The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “You had such talents, Caracis,” said Taliesen softly. “How was it that you became such a wretch?”

  “I wanted to be a king, a hero. I wanted songs sung about me, and legends written. Is that so shameful? Tell me, did she rule well?”

  “She won the final battle, and held the clans together for forty years. She is a true legend and will remain so.”

  Oracle grinned. “Forty years, you say? And she won.” Hauling himself to his feet, the old man fetched a jug of honey mead and two goblets. “Will you join me?”

  “I think I will.”

  “Forty years,” said Oracle again. “I could not have done it. Forty years!”

  “Tell me of the boy Gaelen.”

  Oracle dragged his mind back to the present. “Gaelen? He’s a good lad, bright and quick. He has courage. I like him. He will be good for Caswallon.”

  “How does Caswallon fare?”

  “As always, he walks his own path. He has been good to me . . . like a son. And he eases my shame and helps me forget . . .”

  “Have you told him of your past?” inquired Taliesen, leaning forward and staring hard at Oracle.

  “No, I kept my promises. I’ve told no one of the worlds beyond. Do you doubt me?”

  “I do not. You are a willful man and proud, but no one ever accused you of oath-breaking.”

  “Then why ask?”

  “Because men change. They grow weak. Senile.”

  “I am not senile yet,” snapped Oracle.

  “Indeed you are not.”

  “What will happen to the Queen?”

  Taliesen shrugged. “She will die, as all die. She is old and tired; her day is gone. A sorcerer long ago sent a demon to kill her. He made a mistake and cast his spell too close to a Gateway. The beast is almost upon her.”

  “Can we not save her?”

  “We are talking of destiny, man!” snapped Taliesen. “The beast must find her.” His stern expression relaxed. “Even should the demon fail, she will die soon. Her heart is old and worn out.”

  “At least she achieved something with her life. She saved her people. I’ve destroyed mine.”

  “I cannot make it easier, for you speak the truth. But it is done now.”

  “Is there truly no hope?” Oracle pleaded.

  The druid sighed and stood, gathering his long staff. “There is always hope, no matter how slender or unrealistic. Do not think that you are the only one to feel regret. The Farlain are my people, in a way you could never comprehend. When they are destroyed my life goes with them. And all the works of my life. You! You are just a man who made a mistake. I must bear the cost. Hope? I’ll tell you what hope there is. Imagine a man standing in Atta forest at the birth of autumn. Imagine all the leaves are ready to fall. That man must reach out and catch one leaf, one special leaf. But he doesn’t know which tree it is on. That is the hope for the Farlain. You think the idiot Cambil will catch the leaf?”

  “Caswallon might,” said Oracle.

  “Caswallon is not Hunt Lord,” said Taliesen softly. “And if he were . . . the clans are sundered, and widely spread. They will not turn back an enemy as strong as the Aenir.”

  “Did you come here to punish me, druid?”

  “Punish you? I sometimes wish I had killed you,” said Taliesen sadly. “Damn you, mortal! Why did I ever show you the Gate?”

  Oracle turned away from him then, leaning forward to add fuel to the fire. When he looked back the druid had gone.

  And he had taken the sword . . .

  “You are a little unfair on Caswallon,” Maeg told her father as he sat in the wide leather chair, chuckling as the infant Donal tugged at his beard. Maggrig was well into middle age, but he was still powerful and his thick red beard showed no grey. Donal yawned, and the Pallides Hunt Lord brought the babe to his chest, resting him in the crook of his arm.

  “Unfair to him?” he said, keeping his voice low. “He married my only daughter, and still he raids my herds.”

  “He does not.”

  “I’ll grant you he’s stayed out of Pallides lands recently—but only because the Aenir have cut off his market.”

  “It is tradition, Father,” argued Maeg. “Other clans have always been fair game; and Caswallon is Farlain.”

  “Don’t give me that, girl. That tradition died out years ago. By God, he doesn’t need to raid my cattle. Or Laric’s. And sooner or later someone will catch him. Do you think I want to hang my own son-in-law?”

  Maeg lifted the sleeping child from Maggrig’s arms, laying him in his crib and covering him.

