was taught to attack it on Gaelen’s command of “kill.” This training was further refined with the call “hold,” at which command the dog would lunge for the dummy’s arm.
Painstakingly they honed the dog’s skills. Once it attacked, only one call would stop it: Home. Any other call, even from Gaelen, would be ignored.
“This,” said Caswallon, “is your safeguard. For a dog is a creature of instinct. You may order it to attack, but another voice may call it back. ‘Home’ should remain a secret command. Share it not even with your friends.”
Gaelen called the beast Render. The hound’s nature was good, especially with Caswallon’s son Donal, now a blond toddler who followed Render-or Wenna, as he called it-about the house, pulling its ears and struggling to climb on its back. Attempts to stop him would be followed by floods of tears and the difficult-to-answer assertion, “Wenna like it!”
Maeg was hard to convince that Render was a worthy addition to the household, but one afternoon in late winter it won her over. Kareen had ventured into the yard to fetch wood for the fire, but had not secured the kitchen door on her return. Donal had sneaked out to play in the snow, an adventure of rare magic.
He was gone for more than half an hour before his absence was noted. Maeg was beside herself. Caswallon and Gaelen were at the Long Hall where Caswallon was being elected to the Council in place of an elderly clansman who had collapsed and died soon after the Games. Maeg wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the storm. Within minutes it had grown dark and as she called Donal’s name the wind whipped her words from her mouth. His track had been covered by fresh snow.
Kareen joined her. “He’ll die in this,” yelled Maeg.
Render padded from the house. Seeing the hound, Maeg ran to it and knelt by its side.
“Donal!” she shouted, pushing the dog and pointing out past the yard. Render tilted his head and licked her face. “Fetch!” she shouted. Render looked around. There was nothing to fetch. “Donal! Fetch Donal!” Render looked back toward the house and the open door that led to the warm hearth. The hound didn’t know what the women were doing out in the cold. Then its ears came up as a wolf howled in the distance. Another sound came, thin and piping. Recognizing instantly the pup child of Caswallon, Render padded off into the snow.
Maeg’s hands and feet were freezing, but she had no idea if the dog had understood her and she had not heard the faint cry, so she continued to search, terror growing within her and panic welling in her mind.
Render loped away into a small hollow hidden from the house. Here it found the toddler who had slipped and rolled down onto a patch of ice and was unable to get up. Beyond him sat two wolves, tongues lolling.
Render padded toward the boy, growling deep in his throat. The wolves stood, then backed away as the war hound advanced. Canny killers were the grey wolves, but they knew a better killer when they saw him.
“I cold, Wenna,” said Donal, sniffing. “I cold.”
Render stopped by the boy watching the wolves carefully.
They backed away still farther, and satisfied, Render nuzzled Donal, but the boy could not stand on the ice. Render ducked his head, taking the boy’s woolen tunic in his teeth. Donal was lifted clear of the ice and the huge dog bounded up the slope and back toward the house.
Maeg saw them and waded through the snow toward them, but Render loped past her and into the kitchen. He was cold and missed the fire. When Maeg and Kareen arrived Donal and Render were sitting before the hearth. Maeg swept Donal into her arms.
“Wolfs, Mama. Wenna scare ’em away.”
Maeg shuddered. Wolves! And her child had been alone. She sat down hurriedly.
Neither of the women told Caswallon of the adventure, but he knew something was amiss when Maeg explained she had given his own cold meat supper to the hound.
Caswallon’s activities during the summer and winter puzzled many of the clansmen. He drove no cattle to Aesgard, nor delivered grain and oats. The fruit of his orchards disappeared, and no man knew where, though the carts were driven into the mountains by trusted workers. There, it was said, they were delivered to the druids.
In the meantime, Caswallon gathered around him more than a hundred clansmen, and several of these he paid to scout around Aesgard and report on Aenir movement.
