David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

For some minutes the clan held, but then the weight of the Aenir pushed them back. Maggrig parried a wild cut from an axe-wielding warrior, countering with a swift thrust to the belly.

He glanced back at the mountainside. It was clear. With no way of estimating the losses among the warriors, Maggrig bellowed, “Pallides away!” The survivors turned instantly, sprinting for the mountainside. Screaming their triumph, the Aenir swept after them. Halfway to the trees, Maggrig glanced left and right. There were five hundred still with him.

“Cut! Cut! Cut!” he roared. At the sound of their battle cry the Pallides swung about and flung themselves on the pursuing warriors. In their eagerness to overhaul their enemy, the Aenir had lost the close-compacted formation of the battle in the valley. The swiftest of them had outdistanced their comrades and they paid with their lives.

“Pallides away!” shouted Maggrig once more, and the clansmen turned, racing for the relative haven of the trees.

The Aenir surged after them. A leading warrior screamed suddenly, his fingers scrabbling at a black-shafted arrow that hammered into his throat. Another died, and another. The Aenir fell back as death hissed at them from the darkness of the woods.

Within minutes, Maggrig sent his men forward to catch up with the clan, then beckoned Intosh to join him. Together they eased their way through to the women archers hidden by the timberline.

“Well done, Adugga,” said Maggrig as a dark-haired woman rose up before him, bow in hand. “It was good thinking.”

“It will not stop them for long. They’ll outflank us.”

“We’ll be long gone by the time they do. They may be fine warriors, but they’ll not catch us.”

“That may be true, Hunt Lord. But where will we go?” asked Adugga.

“To the Farlain.”

“You think we’ll get a friendly welcome?” asked Intosh.

“Unless I am mistaken, the Aenir will be upon them before we arrive.”

“Then why go there?”

“My son Caswallon has a plan. We’ve spoken of it often, and at this moment it seems to be the best hope we have. We are making for Attafoss.”

Maggrig stepped forward, parted the bush screen, and gazed down upon the burning valley. The Aenir were sitting on the hillside just out of bowshot. “They’re waiting for dawn,” said Maggrig, “and that will not be long in coming. Let’s away!”

In the first valley of the Farlain, Caswallon was awakened before dawn by a frenzied hammering at his door. He rolled from the bed and ran downstairs.

Outside was Taliesen. The old man, red-faced and wheezing, leaned on his oak staff. Catching his breath, he gripped Caswallon by the arm.

“The Aenir are upon us! We must move now.”

Caswallon nodded and shouted for Maeg to dress Donal, then he helped the druid into the kitchen, seating him by the hearth. Leaving him there, Caswallon lifted his war horn from its place on the wall and stepped into the yard.

Three times its eerie notes echoed through the valley. Then it was answered from a score of homes and the clarion call was taken up, at last reaching the crofts of the outer valleys. Men and women streamed from their homes toward the Games field, the men carrying bows, their swords strapped to their sides, the women ready with provisions and blankets.

Caswallon opened the wooden chest that sat against the far wall of the kitchen. From it he took a mail shirt and a short sword. Swiftly he pulled the mail shirt over his tunic and strapped the sword to his side. Taking the war horn, he tied its thong to his baldric and settled it in place.

“How long do we have, Taliesen?”

“Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less.”

Caswallon nodded. Maeg came downstairs carrying Donal, and the four of them left the house. Caswallon ran on ahead to where hundreds of mystified clansmen were gathering.

Leofas saw him and waved as Caswallon made his way to him. “What is happening, Caswallon?”

“The Aenir are close. They’ve crossed the Farlain.”

“How do you know this?”

“Taliesen. He’s back there with Maeg.”

Caswallon helped the druid push through the crowd to make his way to the top of the small hill at the meadow known as Center Field. The old man raised his arms for silence.

“The Aenir have tonight attacked the Haesten and the Pallides,” he said. “Soon they will be here.”

“How do you know this, old man?” asked Cambil, striding up the hillside, his face crimson with anger. “A dream perhaps? A druid’s vision?”

“I know, Hunt Lord. That is enough.”

“Enough? Enough that you can tell us that two days’ march away a battle is taking place. Are you mad?”

“I don’t care how he knows,” said Caswallon. We have less than an hour to move our people into the mountains. Are we going to stand here talking all night?”

“It is sheer nonsense,” shouted Cambil, turning to the crowd. “Why would the Aenir attack? Are we expected to believe this old man? Can any of us see here what is happening to the Pallides? And what if the Aenir have attacked them? That is Pallides business. I warned Maggrig not to be bullheaded in his dealings with Asbidag. Now enough of this foolishness, let’s away to home and bed.”

“Wait!” shouted Caswallon, as men began to stir and move. “If the druid is wrong, we will know by morning; all we will have lost is one night on a damp mountainside. If he is right, we cannot defend this valley. If Maggrig and Laric have been crushed as Taliesen says, then the Aenir must attack the Farlain.”

“I’m with you, Caswallon,” shouted Leofas.

“And I,” called Badraig. Others took up the shout, but not all.

Debates sprung up, arguments followed. In despair Caswallon once more sounded his war horn. In the silence that followed he told them, “There is no more time to talk. I am leaving now for the mountains. Those who wish to follow me, let them do so. To those who do not, let me say only that I pray you are right.”

Cambil had already begun the long walk back to his home and a score of others followed him. Caswallon led Maeg and Taliesen down from the hill and through the crowd. Behind him came Leofas, Layne, Lennox, Badraig, and many more.

“Ah, well, what’s a night on the mountains?” he heard someone say, and the following crowd swelled. He did not look back, but his heart was heavy as he reached the trees. Of the three thousand people in the first valley more than two thousand had followed him. Many of the rest still stood arguing in Center Field; others were returning to their homes.

It was at that moment that a ring of blazing torches flared up on the eastern skyline.

Cambil, who was almost home, stopped and stared. The eastern mountainside was alive with armed men. His eyes scanned them. At the center on a black horse sat a man in heavy armor and horned helm. Cambil recognized the Aenir lord and cursed him.

“May the Gods preserve us,” whispered Agwaine, who had run to join his father.

Cambil turned to him. “Get away from here. Now! Join Caswallon. Tell him I am sorry.”

“Not without you, Father.”

Cambil slapped his face viciously. “Am I not Hunt Lord? Obey me. Look after your sister.”

On the hill above Asbidag raised his arm and the Aenir charged, filling the night air with strident screams that pushed their hatred before them like an invisible wall. It struck Cambil to the heart and he blanched. “Get away!” he yelled, pushing Agwaine from him.

Agwaine fell back a step. There were so many things he wanted to say. But his father had drawn his sword and was running into the valley toward the Aenir. Agwaine turned away and ran toward the west, tears filling his eyes.

In Center Field hundreds of stragglers drew swords ready to charge to the aid of their beleaguered kin, but Caswallon’s war horn stopped them. “You can do nothing for them!” he yelled in desperation. “Join us!”