The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “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, and Gaelen fed the pup with dried meat that he had first chewed to softness; this time the hound ate with relish. The following day Caswallon led them south toward the Farlain. The boy saw that Caswal-lon moved more cautiously, scanning the surrounding countryside and waiting in the cover of woods, checking carefully before moving out into open country.

  Twice they came upon Aenir tracks, and once the remains of a campfire. Caswallon worked his fingers into the grey ash, and down into the earth beneath.

  “This morning,” he said. “Be watchful.”

  That night they made camp in a narrow cave and lit no fire. At first light they moved on. Caswallon was uneasy.

  “They are close,” he said. “I can almost smell them. To be honest, Gaelen, I am worried. I may have underestimated these Aenir. For all that there are twenty of them they leave little spoor, and they avoid the skylines in their march. They are woodsmen and good scouts. And that concerns me; it could mean the Aenir are preparing to march upon us far earlier than I anticipated.”

  By dusk Caswallon’s unease had become alarm. He didn’t talk at all but checked the trail many times, occasionally climbing trees to scan the horizon.

  “What is wrong?” Gaelen asked him as he pored over a near-invisible series of scuffs and marks on the track.

  “They have split up into small parties. Three have gone ahead, the rest have moved into the woods. My guess is that they know we are close and they have formed a circle around us.”

  “What can we do?”

  “We do not have many choices,” said the clansman. “Let’s find a place to make camp.”

  Caswallon chose a spot near a stream, where he built a small fire against a fallen trunk and the two of them ate the last of the food Maeg had prepared. Once again the night sky was cloudless, the moon bright. Gaelen snuggled into his blankets with the pup curled against his chest, and slept deep and dreamlessly until about two hours before dawn when Caswallon gently shook him awake. Gaelen opened his eyes. Above him knelt Caswallon, a finger held to his lips, commanding silence. Gaelen rose swiftly. Caswallon pointed to the pup and the boy picked it up, tucking it into his tunic. The clansman filled Gaelen’s bed with brush and covered it with a blanket. Then he added fuel to the fire before moving into the darkness of the woods. He stopped by a low, dense bush in sight of the clearing and the flickering fire.

  Putting his face close to Gaelen’s ear, he whispered, “Crawl into the bush and curl up. Make no sound and move not at all. If the pup stirs—kill it!”

  “I am willing to fight,” whispered Gaelen.

  “Willing—but not yet ready,” said Caswallon. “Now do as I bid.”

  Dropping to his knees Gaelen crawled into the bush, pushing aside the branches and wrapping himself in the cloak Caswallon had given him. He waited with heart hammering, his breath seeming as loud as the Attafoss thunder.

  Caswallon had disappeared.

  For more than an hour there was no sign of hostile movement in the woods. Gaelen was cramped and stiff, and the pup did stir against him. Gently he stroked the black and grey head. The tiny hound yawned and fell asleep. Gaelen smiled—then froze.

  A dark shadow had detached itself from the trees not ten paces from the bush. Moonlight glistened on an iron-rimmed helm and flashed from a sword blade in the man’s hand.

  The warrior crept to the edge of the clearing, lifted his sword and waved it, signaling his companions. His view partly screened by leaves and branches, Gaelen could just make out the assault on the camp. Three warriors ran across the clearing, slashing their swords into the built-up blankets.

  As the boy watched the Aenir drew back, realizing they had been fooled. No word passed between them, but they began to search the surrounding trees.

  Gaelen was terrified. The bush stood alone, out in the open, plainly in sight of the three hunters. Why did Caswallon leave him in such an exposed place? He toyed with the idea of crawling clear and running, but they were too close.

  One of the warriors began to search at the far side of the clearing, stepping into the screen of gorse. Gaelen’s eyes opened wide as Caswallon rose from the ground behind the warrior, clamped a hand over his mouth, and sliced his dagger across the man’s throat. Releasing the body, he turned and ducked back into the gorse.

