The man shook his head. “There is Citadel town. The Outlanders control it now. And I ask you again-who are you?”
“I am a clansman, as I have said.” He laughed suddenly. “Were our positions reversed, my friend, and you were to tell me the story of how you found the babe, I would think you mad.”
“I am not you,” said the man. “So speak.”
Quietly Caswallon told him of the Aenir invasion and of his journey through the Gateway, of the dying priest, and the men and hounds who had sought the death of the child. The man did not interrupt, but listened intently. As he finished Caswallon stood and looked down into the man’s deep-set grey eyes, awaiting a response.
At that moment the ground trembled. Thrown off balance, Caswallon lurched to the right. The moonlight brightened and gazing up, both men saw two moons shining in the sky. For moments only the land was bathed in silver brilliance, then the second moon faded.
As it did so the figure of Taliesen appeared beside them. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees as the crofter leaped to his feet, his knife snaking into his hand. “No!” shouted Caswallon. “He is the druid I told you of.”
Taliesen tried to stand, failed, and sat glumly on the ground. “I think the journey almost killed me,” he grumbled. As Caswallon helped him to his feet, the little sorcerer sighed. “You have no idea of the energy I have expended to arrive here. Who is this?”
“I am Cei,” said the crofter.
“I must see the child,” said Taliesen, shaking himself free of Caswallon’s support and moving off to the cabin.
Cei approached Caswallon. “You were wrong. I did not think you mad. Yesterday an old man came to us as we were mourning the death of our babe. He told us he would come, and that he would bring us joy-and sorrow.”
“This man, was he bald and wearing grey robes?”
Cei nodded.
Both men returned to the cabin, to find Taliesen kneeling beside the crib where the baby was sleeping. When Caswallon and Cei looked closely they saw that the child’s silver hair was now corn-gold.
Taliesen stood and turned toward the crofter. “Enemies will come after this babe,” he said. “Be warned. I have changed the color of her hair. As I have told your wife, you must raise her as your own; no one must know how she came here. Your wife says the death of your child is not known among your friends in the clan. Keep it that way.”
“Who is she?” asked Cei. “Why is she in danger?”
“She is your daughter. You need know no more than that-save that she is of the blood royal,” said Taliesen. “Now we must go.”
Lennox added fuel to the fire and the flames leaped and twisted. He wasn’t cold, he merely wanted to see the child’s face in sleep. Her thumb had slipped from her open mouth and she was breathing evenly. Lennox carefully hitched her into the crook of his right arm, stretching his back.
Gaelen yawned and stretched, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Seeing Lennox still awake, he moved around the fire to join him. “How is she?”
“She is all right now. She says her father was eaten by wolves.. . and her sister.”
“It’s unlikely,” said Gaelen. “She would not have escaped a pack. A dream, do you think?”
“I don’t know. She said the wolves were as big as me.”
“Wolves attack at night and they move fast. A child that small might think them overlarge.”
“I agree, Gaelen, but she’s clan; her father was clan. How could he be surprised by wolves? It makes no sense. I can’t remember a clansman ever being killed by a pack. Wolves don’t attack men. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Perhaps he had no fire, or had been forced to flee without weapons. Perhaps the wolves were starving.”
The two men sat in silence for a while, then Gaelen spoke. “More likely it was the Aenir and the child was confused. Many of them wear wolfskin cloaks. And at the Games I saw a man with a wolf’s head for a helm. An attack at night?”
“She says her mother was killed by men with swords. I don’t think she’s that confused. I think you should walk warily tomorrow,” said Lennox.
“We’ll miss you on the trip,” said Gaelen, gripping Lennox’s shoulder.
“Yes, but you don’t need me. She does. I’ll get her to the island and then join my father. We’ll see you in Axta Glen.”
“I hope so. I pray there is an army of Highlanders ready to be gathered. But if not I shall still see you there, Lennox. Even if I am alone. I promise you.”
“I know you will, cousin. I’ll look forward to it.”
Soon after dawn the companions bade farewell to Lennox and the child and set off to the south. Lennox hoisted the girl to his shoulder and headed north.
As they walked he discovered that her name was Plessie and her clan Haesten; she was the niece of Laric, the Hunt Lord. He was tempted to run back and find the others, for Laric would be well disposed toward a group that had rescued his niece. But Plessie’s fearful glances behind them forced him to dismiss the idea.
Whatever had happened to her had left a terrible scar.
Throughout the morning he climbed through the timberline, and they stopped to eat at a rock pool below a small falls. The companions had given Lennox some oatcakes and these he shared with Plessie. The child sat upon a rock dangling her feet in the water, giggling at its icy touch. Lennox smiled-and froze. He slowly climbed to his feet, aware suddenly that he was being watched. Fear grew in his heart-not fear for himself, but for the child. He had promised she would be safe and a promise was a sacred thing among the clans.
Casually he glanced around at the thick undergrowth. He spotted a patch of darkness beyond a blossoming heather, but allowed his eyes to skip over the bush. He had the feeling the dark patch was fur, and if that was so the thing was either a bear or a wolf.
Plessie was sitting in the shade of a tall pine, and a long branch extended above the water. Lennox scooped her into his arms and lifted her high onto the branch.
“Sit there for a moment, little dove,” he said.
“Don’t want to,” she wailed.
“Do it for your uncle Lennox. And be careful now.”
Even as he spoke a werebeast charged from the undergrowth, jaws wide, taloned fingers reaching for the clansman. As it leaped it gave a terrifying howl. Beasts of the wild always roar or screech on attacking their prey. The sound freezes the victim.
But Lennox was not a hunted animal. Nor even an ordinary man.
He was the most powerful warrior in the long history of the Farlain.
As the beast broke cover Lennox whirled, bellowing his own scream of fury. He charged it, smashing a right cross to its open jaws. Fangs snapped, the jawbone disintegrating under the impact. The beast screamed and fell, rolling to all fours and howling in pain. A second creature leaped forward, and twisting to meet it, Lennox charged again. Talons lashed across his shoulder, scoring deep through the flesh. The jaws lunged for his face, and throwing up his hand, he fastened his fingers to the furry throat. The downward lunge was halted, the fangs inches from his face. Lennox could feel hot, rancid breath on his skin. The power of the beast was immense. He threw a left-hand blow that thundered against the werebeast’s ear; the creature fell back, then leaped again. This time Lennox stood his ground until the beast was almost upon him. As it rushed forward he caught it by the throat and groin, and hurled it with all his strength against the trunk of a pine. It hit with a sickening thud-spine exploding into shards, ribs splitting and piercing the great lungs beneath. Blood flowing from his wounds, Lennox drew his sword. The first beast attacked again, its jaw hanging slack. As its talons lashed out, Lennox ducked beneath the swinging arm and hammered his sword into its unprotected belly.
The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and drew his hunting knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.
