The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  She kissed him, her eyes wet with tears. “The world has changed, as you said it would,” she told him.

  “We’ll change it back.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “Even if you beat the Aenir, nothing will ever be quite the way it was.”

  He did not argue. Instead he kissed her. “There is one constant fact, Maeg. I love you. I always have. I always will.”

  “I have something for you,” she said, pulling away from him. Turning, she lifted a buckskin shirt from the back of a chair. The skin was soft and beige while on the chest, in crimson-stained leather, was a cunningly crafted hawk with wings spreading to each shoulder. “If you are to meet a queen, it is fitting you look your best,” she said.

  Caswallon slipped out of his woolen shirt, donning the buckskin. The fit was perfect.

  Leofas stepped from the shadows with Maggrig.

  “Are you sure about this plan, Caswallon?” he asked.

  “No,” admitted the War Lord. “But Taliesen is, and I can think of no other.”

  “Then may the Gods guide you.” The two men shook hands.

  Taliesen walked to the archway, lifted his hands, and began to chant. The view of the Farlain vanished, to be replaced instantly by a sloping plain and a distant city.

  Maggrig curled his arm around Maeg’s shoulder. “He will come back,” he said.

  Caswallon stepped into the archway—and vanished.

  Suddenly the view from the Gate disappeared, a blank grey wall replacing it. Maeg moved forward and touched the cold stone.

  Caswallon found himself in a forest glade in the last hour before dusk. Shafts of sunlight lanced the branches of mighty oaks and birds sang in every tree.

  But there was no city in sight. Perplexed, he stepped back to where the Gate had been.

  It was gone . . .

  Cursing, he drew his short sword and started prodding the air, seeking the entrance. After a few minutes he gave up and sat back on a jutting tree root. He was loath to leave the spot, and had no idea what plan to pursue.

  His thoughts were broken by the sounds of shouting. Looking around him, he marked the spot in his mind and set off toward the sound. Perhaps the Gate had merely sent him too far, and he had come out on the other side of the city. He seemed to recall seeing a woods there.

  The shouts became triumphant, and Caswallon guessed the men to be hunters who had cornered their prey. Then a voice cried out. “Lord of Heaven, aid your servant!”

  Caswallon broke into a run. Ahead of him three men had surrounded a bald, elderly man in robes of grey who was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms.

  “Surrender it, priest,” ordered a tall man in a red cape.

  “You cannot do this,” said the old man. “It is against the laws of man and God.”

  The red-caped warrior stepped forward, a bright sword in his hand. The sword flashed forward. The old man twisted the bundle away from the blade, which lanced into his belly. He screamed and fell.

  Caswallon hurdled a fallen tree, his own short sword glinting in the dying light. “What vileness do we have here, my bonnies?”

  The three spun around and the leader walked forward, his sword dripping blood to the grass.

  “It is none of your concern, stranger. Begone.”

  “Frightened as I am to face three heroes who can so valiantly tackle old men, I feel I must debate the point,” said Caswallon.

  “Then die,” shouted the man, leaping forward. Caswallon parried the lunging blade, his own sword flashing through the man’s neck. The remaining warriors ran forward. Caswallon blocked the first thrust, hammering a punch to an unprotected chin, and the attacker staggered.

  Pushing past him Caswallon engaged the third, slipping his hunting knife into his left hand. He ducked beneath a vicious swipe, sticking his sword behind the man’s knee; with a scream he fell. Caswallon whirled as the second man was almost upon him, sword plunging for his chest, but Caswallon parried the blow, punching his hunting knife through the man’s tunic. The blade slid between the man’s ribs, cleaving the heart. Dragging the knife free, he saw the third man crawling toward the bushes, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Ignoring him, Caswallon ran to the old man, gently turning him.

  “Thank the Source,” said the priest. “For He has sent you in my hour of need.” Blood was seeping fast, drenching the old man’s clothes.

  “Why did they attack you?”

