by David Gemmel
He stood silently for a moment. “I would marry you,” he said, “and spend my life making you happy. It is a dream I have had since first I saw you. But I cannot give you a palace, Deva.”
She looked up at him and, for a single heartbeat, felt like taking him in her arms and turning her back on the dream she had nurtured. But the dream was too strong and Deva shook her head. “I know that I love you, Gaelen. Truly. But you must find another,” she said softly, surprised that the words left her feeling empty and more than a little frightened.
Taking her hand he kissed it. “I’ll not ask again,” he told her. “I wish you well in your quest, Deva. I hope your king comes for you.”
Caswallon pushed his people hard throughout the days following the invasion. He sent a screen of warriors to the northeast and west, led by Badraig and Onic. Then he chose five hundred men and held them back to form a rear guard against any force the Aenir should send against them. He was desperate for news of Laric and Maggrig. Had the Pallides survived as a clan, or were they sundered throughout the mountains, leaderless? He needed to know. He called for volunteers from among the single men, skilled hunters and trackers, to journey back to the southeast and gather information. Among those who came forward were Layne, Gwalchmai, and Agwaine. Caswallon chose five men, Agwaine among them.
He took them aside, briefing each one, until at last only Agwaine was left. Caswallon placed both hands on the young man’s shoulders. “I am truly sorry about what happened to your father,” he said. “He was a fine man, a man of honor and great nobility.”
“He was a fool, Caswallon. But I loved him well. Better than he knew.”
“I doubt that. You meant everything to him. When we tracked you, as you fought the beast, he told me he would leave the Farlain if you did not survive. You were his joy. And as to his being a fool, I want you to think on this: He was made to look foolish by the brutal stupidity of the Aenir. Cambil was right in his philosophy, Agwaine. Sensible men will go to great lengths to avoid the vileness of war. Yet it is also a tragic truth that when war is inevitable, there is no place for sensible men. Intelligence can be a double-edged weapon. One of the blessings of a fine mind is that it allows a man to see both sides of a problem, therefore preventing him from acting in a blind or blinkered way. Your father was such a man. He believed that the Aenir would also see the wisdom of his view. That they did not is not a reflection on him, but a judgment upon them.”
Agwaine shook his head. “I would like to believe all that. But you are an intelligent man-and the Aenir did not fool you, did they?”
“No,” answered Caswallon slowly, “but then I did not have thousands of lives resting on my deeds, coloring my thoughts, feeding my hopes. Cambil knew that war would mean colossal loss of life. It does make a difference, Agwaine.”
“Thank you, cousin, for your words. As you advise, I will think on them. Now what do you want me to do?”
“Find Maggrig and gather as many of the Pallides as you can. Then make for the eastern shore of the lake above Attafoss. There we will plan the destruction of the enemy.”
“Do you believe we can win?”
“Be certain of it, Agwaine of the Farlain.”
Agwaine grinned. “It would be nice to be certain.”
Caswallon took the young man by the arm and led him away from the column. They sat down on the hillside, the stars gleaming above them like gems on a velvet cloak.
“Your father and I grew up together, you know that. You also know we were never friends,” said Caswallon softly, meeting Agwaine’s glance and noting, with sadness, the man’s resemblance to Cambil. “He did not like me, but I don’t blame him for that. I never did. He saw in me everything that could destroy the clan: selfishness; disregard for the customs that bound us together. I see that clearly now, and I wish he was here so that I could tell him. Instead, I tell his son.
“The clan thrives because we care for one another. Being Clan is as much a state of mind as a racial fact. Without it we are no different from the Aenir. Cambil understood this. Caring makes us strong, gives us courage.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Agwaine.
“Have you noticed,” countered Caswallon, “how nature gives and takes? The weakest dog in the litter is always the most cunning, the short man often more competitive, the ugly woman given the disposition of an angel. So it is with character. You saw it at the Games. Borak was faster than you, stronger. He even had an accomplice in the woods to ensure victory. And yet he lost, as his kind will always lose. For courage is born of caring. Evil has no depth of character to call on. You want certainty, Agwaine? I give it to you. They cannot conquer the clan.”
