The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “Stay in the tree, Plessie. Uncle Lennox won’t be a moment.”

  “No,” she wailed. “Don’t leave me. Wolfs eat me up!” Her tears cut through him, but he moved on, searching the tracks within the undergrowth. Satisfied there were only two of the creatures he returned to the weeping child, lifting her down and cuddling her.

  “There, there! You see, I was only a moment or two.”

  “Don’t leave me again, Uncle Lennox.”

  “I won’t. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl and help me to stop this bleeding. Can you do that?” With a grunt of pain Lennox removed his ripped shirt. There were four deep slashes across his right shoulder blade, but he could reach none of them.

  “There’s lots of blood, Uncle Lennox.”

  “The bleeding will clean the wounds,” he said, moving to his pack. “Can you sew?”

  “Mother taught me,” said Plessie.

  “That’s good, little one.” Rummaging into his pack, he found needle and thread. “I want you to close these little scratches for me. Then we’ll move on. Will you do that for me?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  Lennox could see the fear returning to her. “It’s easy,” he told her, forcing a smile. “Trust me. I’ll show you. First thread the needle. My hands are too big and clumsy for it.” Plessie took the thread, licked the end, and carefully inserted it into the eye of the needle. She looked up expectantly at Lennox. Twisting his head, he could see the ragged red line of the first cut on the top of his shoulder. Taking the needle, he pricked it through the skin. “You do it like this,” he told her, as a wave of nausea hit him. “Just like this.”

  Plessie began to cry. “You’re not going to die, are you, Uncle Lennox?”

  “From little scratches like this? No. Now come around to my back and show me your sewing.”

  Taliesen led Caswallon away from the cabin, and on into the trees. It was not cold, but the breeze brought a promise of autumn in the air. “The child will be the future queen—if she lives,” said the druid.

  Caswallon stopped. “What do you mean, if she lives? We know she lives. I watched her die after killing the beast.”

  Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “My boy, you saw one Sigarni. But it would take too long to explain the infinite possibilities when one deals in time, the paradoxes created. Merely hold to the concept of impossibility made reality. This child is in great danger. First and foremost is the sorcerer Jakuta Khan. He was hired to bring about the fall of the King, Sigarni’s real father, and in exchange he was offered wealth—and the life of the King’s daughter. He is a gifted magicker, Caswallon. He will track her down; the crofter cannot stand against him.”

  Caswallon sat down on a fallen tree. “The thought fills me with sorrow, Taliesen, but what can we do? My people need me. I cannot stay here and protect the babe. Nor can you. We do not have the time.”

  “That word again—time,” responded Taliesen, sitting beside the taller man. “It matters not how long we wait here, for when you return no time will have passed in the world you know. There is a small settlement close by; we will rest there, and be offered food. Then we will journey back to the falls and make camp by the rock face where the Gateway opened. There you will see in one day what few mortals will ever see.”

  The following evening Caswallon built a small fire by the rock face, and the two men sat eating a meal of honey biscuits and watching the fragmented moon dance upon the rippling water of the falls pools.

  “How long do we wait?” asked Caswallon.

  “Until I feel the magic of Jakuta Khan,” said Taliesen. “But now there is someone I must summon.” Rising, the little sorcerer moved to the poolside. As Caswallon watched, Taliesen began to chant in a low voice. The wind died down and a mist formed above two boulders close to the pool’s edge. Caswallon’s eyes widened as the mist rose into an arch some ten paces in front of the sorcerer. Tiny lights, like fireflies, glittered in the archway, and then a man appeared, tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, wearing a silver breastplate and a shining mail shirt of silver steel. His hair was moon-white, his beard braided.

  “Who calls Ironhand?” he asked, his voice low and deep like distant thunder. Caswallon rose and walked to stand beside Taliesen.

  “I call upon you, High King,” said the sorcerer. “I, Taliesen, the Druid Lord. Your daughter lives, but she is in peril.”

  “They killed me here,” said the ghostly warrior. “My body lies beneath those boulders. They killed my wife, and I cannot find her spirit.”

