“Even so, is it wise,” asked Dunild, “to choose a battle site with no avenue of retreat?”
“All other areas are ruled out,” said Intosh. “Although we cannot retreat, they cannot encircle us.”
“We could continue to hit and run,” suggested Lennox, who had remained silent for much of the planning.
“But we can’t win that way,” said his father. “I hate to admit it, but it seems we have run out of choices. I vote for Icairn’s Folly.”
The other leaders nodded, then Grigor spoke. “This is your war, Maggrig, not mine. I have come because we are all clan. But I’ll not watch my men cut to pieces. My archers will man the left-hand slope of the pass. If you are crushed, we can still escape.”
“What more could be expected from the Grigors?” snapped Dunild.
Patris Grigor started to rise, reaching for his sword, but Maggrig stopped him with a raised hand.
“Enough!” he said. “Patris is entirely correct. Dunild, you and your Loda warriors will hold the right-hand slopes, Patris the left. The Pallides and the Farlain will stand together at the center. If we are pushed back or scattered, the rest of you must get away with as many men as you can. Take to your own lands. But for the sake of all clansmen, do not go back to war with one another. For your lands will be next, I think.”
“We are decided then?” asked Leofas.
“It seems so,” said Maggrig.
Caswallon’s first realization that anything was wrong came early on the fourth morning of his stay in Citadel. Borrowing a horse, he rode into the hills seeking Taliesen and the Gate. He was anxious to hear of the Aenir advance.
When he arrived at the slope he found no entrance. At first he was unconcerned and returned to the city, spending the day with Sigarni, listening as she talked warmly of her youth and the early days of her rule—days of bloody war and treachery, and close encounters with disaster. Through the conversations Caswallon’s appreciation of the Queen grew. She was a natural tactician but, more than this, knew men, their strengths and weaknesses, and what drove them.
She had a close-knit band of followers, fanatically loyal, led by the powerful Obrin, the Queen’s captain, a man of iron strength and innate cunning. Sigarni talked of a black general called Asmidir, who had died holding the rear guard against the Earl of Jastey and his army, and of a dwarf named Ballistar who had journeyed through a Gateway in the company of Ironhand’s ghost. But of the Redhawk she had known she said little, save that he had appeared following the death of Asmidir and had helped her to train her men, leading the left wing against Jastey and his thousands.
“Do I have friends here?” he asked.
“Apart from me?” she countered with a quick smile. “Who would need more? But yes, there is Obrin. You and he became sword brothers. I think he is a little hurt that you have spent so little time with him.”
The Queen had agreed to lead her warriors into the Farlain, but said she could gather only four thousand. The call went out, and the muster began.
At dawn Caswallon tried again to find the Gate. This time an edge of anger pricked him.
What was Taliesen doing, closing the Gate at such a time?
Taking supplies for three days, he rode north to the great falls of Attafoss. Leaving the horse tethered on a grassy meadow he swam across to the isle of Vallon and entered the deep honeycomb of caves beneath the hill. Near the entrance he was met by an elderly druid he had seen with Taliesen.
“Why has the Gate been closed?” asked Caswallon. The man wrung his hands. His face was pinched and tight as if he had not slept for days.
“I don’t know,” he wailed. “Nothing works anymore. Not one word of power.”
“What does this mean?”
“The Middle and Lesser Gates have vanished—just like the Great Gates of yesteryear. We are trapped here. Forever.”
“I will not accept that!” said Caswallon, fighting down the panic threatening to overwhelm him. “Now be calm and tell me about the words of power.”
The man nodded and sank back on his narrow cot bed, staring at his hands. Caswallon’s enforced calm soothed his own panic and he took a deep breath.
“The words themselves are meaningless, it is the sound of the words. The sounds activate devices set within the hillside here. It is not dissimilar to whistling for a hunting dog, which responds to sounds and reacts as it has been trained to do. Only here we are dealing with something vastly more complex, and infinitely beyond our comprehension.”
