Maggrig knelt beside him and together they selected the battle site, tracing the lines of the land in the soft earth.
Dawn found the Aenir under Ongist marching through a wide valley. Ahead was a range of hills, thickly wooded with ancient oaks on the left slope, and to the east a higher hill clear of trees. Upon that hill was the shield ring of the Pallides, the rising sun glistening on the swords, spears, and helms of the clan, and shining into the eyes of the Aenir.
Ongist called his scouts to him. “How long before Barsa reaches us?”
“Another day,” said a lean, rangy forester. “Do we wait?”
Ongist considered it. To wait would mean sharing the glory-and the women. Shading his eyes he scanned the hill, making a rapid count. “How many would you think?”
The forester shrugged his shoulders. “Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand. But half of them must be women. Vatan’s balls, Ongist, we outnumber them by three to one!”
Drada had been insistent that no major battle should be joined until Barsa’s troops had linked with his, but what would Father say if Aenir warriors merely waited, apparently fearful of attacking a hill defended by women, old men, children, and a handful of warriors?
Calling his captains forward, Ongist ordered the advance.
The Aenir swept forward, screaming their battle cries and racing toward the hill. The slope was steep and arrows and spears hurtled among them, but the charge continued.
On the hilltop Maggrig drew his sword, settling his shield firmly in place on his left arm. The Aenir were halfway up the hill, the last of their warriors on the lower slopes, when Maggrig gave the signal to the warrior beside him. The man lifted his horn to his lips and let sound the war call of the Pallides.
In the woods behind the Aenir, eight hundred women dropped from the trees, notching arrows to the bowstrings. Silently they ran from cover, kneeling at the foot of the slope and bending their bows. The Aenir warriors running with their shields before them were struck down in their scores as black-shafted death hissed from behind. Ongist, at the center of the mass, turned as the screams began.
Hundreds of his men were down. Others had turned to protect themselves from this new assault. These only succeeded in showing their backs to the archers above.
Ongist cursed and ducked as an arrow flew by him to bury itself in the neck of his nearest companion. The charge had faltered. He had but one chance of victory, and that lay in charging the women archers below. He bellowed for his men to follow him and he began to run.
But at that moment Maggrig sounded the horn once more and the shield ring split as he led his fighters in a reckless attack on the enemy rear. Intosh beside him, the burly Hunt Lord cut and thrust his way into the Aenir pack. A sword nicked his cheek before the wielder fell with his throat opened, to be trampled by the milling mass.
Shaft upon shaft hammered into the Aenir ranks. Death was ahead of them-and behind they could hear the shrill battle cry of the Pallides: “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Faced with a hail of missiles many of the Aenir broke to the left, streaming away toward the safety of the trees, desperate to be clear of the rain of death. Ongist was furious. With a hard core of his personal carles he stood his ground, but the battle was lost. Arrows tore into his men, opening a gap in the shield wall, exposing Ongist to the enemy. Two shafts pierced the air, ripping into Ongist’s chest. With a grunt of pain he broke off the jutting shafts. Turning, Ongist saw Maggrig before him, his beard dark with blood, his eyes gleaming and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
Ongist lashed out weakly. Maggrig parried the blow with ease, lifting his hand for the archers to cease shooting. Ongist, the last Aenir alive, staggered, then gazed on the enemy with new eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, pushing himself to his knees with great effort.
“Bring him,” muttered Maggrig, walking past the dying Aenir general and on toward the trees.
Within the hour the Pallides were once more marching north and west. Behind them the crows settled on the Aenir dead-more than eleven hundred bodies stripped of armor and weapons littered the hillside. And nailed to a tree hung the body of Ongist, his ribs splayed grotesquely, his innards held in place with strips of wood. His eyes had been put out and his tongue torn from his mouth.
Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.
Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.
Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.
In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.
She laid her head against his neck. “I did not think we would get here safely,” she said.
He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.
Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.
Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed toward the woods. Suddenly Gaelen jerked as if stung. From his vantage point he could see into the trees, and just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a warrior, running bent over. The man had been wearing the horned helm of the Aenir.
“Oh, no!” he whispered. “Oh, Gods, no!”
“What is it?” asked Deva, swinging her head to glance back down the trail, expecting to see their pursuers close by.
“The Aenir are in the woods,” he said. “They’re waiting to hit the clan and I can’t warn them.”
Deva shaded her eyes, searching the timberline.
“I see nothing.”
“It was only one man. But I know there were more.”
Despair washed over the young man. “Let’s move,” he said, and they began to run down the grassy slopes, angling away from the woods.
Far below them Caswallon halted the column. Ahead was the forest of Atta, the dark and holy place of the druids. Beyond that, according to Taliesen, was the invisible bridge to Vallon. Caswallon called Leofas to him-and Badraig, who had returned from the west with news that the Aenir had split into several forces, the majority racing east at speed, the others vanishing into the mountains in small groups.
The scouting party had cornered twenty Aenir warriors and destroyed them, taking one alive whom they questioned at length. He would tell them little, save that they had been pursuing a man and a girl. Badraig killed the man swiftly and led his party back to Caswallon.
“What do you think?” asked Badraig. “Gaelen?”
“It could be. The girl might be Deva. Dirak’s scouts found the mutilated body of a clan girl they thought was Larain, and Agwaine said the two girls were together.”
“Why should the Aenir split their forces?” Leofas asked.
“I would bet it is Maggrig. The wily old fox is probably leading them a merry dance.”
Taliesen joined them, leaning on his oak staff, his long white hair billowing in the morning breeze. “Can we move on, War Lord? I am anxious to be on safe ground.”