Agwaine bowed his head. “At this moment,” he said, “we are in flight. They outnumber us and they have killed thousands.”
“Yes, and many more clansmen will die,” said Caswallon, “but we shall not lose. Do not think of their numbers. It means nothing if the terrain is right. Think of your father, and his few hundred men. Aye, and women. Think of how the Aenir broke upon that sword ring. I would wager three Aenir died for every clansman. Think on it. For the Aenir will.
“Deep in their hearts they know the truth. Let you know it too. We are the Farlain, and though we may be ill-suited to it, we carry the torch of light in this war. And the Aenir darkness will not extinguish it.”
Agwaine chuckled suddenly, leaning back to rest on his elbows. “Caswallon, you’ve only been with the Council for a few months and already you’re spouting rhetoric.”
“I know, and it surprises me. But what is more surprising, perhaps, is that I believe it. With all my soul.”
“You believe the force of good will always defeat the force of evil?”
“I do-ultimately.”
“Why?”
“I can’t argue it, for it springs from the heart and not the mind. Why did the Queen come when you needed her?”
“Chance?”
“From where did you get the strength to beat the faster man?”
“I don’t know. But why did the Lowlanders fall? They were not evil.”
“I don’t say that darkness does not have small triumphs. But we are not Lowlanders, we are the Farlain.”
“Now that I will agree on,” said Agwaine. “And now I’d better be heading for Maggrig.”
“Are you more certain?”
“I don’t know, but I feel the better for talking.”
“Then that must be enough,” said Caswallon, rising.
“Take care, Caswallon-and look out for Deva. She should be clear of them. She was visiting Lars with her friend Larain.”
“I will send out scouts.”
The clan had made camp on the northern slope of a group of hills, where their campfires could not be seen from the south. As night stole over the countryside Caswallon ordered the fires doused, lest the glow be seen against the sky. He sought out Taliesen and together they walked to the hilltop, the old druid leaning heavily on his oak staff. He wore his birds’-feather cloak over a white robe. Caswallon thought him dangerously tired.
“How are you faring?” he asked as they sat together under the bright stars.
Taliesen’s eyes gleamed and he smiled. “I will not die on you, Caswallon.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“I am exhausted. But then I am old.” He looked at the young warrior beside him, his eyes full of guile. “Do you know how old?”
“Seventy? Eighty?”
“If I told you my age, would you believe me?”
“Yes. Why would you lie?”
“I will not lie, Caswallon. I am over a thousand years old.”
“I was wrong,” said Caswallon, grinning. “I do not believe you.”
“And yet I speak the truth. It was I who brought Earis here so many centuries ago. On this very hill, he and I looked down on the Farlain and knew joy.”
“Stop this jest, Taliesen…”
“It is no jest, Caswallon, and I am not speaki
ng to impress you. Of all the clansmen, you alone have the capacity to understand what I am going to tell you. You have an open, inquiring mind and a rare intelligence. You are not prey to superstitions. You make your own judgments. I am more than one thousand years old. I was born out there!” The old man’s bony hand flashed out, pointing to the stars. “You’ve heard tales of the elder race, the vanished people. I am the last of those elders; the last true-blooded anyway. We made the Gates, Caswallon, and we journeyed across distances so great I could not impress on you the scale of it. Think of an ant crossing the Farlain and multiply it a thousand times, and you would have but the first step of my journeys.
“We came here, and from here we spread across the Universe. We were the Star Walkers. We birthed religions and created mythologies wherever man saw us. But then came catastrophe.” The druid bowed his head, staring at his hands.
“What happened?” asked Caswallon.
“The Great Gates closed. Suddenly, without warning. Our links with home and distant empires were severed, gone without trace. All that remained were the Lesser Gates: playthings created for students like myself who wished to study the evolution of primitive societies in a controlled environment.”
