The Hawk Eternal

by David Gemmell

  So it was big, bigger than a bear, and much faster. It could run on all fours or walk upright like a man. Its jaws were enormous—the fang marks in the leg he had found proved that. He considered following the beast up the slope, but dismissed the idea.

  From the remains he could see that the Pallides hunter had been carrying his bow with the arrow notched. He had been given no time to shoot. Badraig was confident of his own skills, but his strength lay also in the understanding of his weaknesses. Armed with only a hunting knife and a quarterstaff, he was no match for whatever had wreaked this carnage. His one duty was to carry the news to Cambil and clear the mountain of youngsters.

  Luckily, so he believed, no teams had passed his vantage point, so he would be able to stop any he came across as he returned. By midafternoon every village in the Farlain had the message and by nightfall six hundred clansmen, in groups of six, were scouring the mountains. By noon the next day forty-eight puzzled and disappointed youngsters had been shepherded back to their villages.

  Only two teams remained to be found, those led by Layne and Agwaine. At dusk on the second day Cambil sat with his advisers around a campfire half a day’s march into the mountains.

  “They’ve just vanished,” said Leofas. “Layne’s group made camp near the elm grove, and then moved northeast. After that the tracks cease.”

  “It was a cunning ploy,” said Badraig. “They obviously thought they had a clue and didn’t wish to be followed. It doesn’t make it any easier for us, though—except that we know they didn’t head for Vallon.”

  “I disagree,” said Caswallon.

  “A pox on you, Caswallon,” snapped Badraig. “That was my area. Are you saying I’m that poor a huntsman that I could have missed eight callow boys?”

  “What I am saying is that we’ve searched everywhere and found no sign,” answered Caswallon softly.

  Badraig snorted. “Then maybe it’s you who’ve missed the trail.”

  “Enough of this quarreling,” ordered Cambil. “What shall we do now?”

  “Look in Vallon,” said Caswallon. “We have two missing teams. Both are led by the brightest, most able of our young men. The rhyme was not easy, but the answer was there for those with the wits to work at it. Agwaine I am sure would have deciphered it. Do you not agree, Cambil?”

  Cambil bit his lip and stared into the fire. “Yes, he misses little.”

  “Now, all the boys who headed west say they saw no sign of Agwaine. Or Layne. In fact, after the first night they just dropped from sight. No team headed for Vallon, because none of the others deciphered the rhyme. To my mind the conclusion is inescapable.”

  “So you are saying I’m lacking in skill!” stormed Badraig.

  “Please be calm, cousin,” said Caswallon. “We are talking about two teams who traveled carefully so that no rivals would spot them. It doesn’t mean you lacked skill because you missed them.”

  “I still say they headed west.”

  “Then go west and find them,” said Caswallon. “I’m heading for Vallon.”

  Badraig swore, but Cambil cut across him. “Hold your tongue, man! In this I think Caswallon is right. Now we have men hunting the west, and we’ll lose nothing by visiting Attafoss. I just wish that druid would get here. I’d like to know what Hell spawn we’re facing.”

  “Well, ‘that druid’ can help you,” said Taliesen, moving out of the tree shadows and seating himself among them. “The beast crossed a Gateway and it is following the youngsters toward Attafoss. Caswallon is right. Let these arguments cease.”

  “Are you sure, Lord Druid?” asked Badraig.

  “As sure as death,” answered Taliesen. “You had best move now, for there is tragedy in the air, and more blood to be spilt before you find them.”

  “A curse on your prophecies,” said Cambil, lurching to his feet. “Is this beast more of your magic?”

  “None of mine, Hunt Lord.”

  “Have you seen who will die?” asked Badraig. “Can you tell us that?”

  “No, I cannot tell you.”

  “But my son is with Agwaine.”

  “I know. Go now, for time is short.”