Cambil had been furious, accusing Caswallon of amassing a private army. “Can you not understand, Caswallon, that such deeds make war more likely?” said the Hunt Lord. “You think me foolish for trying to forge friendships among the Aenir, I know that. As I know they are a warlike people, harsh and cruel. But as Hunt Lord I must consider the long-term well-being of my people. We could not win a war with the Aenir; they would swamp us. What I have tried-and will continue to try-to do is to make Asbidag aware of the futility of war in the Highlands. We have no gold, no iron. There are no riches here. This he understands. What is more important is that he must feel no threat from us. It is in the Aenir nature to see enemies all around. If we can make them our friends, there will be no war.”
Caswallon listened in silence until Cambil had finished speaking. “Under different circumstances I would agree with every word, cousin,” he said at last. “War is the last beast an intelligent man would let loose. Where I think you are wrong is in believing that the Aenir see war as a means to an end. For them it is the end in itself. They live to fight, they lust for slaughter and blood. Even their religion is based on the glory of combat. They believe that only if they die in battle will their souls be blessed with an eternity of pleasure. Now that their war with the Lowlanders is over where else can they turn for war, save with us? I respect you, cousin-and I mean that truly. You have acted with honor. Yet now is the time to open your eyes and see that your efforts have been in vain. The Aenir are massing troops on the southern borders.”
Cambil shook his head. “Asbidag assures me that the troops are being gathered in order for the majority of them to be disbanded and offered land to farm, as a reward for loyal service. You are wrong, Caswallon. And the wisdom of my course will be appreciated in the years to come.”
Despite Cambil’s assurances Caswallon advised the Council to marshal a militia against a spring invasion. They refused, agreeing with the Hunt Lord that there were no indications the Aenir nursed any hostile intent toward the clan. The feeling was not unanimous. Badraig and Leofas supported Caswallon openly. Beric, a tall balding warrior from the northern valley, voted with them, but said nothing.
“You have a hundred men, Caswallon,” said Leofas as the four met after the spring banquet. “I can muster eighty crofters. Badraig and Beric the same between them. When the Aenir come it will be like a sudden storm. Three hundred men will not stop them.”
“Let us be honest,” said Badraig. “The Farlain united could not stop them. If every man took up his sword and bow we would have… what?… five thousand. Against a force five times as great.” Badraig had changed since the beast killed his son. His hair was grey and he had lost weight, growing haggard and lean.
“That is true,” agreed Caswallon, “but we can wear them down. We’ll fight no pitched battles; we’ll harry them, cutting and running. Soon they’ll tire and return to Aesgard.”
“That will depend on why they’re here,” said Beric. “If they take the valleys we’ll have no way to support ourselves. We’ll die in the mountains, come winter.”
“Not necessarily,” said Caswallon. “But that debate can wait for a better time. What worries me is not the long-drawn-out campaign, but the first strike. If they hit the valleys unawares, the slaughter will be horrific.”
“There is not a day we do not have a scout watching them,” said Leofas. “We should get at least an hour’s warning.”
Six hours’ march to the east, the crofter Arcis breathed his last. His arms had been nailed to the broad trunk of an oak and his ribs had been opened, splaying out from his body like tiny tattered wings.
The blood-eagle had arrived in the Farlain.
One Aenir army burst upon the villages and crofts of the Haesten, bringing fire and death into the darkest part of the night. Homes blazed and swords ran with blood. The Aenir swept into the valley of Laric, hacking and slaying, burning and looting. The Haesten had not time to group a defense, and the survivors streamed into the mountains, broken and panic-stricken.
A Pallides hunter, camped on the hillside inside Haesten territory, watched stunned as the Aenir charged into the valley. As if in a dream he saw the warriors in the garish armor and winged helms race down to the homes of the Haesten, thrusting burning brands through open windows. And he viewed with growing horror the massacre of the clan. He saw women dragged forth, raped, and then murdered; he saw babies speared; he saw small pockets of Haesten resistance swallowed up in rings of steel.
Then he rose and began to run, stumbling over tree roots and rocks in the darkness.
