David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“Gaelen is right. It’s time to move,” said Agwaine. “Kill the fire.”

Donning their packs they set off toward the east, where the dark line of the Carduil range could be seen against the sky. They walked with swords in hand, saying little, and the journey was fraught with fear. The storm clouds passed over them, lightning flashing to the south, and the moon shone bright.

“By the Gods, look!” exclaimed Gwalchmai.

On either side of them, some twenty paces distant, dark shadows could be seen moving from bush to bush.

“How many?” hissed Agwaine.

“Four,” answered Onic.

Swiftly they doffed their packs, stringing the short hunting bows.

“Wait!” said Gaelen. “Let us each pick a target, for once they learn the power of the bow they will be more wary.”

Gwalchmai eased back on the string. “All right. I’ll take the one on the left at the rear.”

Choosing their targets they waited patiently, Gwalchmai and Onic kneeling, Agwaine and Gaelen facing right with bows half drawn.

The werebeasts crouched in the bushes, confused and uncertain. They could not see the shining talons that had cut down their comrade, only long sticks of wood. But they were wary. The leader edged forward, raising his head. The scent of warm flesh caused his stomach to tighten and saliva dripped from his maw. He moved into the open on all fours, edging still closer. A second followed him. On the other side a third beast was in view.

More clouds bunched above them, the sky darkening.

Gaelen cursed. “Let fly… NOW!”

Shafts hissed through the night air. The leader howled as the missile sliced into his chest, spearing his lungs. Blood filled his throat and the howling ceased. Behind him the second thrashed about in the bushes, an arrow through his eye.

To the left Gwalchmai’s target had dropped without a sound, shot through the heart. Only Onic had not let fly. His target had remained in the bushes. Alone and frightened, it sprinted away to the west.

Taliesen led Caswallon to a long room beneath the Vallon caves. The walls were lined with shelves of old oak, some of them twisted and cracked with age. Upon some of them were parchment scrolls, leather-bound books, and sheafs of paper bound with twine. Others were stacked with metal cylinders or small glass bottles sealed with wax. On the far side of the hall two druids were sitting at one of the many tables, poring over scrolls and scribbling notes with quill pens.

Maggrig, Leofas, and Maeg were waiting there when the druid and the clansman arrived. While Maeg examined the shallow wound in her husband’s shoulder, Maggrig pressed Caswallon about his journey through the Gateway. He told them of the baby, and the old man who had been carrying her.

As she spoke the old man’s name Taliesen sank to a chair, eyes wide, mouth agape. It was the first time Caswallon had seen him so surprised. “You did not tell me it was Astole,” he whispered. “Still alive!”

“He’s not alive now,” said Caswallon. “He died there in that forest.”

Taliesen shook his head. “Unlikely. He had remarkable powers of recuperation,” said the druid. “He is twice as old as I am. And I once saw a spear pierce his chest, the point emerging alongside his spine. He made me draw it from him; I did, and watched the wound heal within seconds.”

“Alive or dead, he cannot help us now,” said Caswallon. “So what do we do?”

“We try again-if you feel strong enough. Do you?”

“Is there a choice, druid?”

Taliesen shook his head. Maggrig loomed over the druid. “Except that after the last mistake,” he said, “you might now waft him away to the center of the Aenir camp, and he can demand their surrender.”

“It was not a mistake,” snapped the druid. “It was destiny.”

“Well, if there is a moment of destiny, ” promised Maggrig, “I’ll pierce your scrawny ears with your teeth!”

“That will be hard to do-after I’ve turned you to a toad!” Taliesen countered.

“Enough!” said Maeg sharply. “Go back to the Gate-all of you. I need to speak to my husband.” Maggrig swallowed his anger and followed Taliesen and the old warrior Leofas from the room.

When they had gone, Maeg took Caswallon’s hand and looked deep into his sea-green eyes. “I love you, husband,” she said, “more than life. I want so much to ask you-to beg you-to refuse Taliesen. Yet I will not… even though my heart is filled with fears for you.”

He nodded, then lifted her hand to his lips. “You are mine, and I am yours,” he said. “You are the finest of women, and I have not the words to tell you what you mean to me.” He fell silent as a single tear rolled to Maeg’s cheek. “I love you, Maeg. But I must do what I can to save my people.”

The clansman stood, and hand in hand he and Maeg walked to the Gate. It stood open, the bright sunshine of another world blazing down upon hills and mountains. Taliesen stood waiting on the other side. Maeg kissed Caswallon and he felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek. Maggrig gripped his hand. “Take care, boy,” he said gruffly.

Recovering his sword, Caswallon stepped through the archway onto the hillside above Citadel town.

“Remember, Caswallon,” said Taliesen, “the Queen must have her army assembled within ten days. Take her to the falls where we fought the demons. Tell her Taliesen needs her help.”

“You think she will remember you after all these years?”

“She saw me only yesterday,” said Taliesen. “Well… yesterday to her. And now it is time to go. Come back here at dawn in four days and report on your progress.”

Leaving the druid behind him, Caswallon set off down the slope toward the city. There were sentries at the gates, but many people were passing through and the clansman was not challenged. As he walked Caswallon gazed at the buildings; they were not like the houses of Ateris, being higher and more closely packed, built of red brick and stone, the windows small.

There were narrow, open sewage channels on both sides of the street, and the stench from them filled the nostrils. Crowds of revelers were gathering on every side, drunken clansmen and mercenaries, many singing, others dancing to the tune of the pipes. Caswallon threaded his way through them, heading for the Citadel above the town.

At the gates he was stopped by two guards wearing bronze breastplates and leather kilts. Both carried lances. “What is your business here?” asked the shorter of the two.

“I seek the Queen,” replied Caswallon.

“Many men seek the Queen. Not all are allowed to find her.”

“It is a matter of importance,” said Caswallon.

“Do I know you?” asked the guard. “You seem familiar.”

“My business is urgent,” said Caswallon. The man nodded once more, then called a young soldier from the ramparts. “Take this man to the city hall. Ask for Obrin.”

The soldier saluted and walked away. Caswallon followed. The man stopped before a wide flight of marble steps, at the top of which were double doors of bronze-studded oak. Before the doors were four more guards in bronze breastplates; each of these wore crimson cloaks and leather breeches cut short at the calf. The soldier led the way up the stairs and whispered to one of the sentries; the man tapped at the door and passed a message inside. After a wait of several more minutes the door opened once more and an officer came out. He was tall and of middle years, his beard iron-grey, his eyes a frosty blue. He looked at Caswallon and smiled. Taking the clansman by the arm, he led him inside the hall. “The Queen is holding a victory banquet,” he said, “but you will not find her in a good mood.”

The hall was vast, with ten high-arched windows. A huge curved table was set at the center, around which sat more than two hundred men and women feasting on roast pig, swan, goose, chicken, and sundry other meats and pastries. The noise was incredible and Caswallon found himself longing for the open mountains. Swallowing down his distaste, he followed the officer forward.