“How are you faring?” he asked.
“Well. Are they close?”
“I can see no one, but that tells us nothing. They are woodsmen, they could be anywhere.”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing in the mountains?” he asked her.
“I had to visit my uncle Lars, who has a croft cabin south of here. I went with Larain. We were coming home when we saw the Aenir and we both ran. I hid in the woods, I don’t know what happened to Larain. Most of the night I listened for them, but I heard nothing. This morning I tried to get back to the valley, but they were waiting for me. I got away once but they caught me back there, where you found me.”
“It’s an invasion,” said Gaelen.
“But why would they do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, Deva. I don’t believe they need a reason to fight. Rest now.”
“Thank you for my tunic,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
“I could do no better,” he stammered. Reaching past her, he pulled his blanket roll from the pack. “Wrap yourself. It will be a chill night and we can afford no fire.”
“Gaelen?”
“Yes.”
“I… I thank you for saving my life.”
“Thank me when we reach safety. If there is such a place still.. .”
She watched the darkness swallow him, knowing he would spend the night on the edge of the trail. Render settled down beside her and she snuggled into his warm body.
Gaelen awoke just before dawn, coming out of a light doze in his hiding place by the trail’s edge. He yawned and stretched. The path below was still clear. Rounding the bushes he stopped, jolted by a heel print on the track not ten paces from where he had slept.
The track was fresh. Swiftly he searched the ground. He found another print, and a third alongside it. Two men. And they were ahead of him.
Ducking once more, he reentered the glade, waking Deva and rolling his blanket. Taking up his pack, he unstrapped his bow and strung it.
Glancing around, he saw that Render had gone hunting.
“We have a problem,” he told the girl.
“They are ahead of us?”
He nodded. “Only two of them. Scouts. They passed in the night.”
“Then give me a bow. My marksmanship is good, and you’ll need your hands clear for knife work.”
He handed her the weapon without hesitation. All clanswomen were practiced with the bow and Deva had the reputation of being better than most.
Slowly they made their way north and east, wary of open ground, until at last the trees thinned and a gorse- covered slope beckoned beyond. It stretched for some four hundred paces.
“You could hide an army down there,” whispered Deva, crouching beside him in the last of the undergrowth before the slope.
“I know. But we have little choice. The main force is behind us. They have sent these scouts ahead to cut us off. If we remain here the main body will come upon us. We must go on.”
“You go first. I’ll wait here. If I spot movement I’ll signal.”
“Very well. But don’t shoot until you are sure of a hit.”
Biting back an angry retort, she nodded. What did he think she was going to do? Shoot at shadows? Gaelen left the cover of the trees and moved slowly down the slope, tense and expectant. Deva scanned the gorse, trying not to focus on any one point. Her father had taught her that movement was best seen peripherally.
A bush to the right moved, as if a man was easing through it. Then her attention was jerked away by a noise from behind and she turned. A hundred paces back along the trail, a man had fallen and his comrades were laughing at him. They were not yet in sight, but would be in a matter of moments. She was trapped! Fighting down panic, she notched an arrow to the bow. Gaelen reached the bottom of the slope and glanced back. Deva lifted both hands, pointing one index finger left, the other right. Then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
Gaelen cursed and moved. He broke into a lunging run for the gorse, angling to the right, his knife in his hand. Surprised by the sudden sprint, the hidden archer had to step into the open. His bow was already bent.
Deva drew back the bowstring to nestle against her cheek. Releasing her breath slowly, she calmed her mind and sighted on the motionless archer. Gaelen threw himself forward in a tumbler’s roll as the man released his shaft. It whistled over his head. Deva let fly, the arrow flashing down to thud into the archer’s chest. The man dropped his bow and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft; then he toppled sideways to the earth.
Coming out of his roll, Gaelen saw the man fall. The second Aenir, a huge man with a braided yellow beard, hurled his bow aside and drew his own hunting knife. He leaped at the clansman, his knife plunging toward Gaelen’s belly. Gaelen dived to the left-and the Aenir’s blade raked his ribs. Rolling to his feet Gaelen launched himself at the warrior, his shoulder cannoning into the man’s chest. Off balance, the Aenir fell, Gaelen on top of him. The blond warrior tried to rise but Gaelen slammed his forehead against the Aenir’s nose, blinding him momentarily. As the man fell back Gaelen rolled onto the warrior’s knife arm and sliced his own blade across the bearded throat. Blood bubbled and surged from the gaping wound, drenching the clansman. Pushing the body under thick gorse, Gaelen rolled to his feet and ran back to the first man. Deva was already there, struggling to pull the body out of sight into the bushes. Together they made it with scant moments to spare.
Huddled together over the corpse, Gaelen put his arm around Deva, drawing her close as the Aenir force breasted the slope. “If they find the other body we’re finished,” he said. His knife was in his hand and he knew with bleak certainty that he would cut her throat rather than let them take her.
The enemy moved down the slope. Grim men they were, and they moved cautiously, many notching arrows to bowstrings, their eyes flickering over the gorse. Gaelen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm; his heart was thudding against his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes; Deva leaned against him and he could smell the perfume of her hair.
The Aenir entered the gorse, pushing on toward the east. Two men passed within ten paces of where they lay. They were talking and joking now, content that the open ground was behind them.
The last of the Aenir moved away out of earshot. Gaelen felt cramped, but still he did not move. It was hard to stay so still, for hiding was a passive, negative thing that leached a man’s courage.
“You can let go of me now, clansman,” whispered Deva.
He nodded, but did not move. Deva looked up into his face, seeing the tension and fear. Raising her hand, she stroked his cheek. “Help me get this swine’s jerkin,” she said.
Gaelen released her, smiling sheepishly. He pulled her arrow from the man’s ribs and they worked the brown leather jerkin clear. Deva slipped it on over her tunic. It was too large by far and Gaelen trimmed the shoulders with his knife.
“How do I look?” she asked him.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“If this is beautiful, you should have been struck dumb at the Whorl Dance.”
“I was.”
Deva giggled. She looped the man’s knife belt around her waist. “You were so forlorn, Gaelen. I felt quite sorry for you, with your swollen leg.”
“I felt quite sorry for myself.”
“What are your plans now? Why are we heading north?”
“With luck the clan will be there.”
“Why should they be?”
“I believe the war has begun. The Aenir will have raided the valleys. But Caswallon has a plan.”
“Caswallon!” she snapped. “Caswallon is not Hunt Lord!”
“No, but he should be,” hissed Gaelen. A sound in the bushes jolted them, but relief swept over Gaelen as Render’s great black and grey head appeared. Kneeling, he patted the dog affectionately, using the time to let the angry moment pass.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I did not mean that.”