  “It wasn’t me, my son; they wanted the babe.” The old man pointed to the bundle by his side. Caswallon lifted the blanket and there lay a sleeping infant no more than a week old. She was tiny and naked, her downy hair pure white.

  “Lie still,” urged Caswallon, ripping open the priest’s robes, seeking to stem the outflow of blood from the wound. The assassin’s sword had ripped down through the man’s lower belly, opening the artery in his groin. There was no hope for him, and his face was already losing color.

  “Where are you from?” whispered the dying man.

  “Another world,” said Caswallon. “And I am lost.”

  The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You passed through a Gate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it Mordic sent you?”

  “No.”

  “Cateris, Blean, Taliesen . . .”

  “Yes, Taliesen.”

  “Take the babe back through the Chalice Gate.”

  “I do not know where it is.”

  “Close by. North. I opened it myself. Look for a cave on the hillside; it has a goblet fashioned in the rock of the entrance. But . . . beware . . . Jakuta Khan will follow.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Astole. I was Taliesen’s teacher.” Horns sounded in the forest to the south. “They are coming for the child. Take her and run. Go now! I beg you.” The old man slumped back.

  Sheathing his sword and knife, Caswallon scooped the bundle into his arms and began to run. Behind him he could hear the barking of dogs and the shrill call of hunting horns. He was angry now. Thwarted from his quest, he was being hunted by an enemy he did not know, in a forest that was strange to him.

  Dropping his pace to a gentle jog, eyes scanning the undergrowth, he searched for a way to lose his pursuer. He could hear running water away to the left and he cut toward it. A small stream gurgled over rocks. Splashing into it, Caswallon followed it upstream for about thirty paces and then left it on the same side, walking through soft mud to stop before a massive oak.

  Without turning he looked down and walked backward, placing his feet in his own prints. Slowly he backtracked to the stream, then carried on walking through the water. It was an old trick, which in daylight would fool no skilled tracker, but with dusk approaching fast it could hold up the pursuit.

  The child opened her eyes, pushing her tiny fist into her mouth. Caswallon cursed. She was hungry and that meant there were scant moments left before she began to cry for food.

  Turning again toward the north, he scanned the hillside for the cave the old man had spoken of. The babe in his arms gave out a thin piercing wail and Caswallon cursed again. The sun was slowly sinking behind the western peaks. As it fell below the clouds a shaft of bright light lit the hillside, and Caswallon saw the dark shadow of the cave entrance, some thirty paces above him and to the right.

  The barking of hounds was closer. Twisting, he saw four sleek black shapes emerge from the tree line below, no more than fifty paces behind him. Holding firm to the child, Caswallon sprinted up the slope and into the cave. It was like a short tunnel. Behind him the dying sun was bright against the rocks, yet ahead was a forest bathed in moonlight.

  Caswallon spun, for the first of the hounds had reached the cave. As it leaped his sword slashed down across its neck, smashing through flesh and bone. Turning again, he saw the moonlit forest begin to fade. Taking two running steps he hurled himself through the Gateway. He fell heavily, bracing his arm and shoulder so that the babe would be protected.

  Rolling to his feet he swung to face hi
s enemies—and found himself staring at a solid wall of grey stone. The sound of a waterfall came to him and he sheathed his sword and walked toward it. I know this place, he thought. But the trees are different. This was Ironhand’s Pool, and if he climbed above the falls he would see High Druin in the distance. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of wood smoke to his nostrils. Moving to his left into the wind, the smell grew stronger. Ahead was a cottage of stone, with a thatched roof, and a cleared yard containing a small flower garden and a coop for chickens. Caswallon ran to the cottage, tapping softly at the door. It was opened by a young woman with long fair hair. “What do you want?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Food for a babe,” he answered, handing her the child. Her eyes changed as she gazed at the small face.

  “Come inside.”

  Caswallon followed her. At a pine table sat a large man with a heavy beard of red-gold.

  “Welcome,” said the man. Caswallon noticed that one of his hands was below the table, and guessed a blade was hidden there.

  “I found the babe in the forest,” he said lamely.

