The Hawk Eternal (23 page)

Now he faced the Aenir and his gaze remained cool and steady. Orsa nodded once and turned away.

With two events each, the Whorl Championship would be decided in the open wrestling, a cultured euphemism for a fight where the only rule was that there were no rules. It was held in a rope circle six paces in diameter, and the first to be thrown from the ring was the loser. As they prepared, Caswallon approached Lennox and

whispered in his ear. The huge clansman nodded, then stepped into the circle.

Orsa stepped in to join him and the two men shook hands, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Then they backed away and began to circle, hands extended.

Suddenly Lennox stepped inside and lightly slapped Orsa's face. Expecting a punch, the Aenir ducked and stepped back. Lennox flicked his hand out again, this time slapping Orsa's arm. Someone in the crowd began to laugh and others joined in. Lennox dummied a right, then slapped Orsa once more, this time with his left hand. The laughter swelled.

Orsa's blue eyes glittered strangely and he began to tremble. With a piercing scream he charged his tormentor. No more did he seek merely to throw him from the circle. Now only death would avenge the insult.

Orsa was once again a Baresark!

Lennox met the charge head-on, swivelling to thunder a right hook to Orsa's bearded chin. The Aenir shrugged off the blow and charged again. This time Lennox hit him with both hands, but a wildly swinging punch from Orsa exploded against his ear. Lennox staggered. A left-hand punch broke Lennox's nose, blood spattering to his chin. Warding off the attack with a desperate push, the clansman moved back to the edge of the circle. Orsa charged once more, screaming an Aenir battle-cry. At the last moment Lennox dropped to his knees, then surged upright as Orsa loomed over him. The speed of the rush carried Orsa on, flying headlong over his opponent to crash into the crowd beyond the circle.

The fight was over and Lennox had won. But Orsa in his berserk rage knew nothing of tournaments and petty victories. Hurling aside the men who helped him to his feet, he leaped back into the circle where Lennox was standing with arms raised in triumph.

'Look out!' shouted Gaelen and a score of others.

Lennox swung round. Orsa's massive hand encircled the clansman's throat. Instinctively Lennox tensed the muscles of his neck against the crushing strength of the man's fingers. His own hands clamped down on Orsa's throat, blocking his demonic snarling.

The crowd fell silent as the two men strained and swayed in the centre of the circle.

Then the tall red-caped figure of Drada appeared, pushing

through the mass. In his right hand he carried a wooden club which he hammered to the back of his brother's skull. Orsa's eyes glazed and his grip loosened. Drada hit him once more and he fell. Lennox stepped back, rubbing his bruised throat.

Orsa staggered to his feet, turning to his brother. 'Sorry,' he said, and shrugged. He walked to Lennox, gripping his hand. 'Good contest,' he said. 'You're strong.'

'I don't think any man will ever carry the Whorl Stone as far as you did,' Lennox told him.

'Maybe so. Why did you slap me?' The question was asked so simply and directly that Lennox laughed nervously, unable at first to marshal his thoughts. But Orsa waited patiently, no sign of emotion on his broad face.

'I did it to make you angry, so you would lose control.'

'Thought so. Beat myself - that's not good.' Still nodding, he walked away. Lennox watched him, puzzled, then the crowd swamped him, slapping his back and leading him on to the Hunt Lord's platform to receive the congratulations of the Games Lord.

As the crowd moved away, Drada approached Caswallon. 'It was your advice, was it not, to make my brother baresark?'

'Yes.'

'You are proving to be troublesome, Caswallon.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'No sensible man should be glad to make an enemy.'

'I haven't made an enemy, Drada. I've recognised one. There is a difference.'

The Whorl Dance had begun around a dozen blazing fires, and the eligible maidens of the Farlain chose dancing companions from the waiting ranks of clansmen. There was music from the pipes, harsh and powerful; from the flute, wistful and melodic; and from the harp, enchanting and fey. It was mountain music, and stronger than wine upon the senses of the men and women of the clans.

Deva danced with Layne, the Spear Champion, while Gaelen sat alone, fighting a losing battle against self-pity. His leg ached and he eased it forward under the table, rubbing at the swollen thigh.

