David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Gaelen shivered. “You mean the daughter of the woman who saved us from the beast?”

“No, the woman herself.”

“She is dead.”

“As we sit here in this valley, Gaelen, neither of us is born. Our birth cries are ten thousand years in the future. Is it so strange then to think of seeking a dead queen?”

“Why would she come?”

“I don’t know. I only pray that she does-and that her strength will be sufficient.”

“What if she does not?”

“Then the clans will face a difficult day in Axta Glen.”

“What are our chances?”

“Taliesen says they are minimal.”

“What do you say?”

“I’d say Taliesen was being wildly optimistic.”

Gaelen returned to Deva at the stream and told her of his mission. She listened quietly, her grey eyes grave. “It will be dangerous for you. Take care,” she said.

“I would be the more careful,” he said tenderly, “if I knew you would be waiting for me when I returned.” She looked away then, but he took her hand. “I have loved you for such a long time,” he told her.

Gently she pulled her hand clear of his. “I love you too, Gaelen. Not just because you saved my life. But I can’t promise to wait for you, nor for any Farlain warrior. I know you think me foolish to believe in the prophecy-but Taliesen confirmed it; it is my destiny.”

Gaelen said nothing more. Rising, he moved away and Deva returned to the waterside. Her thoughts were confused as she sat, trailing her hand in the stream. It was senseless to refuse love when all she had was a distant promise, Deva knew that. Worse, her feelings for Gaelen had grown stronger during the time they spent together, being hunted by the Aenir. All her doubts surfaced anew, and she remembered confiding in Agwaine. He had not scoffed, but he had been brutally realistic.

“Suppose this father of kings never comes? Or worse. Suppose he does, and he does not desire you? Will you spend your life as a spinster?”

“No, I am not a fool, brother. I will wait one more year, then I will choose either Layne or Gaelen.”

“I am sure they will be glad to hear it,” he said.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“It is not I who am being cruel, Deva. Suppose they don’t wait? There are other maidens.”

“Then I will marry someone else.”

“I hope your dream comes true, but I fear it will not. You sadden me, Deva, and I want to see you happy.”

“A year is not such a long time,” she had said. But that had been before the Aenir invasions, and already it seemed an eternity had passed. Her father was dead, the clan in hiding, the future dark and gloom-laden.

Gaelen chose six companions for the journey south-Agwaine, Lennox, Layne, Gwalchmai, plus Onic and Ridan. Onic was a quiet clansman, with deep-set eyes and a quick smile. Almost ten years older than Gaelen, he was known as a fine fighting man with quarterstaff or knife. He wore his black hair close-cropped in the style of the Lowland clans, and around his brow sported a black leather circlet set with a pale grey moonstone. His half brother, Ridan, was shorter and stockier; he said little, but he had also fought well in the retreat from the valley. Both men had been chosen for their knowledge of the Haesten, gained from the fact that their mother had come from that clan.

Taking only light provisions and armed with bows, short swords, and hunting knives, the seven left Vallon before dawn. A druid guided them over the invisible bridge, for the twine had been removed lest the Aenir march to the island.

Gaelen had mixed feelings about the trip. The responsibility placed upon him weighed heavily. He loved Caswallon, and trusted him implicitly, but to battle the Aenir on the gentle slopes of Axta Glen? Surely that was madness. During the last two years Gaelen had enjoyed many conversations with Oracle about battles and tactics, and he had learned of the importance of terrain. A large, well-armed force could not be met head-on by a smaller group. The object should be a score of skirmishes to whittle down the enemy, disrupting his supply lines and weakening his morale. Oracle had likened such war to disease invading the body.

Agwaine was content. For him the mission provided an outlet for his grief over the death of his father and a chance to achieve victory for the Farlain. He didn’t know if a Haesten force survived. But if it did, he would find it.

The group moved through Atta forest, past the swelling Aenir corpses and on into the first valley. They moved warily, knowing the Aenir could be close. Only in the high passes, where the woods were thick and welcoming and they trusted their skills above those of the enemy, did they relax.

Toward dusk Lennox scouted out a hollow where they made camp. It was set within a pine woods and circled by boulders and thick bushes. There was a stream nearby and Gaelen lit a small fire. It was a good campsite and the fire could not be seen outside the ring of trees. Lennox, as always, was hungry, having devoured his three-day rations by noon. The others mocked him as he sat brooding by the fire watching them eat.

Lennox had grown even larger in the last year, his shoulders and arms heavy with muscle, and he now sported a dark beard close-cropped to his chin. Coupled with the brown goatskin jerkin, it created the appearance of a large, amiable bear.

“We are comrades,” he pleaded. “We should share a little.”

“I saw some berries on a bush back there,” said Gwalchmai. “I am sure they will prove very tasty.” He bit into a chunk of oatcake, and swung to Agwaine. “I think the honey in these cakes is better this year, don’t you, Agwaine? Thicker. It makes the cakes so succulent.”

“Decidedly so. It gives them extra flavor.”

“You’re a bunch of swine,” said Lennox, pushing himself to his feet.

Laughter followed him as he walked into the darkness in search of berries. The woods were quiet, moon shadows dappling the silver grass. Lennox found the bush and plucked a handful of berries. They served only to heighten his hunger, and he toyed once more with the idea of appealing to his comrades. His stomach rumbled and he cursed softly.

A movement to his right made him turn, dropping into a half crouch with arms spread. He saw a flash of white cloth disappear beneath a bush, and a tiny leg hastily withdrawn.

Lennox ate some more berries and then ambled toward the bush, as if to walk past. As he came abreast of it he lunged down, pulling the child clear. Her mouth opened and her face showed her terror, but no sound came out. Lennox took her in his arms, whispering gentle words and stroking her hair. She clung to the goatskin tunic with her tiny hands clenched tight, the knuckles white as polished ivory.

“There, there, little dove. You’re safe. I didn’t mean to frighten you. There, there. Don’t worry about Lennox. He’s big, but he’s not bad. He won’t hurt you, little dove. You’re safe.” All the while he stroked her head. She burrowed her face into his jerkin, saying nothing.

Lennox made his way back to the camp. Instantly his companions gathered around, plying him with questions. He shushed them to silence. “She’s terrified,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “She must have lost her parents in the woods.” Looking at his comrades, he silently mouthed the words “Probably killed by the Aenir.”

Gwalchmai, always a favorite with children, tried to get the girl to speak, but she pushed her face deeper into Lennox’s jerkin.

“I have never seen a child so frightened,” said Agwaine.

“Where are you from?” whispered Lennox, kissing her head. “Tell your uncle Lennox.” But the child remained silent.

“I don’t recognize the girl,” he said. “Do you, Gwal?”

“No. She could be Pallides, or Haesten, or even Farlain. Or even a crofter’s daughter from the Outlands.”