Oracle watched the Aenir in the valley below. They had slaughtered three prime steers and were preparing a feast. Since the invasion three days before not one enemy warrior had approached the cave. Heavy of heart, Oracle walked back to the entrance and on into the small room at the rear of the cave. He had seen the death of Durk, and now from beneath his narrow cot bed he pulled an oak chest, brass-edged and finely worked. From it he took a rusting mail shirt and helm and an old broadsword wrapped in oiled cloth. He donned the mail shirt noting, with a wry grin, that it no longer hung well on his bony frame. Man aged less well than iron. Pushing back his white hair, he placed the helm firmly on his head. Looping sword and scabbard about his waist, he moved back into the sunlight and began the long walk into the valley.
Many were the thoughts as he strode down toward the feast. He remembered his childhood, and the first Hunt, his glory at the Games when he carried the Whorl Stone farther than any man before him. He remembered his love, Astel, a spirited lass from among the Haesten, and how she had sickened and died during their first winter together. The sense of loss crippled him still, though she remained young in his memory while he withered in reality.
The trees thinned out and he walked on.
Then had come the day when he approached the Council following his success in the war against the Lowland raiders. Great days, when his name was sung throughout the Farlain. He believed they would make him king. Instead they had rejected him, and in his fury he had sworn never to return to the clan.
With a few valiant followers he had risked everything sailing to Vallon. There he overpowered the druids who manned the Gate, and journeyed to the world beyond. For two years he fought alongside the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Regret touched him as the long suppressed memory of his shame rose to his mind. Sigarni had dismissed him, stripping him of rank. Oracle and his followers had then crossed the Gate once more to a distant land.
And what a land it was, green and fertile, with rolling hills and verdant valleys, broad plains and tall cities of glowing marble. It was a country riven by civil war, petty chieftains and robber princes vying with one another for control. Oracle had arrived in a world made for his talents. Within two years he was a general. Within five he led an army of three thousand men against Vashinu, the Prince of Foxes, and smashed him in a battle near Duncarnin. Five years later he crowned himself king and was acclaimed from northern mountains to southern seas as the undisputed Lord of the Isles, High King.
Had he been possessed of compassion, or even foresight, he might have changed that troubled land, bringing peace and prosperity to his subjects. But he had been a man of war, and had learned nothing of diplomacy, nor forgiveness. He persecuted his enemies, creating greater hatreds and thus more enemies. Two rebellions he crushed, but the third saw his army broken.
Wounded and alone, his few close friends dead or captured, he fled north and there vainly attempted to gather a force. For three years he fought minor campaigns, but always the great victories slipped away until at last he was betrayed by his lieutenants and turned over to his enemies. Sentenced to death, he had broken from his prison, killing two guards, stolen a horse, and made his way southeast to the Gateway once more. Twice they almost caught him, an arrow piercing his back. But he had been strong then, and he carried the wound to the druid’s cave-the cave he had stumbled from so many years before, when first he laid eyes on the Land of Isles.
There had been a druid there, who had gazed upon him, shocked and bewildered. He had been one of the men Oracle had overpowered long before on Vallon. Oracle, weak from loss of blood, asked the man to send him back home. He had done so without argument.
Now the old man gazed down on the fruits of his ambition, and bitter was the taste. The valley was scarred by the invasion, burnt-out homes black against the greenery, enemy soldiers trampling the wheat in the fields. By the long hall were the guards, and within were the captured women of three clans, kept in chains to endure the lusts of the conquerors.
Men looked up from their work as the old man came in sight, then began to gather and point at him. Laughter began and sped as warriors came running to watch him. The laughter touched Oracle’s mind like acid. In his day men had quailed to see him thus attired. Now he was a figure of fun. He drew his sword, and the laughter subsided.
Then someone called, “Run, lads. It’s the entire clan army!”
And they mocked him, spreading out in a circle about him.
“Where is your leader?” he asked.
“Hark, it speaks! You can talk to me, old man. Tell me your business.”
“I seek the dog, not its droppings,” said Oracle.
The man’s face reddened as he heard the laughter and felt the acid. He drew his sword and leaped forward. Oracle parried his thrust, reversing a cut that half severed the man’s neck.
The laughter died, replaced by the sharp, sliding hiss of swords being drawn.
“Leave him. He interests me,” said Asbidag, striding through the crowd-Drada to his right side, Tostig at his left. He halted some five paces from Oracle, grinning as he noticed the rusted mail shirt.
“I am the leader. Say what you must.”
“I have nothing to say, spawn of Agrist. I came here to die. Will you join me?”
“You want to fight me, old man?”
“Have you the stomach for it?”
“Yes. But first tell me where your clan has gone. Where are they hiding, and what do they plan?”
Oracle grinned. “They are hiding all around you, and they plan your destruction.”
“I think you can tell me more than that. Take him!”
The men surged forward. Oracle’s sword flashed twice and men fell screaming. The old man reversed his blade, driving it deep into the belly of the nearest warrior. In his pain and rage the Aenir lashed back with his own sword, cleaving Oracle’s ribs and piercing his lungs. He doubled over and fell, blood gushing from the wound.
“Get back, you fools!” shouted Asbidag, punching men aside. Oracle struggled to rise, but the Aenir War Lord pushed him back to the earth, kneeling beside him.
“You got your wish, old man. But you’ll be blind in Valhalla, for I’ll cut out your eyes unless you tell me what I wish to know.”
Oracle heard his voice as from a great distance, and then another sound burst upon his mind: a woman’s voice, screaming in hatred. He thought he recognized it, but his vision swam and he did not feel the knife blade that pierced his throat.
Asbidag turned as Morgase plunged the knife again and again into the old man’s neck. Tears were falling from her eyes and her sobbing screams unsettled the warriors around her. Asbidag hauled her to her feet, slapping her face; she calmed down then, her eyes misting over as she exerted her will, blanketing down the hatred that had overwhelmed her.
“You knew this man?” asked Asbidag softly.
“Yes. He was a general in the army that saw my father slain. He raped my mother and after that she killed herself. He was Caracis, Sigarni’s general.”
“I don’t know these names,” said Asbidag. “You told me your land was ten thousand leagues from here. You must be mistaken. This old man was a clansman.”
“Do you think I would forget such a man?”
“No, I do not. But there is something you have left out, my little dark lady. How is he here?”
“I thought he was dead. He… vanished twenty-five years ago.” Asbidag grunted, then kicked the corpse. “Well, whatever he was, he’s dead now,” said Asbidag, but his gaze rested on Morgase as she walked back to the house.
Drada wandered to his father’s side. “Do you really think she would remember? She must have been a small child twenty-five years ago.”
“It worries me,” answered Asbidag, still watching the woman. “I’ve never heard of her realm. I think she’s bewitched.”
“What will you do?”