David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Toward the afternoon Caswallon led the way into a small pine woods nestling against the base of a towering rock face. As they entered the trees the clansman stopped and Gaelen started to speak, but Caswallon waved him to silence. They could hear the wind swishing the leaves above them, and the rustle of small animals in the dry bracken. But inlaid into the sounds was an occasional squealing cry, soft and muted by the trees, like an echo.

Caswallon led the boy to the left, pushing his way through intertwined bushes until they reached a larger clearing at the base of the cliff.

Here, before the cave mouth, lay the evidence of a mighty struggle. A dead mountain lion was locked in a grotesque embrace with a huge dog, the like of which Gaelen had never seen. The dog’s jaws were clamped together in the throat of the lion that in its death throes had disemboweled the hound with the terrible claws of its hind legs. The dead animals had already begun to putrefy, the lion’s belly bloated with gases.

“What kind of hound is that?” asked Gaelen.

“The best there is,” answered Caswallon. “That is Nabara, the War Hound, she who belonged at one time to Cambil, the Farlain Hunt Lord. But she was a vicious beast and she ran away to the hills the day before she was to be slain.”

Gaelen walked close to the bodies. “Her jaws are huge, and her body is long. She must have been formidable,” he said.

“There are few war hounds left now. I don’t know why. Maybe because we don’t have the old-style wars. But yes, they are formidable. Terrifying, in fact. As you see, they can even be a match for a lion.”

The squealing began again from within the cave.

“Her pups are inside,” said Caswallon. “That is why she fought to the death. Little good it will do them.”

“Are you going to kill them?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“She’s been living in the mountains for over a year. The only animal she’s likely to have mated with is a wolf. But we’ll see.”

The cave ceiling was low and the companions entered warily on hands and knees. Inside, the cave narrowed into a short tunnel bearing right. Beyond that was a deep cleft in which the hound had left her pups. There were five small bodies and a sixth struggling to stand on shaking legs. Caswallon reached over, lifted the black and grey pup, and passed it back to the boy. Then he checked the bodies. All were dead.

Once back in the sunlight Caswallon retrieved the pup, tucking it half into his tunic where his body heat would warm it.

“Build a fire over there, Gaelen, and we’ll see if the beast is worth saving.”

Gaelen built a small circle of stones, laid his tinder, and struck sparks from his dagger and a small flint block. The tinder began to smoke. He blew on it softly until the first tongue of flame rose, then he added small twigs and finally thinner sticks. Caswallon eased his pack from his shoulders, pulling out the strips of dried meat packed by Maeg.

“We need a pot to boil some thick broth,” he said. “And here is another lesson for you. Cut me a long strip of bark from that tree over there.”

Gaelen did as he was bid and watched amazed as Caswallon shaped the edges and then twisted the bark into the shape of a deep bowl. Half filling it with water from the canteen, he laid the pot on the small fire.

“But it will burn away,” said Gaelen. “It is wood.”

“It will not burn as long as water is in it and the flames stay below the waterline.” Taking his dagger, Caswallon sliced the dried meat into chunks and added them to the pot.

Before long the stew began to bubble and steam, the meat expanding. Caswallon added more meat, stirring the contents with his dagger. Gaelen moved beside him, reaching to stroke the small dark head poking out from Caswallon’s tunic.

As the sun sank behind crimson clouds, bathing the mountain peaks in glowing copper, Caswallon ordered the lad to remove the bowl and allow the stew to cool. As they waited, the clansman opened his tunic and lifted the pup to his lap. Then he cut a section of the dried beef and began to chew it. “Can you give some to the pup?” pleaded Gaelen. “He is starving!”

“That’s what I am doing, boy. It’s too tough for him. I am doing what his mother would do.”

Removing the half-chewed meat from his mouth, Caswallon shredded it and offered a small amount to the pup. Its tiny tongue snaked out, nose wrinkling at the smell of the meat. The tiny beast ate a little, then its head sank against Caswallon’s hand. “Still too tough for him,” said the clansman. “But see the size of his paws? He will be big, this one. Here, hold him.”

The pup began to whine as Caswallon passed him over, but he settled down as Gaelen stroked behind his floppy ears.

“As I thought, he is half wolf,” said the clansman. “But there’s enough dog in him to be trained, I think. Would you like to keep him?”

Gaelen lifted the pup to his face, staring into the tiny brown eyes. Like him, the helpless beast was an orphan, and he remembered his own long crawl to the high ground.

“He is a child of the mountains,” said Gaelen. “I shall adopt him. Is it my right?”

“It is,” said Caswallon gravely. “But first he must live.”

After a while Caswallon tested the stew. When it had reached blood heat he passed it to Gaelen. “Dip your smallest finger into it and get the beast to lick it. He’s obviously too young to take it any other way.” The stew was thick and dark and Gaelen followed the instructions. The pup’s nose wrinkled again at the smell, but its tongue licked out. The boy continued to feed the animal until at last it fell asleep in his arms.

“Do you think it will live?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow we will have a better idea.”

“I hope it does, Caswallon.”

“Hope is akin to prayer,” said the clansman, “so perhaps it will.” He rose to his feet. “Wait here, there’s something I must check. I should not be long.” With that he was gone into the undergrowth. The sun had set, but the moon was high and bright in the clear sky, and Gaelen sat with his back against a tree, staring into the flickering coals of the fire.

This was life, this was a peace he had never known. The little pup moved in its sleep and he stroked it absently. In the distance the mountains made a jagged line against the sky like a wall against the world-deeply comforting and immensely reassuring.

Caswallon returned silently and sat beside the boy.

“We have a small problem, Gaelen,” he said. “I saw a couple of footprints at the edge of the woods as we entered, but I was intent on finding the pup. I have followed the track to softer ground where the prints are clearer. There is no doubt they are made with iron-studded boots. Clansmen all wear moccasins.”

“Who made the footprints then?”

“The Aenir. They are in the mountains.”

In the morning as Gaelen fed the pup the remains of the stew that had been warmed on the glowing coals of the fire, his mind was clear, the terror of the night condensed and controlled into a manageable apprehension.

“How many are there?” he asked the clansman.

“Somewhere in the region of twenty. I think they’re just scouting, but they’re headed into Farlain lands and that could prove troublesome. We will walk warily today, avoiding the skylines. Have no fear, though, Gaelen, for these are my mountains and they shall not surprise us.”

Gaelen took a deep breath, and his gaze was steady as he met Caswallon’s eyes. “I am not afraid today,” he told the clansman. “Last night I was trembling. Today I am ready.”

“Good,” said Caswallon, gathering up his quarterstaff and looping the straps of the pack across his shoulders. “Then let us put the Aenir from our minds and I will show you something of rare grandeur.”