David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“Believe me, Astole, they have closed. How may I reopen them?”

“Wait a moment,” said the old man. “When last did you see me?”

“You were in the forest with the infant Queen.”

“Ah, I understand,” said Astole. “It is so long since I played with time, and my mind is growing addled.” His head sank back on the pillow and he closed his sightless eyes. “Yes, it is becoming clear. The Farlain is still under threat, the Queen has not yet passed the Gate, and you have yet to learn the mysteries. I have it now.”

“Then help me,” urged Caswallon. “Tell me how to reopen the Gate. I must lead the Queen through, or my people will perish.”

“I cannot tell you, my boy. I can only show you, teach you. It will take many years-eleven, if I remember correctly.”

“I don’t have years,” said Caswallon, hope draining from him. The old man was senile and making no sense. As if reading his mind Astole reached out a hand and gripped Caswallon’s arm, and when he spoke his voice was strong with authority.

“Do not despair, my friend. There is much that you cannot understand. I made the Gates in my youth and arrogance. I discovered the lines of power that link the myriad pasts, the parallel worlds, and I made the machines to track them and ride them. It was I who allowed the Great Gates to close. My race was using the universe as an enormous whorehouse. I rerouted the prime power source to feed the Lesser and Middle Gates. But all power sources are finite-even those that flow from collapsed stars and make up the Sipstrassi. It is-in the Now that you inhabit-running to its finish. There are other sources, and I will teach you to find and realign them, and then the Gates will return. The man you see now is but the last fading spark of a bright fire. He will die tonight, and yet he will not be dead. We will meet again and he shall teach you.

“There is a cave behind this abbey; a chalice is carved upon the entrance. Let the muster of the Queen’s men continue, and on the appointed day walk into the Chalice Cave and approach the far wall. It will appear as solid rock, but you will pass through it, for this Gate has not vanished but only shifted. On the other side, I shall be waiting.”

“But you are dying!”

“We are speaking of events which have already happened, my boy. I was working upon a complex formula in my study when the Gateway flickered and you appeared. You told me that I had sent you, and you told me why. More I cannot say.” The old man sighed, then gave a weak smile. “We are to be great friends, you and I. Closer than father and son. And yet I must say farewell to a stranger who is yet to be my friend. Ah, the tricks time plays…”

The old man fell silent and his eyes closed. Caswallon sat beside him, his mind tired, his burdens heavy. Was the abbot to be trusted? How could he tell? The future of his people rested with the promise of a dying monk. He sat with Astole until dawn’s first light seeped through the wooden shutters of the window, then he lifted the abbot’s hand from his arm.

Caswallon stood and gazed down at the old man. He was dead. The clansman lifted the blanket and pulled it over the abbot’s face, pausing to study the man’s expression. A faint smile was on the lips and a great feeling of peace swept over Caswallon.

He walked to the window, pulling open the shutters. The woods beyond shone in the early morning light. Behind him the door opened and the lancer Bedwyr stepped into the room.

“Did you find what you hoped for, Redhawk?”

“Time will tell.”

“The old man died then,” said the lancer, glancing at the bed.

“Yes. Peacefully.”

“They say he knew great magic. Does that mean his spirit will return to haunt us?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Caswallon.

Unaware of the growing drama, Gaelen led the Haesten women northwest, stopping only to meet the Pallides warriors. The eighty-man force had now swelled to one hundred ten, as other warriors crept in from the mountains and woods where they had hidden their families in derelict crofts or well-disguised caves. Ten men were to be left behind, to hunt and gather food for the hidden children, but the others were set to follow Gaelen.

The young clansman was truly concerned now, for he had never led such a force and was worried about the route. He conferred with Agwaine, Onic, and Gwalchmai. It was one thing for a small party to thread its way through the Aenir lines, quite another for an army numbering almost a thousand.

“We know,” said Onic, “that the main army is before us, pushing north. We should have no real trouble for at least two days.”

“You are forgetting Orsa,” said Gaelen. “His force destroyed Laric in the south. We don’t know if he will head north now and join his father. If he does, we will be trapped between them.”

“Ifs and buts, cousin,” said Agwaine. “We will solve nothing by such discussion. We are expected at Axta Glen and one way or another we must move on. We cannot eliminate all risks.”

“True,” admitted Gaelen, “but it is as well to examine them. So be it, we will head due north, and then cut west to Atta, and then on to the glen. That way we should avoid Orsa. But we’ll push out a screen of scouts west and east, and you, Gwal, shall go ahead of us in the north with five men to scout.”

The self-appointed leader of the Pallides, a burly clansman named Telor, caused Gaelen’s first problem. “Why should you lead, and make such decisions?” he asked when Gaelen told him of the plan.

“I lead because I was appointed to lead.”

“I follow Maggrig.”

“Maggrig follows Caswallon.”

“So you say, Blood-eye.”

Gaelen breathed deeply, pushing aside his anger. He rubbed his scarred eye, aware that Lara and the others were watching this encounter with detached fascination. Such was the way of warriors among the clans. Telor had now implied that Gaelen was a liar, and the two men were hovering on the verge of combat.

“Your land,” said Gaelen at last, “has been overrun by an enemy. Your people are sundered and preparing to fight alongside the Farlain in a last desperate battle for survival. If they lose, we lose. Everything. And yet here you are debating a point of no importance. Now I will say this only once: I lead because I was chosen to lead. There is no more to discuss. Either draw your sword or obey me.”

“Very well,” said Telor. “I will follow you north, but once the battle is sighted I will lead the Pallides.”

“No,” said Gaelen.

The man’s sword hissed from his scabbard. “Then fight me, Farlain.”

The onlookers backed away, forming a circle around the two men.

“I do not desire to kill you,” said Gaelen hopelessly.

“Then I lead.”

“No,” said Gaelen softly, drawing his sword. “You die.”

“Wait!” shouted Lara, stepping forward with hands on hips. “It is well known that the Farlain are arrogant numbskulls, and that the Pallides have too long interbred with their cattle, but this is sheer stupidity. If you must fight, then fight, but let it be clear that if Gaelen conquers, then he leads ALL.”

“What if Telor wins?” asked a young Pallides warrior.

“Then he leads the Pallides alone,” said Lara. “I’ll not follow a man with the brain of a turnip.”

“You miserable Haesten bitch,” snapped Telor. “You seek to rob the contest of any merit.”

“It has no merit,” said Gaelen. “Thousands of clansmen and their wives lie butchered by invaders, and you seek to add more clan blood to the soil.”

Telor gave a harsh laugh. “Frightened, are you, Farlain?”

Gaelen shook his head. “Terrified,” he said, dropping his sword and stepping forward, his forehead thundering against Telor’s nose. The Pallides warrior staggered back, blood drenching his yellow beard, as Gaelen moved in with a left cross exploding against Telor’s unprotected chin. The Pallides warrior pitched to his left, hitting the ground hard. Gaelen rolled the man to his back and drew his hunting knife, touching the point to Telor’s throat. “Make a choice, live or die,” he said coldly.