Gwalchmai found him there just before midnight. The young archer was dressed in his finest clothes, a cloak of soft brown leather over a green embroiderd tunic. 'No one should be alone on Whorl Night,' said Gwal, easing in to sit opposite his comrade.

'I was just waiting for a girl with a swollen left leg, then we could hobble away together,' said Gaelen, pouring more mead wine into his goblet.

'I have two legs, but have not found a partner,' said Gwal, helping himself to Gaelen's wine.

'Come now, Gwal, there must be five hundred maidens here.'

'They are not what I want,' said Gwalchmai sadly. Gaelen glanced at his friend. Gwal's hair was flame-red in the firelight, his face no longer boyish but lean and handsome.

'So what do you want... a princess?'

Gwalchmai shrugged. 'That is hard to answer, Gaelen. But I know I shall never wed.'

Gaelen said nothing. He had known for some time, as had Layne and Lennox, that Gwalchmai had no interest in the young maidens of the Farlain. The boys did not understand it, but only Gaelen suspected the truth. In Ateris he had seen many who shared Gwalchmai's secret longings. 'You know what I am, don't you?' said Gwalchmai, suddenly.

'I know,' Gaelen told him. 'You are Gwalchmai, one of the Beast Slayers. You are a clansman, and I am proud to have you for my friend.'

'Then you don't think ... ?'

'I have told you what I think, cousin,' said Gaelen, reaching forward to grip Gwalchmai's shoulder.

True enough. Thank you, my friend.' Gwalchmai sighed - and changed the subject. 'Where is Caswallon?'

'Escorting the Aenir back to Aesgard.'

'I am not sorry to see them go,' said Gwal.

'No. Did you hear about Borak?'

The runner? What about him?'

'He was found this evening hanging from a tree on the west hill.'

'He killed himself?'

'It seems so,' said Gaelen.

'They're a strange people, these Aenir. I hope they don't come back next year.'

'I think they will, but not for the Games,' said Gaelen.

'You're not another of those war-bores?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'What could they gain? There are no riches in Druin.'

'War is a prize in itself for the Aenir. They live for it.'

Gwalchmai leaned forward on his elbows, shaking his head. 'What a night! First I lose in the archery, then I get maudlin, and now I'm sitting with a man who prophesies war and death.'

Gaelen chuckled. 'You were unlucky in the tourney. The wind died as the Aenir took his mark, and it gave him an edge.'

'A thousand blessings on you for noticing,' said Gwal, grinning. 'Have you ever been drunk?"

'No.'

'Well, it seems the only enjoyment left to us."

'I agree. Fetch another jug.'

Within an hour their raucous songs had attracted a small following. Lennox and Agwaine joined them, bringing fresh supplies, then Layne arrived with Deva.

The drink ran out just before dawn and the party moved to sit beside a dying fire. The songs faded away, the laughter eased, and the talk switched to the Games and the possible aftermath. Deva fell asleep against Layne; he settled her to the ground, covering her with his cloak.

Gaelen watched him gently tuck the garment around her and his heart ached. He looked away, trying to focus on the conversation once more. But he could not. His gaze swept up over the mountains, along the reddening skyline. Caswallon had told him his theory of the Aenir plan to demoralise the clans. The scale of their error was enormous. By the end they achieved only the opposite. Men of every clan had cheered Agwaine and Lennox against a common enemy; they had united the clans in a way no one had in a hundred years.

He heard someone mention his name and dragged his mind back to the present.

'I'm sorry you missed the race,' said Agwaine.

'Don't be. You were magnificent.'

'Caswallon advised me.'

'It was obviously good advice.'

'Yes. I'm sorry he and my father are not friends.'

'And you?'

"What about me?'

'How do you feel now... about Caswallon, I mean?'

'I am grateful. But I am my father's son."

'I understand."

'I hope that you do, cousin.' Their eyes met and Agwaine held out his hand. Gaelen took it.

'Now this is good to see,' said Lennox, leaning forward to lay his hand upon theirs. Layne and Gwalchmai followed suit.

'We are all Farlain,' said Layne solemnly. 'Brothers of the spirit. Let it long remain so.'

