The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  “Yes. We are meeting today to plan the Run.”

  “What problems will you face?”

  “Lennox is strong, but no runner. We may not beat Agwaine’s team to the first tree.”

  “Speed is not everything,” said Caswallon.

  “I know.”

  “Which of you will lead?”

  “We’re deciding that this afternoon—but I think it will be Layne.”

  “Logical. Layne is a bright fellow.”

  “Not as bright as Agwaine,” said Gaelen.

  “No, but you are. You should enjoy yourselves.”

  “Did you lead when you ran in the Hunt?”

  “No. Cambil led.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Cambil a good leader?”

  “In his way. He still is. And he has been a good Hunt Lord for the Farlain.”

  “But he doesn’t like you, Caswallon. Everyone knows that.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to idle chatter. But you are right. He doesn’t like me—but then he has good cause. Three years ago I robbed him of something. I didn’t mean to, but it worked out that way, and he has not forgotten.”

  “What did you steal?” asked Gaelen.

  “I didn’t actually steal anything. I just refused to stand against him for the position of Hunt Lord. I didn’t want the role. So he was voted to it by the elders.”

  “I don’t understand. How can he hold that against you?”

  “That’s a difficult question, Gaelen. Many people assumed I would try for Hunt Lord. In truth I would have lost, for Cambil is—and always was—worthy of the role. But had I stood and lost, he would have known he was considered the better man. Because I did not stand he will never know.”

  “Is that why Agwaine doesn’t like me?” asked Gaelen. “Because his father doesn’t like you?”

  “Perhaps. I have been very selfish in my life, doing only that which I enjoyed. I should have acted differently. If I am nominated for the Council again I shall accept. But that is not likely.”

  From the house below they heard Kareen calling. Gaelen waved at her, but Caswallon remained where he was.

  “Go and eat,” he said. “I will be down soon.”

  He watched the boy running down the hillside and smiled, remembering his own Hunt Day fifteen years before. Every lad in the Farlain over the age of fourteen, and not yet a man, was teamed with three others and sent out into the mountains to recover a “treasure.” Skillful hunters would lay trails, hide clues and signs, and the teams would track them down until at last one team returned with the prize. For Caswallon the prize they had sought was a dagger, hidden in a tree. Often it was an arrow, or a lance, or a helm, or a shield. This year it was a sword, though none of the lads knew it.

  Every year Caswallon helped lay the trails and delighted in his work. But this year was special for him, for Gaelen would be taking part.

  He removed from his pouch the strip of parchment Taliesen had given him and he reread the words written there.

  Seek the beast that no one finds,

  always roaring,

  never silent,

  beneath his skin,

  by silver wings,

  bring forth the

  long-lost

  dream of kings.

  After the meal Caswallon would read the verse to his new son, even as, all over the Farlain, fathers would be doing likewise. There were times, Caswallon considered, when tradition was a wholesome thing.

  In the wide kitchen Caswallon’s young son Donal lay on a woolen blanket by the hearth. Beside him slept the pup Gaelen had brought home; it had grown apace in the last two months, showing signs of the formidable beast it would be in the years ahead. Kareen sat beside Maeg opposite Gaelen, and they were all laughing as Caswallon entered.

  “And what is amusing you?” he asked.

  “Rest your poor bones at the table,” Maeg told him, “and tell us, gently, how Gaelen here dumped you to the earth.”

  “It was a wicked blow and I was unprepared,” he answered, seating himself beside the boy, who was blushing furiously.

  “Have you been bragging, young Gaelen?” he asked.

  “He has not,” said Maeg. “Kareen herself saw the deed done as she fed the chickens.”

  “Fed the chickens, indeed,” said Caswallon. “It could not be seen from the yard. The lazy child climbed the hill and spied on us, for a certainty.” Now Kareen began to blush, casting a guilty glance at Maeg. “In fact,” said Caswallon, smiling broadly, “on my way back here I saw two sets of tracks. One had the dainty footprints of young Kareen, the other I could not make out except to say the feet must have been uncommonly large.”

