The Hawk Eternal

Chapter Eight

Drada arrived in Farlain valleys on the second day of the invasion, having completed his attack on the Haesten. Throughout the day his men had been scouring the mountains, hunting down clansmen and their families, killing the men and older women, taking the young girls alive. So far they had killed more than a thousand Highlanders.

Leaving a third of his force behind to harry the remnants of Laric’s people, he moved on to join his father. There was no word from Ongist and his force, apart from the first message that told of Maggrig’s flight into the mountains.

With twenty men Drada rode ahead of the marching army, reining his mount on the high slope above the first valley. Below him were a dozen or so gutted houses; the rest had been taken over by the Aenir, whose tents also dotted the field. Drada was discontented. The assault had not been a complete success. The Haesten were all but wiped out, but the Pallides and the Farlain were still at large.

Barsa’s Timber Wolves would harry them in the northwest, but Drada did not share his father’s scant regard for the clans’ fighting abilities. And he had heard of Cambil’s death with regret.

Not that he liked the man, more that he was easy to read, and if the Farlain had to escape Drada would have rested more easily knowing Cambil was Hunt Lord. He didn’t need to be a prophet to predict the next leader:

Caswallon!

The viper beneath the Aenir heel.

Spurring his mount he rode down into the valley, past the field where cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. His brother Tostig saw him coming and walked out to meet him, standing before the cairn that housed the combined dead of the first assault.

“Greetings, brother,” said Tostig as Drada dismounted, handing the reins to a following rider. “I told you the war would be short and sweet.”

Drada stared into his brother’s ugly face. “It is not over yet,” he said evenly.

Tostig spat. “There’s no real fight in these mountain dogs. They’ll give us sport for a few weeks, that’s all.”

“We’ll see,” said Drada, pushing past him. He entered the house of Cambil, seeking his father. Asbidag sat in the wide leather chair before the hearth, drinking from a silver goblet. Beside him was a jug of mead and a half-eaten loaf. Drada pulled up a chair opposite and removed his cloak. Asbidag was drunk; ale dribbled to his red beard at every swallow, flowing over the crumbs of bread lodged there. His bloodshot eyes turned to Drada and he belched and leaned forward.

“Well?” he snarled.

“The Haesten are finished.”

Asbidag began to laugh. He drained the last of the ale and then lifted the silver goblet, crushing it suddenly, the muscles of his forearm writhing as his powerful fingers pressed the metal out of shape.

“Finished? What about the Farlain? Your plan was a disaster.” The words were slurred but the eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

“We have the valleys and the Farlain have nowhere to go, and no food supply.”

“So you say.”

Morgase entered the room and Drada stood and bowed. Ignoring him, she moved to Asbidag and knelt by the chair, stroking the bread from his beard. Asbidag’s eyes softened as he gazed on her cool beauty. He lumbered to his feet, pulling her up beside him, his huge hand sliding down her flank. He leered at her and left the room, stumbling on the stairs.

“Wait here,” said Morgase. “I shall see you presently.”

“I think not, lady. I fear you will be preoccupied for some little while.”

“We shall see.”

Drada moved from the hard seat to the wide leather chair his father had vacated, easing himself back and lifting his feet to a small table. He closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort. He was tired, he hadn’t realized quite how tired. The light was fading. He cursed softly and pushed himself upright, gathering candles from the kitchen. Taking a steel tinderbox from his pouch he struck a flame and lit a candle, placing it in a brass holder on the wall above the hearth. Near the door was a crystal lantern that he also trimmed and lit. Returning to the chair, he tried once more to relax but he could not. He was overtired and filled with the tension only the planning of war could produce.

Morgase slipped silently into the room wearing only a dark silken robe. She knelt by him as she had knelt by his father. He looked down into her cold blue eyes; her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and red. By candlelight her face looked younger, softer.

“He is sleeping,” she whispered.

“Good. I wish I was.”

“Soon, Drada. Soon. Listen to me. I promised you the Gateway to empires. Do you still desire it?”

“Of course.” Leaning forward, he rubbed his tired eyes.

“The druids guard the Gateway. They have a hiding place near the great falls called Attafoss. You must lead an army to the north.”

“What is this Gateway?”

“I don’t know what it is, only what it does. It is an entrance to my own world-a land full of riches and ripe for conquest.”

“What do you mean? There is no world to the north, only mountains and sea.”

“You are wrong. I was raised in a far land, not of this world. My father was an earl. He was killed in a rebellion when I was seven years old. The land is ruled now by a warrior queen but her armies have fought many battles and they are tired, weary to the bone.”

“I have heard of no queen…” Drada began.

“Listen to me, you fool,” she hissed, her eyes angry. “My brothers and I fought her for six long years, but our army was crushed. I fled north with two trusted servants; they brought me to a druid who lived in the eastern mountains and he told me of a Gate I could pass that would lead to safety. The entrance was marked by a carving at the mouth of the cave, where someone long ago had chipped out the shape of a goblet. He took me there and we entered the cave, which was shallow and dripping with water. He spoke some words by the far wall, and it shimmered and disappeared. Then he beckoned me to follow him and stepped through where the wall had been. I followed and found myself in the mountains near a great waterfall.

“It was like a dream. The old man stepped one pace back-and disappeared. I tried to follow him but there was no way back. I walked south for many days until I reached the city of Ateris in the distance. There I met your father.”

Drada was awake now. “You say the Farlain druids control this Gateway?”

“Yes.”

“And they can transport men wherever they wish to go?”

“Yes. Now do you see?”

“I do indeed.”

“The druid who helped me told me that if ever I wished to return I should seek a man named Taliesen.”

“I’ve met him,” said Drada.

“He guards the Gate, and controls its power.”

Drada leaned back in his chair, the tension easing from him, his weariness slipping away. “Such a Gateway allowed the Aenir to invade these lands,” he said. “But once we were through it closed behind us, becoming solid rock. For years we sought sorcerers and witches to open them but none succeeded. What are these Gates? Who made them?”

“I don’t know. The old druid told me they had existed for centuries. In my land we have legends of trolls and giants, beasts and dragons. The druid said these were all creatures which had passed through random Gates.”

Drada sat back, saying nothing. This was a prize greater than any before. Dreams of empire grew in his mind. Suppose the Gates could send a man wherever he wished? Who could resist an army that appeared within a walled city? But was it possible? He looked down at Morgase, taking her chin in his hand. “Have you told my father?”

Her hand came down to rest on his thigh. “No, you are the man to lead the Aenir.” At her touch he stiffened, his eyes flickering to the darkened doorway.

“Have no fear, Drada. I slipped him a sleeping potion. He will not wake for hours.”

He lifted her to his lap and kissed her, his hand slipping beneath her robe.

