The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  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.”

  “I was tempted,” said Maggrig with a broad grin.

  Caswallon left the men talking and sought out Gaelen; he found him chatting to Deva by the river’s edge. Apologizing for disturbing them, Caswallon led Gaelen up into the timberline and they sat beneath the pines.

  “I want you to do something for me,” said Caswallon, “but it is hazardous.”

  “Name it,” said Gaelen.

  “Don’t make hasty judgments. I want you to take some men and head back into the Haesten, gathering as many warriors as you can. I want you to bring them to Axta Glen in three weeks.”

  “Why the glen?”

  “It is there we will tackle the Aenir.”

  “But that is open ground.”

  “I know. Have faith in me. I am hoping there will be upward of a thousand clansmen still in hiding. I have sent messages to the Dunilds, the Loda, and many other smaller clans, but I don’t know if they will come to our aid. But we must get more men; you must find them.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “I know that, Gaelen.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you are known as an outsider. You are accepted within the Farlain, there is no doubt about that. But similarly you are not Farlain; the Haesten may follow you.”

  “Even if I did add a thousand to our army, we would still be outnumbered five to one. And on open ground . . .”

  “I am also going on a journey,” said Caswallon. “If it is successful, we will have another ally.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Through the Gate. I am seeking help from the Queen Beyond.”

  Gaelen shivered. “You mean the daughter of the woman who saved us from the beast?”

  “No, the woman herself.”

  “She is dead.”

  “As we sit here in this valley, Gaelen, neither of us is born. Our birth cries are ten thousand years in the future. Is it so strange then to think of seeking a dead queen?”

  “Why would she come?”

  “I don’t know. I only pray that she does—and that her strength will be sufficient.”

  “What if she does not?”

  “Then the clans will face a difficult day in Axta Glen.”

  “What are our chances?”

  “Taliesen says they are minimal.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I’d say Taliesen was being wildly optimistic.”

  Gaelen returned to Deva at the stream and told her of his mission. She listened quietly, her grey eyes grave. “It will be dangerous for you. Take care,” she said.

  “I would be the more careful,” he said tenderly, “if I knew you would be waiting for me when I returned.” She looked away then, but he took her hand. “I have loved you for such a long time,” he told her.

  Gently she pulled her hand clear of his. “I love you too, Gaelen. Not just because you saved my life. But I can’t promise to wait for you, nor for any Farlain warrior. I know you think me foolish to believe in the prophecy—but Taliesen confirmed it; it is my destiny.”

  Gaelen said nothing more. Rising, he moved away and Deva returned to the waterside. Her thoughts were confused as she sat, trailing her hand in the stream. It was senseless to refuse love when all she had was a distant promise, Deva knew that. Worse, her feelings for Gaelen had grown stronger during the time they spent together, being hunted by the Aenir. All her doubts surfaced anew, and she remembered confiding in Agwaine. He had not scoffed, but he had been brutally realistic.

  “Suppose this father of kings never comes? Or worse. Suppose he does, and he does not desire you? Will you spend your life as a spinster?”

  “No, I am not a fool, brother. I will wait one more year, then I will choose either Layne or Gaelen.”

  “I am sure they will be glad to hear it,” he said.

  “Don’t be cruel.”

  “It is not I who am being cruel, Deva. Suppose they don’t wait? There are other maidens.”

  “Then I will marry someone else.”

  “I hope your dream comes true, but I fear it will not. You sadden me, Deva, and I want to see you happy.”

  “A year is not such a long time,” she had said. But that had been before the Aenir invasions, and already it seemed an eternity had passed. Her father was dead, the clan in hiding, the future dark and gloom-laden.

  Gaelen chose six companions for the journey south—Agwaine, Lennox, Layne, Gwalchmai, plus Onic and Ridan. Onic was a quiet clansman, with deep-set eyes and a quick smile. Almost ten years older than Gaelen, he was known as a fine fighting man with quarterstaff or knife. He wore his black hair close-cropped in the style of the Lowland clans, and around his brow sported a black leather circlet set with a pale grey moonstone. His half brother, Ridan, was shorter and stockier; he said little, but he had also fought well in the retreat from the valley. Both men had been chosen for their knowledge of the Haesten, gained from the fact that their mother had come from that clan.

  Taking only light provisions and armed with bows, short
swords, and hunting knives, the seven left Vallon before dawn. A druid guided them over the invisible bridge, for the twine had been removed lest the Aenir march to the island.

