The Hawk Eternal hq-2

by David Gemmel

  Caswallon himself called a War Council and they met in a cavern beneath Vallon’s highest hill.

  At the center of the cavern was a long table of pine, around which were fifty chairs. These were soon filled. Caswallon took his place at the head of the table, flanked by Leofas and his sons Lennox and Layne; beside them sat Gwalchmai and Gaelen, and beyond them Onic and the pick of the Farlain warriors.

  “Before we begin,” Caswallon told them, “there is a matter to settle. It is our custom to elect our leaders. Most of the Council were slain with Cambil in the valley. We here now constitute a new Council. I offer myself as War Lord, but if there is any here with a hankering to lead, let him speak.”

  No one stirred.

  “It is accepted then that I lead the Farlain until this war is concluded?”

  “Of course it is, Caswallon. Do you think us fools?” said Leofas.

  “Very well. Then let us begin the real business of the day. How best can we hurt the enemy?”

  Asbidag gazed at the ruin that had been his son. Maggots writhed in the dead flesh, and the sharp beaks of crows had torn at the body, but still it was recognizable as Ongist. In full armor, his helm held in his hands, Asbidag stood before the tree soaking in the sight, feeding his fury and his hatred. Behind him stood Drada and Tostig and beyond them twenty-five thousand Aenir warriors.

  Asbidag felt no remorse, no sadness at the death of his child. He had not liked Ongist; he liked none of his offspring. But the boy had been his: blood of his blood. He could hear him praying for vengeance at the door of the Grey God’s hall.

  Through his anger he felt frustration. How could he wreak vengeance upon the clans? Already his armies had slain four thousand. Many were the blood-eagles decorating the countryside. But he wanted-needed-more.

  The clans feared him now, but terror was his desire.

  He turned to Tostig.

  “Fetch Agnetha from Aesgard. Do it now.”

  The color drained from the warrior’s face and he thought of asking his father to send another. But Asbidag’s eyes were cold and distant and Tostig knew from experience that he was on the edge of a killing frenzy. He nodded and backed away to his horse.

  Drada stood silently as his brother departed. He had scouted the hill where Maggrig made his stand, and had received reports from the foresters as to the ploy the Pallides used. It was a clever plan, but it would have failed against any captain less impetuous than Ongist. Maggrig had gambled the lives of his people on one perilous venture, and he had succeeded. But it proved the measure of the man, and Drada knew he could best him when next they met.

  Two serious errors had been made by Maggrig. On the night of the first attack he had led his warriors on a suicidal charge to protect a few women and children, and now he had staked everything on one battle. He was obviously a man ruled by his heart.

  Drada hoped his success would make him bold.

  Asbidag stalked from the tree, and several warriors moved forward to cut down the body, preparing it for the funeral pyre on the hillside.

  Drada joined his father in the black tent at the base of the hill. Asbidag was drinking heavily, and Morgase sat in the background saying nothing. “We will not catch the Pallides before they link with the Farlain,” said Drada.

  “Good,” said Asbidag. “I want them all together.”

  “Do you want to press on today?”

  “No, we will wait for Agnetha.”

  Drada left his father and wandered through the camp to where his own tent had been pitched. Once inside, he stripped off his armor and spread his blankets upon the ground. It was early yet, but weariness was upon him and he slept through the afternoon. He awoke to the smell of cooking meat. One of his carles brought him a platter of beef and some bread and he joined the men outside.

  For the first time in many years these fierce warriors were fighting not for gold, nor women, nor glory but for land. And he sensed the difference in them.

  “It will not be easy,” said his carle captain Briga, a swarthy black-haired veteran who had been Drada’s first Aenir tutor.

  “Nothing worth having comes easy,” Drada told him.

  The man grinned. “They fight well, these clansmen.”

  “Did you expect less?” Drada asked him.

  “Not after the Games.”

