David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“What is it?”

“Do not be impatient. I’ll not spoil it with words.”

The clansman set off toward the west, and Gaelen gathered up the pup and followed him.

Throughout the morning they climbed through the timberline, over rocky scree slopes, down into verdant vales, and finally up into a sandstone pass. A sound like distant thunder growled in muted majesty and Gaelen’s heart hammered.

“Is it a beast?” he asked.

“No. Though legends have it otherwise. What you are about to see is the birthplace of many myths. The Rainbow bridge to the home of the Gods is but one that springs from Attafoss.”

Once through the pass, Caswallon led the way along a grassy track, the thunder growing below and to the right. Finally they climbed down toward the noise, clambering over rocks and warily walk-sliding down scree slopes, until Caswallon heaved the pack from his shoulders and beckoned the boy to him. Caswallon was standing on the lip of a slablike ledge. As Gaelen approached he saw for the first time the glory of Attafoss, and he knew deep in his heart that he would never forget the moment.

There were three huge falls, the water split by two towering boulders before plunging three hundred feet to a foaming pool beneath, and onto one great waterfall whose roar deafened the watchers. Sunlight reflected from black, basaltic rock, forming rainbows in the spray, one of which spanned the falls and disappeared high in the air above the mountains. The falls were immense, almost half a mile wide. Gaelen stood openmouthed and stared at the Rainbow bridge. Even in Ateris he had heard stories of it.

Caswallon lifted his arms to the sky and began to speak, but the words were whipped from his mouth by the roaring voice of Attafoss. The clansman turned to the boy and grinned. “Come on,” he bellowed.

Slowly they worked their way above the falls to sit beside the surging water in the lea of a rock face that deadened the cacophonous noise.

Caswallon pointed to a tear-shaped island in the center of the lake. It was heavily wooded, and from here the boy could see the mouths of deep caves in the rocky hills above the tree line.

“That is Vallon,” he said, “and upon it lies one of the magic Gates through which the Farlain passed hundreds of years ago. We came in winter when the water was frozen solid, and we walked upon the ice.”

They stayed the night above the falls, and Gaelen fed the pup with dried meat that he had first chewed to softness; this time the hound ate with relish. The following day Caswallon led them south toward the Farlain. The boy saw that Caswal-lon moved more cautiously, scanning the surrounding countryside and waiting in the cover of woods, checking carefully before moving out into open country.

Twice they came upon Aenir tracks, and once the remains of a campfire. Caswallon worked his fingers into the grey ash, and down into the earth beneath.

“This morning,” he said. “Be watchful.”

That night they made camp in a narrow cave and lit no fire. At first light they moved on. Caswallon was uneasy.

“They are close,” he said. “I can almost smell them. To be honest, Gaelen, I am worried. I may have underestimated these Aenir. For all that there are twenty of them they leave little spoor, and they avoid the skylines in their march. They are woodsmen and good scouts. And that concerns me; it could mean the Aenir are preparing to march upon us far earlier than I anticipated.”

By dusk Caswallon’s unease had become alarm. He didn’t talk at all but checked the trail many times, occasionally climbing trees to scan the horizon.

“What is wrong?” Gaelen asked him as he pored over a near-invisible series of scuffs and marks on the track.

“They have split up into small parties. Three have gone ahead, the rest have moved into the woods. My guess is that they know we are close and they have formed a circle around us.”

“What can we do?”

“We do not have many choices,” said the clansman. “Let’s find a place to make camp.”

Caswallon chose a spot near a stream, where he built a small fire against a fallen trunk and the two of them ate the last of the food Maeg had prepared. Once again the night sky was cloudless, the moon bright. Gaelen snuggled into his blankets with the pup curled against his chest, and slept deep and dreamlessly until about two hours before dawn when Caswallon gently shook him awake. Gaelen opened his eyes. Above him knelt Caswallon, a finger held to his lips, commanding silence. Gaelen rose swiftly. Caswallon pointed to the pup and the boy picked it up, tucking it into his tunic. The clansman filled Gaelen’s bed with brush and covered it with a blanket. Then he added fuel to the fire before moving into the darkness of the woods. He stopped by a low, dense bush in sight of the clearing and the flickering fire.

Putting his face close to Gaelen’s ear, he whispered, “Crawl into the bush and curl up. Make no sound and move not at all. If the pup stirs-kill it!”

“I am willing to fight,” whispered Gaelen.

“Willing-but not yet ready,” said Caswallon. “Now do as I bid.”

Dropping to his knees Gaelen crawled into the bush, pushing aside the branches and wrapping himself in the cloak Caswallon had given him. He waited with heart hammering, his breath seeming as loud as the Attafoss thunder.

Caswallon had disappeared.

For more than an hour there was no sign of hostile movement in the woods. Gaelen was cramped and stiff, and the pup did stir against him. Gently he stroked the black and grey head. The tiny hound yawned and fell asleep. Gaelen smiled-then froze.

A dark shadow had detached itself from the trees not ten paces from the bush. Moonlight glistened on an iron-rimmed helm and flashed from a sword blade in the man’s hand.

The warrior crept to the edge of the clearing, lifted his sword and waved it, signaling his companions. His view partly screened by leaves and branches, Gaelen could just make out the assault on the camp. Three warriors ran across the clearing, slashing their swords into the built-up blankets.

As the boy watched the Aenir drew back, realizing they had been fooled. No word passed between them, but they began to search the surrounding trees.

Gaelen was terrified. The bush stood alone, out in the open, plainly in sight of the three hunters. Why did Caswallon leave him in such an exposed place? He toyed with the idea of crawling clear and running, but they were too close.

One of the warriors began to search at the far side of the clearing, stepping into the screen of gorse. Gaelen’s eyes opened wide as Caswallon rose from the ground behind the warrior, clamped a hand over his mouth, and sliced his dagger across the man’s throat. Releasing the body, he turned and ducked back into the gorse.

Unsuspecting, the remaining hunters checked to the west and east. Finding nothing, they moved toward the bush where Gaelen sat rigid with fear.

The first warrior, a burly man in bearskin tunic and leather breeches, turned to the second, a tall, lean figure with braided black hair.

“Fetch Karis,” said the first. The warrior moved back toward the clearing, while the leader walked toward Gaelen’s hiding place. The boy watched in amazement. The man never once looked down; it was as if he and the bush were invisible.

The warrior was so close that Gaelen could see only his leather-clad legs and the high, laced boots he wore. He did not dare look up. Suddenly the man’s body slumped beside the bush. Gaelen started violently, but stopped himself from screaming. The Aenir lay facing him, his dead eyes open, his neck leaking blood on the soft earth.

The dead man began to move like a snake, only backward. Gaelen looked up. Caswallon had the man by the feet and was pulling him into the undergrowth. Then, dropping the body, the clansman vanished once more into the trees.