  The man and woman exchanged glances. “Do you know whose child it is?” the man asked.

  “I know nothing of her,” said Caswallon.

  “We lost our own daughter three days ago,” said the man. “That is her crib there, in the corner. You can leave the child with us, if you will. My wife is still milk-swelled—as you can see.” The woman had opened her shirt and was feeding the babe.

  Caswallon pulled up a chair and seated himself opposite the man, looking deep into his clear grey eyes. “If I leave her with you, will you care for her as you would your own?”

  “Aye,” said the man. “Walk with me awhile.” He rose, sheathing the hunting knife he had held below the table. He was taller than Caswallon, and broader in the shoulder. Stepping out into the night he walked to the far side of the cabin, seating himself on a bench crafted from pine. Caswallon sat beside him. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your clothes are clan, but you are not Loda.”

  “I am Caswallon of the Farlain.”

  “I have dealings with the Farlain. How is it I have never heard of you?”

  Caswallon let out a sigh and leaned back against the bench. “Is there a town near here, on the edge of the Lowlands, called Ateris?”

  The man shook his head. “There is Citadel town. The Outlanders control it now. And I ask you again—who are you?”

  “I am a clansman, as I have said.” He laughed suddenly. “Were our positions reversed, my friend, and you were to tell me the story of how you found the babe, I would think you mad.”

  “I am not you,” said the man. “So speak.”

  Quietly Caswallon told him of the Aenir invasion and of his journey through the Gateway, of the dying priest, and the men and hounds who had sought the death of the child. The man did not interrupt, but listened intently. As he finished Caswallon stood and looked down into the man’s deep-set grey eyes, awaiting a response.

  At that moment the ground trembled. Thrown off balance, Caswallon lurched to the right. The moonlight brightened and gazing up, both men saw two moons shining in the sky. For moments only the land was bathed in silver brilliance, then the second moon faded.

  As it did so the figure of Taliesen appeared beside them. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees as the crofter leaped to his feet, his knife snaking into his hand. “No!” shouted Caswallon. “He is the druid I told you of.”

  Taliesen tried to stand, failed, and sat glumly on the ground. “I think the journey almost killed me,” he grumbled. As Caswallon helped him to his feet, the little sorcerer sighed. “You have no idea of the energy I have expended to arrive here. Who is this?”

  “I am Cei,” said the crofter.

  “I must see the child,” said Taliesen, shaking himself free of Caswallon’s support and moving off to the cabin.

  Cei approached Caswallon. “You were wrong. I did not think you mad. Yesterday an old man came to us as we were mourning the death of our babe. He told us he would come, and that he would bring us joy—and sorrow.”

  “This man, was he bald and wearing grey robes?”

  Cei nodded.

  Both men returned to the cabin, to find Taliesen kneeling beside the crib where the baby was sleeping. When Caswallon and Cei looked closely they saw that the child’s silver hair was now corn-gold.

  Taliesen stood and turned toward the crofter. “Enemies will come after this babe,” he said. “Be warned. I have changed the color of her hair. As I have told your wife, you must raise her as your own; no one must know how she came here. Your wife says the death of your child is not known among your friends in the clan. Keep it that way.”

  “Who is she?” asked Cei. “Why is she in danger?”

  “She is your daughter. You need know no more than that—save that she is of the blood royal,” said Taliesen. “Now we must go.”

  Lennox added fuel to the fire and the flames leaped and twisted. He wasn’t cold, he merely wanted to see the child’s face in sleep. Her thumb had slipped from her open mouth and she was breathing evenly. Lennox carefully hitched her into the crook of his right arm, stretching his back.

  Gaelen yawned and stretched, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Seeing Lennox still awake, he moved around the fire to join him. “How is she?”

  “She is all right now. She says her father was eaten by wolves . . . and her sister.”

  “It’s unlikely,” said Gaelen. “She would not have escaped a pack. A dream, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. She said the wolves were as big as me.”

  “Wolves attack at night and they move fast. A child that small might think them overlarge.”