“Something is . . . broken,” said Caswallon, lamely.
“Indeed it is. But we are talking about a device created aeons ago by a superior race, whose skills we can scarce guess at. I myself have seen devices no bigger than the palm of my hand, inside which are a thousand separate working parts. We do not even have the tools to work upon these devices, and if we did we would not know where to start.”
“So we cannot contact Taliesen?” asked Caswallon.
“No. I just pray he is working toward a solution on the other side.”
“Are you one of the original druids?”
The man laughed. “No, my grandfather was. I am Sestra of the Haesten.”
“Are there any of the elder race on this side of the Gate?”
“None that I know of.”
Caswallon thanked him and returned to the mare. Two days later, weary to the inner depths of his soul, he rode back into Citadel town. Not to see Maeg again, and feel the touch of her lips on his. Not to see Donal grow into a fine man. Never to know the fate of his people. Doomed to walk the rest of his life in a foreign land under strange stars.
He sought the Queen, finding her in her private rooms at the east wing of the hall. He told her nothing of the disappearance of the Gates, but questioned her about the priest who had first brought her to the forest as a babe.
“What of him?” asked Sigarni.
“Did he survive?”
“You know that he did.”
“I am tired, my lady, and my brain is weary. Forgive me. Does he still live, is what I meant.”
“Only just, my love. He is the abbot of the Dark Woods, a day’s journey to the east. But the last I heard he was blind and losing his wits.”
“Can you spare a man to take me to him?”
“Of course. Is it important?”
“More important than I want to think about,” said Caswallon.
With two horses each, Caswallon and a rider named Bedwyr rode through the day, reaching the Dark Woods an hour after dark. Both men reeled from their saddles and Bedwyr hammered at the door of the monastery. It was opened by a sleepy monk, whose eyes filled with fear as he saw the armor worn by the riders.
“Be at peace, man,” said Bedwyr. “We’re not raiders, we ride for the Queen. Does the abbot live?”
The man nodded and led them through narrow corridors of cold stone to a small cell facing west. He did not tap upon the door but opened it quietly, leading them inside. A lantern flickered upon the far wall, throwing shadows to a wide bed in which lay a man of great age, his eyes open, seeming to stare at the rough-cut ceiling.
“Leave us,” ordered Caswallon. Bedwyr escorted the monk from the room and Caswallon heard the rider asking for food, and the monk’s promise that he would find bread and honey. Caswallon walked forward and sat beside the abbot. He had changed much since Caswallon first saw him; his face was webbed with age and his sightless eyes seemed preternaturally bright.
“Can you hear me, Astole?” asked Caswallon.
The man stirred. “I hear you, Redhawk, my friend. There is fear in your voice.”
“Yes. Great fear. I need your help now, as once you needed mine in the forest.”
The man chuckled weakly. “There is no magic left, Redhawk. With all the wonders my mind encompassed I can now no longer lift this pitiful frame from the bed, nor see the brightest sunset. By tomorrow I shall have joined my Lord.”
“The Gates have closed.”
“That is ancient history.?
??
“The Middle Gates.”
“Again? That is not possible.”
“Believe me, Astole, they have closed. How may I reopen them?”
“Wait a moment,” said the old man. “When last did you see me?”
“You were in the forest with the infant Queen.”
“Ah, I understand,” said Astole. “It is so long since I played with time, and my mind is growing addled.” His head sank back on the pillow and he closed his sightless eyes. “Yes, it is becoming clear. The Farlain is still under threat, the Queen has not yet passed the Gate, and you have yet to learn the mysteries. I have it now.”
“Then help me,” urged Caswallon. “Tell me how to reopen the Gate. I must lead the Queen through, or my people will perish.”
“I cannot tell you, my boy. I can only show you, teach you. It will take many years—eleven, if I remember correctly.”
“I don’t have years,” said Caswallon, hope draining from him. The old man was senile and making no sense. As if reading his mind Astole reached out a hand and gripped Caswallon’s arm, and when he spoke his voice was strong with authority.