  “No.” Drada finished his meal and returned to his tent. Briga watched him go. He had been Drada’s carle captain for five years, and before that his sword master. He liked the boy; he was unlike his brothers, but then he had been brought up as a hostage in a foreign city and upon his return was less Aenir than foreigner. He was soft, and his learning sat heavily upon him. Asbidag had made him Briga’s charge.

  In the years that followed Drada had learned of battle and death, horror and hate. But blood had run true and he had become, outwardly at least, as much an Aenir as his brothers. Only Briga knew of the lack.

  Drada did not love war. He loved the planning of war.

  Briga did not care. He sensed that Drada would one day rule the Aenir, and he waited patiently for the day to come.

  The Aenir warriors were anxious to push on, but Asbidag gave no orders to move. For ten days they remained in camp until, on the morning of the eleventh day, Tostig rode in alone, reining his lathered mount outside his father’s tent. Asbidag hauled him from the saddle, eyes blazing.

  “Where is the witch woman?” he stormed. “If you have failed me I’ll kill you! Your body will hang on the same tree as your brother.”

  “She is coming, Father, I swear it. She refused to ride, said she would come in her own way.”

  Asbidag hauled him to his feet. “She had better,” he hissed.

  At midnight, as the fires burned low, a bitter wind blew up, flashing sparks from the coals. Men shivered as dark clouds obscured the stars and Asbidag, sitting alone before his tent, drew his red cloak around him. A shadow fell across him, and glancing up, he saw the old woman standing before him leaning on a staff. She was as grotesque as ever-almost bald, the remaining greasy white patches of hair hanging like serpents to her emaciated shoulders. Her teeth were broken and black, and her face adorned with wrinkled, leathery skin, as if her skull had shrunk to half its size, leaving the flesh around it to sag monstrously. She wore a matted cloak of human scalps and her tattered gown was said to have been made from the skins of flayed maidens. Asbidag believed it to be true.

  “What do you want of me?” she asked, her voice a sibilant hiss.

  “Terror among the clans.”

  “You have brought terror to the clans. What do you want of me?”

  “I want your sorcery.”

  “And what will you offer the Grey God?”

  “Whatever he asks.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Whatever?”

  “Is your hearing going, woman? Whatever!”

  “A hundred virgins slain by midsummer.”

  “You shall have it.”

  “And seven of your strongest men slain tonight.”

  “My men?”

  “Yours. And I’ll need your war dogs. Bring them to the woods in an hour.”

  Asbidag’s carles roamed the camp until the seven men had been chosen, bound, and gagged. Together with the Aenir Lord’s Hunt Master Donic, and his seven hounds, they were taken to a circular clearing within the woods. Asbidag was waiting there with Drada, Morgase, and Tostig; the woman, Agnetha, sat close by on a round boulder.

  The bound men were forced to kneel before the woman and she waved away Asbidag’s carles who returned, relieved, to the camp. Agnetha called Donic forward, ordering him to set each dog before a bound man. He did so, then ran back to his blankets and the guttering fire behind Asbidag’s tent.

  In the clearing the kneeling men were sweating freely as they stared into the eyes of Asbidag’s hounds. Agnetha glanced at the Aenir lord and nodded.

  “Kill!” he shouted.

  The hounds lunged forward, ripping at the exposed throats before them.

  Agnetha
ran along the line of dying men, hurling a grey misty powder over them and chanting. One by one the dogs sank to the earth, their teeth embedded in the flesh of the slain men. The witch woman lifted her arms to the night sky, screaming the name of the Grey God over and over again.

  “Vatan! Vatan! Vatan!”

  By her feet the hounds began to writhe and swell, while the Aenir corpses twisted and shriveled. Morgase turned away. Drada swallowed hard, flicking a glance at his father. Asbidag was grinning. Tostig squeezed shut his eyes.

  Within seconds the dead warriors were bone-filled husks, while the hounds had grown to triple their size. Their front paws had stretched into taloned fingers, and their dark fur-covered forms parodied men-long muscular legs, deep powerful chests, and round heads ending in elongated maws and sharp fangs.