  “He needs excitement, he does it because he enjoys it.” The words sounded lame, even to Maeg. For all his intelligence and quick wit, Caswallon refused to grow up.

  “He used to enjoy taking other men’s wives, I hear,” said Maggrig.

  Maeg turned on him, eyes flashing. “Enough of that!” she snapped. “He’s not looked at another woman since we wed . . . well, he’s looked, but that’s all.”

  “I can’t think why you married him. Did you know he’s got my prize bull in the meadow behind the house? Now there’s a sight to greet a visitor, his own stolen bull!”

  “Take it with you when you go,” said Maeg, smiling.

  “And be seen by all the men of the Farlain? I’d sooner they thought it was a present.” He shook his head. “I thought you’d change him, Maeg. I thought marriage would settle him.”

  “It has. He’s a wonderful husband, he cares for me.”

  “I don’t want to kill him,” admitted Maggrig. “Damn it all, I like the boy. There must be other ways to get excitement.”

  “I’ll talk to him again. Are you sure that’s your bull?”

  “Sure? Of course I’m sure. The night he took it, Intosh and seven others chased him for hours—only he and that damn crofter Arcis had split up. Caswallon led Intosh a merry run.”

  “He must have been furious,” said Maeg, keeping the smile from her face.

  “He’s promised to have Caswallon’s ears for a necklace.”

  “That wasn’t because of the bull,” said his daughter. “It is said that when Intosh came back to his house he found his bed had been slept in and his best sword stolen.”

  “The man is unreasonable,” said Maggrig, unable to suppress a grin. “I gave Intosh that sword after he won the Games.”

  “Shall I get it for you, Father? I’m sure Intosh would like it back.”

  “He’d bury it in pig’s droppings rather than use it now.”

  “Caswallon plans to wear it at the Games.”

  “Ye Gods, woman! Has he no shame?”

  “None that I’ve noticed.”

  From the hearth room below they heard a door open and close, and the sound of whistling floated up the stairs.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better see him,” said Maggrig, pushing himself to his feet.

  “Be nice,” said Maeg, linking her arm with his.

  “Be nice, she says. What should I say? ‘Been on any good raids lately?’ ”

  Maeg chuckled, looped her arm around his neck, and kissed his bearded cheek. “I love you,” she told him.

  He grinned at her. “I was too soft in the raising of you, child. You always had what you wanted.”

  The two of them walked downstairs where Caswallon was standing before the hearth, hands stretched out to the flames. He turned and smiled, green eyes twinkling. “How are you, Father?” he asked.

  “Not a great deal better for seeing you, you thieving swine,” snapped Maggrig. Maeg sighed and left them together.

  “Is that any way to talk to the husband of your daughter?” Caswallon asked.

  “It was a miserable day when you crossed my doorway,” said Maggrig, walking to the far table and pouring a goblet of honey mead. It was full-flavored and rich, and he savored the taste. “This has a familiar feel to it,” he said. “It is not unlike the special mead that Intosh brews.”

  “Really?” said Caswallon.

  Maggrig clos
ed his eyes. “That is all I need to complete my day—my own bull grazing in your meadow, while I drink mead stolen from my comrade.”

  “You must give him my compliments. It is the finest mead I’ve tasted.”

  “I’ll do that. Where is Gaelen?”

  “I’ve sent him out to meet the other lads.”

  “Was that wise?”

  The smile faded from Caswallon’s mouth as he moved to Maggrig’s side and poured himself a goblet of mead. “It had to happen sooner or later,” he said, gesturing Maggrig to a chair. Sitting opposite him, Caswallon gazed at the golden liquid, then sipped at it slowly. “He’s a good boy, Maggrig, but he’s been through much. I think they’ll make him suffer. Agwaine will lead them.”

  “Then why send him?”

  “Because he has to learn. That’s what life is—learning how to survive. All his life he has done that. Now he must find out that life in the mountains is no different.”

  “You sound bitter. It is not like you.”

  “Well, the world is changing,” said Caswallon. “I watched the Aenir sack Ateris and it was vile. They kill like foxes in a henhouse.”

