The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “I hope not,” said Layne. “But if they are—and they continued to follow the child—I fear for Lennox.”

  Gaelen put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “If any man can survive against such beasts, Lennox will. I have no fears for him.”

  Layne smiled. “He is uncommonly strong.” For a time they sat together in silence, then Layne spoke again. “Did you propose to Deva?”

  “Yes. She spurned me.”

  “Me too. Some nonsense about birthing kings. I think she’ll grow out of it. Will you continue to court her?”

  “No, Layne.”

  “I shall. Once we have crushed the Aenir, I shall pursue her with such ardor that she will melt into my arms.” He grinned, looking suddenly boyish again.

  Gaelen smiled. “I wish you good fortune, my friend.”

  “I think I’ll get some sleep now,” said Layne.

  “Layne!” whispered Gaelen as his friend rose.

  “What?”

  “I never really thanked you for standing up for me on that first day, when Agwaine drew his knife. You made me feel welcome among the Farlain and I’ll not forget it. And if ever you need me, I will be there for you.”

  Layne said nothing, but he smiled and then moved back to his blanket. Gaelen kept watch for another two hours, then he woke Ridan.

  “You’ve ruined a fine dream,” muttered the clansman, sitting up and yawning.

  Gaelen crossed the clearing and lay down. Sleep came instantly, but a faint rustling brought him awake. Was one of the others moving around? He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and listened again.

  Silence.

  No! There was the sound again, away to the right.

  An animal? A bird?

  Gaelen curled his hand around the short sword lying next to him, gently easing it from the leather scabbard. He felt foolish, thinking back to the first night he had spent in the open with Caswallon, when the fox had terrified him.

  A crunching noise, followed by a bubbling gurgle, brought him to his feet and the clouds above moved away from the moon. A scene of horror met his eyes. Five huge beasts were crouching in the camp. Ridan lay dead, his throat ripped apart, while another body was being dragged toward a screen of bushes.

  Gaelen froze.

  One beast, red eyes glinting, reared up on its hind legs and ran silently toward him. Gaelen shouted a warning and Onic rolled to his feet, his arm flashing back and then forward. His hunting knife shot across the camp to plunge deep into the beast’s back; it howled then, rending the night silence. Gaelen leaped forward, ramming his sword into the beast’s chest. Talons lashed at him and he jumped back, releasing the blade. Then Gwalchmai ran forward and hurled his knife, which thudded into the creature’s neck.

  And the clouds closed, darkness blinding them all.

  Gaelen dived for his pack, scrabbling at the canvas lip. Delving inside, he produced his tinderbox. There were only a few shredded leaves inside, but he was desperate for light. Twice the sparks jumped and then a tiny flame licked out. Holding up the box like a flickering candle, Gaelen turned. He could see Agwaine, Onic, and Gwalchmai standing together with swords in hand. On the ground nearby lay the hideous corpse of the dead beast. Elsewhere there was no sign of the pack.

  The others joined him, gathering twigs and branches, and they built a fire, heedless of any danger from the Aenir. Agwaine took a burning branch and moved to the spot where Layne had slept. The ground was wet with blood, and his body was lying some twenty feet away. Ridan’s corpse was nowhere in sight.

  Gaelen moved to where Layne lay and with trembling hands turned over the corpse. Layne’s throat had been ripped away, but his face was untouched and his grey eyes were open, staring at nothing. Gaelen sank back. Gwalchmai knelt by the body and reached out, his fingers tenderly brushing the skin of Layne’s face. “Oh, God,” said Gwalchmai. Gaelen lifted Layne’s hand, picturing him as he had been only a few hours before—tall, handsome, and in love.

  “I promised to be there for you, and I wasn’t,” he said. “I am so sorry, Layne.”

  “We must bury him—deep,” said Agwaine.

  “We can’t,” said Gaelen. “The fire will have alerted the Aenir, and the beasts could return at any time. We must push on.”

  “I’ll not have him devoured by those creatures!” stormed Agwaine.

  Gaelen rose, tears shining in his eyes. “You think I do not feel exactly the same, Agwaine? But Layne is gone. His spirit has fled; all that is left is dead flesh which, even if we bury it, will be devoured by maggots. The Farlain need us, Layne does not. Now let us move.”

