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 slaughter 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.
Asbidag rode down the valley and removed his helm. He summoned his captains.
Caswallon could not hear the commands he issued, but he could guess, for the eyes of the Aenir turned west and the army took up its weapons and ran toward the mountainside.
“Do not shoot until I do,” he called to the hidden archers. Caswallon notched a shaft to the string as the Aenir spread out along the foot of the slope. They advanced cautiously, many of them lifting the face guards of their helms the better to see the enemy. Caswallon grinned. He singled out a lean, wolfish warrior at the center of the advancing line. At fifty paces he stood, in plain sight of the Aenir, and drew back on the string. The shaft hissed through the air, hammering home in the forehead of the lead warrior.
The Aenir charged . . .
Into a black-shafted wall of death. Hundreds fell within a few paces, and the charge faltered and failed, the enemy warriors sprinting back out of bowshot.
Caswallon walked out into the open and sat down. Laying his bow beside him he opened his hip pouch, removing a hunk of dark bread. This he began to eat, staring down at the milling warriors.
Stung by the silent taunt of his presence, they charged once more. Calmly Caswallon replaced the bread in his pouch, notched an arrow to his bow, loosed the shaft, and grinned as it brought down a stocky warrior in full cry, the arrow jutting from his chest.
The Aenir raced headlong into a second storm of shafts that culled their ranks and halted them. Caswallon, still shooting carefully, eased his way back into the bushes, out of sight. The Aenir fled once more, leaving a mound of their dead behind them.
A young archer named Onic crept through the gorse to where Caswallon knelt. “We’ve all but exhausted our shafts,” he whispered.
“Pass the word to fall back,” said Caswallon.
In the valley Asbidag walked among the bodies, stopping to stare down at Cambil’s mutilated corpse. “Remove the head and set it on a spear by his house,” he told his son Tostig. The Aenir lord unbuckled his breastplate, handing it to a grim-faced warrior beside him. Then he looked around him, eyes raking the timber and the gaunt snow-covered peaks in the distance.
“I like this place,” he said. “It has a good feeling to it.”
“But most of the Farlain escaped, Father,” said Tostig.
“Escaped? To where? All that’s out there is wilderness. By tonight Drada will be here, having finished off the Haesten. Ongist will be harrying the Pallides, driving the survivors west into our arms. Once they are destroyed we will take our men into the wilderness and finish the task—that’s if Barsa doesn’t do it before we arrive.”
“Barsa?”
“He is already in the west with two thousand forest-trained warriors from the south. They call themselves Timber Wolves, and by Vatan they’re a match for any motley ragbag of stinking clansmen.”
“We took no women,” complained Tostig. “Most of the young ones killed themselves. Bitches!”
“Drada will bring women. Do not fret.”
Asbidag began to move among the bodies once more, turning over the women and the young girls. Finally he stood up and walked toward the house of Cambil.
“Who are you seeking?” asked Tostig, walking beside him.
“Cambil’s daughter. Hair like gold, and a spirited girl. Unspoiled. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. And I told you to set Cambil’s head on a spear!”
Tostig blanched and fell back. “At once, Father,” he stammered, running back to the bodies and drawing his sword.
Durk of the Farlain was known as a morose, solitary man. He had no friends and had chosen to spend his life in the high country west of the valley, where he built a small house of timber and grey stone and settled down to a life of expected loneliness. Durk had always been a loner, and even as a child had kept himself apart from his fellows. It was not, he knew, that he disliked people, more that he was not good with words. He had never learned how to engage in light conversation. Crowds unnerved him, always had, and he avoided the dance and the feasts. Girls found him surly and uncommunicative, men thought him standoffish and aloof. Year by year the young clansman felt himself to be more and more remote from his fellows. Durk found this hurtful, but knew that the blame lay within his own shy heart.
But that first winter alone had almost starved him out until his neighbor Onic introduced him to Caswallon’s night raids on bordering territories.
In the beginning Durk had disliked Caswallon. It was easy to see why: they were night and day, winter and summer. Where Caswallon smiled easily and joked often, Durk remained sullen with strangers and merely silent with companions.
Yet, for his part, Caswallon seemed to enjoy Durk’s company and little by little his easygoing, friendly nature wore away the crofter’s tough shell.
Through Caswallon Durk met Kareen, the gentle child of the house and, in spite of himself, had fallen in love with her. In the most incredible slice of good fortune ever to befall the dark-bearded Highlander, Kareen had agreed to marry him.