  “But your daughter lives: The babe sleeps in a cabin close by. And the hunters will come for her, the demons will stalk her.”

  “What can I do, Taliesen? I am a spirit now.”

  “You can do nothing against men of flesh, Ironhand. But I have planted a seed in the child’s mind. When the demons materialize she will flee here. The creatures, though flesh, are also summoned through spirit spells. You can fight them.”

  “When you need me, call upon me,” said the Ghost King. The archway shimmered and vanished, and Caswallon once more felt the night breeze upon his skin.

  “She is Ironhand’s daughter? Sweet Heaven!”

  “Aye,” whispered Taliesen, “she is of the blood most royal. Now let us return to the fire. There is a spell I must cast before I leave you.” The druid banked up the fire, and once more began to chant. Caswallon sat silently until he had finished, then Taliesen took a deep breath. “There is a man I must see. He is a dreamer and a drunkard, but we will need him before long. Stay here, and do not for any reason venture from the fire.” He smiled. “I think what you are about to see will keep you well entertained until I return.”

  Rising, he ambled away along the line of the pool. Caswallon leaned back against the rock face. Suddenly the moon sped across the sky, the sun flashing up to bathe the pool in brilliant light. Then as suddenly as it had come the sun fell away, and the moon reappeared. Astonished, Caswallon gazed around the pool. There was no sound now, but night and day appeared and disappeared in seconds. Beyond the firelight the grass grew long, withered and dried, died and was replaced. Trees sprouted branches before his eyes. Leaves opened, glistened, withered, and fell. Within the space of a moment snow appeared beyond the fire, thick and deep. Then it was gone, instantly replaced by the flowers of spring.

  He watched the seasons pass by in heartbeats, in blazes of color and streams of light.

  When the snow had appeared for the sixth time, the rushing of time began to slow. The moon reared up and stopped in mid-heaven.

  The cold of winter now whispered past Taliesen’s spell and Caswallon shivered. Movement to his right caught his eye and he saw Taliesen trudging through the snow toward him. The old man was carrying a short hunting bow and a quiver of arrows. “How did you make the seasons move so fast?” asked Caswallon.

  “Not even I can do that,” answered Taliesen wearily. “You are sitting beside a Gateway. I merely activated it. It flickered you through the years.”

  “It is a memory I shall long treasure,” said the clansman.

  “Sadly, we have no time to dwell upon it,” Taliesen told him, “for the evil is almost upon us.” He squatted down by the fire, holding out his long, thin fingers to the flames. “I am so cold,” he said, “and tired.” He handed Caswallon the bow and arrows.

  “What are we facing?” asked the clansman, stringing the bow and testing the pull. It was a sturdy weapon.

  “Men would call them demons, and so they are, but they are also flesh and blood from another dimension . . . another land, if you will. They are huge beasts, Caswallon, some reaching eight feet tall. In build they are much like great bears, but they move with greater speed, and are upright, like men. Their fingers are taloned, each talon the length of your hunting knife. They have fangs also, and short, curved tusks. They do not use the tusks in combat; these are for ripping flesh from the leather-skinned beasts they have hunted in their own world.”

  “Should we not make our way to
Cei’s cabin? He cannot face them alone.”

  Taliesen shook his head. “Cei’s life is over, boy. It was over the moment he agreed to take the babe. The beasts will materialize there.”

  “What?”

  “They will be conjured there,” snapped Taliesen. “Jakuta Khan is a spellmaster; he has located Sigarni and will cause the beasts to appear inside the cabin. I have observed him, Caswallon. He has used these beasts before; he makes them invisible to the human eye. The first moment the victim knows of their existence is when the talons rip out his heart. Trust me, we do not want to be inside the cabin when that happens.”

  “How then do we save the babe?”

  “She is no longer a babe. You have seen the seasons fly by and she is six now. And she will make her way here. I planted a seed in her mind, and that of her mother. As soon as the terror manifests itself, both will act instinctively. The child will run here.”

  Caswallon rose and tied the quiver to his belt. “And how am I to fight these invisible beasts?” he asked softly.