  “I hear you had words with them in the mountains?”

  Caswallon grinned. “Yes.”

  “You killed two.”

  “I did. I had no choice.”

  “Will they attack the clans, do you think?”

  “It is inevitable.”

  “I agree with you. Have you spoken to Cambil?”

  Caswallon laughed aloud. “The man hates me. If I said good day he would take it as an insult.”

  “Then talk to Leofas. Make plans.”

  “I think I will. He’s a good man. Strong.”

  “More than that,” said Maggrig, “he’s canny.”

  “He sounds like you, Maggrig.”

  “He is.”

  “Then I’ll see him. And you needn’t worry about your herds. Those days are behind me. After watching Ateris I lost my appetite for the game.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Caswallon refilled their goblets. “Of course I might just sneak back for some more of Intosh’s mead.”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Maggrig.

  Chapter Three

  Gwalchmai listened as Agwaine planned the downfall of the Lowlander. Around the Hunt Lord’s son, in a wide circle, sat fifteen other youngsters—the sons of councilmen, who would one day be councillors themselves. They listened as Agwaine spoke, and offered no objections. Gwalchmai wasn’t happy with such conversation. An orphan child of the mountains, he knew what loneliness was, the pain it brought, and the inner chill. He had always been popular, but then he worked at it—jesting and joking, seeking approval from his peers. He ran errands for the older boys, always willing to help in any chore, but in his heart his fears were great. His father had died when he was seven—killed while poaching Pallides lands. His mother contracted lung fever the following year and her passing had been painful. Little Gwalchmai had been sent to live with Badraig and his son, and they had made him welcome. But Gwalchmai had loved his parents deeply, and their loss hurt him beyond his ability to cope.

  He was not a big child, and though he approached fifteen, he was by far the smallest of his group. He excelled in two things: running and bowmanship. But his lack of strength held him back in both. At short distances he could outpace even Agwaine, and with a child’s bow at twenty paces he could outshoot the Farlain’s best archers. But he had not the strength to draw a man’s bow, and failed in tourneys when the distance grew beyond thirty paces.

  Agwaine was talking now about humiliating Caswallon’s new son. Gwalchmai sat and stared at the Hunt Lord’s son. He was tall and graceful, with a quick and dazzling smile, and normally there was little malice in him. But not today. Agwaine’s dark eyes glittered, and his handsome face was marred as he spoke of tormenting the Lowlander. Gwalchmai found it hard to understand, and he longed to find the courage to speak out. But when he looked inside himself he knew that his nerve would fail him. Nervously his eyes sought out Layne. While all others would follow Agwaine blindly, Layne would always go his own way. At the moment the son of Leofas was saying nothing, his aquiline face showing no emotion. Beside him his giant brother Lennox was also silent. Layne’s grey eyes met Gwalchmai’s gaze and the orphan boy willed Layne to speak out; as if in answer to prayer Layne smiled at Gwalchmai, then spoke.

  “I think this Gaelen has already been harshly treated, Agwaine,” said Layne. “Why make it worse for him?” Gwalchmai felt relief flow through him, but Agwaine was not to be persuaded.

  “We are talking about a jest,” said Agwaine smoothly. “I’m not suggesting we kill him. Where’s the harm?”

  Layne ran a hand through his long, dark hair, his eyes holding Agwaine’s gaze. “Where is the good in it?” he countered. “Such an action is beneath you, cousin. It is well known that your father has no love for Caswallon, but that is a matter for the two of them.”

  “This is nothing to do with my father,” said Agwaine angrily. He swung to Lennox. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you side with your brother?”

  Lennox shrugged his huge shoulders. “Always,” he said, his voice deep as distant thunder.

  “Do you never think for yourself, you ugly ox?” snapped Agwaine.

  “Sometimes,” answered Lennox amiably.

  “What about the rest of you?”

  “Oh, let’s have a little fun with him,” said Draig, Gwalchmai’s foster brother. “Where’s the harm? What do you think, Gwal?”