  The men rolled their blankets and set off without a backward glance at the druid, whose dark eyes followed them seemingly without emotion. Taliesen watched them go, his heart heavy, a great sadness growing within him. The threads were beginning to come together now. In another time the sorcerer Jakuta Khan had sent a beast to kill the young Sigarni. That beast had vanished into the mists of time. Now it was here, in the Farlain, and being drawn inexorably toward the frail and wounded Queen. And between the hunter and his victim were the boys of the Farlain. Taliesen longed to intervene. He remembered the long nights sitting at the Queen’s bedside, in the cave on Druin’s flanks. He had told her to say nothing of events in her own world, lest the knowledge cause even more fractures in the Time Lines. But when she became delirious with fever she had spoken in her sleep, and Taliesen had felt the weight of sorrow bear down on him like a huge rock.

  He longed to rescue the boys. And he could not. “It rests with you now, Gaelen,” he whispered.

  And with the Hawk Eternal, he thought.

  The four men walked for most of the night, stopping only to snatch an hour’s sleep before dawn. Then they moved on, crossing hills, running across narrow valleys, scaling tree-lined slopes. During the afternoon they were joined by six hunters cutting in from the east. A hurried conference was held. One man was sent back to the village to fetch more bowmen, and the remaining nine hoisted their packs and ran single file toward the towering peaks of the northeast.

  They drove themselves hard, calling on reserves of endurance built during years of tough mountain living. Only Leofas, the oldest of them, struggled to maintain the pace; but maintain it he did, giving no sign of the pain from his swollen knee.

  Just before nightfall Badraig halted the column, spotting something to the right of the track; it was a half-eaten oatcake. Badraig picked it up, breaking it into crumbs. At the center it was still dry.

  “Yesterday,” he said. Then he scouted carefully around the area. Rather than destroy any faint traces of spoor, the other hunters squatted down to wait for Badraig’s report. Within minutes he returned.

  “Four lads,” he said. “One is very large and can only be Lennox. You were right, Caswallon; they passed me.”

  The group pushed on into the mountains, and as the sun sank, Caswallon found the hollow Layne had chosen for their camp. The men gathered around.

  “Tomorrow should be easier going,” said Cambil, stretching his long legs in front of him and resting his back against the granite boulder. “The tracks will be easy to find.” His strong fingers kneaded the muscles of his thigh, and he grunted as the pain flowed.

  Leofas sank to the ground, his face grey, his eyes sunken. With great effort he slipped his pack from his shoulders and unrolled his blanket. Wrapping himself against the night chill, he fell asleep instantly.

  Badraig took two huntsmen and began to scour the area. The moon was bright and three-quarters full and the tracks left by the boys could be clearly seen. Badraig followed them halfway up the north slope of the hollow. Here he stopped.

  Overlapping Lennox’s large footprint was another print twice as long. Badraig swore, the sound hissing between clenched teeth. Swiftly he returned to the men in the hollow.

  “The beast is hunting them,” he told Cambil. “We must move on.”

  “That might not be wise,” the Hunt Lord replied. We could miss vital signs in the darkness. Worse, we could stumble on the beast itself.”

  “I agree,” said Caswallon. “How close behind them is it, Badraig?”

  “Hard to say. Several hours, perhaps less.”

  “Damn all druids!” said Cambil, his broad face flushed and angry. “Damn them and their Gates.”

  Caswallon said nothing. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he leaned back, closed his eyes. He thought of Gaelen and wondered if Fate could be so
cruel as to save the boy on one day, only to have him brutally slain thereafter. He knew that it could. All life was chance.

  But the Gates were a mystery he had never been able to fathom.

  The elders had a story of a time just before Caswallon was born, when a leather-winged flying creature had appeared in the mountains, killing sheep and even calves. That had been slain by the then Hunt Lord, a strong proud man who sought to be the first High King since Earis. But the people had voted against him. Embittered, he had taken thirty of his followers and somehow found a way to cross the churning waters of Attafoss to the island of Vallon. There he had overpowered the druids and led his men through the Forbidden Gate.

  Twenty years later he returned alone, gravely wounded. Taliesen had asked for his death, but the Druid Council denied him and the man was returned to the Farlain. No longer Hunt Lord, he would tell no man of his adventures, saying only that a terrible vision had been revealed to him.

