The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “I see,” said Lara.

  “What do you see?”

  “I see why you are so nervous around women.”

  “I am not nervous around women, I am nervous with you,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  Gaelen was growing hot and beginning to feel like a hunted rabbit.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I have no idea, and I don’t wish to discuss it,” he said primly. She laughed then, the sound deep and throaty, which only added to his discomfort.

  On the first night of camp Gaelen avoided her, talking long into the night with Gwalchmai, who had returned from his scouting trip with Telor. Telor and his companions had remained in the north, and Gwal was due to rejoin them at first light.

  “It was an uncomfortable day,” said Gwalchmai. “I think we only exchanged three words.”

  “I’m sorry, Gwal. How does it look?”

  “So far the route is clear. That Telor gives me cold chills, though.”

  “Yes. Let’s hope he saves his anger for the Aenir.”

  “Let’s hope they cut his damned heart out,” muttered Agwaine, joining them.

  Gaelen shook his head. “No wonder the clans are always at war,” he said.

  “How are you getting on with Lara?” asked Agwaine, his mouth spreading in a lecherous grin.

  “What does that mean?” snapped Gaelen.

  “She likes you, man. It’s obvious.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Not beautiful exactly, but gorgeous. And those breeches . . .”

  “Will you stop this?”

  “I wish she liked me.”

  “I cannot believe this conversation is taking place. We are marching toward a battle, I’m trying to think about tactics, and all you can think about is . . . is . . . breeches.”

  “What about breeches?” asked Lara, moving up to sit with them.

  “Yes, Gaelen, tell her about the breeches tactic,” said Gwalchmai.

  Gaelen closed his eyes.

  “Well?” she said.

  “You’re the authority, Gwal. You explain it.”

  Gwalchmai chuckled. “No. If I’m to be with Telor by dawn, I’d best tuck up in my blankets. Excuse me.”

  Gwal moved off to fashion a bed below an overhanging pine. Agwaine grinned and also moved away—despite Gaelen’s imploring gaze. “So?” said Lara. “What about breeches?”

  “It was a jest. The clouds are bunching—there could be rain tomorrow.”

  “Come with me,” she said, taking his hand. He followed her into the trees and they stopped some forty paces away in a circular clearing, screened by dense bushes. She led him to where she had placed her blankets and pulled him down beside her. The clansman was supremely ill at ease.

  “What did you want to talk about?” he asked huskily.

  “I don’t want to talk, Gaelen.” Leaning forward, she curled an arm around his neck and kissed him.

  Thoughts of Deva vanished like ice on fire.

  Leofas and Maggrig walked the length of the Folly as darkness gathered around them. The slopes on either side were steep and pitted with rocks and boulders, while the pass itself showed a steady incline toward the narrow center. The Aenir would be charging uphill and that would slow them. But not by much.

  The two men were joined by Patris Grigor and a dozen of his archers. “It’s a magnificent killing ground,” said Grigor. “They’ll lose hundreds before they reach you—if they come in, that is. What if they bottle up the mouth of the pass?”

  “We attack them,” declared Maggrig.

  “That’s not much of a plan,” said Grigor, grinning.

  “I’m not much of a planner,” admitted Maggrig, “but I think they’ll come at us. They’ve yet to learn fear.”

  “When your arrows are exhausted, we leave. If we can,” said Grigor.

  “Understood,” said Maggrig, walking back toward the campfires in the wide pass beyond.

  The walls of the box canyon rose sheer, reflecting the red light from hundreds of small fires. Leofas, who had remained silent on the long walk, sat back on a boulder, staring out over the clan army as they rested. Some men were already sleeping, others were sharpening sword blades. Many were laughing and talking.

  “What’s wrong, my friend?” Maggrig asked.

  Leofas glanced up. In the flickering firelight Maggrig’s beard shone like flames, his blue eyes glittering, his face a mask of bronze.

  “I’m tired,” said Leofas, resting his chin in his hands and staring out over the campfires.

  “Nonsense! You’ll be leading the victory dance tomorrow like a first-year huntsman.”

