Harcanan rose. 'How many men did you lose?' he asked.

'None,' she told him. 'Assemble the council, for I would address them.'

Harcanan bowed, and Sigarni turned to Torgan. 'I could - and probably should - kill you,' she said. 'But you are a Highlander, and not without courage. Be at the council meeting.'

Torgan rose and stumbled away, his mind reeling.

Gwalchmai was sober. It was not an uplifting experience. As he sat in the log hall, surrounded by the younger children of the encampment, he found himself yearning for the sanctuary of the jug. There were several older women present, dishing out the last of the milk to the '94.

eager young, and about a dozen younger mothers sitting in a group, holding their babies and talking animatedly. Gwalchmai could not hear their conversation, for most of the smaller children had gathered around him and were asking questions he found it hard to answer. For some weeks now his powers had been waning, and he found himself unable to summon visions. It was ironic, that now of all times his Talent should desert him. He had often prayed to be released from the gift - the curse - and now that it had happened he felt terribly alone, and very frightened.

The clan needed him - and he had nothing more to give.

'Why do they want to kill us all, Gwalchmai?' asked a bright-eyed young boy of around twelve. 'Have we done something wrong?'

'No, nothing wrong," he grunted, feeling himself hemmed in by the youngsters.

'Then why are we being punished?"

'It's no good asking me to make sense of it, lad. It's a war. There's no sense in war.'

'Then why are we doing it?' questioned another boy.

'We don't have a choice,' said Gwalchmai. There was still a little left in the jug, he remembered. But where had he put it?

'Are we all going to be killed?' asked a girl with long red hair. Gwalchmai cleared his throat. A man's voice cut in and Gwalchmai looked up to see Kollarin, moving through the youngsters. The younger man grinned at Gwalch, patted his shoulder and then sat down beside him. 'When a thief enters your house,' he told the children, 'to take what is yours, then you either allow him to roam unchecked or you stop him. When a wolf pack attacks your cattle, you slay the wolves. That is the way of the hunter. The Outlanders have decided to take all that is yours. Your fathers have decided to stop them.'

'My father is a great hunter,' declared the girl. 'Last year he killed a rogue bear.'

'Not on his own,' said the boy. 'My father was with him. He shot it too.'

'He did not!' A squabble broke out between the two. Kollarin's laughter boomed out.

'Come, come, clansmen, this is no way to behave. I did not have a father - well, not that I recall. I had a mother who could shoot a bow, or wield a sword. Once, when a lioness got in amongst our sheep she '95.

strode out to the pasture, carrying only a long staff, and frightened it away. She was a fine woman.'

'You are an Outlander,' said the first boy, his earnest gaze fixed to Kollarin's face.

'Why do you want to kill us?'

'I never wanted to kill anyone,' Kollarin told him. 'There are many ... Outlanders, as you call them, from many nations. They have built an empire; I am from one part of that empire. They conquered my country a hundred and ten years ago.

The Outlanders are not, by nature, evil; they do not eat babies, or make blood sacrifices to vile gods. Their problem is that they believe in their own destiny as masters of the world. They respect strength and courage above all else. Therefore the strongest, the most ruthless, tend to achieve high rank. The Baron is such a man; he is evil, and because he leads in the north his evil spreads through the men under his command.'

'What happened to your father?' asked the red-haired girl.

'He ran away when I was a babe.'

'Why?'

Kollarin shrugged. 'I cannot answer for him. My mother told me he found life on the farm too dull.'

'Did people torment you?' asked a small boy with thick curly hair.

Kollarin nodded. 'Aye, they did. A boy without a father becomes, for some reason, an object of scorn.'

'Me too,' said the boy. 'My father ran away before I was born.'

'He didn't run away,' put in another child scornfully. 'Not even your mother could have said who he was.'

The curly-haired boy reddened and started to rise. Kollarin spoke swiftly. 'Let us have no violence here. You are all of the clan, and the clan is in danger; it is no time to argue with another. But there is something else you could think about.

How does evil grow? What makes it appear in a human heart, growing like a weed among the blooms? I tell you. It is born from anger and injustice, from resentment and jealousy. You have all witnessed the tiniest seed of it here in this hall. A boy with no father has been insulted for what may - or may not - have been the sin of his mother. That insult, and others like it, will simmer inside him as he grows. And by what right is he treated so unjustly?' Kollarin fixed his eyes on the older boy. 'Has his birth damaged you in some way?'

'Everyone knows his mother is a-'

796.

'Do not say it!' said Kollarin, icily. 'For when you speak thus, you give birth to evil.'

