David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“The fire, fool! Your life is in danger! Awake!”

The calming light disappeared, to be replaced by a red haze. Within the haze was a monster, black and menacing. Its huge jaws slavered, and its taloned hands reached for him.

Gaelen awoke with a jolt, eyes opening to the bright moonlight and the glittering stars in the velvet-dark sky. He glanced at the fire. As the dream had told him, it was failing fast, the last flickering twigs turning to ash and glowing embers.

The boy did not want to leave the warmth of his blanket, but the dream left an edge of fear in him. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair, scratching at the scar beneath the blaze of white above his left eye. Swiftly he broke twigs and small branches, feeding them to the tiny blaze and blowing life back into the fire. He felt better as the flames danced.

A rustling to his right made him turn. A large bush quivered and a low growl reverberated in the clearing. Gaelen drew his hunting knife and narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness. He felt a fool. Had Caswallon not warned him endlessly about staring into fires? Now he could not see clearly. A giant shadow rose above the bush and Gaelen screamed a warning to the others.

Layne rolled from his blanket with knife in hand, standing in a half crouch beside Gaelen. “What is it?” Gaelen pointed at the thing beyond the bush. It was at least eight feet high, its head round like a man’s except that the jaws were huge and rimmed with curving fangs. Gwalchmai and Lennox had left their beds and were staring horror-struck at the creature.

Gaelen pushed his trembling hand toward the fire, grasping the last of the branches they had stacked. It had not been stripped of its dry leaves for they would be good tinder for the morning blaze. Lifting the branch, Gaelen held it over the flames. The leaves caught instantly, flaring and crackling. On trembling legs, Gaelen advanced toward the beast, holding the torch before him.

Layne and Lennox exchanged glances, then followed behind him. Gwalchmai swallowed hard, but he could not force his legs to propel him forward and stood rooted to the spot, watching his friends slowly advance on the nightmarish beast. It was colossal, near nine feet in height, and the light from the blazing branch glinted on its dagger-length talons.

Gaelen’s legs were trembling as he approached the monstrosity. It reared up and tensed to leap at the youth but he drew back his arm and flung the blazing brand straight at the creature’s face. Flames licked at the shaggy fur around its eyes, flaring up into tongues of fire on its right cheek. A fearful howl tore the silence of the night and the beast turned and sprang away into the night. The boys watched until it blended into the dark woods. Layne placed his hand on Gaelen’s shoulder. “Well done, cousin,” he said, his voice unsteady. “I’m glad you woke.”

“What in the seven hells was that?” asked Gwalchmai as they returned to the comfort of the fire.

“I don’t know,” said Layne grimly. “But from the look of those jaws it’s not after berries and grubs.”

Gwalchmai retrieved the blazing torch and examined the beast’s tracks. Returning to the fire he told Layne, “It’s the same track we saw in the valley. And we know no hunter made it. Congratulations, Gaelen, you saved our lives. There is no doubt of that.”

“I had a dream,” Gaelen told him. “An old man appeared to me, warning me.”

“Did you recognize him?” asked Layne.

“I think he was the druid with Cambil on Hunt Day.”

“Taliesen,” whispered Gwalchmai, glancing at Layne.

“What are we going to do?” asked Lennox. “Go back?”

“I don’t see that we need to,” said Layne. “We turned the beast away easily enough. And most animals avoid men anyway. Also, we will be at Attafoss in the morning, so we might just as well see it through.”

“I’m not sure,” said Gwalchmai. “That thing was big. I wouldn’t want to face it without fire.”

“If it’s hunting us,” said Gaelen, “it can do so equally well whether we go forward or back.”

“Are we all agreed, then?” Layne asked them. Gwalchmai longed to hear Lennox suggest a swift retreat back to the valley, but Lennox merely shrugged and donned his pack.

Dawn found the companions on the last leg of their journey, climbing the steep scree-covered slopes of the last mountain before Attafoss. As they crossed the skyline the distant roar of the falls could be heard some miles ahead.

“Always roaring, never silent,” quoted Gwalchmai. “Whenever I hear it I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck.”

Layne hitched his pack into a more comfortable position. “No sign of the beast, anyway,” he said, leading them on down the slope to cross a narrow stone bridge and on to a winding trail through gorse-covered countryside. Layne bore right down a rock-strewn slope and on, at last, to a narrow strip of black sand nestling in a cove below the falls. Here they loosened their packs and settled down for breakfast. The jutting wall of rock deadened the thunder of the falls, but the wind carried the spray high into the air before them, and the sun made rainbows dance above the camp.

“It occurs to me,” said Gwalchmai as they ate, “that we have not come across a single clue. No pouches. No stones marking the trail. It is an unpleasant thought, but we might be wrong.”

“I’ve been thinking that,” said Layne, “but then the rhyme is clear. Perhaps the clues are all at the falls.”

After the meal they gathered at the water’s edge to indulge in the age-old sport of stone-skimming, at which Gwalchmai excelled, beating Layne by three jumps. Refilling their water canteens, the boys picked their way up the slope and into the timberline above the falls.

Lennox prepared a fire in the afternoon and Layne suggested a quick search of the woods for clues. Leaving their packs by the fire they set off to scout, traveling in pairs-Lennox and Layne moving south, Gaelen and Gwalchmai north.

From a highpoint on the hillside Gaelen gazed once more at the majesty of Attafoss, watching the churning white water thunder to the river below.

“That, my friend, is the soul of the Farlain,” said Gwalchmai.

Gaelen turned to his comrade and grinned. “I can believe it.”

Gwalchmai’s face shone with pride and his green eyes glittered.

“Everything we are is contained there,” he said. “All the poetry, the grandeur, and the strength that is Clan.”

Gaelen watched him as he soaked in the sight. Gwalchmai was not built on the same powerful lines as Lennox or Layne-he was slight and bird-boned, his face almost delicate. But in his eyes shone the same strength Gaelen had come to see in all clansmen-a sense of belonging that rooted them to the land, allowing them to draw on its power.

“Come on, Gwal, let’s find the clues,” he said at last, and the two of them reentered the timberline.

By midafternoon they had found nothing, and then Gwalchmai discovered a set of tracks that set him cursing loudly.

“What is it?” asked Gaelen. “Hunters?”

“No,” snapped Gwalchmai. “It’s Agwaine. They reached here this morning. That’s why there are no clues; he’s taken them. Curse it!”

“Let’s follow them,” said Gaelen. “We have nothing to lose.”

The trail led south and was easy to follow. After less than an hour they reached a gentle slope, masked by thick bushes. Here Gwalchmai stopped.

“Oh, my soul!” he whispered. “Look!”

Overlaid upon the moccasin tracks was a huge print, six-toed, and as long as a man’s forearm.

Pale-faced, Gwalchmai looked at Gaelen. “Are we going up the slope?”

“I don’t want to,” answered his friend. “But is there a choice?” He licked dry lips with a dry tongue.