Slowly they made their way north and east, wary of open ground, until at last the trees thinned and a gorse-covered slope beckoned beyond. It stretched for some four hundred paces.
“You could hide an army down there,” whispered Deva, crouching beside him in the last of the undergrowth before the slope.
“I know. But we have little choice. The main force is behind us. They have sent these scouts ahead to cut us off. If we remain here the main body will come upon us. We must go on.”
“You go first. I’ll wait here. If I spot movement I’ll signal.”
“Very well. But don’t shoot until you are sure of a hit.”
Biting back an angry retort, she nodded. What did he think she was going to do? Shoot at shadows? Gaelen left the cover of the trees and moved slowly down the slope, tense and expectant. Deva scanned the gorse, trying not to focus on any one point. Her father had taught her that movement was best seen peripherally.
A bush to the right moved, as if a man was easing through it. Then her attention was jerked away by a noise from behind and she turned. A hundred paces back along the trail, a man had fallen and his comrades were laughing at him. They were not yet in sight, but would be in a matter of moments. She was trapped! Fighting down panic, she notched an arrow to the bow. Gaelen reached the bottom of the slope and glanced back. Deva lifted both hands, pointing one index finger left, the other right. Then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.
Gaelen cursed and moved. He broke into a lunging run for the gorse, angling to the right, his knife in his hand. Surprised by the sudden sprint, the hidden archer had to step into the open. His bow was already bent.
Deva drew back the bowstring to nestle against her cheek. Releasing her breath slowly, she calmed her mind and sighted on the motionless archer. Gaelen threw himself forward in a tumbler’s roll as the man released his shaft. It whistled over his head. Deva let fly, the arrow flashing down to thud into the archer’s chest. The man dropped his bow and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft; then he toppled sideways to the earth.
Coming out of his roll, Gaelen saw the man fall. The second Aenir, a huge man with a braided yellow beard, hurled his bow aside and drew his own hunting knife. He leaped at the clansman, his knife plunging toward Gaelen’s belly. Gaelen dived to the left-and the Aenir’s blade raked his ribs. Rolling to his feet Gaelen launched himself at the warrior, his shoulder cannoning into the man’s chest. Off balance, the Aenir fell, Gaelen on top of him. The blond warrior tried to rise but Gaelen slammed his forehead against the Aenir’s nose, blinding him momentarily. As the man fell back Gaelen rolled onto the warrior’s knife arm and sliced his own blade across the bearded throat. Blood bubbled and surged from the gaping wound, drenching the clansman. Pushing the body under thick gorse, Gaelen rolled to his feet and ran back to the first man. Deva was already there, struggling to pull the body out of sight into the bushes. Together they made it with scant moments to spare.
Huddled together over the corpse, Gaelen put his arm around Deva, drawing her close as the Aenir force breasted the slope. “If they find the other body we’re finished,” he said. His knife was in his hand and he knew with bleak certainty that he would cut her throat rather than let them take her.
The enemy moved down the slope. Grim men they were, and they moved cautiously, many notching arrows to bowstrings, their eyes flickering over the gorse. Gaelen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm; his heart was thudding against his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes; Deva leaned against him and he could smell the perfume of her hair.
The Aenir entered the gorse, pushing on toward the east. Two men passed within ten paces of where they lay. They were talking and joking now, content that the open ground was behind them.
The last of the Aenir moved away out of earshot. Gaelen felt cramped, but still he did not move. It was hard to stay so still, for hiding was a passive, negative thing that leached a man’s courage.
“You can let go of me now, clansman,” whispered Deva.
He nodded, but did not move. Deva looked up into his face, seeing the tension and fear. Raising her hand, she stroked his cheek. “Help me get this swine’s jerkin,” she said.
Gaelen released her, smiling sheepishly. He pulled her arrow from the man’s ribs and they worked the brown leather jerkin clear. Deva slipped it on over her tunic. It was too large by far and Gaelen trimmed the shoulders with his knife.
“How do I look?” she asked him.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“If this is beautiful, you should have been struck dumb at the Whorl Dance.”
“I was.”
Deva giggled. She looped the man’s knife belt around her waist. “You were so forlorn, Gaelen. I felt quite sorry for you, with your swollen leg.”
“I felt quite sorry for myself.”
“What are your plans now? Why are we heading north?”
“With luck the clan will be there.”
“Why should they be?”
“I believe the war has begun. The Aenir will have raided the valleys. But Caswallon has a plan.”
“Caswallon!” she snapped. “Caswallon is not Hunt Lord!”
“No, but he should be,” hissed Gaelen. A sound in the bushes jolted them, but relief swept over Gaelen as Render’s great black and grey head appeared. Kneeling, he patted the dog affectionately, using the time to let the angry moment pass.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I did not mean that.”
“You meant it. Let’s talk no more of it. We’ve a long way to go.”
Chapter Eight
Drada arrived in Farlain valleys on the second day of the invasion, having completed his attack on the Haesten. Throughout the day his men had been scouring the mountains, hunting down clansmen and their families, killing the men and older women, taking the young girls alive. So far they had killed more than a thousand Highlanders.
Leaving a third of his force behind to harry the remnants of Laric’s people, he moved on to join his father. There was no word from Ongist and his force, apart from the first message that told of Maggrig’s flight into the mountains.
With twenty men Drada rode ahead of the marching army, reining his mount on the high slope above the first valley. Below him were a dozen or so gutted houses; the rest had been taken over by the Aenir, whose tents also dotted the field. Drada was discontented. The assault had not been a complete success. The Haesten were all but wiped out, but the Pallides and the Farlain were still at large.
Barsa’s Timber Wolves would harry them in the northwest, but Drada did not share his father’s scant regard for the clans’ fighting abilities. And he had heard of Cambil’s death with regret.
Not that he liked the man, more that he was easy to read, and if the Farlain had to escape Drada would have rested more easily knowing Cambil was Hunt Lord. He didn’t need to be a prophet to predict the next leader:
Caswallon!
The viper beneath the Aenir heel.
Spurring his mount he rode down into the valley, past the field where cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. His brother Tostig saw him coming and walked out to meet him, standing before the cairn that housed the combined dead of the first assault.
“Greetings, brother,” said Tostig as Drada dismounted, handing the reins to a following rider. “I told you the war would be short and sweet.”
Drada stared into his brother’s ugly face. “It is not over yet,” he said evenly.
Tostig spat. “There’s no real fight in these mountain dogs. They’ll give us sport for a few weeks, that’s all.”
“We’ll see,” said Drada, pushing past him. He entered the house of Cambil, seeking his father. Asbidag sat in the wide leather chair before the hearth, drinking from a silver goblet. Beside him was a jug of mead and a half-eaten loaf. Drada pulled up a chair opposite and removed his cloak. Asbidag was drunk; ale dribbled to his red beard at every swallow, flowing over the crumbs of bread lodged there. His bloodshot eyes turned to Drada and he belched and leaned forward.