  “So!” said Maeg. “It’s back to gibes about my feet, is it?”

  “You have beautiful feet, Maeg, my love. There isn’t a woman in the Farlain who could match them for beauty—or length.”

  Throughout the meal they good-naturedly sniped at each other, and only when she began to list Caswallon’s faults did he open his arms in surrender and beg her forgiveness.

  “Woman,” he said, “you’re full of venom.”

  After the meal he gave leave to Gaelen to seek his friends, and read him the druid’s parchment. “Do not be home late. We’ve an early start tomorrow.”

  Later, as Maeg and Caswallon lay arm in arm in the broad bed, she leaned over him and kissed him gently on the lips. “What troubles you, my love?” she asked him, stroking his dark hair back from his eyes.

  His arm circled her back, pulling her to him. “What makes you think I am troubled?”

  “No games, Caswallon,” she said seriously. She rolled from him and he sat up, bunching a pillow behind him.

  “The Council has voted to resume trade with Ateris, and allow an Aenir group to visit the Farlain.”

  “But we had to trade with them,” said Maeg. “We always have dealt with Ateris, for iron, seed corn, seasoned timbers, leather.”

  “We didn’t always, Maeg. We used to do these things ourselves. We’re no longer dealing with merchant Lowlanders; this is a warrior race.”

  “What harm can it do to allow a few of them to visit us? We might become friends.”

  “You don’t make friends with a wolf by inviting it to sleep with the sheep.”

  “But we are not sheep, Caswallon. We are the clans.”

  “I think the decision is shortsighted and we may live to rue it.”

  “I love you,” she said, the words cutting through his thoughts.

  “I can’t think why,” he said, chuckling. Then he reached for her and they lay silently enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies and the closeness of their spirits.

  “I cannot begin to tell you what you mean to me,” he whispered.

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  One moment the mountainside was clear, rolling green slopes, the occasional tree, two streams meeting and foaming over white boulders. Sheep grazed quietly near a small herd of wild ponies.

  Suddenly the air reeked with an acrid smell none of the animals recognized. Their heads came up. Blue light replaced the gold of the sun. Rainbows danced on the grass and a great noise, like locust wings, covered the mountainside. The ponies reared and wheeled, the sheep scattering in all directions.

  For a fraction of a second two suns hung in the sky, then they merged and the golden sunlight bathed the mountain. But all was not as it had been . . .

  In the shadow of a great boulder stood a towering figure, six-inch fangs curving from a wide snout, massive shoulders covered in black fur, huge arms ending in taloned fingers. The eyes were black and round, the brows deep, and it blinked as its new surroundings came into focus.

  Lifting its shaggy head, the beast sniffed the air. The sweet smell of living flesh flooded its senses. The creature leaned forward, dipping its colossal shoulders until its talons brushed the earth. Its eyes focused on a three-year-old ewe, which stood trembling on the hillside.

  Dropp
ing fully to all fours, the beast bunched the muscles of its hind legs and leaped forward, bearing down on the sheep with terrible speed. Startled, the ewe turned to run. It had made only three running jumps before the weight of the hunter smashed its spine into jagged shards.

  Taloned fingers tore aside the ewe’s flesh and the blood ran.

  The beast ate swiftly, lifting its shaggy black head often, peering shortsightedly around the mountainside, ready for any enemy that might chance upon it. It was uncomfortable out in the open, unused to shimmering horizons and bright light. But the blood was good upon its tongue, the flesh rich and greasy. Casually it ripped out the ewe’s entrails, hurling them far from the body, concentrating instead on the flesh of the loins. Slowly, methodically, the giant creature fed, snapping bones and sucking out the marrow, splitting the skull with one blow and devouring the brains.

  Hunger satisfied, the beast sank back to its haunches. It blinked in the sunlight as an image fashioned itself in its mind. A bright image. Grunting, it shook its head, then gave a low growl. Dimly it remembered the circle of stones and the red-clad sorcerer whose fingers danced with fire. The fire had entered the creature’s breast, settling there without pain. The beast howled as hunger returned.