  The Farlain warrior looked up, eyes blazing. “Will you stop for a moment? I’m not a first-year huntsman, and I don’t need you trying to lift me. I’m old. Experienced. I’ve seen war and death. Anyone who can tell a sword point from a hole in the ground knows we have little chance tomorrow.”

  “Then leave!” snapped Maggrig.

  “And where would I go, Maggrig? No, I don’t mind dying alongside you. In fact, I don’t mind dying. My hope is that we cull their ranks enough for the other clans to have a chance of defeating them.”

  “You think I’ve been foolish?” asked Maggrig, slumping beside him.

  “No. We ran out of choices, that’s all.”

  For a time they sat in silence, then Maggrig turned to his companion. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “I don’t mind if you ask,” said Leofas. “I may not answer.”

  “Why did you never remarry? You were only a young man when Maerie died.”

  Leofas switched his gaze to the stars and the years slipped away like falling dreams. He shook his head. Finally he spoke, his voice soft, his eyes distant.

  “I miss her most at sunset, when we’d go to the ridge behind the house. There was an old elm there. I built a seat around the base and we’d sit there and watch the sun die. I’d wrap us both in my cloak and she’d rest her head on my shoulder. It was so peaceful, you could believe there was not another living being in the world. I felt alive then. I never have since.”

  “So why not remarry?”

  “I didn’t want anyone else. And you?”

  “No one else would have me,” said Maggrig.

  “That’s not true.”

  “No, it’s not,” admitted Maggrig. “But then Rhianna and I didn’t watch many sunsets. In truth we spent most of our life together squabbling and rowing. But she was a good lass for all that. Maeg was four when Rhianna died, she wouldn’t have taken to another mother.”

  “We’re a pair of fools,” said Leofas again. “Do you regret not having sons?”

  “No,” lied Maggrig. “And we’re getting maudlin.”

  “Old men are allowed to get maudlin. It’s a rule of life.”

  “We’re not that old. I’m as strong as ever.”

  “I’m ten years older than you, Maggrig, and according to tradition, that makes me wise. Between us we muster a century or more. That’s old.”

  “I never used to be old,” said Maggrig, grinning. “Strange how it creeps up on a man.”

  They let the silence grow, each drifting on a river of memories. It was, they believed, their last night alive under the stars and neither wanted to talk about tomorrow.

  Drada was angry, more angry than he could ever recall. The clans had mounted a series of raids, retreating always to the east. He sensed a plan behind the attacks and now it had become clear.

  That morning Aenir scouts had reported a movement of the clans toward a pass six miles east. Drada, who had scouted the land personally some days before, knew that the pass was blocked and impassable to the north. Surely the clans would not consider a battle there? But they had, and now the Aenir force was waiting in the mouth of Icairn’s Folly—and Drada was crimson with rage.

  “But why attack, Father? It is unnecessary. There is no way out for them; if we wait they mu
st attack us.”

  “I command here!” thundered Asbidag. “Why do you plead caution when we have them where we want them?”

  “Listen to me, Father. The slopes within could hold a thousand archers. They will take a huge toll. The main army will be near the center of the pass, where the mountain walls narrow, which means our weight of numbers will be lessened. We will be fighting one to one. Of course we’ll win—but we could lose thousands in there.”

  “They brought me Barsa’s rotting corpse this morning,” said Asbidag. “Now I have two sons calling for vengeance. And you want me to sit and wait.”

  “The clans have made a terrible mistake,” said Drada. “They are hoping we will do exactly what you are planning. It is their only hope.”

  “What are you, a prophet now? How do you know what they are planning? I believe we have surprised them in their lair. Get the men ready to charge.”

  Drada swallowed his anger, and it tasted of bile. He turned away from his father then, so that he would not see the burning hatred in his eyes.

  You are dead, Asbidag, Drada decided. After the battle, I will kill you.

  The Aenir line assembled in the mouth of the pass, shield straps being tightened, sword hands rubbed in dust for better grip. Twenty-five thousand men peered at the rock-strewn slopes and the towering mountain walls beyond. There was no enemy in sight.