  “As best you can, clansman. Come, kneel by me, and I will give you all that I can.”

  Dropping to one knee, Caswallon looked into the old man’s eyes. The druid was more than tired. His eyes were dull and purple-ringed, his skin dry. Lifting his hand, Taliesen covered Caswallon’s eyes and began to chant. Heat emanated from his fingers, lancing into Caswallon’s brain like an arrow of fire. The clansman groaned but Taliesen’s voice whispered to him: “Hold on, boy, it will not last much longer.”

  The hand fell away and Caswallon opened his eyes. “What have you done?” he whispered. The trees by the pool had changed now, becoming sharp and unreal, like a charcoal sketch upon virgin paper. Taliesen’s features could no longer be seen; he was merely a glowing form of many colors, red in the belly and eyes, purple over the heart, the rest a shifting mix of orange, yellow, and white.

  “Now you will see them, Caswallon,” said the shimmering druid. “They will come from the south, hard on the heels of the child. Best you find a place to smite them.”

  “How many will come?”

  “I would guess at two. It needs a mighty spell to summon just one. Jakuta Khan will expect little resistance from a crofter. But there might be more; he is young and arrogant in his strength.”

  Caswallon moved out onto the frozen pool and headed south, moving high into the tree line. An old oak stood beside the trail, its two main branches—some ten feet high—spreading out like the arms of a supplicant. Caswallon climbed to the right-hand branch and sat with his back to the tree bole.

  His thoughts were many as he waited for the beasts. He had never lacked physical courage—in fact, he had often courted danger merely for the thrill of it. But now? The Farlain were under threat, and his wife and child were in peril in another world. No longer able to afford the luxury of danger, he felt fear rise within him. What if he died here? What would become of the Farlain, or Maeg, and Donal? His mouth was dry. His thoughts swung to the child, Sigarni: an innocent hunted by demons. Yet what was her life when set against his entire clan?

  “I will fight, but I cannot die for you,” he said softly. “I cannot risk that.

  His decision made, he relaxed. Looking down at the glimmering colors that were his hands, he realized that the fingers had become difficult to see, and they were cold. He rubbed his palms together and looked again. For a few heartbeats they shone with a dull red light, then faded once more. Tugging his fleece-lined gloves from his belt, he pulled them on. Ice formed in his beard as he waited in the tree. Glancing back, he saw the shimmering colors he recognized as Taliesen moving across the ice. The old man must be frozen, he thought. The cloak of feathers would do little to keep out the bitter cold.

  A bestial scream tore through the silence of the night. Caswallon removed his gloves and notched an arrow to the bowstring. For some moments there was no movement, then a small figure ran into sight, the colors glowing around her bright and rich. The figure stumbled and rolled in the snow.

  Pulling his gaze from her, Caswallon looked back up the trail. Something huge loomed over the hillside, then another. To his left was a third, moving through the trees. Caswallon cursed, gauging the beasts to be around eight feet tall. The first of the creatures lumbered down the slope. Its colors were strong, mostly purple, orange, and red; the purple area spread from the neck to the belly in two vertical circles joined by a red ridge. Caswallon drew back on the bowstring until it touched his right cheek, then he let fly. The arrow hammered home in the upper circle of purple and instantly the color changed, flowing from the wound as golden light. Caswallon loosed a second shaft that punched through the lower circle. The creature gave a terrifying shriek, tottered to the left, and fell heavily.

  Twisting around, Caswallon saw that the child had reached the poolside. Two beasts were converging on her. Of Taliesen there was no sign. Dropping from the tree, Caswallon notched an arrow and raced down the icy slope. His foot struck a tree root hidden by snow and he was pitched forward. Releasing the bow, he tried to roll over and stop his slide, his hands scrabbling at the snow. Another tree root saved him, his fingers curling around it. Scrambling to his feet he saw the first of the beasts almost upon the helpless child. His bow was some twenty paces up the slope. Drawing his short sword and hunting knife Caswallon ran forward. As the beast reared up, he ducked under a sweeping slash from a taloned paw and stabbed his knife hilt deep into the creature’s belly. A backhanded blow took him high on the shoulder, lifting him from his feet and hurling him through the air. Falling hard, he struck his left shoulder against a tree trunk, paralyzing his arm. The mortally wounded beast staggered and fell, but the third demon reared up and advanced on the clansman.

