David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

The floor rose to strike his head, pain swamping him.

“Just one more… day,” he groaned.

His fingers clenched into a fist as a fresh spasm of agony ripped into him.

And as he died the Gates vanished.

During the week that followed Caswallon’s departure Maggrig led his Pallides warriors on a series of killing raids, hitting the Aenir at night, peppering them with arrows from woods and forests. Leofas, with four hundred Farlain clansmen, circled the Aenir force and attacked from the south.

Whenever the Aenir mustered for a counterattack the clans melted away, splitting their groups to re-form at agreed meeting places.

The raids were no more than a growing irritation to Asbidag, despite the disruption of his supply lines and the loss of some three hundred warriors. The main battle was what counted, and the clans could not run forever.

But where was Barsa? Nothing had been heard of his son and the Timber Wolves he led.

Drada trapped a raiding party of twenty Pallides warriors in a woods twelve miles from Attafoss, and these-bar one-were summarily butchered. The prisoner was tortured for seven hours, but revealed nothing. He had been blood-eagled on a wide tree. But the main force, led by Maggrig, escaped to the north, cutting through the ring of steel Drada had thrown around the woods. Still, twenty of the enemy had been slain, and Drada was not displeased.

In the southeast Gaelen and his companions had found more than eighty Pallides warriors in the caves of Pataron, a day’s march from Carduil. These he had persuaded to march with him on his return. It was a start.

On the fifth day of travel Gaelen and his group entered the thick pines below Carduil, and as they climbed they felt the chill of the wind blowing down from the snowcapped peaks. As they neared the opening to a narrow pass, a tall woman in leather breeches and a hooded sheepskin jerkin stepped out from the trees, a bow half drawn in her hands.

“Halt where you stand,” she commanded.

“We are seeking Laric,” Gaelen told the clanswoman.

“Who are you?”

“Gaelen of the Farlain. I come with a message from the War Lord Caswallon and his friend Maggrig of the Pallides.”

The warrior woman eased down the bowstring, returned the shaft to the quiver, and moved forward. “I am Lara,” she said, holding out her hand. “Laric’s daughter. My father is dead. He led the men on a raid to Aesgard; they were taken and slain to the last man.”

“All dead?” asked Agwaine, pushing forward.

“Yes. The Haesten are finished.”

“I am sorry,” said Gaelen, his heart sinking.

“No more than we are,” said Lara. “We are camped within Carduil. Join us.”

The companions followed her into the pass, and up to the winding trail below the caves. Once within the twisted caverns Lara pushed back her hood, shaking loose her dark hair. Leaving the companions at a fire where food was being prepared, she took Gaelen to a small rough-cut chamber in which lay a bed and a table of pine.

“There used to be a group of druids here,” she said, stripping off her jerkin. Tossing it to the bed, she pulled a chair from beneath the table and sat.

Gaelen sat on the bed, his misery evident. “You thought you’d find an army?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

“How many Farlain warriors escaped?”

“Close to four thousand.”

“And Pallides?”

“Less than a thousand.”

“They’ll fight well,” said the girl. “Would you like something to drink?” Gaelen nodded. She stood and crossed the chamber, bending to lift a jug and two goblets from behind a wooden chest. The soft leather of her breeches stretched across her hips. Gaelen blinked and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

She passed him a goblet of honeyed wine. “Are you warm?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Your face is flushed. Take your jerkin off.”

She really was quite striking, he realized as he removed the garment. Her eyes were the blue of an evening sky, her mouth wide and full-lipped.

“Why are you staring?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“I saw you run in the Games,” she said. “You were unlucky to miss the final.”

“Luck had little to do with it,” he said, happier to be on firmer ground.

“I heard-you were attacked. Still, the clans won.”

“Yes.”

“They will win again.”

“At this moment I don’t see how,” said Gaelen. “Nothing has gone right for us. We have lost thousands and the Aenir are hardly touched.”

“I have eight hundred warriors at my command,” she said.

“What? Where are you hiding them?”

“They are not hidden. They are here, with me.”

“You mean the women?”

“If that patronizing look does not fade soon, you Farlain pig swill, then you’ll be leaving here faster than you came.”

“I… apologize,” he said.

“Well, stop apologizing!” she snapped. “It seems you’ve done nothing else since you arrived. You’re the Lowlander Caswallon brought home, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Then, this once, I will forgive you for not thinking like a clansman. All our women are skilled with the bow. We can also use knives, though swords are a little unwieldy. Our men are dead and our clan finished. None of us have any reason to go on living like beasts in the mountains. Even if we survive and smash the Aenir, there will be no Haesten. Our day is gone. The best we can hope for is to find husbands from other clans. Believe me, Gaelen, that is not a happy thought.”

“Let us start again, Lara,” he said. “I did not wish to insult you. And though I was once a Lowlander, I am well aware of the skill of clanswomen. I will accept your offer, if you still hold to it. You must forgive me. It has been a long spring and much has happened; I have been hunted, attacked, and have seen my closest friend slain. The enemy that destroyed your people did this to me when I was a child in Ateris,” he told her, pointing to the blood-red eye and the jagged white scar above. “I had few friends in that city, but those were brutally murdered. Youngsters I grew to like among the Farlain are now rotting corpses. I was sent here to gather an army that could descend upon the enemy and, perhaps, turn the tide of battle. I do not patronize you, I admire you. But still I am disappointed.”

“That I can understand,” she said, her voice softening. “You were one of the Beast Slayers, were you not?”

“That seems so long ago now. There were five of us-and one of those lies dead back in the forest… or at least he would, had he not been devoured by another demon beast.”

“Who died?” she asked.

“Layne.”

“The handsome brother of the mighty Lennox,” she said. “That is indeed a loss. You say there are more of these creatures still roaming the mountains?”

“One only. We slew the others.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “You know you are now part of clan myths.”

He nodded. “A small part.”

“The Lowlander and the Ghost Queen.”

“Is that what they call her?”

“Yes. The story is that she was the daughter of Earis returned from the grave.”

“I don’t know about that,” he told her. “Her name was Sigarni, and she was a mighty warrior queen-the sort of woman you would follow into the caverns of the damned.”

“I like the sound of her. I’ll get us something to eat,” she said, rising and taking his empty goblet.

“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “was your man killed?”

“I had no man.”

“Why?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I…”

“And don’t apologize!”

He watched her leave the chamber, too aware for comfort of her sensual grace and the sleek lines of her body.