The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  Cambil called for a halt to allow the contestants to recover their strength before the rope haul, and the crowd broke away to the mead tables and the barbecue pits.

  Caswallon and Gaelen made their way to Lennox, along with Agwaine, Cambil, and Layne. “Can you beat him?” asked Cambil.

  “Not now, cousin,” snapped Caswallon. “Let him rest.” Cambil’s eyes flashed angrily and he turned away. Agwaine hesitated, then followed his father.

  “How do you feel?” asked Caswallon, sitting down.

  Lennox grinned and shrugged. “I feel broken. How could any man carry that stone for almost sixty paces? It’s inhuman.”

  “I thought the same when you carried it for forty-six.”

  “I don’t think I can beat him.”

  “You can.”

  “You’ve not been watching very closely, cousin.”

  “Ah, but I have, Lennox, and that’s how I know. He took a lower grip, and kept his head down. Your head went back. That shortened your steps. You could have matched him; you still can.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Caswallon. I shall do my best. But he is stronger, there’s no doubt of that.”

  “I know.”

  “But he’s not Farlain,” said Gaelen. “You are.”

  Lennox grinned. “So speaks our limping cousin, who allowed a mere five Aenir to remove him from the race.”

  Gaelen chuckled. “I meant it, though. I don’t think he can beat you, Lennox. I don’t think there’s a man alive to beat you. You’ll see.”

  “That’s a comforting thought, Gaelen. And I thank you for it.” Lennox grunted as he stretched his back.

  “Roll on your stomach,” commanded Layne. “I’ll knead that muscle for you.”

  Caswallon helped Gaelen to his feet, for his leg stiffened as he sat. “Let’s get some food. How do you feel?”

  “I ache. Damn, Caswallon, I wish I’d run in that race.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to do something for the clan. Be someone.”

  “You are someone. And we all know you would have won. But it was better for Agwaine to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Agwaine needed to do it. Today he learned something about himself. In some ways he’s like his father, full of doubts. Today he lost a lot of them.”

  “That may be good for Agwaine, but it doesn’t help me.”

  “How true,” said Caswallon, ruffling Gaelen’s hair. “But there is always next year.”

  That afternoon began with the rope haul, a supreme test of a man’s strength and stamina. The contestant looped a rope around his body and braced himself. On the other end three men sought to tug him from his feet. After ten heartbeats a fourth man could be added to the team, ten beats later another man, and so on.

  This time Orsa went first. The men trying to dislodge him were Farlain clansmen. Bracing his foot against a deeply embedded rock, he held the first three men with ease, taunting them and exhorting them to pull harder. By the time six men were pulling against him he had run out of jeers, saving his breath for the task in hand. The seventh man proved too much for him and he fell forward, hitting the ground hard. He was up in an instant, grinning and complaining that the rock beneath his foot had slipped.

  Lennox stepped up to the mark, a blanket rolled across his shoulders to prevent rope burn. Swiftly he coiled the rope, hooking it over his shoulder and back. Then he checked the stone; it was firm. He braced himself and three Aenir warriors took up the slack.

  A fourth man was sent forward, then a fifth. Lennox wasted no energy taunting them; he closed his mind to his opponents. He was a rock set in the mountain, immovable. A tree, deeply rooted and strong. His eyes closed, his concentration intense, he felt the building of power against him and absorbed it.

  At last the pressure grew too great and he gave way, opening his eyes to count his opponents.

  Nine men!

  Dropping the rope, he turned to Orsa. The Aenir warrior met his gaze and nodded slowly. He was not smiling now as he walked forward to stand before the dark-haired clansman. Blue eyes met grey. Orsa was in his late twenties, a seasoned warrior who had never been beaten and never would be. His confidence was born of knowledge, experience, and the pain borne by others. Lennox was nearing eighteen, untried in war and combat, but he had faced the beast and stood his ground.

  Now he faced the Aenir and his gaze remained cool and steady. Orsa nodded once and turned away.

