Shaft upon shaft hammered into the Aenir ranks. Death was ahead of them—and behind they could hear the shrill battle cry of the Pallides: “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Faced with a hail of missiles many of the Aenir broke to the left, streaming away toward the safety of the trees, desperate to be clear of the rain of death. Ongist was furious. With a hard core of his personal carles he stood his ground, but the battle was lost. Arrows tore into his men, opening a gap in the shield wall, exposing Ongist to the enemy. Two shafts pierced the air, ripping into Ongist’s chest. With a grunt of pain he broke off the jutting shafts. Turning, Ongist saw Maggrig before him, his beard dark with blood, his eyes gleaming and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
Ongist lashed out weakly. Maggrig parried the blow with ease, lifting his hand for the archers to cease shooting. Ongist, the last Aenir alive, staggered, then gazed on the enemy with new eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, pushing himself to his knees with great effort.
“Bring him,” muttered Maggrig, walking past the dying Aenir general and on toward the trees.
Within the hour the Pallides were once more marching north and west. Behind them the crows settled on the Aenir dead—more than eleven hundred bodies stripped of armor and weapons littered the hillside. And nailed to a tree hung the body of Ongist, his ribs splayed grotesquely, his innards held in place with strips of wood. His eyes had been put out and his tongue torn from his mouth.
Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.
Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.
Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.
In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.
She laid her head against his neck. “I did not think we would get here safely,” she said.
He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.
Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.
Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed toward the woods. Suddenly Gaelen jerked as if stung. From his vantage point he could see into the trees, and just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a warrior, running bent over. The man had been wearing the horned helm of the Aenir.
“Oh, no!” he whispered. “Oh, Gods, no!”
“What is it?” asked Deva, swinging her head to glance back down the trail, expecting to see their pursuers close by.
“The Aenir are in the woods,” he said. “They’re waiting to hit the clan and I can’t warn them.”
Deva shaded her eyes, searching the timberline.
“I see nothing.”
“It was only one man. But I know there were more.”
Despair washed over the young man. “Let’s move,” he said, and they began to run down the grassy slopes, angling away from the woods.
Far below them Caswallon halted the column. Ahead was the forest of Atta, the dark and holy place of the druids. Beyond that, according to Taliesen, was the invisible bridge to Vallon. Caswallon called Leofas to him—and Badraig, who had returned from the west with news that the Aenir had split into several forces, the majority racing east at speed, the others vanishing into the mountains in small groups.
The scouting party had cornered twenty Aenir warriors and destroyed them, taking one alive whom they questioned at length. He would tell them little, save that they had been pursuing a man and a girl. Badraig killed the man swiftly and led his party back to Caswallon.
“What do you think?” asked Badraig. “Gaelen?”
“It could be. The girl might be Deva. Dirak’s scouts found the mutilated body of a clan girl they thought was Larain, and Agwaine said the two girls were together.”
“Why should the Aenir split their forces?” Leofas asked.
“I would bet it is Maggrig. The wily old fox is probably leading them a merry dance.”
Taliesen joined them, leaning on his oak staff, his long white hair billowing in the morning breeze. “Can we move on, War Lord? I am anxious to be on safe ground.”
“Not yet,” said Caswallon. “I am concerned about the second force you mentioned, Badraig. Why did they split up, do you think?”
“To re-form elsewhere. Why else?”
“Then where are they? We’ve searched the west.”
“They could have returned to the south.”
“Or come north,” said Leofas.
“My thoughts exactly,” said Caswallon, switching his gaze to the dark trees of Atta.
“How many would you say were in this second force?” Leofas asked.
Badraig shrugged. “It could be anything from two hundred to a thousand. Not more, though.”
“Then for once we are not outnumbered,” said Caswallon. “I think we’ll camp here, and tonight we’ll set fires. We know no force from the south can be on us before tomorrow past the noon.”
Badraig and Leofas spread the word and the women of the column cast around for firewood, though none approached the trees.
Within the forest Barsa waited patiently with his seven hundred and fifty archers, watching the Farlain make camp.
Unlike his half brother Ongist, Barsa was not a reckless man. Though neither was he intuitive, as his half brother Drada. Barsa was simply a trained killer of men who relied on his experience more than his intellect. Experience told him the Farlain did not know of his presence; he had avoided their scouts and taken only the best of his men, breaking into small parties and heading north, re-forming at the falls. He had been guessing as to the line of the clan march and was secretly pleased at the accuracy of his guess. He had no idea where they were ultimately heading, for the north was a mystery to the Aenir save that men said the sea was not far off. And when he had received the message from Ongist saying the Pallides were also racing north he had acted at once, dispatching three thousand to join his brother and taking eight hundred with him to this place.
