“What do you think of the Farlain mountains?” Caswallon countered.
“They are beautiful. Most especially this valley.”
“There are many valleys in the Farlain, and a vast number more in the Druin range,” said the clansman.
“I have no doubt I shall see them all eventually,” Drada told him, with a wolfish smile.
“Travel alone when you do so.”
“Really, why?”
“The mountains can be tranquil and a man alone can best enjoy their harmony.”
“And if he is not alone?” asked Drada.
“If he travels with many, then the mountains can be hostile, even deadly. Why, even now two Aenir corpses are rotting in the mountains. And there is room for many more.”
“That is no talk for new friends, Caswallon.”
Caswallon laughed with genuine humor; then the smile faded. “But then I am not your friend, my bonny. Nor ever shall be.”
More than fifty youngsters pounded up the slope, feet drumming on the hard-packed grass-covered clay of the hillside. Gwalchmai tucked himself in behind Agwaine, fastening his eyes on the other boy’s pack and running on grimly. After forty paces he loosened the straps of his own heavy pack and let it fall to the ground behind him. Then, as Gaelen had instructed him, he once more moved up behind Agwaine.
Here the hillside was at its steepest and the young Agwaine was breathing heavily, his legs began to burn as the body’s waste acids settled to the muscles of his calves. He did not look back. He could afford no wasted energy. And besides, he was the fastest runner for his years in the Farlain.
Back down the slope, Lennox scooped up Gwalchmai’s pack and continued to lope alongside Gaelen, way to the rear of the other runners.
“I hope this is allowed,” shouted Lennox.
Gaelen said nothing. Caswallon had told him that the rules were specific. All runners had to start the race carrying their own provisions. Well, Gwalchmai had done that.
Layne had not been easy to convince, for he was a youth who lived on traditions of honor and would sooner lose than cheat. But Gaelen had called a vote, as was his right, and had won the day. Layne seemed to harbor no grudge.
Gwalchmai and Agwaine had now increased their lead over the following pack to fifty paces, and it was obvious that they would reach the trees well ahead of their rivals.
As the timberline neared Gwalchmai sped past his astonished opponent. Agwaine was furious. Sweat-soaked and near-exhausted, he released his pack and set off after the sprinting youth. Fury pumped fresh adrenaline to his tired legs and against all the odds he began to close the gap.
Fifty paces from the trees Agwaine was running in Gwalchmai’s shadow, but the canny youngster had one more ploy. As Agwaine came abreast of him Gwalchmai kicked again, releasing the energy he had held in reserve. Agwaine had nothing more to offer. In an agonizing effort to match his opponent, he stumbled against a stone and pitched to the earth.
Gwalchmai ran ahead, eyes flickering from tree to tree, seeking the pouch. It was in plain view, fastened to a low branch. He pulled it clear, removing the small pieces of paper it contained. Reading them all, he selected one and tucked it in his belt. Then he rehung the pouch and wandered back toward Agwaine.
The Hunt Lord’s son ignored him, racing past to tear the pouch clear. He read the three remaining strips, took one, and replaced two. Then he turned after Gwalchmai.
“You dog!” he shouted, his breathing labored. “You . . . cheating . . . cur!”
Frightened, Gwalchmai backed away and opened his hands. “The rules did not forbid it, Agwaine.”
Other runners came between them in the last frantic dash for clues, and Agwaine turned away to sit in the shade of a spreading elm.
Gwalchmai was grinning broadly as Layne reached him and he handed the parchment over. Layne read it, nodded, then walked over to where Agwaine was sitting.
“Well run, cousin,” he said, squatting beside him.
“Thank you. That was a devious strategy. But, as Gwalchmai says, it was within the rules and therefore I can have no complaint.” Layne offered Agwaine the parchment. “What is this? What are you doing?”
“There may be nothing in the rules against our tactic,” said Layne, “but I am not happy with it. Here. Read the line, and from now we start level.”
“No, cousin,” said Agwaine, gripping the other’s shoulder, “though I thank you for your courtesy. I must confess that were I not the fastest runner it is likely I would have used the tactic myself. I take it the Lowlander conceived it?”