  With two events each, the Whorl Championship would be decided in the open wrestling, a cultured euphemism for a fight where the only rule was that there were no rules. It was held in a rope circle six paces in diameter, and the first to be thrown from the ring was the loser. As they prepared, Caswallon approached Lennox and whispered in his ear. The huge clansman nodded, then stepped into the circle.

  Orsa stepped in to join him and the two men shook hands, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Then they backed away and began to circle, hands extended.

  Suddenly Lennox stepped inside and lightly slapped Orsa’s face. Expecting a punch, the Aenir ducked and stepped back. Lennox flicked his hand out again, this time slapping Orsa’s arm. Someone in the crowd began to laugh and others joined in. Lennox dummied a right, then slapped Orsa once more, this time with his left hand. The laughter swelled.

  Orsa’s blue eyes glittered strangely and he began to tremble. With a piercing scream he charged his tormentor. No more did he seek merely to throw him from the circle. Now only death would avenge the insult.

  Orsa was once again a baresark!

  Lennox met the charge head-on, swiveling to thunder a right hook to Orsa’s bearded chin. The Aenir shrugged off the blow and charged again. This time Lennox hit him with both hands, but a wildly swinging punch from Orsa exploded against his ear. Lennox staggered. A left-hand punch broke Lennox’s nose, blood spattering to his chin. Warding off the attack with a desperate push, the clansman moved back to the edge of the circle. Orsa charged once more, screaming an Aenir battle cry. At the last moment Lennox dropped to his knees, then surged upright as Orsa loomed over him. The speed of the rush carried Orsa on, flying headlong over his opponent to crash into the crowd beyond the circle.

  The fight was over and Lennox had won. But Orsa in his berserk rage knew nothing of tournaments and petty victories. Hurling aside the men who helped him to his feet, he leaped back into the circle where Lennox was standing with arms raised in triumph.

  “Look out!” shouted Gaelen and a score of others.

  Lennox swung around. Orsa’s massive hand encircled the clansman’s throat. Instinctively Lennox tensed the muscles of his neck against the crushing strength of the man’s fingers. His own hands clamped down on Orsa’s throat, blocking his demonic snarling.

  The crowd fell silent as the two men strained and swayed in the center of the circle.

  Then the tall, red-caped figure of Drada appeared, pushing through the mass. In his right hand he carried a wooden club that he hammered to the back of his brother’s skull. Orsa’s eyes glazed and his grip loosened. Drada hit him once more and he fell. Lennox stepped back, rubbing his bruised throat.

  Orsa staggered to his feet, turning to his brother. “Sorry,” he said, and shrugged. He walked to Lennox, gripping his hand. “Good contest,” he said. “You’re strong.”

  “I don’t think any man will ever carry the Whorl Stone as far as you did,” Lennox told him.

  “Maybe so. Why did you slap me?” The question was asked so simply and directly that Lennox laughed nervously, unable at first to marshal his thoughts. But Orsa waited patiently, no sign of emotion on his broad face.

  “I did it to make you angry, so you would lose control.”

  “Thought so. Beat myself—that’s not good.” Still nodding, he walked away. Lennox watched him, puzzled, then the crowd swamped him, slapping his back and leading him onto the Hunt Lord’s platform to receive the congratulations of the Games Lord.

  As the crowd moved away, Drada approache
d Caswallon. “It was your advice, was it not, to make my brother baresark?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are proving to be troublesome, Caswallon.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “No sensible man should be glad to make an enemy.”

  “I haven’t made an enemy, Drada. I’ve recognized one. There is a difference.”

  The Whorl Dance had begun around a dozen blazing fires, and the eligible maidens of the Farlain chose dancing companions from the waiting ranks of clansmen. There was music from the pipes, harsh and powerful; from the flute, wistful and melodic; and from the harp, enchanting and fey. It was mountain music, and stronger than wine upon the senses of the men and women of the clans.

  Deva danced with Layne, the Spear Champion, while Gaelen sat alone, fighting a losing battle against self-pity. His leg ached and he eased it forward under the table, rubbing at the swollen thigh.

