“I don’t know. I was thinking about something else.”
“It is good you are a thinker, brother. For you know Father cannot stand you.”
“I know—but then I think he likes none of us.”
Ongist laughed aloud. “You could be right,” he whispered, “but he raised us to be like him, and we are. If I thought I’d get away with it I’d gut the bloated old toad. But you and my other dear brothers would turn on me. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. We are a family built on hatred.”
“And yet we thrive,” said Ongist, pouring mead into his cup and raising it to toast his brother.
“Indeed, we do, brother.”
“This plan of yours, it concerns the clans?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you suggest invasion. Boredom sits ill with me.”
“Wait and see, Ongist.”
“We’ve waited a year already. How much longer?”
“Not long. Have patience.”
The following afternoon Drada made his way to the ruins of the Garden of the Senses, a half acre of blooms, trees, and shrubs that had once been a place of meditation for the Ateris intellectuals. Many of the winding paths had disappeared now, along with a hundred or so delicate flowers choked by weeds and man’s indifference.
And yet, so far, the roses thrived. Of all things Drada had yet encountered on this cruel world, the rose alone found a place in his feelings. He could sit and gaze at them for hours, their beauty calming his mind and allowing him to focus on his problems and plans.
As he had on so many such afternoons, Drada pushed his way through the trailing undergrowth to a rock-pool fringed with wooden benches. Unclipping the brooch that fastened his red cloak, he chose the west-facing bench and sat in the sunshine.
Unwilling to incur Asbidag’s displeasure, he had spent the morning watching the flaying of Martellus. The scene had been an unpleasant distraction to the young Aenir warrior; he had seen men flayed before, indeed had witnessed more barbarous acts. And they bored him. But then most of what life had to offer ultimately left Drada bored. It seemed to the young warrior that the journey from birth screech to death rattle was no more than a meaningless series of transient pleasures and pain, culminating at last in the frustration of missed moments and lost opportunities.
He thought of his father and grinned wolfishly. Asbidag, the destroyer of nations, the bringer of blood. The most brutish warrior of a generation of warriors. He had nothing to offer the world, save ceaseless agony and destruction. He had no genuine thoughts of empire, for it was alien to him to consider building anything of worth. He lived to fight and kill, dreaming only of the day when at last he would be summoned to the hall of the Grey God to recite the litany of his conquests.
Drada shivered, though the sun was warm.
Asbidag had sired eleven sons. Three had died in other wars, one had been strangled by Asbidag soon after birth during a row with the mother. She had died less easily.
Now seven sons remained. And what a brood, cast as they were in the image of their father.
Of them all Drada hated Tostig the most. A vile man of immense power, Tostig possessed all the innate cruelty of the natural coward. A pederast who could only gratify himself by killing the victims of his lust. One day I will kill you, thought Drada. When Father is dead. I will kill you all. No, he thought. Not all. I will spare Orsa the Baresark, for he has no ambition, and despite his frenzy in battle, carries no hate.
Drada leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight.
“So this is where you plan your campaigns.”
Drada opened his eyes. “Welcome, lady. Please join me.” He didn’t like to be disturbed here, but with Morgase he was careful to mask his feelings.
As always she was dressed in black, this time a shimmering gown of silk and satin. Her dark hair was braided, hanging over one marble-white shoulder. She sat beside him, draping her arm along the back of the bench, her fingers hovering near his neck. “Always so courteous, Drada. A rare thing among the Aenir.”
“My father sent me away as a child to the court of Rhias. I was brought up there.”
“You were a hostage?”
“More a viper in the bosom of a future enemy.”
“I see.” Her hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing the firm flesh of his upper arm. “Why do you not like me?” she asked, her bright eyes mocking him.
“I do not dislike you,” he countered, with an easy lie. “But let us assume that I made love to you here and now. By tonight my bloody corpse would be alongside the unfortunate Martellus.”
“Perhaps,” she said, interest fading from her eyes. She took her hand from his shoulder and glanced around the garden. “A pretty place.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning a war against the clans?”
“They are not the enemy.”
“Come now, Drada, do you think I never talk with your father? Do you see me merely as a mistress? Someone who shares only his bed?”
“No, lady.”
“Then tell me.”
“I am planning for our visit to the Farlain. We have been invited to view the Games.”
“How dull.”
“Indeed it is,” he agreed.
“Tell me, then, if you were planning a war against the clans, how would you go about it?”
“This is a game?”
“Why not?”
“Very well. First tell me how you would plan it, lady, and then I shall add my own refinements.”
“Are you always this cautious?”
“Always,” he said, smiling.
She leaned back, closing her eyes as she relaxed in thought. She was beautiful but Drada instantly quelled the desire that surged within him. It confused him momentarily, for in the six months she had been with Asbidag, Drada had never been attracted to her. Her eyes flickered open and the answer came to him. There was something reptilian in those eyes. He shuddered.
“Extermination,” she said triumphantly.
“Explain,” he whispered.