'The Five Beast Slayers,' said Agwaine, grinning. 'It is fitting we should be friends.'

Deva opened her eyes and saw the five young men sitting silently together. The sun cleared the mountains, bathing them in golden light. She blinked and sat up. Just for a moment she seemed to see a sixth figure standing beyond them - tall, she was, and beautiful, silver-haired and strong. By her side hung a mighty sword and upon her head was a crown of gold. Deva shivered and blinked again. The Queen was gone.

GAELEN STOOD ON the lip of a precipice looking down on Vallon from the north, listening to the faint sounds of the falls echoing up through the mountains. Spring had finally arrived after yet another bitter winter, and Gaelen had been anxious to leave the valley to stretch his legs and open his heart to the music of the mountains. He had grown during the winter, and constant work with axe and saw had added weight to his arms and shoulders. His hair was long, hanging to his shoulders, and held back from his eyes by a black leather circle around his brow. Kareen - before her marriage to the west valley crofter, Durk - had made it for him, as well as a tunic of softest leather, polished to a sheen, and calf-length moccasin boots from the same hide. His winter cape was a gift from Caswallon, a heavy sheepskin that doubled as a blanket. During the cold winter months he had allowed his beard to grow, shutting his ears to jibes about goose-down from Maeg and Kareen. It had taken long enough but now, as he stood on the mountainside in the early morning sunshine, it gave him that which he desired above all else -the look of manhood.

Gone was the frightened, wounded boy brought home by Caswallon two years before. In his place stood a man, tall and strong, hardened by toil, strengthened by experience. The only reminders left of the hunted boy were the blood-filled left eye, and the white streak in his hair above the jagged scar on his forehead and cheek.

The black and grey war hound by his side growled and rubbed against him. Gaelen dropped his hand to pat its massive head. 'You don't like these high places, do you, boy?' said Gaelen, squatting beside the animal. It lifted its head, licking his face until he pushed it away laughing.

"We've changed, you and I,' he said, holding the dog at bay. It had the wide jaws of its dam and the heavy shoulders of its breed, but added to this it also had the rangy power of the wolf that had sired it.

The wolf in it had caused problems with training, and both Caswallon and Gaelen had despaired at times. But slowly it had come round to their patient handling, until at last Gaelen had walked it unleashed among a flock of sheep. He told it to sit, and it obeyed him. But its eyes lingered over the fat, slow ewes and its jaws salivated. After a while it had hunkered down on its haunches and closed its eyes, unable to bear such mouth-watering sights any longer.

Under Caswallon's guidance, Gaelen taught the hound to obey increasingly complex instructions, beginning with simple commands such as 'sit', 'heel' and 'stay'. After that it was taught to wait in silence if Gaelen lifted his hand palm outward. Finally Caswallon built a dummy of wood and straw, dressed it in old clothes, and the hound was taught to attack it on Gaelen's command of 'kill'. This training was further refined with the call, 'hold,' at which command the dog would lunge for the dummy's arm.

Painstakingly they honed the dog's skills. Once it attacked, only one call would stop it: Home. Any other call, even from Gaelen, would be ignored.

'This,' said Caswallon, 'is your safeguard. For a dog is a creature of instinct. You may order it to attack, but another voice may call it back. “Home” should remain a secret command. Share it not even with your friends.'

Gaelen called the beast Render. The hound's nature was good, especially with Caswallon's son Donal, now a blond toddler who followed Render - or Wenna, as he called it - about the house, pulling its ears and struggling to climb on its back. Attempts to stop him would be followed by floods of tears and the difficult-to-answer assertion, 'Wenna like it!'

Maeg was hard to convince that Render was a worthy addition to the household, but one afternoon in late winter it won her over. Kareen had ventured into the yard to fetch wood for the fire, but had not secured the kitchen door on her return. Donal had sneaked out to play in the snow, an adventure of rare magic.

He was gone for more than half an hour before his absence was noted. Maeg was beside herself. Caswallon and Gaelen were at the Long Hall where Caswallon was being elected to the Council in

place of an elderly clansman who had collapsed and died soon after the Games. Maeg wrapped a woollen shawl about her shoulders and stepped out into the storm. Within minutes it had grown dark and as she called Donal's name the wind whipped her words from her mouth. His track had been covered by fresh snow.