  “I agree, Gaelen, but she’s clan; her father was clan. How could he be surprised by wolves? It makes no sense. I can’t remember a clansman ever being killed by a pack. Wolves don’t attack men. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Perhaps he had no fire, or had been forced to flee without weapons. Perhaps the wolves were starving.”

  The two men sat in silence for a while, then Gaelen spoke. “More likely it was the Aenir and the child was confused. Many of them wear wolfskin cloaks. And at the Games I saw a man with a wolf’s head for a helm. An attack at night?”

  “She says her mother was killed by men with swords. I don’t think she’s that confused. I think you should walk warily tomorrow,” said Lennox.

  “We’ll miss you on the trip,” said Gaelen, gripping Lennox’s shoulder.

  “Yes, but you don’t need me. She does. I’ll get her to the island and then join my father. We’ll see you in Axta Glen.”

  “I hope so. I pray there is an army of Highlanders ready to be gathered. But if not I shall still see you there, Lennox. Even if I am alone. I promise you.”

  “I know you will, cousin. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Soon after dawn the companions bade farewell to Lennox and the child and set off to the south. Lennox hoisted the girl to his shoulder and headed north.

  As they walked he discovered that her name was Plessie and her clan Haesten; she was the niece of Laric, the Hunt Lord. He was tempted to run back and find the others, for Laric would be well disposed toward a group that had rescued his niece. But Plessie’s fearful glances behind them forced him to dismiss the idea.

  Whatever had happened to her had left a terrible scar.

  Throughout the morning he climbed through the timberline, and they stopped to eat at a rock pool below a small falls. The companions had given Lennox some oatcakes and these he shared with Plessie. The child sat upon a rock dangling her feet in the water, giggling at its icy touch. Lennox smiled—and froze. He slowly climbed to his feet, aware suddenly that he was being watched. Fear grew in his heart—not fear for himself, but for the child. He had promised she would be safe and a promise was a sacred thing among the clans.

  Casually he glanced around at the thick undergrowth. He spotted a patch of darkness beyond a blosso
ming heather, but allowed his eyes to skip over the bush. He had the feeling the dark patch was fur, and if that was so the thing was either a bear or a wolf.

  Plessie was sitting in the shade of a tall pine, and a long branch extended above the water. Lennox scooped her into his arms and lifted her high onto the branch.

  “Sit there for a moment, little dove,” he said.

  “Don’t want to,” she wailed.

  “Do it for your uncle Lennox. And be careful now.”

  Even as he spoke a werebeast charged from the undergrowth, jaws wide, taloned fingers reaching for the clansman. As it leaped it gave a terrifying howl. Beasts of the wild always roar or screech on attacking their prey. The sound freezes the victim.

  But Lennox was not a hunted animal. Nor even an ordinary man.

  He was the most powerful warrior in the long history of the Farlain.

  As the beast broke cover Lennox whirled, bellowing his own scream of fury. He charged it, smashing a right cross to its open jaws. Fangs snapped, the jawbone disintegrating under the impact. The beast screamed and fell, rolling to all fours and howling in pain. A second creature leaped forward, and twisting to meet it, Lennox charged again. Talons lashed across his shoulder, scoring deep through the flesh. The jaws lunged for his face, and throwing up his hand, he fastened his fingers to the furry throat. The downward lunge was halted, the fangs inches from his face. Lennox could feel hot, rancid breath on his skin. The power of the beast was immense. He threw a left-hand blow that thundered against the werebeast’s ear; the creature fell back, then leaped again. This time Lennox stood his ground until the beast was almost upon him. As it rushed forward he caught it by the throat and groin, and hurled it with all his strength against the trunk of a pine. It hit with a sickening thud—spine exploding into shards, ribs splitting and piercing the great lungs beneath. Blood flowing from his wounds, Lennox drew his sword. The first beast attacked again, its jaw hanging slack. As its talons lashed out, Lennox ducked beneath the swinging arm and hammered his sword into its unprotected belly.

  The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and drew his hunting knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.