David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“That’s stupid.”

“They don’t act like men,” argued Snorri. “Have you heard one clansman beg? Have you heard any tales of such a thing?”

“They die like men,” said Bemar.

“I think they are more. You’ve heard Asbidag’s order. Not one man, woman, or child to be left alive. No slaves. All dead. Doesn’t it strike you as strange?”

“I don’t want to think about it. And I don’t want to talk about it,” muttered Bemar, hurling aside the wineskin.

“Wolf men, that’s what they are,” whispered Snorri.

Caswallon watched helplessly as Durk walked back toward the valley. He knew the clansman was seeking death, and he could not blame him for it. Kareen had been his life, his joy. Even as Maeg meant everything to Caswallon.

The clan column moved on and Caswallon took his place at the head alongside Leofas. Crofters from outlying areas joined the exodus as the day wore on, and many were the questions leveled at the new lord.

Where were they going? What would they do? What had happened to one man’s sister? Another’s brother? Why did they not turn and fight? Why had the Aenir attacked? Where was Cambil? Who elected Caswallon?

The clansman lost his temper before dusk, storming away from the column and running quickly to the top of a nearby hill. Around him the dying sun lit the valleys of the Farlain, bathing them in blood. Caswallon sank to the ground, staring out over the distant peaks of High Druin.

“It’s all a lie,” he said softly. Then he began to chuckle. “You’ve lived a damn lie.”

Poor Cambil. Poor, lonely Cambil.

“You should not have feared me, cousin,” Caswallon told the gathering darkness. “Your father knew; he was wiser than you.”

The night before the young Caswallon had left his foster father’s house for the last time, Padris had taken him to the northern meadow and there presented him with a cloak, a dagger, and two gold pieces.

“I will not lie to you, Caswallon,” Padris had told him, his keen eyes sorrowful. “You have been a disappointment to me. I have raised you like my own son and you have great talents. But you are not worthy. You have a sharp mind, a good brain, and a strong body. You will prosper. But you are not worthy. There is in you a fear that I cannot fathom. Outwardly you are brave enough, and you take your beatings like a man. But you are not clan. You don’t care. What is it that you fear?”

“I fear nothing,” Caswallon had told him.

“Wrong. Now I see two fears. The one that you hide, and now the fear of showing it. Go in peace, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

“You were right, Padris,” Caswallon whispered to the sky. “This is what I feared. Chains. Questions. Responsibilities.”

Giving judgments over land disputes, settling rows over cattle or sheep, or thefts, or wayward wives and wandering husbands. Sentencing poachers, granting titles, deciding on the suitability of couples in love, and granting them the right to wed. Every petty problem a double-edged dagger.

And so he avoided the elections.

But what had it gained? The Farlain invaded and thousands dead throughout Druin. And what price the future?

He swore as he heard footsteps approaching. Leofas slumped down beside him, breathing hard. “No sign of pursuit,” said the old warrior.

“Good.”

“Talk, boy. Shed the burden.”

“I would shed the burden if you agreed to lead.”

“We’ve been over that before. I’m not the man for it.”

“Neither am I.”

“Whisht, lad! Don’t talk nonsense. You’re doing fine. So far we’ve saved the greater number of our cousins, and with luck there’s another two thousand crofters who would have heard the horns and taken to the hills.”

“Damn you, old man. I never gave you much of an argument before, and I should have. You’ve been on the Council since before I was born. You’re respected, everyone would follow you. You’re the natural choice. What right have you to shirk your responsibility?”

“None whatsoever, Caswallon. And I cannot be accused of it. A man needs to know his strengths if he is to prosper, and his weaknesses if he is to survive. I know what you are going through but, believe me, you are the best man we have. I’ll grant that you would make a bad Hunt Lord; you don’t have the application. But this is war. With luck it will be a short, sharp exercise, and you’re the man to plan it. Think of it as a giant raid. Ye Gods, man, you were good enough at that.”

“But it isn’t a raid,” snapped Caswallon. “One mistake and we lose everything.”

“I didn’t say it was easy.”

“That’s true enough.”

“You have faith in Taliesen, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he said you were the only man capable of pulling a victory from this catastrophic beginning. And I believe him.”

“I wish I had your faith.”

“It’s because you don’t that convinces me,” said Leofas, slapping him on the shoulder. “I’m going to say this once, boy, for I’m not given to compliments. There’s a nobility in you, and a strength you’ve not begun to touch. Rescuing Gaelen showed it to me. It was a fine, bonny thing. But more than that, I remember when we hunted the beast. You lifted Cambil that night when his fear for his son threatened to unman him, and among men who despised you it was you they followed when you walked to the north. When the Queen was dying and delirious you gave her words of comfort. You it was who planned the victory at the Games, and you again who brought us out of the valley.

“So don’t sit here bemoaning your fate. You are where you should be: War Lord of Farlain. Do I make myself clear?”

“I should have spoken to you ten years ago,” said Caswallon. “Maybe I would have been different.”

“Ten years ago you wouldn’t have listened. Whoring and stealing filled your mind.”

“Good days, though,” said Caswallon, grinning.

“Don’t say it as though you’re letting me into a secret. I was whoring and stealing before you were born. And probably making a better job of it!”

Gaelen awoke, rolling to his back and rubbing his eyes. The night was silent, save for the movement of bats in the trees above him and the skittering sound of badgers in the undergrowth off to the left. These were sounds he knew well. But something else had pierced his dreams, bringing him to wakefulness. His mind was hazy, confused. It had seemed as if horns were blowing far away, whispering in the night breeze.

But now there was silence as Gaelen sat up and looked around him. Render was gone, hunting his supper, and the fire had died down within its circle of rocks. Gaelen added fuel, more for light than heat. As the blaze flared he pushed back his blanket and stood up, stretching the muscles of his back. He was hungry. The sky was lightening and the dawn was not far off. Gathering his bow and quiver, he made his way to the edge of the woods, looking down onto a gently sloping field, silver in the waning moonlight. Upon it were scores of rabbits nibbling at grass and clover. Gaelen settled down on his knees and strung the bow; he then selected an arrow and notched it to the string. Spotting a buck some twenty paces distant, he drew and loosed the shaft. As the buck fell, the other rabbits disappeared at speed. Returning to the fire he skinned the beast, gutting and slicing it for the pot. Render loped through the bushes, jaws bloody, and squatted down beside him, waiting expectantly for the remains.

Gaelen threw the offal to the hound, who set to work on his second meal of the night. As dawn light seeped into the sky, Gaelen found himself thinking of the Queen Beyond. Often her face would come to him, sometimes in dreams but more often as he went about the chores of the day. She had died for him-for them-and Gaelen wished, with all his heart, that he could have repaid her. And what did she mean when she promised to come again?