And now it would be overland travel. Not far, the Picts had said, and they had wondered at these men who had the daring to sail through strange waters to certain death. There was a plain rising from the coast. Somewhere on that plain Gaar would find what he sought.
"I have a feeling," Asgar muttered. He was as blond as the rest, but a foot shorter than Gaar and with a chest that threatened to burst through his breastplate.
"So have I," Gaar admitted. "In my bones." And out of the plain to the north came a scent like an opened grave.
They walked through the forest with their hands on their swords, these men of the North. A long twilight here, a twilight that brought shadows that could deceive a man. A strange land this, where Spring came early and where the air was soft.
Swords were worthless here, the Picts had said. A man's strength meant nothing.
A voice whispered to Gaar's mind that the Picts were right. But there was another voice, a voice that had grown stronger night by night as he sailed southward. This was a voice that came from long dead lips, but lips that retained their freshness.
"I hear something," Asgar whispered. "I hear something inside my head."
The others had heard it too. They stared at each other in the gathering dusk. There was magic here. But Gaar knew that there was magic to fight this magic.
And then suddenly it was night. On a far off peak a fire spurted upward. Was it a beacon or a device to lure them to doom? Gaar wondered. They paused in a grove, in a circle of stones. It was time to rest. A lassitude crept over them.
He knew then how strong the dark forces were. His inner voice warned him of the death that lurked in a circle of stones. But the power in this grove was strong. Gaar felt the torpor take hold of him. He saw the men stagger. Then, with his last ounce of strength, he had his foot against one of the stones and was kicking out.