Kareen joined her. 'He'll die in this,' yelled Maeg.

Render padded from the house. Seeing the hound, Maeg ran to it and knelt by its side.

'Donal!' she shouted, pushing the dog and pointing out past the yard. Render tilted his head and licked her face. 'Fetch!' she shouted. Render looked around. There was nothing to fetch. 'Donal! Fetch Donal!' Render looked back towards the house and the open door that led to the warm hearth. The hound didn't know what the women were doing out in the cold. Then its ears came up as a wolf howled in the distance. Another sound came, thin and piping. Recognising instantly the pup-child of Caswallon, Render padded off into the snow.

Maeg's hands and feet were freezing, but she had no idea if the dog had understood her and she had not heard the faint cry, so she continued to search, terror growing within her and panic welling in her mind.

Render loped away into a small hollow hidden from the house. Here it found the toddler who had slipped and rolled down on to a patch of ice and was unable to get up. Beyond him sat two wolves, tongues lolling.

Render padded towards the boy, growling deep in his throat. The wolves stood, then backed away as the warhound advanced. Canny killers were the grey wolves, but they knew a better killer when they saw him.

'I cold, Wenna,' said Donal, sniffing. 'I cold.'

Render stopped by the boy, watching the wolves carefully.

They backed away still further, and, satisfied, Render nuzzled Donal, but die boy could not stand on the ice. Render ducked his head, taking the boy's woollen tunic in his teeth. Donal was lifted clear of the ice and the huge dog bounded up the slope and back towards the house.

Maeg saw them and waded through the snow towards them, but Render loped past her and into the kitchen. He was cold and missed the fire. When Maeg and Kareen arrived Donal and Render were sitting before the hearth. Maeg swept Donal into her arms.

'Wolfs, mama. Wenna scare "em away.'

Maeg shuddered. Wolves! And her child had been alone. She sat down hurriedly.

Neither of the women told Caswallon of the adventure, but he knew something was amiss when Maeg explained she had given his own cold meat supper to the hound.

Caswallon's activities during the summer and winter puzzled many of the clansmen. He drove no cattle to Aesgard, nor delivered grain and oats. The fruit of his orchards disappeared, and no man knew where, though the carts were driven into the mountains by trusted workers. There, it was said, they were delivered to the druids.

In the meantime, Caswallon gathered round him more than a hundred clansmen, and several of these he paid to scout around Aesgard and report on Aenir movement.

Cambil had been furious, accusing Caswallon of amassing a private army. 'Can you not understand, Caswallon, that such deeds make war more likely?' said the Hunt Lord. 'You think me foolish for trying to forge friendships among the Aenir, I know that. As I know they are a warlike people, harsh and cruel. But as Hunt Lord I must consider the long-term well-being of my people. We could not win a war with the Aenir; they would swamp us. What I have tried -and will continue to try - to do is to make Asbidag aware of the futility of war in the highlands. We have no gold, no iron. There are no riches here. This he understands. What is more important is that he must feel no threat from us. It is in the Aenir nature to see enemies all around. If we can make them our friends, there will be no war.'

Caswallon listened in silence until Cambil had finished speaking. 'Under different circumstances I would agree with every word, cousin,' he said at last. 'War is the last beast an intelligent man would let loose. Where I think you are wrong is in believing that the Aenir see war as a means to an end. For them it is the end in itself. They live to fight, they lust for slaughter and blood. Even their religion is based on the glory of combat. They believe that only if they die in battle will their souls be blessed with an eternity of pleasure. Now that their war with the lowlanders is over where else can they turn for war, save with us? I respect you, cousin - and I mean that truly. You have acted with honour. Yet now is die time to open your eyes and see that your efforts have been in vain. The Aenir are massing troops on the southern borders.'

Cambil shook his head. 'Asbidag assures me that the troops are being gathered in order for the majority of them to be disbanded and offered land to farm, as a reward for loyal service. You are wrong, Caswallon. And the wisdom of my course will be appreciated in the years to come.'

