David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

They backed away still farther, and satisfied, Render nuzzled Donal, but the boy could not stand on the ice. Render ducked his head, taking the boy’s woolen tunic in his teeth. Donal was lifted clear of the ice and the huge dog bounded up the slope and back toward the house.

Maeg saw them and waded through the snow toward them, but Render loped past her and into the kitchen. He was cold and missed the fire. When Maeg and Kareen arrived Donal and Render were sitting before the hearth. Maeg swept Donal into her arms.

“Wolfs, Mama. Wenna scare ’em away.”

Maeg shuddered. Wolves! And her child had been alone. She sat down hurriedly.

Neither of the women told Caswallon of the adventure, but he knew something was amiss when Maeg explained she had given his own cold meat supper to the hound.

Caswallon’s activities during the summer and winter puzzled many of the clansmen. He drove no cattle to Aesgard, nor delivered grain and oats. The fruit of his orchards disappeared, and no man knew where, though the carts were driven into the mountains by trusted workers. There, it was said, they were delivered to the druids.

In the meantime, Caswallon gathered around him more than a hundred clansmen, and several of these he paid to scout around Aesgard and report on Aenir movement.

Cambil had been furious, accusing Caswallon of amassing a private army. “Can you not understand, Caswallon, that such deeds make war more likely?” said the Hunt Lord. “You think me foolish for trying to forge friendships among the Aenir, I know that. As I know they are a warlike people, harsh and cruel. But as Hunt Lord I must consider the long-term well-being of my people. We could not win a war with the Aenir; they would swamp us. What I have tried-and will continue to try-to do is to make Asbidag aware of the futility of war in the Highlands. We have no gold, no iron. There are no riches here. This he understands. What is more important is that he must feel no threat from us. It is in the Aenir nature to see enemies all around. If we can make them our friends, there will be no war.”

Caswallon listened in silence until Cambil had finished speaking. “Under different circumstances I would agree with every word, cousin,” he said at last. “War is the last beast an intelligent man would let loose. Where I think you are wrong is in believing that the Aenir see war as a means to an end. For them it is the end in itself. They live to fight, they lust for slaughter and blood. Even their religion is based on the glory of combat. They believe that only if they die in battle will their souls be blessed with an eternity of pleasure. Now that their war with the Lowlanders is over where else can they turn for war, save with us? I respect you, cousin-and I mean that truly. You have acted with honor. Yet now is the time to open your eyes and see that your efforts have been in vain. The Aenir are massing troops on the southern borders.”

Cambil shook his head. “Asbidag assures me that the troops are being gathered in order for the majority of them to be disbanded and offered land to farm, as a reward for loyal service. You are wrong, Caswallon. And the wisdom of my course will be appreciated in the years to come.”

Despite Cambil’s assurances Caswallon advised the Council to marshal a militia against a spring invasion. They refused, agreeing with the Hunt Lord that there were no indications the Aenir nursed any hostile intent toward the clan. The feeling was not unanimous. Badraig and Leofas supported Caswallon openly. Beric, a tall balding warrior from the northern valley, voted with them, but said nothing.

“You have a hundred men, Caswallon,” said Leofas as the four met after the spring banquet. “I can muster eighty crofters. Badraig and Beric the same between them. When the Aenir come it will be like a sudden storm. Three hundred men will not stop them.”

“Let us be honest,” said Badraig. “The Farlain united could not stop them. If every man took up his sword and bow we would have… what?… five thousand. Against a force five times as great.” Badraig had changed since the beast killed his son. His hair was grey and he had lost weight, growing haggard and lean.

“That is true,” agreed Caswallon, “but we can wear them down. We’ll fight no pitched battles; we’ll harry them, cutting and running. Soon they’ll tire and return to Aesgard.”

“That will depend on why they’re here,” said Beric. “If they take the valleys we’ll have no way to support ourselves. We’ll die in the mountains, come winter.”

“Not necessarily,” said Caswallon. “But that debate can wait for a better time. What worries me is not the long-drawn-out campaign, but the first strike. If they hit the valleys unawares, the slaughter will be horrific.”

“There is not a day we do not have a scout watching them,” said Leofas. “We should get at least an hour’s warning.”

Six hours’ march to the east, the crofter Arcis breathed his last. His arms had been nailed to the broad trunk of an oak and his ribs had been opened, splaying out from his body like tiny tattered wings.

The blood-eagle had arrived in the Farlain.

One Aenir army burst upon the villages and crofts of the Haesten, bringing fire and death into the darkest part of the night. Homes blazed and swords ran with blood. The Aenir swept into the valley of Laric, hacking and slaying, burning and looting. The Haesten had not time to group a defense, and the survivors streamed into the mountains, broken and panic-stricken.

A Pallides hunter, camped on the hillside inside Haesten territory, watched stunned as the Aenir charged into the valley. As if in a dream he saw the warriors in the garish armor and winged helms race down to the homes of the Haesten, thrusting burning brands through open windows. And he viewed with growing horror the massacre of the clan. He saw women dragged forth, raped, and then murdered; he saw babies speared; he saw small pockets of Haesten resistance swallowed up in rings of steel.

Then he rose and began to run, stumbling over tree roots and rocks in the darkness.

He reached the grey house of Maggrig two hours before dawn. Within minutes the war horn of the Pallides sounded. Women and children hastily packed clothing and food and were led into the mountains. Thinking there was only one Aenir army, Maggrig miscalculated, and the evacuation was still under way as a second Aenir force, led by Ongist, fell upon them.

Maggrig had eight hundred warriors at his back, with messengers sent for perhaps five hundred more. As he stood on the hillside, watching the Aenir pour into the valley, he reckoned their numbers were in excess of five thousand. Beside him the grim-eyed swordsman Intosh, the Games Champion, cursed and spat. The two men exchanged glances. Whatever decision they made now would lead to tragedy.

The enemy were sweeping down toward the last file of women and children. If Maggrig did nothing they would die. If the Pallides countercharged they would be cut to pieces. In his heart Maggrig knew it was sensible to leave the stragglers and fight a defensive retreat, protecting the majority.

But he was Clan, and these stragglers were his people.

He lifted his sword, shifted his shield into place, and began to run down the hillside toward the Aenir. Eight hundred Pallides warriors followed him without hesitation. Seeing them come, the Aenir turned from the line of women and children. Their deaths would come later.

The two forces collided. Swords clashed against iron shields, against close-set mail rings, against soft flesh and brittle bones. The clansmen wore little or no armor and yet the speed and ferocity of their assault made up for it. Intosh, fighting with two swords and no shield, cut a bloody swath through the Aenir, while Maggrig’s power and cunning sword craft protected his right flank.