“Yes.”
“He has quick wits, I’ll give him that.”
Layne nodded. Then he stood and returned to the others, who had been watching the scene, puzzled. “Let’s find a place out of earshot and discuss our next move,” he said, walking past them to the trees. Gaelen bit back his anger and followed. He had seen Layne offer the clue to Agwaine and noted the other’s refusal. It was confusing and deeply irritating.
In a deep hollow, away from the crowds, the four squatted in a huddled circle. Layne nodded to Gwalchmai, who began to speak in a hushed whisper. They were all aware that those teams without clues would now seek to follow and spy on the leading four.
“The clues were simple to understand,” whispered Gwalchmai. “The one we have is the simplest: ‘That which Earis lost.’ So, it is a sword we seek. The other clues confirm it: ‘A King’s Sorrow,’ ‘The Light that brings Darkness,’ and ‘The Bane of Eska.’ The question now is, where is it hidden?”
“It’s hidden at, or near, Attafoss,” whispered Gaelen.
“What?” said Layne, astonished. “How do you know?”
“The rhyme: ‘Seek the beast that no one finds, always roaring, never silent . . .’ When Caswallon took me to Attafoss it sounded like a great monster, but when we arrived there was no monster, merely a roaring fall of water.”
“It could be,” said Layne. “What do you think, Gwal?”
“I agree with Gaelen.”
“Lennox?”
The youth raised his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug.
“So,” said Layne, “we are agreed. Well done, Gaelen. If we look at the rest of the verse it becomes even more obvious. ‘Beneath its skin, by silver wings, bring forth the long-lost dream of kings.’ The blade is hidden under the water, guarded by fishes. But where? Attafoss is huge.”
“There will be other clues,” said Gwalchmai. “We must follow the right tracks.”
“True,” said Layne. “All right. We’ll make camp higher up in the trees, then slip away before dawn and strike for Vallon.”
Dawn found the four of them miles from the first timber and well on their way. Layne led them down rocky slopes and over difficult terrain, constantly checking on what tracks they were leaving. By midmorning he was content. Even the most skillful hunters would have difficulty finding them, and above all, the task would be time-consuming.
As they strolled through patches of yellow-gold gorse and across meadows bedecked with blooms, Gaelen rediscovered the strange sense of joy he first felt when Caswallon formally adopted him. He was home. Truly home.
Beside him Gwalchmai was whistling a merry tune and ahead Layne and Lennox were deep in conversation. Gaelen rubbed at his scarred eye, for it itched now and then, usually when he was tired.
“Is it troubling you?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen shook his head and Gwalchmai resumed whistling, but his thoughts remained on the youngster beside him. Gwalchmai had liked Gaelen from the first. He didn’t know why, but then he rarely rationalized such things; he relied on his emotions to steer him and they rarely played him false. He remembered his shock when he first saw the boy, his red hair streaked with a white slash, his left eye filled with blood—for all the world like a ruby set in his skull.
He had been prepared to dislike the Lowlander, having listened to Agwaine speak sneeringly of Caswallon’s rescue. But there had been something about the way Gaelen carried himself—like a clansman, tal
l and proud. Gwalchmai stopped whistling as he noticed a track some ten paces from the trail.
“Layne!” he called. “Hold on.” Gwalchmai stepped from the trail and knelt by the soft earth beside the gorse. The three companions gathered around him, staring in wonder at the footprint.
“It’s as long as my forearm,” said Gwalchmai. “And look, the thing has six toes.” All four lads scouted back along the line of tracks, but they found nothing. The earth by the gorse was soft, but the surrounding ground was rocky and firm.
“What do you think it is?” asked Gaelen, whose knowledge of mountain animals was still sparse.
“It isn’t anything I’ve ever seen,” said Gwalchmai. “Layne?”
The leader grinned suddenly. “It’s perfectly obvious, my friends. It’s a hunter’s joke. When they were laying the trails for our Hunt they made a jest of the rhyme ‘Seek the beast . . .’ the footprint points toward Vallon and the print was created to show we’re on the right track.”
