David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“They’ve just vanished,” said Leofas. “Layne’s group made camp near the elm grove, and then moved northeast. After that the tracks cease.”

“It was a cunning ploy,” said Badraig. “They obviously thought they had a clue and didn’t wish to be followed. It doesn’t make it any easier for us, though-except that we know they didn’t head for Vallon.”

“I disagree,” said Caswallon.

“A pox on you, Caswallon,” snapped Badraig. “That was my area. Are you saying I’m that poor a huntsman that I could have missed eight callow boys?”

“What I am saying is that we’ve searched everywhere and found no sign,” answered Caswallon softly.

Badraig snorted. “Then maybe it’s you who’ve missed the trail.”

“Enough of this quarreling,” ordered Cambil. “What shall we do now?”

“Look in Vallon,” said Caswallon. “We have two missing teams. Both are led by the brightest, most able of our young men. The rhyme was not easy, but the answer was there for those with the wits to work at it. Agwaine I am sure would have deciphered it. Do you not agree, Cambil?”

Cambil bit his lip and stared into the fire. “Yes, he misses little.”

“Now, all the boys who headed west say they saw no sign of Agwaine. Or Layne. In fact, after the first night they just dropped from sight. No team headed for Vallon, because none of the others deciphered the rhyme. To my mind the conclusion is inescapable.”

“So you are saying I’m lacking in skill!” stormed Badraig.

“Please be calm, cousin,” said Caswallon. “We are talking about two teams who traveled carefully so that no rivals would spot them. It doesn’t mean you lacked skill because you missed them.”

“I still say they headed west.”

“Then go west and find them,” said Caswallon. “I’m heading for Vallon.”

Badraig swore, but Cambil cut across him. “Hold your tongue, man! In this I think Caswallon is right. Now we have men hunting the west, and we’ll lose nothing by visiting Attafoss. I just wish that druid would get here. I’d like to know what Hell spawn we’re facing.”

“Well, ‘that druid’ can help you,” said Taliesen, moving out of the tree shadows and seating himself among them. “The beast crossed a Gateway and it is following the youngsters toward Attafoss. Caswallon is right. Let these arguments cease.”

“Are you sure, Lord Druid?” asked Badraig.

“As sure as death,” answered Taliesen. “You had best move now, for there is tragedy in the air, and more blood to be spilt before you find them.”

“A curse on your prophecies,” said Cambil, lurching to his feet. “Is this beast more of your magic?”

“None of mine, Hunt Lord.”

“Have you seen who will die?” asked Badraig. “Can you tell us that?”

“No, I cannot tell you.”

“But my son is with Agwaine.”

“I know. Go now, for time is short.”

The men rolled their blankets and set off without a backward glance at the druid, whose dark eyes followed them seemingly without emotion. Taliesen watched them go, his heart heavy, a great sadness growing within him. The threads were beginning to come together now. In another time the sorcerer Jakuta Khan had sent a beast to kill the young Sigarni. That beast had vanished into the mists of time. Now it was here, in the Farlain, and being drawn inexorably toward the frail and wounded Queen. And between the hunter and his victim were the boys of the Farlain. Taliesen longed to intervene. He remembered the long nights sitting at the Queen’s bedside, in the cave on Druin’s flanks. He had told her to say nothing of events in her own world, lest the knowledge cause even more fractures in the Time Lines. But when she became delirious with fever she had spoken in her sleep, and Taliesen had felt the weight of sorrow bear down on him like a huge rock.

He longed to rescue the boys. And he could not. “It rests with you now, Gaelen,” he whispered.

And with the Hawk Eternal, he thought.

The four men walked for most of the night, stopping only to snatch an hour’s sleep before dawn. Then they moved on, crossing hills, running across narrow valleys, scaling tree-lined slopes. During the afternoon they were joined by six hunters cutting in from the east. A hurried conference was held. One man was sent back to the village to fetch more bowmen, and the remaining nine hoisted their packs and ran single file toward the towering peaks of the northeast.

They drove themselves hard, calling on reserves of endurance built during years of tough mountain living. Only Leofas, the oldest of them, struggled to maintain the pace; but maintain it he did, giving no sign of the pain from his swollen knee.

Just before nightfall Badraig halted the column, spotting something to the right of the track; it was a half-eaten oatcake. Badraig picked it up, breaking it into crumbs. At the center it was still dry.

“Yesterday,” he said. Then he scouted carefully around the area. Rather than destroy any faint traces of spoor, the other hunters squatted down to wait for Badraig’s report. Within minutes he returned.

“Four lads,” he said. “One is very large and can only be Lennox. You were right, Caswallon; they passed me.”

The group pushed on into the mountains, and as the sun sank, Caswallon found the hollow Layne had chosen for their camp. The men gathered around.

“Tomorrow should be easier going,” said Cambil, stretching his long legs in front of him and resting his back against the granite boulder. “The tracks will be easy to find.” His strong fingers kneaded the muscles of his thigh, and he grunted as the pain flowed.

Leofas sank to the ground, his face grey, his eyes sunken. With great effort he slipped his pack from his shoulders and unrolled his blanket. Wrapping himself against the night chill, he fell asleep instantly.

Badraig took two huntsmen and began to scour the area. The moon was bright and three-quarters full and the tracks left by the boys could be clearly seen. Badraig followed them halfway up the north slope of the hollow. Here he stopped.

Overlapping Lennox’s large footprint was another print twice as long. Badraig swore, the sound hissing between clenched teeth. Swiftly he returned to the men in the hollow.

“The beast is hunting them,” he told Cambil. “We must move on.”

“That might not be wise,” the Hunt Lord replied. We could miss vital signs in the darkness. Worse, we could stumble on the beast itself.”

“I agree,” said Caswallon. “How close behind them is it, Badraig?”

“Hard to say. Several hours, perhaps less.”

“Damn all druids!” said Cambil, his broad face flushed and angry. “Damn them and their Gates.”

Caswallon said nothing. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he leaned back, closed his eyes. He thought of Gaelen and wondered if Fate could be so cruel as to save the boy on one day, only to have him brutally slain thereafter. He knew that it could. All life was chance.

But the Gates were a mystery he had never been able to fathom.

The elders had a story of a time just before Caswallon was born, when a leather-winged flying creature had appeared in the mountains, killing sheep and even calves. That had been slain by the then Hunt Lord, a strong proud man who sought to be the first High King since Earis. But the people had voted against him. Embittered, he had taken thirty of his followers and somehow found a way to cross the churning waters of Attafoss to the island of Vallon. There he had overpowered the druids and led his men through the Forbidden Gate.

Twenty years later he returned alone, gravely wounded. Taliesen had asked for his death, but the Druid Council denied him and the man was returned to the Farlain. No longer Hunt Lord, he would tell no man of his adventures, saying only that a terrible vision had been revealed to him.