  Gaelen had mixed feelings about the trip. The responsibility placed upon him weighed heavily. He loved Caswallon, and trusted him implicitly, but to battle the Aenir on the gentle slopes of Axta Glen? Surely that was madness. During the last two years Gaelen had enjoyed many conversations with Oracle about battles and tactics, and he had learned of the importance of terrain. A large, well-armed force could not be met head-on by a smaller group. The object should be a score of skirmishes to whittle down the enemy, disrupting his supply lines and weakening his morale. Oracle had likened such war to disease invading the body.

  Agwaine was content. For him the mission provided an outlet for his grief over the death of his father and a chance to achieve victory for the Farlain. He didn’t know if a Haesten force survived. But if it did, he would find it.

  The group moved through Atta forest, past the swelling Aenir corpses and on into the first valley. They moved warily, knowing the Aenir could be close. Only in the high passes, where the woods were thick and welcoming and they trusted their skills above those of the enemy, did they relax.

  Toward dusk Lennox scouted out a hollow where they made camp. It was set within a pine woods and circled by boulders and thick bushes. There was a stream nearby and Gaelen lit a small fire. It was a good campsite and the fire could not be seen outside the ring of trees. Lennox, as always, was hungry, having devoured his three-day rations by noon. The others mocked him as he sat brooding by the fire watching them eat.

  Lennox had grown even larger in the last year, his shoulders and arms heavy with muscle, and he now sported a dark beard close-cropped to his chin. Coupled with the brown goatskin jerkin, it created the appearance of a large, amiable bear.

  “We are comrades,” he pleaded. “We should share a little.”

  “I saw some berries on a bush back there,” said Gwalchmai. “I am sure they will prove very tasty.” He bit into a chunk of oatcake, and swung to Agwaine. “I think the honey in these cakes is better this year, don’t you, Agwaine? Thicker. It makes the cakes so succulent.”

  “Decidedly so. It gives them extra flavor.”

  “You’re a bunch of swine,” said Lennox, pushing himself to his feet.

  Laughter followed him as he walked into the darkness in search of berries. The woods were quiet, moon shadows dappling the silver grass. Lennox found the bush and plucked a handful of berries. They served only to heighten his hunger, and he toyed once more with the idea of appealing to his comrades. His stomach rumbled and he cursed softly.

  A movement to his right made him turn, dropping into a half crouch with arms spread. He saw a flash of white cloth disappear beneath a bush, and a tiny leg hastily withdrawn.

  Lennox ate some more berries and then ambled toward the bush, as if to walk past. As he came abreast of it he lunged down, pulling the child clear. Her mouth opened and her face showed her terror, but no sound came out. Lennox took her in his arms, whispering gentle words and stroking her hair. She clung to the goatskin tunic with her tiny hands clenched tight, the knuckles white as polished ivory.

  “There, there, little dove. You’re safe. I didn’t mean to frighten you. There, there. Don’t worry about Lennox. He’s big, but he’s not bad. He won’t hurt you, little dove. You’re safe.” All the while he stroked her head. She burrowed her face into his jerkin, saying nothing.

  Lennox made his way back to the camp. Instantly his companions gathered around, plying him with questions. He shushed them to silence. “She’s terrified,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “She must have lost her parents in the woods.” Looking at his comrades, he silently mouthed the words “Probably killed by the Aenir.”

  Gwalchmai, always a favorite with children, tried to get the girl to speak, but she pushed her face deeper into Lennox’s jerkin.

  “I have never seen a child so frightened,” said Agwaine.

  “Where are you from?” whispered Lennox, kissing her head. “Tell your uncle Lennox.” But the child remained silent.

  “I don’t recognize the girl,” he said. “Do you, Gwal?”

  “No. She could be Pallides, or Haesten, or even Farlain. Or even a crofter’s daughter from the Outlands.”

  “Well, we can’t take her with us,” said Ridan. “One of us must take her back to Vallon.”

  “I’ll do it in the morning,” Lennox agreed.

  The fire burned low and the companions took to their blankets, ready for an early rise. Lennox sat with his back to a boulder, cuddling the child who had fallen into a deep sleep. He felt good sitting there. Children had never been easy around him—Layne said his great size frightened them—but whatever the reason, it had always hurt Lennox, who loved the young.

  In sleep the child’s face relaxed, but her left hand still clutched his tunic. He pushed her yellow hair back from her eyes, gazing down into her face. She was a pretty little thing, like a doll stuffed with straw. As the night grew chill Lennox wrapped his blanket around her.