  Unsuspecting, the remaining hunters checked to the west and east. Finding nothing, they moved toward the bush where Gaelen sat rigid with fear.

  The first warrior, a burly man in bearskin tunic and leather breeches, turned to the second, a tall, lean figure with braided black hair.

  “Fetch Karis,” said the first. The warrior moved back toward the clearing, while the leader walked toward Gaelen’s hiding place. The boy watched in amazement. The man never once looked down; it was as if he and the bush were invisible.

  The warrior was so close that Gaelen could see only his leather-clad legs and the high, laced boots he wore. He did not dare look up. Suddenly the man’s body slumped beside the bush. Gaelen started violently, but stopped himself from screaming. The Aenir lay facing him, his dead eyes open, his neck leaking blood on the soft earth.

  The dead man began to move like a snake, only backward. Gaelen looked up. Caswallon had the man by the feet and was pulling him into the undergrowth. Then, dropping the body, the clansman vanished once more into the trees.

  The last Aenir warrior, sword in hand, stepped back into the clearing. “Asta!” he called. “Karis is dead. Come back here.”

  Caswallon’s voice sounded, the words spoken coldly. “You’re all alone, my bonny.”

  The warrior spun and leaped to the attack, long sword raised. Leaning back, Caswallon swiveled his quarterstaff, stabbing it forward like a spear. It hammered into the warrior’s belly and with a grunt he doubled over, his head speeding down to meet the other end of the iron-capped staff. Hurled from his feet, he hit the ground hard. Groggy, he tried to rise. Strong fingers lifted him by his hair, ramming his face into the rough bark of an old oak. He sank to the ground once more, semiconscious.

  Ongist could feel his hands being tied, but could find no strength to resist. He passed out then, returning to consciousness some hours later for the sun had risen. His head ached and he could taste blood in his mouth. He tried to move but he was bound to a tree trunk.

  Several paces before him sat the two he had been tracking, the man and the boy. Both were obviously clan, but there was something familiar about the lad although the warrior couldn’t place him.

  “I see you are back with us,” said the clansman. “What is your name?”

  “Ongist, son of Asbidag.”

  “I am Caswallon of the Farlain. This is my son Gaelen.”

  “Why have you not killed me?”

  “I like a man who makes his point swiftly,” said Caswallon. “You are alive by my whim. You are here to scout Farlain lands. Your instructions were probably to remain unseen, or kill any who discovered you—in which case you have failed twice. You had us encircled, and the circle is now tightening. Therefore if I leave you here you will be found, and you can give this message to your leaders: Leave now, for I shall summon the Farlain hunters before the day is out and then not one of you will live to report to your lord.”

  “Strong words,” muttered the Aenir.

  “Indeed they are, my friend. But understand this, I am known among the Farlain as a mild-mannered man and the least of warriors. And yet two of your men are slain and you are trussed like a water fowl. Think what would happen if I loosed two hundred war carles upon you.”

  “What are your two hundred?” spat the warrior. “What are your two thousand, compared to the might of the Aenir? You will be like dry leaves before a forest fire. The Farlain? A motley crew of semisavages with no king and no army. Let me
advise you now. Send your emissaries to the Lord Asbidag in Ateris and make your peace. But bring presents, mind. The Lord Asbidag appreciates presents.”

  Caswallon smiled. “I shall carry the words of your wisdom to the Farlain Council. Perhaps they will agree with you. When your men find you, tell them to head south. It is the fastest way from the Farlain.”

  The warrior hawked and spat.

  “Look at him, Gaelen. That is the Aenir, that is the race that has terrorized the world. But for all that he is merely a man who smells strong, whose hair is covered in lice, and whose empire is built on the blood of innocents. Warriors? As you saw last night they are just men, with little skill—except in the murder of women, or the lancing of children.”

