was life, this was a peace he had never known. The little pup moved in its sleep and he stroked it absently. In the distance the mountains made a jagged line against the sky like a wall against the world - deeply comforting and immensely reassuring.
Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.
'We have a small problem Gaelen,' he said. 'I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the cub. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.'
'Who made the footprints then?'
'The Aenir. They are in the mountains.'
*
In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew which had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.
'How many are there?' he asked the clansman.
'Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they're just scouting, but they're headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.'
Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon's eyes. 'I am not afraid today,' he told the clansman. 'Last night I was trembling. Today I am ready."
'Good,' said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaf f and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. 'Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.'
'What is it?'
'Do not be impatient. I'll not spoil it with words.'
The clansman set off towards the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.
Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen's heart hammered.
'Is it a beast?' he asked.
'No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths.
The Rainbow bridge to the home of the gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.'
Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down towards the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slab-like ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.
There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and on to one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood open-mouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.
Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned, 'Come on,' he bellowed.
Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.
Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the centre of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree-line.
That is Vallon,' he said, 'and upon it lies one of the magic Gates through which the Farlain passed hundreds of years ago. We came in winter when the water was frozen solid, and we walked upon the ice.'
They stayed the night above the falls,
Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.
'We have a small problem Gaelen,' he said. 'I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the cub. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.'
'Who made the footprints then?'
'The Aenir. They are in the mountains.'
*
In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew which had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.
'How many are there?' he asked the clansman.
'Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they're just scouting, but they're headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.'
Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon's eyes. 'I am not afraid today,' he told the clansman. 'Last night I was trembling. Today I am ready."
'Good,' said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaf f and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. 'Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.'
'What is it?'
'Do not be impatient. I'll not spoil it with words.'
The clansman set off towards the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.
Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen's heart hammered.
'Is it a beast?' he asked.
'No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths.
The Rainbow bridge to the home of the gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.'
Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down towards the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slab-like ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.
There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and on to one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood open-mouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.
Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned, 'Come on,' he bellowed.
Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.
Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the centre of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree-line.
That is Vallon,' he said, 'and upon it lies one of the magic Gates through which the Farlain passed hundreds of years ago. We came in winter when the water was frozen solid, and we walked upon the ice.'
They stayed the night above the falls,
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