David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

A red hawk on a field of black. The Outlanders streaming from the battlefield, broken and demoralized. Sigarni raising her sword in the sunset, the Battle Queen triumphant.

Such had been the glory of youth when Oracle crossed the Gate to the kingdom beyond. The old man drew his grey cloak about his shoulders, stretching his legs forward, soaking in the heat from the burning beech in the hearth. He stared down at the backs of his hands, wrinkled and spotted with the drab brown specks of age.

But once upon a time…

“Dreaming of glory?” asked Taliesen.

Oracle jerked up as if struck, twisting in his seat. He cursed softly as he recognized the ancient druid. “Pull up a chair,” he said.

The druid was small, and skeletally thin, his white hair and beard sparse and wispy, clinging to his face and head like remnants of winter mist. But his eyes were strangely youthful and humorous, antelope-brown and set close together under sharp brows. From his skinny shoulders hung a cloak of birds’ feathers, many-hued, the blue of the kingfisher flashing against raven-black, soft pale plover and eagle’s quill.

He leaned his long staff against the cave wall and seated himself beside Oracle. “The boy came then,” said the druid, his voice soft and deep.

“You know he did.”

“Yes. And so it begins: the destruction of all that we love.”

“So you believe.”

“Do you doubt me, Oracle?”

“The future is like soft clay to be molded. I cannot believe it is already set and decided.”

The druid gave a low curse. “You of all men should know that the past, present, and future exist together, woven like a cloth, interweaving. You crossed the Gate. Did you learn nothing?”

“I learned the error of pride. That was enough for me.”

“You look old and tired,” said the druid.

“I am both. How is it that you still live, Taliesen? You were old when I was a babe at the breast.”

“I was old when your grandfather was a babe at the breast.”

For a while both men sat in silence staring into the flames, then Oracle sighed and shifted in his seat. “Why have you come here?” he whispered.

“Sigarni has crossed the Gate. She is at the cave on High Druin.”

Oracle licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “How is the girl?”

Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “Girl? She is a woman near as old as you. As I said, you do not understand the intricacies of the Gateways.”

“Well, how is she anyway, damn you?”

“Gravely wounded, but I will heal her.”

“May I see her?”

The druid shook his head. “It would not be wise.”

“Then why come to me at all?”

“It may be that you can help me.”

“In what way?”

“What happened to the sword you stole from her?”

Oracle reddened. “It was payment for all I had done for her.”

“Do not seek to justify yourself, Caracis. Your sin led to more wars. You cost Sigarni far more than you were worth; then you stole Skallivar. You told me you lost it in the fight that brought you back to us, but I no longer believe you. What happened to it?”

Oracle rose and walked to the rear of the cave. He returned carrying a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Placing it on the table, he untied the binding and opened the bundle. There lay a shining sword of silver steel. “You want it?” Oracle asked.

Taliesen sighed, and flipped the cloth back over the blade. “No. Damn you, man! You crossed the Lines of Time. You will die and never know the chaos you gave birth to. I have tried to put it right, and have only succeeded in creating fresh paradoxes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Without the sword Sigarni was crushed, defeated, and slain.”

“But you said she was here!”

“As she is. I tried to help her, Caracis, but she died. I crossed the Lines finding another Sigarni, in another world. She died. Time and time again I traveled the Gates. Always she died. I gave up for a long while, then I returned to my quest and found another Sigarni who was fated to die young. She defeated her first enemy, and then the second, Earl Jastey. She did it with the help of Caracis. You remember that, do you not?” Oracle looked away. “And Caracis, once again, stole her sword. But this time she asked me to return it to her. That had never happened before. I did not know what to do. And now-suddenly-she is here. A victorious queen carrying this sword.”

“I did not want to part with it,” whispered the man who had been Caracis.

“You had such talents, Caracis,” said Taliesen softly. “How was it that you became such a wretch?”

“I wanted to be a king, a hero. I wanted songs sung about me, and legends written. Is that so shameful? Tell me, did she rule well?”

“She won the final battle, and held the clans together for forty years. She is a true legend and will remain so.”

Oracle grinned. “Forty years, you say? And she won.” Hauling himself to his feet, the old man fetched a jug of honey mead and two goblets. “Will you join me?”

“I think I will.”

“Forty years,” said Oracle again. “I could not have done it. Forty years!”

“Tell me of the boy Gaelen.”

Oracle dragged his mind back to the present. “Gaelen? He’s a good lad, bright and quick. He has courage. I like him. He will be good for Caswallon.”

“How does Caswallon fare?”

“As always, he walks his own path. He has been good to me… like a son. And he eases my shame and helps me forget…”

“Have you told him of your past?” inquired Taliesen, leaning forward and staring hard at Oracle.

“No, I kept my promises. I’ve told no one of the worlds beyond. Do you doubt me?”

“I do not. You are a willful man and proud, but no one ever accused you of oath-breaking.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because men change. They grow weak. Senile.”

“I am not senile yet,” snapped Oracle.

“Indeed you are not.”

“What will happen to the Queen?”

Taliesen shrugged. “She will die, as all die. She is old and tired; her day is gone. A sorcerer long ago sent a demon to kill her. He made a mistake and cast his spell too close to a Gateway. The beast is almost upon her.”

“Can we not save her?”

“We are talking of destiny, man!” snapped Taliesen. “The beast must find her.” His stern expression relaxed. “Even should the demon fail, she will die soon. Her heart is old and worn out.”

“At least she achieved something with her life. She saved her people. I’ve destroyed mine.”

“I cannot make it easier, for you speak the truth. But it is done now.”

“Is there truly no hope?” Oracle pleaded.

The druid sighed and stood, gathering his long staff. “There is always hope, no matter how slender or unrealistic. Do not think that you are the only one to feel regret. The Farlain are my people, in a way you could never comprehend. When they are destroyed my life goes with them. And all the works of my life. You! You are just a man who made a mistake. I must bear the cost. Hope? I’ll tell you what hope there is. Imagine a man standing in Atta forest at the birth of autumn. Imagine all the leaves are ready to fall. That man must reach out and catch one leaf, one special leaf. But he doesn’t know which tree it is on. That is the hope for the Farlain. You think the idiot Cambil will catch the leaf?”

“Caswallon might,” said Oracle.

“Caswallon is not Hunt Lord,” said Taliesen softly. “And if he were… the clans are sundered, and widely spread. They will not turn back an enemy as strong as the Aenir.”

“Did you come here to punish me, druid?”

“Punish you? I sometimes wish I had killed you,” said Taliesen sadly. “Damn you, mortal! Why did I ever show you the Gate?”