The Hawk Eternal (21 page)

Caswallon watched the start, saw Gaelen running smoothly in the centre of the pack and, knowing the youth would qualify easily, strolled to the market stalls on the edge of the field.

The stalls were doing brisk business in brooches, daggers, trinkets and tools, cloth, furs, blankets and shoes, meats, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Caswallon eased through the massed crowds seeking a necklace for Maeg. Finding nothing to his taste, he bought a jug of mead and an oatmeal loaf. There were still one or two empty tables at the edge of the field and he chose a place away from the crowd where he would be alone with his thoughts. Since his talk with Maeg he had been less obsessed with the Aenir threat but now, as was his way, he thought the problem through, examining every angle.

Morgase and Drada were sitting less than thirty paces away, but hidden by the crowd Caswallon did not see them. Morgase was bored, and her eyes flickered over the mass of people seeking something of even passing interest. She saw the tall man walking to the empty table and her gaze lingered, her eyes widening in alarm. He wore a leaf-green cloak and a tunic of polished brown leather, while across his chest hung a baldric bearing two slim daggers. By his side was a long hunting-knife. His trews were green laced with leather thongs. Morgase stared intently at the face. The short trident beard confused her, but the eyes were the same deep green she remembered so well.

And with such hatred ...

She stood and walked over to where he sat. 'Good morning,' she said, her throat tight, her anger barely controlled.

Caswallon looked up. Before him was a woman dressed in black, a sleek-fitting gown that hid nothing of her slender figure. Her dark hair was braided and curled like a crown on her head and pinned with gold. He rose. 'Good morning, Lady." He gestured for her to be seated and asked if he could bring her refreshments. Then she saw Drada approaching, carrying two goblets of wine.

'How are you, Caswallon?' asked Drada.

'Well. Will you introduce me to the lady?'

'You do not know me then?' asked Morgase, surprised.

'I have been known to be forgetful, Lady, but not insane. Such beauty as yours is unforgettable.'

She seemed confused, uncertain. 'You are very like someone I once knew. Uncannily like.'

'I hope he was a friend,' said Caswallon.

'He was not.'

'Then allow me to make up for it,' he said, smiling. 'Will you join me?'

'No, I must go. But please, since you two know each other, why don't you finish your drinks together?'

The men watched her walk away. 'A strange woman,' said Drada.

'Who is she?'

'Morgase, my father's consort. Beautiful but humourless.'

'She thought she knew me."

'Yes. Are you taking part in the Games?'

'I am.'

'In what event?' asked Drada.

'Short sword.'

'I thought you were a runner?"

'I was. You are well-informed. And you?'

'No, I'm afraid I excel at very little.'

'You seem to excel in the field of selection,' said Caswallon. 'Rarely have I seen men train as hard.'

Drada smiled. 'The Aenir like to win.'

'I wonder why?"

'What does that mean? No man likes to lose.'

True. But no clansman trains for the Games; they are an extension of his life and his natural skills. If he loses, he shrugs. It is not the end of the world for him.'

'Perhaps that is why you are clansmen, living a quiet life in these beautiful mountains, while the Aenir conquer the continent.'

'Yes, that is what I was thinking,' said Caswallon.

"Was it your idea to have us escorted here?'

'I was afraid you might get lost.'

'That was kind of you.'

'I am a kind man,' said Caswallon. 'I shall also see that you are escorted back.'

'Cambil assured us that would not be necessary. Or is he not the Hunt Lord?'

'Indeed he is, but we are a free people and the Hunt Lord is not omnipotent.'

'You take a great deal on yourself, Caswallon. Why can we not be friends? As you have seen, the Aenir have respected your borders. We trade. We are neighbours.'