  “But we don’t know where those creatures are,” objected Gwalchmai. “We could run right into them.”

  “And if we don’t,” snapped Gaelen, “then by morning we’ll all be blood-eagled to the trees.”

  “Gaelen is right. It’s time to move,” said Agwaine. “Kill the fire.”

  Donning their packs they set off toward the east, where the dark line of the Carduil range could be seen against the sky. They walked with swords in hand, saying little, and the journey was fraught with fear. The storm clouds passed over them, lightning flashing to the south, and the moon shone bright.

  “By the Gods, look!” exclaimed Gwalchmai.

  On either side of them, some twenty paces distant, dark shadows could be seen moving from bush to bush.

  “How many?” hissed Agwaine.

  “Four,” answered Onic.

  Swiftly they doffed their packs, stringing the short hunting bows.

  “Wait!” said Gaelen. “Let us each pick a target, for once they learn the power of the bow they will be more wary.”

  Gwalchmai eased back on the string. “All right. I’ll take the one on the left at the rear.”

  Choosing their targets they waited patiently, Gwalchmai and Onic kneeling, Agwaine and Gaelen facing right with bows half drawn.

  The werebeasts crouched in the bushes, confused and uncertain. They could not see the shining talons that had cut down their comrade, only long sticks of wood. But they were wary. The leader edged forward, raising his head. The scent of warm flesh caused his stomach to tighten and saliva dripped from his maw. He moved into the open on all fours, edging still closer. A second followed him. On the other side a third beast was in view.

  More clouds bunched above them, the sky darkening.

  Gaelen cursed. “Let fly . . . NOW!”

  Shafts hissed through the night air. The leader howled as the missile sliced into his chest, spearing his lungs. Blood filled his throat and the howling ceased. Behind him the second thrashed about in the bushes, an arrow through his eye.

  To the left Gwalchmai’s target had dropped without a sound, shot through the heart. Only Onic had not let fly. His target had remained in the bushes. Alone and frightened, it sprinted away to the west.

  Chapter Ten

  Taliesen led Caswallon to a long room beneath the Vallon caves. The walls were lined with shelves of old oak, some of them twisted and cracked with age. Upon some of them were parchment scrolls, leather-bound books, and sheafs of paper bound with twine. Others were stacked with metal cylinders or small glass bottles sealed with wax. On the far side of the hall two druids were sitting at one of the many tables, poring over scrolls and scribbling notes with quill pens.

  Maggrig, Leofas, and Maeg were waiting there when the druid and the clansman arrived. While Maeg examined the shallow wound in her husband’s shoulder, Maggrig pressed Caswallon about his journey through the Gateway. He told them of the baby, and the old man who had been carrying her.

  As she spoke the old man’s name Taliesen sank to a chair, eyes wide, mouth agape. It was the first time Caswallon had seen him so surprised. “You did not tell me it was Astole,” he whispered. “Still alive!”

  “He’s not alive now,” said Caswallon. “He died there in that forest.”

  Taliesen shook his head. “Unlikely. He had remarkable powers of recuperation,” said the druid. “He is twice as o
ld as I am. And I once saw a spear pierce his chest, the point emerging alongside his spine. He made me draw it from him; I did, and watched the wound heal within seconds.”

  “Alive or dead, he cannot help us now,” said Caswallon. “So what do we do?”

  “We try again—if you feel strong enough. Do you?”

  “Is there a choice, druid?”

  Taliesen shook his head. Maggrig loomed over the druid. “Except that after the last mistake,” he said, “you might now waft him away to the center of the Aenir camp, and he can demand their surrender.”

  “It was not a mistake,” snapped the druid. “It was destiny.”

  “Well, if there is a moment of destiny,” promised Maggrig, “I’ll pierce your scrawny ears with your teeth!”

  “That will be hard to do—after I’ve turned you to a toad!” Taliesen countered.

  “Enough!” said Maeg sharply. “Go back to the Gate—all of you. I need to speak to my husband.” Maggrig swallowed his anger and followed Taliesen and the old warrior Leofas from the room.