“Conquering a city can be considered in a number of ways. You may desire to take over the existing enterprise of that city; therefore you would take it with a minimum loss of life and make the inhabitants your servants. In this way you would merely transfer ownership of the enterprise. But with the clans it is a different matter. The Aenir desire only the land, and obviously the livestock. But not the people. They are a wild race, they would not tolerate serfdom. Therefore an invasion against the Farlain would be a prelude to the extermination of the people.”
“You would not advocate taking the women as slaves?” asked Drada.
“No. Use them by all means to satisfy the lusts of the warriors, but then kill them. Kill all the clans. Then the land is truly Aenir.”
“That is fine as the object of the war. How would you go about invasion?”
“I don’t know the terrain, and therefore could not supply answers to logistical problems,” said Morgase.
“Neither do I.”
“And that is why you plan so carefully for your visit to their Games?”
“You speak of logistical problems, Morgase. You have been involved in the planning of war?”
“Are you surprised?”
He considered the question for a moment. “No, I am not.”
“Good. We should be friends, Drada, for we have much in common.”
“It would appear so, lady.”
“Tell me then, as a friend, what do you think of me?”
“I think you are intelligent and beautiful.”
“Don’t speak the obvious,” she snapped. “Speak the truth.”
“I do not know enough about you to form a stronger opinion. Before today I thought you were merely an attractive woman, bright enough, who had seduced my father. Now I must think again.”
“Indeed you must. For I have plans of my own—great plans. And you can help me.”
“How so?”
> “First the Aenir must take the Farlain. Then we will talk.”
“Why is that so important? You have no dealings with the clans; they can mean nothing to you.”
“But then, my dear Drada, you do not know all that I know. There is a prize within the Farlain beyond the understanding of lesser mortals: the gateway to empires beyond counting.”
“How do you know this?”
“It is enough that I know.”
“What do you seek, Morgase?”
Her eyes glittered and she laughed, reaching out to stroke his bearded face. “I seek revenge, my handsome thinker. Simply that, for now.”
“On whom?”
“On a woman who murdered my father and ordered my mother raped. A woman who stole an empire that ought to have been mine—that would have been mine.” Her reptilian eyes glittered as she spoke, and her tongue darted over her lips. Drada hid his distaste. “Will you be my friend, Drada? Will you aid me in my quest?”
“I serve my father, lady. But I will be your friend.”
“I admire caution, Drada,” she said, rising. Her fingers stroked the skin of his throat and he was amazed to find arousal once more stirring his blood. “I admire it—as long as it is accompanied by ambition. Are you ambitious?”
“I am the son of Asbidag,” he said softly.
As he watched her leave, the fear began. He had underestimated her. She was chilling, clever, and utterly ruthless. Yet another viper in our basket, he thought.
Caswallon was gone for three days, returning just after dawn as Maeg administered to the infant, Donal. He stood silently in the doorway, listening to the gentle words she crooned as she cleaned and oiled him. Caswallon closed his eyes for a moment, his emotions rising and threatening to unman him. He cleared his throat. She turned, her hair falling across her face, then she swept it back and smiled.
He knelt beside her. The child reached for him, giggling. Caswallon lifted the boy and patted his back as his son’s small chubby arms tried to encircle his neck.
Caswallon returned Donal to his mother, who dressed him in a woolen undershirt and a light tunic, and they moved downstairs to the kitchen where Kareen was preparing breakfast. Leaving Donal with the girl, Caswallon took Maeg by the hand and they left the house to watch the sunrise over Druin. Maeg said nothing as they walked, sensing the weight of sadness Caswallon carried.
They reached the crest of a hill and sat beneath a spreading oak. “I am so sorry, Maeg, my love,” said Caswallon, taking her hand and kissing it.
“For what? A man will give way to anger now and again.”
“I know. But you are the one person in the world I’d never seek to hurt.”
“Foolish man, do you think you can hurt me with a little broken crockery?”
“Why did you marry me?” he asked suddenly.
“Why are men so foolish?” she countered.
“No, I mean it. Why?”
She looked at him closely and then, seeing the sorrow in his green eyes, sensed the burden he was bearing. Reaching up, she stroked his beard and then curled her arm about his neck and pulled him down to kiss her.
“No one can answer such a question. I didn’t like you when you approached me at the Games; I saw you as an arrogant Farlain raider. But after Maggrig sent you away I found myself thinking about you often. Then, when I awoke that day and found you in my room, I hated you. I wanted you slain. But as the days passed thoughts of you grew in my mind. And when you walked into the Long Hall on that winter’s night, your beard stiff with ice, I knew that I loved you. But now tell me why you risked your life to wed me.”
Gently he eased her from him, cupping her face in his hands. “Because before I saw you I had no life to lose,” he said simply.
For a long time they sat beneath the tree, saying nothing, enjoying the warmth of the risen sun, until at last Maeg spoke. “Now tell me truly, Caswallon, what is troubling you?”
“I cannot. I have given a promise. But I can say this: The old days are finished, and what we have here is perhaps the last golden summer of the Farlain. I know this, and the knowledge destroys me.”
