The Hawk Eternal hq-2

by David Gemmel

  Gaelen awoke, rolling to his back and rubbing his eyes. The night was silent, save for the movement of bats in the trees above him and the skittering sound of badgers in the undergrowth off to the left. These were sounds he knew well. But something else had pierced his dreams, bringing him to wakefulness. His mind was hazy, confused. It had seemed as if horns were blowing far away, whispering in the night breeze.

  But now there was silence as Gaelen sat up and looked around him. Render was gone, hunting his supper, and the fire had died down within its circle of rocks. Gaelen added fuel, more for light than heat. As the blaze flared he pushed back his blanket and stood up, stretching the muscles of his back. He was hungry. The sky was lightening and the dawn was not far off. Gathering his bow and quiver, he made his way to the edge of the woods, looking down onto a gently sloping field, silver in the waning moonlight. Upon it were scores of rabbits nibbling at grass and clover. Gaelen settled down on his knees and strung the bow; he then selected an arrow and notched it to the string. Spotting a buck some twenty paces distant, he drew and loosed the shaft. As the buck fell, the other rabbits disappeared at speed. Returning to the fire he skinned the beast, gutting and slicing it for the pot. Render loped through the bushes, jaws bloody, and squatted down beside him, waiting expectantly for the remains.

  Gaelen threw the offal to the hound, who set to work on his second meal of the night. As dawn light seeped into the sky, Gaelen found himself thinking of the Queen Beyond. Often her face would come to him, sometimes in dreams but more often as he went about the chores of the day. She had died for him-for them-and Gaelen wished, with all his heart, that he could have repaid her. And what did she mean when she promised to come again?

  By midmorning Gaelen and Render were picking their way down a wooded slope alongside a tumbling stream. Every forty or fifty paces the water hissed over rocky falls, gushing at ever-increasing speed toward the valley below. Birds sang in the trees, and crimson flowers bloomed by the water. Every now and then, as they came to a break in the trees, Gaelen stopped and gazed on the mountains, still snowcapped, like old men in a line. Gaelen knew he should be feeling guilty about his leisurely pace and the wide western swing he was making, for there was plenty of spring work back home. But after the winter cooped up in the valley, he needed the solitude.

  A woman’s scream pierced the glade. Render’s head came up, a deep growl starting in his throat. Gaelen flashed his hand up, palm outward, and the dog fell silent. The scream came from the right, beyond a thicket of gorse. Gaelen eased his hunting knife into his hand, released his pack and bow from his shoulders, and moved forward silently. Render padded beside him.

  Once in the thicket other noises came to them-the rending of cloth, and slapping sounds as if openhanded blows were being struck. Creeping forward, bent double, Gaelen came to the edge of the thicket. Three Aenir warriors had pinned a young girl to the ground. Two held her arms, the third crouched over her, slashing her clothes with a knife and ripping them from her.

  Gaelen calmed the dog and waited. He couldn’t see the girl’s face, but from the clothes she was Farlain. The Aenir stripped her naked, then one forced her legs apart, dropping his hand to loosen his breeches. As he did so Gaelen pointed to the warrior holding the girl.

  “Kill!” he hissed. Render leaped forward, covering the ground in three bounds, snarling ferociously. The three whirled at the sound, dragging their knives clear. Render’s great jaws closed upon the throat of his victim, the Aenir’s neck snapping with a hideous crack. Gaelen, long hunting knife in hand, was just behind the dog. He hurdled the beast, batting aside a wild slash from the second Aenir, then himself backhanded a cut across the man’s face. The warrior’s cheek blossomed red and he fell back, dropping his knife. Gaelen threw himself forward to plunge his own blade through the man’s leather jerkin, up under the ribs, seeking the heart. The man’s eyes opened in shock and pain. Gaelen twisted the blade to free it from the suction of the man’s body and tore it loose, kicking him away. Spinning, he was just in time to parry a thrust from the third warrior who aimed a vicious cut at his head. Gaelen ducked beneath it, stepping inside to hammer the knife into the man’s groin. The Aenir screamed and fell. Gaelen dragged the knife clear, punching it to the man’s throat and cutting off his screams. Render, still growling, tore at his victim, though the man was long dead.

