‘Yet he insisted, we had reached a period of history when there was no balance. The Outlanders and their allies were conquering all in their path. And those nations still resisting the advance of the Outlanders were doomed, for there were no great leaders among them. Then he told me of a conquered nation, and a commander yet to come. He said – and I believed him utterly – that here, in the north, I would find a prince of destiny, and from the ashes of Highland dreams would come a dynasty that would light our way forward into a better future. I came here with high hopes, Ballistar, and yet what do I find?
‘There is no leader. There is no army. And in the spring the Outlanders will come here with fire and sword and exterminate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of peaceful farmers, cattle-men and villagers.’ Asmidir threw a dry log to the dying blaze. ‘I do not believe that the ancient one lied to me … and I cannot accept that he might have been mistaken. Somewhere in these lands there is a man born to be King. I must find him before midwinter.’
Ballistar drained his wine. It was rich and heavy and he felt his head swimming. ‘And you think my stories might help you?’ he asked.
‘They might provide me with a clue.’
‘I don’t see how. Legend has it that our ancestors passed through a magic Gateway, but I suspect our history is no different from other migrating peoples. We probably came from a land across the water, originally as raiders. Some of our people then grew to love the mountains, and sent back ships for their families. For centuries the clans warred upon one another, but then another migrating group arrived. They were called the Aenir, ancestors of the Outlanders. There was a great war. After that the clans formed a loose-knit confederacy.’
‘But you had kings? From where did they come?’
‘The first true King was Sorain, known as Ironhand. He was from the Wingoras, a mighty warrior. Hundreds of years ago he led the clans against the Three Armies and destroyed them. Even the Lowland clans respected him, for he risked everything to free their towns. He vanished one day, but legend has it he will return when needed.’
Asmidir shook his head. ‘I doubt that. Every nation I know of has a hero of myth, pledged to return. None of them do. Did he have heirs?’ ‘No. He had a child, but the babe disappeared – probably murdered and buried in the woods.’
‘So what of the other kings?’ enquired Asmidir.
‘There was Gandarin, also known as the Crimson – another great warrior and statesman. He died too soon and his sons fought among themselves for the crown. Then the Outlanders invaded and the clans put on their red cloaks of war and were cut down on Golden Moor. That was years ago. The young King fled over the water, but he was murdered there. Anyone known to share the blood of Gandarin was also put to the sword. And the Wearing of the Crimson was banned. No Highlander can have even a scarf of that colour.’
‘And there is no one left of his line?’
‘As far as I know there is only Sigarni, and she is barren.’
Asmidir rubbed his tired eyes and tried to disguise the dejection he felt. ‘He must be somewhere,’ he whispered, ‘and he will need me. The ancient one made that clear to me.’
‘He could have been wrong,’ volunteered Ballistar. ‘Even Gwalch is wrong sometimes.’
‘Gwalch?’
‘The Clan Gifted One. He used to be a warrior, but he was wounded in the head and after that he became a prophet of sorts. People tend to avoid him. His visions are all doom-filled and gloomy. Maybe that’s why he drinks so much!’
Asmidir’s spirits lifted. ‘Tell me where to find him,’ he said.
Sigarni was angry with herself. Four times that morning she had flown Abby, and four times the red hawk had missed the kill. Abby was a little overweight, for there had been three days of solid rain and she had not flown, but even so she was acting sluggishly and the tourney was only two weeks away. Sigarni was angry because she didn’t know what to do, and was loth to ask Asmidir. Could Abby be ill? She didn’t think so, for the bird was flying beautifully, folding her wings and diving, swooping, turning. Only at the point of the kill did she fail. The pattern with the red hawk was always the same – swoop over the hare, flick her talons, tumbling the prey, then fastening to it. Sigarni would run forward, covering the hare with her glove, then