'It is not necessary for you and me to play these games, Drada. I know what is in your heart. Like all killers, you fear that a greater killer will stalk you as you stalk others. You cannot exist with a free people on your borders. You must always be at war with someone. And one day, if you ever achieve your ambition, and the Aenir rule from sea to sea in every direction, even then it will not end. You will turn on yourselves like rabid wolves. Today you strike fear into men's hearts. But tomorrow? Then you will be thought of as a boil on the neck of history.'

The words were spoken without heat. Drada sipped his wine, then he looked up to meet Caswallon's gaze. 'I can see why you think as you do, but you are wrong. All new civilisations begin with bloodshed and horror, but as the years pass they settle down to prosper, to wax and to grow fat. Then, as they reach their splendid peak, a new enemy slips over the horizon and the bloodshed begins anew.'

'The Farlain will be your undoing,' said Caswallon. 'You are like the man poised to stamp on the worm beneath his feet - too far above it to see it is a viper.'

'Even so, when the man stamps the viper dies,' said Drada.

'And the man with it.'

Drada shrugged. 'All men die at some time.'

'Indeed they do, my bonny. But some die harder than others.'

For ten days the Games progressed and the fear of the Hunt Lords grew. The Aenir competed ferociously, bring new edge to the competitions. Gone was any semblance of friendly rivalry - the foreigners battled as if their lives depended on the result.

By the evening before the last day an overall Aenir victory had moved from possibility to probability. Only the athletes of the Farlain could overhaul them. The Aenir had won all but two of the short sprint finals, had defeated Gwalchmai in the archery tourney, but lost to Layne in the spear. Caswallon had beaten the Aenir challenger in the short sword, but lost the final to Intosh, the Pallides swordsman. Gaelen and Agwaine had fought their way to the final five-mile race planned for the morrow, though Agwaine had only reached it when a Haesten runner twisted his ankle hurdling a fallen tree. His disappointment in qualifying in such a manner was deepened by the fact that the Aenir athlete, the white-haired Borak, had beaten Gaelen into second place in their semi-final.

Lennox, in an awesome display of sheer power, had strolled comfortably to the final of the strength event, but here he was to face the fearsome might of the giant Orsa, himself unbeaten. The Aenir had won grudging respect from the clansmen, but all the same the Games had been spoiled.

Cambil remained withdrawn throughout the tournament, knowing in his heart the scale of his error. The unthinkable was on the verge of reality. The Aenir were two events from victory. He had summoned Gaelen and Agwaine to him and the trio sat before the broad empty hearth of Cambil's home.

'Are you confident of beating this Borak, Gaelen?' Cambil asked, knowing now that his own son could not compete at their level.

Gaelen rubbed his eye, choosing his answer carefully. 'I saw no point in making a push yesterday; it would only show him the limit of my speed. But, on the other hand, he concealed from me his own reserves. No, I am not confident. But I think I can beat him.'

'What do you think, Agwaine?'

'I can only agree with Gaelen, Father. They are superbly matched. I would not be surprised either way.'

'You have both performed well and been a credit to the Farlain. Though you are adopted, Gaelen, you have the heart of a clansman. I wish you well.'

'Thank you, Hunt Lord.'

'Go home and rest. Do not eat too heavy a breakfast.'

Gaelen left the house and wandered to the pine fence before the yard. Turning, he looked up at Deva's window hoping to see a light. There was none. Disappointed, he opened the gate and began the short walk through the woods to Caswallon's house in the valley.

The night was bright, the moon full, and a light breeze whispered in the branches overhead. He thought about the race and its implications. It was true that he was not confident of victory, but he would be surprised if the Aenir beat him. He thought he had detected an edge of fatigue in the blond runner as he came off the mountain on the last circuit of the field. Gaelen hadn't pressed then, but had watched his opponent carefully. The man's head had been bobbing during the last two hundred paces, and his arms pumped erratically.

Gaelen had finished all of thirty paces adrift and it would be closer tomorrow. Caswallon had pointed out one encouraging thought; no one had yet tested Borak. Did he have the heart to match his speed?

