and devouring the brains.
Hunger satisfied, the beast sank back to its haunches. It blinked in the sunlight as an image fashioned itself in its mind. A bright image. Grunting, it shook its head, then gave a low growl. Dimly it remembered the circle of stones and the red-clad sorcerer whose fingers danced with fire. The fire had entered the creature’s breast, settling there without pain. The beast howled as hunger returned.
It would always be hungry-until it devoured the image-woman. Angrily the beast slammed its hands against the ground.
Away to the left it saw the line of trees that merged into the forest above Vallon. Hunger returning, it began to lope toward them, stopping at a stream to drink. The trees were smaller than the ones it had known and climbed, less closely packed and strangely silent. No chittering monkeys swung from the vines, few birds sang, and there was no sign of fruit upon the boughs.
The wind shifted and a new smell filtered to the beast’s flaring nostrils. The black eyes glittered with the memory of salty-sweet flesh and marrow-filled bones. The sorcerer had implanted a soul scent upon its senses-and this creature was not the victim ordained. Nor was the spell scent close by. Yet it could almost taste the sweet meat of the approaching man-beast.
Saliva dripped from its maw and its dark tongue licked out over its fangs. The smell was growing stronger. There was no need to stalk, for the simpleminded creature was moving this way.
A hundred paces to the west Erlik of the Pallides, a tall young hunter from the house of Maggrig, leaned on his staff. Beside him his war hound Askar growled deep in his throat. Erlik was puzzled. An hour ago he had seen the blue haze across the mountains, and the two suns appear in the sky. And despite this being Farlain land he had ventured here, led by the curiosity of the young. Less than a year before Erlik had gained his manhood in the Hunt, and was now a contender for the Games.
And where a more seasoned veteran would hesitate, Erlik, with all the confidence of youth, had crossed the border and ventured into the lands of the enemy. He did not fear Farlain hunters, for he knew he could outrun them, but he had to know why the air burned blue. He sensed it would be a fine tale to tell his comrades at the evening feast.
He leaned down and stroked Askar, whispering it to silence. The hound obeyed unwillingly. It didn’t like the idea of moving with the direction of the breeze, and it sensed danger ahead that made the fur on its shoulders rise. With the natural cunning of the canine it began to edge left, but Erlik called it back.
The young hunter moved forward toward an area of thick bracken and gorse. Askar growled once more and this time the dog’s unease filtered through to the man. Carefully he laid down his quarterstaff, then swung his bow from his shoulder, hastily notching an arrow to the string.
The gorse exploded as a vast black creature reared up from the ground at Erlik’s feet. A taloned arm flashed out, half severing the hunter’s left arm and hurling him to the ground. The war hound leaped for the beast’s throat, but was brutally swatted aside. Erlik drew his hunting knife and struggled to rise, but the talons flashed once more and his head toppled from his shoulders.
Minutes later the war hound came to its senses, pain gnawing at its broken ribs. The great head came up slowly, ears pricking at the sounds of crunching bones.
With infinite care the hound inched its way to the west, away from the feeding beast.
In the valley of the Farlain fourteen teams of youngsters were packing shoulder sacks with provisions ready for the hunt. Families and kin thronged the Market Field.
The brothers Layne and Lennox were seated side by side on a fallen oak while Gaelen lay on his back, eyes closed, nearby. Beside him sat the slender Gwalchmai, whittling with a short dagger.
“I wish they would announce the start,” said Layne. “What are they waiting for?”
Gaelen sat up. “Caswallon said the druid must give his blessing.”
“I know that,” snapped Layne. “I meant why the delay?” Gaelen lay back on the grass and said nothing. Layne was not normally this edgy.
“Are you looking forward to it?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen could see that the ginger-haired youth was worried by Layne’s tension and seeking to change the mood.
“Yes, I am,” said Gaelen.
“Do you understand the meaning of the riddle?”
“No. Have you deciphered it?”
Gwalchmai shrugged. “Maybe it will be clearer when we find the second clue.”
In the house of Cambil, beyond the field and the waiting teams, sat the Druid Lord, Taliesen. Opposite him, pacing before the hearth, was the tall Hunt Lord Cambil, a golden-haired, handsome young man wearing a leaf- green tunic and a red cloak.
By the hearth sat a stranger clad in leather shirt and breeches, his long blond hair braided beneath a round leather helm. He too was handsome, but unlike Cambil, there was no softness in him. His eyes were the cold blue of the winter sky, and upon his mouth was a mocking half smile. That the druid disliked him was obvious and seemed to amuse the Aenir; but for Cambil the meeting was a monstrous embarrassment.
The druid was angry, though he showed nothing of it as he sipped water from a clay goblet. Cambil was uneasy and pulled at his golden beard. The stranger sat back in the leather-covered chair, his face expressionless.
“It is rare,” the druid said at last, “for a stranger to be present at the Youth’s Hunt-though it is not without precedent. There shall be no blessing today, for the words of power cannot be spoken in the presence of Lowlanders. In this there is no disrespect intended for your guest, Cambil, it is merely the weight of tradition which forbids it.”
Cambil bit his lip and nodded.
“May I ask,” continued the druid, “that we speak privately?”
Cambil turned to the man beside him. “My apologies, Lord Drada, but please feel free to join the men at the food table beyond and refresh yourself.”
Drada stood and bowed to Cambil, then he turned to the druid. “I am sorry to have caused you problems. Had I known my presence would disrupt the ceremony I would have turned down the invitation.” Neither Taliesen nor Cambil missed the stress he placed on the word invitation, and the Hunt Lord felt himself blushing.
The Aenir warrior carefully hung his black cloak upon his broad shoulders and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The ancient druid turned his dark eyes on the Hunt Lord and leaned forward across the table. “It was not wise to invite him into Farlain lands,” he said.
“He is friendly enough,” insisted Cambil.
“He is the Enemy to Come,” snapped the druid.
“So you say, old man, but I am the Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and I alone decide whether a man is a friend or enemy. You are a druid and as such are to be respected in religious matters, but do not exceed your authority.”
“Are you blind, Cambil, or merely stupid?”
Anger shone in the Hunt Lord’s eyes, but his response was calm. “I am not blind, druid. And I make no great claims to be wiser than any other clansman. What I do know is that war brings no advantage to either side. If the Aenir can be convinced that we offer them no threat, and that there is no wealth to be found in the mountains, I see no reason why we cannot exist together-if not as friends, then at least as good neighbors. Keeping them out will only cause suspicion, and make war more likely.”
Cambil walked to the door, wrenching it open. “Now, the boys are waiting and I shall send them off, and I don’t doubt the lack of your words of power will affect them not at all.”
At the edge of the field Caswallon sat with Maeg and Kareen, watching the boys line up for the first race to the trees. Once there, they would find a leather pouch hanging from the branch of the central pine. Within the pouch were four clues, written on parchment. The first team to reach the tree would be able to read all the clues, and remove one. The next team would find three clues, and remove one. And so on until the fourth team would find only one remaining.
Gaelen, who could not yet read, would be useless to his team on this first run, but they had chosen Gwalchmai to lead the sprint, and he was almost as fast as Cambil’s son Agwaine.
