring work back home. But after the winter cooped up in the valley, he needed the solitude.

A woman’s scream pierced the glade. Render’s head came up, a deep growl starting in his throat. Gaelen flashed his hand up, palm outward, and the dog fell silent. The scream came from the right, beyond a thicket of gorse. Gaelen eased his hunting knife into his hand, released his pack and bow from his shoulders, and moved forward silently. Render padded beside him.

Once in the thicket other noises came to them-the rending of cloth, and slapping sounds as if openhanded blows were being struck. Creeping forward, bent double, Gaelen came to the edge of the thicket. Three Aenir warriors had pinned a young girl to the ground. Two held her arms, the third crouched over her, slashing her clothes with a knife and ripping them from her.

Gaelen calmed the dog and waited. He couldn’t see the girl’s face, but from the clothes she was Farlain. The Aenir stripped her naked, then one forced her legs apart, dropping his hand to loosen his breeches. As he did so Gaelen pointed to the warrior holding the girl.

“Kill!” he hissed. Render leaped forward, covering the ground in three bounds, snarling ferociously. The three whirled at the sound, dragging their knives clear. Render’s great jaws closed upon the throat of his victim, the Aenir’s neck snapping with a hideous crack. Gaelen, long hunting knife in hand, was just behind the dog. He hurdled the beast, batting aside a wild slash from the second Aenir, then himself backhanded a cut across the man’s face. The warrior’s cheek blossomed red and he fell back, dropping his knife. Gaelen threw himself forward to plunge his own blade through the man’s leather jerkin, up under the ribs, seeking the heart. The man’s eyes opened in shock and pain. Gaelen twisted the blade to free it from the suction of the man’s body and tore it loose, kicking him away. Spinning, he was just in time to parry a thrust from the third warrior who aimed a vicious cut at his head. Gaelen ducked beneath it, stepping inside to hammer the knife into the man’s groin. The Aenir screamed and fell. Gaelen dragged the knife clear, punching it to the man’s throat and cutting off his screams. Render, still growling, tore at his victim, though the man was long dead.

“Home!” hissed Gaelen. In the following silence he listened intently. Satisfied the Aenir were alone, he ran to the girl.

It was Deva, her face bruised and swollen, her lips cut and bleeding. She was unconscious. Gaelen gathered what remained of her clothes and lifted the girl to his shoulder. Then he made his way back through the thicket to his pack and labored on up the slope, keeping to the rocky paths and firmer areas that would leave less sign of his passing.

His breathing was ragged as he reached the highest point of the slope, cutting into a sheltered glade where he lowered Deva to the ground. She was breathing evenly. Her shirt was in tatters and he threw it to one side. Her skirt had been ripped in half. Removing it, he spread the cloth and sliced an opening in the center. Sheathing his knife he lifted the girl to a sitting position and put the skirt over her head, widening the slash until the garment settled over her shoulders like a cape that fell to her knees. He tore her shirt into strips and fashioned a belt that he tied around her waist, then he laid her back.

“Stay!” he ordered Render and the hound settled down beside the girl. Gaelen gathered up his bow and quiver and retraced his steps to the slope, crouching in the undergrowth, eyes searching the trail.

There were so many questions. Why were the Aenir so far into the Farlain? What was Deva doing alone in the wilderness? What manner of men were these warriors who dressed like foresters and carried hunting knives like the clans? Had the war begun, or were they merely scouts? How many more were searching these woods? He could answer none of the questions.

He had been lucky today, waiting until the men’s lust was at its height before launching an attack. But once the enemy discovered the bodies they would be on his trail like wolves after a wounded deer. More than luck would be needed to survive from now on, he knew.

He was at least two days from the valley, but if the war had begun there was no point going east. If it had not, there was little point heading for Attafoss, a day or more to the northeast.

Down the slope he saw a flash of movement and drew back into the bushes. A man appeared, then another, then a file of warriors bearing bows. They did not seem to be hunting a trail, but if they kept moving along the track they would find the bodies. Gaelen waited until the file had passed, counting them, despair growing as the figure topped one hundred.

This was no scouting party.