  With an angry curse Caswallon rose, eyes glittering.

  “Run, you fool!” shouted Taliesen as the beast loomed before the clansman. Deep in his heart Caswallon knew that he should take that advice. There was so much to live for, so much still to be achieved.

  The beast turned away from him—toward the child at the water’s edge. In that moment Caswallon felt relief flood over him. He was safe! I live and she dies, he thought suddenly.

  Without further thought he took three running steps and hurled himself at the beast, plunging his sword into its broad back. The creature screamed and spun. The sword was ripped from the clansman’s hand, but remained jutting from the beast’s rainbow flesh. Talons ripped into Caswallon’s shoulder, pain searing through him as he was thrown to the ground.

  In that moment a bright light blazed and Caswallon saw the massive, shimmering figure of Ironhand standing over the child, sword held two-handed and raised high. The beast gave a low growl and sprang at the ghost. The dead King stepped forward to meet it, his silver sword slashing through the air in a glittering arc; it passed through the creature seemingly without leaving a wound.

  But the demon froze, tottered, and toppled backward to the snow.

  Taliesen emerged from his hiding place in the undergrowth and ran to the child. Caswallon’s vision blurred, the spell placed over his eyes fading. He blinked and saw the druid kneeling beside Sigarni. The girl was sitting silently, her eyes wide open and unblinking. Taliesen placed his hands on the child’s head. “Is she hurt?” asked the Ghost King.

  Taliesen shook his head. “Her body is safe, her spirit scarred,” he said.

  With a groan Caswallon pushed himself to his feet. Blood was flowing freely from the gash to his shoulder. “What will happen to her now?”

  “There is one coming who will look after her. His name is Gwalch; he is a mystic,” Taliesen told him.

  “I hope this is an end to her adventures with demons,” said Caswallon.

  “It is not,” whispered Taliesen. “But the next time she must fight them alone.”

  “Not alone,” said the King. “For I shall be here.”

  * * *

  With time against him, Gaelen led the companions over the most hazardous terrain, skirting the Aenir army on the third day
of travel. From their hiding place on a wooded hillside, the companions gazed down on the horde moving through the valley.

  The size of the enemy force dismayed the clansmen. It seemed to stretch and swell across the valley, filling it. There were few horsemen, the mass of fighting men striding together, bearing round shields painted black and red, and carrying long swords or vicious double-headed axes.

  Gaelen was worried. For the last day he had been convinced that the companions were being followed. Agwaine shared his view, though when Gwalchmai and Layne scouted the surrounding woods they found only animal tracks. Onic and Ridan, anxious to push on, accused Gaelen of needless caution.

  That night they made late camp on open ground and lit a fire. The moon was hidden by a dark screen of storm cloud and the night covered them like a black fog. Gaelen was glad of the darkness and curled into his blanket. Onic had suggested they head for Carduil, a jagged, unwelcoming series of peaks to the east, and Gaelen had agreed. The companions had moved south at first, hugging the timberline, gradually veering toward the distant mountains. Tomorrow they would head into the rising sun over the most dangerous stretch, wide valleys with little cover. Making a cold camp in a hidden hollow, Gaelen took the first watch. After an hour Layne moved through the darkness to sit beside him.

  “Can’t you sleep?” asked Gaelen.

  “No, cousin. I wish you had brought Render with you. I feel uneasy.”

  “He’s well trained,” said Gaelen, “but he’s still a hound, and his hunting might have alerted the Aenir.”

  “It is not the Aenir that concern me,” whispered Layne.

  “You are still thinking about the wolves?”

  “Aye—and the beast which killed the Queen.” The moon cleared the clouds and Gaelen looked at his friend. Layne’s hair glinted silver in the moonlight.

  Gaelen shivered. “You think they might be demons?”