“What I choose. I think she’s lying about something, but it can wait. She’s far too good a bed partner to spoil now.”
“And the Farlain, Father?”
“We’ll set after them tomorrow. Ongist has driven the Pallides west and outflanked them, driving them back toward the east, and Barsa’s Timber Wolves. Tomorrow we march, and if Vatan favors us we’ll arrive while there is still a little sport.”
The journey deep into the mountains was difficult, for many of the clan folk were old, while others struggled to carry babies and infants. Even among the young and strong, the defeat and the flight that followed it brought a strength-sapping sense of despair. Rain made the slopes slippery and treacherous, but the straggling column moved on, ever closer to Attafoss. Maeg passed the sleeping Donal to a clansman, who grinned as he settled the boy’s head on his shoulder. Then she walked away from the column to where Caswallon was issuing orders to a group of warriors. He saw her coming and waved the men away. Maeg thought he looked tired; there was little spring in his step and his eyes were dull. He smiled and took her hand.
“You’re not resting enough,” she said.
“Soon, Maeg.”
Together they watched the clan make their way toward the last slope of the mountains before Attafoss. Already in the distance they could hear the roaring of the great falls. Day by day more stragglers joined the exodus and now almost six thousand people followed Caswallon. The long column of men, women, and children was moving slowly, suffering from the frenzied pace of three days’ marching. The old and the very young were placed at the center of the column. Behind these came the rear guard, while young women strode at the head armed with bows and knives. There was little conversation. The young men were desperate to leave their families in safety on Vallon, so that they could turn back and rend the enemy. The old men were lost in thoughts of youth, regretting their inability to wreak vengeance on the Aenir and ashamed of their faltering pace. The women, young and old, thought of homes lost behind them and the danger their men would face in the days ahead.
Warriors took it in turns to carry the younger children. These tasks were done in good heart, for they were all clan. All one in the spirit of the Farlain.
“You saved the clan, Caswallon,” said Maeg, slipping her arm around her husband’s waist and smiling up at him, noting the lines of tension on his face, the dark circles beneath his green eyes.
He kissed her hair. “I don’t need lifting, lovely lady, but thank you for saying it. I seem to be clinging by my fingertips to an icy cliff. There are so many problems. A messenger from Badraig says there is a force in the east. We know the Aenir are also following in the south. I am frightened by all of it. There is no room for a wrong decision now.”
“You will do what is best,” she said. “I have faith in you.”
“Oh, I have faith in myself, Maeg. But all men make mistakes.”
“Maggrig always said you were as cunning as a fox, and trying to out-think you was like catching wood smoke with your fingers.”
He grinned and the tension fell from him, though the fatigue remained.
“I will feel better when the clanswomen and children are safe and my thoughts can turn once more to simple tasks-like killing the Aenir.”
“You think that will be more simple?”
“Indeed it will. They think they have won, they see us running and believe us broken. But we will turn and they will find themselves staring into the tawny eye of the killing wolf.”
She turned to him, staring up into his angry eyes. “You will not let hate enter your soul?”
“No. Do not fear for me in that way. I do not hate the Aenir; they are what they are. No more do I hate the mountain lion who hunts my cattle. And yet I will fight and kill the lion.”
“Good. Hate would not sit well with you, Caswallon of the Farlain.”
“How could I hold you in my heart and find room for hate?” he said, kissing her lips. “Now you must go, for I have much to do.”
Hitching up her skirt she ran along the column, found the warrior holding Donal, and thanked him for his help. The child was still sleeping and she took him back in her arms and walked on.
Caswallon wandered to the rear of the column where Leofas walked with the rear guard. Surrounded by younger men the burly warrior seemed grizzled and ancient, but his eyes shone as Caswallon approached.
“Well, we made it without incident,” he said.
“It looks that way,” Caswallon agreed.
Leofas scratched his beard. There was more grey than red in the hair, and Caswallon thought it had the look of rust on iron. Leofas was old, but he was tough and canny, and the day had not dawned when an enemy could take him lightly. He wore a glistening mail shirt of iron rings sewn to a leather base with silver thread. By his side were two short swords and in his hand an iron-capped quarterstaff.
“Did you mean what you said, Caswallon? About sending out people through the Druid’s Gate?”
“Yes.”
“Will they be safe?”
“Safer than here, my friend, believe me. A hundred of the older men will go with them, to help with the hunting and building.”
“And then what?”
“Then you and I will hunt a different game.”
The older man’s eyes gleamed and he grinned wolfishly. “It’s about time. I do not feel right heading away from the devils. My legs keep turning me about. I never thought the day would come when I’d care about what happened to the Pallides,” Leofas went on, “but I hope that old wolf Maggrig is safe.”
“He’s not a man to be surprised by a sudden attack. He would have had scouts out.”
“Yes, but so did we, Caswallon.”
Forty miles to the south and east Maggrig’s anger was mounting. He was tired of being herded toward the west, tired of skulking away from the enemy, and filled with a sense of dread. The Aenir had caught up with them on the afternoon of the day following the attack, but Pallides scouts had hit them with a storm of arrows and slowed their pursuit. Since then they had outflanked the clan to the east and the two groups were seemingly engaged in a deadly race, the Aenir endeavoring to outrun them and prevent the northward exodus. Rare cunning and an intimate knowledge of the land enabled Maggrig to stay ahead, but always the angle of the march was being shifted and the wily Pallides Hunt Lord had begun to suspect they were being herded west for a reason other than the obvious. It had seemed at first that the Aenir commander wanted to force a direct battle by cutting off their flight, but he had spurned two opportunities to do so. Once could have been put down to ignorance or lack of thought.
Twice was a different tale.
As the swordsman Intosh had pointed out, it could still be stupidity. Maggrig had grunted, dismissing the idea. “Any general who needs to rely on his opponent being an idiot is in sore trouble. No, I don’t think he wants a confrontation yet. I think there’s another Aenir force to the west of us. We are between a hammer and a hard rock.”
“We have limited choices,” said Intosh, squatting to the earth and sketching a rough map of the terrain ahead. “All we can do is react. We are hampered by the presence of our women and children.”
“According to our scouts,” said Maggrig, “the enemy has two thousand men. We have eight hundred who can fight, and seven hundred women. With older children who can handle a bow, we could muster sixteen hundred fighters.”
“To what purpose?” said Intosh. “We cannot take them on.”
“We must,” said Maggrig sadly. “Yes, we can continue to run, but each mile brings us closer to disaster. We must take the initiative.”
“We cannot win.”
“Then we’ll die, my friend, and we’ll take as many of the swine along the path as we can.”
Intosh’s eyes focused on Maggrig. The swordsman was also tired of running. “It is your decision and I will stand by you. But where do we make this stand?”