Pulling back out of sight he ran to the glade, kneeling over Deva, lifting her head and lightly stroking her face. She came awake with a start, a scream beginning as his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Be silent, Deva, it is Gaelen!” he hissed. Her eyes swiveled to him and she blinked and nodded. He removed his hand.

“The Aenir?” she whispered.

“Dead. But more are coming and we must move. Can you run?”

She nodded and he helped her to her feet. Hoisting his pack, he gathered up the remains of her clothing and bade her wait for him. He moved east for two hundred paces, crossing the stream, leaving his track on a muddy bank, and looping a torn fragment of Deva’s shirt over a gorse bush. Satisfied with the false trail, he turned west again, moving more carefully over the rocks and firm ground until he rejoined Deva in the glade.

“Let’s go,” he said, heading for Attafoss.

They made almost half a mile when the horns sounded, echoing eerily in the mountains around them. “They’ve found the bodies,” he said grimly. “Let’s push on.”

Throughout the long afternoon Gaelen led them ever higher into the mountains, stopping often to study the back trail and keeping ever under cover. Deva stumbled after him, still in shock after her narrow escape, and yet awed by the authoritative manner in which Gaelen was leading. There was no panic in him, nor yet any sign of fear. He was, she realized not without shock, a clansman.

And he had killed three Aenir warriors. She was sorry to have missed that event.

Toward dusk Gaelen found a secluded hollow off the trail and he dumped his pack and sat down. He stayed there silently for some minutes, ignoring the girl; then he stood and returned to the trail, crouching to scan the mountainside. There was no sign of pursuit. He waited until it was too dark to see any distance, then returned to the hollow. Deva was bathing her face with water from his canteen and he squatted beside her.

“How are you faring?” he asked.

“Well. Are they close?”

“I can see no one, but that tells us nothing. They are woodsmen, they could be anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in the mountains?” he asked her.

“I had to visit my uncle Lars, who has a croft cabin south of here. I went with Larain. We were coming home when we saw the Aenir and we both ran. I hid in the woods, I don’t know what happened to Larain. Most of the night I listened for them, but I heard nothing. This morning I tried to get back to the valley, but they were waiting for me. I got away once but they caught me back there, where you found me.”

“It’s an invasion,” said Gaelen.

“But why would they do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Deva. I don’t believe they need a reason to fight. Rest now.”

“Thank you for my tunic,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“I could do no better,” he stammered. Reaching past her, he pulled his blanket roll from the pack. “Wrap yourself. It will be a chill night and we can afford no fire.”

“Gaelen?”

“Yes.”

“I… I thank you for saving my life.”

“Thank me when we reach safety. If there is such a place still.. .”

She watched the darkness swallow him, knowing he would spend the night on the edge of the trail. Render settled down beside her and she snuggled into his warm body.

Gaelen awoke just before dawn, coming out of a light doze in his hiding place by the trail’s edge. He yawned and stretched. The path below was still clear. Rounding the bushes he stopped, jolted by a heel print on the track not ten paces from where he had slept.

The track was fresh. Swiftly he searched the ground. He found another print, and a third alongside it. Two men. And they were ahead of him.

Ducking once more, he reentered the glade, waking Deva and rolling his blanket. Taking up his pack, he unstrapped his bow and strung it.

Glancing around, he saw that Render had gone hunting.

“We have a problem,” he told the girl.

“They are ahead of us?”

He nodded. “Only two of them. Scouts. They passed in the night.”

“Then give me a bow. My marksmanship is good, and you’ll need your hands clear for knife work.”

He handed her the weapon without hesitation. All clanswomen were practiced with the bow and Deva had the reputation of being better than most.

Slowly they made their way north and east, wary of open ground, until at last the trees thinned and a gorse-covered slope beckoned beyond. It stretched for some four hundred paces.

“You could hide an army down there,” whispered Deva, crouching beside him in the last of the undergrowth before the slope.

“I know. But we have little choice. The main force is behind us. They have sent these scouts ahead to cut us off. If we remain here the main body will come upon us. We must go on.”

“You go first. I’ll wait here. If I spot movement I’ll signal.”

“Very well. But don’t shoot until you are sure of a hit.”

