“Well?” he snarled.
“The Haesten are finished.”
Asbidag began to laugh. He drained the last of the ale and then lifted the silver goblet, crushing it suddenly, the muscles of his forearm writhing as his powerful fingers pressed the metal out of shape.
“Finished? What about the Farlain? Your plan was a disaster.” The words were slurred but the eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence.
“We have the valleys and the Farlain have nowhere to go, and no food supply.”
“So you say.”
Morgase entered the room and Drada stood and bowed. Ignoring him, she moved to Asbidag and knelt by the chair, stroking the bread from his beard. Asbidag’s eyes softened as he gazed on her cool beauty. He lumbered to his feet, pulling her up beside him, his huge hand sliding down her flank. He leered at her and left the room, stumbling on the stairs.
“Wait here,” said Morgase. “I shall see you presently.”
“I think not, lady. I fear you will be preoccupied for some little while.”
“We shall see.”
Drada moved from the hard seat to the wide leather chair his father had vacated, easing himself back and lifting his feet to a small table. He closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort. He was tired, he hadn’t realized quite how tired. The light was fading. He cursed softly and pushed himself upright, gathering candles from the kitchen. Taking a steel tinderbox from his pouch he struck a flame and lit a candle, placing it in a brass holder on the wall above the hearth. Near the door was a crystal lantern that he also trimmed and lit. Returning to the chair, he tried once more to relax but he could not. He was overtired and filled with the tension only the planning of war could produce.
Morgase slipped silently into the room wearing only a dark silken robe. She knelt by him as she had knelt by his father. He looked down into her cold blue eyes; her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and red. By candlelight her face looked younger, softer.
“He is sleeping,” she whispered.
“Good. I wish I was.”
“Soon, Drada. Soon. Listen to me. I promised you the Gateway to empires. Do you still desire it?”
“Of course.” Leaning forward, he rubbed his tired eyes.
“The druids guard the Gateway. They have a hiding place near the great falls called Attafoss. You must lead an army to the north.”
“What is this Gateway?”
“I don’t know what it is, only what it does. It is an entrance to my own world-a land full of riches and ripe for conquest.”
“What do you mean? There is no world to the north, only mountains and sea.”
“You are wrong. I was raised in a far land, not of this world. My father was an earl. He was killed in a rebellion when I was seven years old. The land is ruled now by a warrior queen but her armies have fought many battles and they are tired, weary to the bone.”
“I have heard of no queen…” Drada began.
“Listen to me, you fool,” she hissed, her eyes angry. “My brothers and I fought her for six long years, but our army was crushed. I fled north with two trusted servants; they brought me to a druid who lived in the eastern mountains and he told me of a Gate I could pass that would lead to safety. The entrance was marked by a carving at the mouth of the cave, where someone long ago had chipped out the shape of a goblet. He took me there and we entered the cave, which was shallow and dripping with water. He spoke some words by the far wall, and it shimmered and disappeared. Then he beckoned me to follow him and stepped through where the wall had been. I followed and found myself in the mountains near a great waterfall.
“It was like a dream. The old man stepped one pace back-and disappeared. I tried to follow him but there was no way back. I walked south for many days until I reached the city of Ateris in the distance. There I met your father.”
Drada was awake now. “You say the Farlain druids control this Gateway?”
“Yes.”
“And they can transport men wherever they wish to go?”
“Yes. Now do you see?”
“I do indeed.”
“The druid who helped me told me that if ever I wished to return I should seek a man named Taliesen.”
“I’ve met him,” said Drada.
“He guards the Gate, and controls its power.”
Drada leaned back in his chair, the tension easing from him, his weariness slipping away. “Such a Gateway allowed the Aenir to invade these lands,” he said. “But once we were through it closed behind us, becoming solid rock. For years we sought sorcerers and witches to open them but none succeeded. What are these Gates? Who made them?”
“I don’t know. The old druid told me they had existed for centuries. In my land we have legends of trolls and giants, beasts and dragons. The druid said these were all creatures which had passed through random Gates.”
Drada sat back, saying nothing. This was a prize greater than any before. Dreams of empire grew in his mind. Suppose the Gates could send a man wherever he wished? Who could resist an army that appeared within a walled city? But was it possible? He looked down at Morgase, taking her chin in his hand. “Have you told my father?”
Her hand came down to rest on his thigh. “No, you are the man to lead the Aenir.” At her touch he stiffened, his eyes flickering to the darkened doorway.
“Have no fear, Drada. I slipped him a sleeping potion. He will not wake for hours.”
He lifted her to his lap and kissed her, his hand slipping beneath her robe.
“Are you worth dying for?” he asked, his voice husky, his face flushed.
“Find out,” she told him.
Gaelen and Deva spent their second night in a shallow cave, the entrance hidden by a hastily erected screen of bushes. The day had been fraught, and their trail had been picked up by a second band of Aenir foresters. At one stage they had been sighted and chased for almost a mile before slipping their pursuers. Deva was exhausted, her feet grazed and blistered. Gaelen sliced strips of leather from her jerkin and she set to work shaping them into moccasins; but the leather was soft and they would not last long in the mountains.
They could light no fire and the night was cold. They spent it together, wrapped in Gaelen’s blanket.
Gaelen was desperately worried now. The enemy were all around them and there was still open ground to cross. They would never make it. Deva slept on, her head resting on his shoulder. His back was cramped and sore, but he did not move. She was more tired than he, and needed the rest.
What would Caswallon do? he wondered. There must be a way to escape the Aenir net. Closing his eyes, he pictured the route to Attafoss. There were four sections of open ground, where the land dipped away into broad valleys with little or no cover. There was no way to avoid crossing at least one of them. Traveling by day would be suicidal. By night it would be almost as hazardous for, up to now, Gaelen had seen no sign of the Aenir campfires. They could blunder straight into an enemy camp.
In two days Gaelen had killed five enemy warriors. He had often dreamed of the day when he would pay them back for his terror and his wounds. But now be realized there was no joy or satisfaction to be found. He wished they had never come to the Farlain. Wished it with all his heart.
Render stirred beside him, his great head coming up with ears pricked. Gaelen gestured the hound to silence and woke Deva gently, his hand over her mouth.
“Someone’s coming,” he whispered. Carefully he crept to the mouth of the cave, easing aside the leaves and branches masking the entrance.
The Aenir had returned and were once more scouring the hillside for tracks.
With infinite care Gaelen withdrew his hand, allowing the branches to settle back. Then he drew his knife and waited. Render moved to him, laying his head on Gaelen’s shoulder, nostrils quivering as he scented the Aenir. The cave was marginally below ground level, the entrance only three feet high, and Gaelen had uprooted two thick bushes, pulling them into the cave roots first. From outside they would appear to be growing at the base of the cliff.