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 awa
y 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 out
number 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.
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