David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“Perhaps that is why you are clansmen, living a quiet life in these beautiful mountains, while the Aenir conquer the continent.”

“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” said Caswallon.

“Was it your idea to have us escorted here?”

“I was afraid you might get lost.”

“That was kind of you.”

“I am a kind man,” said Caswallon. “I shall also see that you are escorted back.”

“Cambil assured us that would not be necessary. Or is he not the Hunt Lord?”

“Indeed he is, but we are a free people and the Hunt Lord is not omnipotent.”

“You take a great deal on yourself, Caswallon. Why can we not be friends? As you have seen, the Aenir have respected your borders. We trade. We are neighbors.”

“It is not necessary for you and me to play these games, Drada. I know what is in your heart. Like all killers, you fear that a greater killer will stalk you as you stalk others. You cannot exist with a free people on your borders. You must always be at war with someone. And one day, if you ever achieve your ambition, and the Aenir rule from sea to sea in every direction, even then it will not end. You will turn on yourselves like rabid wolves. Today you strike fear into men’s hearts. But tomorrow? Then you will be thought of as a boil on the neck of history.”

The words were spoken without heat. Drada sipped his wine, then he looked up to meet Caswallon’s gaze. “I can see why you think as you do, but you are wrong. All new civilizations begin with bloodshed and horror, but as the years pass they settle down to prosper, to wax and to grow fat. Then, as they reach their splendid peak, a new enemy slips over the horizon and the bloodshed begins anew.”

“The Farlain will be your undoing,” said Caswallon. “You are like the man poised to stamp on the worm beneath his feet-too far above it to see it is a viper.”

“Even so, when the man stamps the viper dies,” said Drada.

“And the man with it.”

Drada shrugged. “All men die at some time.”

“Indeed they do, my bonny. But some die harder than others.”

For ten days the Games progressed and the fear of the Hunt Lords grew. The Aenir competed ferociously, bringing new edge to the competitions. Gone was any semblance of friendly rivalry-the foreigners battled as if their lives depended on the result.

By the evening before the last day an overall Aenir victory had moved from possibility to probability. Only the athletes of the Farlain could overhaul them. The Aenir had won all but two of the short sprint finals, had defeated Gwalchmai in the archery tourney, but lost to Layne in the spear. Caswallon had beaten the Aenir challenger in the short sword, but lost the final to Intosh, the Pallides swordsman. Gaelen and Agwaine had fought their way to the final five-mile race planned for the morrow, though Agwaine had only reached it when a Haesten runner twisted his ankle hurdling a fallen tree. His disappointment in qualifying in such a manner was deepened by the fact that the Aenir athlete, the white-haired Borak, had beaten Gaelen into second place in their semifinal.

Lennox, in an awesome display of sheer power, had strolled comfortably to the final of the strength event, but here he was to face the fearsome might of the giant Orsa, himself unbeaten. The Aenir had won grudging respect from the clansmen, but all the same the Games had been spoiled.

Cambil remained withdrawn throughout the tournament, knowing in his heart the scale of his error. The unthinkable was on the verge of reality. The Aenir were two events from victory. He had summoned Gaelen and Agwaine to him and the trio sat before the broad empty hearth of Cambil’s home.

“Are you confident of beating this Borak, Gaelen?” Cambil asked, knowing now that his own son could not compete at their level.

Gaelen rubbed his eye, choosing his answer carefully. “I saw no point in making a push yesterday; it would only show him the limit of my speed. But, on the other hand, he concealed from me his own reserves. No, I am not confident. But I think I can beat him.”

“What do you think, Agwaine?”

“I can only agree with Gaelen, Father. They are superbly matched. I would not be surprised either way.”

“You have both performed well and been a credit to the Farlain. Though you are adopted, Gaelen, you have the heart of a clansman. I wish you well.”

“Thank you, Hunt Lord.”

“Go home and rest. Do not eat too heavy a breakfast.”

Gaelen left the house and wandered to the pine fence before the yard. Turning, he looked up at Deva’s window hoping to see a light. There was none. Disappointed, he opened the gate and began the short walk through the woods to Caswallon’s house in the valley.

The night was bright, the moon full, and a light breeze whispered in the branches overhead. He thought about the race and its implications. It was true that he was not confident of victory, but he would be surprised if the Aenir beat him. He thought he had detected an edge of fatigue in the blond runner as he came off the mountain on the last circuit of the field. Gaelen hadn’t pressed then, but had watched his opponent carefully. The man’s head had been bobbing during the last two hundred paces, and his arms pumped erratically.

Gaelen had finished all of thirty paces adrift and it would be closer tomorrow. Caswallon had pointed out one encouraging thought; no one had yet tested Borak. Did he have the heart to match his speed?

A dark shadow leaped at Gaelen from the left, another from the right. He ducked and twisted, using his forearm to block a blow from a wooden club. He hammered his fist into the belly of the nearest man, following it with a swift hook to the jaw. The attacker dropped as if poleaxed. As he hurled himself to the right, Gaelen’s shoulder cannoned into the midriff of the second man. The grunting whoosh of his opponent’s breath showed he was badly winded. Scrambling to his feet, Gaelen kicked the fallen man in the face. More men ran from the trees; in the darkness Gaelen could not recognize faces, but they were dressed like clansmen.

He caught an attacker with a right cross to the chin, but then a wooden club thudded against his temple. Gaelen reeled to the left, vainly holding up his arm to protect his head. The club hammered into his thigh and agony lanced him. Another blow to the calf and he collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise as a booted foot crashed into his face. Twice more he felt blows to his right leg, and he passed out.

It was dawn before he was found. Caswallon came across the unconscious body as he made his way to Cambil’s home. The clansman had been worried about Gaelen staying out all night before the race, but had assumed he was sleeping at the house of the Hunt Lord. Carefully he turned Gaelen to his back, checking his heartbeat and breathing. He probed the dried blood on the youth’s temple; the skull was not cracked. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Gaelen to his shoulder and stumbled on toward the house.

Deva was the first to be awakened by Caswallon kicking at the door. She ran downstairs, pulled back the bolts, and let him in. Walking past her, Caswallon eased Gaelen down into a leather chair. Deva brought some water from the kitchen and a towel to bathe Gaelen’s head.

Cambil, bare chested and barely awake, joined them. “What has happened?” he asked, bending over the unconscious youth.

“From the tracks, I’d say five men set on him after he left here last night,” Caswallon told him.

“Why?”

Caswallon glanced at him, green eyes blazing. “Why do you think? I was a fool not to consider it myself.”

“You think the Aenir…?”

“You want further proof?” Caswallon carefully unlaced the thongs of Gaelen’s leggings, pulling them clear. His right leg was mottled blue, the knee swollen and pulpy. He groaned as Caswallon checked the bones for breaks. “Skillfully done, wouldn’t you say?”