'It's the truth!'

'No, it is a perception of the truth. There is a difference. To the Outlandersyou are an untutored barbarian, worth less than a pig. You are not even human: your mother is a whore and your father is a stinking piece of filth who needs to be eradicated. That is their perception of the truth. They are wrong - and so are you. I do not say this to you in anger, boy. In fact it saddens me.'

'I will tell my father what you said about him, Outlander!' shouted the boy. 'He will kill you for it!'

'If that is true,' said Kollarin softly, 'there will be one less person to fight the Baron's men. No, I do not think that he will. I think it more likely he will be saddened, as I am, thatyou should insult a brother at a time like this.'

'He's not my brother! He's the son of a whore!'

'That's enough!' roared Gwalchmai, surging to his feet. 'I am the Clan Dreamer, and I know the truth. Kollarin has spoken it, though perhaps he should not. What festers inside you, young man, is that everyone can see the resemblance between you and Kellin. You are brothers, and no amount of harsh words will change that.

You have a great deal of growing up to do. Start now.'

The older boy ran from the hall, leaving the door swinging on its canvas hinges.

Snow blew in and another child moved to the door, pushing it shut and dropping the latch. The children gathered again around the two men, their faces fearful.

'Sometimes,' said Kollarin, 'life can be needlessly cruel. You have witnessed such a time. Evil does not grow from the head of a devil with horns - if it did we would all run from it. It springs from an angry word, and settles in the ears of the hearers. It can grow almost unnoticed until it flowers in rage and envy, jealousy and greed. The next time you have an angry thought about a clan brother or sister, remember this.'

'He will kill you, you know,' said the curly-haired Kellin. 'Jaren's father has a terrible temper. You should get a sword.'

'I will, should the need arise,' said Kollarin sadly. 'But now I think we should play a game, and change the mood. How many here know Catch the Bear?'

797.

Gwalchmai quietly left the hall with the game still in progress, and the squeals and laughter of the children ringing in his ears. It was bright and cold outside, but the old man could smell the approach of distant spring upon the wind. He shivered.

Kollarin was right. Evil was not an external force waiting to seize upon a wandering heart. It dwelt within the heart, a cocooned maggot waiting for the moment to break out and feed, gorging itself on the darker forces of the human soul. This was well understood by the founders of the clan, who instilled the stories and myths for youngsters to emulate. Heroes never oppressed or tormented the weak, never lied or stole or used their powers for selfish purposes.

Heroes were always subject to such dark desires, but resisted them manfully. All such stories had but one purpose - to encourage the young to battle the demons inside.

Even with his Talent fading, Gwalchmai knew what demons drove youngjaren.

Other children whispered that Kellin was his brother.. . this meant that his father had been unfaithful to his mother, and had then betrayed another woman leaving her to bring up a son in shame. Jaren would not have his father slandered in such a way, and had turned his anger towards little Kellin, blaming him for the lies.

His anger and his hatred were born of love for his father.

Gwalchmai stood in the cold sunlight, waiting.

It was not long before he saw the boy heading back with a stocky clansman beside him. For a moment he could not remember the man's name, then it came to him - Kars. When Gwalchmai called out to him, the man let go of his son's hand and strode towards the Dreamer. His square, beardless face was pale with anger.

'You lied about me, Dreamer,' he said, his tone icy. 'If you were a younger man I would slay you where you stand. The Outlander is different; he will die for the honour of my family.'

'And will the blood wash away the shame?' asked Gwalchmai, holding to the man's gaze.

Kars stepped in close. 'The woman was any man's for a copper farthing. That was her work and her pleasure. Aye, I rutted with her. Find me a man who did not.'

'That is inconsequential,' said Gwalchmai.'Good God, man, have you not looked at the boy? Every line of his face mirrors yours. Yet even that is beside the point.

Why should the child carry the sins of his mother? What has he done, save to serve as a reminder of a night ,98.

of casual coupling? And as for the Outlander, he spoke only the truth.'

'He called me a piece of filth!' snarled Kars. 'Is that the truth, old man?'

'He did not call you anything, Kars. He was explaining to the children about how the Outlanders perceive us. Jaren became angry and took it all personally.'

'Enough talk!' snapped the man, drawing his claymore and turning away.

'What now, Kars?' asked Gwalchmai softly. 'Will you walk into a children's gathering and slaughter the man who leads them in games? Can you not hear the laughter? The joy? How long since the clan children knew such moments?'