“Are you worth dying for?” he asked, his voice husky, his face flushed.

“Find out,” she told him.

Gaelen and Deva spent their second night in a shallow cave, the entrance hidden by a hastily erected screen of bushes. The day had been fraught, and their trail had been picked up by a second band of Aenir foresters. At one stage they had been sighted and chased for almost a mile before slipping their pursuers. Deva was exhausted, her feet grazed and blistered. Gaelen sliced strips of leather from her jerkin and she set to work shaping them into moccasins; but the leather was soft and they would not last long in the mountains.

They could light no fire and the night was cold. They spent it together, wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket.

Gaelen was desperately worried now. The enemy were all around them and there was still open ground to cross. They would never make it. Deva slept on, her head resting on his shoulder. His back was cramped and sore, but he did not move. She was more tired than he, and needed the rest.

What would Caswallon do? he wondered. There must be a way to escape the Aenir net. Closing his eyes, he pictured the route to Attafoss. There were four sections of open ground, where the land dipped away into broad valleys with little or no cover. There was no way to avoid crossing at least one of them. Traveling by day would be suicidal. By night it would be almost as hazardous for, up to now, Gaelen had seen no sign of the Aenir campfires. They could blunder straight into an enemy camp.

In two days Gaelen had killed five enemy warriors. He had often dreamed of the day when he would pay them back for his terror and his wounds. But now be realized there was no joy or satisfaction to be found. He wished they had never come to the Farlain. Wished it with all his heart.

Render stirred beside him, his great head coming up with ears pricked. Gaelen gestured the hound to silence and woke Deva gently, his hand over her mouth.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered. Carefully he crept to the mouth of the cave, easing aside the leaves and branches masking the entrance.

The Aenir had returned and were once more scouring the hillside for tracks.

With infinite care Gaelen withdrew his hand, allowing the branches to settle back. Then he drew his knife and waited. Render moved to him, laying his head on Gaelen’s shoulder, nostrils quivering as he scented the Aenir. The cave was marginally below ground level, the entrance only three feet high, and Gaelen had uprooted two thick bushes, pulling them into the cave roots first. From outside they would appear to be growing at the base of the cliff.

For an hour or more the Aenir continued their search, then they moved farther down the mountainside out of sight. Gaelen relaxed and crept back to Deva, putting his mouth close to her ear.

“We must wait until nightfall,” he whispered. She nodded. Outside the sun shone brightly, but its warmth could not penetrate the chill of the cave and they sat wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket throughout the long afternoon.

Just after dusk Gaelen pushed aside the bushes and climbed from the cave, eyes searching the mountainside. The Aenir had moved on. Deva passed out his pack and bow, then joined him in the open. Gaelen pushed the bush screen back in place.

“We may need to get back here,” he said. “It leaves us one hiding place.”

They set off in silence, threading a path through the trees toward the first valley. The night was brighter than Gaelen would have liked, a three-quarter moon shining in the clear sky. They stopped at the timberline, wary of leaving the sanctuary of the trees, and remembering the hidden Aenir scouts of the day before.

Stepping out into the open, Gaelen started the long walk to the shadow-shrouded valley. Deva, an arrow notched to the bow, walked just behind him, while Render loped out in a wide circle, content merely to be free of the narrow confines of the cave. The wind was in Gaelen’s face and that pleased him, for Render would pick up any scent. Frequently Gaelen glanced at the hound, seeking signs of alarm. But there was none.

It took them an hour to cross the valley and climb the steep slope beyond. With one danger past, the next took its place.

They could not see anything within the trees; overhanging branches shut out the moonlight, creating a wall of darkness. Within the woods could be a hundred, a thousand, Aenir waiting for them.

They had no choice. Hand on knife, Gaelen walked into the darkness, leaning against a broad trunk and allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the stygian gloom. They moved on carefully. It was uncannily still among the trees, not a sound whispered in the night. The breeze had fallen away and above them the branches hung together forming an archway, the trees like colonnaded pillars. No bats skittered in the trees. No animals disturbed the undergrowth. It was like passing through a Hall of the Dead, murky and silent, pregnant with menace.

Render’s head came up and he sniffed the air. He made no sound but looked away to the left. Gaelen patted him softly. About twenty paces away he could just make out the silhouette of a seated man. Gaelen stood statue-still. As he stared he could see more men lying on the ground, wrapped in blankets.

An Aenir camp!

Gesturing to Deva, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl. The sentry coughed and spat. Gaelen froze. They eased their way past the group and into the forest beyond. They were climbing now and it became more difficult to move quietly. Sweat ran down Gaelen’s face and his breathing grew ragged. He knew that stress was sapping his strength as much as the flight itself. Deva was bearing up well. He smiled grimly. But then she was Clan!

They climbed a steep slope and Gaelen peered over the rim, dropping back almost immediately. Beyond were another twenty Aenir asleep. A sentry was seated on a boulder on the far side. He had-thank God-been looking away when Gaelen appeared. Gaelen edged some thirty paces farther along the slope. Carefully he raised his head over the rim. There was a screen of trees now between them and the Aenir sentry. Swiftly he levered himself over the rim. Render scrambled up after him. Deva handed Gaelen the bow, then smoothly climbed to join them.

Once more in the trees, they breasted the rise and pushed on into the second valley. There was more gorse here and Gaelen felt his confidence rising. Then the breeze picked up once more-and saved their lives.

Render growled, hurtling forward into the gorse. A man’s scream rent the night. Deva dropped to one knee, drawing the bowstring back to her cheek. Gaelen ran left, dropping his pack and drawing his knife. Three men ran from the bushes toward them. The first fell, Deva’s arrow jutting from his right eye. Gaelen leaped feet first at the second, kicking him in the face; the man fell back. Gaelen hit the ground and rolled as the third Aenir raced past him toward Deva. The girl had no time to draw fully and let fly on half string. The arrow struck the man in the face, ripping open his cheek, but he tore it loose and kept coming. Deva hurled her bow aside as the man leaped upon her, bearing her to the ground.

“I have you now, you bitch!” he shouted, his knife poised above her throat. But a black shadow loomed, and Render’s huge jaws clamped down on the man’s face, fangs ripping away skin and flesh. Blood sprayed over Deva as the Aenir toppled from her. Weakly he tried to stab the hound, but then came the sound of crunching bones-and his skull shattered.

Gaelen rolled to his feet and hurled himself across the body of the second Aenir, who had been stunned by the kick and was struggling to rise when the young clansman dived upon him. Gaelen’s knife plunged into his back. He screamed and thrashed his arms as Gaelen ripped the knife loose, whipping the blade across the man’s throat.

Render padded toward him, jaws bloody. The silence that followed was broken by sounds of running men.