  All eyes turned to Gwalchmai and his heart sank. He spent his life avoiding argument, and now whatever he said would hurt him. Layne and Lennox were his friends. Layne was stern of nature but a loyal youth, and his brother Lennox, though strong as an ox, was a gentle companion. But Agwaine was Cambil’s son and the accepted leader of the Farlain youth, and Draig was Gwalchmai’s foster brother and a boy given to hot temper and malice-bearing. Of the other five, all were larger than Gwalchmai.

  “Well, what do you think?” urged Draig.

  “I don’t mind,” mumbled Gwalchmai. “Whatever you think best.” He tried not to look at Layne, but his eyes were drawn to the other’s gaze. Layne merely smiled at him, and he felt the pity in that smile; it hurt him more than he could bear.

  “Then let’s do it!” said Agwaine, grinning.

  The plan was a simple one. Kareen had innocently told them that Caswallon planned to send his son to the meadow that morning to meet the other boys of the village. Agwaine had suggested they take his clothes and chase him back to his house, lashing him the while with birch sticks.

  Now Layne and Lennox moved away from the group to lounge on the grass. Gwalchmai sat miserably on a fallen tree, wishing he had stayed at home.

  He looked up as the conversation died. Coming toward them was a slender boy in a green woolen tunic edged with brown leather; his hair was red, with a white flash above the jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face. He wore a wide belt and from it hung a hunting knife. There was no swagger in his walk, but he seemed nervous. Layne and Lennox ignored him as he passed, and Gwalchmai saw the boy’s jaw was clamped tight.

  He approached the group with eyes fixed on Agwaine. Gwalchmai saw that his left eye was filled with blood and he shivered.

  “I am Gaelen,” said the boy, addressing Agwaine.

  Agwaine nodded. “Why tell me?”

  “I see from the way your friends are grouped around you that you are the leader.”

  “How observant of you, Lowlander.”

  “Will you tell me your name?”

  “To what purpose? You will never address us directly, you are like the wolf pup you brought home—of no account to those with pedigree.”

  Gaelen said nothing but his mind raced. In Ateris there had been many thieves and many gangs, but he had always been alone. This scene was no different from many in his life. There would be a little more talk, then tempers would grow and the violence would b
egin. The difference was that in Ateris he always had somewhere to run; he knew every alley and tall building, every rooftop and hiding place. As he had approached the group he had scanned them, making judgments, deciding which were the boys to be feared, which to be ignored. Two were lounging on the grass away from their comrades; one of these was slender, but athletically built, his face strong. Beside him was a veritable giant, bigger than most clansmen Gaelen had seen. But since they were apart from the group Gaelen ignored them. His eyes had been drawn to a small boy sitting with the others. Slight of build, with short-cropped ginger hair, he had seemed nervous, frightened. Gaelen put this one from his mind. The others had gathered around the young man now facing him. These would not act—only react. Therefore everything depended on the outcome of this confrontation with the leader. Gaelen took stock of him. His face was strong, the eyes dark, the gaze steady. And he was proud. In that instant Gaelen knew that he was facing no cowardly bully who could be browbeaten, or dominated by words. His heart sank.

  Still, one thing he had learned early was that you never allow the enemy to dictate the pace of the game. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he told Agwaine, forcing a grin, “teach this wolf pup the lesson you have planned.”

  “What?” said Agwaine, momentarily taken aback.

  “It’s obvious that you and your mongrel playmates have already decided how this game is going to be played, so let’s be at it. Here, I’ll make it easy for you.” Casually he stepped forward and then, with a lack of speed that dulled Agwaine’s reflexes, punched the other boy full in the face, toppling him backward to the grass.

  Gaelen drew his knife and leaped back as the other youths surged to their feet. Agwaine shook his head and slowly rose, eyes glittering. He too drew a knife.

  “I’ll kill you for that, Outlander,” he said. His face was set and he moved forward, perfectly in balance. The other youths drew their blades, spreading out in a half circle.

  “That’s enough!” said the tall young man Gaelen had seen sitting apart from the others. Walking forward, he stood by Gaelen. “In fact, it is more than enough. The joke has soured, Agwaine.” Another figure moved to the other side of Gaelen; he was enormous, towering above all the other youths.