Soon after dawn the companions bade farewell to Lennox and the child and set off to the south. Lennox hoisted the girl to his shoulder and headed north.
As they walked he discovered that her name was Plessie and her clan Haesten; she was the niece of Laric, the Hunt Lord. He was tempted to run back and find the others, for Laric would be well disposed toward a group that had rescued his niece. But Plessie’s fearful glances behind them forced him to dismiss the idea.
Whatever had happened to her had left a terrible scar.
Throughout the morning he climbed through the timberline, and they stopped to eat at a rock pool below a small falls. The companions had given Lennox some oatcakes and these he shared with Plessie. The child sat upon a rock dangling her feet in the water, giggling at its icy touch. Lennox smiled-and froze. He slowly climbed to his feet, aware suddenly that he was being watched. Fear grew in his heart-not fear for himself, but for the child. He had promised she would be safe and a promise was a sacred thing among the clans.
Casually he glanced around at the thick undergrowth. He spotted a patch of darkness beyond a blossoming heather, but allowed his eyes to skip over the bush. He had the feeling the dark patch was fur, and if that was so the thing was either a bear or a wolf.
Plessie was sitting in the shade of a tall pine, and a long branch extended above the water. Lennox scooped her into his arms and lifted her high onto the branch.
“Sit there for a moment, little dove,” he said.
“Don’t want to,” she wailed.
“Do it for your uncle Lennox. And be careful now.”
Even as he spoke a werebeast charged from the undergrowth, jaws wide, taloned fingers reaching for the clansman. As it leaped it gave a terrifying howl. Beasts of the wild always roar or screech on attacking their prey. The sound freezes the victim.
But Lennox was not a hunted animal. Nor even an ordinary man.
He was the most powerful warrior in the long history of the Farlain.
As the beast broke cover Lennox whirled, bellowing his own scream of fury. He charged it, smashing a right cross to its open jaws. Fangs snapped, the jawbone disintegrating under the impact. The beast screamed and fell, rolling to all fours and howling in pain. A second creature leaped forward, and twisting to meet it, Lennox charged again. Talons lashed across his shoulder, scoring deep through the flesh. The jaws lunged for his face, and throwing up his hand, he fastened his fingers to the furry throat. The downward lunge was halted, the fangs inches from his face. Lennox could feel hot, rancid breath on his skin. The power of the beast was immense. He threw a left-hand blow that thundered against the werebeast’s ear; the creature fell back, then leaped again. This time Lennox stood his ground until the beast was almost upon him. As it rushed forward he caught it by the throat and groin, and hurled it with all his strength against the trunk of a pine. It hit with a sickening thud-spine exploding into shards, ribs splitting and piercing the great lungs beneath. Blood flowing from his wounds, Lennox drew his sword. The first beast attacked again, its jaw hanging slack. As its talons lashed out, Lennox ducked beneath the swinging arm and hammered his sword into its unprotected belly.
The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and drew his hunting knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.
“Stay in the tree, Plessie. Uncle Lennox won’t be a moment.”
“No,” she wailed. “Don’t leave me. Wolfs eat me up!” Her tears cut through him, but he moved on, searching the tracks within the undergrowth. Satisfied there were only two of the creatures he returned to the weeping child, lifting her down and cuddling her.
“There, there! You see, I was only a moment or two.”
“Don’t leave me again, Uncle Lennox.”
“I won’t. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl and help me to stop this bleeding. Can you do that?” With a grunt of pain Lennox removed his ripped shirt. There were four deep slashes across his right shoulder blade, but he could reach none of them.
“There’s lots of blood, Uncle Lennox.”
“The bleeding will clean the wounds,” he said, moving to his pack. “Can you sew?”
“Mother taught me,” said Plessie.
“That’s good, little one.” Rummaging into his pack, he found needle and thread. “I want you to close these little scratches for me. Then we’ll move on. Will you do that for me?”
“I don’t know how.”
Lennox could see the fear returning to her. “It’s easy,” he told her, forcing a smile. “Trust me. I’ll show you. First thread the needle. My hands are too big and clumsy for it.” Plessie took the thread, licked the end, and carefully inserted it into the eye of the needle. She looked up expectantly at Lennox. Twisting his head, he could see the ragged red line of the first cut on the top of his shoulder. Taking the needle, he pricked it through the skin. “You do it like this,” he told her, as a wave of nausea hit him. “Just like this.”
Plessie began to cry. “You’re not going to die, are you, Uncle Lennox?”
“From little scratches like this? No. Now come around to my back and show me your sewing.”
Taliesen led Caswallon away from the cabin, and on into the trees. It was not cold, but the breeze brought a promise of autumn in the air. “The child will be the future queen-if she lives,” said the druid.
Caswallon stopped. “What do you mean, if she lives? We know she lives. I watched her die after killing the beast.”
Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “My boy, you saw one Sigarni. But it would take too long to explain the infinite possibilities when one deals in time, the paradoxes created. Merely hold to the concept of impossibility made reality. This child is in great danger. First and foremost is the sorcerer Jakuta Khan. He was hired to bring about the fall of the King, Sigarni’s real father, and in exchange he was offered wealth-and the life of the King’s daughter. He is a gifted magicker, Caswallon. He will track her down; the crofter cannot stand against him.”
Caswallon sat down on a fallen tree. “The thought fills me with sorrow, Taliesen, but what can we do? My people need me. I cannot stay here and protect the babe. Nor can you. We do not have the time.”
“That word again-time,” responded Taliesen, sitting beside the taller man. “It matters not how long we wait here, for when you return no time will have passed in the world you know. There is a small settlement close by; we will rest there, and be offered food. Then we will journey back to the falls and make camp by the rock face where the Gateway opened. There you will see in one day what few mortals will ever see.”
The following evening Caswallon built a small fire by the rock face, and the two men sat eating a meal of honey biscuits and watching the fragmented moon dance upon the rippling water of the falls pools.
“How long do we wait?” asked Caswallon.
“Until I feel the magic of Jakuta Khan,” said Taliesen. “But now there is someone I must summon.” Rising, the little sorcerer moved to the poolside. As Caswallon watched, Taliesen began to chant in a low voice. The wind died down and a mist formed above two boulders close to the pool’s edge. Caswallon’s eyes widened as the mist rose into an arch some ten paces in front of the sorcerer. Tiny lights, like fireflies, glittered in the archway, and then a man appeared, tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, wearing a silver breastplate and a shining mail shirt of silver steel. His hair was moon-white, his beard braided.
“Who calls Ironhand?” he asked, his voice low and deep like distant thunder. Caswallon rose and walked to stand beside Taliesen.
“I call upon you, High King,” said the sorcerer. “I, Taliesen, the Druid Lord. Your daughter lives, but she is in peril.”
“They killed me here,” said the ghostly warrior. “My body lies beneath those boulders. They killed my wife, and I cannot find her spirit.”