It would please his father, and Barsa looked forward to basking in his praise. He could decimate the Farlain with his first volley. They would break and run and his men would have their pick of the clan maidens. Sadly they would then have to kill them. It was the one order that made no sense to Barsa; always the Aenir had taken captured women as house slaves and concubines—even wives. But in the mountains Asbidag’s orders had been specific.
Kill all the clansmen, women, and children.
An Aenir forester crept to Barsa’s side. “They are making camp. Should we attack tonight?”
It was a thought, but Barsa was loath to commit his men in the open for the clans outnumbered him. “No. We’ll wait for morning, as they enter.” The man nodded and moved silently back into the deeper darkness.
Beyond the line of campfires flickering on the open ground, Caswallon silently led a thousand warriors south and then east, circling toward the blackness of Atta forest. Once in the east the Farlain split into three forces, one led by Caswallon, the others le
d by Leofas and Badraig. Armed only with short swords and hunting knives the men entered the trees, moving silently forward. It was slow progress.
The moon was bright above the mountains, but its light was diffused by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks that made up the bulk of the forest. Every three or four steps Caswallon closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him, listening for movement in the bushes ahead. The hoarse rasp of cloth on wood came to him and Caswallon raised a hand. The men behind him stopped. He pointed to the bushes; a clansman crept forward with knife in hand.
In the bushes the Aenir archer dozed—and died without waking as the razor-sharp hunting knife slid across his throat. Beyond him slept scores of warriors. With bright knives the clansmen moved in among them, killing them as they slept.
The night hunters moved on. Leofas and his group crept deep into the forest to the north, continuing their silent slaughter before working their way down the western side while Badraig, reaching the northernmost point, turned south.
An hour before dawn a cry split the night silence as a clansman’s blade slit open an Aenir throat. The man awoke as the knife cut into him, screaming a warning before dying as six inches of iron slashed through his neck.
Barsa leaped to his feet, knowing instantly that he had been tricked. He bellowed a warning to those nearest and drew his sword. Aenir foresters ran to him and then he saw the clansmen bearing down in the gloom. He glanced right and left. He had fewer than a hundred men with him. But if the men of the clan had entered the forest, that left the women alone on open ground. Barsa turned and sprinted south. If they could only hack their way past the women and old men they would be clear.
The Aenir ran from the trees and Barsa’s heart sank. A line of women kneeling in the grass, bows bent. He threw himself to the ground as the shafts whistled home.
A second volley hammered into their ranks and then the clansmen were upon them. Barsa leaped to his feet and parried a thrust from a short sword, sweeping a double-handed blow to the clansman’s unprotected head and caving in the skull. A second man fell to his sword, and a third, as he roared his defiance at them. Then the clansmen fell back, and a warrior strode through their ranks. The man was tall, his long black hair tied at the nape of the neck, a trident beard giving him a sardonic appearance. His eyes were green and in his hand he carried a short sword. Beside Barsa the last of the Aenir foresters died with an arrow in his ribs. Barsa was not afraid of death. He had earned his place in the Grey God’s hall.
Leaning on his sword, he grinned at the blood-drenched clansman.
“Come on then, mountain dung. I’ll see your corpse before you see mine.”
The clansman stepped forward as Barsa’s sword flashed in the air. He parried it, ducking beneath the swing to thrust at the Aenir’s groin. Barsa leaped back, his blade plunging downward. The clansman blocked the blow, iron clashing on iron as the men circled. The Aenir had the advantage of the long sword, but the clansman moved swiftly, his green eyes probing for weaknesses in the Aenir’s defense.
“Frightened, clansman?” sneered Barsa. The man did not reply, but leaped forward with a sword raised. Barsa slashed wildly. The man parried, then spun on his heel to hammer his elbow into Barsa’s face. The Aenir staggered back, then felt the searing agony of a sword blade buried deep in his belly. An awful cry tore from his throat and he pitched to the ground, writhing and straining to free the blade. Then the pain faded, washed from his body by the rushing blood. He rolled to his back, looking up at the sky above him, waiting to see the Valkyrie ride down for his soul.
He wondered if Asbidag would mourn for him. “I’ll cut out his eyes,” he heard someone say. Barsa knew panic; he did not want to be blind in the Hall of Heroes.
“Leave him be,” said the clansman who had cut him.
Relief and release came together, and the light faded.
Chapter Nine
In the early-morning sunlight the clanswomen stripped the Aenir dead of all weapons and dispatched those warriors still clinging to life. Caswallon walked into the forest with many others of the attacking party, stopping at a fast-moving stream and removing his blood-covered clothes.
The night’s work had appalled the new War Lord. More than six hundred Aenir warriors had been butchered in their sleep; it was no way for a man to die.
Caswallon stepped into the stream, shivering as the icy mountain water touched his skin. Swiftly he washed, then returned to the bank, sprawling out alongside Leofas and the young raven-haired warrior Onic, the finest quarterstaff fighter in the mountains.