“I do not understand any of this,” said Caswallon. “But I read men well, and I believe what you say. Why are you telling me now?”
“Because I need you. Because you are the catalyst. Because the future of the Farlain-my chosen people-rests with you. And because you will see great wonders in the days to come and your mind must be prepared. I cannot explain to you the nature of the skills that created the Gates. So think of it as magic, impossibility made reality. You know that I have a hiding place for the clan. I am going to tell you now where that hiding place is: Golfallin, the first valley of the Farlain.”
“What nonsense is this? You will take us back where we have come from?”
“Yes. But there will be no Aenir, no crofts and homes, only virgin land.”
“How so?”
“As I did with Earis,” said the old man. “The Gates do not merely link different lands, Caswallon. I shall take you all through time itself. We are going back ten thousand years, to a time before the clan, before the Aenir.”
“That would be magic indeed.”
“You, however, will not be going back. There is a task you must perform.”
“Name it.”
“You must find the Queen who died and bring her to the Farlain with her army. Only then can you hope to crush the Aenir.”
“You want me to find a dead woman?”
“Time, Caswallon. Where I will send you she is still young.”
“Why should she aid us?”
The old druid shrugged. “There are some questions I will not answer. But let me say this: The chaos we are enduring was caused-in part-by one selfish man. I am doing all in my power to reverse it.”
“Oracle?”
“Yes.”
“He told me of his journey,” said Caswallon, “and that is why I believe you. He said he took his men through the Gate and came to a realm torn by war. He chose to serve the Queen and gained prominence. He told me he fought many battles until at last he crossed the Gateway once more and became a king in a far land, with an army of thousands at his back. But then he suffered betrayal and fled back to the Gate.”
“He did not tell you all, Caswallon. Men rarely do when speaking of their mistakes. He became a king, even as he said, but to do so he made alliances with evil men. One such was Agrist, a rare brute. In return for Agrist’s services Oracle gave him the secret of the Gate, and Agrist led his people through in search of riches and plunder. They thrived in their new world and grew strong. They became the Aenir, who now pillage the Farlain. For the Gate Oracle gave them brought them to the recent past of our world.”
“He did tell me,” said Caswallon.
The druid gave a thin smile. “Did he also tell you of the night after Sigarni’s great battle when he found the enemy general’s widow and her daughter hiding in a cave? Did he describe how he raped the mother in front of the daughter, and of how the noble lady slew herself?”
“No,” replied the clansman.
“No,” echoed Taliesen. “Nor did he say how he stole the legendary Sword of Ironhand from the Queen, and used its power to build his own kingdom from the blood of innocents. As I said men rarely tell the whole truth of their iniquities. I have spent years, Caswallon, trying to repair the damage his pride and ambition caused.”
Caswallon turned away to gaze out over the silhouetted mountains, black against a grey sky. “I feel like a child taught to scrawl his name, who is given a book and told to read it. I can make out some of the letters, but the words are lost to me. Gateways, journeys through time.” He glanced at the old man, holding his gaze. “If we can make such journeys, why can we not merely go back a few days and save all the people? We could hit the Aenir before they invade.”
Taliesen nodded. “What if I told you that we did? And that it failed and the Farlain were destroyed?”
“Now you have lost me utterly.”
“That is what makes the chaos so terrible,” said Taliesen. “There are so many alternative realities. If I told you now how many times I have tried to prevent an Aenir victory you would think me mad. The complexities and paradoxes created are legion. Armies out of their time, dead men who were destined to live and achieve greatness, women who should have borne proud sons murdered in their childhood. Destiny thwarted, changed-the Gateways themselves trembling under the weight of the chaos.” Taliesen sighed. “Do you know how many times you and I have had this conversation? Of course you don’t, but it runs into scores, Caswallon. And how many times have I seen the clans destroyed, the Aenir triumphant? Hundreds. Now I grow older and more frail, and the task is as great as ever it was.”