  The war horns of the Aenir sounded and the armor-clad mass began to move slowly forward, Drada and Tostig together at the center, Asbidag’s other sons to the left and right of them. Asbidag himself stayed at the mouth of the pass surrounded by his forty huscarles. Morgase stood beside him, her eyes bright, her heart hammering as she waited for the killing to begin.

  The Aenir army moved on warily, with shields held high, scanning the slopes. Ahead of them the pass narrowed and still there was no sign of the enemy . . .

  Suddenly the Folly was alive with noise as the Farlain and the Pallides moved into sight to man the narrow center. A great roar went up from the Aenir as they surged forward, beating shields with their sword blades. On either side of them rose archers from the Dunilds and the Loda. Goose-feathered shafts filled the air. The screams of wounded men rose above the war cries and now the clans roared out their own battle cry that echoed in the mountains, booming and growing.

  Dark clouds of hissing death flashed into the Aenir horde in a series of withering volleys. Some warriors broke from the ranks to charge the archers, but these were cut down by scores of shafts. The charge slowed, but did not stop.

  At the front of the Aenir line the giant Orsa felt the baresark rage upon him. Hurling aside his shield, he raced ahead of his men bellowing his anger and swinging his broadsword above his head. An arrow sliced into his thigh but he ignored it.

  Lennox leaped from the line to meet him, holding a long-handled mace of lead and iron. He too threw aside his shield as Orsa ran forward slashing his blade toward the clansman’s head. Lennox made no move to avoid the blow but lashed the mace into the blade, smashing it to shards. Orsa crashed into him and both men fell to the ground, Orsa’s hands closing about Lennox’s throat. Releasing the mace, Lennox reached up to cup his hand under Orsa’s chin; then punching his arm forward, he snapped the Aenir’s head back, tearing the man’s grip from his neck. Rolling, Lennox came up with the mace and delivered a terrible blow to Orsa’s skull, crushing the bones to shards and powder.

  With scant seconds to spare Lennox rejoined the line, standing beside his father, Leofas, and the Pallides War Lord Maggrig. The front line of the Aenir bore down on the waiting clans. Maggrig lifted his sword, grinned at Intosh, then screamed the battle cry of the Pallides.

  “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

  The chant was taken up and the clans surged into the charging Aenir. After four years of war in the Lowlands the Aenir believed they were the finest fighters under the sky, but never had they met the fierce-eyed, blood-hungry wolves of the mountains. Now they learned the terrible truth, and as the blades of the clans slashed and cut their first line to shreds, the charge faltered.

  Maggrig powered his way into the Aenir ranks, cleaving and killing, an awful fury upon him. Many were the Pallides dead whose faces he would never forget, whose souls hungered for vengeance. The War Lord forgot the plan to hold the center and forged ever deeper into the enemy. Intosh and the Pallides had no choice but to follow him.

  Leofas gutted one warrior and parried a blow from a second, backhanding his shield into the man’s face. Lennox aided him, braining the man with his mace.

  “Sound the horn!” yelled Leofas. “Maggrig’s gone mad!”

  Lennox stepped back from the fray, allowing Farlain warriors to shield him from the enemy. Lifting his war horn to his lips, he blew three sharp blasts. The sound filtered through Maggrig’s rage and he slowed in his attack, allowing the Pallides to form around him. The weight of the Aenir numbers was beginning to tell and the clans were pushed back, inch by murderous inch.

  The deadly storm of arrows had slowed now, for the archers on the slopes were running short of shafts.

  Dunild hurled aside his bow, lifting his shield and drawing his sword. His men followed suit. Now was the time to withdraw, for the battle could not be won; the Aenir had not broken.

  Three hundred clansmen joined him, swords in hand. Looking across the slopes to where his enemy Patris Grigor had also drawn his sword, Dunild felt a strange calm settle on him. He lifted his sword in silent farewell to his enemy. There would never be peace while they both lived, for their hatred was stronger than any desire to beat a common foe.

  “Cut! Cut! Cut!” yelled Dunild as he led his three hundred down the slope to reinforce the Farlain.

