The Hawk Eternal
Page 32
“You are a rare woman, Sigarni.”
Turning back, she nodded. “You will one day say that to me with even more feeling,” she promised.
Taliesen sat alone in the semidarkness of his viewing chamber. It was cold, and idly he touched a switch to his right. Warm air flowed through hidden steel vents in the floor and he removed his cloak. Leaning back against the headrest of the padded leather chair, he stared at the paneled ceiling, his mind tired, his thoughts fragmented.
He transferred his gaze to the gleaming files. Eight hundred years of notes, discoveries, failures, and triumphs.
Useless.
All of it . . .
How could the Great Gates have closed?
And why were the Middle Gates shrinking year by year?
The Infinity Code had been broken a century before his birth by the scientist Astole. The first Gate—a window really—had been set up the following year. It had seemed then that the Universe itself had shrunk to the size of a small room.
By the time Taliesen was a student his people had seen every star, every minor planet. Gates had been erected on thousands of sites from Sirius to Saptatua. Linear time had snapped back into a Gordian knot of interwoven strands. It was a time of soaring arrogance and interstellar jests. Taliesen himself had walked upon many planets as a god, enjoying immensely the worship of the planet-bound humanoids. But as he grew older such cheap entertainment palled and he became fascinated by the development of Man.
Astole, his revered teacher, had fallen from grace, becoming convinced of some mystic force outside human reality. Mocked and derided, he had left the order and vanished from the outer world. Yet it was he who had first saved the baby, Sigarni. Taliesen felt a sense of relief. For years he had feared a rogue element amid the complexities of his plans. Now that fear vanished.
He understood now the riddle of the Hawk Eternal.
“You and I will teach him, Astole,” he said, “and we will save my people.” A nagging pain flared in his left arm, and rubbing his biceps, he rose from the chair. “Now I must find you, old friend,” he said. “I shall begin by revisiting the last place Caswallon saw you.” His fingers spasmed as a new pain lanced into his chest. Taliesen staggered to his chair, fear welling within him. He scrabbled for a box on the desktop, spilling its contents. Tiny capsules rolled to the floor . . . With trembling fingers he reached for them. There was a time when he would have needed no crudely manufactured remedies, no digitalis derived from foxglove. In the days of the Great Gates he could have traveled to places where his weakened heart would have been regenerated within an hour. Youth within a day! But not now. His vision swam. The fear became a tidal wave of panic that circled his chest with a band of fire. Oh, please, he begged. Not now!
The floor rose to strike his head, pain swamping him.
“Just one more . . . day,” he groaned.
His fingers clenched into a fist as a fresh spasm of agony ripped into him.
And as he died the Gates vanished.
During the week that followed Caswallon’s departure Maggrig led his Pallides warriors on a series of killing raids, hitting the Aenir at night, peppering them with arrows from woods and forests. Leofas, with four hundred Farlain clansmen, circled the Aenir force and attacked from the south.
Whenever the Aenir mustered for a counterattack the clans melted away, splitting their groups to re-form at agreed meeting places.
The raids were no more than a growing irritation to Asbidag, despite the disruption of his supply lines and the loss of some three hundred warriors. The main battle was what counted, and the clans could not run forever.
But where was Barsa? Nothing had been heard of his son and the Timber Wolves he led.
Drada trapped a raiding party of twenty Pallides warriors in a woods twelve miles from Attafoss, and these—bar one—were summarily butchered. The prisoner was tortured for seven hours, but revealed nothing. He had been blood-eagled on a wide tree. But the main force, led by Maggrig, escaped to the north, cutting through the ring of steel Drada had thrown around the woods. Still, twenty of the enemy had been slain, and Drada was not displeased.
In the southeast Gaelen and his companions had found more than eighty Pallides warriors in the caves of Pataron, a day’s march from Carduil. These he had persuaded to march with him on his return. It was a start.
On the fifth day of travel Gaelen and his group entered the thick pines below Carduil, and as they climbed they felt the chill of the wind blowing down from the snowcapped peaks. As they neared the opening to a narrow pass, a tall woman in leather breeches and a hooded sheepskin jerkin stepped out from the trees, a bow half drawn in her hands.
“Halt where you stand,” she commanded.
“We are seeking Laric,” Gaelen told the clanswoman.
“Who are you?”
“Gaelen of the Farlain. I come with a message from the War Lord Caswallon and his friend Maggrig of the Pallides.”
The warrior woman eased down the bowstring, returned the shaft to the quiver, and moved forward. “I am Lara,” she said, holding out her hand. “Laric’s daughter. My father is dead. He led the men on a raid to Aesgard; they were taken and slain to the last man.”
“All dead?” asked Agwaine, pushing forward.
“Yes. The Haesten are finished.”
“I am sorry,” said Gaelen, his heart sinking.
“No more than we are,” said Lara. “We are camped within Carduil. Join us.”
The companions followed her into the pass, and up to the winding trail below the caves. Once within the twisted caverns Lara pushed back her hood, shaking loose her dark hair. Leaving the companions at a fire where food was being prepared, she took Gaelen to a small rough-cut chamber in which lay a bed and a table of pine.
