David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

Not all of them were from the Farlain, that was the strange thing to Gaelen. The clansmen hated each other, yet would glory in tales of heroes from other clans. “It’s no use trying to understand it yet, Gaelen,” the old man told him. “It’s hard enough for us to understand ourselves.”

On the last evening of the month Oracle removed the boy’s stitches and pronounced him fit to rejoin the world of the living.

“Tomorrow Caswallon will come, and you’ll meet with him and make your decision. Either you’ll stay or you’ll go. Either way, you and I will part friends,” said Oracle gravely.

Gaelen’s stomach tightened. “Couldn’t I just stay here with you for a while?”

Oracle cupped the boy’s chin in his hand. “No, lad. Much as I’ve enjoyed your company it cannot be. Be ready at dawn, for Caswallon will come early.”

For much of the night Gaelen was unable to sleep, and when he did he dreamed of the morning, saw himself looking foolish before this great clansman whose face he couldn’t quite see. The man told him to run, but his legs were sunk in mud; the man lost his temper and stabbed him with a spear. He awoke exhausted and sweat-drenched and rose instantly, making his way to the stream to bathe.

“Good morning to you.”

Gaelen swung to see a tall man sitting on a granite boulder. He wore a cloak of leaf-green and a brown leather tunic. Slung across his chest was a baldric bearing two slim daggers in leather sheaths, and by his side a hunting knife. Upon his long legs were leggings of green wool, laced with leather thongs crisscrossed to the knee. His hair was long and dark, his eyes sea-green. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, though he could have been older.

“Are you Caswallon?”

“I am indeed,” said the man, standing. He stretched out his hand. Gaelen shook it and released it swiftly. “Walk with me and we’ll talk about things to interest you.”

Without waiting for a reply Caswallon turned and walked slowly through the trees. Gaelen stood for a moment, then grabbed his shirt from beside the stream and followed him. Caswallon halted beside a fallen oak and lifted a pack he had stowed there. Opening it he pulled clear some clothing; then he sat upon the vine-covered trunk, waiting for the boy to catch up.

Caswallon watched him closely as he approached. The boy was tall for his age, showing the promise of the man he would become. His hair was the red of a dying fire, though the slanted sunlight highlighted traces of gold, and there was a streak of silver above the wound on his brow. The scar on his cheek still looked angry and swollen, and the eye itself was a nightmare. But Caswallon liked the look of the lad, the set of his jaw, the straight-backed walk, and the fact that the boy looked him in the eye at all times.

“I have some clothes for you.”

“My own are fine, thank you.”

“Indeed they are, Gaelen, but a grey, threadbare tunic will not suit you, and bare legs will be cut by the brambles and gorse, as naked feet will be slashed by sharp or jagged stones. And you’ve no belt to carry a knife. Without a blade you’ll be hard-pressed to survive.”

“Thank you then. But I will pay you for them when I can.”

“As you will. Try them.” Caswallon threw him a green woolen shirt edged with brown leather and reinforced at the elbows and shoulders with hide. Gaelen slipped off his own dirty grey tunic and pulled on the garment. It fitted snugly, and his heart swelled; it was, in truth, the finest thing he had ever worn. The green woolen leggings were baggy but he tied them at the waist and joined Caswallon at the tree to learn how to lace them. Lastly a pair of moccasins were produced from Caswallon’s sack, along with a wide black belt bearing a bone-handled knife in a long sheath. The moccasins were a little too tight, but Caswallon promised him they would stretch into comfort. Gaelen drew the knife from its scabbard; it was double-edged, one side ending in a half-moon.

“The first side is for cutting wood, shaving, or cleaning skins; the second edge is for skinning. It is a useful weapon also. Keep it sharp at all times. Every night before you sleep, apply yourself to maintaining it.”

Reluctantly the boy returned the blade to its sheath and strapped the belt to his waist.

“Why are you doing this for me?”

“A good question, Gaelen, and I’m glad you asked it early. But I’ve no answer to give you. I watched you crawl and I admired you for the way you overcame your pain and your weakness. Also you made it to the timberline, and became a child of the mountains. As I interpreted clan law, that made you clan responsibility. I took it one stage further, that is all, and invited you into my home.”

“I don’t want a father. I never did.”

“And I already have a son of my blood. But that is neither here nor there. In clan law I am called your father, because you are my responsibility. In terms of Lowland law-such as the Aenir will not obliterate-I suppose I would be called your guardian. All this means is that I must teach you to live like a man. After that you are alone-should you so desire to be.”

“What would you teach me?”

“I’d teach you to hunt, and to plant, to read signs; I’d teach you to read the seasons and read men; I’d teach you to fight and, more importantly, when to fight. Most vital of all, though, I’d teach you how to think.”

“I know how to think,” said Gaelen.

“You know how to think like an Ateris thief, like a Lowland orphan. Look around and tell me what you see.”

“Mountains and trees,” answered the boy without looking around.

“No. Each mountain has a name and reputation, but together they combine to be only one thing. Home.”

“It’s not my home,” said Gaelen, feeling suddenly ill at ease in his new finery. “I’m a Lowlander. I don’t know if I can learn to be a clansman. I’m not even sure I want to try.”

“What are you sure of?”

“I hate the Aenir. I’d like to kill them all.”

“Would you like to be tall and strong and to attack one of their villages, riding a black stallion?”

“Yes.”

“Would you kill everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Would you chase a young boy, and tell him to run so that you could plunge a lance into his back?”

“NO!” he shouted. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“I’m glad of that. No more would any clansman. If you stay among us, Gaelen, you will get to fight the Aenir. But by then I will have shown you how. This is your first lesson, lad, put aside your hate. It clouds the mind.”

“Nothing will stop me hating the Aenir. They are vile killers. There is no good in them.”

“I’ll not argue with you, for you have seen their atrocities. What I will say is this: A fighter needs to think clearly, swiftly. His actions are always measured. Controlled rage is good, for it makes us stronger, but hatred swamps the emotions-it is like a runaway horse, fast but running aimlessly. But enough of this. Let’s walk awhile.”

As they strolled through the woods Caswallon talked of the Farlain, and of Maeg.

“Why did you go to another clan for a wife?” asked Gaelen as they halted by a rippling stream. “Oracle told me about it. He said it would show what kind of man you are. But I didn’t understand why you did it.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said the older man, leaning in close and whispering. “I’ve no idea myself. I fell in love with the woman the very first moment she stepped from her tent into the line of my sight. She pierced me like an arrow, and my legs felt weak and my heart flew like an eagle.”

“She cast a spell on you?” whispered Gaelen, eyes widening.

“She did indeed.”

“Is she a witch?”

“All women are witches, Gaelen, for all are capable of such a spell if the time is right.”