  Ongist’s eyes flashed in recognition. The boy was the lad Asbidag had speared at the gates of Ateris. He bit his lip and said nothing. His brother Tostig had told them all how the boy had crawled to the mountains and been rescued by twenty clansmen. It had worried Asbidag.

  “Would you like to kill him, Gaelen?”

  Ongist felt the hatred in the boy’s gaze, and he stared back without fear. “I see we made our mark upon you, boy,” he sneered. “Do they call you Blood-eye or Scar-face?”

  The boy said nothing, but the cold gaze remained. “Did someone cut your tongue out?” hissed Ongist.

  Gaelen turned to his father. “Yes, I want to kill him,” he said. “But not today.”

  The man and the boy left the clearing without a backward glance and Ongist settled back to wait for his brother and the others. It was nearing midday when the Aenir found him; they cut him loose and hauled him to his feet. His brothers Tostig and Drada supported him, for his head was dizzy and his vision blurred as he stood.

  “What happened?” asked Drada, his elder by three years.

  “The clansman tricked us. He killed Karis and Asta.”

  “I know. We found the bodies.”

  “He told me to leave Farlain lands. He says he will alert their hunters.”

  “Good advice,” said Drada.

  “Asbidag will be angry,” muttered Tostig. Ongist rubbed at his bruised temple and scowled. Tostig was the largest of the brothers, a towering brute of a man with braided yellow hair and broken teeth. But he was also the most cautious—some would say cowardly. Ongist despised him.

  “What was he like?” asked Drada.

  Ongist shrugged. “Tall. Moved well. Fought well. Confident.”

  “Then we’ll take his advice. Did you talk to him, try to bait him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “No reaction, he just smiled. I told him the Aenir would sweep his people away. I advised him to come to Asbidag and beg for peace. He just said he would take my words of wisdom to the Council.”

  “Damn,” said Drada. “I don’t like the sound of that. Men who don’t get angry make the worst enemies.”

  Ongist grinned, draping his arm over Drada’s shoulder. “Always the thinker, brother. By the way, the boy he claimed was his son is the same lad Father speared at the city gates.”

  Drada swore. “And still he didn’t get angry? That does make me shiver.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy that,” said Ongist. “By the way, Tostig, how many men did you say rescued the boy?”

  “I couldn’t see them all. They were hidden in the bushes.”

  “How many could you see?” asked Drada, his interest caught by Ongist’s question.

  “I could see only the leader clearly. Why? How many men did he say he had?”

  “He didn’t say,” answered Ongist, “but I know.”

  “A curse on you!” shouted Tostig, storming to the other side of the clearing.

  Drada took Ongist by the arm and led him to the fallen trunk where Caswallon had made their fire. The two men sat down and Drada rubbed his eyes. “What was the point of all that?” he asked.

  “There were no twenty clansmen,” sneered Ongist. “Just the one—the same man, I’d stake my life on it.”

  “You are probably right,” Drada agreed. “Did he give a name?”

  “Caswallon of the Farlain.”

  “Caswallon. Let’s hope there are not too many like him among the clans.”

  “It won’t matter if there are. Who can stand against thirty thousand Aenir warriors?”

  “That is true,” agreed Drada, “but they remain an unknown quantity. Who knows how many there are? Our estimate is less than seven thousand fighting men if all the clans muster. But suppose we are wrong?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I think we ought to deal with them gently. Trade first and earn a welcome among them. Then we’ll see.”

  “You think they’ll be foolish enough to allow us into the mountains?” asked Ongist.

  “Why not? Every other conquered nation has given us the same facility. And there must be those among the clans who are disenchanted, overlooked, or despised. They will come to us, and they will learn.”

  “I thought Father wanted to attack in the summer?”

  “He does, but I’ll talk him out of it. There are three main Lowland areas still to fall, and they’ll yield richer pickings than these mountains.”

  “I like the mountains. I’d like to build a home here,” said Ongist.

  “You will soon, my brother. I promise you.”

  Oracle sat alone, gazing into the fire, lost in yesterday’s dreams when armies swept across the land with their lances gleaming and banners raised.