Grabbing his pack and bow Gaelen signaled to Deva and began to run, steering away from the pursuers and then cutting north. Beside him Deva ran easily, the bow looped over her left shoulder. Gaelen pushed the pace as hard as he dared, and Deva courageously matched him, though her lungs were burning and her legs aching.

They reached the trees ahead of their pursuers. What they needed now was somewhere to hide. The problem was that in the dark Gaelen had no way of knowing what sort of tracks they were leaving. He halted and grabbed Deva’s arm. “Give them something to think about,” he said. As the Aenir reached the bottom of the slope she sent a shaft into their ranks, catching a man high in the shoulder. The man cursed loudly, the rest diving to the ground. There were only ten men in the pursuing group, and none of them wanted to rush uphill toward a hidden archer.

“Now let’s go,” said Gaelen.

Deva shook her head, still fighting to catch her breath. “Need.. . a… moment,” she said. Taking the bow, he crouched at the edge of the trees, trying to spot any attempt to outflank them.

After a few moments Deva tapped his shoulder. “I’m ready,” she told him. He nodded and they slipped away into the trees.

As dawn lit the valleys Gaelen took a desperate gamble. Believing them clear of the Aenir he decided to push on through the day, reaching Attafoss before dark. He knew the risks were great, for there could well be enemy soldiers ahead. But, he thought, they would certainly catch up should he hide all day waiting for darkness. And he had no desire to repeat last night’s adventures.

They crossed the open ground and found no sign of the enemy. Render loped out ahead of them, cutting off to chase a hare, but it ducked out of sight and the hound padded back to his master. High in the mountains now, the pursuit far behind them, Gaelen relaxed. Deva also felt tension easing from her.

“You don’t say much, Gaelen,” she said.

“No. I’m not very good with words.”

“Is that true? Or are you just anxious around women?”

“That too.”

“Do you like Layne?”

“Yes, he’s a good friend.”

“He wants to marry me.”

Gaelen felt a knot of tension growing within him. Angry and uncertain, he said nothing.

“Well, speak, clansman.”

“What is there to say? You did not ask a question. You know that I feel… that I would like… damn! As I said, I am not good with words. I lived alone for many years as a child. I talked to few people; I never learned the art of conversation. I am dull though I would prefer not to be. It would be nice to make people laugh with a witty jest, but it’s not the way I am.”

“You are fine the way you are,” she said, feeling guilty and a little ashamed. “I’m sorry. I should not have teased you.”

“You could have picked a better time,” he said, smiling.

“Yes. Do you think the clan will be at Attafoss?”

“I hope so.”

“You are a fine man, Gaelen. Truly fine.”

“I am glad that you think so. Will you wed Layne?”

“No,” she told him softly. “When I was born an old tinker woman made a prediction for me. She said I would be the mother of kings.”

“What does that mean? There are no kings.”

“Not here in the Highlands,” she said, “but there are tales of faraway lands where kings and princes rule. One day a man will come-and I will wed him.”

“I don’t begin to understand,” he said. “What is so important about wedding a king? Or being the mother of one, for that matter? What about love, Deva? Happiness?”

“How could you understand?” she said. “You were an orphan and a thief. It wasn’t your fault. But I shall live in a palace, and my name will be known throughout the world. Perhaps forever.”

He stood silently for a moment. “I would marry you,” he said, “and spend my life making you happy. It is a dream I have had since first I saw you. But I cannot give you a palace, Deva.”

She looked up at him and, for a single heartbeat, felt like taking him in her arms and turning her back on the dream she had nurtured. But the dream was too strong and Deva shook her head. “I know that I love you, Gaelen. Truly. But you must find another,” she said softly, surprised that the words left her feeling empty and more than a little frightened.

Taking her hand he kissed it. “I’ll not ask again,” he told her. “I wish you well in your quest, Deva. I hope your king comes for you.”

Caswallon pushed his people hard throughout the days following the invasion. He sent a screen of warriors to the northeast and west, led by Badraig and Onic. Then he chose five hundred men and held them back to form a rear guard against any force the Aenir should send against them. He was desperate for news of Laric and Maggrig. Had the Pallides survived as a clan, or were they sundered throughout the mountains, leaderless? He needed to know. He called for volunteers from among the single men, skilled hunters and trackers, to journey back to the southeast and gather information. Among those who came forward were Layne, Gwalchmai, and Agwaine. Caswallon chose five men, Agwaine among them.

He took them aside, briefing each one, until at last only Agwaine was left. Caswallon placed both hands on the young man’s shoulders. “I am truly sorry about what happened to your father,” he said. “He was a fine man, a man of honor and great nobility.”

“He was a fool, Caswallon. But I loved him well. Better than he knew.”

“I doubt that. You meant everything to him. When we tracked you, as you fought the beast, he told me he would leave the Farlain if you did not survive. You were his joy. And as to his being a fool, I want you to think on this: He was made to look foolish by the brutal stupidity of the Aenir. Cambil was right in his philosophy, Agwaine. Sensible men will go to great lengths to avoid the vileness of war. Yet it is also a tragic truth that when war is inevitable, there is no place for sensible men. Intelligence can be a double-edged weapon. One of the blessings of a fine mind is that it allows a man to see both sides of a problem, therefore preventing him from acting in a blind or blinkered way. Your father was such a man. He believed that the Aenir would also see the wisdom of his view. That they did not is not a reflection on him, but a judgment upon them.”

Agwaine shook his head. “I would like to believe all that. But you are an intelligent man-and the Aenir did not fool you, did they?”

“No,” answered Caswallon slowly, “but then I did not have thousands of lives resting on my deeds, coloring my thoughts, feeding my hopes. Cambil knew that war would mean colossal loss of life. It does make a difference, Agwaine.”

“Thank you, cousin, for your words. As you advise, I will think on them. Now what do you want me to do?”

“Find Maggrig and gather as many of the Pallides as you can. Then make for the eastern shore of the lake above Attafoss. There we will plan the destruction of the enemy.”

“Do you believe we can win?”

“Be certain of it, Agwaine of the Farlain.”

Agwaine grinned. “It would be nice to be certain.”

Caswallon took the young man by the arm and led him away from the column. They sat down on the hillside, the stars gleaming above them like gems on a velvet cloak.

“Your father and I grew up together, you know that. You also know we were never friends,” said Caswallon softly, meeting Agwaine’s glance and noting, with sadness, the man’s resemblance to Cambil. “He did not like me, but I don’t blame him for that. I never did. He saw in me everything that could destroy the clan: selfishness; disregard for the customs that bound us together. I see that clearly now, and I wish he was here so that I could tell him. Instead, I tell his son.

“The clan thrives because we care for one another. Being Clan is as much a state of mind as a racial fact. Without it we are no different from the Aenir. Cambil understood this. Caring makes us strong, gives us courage.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Agwaine.

