“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.”
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.
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