  A red hawk on a field of black. The Outlanders streaming from the battlefield, broken and demoralized. Sigarni raising her sword in the sunset, the Battle Queen triumphant.

  Such had been the glory of youth when Oracle crossed the Gate to the kingdom beyond. The old man drew his grey cloak about his shoulders, stretching his legs forward, soaking in the heat from the burning beech in the hearth. He stared down at the backs of his hands, wrinkled and spotted with the drab brown specks of age.

  But once upon a time . . .

  “Dreaming of glory?” asked Taliesen.

  Oracle jerked up as if struck, twisting in his seat. He cursed softly as he recognized the ancient druid. “Pull up a chair,” he said.

  The druid was small, and skeletally thin, his white hair and beard sparse and wispy, clinging to his face and head like remnants of winter mist. But his eyes were strangely youthful and humorous, antelope-brown and set close together under sharp brows. From his skinny shoulders hung a cloak of birds’ feathers, many-hued, the blue of the kingfisher flashing against raven-black, soft pale plover and eagle’s quill.

  He leaned his long staff against the cave wall and seated himself beside Oracle. “The boy came then,” said the druid, his voice soft and deep.

  “You know he did.”

  “Yes. And so it begins: the destruction of all that we love.”

  “So you believe.”

  “Do you doubt me, Oracle?”

  “The future is like soft clay to be molded. I cannot believe it is already set and decided.”

  The druid gave a low curse. “You of all men should know that the past, present, and future exist together, woven like a cloth, interweaving. You crossed the Gate. Did you learn nothing?”

  “I learned the error of pride. That was enough for me.”

  “You look old and tired,” said the druid.

  “I am both. How is it that you still live, Taliesen? You were old when I was a babe at the breast.”

  “I was old when your grandfather was a babe at the breast.”

  For a while both men sat in silence staring into the flames, then Oracle sighed and shifted in his seat. “Why have you come here?” he whispered.

  “Sigarni has crossed the Gate. She is at the cave on High Druin.”

  Oracle licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “How is the girl?”

  Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “Girl? She is a woman near as old as you. As I said, you do not understand the intricacies of the Gateways.”

  “Well,
how is she anyway, damn you?”

  “Gravely wounded, but I will heal her.”

  “May I see her?”

  The druid shook his head. “It would not be wise.”

  “Then why come to me at all?”

  “It may be that you can help me.”

  “In what way?”

  “What happened to the sword you stole from her?”

  Oracle reddened. “It was payment for all I had done for her.”

  “Do not seek to justify yourself, Caracis. Your sin led to more wars. You cost Sigarni far more than you were worth; then you stole Skallivar. You told me you lost it in the fight that brought you back to us, but I no longer believe you. What happened to it?”

  Oracle rose and walked to the rear of the cave. He returned carrying a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Placing it on the table, he untied the binding and opened the bundle. There lay a shining sword of silver steel. “You want it?” Oracle asked.

  Taliesen sighed, and flipped the cloth back over the blade. “No. Damn you, man! You crossed the Lines of Time. You will die and never know the chaos you gave birth to. I have tried to put it right, and have only succeeded in creating fresh paradoxes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Without the sword Sigarni was crushed, defeated, and slain.”

  “But you said she was here!”

  “As she is. I tried to help her, Caracis, but she died. I crossed the Lines finding another Sigarni, in another world. She died. Time and time again I traveled the Gates. Always she died. I gave up for a long while, then I returned to my quest and found another Sigarni who was fated to die young. She defeated her first enemy, and then the second, Earl Jastey. She did it with the help of Caracis. You remember that, do you not?” Oracle looked away. “And Caracis, once again, stole her sword. But this time she asked me to return it to her. That had never happened before. I did not know what to do. And now—suddenly—she is here. A victorious queen carrying this sword.”

  “I did not want to part with it,” whispered the man who had been Caracis.