Then a voice cried out. “Lord of Heaven, aid your servant!”
Caswallon broke into a run. Ahead of him three men had surrounded a bald, elderly man in robes of grey who was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms.
“Surrender it, priest,” ordered a tall man in a red cape.
“You cannot do this,” said the old man. “It is against the laws of man and God.”
The red-caped warrior stepped forward, a bright sword in his hand. The sword flashed forward. The old man twisted the bundle away from the blade, which lanced into his belly. He screamed and fell.
Caswallon hurdled a fallen tree, his own short sword glinting in the dying light. “What vileness do we have here, my bonnies?”
The three spun around and the leader walked forward, his sword dripping blood to the grass.
“It is none of your concern, stranger. Begone.”
“Frightened as I am to face three heroes who can so valiantly tackle old men, I feel I must debate the point,” said Caswallon.
“Then die,” shouted the man, leaping forward. Caswallon parried the lunging blade, his own sword flashing through the man’s neck. The remaining warriors ran forward. Caswallon blocked the first thrust, hammering a punch to an unprotected chin, and the attacker staggered.
Pushing past him Caswallon engaged the third, slipping his hunting knife into his left hand. He ducked beneath a vicious swipe, sticking his sword behind the man’s knee; with a scream he fell. Caswallon whirled as the second man was almost upon him, sword plunging for his chest, but Caswallon parried the blow, punching his hunting knife through the man’s tunic. The blade slid between the man’s ribs, cleaving the heart. Dragging the knife free, he saw the third man crawling toward the bushes, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Ignoring him, Caswallon ran to the old man, gently turning him.
“Thank the Source,” said the priest. “For He has sent you in my hour of need.” Blood was seeping fast, drenching the old man’s clothes.
“Why did they attack you?”
“It wasn’t me, my son; they wanted the babe.” The old man pointed to the bundle by his side. Caswallon lifted the blanket and there lay a sleeping infant no more than a week old. She was tiny and naked, her downy hair pure white.
“Lie still,” urged Caswallon, ripping open the priest’s robes, seeking to stem the outflow of blood from the wound. The assassin’s sword had ripped down through the man’s lower belly, opening the artery in his groin. There was no hope for him, and his face was already losing color.
“Where are you from?” whispered the dying man.
“Another world,” said Caswallon. “And I am lost.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You passed through a Gate?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Mordic sent you?”
“No.”
“Cateris, Blean, Taliesen…”
“Yes, Taliesen.”
“Take the babe back through the Chalice Gate.”
“I do not know where it is.”
“Close by. North. I opened it myself. Look for a cave on the hillside; it has a goblet fashioned in the rock of the entrance. But. .. beware… Jakuta Khan will follow.”
“Who are you?”
“Astole. I was Taliesen’s teacher.” Horns sounded in the forest to the south. “They are coming for the child. Take her and run. Go now! I beg you.” The old man slumped back.
Sheathing his sword and knife, Caswallon scooped the bundle into his arms and began to run. Behind him he could hear the barking of dogs and the shrill call of hunting horns. He was angry now. Thwarted from his quest, he was being hunted by an enemy he did not know, in a forest that was strange to him.
Dropping his pace to a gentle jog, eyes scanning the undergrowth, he searched for a way to lose his pursuer. He could hear running water away to the left and he cut toward it. A small stream gurgled over rocks. Splashing into it, Caswallon followed it upstream for about thirty paces and then left it on the same side, walking through soft mud to stop before a massive oak.
Without turning he looked down and walked backward, placing his feet in his own prints. Slowly he backtracked to the stream, then carried on walking through the water. It was an old trick, which in daylight would fool no skilled tracker, but with dusk approaching fast it could hold up the pursuit.
The child opened her eyes, pushing her tiny fist into her mouth. Caswallon cursed. She was hungry and that meant there were scant moments left before she began to cry for food.
Turning again toward the north, he scanned the hillside for the cave the old man had spoken of. The babe in his arms gave out a thin piercing wail and Caswallon cursed again. The sun was slowly sinking behind the western peaks. As it fell below the clouds a shaft of bright light lit the hillside, and Caswallon saw the dark shadow of the cave entrance, some thirty paces above him and to the right.
The barking of hounds was closer. Twisting, he saw four sleek black shapes emerge from the tree line below, no more than fifty paces behind him. Holding firm to the child, Caswallon sprinted up the slope and into the cave. It was like a short tunnel. Behind him the dying sun was bright against the rocks, yet ahead was a forest bathed in moonlight.
Caswallon spun, for the first of the hounds had reached the cave. As it leaped his sword slashed down across its neck, smashing through flesh and bone. Turning again, he saw the moonlit forest begin to fade. Taking two running steps he hurled himself through the Gateway. He fell heavily, bracing his arm and shoulder so that the babe would be protected.
Rolling to his feet he swung to face his enemies-and found himself staring at a solid wall of grey stone. The sound of a waterfall came to him and he sheathed his sword and walked toward it. I know this place, he thought. But the trees are different. This was Ironhand’s Pool, and if he climbed above the falls he would see High Druin in the distance. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of wood smoke to his nostrils. Moving to his left into the wind, the smell grew stronger. Ahead was a cottage of stone, with a thatched roof, and a cleared yard containing a small flower garden and a coop for chickens. Caswallon ran to the cottage, tapping softly at the door. It was opened by a young woman with long fair hair. “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.
“Food for a babe,” he answered, handing her the child. Her eyes changed as she gazed at the small face.
“Come inside.”
Caswallon followed her. At a pine table sat a large man with a heavy beard of red-gold.
“Welcome,” said the man. Caswallon noticed that one of his hands was below the table, and guessed a blade was hidden there.
“I found the babe in the forest,” he said lamely.
The man and woman exchanged glances. “Do you know whose child it is?” the man asked.
“I know nothing of her,” said Caswallon.
“We lost our own daughter three days ago,” said the man. “That is her crib there, in the corner. You can leave the child with us, if you will. My wife is still milk-swelled-as you can see.” The woman had opened her shirt and was feeding the babe.
Caswallon pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite the man, looking deep into his clear grey eyes. “If I leave her with you, will you care for her as you would your own?”
“Aye,” said the man. “Walk with me awhile.” He rose, sheathing the hunting knife he had held below the table. He was taller than Caswallon, and broader in the shoulder. Stepping out into the night he walked to the far side of the cabin, seating himself on a bench crafted from pine. Caswallon sat beside him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your clothes are clan, but you are not Loda.”
“I am Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“I have dealings with the Farlain. How is it I have never heard of you?”
Caswallon let out a sigh and leaned back against the bench. “Is there a town near here, on the edge of the Lowlands, called Ateris?”