  Agnetha danced around them, bidding them rise. Releasing the empty husks, the beasts pushed themselves to their feet, red eyes scanning the clearing. Their gaze fell upon Asbidag and their howling rent the night. Tostig stepped backward in terror and fell. Morgase gripped Drada’s arm.

  “Is this what you wanted, Asbidag?” said Agnetha.

  “Yes.”

  “Once unleashed they can never be brought back. They will follow no one. They are created out of hate and they will kill any man they find, be he Aenir or clan. Is this what you want?”

  “Yes, curse you! Just send them north.”

  “They will go where they will. But I will send them north. Have you done with me now?”

  “I have.”

  “Remember your promise, Asbidag. One hundred maidens by midsummer. Or the werehounds will hunt you. ”

  “Don’t threaten me, hag,” thundered Asbidag.

  The woman cackled and turned to the silent beasts. Lifting her arm, she pointed north and the ghastly pack loped away into the darkness.

  Asbidag walked forward, pushing his boot against a shriveled corpse. A dried bone split the skin and fell to the grass. He shook his head and began to laugh.

  Agnetha stopped him, placing her bony hand upon his arm. “What is so amusing?”

  “This,” he answered, pushing the corpse once more. “This was Anias, son of my brother Casta. Only yesterday I told him he was empty-headed. Now his body matches his head.”

  Drada approached Agnetha. “How can those things live?”

  “In the same way as you, Lord Drada. They breathe and they eat. It is an old spell, and a fine one, taught to me by a Nadir shaman in another age.”

  “But what are they now, hounds or men?”

  “They are both-and neither.”

  “Do they have souls?”

  “Do you?”

  “Not anymore,” said Drada, gazing down at the corpses.

  The pack made their first kill that night, drifting silently through the pine forests in the northwest. The leader’s head came up, nostrils flaring in the breeze. His red eyes turned to the northeast and he led the group deeper into the trees.

  A young Haesten clansman and his two daughters were hidden in a cave. Having escaped the assault on their valley, they had met a Farlain scout who told them to head for Vallon. The clansman traveled by night carrying his youngest child, a girl of six years. His other daughter was eleven and she walked beside them. On this night, exhausted and hungry, they had made an early camp in the pine woods after spotting the Aenir army to the south.

  The man had fallen into a light sleep when the werebeasts struck and he died without a struggle, his eyes flaring open to see wide jaws lined with fangs flashing toward his face. He had no time to scream.

  His elder daughter, Jarka, took hold of her little sister and sped from the cave-only for talons to lance into her back, dragging her to a stop. In the last moment of her young life, Jarka hurled her sister into the undergrowth. The child screamed as she crashed through the bushes; then she was up and running, the awful sound of howling echoing behind her.

  For an hour or more the beasts fed, then they slept by the remains of their kill. At dawn they left the cave, their hunger not totally appeased.

  The leader dropped to all fours, sniffing at the earth around the cave. His head came up as the breeze shifted. And they set off in pursuit of the child.

  Maggrig was angry. An hour before he had been furious. Caswallon had calmly told him that the clans would fight as one, and the one would be led by Caswallon. Maggrig could not believe his ears. The two men had been alone in a tiny cell, the bedchamber of a druid. Caswallon sat beside Maggrig on the narrow cot outlining his plans.

  “I have plans of my own,” said the Pallides’ chieftain. Caswallon had been dreading this moment and took a deep breath.

  “I know it is hard for you, but think about it deeply. The death toll among the clans has been enormous. I have perhaps four thousand fighting men, you have eight hundred. Even together we are no match for one fighting wing of the Aenir army.”

  “I accept that, Caswallon. But why should you lead? What experience do you offer? Great Gods, man, you’ve turned down responsibility all your life! Granted you’ve led us here, and our women and children are safe. But to lead in war calls for more than that.”

  “It calls for a cool head,” said Caswallon.

  Maggrig grunted. “You’ll not lead the Pallides.”

  “Let me make this clear to you. You are on Farlain land, under the protection of the Farlain clan. If you do not accept me, then I will require you, and all your people, to leave tomorrow.”

