‘Well done, Adugga,’ said Maggrig as a dark-haired woman rose up before him, bow in hand. ‘It was good thinking.’
‘It will not stop them for long. They’ll outflank us.’
“We’ll be long gone by the time they do. They may be fine warriors, but they’ll not catch us.’
That may be true, Hunt Lord. But where will we go?’ asked Adugga.
‘To the Farlain.’
‘You think we’ll get a friendly welcome?’ asked In tosh.
‘Unless I am mistaken, the Aenir will be upon them before we arrive.’
‘Then why go there?’
‘My son Caswallon has a plan. We’ve spoken of it often, and at this moment it seems to be the best hope we have. We are making for Attafoss.’
Maggrig stepped forward, parted the bush screen and gazed down upon the burning valley. The Aenir were sitting on the hillside just out of bowshot. ‘They’re waiting for dawn,’ said Maggrig, ‘and that will not be long in coming. Let’s away!’
In the first valley of the Farlain, Caswallon was awakened before dawn by a frenzied hammering at his door. He rolled from the bed and ran downstairs.
Outside was Taliesen. The old man, red-faced and wheezing, leaned on his oak staff. Catching his breath, he gripped Caswallon by the arm.
‘The Aenir are upon us! We must move now.”
Caswallon nodded and shouted for Maeg to dress Donal, then he helped the druid into the kitchen, seating him by the hearth. Leaving him there, Caswallon lifted his war-horn from its place on the wall and stepped into the yard.
Three times its eerie notes echoed through the valley. Then it was answered from a score of homes and the clarion call was taken up, at last reaching the crofts of the outer valleys. Men and women streamed from their homes towards the Games field, the men carrying bows, their swords strapped to their sides, the women ready with provision and blankets.
Caswallon opened the wooden chest that sat against the far wall of the kitchen. From it he took a mail-shirt and a short sword. Swiftly he pulled the mail-shirt over his tunic and strapped the sword to his side. Taking the war-horn, he tied its thong to his baldric and settled it in place.
‘How long do we have, Taliesen?’
‘Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less.’
Caswallon nodded. Maeg came downstairs carrying Donal, and
the four of the them left the house. Caswallon ran on ahead to where hundreds of mystified clansmen were gathering.
Leofas saw him and waved as Caswallon made his way to him. ‘What is happening, Caswallon?’
‘The Aenir are close. They’ve crossed the Farlain.’
‘How do you know this?’
Taliesen. He’s back there with Maeg.’
Caswallon helped the druid push through the crowd to make his way to the top of the small hill at the meadow known as Centre Field. The old man raised his arms for silence.
‘The Aenir have tonight attacked the Haesten and the Pallides,’ he said. ‘Soon they will be here.’
‘How do you know this, old man?’ asked Cambil, striding up the hillside, his face crimson with anger. ‘A dream perhaps? A druid’s vision?’
‘I know, Hunt Lord. That is enough.’
‘Enough? Enough that you can tell us that two days’ march away a battle is taking place. Are you mad?’
‘I don’t care how he knows,’ said Caswallon. ‘We have less than an hour to move our people into the mountains. Are we going to stand here talking all night?’
‘It is sheer nonsense,’ shouted Cambil, turning to the crowd. ‘Why would the Aenir attack? Are we expected to believe this old man? Can any of us see here what is happening to the Pallides? And what if the Aenir have attacked them? That is Pallides business. I warned Maggrig not to be bull-headed in his dealings with Asbidag. Now enough of this foolishness, let’s away to home and bed.’
‘Wait!’ shouted Caswallon, as men began to stir and move. ‘If the druid is wrong, we will know by morning; all we will have lost is one night on a damp mountainside. If he is right, we cannot defend this valley. If Maggrig and Lark have been crushed as Taliesen says, then the Aenir must attack the Farlain.’