“Have you noticed,” countered Caswallon, “how nature gives and takes? The weakest dog in the litter is always the most cunning, the short man often more competitive, the ugly woman given the disposition of an angel. So it is with character. You saw it at the Games. Borak was faster than you, stronger. He even had an accomplice in the woods to ensure victory. And yet he lost, as his kind will always lose. For courage is born of caring. Evil has no depth of character to call on. You want certainty, Agwaine? I give it to you. They cannot conquer the clan.”

Agwaine bowed his head. “At this moment,” he said, “we are in flight. They outnumber us and they have killed thousands.”

“Yes, and many more clansmen will die,” said Caswallon, “but we shall not lose. Do not think of their numbers. It means nothing if the terrain is right. Think of your father, and his few hundred men. Aye, and women. Think of how the Aenir broke upon that sword ring. I would wager three Aenir died for every clansman. Think on it. For the Aenir will.

“Deep in their hearts they know the truth. Let you know it too. We are the Farlain, and though we may be ill-suited to it, we carry the torch of light in this war. And the Aenir darkness will not extinguish it.”

Agwaine chuckled suddenly, leaning back to rest on his elbows. “Caswallon, you’ve only been with the Council for a few months and already you’re spouting rhetoric.”

“I know, and it surprises me. But what is more surprising, perhaps, is that I believe it. With all my soul.”

“You believe the force of good will always defeat the force of evil?”

“I do-ultimately.”

“Why?”

“I can’t argue it, for it springs from the heart and not the mind. Why did the Queen come when you needed her?”

“Chance?”

“From where did you get the strength to beat the faster man?”

“I don’t know. But why did the Lowlanders fall? They were not evil.”

“I don’t say that darkness does not have small triumphs. But we are not Lowlanders, we are the Farlain.”

“Now that I will agree on,” said Agwaine. “And now I’d better be heading for Maggrig.”

“Are you more certain?”

“I don’t know, but I feel the better for talking.”

“Then that must be enough,” said Caswallon, rising.

“Take care, Caswallon-and look out for Deva. She should be clear of them. She was visiting Lars with her friend Larain.”

“I will send out scouts.”

The clan had made camp on the northern slope of a group of hills, where their campfires could not be seen from the south. As night stole over the countryside Caswallon ordered the fires doused, lest the glow be seen against the sky. He sought out Taliesen and together they walked to the hilltop, the old druid leaning heavily on his oak staff. He wore his birds’-feather cloak over a white robe. Caswallon thought him dangerously tired.

“How are you faring?” he asked as they sat together under the bright stars.

Taliesen’s eyes gleamed and he smiled. “I will not die on you, Caswallon.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“I am exhausted. But then I am old.” He looked at the young warrior beside him, his eyes full of guile. “Do you know how old?”

“Seventy? Eighty?”

“If I told you my age, would you believe me?”

“Yes. Why would you lie?”

“I will not lie, Caswallon. I am over a thousand years old.”

“I was wrong,” said Caswallon, grinning. “I do not believe you.”

“And yet I speak the truth. It was I who brought Earis here so many centuries ago. On this very hill, he and I looked down on the Farlain and knew joy.”

“Stop this jest, Taliesen…”

“It is no jest, Caswallon, and I am not speaking to impress you. Of all the clansmen, you alone have the capacity to understand what I am going to tell you. You have an open, inquiring mind and a rare intelligence. You are not prey to superstitions. You make your own judgments. I am more than one thousand years old. I was born out there!” The old man’s bony hand flashed out, pointing to the stars. “You’ve heard tales of the elder race, the vanished people. I am the last of those elders; the last true-blooded anyway. We made the Gates, Caswallon, and we journeyed across distances so great I could not impress on you the scale of it. Think of an ant crossing the Farlain and multiply it a thousand times, and you would have but the first step of my journeys.

“We came here, and from here we spread across the Universe. We were the Star Walkers. We birthed religions and created mythologies wherever man saw us. But then came catastrophe.” The druid bowed his head, staring at his hands.

“What happened?” asked Caswallon.

“The Great Gates closed. Suddenly, without warning. Our links with home and distant empires were severed, gone without trace. All that remained were the Lesser Gates: playthings created for students like myself who wished to study the evolution of primitive societies in a controlled environment.”

“I do not understand any of this,” said Caswallon. “But I read men well, and I believe what you say. Why are you telling me now?”

“Because I need you. Because you are the catalyst. Because the future of the Farlain-my chosen people-rests with you. And because you will see great wonders in the days to come and your mind must be prepared. I cannot explain to you the nature of the skills that created the Gates. So think of it as magic, impossibility made reality. You know that I have a hiding place for the clan. I am going to tell you now where that hiding place is: Golfallin, the first valley of the Farlain.”

“What nonsense is this? You will take us back where we have come from?”

“Yes. But there will be no Aenir, no crofts and homes, only virgin land.”

“How so?”

“As I did with Earis,” said the old man. “The Gates do not merely link different lands, Caswallon. I shall take you all through time itself. We are going back ten thousand years, to a time before the clan, before the Aenir.”

“That would be magic indeed.”

“You, however, will not be going back. There is a task you must perform.”

“Name it.”

“You must find the Queen who died and bring her to the Farlain with her army. Only then can you hope to crush the Aenir.”

“You want me to find a dead woman?”

“Time, Caswallon. Where I will send you she is still young.”

“Why should she aid us?”

The old druid shrugged. “There are some questions I will not answer. But let me say this: The chaos we are enduring was caused-in part-by one selfish man. I am doing all in my power to reverse it.”

“Oracle?”

“Yes.”

“He told me of his journey,” said Caswallon, “and that is why I believe you. He said he took his men through the Gate and came to a realm torn by war. He chose to serve the Queen and gained prominence. He told me he fought many battles until at last he crossed the Gateway once more and became a king in a far land, with an army of thousands at his back. But then he suffered betrayal and fled back to the Gate.”

“He did not tell you all, Caswallon. Men rarely do when speaking of their mistakes. He became a king, even as he said, but to do so he made alliances with evil men. One such was Agrist, a rare brute. In return for Agrist’s services Oracle gave him the secret of the Gate, and Agrist led his people through in search of riches and plunder. They thrived in their new world and grew strong. They became the Aenir, who now pillage the Farlain. For the Gate Oracle gave them brought them to the recent past of our world.”

“He did tell me,” said Caswallon.

The druid gave a thin smile. “Did he also tell you of the night after Sigarni’s great battle when he found the enemy general’s widow and her daughter hiding in a cave? Did he describe how he raped the mother in front of the daughter, and of how the noble lady slew herself?”

“No,” replied the clansman.

