‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I did not mean that.’
‘You meant it. Let’s talk no more of it. We’ve a long way to go.’
8
DRADA ARRIVED IN Farlain valleys on the second day of the invasion, having completed his attack on the Haesten. Throughout the day his men had been scouring the mountains, hunting down clansmen and their families, killing the men and older women, taking the young girls alive. So far they had killed more than a thousand Highlanders.
Leaving a third of his force behind to harry the remnants of Laric’s people, he moved on to join his father. There was no word from Ongist and his force, apart from the first message that told of Maggrig’s flight into the mountains.
With twenty men Drada rode ahead of the marching army, reigning his mount on the high slope above the first valley. Below him were a dozen or so gutted houses; the rest had been taken over by the Aenir, whose tents also dotted the field. Drada was discontented. The assault had not been a complete success. The Haesten were all but wiped out, but the Pallides and the Farlain were still at large.
Barsa’s Timber-Wolves would harry them in the north-west, but Drada did not share his father’s scant regard for the clans’ fighting abilities. And he had heard of Cambil’s death with regret.
Not that he liked the man, more that he was easy to read, and if the Farlain had to escape Drada would have rested more easily knowing Cambil was Hunt Lord. He didn’t need to be a prophet to predict the next leader:
Caswallon!
The viper beneath the Aenir heel.
Spurring his mount he rode down into the valley, past the field where cattle and sheep grazed contentedly. His brother Tostig saw him coming and walked out to meet him, standing before the cairn which housed the combined dead of the first assault.
‘Greetings, brother,’ said Tostig as Drada dismounted, handing the reins to a following rider. ‘I told you the war would be short and sweet.’
Drada stared into his brother’s ugly face. ‘It is not over yet,’ he said evenly.
Tostig spat. ‘There’s no real fight in these mountain dogs. They’ll give us sport for a few weeks, that’s all.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Drada, pushing past him. He entered the house of Cambil, seeking his father. Asbidag sat in the wide leather chair before the hearth, drinking from a silver goblet. Beside him was a jug of mead and a half-eaten loaf. Drada pulled up a chair opposite and removed his cloak. Asbidag was drunk; ale dribbled to his red beard at every swallow, flowing over the crumbs of bread lodged there. His bloodshot eyes turned to Drada and he belched and leaned forward.
‘Well?’ he snarled.
‘The Haesten are finished.’
Asbidag began to laugh. He drained the last of the ale and then lifted the silver goblet, crushing it suddenly, the muscles of his forearm writhing as his powerful fingers pressed the metal out of shape.
‘Finished? What about the Farlain? Your plan was a disaster.’ The words were slurred but the eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence.
“We have the valleys and the Farlain have nowhere to go, and no food supply.’
‘So you say.’
Morgase entered the room and Drada stood and bowed. Ignoring him, she moved to Asbidag and knelt by the chair, stroking the bread from his beard. Asbidag’s eyes softened as he gazed on her cool beauty. He lumbered to his feet, pulling her up beside him, his huge hand sliding down her flank. He leered at her and left the room, stumbling on the stairs.
‘Wait here,’ said Morgase. ‘I shall see you presently.’
‘I think not, Lady. I fear you will be preoccupied for some little while.’
‘We shall see.’
Drada moved from the hard seat to the wide leather chair his father had vacated, easing himself back and lifting his feet to a small table. He closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort. He was tired, he hadn’t realised quite how tired. The light was fading. He cursed softly and pushed himself upright, gathering candles from the kitchen. Taking a steel tinder-box from his pouch he struck a flame and lit a candle, placing it in a brass holder on the wall above the hearth. Near the door was a crystal lantern which he also trimmed and lit. Returning to the chair, he tried once more to relax but he could not. He was over-tired and filled with the tension only the planning of war could produce.