Despite Cambil's assurances Caswallon advised the Council to marshal a militia against a spring invasion. They refused, agreeing with the Hunt Lord that there were no indications the Aenir nursed any hostile intent towards the clan. The feeling was not unanimous. Badraig and Leofas supported Caswallon openly. Beric, a tall balding warrior from the northern valley, voted with them, but said nothing.

'You have a hundred men, Caswallon,' said Leofas as the four met after the spring banquet. 'I can muster eighty crofters. Badraig and Beric the same between them. When the Aenir come it will be like a sudden storm. Three hundred men will not stop them.'

'Let us be honest,' said Badraig. 'The Farlain united could not stop them. If every man took up his sword and bow we would have ... what?... five thousand. Against a force five times as great.' Badraig had changed since the beast killed his son. His hair was grey and he had lost weight, growing haggard and lean.

'That is true,' agreed Caswallon, 'but we can wear them down. We'll fight no pitched battles; we'll harry them, cutting and running. Soon they'll tire and return to Aesgard.'

'That will depend on why they're here,' said Beric. 'If they take the valleys we'll have no way to support ourselves. We'll die in the mountains, come winter.'

'Not necessarily,' said Caswallon. 'But that debate can wait for a better time. What worries me is not the long-drawn-out campaign, but the first strike. If they hit the valleys unawares, the slaughter will be horrific.'

There is not a day we do not have a scout watching them,' said Leofas. 'We should get at least an hour's warning.'

Six hours' march to the east, the crofter Arcis breathed his last. His arms had been nailed to the broad trunk of an oak and his ribs had been opened, splaying out from his body like tiny tattered wings.

The blood-eagle had arrived in the Farlain.

One Aenir army burst upon the villages and crofts of the Haesten, bringing fire and death into the darkest part of the night. Homes blazed and swords ran with blood. The Aenir swept into the valley of Laric, hacking and slaying, burning and looting. The Haesten had not time to group a defence, and the survivors streamed into the mountains, broken and panic-stricken.

A Pallides hunter, camped on the hillside inside Haesten territory, watched stunned as the Aenir charged into the valley. As if in a dream he saw the warriors in the garish armour and winged helms race down to the homes of the Haesten, thrusting burning brands through open windows. And he viewed with growing horror the massacre of the clan. He saw women dragged forth, raped and then murdered; he saw babies speared; he saw small pockets of Haesten resistance swallowed up in rings of steel.

Then he rose and began to run, stumbling over tree roots and rocks in the darkness.

He reached the grey house of Maggrig two hours before dawn. Within minutes the war-horn of the Pallides sounded. Women and children hastily packed clothing and food and were led into the mountains. Thinking there was only one Aenir army, Maggrig miscalculated, and the evacuation was still under way as a second Aenir force, led by Ongist, fell upon them.

Maggrig had eight hundred warriors at his back, with messengers sent for perhaps five hundred more. As he stood on the hillside, watching the Aenir pour into the valley, he reckoned their numbers were in excess of five thousand. Beside him the grim-eyed swordsman Intosh, the Games Champion, cursed and spat. The two men exchanged glances. Whatever decision they made now would lead to tragedy.

The enemy were sweeping down towards the last file of women and children. If Maggrig did nothing they would die. If the Pallides counter-charged they would be cut to pieces. In his heart Maggrig knew it was sensible to leave the stragglers and fight a defensive retreat, protecting the majority.

But he was Clan, and these stragglers were his people.

He lifted his sword, shifted his shield into place and began to run down the hillside towards the Aenir. Eight hundred Pallides warriors followed him without hesitation. Seeing them come, the Aenir turned from the line of women and children. Their deaths would come later.

The two forces collided. Swords clashed against iron shields, against close-set mail rings, against soft flesh and brittle bones. The clansmen wore little or no armour and yet the speed and ferocity of their assault made up for it. Intosh, fighting with two swords and no shield, cut a bloody swathe through the Aenir, while Maggrig's power and cunning sword-craft protected his right flank.

For some minutes the clan held, but then the weight of the Aenir pushed them back. Maggrig parried a wild cut from an axe-wielding warrior, countering with a swift thrust to the belly.