“The Aenir?” she asked.
“And our own stupidity.”
“No one lives forever, Caswallon. A man, or a woman, may die at any time. That is why today is so important.”
“I know.”
“Yes, you do. But you’ve not lived it. Suppose you are right, and the Aenir destroy us next month, or next year. Suppose, further, that they kill us both . . .”
“No! I’ll not even think of that!”
“Think of it!” she commanded, pulling away from him. “What difference all this heartache? For the Aenir are not here today. On this morning we have each other. We have Donal and Gaelen. We have peace, we have love. How often have you said that tomorrow’s problems can be dealt with tomorrow?”
“But I could have changed it.”
“And that is the real reason for your sorrow. You refused to be considered for Hunt Lord, and denied yourself a place on the Council. Now you suffer for it. But one man will not thwart a race like the Aenir. They are killers all. What do they seek? War and death. Conquest and bloodshed. They will pass, for they build nothing.”
“I have made you angry,” he said.
“Yes, you have, for you have allowed fear to find a place in your heart. And there it has grown to fill you with defeat. And that is not what I expect from you, Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“What do you expect?” he asked, smiling.
“I expect you to be a man always. You are angry because Cambil has allowed an Aenir company to attend the Games.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they will scout our lands and learn that which should have cost them blood.”
“Then see they are escorted here. Surround them with scouts.”
“I cannot do that. The Council . . .”
“A pox on the Council! You are one of the richest men in the three valleys. As such, you are a man of influence. There are others who agree with you: Leofas, for example. Find a hundred men to do your bidding. And one more thing. Kareen was walking on the east hills yesterday and she saw men running around the walls of Ateris. Others were practicing with the bow and spear.”
“So? The Aenir have Games of their own.”
“We’ve not seen such a practice before.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“The Aenir are bringing twenty men. I think they will ask to be allowed to take part in the Games.”
“For what purpose?”
“To win.”
“It would never be allowed.”
“Cambil is Games Lord this year,” she said.
“It is unthinkable,” he whispered. “But there could be many advantages. If they could prove themselves superior it would boost the morale of their warriors and, equally, diminish our own. And they would earn the right to travel the mountains.”
“That is better. That is the Caswallon I know.”
“Indeed it is. I should have spoken to you before, Maeg.”
Caswallon took Gaelen and Gwalchmai with him to observe the strange antics of the Aenir. It seemed that half of Asbidag’s army at Aesgard was at play. The plain before the city was sectioned off by tents, stalls, and ropes, creating a running track, an archery field, a series of spear lanes, and a vast circle at the center of which men wrestled and boxed, or fought with sword and shield. Strength events were also under way.
“It is like the Games,” said Gwalchmai. “How long have they been doing this?”
Caswallon shrugged. “Kareen saw them yesterday.”
“They have some fine athletes,” observed Gaelen. “Look at that white-haired runner leading the pack. He moves like the wind.”
On the plain below Drada and Ongist were watching the foot races with interest. Ongist had wagered ten pieces of gold on Snorri Wolfson to beat Drada’s favorite, the ash-blond Borak. Snorri was trailing by thirty paces when the
y reached the last lap.
“A curse on the man!” snarled Ongist.
“He is a sprinter,” said Drada, grinning. “He’s not built for distance.”
“What about a wager against Orsa?”
Drada shook his head. “No one will beat him in the strength events.” The brothers wandered across the running track to the twelve men contesting the weights. They were drawing lots to decide which man would first attempt the hurling and Drada and Ongist settled on the grass as the draw was decided.
One man approached a cart on which was set a block of marble. It was shaped as a ball and carefully inscribed with the names of Ateris’s greatest poets. Before today it had rested on a velvet-covered stand in the city library.
It weighed over sixty pounds.
The man placed his hand on either side of the sphere, bent his knees, and lifted it to his chest. He approached the marker stake, hoisted the sphere above his head, and with a grunt of effort, threw it forward. With a dull thud it buried itself in the ground some five paces ahead. Three officials prized it loose with spears and rolled it back to the marker stake, lifting it for the next thrower.
Drada and Ongist watched with scant interest as the men took their turns until, at last, Orsa stripped himself of his shirt and stood grinning by the stake. He waved to his brothers.
Two officials lifted the sphere into his arms. Even before they were clear Orsa shifted the weight to his right hand, dipped his shoulder, and hurled the sphere into the air. It sailed over the other marks by some three paces; as it landed it shattered into a score of pieces.
“Must have hit a buried rock,” muttered Ongist.
Orsa ambled across to them. “Easy,” he said, pointing at the ruined marble.
Drada nodded. “You are still the strongest, brother.”
“No need for proof,” said Orsa. “Waste of time.”
“True,” Drada agreed.
“I’m hungry,” said Orsa, wandering away without another word. Drada watched him go, marveling anew at the sheer size of the man. His upper arms were as large as most men’s thighs.
“By Vatan, he’s a monster,” said Ongist.
Drada looked away. In a family of monsters it seemed ironic that Ongist should so describe the only one among them who hated no one.