  “Home!” hissed Gaelen. In the following silence he listened intently. Satisfied the Aenir were alone, he ran to the girl.

  It was Deva, her face bruised and swollen, her lips cut and bleeding. She was unconscious. Gaelen gathered what remained of her clothes and lifted the girl to his shoulder. Then he made his way back through the thicket to his pack and labored on up the slope, keeping to the rocky paths and firmer areas that would leave less sign of his passing.

  His breathing was ragged as he reached the highest point of the slope, cutting into a sheltered glade where he lowered Deva to the ground. She was breathing evenly. Her shirt was in tatters and he threw it to one side. Her skirt had been ripped in half. Removing it, he spread the cloth and sliced an opening in the center. Sheathing his knife he lifted the girl to a sitting position and put the skirt over her head, widening the slash until the garment settled over her shoulders like a cape that fell to her knees. He tore her shirt into strips and fashioned a belt that he tied around her waist, then he laid her back.

  “Stay!” he ordered Render and the hound settled down beside the girl. Gaelen gathered up his bow and quiver and retraced his steps to the slope, crouching in the undergrowth, eyes searching the trail.

  There were so many questions. Why were the Aenir so far into the Farlain? What was Deva doing alone in the wilderness? What manner of men were these warriors who dressed like foresters and carried hunting knives like the clans? Had the war begun, or were they merely scouts? How many more were searching these woods? He could answer none of the questions.

  He had been lucky today, waiting until the men’s lust was at its height before launching an attack. But once the enemy discovered the bodies they would be on his trail like wolves after a wounded deer. More than luck would be needed to survive from now on, he knew.

  He was at least two days from the valley, but if the war had begun there was no point going east. If it had not, there was little point heading for Attafoss, a day or more to the northeast.

  Down the slope he saw a flash of movement and drew back into the bushes. A man appeared, then another, then a file of warriors bearing bows. They did not seem to be hunting a trail, but if they kept moving along the track they would find the bodies. Gaelen waited until the file had passed, counting them, despair growing as the figure topped one hundred.

  This was no scouting party.

  Pulling back out of sight he ran to the glade, kneeling over Deva, lifting her head and lightly stroking her face. She came awake with a start, a scream beginning as his hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Be silent, Deva, it is Gaelen!” he hissed. Her eyes swiveled to him and she blinked and nodded. He removed his hand.

  “The Aenir?” she whispered.

  “Dead. But more are coming and we must move. Can you run?”

  She nodded and he helped her to her feet. Hoisting his pack, he gathered up the remains of her clothing and bade her wait for him. He moved east for two hundred paces, crossing the stream, leaving his track on a muddy bank, and looping a torn fragment of Deva’s shirt over a gorse bush. Satisfied with the false trail, he turned west again, moving more carefully over the rocks and firm ground until he rejoined Deva in the glade.

  “Let’s go,” he said, heading for Attafoss.

  They made almost half a mile when the horns sounded, echoing eerily in the mountains around them. “They’ve found the bodies,” he said grimly. “Let’s push on.”

  Throughout the long afternoon Gaelen led them ever higher into the mountains, stopping often to study the back trail and keeping ever under cover. Deva stumbled after him, still in shock after her narrow escape,
and yet awed by the authoritative manner in which Gaelen was leading. There was no panic in him, nor yet any sign of fear. He was, she realized not without shock, a clansman.

  And he had killed three Aenir warriors. She was sorry to have missed that event.

  Toward dusk Gaelen found a secluded hollow off the trail and he dumped his pack and sat down. He stayed there silently for some minutes, ignoring the girl; then he stood and returned to the trail, crouching to scan the mountainside. There was no sign of pursuit. He waited until it was too dark to see any distance, then returned to the hollow. Deva was bathing her face with water from his canteen and he squatted beside her.

  “How are you faring?” he asked.

  “Well. Are they close?”

