“True,” said Layne. “All right. We’ll make camp higher up in the trees, then slip away before dawn and strike for Vallon.”
Dawn found the four of them miles from the first timber and well on their way. Layne led them down rocky slopes and over difficult terrain, constantly checking on what tracks they were leaving. By midmorning he was content. Even the most skillful hunters would have difficulty finding them, and above all, the task would be time- consuming.
As they strolled through patches of yellow-gold gorse and across meadows bedecked with blooms, Gaelen rediscovered the strange sense of joy he first felt when Caswallon formally adopted him. He was home. Truly home.
Beside him Gwalchmai was whistling a merry tune and ahead Layne and Lennox were deep in conversation. Gaelen rubbed at his scarred eye, for it itched now and then, usually when he was tired.
“Is it troubling you?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen shook his head and Gwalchmai resumed whistling, but his thoughts remained on the youngster beside him. Gwalchmai had liked Gaelen from the first. He didn’t know why, but then he rarely rationalized such things; he relied on his emotions to steer him and they rarely played him false. He remembered his shock when he first saw the boy, his red hair streaked with a white slash, his left eye filled with blood-for all the world like a ruby set in his skull.
He had been prepared to dislike the Lowlander, having listened to Agwaine speak sneeringly of Caswallon’s rescue. But there had been something about the way Gaelen carried himself-like a clansman, tall and proud. Gwalchmai stopped whistling as he noticed a track some ten paces from the trail.
“Layne!” he called. “Hold on.” Gwalchmai stepped from the trail and knelt by the soft earth beside the gorse. The three companions gathered around him, staring in wonder at the footprint.
“It’s as long as my forearm,” said Gwalchmai. “And look, the thing has six toes.” All four lads scouted back along the line of tracks, but they found nothing. The earth by the gorse was soft, but the surrounding ground was rocky and firm.
“What do you think it is?” asked Gaelen, whose knowledge of mountain animals was still sparse.
“It isn’t anything I’ve ever seen,” said Gwalchmai. “Layne?”
The leader grinned suddenly. “It’s perfectly obvious, my friends. It’s a hunter’s joke. When they were laying the trails for our Hunt they made a jest of the rhyme ‘Seek the beast…’ the footprint points toward Vallon and the print was created to show we’re on the right track.”
Gwalchmai’s freckled face split into a grin. “Yes, of course,” he said.
An hour before nightfall Layne scouted a small hollow where they could build a fire against a towering granite stone. The tiny blaze could not be seen from any distance and the four travelers unrolled their blankets and settled down for a light meal of oatcakes and water.
As the night closed in and the stars shone bright, Lennox curled up like a dozing bear and slept, leaving the others seated by the fire talking in low voices.
“Who was Earis?” Gaelen asked as he fed the fire with dry sticks.
“The first High King,” Layne told him. “Hundreds of years ago the Farlain lived in another land, beyond the Gates. There was a great war and the clans were nigh obliterated. Earis gathered the remains of the defeated army and launched one last desperate assault on the enemy, smashing their army and killing their leader, Eska. But it was only one of several armies facing him. The druids told the King of a way to save his people. But it was hazardous: They had to pass a Gate between worlds. I don’t know much about that side of it, but the legends are many. Anyway, Earis brought the Farlain here and we named the mountains Druin.
“During the journey a strange thing happened. As Earis stepped through the Gate of Vallon, into the bitter cold of winter, his sword disappeared from his hand. Earis took his crown and hurled it back through the Gate. The sword, he said, was the symbol of kingship, and since it had gone so too would his position. From henceforth there would be no king for the Farlain. The Council voted him to the position of Hunt Lord and so it has remained.”
“I see,” said Gaelen. “So ‘the Bane of Eska,’ that is a clue I can understand. But why the light that brings darkness?”
“The sword was called Skallivar, meaning Starlight on the Mountain,” said Gwalchmai. “But in battle whoever it touched found only the darkness of death.”
“And that is what we seek? Skallivar?”
Layne laughed. “No. Just a sword. It makes the clues more poetic, that’s all.”
Gaelen nodded. “There is much still to learn.”
“But you will learn, cousin,” said Layne. Gaelen felt a surge of warmth and comradeship within him as Layne spoke, but it was shattered by a sound that ripped through the night. An eerie, inhuman howling echoed through the mountains.
Lennox awoke with a start. “What was that?” he asked, rolling to his knees.
Gaelen shuddered and said nothing.
“I’ve no idea,” said Layne. “Perhaps it’s a wolf and the sound is distorted.”
“If it’s a wolf,” muttered Gwalchmai, “it must be as big as a horse.”
For several minutes they sat in silence, straining to hear any more sounds in the blackness of the night. But there was nothing. Lennox went back to sleep. Layne exchanged glances with Gwalchmai.
“It wasn’t a wolf, Layne.”
“No, but it could have been a hunter trying to frighten us.”
“I hope so,” said Gwalchmai. “I think we should stand watches tonight, though.”
Chapter Four
Gaelen awoke at Gwalchmai’s touch, his eyes flaring open, his troubled dreams fragmented and instantly forgotten.
“I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” whispered Gwalchmai. “I don’t think there’s anything out there. I saw a fox, that’s all.”
Gaelen sat up and yawned. “It’s chilly,” he whispered. Gwalchmai rolled himself swiftly into his blanket, laying his head on his pack. Within seconds he was asleep. Gaelen stretched, then crept to the fire, easing himself past Lennox. Taking a dry stick he poked around the embers of the dying fire, gently blowing it to life. Adding more sticks, he watched the flames flicker and billow. Then he looked away. Caswallon had told him never to stare into a fire, for the brightness made the pupils contract, and when you looked away into darkness you would be blind.
Gaelen wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against the granite boulder. An owl hooted and the boy’s fingers curled around the hilt of his hunting knife. You fool, he told himself. You’ve never been afraid of the dark. Calm down. These are your mountains, there is nothing to harm you.
Except wolves, bears, lions, and whatever made that bestial howling…
Gaelen shuddered, and fed more sticks to the fire. The supply was growing short and he didn’t relish the prospect of entering the menacing darkness of the surrounding trees to replenish the store.
Slowly the fire died and Gaelen cursed softly. He had hoped it would last until first light, when the woods would become merely trees and not the frightening sentinels they now appeared. He stood up, loosening the dagger in its sheath, and walked carefully toward a fallen elm at the edge of the woods. Swiftly he collected dead wood and thicker branches. Back at the fire, relief washed over him. He was comforted by the sound of Lennox snoring and the sight of his other two friends sleeping soundly.
It was ridiculous. If danger was upon them they would be no use to him, sleeping as they were. And yet he felt at ease.
Layne muttered in his sleep and turned onto his back. Gaelen gazed down at his square, honest face. He looked so much younger asleep, his mouth half open and childlike.
Gaelen turned his gaze to Lennox. Where Layne was clean-cut and athletic, Lennox was all bulk, with sloping shoulders of tremendous power, barrel-chested, thick-waisted. His hands were huge and the strength in them awesome. A year before he had straightened a horseshoe at the Games, having seen it done in the Strength Test. Too young to be entered, he had shamed several of the contestants and caused great merriment among the Farlain clan.
