Twisting round, Caswallon saw that the child had reached the pool-side. Two beasts were converging on her. Of Taliesen there was no sign. Dropping from the tree, Caswallon notched an arrow and raced down the icy slope. His foot struck a tree-root hidden by snow and he was pitched forward. Releasing the bow, he tried to roll over and stop his slide, his hands scrabbling at the snow. Another tree-root saved him, his fingers curling round it. Scrambling to his feet he
saw the first of the beasts almost upon the helpless child. His bow was some twenty paces up the slope. Drawing his short sword and hunting-knife Caswallon ran forward. As the beast reared up, he ducked under a sweeping slash from a taloned paw and stabbed his knife hilt deep into the creature’s belly. A backhanded blow took him high on the shoulder, lifting him from his feet and hurling him through the air. Falling hard, he struck his left shoulder against a tree-trunk, paralysing his arm. The mortally wounded beast staggered and fell, but the third demon reared up and advanced on the clansman.
With an angry curse Caswallon rose, eyes glittering.
‘Run, you fool!’ shouted Taliesen, as the beast loomed before the clansman. Deep in his heart Caswallon knew that he should take that advice. There was so much to live for, so much still to be achieved.
The beast turned away from him – towards the child at the water’s edge. In that moment Caswallon felt relief flood over him. He was safe! I live and she dies, he thought suddenly.
Without further thought he took three running steps and hurled himself at the beast, plunging his sword into its broad back. The creature screamed and spun. The sword was ripped from the clansman’s hand, but remained jutting from the beast’s rainbow flesh. Talons ripped into Caswallon’s shoulder, pain searing through him as he was thrown to the ground.
In that moment a bright light blazed and Caswallon saw the massive, shimmering figure of Ironhand standing over the child, sword held two-handed and raised high. The beast gave a low growl and sprang at the ghost. The dead King stepped forward to meet it, his silver sword slashing through the air in a glittering arc; it passed through the creature seemingly without leaving a wound.
But the demon froze, tottered, and toppled backwards to the snow.
Taliesen emerged from his hiding-place in the undergrowth and ran to the child. Caswallon’s vision blurred, the spell placed over his eyes fading. He blinked and saw the druid kneeling beside Sigarni. The girl was sitting silently, her eyes wide open and unblinking. Taliesen placed his hands on the child’s head. ‘Is she hurt?’ asked the Ghost King.
Taliesen shook his head. ‘Her body is safe, her spirit scarred,” he said.
With a groan Caswallon pushed himself to his feet. Blood was flowing freely from the gash to his shoulder. ‘What will happen to her now?’
‘There is one coming who will look after her. His name is Gwalch; he is a mystic,’ Taliesen told him.
‘I hope this is an end to her adventures with demons,’ said Caswallon.
‘It is not,’ whispered Taliesen. ‘But the next time she must fight them alone.’
‘Not alone,’ said the King. ‘For I shall be here.’
With time against him, Gaelen led the companions over the most hazardous terrain, skirting the Aenir army on the third day of travel. From their hiding-place on a wooded hillside, the companions gazed down on the horde moving through the valley.
The size of the enemy force dismayed the clansmen. It seemed to stretch and swell across the valley, filling it. There were few horsemen, the mass of fighting men striding together, bearing round shields painted black and red, and carrying long swords or vicious double-headed axes.
Gaelen was worried. For the last day he had been convinced that the companions were being followed. Agwaine shared his view, though when Gwalchmai and Layne scouted the surrounding woods they found only animal tracks. Onic and Ridan, anxious to push on, accused Gaelen of needless caution.
That night they made late camp on open ground and lit a fire. The moon was hidden by a dark screen of storm cloud and the night covered them like a black fog. Gaelen was glad of the darkness and curled into his blanket. Onic had suggested they head for Carduil, a jagged, unwelcoming series of peaks to the east, and Gaelen had agreed. The companions had moved south at first, hugging the timberline, gradually veering towards the distant mountains. Tomorrow they would head into the rising sun over the most dangerous stretch, wide valleys with little cover. Making a cold camp in a hidden hollow, Gaelen took the first watch. After an hour Layne moved through the darkness to sit beside him.