Aenir.”
“Let them,” said Maggrig. “I’ve never had a lot of time for them. A man stands alone in his life; if he stops to rely on some invisible spirit, then he’ll fail.”
“Luck has a way of changing,” said Intosh. “I don’t believe we should do anything rash. We must proceed with the original plan.”
“And commit suicide?” asked Maggrig. “The whole point of the Axta strategy was so that Caswallon could bring the Queen’s army down on the enemy. Without that we will be wiped out within the morning.”
“They could still reopen the Gates,” said Lennox.
“I wouldn’t trust those druids to open a pouch,” snapped Maggrig. “It’s hard to have faith in a group so prone to panic. Metas doesn’t know his buttocks from a lump of cheese. And as for the rest, they’re running around like headless chickens, so I’m told. If they reopen them in time, we’ll stay with Caswallon’s plan. If not-we must think again.”
“There’s worse news,” said Lennox. The three men turned to him. “We caught an Aenir scout last night. He told us that Laric and his Haesten launched an attack on Aesgard. They were repulsed and trapped in Southwood by Orsa and two thousand Aenir, and were all slain. Laric’s head was left on a spear. There will be no help from the south.”
“Well, that’s about it,” said Maggrig. “All we need is a plague in our ranks and the day will be complete.”
The four sat in silence around the fire, the burden of despair weighing them down.
A young Pallides warrior entered the cave. “The Loda Hunt Lord has arrived,” he said.
“Bring him to me.”
“I need no bringing!” said Dunild, pushing past the young warrior. The newcomer was short, but powerfully built. He had no beard, and his yellow hair hung to his shoulders beneath a woolen bonnet edged with leather and decorated with an eagle’s feather.
Maggrig stood and forced a smile. “Well met, you poaching rascal!”
Dunild laid his round shield on the ground and gripped Maggrig’s wrist. “You look fat and old, Maggrig,” said the Loda Hunt Lord.
“That’s because I am old and fat. But still a match for most men-including you. How many follow you?”
“Three hundred.”
“Good news.”
“I hear you’ve been suffering.”
“I’ve had better days,” admitted Maggrig. “What of Grigor?”
“I know nothing of the thieving louse,” hissed Dunild.
“Now, that is not the whole truth, my friend,” said Maggrig, “for you’d not have brought your clan and left your own valley unprotected.”
Dunild grinned. “He says he will come and fight alongside you-as long as he doesn’t have to fight alongside me! ”
“How many will he bring?”
“He’ll match me man for man, so I told him five hundred.”
“I trust neither of you will leave any behind to raid each other’s lands?”
“On the contrary. We’ve both done just that.”
“I think you might be right, Intosh,” said Maggrig. “Perhaps our luck is changing.” The swordsman grinned and the newcomer joined them around the fire.
The discussion carried on into the night, and the men were joined by Patris Grigor, a skeletally lean, balding warrior and Hunt Lord to the Grigor clan. There were few better sword killers in the mountains than this taciturn clansman. He sat as far from Dunild as he could, and the two men exchanged not a word during the discussion, all comments directed at Leofas or Maggrig. The atmosphere was tense.
At dawn they received a report from the druid Metas. There had been no success with the Gates, and Taliesen’s files had offered no solution. The Gates, he said, were closed forever.
For a time none of the leaders spoke. Their families gone, their hopes dashed, they sat in the silence of despair. Finally Leofas said, “All we have left now is to die-and take as many of the enemy with us as we can. Now is the time for a decision, Maggrig. Axta Glen is out of the question. So where do we make a stand?”
His words hung in the air. Maggrig, forcing his mind from thoughts of Maeg and his grandson, lost in time, glanced at Dunild and Grigor. The men had brought their warriors to fight alongside the other clans-not to throw their lives away. Maggrig saw the concern on their faces, and he knew what other thoughts would be stirring in their cunning minds. The Farlain and the Pallides had lost all their women and children. If, by some chance, they were able to destroy the Aenir they would then be forced to raid for women from other clans.
“We will find a way to open the Gates,” he said, surprised at the confidence in his voice. “And more than that. I don’t intend to merely lash out like a dying bear. I want to win. By the Gods, we’re all clansmen here. Brothers and cousins. Together we will destroy Asbidag and his ragtag band of killers.”
“A pretty speech, Maggrig,” said Dunild softly. “But how-and where-will this be achieved?”
“That is for us to decide at this meeting,” answered Maggrig. “Who will begin?”
An hour of discussion followed as the clan leaders suggested various possible battle sites, mostly occupying high ground. None of the sites offered even the possibility of a victory. Then Intosh suggested a mountain pass some twenty miles east. It was known as Icairn’s Folly, following a battle there hundreds of years ago when a young chieftain had followed his enemy into the pass and been destroyed.
“We could man the pass walls with archers and lure the Aenir in upon us,” said Intosh. “The mountain walls narrow to two hundred fifty paces apart at the center, and a small force could hold a larger one there.”
“And what when we are pushed back? The pass is blocked and we would be like cattle in a slaughter pen,” said Maggrig.
“Let’s not be pushed back,” said Intosh.
“But can we win there?” asked Grigor. “I don’t like the idea of hurling my clan to doom on one battle.”
“Can we win anywhere?” asked Leofas.
“The Folly does have one advantage,” offered Maggrig. “Our archers will wreak a terrible slaughter among the enemy. The Aenir could break and run. They’ve done it before-when the Pallides crushed them.”
“Even so, is it wise,” asked Dunild, “to choose a battle site with no avenue of retreat?”
“All other areas are ruled out,” said Intosh. “Although we cannot retreat, they cannot encircle us.”
“We could continue to hit and run,” suggested Lennox, who had remained silent for much of the planning.
“But we can’t win that way,” said his father. “I hate to admit it, but it seems we have run out of choices. I vote for Icairn’s Folly.”
The other leaders nodded, then Grigor spoke. “This is your war, Maggrig, not mine. I have come because we are all clan. But I’ll not watch my men cut to pieces. My archers will man the left-hand slope of the pass. If you are crushed, we can still escape.”
“What more could be expected from the Grigors?” snapped Dunild.
Patris Grigor started to rise, reaching for his sword, but Maggrig stopped him with a raised hand.
“Enough!” he said. “Patris is entirely correct. Dunild, you and your Loda warriors will hold the right-hand slopes, Patris the left. The Pallides and the Farlain will stand together at the center. If we are pushed back or scattered, the rest of you must get away with as many men as you can. Take to your own lands. But for the sake of all clansmen, do not go back to war with one another. For your lands will be next, I think.”
“We are decided then?” asked Leofas.
“It seems so,” said Maggrig.
Caswallon’s first realization that anything was wrong came early on the fourth morning of his stay in Citadel. Borrowing a horse, he rode into the hills seeking Taliesen and the Gate. He was anxious to hear of the Aenir advance.
When he arrived at the slope he found no entrance. At first he was unconcerned and returned to the city, spending the day with Sigarni, listening as she talked warmly of her youth and the early days of her rule-days of bloody war and treachery, and close encounters with disaster. Through the conversations Caswallon’s appreciation
