David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

The last Aenir warrior, sword in hand, stepped back into the clearing. “Asta!” he called. “Karis is dead. Come back here.”

Caswallon’s voice sounded, the words spoken coldly. “You’re all alone, my bonny.”

The warrior spun and leaped to the attack, long sword raised. Leaning back, Caswallon swiveled his quarterstaff, stabbing it forward like a spear. It hammered into the warrior’s belly and with a grunt he doubled over, his head speeding down to meet the other end of the iron-capped staff. Hurled from his feet, he hit the ground hard. Groggy, he tried to rise. Strong fingers lifted him by his hair, ramming his face into the rough bark of an old oak. He sank to the ground once more, semiconscious.

Ongist could feel his hands being tied, but could find no strength to resist. He passed out then, returning to consciousness some hours later for the sun had risen. His head ached and he could taste blood in his mouth. He tried to move but he was bound to a tree trunk.

Several paces before him sat the two he had been tracking, the man and the boy. Both were obviously clan, but there was something familiar about the lad although the warrior couldn’t place him.

“I see you are back with us,” said the clansman. “What is your name?”

“Ongist, son of Asbidag.”

“I am Caswallon of the Farlain. This is my son Gaelen.”

“Why have you not killed me?”

“I like a man who makes his point swiftly,” said Caswallon. “You are alive by my whim. You are here to scout Farlain lands. Your instructions were probably to remain unseen, or kill any who discovered you-in which case you have failed twice. You had us encircled, and the circle is now tightening. Therefore if I leave you here you will be found, and you can give this message to your leaders: Leave now, for I shall summon the Farlain hunters before the day is out and then not one of you will live to report to your lord.”

“Strong words,” muttered the Aenir.

“Indeed they are, my friend. But understand this, I am known among the Farlain as a mild-mannered man and the least of warriors. And yet two of your men are slain and you are trussed like a water fowl. Think what would happen if I loosed two hundred war carles upon you.”

“What are your two hundred?” spat the warrior. “What are your two thousand, compared to the might of the Aenir? You will be like dry leaves before a forest fire. The Farlain? A motley crew of semisavages with no king and no army. Let me advise you now. Send your emissaries to the Lord Asbidag in Ateris and make your peace. But bring presents, mind. The Lord Asbidag appreciates presents.”

Caswallon smiled. “I shall carry the words of your wisdom to the Farlain Council. Perhaps they will agree with you. When your men find you, tell them to head south. It is the fastest way from the Farlain.”

The warrior hawked and spat.

“Look at him, Gaelen. That is the Aenir, that is the race that has terrorized the world. But for all that he is merely a man who smells strong, whose hair is covered in lice, and whose empire is built on the blood of innocents. Warriors? As you saw last night they are just men, with little skill-except in the murder of women, or the lancing of children.”

Ongist’s eyes flashed in recognition. The boy was the lad Asbidag had speared at the gates of Ateris. He bit his lip and said nothing. His brother Tostig had told them all how the boy had crawled to the mountains and been rescued by twenty clansmen. It had worried Asbidag.

“Would you like to kill him, Gaelen?”

Ongist felt the hatred in the boy’s gaze, and he stared back without fear. “I see we made our mark upon you, boy,” he sneered. “Do they call you Blood-eye or Scar-face?”

The boy said nothing, but the cold gaze remained. “Did someone cut your tongue out?” hissed Ongist.

Gaelen turned to his father. “Yes, I want to kill him,” he said. “But not today.”

The man and the boy left the clearing without a backward glance and Ongist settled back to wait for his brother and the others. It was nearing midday when the Aenir found him; they cut him loose and hauled him to his feet. His brothers Tostig and Drada supported him, for his head was dizzy and his vision blurred as he stood.

“What happened?” asked Drada, his elder by three years.

“The clansman tricked us. He killed Karis and Asta.”

“I know. We found the bodies.”

“He told me to leave Farlain lands. He says he will alert their hunters.”

“Good advice,” said Drada.

“Asbidag will be angry,” muttered Tostig. Ongist rubbed at his bruised temple and scowled. Tostig was the largest of the brothers, a towering brute of a man with braided yellow hair and broken teeth. But he was also the most cautious-some would say cowardly. Ongist despised him.

“What was he like?” asked Drada.

Ongist shrugged. “Tall. Moved well. Fought well. Confident.”

“Then we’ll take his advice. Did you talk to him, try to bait him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“No reaction, he just smiled. I told him the Aenir would sweep his people away. I advised him to come to Asbidag and beg for peace. He just said he would take my words of wisdom to the Council.”

“Damn,” said Drada. “I don’t like the sound of that. Men who don’t get angry make the worst enemies.”

Ongist grinned, draping his arm over Drada’s shoulder. “Always the thinker, brother. By the way, the boy he claimed was his son is the same lad Father speared at the city gates.”

Drada swore. “And still he didn’t get angry? That does make me shiver.”

“I thought you’d enjoy that,” said Ongist. “By the way, Tostig, how many men did you say rescued the boy?”

“I couldn’t see them all. They were hidden in the bushes.”

“How many could you see?” asked Drada, his interest caught by Ongist’s question.

“I could see only the leader clearly. Why? How many men did he say he had?”

“He didn’t say,” answered Ongist, “but I know.”

“A curse on you!” shouted Tostig, storming to the other side of the clearing.

Drada took Ongist by the arm and led him to the fallen trunk where Caswallon had made their fire. The two men sat down and Drada rubbed his eyes. “What was the point of all that?” he asked.

“There were no twenty clansmen,” sneered Ongist. “Just the one-the same man, I’d stake my life on it.”

“You are probably right,” Drada agreed. “Did he give a name?”

“Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“Caswallon. Let’s hope there are not too many like him among the clans.”

“It won’t matter if there are. Who can stand against thirty thousand Aenir warriors?”

“That is true,” agreed Drada, “but they remain an unknown quantity. Who knows how many there are? Our estimate is less than seven thousand fighting men if all the clans muster. But suppose we are wrong?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think we ought to deal with them gently. Trade first and earn a welcome among them. Then we’ll see.”

“You think they’ll be foolish enough to allow us into the mountains?” asked Ongist.

“Why not? Every other conquered nation has given us the same facility. And there must be those among the clans who are disenchanted, overlooked, or despised. They will come to us, and they will learn.”

“I thought Father wanted to attack in the summer?”

“He does, but I’ll talk him out of it. There are three main Lowland areas still to fall, and they’ll yield richer pickings than these mountains.”

“I like the mountains. I’d like to build a home here,” said Ongist.

“You will soon, my brother. I promise you.”

Oracle sat alone, gazing into the fire, lost in yesterday’s dreams when armies swept across the land with their lances gleaming and banners raised.