more problems to overcome. If he thought it was hard to be a thief in Ateris, just wait until he tried to walk among the youths of the Farlain!
A Lowlander in Highland clothing…
A sheep to be sheared…
And being the son of Caswallon would make life no more easy.
Caswallon shrugged. That was a worry for tomorrow.
For three days the new father and son wandered the Farlain mountains and woods, into the high country where the golden eagle soared, and on into the timberline where bears had clawed their territorial marks deep into the trunks of young trees.
“Why do they do that?” asked Gaelen, staring up at the deeply scored gashes.
“It’s very practical,” Caswallon answered him, loosening his leather pack and easing it to the ground. “They rear up to their full height and make their mark. Any other bear in the vicinity will, upon finding the mark, rise to reach it. If he can’t he leaves the woods-for the other bear is obviously bigger, and therefore stronger, than he is. Mind you, the bear that lives here is a canny beast. And he can’t reach his own mark; in fact, he’s quite small.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gaelen. “How then did he make the gashes?”
“Think about it for a while. Go and gather some wood for a fire and I’ll skin the rabbit.”
Gaelen scoured the clearing for dead wood, snapping each stick as Caswallon had taught him, discarding any that retained sap. Every now and again he glanced back at the tree. Could the bear have rolled a boulder against the trunk? He didn’t know. How clever were bears? As he and Caswallon sat by the fire he told the older man his theory about the boulder. Caswallon listened seriously.
“A good theory,” he said at last, “but not true. Now look around you and describe your setting.”
“We are in a hollow where our fire cannot be seen, and there is protection from the wind.”
“But exactly where in the hollow are we?”
Taking his bearings from the mountains, as Caswallon had taught him, the boy answered with confidence, “We are at the north end.”
“And the tree, how is it placed?”
“It is growing ten paces into the hollow.”
“Where does the wind come from in the winter-the freezing wind?”
“From the north,” answered Gaelen.
“Picture the hollow in winter,” prompted the clansman.
“It would be cold, though sheltered, and snow-covered.”
“How then did the bear make his mark?”
“I see it!” yelled Gaelen. “The wind whipped the snow into the hollow, but it built up against the bole of the tree like a huge step and the bear climbed up the snow.”
“Very good.”
“But was that just luck? Did the bear intend to fool other bears?”
“I like to think so,” said Caswallon. “You see bears tend to sleep through the winter. They don’t hibernate as other animals; they just sleep a lot. Mostly a bear will only come out in winter if it’s hungry, and then it wouldn’t be thinking about territorial marks.
“But the lesson for you, Gaelen my lad, is not about the bear-it’s about how to tackle a problem. Think it through, all the way. A question about the land involves all four seasons.”
As Gaelen rolled into his blankets that night, beneath the hide roof Caswallon had made, his mind overflowed with the knowledge he had gained. A horse always kicks the grass back in the direction from which it has come, but the cow pushes it down in the direction it is facing. Deer avoid the depths of the forest, for they live on saplings and young shoots which only grow in strong sunlight, never in the darkened depths. Never kill a deer on the run, for in its terror its juices flood the muscles making it tough and hard to chew. Always build your fire against a cliff wall, or fallen tree, for the reflected heat will double its warmth. That, and the names of all the mountains, floated through his mind and his sleep was light, his dreams many.
He awoke twice in the night-once as it began to rain, and the second time when a large fox brushed against his foot. In the moonlight the beast’s face seemed to glow like some hellish demon of the dark. Gaelen screamed and the fox fled.
Caswallon did not stir, though in the morning as he packed their makeshift tent he told Gaelen grimly, “In the mountains a man can pay with his life for a moment’s panic. That was a good lesson for you. In future, make no noise when faced by a threat. You could have been hiding from the Aenir, and felt a snake upon your leg. One scream, one sudden movement-and you would face death from both.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Caswallon ruffled the boy’s hair and grinned. “It’s not a criticism, Gaelen. As I said, it’s a valuable lesson.”
Throughout the morning the companions followed the mountain paths and trails. Gaelen listened to the older man’s stories of the clans and learned. He learned of the Farlain march to the island of Vallon and the mysterious Gates, and their entry to the mountains. He learned of the structure of the society and how no kings were permitted within the clans, but that in times of war a High King would be elected: a man like the legendary Ironhand. But most of all he learned of Caswallon of the Farlain. He noticed the smooth, confident manner in which he moved and spoke, the gentle humor in his words, the authority in his statements. He learned that Caswallon was a man of infinite patience and understanding, a man who loved the high country and its people, despite lacking the harsh cruel quality of the former and the volatile, often violent passions of the latter.
Toward the afternoon Caswallon led the way into a small pine woods nestling against the base of a towering rock face. As they entered the trees the clansman stopped and Gaelen started to speak, but Caswallon waved him to silence. They could hear the wind swishing the leaves above them, and the rustle of small animals in the dry bracken. But inlaid into the sounds was an occasional squealing cry, soft and muted by the trees, like an echo.
Caswallon led the boy to the left, pushing his way through intertwined bushes until they reached a larger clearing at the base of the cliff.
Here, before the cave mouth, lay the evidence of a mighty struggle. A dead mountain lion was locked in a grotesque embrace with a huge dog, the like of which Gaelen had never seen. The dog’s jaws were clamped together in the throat of the lion that in its death throes had disemboweled the hound with the terrible claws of its hind legs. The dead animals had already begun to putrefy, the lion’s belly bloated with gases.
“What kind of hound is that?” asked Gaelen.
“The best there is,” answered Caswallon. “That is Nabara, the War Hound, she who belonged at one time to Cambil, the Farlain Hunt Lord. But she was a vicious beast and she ran away to the hills the day before she was to be slain.”
Gaelen walked close to the bodies. “Her jaws are huge, and her body is long. She must have been formidable,” he said.
“There are few war hounds left now. I don’t know why. Maybe because we don’t have the old-style wars. But yes, they are formidable. Terrifying, in fact. As you see, they can even be a match for a lion.”
The squealing began again from within the cave.
“Her pups are inside,” said Caswallon. “That is why she fought to the death. Little good it will do them.”
“Are you going to kill them?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“She’s been living in the mountains for over a year. The only animal she’s likely to have mated with is a wolf. But we’ll see.”
The cave ceiling was low and the companions entered warily on hands and knees. Inside, the cave narrowed into a short tunnel bearing right. Beyond that was a deep cleft in which the hound had left her pups. There were five small bodies and a sixth struggling to stand on shaking legs. Caswallon reached over, lifted the black and grey pup, and passed it back to the boy. Then he checked the bodies. All were dead.
Once back in the sunlight Caswallon retrieved the pup, tucking it half into his tunic where his body heat would
