David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“But who made it happen?”

“Perhaps someone is studying you, even as you study us,” said Caswallon, smiling.

Taliesen’s eyes gleamed. “Astole believed just such a thing. I do not.”

At that moment Gaelen entered the clearing, calling Caswallon’s name. The War Lord leaped to his feet, opening his arms as the young man ran to him. They stood there for several moments, hugging each other. Then Caswallon took hold of Gaelen’s shoulders and gently pushed him away.

“Now, you’re a sight to ease my mind,” said Caswallon.

“And you. Deva and I thought to find you cut to pieces by the Aenir. We saw you from the peaks yonder.”

“Just for once we out-thought them. You look tired, and there is dried blood on your tunic.”

We’ve been chased over the mountains for three days.”

“But you came through.”

“You taught me well.”

Caswallon grinned. “Where is Deva?”

“Upstream, washing the grime from herself.”

“Then you do the same. Much as I am glad to see you, you smell like a dead fish. Away with you!”

Caswallon watched the young man walk to the stream and his eyes glowed with pride. Taliesen stood beside him. “He is a fine young man. A credit to you.”

“ A credit to himself. You know, Taliesen, as I carried him on my back from the destruction of Ateris I wondered if I was being foolish. His wounds were grievous-and he was all skin and bone anyway. My legs ached, and my back burned through every step. But I’m glad I didn’t leave him.”

“He is tough,” agreed the druid. “Oracle did well to heal him.”

“Yes. I hope the old man survived the assault.”

“He did not,” said Taliesen.

“How do you know?”

“Let us leave it that I know. He was a strong man, but vain.”

“That is not much of an epitaph,” said Caswallon.

“It is the best I can offer. Now get the clan ready. We must cross the bridge before dusk.”

Almost six thousand people thronged the shoreline as the sun cleared noon. Silence fell upon them as a druid appeared on the island’s shore, some forty yards across the foaming water. He tied a slender line to a sturdy pine, then looped the long coil over his shoulder and stepped out on the water. A gasp rose from the watchers, for the man was walking several feet above the torrent. After some twenty paces he stopped, reaching down, and stroked the air in a vertical line by his feet. Then he looped the twine around the invisible post and walked on. This he did every twenty paces, and amazingly the twine hung in the air behind him. Slowly the man made his way to the waiting clan, stopping to tie the end of the twine to a small tree. Then he approached Taliesen and bowed.

“Welcome, lord, it is good to see you again. How many of the clan survived?”

“Just under six thousand. But there could be more hidden in the mountains.”

“And the Pallides?”

“No one knows. But the Haesten were crushed, and I don’t doubt many lesser clans were annihilated.”

“Sad news, lord.”

The druid, who seemed almost as ancient as Taliesen, turned to Caswallon. “You will instruct your people to hold on to the twine and follow it. There is no danger, and the path is wide enough to make a line of five men. Let them approach slowly. All children to be carried. If anyone falls they are dead. They will be carried over Attafoss within seconds. Instruct your people.”

Caswallon was the first to cross, the clan filing slowly behind him. It was an uncanny sensation, placing weight upon solid air. He soon found it inadvisable to look down, for his sense of balance threatened to betray him.

Behind him the clan followed in silence and there were no mishaps.

Once on the island the clan spread out and pitched their camps. They found dried meat and fruit waiting for them, sacks of grain and oats, bags of salt, and huge tubs of honey, warm blankets and soft hides: all the product of Caswallon’s land that had so mysteriously disappeared the previous autumn.

Caswallon himself called a War Council and they met in a cavern beneath Vallon’s highest hill.

At the center of the cavern was a long table of pine, around which were fifty chairs. These were soon filled. Caswallon took his place at the head of the table, flanked by Leofas and his sons Lennox and Layne; beside them sat Gwalchmai and Gaelen, and beyond them Onic and the pick of the Farlain warriors.

“Before we begin,” Caswallon told them, “there is a matter to settle. It is our custom to elect our leaders. Most of the Council were slain with Cambil in the valley. We here now constitute a new Council. I offer myself as War Lord, but if there is any here with a hankering to lead, let him speak.”

No one stirred.

“It is accepted then that I lead the Farlain until this war is concluded?”

“Of course it is, Caswallon. Do you think us fools?” said Leofas.

“Very well. Then let us begin the real business of the day. How best can we hurt the enemy?”

Asbidag gazed at the ruin that had been his son. Maggots writhed in the dead flesh, and the sharp beaks of crows had torn at the body, but still it was recognizable as Ongist. In full armor, his helm held in his hands, Asbidag stood before the tree soaking in the sight, feeding his fury and his hatred. Behind him stood Drada and Tostig and beyond them twenty-five thousand Aenir warriors.

Asbidag felt no remorse, no sadness at the death of his child. He had not liked Ongist; he liked none of his offspring. But the boy had been his: blood of his blood. He could hear him praying for vengeance at the door of the Grey God’s hall.

Through his anger he felt frustration. How could he wreak vengeance upon the clans? Already his armies had slain four thousand. Many were the blood-eagles decorating the countryside. But he wanted-needed-more.

The clans feared him now, but terror was his desire.

He turned to Tostig.

“Fetch Agnetha from Aesgard. Do it now.”

The color drained from the warrior’s face and he thought of asking his father to send another. But Asbidag’s eyes were cold and distant and Tostig knew from experience that he was on the edge of a killing frenzy. He nodded and backed away to his horse.

Drada stood silently as his brother departed. He had scouted the hill where Maggrig made his stand, and had received reports from the foresters as to the ploy the Pallides used. It was a clever plan, but it would have failed against any captain less impetuous than Ongist. Maggrig had gambled the lives of his people on one perilous venture, and he had succeeded. But it proved the measure of the man, and Drada knew he could best him when next they met.

Two serious errors had been made by Maggrig. On the night of the first attack he had led his warriors on a suicidal charge to protect a few women and children, and now he had staked everything on one battle. He was obviously a man ruled by his heart.

Drada hoped his success would make him bold.

Asbidag stalked from the tree, and several warriors moved forward to cut down the body, preparing it for the funeral pyre on the hillside.

Drada joined his father in the black tent at the base of the hill. Asbidag was drinking heavily, and Morgase sat in the background saying nothing. “We will not catch the Pallides before they link with the Farlain,” said Drada.

“Good,” said Asbidag. “I want them all together.”

“Do you want to press on today?”

“No, we will wait for Agnetha.”

Drada left his father and wandered through the camp to where his own tent had been pitched. Once inside, he stripped off his armor and spread his blankets upon the ground. It was early yet, but weariness was upon him and he slept through the afternoon. He awoke to the smell of cooking meat. One of his carles brought him a platter of beef and some bread and he joined the men outside.