“He demanded I swear the vassal oath.”
“You would have done the same.”
“That’s not the point,” snapped Maggrig.
“No, Hunt Lord?”
An hour later Maggrig swore the vassal oath and was amazed his tongue did not fall out.
That same afternoon Caswallon and Maggrig led the women and children of the Pallides into the Druids’ Hall entrance and down into the broad underground chamber housing the Middle Gate.
Maggrig blinked. At the end of the hall was a black marble archway. Yesterday a solid wall of stone had stretched between the pillars. Now that wall was gone and the Pallides Hunt Lord gazed down on the first valley of the Farlain, where already men and women were pitching tents and felling trees for shelter. The archway was twice the height of a man and ten paces across. The two men stood in the Gateway looking down on the valley. Within paces of them a tall pine was waving in the breeze, but no breath of wind touched their faces.
“Where are the Aenir?” asked Maggrig as his people bunched behind him, looking down in wonder.
“That is the Farlain ten thousand years ago,” said Caswallon.
Maggrig’s eyes widened. “This is sorcery, then?”
“It most certainly is,” Caswallon told him.
Maggrig stepped through the Gateway, flinching as rushing colors blinded him momentarily. Caswallon walked through behind him, waving the women to follow.
On the other side the breeze was cool, the sunlight warm and welcoming.
“It is not possible,” whispered Maggrig, watching his people materialize from the air. From this side there was no sign of the Gate, only the rolling green countryside.
Caswallon led the Pallides down into the meadow where Leofas was supervising the building work. “I’m glad to see he survived,” said Maggrig. “He always was the best of the Farlain.” The old warrior grinned as he saw Maggrig, stepping forward to grip the Hunt Lord by the hand.
“So you got here, you dog,” said Leofas.
“Did you expect a few Lowlanders to stop me?”
“Certainly not. I expected you to chase the swine from our lands, leaving nothing for the Farlain to do.”
“I was tempted,” said Maggrig with a broad grin.
Caswallon left the men talking and sought out Gaelen; he found him chatting to Deva by the river’s edge. Apologizing for disturbing them, Caswallon led Gaelen up into the timberline and they sat beneath the pines.
“I want you to do something for me,” said Caswallon, “but it is hazardous.”
“Name it,” said Gaelen.
“Don’t make hasty judgments. I want you to take some men and head back into the Haesten, gathering as many warriors as you can. I want you to bring them to Axta Glen in three weeks.”
“Why the glen?”
“It is there we will tackle the Aenir.”
“But that is open ground.”
“I know. Have faith in me. I am hoping there will be upward of a thousand clansmen still in hiding. I have sent messages to the Dunilds, the Loda, and many other smaller clans, but I don’t know if they will come to our aid. But we must get more men; you must find them.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“I know that, Gaelen.”
“Why me?”
“Because you are known as an outsider. You are accepted within the Farlain, there is no doubt about that. But similarly you are not Farlain; the Haesten may follow you.”
“Even if I did add a thousand to our army, we would still be outnumbered five to one. And on open ground…”
“I am also going on a journey,” said Caswallon. “If it is successful, we will have another ally.”
“Where will you go?”
“Through the Gate. I am seeking help from the Queen Beyond.”
Gaelen shivered. “You mean the daughter of the woman who saved us from the beast?”
“No, the woman herself.”
“She is dead.”
“As we sit here in this valley, Gaelen, neither of us is born. Our birth cries are ten thousand years in the future. Is it so strange then to think of seeking a dead queen?”
“Why would she come?”
“I don’t know. I only pray that she does-and that her strength will be sufficient.”
“What if she does not?”
“Then the clans will face a difficult day in Axta Glen.”
“What are our chances?”
“Taliesen says they are minimal.”
“What do you say?”
“I’d say Taliesen was being wildly optimistic.”
Gaelen returned to Deva at the stream and told her of his mission. She listened quietly, her grey eyes grave. “It will be dangerous for you. Take care,” she said.
“I would be the more careful,” he said tenderly, “if I knew you would be waiting for me when I returned.” She looked away then, but he took her hand. “I have loved you for such a long time,” he told her.
Gently she pulled her hand clear of his. “I love you too, Gaelen. Not just because you saved my life. But I can’t promise to wait for you, nor for any Farlain warrior. I know you think me foolish to believe in the prophecy-but Taliesen confirmed it; it is my destiny.”
Gaelen said nothing more. Rising, he moved away and Deva returned to the waterside. Her thoughts were confused as she sat, trailing her hand in the stream. It was senseless to refuse love when all she had was a distant promise, Deva knew that. Worse, her feelings for Gaelen had grown stronger during the time they spent together, being hunted by the Aenir. All her doubts surfaced anew, and she remembered confiding in Agwaine. He had not scoffed, but he had been brutally realistic.
“Suppose this father of kings never comes? Or worse. Suppose he does, and he does not desire you? Will you spend your life as a spinster?”
“No, I am not a fool, brother. I will wait one more year, then I will choose either Layne or Gaelen.”
“I am sure they will be glad to hear it,” he said.
“Don’t be cruel.”
“It is not I who am being cruel, Deva. Suppose they don’t wait? There are other maidens.”
“Then I will marry someone else.”
“I hope your dream comes true, but I fear it will not. You sadden me, Deva, and I want to see you happy.”
“A year is not such a long time,” she had said. But that had been before the Aenir invasions, and already it seemed an eternity had passed. Her father was dead, the clan in hiding, the future dark and gloom-laden.
Gaelen chose six companions for the journey south-Agwaine, Lennox, Layne, Gwalchmai, plus Onic and Ridan. Onic was a quiet clansman, with deep-set eyes and a quick smile. Almost ten years older than Gaelen, he was known as a fine fighting man with quarterstaff or knife. He wore his black hair close-cropped in the style of the Lowland clans, and around his brow sported a black leather circlet set with a pale grey moonstone. His half brother, Ridan, was shorter and stockier; he said little, but he had also fought well in the retreat from the valley. Both men had been chosen for their knowledge of the Haesten, gained from the fact that their mother had come from that clan.
Taking only light provisions and armed with bows, short swords, and hunting knives, the seven left Vallon before dawn. A druid guided them over the invisible bridge, for the twine had been removed lest the Aenir march to the island.
Gaelen had mixed feelings about the trip. The responsibility placed upon him weighed heavily. He loved Caswallon, and trusted him implicitly, but to battle the Aenir on the gentle slopes of Axta Glen? Surely that was madness. During the last two years Gaelen had enjoyed many conversations with Oracle about battles and tactics, and he had learned of the importance of terrain. A large, well-armed force could not be met head-on by a smaller group. The object should be a score of skirmishes to whittle down the enemy, disrupting his supply lines and weakening his morale. Oracle had likened such war to disease invading the body.
Agwaine was content. For him the mission provided an outlet for his grief over the death of his father and a chance to achieve victory for the Farlain. He didn’t know if a Haesten force survived. But if it did, he would find it.