  Gwalchmai found him there just before midnight. The young archer was dressed in his finest clothes, a cloak of soft brown leather over a green embroidered tunic. “No one should be alone on Whorl Night,” said Gwal, easing in to sit opposite his comrade.

  “I was just waiting for a girl with a swollen left leg, then we could hobble away together,” said Gaelen, pouring more mead wine into his goblet.

  “I have two legs, but have not found a partner,” said Gwal, helping himself to Gaelen’s wine.

  “Come now, Gwal, there must be five hundred maidens here.”

  “They are not what I want,” said Gwalchmai sadly. Gaelen glanced at his friend. Gwal’s hair was flame-red in the firelight, his face no longer boyish but lean and handsome.

  “So what do you want . . . a princess?”

  Gwalchmai shrugged. “That is hard to answer, Gaelen. But I know I shall never wed.”

  Gaelen said nothing. He had known for some time, as had Layne and Lennox, that Gwalchmai had no interest in the young maidens of the Farlain. The boys did not understand it, but only Gaelen suspected the truth. In Ateris he had seen many who shared Gwalchmai’s secret longings. “You know what I am, don’t you?” said Gwalchmai, suddenly.

  “I know,” Gaelen told him. “You are Gwalchmai, one of the Beast Slayers. You are a clansman, and I am proud to have you for my friend.”

  “Then you don’t think . . . ?”

  “I have told you what I think, cousin,” said Gaelen, reaching forward to grip Gwalchmai’s shoulder.

  “True enough. Thank you, my friend.” Gwalchmai sighed—and changed the subject. “Where is Caswallon?”

  “Escorting the Aenir back to Aesgard.”

  “I am not sorry to see them go,” said Gwal.

  “No. Did you hear about Borak?”

  “The runner? What about him?”

  “He was found this evening hanging from a tree on the west hill.”

  “He killed himself?”

  “It seems so,” said Gaelen.

  “They’re a strange people, these Aenir. I hope they don’t come back next year.”

  “I think they will, but not for the Games,” said Gaelen.

  “You’re not another of those war bores?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What could they gain? There are no riches in Druin.”

  “War is a prize in itself for the Aenir. They live for it.”

  Gwalchmai leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head. “What a night! First I lose in the archery, then I get maudlin, and now I’m sitting with a man who prophesies war and death.”

  Gaelen chuckled. “You were unlucky in the tourney. The wind died as the Aenir took his mark, and it gave him an edge.”

  “A thousand blessings on you for noticing,” said Gwal, grinning. “Have you ever been drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it seems the only enjoyment left to us.”

  “I agree. Fetch another jug.”

  Within an hour their raucous songs had attracted a small following. Lennox and Agwaine joined them, bringing fresh supplies, then Layne arrived with Deva.

  The drink ran out just before dawn and the party moved to sit beside a dying fire. The songs faded away, the laughter eased, and the talk switched to the Games and the possible aftermath. Deva fell asleep against Layne; he settled her to the ground, covering her with his cloak.

  Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralize the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.

  He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.

  “I’m sorry you missed the race,” said Agwaine.

  “Don’t be. You were magnificent.”

  “Caswallon advised me.”

  “It was obviously good advice.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry he and my father are not friends.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How do you feel now . . . about Caswallon, I mean?”

  “I am grateful. But I am my father’s son.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope that you do, cousin.” Their eyes met and Agwaine held out his hand. Gaelen took it.

  “Now this is good to see,” said Lennox, leaning forward to lay his hand upon theirs. Layne and Gwalchmai followed suit.

  “We are all Farlain,” said Layne solemnly. “Brothers of the spirit. Let it long remain so.”

  “The Five Beast Slayers,” said Agwaine, grinning. “It is fitting we should be friends.”

