And what a land it was, green and fertile, with rolling hills and verdant valleys, broad plains and tall cities of glowing marble. It was a country riven by civil war, petty chieftains and robber princes vying with one another for control. Oracle had arrived in a world made for his talents. Within two years he was a general. Within five he led an army of three thousand men against Vashinu, the Prince of Foxes, and smashed him in a battle near Duncarnin. Five years later he crowned himself King and was acclaimed from northern mountains to southern seas as the undisputed Lord of the Isles, High King.
Had he been possessed of compassion, or even foresight, he might have changed that troubled land, bringing peace and prosperity to his subjects. But he had been a man of war, and had learned nothing of diplomacy, nor forgiveness. He persecuted his enemies, creating greater hatreds and thus more enemies. Two rebellions he crushed, but the third saw his army broken.
Wounded and alone, his few close friends dead or captured, he fled north and there vainly attempted to gather a force. For three years he fought minor campaigns, but always the great victories slipped away until at last he was betrayed by his lieutenants and turned over to his enemies. Sentenced to death, he had broken from his prison, killing two guards, stolen a horse and made his way south-east to the Gateway once more. Twice they almost caught him, an arrow piercing his back. But he had been strong then, and he carried the wound to the druid’s cave – the cave he had stumbled from so many years before, when first he laid eyes on the Land of Isles.
There had been a druid there, who had gazed upon him, shocked and bewildered. He had been one of the men Oracle had overpowered long before on Vallon. Oracle, weak from loss of blood, asked the man to send him back home. He had done so without argument.
Now the old man gazed down on the fruits of his ambition, and bitter was the taste. The valley was scarred by the invasion, burnt-out homes black against the greenery, enemy soldiers trampling the wheat in the fields. By the long hall were the guards, and within were the captured women of three clans, kept in chains to endure the lusts of the conquerors.
Men looked up from their work as the old man came in sight, then began to gather and point at him. Laughter began and sped as warriors came running to watch him. The laughter touched Oracle’s mind like acid. In his day men had quailed to see him thus attired.
Now he was a figure of fun. He drew his sword, and the laughter subsided.
Then someone called, ‘Run, lads. It’s the entire clan army!’
And they mocked him, spreading out in a circle about him.
‘Where is your leader?’ he asked.
‘Hark, it speaks! You can talk to me, old man. Tell me your business.’
‘I seek the dog, not its droppings,’ said Oracle. The man’s face reddened as he heard the laughter and felt the acid. He drew his sword and leaped forward. Oracle parried his thrust, reversing a cut that half-severed the man’s neck.
The laughter died, replaced by the sharp, sliding hiss of swords being drawn.
‘Leave him. He interests me,’ said Asbidag, striding through the crowd – Drada to his right side, Tostig at his left. He halted some five paces from Oracle, grinning as he noticed the rusted mail-shirt.
‘I am the leader. Say what you must.’
‘I have nothing to say, spawn of Agrist. I came here to die. Will you join me?’
‘You want to fight me, old man?”
‘Have you the stomach for it?’
‘Yes. But first tell me where your clan has gone. Where are they hiding, and what do they plan?’
Oracle grinned. ‘They are hiding all around you, and they plan your destruction.’
‘I think you can tell me more than that. Take him!’
The men surged forward. Oracle’s sword flashed twice and men fell screaming. The old man reversed his blade, driving it deep into the belly of the nearest warrior. In his pain and rage the Aenir lashed back with his own sword, cleaving Oracle’s ribs and piercing his lungs. He doubled over and fell, blood gushing from the wound.