“No,” echoed Taliesen. “Nor did he say how he stole the legendary Sword of Ironhand from the Queen, and used its power to build his own kingdom from the blood of innocents. As I said men rarely tell the whole truth of their iniquities. I have spent years, Caswallon, trying to repair the damage his pride and ambition caused.”

Caswallon turned away to gaze out over the silhouetted mountains, black against a grey sky. “I feel like a child taught to scrawl his name, who is given a book and told to read it. I can make out some of the letters, but the words are lost to me. Gateways, journeys through time.” He glanced at the old man, holding his gaze. “If we can make such journeys, why can we not merely go back a few days and save all the people? We could hit the Aenir before they invade.”

Taliesen nodded. “What if I told you that we did? And that it failed and the Farlain were destroyed?”

“Now you have lost me utterly.”

“That is what makes the chaos so terrible,” said Taliesen. “There are so many alternative realities. If I told you now how many times I have tried to prevent an Aenir victory you would think me mad. The complexities and paradoxes created are legion. Armies out of their time, dead men who were destined to live and achieve greatness, women who should have borne proud sons murdered in their childhood. Destiny thwarted, changed-the Gateways themselves trembling under the weight of the chaos.” Taliesen sighed. “Do you know how many times you and I have had this conversation? Of course you don’t, but it runs into scores, Caswallon. And how many times have I seen the clans destroyed, the Aenir triumphant? Hundreds. Now I grow older and more frail, and the task is as great as ever it was.”

Caswallon smiled grimly. “I doubt that I can learn what you have to teach, old man. You are taking the clan back to before they were born, and then I shall seek help from a queen already dead. Do you hold more surprises for me, Taliesen?”

The Druid Lord did not answer. He leaned back, gazing at the stars, naming them in his mind until he fastened on the farthest, its light flickering like a guttering candle.

Taliesen pushed himself to his feet, his heart heavy, his mind tired. “Aye, I have more surprises, War Lord,” he said. “If we are to win, Caswallon, which is not likely, then you will change and suffer as no Farlain has before you.” Taliesen sighed. “I do not yet know how all this will come to pass, but I know that it will, for I have seen the Hawk Eternal.”

Caswallon was about to speak, but Taliesen raised his hand for silence. “No more words tonight, War Lord. For I am weary unto death.”

Oracle watched the Aenir in the valley below. They had slaughtered three prime steers and were preparing a feast. Since the invasion three days before not one enemy warrior had approached the cave. Heavy of heart, Oracle walked back to the entrance and on into the small room at the rear of the cave. He had seen the death of Durk, and now from beneath his narrow cot bed he pulled an oak chest, brass-edged and finely worked. From it he took a rusting mail shirt and helm and an old broadsword wrapped in oiled cloth. He donned the mail shirt noting, with a wry grin, that it no longer hung well on his bony frame. Man aged less well than iron. Pushing back his white hair, he placed the helm firmly on his head. Looping sword and scabbard about his waist, he moved back into the sunlight and began the long walk into the valley.

Many were the thoughts as he strode down toward the feast. He remembered his childhood, and the first Hunt, his glory at the Games when he carried the Whorl Stone farther than any man before him. He remembered his love, Astel, a spirited lass from among the Haesten, and how she had sickened and died during their first winter together. The sense of loss crippled him still, though she remained young in his memory while he withered in reality.

The trees thinned out and he walked on.

Then had come the day when he approached the Council following his success in the war against the Lowland raiders. Great days, when his name was sung throughout the Farlain. He believed they would make him king. Instead they had rejected him, and in his fury he had sworn never to return to the clan.

With a few valiant followers he had risked everything sailing to Vallon. There he overpowered the druids who manned the Gate, and journeyed to the world beyond. For two years he fought alongside the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Regret touched him as the long suppressed memory of his shame rose to his mind. Sigarni had dismissed him, stripping him of rank. Oracle and his followers had then crossed the Gate once more to a distant land.

And what a land it was, green and fertile, with rolling hills and verdant valleys, broad plains and tall cities of glowing marble. It was a country riven by civil war, petty chieftains and robber princes vying with one another for control. Oracle had arrived in a world made for his talents. Within two years he was a general. Within five he led an army of three thousand men against Vashinu, the Prince of Foxes, and smashed him in a battle near Duncarnin. Five years later he crowned himself king and was acclaimed from northern mountains to southern seas as the undisputed Lord of the Isles, High King.

Had he been possessed of compassion, or even foresight, he might have changed that troubled land, bringing peace and prosperity to his subjects. But he had been a man of war, and had learned nothing of diplomacy, nor forgiveness. He persecuted his enemies, creating greater hatreds and thus more enemies. Two rebellions he crushed, but the third saw his army broken.

Wounded and alone, his few close friends dead or captured, he fled north and there vainly attempted to gather a force. For three years he fought minor campaigns, but always the great victories slipped away until at last he was betrayed by his lieutenants and turned over to his enemies. Sentenced to death, he had broken from his prison, killing two guards, stolen a horse, and made his way southeast to the Gateway once more. Twice they almost caught him, an arrow piercing his back. But he had been strong then, and he carried the wound to the druid’s cave-the cave he had stumbled from so many years before, when first he laid eyes on the Land of Isles.

There had been a druid there, who had gazed upon him, shocked and bewildered. He had been one of the men Oracle had overpowered long before on Vallon. Oracle, weak from loss of blood, asked the man to send him back home. He had done so without argument.

Now the old man gazed down on the fruits of his ambition, and bitter was the taste. The valley was scarred by the invasion, burnt-out homes black against the greenery, enemy soldiers trampling the wheat in the fields. By the long hall were the guards, and within were the captured women of three clans, kept in chains to endure the lusts of the conquerors.

Men looked up from their work as the old man came in sight, then began to gather and point at him. Laughter began and sped as warriors came running to watch him. The laughter touched Oracle’s mind like acid. In his day men had quailed to see him thus attired. Now he was a figure of fun. He drew his sword, and the laughter subsided.

Then someone called, “Run, lads. It’s the entire clan army!”

And they mocked him, spreading out in a circle about him.

“Where is your leader?” he asked.

“Hark, it speaks! You can talk to me, old man. Tell me your business.”

“I seek the dog, not its droppings,” said Oracle.

The man’s face reddened as he heard the laughter and felt the acid. He drew his sword and leaped forward. Oracle parried his thrust, reversing a cut that half severed the man’s neck.

The laughter died, replaced by the sharp, sliding hiss of swords being drawn.

“Leave him. He interests me,” said Asbidag, striding through the crowd-Drada to his right side, Tostig at his left. He halted some five paces from Oracle, grinning as he noticed the rusted mail shirt.

“I am the leader. Say what you must.”

“I have nothing to say, spawn of Agrist. I came here to die. Will you join me?”

“You want to fight me, old man?”