“Do not despair, my friend. There is much that you cannot understand. I made the Gates in my youth and arrogance. I discovered the lines of power that link the myriad pasts, the parallel worlds, and I made the machines to track them and ride them. It was I who allowed the Great Gates to close. My race was using the universe as an enormous whorehouse. I rerouted the prime power source to feed the Lesser and Middle Gates. But all power sources are finite—even those that flow from collapsed stars and make up the Sipstrassi. It is—in the Now that you inhabit—running to its finish. There are other sources, and I will teach you to find and realign them, and then the Gates will return. The man you see now is but the last fading spark of a bright fire. He will die tonight, and yet he will not be dead. We will meet again and he shall teach you.
“There is a cave behind this abbey; a chalice is carved upon the entrance. Let the muster of the Queen’s men continue, and on the appointed day walk into the Chalice Cave and approach the far wall. It will appear as solid rock, but you will pass through it, for this Gate has not vanished but only shifted. On the other side, I shall be waiting.”
“But you are dying!”
“We are speaking of events which have already happened, my boy. I was working upon a complex formula in my study when the Gateway flickered and you appeared. You told me that I had sent you, and you told me why. More I cannot say.” The old man sighed, then gave a weak smile. “We are to be great friends, you and I. Closer than father and son. And yet I must say farewell to a stranger who is yet to be my friend. Ah, the tricks time plays . . .”
The old man fell silent and his eyes closed. Caswallon sat beside him, his mind tired, his burdens heavy. Was the abbot to be trusted? How could he tell? The future of his people rested with the promise of a dying monk. He sat with Astole until dawn’s first light seeped through the wooden shutters of the window, then he lifted the abbot’s hand from his arm.
Caswallon stood and gazed down at the old man. He was dead. The clansman lifted the blanket and pulled it over the abbot’s face, pausing to study the man’s expression. A faint smile was on the lips and a great feeling of peace swept over Caswallon.
He walked to the window, pulling open the shutters. The woods beyond shone in the early morning light. Behind him the door opened and the lancer Bedwyr stepped into the room.
“Did you find what you hoped for, Redhawk?”
“Time will tell.”
“The old man died then,” said the lancer, glancing at the bed.
“Yes. Peacefully.”
“They say he knew great magic. Does that mean his spirit will return to haunt us?”
“I certainly hope so,” said Caswallon.
Unaware of the growing drama, Gaelen led the Haesten women northwest, stopping only to meet the Pallides warriors. The eighty-man force had now swelled to one hundred ten, as other warriors crept in from the mountains and woods where they had hidden their families in derelict crofts or well-disguised caves. Ten men were to be left behind, to hunt and gather food for the hidden children, but the others were set to follow Gaelen.
The young clansman was truly concerned now, for he had never led such a force and was worried about the route. He conferred with Agwaine, Onic, and Gwalchmai. It was one thing for a small party to thread its way through the Aenir lines, quite another for an army numbering almost a thousand.
“We know,” said Onic, “that the main army is before us, pushing north. We should have no real trouble for at least two days.”
“You are forgetting Orsa,” said Gaelen. “His force destroyed Laric in the south. We don’t know if he will head north now and join his father. If he does, we will be trapped between them.”
“Ifs and buts, cousin,” said Agwaine. “We will solve nothing by such discussion. We are expected at Axta Glen and one way or another we must move on. We cannot eliminate all risks.”
“True,” admitted Gaelen, “but it is as well to examine them. So be it, we will head due north, and then cut west to Atta, and then on to the glen. That way we should avoid Orsa. But we’ll push out a screen of scouts west and east, and you, Gwal, shall go ahead of us in the north with five men to scout.”
The self-appointed leader of the Pallides, a burly clansman named Telor, caused Gaelen’s first problem. “Why should you lead, and make such decisions?” he asked when Gaelen told him of the plan.
