Shaft upon shaft hammered into the Aenir ranks. Death was ahead of them – and behind they could hear the shrill battle cry of the Pallides: ‘Cut! Cut! Cut!’ Faced with a hail of missiles many of the Aenir broke to the left, streaming away towards the safety of the trees, desperate to be clear of the rain of death. Ongist was furious. With a hard core of his personal carles he stood his ground, but the battle was lost. Arrows tore into his men, opening a gap in the shield wall, exposing Ongist to the enemy. Two shafts pierced the air,
ripping into Ongist’s chest. With a grunt of pain he broke off the jutting shafts. Turning, Ongist saw Maggrig before him, his beard dark with blood, his eyes gleaming and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
Ongist lashed out weakly. Maggrig parried the blow with ease, lifting his hand for the archers to cease shooting. Ongist, the last Aenir alive, staggered, then gazed on the enemy with new eyes. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground, pushing himself to his knees with great effort.
‘Bring him,’ muttered Maggrig, walking past the dying Aenir general and on towards the trees.
Within the hour the Pallides were once more marching north and west. Behind them the crows settled on the Aenir dead – more than eleven hundred bodies stripped of armour and weapons littered the hillside. And nailed to a tree hung the body of Ongist, his ribs splayed grotesquely, his innards held in place with strips of wood. His eyes had been put out and his tongue torn from his mouth.
Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.
Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.
Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.
In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.
She laid her head against his neck. ‘I did not think we would get here safely,’ she said.
He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.
Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.
Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed towards the woods. Suddenly Gaelen jerked as if stung. From his vantage point he could see into the trees and, just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a warrior, running bent over. The man had been wearing the horned helm of the Aenir.
‘Oh, no!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Gods, no!’
‘What is it?’ asked Deva, swinging her head to glance back down the trail, expecting to see their pursuers close by.
‘The Aenir are in the woods,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting to hit the clan – and I can’t warn them.’
Deva shaded her eyes, searching the timberline.
‘I see nothing.’
‘It was only one man. But I know there were more.’
Despair washed over the young man. ‘Let’s move,’ he said, and they began to run down the grassy slopes, angling away from the woods.