“Have you the stomach for it?”

“Yes. But first tell me where your clan has gone. Where are they hiding, and what do they plan?”

Oracle grinned. “They are hiding all around you, and they plan your destruction.”

“I think you can tell me more than that. Take him!”

The men surged forward. Oracle’s sword flashed twice and men fell screaming. The old man reversed his blade, driving it deep into the belly of the nearest warrior. In his pain and rage the Aenir lashed back with his own sword, cleaving Oracle’s ribs and piercing his lungs. He doubled over and fell, blood gushing from the wound.

“Get back, you fools!” shouted Asbidag, punching men aside. Oracle struggled to rise, but the Aenir War Lord pushed him back to the earth, kneeling beside him.

“You got your wish, old man. But you’ll be blind in Valhalla, for I’ll cut out your eyes unless you tell me what I wish to know.”

Oracle heard his voice as from a great distance, and then another sound burst upon his mind: a woman’s voice, screaming in hatred. He thought he recognized it, but his vision swam and he did not feel the knife blade that pierced his throat.

Asbidag turned as Morgase plunged the knife again and again into the old man’s neck. Tears were falling from her eyes and her sobbing screams unsettled the warriors around her. Asbidag hauled her to her feet, slapping her face; she calmed down then, her eyes misting over as she exerted her will, blanketing down the hatred that had overwhelmed her.

“You knew this man?” asked Asbidag softly.

“Yes. He was a general in the army that saw my father slain. He raped my mother and after that she killed herself. He was Caracis, Sigarni’s general.”

“I don’t know these names,” said Asbidag. “You told me your land was ten thousand leagues from here. You must be mistaken. This old man was a clansman.”

“Do you think I would forget such a man?”

“No, I do not. But there is something you have left out, my little dark lady. How is he here?”

“I thought he was dead. He… vanished twenty-five years ago.” Asbidag grunted, then kicked the corpse. “Well, whatever he was, he’s dead now,” said Asbidag, but his gaze rested on Morgase as she walked back to the house.

Drada wandered to his father’s side. “Do you really think she would remember? She must have been a small child twenty-five years ago.”

“It worries me,” answered Asbidag, still watching the woman. “I’ve never heard of her realm. I think she’s bewitched.”

“What will you do?”

“What I choose. I think she’s lying about something, but it can wait. She’s far too good a bed partner to spoil now.”

“And the Farlain, Father?”

“We’ll set after them tomorrow. Ongist has driven the Pallides west and outflanked them, driving them back toward the east, and Barsa’s Timber Wolves. Tomorrow we march, and if Vatan favors us we’ll arrive while there is still a little sport.”

The journey deep into the mountains was difficult, for many of the clan folk were old, while others struggled to carry babies and infants. Even among the young and strong, the defeat and the flight that followed it brought a strength-sapping sense of despair. Rain made the slopes slippery and treacherous, but the straggling column moved on, ever closer to Attafoss. Maeg passed the sleeping Donal to a clansman, who grinned as he settled the boy’s head on his shoulder. Then she walked away from the column to where Caswallon was issuing orders to a group of warriors. He saw her coming and waved the men away. Maeg thought he looked tired; there was little spring in his step and his eyes were dull. He smiled and took her hand.

“You’re not resting enough,” she said.

“Soon, Maeg.”

Together they watched the clan make their way toward the last slope of the mountains before Attafoss. Already in the distance they could hear the roaring of the great falls. Day by day more stragglers joined the exodus and now almost six thousand people followed Caswallon. The long column of men, women, and children was moving slowly, suffering from the frenzied pace of three days’ marching. The old and the very young were placed at the center of the column. Behind these came the rear guard, while young women strode at the head armed with bows and knives. There was little conversation. The young men were desperate to leave their families in safety on Vallon, so that they could turn back and rend the enemy. The old men were lost in thoughts of youth, regretting their inability to wreak vengeance on the Aenir and ashamed of their faltering pace. The women, young and old, thought of homes lost behind them and the danger their men would face in the days ahead.

Warriors took it in turns to carry the younger children. These tasks were done in good heart, for they were all clan. All one in the spirit of the Farlain.

“You saved the clan, Caswallon,” said Maeg, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist and smiling up at him, noting the lines of tension on his face, the dark circles beneath his green eyes.

He kissed her hair. “I don’t need lifting, lovely lady, but thank you for saying it. I seem to be clinging by my fingertips to an icy cliff. There are so many problems. A messenger from Badraig says there is a force in the east. We know the Aenir are also following in the south. I am frightened by all of it. There is no room for a wrong decision now.”

“You will do what is best,” she said. “I have faith in you.”

“Oh, I have faith in myself, Maeg. But all men make mistakes.”

“Maggrig always said you were as cunning as a fox, and trying to out-think you was like catching wood smoke with your fingers.”

He grinned and the tension fell from him, though the fatigue remained.

“I will feel better when the clanswomen and children are safe and my thoughts can turn once more to simple tasks-like killing the Aenir.”

“You think that will be more simple?”

“Indeed it will. They think they have won, they see us running and believe us broken. But we will turn and they will find themselves staring into the tawny eye of the killing wolf.”

She turned to him, staring up into his angry eyes. “You will not let hate enter your soul?”

“No. Do not fear for me in that way. I do not hate the Aenir; they are what they are. No more do I hate the mountain lion who hunts my cattle. And yet I will fight and kill the lion.”

“Good. Hate would not sit well with you, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“How could I hold you in my heart and find room for hate?” he said, kissing her lips. “Now you must go, for I have much to do.”

Hitching up her skirt she ran along the column, found the warrior holding Donal, and thanked him for his help. The child was still sleeping and she took him back in her arms and walked on.

Caswallon wandered to the rear of the column where Leofas walked with the rear guard. Surrounded by younger men the burly warrior seemed grizzled and ancient, but his eyes shone as Caswallon approached.

“Well, we made it without incident,” he said.

“It looks that way,” Caswallon agreed.

Leofas scratched his beard. There was more grey than red in the hair, and Caswallon thought it had the look of rust on iron. Leofas was old, but he was tough and canny, and the day had not dawned when an enemy could take him lightly. He wore a glistening mail shirt of iron rings sewn to a leather base with silver thread. By his side were two short swords and in his hand an iron-capped quarterstaff.

“Did you mean what you said, Caswallon? About sending out people through the Druid’s Gate?”

“Yes.”

“Will they be safe?”

“Safer than here, my friend, believe me. A hundred of the older men will go with them, to help with the hunting and building.”

“And then what?”

“Then you and I will hunt a different game.”

The older man’s eyes gleamed and he grinned wolfishly. “It’s about time. I do not feel right heading away from the devils. My legs keep turning me about. I never thought the day would come when I’d care about what happened to the Pallides,” Leofas went on, “but I hope that old wolf Maggrig is safe.”