Gwalchmai’s freckled face split into a grin. “Yes, of course,” he said.
An hour before nightfall Layne scouted a small hollow where they could build a fire against a towering granite stone. The tiny blaze could not be seen from any distance and the four travelers unrolled their blankets and settled down for a light meal of oatcakes and water.
As the night closed in and the stars shone bright, Lennox curled up like a dozing bear and slept, leaving the others seated by the fire talking in low voices.
“Who was Earis?” Gaelen asked as he fed the fire with dry sticks.
“The first High King,” Layne told him. “Hundreds of years ago the Farlain lived in another land, beyond the Gates. There was a great war and the clans were nigh obliterated. Earis gathered the remains of the defeated army and launched one last desperate assault on the enemy, smashing their army and killing their leader, Eska. But it was only one of several armies facing him. The druids told the King of a way to save his people. But it was hazardous: They had to pass a Gate between worlds. I don’t know much about that side of it, but the legends are many. Anyway, Earis brought the Farlain here and we named the mountains Druin.
“During the journey a strange thing happened. As Earis stepped through the Gate of Vallon, into the bitter cold of winter, his sword disappeared from his hand. Earis took his crown and hurled it back through the Gate. The sword, he said, was the symbol of kingship, and since it had gone so too would his position. From henceforth there would be no king for the Farlain. The Council voted him to the position of Hunt Lord and so it has remained.”
“I see,” said Gaelen. “So ‘the Bane of Eska,’ that is a clue I can understand. But why the light that brings darkness?”
“The sword was called Skallivar, meaning Starlight on the Mountain,” said Gwalchmai. “But in battle whoever it touched found only the darkness of death.”
“And that is what we seek? Skallivar?”
Layne laughed. “No. Just a sword. It makes the clues more poetic, that’s all.”
Gaelen nodded. “There is much still to learn.”
“But you will learn, cousin,” said Layne. Gaelen felt a surge of warmth and comradeship within him as Layne spoke, but it was shattered by a sound that ripped through the night. An eerie, inhuman howling echoed through the mountains.
Lennox awoke with a start. “What was that?” he asked, rolling to his knees.
Gaelen shuddered and said nothing.
“I’ve no idea,” said Layne. “Perhaps it’s a wolf and the sound is distorted.”
“If it’s a wolf,” muttered Gwalchmai, “it must be as big as a horse.”
For several minutes they sat in silence, straining to hear any more sounds in the blackness of the night. But there was nothing. Lennox went back to sleep. Layne exchanged glances with Gwalchmai.
“It wasn’t a wolf, Layne.”
“No, but it could have been a hunter trying to frighten us.”
“I hope so,” said Gwalchmai. “I think we should stand watches tonight, though.”
Chapter Four
Gaelen awoke at Gwalchmai’s touch, his eyes flaring open, his troubled dreams fragmented and instantly forgotten.
“I can’t keep my eyes open any longer,” whispered Gwalchmai. “I don’t think there’s anything out there. I saw a fox, that’s all.”
Gaelen sat up and yawned. “It’s chilly,” he whispered. Gwalchmai rolled himself swiftly into his blanket, laying his head on his pack. Within seconds he was asleep. Gaelen stretched, then crept to the fire, easing himself past Lennox. Taking a dry stick he poked around the embers of the dying fire, gently blowing it to life. Adding more sticks, he watched the flames flicker and billow. Then he looked away. Caswallon had told him never to stare into a fire, for the brightness made the pupils contract, and when you looked away into darkness you would be blind.
Gaelen wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against the granite boulder. An owl hooted and the boy’s fingers curled around the hilt of his hunting knife. You fool, he told himself. You’ve never been afraid of the dark. Calm down. These are your mountains, there is nothing to harm you.
Except wolves, bears, lions, and whatever made that bestial howling . . .
Gaelen shuddered, and fed more sticks to the fire. The supply was growing short and he didn’t relish the prospect of entering the menacing darkness of the surrounding trees to replenish the store.