She transformed his dingy house into a comfortable home and made his joy complete by falling pregnant in the first month of their marriage. With her Durk learned to laugh at his own failings, and his shyness retreated. At their marriage he even danced with several of Kareen’s friends. Laughter and joy cove
red him, drawing him back into the bosom of the clan, filling the empty places in his heart.
Four days ago, in her eighth month, Kareen had returned to the valley to have the babe in the home of Larcia, wife of the councillor Tesk and midwife to the Farlain.
But last night Durk had heard the war horns blaring and he had set out for the valley, filled with apprehension. In the first light of dawn he had met the column of fleeing clansmen.
Tesk was not among them.
Caswallon had run forward to meet him, leading him away from the column. There Durk heard the news that clove his heart like an axe blade. Tesk had died with Cambil and almost eight hundred others. With them was Kareen. Caswallen had seen her in the circle at the last, a hunting knife in her hand, as the Aenir swept over them.
Durk did not ask why the rest of the clan had not raced back to die with them, although he dearly desired to.
“Come with us,” said Caswallon.
“I don’t think that I will, my friend,” Durk replied.
Caswallon bowed his head, his green eyes sorrowful. “Do what you must, Durk. The Gods go with you.”
“And with you, Caswallon. You are the leader at last.”
“I didn’t want it.”
“No, but you are suited to it. You always were.”
Now Durk stood at the timberline, gazing down into the valley, past the gutted homes and the Aenir tents, and on to the mounds of bodies in the center of the field.
He left the trees and began the long walk to his wife.
Two Aenir warriors watched him come. They stood, discarding their food, and moved to intercept him. He was walking so casually, as if on a morning stroll. Could he be a messenger, seeking peace? Or one of Barsa’s Timber Wolves, dressed like a clansman.
“You there!” called the first, holding up his hand. “Wait!”
The hand vanished in a crimson spray as Durk’s sword flashed through the air. The return cut clove the man’s neck. As he crumpled to the grass the second drew his sword and leaped forward. Durk ducked under a whistling sweep to gut the man.
He walked on. Kareen had been no beauty but her eyes were soft and gentle, and her mouth seemed always to be smiling, as if life held some secret enchantment and she alone knew the mystery of it.
In the valley Aenir warriors were moving about, eating, drinking, and swapping stories. The invasion had gone well and their losses had been few, save for the night before against the ferocious clan sword ring. Who would have believed that a few hundred men and women could have put up such a struggle?
Durk moved on.
No one stopped him or even seemed to notice him as he walked to the mound of bodies and began to search for Kareen. He found her at the center, lying beneath the headless corpse of Cambil. Gently he pulled her clear and tried to wipe the blood from her face, but it was dried hard and did not move.
By now his actions had aroused the interest of five warriors who wandered forward to watch him. Durk felt their eyes upon him and he laid Kareen to the ground. He stood and walked toward them, his face expressionless, his dark eyes scanning them.
They made no move toward their swords until he was almost upon them. It was as if his calm, casual movements cast an eldritch spell.
Durk’s sword whispered from the scabbard . . .
The spell broke.
The Aenir scrabbled for their blades as Durk’s sword licked into them. The first fell screaming; the second tumbled back, his throat spraying blood into the air. The third died as he knelt staring at the gushing stump of his sword arm. The fourth hammered his sword into Durk’s side, then reeled away dying as the clansman shrugged off the mortal wound and backhanded a return cut to the man’s throat. The fifth backed away, shouting for help.
Durk staggered and gazed down at the wound in his side. Blood flowed there, soaking his leggings and pooling at his feet. More Aenir warriors ran forward, stopping to stare at the dying clansman.
“Come on then, you woman killers! Face a man!” he snarled.
A warrior ran forward with sword raised. Durk contemptuously batted aside his wild slash and reversed his own blade into the man’s belly.
The clansman began to laugh, then suddenly he choked and staggered. Blood welled in his throat and he spat it clear.
“You miserable whoresons,” he said. “Warriors? You’re like a flock of sheep with fangs.”
Dropping his sword, he turned and staggered back to Kareen’s body, slumping beside her. He lifted her head.
A spear smashed through his back and he arched upward violently.
His vision swam; his last sight was Kareen’s face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have been here.”
Orsa gazed down at the body, then tore the spear from the clansman’s back.
“He was a madman,” muttered a warrior behind him.
