David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

The creature writhed in agony, then crumpled to the earth, thrashing in its death throes. Lennox dragged his sword loose and drew his hunting knife, eyes scanning the bushes. There was no movement there. But he had to be sure.

“Stay in the tree, Plessie. Uncle Lennox won’t be a moment.”

“No,” she wailed. “Don’t leave me. Wolfs eat me up!” Her tears cut through him, but he moved on, searching the tracks within the undergrowth. Satisfied there were only two of the creatures he returned to the weeping child, lifting her down and cuddling her.

“There, there! You see, I was only a moment or two.”

“Don’t leave me again, Uncle Lennox.”

“I won’t. Now, you are going to have to be a brave girl and help me to stop this bleeding. Can you do that?” With a grunt of pain Lennox removed his ripped shirt. There were four deep slashes across his right shoulder blade, but he could reach none of them.

“There’s lots of blood, Uncle Lennox.”

“The bleeding will clean the wounds,” he said, moving to his pack. “Can you sew?”

“Mother taught me,” said Plessie.

“That’s good, little one.” Rummaging into his pack, he found needle and thread. “I want you to close these little scratches for me. Then we’ll move on. Will you do that for me?”

“I don’t know how.”

Lennox could see the fear returning to her. “It’s easy,” he told her, forcing a smile. “Trust me. I’ll show you. First thread the needle. My hands are too big and clumsy for it.” Plessie took the thread, licked the end, and carefully inserted it into the eye of the needle. She looked up expectantly at Lennox. Twisting his head, he could see the ragged red line of the first cut on the top of his shoulder. Taking the needle, he pricked it through the skin. “You do it like this,” he told her, as a wave of nausea hit him. “Just like this.”

Plessie began to cry. “You’re not going to die, are you, Uncle Lennox?”

“From little scratches like this? No. Now come around to my back and show me your sewing.”

Taliesen led Caswallon away from the cabin, and on into the trees. It was not cold, but the breeze brought a promise of autumn in the air. “The child will be the future queen-if she lives,” said the druid.

Caswallon stopped. “What do you mean, if she lives? We know she lives. I watched her die after killing the beast.”

Taliesen gave a dry laugh. “My boy, you saw one Sigarni. But it would take too long to explain the infinite possibilities when one deals in time, the paradoxes created. Merely hold to the concept of impossibility made reality. This child is in great danger. First and foremost is the sorcerer Jakuta Khan. He was hired to bring about the fall of the King, Sigarni’s real father, and in exchange he was offered wealth-and the life of the King’s daughter. He is a gifted magicker, Caswallon. He will track her down; the crofter cannot stand against him.”

Caswallon sat down on a fallen tree. “The thought fills me with sorrow, Taliesen, but what can we do? My people need me. I cannot stay here and protect the babe. Nor can you. We do not have the time.”

“That word again-time,” responded Taliesen, sitting beside the taller man. “It matters not how long we wait here, for when you return no time will have passed in the world you know. There is a small settlement close by; we will rest there, and be offered food. Then we will journey back to the falls and make camp by the rock face where the Gateway opened. There you will see in one day what few mortals will ever see.”

The following evening Caswallon built a small fire by the rock face, and the two men sat eating a meal of honey biscuits and watching the fragmented moon dance upon the rippling water of the falls pools.

“How long do we wait?” asked Caswallon.

“Until I feel the magic of Jakuta Khan,” said Taliesen. “But now there is someone I must summon.” Rising, the little sorcerer moved to the poolside. As Caswallon watched, Taliesen began to chant in a low voice. The wind died down and a mist formed above two boulders close to the pool’s edge. Caswallon’s eyes widened as the mist rose into an arch some ten paces in front of the sorcerer. Tiny lights, like fireflies, glittered in the archway, and then a man appeared, tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, wearing a silver breastplate and a shining mail shirt of silver steel. His hair was moon-white, his beard braided.

“Who calls Ironhand?” he asked, his voice low and deep like distant thunder. Caswallon rose and walked to stand beside Taliesen.

“I call upon you, High King,” said the sorcerer. “I, Taliesen, the Druid Lord. Your daughter lives, but she is in peril.”

“They killed me here,” said the ghostly warrior. “My body lies beneath those boulders. They killed my wife, and I cannot find her spirit.”

“But your daughter lives: The babe sleeps in a cabin close by. And the hunters will come for her, the demons will stalk her.”

“What can I do, Taliesen? I am a spirit now.”

“You can do nothing against men of flesh, Ironhand. But I have planted a seed in the child’s mind. When the demons materialize she will flee here. The creatures, though flesh, are also summoned through spirit spells. You can fight them.”

“When you need me, call upon me,” said the Ghost King. The archway shimmered and vanished, and Caswallon once more felt the night breeze upon his skin.

“She is Ironhand’s daughter? Sweet Heaven!”

“Aye,” whispered Taliesen, “she is of the blood most royal. Now let us return to the fire. There is a spell I must cast before I leave you.” The druid banked up the fire, and once more began to chant. Caswallon sat silently until he had finished, then Taliesen took a deep breath. “There is a man I must see. He is a dreamer and a drunkard, but we will need him before long. Stay here, and do not for any reason venture from the fire.” He smiled. “I think what you are about to see will keep you well entertained until I return.”

Rising, he ambled away along the line of the pool. Caswallon leaned back against the rock face. Suddenly the moon sped across the sky, the sun flashing up to bathe the pool in brilliant light. Then as suddenly as it had come the sun fell away, and the moon reappeared. Astonished, Caswallon gazed around the pool. There was no sound now, but night and day appeared and disappeared in seconds. Beyond the firelight the grass grew long, withered and dried, died and was replaced. Trees sprouted branches before his eyes. Leaves opened, glistened, withered, and fell. Within the space of a moment snow appeared beyond the fire, thick and deep. Then it was gone, instantly replaced by the flowers of spring.

He watched the seasons pass by in heartbeats, in blazes of color and streams of light.

When the snow had appeared for the sixth time, the rushing of time began to slow. The moon reared up and stopped in mid-heaven.

The cold of winter now whispered past Taliesen’s spell and Caswallon shivered. Movement to his right caught his eye and he saw Taliesen trudging through the snow toward him. The old man was carrying a short hunting bow and a quiver of arrows. “How did you make the seasons move so fast?” asked Caswallon.

“Not even I can do that,” answered Taliesen wearily. “You are sitting beside a Gateway. I merely activated it. It flickered you through the years.”

“It is a memory I shall long treasure,” said the clansman.

“Sadly, we have no time to dwell upon it,” Taliesen told him, “for the evil is almost upon us.” He squatted down by the fire, holding out his long, thin fingers to the flames. “I am so cold,” he said, “and tired.” He handed Caswallon the bow and arrows.

“What are we facing?” asked the clansman, stringing the bow and testing the pull. It was a sturdy weapon.