  When they had gone, Maeg took Caswallon’s hand and looked deep into his sea-green eyes. “I love you, husband,” she said, “more than life. I want so much to ask you—to beg you—to refuse Taliesen. Yet I will not . . . even though my heart is filled with fears for you.”

  He nodded, then lifted her hand to his lips. “You are mine, and I am yours,” he said. “You are the finest of women, and I have not the words to tell you what you mean to me.” He fell silent as a single tear rolled to Maeg’s cheek. “I love you, Maeg. But I must do what I can to save my people.”

  The clansman stood, and hand in hand he and Maeg walked to the Gate. It stood open, the bright sunshine of another world blazing down upon hills and mountains. Taliesen stood waiting on the other side. Maeg kissed Caswallon and he felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek. Maggrig gripped his hand. “Take care, boy,” he said gruffly.

  Recovering his sword, Caswallon stepped through the archway onto the hillside above Citadel town.

  “Remember, Caswallon,” said Taliesen, “the Queen must have her army assembled within ten days. Take her to the falls where we fought the demons. Tell her Taliesen needs her help.”

  “You think she will remember you after all these years?”

  “She saw me only yesterday,” said Taliesen. “Well . . . yesterday to her. And now it is time to go. Come back here at dawn in four days and report on your progress.”

  Leaving the druid behind him, Caswallon set off down the slope toward the city. There were sentries at the gates, but many people were passing through and the clansman was not challenged. As he walked Caswallon gazed at the buildings; they were not like the houses of Ateris, being higher and more closely packed, built of red brick and stone, the windows small.

  There were narrow, open sewage channels on both sides of the street, and the stench from them filled the nostrils. Crowds of revelers were gathering on every side, drunken clansmen and mercenaries, many singing, others dancing to the tune of the pipes. Caswallon threaded his way through them, heading for the Citadel above the town.

  At the gates he was stopped by two guards wearing bronze breastplates and leather kilts. Both carried lances. “What is your business here?” asked the shorter of the two.

  “I seek the Queen,” replied Caswallon.

  “Many men seek the Queen. Not all are allowed to find her.”

  “It is a matter of importance,” said Caswallon.

  “Do I know you?” asked the guard. “You seem familiar.”

  “My business is urgent,” said Caswallon. The man nodded once more, then called a young soldier from the ramparts. “Take this man to the city hall. Ask for Obrin.”

  The soldier saluted and walked away. Caswallon followed. The man stopped before a wide flight of marble steps, at the top of which were double doors of bronze-studded oak. Before the doors were four more guards in bronze breastplates; each of these wore crimson cloaks and leather breeches cut short at the calf. The soldier led the way up the stairs and whispered to one of the sentries; the man tapped at the door and passed a message inside. After a wait of several more minutes the door opened once more and an officer came out. He was tall and of middle years, his beard iron-grey, his eyes a frosty blue. He looked at Caswallon and smiled. Taking the clansman by the arm, he led him inside the hall. “The Queen is holding a victory banquet,” he said, “but you will not find her in a good mood.”

  The hall was vast, with ten high-arched windows. A huge curved table was set at the center, around which sat more than two hundred men and women feasting on roast pig, swan, goose, chicken, and sundry other meats and pastries. The noise was incredible and Caswallon found himself longing for the open mountains. Swallowing down his distaste, he followed the officer forward.

  At the far end of the hall, where the table curved like an upturned horseshoe, sat the Queen. She was a tall woman, silver-haired and yet young, and she wore a plain dress of white wool. Caswallon had seen this woman die in the Farlain three years before. Then she had been handsome but old; now she was a beauty, proud and strong, her clear grey eyes sparkling with life and energy. The eyes turned on Caswallon and Sigarni rose from her seat, a delighted smile on her face.

  She hesitated, as if not believing what she saw. Then she was running to meet Caswallon. “Redhawk!” she shouted joyously. “You’ve returned!”

  Caswallon returned the Queen’s embrace, his mind racing as Sigarni gripped his shoulders.