Biting back an angry retort, she nodded. What did he think she was going to do? Shoot at shadows? Gaelen left the cover of the trees and moved slowly down the slope, tense and expectant. Deva scanned the gorse, trying not to focus on any one point. Her father had taught her that movement was best seen peripherally.

A bush to the right moved, as if a man was easing through it. Then her attention was jerked away by a noise from behind and she turned. A hundred paces back along the trail, a man had fallen and his comrades were laughing at him. They were not yet in sight, but would be in a matter of moments. She was trapped! Fighting down panic, she notched an arrow to the bow. Gaelen reached the bottom of the slope and glanced back. Deva lifted both hands, pointing one index finger left, the other right. Then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

Gaelen cursed and moved. He broke into a lunging run for the gorse, angling to the right, his knife in his hand. Surprised by the sudden sprint, the hidden archer had to step into the open. His bow was already bent.

Deva drew back the bowstring to nestle against her cheek. Releasing her breath slowly, she calmed her mind and sighted on the motionless archer. Gaelen threw himself forward in a tumbler’s roll as the man released his shaft. It whistled over his head. Deva let fly, the arrow flashing down to thud into the archer’s chest. The man dropped his bow and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft; then he toppled sideways to the earth.

Coming out of his roll, Gaelen saw the man fall. The second Aenir, a huge man with a braided yellow beard, hurled his bow aside and drew his own hunting knife. He leaped at the clansman, his knife plunging toward Gaelen’s belly. Gaelen dived to the left-and the Aenir’s blade raked his ribs. Rolling to his feet Gaelen launched himself at the warrior, his shoulder cannoning into the man’s chest. Off balance, the Aenir fell, Gaelen on top of him. The blond warrior tried to rise but Gaelen slammed his forehead against the Aenir’s nose, blinding him momentarily. As the man fell back Gaelen rolled onto the warrior’s knife arm and sliced his own blade across the bearded throat. Blood bubbled and surged from the gaping wound, drenching the clansman. Pushing the body under thick gorse, Gaelen rolled to his feet and ran back to the first man. Deva was already there, struggling to pull the body out of sight into the bushes. Together they made it with scant moments to spare.

Huddled together over the corpse, Gaelen put his arm around Deva, drawing her close as the Aenir force breasted the slope. “If they find the other body we’re finished,” he said. His knife was in his hand and he knew with bleak certainty that he would cut her throat rather than let them take her.

The enemy moved down the slope. Grim men they were, and they moved cautiously, many notching arrows to bowstrings, their eyes flickering over the gorse. Gaelen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm; his heart was thudding against his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes; Deva leaned against him and he could smell the perfume of her hair.

The Aenir entered the gorse, pushing on toward the east. Two men passed within ten paces of where they lay. They were talking and joking now, content that the open ground was behind them.

The last of the Aenir moved away out of earshot. Gaelen felt cramped, but still he did not move. It was hard to stay so still, for hiding was a passive, negative thing that leached a man’s courage.

“You can let go of me now, clansman,” whispered Deva.

He nodded, but did not move. Deva looked up into his face, seeing the tension and fear. Raising her hand, she stroked his cheek. “Help me get this swine’s jerkin,” she said.

Gaelen released her, smiling sheepishly. He pulled her arrow from the man’s ribs and they worked the brown leather jerkin clear. Deva slipped it on over her tunic. It was too large by far and Gaelen trimmed the shoulders with his knife.

“How do I look?” she asked him.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“If this is beautiful, you should have been struck dumb at the Whorl Dance.”

“I was.”

Deva giggled. She looped the man’s knife belt around her waist. “You were so forlorn, Gaelen. I felt quite sorry for you, with your swollen leg.”

“I felt quite sorry for myself.”

“What are your plans now? Why are we heading north?”

“With luck the clan will be there.”

“Why should they be?”

“I believe the war has begun. The Aenir will have raided the valleys. But Caswallon has a plan.”

“Caswallon!” she snapped. “Caswallon is not Hunt Lord!”

“No, but he should be,” hissed Gaelen. A sound in the bushes jolted them, but relief swept over Gaelen as Render’s great black and grey head appeared. Kneeling, he patted the dog affectionately, using the time to let the angry moment pass.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I did not mean that.”

“You meant it. Let’s talk no more of it. We’ve a long way to go.”