“You meant it. Let’s talk no more of it. We’ve a long way to go.”
Chapter Eight
Drada arrived in Farlain valleys on the second day of the invasion, having completed his attack on the Haesten. Throughout the day his men had been scouring the mountains, hunting down clansmen and their families, killing the men and older women, taking the young girls alive. So far they had killed more than a thousand Highlanders.
Leaving a third of his force behind to harry the remnants of Laric’s people, he moved on to join his father. There was no word from Ongist and his force, apart from the first message that told of Maggrig’s flight into the mountains.
With twenty men Drada rode ahead of the marching army, reining his mount on the high slope above the first valley. Below him were a dozen or so gutted houses; the rest had been taken over by the Aenir, whose tents also dotted the field. Drada was discontented. The assault had not been a complete success. The Haesten were all but wiped out, but the Pallides and the Farlain were still at large.
Barsa’s Timber Wolves would harry them in the northwest, but Drada did not share his father’s scant regard for the clans’ fighting abilities. And he had heard of Cambil’s death with regret.
Not that he liked the man, more that he was easy to read, and if the Farlain had to escape Drada would have rested more easily knowing Cambil was Hunt Lord. He didn’t need to be a prophet to predict the next leader:
Caswallon!
The viper beneath the Aenir heel.
Spurring his mount he rode down into the valley, past the field where cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. His brother Tostig saw him coming and walked out to meet him, standing before the cairn that housed the combined dead of the first assault.
“Greetings, brother,” said Tostig as Drada dismounted, handing the reins to a following rider. “I told you the war would be short and sweet.”
Drada stared into his brother’s ugly face. “It is not over yet,” he said evenly.
Tostig spat. “There’s no real fight in these mountain dogs. They’ll give us sport for a few weeks, that’s all.”
“We’ll see,” said Drada, pushing past him. He entered the house of Cambil, seeking his father. Asbidag sat in the wide leather chair before the hearth, drinking from a silver goblet. Beside him was a jug of mead and a half- eaten loaf. Drada pulled up a chair opposite and removed his cloak. Asbidag was drunk; ale dribbled to his red beard at every swallow, flowing over the crumbs of bread lodged there. His bloodshot eyes turned to Drada and he belched and leaned forward.
“Well?” he snarled.
“The Haesten are finished.”
Asbidag began to laugh. He drained the last of the ale and then lifted the silver goblet, crushing it suddenly, the muscles of his forearm writhing as his powerful fingers pressed the metal out of shape.
“Finished? What about the Farlain? Your plan was a disaster.” The words were slurred but the eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence.
“We have the valleys and the Farlain have nowhere to go, and no food supply.”
“So you say.”
Morgase entered the room and Drada stood and bowed. Ignoring him, she moved to Asbidag and knelt by the chair, stroking the bread from his beard. Asbidag’s eyes softened as he gazed on her cool beauty. He lumbered to his feet, pulling her up beside him, his huge hand sliding down her flank. He leered at her and left the room, stumbling on the stairs.
“Wait here,” said Morgase. “I shall see you presently.”
“I think not, lady. I fear you will be preoccupied for some little while.”
“We shall see.”
Drada moved from the hard seat to the wide leather chair his father had vacated, easing himself back and lifting his feet to a small table. He closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort. He was tired, he hadn’t realized quite how tired. The light was fading. He cursed softly and pushed himself upright, gathering candles from the kitchen. Taking a steel tinderbox from his pouch he struck a flame and lit a candle, placing it in a brass holder on the wall above the hearth. Near the door was a crystal lantern that he also trimmed and lit. Returning to the chair, he tried once more to relax but he could not. He was overtired and filled with the tension only the planning of war could produce.
Morgase slipped silently into the room wearing only a dark silken robe. She knelt by him as she had knelt by his father. He looked down into her cold blue eyes; her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and red. By candlelight her face looked younger, softer.
“He is sleeping,” she whispered.
“Good. I wish I was.”
“Soon, Drada. Soon. Listen to me. I promised you the Gateway to empires. Do you still desire it?”
“Of course.” Leaning forward, he rubbed his tired eyes.
“The druids guard the Gateway. They have a hiding place near the great falls called Attafoss. You must lead an army to the north.”
“What is this Gateway?”
“I don’t know what it is, only what it does. It is an entrance to my own world-a land full of riches and ripe for conquest.”
“What do you mean? There is no world to the north, only mountains and sea.”
“You are wrong. I was raised in a far land, not of this world. My father was an earl. He was killed in a rebellion when I was seven years old. The land is ruled now by a warrior queen but her armies have fought many battles and they are tired, weary to the bone.”
“I have heard of no queen…” Drada began.
“Listen to me, you fool,” she hissed, her eyes angry. “My brothers and I fought her for six long years, but our army was crushed. I fled north with two trusted servants; they brought me to a druid who lived in the eastern mountains and he told me of a Gate I could pass that would lead to safety. The entrance was marked by a carving at the mouth of the cave, where someone long ago had chipped out the shape of a goblet. He took me there and we entered the cave, which was shallow and dripping with water. He spoke some words by the far wall, and it shimmered and disappeared. Then he beckoned me to follow him and stepped through where the wall had been. I followed and found myself in the mountains near a great waterfall.
“It was like a dream. The old man stepped one pace back-and disappeared. I tried to follow him but there was no way back. I walked south for many days until I reached the city of Ateris in the distance. There I met your father.”
Drada was awake now. “You say the Farlain druids control this Gateway?”
“Yes.”
“And they can transport men wherever they wish to go?”
“Yes. Now do you see?”
“I do indeed.”
“The druid who helped me told me that if ever I wished to return I should seek a man named Taliesen.”
“I’ve met him,” said Drada.
“He guards the Gate, and controls its power.”
Drada leaned back in his chair, the tension easing from him, his weariness slipping away. “Such a Gateway allowed the Aenir to invade these lands,” he said. “But once we were through it closed behind us, becoming solid rock. For years we sought sorcerers and witches to open them but none succeeded. What are these Gates? Who made them?”
“I don’t know. The old druid told me they had existed for centuries. In my land we have legends of trolls and giants, beasts and dragons. The druid said these were all creatures which had passed through random Gates.”
Drada sat back, saying nothing. This was a prize greater than any before. Dreams of empire grew in his
