Drada hoped his success would make him bold.
Asbidag stalked from the tree, and several warriors moved forward to cut down the body, preparing it for the funeral pyre on the hillside.
Drada joined his father in the black tent at the base of the hill. Asbidag was drinking heavily, and Morgase sat in the background saying nothing. ‘We will not catch the Pallides before they link with the Farlain,’ said Drada.
‘Good,’ said Asbidag. ‘I want them all together.’
‘Do you want to press on today?’
‘No, we will wait for Agnetha.’
Drada left his father and wandered through the camp to where his own tent had been pitched. Once inside, he stripped his armour and spread his blankets upon the ground. It was early yet, but weariness was upon him and he slept through the afternoon. He awoke to the smell of cooking meat. One of his carles brought him a platter of beef and some bread and he joined the men outside.
For the first time in many years these fierce warriors were fighting not for gold, nor women, nor glory but for land. And he sensed the difference in them.
‘It will not be easy,’ said his carle-captain Briga, a swarthy black-haired veteran who had been Drada’s first Aenir tutor.
‘Nothing worth having comes easy,’ Drada told him.
The man grinned. ‘They fight well, these clansmen.’
‘Did you expect less?’ Drada asked him.
‘Not after the Games.’
‘No.’ Drada finished his meal and returned to his tent. Briga watched him go. He had been Drada’s carle-captain for five years, and before that his sword-master. He liked the boy; he was unlike his brothers, but then he had been brought up as a hostage in a foreign city and upon his return was less Aenir than foreigner. He was soft, and his learning sat heavily upon him. Asbidag had made him Briga “s charge.
In the years that followed Drada had learned of battle and death, horror and hate. But blood had run true and he had become, outwardly at least, as much an Aenir as his brothers. Only Briga knew of the lack.
Drada did not love war. He loved the planning of war.
Briga did not care. He sensed that Drada would one day rule the Aenir, and he waited patiently for the day to come.
The Aenir warriors were anxious to push on, but Asbidag gave no orders to move. For ten days they remained in camp until, on the morning of the eleventh day, Tostig rode in alone, reining his lathered mount outside his father’s tent. Asbidag hauled him from the saddle, eyes blazing.
‘Where is the witch-woman?’ he stormed. ‘If you have failed me I’ll kill youl Your body will hang on the same tree as your brother.’
‘She is coming, Father, I swear it. She refused to ride, said she would come in her own way.’
Asbidag hauled him to his feet. ‘She had better,’ he hissed.
At midnight, as the fires burned low, a bitter wind blew up, flashing sparks from the coals. Men shivered as dark clouds obscured the stars and Asbidag, sitting alone before his tent, drew his red cloak around him. A shadow fell across him and, glancing up, he saw the old woman standing before him leaning on a staff. She was as grotesque as ever – almost bald, the remaining greasy white patches of hair hanging like serpents to her emaciated shoulders. Her teeth were broken and black, and her face adorned with wrinkled, leathery skin, as if her skull had shrunk to half its size, leaving the flesh around it to sag monstrously. She wore a matted cloak of human scalps and her tattered gown was said to have been made from the skins of flayed maidens. Asbidag believed it to be true.
‘What do you want of me?’ she asked, her voice a sibilant hiss.
‘Terror among the clans.’
‘You have brought terror to the clans. What do you want of me?’
‘I want your sorcery.’
‘And what will you offer the Grey God?’
‘Whatever he asks.’
Her eyes gleamed. ‘Whatever?’
‘Is your hearing going, woman? Whatever!’
‘A hundred virgins slain by midsummer.’
‘You shall have it.’