“There used to be a group of druids here,” she said, stripping off her jerkin. Tossing it to the bed, she pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat.
Gaelen sat on the bed, his misery evident. “You thought you’d find an army?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“How many Farlain warriors escaped?”
“Close to four thousand.”
“And Pallides?”
“Less than a thousand.”
“They’ll fight well,” said the girl. “Would you like something to drink?” Gaelen nodded. She stood and crossed the chamber, bending to lift a jug and two goblets from behind a wooden chest. The soft leather of her breeches stretched across her hips. Gaelen blinked and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
She passed him a goblet of honeyed wine. “Are you warm?” she asked.
“A little.”
“Your face is flushed. Take your jerkin off.”
She really was quite striking, he realized as he removed the garment. Her eyes were the blue of an evening sky, her mouth wide and full-lipped.
“Why are you staring?”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“I saw you run in the Games,” she said. “You were unlucky to miss the final.”
“Luck had little to do with it,” he said, happier to be on firmer ground.
“I heard—you were attacked. Still, the clans won.”
“Yes.”
“They will win again.”
“At this moment I don’t see how,” said Gaelen. “Nothing has gone right for us. We have lost thousands and the Aenir are hardly touched.”
“I have eight hundred warriors at my command,” she said.
“What? Where are you hiding them?”
“They are not hidden. They are here, with me.”
“You mean the women?”
“If that patronizing look does not fade soon, you Farlain pig swill, then you’ll be leaving here faster than you came.”
“I . . . apologize,” he said.
“Well, stop apologizing!” she snapped. “It seems you’ve done nothing else since you arrived. You’re the Lowlander Caswallon brought home, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Let us start again, Lara,” he said. “I did not wish to insult you. And though I was once a Lowlander, I am well aware of the skill of clanswomen. I will accept your offer, if you still hold to it. You must forgive me. It has been a long spring and much has happened; I have been hunted, attacked, and have seen my closest friend slain. The enemy that destroyed your people did this to me when I was a child in Ateris,” he told her, pointing to the blood-red eye and the jagged white scar above. “I had few friends in that city, but those were brutally murdered. Youngsters I grew to like among the Farlain are now rotting corpses. I was sent here to gather an army that could descend upon the enemy and, perhaps, turn the tide of battle. I do not patronize you, I admire you. But still I am disappointed.”
“That I can understand,” she said, her voice softening. “You were one of the Beast Slayers, were you not?”
“That seems so long ago now. There were five of us—and one of those lies dead back in the forest . . . or at least he would, had he not been devoured by another demon beast.”
“Who died?” she asked.
“Layne.”
“The handsome brother of the mighty Lennox,” she said. “That is indeed a loss. You say there are more of these creatures still roaming the mountains?”
“One only. We slew the others.”
“Good,” she said with a smile. “You know you are now part of clan myths.”
He nodded. “A small part.”
“The Lowlander and the Ghost Queen.”
“Is that what they call her?”
“Yes. The story is that she was the daughter of Earis returned from the grave.”
“I don’t know about that,” he told her. “Her name was Sigarni, and she was a mighty warrior queen—the sort of woman you would follow into the caverns of the damned.”
“I like the sound of her. I’ll get us something to eat,” she said, rising and taking his empty goblet.
“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “was your man killed?”
“I had no man.”
“Why?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“I . . .”
“And don’t apologize!”
He watched her leave the chamber, too aware for comfort of her sensual grace and the sleek lines of her body.
Maggrig was horrified when the young druid, Metas, brought him the news of Taliesen’s death. The Pallides leader was still reeling from the trap that had been sprung on him that morning when the Aenir encircled his force. He had escaped, but only by good fortune.
Now he was thunderstruck. He sent a message to Leofas and retired with Intosh to the forest caves to await him. It was late afternoon when Leofas was led to him; with the old warrior was his giant son, Lennox.
“You have heard?” asked Maggrig, rising and gripping the old man’s hand.
“Yes.” Leofas was grey with fatigue and he slumped to the ground beside the crackling fire. “How could it happen?” he asked.
“Damned if I know. Druid magic. Taliesen was found dead in his chambers; they’d run to him to report the disappearance of the Gates. Metas tells me they’ve tried all the words of power, but none work anymore.”
“All our women and children gone. Caswallon trapped in another land. Gods, it’s hopeless,” said Leofas.
“The druids are searching through Taliesen’s records. So far they’ve achieved nothing.”
Leofas rubbed his face, scratching at his iron-streaked beard. “It seems as if the Gods are riding with the Aenir.”
“Let them,” said Maggrig. “I’ve never had a lot of time for them. A man stands alone in his life; if he stops to rely on some invisible spirit, then he’ll fail.”
“Luck has a way of changing,” said Intosh. “I don’t believe we should do anything rash. We must proceed with the original plan.”
“And commit suicide?” asked Maggrig. “The whole point of the Axta strategy was so that Caswallon could bring the Queen’s army down on the enemy. Without that we will be wiped out within the morning.”
