“I have two legs, but have not found a partner,” said Gwal, helping himself to Gaelen’s wine.
“Come now, Gwal, there must be five hundred maidens here.”
“They are not what I want,” said Gwalchmai sadly. Gaelen glanced at his friend. Gwal’s hair was flame-red in the firelight, his face no longer boyish but lean and handsome.
“So what do you want… a princess?”
Gwalchmai shrugged. “That is hard to answer, Gaelen. But I know I shall never wed.”
Gaelen said nothing. He had known for some time, as had Layne and Lennox, that Gwalchmai had no interest in the young maidens of the Farlain. The boys did not understand it, but only Gaelen suspected the truth. In Ateris he had seen many who shared Gwalchmai’s secret longings. “You know what I am, don’t you?” said Gwalchmai, suddenly.
“I know,” Gaelen told him. “You are Gwalchmai, one of the Beast Slayers. You are a clansman, and I am proud to have you for my friend.”
“Then you don’t think…?”
“I have told you what I think, cousin,” said Gaelen, reaching forward to grip Gwalchmai’s shoulder.
“True enough. Thank you, my friend.” Gwalchmai sighed-and changed the subject. “Where is Caswallon?”
“Escorting the Aenir back to Aesgard.”
“I am not sorry to see them go,” said Gwal.
“No. Did you hear about Borak?”
“The runner? What about him?”
“He was found this evening hanging from a tree on the west hill.”
“He killed himself?”
“It seems so,” said Gaelen.
“They’re a strange people, these Aenir. I hope they don’t come back next year.”
“I think they will, but not for the Games,” said Gaelen.
“You’re not another of those war bores?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What could they gain? There are no riches in Druin.”
“War is a prize in itself for the Aenir. They live for it.”
Gwalchmai leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head. “What a night! First I lose in the archery, then I get maudlin, and now I’m sitting with a man who prophesies war and death.”
Gaelen chuckled. “You were unlucky in the tourney. The wind died as the Aenir took his mark, and it gave him an edge.”
“A thousand blessings on you for noticing,” said Gwal, grinning. “Have you ever been drunk?”
“No.”
“Well, it seems the only enjoyment left to us.”
“I agree. Fetch another jug.”
Within an hour their raucous songs had attracted a small following. Lennox and Agwaine joined them, bringing fresh supplies, then Layne arrived with Deva.
The drink ran out just before dawn and the party moved to sit beside a dying fire. The songs faded away, the laughter eased, and the talk switched to the Games and the possible aftermath. Deva fell asleep against Layne; he settled her to the ground, covering her with his cloak.
Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralize the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.
He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.
“I’m sorry you missed the race,” said Agwaine.
“Don’t be. You were magnificent.”
“Caswallon advised me.”
“It was obviously good advice.”
“Yes. I’m sorry he and my father are not friends.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“How do you feel now… about Caswallon, I mean?”
“I am grateful. But I am my father’s son.”
“I understand.”
“I hope that you do, cousin.” Their eyes met and Agwaine held out his hand. Gaelen took it.
“Now this is good to see,” said Lennox, leaning forward to lay his hand upon theirs. Layne and Gwalchmai followed suit.
“We are all Farlain,” said Layne solemnly. “Brothers of the spirit. Let it long remain so.”
“The Five Beast Slayers,” said Agwaine, grinning. “It is fitting we should be friends.”
Deva opened her eyes and saw the five young men sitting silently together. The sun cleared the mountains, bathing them in golden light. She blinked and sat up. Just for a moment she seemed to see a sixth figure standing beyond them-tall, she was, and beautiful, silver-haired and strong. By her side hung a mighty sword and upon her head was a crown of gold. Deva shivered and blinked again. The Queen was gone.
Chapter Seven
Gaelen stood on the lip of a precipice looking down on Vallon from the north, listening to the faint sounds of the falls echoing up through the mountains. Spring had finally arrived after yet another bitter winter, and Gaelen had been anxious to leave the valley to stretch his legs and open his heart to the music of the mountains. He had grown during the winter, and constant work with axe and saw had added weight to his arms and shoulders. His hair was long, hanging to his shoulders, and held back from his eyes by a black leather circle around his brow. Kareen-before her marriage to the west valley crofter, Durk-had made it for him, as well as a tunic of softest leather, polished to a sheen, and calf-length moccasin boots from the same hide. His winter cape was a gift from Caswallon, a heavy sheepskin that doubled as a blanket. During the cold winter months he had allowed his beard to grow, shutting his ears to gibes about goose down from Maeg and Kareen. It had taken long enough but now, as he stood on the mountainside in the early morning sunshine, it gave him that which he desired above all else-the look of manhood.
Gone was the frightened, wounded boy brought home by Caswallon two years before. In his place stood a man, tall and strong, hardened by toil, strengthened by experience. The only reminders left of the hunted boy were the blood-filled left eye, and the white streak in his hair above the jagged scar on his forehead and cheek.
The black and grey war hound by his side growled and rubbed against him. Gaelen dropped his hand to pat its massive head. “You don’t like these high places, do you, boy?” said Gaelen, squatting beside the animal. It lifted its head, licking his face until he pushed it away laughing.
“We’ve changed, you and I,” he said, holding the dog at bay. It had the wide jaws of its dam and the heavy shoulders of its breed, but added to this it also had the rangy power of the wolf that had sired it.
The wolf in it had caused problems with training, and both Caswallon and Gaelen had despaired at times. But slowly it had come around to their patient handling, until at last Gaelen had walked it unleashed among a flock of sheep. He told it to sit, and it obeyed him. But its eyes lingered over the fat, slow ewes and its jaws salivated. After a while it had hunkered down on its haunches and closed its eyes, unable to bear such mouth-watering sights any longer.
Under Caswallon’s guidance, Gaelen taught the hound to obey increasingly complex instructions, beginning with simple commands such as “sit,” “heel,” and “stay.” After that it was taught to wait in silence if Gaelen lifted his hand palm outward. Finally Caswallon built a dummy of wood and straw, dressed it in old clothes, and the hound
