by David Gemmel
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 slau
ghter 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.