“He’s not a man to be surprised by a sudden attack. He would have had scouts out.”

“Yes, but so did we, Caswallon.”

Forty miles to the south and east Maggrig’s anger was mounting. He was tired of being herded toward the west, tired of skulking away from the enemy, and filled with a sense of dread. The Aenir had caught up with them on the afternoon of the day following the attack, but Pallides scouts had hit them with a storm of arrows and slowed their pursuit. Since then they had outflanked the clan to the east and the two groups were seemingly engaged in a deadly race, the Aenir endeavoring to outrun them and prevent the northward exodus. Rare cunning and an intimate knowledge of the land enabled Maggrig to stay ahead, but always the angle of the march was being shifted and the wily Pallides Hunt Lord had begun to suspect they were being herded west for a reason other than the obvious. It had seemed at first that the Aenir commander wanted to force a direct battle by cutting off their flight, but he had spurned two opportunities to do so. Once could have been put down to ignorance or lack of thought.

Twice was a different tale.

As the swordsman Intosh had pointed out, it could still be stupidity. Maggrig had grunted, dismissing the idea. “Any general who needs to rely on his opponent being an idiot is in sore trouble. No, I don’t think he wants a confrontation yet. I think there’s another Aenir force to the west of us. We are between a hammer and a hard rock.”

“We have limited choices,” said Intosh, squatting to the earth and sketching a rough map of the terrain ahead. “All we can do is react. We are hampered by the presence of our women and children.”

“According to our scouts,” said Maggrig, “the enemy has two thousand men. We have eight hundred who can fight, and seven hundred women. With older children who can handle a bow, we could muster sixteen hundred fighters.”

“To what purpose?” said Intosh. “We cannot take them on.”

“We must,” said Maggrig sadly. “Yes, we can continue to run, but each mile brings us closer to disaster. We must take the initiative.”

“We cannot win.”

“Then we’ll die, my friend, and we’ll take as many of the swine along the path as we can.”

Intosh’s eyes focused on Maggrig. The swordsman was also tired of running. “It is your decision and I will stand by you. But where do we make this stand?”

Maggrig knelt beside him and together they selected the battle site, tracing the lines of the land in the soft earth.

Dawn found the Aenir under Ongist marching through a wide valley. Ahead was a range of hills, thickly wooded with ancient oaks on the left slope, and to the east a higher hill clear of trees. Upon that hill was the shield ring of the Pallides, the rising sun glistening on the swords, spears, and helms of the clan, and shining into the eyes of the Aenir.

Ongist called his scouts to him. “How long before Barsa reaches us?”

“Another day,” said a lean, rangy forester. “Do we wait?”

Ongist considered it. To wait would mean sharing the glory-and the women. Shading his eyes he scanned the hill, making a rapid count. “How many would you think?”

The forester shrugged his shoulders. “Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand. But half of them must be women. Vatan’s balls, Ongist, we outnumber them by three to one!”

Drada had been insistent that no major battle should be joined until Barsa’s troops had linked with his, but what would Father say if Aenir warriors merely waited, apparently fearful of attacking a hill defended by women, old men, children, and a handful of warriors?

Calling his captains forward, Ongist ordered the advance.

The Aenir swept forward, screaming their battle cries and racing toward the hill. The slope was steep and arrows and spears hurtled among them, but the charge continued.

On the hilltop Maggrig drew his sword, settling his shield firmly in place on his left arm. The Aenir were halfway up the hill, the last of their warriors on the lower slopes, when Maggrig gave the signal to the warrior beside him. The man lifted his horn to his lips and let sound the war call of the Pallides.

In the woods behind the Aenir, eight hundred women dropped from the trees, notching arrows to the bowstrings. Silently they ran from cover, kneeling at the foot of the slope and bending their bows. The Aenir warriors running with their shields before them were struck down in their scores as black-shafted death hissed from behind. Ongist, at the center of the mass, turned as the screams began.

Hundreds of his men were down. Others had turned to protect themselves from this new assault. These only succeeded in showing their backs to the archers above.

Ongist cursed and ducked as an arrow flew by him to bury itself in the neck of his nearest companion. The charge had faltered. He had but one chance of victory, and that lay in charging the women archers below. He bellowed for his men to follow him and he began to run.

But at that moment Maggrig sounded the horn once more and the shield ring split as he led his fighters in a reckless attack on the enemy rear. Intosh beside him, the burly Hunt Lord cut and thrust his way into the Aenir pack. A sword nicked his cheek before the wielder fell with his throat opened, to be trampled by the milling mass.

Shaft upon shaft hammered into the Aenir ranks. Death was ahead of them-and behind they could hear the shrill battle cry of the Pallides: “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Faced with a hail of missiles many of the Aenir broke to the left, streaming away toward the safety of the trees, desperate to be clear of the rain of death. Ongist was furious. With a hard core of his personal carles he stood his ground, but the battle was lost. Arrows tore into his men, opening a gap in the shield wall, exposing Ongist to the enemy. Two shafts pierced the air, ripping into Ongist’s chest. With a grunt of pain he broke off the jutting shafts. Turning, Ongist saw Maggrig before him, his beard dark with blood, his eyes gleaming and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

Ongist lashed out weakly. Maggrig parried the blow with ease, lifting his hand for the archers to cease shooting. Ongist, the last Aenir alive, staggered, then gazed on the enemy with new eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, pushing himself to his knees with great effort.

“Bring him,” muttered Maggrig, walking past the dying Aenir general and on toward the trees.

Within the hour the Pallides were once more marching north and west. Behind them the crows settled on the Aenir dead-more than eleven hundred bodies stripped of armor and weapons littered the hillside. And nailed to a tree hung the body of Ongist, his ribs splayed grotesquely, his innards held in place with strips of wood. His eyes had been put out and his tongue torn from his mouth.

Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.

Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.

Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.

In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.

She laid her head against his neck. “I did not think we would get here safely,” she said.

He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.

Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.

Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed toward the woods. Suddenly Gaelen jerked as if stung. From his vantage point he could see into the trees, and just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a warrior, running bent over. The man had been wearing the horned helm of the Aenir.

“Oh, no!” he whispered. “Oh, Gods, no!”

“What is it?” asked Deva, swinging her head to glance back down the trail, expecting to see their pursuers close by.

“The Aenir are in the woods,” he said. “They’re waiting to hit the clan and I can’t warn them.”

Deva shaded her eyes, searching the timberline.

“I see nothing.”

“It was only one man. But I know there were more.”

Despair washed over the young man. “Let’s move,” he said, and they began to run down the grassy slopes, angling away from the woods.