“He was a man,” said Orsa, turning and pushing his way through the throng.
The Aenir milled around the corpses for a while, then drifted back to their forgotten meals.
“He was a fine swordsman,” said a lean, wolfish warrior, dusting off the chicken leg he’d dropped in the dirt.
“It was stupid,” offered a second man, gathering up a bulging wineskin.
“He was baresark,” said the first.
“Nonsense. We all know what happens to a berserker—he goes mad and attacks in a blind frenzy.”
“No, that’s what we do. The clansmen are different. They go cold and deadly, where we are hot. But the effect is the same. They don’t care.”
“Taken to thinking now, Snorri?”
“This place makes you think,” said Snorri. “Just look around you. Wouldn’t you be willing to die for a land like this?”
“I don’t want to die for any piece of land. A woman, maybe. Not dirt, though.”
“Did you enjoy the clanswoman you took last night?”
“Shut your stinking mouth!”
“Killed herself, I hear.”
“I said shut it!”
“Easy, Bemar! There’s no need to lose your temper.”
“It’s this place, it gets under my skin. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I felt it in my bones. Did you see the look in that clansman’s eyes? Like he thought we were nothing. A flock of sheep with fangs! You could laugh, but he had just slain seven men. Seven!”
“I know,” said Snorri. “It was the same last night with their sword ring. It was like hurling yourself against a cliff face. There was no give in them at all; no fear. That scout Ongist caught and blood-eagled—he didn’t make a sound, just glared at us as we opened his ribs. Maybe they’re not people at all.”
“What does that mean?” asked Bemar, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“The witch woman, Agnetha. She can turn men into animals. Maybe the clans are all animals turned into men.”
“That’s stupid.”
“They don’t act like men,” argued Snorri. “Have you heard one clansman beg? Have you heard any tales of such a thing?”
“They die like men,” said Bemar.
“I think they are more. You’ve heard Asbidag’s order. Not one man, woman, or child to be left alive. No slaves. All dead. Doesn’t it strike you as strange?”
“I don’t want to think about it. And I don’t want to talk about it,” muttered Bemar, hurling aside the wineskin.
“Wolf men, that’s what they are,” whispered Snorri.
Caswallon watched helplessly as Durk walked back toward the valley. He knew the clansman was seeking death, and he could not blame him for it. Kareen had been his life, his joy. Even as Maeg meant everything to Caswallon.
The clan column moved on and Caswallon took his place at the head alongside Leofas. Crofters from outlying areas joined the exodus as the day wore on, and many were the questions leveled at the new lord.
Where were they going? What would they do? What had happened to one man’s sister? Another’s brother? Why did they not turn and fight? Why had the Aenir attacked?
Where was Cambil? Who elected Caswallon?
The clansman lost his temper before dusk, storming away from the column and running quickly to the top of a nearby hill. Around him the dying sun lit the valleys of the Farlain, bathing them in blood. Caswallon sank to the ground, staring out over the distant peaks of High Druin.
“It’s all a lie,” he said softly. Then he began to chuckle. “You’ve lived a damn lie.”
Poor Cambil. Poor, lonely Cambil.
“You should not have feared me, cousin,” Caswallon told the gathering darkness. “Your father knew; he was wiser than you.”
The night before the young Caswallon had left his foster father’s house for the last time, Padris had taken him to the northern meadow and there presented him with a cloak, a dagger, and two gold pieces.
“I will not lie to you, Caswallon,” Padris had told him, his keen eyes sorrowful. “You have been a disappointment to me. I have raised you like my own son and you have great talents. But you are not worthy. You have a sharp mind, a good brain, and a strong body. You will prosper. But you are not worthy. There is in you a fear that I cannot fathom. Outwardly you are brave enough, and you take your beatings like a man. But you are not clan. You don’t care. What is it that you fear?”
“I fear nothing,” Caswallon had told him.
“Wrong. Now I see two fears. The one that you hide, and now the fear of showing it. Go in peace, Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“You were right, Padris,” Caswallon whispered to the sky. “This is what I feared. Chains. Questions. Responsibilities.”
Giving judgments over land disputes, settling rows over cattle or sheep, or thefts, or wayward wives and wandering husbands. Sentencing poachers, granting titles, deciding on the suitability of couples in love, and granting them the right to wed. Every petty problem a double-edged dagger.
And so he avoided the elections.
But what had it gained? The Farlain invaded and thousands dead throughout Druin. And what price the future?