“They could still reopen the Gates,” said Lennox.
“I wouldn’t trust those druids to open a pouch,” snapped Maggrig. “It’s hard to have faith in a group so prone to panic. Metas doesn’t know his buttocks from a lump of cheese. And as for the rest, they’re running around like headless chickens, so I’m told. If they reopen them in time, we’ll stay with Caswallon’s plan. If not—we must think again.”
“There’s worse news,” said Lennox. The three men turned to him. “We caught an Aenir scout last night. He told us that Laric and his Haesten launched an attack on Aesgard. They were repulsed and trapped in Southwood by Orsa and two thousand Aenir, and were all slain. Laric’s head was left on a spear. There will be no help from the south.”
“Well, that’s about it,” said Maggrig. “All we need is a plague in our ranks and the day will be complete.”
The four sat in silence around the fire, the burden of despair weighing them down.
A young Pallides warrior entered the cave. “The Loda Hunt Lord has arrived,” he said.
“Bring him to me.”
“I need no bringing!” said Dunild, pushing past the young warrior. The newcomer was short, but powerfully built. He had no beard, and his yellow hair hung to his shoulders beneath a woolen bonnet edged with leather and decorated with an eagle’s feather.
Maggrig stood and forced a smile. “Well met, you poaching rascal!”
Dunild laid his round shield on the ground and gripped Maggrig’s wrist. “You look fat and old, Maggrig,” said the Loda Hunt Lord.
“That’s because I am old and fat. But still a match for most men—including you. How many follow you?”
“Three hundred.”
“Good news.”
“I hear you’ve been suffering.”
“I’ve had better days,” admitted Maggrig. “What of Grigor?”
“I know nothing of the thieving louse,” hissed Dunild.
“Now, that is not the whole truth, my friend,” said Maggrig, “for you’d not have brought your clan and left your own valley unprotected.”
Dunild grinned. “He says he will come and fight alongside you—as long as he doesn’t have to fight alongside me!”
“How many will he bring?”
“He’ll match me man for man, so I told him five hundred.”
“I trust neither of you will leave any behind to raid each other’s lands?”
“On the contrary. We’ve both done just that.”
“I think you might be right, Intosh,” said Maggrig. “Perhaps our luck is changing.” The swordsman grinned and the newcomer joined them around the fire.
The discussion carried on into the night, and the men were joined by Patris Grigor, a skeletally lean, balding warrior and Hunt Lord to the Grigor clan. There were few better sword killers in the mountains than this taciturn clansman. He sat as far from Dunild as he could, and the two men exchanged not a word during the discussion, all comments directed at Leofas or Maggrig. The atmosphere was tense.
At dawn they received a report from the druid Metas. There had been no success with the Gates, and Taliesen’s files had offered no solution. The Gates, he said, were closed forever.
For a time none of the leaders spoke. Their families gone, their hopes dashed, they sat in the silence of despair. Finally Leofas said, “All we have left now is to die—and take as many of the enemy with us as we can. Now is the time for a decision, Maggrig. Axta Glen is out of the question. So where do we make a stand?”
> His words hung in the air. Maggrig, forcing his mind from thoughts of Maeg and his grandson, lost in time, glanced at Dunild and Grigor. The men had brought their warriors to fight alongside the other clans—not to throw their lives away. Maggrig saw the concern on their faces, and he knew what other thoughts would be stirring in their cunning minds. The Farlain and the Pallides had lost all their women and children. If, by some chance, they were able to destroy the Aenir they would then be forced to raid for women from other clans.
“We will find a way to open the Gates,” he said, surprised at the confidence in his voice. “And more than that. I don’t intend to merely lash out like a dying bear. I want to win. By the Gods, we’re all clansmen here. Brothers and cousins. Together we will destroy Asbidag and his ragtag band of killers.”
“A pretty speech, Maggrig,” said Dunild softly. “But how—and where—will this be achieved?”
“That is for us to decide at this meeting,” answered Maggrig. “Who will begin?”
An hour of discussion followed as the clan leaders suggested various possible battle sites, mostly occupying high ground. None of the sites offered even the possibility of a victory. Then Intosh suggested a mountain pass some twenty miles east. It was known as Icairn’s Folly, following a battle there hundreds of years ago when a young chieftain had followed his enemy into the pass and been destroyed.
“We could man the pass walls with archers and lure the Aenir in upon us,” said Intosh. “The mountain walls narrow to two hundred fifty paces apart at the center, and a small force could hold a larger one there.”
“And what when we are pushed back? The pass is blocked and we would be like cattle in a slaughter pen,” said Maggrig.
“Let’s not be pushed back,” said Intosh.
“But can we win there?” asked Grigor. “I don’t like the idea of hurling my clan to doom on one battle.”
“Can we win anywhere?” asked Leofas.
“The Folly does have one advantage,” offered Maggrig. “Our archers will wreak a terrible slaughter among the enemy. The Aenir could break and run. They’ve done it before—when the Pallides crushed them.”