“A fine night,” said Leofas, grinning. Stripped of his clothing, the old warrior looked even more powerful. His barrel chest and muscular shoulders gave evidence of his great strength, yet his belly was flat and taut, the muscles of the solar plexus sharp and clean.
“It was a victory, anyway,” said Caswallon wearily.
“You’re a strange man, Caswallon,” said Leofas, sitting up and slapping the younger man between the shoulder blades. “These swine have come upon us with murder and rape and now, I sense, you regret last night’s slaughter.”
“I do regret it. I regret it was necessary.”
“Well, I enjoyed it. Especially watching you gut that tall son of a whore.”
A group of clanswomen, led by Maeg, came to the stream carrying clean clothes for the men. Caswallon dressed, and spotted Taliesen sitting on a fallen tree; the War Lord joined him in the sunshine.
“There is the smell of death in this forest,” said Taliesen. “It reeks of it.” The druid looked impossibly old, his face ashen, the skin dry. His cloak of feathers hung limply on his skeletal shoulders, the colors faded and dust-covered. “But still, you did well, War Lord.”
Caswallon sat beside the old man. “Who are you, druid? What are you?”
“I am a man, Caswallon. No more, no less. I was a student centuries ago and I joined the trek from the stars to see more of life. I wanted to learn the origins of man. The Gates were a means to an end.”
“And what are the origins of man?”
Taliesen chuckled, his tired eyes showing a glint of humor. “I don’t know. I never will. My teacher was a great man. He knew the secrets of the stars, the mysteries of the planets, and the structure of the Gates. And yet, he never learned the origins. Together we journeyed and studied, and ever the great mystery eluded us. I sometimes fear the cosmic force I cannot see, and he laughs at me in my vanity.
“My teacher, Astole, became a mystic in a far land. It happened soon after the Prime Gate failed. You see, we could never travel back far enough, anywhere, to find the first man. The Gates would always be pushed back. Wherever we went, there was a man, developed to some degree. Several hundred years ago I developed a theory of my own, and I left Astole in the deserts of his world and journeyed to a northern land, a Highland kingdom. The people there were under threat, even as you are, and I led them to the Farlain to watch them grow and to see how they would develop. I thought the development would assist my studies.”
“And did it?” asked Caswallon.
“No. Man is a singularly irritating creature. All that happened was that I grew to love the people of the Farlain. My studies were ruined anyway two hundred years ago, when the last of my people wed into the race. We had no women, you see, and every man needs companionship. I recruited many of their children, and so the order survives, but many of those now practicing the skill do not appreciate any longer the . . . arts behind the machines.
“You, Caswallon, are of my race. You are the great-grandson of the daughter of Nerist. A bright man was Nerist. He alone of all my pupils said we would never reopen the Great Gates. You cannot understand the awful sense of separation and loss we experienced when those gates closed. You see, what happened was an impossibility.”
“Why should it be impossible?” asked Caswallon. “All things have a beginning and an ending.”
“Indeed they do. But when you play with time, Caswallon, you create circles. Thi
nk of this: Today you will see the last of the Middle Gates. Today. Now. You will gaze upon it, and your people—our people—will pass through it. But tomorrow, let us say, the Gate disappears. We are worried at first, but then we think: It was there yesterday. Therefore we step through a Lesser Gate into yesterday. What should we find?”
“The other Gate should once again be there,” said Caswallon.
“Aye, it should—for we saw it yesterday . . . passed through it. But that is the mystery, my boy. For when the Great Gates disappeared, they vanished throughout time. Impossible, for it does not correspond with reality.”
“You told me,” said Caswallon, “that magic was impossibility made reality. If that is true, there should be no problem accepting the reverse. What happened to your Gates was simply reality made impossibility.”
“But who made it happen?”
“Perhaps someone is studying you, even as you study us,” said Caswallon, smiling.
Taliesen’s eyes gleamed. “Astole believed just such a thing. I do not.”
At that moment Gaelen entered the clearing, calling Caswallon’s name. The War Lord leaped to his feet, opening his arms as the young man ran to him. They stood there for several moments, hugging each other. Then Caswallon took hold of Gaelen’s shoulders and gently pushed him away.
“Now, you’re a sight to ease my mind,” said Caswallon.
“And you. Deva and I thought to find you cut to pieces by the Aenir. We saw you from the peaks yonder.”
“Just for once we out-thought them. You look tired, and there is dried blood on your tunic.”
We’ve been chased over the mountains for three days.”
“But you came through.”
“You taught me well.”
Caswallon grinned. “Where is Deva?”
“Upstream, washing the grime from herself.”
“Then you do the same. Much as I am glad to see you, you smell like a dead fish. Away with you!”