David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralize the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.

He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.

“I’m sorry you missed the race,” said Agwaine.

“Don’t be. You were magnificent.”

“Caswallon advised me.”

“It was obviously good advice.”

“Yes. I’m sorry he and my father are not friends.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“How do you feel now… about Caswallon, I mean?”

“I am grateful. But I am my father’s son.”

“I understand.”

“I hope that you do, cousin.” Their eyes met and Agwaine held out his hand. Gaelen took it.

“Now this is good to see,” said Lennox, leaning forward to lay his hand upon theirs. Layne and Gwalchmai followed suit.

“We are all Farlain,” said Layne solemnly. “Brothers of the spirit. Let it long remain so.”

“The Five Beast Slayers,” said Agwaine, grinning. “It is fitting we should be friends.”

Deva opened her eyes and saw the five young men sitting silently together. The sun cleared the mountains, bathing them in golden light. She blinked and sat up. Just for a moment she seemed to see a sixth figure standing beyond them-tall, she was, and beautiful, silver-haired and strong. By her side hung a mighty sword and upon her head was a crown of gold. Deva shivered and blinked again. The Queen was gone.

Gaelen stood on the lip of a precipice looking down on Vallon from the north, listening to the faint sounds of the falls echoing up through the mountains. Spring had finally arrived after yet another bitter winter, and Gaelen had been anxious to leave the valley to stretch his legs and open his heart to the music of the mountains. He had grown during the winter, and constant work with axe and saw had added weight to his arms and shoulders. His hair was long, hanging to his shoulders, and held back from his eyes by a black leather circle around his brow. Kareen-before her marriage to the west valley crofter, Durk-had made it for him, as well as a tunic of softest leather, polished to a sheen, and calf-length moccasin boots from the same hide. His winter cape was a gift from Caswallon, a heavy sheepskin that doubled as a blanket. During the cold winter months he had allowed his beard to grow, shutting his ears to gibes about goose down from Maeg and Kareen. It had taken long enough but now, as he stood on the mountainside in the early morning sunshine, it gave him that which he desired above all else-the look of manhood.

Gone was the frightened, wounded boy brought home by Caswallon two years before. In his place stood a man, tall and strong, hardened by toil, strengthened by experience. The only reminders left of the hunted boy were the blood-filled left eye, and the white streak in his hair above the jagged scar on his forehead and cheek.

The black and grey war hound by his side growled and rubbed against him. Gaelen dropped his hand to pat its massive head. “You don’t like these high places, do you, boy?” said Gaelen, squatting beside the animal. It lifted its head, licking his face until he pushed it away laughing.

“We’ve changed, you and I,” he said, holding the dog at bay. It had the wide jaws of its dam and the heavy shoulders of its breed, but added to this it also had the rangy power of the wolf that had sired it.

The wolf in it had caused problems with training, and both Caswallon and Gaelen had despaired at times. But slowly it had come around to their patient handling, until at last Gaelen had walked it unleashed among a flock of sheep. He told it to sit, and it obeyed him. But its eyes lingered over the fat, slow ewes and its jaws salivated. After a while it had hunkered down on its haunches and closed its eyes, unable to bear such mouth-watering sights any longer.

Under Caswallon’s guidance, Gaelen taught the hound to obey increasingly complex instructions, beginning with simple commands such as “sit,” “heel,” and “stay.” After that it was taught to wait in silence if Gaelen lifted his hand palm outward. Finally Caswallon built a dummy of wood and straw, dressed it in old clothes, and the hound was taught to attack it on Gaelen’s command of “kill.” This training was further refined with the call “hold,” at which command the dog would lunge for the dummy’s arm.

Painstakingly they honed the dog’s skills. Once it attacked, only one call would stop it: Home. Any other call, even from Gaelen, would be ignored.

“This,” said Caswallon, “is your safeguard. For a dog is a creature of instinct. You may order it to attack, but another voice may call it back. ‘Home’ should remain a secret command. Share it not even with your friends.”

Gaelen called the beast Render. The hound’s nature was good, especially with Caswallon’s son Donal, now a blond toddler who followed Render-or Wenna, as he called it-about the house, pulling its ears and struggling to climb on its back. Attempts to stop him would be followed by floods of tears and the difficult-to-answer assertion, “Wenna like it!”

Maeg was hard to convince that Render was a worthy addition to the household, but one afternoon in late winter it won her over. Kareen had ventured into the yard to fetch wood for the fire, but had not secured the kitchen door on her return. Donal had sneaked out to play in the snow, an adventure of rare magic.

He was gone for more than half an hour before his absence was noted. Maeg was beside herself. Caswallon and Gaelen were at the Long Hall where Caswallon was being elected to the Council in place of an elderly clansman who had collapsed and died soon after the Games. Maeg wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the storm. Within minutes it had grown dark and as she called Donal’s name the wind whipped her words from her mouth. His track had been covered by fresh snow.

Kareen joined her. “He’ll die in this,” yelled Maeg.

Render padded from the house. Seeing the hound, Maeg ran to it and knelt by its side.

“Donal!” she shouted, pushing the dog and pointing out past the yard. Render tilted his head and licked her face. “Fetch!” she shouted. Render looked around. There was nothing to fetch. “Donal! Fetch Donal!” Render looked back toward the house and the open door that led to the warm hearth. The hound didn’t know what the women were doing out in the cold. Then its ears came up as a wolf howled in the distance. Another sound came, thin and piping. Recognizing instantly the pup child of Caswallon, Render padded off into the snow.

Maeg’s hands and feet were freezing, but she had no idea if the dog had understood her and she had not heard the faint cry, so she continued to search, terror growing within her and panic welling in her mind.

Render loped away into a small hollow hidden from the house. Here it found the toddler who had slipped and rolled down onto a patch of ice and was unable to get up. Beyond him sat two wolves, tongues lolling.

Render padded toward the boy, growling deep in his throat. The wolves stood, then backed away as the war hound advanced. Canny killers were the grey wolves, but they knew a better killer when they saw him.

“I cold, Wenna,” said Donal, sniffing. “I cold.”

Render stopped by the boy watching the wolves carefully.