Gaelen sighed. When he was strong enough he would run away to the north and find a city die Aenir had not sacked, and he would pick up his life again – stealing food and scraping a living until he was big enough, or strong enough, to take life by the throat and force it to do his bidding.
Still dreaming of the future, he fell asleep in the sunshine. Oracle found him there at noon and gently carried him inside, laying him upon the broad bed and covering him with the bearskin cloak. The fur was still thick and luxuriant, yet it was thirty years since Oracle had killed the bear. An epic battle fought on a spring day such as this … The old man chuckled at the memory. In those days he had been Caracis, Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and a force to be considered. He had killed the bear with a short sword and dagger, suffering terrible wounds from the beast’s claws. He never knew why it had attacked him; the large bears of the mountains usually avoided man, but perhaps he had strayed too close to its den, or maybe it was sick and hurting.
Whatever the cause it had reared up from the bushes, towering above him. In one flowing motion he had hurled his hunting-knife into its breast, drawn sword and dagger and leapt forward, plunging both blades through the matted fur and into the flesh beyond. The battle had been brief and bloody. The beast’s great arms encircled him, its claws ripping into his back. He had released the sword and twisted at the dagger with both hands, seeking the mighty heart within the rib-cage.
And he had found it.
Now the bear, the lord of the high lonely forest, was a child’s blanket, and the greatest of the Farlain warriors was a dry-boned ancient, known only as Oracle.
Time makes fools of us all,’ he whispered.
He looked down at the boy’s face. He was a handsome lad, with good bones and a strong chin, and his flame-red hair contained a glint of gold, matching the tawny flecks in his dark eyes.
‘You will break hearts in years to come, Gaelen, my lad.’
‘Hearts … ?’ said Gaelen, yawning and sitting up. ‘I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?’
‘No. Old men talk to themselves. How are you feeling?’
‘Good.’
‘Sleep is the remedy for many of life’s ills. Especially loss of blood.’
‘It’s peaceful here,’ said Gaelen. ‘I don’t normally sleep so much, even when I’ve been hurt. Is there anything I can do to help you? I don’t want to be a burden.’
‘Young man, you are not a burden. You are a guest. Do you know what that means?’
‘No.’
‘It means you are a friend who has come to stay for a while,’ the old man told him, laying his hand on the boy’s arm. ‘It means you owe me nothing.’
‘Caswallon pays you to look after me,” said Gaelen, pulling his arm away from Oracle’s touch.
‘No, he does not. Nor will he. Though he may bring a joint of venison, or a sack of vegetables the next time he comes.’ Oracle left the bedside to add several chunks of wood to the fire. ‘It’s so wasteful,’ he called back, ‘keeping a fire here in spring. But the cave gets cold and my blood is running thin.’
‘It’s nice,’ said Gaelen. ‘I like to see a fire burning.’
‘Chopping wood keeps my body from seizing up,’ said the old man, returning to the bedside. ‘Now, what would you like to know?”
Gaelen shrugged. ‘About what?’
‘About anything.”
‘You could tell me about the clans. Where did they come from?’
‘A wise choice,’ said Oracle, sitting at the bedside. ‘There are more than thirty clans, but originally there was one: the Farlain. Under their leader, Farla the First, they journeyed to Druin more than six hundred years ago, escaping some war in their homeland. The Farlain settled in the valley below here, and two neighbouring valleys to the east. They prospered and multiplied. But, as the years passed, there was discord and several families broke from the clan. There was a little trouble and some fighting, but the new clan formed their own settlements and began calling themselves Pallides, which in the old tongue meant Seekers of New Trails. In the decades that followed other splits developed, giving birth to the Haesten, the Loda, the Dunilds and many more. There have been several wars between the clans. In the last, more than one hundred years ago, six thousand men lost their lives. Then the mighty king Ironhand put an end to it. He gave us wisdom – and the Games.’