The moon was bright above the mountains, but its light was diffused by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks that made up the bulk of the forest. Every three or four steps Caswallon closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him, listening for movement in the bushes ahead. The hoarse rasp of cloth on wood came to him and Caswallon raised a hand. The men behind him stopped. He pointed to the bushes; a clansman crept forward with knife in hand.
In the bushes the Aenir archer dozed – and died without waking as the razor-sharp hunting-knife slid across his throat. Beyond him slept scores of warriors. With bright knives the clansmen moved in among them, killing them as they slept.
The night hunters moved on. Leofas and his group crept deep into the forest to the north, continuing their silent slaughter before working their way down the western side while Badraig, reaching the northernmost point, turned south.
An hour before dawn a cry split the night silence as a clansman’s blade slit open an Aenir throat. The man awoke as the knife cut into him, screaming a warning before dying as six inches of iron slashed through his neck.
Barsa leapt to his feet, knowing instantly that he had been tricked. He bellowed a warning to those nearest and drew his sword. Aenir foresters ran to him and then he saw the clansmen bearing down in the gloom. He glanced right and left. He had fewer than a hundred men with him. But if the men of the clan had entered the forest, that left the women alone on open ground. Barsa turned and sprinted south. If they could only hack their way past the women and old men they would be clear.
The Aenir ran from the trees and Barsa’s heart sank. A line of women kneeling in the grass, bows bent. He threw himself to the ground as the shafts whistled home.
A second volley hammered into their ranks and then the clansmen were upon them. Barsa leaped to his feet and parried a thrust from a short sword, sweeping a double-handed blow to the clansman’s unprotected head and caving in the skull. A second man fell to his sword, and a third, as he roared his defiance at them. Then the clansmen fell back, and a warrior strode through their ranks. The man was tall, his long black hair tied at the nape of the neck, a trident beard giving him a sardonic appearance. His eyes were green and in his hand he carried a short sword. Beside Barsa the last of the Aenir foresters died with an arrow in his ribs. Barsa was not afraid of death. He had earned his place in the Grey God’s hall.
Leaning on his sword, he grinned at the blood-drenched clansman.
‘Come on then, mountain dung. I’ll see your corpse before you see mine.’
The clansman stepped forward as Barsa’s sword flashed in the air. He parried it, ducking beneath the swing to thrust at the Aenir’s groin. Barsa leaped back, his blade plunging downwards. The clansman blocked the blow, iron clashing’on iron as the men circled. The Aenir had the advantage of the longsword, but the clansman moved swiftly, his green eyes probing for weaknesses in the Aenir’s defence.
‘Frightened, clansman?’ sneered Barsa. The man did not reply, but leaped forward with a sword raised. Barsa slashed wildly. The man parried, then spun on his heel to hammer his elbow into Barsa’s face.
The Aenir staggered back, then felt the searing agony of a sword-blade buried deep in his belly. An awful cry tore from his throat and he pitched to the ground, writhing and straining to free the blade. Then the pain faded, washed from his body by the rushing blood. He rolled to his back, looking up at the sky above him, waiting to see the Valkyrie ride down for his soul.
He wondered if Asbidag would mourn for him. ‘I’ll cut out his eyes,’ he heard someone say. Barsa knew panic; he did not want to be blind in the Hall of Heroes.
‘Leave him be,’ said the clansman who had cut him.
Relief and release came together, and the light faded.