The Greener Shore by Morgan Llywelyn

and moved toward it instinctively. That, I told myself, was the image we should keep with us.
    Briga was right; the gorge was a pass through the mountains. At the far end of the pass the mist lifted abruptly. We gazed out over densely forested foothills that gave way to a broad plain with a river glinting in the distance.
    Walking downhill was pure pleasure.
    From the toes of the foothills I observed that the plain ahead was crisscrossed by cattle trails. Well and good, I told myself. A large number of cattle is a reliable sign of prosperity, and a prosperous tribe is sure to have enough seed corn to sell some to us.
    Dara and I walked on, occasionally speaking of this and that; a father does not always know what to say to his son.
    “Over there!” Dara cried suddenly. He pointed toward a low hill to the north, divided from a spur of the mountains by a belt of forest. I squinted to sharpen my vision. A number of objects on the hill did not appear to be natural formations.
    “That might be a large clanhold,” I said. “Let’s hope they’re friendly.”
    Drawing nearer, we could see that the base of the hill was encircled by an earthwork embankment. A deep ditch, formed by the removal of soil to build the embankment, provided a protective barrier. The embankment itself was surmounted by a timber palisade.
    “That,” I told Dara, “is how a fort should be built. Eminently defensible, nothing like Cohern’s ramshackle affair.”
    An earthwork causeway spanned the ditch, leading to a large gateway in the palisade. The gate was ajar.
    “Hold your spear properly,” I said to Dara, “and try to look like a guard of honor. We want to make a good impression.”
    My son fidgeted with the spear until I approved of the angle. Then we strode forward. An ambassadorial delegation of two.
    The lookout’s platform above the gate was unmanned. Apparently the occupants of the stronghold did not think anyone would be foolhardy enough to threaten them. When we passed through the gateway we discovered another ditch on the inner side of the embankment. The causeway extended across this second ditch as well, and from its farther end a muddy track, deeply churned by hooves and wheels, led up the hill.
    Adjacent to the trackway was a pen holding seven or eight horses. They were smaller than Gaulish horses, but finely made, with elegant heads, and muzzles so small a woman could cup one in her hand. Large, liquid eyes watched as we passed by.
    A number of lodges dotted the hillside, clustering around a larger lodge at the top like chicks around a mother hen. The doors were made of heavy oak planks hung on stout iron hinges. Abstract, curvilinear shapes formed of silver and copper wire had been inset in the timber door frames. They resembled the decorative designs used in Gaul, but these people were more ostentatious. Similar designs had been painted in bright colors on every possible surface.
    “Look at the giant dogs!” Dara exclaimed in a voice filled with wonder.
    Several huge, coarse-coated hounds were lounging beside the nearest lodge. They raised their heads to look at us but did not bother to get to their feet. To dogs of their size we posed no threat.
    Meanwhile men and women of all ages were moving about the settlement, doing those important trivial things that people do every day. They seemed as unfazed as the hounds by our appearance. And why not? They had us greatly outnumbered.
    The majority were fair and ruddy, the usual coloring of Celts. Only a few had brown hair like mine. In Gaul we had called that “a touch of the Scyth,” referring to the strain of Scythian blood that ran through us.
    The inhabitants of the stronghold were well nourished and better clothed than Cohern’s clan. Both sexes wore woolen tunics that extended to the knee in the case of the men, and to the ankles of the women. The garments were dyed in an array of colors: blue and green and brown, yellow and crimson and gray. Some were also speckled in a