  “I can see no one, but that tells us nothing. They are woodsmen, they could be anywhere.”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing in the mountains?” he asked her.

  “I had to visit my uncle Lars, who has a croft cabin south of here. I went with Larain. We were coming home when we saw the Aenir and we both ran. I hid in the woods, I don’t know what happened to Larain. Most of the night I listened for them, but I heard nothing. This morning I tried to get back to the valley, but they were waiting for me. I got away once but they caught me back there, where you found me.”

  “It’s an invasion,” said Gaelen.

  “But why would they do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, Deva. I don’t believe they need a reason to fight. Rest now.”

  “Thank you for my tunic,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

  “I could do no better,” he stammered. Reaching past her, he pulled his blanket roll from the pack. “Wrap yourself. It will be a chill night and we can afford no fire.”

  “Gaelen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I… I thank you for saving my life.”

  “Thank me when we reach safety. If there is such a place still.. .”

  She watched the darkness swallow him, knowing he would spend the night on the edge of the trail. Render settled down beside her and she snuggled into his warm body.

  Gaelen awoke just before dawn, coming out of a light doze in his hiding place by the trail’s edge. He yawned and stretched. The path below was still clear. Rounding the bushes he stopped, jolted by a heel print on the track not ten paces from where he had slept.

  The track was fresh. Swiftly he searched the ground. He found another print, and a third alongside it. Two men. And they were ahead of him.

  Ducking once more, he reentered the glade, waking Deva and rolling his blanket. Taking up his pack, he unstrapped his bow and strung it.

  Glancing around, he saw that Render had gone hunting.

  “We have a problem,” he told the girl.

  “They are ahead of us?”

  He nodded. “Only two of them. Scouts. They passed in the night.”

  “Then give me a bow. My marksmanship is good, and you’ll need your hands clear for knife work.”

  He handed her the weapon without hesitation. All clanswomen were practiced with the bow and Deva had the reputation of being better than most.

  Slowly they made their way north and east, wary of open ground, until at last the trees thinned and a gorse-covered slope beckoned beyond. It stretched for some four hundred paces.

  “You could hide an army down there,” whispered Deva, crouching beside him in the last of the undergrowth before the slope.

  “I know. But we have little choice. The main force is behind us. They have sent these scouts ahead to cut us off. If we remain here the main body will come upon us. We must go on.”

  “You go first. I’ll wait here. If I spot movement I’ll signal.”

  “Very well. But don’t shoot until you are sure of a hit.”

  Biting back an angry retort, she nodded. What did he think she was going to do? Shoot at shadows? Gaelen left the cover of the trees and moved slowly down the slope, tense and expectant. Deva scanned the gorse, trying not to focus on any one point. Her father had taught her that movement was best seen peripherally.

  A bush to the right moved, as if a man was easing through it. Then her attention was jerked away by a noise from behind and she turned. A hundred paces back along the trail, a man had fallen and his comrades were laughing at him. They were not yet in sight, but would be in a matter of moments. She was trapped! Fighting down panic, she notched an arrow to the bow. Gaelen reached the bottom of the slope and glanced back. Deva lifted both hands, pointing one index finger left, the other right. Then she jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

  Gaelen cursed and moved. He broke into a lunging run for the gorse, angling to the right, his knife in his hand. Surprised by the sudden sprint, the hidden archer had to step into the open. His bow was already bent.

  Deva drew back the bowstring to nestle against her cheek. Releasing her breath slowly, she calmed her mind and sighted on the motionless archer. Gaelen threw himself forward in a tumbler’s roll as the man released his shaft. It whistled over his head. Deva let fly, the arrow flashing down to thud into the archer’s chest. The man dropped his bow and fell to his knees, clutching at the shaft; then he toppled sideways to the earth.

