The rain began again, and the Cinders vanished from sight. Fell shook his head. ‘A great fool you are,’ he said, aloud, watching the drops of rain settling on the longbow. The bowstring was safe and dry in his belt pouch, his quiver of twelve shafts behind him and under his cloak, but Fell did not like to see his favourite hunting bow at the mercy of the weather. It was a fine bow, made by Kereth the
Wingoran. Horn-tipped, it had a pull of more than ninety pounds. Fell, though not the finest of the Loda bowmen, had not missed a killing shot since purchasing the weapon. An arrow would sing from the string, streaking to its target and sinking deep through skin, flesh and muscle. It was important for a deer to die fast. Ideally the beast would be dead before it knew it, therefore the meat remained tender and succulent; whereas if the creature was frightened, its muscles would tense and harden and the meat would stay that way. Fell’s bow supplied choice meat.
‘What are you doing here, Fell? Following a dream you don’t believe in?’ he said aloud. The words of the dream man came back to him. ‘In three days outside the mails of Citadel town a sword will be raised, and the Red will be worn again. Be there, Fell. In three days, at dawn. By the light of the new sun you will see the birth of a legend.’
The rain eased once more and, as the moon showed through the break in the clouds, the Cinders glinted back into life. Fell hefted his bow and wiped the drops of water from its six-foot length. Amazingly the fire flared up, tongues of flame licking at the wood. Fell stretched out his hands and felt the welcome warmth.
‘That is better,’ said Taliesen. Fell’s heart hammered and he jumped like a startled squirrel. The old man had appeared from nowhere, seeming to blink into existence. ‘It used to be,’ continued the druid, his cloak of feathers shining in the moonlight, ‘that I enjoyed forest nights. But some time during the last hundred years or so my blood started to run thin.’
‘Why can’t you walk up to a fire like anyone else?’ stormed Fell.
‘Because I am not like everyone else. What point is there in possessing enormous talent if no one is given the opportunity to appreciate it? By Heaven, boy, but you scare easily.’ Taliesen rubbed a gnarled hand over his wood-smoke whiskers. ‘No food this time, eh? Well, I suppose that is a blessing.’
‘You didn’t touch it last time, so you have no way of knowing!’ said Fell. ‘You are not real, old man. You are not flesh and blood.’ As he spoke Fell suddenly reached out and swept his hand across Taliesen’s face. His fingers passed through the wrinkled skin, and he felt nothing but air against his palm.
‘Good,’ said Taliesen. ‘You have intelligence. Yet you are still wrong. I am flesh and blood. But I am not flesh and blood here. I am sitting in my own cave in another place, and another time. The energy needed to open the Gateways for the flesh is immense; there is no need to waste it when an astral projection will serve the same purpose. And since my role is merely to speak with you, my spirit image must suffice.’
‘You breed words like lice,’ snapped Fell, still rattled. ‘And I don’t relish having wizards at my fire. So speak you piece and be gone.’
Tish, boy, where are your manners? Elders are to be treated with respect, surely, even in this new and enlightened age? Did your parents teach you nothing? Your father, I recall, was a man of good breeding.’
‘For pity’s sake, just say what you came to say,’ said Fell. ‘I am already sick of your lectures.’
Taliesen was silent for a moment. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘but mark the words well. Firstly, when I leave, I want you to string your bow. The time is drawing near when you will have to use it. Secondly, you know the location of the Alwen Falls?’