Forty miles to the south and east Maggrig’s anger was mounting. He was tired of being herded toward the west, tired of skulking away from the enemy, and filled with a sense of dread. The Aenir had caught up with them on the afternoon of the day following the attack, but Pallides scouts had hit them with a storm of arrows and slowed their pursuit. Since then they had outflanked the clan to the east and the two groups were seemingly engaged in a deadly race, the Aenir endeavoring to outrun them and prevent the northward exodus. Rare cunning and an intimate knowledge of the land enabled Maggrig to stay ahead, but always the angle of the march was being shifted and the wily Pallides Hunt Lord had begun to suspect they were being herded west for a reason other than the obvious. It had seemed at first that the Aenir commander wanted to force a direct battle by cutting off their flight, but he had spurned two opportunities to do so. Once could have been put down to ignorance or lack of thought.
Twice was a different tale.
As the swordsman Intosh had pointed out, it could still be stupidity. Maggrig had grunted, dismissing the idea. “Any general who needs to rely on his opponent being an idiot is in sore trouble. No, I don’t think he wants a confrontation yet. I think there’s another Aenir force to the west of us. We are between a hammer and a hard rock.”
“We have limited choices,” said Intosh, squatting to the earth and sketching a rough map of the terrain ahead. “All we can do is react. We are hampered by the presence of our women and children.”
“According to our scouts,” said Maggrig, “the enemy has two thousand men. We have eight hundred who can fight, and seven hundred women. With older children who can handle a bow, we could muster sixteen hundred fighters.”
“To what purpose?” said Intosh. “We cannot take them on.”
“We must,” said Maggrig sadly. “Yes, we can continue to run, but each mile brings us closer to disaster. We must take the initiative.”
“We cannot win.”
“Then we’ll die, my friend, and we’ll take as many of the swine along the path as we can.”
Intosh’s eyes focused on Maggrig. The swordsman was also tired of running. “It is your decision and I will stand by you. But where do we make this stand?”
Maggrig knelt beside him and together they selected the battle site, tracing the lines of the land in the soft earth.
Dawn found the Aenir under Ongist marching through a wide valley. Ahead was a range of hills, thickly wooded with ancient oaks on the left slope, and to the east a higher hill clear of trees. Upon that hill was the shield ring of the Pallides, the rising sun glistening on the swords, spears, and helms of the clan, and shining into the eyes of the Aenir.
Ongist called his scouts to him. “How long before Barsa reaches us?”
“Another day,” said a lean, rangy forester. “Do we wait?”
Ongist considered it. To wait would mean sharing the glory-and the women. Shading his eyes he scanned the hill, making a rapid count. “How many would you think?”
The forester shrugged his shoulders. “Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand. But half of them must be women. Vatan’s balls, Ongist, we outnumber them by three to one!”
Drada had been insistent that no major battle should be joined until Barsa’s troops had linked with his, but what would Father say if Aenir warriors merely waited, apparently fearful of attacking a hill defended by women, old men, children, and a handful of warriors?
Calling his captains forward, Ongist ordered the advance.
The Aenir swept forward, screaming their battle cries and racing toward the hill. The slope was steep and arrows and spears hurtled among them, but the charge continued.
On the hilltop Maggrig drew his sword, settling his shield firmly in place on his left arm. The Aenir were halfway up the hill, the last of their warriors on the lower slopes, when Maggrig gave the signal to the warrior beside him. The man lifted his horn to his lips and let sound the war call of the Pallides.
In the woods behind the Aenir, eight hundred women dropped from the trees, notching arrows to the bowstrings. Silently they ran from cover, kneeling at the foot of the slope and bending their bows. The Aenir warriors running with their shields before them were struck down in their scores as black-shafted death hissed from behind. Ongist, at the center of the mass, turned as the screams began.
Hundreds of his men were down. Others had turned to protect themselves from this new assault. These only succeeded in showing their backs to the archers above.
Ongist cursed and ducked as an arrow flew by him to bury itself in the neck of his nearest companion. The charge had faltered. He had but one chance of victory, and that lay in charging the women archers below. He bellowed for his men to follow him and he began to run.
But at that moment Maggrig sounded the horn once more and the shield ring split as he led his fighters in a reckless attack on the enemy rear. Intosh beside him, the burly Hunt Lord cut and thrust his way into the Aenir pack. A sword nicked his cheek before the wielder fell with his throat opened, to be trampled by the milling mass.
Shaft upon shaft hammered into the Aenir ranks. Death was ahead of them-and behind they could hear the shrill battle cry of the Pallides: “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Faced with a hail of missiles many of the Aenir broke to the left, streaming away toward the safety of the trees, desperate to be clear of the rain of death. Ongist was furious. With a hard core of his personal carles he stood his ground, but the battle was lost. Arrows tore into his men, opening a gap in the shield wall, exposing Ongist to the enemy. Two shafts pierced the air, ripping into Ongist’s chest. With a grunt of pain he broke off the jutting shafts. Turning, Ongist saw Maggrig before him, his beard dark with blood, his eyes gleaming and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
Ongist lashed out weakly. Maggrig parried the blow with ease, lifting his hand for the archers to cease shooting. Ongist, the last Aenir alive, staggered, then gazed on the enemy with new eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, pushing himself to his knees with great effort.
“Bring him,” muttered Maggrig, walking past the dying Aenir general and on toward the trees.
Within the hour the Pallides were once more marching north and west. Behind them the crows settled on the Aenir dead-more than eleven hundred bodies stripped of armor and weapons littered the hillside. And nailed to a tree hung the body of Ongist, his ribs splayed grotesquely, his innards held in place with strips of wood. His eyes had been put out and his tongue torn from his mouth.
Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.
Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.
Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.
In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.
She laid her head against his neck. “I did not think we would get here safely,” she said.
He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.
Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.
Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed toward