Slowly the fire died and Gaelen cursed softly. He had hoped it would last until first light, when the woods would become merely trees and not the frightening sentinels they now appeared. He stood up, loosening the dagger in its sheath, and walked carefully toward a fallen elm at the edge of the woods. Swiftly he collected dead wood and thicker branches. Back at the fire, relief washed over him. He was comforted by the sound of Lennox snoring and the sight of his other two friends sleeping soundly.
It was ridiculous. If danger was upon them they would be no use to him, sleeping as they were. And yet he felt at ease.
Layne muttered in his sleep and turned onto his back. Gaelen gazed down at his square, honest face. He looked so much younger asleep, his mouth half open and childlike.
Gaelen turned his gaze to Lennox. Where Layne was clean-cut and athletic, Lennox was all bulk, with sloping shoulders of tremendous power, barrel-chested, thick-waisted. His hands were huge and the strength in them awesome. A year before he had straightened a horseshoe at the Games, having seen it done in the Strength Test. Too young to be entered, he had shamed several of the contestants and caused great merriment among the Farlain clan.
Later that day a dozen youths of the Haesten clan, having seen their man shamed, lay in wait for Lennox as he strode home. They came at him out of the darkness bearing cudgels and thick branches. As the first blow rapped home against his thick skull Lennox had bellowed in anger and lashed out, sending one luckless youngster through a bush. Two others followed him as Lennox charged among them; the rest fled.
Gaelen had heard the story and chuckled. He believed it. He wished he had seen it.
To the east the sky was brightening and Gaelen stood and wandered through the trees, on and up, scrambling over the lip of the hollow to stare at the distant mountains. In the trees around him birds began to sing, and the eldritch menace of the night disappeared. The boy watched as the snowcapped peaks to the west began to burn like glowing coals, as the sun cleared the eastern horizon. Fields below were bathed in glorious colors as blooms opened to the golden light.
Gaelen breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the sweet mountain air. He slid back down the slope and burrowed into Lennox’s large pack, more than twice the weight of his own, and produced a copper bowl. Stoking up the fire, he placed the bowl upon it, filling it with water and adding the dry oats Maeg had wrapped for him.
Layne was the first to wake. He grinned at Gaelen. “No monsters of the night, then?”
Gaelen grinned back and shook his head.
Had he remained on the rim of the h
ollow for a minute more he would have seen a Farlain hunter racing back toward Cambil’s village, his cloak streaming behind him.
Badraig was a skillful huntsman whose task it was to set the trails for those of the boys traveling toward Vallon. He enjoyed his role. It was good to see tomorrow’s generation of clansmen testing their mettle, and his son Draig and foster son Gwalchmai were among them.
But today his mind was on other matters. During the night, as he made cold camp by a narrow stream, he had heard the howling that so disturbed Gaelen and his companions. They had half dismissed it as a hunter’s prank; Badraig knew it was not, for he was the only hunter in the area.
Being a cautious man, with over twenty years’ experience, Badraig waited until near dawn before checking the source of the cry. With infinite patience he had worked his way through the woods, keeping the breeze in his face. As it shifted, so too did he.
And he found the butchered, broken remains of Erlik of the Pallides. In truth he didn’t know it was Erlik, though he had seen the man many times at the Games. But no one could have recognized the bloody meat strewn across the track. Badraig lifted a torn section of tunic, recognizing the edging as Pallides weave. In the bushes to the left he found part of a foot.
At first he thought it was the work of a bear, but he scouted for tracks and found six-toed footprints the like of which he had never seen. There were also the tracks of foxes and other small carrion creatures, but they had obviously arrived long after the killing beast had departed.
The prints were enormous, as long as a short sword. Badraig measured the stride. He was not a tall man, neither was he the shortest clansman in the Farlain, but he could not match the stride except by leaping. He gauged the height of the beast as half that again of a tall man. And it walked upright. The deepest impression was at the heel. He followed the track for a little way until he reached the foot of the slope. Here the spoor changed. The creature dropped to all fours and scrambled up at speed, gouging great tears in the clay. Badraig dug his fingers into the earth with all his strength, then compared his efforts with those of the killer. He could barely scratch the surface.