staff and smiled. “You’re on Farlain land,” he said.
“The Aenir walk where they will,” Tostig replied.
“Not here, my bonny. Not ever. Now, what’s it to be? Do you leave or die?”
Tostig pondered a moment. His father, Asbidag, had warned the army not to alienate the clans. Not yet. One mouthful at a time, that was Asbidag’s way.
And yet this clansman had robbed Tostig of his prey.
“Who are you?” Tostig countered.
“Your heart has about five beats of life left in it, barbarian,” said Caswallon.
Tostig stared deeply into the sea-green eyes. Had he been sure the man was alone, he would have risked battle. But he was not sure. The man was too confident, too relaxed. No clansman alive would face an armed Aenir in such a way. Unless he had an edge. Tostig glanced once more at the trees. Archers no doubt had him in range at this moment.
“We will meet again,” he said, backing away down the slope.
Caswallon ignored him, and knelt by the bleeding youngster.
Gently he turned him to his back, checking his wounds. Satisfied they were plugged, he lifted the boy to his shoulder, gathered up his staff, entered the shadows, and was gone from the sight of the Aenir.
Gaelen turned in his bed and groaned as the stitches front and back pulled at tender, bruised flesh. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a grey cave wall. The smell of burning beechwood was in his nostrils. Carefully he moved onto his good side. He was lying on a broad bed, crafted from pine and expertly joined; over his body were two woolen blankets and a bearskin cloak. The cave was large, maybe twenty paces wide and thirty deep, and at the far end it curved into a corridor. Looking back, the boy saw that the entrance was covered with a hide curtain. Gingerly he sat up. Somebody had bandaged his side and his injured eye. Gently he probed both areas. The pain was still there, but more of a throbbing reminder of the acute agony he remembered from his long crawl.
Across from the bed, beyond a table and some chairs rough-cut from logs, was a man-made hearth skillfully chipped away at the base of a natural chimney in the cave wall. A fire was burning brightly. Beside it were chunks of beechwood, a long iron rod, and a copper shovel.
Bright sunlight shafted past the edges of the curtain and the boy’s gaze was drawn to the cave entrance. Groaning as he rose, he limped across the cave, lifting the flap and looking out over the mountains beyond. He found himself gazing down into a green and gold valley dotted with stone buildings and wooden barns, sectioned fields and ribbon streams. Away to his left was a herd of shaggy long-horned cattle, and elsewhere he could see sheep and goats, and even a few horses in a paddock by a small wood. His legs began to tremble and he dropped the curtain.
Slowly he made his way to the table and sat down. Upon it was an oatmeal loaf and a jug of spring water. His stomach tightened, hunger surging within him as he tore a chunk from the loaf and poured a little water into a clay goblet.
Gaelen was confused. He had never been this far into the Highlands. No Lowlander had. This was forbidden territory. The clansmen were not a friendly people, and though they occasionally came into Ateris to trade, it was well known to be folly for any city-dweller to attempt a return visit.
He tried to remember how he had come here. He seemed to recall voices as he struggled to reach the trees, but the memory was elusive and there had been so many dreams.
At the back of the cave the man called Oracle watched the boy eating and smiled. The lad was strong and wolf-tough. For the five days he had been here he had battled grimly against his wounds, never crying-even when, in his delirium, he had relived fear-filled moments of his young life. He had regained consciousness only twice in that time, accepting silently the warm broth that Oracle held to his lips.
“I see you are feeling better,” said the old man, stepping from the shadows.
The boy jumped and winced as the stitches pulled. Looking around, he saw a tall, frail, white-bearded man dressed in grey robes, belted at the waist with a goat-hair rope.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“What is your name?”
“Gaelen. And you?”
“I no longer use my name, but it pleases the Farlain to call me Oracle. If you are hungry I shall warm some broth; it is made from the liver of pigs and will give you strength.”
Oracle moved to the fire, stooping to lift a covered pot to the flames. “It will be ready soon. How are your wounds?”
“Better.”
The old man nodded. “The eye caused me the most trouble. But I think it will serve you. You will not be blind, I think. The wound in your side is not serious, the lance piercing just above the flesh of the hip. No vital organ was cut.”
“Did you bring me here?”
“No.” Using the iron rod, Oracle lifted the lid from the pot. Taking a long-handled wooden spoon from a shelf, he stirred the contents. Gaelen watched him in silence. In his youth he must have been a mighty man, thought the boy. Oracle’s arms were bony now, but the wrists were thick and his frame broad. The old man’s eyes were light blue under thick brows, and they glittered like water on ice. Seeing the boy staring at him, he chuckled. “I was the Farlain Hunt Lord,” he said, grinning. “And I was strong. I carried the Whorl boulder for forty-two paces. No man has bettered that in thirty years.”
“Were my thoughts so obvious?” Gaelen asked.
“Yes,” answered Oracle. “The broth is ready.”
They ate in silence, spooning the thick soup from wooden bowls and dipping chunks of oatmeal loaf into the steaming liquid.
Gaelen could not finish the broth. He apologized, but the old man shrugged.
“You’ve hardly eaten at all in five days, and though you are ravenous your stomach has shrunk. Give it a few moments, then try a little more.”
“Thank you.”
“You ask few questions, young Gaelen. Is it that you lack curiosity?”
The boy smiled for the first time. “No, I just don’t want any answers yet.”
Oracle nodded. “You are safe here. No one will send you back to the Aenir. You are welcome, free to do as you wish. You are not a prisoner. Now, do you have any questions?”
“How did I get here?”
“Caswallon brought you. He is a clansman, a Hunt Master.”
“Why did he save me?”
“Why does Caswallon do the things he does? I don’t know. Caswallon doesn’t know. He is a man of impulse. A good friend, a terrible enemy, and a fine clansman-but still a man of impulse. When he was a youth he went tracking deer. He was following a doe when he came upon it caught in a Pallides snare. Now, the Farlain have no love for the Pallides, so Caswallon cut the deer loose-only to find it had an injured leg. He brought the little beast home upon his back and nursed it to health; then he released it. There’s no accounting for Caswallon. Had the beast been fit he would have slain it for meat and hide.”
“And I am like that injured doe,” said Gaelen. “Had I run into the trees unharmed, Caswallon might have killed me.”
“Yes, you are sharp, Gaelen. I like quick wits in a boy. How old are you?”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Fourteen, fifteen…”
“I’d say nearer fourteen, but it doesn’t matter. A man is judged here by how he lives and not by the weight of his years.”
“Will I be allowed to stay, then? I thought only clansmen could live in the Druin mountains?”
“Indeed you can, for indeed you are,” said Oracle.
“I don’t understand.”
“You are a clansman, Gaelen. Of the Farlain. You see, Caswallon invoked the Cormaach. He has made you his son.”