Far below them Caswallon halted the column. Ahead was the forest of Atta, the dark and holy place of the druids. Beyond that, according to Taliesen, was the invisible bridge to Vallon. Caswallon called Leofas to him-and Badraig, who had returned from the west with news that the Aenir had split into several forces, the majority racing east at speed, the others vanishing into the mountains in small groups.

The scouting party had cornered twenty Aenir warriors and destroyed them, taking one alive whom they questioned at length. He would tell them little, save that they had been pursuing a man and a girl. Badraig killed the man swiftly and led his party back to Caswallon.

“What do you think?” asked Badraig. “Gaelen?”

“It could be. The girl might be Deva. Dirak’s scouts found the mutilated body of a clan girl they thought was Larain, and Agwaine said the two girls were together.”

“Why should the Aenir split their forces?” Leofas asked.

“I would bet it is Maggrig. The wily old fox is probably leading them a merry dance.”

Taliesen joined them, leaning on his oak staff, his long white hair billowing in the morning breeze. “Can we move on, War Lord? I am anxious to be on safe ground.”

“Not yet,” said Caswallon. “I am concerned about the second force you mentioned, Badraig. Why did they split up, do you think?”

“To re-form elsewhere. Why else?”

“Then where are they? We’ve searched the west.”

“They could have returned to the south.”

“Or come north,” said Leofas.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Caswallon, switching his gaze to the dark trees of Atta.

“How many would you say were in this second force?” Leofas asked.

Badraig shrugged. “It could be anything from two hundred to a thousand. Not more, though.”

“Then for once we are not outnumbered,” said Caswallon. “I think we’ll camp here, and tonight we’ll set fires. We know no force from the south can be on us before tomorrow past the noon.”

Badraig and Leofas spread the word and the women of the column cast around for firewood, though none approached the trees.

Within the forest Barsa waited patiently with his seven hundred and fifty archers, watching the Farlain make camp.

Unlike his half brother Ongist, Barsa was not a reckless man. Though neither was he intuitive, as his half brother Drada. Barsa was simply a trained killer of men who relied on his experience more than his intellect. Experience told him the Farlain did not know of his presence; he had avoided their scouts and taken only the best of his men, breaking into small parties and heading north, re-forming at the falls. He had been guessing as to the line of the clan march and was secretly pleased at the accuracy of his guess. He had no idea where they were ultimately heading, for the north was a mystery to the Aenir save that men said the sea was not far off. And when he had received the message from Ongist saying the Pallides were also racing north he had acted at once, dispatching three thousand to join his brother and taking eight hundred with him to this place.

It would please his father, and Barsa looked forward to basking in his praise. He could decimate the Farlain with his first volley. They would break and run and his men would have their pick of the clan maidens. Sadly they would then have to kill them. It was the one order that made no sense to Barsa; always the Aenir had taken captured women as house slaves and concubines-even wives. But in the mountains Asbidag’s orders had been specific.

Kill all the clansmen, women, and children.

An Aenir forester crept to Barsa’s side. “They are making camp. Should we attack tonight?”

It was a thought, but Barsa was loath to commit his men in the open for the clans outnumbered him. “No. We’ll wait for morning, as they enter.” The man nodded and moved silently back into the deeper darkness.

Beyond the line of campfires flickering on the open ground, Caswallon silently led a thousand warriors south and then east, circling toward the blackness of Atta forest. Once in the east the Farlain split into three forces, one led by Caswallon, the others led by Leofas and Badraig. Armed only with short swords and hunting knives the men entered the trees, moving silently forward. It was slow progress.

The moon was bright above the mountains, but its light was diffused by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks that made up the bulk of the forest. Every three or four steps Caswallon closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him, listening for movement in the bushes ahead. The hoarse rasp of cloth on wood came to him and Caswallon raised a hand. The men behind him stopped. He pointed to the bushes; a clansman crept forward with knife in hand.

In the bushes the Aenir archer dozed-and died without waking as the razor-sharp hunting knife slid across his throat. Beyond him slept scores of warriors. With bright knives the clansmen moved in among them, killing them as they slept.

The night hunters moved on. Leofas and his group crept deep into the forest to the north, continuing their silent slaughter before working their way down the western side while Badraig, reaching the northernmost point, turned south.

An hour before dawn a cry split the night silence as a clansman’s blade slit open an Aenir throat. The man awoke as the knife cut into him, screaming a warning before dying as six inches of iron slashed through his neck.

Barsa leaped to his feet, knowing instantly that he had been tricked. He bellowed a warning to those nearest and drew his sword. Aenir foresters ran to him and then he saw the clansmen bearing down in the gloom. He glanced right and left. He had fewer than a hundred men with him. But if the men of the clan had entered the forest, that left the women alone on open ground. Barsa turned and sprinted south. If they could only hack their way past the women and old men they would be clear.

The Aenir ran from the trees and Barsa’s heart sank. A line of women kneeling in the grass, bows bent. He threw himself to the ground as the shafts whistled home.

A second volley hammered into their ranks and then the clansmen were upon them. Barsa leaped to his feet and parried a thrust from a short sword, sweeping a double-handed blow to the clansman’s unprotected head and caving in the skull. A second man fell to his sword, and a third, as he roared his defiance at them. Then the clansmen fell back, and a warrior strode through their ranks. The man was tall, his long black hair tied at the nape of the neck, a trident beard giving him a sardonic appearance. His eyes were green and in his hand he carried a short sword. Beside Barsa the last of the Aenir foresters died with an arrow in his ribs. Barsa was not afraid of death. He had earned his place in the Grey God’s hall.

Leaning on his sword, he grinned at the blood-drenched clansman.

“Come on then, mountain dung. I’ll see your corpse before you see mine.”

The clansman stepped forward as Barsa’s sword flashed in the air. He parried it, ducking beneath the swing to thrust at the Aenir’s groin. Barsa leaped back, his blade plunging downward. The clansman blocked the blow, iron clashing on iron as the men circled. The Aenir had the advantage of the long sword, but the clansman moved swiftly, his green eyes probing for weaknesses in the Aenir’s defense.

“Frightened, clansman?” sneered Barsa. The man did not reply, but leaped forward with a sword raised. Barsa slashed wildly. The man parried, then spun on his heel to hammer his elbow into Barsa’s face. The Aenir staggered back, then felt the searing agony of a sword blade buried deep in his belly. An awful cry tore from his throat and he pitched to the ground, writhing and straining to free the blade. Then the pain faded, washed from his body by the rushing blood. He rolled to his back, looking up at the sky above him, waiting to see the Valkyrie ride down for his soul.

He wondered if Asbidag would mourn for him. “I’ll cut out his eyes,” he heard someone say. Barsa knew panic; he did not want to be blind in the Hall of Heroes.

“Leave him be,” said the clansman who had cut him.

Relief and release came together, and the light faded.