“Would you like to kill him, Gaelen?”
Ongist felt the hatred in the boy’s gaze, and he stared back without fear. “I see we made our mark upon you, boy,” he sneered. “Do they call you Blood-eye or Scar-face?”
The boy said nothing, but the cold gaze remained. “Did someone cut your tongue out?” hissed Ongist.
Gaelen turned to his father. “Yes, I want to kill him,” he said. “But not today.”
The man and the boy left the clearing without a backward glance and Ongist settled back to wait for his brother and the others. It was nearing midday when the Aenir found him; they cut him loose and hauled him to his feet. His brothers Tostig and Drada supported him, for his head was dizzy and his vision blurred as he stood.
“What happened?” asked Drada, his elder by three years.
“The clansman tricked us. He killed Karis and Asta.”
“I know. We found the bodies.”
“He told me to leave Farlain lands. He says he will alert their hunters.”
“Good advice,” said Drada.
“Asbidag will be angry,” muttered Tostig. Ongist rubbed at his bruised temple and scowled. Tostig was the largest of the brothers, a towering brute of a man with braided yellow hair and broken teeth. But he was also the most cautious-some would say cowardly. Ongist despised him.
“What was he like?” asked Drada.
Ongist shrugged. “Tall. Moved well. Fought well. Confident.”
“Then we’ll take his advice. Did you talk to him, try to bait him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No reaction, he just smiled. I told him the Aenir would sweep his people away. I advised him to come to Asbidag and beg for peace. He just said he would take my words of wisdom to the Council.”
“Damn,” said Drada. “I don’t like the sound of that. Men who don’t get angry make the worst enemies.”
Ongist grinned, draping his arm over Drada’s shoulder. “Always the thinker, brother. By the way, the boy he claimed was his son is the same lad Father speared at the city gates.”
Drada swore. “And still he didn’t get angry? That does make me shiver.”
“I thought you’d enjoy that,” said Ongist. “By the way, Tostig, how many men did you say rescued the boy?”
“I couldn’t see them all. They were hidden in the bushes.”
“How many could you see?” asked Drada, his interest caught by Ongist’s question.
“I could see only the leader clearly. Why? How many men did he say he had?”
“He didn’t say,” answered Ongist, “but I know.”
“A curse on you!” shouted Tostig, storming to the other side of the clearing.
Drada took Ongist by the arm and led him to the fallen trunk where Caswallon had made their fire. The two men sat down and Drada rubbed his eyes. “What was the point of all that?” he asked.
“There were no twenty clansmen,” sneered Ongist. “Just the one-the same man, I’d stake my life on it.”
“You are probably right,” Drada agreed. “Did he give a name?”
“Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“Caswallon. Let’s hope there are not too many like him among the clans.”
“It won’t matter if there are. Who can stand against thirty thousand Aenir warriors?”
“That is true,” agreed Drada, “but they remain an unknown quantity. Who knows how many there are? Our estimate is less than seven thousand fighting men if all the clans muster. But suppose we are wrong?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I think we ought to deal with them gently. Trade first and earn a welcome among them. Then we’ll see.”
“You think they’ll be foolish enough to allow us into the mountains?” asked Ongist.
“Why not? Every other conquered nation has given us the same facility. And there must be those among the clans who are disenchanted, overlooked, or despised. They will come to us, and they will learn.”
“I thought Father wanted to attack in the summer?”
“He does, but I’ll talk him out of it. There are three main Lowland areas still to fall, and they’ll yield richer pickings than these mountains.”
“I like the mountains. I’d like to build a home here,” said Ongist.
“You will soon, my brother. I promise you.”
Oracle sat alone, gazing into the fire, lost in yesterday’s dreams when armies swept across the land with their lances gleaming and banners raised.
A red hawk on a field of black. The Outlanders streaming from the battlefield, broken and demoralized. Sigarni raising her sword in the sunset, the Battle Queen triumphant.
Such had been the glory of youth when Oracle crossed the Gate to the kingdom beyond. The old man drew his grey cloak about his shoulders, stretching his legs forward, soaking in the heat from the burning beech in the hearth. He stared down at the backs of his hands, wrinkled and spotted with the drab brown specks of age.
But once upon a time…
“Dreaming of glory?” asked Taliesen.
Oracle jerked up as if struck, twisting in his seat. He cursed softly as he recognized the ancient druid. “Pull up a chair,” he said.
The druid was small, and skeletally thin, his white hair and beard sparse and wispy, clinging to his face and head like remnants of winter mist. But his eyes were strangely youthful and humorous, antelope-brown and set close together under sharp brows. From his skinny shoulders hung a cloak of birds’ feathers, many-hued, the blue of the kingfisher flashing against raven-black, soft pale plover and eagle’s quill.
He leaned his long staff against the cave wall and seated himself beside Oracle. “The boy came then,” said the druid, his voice soft and deep.
“You know he did.”
“Yes. And so it begins: the destruction of all that we love.”
“So you believe.”
“Do you doubt me, Oracle?”
“The future is like soft clay to be molded. I cannot believe it is already set and decided.”
The druid gave a low curse. “You of all men should know that the past, present, and future exist together, woven like a cloth, interweaving. You crossed the Gate. Did you learn nothing?”
“I learned the error of pride. That was enough for me.”
“You look old and tired,” said the druid.
“I am both. How is it that you still live, Taliesen? You were old when I was a babe at the breast.”
“I was old when your grandfather was a babe at the breast.”
For a while both men sat in silence staring into the flames, then Oracle sighed and shifted in his seat. “Why have you come here?” he whispered.
“Sigarni has crossed the Gate. She is at the cave on High Druin.”
Oracle licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “How is the girl?”
Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “Girl? She is a woman near as old as you. As I said, you do not understand the intricacies of the Gateways.”
“Well, how is she anyway, damn you?”
“Gravely wounded, but I will heal her.”
“May I see her?”
The druid shook his head. “It would not be wise.”
“Then why come to me at all?”
“It may be that you can help me.”
“In what way?”
“What happened to the sword you stole from her?”
Oracle reddened. “It was payment for all I had done for her.”
“Do not seek to justify yourself, Caracis. Your sin led to more wars. You cost Sigarni far more than you were