  Many thought him mad. They mocked him and the once-proud lord took it all, making his home in a mountain cave where he lived like a hermit. Caswallon had befriended him, but even with Caswallon the man would not speak of the world beyond the Druid’s Gate. But of the Gates themselves he spoke, and Caswallon had listened.

  “The feeling as you pass through,” Oracle had told him, “is unlike any other experience life can offer. For a moment only you lose all sense of self, and experience a great calm. Then there is another moment of sense-numbing speed, and the mind is full of colors, all different, moving past and through you. Then the cold strikes marrow-deep and you are human again on the other side.”

  “But where did you go?” Caswallon asked.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  The wonder of it, Caswallon knew, was that Oracle had returned at all. There were many stories of people disappearing in the mountains, and even rare occasions when strange animals or birds appeared.

  But Oracle was the only man he had heard of—save for Taliesen—to pass through and return. There were so many questions Oracle could have answered. So many mysteries he could lay to rest.

  “Why can you not tell me?” Caswallon asked.

  “I promised the druids I would not.”

  Caswallon asked no more. A promise was a thing of steel and ice and no clansman would expect to break such an oath.

  “All will be revealed to you, Caswallon. I promise you,” Oracle had told him cryptically.

  Now as the young clansman sat beneath a moonlit sky his mind harked back to that conversation. He wasn’t at all sure he desired such knowledge. All he wanted was to find the boys and return them safely to the valley.

  Badraig prepared a fire and the men gathered around it silently, fishing in their packs for food. Only Leofas slept.

  Cambil pushed back the locks of blond hair from his forehead and wiped sweat from his face. He was tired, filled with the exhaustion only fear can produce. Agwaine was his only son, and he loved him more than anything else the world could provide. The thought of the lad being hunted by a beast from beyond the Gates filled him with terror; he could not face the possibility that Agwaine might die.

  “We will find them,” said Caswallon softly.

  “Yes,” answered the Hunt Lord. “But alive?”

  Caswallon saw the man’s angular, honest face twist, as if a sudden pain had struck him. Beneath the wiry yellow-gold beard Cambil was biting his lip hard, seeking to prevent the collapse into tears of frustration.

  “What did you think of the pack incident?” asked Caswallon suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Gwalchmai dropping his pack and outstripping Agwaine.”

  “Oh, that. Clever move. Agwaine did not give up, though. He ran him to the end.”

  “Bear that in mind, Cambil. The boy is a fighter. Given half an opportunity he will survive.”

  “The thing will probably seek to avoid Man,” said Badraig. “It is the way with animals of the wild, is it not? They know Man is a killer. They walk warily around him.”

  “It didn’t walk too warily around the Pallides scout,” said a balding bearded clansman from the west.

  “True, Beric—but then, from the tracks, the Pallides was stalking it, though I can’t see why. Still, it is well known the Pallides are long on nerve and short on brain.”

  Slowly, as the night passed, the men drifted off to sleep until at last only Cambil and Caswallon remained sitting side by side before the fire.

  “It’s been a long time since we sat like this, cousin,” said Cambil, breaking a lengthy silence.

  “Yes. But we walk different paths now. You have responsibility.”

  “It could have been yours.”

  “No,” said Caswallon.

  “Many would have voted for you.”

  “They would have been wrong.”

  “If Agwaine is taken I shall take my daughter and leave the Farlain,” said Cambil, staring into the glowing ashes of the dying blaze.

  “Now is not the time to think of it,” Caswallon told him. “Tomorrow we will talk as we walk the boys home.”

  Cambil said nothing more. He unrolled his blanket, curled it around his shoulders, and settled down against his pack.

  Caswallon stood and made his way slowly up the farthest slope into the deep, cool pine woods beyond. From the tallest point he gazed to the northeast, seeking sign of a campfire, yet knowing he would see nothing. The boys were too well trained.

  Sixteen miles northeast the four companions were arguing over the choicest morsels of a freshly cooked rabbit. Lennox, who had cooked the coney and served it, was protesting innocence, despite his plate bearing twice as much meat as any other.

  “But I am bigger,” he said seriously. “My pack carries all the cooking equipment. And it was my snare.”