  “Let me look at you, Redhawk. By Heaven, how is it you have become young again? Have you dyed that beard? It was almost pure silver the last time we met.”

  “I hear you have done well,” countered Caswallon, his mind racing.

  “Well? Now, that is an understatement. The Outland King is slain, his army in ruins. The war may not be won, but we have gained valuable time. Time! Morgase is defeated—but she has vanished. Not one word of her in six months. But enough of that. Where have you been these last two years? I needed you.”

  “I have been in my own land, among my own people.”

  “You are ill at ease, my friend. What ails you?”

  “I am merely tired, my lady.”

  She smiled. “Join us at table. We’ll eat and hear a few songs,” said Sigarni, leading him forward. “Later we’ll talk.”

  The feast seemed to last an eternity, and great was his relief when eventually it ended. A servant led him to an upper bedchamber. It was small, with a single window and a long pallet bed. A fire was burning in the hearth. Moving to the window, Caswallon pushed it open and gazed out over the mountains. Confused, he remembered again the Queen’s death near Attafoss, and her last words.

  “Now the circle is complete,” the Queen had said. “For you told me you would be with me at my death.” And then at the last she had asked, Was I truly the Queen you desired me to be?” The cold winds of approaching winter made him shiver. Closing the window, he crossed the room to sit on the rug before the fire. He thought he had been prepared for anything, but the sight of the Queen had shaken him. She was stunningly beautiful, and despite his love for Maeg, he found in himself a yearning for Sigarni that he would not have believed possible.

  For some time he sat there, then felt the draft on his back as the door opened.

  Sigarni entered. She was dressed now in a simple woolen shirt of white that showed the curve of her breasts, and dark brown leggings that highlighted her long, slim legs. She sat down on the bed. No more the Queen, she looked now like a clanswoman—tall and strong, fearless and free. Her mouth was astonishingly inviting, and Caswallon found his heart beating wildly.

  “What are you thinking, my wizard?” she asked, her voice more husky than he recalled from her greeting in the hall.

  “You are very beautiful, lady.”

  “And you are changed,” she said softly, her grey eyes holding to his gaze.

  “In what way?” he countered.

  Sigarni slid off the bed to sit next to him
by the fire. “When I greeted you I saw the surprise in your eyes. And now I am here beside you—and yet you do not seek to hold me. What has happened to you, Redhawk? Have you forsaken me for another? I will understand if that is true. By Heaven, I have said my share of farewells to lovers. I would hope to have the strength to accept similar treatment. Is that what is happening here?”

  “No,” he said, his mind reeling. Moving back from her, he stood and returned to the window. The moon was high over the mountains and he stared up at the sky, fighting to make sense of her words. They were lovers! How could this be? For Caswallon loyalty was not like a cloak, to be worn or discarded, but an iron code to live by. And yet . . .

  “Talk to me, Redhawk,” said Sigarni.

  He swung to face her. Once more her beauty struck him like an arrow. “Taliesen told me that you understood the Gateways. You know, therefore, that they allow us to move through time as well as to other lands?”

  “Of course,” she told him. “What has that to do with you and me?”

  He took a deep breath. “In all my life I have seen you only four times. Once as a babe in the forest, the second time by Ironhand’s Falls, the third”—he hesitated and looked away—“in my own realm . . . and the fourth tonight in the great hall. Everything you say to me—about us—is . . . new and strange. If we are to be lovers, it is not now but in a time—for me—that is yet to be. As I stand here I have a wife, Meg, whom I adore, and a small child, Donal.” He saw she was about to speak and raised his hand. “Please say nothing, for I know I would never betray Maeg while she lived. And I do not want to know what the future holds for her.”

  Sigarni rose, her face thoughtful. “You are a good man, Redhawk, and I love you. I will say nothing of Maeg . . .” She smiled. “Just as you hesitated about our meeting in your own realm. I will leave you now. We will talk in the morning.”

  “Wait!” he called out as she opened the door. “There is something I must ask of you.”

  “The debt,” she said. Then, noting his incomprehension, she smiled softly. “You always said there would come a time when you would ask me a great favor. Whatever it is, I will grant it. Good night, Redhawk.”