  It would always be hungry—until it devoured the image-woman. Angrily the beast slammed its hands against the ground.

  Away to the left it saw the line of trees that merged into the forest above Vallon. Hunger returning, it began to lope toward them, stopping at a stream to drink. The trees were smaller than the ones it had known and climbed, less closely packed and strangely silent. No chittering monkeys swung from the vines, few birds sang, and there was no sign of fruit upon the boughs.

  The wind shifted and a new smell filtered to the beast’s flaring nostrils. The black eyes glittered with the memory of salty-sweet flesh and marrow-filled bones. The sorcerer had implanted a soul scent upon its senses—and this creature was not the victim ordained. Nor was the spell scent close by. Yet it could almost taste the sweet meat of the approaching man-beast.

  Saliva dripped from its maw and its dark tongue licked out over its fangs. The smell was growing stronger. There was no need to stalk, for the simpleminded creature was moving this way.

  A hundred paces to the west Erlik of the Pallides, a tall young hunter from the house of Maggrig, leaned on his staff. Beside him his war hound Askar growled deep in his throat. Erlik was puzzled. An hour ago he had seen the blue haze across the mountains, and the two suns appear in the sky. And despite this being Farlain land he had ventured here, led by the curiosity of the young. Less than a year before Erlik had gained his manhood in the Hunt, and was now a contender for the Games.

  And where a more seasoned veteran would hesitate, Erlik, with all the confidence of youth, had crossed the border and ventured into the lands of the enemy. He did not fear Farlain hunters, for he knew he could outrun them, but he had to know why the air burned blue. He sensed it would be a fine tale to tell his comrades at the evening feast.

  He leaned down and stroked Askar, whispering it to silence. The hound obeyed unwillingly. It didn’t like the idea of moving with the direction of the breeze, and it sensed danger ahead that made the fur on its shoulders rise. With the natural cunning of the canine it began to edge left, but Erlik called it back.

  The young hunter moved forward toward an area of thick bracken and gorse. Askar growled once more and this time the dog’s unease filtered through to the man. Carefully he laid down his quarterstaff, then swung his bow from his shoulder, hastily notching an arrow to the string.

  The gorse exploded as a vast black creature reared up from the ground at Erlik’s feet. A taloned arm flashed out, half severing the hunter’s left arm and hurling him to the ground. The war hound leaped for the beast’s throat, but was brutally swatted aside. Erlik drew his hunting knife and struggled to rise, but the talons flashed once more and his head toppled from his shoulders.

  Minutes later the war hound came to its senses, pain gnawing at its broken ribs. The great head came up slowly, ears pricking at the sounds of crunching bones.

  With infinite care the hound inched its way to the west, away from the feeding beast.

  In the valley of the Farlain fourteen teams of youngsters were packing shoulder sacks with provisions ready for the hunt. Families and kin thronged the Market Field.

  The brothers Layne and Lennox were seated side by side on a fallen oak while Gaelen lay on his back, eyes closed, nearby. Beside him sat the slender Gwalchmai, whittling with a short dagger.

  “I wish they would announce the start,” said Layne. “What are they waiting for?”

  Gaelen sat up. “Caswallon said the druid must give his blessing.”

  “I know that,” snapped Layne. “I meant why the delay?” Gaelen lay back on the grass and said nothing. Layne was not normally this edgy.

  “Are you looking forward to it?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen could see that the ginger-haired youth was worried by Layne’s tension and seeking to change the mood.

  “Yes, I am,” said Gaelen.

  “Do you understand the meaning of the riddle?”

  “No. Have you deciphered it?”

  Gwalchmai shrugged. “Maybe it will be clearer when we find the second clue.”

  In the house of Cambil, beyond the field and the waiting teams, sat the Druid Lord, Taliesen. Opposite him, pacing before the hearth, was the tall Hunt Lord Cambil, a golden-haired, handsome young man wearing a leaf-green tunic and a red cloak.