At that instant the doors opened and the children moved out into the light. Kars stood stock-still, his sword in his hand. The laughter of the young faded away, and they stood by silently as Kollarin stepped out and swung his green cloak around his slender shoulders. A small boy moved out to stand beside him. Kars looked at the child, then at his own son, Jaren. No one moved. Kars plunged his sword into the snow and stepped forward to drop on one knee before Kellin. The little boy did not flinch, but stared back at the warrior.

Gwalchmai felt his heart beating erratically, his breathing shallow. For Kars to accept the boy as his own would mean a loss of honour to the proud clansman, causing grief to himself and shame to his family. To reject the evidence of his eyes would bring a different kind of shame, but one that was at least private.

The warrior reached out and placed his hands on Kellin's shoulders. 'You are a fine lad,' he said, his voice choked with emotion. 'A fine lad. Should you wish it, you would be welcome at my fire, and at my home.'

Gwalchmai could scarce believe he had heard the words. Switching his gaze to Jaren, who was standing near to his father, he saw that the boy looked close to tears. Kars glanced up and called to his son and Jaren ran to him. Kars stood, then offered his hand to Kellin. 'Let us walk for a while,' he said. Kellin took his left hand, Jaren his right.

Together they walked away towards the trees.

Kollarin strolled across to where Gwalchmai stood. 'A curious encounter,'

observed the younger man.

'There is still nobility within the clan,' said Gwalchmai proudly. 'And I will die happy.'

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Kollarin's face showed his sorrow. 'You are going back to your cabin, to meet the soldiers who will kill you. Why? You know that if you stay here you will thwart them.'

'Aye,' agreed Gwalchmai. 'There are magical moments when a man can change the future. But not this time. I still have one small task to perform, one last gift for Sigarni.'

'You will plant a seed,' said Kollarin sadly, 'and you will die for it.'

'Take care of my dogs, young man. I have grown to love them. And now I must go.' Suddenly Gwalchmai chuckled. 'There are two jugs of honey mead liquor hidden in my loft back home. I can hear them calling to me!'

Kollarin put out his hand. 'You are a good man, Gwalchmai, and a brave one. I know you are concerned about Sigarni, and how she will fare without your guidance. I will be her Gifted One ... and I will never betray her.'

'There is one who will,' said the old man. 'I do not know who.'

'I will watch for him', promised Kollarin.

Leofric's servant banked up the fire and brought in fresh candles which he lit and placed atop the dying stubs. The blond-haired young man did not acknowledge his presence, but remained poring over maps and calculations. Leofric was not a happy man. Much as he enjoyed the logistics of a campaign, he could not divorce himself from the feeling that it was all so unnecessary. The clans had been peaceful for years, and now the Baron was set to bring fire and death into their lands. And for what? A little glory and the chance to rise again in the King's eyes.

That and the speculation on land prices south of the border.

It was all so meaningless.

The servant placed a goblet of steaming tisane before him. Leofric lifted it and sipped the brew, which was sweet and spiced with liquor. 'Thank you. Most thoughtful,' he said, looking up at the servant. The man disappeared from his mind instantly.

The army would march in ten weeks. Each of the six thousand men would carry four days' food supply with them. Leofric lifted a quill pen. One pound of oats, eight ounces of dried beef, half an ounce of salt. Seven pennies for each pack, multiplied by six thousand. He shook his head. The Baron would not be pleased at such an outlay.

200.

Sipping his tisane, he leaned back in his chair.

By his reckoning this war would cost twelve thousand four hundred gold pieces in wages, food and materials. But the Baron had budgeted for ten thousand.

Where to make cuts? Salt was expensive, but soldiers would not march without it, and it was common knowledge that an absence of beef in the diet led to cowardly behaviour. But halving the oats ration would mean less bulk food, and besides would save only... he scribbled down a calculation, then multiplied it. Three hundred and forty-two gold pieces.

Then he brightened. You have not considered the dead, he thought. The Highlanders will fight, and that means a percentage of the army would not be requiring food or payment. But how many? On a normal campaign with the Baron the losses could be as high as thirty per cent, but that would not be the situation here. Half that? A quarter? Say five per cent: Three hundred men. Once more he bent over his calculations.

Almost there, he decided.

The servant returned. 'Begging your pardon, my lord, but there is a man to see you.'

'What time is it?'

'A little before midnight, sir.'

'An odd time to be calling. Who is it?'

'I do not know him, sir. He is a stranger. He asked for you and said he had information you would find invaluable.'

Leofric sighed; he was tired. 'Very well, show him in. Give us no more than ten minutes, then interrupt me on a matter of importance - you understand?'