“That’s not true.”
“No, it’s not,” admitted Maggrig. “But then Rhianna and I didn’t watch many sunsets. In truth we spent most of our life together squabbling and rowing. But she was a good lass for all that. Maeg was four when Rhianna died, she wouldn’t have taken to another mother.”
“We’re a pair of fools,” said Leofas again. “Do you regret not having sons?”
“No,” lied Maggrig. “And we’re getting maudlin.”
“Old men are allowed to get maudlin. It’s a rule of life.”
“We’re not that old. I’m as strong as ever.”
“I’m ten years older than you, Maggrig, and according to tradition, that makes me wise. Between us we muster a century or more. That’s old.”
“I never used to be old,” said Maggrig, grinning. “Strange how it creeps up on a man.”
They let the silence grow, each drifting on a river of memories. It was, they believed, their last night alive under the stars and neither wanted to talk about tomorrow.
Drada was angry, more angry than he could ever recall. The clans had mounted a series of raids, retreating always to the east. He sensed a plan behind the attacks and now it had become clear.
That morning Aenir scouts had reported a movement of the clans toward a pass six miles east. Drada, who had scouted the land personally some days before, knew that the pass was blocked and impassable to the north. Surely the clans would not consider a battle there? But they had, and now the Aenir force was waiting in the mouth of Icairn’s Folly-and Drada was crimson with rage.
“But why attack, Father? It is unnecessary. There is no way out for them; if we wait they must attack us.”
“I command here!” thundered Asbidag. “Why do you plead caution when we have them where we want them?”
“Listen to me, Father. The slopes within could hold a thousand archers. They will take a huge toll. The main army will be near the center of the pass, where the mountain walls narrow, which means our weight of numbers will be lessened. We will be fighting one to one. Of course we’ll win-but we could lose thousands in there.”
“They brought me Barsa’s rotting corpse this morning,” said Asbidag. “Now I have two sons calling for vengeance. And you want me to sit and wait.”
“The clans have made a terrible mistake,” said Drada. “They are hoping we will do exactly what you are planning. It is their only hope.”
“What are you, a prophet now? How do you know what they are planning? I believe we have surprised them in their lair. Get the men ready to charge.”
Drada swallowed his anger, and it tasted of bile. He turned away from his father then, so that he would not see the burning hatred in his eyes.
You are dead, Asbidag, Drada decided. After the battle, I will kill you.
The Aenir line assembled in the mouth of the pass, shield straps being tightened, sword hands rubbed in dust for better grip. Twenty-five thousand men peered at the rock-strewn slopes and the towering mountain walls beyond. There was no enemy in sight.
The war horns of the Aenir sounded and the armor-clad mass began to move slowly forward, Drada and Tostig together at the center, Asbidag’s other sons to the left and right of them. Asbidag himself stayed at the mouth of the pass surrounded by his forty huscarles. Morgase stood beside him, her eyes bright, her heart hammering as she waited for the killing to begin.
The Aenir army moved on warily, with shields held high, scanning the slopes. Ahead of them the pass narrowed and still there was no sign of the enemy…
Suddenly the Folly was alive with noise as the Farlain and the Pallides moved into sight to man the narrow center. A great roar went up from the Aenir as they surged forward, beating shields with their sword blades. On either side of them rose archers from the Dunilds and the Loda. Goose-feathered shafts filled the air. The screams of wounded men rose above the war cries and now the clans roared out their own battle cry that echoed in the mountains, booming and growing.
Dark clouds of hissing death flashed into the Aenir horde in a series of withering volleys. Some warriors broke from the ranks to charge the archers, but these were cut down by scores of shafts. The charge slowed, but did not stop.
At the front of the Aenir line the giant Orsa felt the baresark rage upon him. Hurling aside his shield, he raced ahead of his men bellowing his anger and swinging his broadsword above his head. An arrow sliced into his thigh but he ignored it.
Lennox leaped from the line to meet him, holding a long-handled mace of lead and iron. He too threw aside his shield as Orsa ran forward slashing his blade toward the clansman’s head. Lennox made no move to avoid the blow but lashed the mace into the blade, smashing it to shards. Orsa crashed into him and both men fell to the ground, Orsa’s hands closing about Lennox’s throat. Releasing the mace, Lennox reached up to cup his hand under Orsa’s chin; then punching his arm forward, he snapped the Aenir’s head back, tearing the man’s grip from his neck. Rolling, Lennox came up with the mace and delivered a terrible blow to Orsa’s skull, crushing the bones to shards and powder.
With scant seconds to spare Lennox rejoined the line, standing beside his father, Leofas, and the Pallides War Lord Maggrig. The front line of the Aenir bore down on the waiting clans. Maggrig lifted his sword, grinned at Intosh, then screamed the battle cry of the Pallides.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!”
The chant was taken up and the clans surged into the charging Aenir. After four years of war in the Lowlands the Aenir believed they were the finest fighters under the sky, but never had they met the fierce-eyed, blood-hungry wolves of the mountains. Now they learned the terrible truth, and as the blades of the clans slashed and cut their first line to shreds, the charge faltered.
Maggrig powered his way into the Aenir ranks, cleaving and killing, an awful fury upon him. Many were the Pallides dead whose faces he would never forget, whose souls hungered for vengeance. The War Lord forgot the plan to hold the center and forged ever deeper into the enemy. Intosh and the Pallides had no choice but to follow him.
Leofas gutted one warrior and parried a blow from a second, backhanding his shield into the man’s face. Lennox aided him, braining the man with his mace.
“Sound the horn!” yelled Leofas. “Maggrig’s gone mad!”
Lennox stepped back from the fray, allowing Farlain warriors to shield him from the enemy. Lifting his war horn to his lips, he blew three sharp blasts. The sound filtered through Maggrig’s rage and he slowed in his attack, allowing the Pallides to form around him. The weight of the Aenir numbers was beginning to tell and the clans were pushed back, inch by murderous inch.
The deadly storm of arrows had slowed now, for the archers on the slopes were running short of shafts.
Dunild hurled aside his bow, lifting his shield and drawing his sword. His men followed suit. Now was the time to withdraw, for the battle could not be won; the Aenir had not broken.
Three hundred clansmen joined him, swords in hand. Looking across the slopes to where his enemy Patris Grigor had also drawn his sword, Dunild felt a strange calm settle on him. He lifted his sword in silent farewell to his enemy. There would never be peace while they both lived, for their hatred was stronger than any desire to beat a common foe.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” yelled Dunild as he led his three hundred down the slope to reinforce the Farlain.
Patris Grigor could not believe his eyes. His enemy of twenty years had just surrendered his lands. Patris was now the undisputed lord of the northwest.
“What does he think he’s doing?” yelled a man on his left. Grigor shrugged. Twenty years of hatred, and now Dunild was hurling his life away on a futile charge in a doomed battle. Grigor shook his head and dropped his bow.
“Do we leave now?” asked a clansman.
Grigor laughed. “You know what’s happening down there?”
“The Aenir are about to win through. It’s all over.”
“That’s right. And that brainless idiot Dunild has gone down there to die.”
