David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Maggrig also knew of the Aenir dream of Valhalla.

Ongist’s shade would neither speak nor see as it was led to the Grey God’s hall.

Gaelen and Deva scrambled over the last skyline before Attafoss, staring out at the great falls and the spreading forests, the wide valleys and the narrow rocky passes beyond.

In the distance he could just make out the moving column, like ants crawling across a green blanket. He sank to the ground beside Deva. He was tired now but she was exhausted, her moccasins cut to rags by the flinty rock and the scree slopes. Her feet were bleeding and her face was grey with fatigue; her golden hair, once so beautiful, hung in greasy rats’ tails to her grimy neck.

She laid her head against his neck. “I did not think we would get here safely,” she said.

He stroked her hair, saying nothing. Beside them Render spread himself out, resting his head on his paws. He had not eaten for two days, and gone was the sleek shine of his fur. Three times they had dodged their pursuers, hiding in caves and beneath thick bushes, and once sheltering in the branches of a broad oak as the Aenir searched beneath.

Twice they had stumbled on the tortured bodies of clansmen nailed to trees and splayed in the horrifying blood-eagle. Deva had wanted the bodies cut down, but Gaelen refused, pointing out that such an action would only alert the trackers.

Now they were clear, with only an hour’s gentle downhill stroll to meet with the clan. Gaelen rubbed his sweat-streaked face, scratching idly at the jagged white scar above the blood-filled left eye. He scanned the falls and the rushing white water, then transferred his gaze to the column as it moved with painful lack of speed toward the woods. Suddenly Gaelen jerked as if stung. From his vantage point he could see into the trees, and just for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a warrior, running bent over. The man had been wearing the horned helm of the Aenir.

“Oh, no!” he whispered. “Oh, Gods, no!”

“What is it?” asked Deva, swinging her head to glance back down the trail, expecting to see their pursuers close by.

“The Aenir are in the woods,” he said. “They’re waiting to hit the clan and I can’t warn them.”

Deva shaded her eyes, searching the timberline.

“I see nothing.”

“It was only one man. But I know there were more.”

Despair washed over the young man. “Let’s move,” he said, and they began to run down the grassy slopes, angling away from the woods.

Far below them Caswallon halted the column. Ahead was the forest of Atta, the dark and holy place of the druids. Beyond that, according to Taliesen, was the invisible bridge to Vallon. Caswallon called Leofas to him-and Badraig, who had returned from the west with news that the Aenir had split into several forces, the majority racing east at speed, the others vanishing into the mountains in small groups.

The scouting party had cornered twenty Aenir warriors and destroyed them, taking one alive whom they questioned at length. He would tell them little, save that they had been pursuing a man and a girl. Badraig killed the man swiftly and led his party back to Caswallon.

“What do you think?” asked Badraig. “Gaelen?”

“It could be. The girl might be Deva. Dirak’s scouts found the mutilated body of a clan girl they thought was Larain, and Agwaine said the two girls were together.”

“Why should the Aenir split their forces?” Leofas asked.

“I would bet it is Maggrig. The wily old fox is probably leading them a merry dance.”

Taliesen joined them, leaning on his oak staff, his long white hair billowing in the morning breeze. “Can we move on, War Lord? I am anxious to be on safe ground.”

“Not yet,” said Caswallon. “I am concerned about the second force you mentioned, Badraig. Why did they split up, do you think?”

“To re-form elsewhere. Why else?”

“Then where are they? We’ve searched the west.”

“They could have returned to the south.”

“Or come north,” said Leofas.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Caswallon, switching his gaze to the dark trees of Atta.

“How many would you say were in this second force?” Leofas asked.

Badraig shrugged. “It could be anything from two hundred to a thousand. Not more, though.”

“Then for once we are not outnumbered,” said Caswallon. “I think we’ll camp here, and tonight we’ll set fires. We know no force from the south can be on us before tomorrow past the noon.”

Badraig and Leofas spread the word and the women of the column cast around for firewood, though none approached the trees.

Within the forest Barsa waited patiently with his seven hundred and fifty archers, watching the Farlain make camp.

Unlike his half brother Ongist, Barsa was not a reckless man. Though neither was he intuitive, as his half brother Drada. Barsa was simply a trained killer of men who relied on his experience more than his intellect. Experience told him the Farlain did not know of his presence; he had avoided their scouts and taken only the best of his men, breaking into small parties and heading north, re-forming at the falls. He had been guessing as to the line of the clan march and was secretly pleased at the accuracy of his guess. He had no idea where they were ultimately heading, for the north was a mystery to the Aenir save that men said the sea was not far off. And when he had received the message from Ongist saying the Pallides were also racing north he had acted at once, dispatching three thousand to join his brother and taking eight hundred with him to this place.

It would please his father, and Barsa looked forward to basking in his praise. He could decimate the Farlain with his first volley. They would break and run and his men would have their pick of the clan maidens. Sadly they would then have to kill them. It was the one order that made no sense to Barsa; always the Aenir had taken captured women as house slaves and concubines-even wives. But in the mountains Asbidag’s orders had been specific.

Kill all the clansmen, women, and children.

An Aenir forester crept to Barsa’s side. “They are making camp. Should we attack tonight?”

It was a thought, but Barsa was loath to commit his men in the open for the clans outnumbered him. “No. We’ll wait for morning, as they enter.” The man nodded and moved silently back into the deeper darkness.

Beyond the line of campfires flickering on the open ground, Caswallon silently led a thousand warriors south and then east, circling toward the blackness of Atta forest. Once in the east the Farlain split into three forces, one led by Caswallon, the others led by Leofas and Badraig. Armed only with short swords and hunting knives the men entered the trees, moving silently forward. It was slow progress.

The moon was bright above the mountains, but its light was diffused by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks that made up the bulk of the forest. Every three or four steps Caswallon closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him, listening for movement in the bushes ahead. The hoarse rasp of cloth on wood came to him and Caswallon raised a hand. The men behind him stopped. He pointed to the bushes; a clansman crept forward with knife in hand.

In the bushes the Aenir archer dozed-and died without waking as the razor-sharp hunting knife slid across his throat. Beyond him slept scores of warriors. With bright knives the clansmen moved in among them, killing them as they slept.

The night hunters moved on. Leofas and his group crept deep into the forest to the north, continuing their silent slaughter before working their way down the western side while Badraig, reaching the northernmost point, turned south.

An hour before dawn a cry split the night silence as a clansman’s blade slit open an Aenir throat. The man awoke as the knife cut into him, screaming a warning before dying as six inches of iron slashed through his neck.