uneasy.
“They are close,” he said. “I can almost smell them. To be honest, Gaelen, I am worried. I may have underestimated these Aenir. For all that there are twenty of them they leave little spoor, and they avoid the skylines in their march. They are woodsmen and good scouts. And that concerns me; it could mean the Aenir are preparing to march upon us far earlier than I anticipated.”
By dusk Caswallon’s unease had become alarm. He didn’t talk at all but checked the trail many times, occasionally climbing trees to scan the horizon.
“What is wrong?” Gaelen asked him as he pored over a near-invisible series of scuffs and marks on the track.
“They have split up into small parties. Three have gone ahead, the rest have moved into the woods. My guess is that they know we are close and they have formed a circle around us.”
“What can we do?”
“We do not have many choices,” said the clansman. “Let’s find a place to make camp.”
Caswallon chose a spot near a stream, where he built a small fire against a fallen trunk and the two of them ate the last of the food Maeg had prepared. Once again the night sky was cloudless, the moon bright. Gaelen snuggled into his blankets with the pup curled against his chest, and slept deep and dreamlessly until about two hours before dawn when Caswallon gently shook him awake. Gaelen opened his eyes. Above him knelt Caswallon, a finger held to his lips, commanding silence. Gaelen rose swiftly. Caswallon pointed to the pup and the boy picked it up, tucking it into his tunic. The clansman filled Gaelen’s bed with brush and covered it with a blanket. Then he added fuel to the fire before moving into the darkness of the woods. He stopped by a low, dense bush in sight of the clearing and the flickering fire.
Putting his face close to Gaelen’s ear, he whispered, “Crawl into the bush and curl up. Make no sound and move not at all. If the pup stirs-kill it!”
“I am willing to fight,” whispered Gaelen.
“Willing-but not yet ready,” said Caswallon. “Now do as I bid.”
Dropping to his knees Gaelen crawled into the bush, pushing aside the branches and wrapping himself in the cloak Caswallon had given him. He waited with heart hammering, his breath seeming as loud as the Attafoss thunder.
Caswallon had disappeared.
For more than an hour there was no sign of hostile movement in the woods. Gaelen was cramped and stiff, and the pup did stir against him. Gently he stroked the black and grey head. The tiny hound yawned and fell asleep. Gaelen smiled-then froze.
A dark shadow had detached itself from the trees not ten paces from the bush. Moonlight glistened on an iron-rimmed helm and flashed from a sword blade in the man’s hand.
The warrior crept to the edge of the clearing, lifted his sword and waved it, signaling his companions. His view partly screened by leaves and branches, Gaelen could just make out the assault on the camp. Three warriors ran across the clearing, slashing their swords into the built-up blankets.
As the boy watched the Aenir drew back, realizing they had been fooled. No word passed between them, but they began to search the surrounding trees.
Gaelen was terrified. The bush stood alone, out in the open, plainly in sight of the three hunters. Why did Caswallon leave him in such an exposed place? He toyed with the idea of crawling clear and running, but they were too close.
One of the warriors began to search at the far side of the clearing, stepping into the screen of gorse. Gaelen’s eyes opened wide as Caswallon rose from the ground behind the warrior, clamped a hand over his mouth, and sliced his dagger across the man’s throat. Releasing the body, he turned and ducked back into the gorse.
Unsuspecting, the remaining hunters checked to the west and east. Finding nothing, they moved toward the bush where Gaelen sat rigid with fear.
The first warrior, a burly man in bearskin tunic and leather breeches, turned to the second, a tall, lean figure with braided black hair.
“Fetch Karis,” said the first. The warrior moved back toward the clearing, while the leader walked toward Gaelen’s hiding place. The boy watched in amazement. The man never once looked down; it was as if he and the bush were invisible.
The warrior was so close that Gaelen could see only his leather-clad legs and the high, laced boots he wore. He did not dare look up. Suddenly the man’s body slumped beside the bush. Gaelen started violently, but stopped himself from screaming. The Aenir lay facing him, his dead eyes open, his neck leaking blood on the soft earth.
The dead man began to move like a snake, only backward. Gaelen looked up. Caswallon had the man by the feet and was pulling him into the undergrowth. Then, dropping the body, the clansman vanished once more into the trees.
The last Aenir warrior, sword in hand, stepped back into the clearing. “Asta!” he called. “Karis is dead. Come back here.”
Caswallon’s voice sounded, the words spoken coldly. “You’re all alone, my bonny.”
The warrior spun and leaped to the attack, long sword raised. Leaning back, Caswallon swiveled his quarterstaff, stabbing it forward like a spear. It hammered into the warrior’s belly and with a grunt he doubled over, his head speeding down to meet the other end of the iron-capped staff. Hurled from his feet, he hit the ground hard. Groggy, he tried to rise. Strong fingers lifted him by his hair, ramming his face into the rough bark of an old oak. He sank to the ground once more, semiconscious.
Ongist could feel his hands being tied, but could find no strength to resist. He passed out then, returning to consciousness some hours later for the sun had risen. His head ached and he could taste blood in his mouth. He tried to move but he was bound to a tree trunk.
Several paces before him sat the two he had been tracking, the man and the boy. Both were obviously clan, but there was something familiar about the lad although the warrior couldn’t place him.
“I see you are back with us,” said the clansman. “What is your name?”
“Ongist, son of Asbidag.”
“I am Caswallon of the Farlain. This is my son Gaelen.”
“Why have you not killed me?”
“I like a man who makes his point swiftly,” said Caswallon. “You are alive by my whim. You are here to scout Farlain lands. Your instructions were probably to remain unseen, or kill any who discovered you-in which case you have failed twice. You had us encircled, and the circle is now tightening. Therefore if I leave you here you will be found, and you can give this message to your leaders: Leave now, for I shall summon the Farlain hunters before the day is out and then not one of you will live to report to your lord.”
“Strong words,” muttered the Aenir.
“Indeed they are, my friend. But understand this, I am known among the Farlain as a mild-mannered man and the least of warriors. And yet two of your men are slain and you are trussed like a water fowl. Think what would happen if I loosed two hundred war carles upon you.”
“What are your two hundred?” spat the warrior. “What are your two thousand, compared to the might of the Aenir? You will be like dry leaves before a forest fire. The Farlain? A motley crew of semisavages with no king and no army. Let me advise you now. Send your emissaries to the Lord Asbidag in Ateris and make your peace. But bring presents, mind. The Lord Asbidag appreciates presents.”
Caswallon smiled. “I shall carry the words of your wisdom to the Farlain Council. Perhaps they will agree with you. When your men find you, tell them to head south. It is the fastest way from the Farlain.”
The warrior hawked and spat.
“Look at him, Gaelen. That is the Aenir, that is the race that has terrorized the world. But for all that he is merely a man who smells strong, whose hair is covered in lice, and whose empire is built on the blood of innocents. Warriors? As you saw last night they are just men, with little skill-except in the murder of women, or the lancing of children.”
Ongist’s eyes flashed in recognition. The boy was the lad Asbidag had speared at the gates of Ateris. He bit his lip and said nothing. His brother Tostig had told them all how the boy had crawled to the mountains and been rescued by twenty clansmen. It had worried Asbidag.