  “And where would we go?”

  “Wherever you choose. Those that remain will follow me without question.”

  “You would really do this thing? Turn out women and children to be slaughtered by the Aenir?”

  “I would.”

  “What have you become, Caswallon? I mean, I’ve always liked you, boy. You were different, yes; but you were a clansman. Now you sit here and calmly say you would sacrifice my people for your ambition?”

  “No, that is what you are saying,” Caswallon told him. “During the Games you made an agreement with Laric that you would support him in any war-as long as you became War Lord. You reached that decision on the grounds that your men outnumbered the Haesten. That argument should surely still apply, can you not see it? If I were to agree that you lead, then most of the Farlain men would quit and go; they would not follow you.”

  “You think the Pallides would follow you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What makes you so different?”

  “I am your son by law, for I wed your daughter. That gives me the rights of a Pallides warrior. They cannot argue.”

  “All right,” said Maggrig at last, “I will follow you. But only as long as I think you are right.”

  “No,” said Caswallon. “You will take my hand and swear allegiance to me as War Lord. You will offer me your life, as your carles have done for you.”

  “Never!”

  “Then prepare your people to move.”

  Maggrig had stormed from the room seeking Intosh and together they walked among the trees of Vallon, avoiding the dark entrance to the Druids’ Hall. Maggrig emptied himself of fury, his words tumbling over one another as he poured scorn on his son-in-law, the Farlain, the Druids, and the One Angry God for bringing him to this pass.

  Intosh remained silent, merely walking beside his lord and absorbing his words. Finally exhausted, Maggrig stopped and sat by the water’s edge, staring into the torrent. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

  “Of what?” answered the swordsman.

  “Where can we go?”

  “There is nowhere.”

  “We could go north,” said Maggrig.

  “And fight the Dunilds, the Loda, and the Sea Clans?”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Agree to serve Caswallon.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “He has done well.”

  “I know that-and all credit to him. But to serve my own son-in-law

  …”

  “He has
the power,” said Intosh, shrugging. “It makes sense.”

  “He demanded I swear the vassal oath.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  “That’s not the point,” snapped Maggrig.

  “No, Hunt Lord?”

  An hour later Maggrig swore the vassal oath and was amazed his tongue did not fall out.

  That same afternoon Caswallon and Maggrig led the women and children of the Pallides into the Druids’ Hall entrance and down into the broad underground chamber housing the Middle Gate.

  Maggrig blinked. At the end of the hall was a black marble archway. Yesterday a solid wall of stone had stretched between the pillars. Now that wall was gone and the Pallides Hunt Lord gazed down on the first valley of the Farlain, where already men and women were pitching tents and felling trees for shelter. The archway was twice the height of a man and ten paces across. The two men stood in the Gateway looking down on the valley. Within paces of them a tall pine was waving in the breeze, but no breath of wind touched their faces.

  “Where are the Aenir?” asked Maggrig as his people bunched behind him, looking down in wonder.

  “That is the Farlain ten thousand years ago,” said Caswallon.

  Maggrig’s eyes widened. “This is sorcery, then?”

  “It most certainly is,” Caswallon told him.

  Maggrig stepped through the Gateway, flinching as rushing colors blinded him momentarily. Caswallon walked through behind him, waving the women to follow.

  On the other side the breeze was cool, the sunlight warm and welcoming.

  “It is not possible,” whispered Maggrig, watching his people materialize from the air. From this side there was no sign of the Gate, only the rolling green countryside.

  Caswallon led the Pallides down into the meadow where Leofas was supervising the building work. “I’m glad to see he survived,” said Maggrig. “He always was the best of the Farlain.” The old warrior grinned as he saw Maggrig, stepping forward to grip the Hunt Lord by the hand.

  “So you got here, you dog,” said Leofas.

  “Did you expect a few Lowlanders to stop me?”

  “Certainly not. I expected you to chase the swine from our lands, leaving nothing for the Farlain to do.”