PROLOGUE
The rising wind howled through the small trees at the water's edge, flattening the grass between the village and the loch.
"Hurry. We don't have much time."
The smith took no notice.
" the blade will not be hurried." He raised the hammer and brought it down once more on the edge of the sword he was forging. "Are the children away?"
"Yes. The village is empty save for us four. Listen."
Twisted into the noise of the wind were other sounds: voices, howling, roars, grinding.
The chief caught the smith's arm as he raised it again. "There is no more time. Quench the blade."
The smith nodded shortly. "Go. Stand with the others. I will bring the sword." He raised from the great blackened oak stump that served as an anvil and, his hand protected by thick layers of leather, dropped it into the tub of water. The water boiled as it cooled the metal and the air filled with the reek of hot bronze. Satisfied, the Chief lifted the deerskin, which served as a door curtain.
Outside in the twilight, two women waited: the Wise Woman and the smith's wife. They stood braced against the wind, looking around for the source of the howls and cries that it carried to them.
The Wise Woman handed the Chief a spear, headed with a shaft of rowan wood.
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