“I lead because I was appointed to lead.”
“I follow Maggrig.”
“Maggrig follows Caswallon.”
“So you say, Blood-eye.”
Gaelen breathed deeply, pushing aside his anger. He rubbed his scarred eye, aware that Lara and the others were watching this encounter with detached fascination. Such was the way of warriors among the clans. Telor had now implied that Gaelen was a liar, and the two men were hovering on the verge of combat.
“Your land,” said Gaelen at last, “has been overrun by an enemy. Your people are sundered and preparing to fight alongside the Farlain in a last desperate battle for survival. If they lose, we lose. Everything. And yet here you are debating a point of no importance. Now I will say this only once: I lead because I was chosen to lead. There is no more to discuss. Either draw your sword or obey me.”
“Very well,” said Telor. “I will follow you north, but once the battle is sighted I will lead the Pallides.”
“No,” said Gaelen.
The man’s sword hissed from his scabbard. “Then fight me, Farlain.”
The onlookers backed away, forming a circle around the two men.
“I do not desire to kill you,” said Gaelen hopelessly.
“Then I lead.”
“No,” said Gaelen softly, drawing his sword. “You die.”
“Wait!” shouted Lara, stepping forward with hands on hips. “It is well known that the Farlain are arrogant numbskulls, and that the Pallides have too long interbred with their cattle, but this is sheer stupidity. If you must fight, then fight, but let it be clear that if Gaelen conquers, then he leads ALL.”
“What if Telor wins?” asked a young Pallides warrior.
“Then he leads the Pallides alone,” said Lara. “I’ll not follow a man with the brain of a turnip.”
“You miserable Haesten bitch,” snapped Telor. “You seek to rob the contest of any merit.”
“It has no merit,” said Gaelen. “Thousands of clansmen and their wives lie butchered by invaders, and you seek to add more clan blood to the soil.”
Telor gave a harsh laugh. “Frightened, are you, Farlain?”
Gaelen shook his head. “Terrified,” he said, dropping his sword and stepping forward, his forehead thundering against Telor’s nose. The Pallides warrior staggered back, blood drenching his yellow beard, as Gaelen moved in with a left cross exploding against Telor’s unprotected chin. The Pallides warrior pitched to his left, hitting the ground hard. Gaelen ro
lled the man to his back and drew his hunting knife, touching the point to Telor’s throat. “Make a choice, live or die,” he said coldly.
Telor lay very still. “Live,” he whispered.
“The first wise choice you’ve made,” said Gaelen. Rising, he gripped the man’s right arm, hauling him to his feet. Telor staggered, but remained upright, blood dripping from his ruined nose. “Now, pick twenty Pallides to follow Agwaine and Onic. I want scouts east and west of us. Then you go, with three of your choosing, to the north to make sure our route is clear. Is that understood?”
Telor nodded.
Turning on his heel Gaelen set off, and the small army followed him. Lara moved up alongside him, grinning. “That was close,” she said.
“Yes. Thank you for your help; it took away his concentration.”
“It was nothing. I didn’t want Telor to cut your ears off; he’s second only to Intosh with a blade.”
“Then I thank you again—with even more feeling.”
“Are you a good swordsman?”
“I’ve recently learned to tell the point from the hilt.”
“No, truly?”
“I am as good as most men.”
“Have you killed any Aenir?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Gods, woman! What does it matter?”
“I like to know who I am following.”
“I’ve killed five and wounded another.”
“Five? That’s not bad. Hand to hand, or with the bow?”
“Hand to hand. The wounded man I hit with an arrow.”
“Marksmanship’s not your strong point, then?”
“No. And you?”
“What about me?”
“Well, we seem to be talking about numbers killed, so I am asking you the same question.”
“I see. Why?”
“Because I like to know the caliber of my followers,” said Gaelen, grinning.
“I haven’t killed any. But I will.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Do you have a woman?” she asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Why?”
“She refused me.”