“It is merely an image. It is summer and Sigarni has won a great battle. She has returned to the north to celebrate with her captains. The enemy has been pushed back… for now. But the Outland King is gathering a huge force against her. Now, before I send you through, you must understand this, Caswallon: We will meet again on the other side of the Gate. Ask me nothing of the events that are transpiring now. Do not speak of the Aenir invasion.”
“I don’t understand.”
Taliesen sighed. “Trust me, Caswallon. In other… realities. .. our meeting beyond the Gate has already taken place. Many times. And I have found it disadvantageous to view the possible futures. It all becomes too confusing.”
Caswallon stood silently for a moment, then his green gaze fastened on the druid’s dark eyes. “And I have died in these other realities?” he asked.
“Yes,” admitted Taliesen. “Do you still wish to go?”
“Can we win if I do not?”
“No.”
“Then let us go.”
Taliesen pressed a button on the screen and the image of the city disappeared. He stood and led Caswallon back to the Druids’ Hall and the black-arched Gate.
Maeg was waiting there. She stood as he approached, opening her arms, and Caswallon walked into her embrace.
She kissed him, her eyes wet with tears. “The world has changed, as you said it would,” she told him.
“We’ll change it back.”
“I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “Even if you beat the Aenir, nothing will ever be quite the way it was.”
He did not argue. Instead he kissed her. “There is one constant fact, Maeg. I love you. I always have. I always will.”
“I have something for you,” she said, pulling away from him. Turning, she lifted a buckskin shirt from the back of a chair. The skin was soft and beige while on the chest, in crimson-stained leather, was a cunningly crafted hawk with wings spreading to each shoulder. “If you are to meet a queen, it is fitting you look your best,” she said.
Caswallon slipped out of his woolen shirt, donning the buckskin. The fit was perfect.
Leofas stepped from the shadows with Maggrig.
“Are you sure about this plan, Caswallon?” he asked.
“No,” admitted the War Lord. “But Taliesen is, and I can think of no other.”
“Then may the Gods guide you.” The two men shook hands.
Taliesen walked to the archway, lifted his hands, and began to chant. The view of the Farlain vanished, to be replaced instantly by a sloping plain and a distant city.
Maggrig curled his arm around Maeg’s shoulder. “He will come back,” he said.
Caswallon stepped into the archway-and vanished.
Suddenly the view from the Gate disappeared, a blank grey wall replacing it. Maeg moved forward and touched the cold stone.
Caswallon found himself in a forest glade in the last hour before dusk. Shafts of sunlight lanced the branches of mighty oaks and birds sang in every tree.
But there was no city in sight. Perplexed, he stepped back to where the Gate had been.
It was gone…
Cursing, he drew his short sword and started prodding the air, seeking the entrance. After a few minutes he gave up and sat back on a jutting tree root. He was loath to leave the spot, and had no idea what plan to pursue.
His thoughts were broken by the sounds of shouting. Looking around him, he marked the spot in his mind and set off toward the sound. Perhaps the Gate had merely sent him too far, and he had come out on the other side of the city. He seemed to recall seeing a woods there.
The shouts became triumphant, and Caswallon guessed the men to be hunters who had cornered their prey. Then a voice cried out. “Lord of Heaven, aid your servant!”
Caswallon broke into a run. Ahead of him three men had surrounded a bald, elderly man in robes of grey who was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms.
“Surrender it, priest,” ordered a tall man in a red cape.
“You cannot do this,” said the old man. “It is against the laws of man and God.”
The red-caped warrior stepped forward, a bright sword in his hand. The sword flashed forward. The old man twisted the bundle away from the blade, which lanced into his belly. He screamed and fell.
Caswallon hurdled a fallen tree, his own short sword glinting in the dying light. “What vileness do we have here, my bonnies?”
The three spun around and the leader walked forward, his sword dripping blood to the grass.
“It is none of your concern, stranger. Begone.”
“Frightened as I am to face three heroes who can so valiantly tackle old men, I feel I must debate the point,” said Caswallon.
“Then die,” shouted the man, leaping forward. Caswallon parried the lunging blade, his own sword flashing through the man’s neck. The remaining warriors ran forward. Caswallon blocked the first thrust, hammering a punch to an unprotected chin, and the attacker staggered.
Pushing past him Caswallon engaged the third, slipping his hunting knife into his left hand. He ducked beneath a vicious swipe, sticking his sword behind the man’s knee; with a scream he fell. Caswallon whirled as the second man was almost upon him, sword plunging for his chest, but Caswallon parried the blow, punching his hunting knife through the man’s tunic. The blade slid between the man’s ribs, cleaving the heart. Dragging the knife free, he saw the third man crawling toward the bushes, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Ignoring him, Caswallon ran to the old man, gently turning him.
“Thank the Source,” said the priest. “For He has sent you in my hour of need.” Blood was seeping fast, drenching the old man’s clothes.
“Why did they attack you?”
“It wasn’t me, my son; they wanted the babe.” The old man pointed to the bundle by his side. Caswallon lifted the blanket and there lay a sleeping infant no more than a week old. She was tiny and naked, her downy hair pure white.
“Lie still,” urged Caswallon, ripping open the priest’s robes, seeking to stem the outflow of blood from the wound. The assassin’s sword had ripped down through the man’s lower belly, opening the artery in his groin. There was no hope for him, and his face was already losing color.
“Where are you from?” whispered the dying man.
“Another world,” said Caswallon. “And I am lost.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You passed through a Gate?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Mordic sent you?”
“No.”
“Cateris, Blean, Taliesen…”
“Yes, Taliesen.”
“Take the babe back through the Chalice Gate.”
“I do not know where it is.”
“Close by. North. I opened it myself. Look for a cave on the hillside; it has a goblet fashioned in the rock of the entrance. But. .. beware… Jakuta Khan will follow.”
“Who are you?”
“Astole. I was Taliesen’s teacher.” Horns sounded in the forest to the south. “They are coming for the child. Take her and run. Go now! I beg you.” The old man slumped back.
Sheathing his sword and knife, Caswallon scooped the bundle into his arms and began to run. Behind him he could hear the barking of dogs and the shrill call of hunting horns. He was angry now. Thwarted from his quest, he was being hunted by an enemy he did not know, in a forest that was strange to him.
Dropping his pace to a gentle jog, eyes scanning the undergrowth, he searched for a way to lose his pursuer. He could hear running water away to the left and he cut toward it. A small stream gurgled over rocks. Splashing into it, Caswallon followed it upstream for about thirty paces and then left it on the same side, walking through soft mud to stop before a massive oak.
Without turning he looked down and walked backward, placing his feet in his own prints. Slowly he backtracked to the stream, then carried on walking through the water. It was an old trick, which in daylight would fool no skilled tracker, but with dusk approaching fast it could hold up the pursuit.
The child opened her eyes, pushing her tiny fist into her mouth. Caswallon cursed. She was hungry and that meant there were scant moments left before she began to cry for food.