David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Cambil bit his lip and nodded.

“May I ask,” continued the druid, “that we speak privately?”

Cambil turned to the man beside him. “My apologies, Lord Drada, but please feel free to join the men at the food table beyond and refresh yourself.”

Drada stood and bowed to Cambil, then he turned to the druid. “I am sorry to have caused you problems. Had I known my presence would disrupt the ceremony I would have turned down the invitation.” Neither Taliesen nor Cambil missed the stress he placed on the word invitation, and the Hunt Lord felt himself blushing.

The Aenir warrior carefully hung his black cloak upon his broad shoulders and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The ancient druid turned his dark eyes on the Hunt Lord and leaned forward across the table. “It was not wise to invite him into Farlain lands,” he said.

“He is friendly enough,” insisted Cambil.

“He is the Enemy to Come,” snapped the druid.

“So you say, old man, but I am the Hunt Lord of the Farlain, and I alone decide whether a man is a friend or enemy. You are a druid and as such are to be respected in religious matters, but do not exceed your authority.”

“Are you blind, Cambil, or merely stupid?”

Anger shone in the Hunt Lord’s eyes, but his response was calm. “I am not blind, druid. And I make no great claims to be wiser than any other clansman. What I do know is that war brings no advantage to either side. If the Aenir can be convinced that we offer them no threat, and that there is no wealth to be found in the mountains, I see no reason why we cannot exist together-if not as friends, then at least as good neighbors. Keeping them out will only cause suspicion, and make war more likely.”

Cambil walked to the door, wrenching it open. “Now, the boys are waiting and I shall send them off, and I don’t doubt the lack of your words of power will affect them not at all.”

At the edge of the field Caswallon sat with Maeg and Kareen, watching the boys line up for the first race to the trees. Once there, they would find a leather pouch hanging from the branch of the central pine. Within the pouch were four clues, written on parchment. The first team to reach the tree would be able to read all the clues, and remove one. The next team would find three clues, and remove one. And so on until the fourth team would find only one remaining.

Gaelen, who could not yet read, would be useless to his team on this first run, but they had chosen Gwalchmai to lead the sprint, and he was almost as fast as Cambil’s son Agwaine.

The teams sprinted away at Cambil’s command and Caswallon watched as Gwalchmai and Agwaine forged a lead over the rest, with Gaelen loping beside the lumbering Lennox at the rear.

At that moment Caswallon caught sight of the black-coated Aenir warrior standing by the grey house. Leaving Maeg and Kareen, he walked the short distance to the building. As he walked he gauged the man. The Aenir was tall and well built, but slim of hip. He looked what he was-a warrior. As Caswallon approached the man turned and the clansman knew he was undergoing the same appraisal.

“The lads move well,” said the Aenir, pointing toward the youngsters who were now halfway up the hillside.

“I see your men took my advice,” said Caswallon. “That was wise.”

Drada smiled. “Yes, I always listen to wise counsel. But I saw no sign of the Farlain hunters you promised to send after us.”

“They were there.”

“I was surprised to find you are not a councillor, Caswallon.”

“Why so?”

“I gained the impression that you were a man of influence but Cambil tells me this is not so. He says you are a thief and a bandit.”

“What do you think of the Farlain mountains?” Caswallon countered.

“They are beautiful. Most especially this valley.”

“There are many valleys in the Farlain, and a vast number more in the Druin range,” said the clansman.

“I have no doubt I shall see them all eventually,” Drada told him, with a wolfish smile.

“Travel alone when you do so.”

“Really, why?”

“The mountains can be tranquil and a man alone can best enjoy their harmony.”

“And if he is not alone?” asked Drada.

“If he travels with many, then the mountains can be hostile, even deadly. Why, even now two Aenir corpses are rotting in the mountains. And there is room for many more.”

“That is no talk for new friends, Caswallon.”

Caswallon laughed with genuine humor; then the smile faded. “But then I am not your friend, my bonny. Nor ever shall be.”

More than fifty youngsters pounded up the slope, feet drumming on the hard-packed grass-covered clay of the hillside. Gwalchmai tucked himself in behind Agwaine, fastening his eyes on the other boy’s pack and running on grimly. After forty paces he loosened the straps of his own heavy pack and let it fall to the ground behind him. Then, as Gaelen had instructed him, he once more moved up behind Agwaine.

Here the hillside was at its steepest and the young Agwaine was breathing heavily, his legs began to burn as the body’s waste acids settled to the muscles of his calves. He did not look back. He could afford no wasted energy. And besides, he was the fastest runner for his years in the Farlain.

Back down the slope, Lennox scooped up Gwalchmai’s pack and continued to lope alongside Gaelen, way to the rear of the other runners.

“I hope this is allowed,” shouted Lennox.

Gaelen said nothing. Caswallon had told him that the rules were specific. All runners had to start the race carrying their own provisions. Well, Gwalchmai had done that.

Layne had not been easy to convince, for he was a youth who lived on traditions of honor and would sooner lose than cheat. But Gaelen had called a vote, as was his right, and had won the day. Layne seemed to harbor no grudge.

Gwalchmai and Agwaine had now increased their lead over the following pack to fifty paces, and it was obvious that they would reach the trees well ahead of their rivals.

As the timberline neared Gwalchmai sped past his astonished opponent. Agwaine was furious. Sweat-soaked and near-exhausted, he released his pack and set off after the sprinting youth. Fury pumped fresh adrenaline to his tired legs and against all the odds he began to close the gap.

Fifty paces from the trees Agwaine was running in Gwalchmai’s shadow, but the canny youngster had one more ploy. As Agwaine came abreast of him Gwalchmai kicked again, releasing the energy he had held in reserve. Agwaine had nothing more to offer. In an agonizing effort to match his opponent, he stumbled against a stone and pitched to the earth.

Gwalchmai ran ahead, eyes flickering from tree to tree, seeking the pouch. It was in plain view, fastened to a low branch. He pulled it clear, removing the small pieces of paper it contained. Reading them all, he selected one and tucked it in his belt. Then he rehung the pouch and wandered back toward Agwaine.

The Hunt Lord’s son ignored him, racing past to tear the pouch clear. He read the three remaining strips, took one, and replaced two. Then he turned after Gwalchmai.

“You dog!” he shouted, his breathing labored. “You… cheating

… cur!”

Frightened, Gwalchmai backed away and opened his hands. “The rules did not forbid it, Agwaine.”

Other runners came between them in the last frantic dash for clues, and Agwaine turned away to sit in the shade of a spreading elm.

Gwalchmai was grinning broadly as Layne reached him and he handed the parchment over. Layne read it, nodded, then walked over to where Agwaine was sitting.

“Well run, cousin,” he said, squatting beside him.

“Thank you. That was a devious strategy. But, as Gwalchmai says, it was within the rules and therefore I can have no complaint.” Layne offered Agwaine the parchment. “What is this? What are you doing?”