David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“I cannot begin to tell you what you mean to me,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” she said.

One moment the mountainside was clear, rolling green slopes, the occasional tree, two streams meeting and foaming over white boulders. Sheep grazed quietly near a small herd of wild ponies.

Suddenly the air reeked with an acrid smell none of the animals recognized. Their heads came up. Blue light replaced the gold of the sun. Rainbows danced on the grass and a great noise, like locust wings, covered the mountainside. The ponies reared and wheeled, the sheep scattering in all directions.

For a fraction of a second two suns hung in the sky, then they merged and the golden sunlight bathed the mountain. But all was not as it had been…

In the shadow of a great boulder stood a towering figure, six-inch fangs curving from a wide snout, massive shoulders covered in black fur, huge arms ending in taloned fingers. The eyes were black and round, the brows deep, and it blinked as its new surroundings came into focus.

Lifting its shaggy head, the beast sniffed the air. The sweet smell of living flesh flooded its senses. The creature leaned forward, dipping its colossal shoulders until its talons brushed the earth. Its eyes focused on a three-year-old ewe, which stood trembling on the hillside.

Dropping fully to all fours, the beast bunched the muscles of its hind legs and leaped forward, bearing down on the sheep with terrible speed. Startled, the ewe turned to run. It had made only three running jumps before the weight of the hunter smashed its spine into jagged shards.

Taloned fingers tore aside the ewe’s flesh and the blood ran.

The beast ate swiftly, lifting its shaggy black head often, peering shortsightedly around the mountainside, ready for any enemy that might chance upon it. It was uncomfortable out in the open, unused to shimmering horizons and bright light. But the blood was good upon its tongue, the flesh rich and greasy. Casually it ripped out the ewe’s entrails, hurling them far from the body, concentrating instead on the flesh of the loins. Slowly, methodically, the giant creature fed, snapping bones and sucking out the marrow, splitting the skull with one blow and devouring the brains.

Hunger satisfied, the beast sank back to its haunches. It blinked in the sunlight as an image fashioned itself in its mind. A bright image. Grunting, it shook its head, then gave a low growl. Dimly it remembered the circle of stones and the red-clad sorcerer whose fingers danced with fire. The fire had entered the creature’s breast, settling there without pain. The beast howled as hunger returned.

It would always be hungry-until it devoured the image-woman. Angrily the beast slammed its hands against the ground.

Away to the left it saw the line of trees that merged into the forest above Vallon. Hunger returning, it began to lope toward them, stopping at a stream to drink. The trees were smaller than the ones it had known and climbed, less closely packed and strangely silent. No chittering monkeys swung from the vines, few birds sang, and there was no sign of fruit upon the boughs.

The wind shifted and a new smell filtered to the beast’s flaring nostrils. The black eyes glittered with the memory of salty-sweet flesh and marrow-filled bones. The sorcerer had implanted a soul scent upon its senses-and this creature was not the victim ordained. Nor was the spell scent close by. Yet it could almost taste the sweet meat of the approaching man-beast.

Saliva dripped from its maw and its dark tongue licked out over its fangs. The smell was growing stronger. There was no need to stalk, for the simpleminded creature was moving this way.

A hundred paces to the west Erlik of the Pallides, a tall young hunter from the house of Maggrig, leaned on his staff. Beside him his war hound Askar growled deep in his throat. Erlik was puzzled. An hour ago he had seen the blue haze across the mountains, and the two suns appear in the sky. And despite this being Farlain land he had ventured here, led by the curiosity of the young. Less than a year before Erlik had gained his manhood in the Hunt, and was now a contender for the Games.

And where a more seasoned veteran would hesitate, Erlik, with all the confidence of youth, had crossed the border and ventured into the lands of the enemy. He did not fear Farlain hunters, for he knew he could outrun them, but he had to know why the air burned blue. He sensed it would be a fine tale to tell his comrades at the evening feast.

He leaned down and stroked Askar, whispering it to silence. The hound obeyed unwillingly. It didn’t like the idea of moving with the direction of the breeze, and it sensed danger ahead that made the fur on its shoulders rise. With the natural cunning of the canine it began to edge left, but Erlik called it back.

The young hunter moved forward toward an area of thick bracken and gorse. Askar growled once more and this time the dog’s unease filtered through to the man. Carefully he laid down his quarterstaff, then swung his bow from his shoulder, hastily notching an arrow to the string.

The gorse exploded as a vast black creature reared up from the ground at Erlik’s feet. A taloned arm flashed out, half severing the hunter’s left arm and hurling him to the ground. The war hound leaped for the beast’s throat, but was brutally swatted aside. Erlik drew his hunting knife and struggled to rise, but the talons flashed once more and his head toppled from his shoulders.

Minutes later the war hound came to its senses, pain gnawing at its broken ribs. The great head came up slowly, ears pricking at the sounds of crunching bones.

With infinite care the hound inched its way to the west, away from the feeding beast.

In the valley of the Farlain fourteen teams of youngsters were packing shoulder sacks with provisions ready for the hunt. Families and kin thronged the Market Field.

The brothers Layne and Lennox were seated side by side on a fallen oak while Gaelen lay on his back, eyes closed, nearby. Beside him sat the slender Gwalchmai, whittling with a short dagger.

“I wish they would announce the start,” said Layne. “What are they waiting for?”

Gaelen sat up. “Caswallon said the druid must give his blessing.”

“I know that,” snapped Layne. “I meant why the delay?” Gaelen lay back on the grass and said nothing. Layne was not normally this edgy.

“Are you looking forward to it?” asked Gwalchmai. Gaelen could see that the ginger-haired youth was worried by Layne’s tension and seeking to change the mood.

“Yes, I am,” said Gaelen.

“Do you understand the meaning of the riddle?”

“No. Have you deciphered it?”

Gwalchmai shrugged. “Maybe it will be clearer when we find the second clue.”

In the house of Cambil, beyond the field and the waiting teams, sat the Druid Lord, Taliesen. Opposite him, pacing before the hearth, was the tall Hunt Lord Cambil, a golden-haired, handsome young man wearing a leaf-green tunic and a red cloak.

By the hearth sat a stranger clad in leather shirt and breeches, his long blond hair braided beneath a round leather helm. He too was handsome, but unlike Cambil, there was no softness in him. His eyes were the cold blue of the winter sky, and upon his mouth was a mocking half smile. That the druid disliked him was obvious and seemed to amuse the Aenir; but for Cambil the meeting was a monstrous embarrassment.

The druid was angry, though he showed nothing of it as he sipped water from a clay goblet. Cambil was uneasy and pulled at his golden beard. The stranger sat back in the leather-covered chair, his face expressionless.

“It is rare,” the druid said at last, “for a stranger to be present at the Youth’s Hunt-though it is not without precedent. There shall be no blessing today, for the words of power cannot be spoken in the presence of Lowlanders. In this there is no disrespect intended for your guest, Cambil, it is merely the weight of tradition which forbids it.”