The druid, who seemed almost as ancient as Taliesen, turned to Caswallon. ‘You will instruct your people to hold on to the twine and follow it. There is no danger, and the path is wide enough to take a line of five men. Let them approach slowly. All children to be carried. If anyone falls they are dead. They will be carried over Attafoss within seconds. Instruct your people.’
Caswallon was the first to cross, the clan filing slowly behind him. It was an uncanny sensation, placing weight upon solid air. He soon found it inadvisable to look down, for his sense of balance threatened to betray him.
Behind him the clan followed in silence and there were no mishaps.
Once on the island the clan spread out and pitched their camps. They found dried meat and fruit waiting for them, sacks of grain and oats, bags of salt, and huge tubs of honey, warm blankets and soft hides: all the product of Caswallon’s land that had so mysteriously disappeared the previous autumn.
Caswallon himself called a War Council and they met in a cavern beneath Vallon’s highest hill.
At the centre of the cavern was a long table of pine, around which were fifty chairs. These were soon filled. Caswallon took his place at the head of the table, flanked by Leofas and his sons Lennox and Layne; beside them sat Gwalchmai and Gaelen, and beyond them Onic and the pick of the Farlain warriors.
‘Before we begin,’ Caswallon told them, there is a matter to settle. It is our custom to elect our leaders. Most of the Council were slain with Cambil in the valley. We here now constitute a new Council. I offer myself as War Lord, but if there is any here with a hankering to lead, let him speak.’
No one stirred.
‘It is accepted then that I lead the Farlain until this war is concluded?’
‘Of course it is, Caswallon. Do you think us fools?’ said Leofas.
‘Very well. Then let us begin the real business of the day. How best can we hurt the enemy?’
Asbidag gazed at the ruin that had been his son. Maggots writhed in the dead flesh, and the sharp beaks of crows had torn at the body,
but still it was recognisable as Ongist. In full armour, his helm held in his hands, Asbidag stood before the tree soaking in the sight, feeding his fury and his hatred. Behind him stood Drada and Tostig and beyond them twenty-five thousand Aenir warriors.
Asbidag felt no remorse, no sadness at the death of his child. He had not liked Ongist, he liked none of his offspring. But the boy had been his: blood of his blood. He could hear him praying for vengeance at the door of the Grey God’s hall.
Through his anger he felt frustration. How could he wreak vengeance upon the clans? Already his armies had slain four thousand. Many were the blood-eagles decorating the countryside. But he wanted – needed – more.
The clans feared him now, but terror was his desire.
He turned to Tostig.
‘Fetch Agnetha from Aesgard. Do it now.’
The colour drained from the warrior’s face and he thought of asking his father to send another. But Asbidag’s eyes were cold and distant and Tostig knew from experience that he was on the edge of a killing frenzy. He nodded and backed away to his horse.
Drada stood silently as his brother departed. He had scouted the hill where Maggrig made his stand, and had received reports from the foresters as to the ploy the Pallides used. It was a clever plan, but it would have failed against any captain less impetuous than Ongist. Maggrig had gambled the lives of his people on one perilous venture, and he had succeeded. But it proved the measure of the man, and Drada knew he could best him when next they met.
Two serious errors had been made by Maggrig. On the night of the first attack he had led his warriors on a suicidal charge to protect a few women and children, and now he had staked everything on one battle. He was obviously a man ruled by his heart.