warm it.
“Build a fire over there, Gaelen, and we’ll see if the beast is worth saving.”
Gaelen built a small circle of stones, laid his tinder, and struck sparks from his dagger and a small flint block. The tinder began to smoke. He blew on it softly until the first tongue of flame rose, then he added small twigs and finally thinner sticks. Caswallon eased his pack from his shoulders, pulling out the strips of dried meat packed by Maeg.
“We need a pot to boil some thick broth,” he said. “And here is another lesson for you. Cut me a long strip of bark from that tree over there.”
Gaelen did as he was bid and watched amazed as Caswallon shaped the edges and then twisted the bark into the shape of a deep bowl. Half filling it with water from the canteen, he laid the pot on the small fire.
“But it will burn away,” said Gaelen. “It is wood.”
“It will not burn as long as water is in it and the flames stay below the waterline.” Taking his dagger, Caswallon sliced the dried meat into chunks and added them to the pot.
Before long the stew began to bubble and steam, the meat expanding. Caswallon added more meat, stirring the contents with his dagger. Gaelen moved beside him, reaching to stroke the small dark head poking out from Caswallon’s tunic.
As the sun sank behind crimson clouds, bathing the mountain peaks in glowing copper, Caswallon ordered the lad to remove the bowl and allow the stew to cool. As they waited, the clansman opened his tunic and lifted the pup to his lap. Then he cut a section of the dried beef and began to chew it. “Can you give some to the pup?” pleaded Gaelen. “He is starving!”
“That’s what I am doing, boy. It’s too tough for him. I am doing what his mother would do.”
Removing the half-chewed meat from his mouth, Caswallon shredded it and offered a small amount to the pup. Its tiny tongue snaked out, nose wrinkling at the smell of the meat. The tiny beast ate a little, then its head sank against Caswallon’s hand. “Still too tough for him,” said the clansman. “But see the size of his paws? He will be big, this one. Here, hold him.”
The pup began to whine as Caswallon passed him over, but he settled down as Gaelen stroked behind his floppy ears.
“As I thought, he is half wolf,” said the clansman. “But there’s enough dog in him to be trained, I think. Would you like to keep him?”
Gaelen lifted the pup to his face, staring into the tiny brown eyes. Like him, the helpless beast was an orphan, and he remembered his own long crawl to the high ground.
“He is a child of the mountains,” said Gaelen. “I shall adopt him. Is it my right?”
“It is,” said Caswallon gravely. “But first he must live.”
After a while Caswallon tested the stew. When it had reached blood heat he passed it to Gaelen. “Dip your smallest finger into it and get the beast to lick it. He’s obviously too young to take it any other way.” The stew was thick and dark and Gaelen followed the instructions. The pup’s nose wrinkled again at the smell, but its tongue licked out. The boy continued to feed the animal until at last it fell asleep in his arms.
“Do you think it will live?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow we will have a better idea.”
“I hope it does, Caswallon.”
“Hope is akin to prayer,” said the clansman, “so perhaps it will.” He rose to his feet. “Wait here, there’s something I must check. I should not be long.” With that he was gone into the undergrowth. The sun had set, but the moon was high and bright in the clear sky, and Gaelen sat with his back against a tree, staring into the flickering coals of the fire.
This was life, this was a peace he had never known. The little pup moved in its sleep and he stroked it absently. In the distance the mountains made a jagged line against the sky like a wall against the world-deeply comforting and immensely reassuring.
Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.
“We have a small problem, Gaelen,” he said. “I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the pup. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.”
“Who made the footprints then?”
“The Aenir. They are in the mountains.”
In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew that had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.
“How many are there?” he asked the clansman.
“Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they’re just scouting, but they’re headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.”
Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon’s eyes. “I am not afraid today,” he told the clansman. “Last night I was trembling. Today I am ready.”
“Good,” said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaff and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. “Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.”
“What is it?”
“Do not be impatient. I’ll not spoil it with words.”
The clansman set off toward the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.
Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen’s heart hammered.
“Is it a beast?” he asked.
“No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths. The Rainbow bridge to the home of the Gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.”
Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down toward the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slablike ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.
There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and onto one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood openmouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.
Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned. “Come on,” he bellowed.
Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.
Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the center of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree line.
“That is Vallon,” he said, “and upon it lies one of the magic Gates through which the Farlain passed hundreds of years ago. We came in winter when the water was frozen solid, and we walked upon the ice.”
They stayed the night above the falls, and Gaelen fed the pup with dried meat that he had first chewed to softness; this time the hound ate with relish. The following day Caswallon led them south toward the Farlain. The boy saw that Caswal-lon moved more cautiously, scanning the surrounding countryside and waiting in the cover of woods, checking carefully before moving out into open country.
Twice they came upon Aenir tracks, and once the remains of a campfire. Caswallon worked his fingers into the grey ash, and down into the earth beneath.
“This morning,” he said. “Be watchful.”
That night they made camp in a narrow cave and lit no fire. At first light they moved on. Caswallon was
