The floor rose to strike his head, pain swamping him.
‘Just one more… day,’ he groaned.
His fingers clenched into a fist as a fresh spasm of agony ripped into him.
And as he died the Gates vanished.
During the week that followed Caswallon’s departure Maggrig led his Pallides warriors on a series of killing raids, hitting the Aenir at night, peppering them with arrows from woods and forests. Leofas, with four hundred Farlain clansmen, circled the Aenir force and attacked from the south.
Whenever the Aenir mustered for a counter-attack the clans melted away, splitting their groups to re-form at agreed meeting places.
The raids were no more than a growing irritation to Asbidag, despite the disruption of his supply lines and the loss of some three hundred warriors. The main battle was what counted, and the clans could not run for ever.
But where was Barsa? Nothing had been heard of his son and the Timber-Wolves he led.
Drada trapped a raiding party of twenty Pallides warriors in a wood twelve miles from Attafoss, and these – bar one – were summarily butchered. The prisoner was tortured for seven hours, but revealed nothing. He had been blood-eagled on a wide tree. But the main force, led by Maggrig, escaped to the north, cutting through the ring of steel Drada had thrown around the wood. Still twenty of the enemy had been slain, and Drada was not displeased.
In the south-east Gaelen and his companions had found more than eighty Pallides warriors in the caves of Pataron, a day’s march from Caduil. These he had persuaded to march with him on his return. It was a start.
On the fifth day of travel Gaelen and his group entered the thick pines below Carduil, and as they climbed they felt the chill of the wind blowing down from the snow-capped peaks. As they neared the opening to a narrow pass, a tall woman in leather breeches and a hooded sheepskin jerkin stepped out from the trees, a bow half-drawn in her hands.
‘Halt where you stand,’ she commanded.
‘We are seeking Lark,’ Gaelen told the clanswoman.
‘Who are you?’
‘Gaelen of the Farlain. I come with a message from the War Lord Caswallon and his friend Maggrig of the Pallides.’
The warrior woman eased down the bow-string, returned the shaft to the quiver and moved forward. ‘I am Lara,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Lark’s daughter. My father is dead. He led the men on a raid to Aesgard; they were taken and slain to the last man.’
‘All dead?’ asked Agwaine, pushing forward.
‘Yes. The Haesten are finished.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Gaelen, his heart sinking.
‘No more than we are,’ said Lara. ‘We are camped within Carduil. Join us.’
The companions followed her into the pass, and up to the winding trail below the caves. Once within the twisted caverns Lara pushed back her hood, shaking loose her dark hair. Leaving the companions at a fire where food was being prepared, she took Gaelen to a small rough-cut chamber in which lay a bed and a table of pine.
There used to be a group of druids here,’ she said, stripping off her jerkin. Tossing it to the bed, she pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat.
Gaelen sat on the bed, his misery evident. ‘You thought you’d find an army?’ she asked softly.
‘Yes.’
‘How many Farlain warriors escaped?’
‘Close to four thousand.’
‘And Pallides?’
‘Less than a thousand.’
They’ll fight well,’ said the girl. ‘Would you like something to drink ?’ Gaelen nodded. She stood and crossed the chamber, bending to lift a jug and two goblets from behind a wooden chest. The soft leather of her breeches stretched across her hips. Gaebn blinked and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
She passed him a goblet of honeyed wine. ‘Are you warm?” she asked.
‘A little.’
‘Your face is flushed. Take your jerkin off.’
She really was quite striking, he realised, as he removed the garment. Her eyes were the blue of an evening sky, her mouth wide and full-lipped.
‘Why are you staring?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered.
‘I saw you run in the Games,’ she said. ‘You were unlucky to miss the final.’