mind. Suppose the Gates could send a man wherever he wished? Who could resist an army that appeared within a walled city? But was it possible? He looked down at Morgase, taking her chin in his hand. “Have you told my father?”
Her hand came down to rest on his thigh. “No, you are the man to lead the Aenir.” At her touch he stiffened, his eyes flickering to the darkened doorway.
“Have no fear, Drada. I slipped him a sleeping potion. He will not wake for hours.”
He lifted her to his lap and kissed her, his hand slipping beneath her robe.
“Are you worth dying for?” he asked, his voice husky, his face flushed.
“Find out,” she told him.
Gaelen and Deva spent their second night in a shallow cave, the entrance hidden by a hastily erected screen of bushes. The day had been fraught, and their trail had been picked up by a second band of Aenir foresters. At one stage they had been sighted and chased for almost a mile before slipping their pursuers. Deva was exhausted, her feet grazed and blistered. Gaelen sliced strips of leather from her jerkin and she set to work shaping them into moccasins; but the leather was soft and they would not last long in the mountains.
They could light no fire and the night was cold. They spent it together, wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket.
Gaelen was desperately worried now. The enemy were all around them and there was still open ground to cross. They would never make it. Deva slept on, her head resting on his shoulder. His back was cramped and sore, but he did not move. She was more tired than he, and needed the rest.
What would Caswallon do? he wondered. There must be a way to escape the Aenir net. Closing his eyes, he pictured the route to Attafoss. There were four sections of open ground, where the land dipped away into broad valleys with little or no cover. There was no way to avoid crossing at least one of them. Traveling by day would be suicidal. By night it would be almost as hazardous for, up to now, Gaelen had seen no sign of the Aenir campfires. They could blunder straight into an enemy camp.
In two days Gaelen had killed five enemy warriors. He had often dreamed of the day when he would pay them back for his terror and his wounds. But now be realized there was no joy or satisfaction to be found. He wished they had never come to the Farlain. Wished it with all his heart.
Render stirred beside him, his great head coming up with ears pricked. Gaelen gestured the hound to silence and woke Deva gently, his hand over her mouth.
“Someone’s coming,” he whispered. Carefully he crept to the mouth of the cave, easing aside the leaves and branches masking the entrance.
The Aenir had returned and were once more scouring the hillside for tracks.
With infinite care Gaelen withdrew his hand, allowing the branches to settle back. Then he drew his knife and waited. Render moved to him, laying his head on Gaelen’s shoulder, nostrils quivering as he scented the Aenir. The cave was marginally below ground level, the entrance only three feet high, and Gaelen had uprooted two thick bushes, pulling them into the cave roots first. From outside they would appear to be growing at the base of the cliff.
For an hour or more the Aenir continued their search, then they moved farther down the mountainside out of sight. Gaelen relaxed and crept back to Deva, putting his mouth close to her ear.
“We must wait until nightfall,” he whispered. She nodded. Outside the sun shone brightly, but its warmth could not penetrate the chill of the cave and they sat wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket throughout the long afternoon.
Just after dusk Gaelen pushed aside the bushes and climbed from the cave, eyes searching the mountainside. The Aenir had moved on. Deva passed out his pack and bow, then joined him in the open. Gaelen pushed the bush screen back in place.
“We may need to get back here,” he said. “It leaves us one hiding place.”
They set off in silence, threading a path through the trees toward the first valley. The night was brighter than Gaelen would have liked, a three-quarter moon shining in the clear sky. They stopped at the timberline, wary of leaving the sanctuary of the trees, and remembering the hidden Aenir scouts of the day before.
Stepping out into the open, Gaelen started the long walk to the shadow-shrouded valley. Deva, an arrow notched to the bow, walked just behind him, while Render loped out in a wide circle, content merely to be free of the narrow confines of the cave. The wind was in Gaelen’s face and that pleased him, for Render would pick up any scent. Frequently Gaelen glanced at the hound, seeking signs of alarm. But there was none.
It took them an hour to cross the valley and climb the steep slope beyond. With one danger past, the next took its place.
They could not see anything within the trees; overhanging branches shut out the moonlight, creating a wall of darkness. Within the woods could be a hundred, a thousand, Aenir waiting for them.
They had no choice. Hand on knife, Gaelen walked into the darkness, leaning against a broad trunk and allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the stygian gloom. They moved on carefully. It was uncannily still among the trees, not a sound whispered in the night. The breeze had fallen away and above them the branches hung together forming an archway, the trees like colonnaded pillars. No bats skittered in the trees. No animals disturbed the undergrowth. It was like passing through a Hall of the Dead, murky and silent, pregnant with menace.
Render’s head came up and he sniffed the air. He made no sound but looked away to the left. Gaelen patted him softly. About twenty paces away he could just make out the silhouette of a seated man. Gaelen stood statue- still. As he stared he could see more men lying on the ground, wrapped in blankets.
An Aenir camp!
Gesturing to Deva, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl. The sentry coughed and spat. Gaelen froze. They eased their way past the group and into the forest beyond. They were climbing now and it became more difficult to move quietly. Sweat ran down Gaelen’s face and his breathing grew ragged. He knew that stress was sapping his strength as much as the flight itself. Deva was bearing up well. He smiled grimly. But then she was Clan!
They climbed a steep slope and Gaelen peered over the rim, dropping back almost immediately. Beyond were another twenty Aenir asleep. A sentry was seated on a boulder on the far side. He had-thank God-been looking away when Gaelen appeared. Gaelen edged some thirty paces farther along the slope. Carefully he raised his head over the rim. There was a screen of trees now between them and the Aenir sentry. Swiftly he levered himself over the rim. Render scrambled up after him. Deva handed Gaelen the bow, then smoothly climbed to join them.
Once more in the trees, they breasted the rise and pushed on into the second valley. There was more gorse here and Gaelen felt his confidence rising. Then the breeze picked up once more-and saved their lives.
Render growled, hurtling forward into the gorse. A man’s scream rent the night. Deva dropped to one knee, drawing the bowstring back to her cheek. Gaelen ran left, dropping his pack and drawing his knife. Three men ran from the bushes toward them. The first fell, Deva’s arrow jutting from his right eye. Gaelen leaped feet first at the second, kicking him in the face; the man fell back. Gaelen hit the ground and rolled as the third Aenir raced past him toward Deva. The girl had no time to draw fully and let fly on half string. The arrow struck the man in the face, ripping open his cheek, but he tore it loose and kept coming. Deva hurled her bow aside as the man leaped upon her, bearing her to the ground.
“I have you now, you bitch!” he shouted, his knife poised above her throat. But a black shadow loomed, and Render’s huge jaws clamped down on the man’s face, fangs ripping away skin and flesh. Blood sprayed over Deva as the Aenir toppled from her. Weakly he tried to stab the hound, but then came the sound of crunching bones-and his skull shattered.
Gaelen rolled to his feet and hurled himself across the body of the second Aenir, who had been stunned by the kick and was struggling to rise when the young clansman dived upon him. Gaelen’s knife plunged into his back. He screamed and thrashed his arms as Gaelen ripped the knife loose, whipping the blade across the man’s throat.
Render padded toward him, jaws bloody. The silence that followed was broken by sounds of running men.
Grabbing his pack and bow Gaelen signaled to Deva and began to run, steering away from the pursuers and then cutting north. Beside him Deva ran easily, the bow looped over her left shoulder. Gaelen pushed the pace as hard as he dared, and Deva courageously matched him, though her lungs were burning and her legs aching.
