man was walking several feet above the torrent. After some twenty paces he stopped, reaching down, and stroked the air in a vertical line by his feet. Then he looped the twine around the invisible post and walked on. This he did every twenty paces, and amazingly the twine hung in the air behind him. Slowly the man made his way to the waiting clan, stopping to tie the end of the twine to a small tree. Then he approached Taliesen and bowed.
“Welcome, lord, it is good to see you again. How many of the clan survived?”
“Just under six thousand. But there could be more hidden in the mountains.”
“And the Pallides?”
“No one knows. But the Haesten were crushed, and I don’t doubt many lesser clans were annihilated.”
“Sad news, lord.”
The druid, who seemed almost as ancient as Taliesen, turned to Caswallon. “You will instruct your people to hold on to the twine and follow it. There is no danger, and the path is wide enough to make a line of five men. Let them approach slowly. All children to be carried. If anyone falls they are dead. They will be carried over Attafoss within seconds. Instruct your people.”
Caswallon was the first to cross, the clan filing slowly behind him. It was an uncanny sensation, placing weight upon solid air. He soon found it inadvisable to look down, for his sense of balance threatened to betray him.
Behind him the clan followed in silence and there were no mishaps.
Once on the island the clan spread out and pitched their camps. They found dried meat and fruit waiting for them, sacks of grain and oats, bags of salt, and huge tubs of honey, warm blankets and soft hides: all the product of Caswallon’s land that had so mysteriously disappeared the previous autumn.
Caswallon himself called a War Council and they met in a cavern beneath Vallon’s highest hill.
At the center of the cavern was a long table of pine, around which were fifty chairs. These were soon filled. Caswallon took his place at the head of the table, flanked by Leofas and his sons Lennox and Layne; beside them sat Gwalchmai and Gaelen, and beyond them Onic and the pick of the Farlain warriors.
“Before we begin,” Caswallon told them, “there is a matter to settle. It is our custom to elect our leaders. Most of the Council were slain with Cambil in the valley. We here now constitute a new Council. I offer myself as War Lord, but if there is any here with a hankering to lead, let him speak.”
No one stirred.
“It is accepted then that I lead the Farlain until this war is concluded?”
“Of course it is, Caswallon. Do you think us fools?” said Leofas.
“Very well. Then let us begin the real business of the day. How best can we hurt the enemy?”
Asbidag gazed at the ruin that had been his son. Maggots writhed in the dead flesh, and the sharp beaks of crows had torn at the body, but still it was recognizable as Ongist. In full armor, his helm held in his hands, Asbidag stood before the tree soaking in the sight, feeding his fury and his hatred. Behind him stood Drada and Tostig and beyond them twenty-five thousand Aenir warriors.
Asbidag felt no remorse, no sadness at the death of his child. He had not liked Ongist; he liked none of his offspring. But the boy had been his: blood of his blood. He could hear him praying for vengeance at the door of the Grey God’s hall.
Through his anger he felt frustration. How could he wreak vengeance upon the clans? Already his armies had slain four thousand. Many were the blood-eagles decorating the countryside. But he wanted-needed-more.
The clans feared him now, but terror was his desire.
He turned to Tostig.
“Fetch Agnetha from Aesgard. Do it now.”
The color drained from the warrior’s face and he thought of asking his father to send another. But Asbidag’s eyes were cold and distant and Tostig knew from experience that he was on the edge of a killing frenzy. He nodded and backed away to his horse.
Drada stood silently as his brother departed. He had scouted the hill where Maggrig made his stand, and had received reports from the foresters as to the ploy the Pallides used. It was a clever plan, but it would have failed against any captain less impetuous than Ongist. Maggrig had gambled the lives of his people on one perilous venture, and he had succeeded. But it proved the measure of the man, and Drada knew he could best him when next they met.
Two serious errors had been made by Maggrig. On the night of the first attack he had led his warriors on a suicidal charge to protect a few women and children, and now he had staked everything on one battle. He was obviously a man ruled by his heart.
Drada hoped his success would make him bold.
Asbidag stalked from the tree, and several warriors moved forward to cut down the body, preparing it for the funeral pyre on the hillside.
Drada joined his father in the black tent at the base of the hill. Asbidag was drinking heavily, and Morgase sat in the background saying nothing. “We will not catch the Pallides before they link with the Farlain,” said Drada.
“Good,” said Asbidag. “I want them all together.”
“Do you want to press on today?”
“No, we will wait for Agnetha.”
Drada left his father and wandered through the camp to where his own tent had been pitched. Once inside, he stripped off his armor and spread his blankets upon the ground. It was early yet, but weariness was upon him and he slept through the afternoon. He awoke to the smell of cooking meat. One of his carles brought him a platter of beef and some bread and he joined the men outside.
For the first time in many years these fierce warriors were fighting not for gold, nor women, nor glory but for land. And he sensed the difference in them.
“It will not be easy,” said his carle captain Briga, a swarthy black-haired veteran who had been Drada’s first Aenir tutor.
“Nothing worth having comes easy,” Drada told him.
The man grinned. “They fight well, these clansmen.”
“Did you expect less?” Drada asked him.
“Not after the Games.”
“No.” Drada finished his meal and returned to his tent. Briga watched him go. He had been Drada’s carle captain for five years, and before that his sword master. He liked the boy; he was unlike his brothers, but then he had been brought up as a hostage in a foreign city and upon his return was less Aenir than foreigner. He was soft, and his learning sat heavily upon him. Asbidag had made him Briga’s charge.
In the years that followed Drada had learned of battle and death, horror and hate. But blood had run true and he had become, outwardly at least, as much an Aenir as his brothers. Only Briga knew of the lack.
Drada did not love war. He loved the planning of war.
Briga did not care. He sensed that Drada would one day rule the Aenir, and he waited patiently for the day to come.
The Aenir warriors were anxious to push on, but Asbidag gave no orders to move. For ten days they remained in camp until, on the morning of the eleventh day, Tostig rode in alone, reining his lathered mount outside his father’s tent. Asbidag hauled him from the saddle, eyes blazing.
“Where is the witch woman?” he stormed. “If you have failed me I’ll kill you! Your body will hang on the same tree as your brother.”
“She is coming, Father, I swear it. She refused to ride, said she would come in her own way.”
Asbidag hauled him to his feet. “She had better,” he hissed.
At midnight, as the fires burned low, a bitter wind blew up, flashing sparks from the coals. Men shivered as dark clouds obscured the stars and Asbidag, sitting alone before his tent, drew his red cloak around him. A shadow fell across him, and glancing up, he saw the old woman standing before him leaning on a staff. She was as grotesque as ever-almost bald, the remaining greasy white patches of hair hanging like serpents to her emaciated shoulders. Her teeth were broken and black, and her face adorned with wrinkled, leathery skin, as if her skull had shrunk to half its size, leaving the flesh around it to sag monstrously. She wore a matted cloak of human scalps and her tattered gown was said to have been made from the skins of flayed maidens. Asbidag believed it to be true.