  Patris Grigor could not believe his eyes. His enemy of twenty years had just surrendered his lands. Patris was now the undisputed lord of the northwest.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” yelled a man on his left. Grigor shrugged. Twenty years of hatred, and now Dunild was hurling his life away on a futile charge in a doomed battle. Grigor shook his head and dropped his bow.

  “Do we leave now?” asked a clansman.

  Grigor laughed. “You know what’s happening down there?”

  “The Aenir are about to win through. It’s all over.”

  “That’s right. And that brainless idiot Dunild has gone down there to die.”

  “Then we are leaving?”

  “What do you think?”

  The man grinned. “If we charge now we might just be able to hack our way through to Dunild and then, while no one’s looking, I’ll cut his throat.”

  Grigor chuckled and hitched his shield to his arm. “Yes, by damn. Let’s do something noble for a change!” Raising his sword, he began to run down the slope. Five hundred Grigor warriors took up their swords and followed him.

  The front line of the Aenir slipped and slithered over blood-covered rocks and sprawled bodies, only to be cut down by the slashing iron blades of the clansmen. Leofas, his cold blue eyes glinting with battle fever, stood at the center of the defenders, Maggrig and Lennox on either side. Again and again the Aenir swarmed forward, only to be turned back by the sharp blades and steadfast courage of the defenders.

  Drada alone among the Aenir was not surprised by the resolute defense, but he had been a part of many battles and knew what must happen now. The clans would fall back, there was no choice. Their strength was failing fast and their losses were enormous. The two at the center were both old men and their stamina suspect. Once they had fallen, the line would break.

  Beside him Briga was poised for the final rush. He had been a warrior for more than twenty years and always, he knew, there came a point where the fight could be read like a game, where the ebb and flow could be charted like a steady current. They had reached that point now.

  And the clans were ready to break . . .

  The feeling swept among the Aenir and the battle cries began again. Once more the forces clashed. The clansmen fought silently now, leaden-legged and heavy of arm, and
inch by inexorable inch they were forced back toward the open pass beyond.

  Briga felt joy surge in his veins. No army in the world could hold now. It was over. The clans were finished!

  Maggrig felt it too, and he cursed aloud as he clove his sword through an Aenir neck and ducked under a slashing blade. Well, if he had to die he was damned if it would be in the open ground he had fought so hard to defend. Dropping to his haunches he hurled himself forward into the Aenir, cutting and stabbing. Caught up in the frenzy of the moment, Leofas joined him, with Lennox and Intosh.

  And the clans rallied, surging forward to join their leaders. The ferocity of the assault stunned the leading Aenir warriors and they fought to pull back. Briga, just behind the front line, turned to Drada. “It’s impossible!” he shouted. Drada shrugged.

  As the Aenir front line backed away from him, Maggrig raised his sword defiantly. “Come on, you Outland scum. We’re still standing!”

  A huge warrior in a wolf’s-head helm leaped from the Aenir ranks, sword raised. Maggrig parried the blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into the mail shirt and snapped. Dropping the useless hilt, Maggrig grabbed the man by his mail shirt and hauled him forward, butting him savagely and crashing his fist into the man’s belly. The warrior doubled over, his head snapping back as Maggrig’s knee came up to explode against his face.

  Intosh threw Maggrig a sword, Maggrig caught it by the hilt and sliced the blade through the back of the wolf’s-head helm. The Aenir died without a sound.

  “You lice-ridden sons of bitches,” shouted Maggrig. “Is that the best you can do?”

  A roar rose from the Aenir and the line lunged forward.

  The battle raged once more and now there were no bloodcurdling battle cries—only the screams of the dying and the grim determination of the living to survive. The clansmen had been forced back, but their enemies had to climb a wall of their own dead to force a path to the dwindling band of defenders.

  Asbidag had climbed into the saddle, the better to see the battle. His trained eye knew it had reached its final stage. A carle beside him screamed suddenly, pitching forward to the ground with a black-feathered shaft in his back. Arrows hissed through the air around him. Asbidag swung in the saddle, tearing his shield from the saddle horn.