Caswallon smiled grimly. “I doubt that I can learn what you have to teach, old man. You are taking the clan back to before they were born, and then I shall seek help from a queen already dead. Do you hold more surprises for me, Taliesen?”
The Druid Lord did not answer. He leaned back, gazing at the stars, naming them in his mind until he fastened on the farthest, its light flickering like a guttering candle.
Taliesen pushed himself to his feet, his heart heavy, his mind tired. “Aye, I have more surprises, War Lord,” he said. “If we are to win, Caswallon, which is not likely, then you will change and suffer as no Farlain has before you.” Taliesen sighed. “I do not yet know how all this will come to pass, but I know that it will, for I have seen the Hawk Eternal.”
Caswallon was about to speak, but Taliesen raised his hand for silence. “No more words tonight, War Lord. For I am weary unto death.”
Oracle watched the Aenir in the valley below. They had slaughtered three prime steers and were preparing a feast. Since the invasion three days before not one enemy warrior had approached the cave. Heavy of heart, Oracle walked back to the entrance and on into the small room at the rear of the cave. He had seen the death of Durk, and now from beneath his narrow cot bed he pulled an oak chest, brass-edged and finely worked. From it he took a rusting mail shirt and helm and an old broadsword wrapped in oiled cloth. He donned the mail shirt noting, with a wry grin, that it no longer hung well on his bony frame. Man aged less well than iron. Pushing back his white hair, he placed the helm firmly on his head. Looping sword and scabbard about his waist, he moved back into the sunlight and began the long walk into the valley.
Many were the thoughts as he strode down toward the feast. He remembered his childhood, and the first Hunt, his glory at the Games when he carried the Whorl Stone farther than any man before him. He remembered his love, Astel, a spirited lass from among the Haesten, and how she had sickened and died during their first winter together. The sense of loss crippled him still, though she remained young in his memory while he withered in reality.
The trees thinned out and he walked on.
Then had come the day when he approached the Council follo
wing his success in the war against the Lowland raiders. Great days, when his name was sung throughout the Farlain. He believed they would make him king. Instead they had rejected him, and in his fury he had sworn never to return to the clan.
With a few valiant followers he had risked everything sailing to Vallon. There he overpowered the druids who manned the Gate, and journeyed to the world beyond. For two years he fought alongside the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Regret touched him as the long suppressed memory of his shame rose to his mind. Sigarni had dismissed him, stripping him of rank. Oracle and his followers had then crossed the Gate once more to a distant land.
And what a land it was, green and fertile, with rolling hills and verdant valleys, broad plains and tall cities of glowing marble. It was a country riven by civil war, petty chieftains and robber princes vying with one another for control. Oracle had arrived in a world made for his talents. Within two years he was a general. Within five he led an army of three thousand men against Vashinu, the Prince of Foxes, and smashed him in a battle near Duncarnin. Five years later he crowned himself king and was acclaimed from northern mountains to southern seas as the undisputed Lord of the Isles, High King.
Had he been possessed of compassion, or even foresight, he might have changed that troubled land, bringing peace and prosperity to his subjects. But he had been a man of war, and had learned nothing of diplomacy, nor forgiveness. He persecuted his enemies, creating greater hatreds and thus more enemies. Two rebellions he crushed, but the third saw his army broken.
Wounded and alone, his few close friends dead or captured, he fled north and there vainly attempted to gather a force. For three years he fought minor campaigns, but always the great victories slipped away until at last he was betrayed by his lieutenants and turned over to his enemies. Sentenced to death, he had broken from his prison, killing two guards, stolen a horse, and made his way southeast to the Gateway once more. Twice they almost caught him, an arrow piercing his back. But he had been strong then, and he carried the wound to the druid’s cave-the cave he had stumbled from so many years before, when first he laid eyes on the Land of Isles.