  By the hearth sat a stranger clad in leather shirt and breeches, his long blond hair braided beneath a round leather helm. He too was handsome, but unlike Cambil, there was no softness in him. His eyes were the cold blue of the winter sky, and upon his mouth was a mocking half smile. That the druid disliked him was obvious and seemed to amuse the Aenir; but for Cambil the meeting was a monstrous embarrassment.

  The druid was angry, though he showed nothing of it as he sipped water from a clay goblet. Cambil was uneasy and pulled at his golden beard. The stranger sat back in the leather-covered chair, his face expressionless.

  “It is rare,” the druid said at last, “for a stranger to be present at the Youth’s Hunt—though it is not without precedent. There shall be no blessing today, for the words of power cannot be spoken in the presence of Lowlanders. In this there is no disrespect intended for your guest, Cambil, it is merely the weight of tradition which forbids it.”

  Cambil bit his lip and nodded.

  “May I ask,” continued the druid, “that we speak privately?”

  Cambil turned to the man beside him. “My apologies, Lord Drada, but please feel free to join the men at the food table beyond and refresh yourself.”

  Drada stood and bowed to Cambil, then he turned to the druid. “I am sorry to have caused you problems. Had I known my presence would disrupt the ceremony I would have turned down the invitation.” Neither Taliesen nor Cambil missed the stress he placed on the word invitation, and the Hunt Lord felt himself blushing.

  The Aenir warrior carefully hung his black cloak upon his broad shoulders and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The ancient druid turned his dark eyes on the Hunt Lord and leaned forward across the table. “It was not wise to invite him into Farlain lands,” he said.

  “He is friendly enough,” insisted Cambil.

  “He is the Enemy to Come,” snapped the druid.

  “So you say, old man, but I am the Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and I alone decide whether a man is a friend or enemy. You are a druid and as such are to be respected in religious matters, but do not exceed your authority.”

  “Are you blind, Cambil, or merely stupid?”

  Anger shone in the Hunt Lord’s eyes, but his response was calm. “I am not blind, druid. And I make no great claims to be wiser than any other clansman. What I do know is that war brings no advantage to either side. If the Aenir can be convinced that we offer them no threat, and that there is no wealth to be found i
n the mountains, I see no reason why we cannot exist together—if not as friends, then at least as good neighbors. Keeping them out will only cause suspicion, and make war more likely.”

  Cambil walked to the door, wrenching it open. “Now, the boys are waiting and I shall send them off, and I don’t doubt the lack of your words of power will affect them not at all.”

  At the edge of the field Caswallon sat with Maeg and Kareen, watching the boys line up for the first race to the trees. Once there, they would find a leather pouch hanging from the branch of the central pine. Within the pouch were four clues, written on parchment. The first team to reach the tree would be able to read all the clues, and remove one. The next team would find three clues, and remove one. And so on until the fourth team would find only one remaining.

  Gaelen, who could not yet read, would be useless to his team on this first run, but they had chosen Gwalchmai to lead the sprint, and he was almost as fast as Cambil’s son Agwaine.

  The teams sprinted away at Cambil’s command and Caswallon watched as Gwalchmai and Agwaine forged a lead over the rest, with Gaelen loping beside the lumbering Lennox at the rear.

  At that moment Caswallon caught sight of the black-coated Aenir warrior standing by the grey house. Leaving Maeg and Kareen, he walked the short distance to the building. As he walked he gauged the man. The Aenir was tall and well built, but slim of hip. He looked what he was—a warrior. As Caswallon approached the man turned and the clansman knew he was undergoing the same appraisal.

  “The lads move well,” said the Aenir, pointing toward the youngsters who were now halfway up the hillside.

  “I see your men took my advice,” said Caswallon. “That was wise.”

  Drada smiled. “Yes, I always listen to wise counsel. But I saw no sign of the Farlain hunters you promised to send after us.”

  “They were there.”

  “I was surprised to find you are not a councillor, Caswallon.”

  “Why so?”

  “I gained the impression that you were a man of influence but Cambil tells me this is not so. He says you are a thief and a bandit.”