  A strange thought struck him.

  This was probably the most important moment of his life.

  He was not normally a man given to abstract thoughts, but he couldn’t help thinking about the child. Here she was, tiny and helpless and full of fear. She had been suffering the worst days of her young life. And now she slept safe in the arms of a powerful man, content that he would look after her. With no more action than a gentle embrace Lennox had ended her terror. What in life, he wondered, could be more important to her?

  If her parents were still alive and making for Vallon they must be sick with worry, he thought. But what if—as was likely—they were dead?

  Lennox chewed the problem over for a while. He would take her to Maerie; she was a fine lass with only one child, who would take the girl in and love her into the bargain.

  The girl’s eyes opened, she blinked and yawned. Lennox felt her move and glanced down, stroking her hair. Her eyes were brown and he smiled at her.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

  “You’re not my papa.”

  “No, little dove. I’m your uncle Lennox.”

  “My papa’s gone. Wolfs et him up,” she said, tears glistening. She blinked. “Et up Jarka too.”

  “Wolves?” asked Lennox.

  “Big wolfs. Big as you. Et him up.”

  “You’ve been dreaming, little one. There’s no wolves, and certainly none as big as me.”

  “Lots of wolfs,” she persisted. “They chased me, to eat me up.”

  “Uncle Lennox won’t let them. You’re safe now. Go back to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Did you know my papa?”

  “No. Was he nice?”

  “He played games.”

  “He sounds like a good man. Where is your mama?”

  “Men with swords took her away. She was all bleeding.”

  “Well, it’s over now. You’re with your uncle Lennox, and he’s the strongest man in all the world. Nothing will harm you.”

  “Are you stronger than the wolfs?” she asked.

  “Aye, lass. And I swear upon my soul no harm will come to you while you’re with me. You believe me?” She smiled, closed her eyes, and put her thumb in her mouth.

  In the bushes beyond the firelight, bloodred eyes watched for the flames to die down.

  Taliesen took Caswallon deep underground to a small chamber set with walls of shining silver and gold. Soft light filled the room, but Caswallon could not see the source. The druid beckoned him to a tall chair of white leather, then sat upon an oak-topped table.

  “This is my inner sanctum,” he told the warrior. “Here I observe the Farlain and I keep my notes—notes no one will read in my lifetime.” He gestured to the shelves, but there were no books there, only small silver cylinders neatly stacked from floor to ceiling. The far wall was covered with sheets of paper, upon whic
h were curious drawings and symbols.

  Caswallon studied them. “What do these represent?” he asked. Taliesen joined him. “They are Time Lines, and chart my attempts to aid Sigarni.”

  Caswallon ran his eyes over the symbols. “And the stars?”

  “Each time Sigarni dies I mark the spot and pursue a new Time Line—a different reality. It is very complex, Caswallon. Do not seek to stretch your mind around it.”

  “When must I seek the Queen?”

  “As soon as you are ready.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “Then observe,” said the druid. Turning, he walked to the wall by the door and opened a hidden panel. The desktop slid back and a screen rose silently from it. Lights blazed from the screen, forming the image of a walled city.

  “That is Citadel town, where the Queen currently resides—currently being a relative term,” added the druid with a dry chuckle.

  “How is this done?” whispered Caswallon.

  “It is merely an image. It is summer and Sigarni has won a great battle. She has returned to the north to celebrate with her captains. The enemy has been pushed back . . . for now. But the Outland King is gathering a huge force against her. Now, before I send you through, you must understand this, Caswallon: We will meet again on the other side of the Gate. Ask me nothing of the events that are transpiring now. Do not speak of the Aenir invasion.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Taliesen sighed. “Trust me, Caswallon. In other . . . realities . . . our meeting beyond the Gate has already taken place. Many times. And I have found it disadvantageous to view the possible futures. It all becomes too confusing.”

  Caswallon stood silently for a moment, then his green gaze fastened on the druid’s dark eyes. “And I have died in these other realities?” he asked.

  “Yes,” admitted Taliesen. “Do you still wish to go?”

  “Can we win if I do not?”

  “No.”

  “Then let us go.”

  Taliesen pressed a button on the screen and the image of the city disappeared. He stood and led Caswallon back to the Druids’ Hall and the black-arched Gate.

  Maeg was waiting there. She stood as he approached, opening her arms, and Caswallon walked into her embrace.