He awoke twice in the night – once as it began to rain, and the second time when a large fox brushed against his foot. In the moonlight the beast’s face seemed to glow like some hellish demon of the dark. Gaelen screamed and the fox fled.
Caswallon did not stir, though in the morning as he packed their makeshift tent he told Gaelen grimly, ‘In the mountains a man can pay with his life for a moment’s panic. That was a good lesson for you. In future, make no noise when faced by a threat. You could have been hiding from the Aenir, and felt a snake upon your leg. One scream, one sudden movement – and you would face death from both.’
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Caswallon ruffled the boy’s hair and grinned. ‘It’s not a criticism, Gaelen. As I said, it’s a valuable lesson.’
Throughout the morning the companions followed the mountain paths and trails. Gaelen listened to the older man’s stories of the clans and learned. He learned of the Farlain march to the island of Vallon and the mysterious Gates, and their entry to the mountains. He learned of the structure of the society and how no kings were permitted within the clans, but that in times of war a High King would be elected: a man like the legendary Ironhand. But most of all he learned of Caswallon of the Farlain. He noticed the smooth, confident manner in which he moved and spoke, the gentle humour in his words, the authority in his statements. He learned that Caswallon was a man of infinite patience and understanding, a man who loved the high country and its people, despite lacking the harsh cruel quality of the former and the volatile, often violent passions of the latter.
Towards the afternoon Caswallon led the way into a small pine-wood nestling against the base of a towering rock face. As they entered the trees the clansman stopped and Gaelen started to speak, but Caswallon waved him to silence. They could hear the wind swishing the leaves above them, and the rustle of small animals in th« dry bracken. But inlaid into the sounds was an occasional squealing cry, soft and muted by the trees, like an echo.
Caswallon led the boy to the left, pushing his way through intertwined bushes until they reached a larger clearing at the base of the cliff.
Here, before the cave-mouth, lay the evidence of a mighty struggle. A dead mountain lion was locked in a grotesque embrace with a huge dog, the like of which Gaelen had never seen. The dog’s jaws were clamped together in the throat of the lion which in its death throes had disembowelled the hound with the terrible claws of its hind legs. The dead animals had already begun to putrefy, the lion’s belly bloated with gases.
‘What kind of hound is that?’ asked Gaelen.
‘The best there is,” answered Caswallon. ‘That is Nabara, the War Hound, she who belonged at one time to Cambil, the Farlain Hunt Lord. But she was a vicious beast and she ran away to the hills the day before she was to be slain.’
Gaelen walked close to the bodies. ‘Her jaws are huge, and her body is long. She must have been formidable,’ he said.’
There are few war hounds left now. I don’t know why. Maybe because we don’t have the old-style wars. But yes, they are formidable. Terrifying, in fact. As you see, they can even be a match for a lion.’
The squealing began again from within the cave.
‘Her cubs are inside,’ said Caswallon. ‘That is why she fought to the death. Little good it will do them.’
‘Are you going to kill them?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘She’s been living in the mountains for over a year. The only animal she’s likely to have mated with is a wolf. But we’ll see.’
The cave ceiling was low and the companions entered warily on hands and knees. Inside, the cave narrowed into a short tunnel bearing right. Beyond that was a deep cleft in which the hound had left her pups. There were five small bodies and a sixth struggling to stand on snaking legs. Caswallon reached over, lifted the black and grey pup and passed it back to the boy. Then he checked the bodies. All were dead.