David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“The Aenir?” she asked.

“And our own stupidity.”

“No one lives forever, Caswallon. A man, or a woman, may die at any time. That is why today is so important.”

“I know.”

“Yes, you do. But you’ve not lived it. Suppose you are right, and the Aenir destroy us next month, or next year. Suppose, further, that they kill us both…”

“No! I’ll not even think of that!”

“Think of it!” she commanded, pulling away from him. “What difference all this heartache? For the Aenir are not here today. On this morning we have each other. We have Donal and Gaelen. We have peace, we have love. How often have you said that tomorrow’s problems can be dealt with tomorrow?”

“But I could have changed it.”

“And that is the real reason for your sorrow. You refused to be considered for Hunt Lord, and denied yourself a place on the Council. Now you suffer for it. But one man will not thwart a race like the Aenir. They are killers all. What do they seek? War and death. Conquest and bloodshed. They will pass, for they build nothing.”

“I have made you angry,” he said.

“Yes, you have, for you have allowed fear to find a place in your heart. And there it has grown to fill you with defeat. And that is not what I expect from you, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“What do you expect?” he asked, smiling.

“I expect you to be a man always. You are angry because Cambil has allowed an Aenir company to attend the Games.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they will scout our lands and learn that which should have cost them blood.”

“Then see they are escorted here. Surround them with scouts.”

“I cannot do that. The Council…”

“A pox on the Council! You are one of the richest men in the three valleys. As such, you are a man of influence. There are others who agree with you: Leofas, for example. Find a hundred men to do your bidding. And one more thing. Kareen was walking on the east hills yesterday and she saw men running around the walls of Ateris. Others were practicing with the bow and spear.”

“So? The Aenir have Games of their own.”

“We’ve not seen such a practice before.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“The Aenir are bringing twenty men. I think they will ask to be allowed to take part in the Games.”

“For what purpose?”

“To win.”

“It would never be allowed.”

“Cambil is Games Lord this year,” she said.

“It is unthinkable,” he whispered. “But there could be many advantages. If they could prove themselves superior it would boost the morale of their warriors and, equally, diminish our own. And they would earn the right to travel the mountains.”

“That is better. That is the Caswallon I know.”

“Indeed it is. I should have spoken to you before, Maeg.”

Caswallon took Gaelen and Gwalchmai with him to observe the strange antics of the Aenir. It seemed that half of Asbidag’s army at Aesgard was at play. The plain before the city was sectioned off by tents, stalls, and ropes, creating a running track, an archery field, a series of spear lanes, and a vast circle at the center of which men wrestled and boxed, or fought with sword and shield. Strength events were also under way.

“It is like the Games,” said Gwalchmai. “How long have they been doing this?”

Caswallon shrugged. “Kareen saw them yesterday.”

“They have some fine athletes,” observed Gaelen. “Look at that white-haired runner leading the pack. He moves like the wind.”

On the plain below Drada and Ongist were watching the foot races with interest. Ongist had wagered ten pieces of gold on Snorri Wolfson to beat Drada’s favorite, the ash-blond Borak. Snorri was trailing by thirty paces when they reached the last lap.

“A curse on the man!” snarled Ongist.

“He is a sprinter,” said Drada, grinning. “He’s not built for distance.”

“What about a wager against Orsa?”

Drada shook his head. “No one will beat him in the strength events.” The brothers wandered across the running track to the twelve men contesting the weights. They were drawing lots to decide which man would first attempt the hurling and Drada and Ongist settled on the grass as the draw was decided.

One man approached a cart on which was set a block of marble. It was shaped as a ball and carefully inscribed with the names of Ateris’s greatest poets. Before today it had rested on a velvet-covered stand in the city library.

It weighed over sixty pounds.

The man placed his hand on either side of the sphere, bent his knees, and lifted it to his chest. He approached the marker stake, hoisted the sphere above his head, and with a grunt of effort, threw it forward. With a dull thud it buried itself in the ground some five paces ahead. Three officials prized it loose with spears and rolled it back to the marker stake, lifting it for the next thrower.

Drada and Ongist watched with scant interest as the men took their turns until, at last, Orsa stripped himself of his shirt and stood grinning by the stake. He waved to his brothers.

Two officials lifted the sphere into his arms. Even before they were clear Orsa shifted the weight to his right hand, dipped his shoulder, and hurled the sphere into the air. It sailed over the other marks by some three paces; as it landed it shattered into a score of pieces.

“Must have hit a buried rock,” muttered Ongist.

Orsa ambled across to them. “Easy,” he said, pointing at the ruined marble.

Drada nodded. “You are still the strongest, brother.”

“No need for proof,” said Orsa. “Waste of time.”

“True,” Drada agreed.

“I’m hungry,” said Orsa, wandering away without another word. Drada watched him go, marveling anew at the sheer size of the man. His upper arms were as large as most men’s thighs.

“By Vatan, he’s a monster,” said Ongist.

Drada looked away. In a family of monsters it seemed ironic that Ongist should so describe the only one among them who hated no one.

High on the hillside the three clansmen stood to depart. They had seen enough. “I think Maeg is right,” said Caswallon. “Tell me, Gaelen, do you think you could beat that white-haired runner?”

“I fear we will find out next month,” said Gaelen. “I think I can. But he wasn’t stretched today; he set his own pace. Still, if they do bring a team I hope that giant comes with them. I’d love to see him against Lennox.”

Deva awoke in the first moments of dawn, as the sun lanced its light through the slats of her window. She yawned and stretched, rolling to her side to watch the dust motes dance in the sunbeams. Kicking aside the down-filled quilt, she opened the shutters and leaned on the stone sill, breathing deeply.

The cool early-morning breeze held the promise of autumn, and already the leaves on the distant trees were dappled with rusty gold. Mountain ash and copper beech glistened and their leaves looked like coins, rich and freshly minted.

Deva was always first to rise. She could hear her brother Agwaine snoring in the next room. Stripping her woolen nightdress from her slender body, she poured water into a clay bowl and washed her face. She was a tall girl, willowy and narrow-hipped. Her features were clean-cut, not beautiful, but her large, grey eyes with traces of tawny gold gave her magnificence. Most of the young men of the Farlain had paid court to her and she rejected them all. The mother of kings! That’s what the old tinker woman had predicted at her birth. And Deva was determined to fulfill her destiny. She would not do that by marrying a Highland boy! Over the door hung a silvered mirror. Wiping the water from her face and neck she walked over to it, looking deep into her own eyes. Grey they were, but not the color of arctic clouds, nor winter seas. They were the soft grey of a rabbit’s pelt, and the glints of gold made them warm and welcoming. She smiled at herself, tilting her head.