  Gwalchmai broke from the argument for long enough to pop a small piece of meat in his mouth and begin chewing. He dropped from the discussion instantly, tugging surreptitiously at Gaelen’s cloak. Gaelen saw the expression on his face. He tried his own meat, chewed for a moment, then removed the offending gobbet. Lennox and Layne were still arguing furiously. “I think Lennox is right,” said Gaelen suddenly. “He is the largest and he has the greatest burden. Here, take mine too, my friend.”

  “I couldn’t,” said Lennox, his eyes betraying his greed.

  “No, truly. One small rabbit is scarce enough to build your strength.” Gaelen tipped the contents of his plate on Lennox’s own. In the meantime Gwalchmai had whispered to Layne.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” said Layne, smiling. “Gaelen has made me realize how selfish I am. Take my portion too.”

  “And mine,” added Gwalchmai eagerly.

  Lennox sat back on his haunches. “You are all true friends,” he said, gazing dreamily at his plate. Discarding his knife he scooped a handful of meat into his mouth. For several seconds he chewed in silence, then his face froze. His three companions waited in nerve-tingling silence until he doggedly finished the mouthful and swallowed.

  “Is it good?” asked Layne, his face set and serious.

  “Yes, it is,” said Lennox. “But look, I feel bad about taking it all.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Gwalchmai swiftly. “Your need is the greatest.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “And you cooked it,” put in Gaelen.

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Eat on, brother,” said Layne. “See, it grows cold and . . . congeals.”

  The dam burst and all three broke into giggling laughter. Realization struck Lennox and he hurled the diseased meat into the bushes. “Swine!” he said.

  A hundred paces above them, on the edge of the trees, the beast squatted on its haunches glaring down at the fire. The laughter puzzled it, for the sound was similar to the screeching of the small apes of its homeland. Its black nostrils flared, catching the aroma of scorched flesh—rancid-smelling sickly flesh.

  The beast snorted, blowing the scent away. It stretched its powerful legs, movin
g several paces left. Here the flesh scent was different, warm-blooded, salty, and alive. The creature’s eyes glittered. Hunger urged it to charge the camp and take the meat. Instinct made it fear the fire.

  The beast settled down to wait.

  Gaelen’s dreams were troubled. Once more the Aenir killers pursued him, the pounding of their horses’ hooves drumming fear into him as he ran. His legs were heavy, his movements sluggish. Suddenly a calming blue light filled his mind and the warriors faded. A face appeared, wrinkled and ancient, only the dark eyes giving a hint of life.

  “The fire,” said a deep melodious voice, though the lips did not move. “The fire is dying. Awake!”

  Gaelen groaned and rolled over, trying to force the man from his mind.

  “The fire, fool! Your life is in danger! Awake!”

  The calming light disappeared, to be replaced by a red haze. Within the haze was a monster, black and menacing. Its huge jaws slavered, and its taloned hands reached for him.

  Gaelen awoke with a jolt, eyes opening to the bright moonlight and the glittering stars in the velvet-dark sky. He glanced at the fire. As the dream had told him, it was failing fast, the last flickering twigs turning to ash and glowing embers.

  The boy did not want to leave the warmth of his blanket, but the dream left an edge of fear in him. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair, scratching at the scar beneath the blaze of white above his left eye. Swiftly he broke twigs and small branches, feeding them to the tiny blaze and blowing life back into the fire. He felt better as the flames danced.

  A rustling to his right made him turn. A large bush quivered and a low growl reverberated in the clearing. Gaelen drew his hunting knife and narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness. He felt a fool. Had Caswallon not warned him endlessly about staring into fires? Now he could not see clearly. A giant shadow rose above the bush and Gaelen screamed a warning to the others.

  Layne rolled from his blanket with knife in hand, standing in a half crouch beside Gaelen. “What is it?” Gaelen pointed at the thing beyond the bush. It was at least eight feet high, its head round like a man’s except that the jaws were huge and rimmed with curving fangs. Gwalchmai and Lennox had left their beds and were staring horror-struck at the creature.