  Deva opened her eyes and saw the five young men sitting silently together. The sun cleared the mountains, bathing them in golden light. She blinked and sat up. Just for a moment she seemed to see a sixth figure standing beyond them—tall, she was, and beautiful, silver-haired and strong. By her side hung a mighty sword and upon her head was a crown of gold. Deva shivered and blinked again. The Queen was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Gaelen stood on the lip of a precipice looking down on Vallon from the north, listening to the faint sounds of the falls echoing up through the mountains. Spring had finally arrived after yet another bitter winter, and Gaelen had been anxious to leave the valley to stretch his legs and open his heart to the music of the mountains. He had grown during the winter, and constant work with axe and saw had added weight to his arms and shoulders. His hair was long, hanging to his shoulders, and held back from his eyes by a black leather circle around his brow. Kareen—before her marriage to the west valley crofter, Durk—had made it for him, as well as a tunic of softest leather, polished to a sheen, and calf-length moccasin boots from the same hide. His winter cape was a gift from Caswallon, a heavy sheepskin that doubled as a blanket. During the cold winter months he had allowed his beard to grow, shutting his ears to gibes about goose down from Maeg and Kareen. It had taken long enough but now, as he stood on the mountainside in the early morning sunshine, it gave him that which he desired above all else—the look of manhood.

  Gone was the frightened, wounded boy brought home by Caswallon two years before. In his place stood a man, tall and strong, hardened by toil, strengthened by experience. The only reminders left of the hunted boy were the blood-filled left eye, and the white streak in his hair above the jagged scar on his forehead and cheek.

  The black and grey war hound by his side growled and rubbed against him. Gaelen dropped his hand to pat its massive head. “You don’t like these high places, do you, boy?” said Gaelen, squatting beside the animal. It lifted its head, licking his face until he pushed it away laughing.

  “We’ve changed, you and I,” he said, holding the dog at bay. It had the wide jaws of its dam and the heavy shoulders of its breed, but added to this i
t also had the rangy power of the wolf that had sired it.

  The wolf in it had caused problems with training, and both Caswallon and Gaelen had despaired at times. But slowly it had come around to their patient handling, until at last Gaelen had walked it unleashed among a flock of sheep. He told it to sit, and it obeyed him. But its eyes lingered over the fat, slow ewes and its jaws salivated. After a while it had hunkered down on its haunches and closed its eyes, unable to bear such mouth-watering sights any longer.

  Under Caswallon’s guidance, Gaelen taught the hound to obey increasingly complex instructions, beginning with simple commands such as “sit,” “heel,” and “stay.” After that it was taught to wait in silence if Gaelen lifted his hand palm outward. Finally Caswallon built a dummy of wood and straw, dressed it in old clothes, and the hound was taught to attack it on Gaelen’s command of “kill.” This training was further refined with the call “hold,” at which command the dog would lunge for the dummy’s arm.

  Painstakingly they honed the dog’s skills. Once it attacked, only one call would stop it: Home. Any other call, even from Gaelen, would be ignored.

  “This,” said Caswallon, “is your safeguard. For a dog is a creature of instinct. You may order it to attack, but another voice may call it back. ‘Home’ should remain a secret command. Share it not even with your friends.”

  Gaelen called the beast Render. The hound’s nature was good, especially with Caswallon’s son Donal, now a blond toddler who followed Render—or Wenna, as he called it—about the house, pulling its ears and struggling to climb on its back. Attempts to stop him would be followed by floods of tears and the difficult-to-answer assertion, “Wenna like it!”

  Maeg was hard to convince that Render was a worthy addition to the household, but one afternoon in late winter it won her over. Kareen had ventured into the yard to fetch wood for the fire, but had not secured the kitchen door on her return. Donal had sneaked out to play in the snow, an adventure of rare magic.

  He was gone for more than half an hour before his absence was noted. Maeg was beside herself. Caswallon and Gaelen were at the Long Hall where Caswallon was being elected to the Council in place of an elderly clansman who had collapsed and died soon after the Games. Maeg wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the storm. Within minutes it had grown dark and as she called Donal’s name the wind whipped her words from her mouth. His track had been covered by fresh snow.