A dark shadow leapt at Gaelen from the left, another from the right. He ducked and twisted, using his forearm to block a blow from a wooden club. He hammered his fist into the belly of the nearest man, following it with a swift hook to the jaw. The attacker dropped as if poleaxed. As he hurled himself to the right, Gaelen's shoulder cannoned into the midriff of the second man. The grunting whoosh of his opponent's breath showed he was badly winded. Scrambling to his feet, Gaelen kicked the fallen man in the face. More men ran from the trees; in the darkness Gaelen could not recognise faces, but they were dressed like clansmen.

He caught an attacker with a right cross to the chin, but then a wooden club thudded against his temple. Gaelen reeled to the left, vainly holding up his arm to protect his head. The club hammered into his thigh and agony lanced him. Another blow to the calf and he collapsed to the ground, struggling to rise as a booted foot crashed into his face. Twice more he felt blows to his right leg, and he passed out.

It was dawn before he was found. Caswallon came across the unconscious body as he made his way to Cambil's home. The clansman had been worried about Gaelen staying out all night before the race, but had assumed he was sleeping at the house of the Hunt Lord. Carefully he turned Gaelen to his back, checking his heartbeat and breathing. He probed the dried blood on the youth's temple; the skull was not cracked. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Gaelen to his shoulder and stumbled on towards the house.

Deva was the first to be awakened by Caswallon kicking at the door. She ran downstairs, pulled back the bolts and let him in. Walking past her, Caswallon eased Gaelen down into a leather chair. Deva brought some water from the kitchen and a towel to bathe Gaelen's head.

Cambil, bare-chested and barely awake, joined them. 'What has happened?' he asked, bending over the unconscious youth.

'From the tracks, I'd say five men set on him after he left here last night,' Caswallon told him.

'Why?'

Caswallon glanced at him, green eyes blazing. 'Why do you think? I was a fool not to consider it myself.'

'You think the Aenir ... ?'

'You want further proof?' Caswallon carefully unlaced the thongs of Gaelen's leggings, pulling them clear. His right leg was mottled blue, the knee swollen and pulpy. He groaned as Caswallon checked the bones for breaks. 'Skilfully done, wouldn't you say?'

'I shall cancel the race,' said Cambil.

'And what reason will you give?' snapped Caswallon. 'And what purpose would it serve? We need to win both of today's events. Cancelling one will only give the trophy to the Aenir.'

Agwaine stood at the foot of the stairs watching the exchange. He said nothing, moving past his father and making his way to the yard. From here he gazed out over the Games field and the mountains beyond. Deva joined him, a woollen shawl across her shoulders, her white nightdress billowing in the morning breeze. Curling her arm about his waist, she rested her head on his shoulder.

"What are you thinking?' she asked.

'I was thinking of Father.'

'In what way?"

'Oh, I don't know. Many ways. He's wrong, I know that now.

The Games were ruined from the moment he allowed Drada to honey-talk him into allowing an Aenir team. But they flattered him so."

'You are disappointed?'

'Yes, I suppose I am. Do not misunderstand me, Deva. I love Father dearly, and I would give anything for him to be respected as he desires to be. But, like all men, he has limits, he makes mistakes.'

'Gaelen's waking up.'

'Yes, but he won't run today.'

'No, but you will, brother."

'Yes,' he answered, sighing. 'Yes, I will.'

The field was packed, the stalls deserted as three thousand clansmen thronged the start of the Mountain Race. The fifteen runners, dressed only in kilted loincloths and moccasins, were separated from the crowd by a lane of corded ropes staking the first two hundred paces, before the long climb into the timberline.

Agwaine eased his way through the athletes to stand beside the tall Borak. The man looked to neither right nor left, his eyes fixed ahead, ears tuned for the command to run.

As Games Lord it was Cambil's duty to start the race. Beside him stood Asbidag and Morgase, Maggrig, Laric and the other Hunt Lords of minor clans.