Passing through the north gate, Asmidir let the horse break into a run as it reached open ground. He rode thus for a mile, then slowed the beast. The chestnut was powerful, a horse bred for stamina, and he was not even breathing hard when Asmidir reined him in. The black man patted the gelding’s neck.
‘The dreams of men are born in blood,’ he said softly.
Fell was sitting by the roadside, catching his breath, when the small two-wheeled cart moved into sight. Two huge grey wolfhounds were harnessed to it, and a silver-haired man sat at the front with a long stick in his hands. Seeing the forester, the old man tapped his stick lightly on the flanks of the hounds. ‘Hold up there, Shamol. Hold up, Cabris. Good day to you, woodsman!’
Fell smiled. ‘By Heaven, Gwalch, you look ridiculous sitting in that contraption.’
‘Whisht, boy, at my age I don’t give a care to how I look,’ said the old man. ‘What matters is that I can travel as far as I like, without troubling my old bones.’ Leaning forward, he peered at the forester. ‘You look greyer than a winter sky, boy. Are you ailing?’
‘Wounded. And I’ve shed some blood. I’ll be fine. Just need a rest, is all.’
‘Heading for Cilfallen?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then climb aboard, young man. My hounds can pull two as well as one. Good exercise for them. We’ll stop off at my cabin for a dram. That’s what you need, take my word for it: a little of the water of life. And I promise not to tell your fortune.’
‘You always tell my fortune – and it never makes good listening. But, just this once, I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll ride that idiotic wagon. But I’ll pray to all the gods I know that no one sees me on it. I’d never live it down.’
The old man chuckled and moved to his right, making room for the forester. Fell laid his long bow and quiver in the back and stepped
aboard. ‘Home now, hounds!’ said Gwalch. The dogs lurched into the traces and the little cart jerked forward. Fell laughed aloud. ‘I thought nothing would amuse me today,’ he said.
‘You shouldn’t have gone to her, boy,’ said Gwalch.
‘No fortunes, you said!’ the forester snapped.
‘Pah! That’s not telling your fortune; that’s a comment on moments past. And you can put the black man from your mind, as well. He’ll not win her. She belongs to the land, Fell. In some ways she is the land. Sigarni the Hawk Queen, the hope of the Highlands.’ The old man shook his head, and then laughed, as if at some private jest. Fell clung to the side of the cart as it rattled and jolted, the wheels dropping into ruts in the trail, half tipping the vehicle.
‘By Heaven, Gwalch, it is a most uncomfortable ride,’ complained the forester.
‘You think this is uncomfortable?’ retorted the old man. ‘Wait till we get to the top of my hill. The hounds always break into a run for home. By Shemak’s balls, boy, it’ll turn your hair grey!’
The hounds toiled up the hill, pausing only briefly at the summit to catch their breaths. Then they moved on, rounding a last bend in the trail. Below them Gwalch’s timber cabin came into sight and both dogs barked and began to run.
The cart bounced and lurched as the dogs gathered speed, faster and faster down the steep slope. Fell could feel his heart pounding and his knuckles were white as he gripped the side rail. Ahead of them was a towering oak, the trunk directly in their path. ‘The tree!’ shouted Fell.
‘I know!’ answered Gwalch. ‘Best to jump!’
‘Jump?’ echoed Fell, swinging to see the old man following his own advice. At the last moment the dogs swerved towards the cabin. The cart tipped suddenly and Fell was hurled head-first from it, missing the oak by inches. He hit the ground hard, with the wind blasted from his lungs.
Fell forced himself to his knees just as Gwalch came ambling over. ‘Great fun, isn’t it?’ said the old man, stooping to take Fell by the arm and pull him to his feet.