  Coming out of his roll, Gaelen saw the man fall. The second Aenir, a huge man with a braided yellow beard, hurled his bow aside and drew his own hunting knife. He leaped at the clansman, his knife plunging toward Gaelen’s belly. Gaelen dived to the left-and the Aenir’s blade raked his ribs. Rolling to his feet Gaelen launched himself at the warrior, his shoulder cannoning into the man’s chest. Off balance, the Aenir fell, Gaelen on top of him. The blond warrior tried to rise but Gaelen slammed his forehead against the Aenir’s nose, blinding him momentarily. As the man fell back Gaelen rolled onto the warrior’s knife arm and sliced his own blade across the bearded throat. Blood bubbled and surged from the gaping wound, drenching the clansman. Pushing the body under thick gorse, Gaelen rolled to his feet and ran back to the first man. Deva was already there, struggling to pull the body out of sight into the bushes. Together they made it with scant moments to spare.

  Huddled together over the corpse, Gaelen put his arm around Deva, drawing her close as the Aenir force breasted the slope. “If they find the other body we’re finished,” he said. His knife was in his hand and he knew with bleak certainty that he would cut her throat rather than let them take her.

  The enemy moved down the slope. Grim men they were, and they moved cautiously, many notching arrows to bowstrings, their eyes flickering over the gorse. Gaelen took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm; his heart was thudding against his chest like a drum. He closed his eyes; Deva leaned against him and he could smell the perfume of her hair.

  The Aenir entered the gorse, pushing on toward the east. Two men passed within ten paces of where they lay. They were talking and joking now, content that the open ground was behind them.

  The last of the Aenir moved away out of earshot. Gaelen felt cramped, but still he did not move. It was hard to stay so still, for hiding was a passive, negative thing that leached a man’s courage.

  “You can let go of me now, clansman,” whispered Deva.

  He nodded, but did not move. Deva looked up into his face, seeing the tension and fear. Raising her hand, she stroked his cheek. “Help me get this swine’s jerkin,” she said.

  Gaelen released her, smiling sheepishly. He pulled her arrow from the man’s ribs and they worked the brown leather jerkin clear. Deva slipped it on over her tunic. It was too large by far and Gaelen trimmed the shoulders with his knife.

  “How do I look?” she asked him.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “If this is beautiful, you should have been struck dumb at the Whorl Dance.”

  “I was.”

  Deva giggled. She looped the man’s knife belt around her waist. “You were so forlorn, Gaelen. I felt quite sorry for you, with your swollen leg.”

  “I felt quite sorry for myself.”

  “What are yo
ur plans now? Why are we heading north?”

  “With luck the clan will be there.”

  “Why should they be?”

  “I believe the war has begun. The Aenir will have raided the valleys. But Caswallon has a plan.”

  “Caswallon!” she snapped. “Caswallon is not Hunt Lord!”

  “No, but he should be,” hissed Gaelen. A sound in the bushes jolted them, but relief swept over Gaelen as Render’s great black and grey head appeared. Kneeling, he patted the dog affectionately, using the time to let the angry moment pass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I did not mean that.”

  “You meant it. Let’s talk no more of it. We’ve a long way to go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Drada arrived in Farlain valleys on the second day of the invasion, having completed his attack on the Haesten. Throughout the day his men had been scouring the mountains, hunting down clansmen and their families, killing the men and older women, taking the young girls alive. So far they had killed more than a thousand Highlanders.

  Leaving a third of his force behind to harry the remnants of Laric’s people, he moved on to join his father. There was no word from Ongist and his force, apart from the first message that told of Maggrig’s flight into the mountains.

  With twenty men Drada rode ahead of the marching army, reining his mount on the high slope above the first valley. Below him were a dozen or so gutted houses; the rest had been taken over by the Aenir, whose tents also dotted the field. Drada was discontented. The assault had not been a complete success. The Haesten were all but wiped out, but the Pallides and the Farlain were still at large.

  Barsa’s Timber Wolves would harry them in the northwest, but Drada did not share his father’s scant regard for the clans’ fighting abilities. And he had heard of Cambil’s death with regret.

  Not that he liked the man, more that he was easy to read, and if the Farlain had to escape Drada would have rested more easily knowing Cambil was Hunt Lord. He didn’t need to be a prophet to predict the next leader: