David Gemmell - Hawk Queen 2 - The Hawk Eternal

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David Gemmell

The Hawk Enternal

Second Book Of The Hawk Queen

Prologue

THE YOUNG PRIEST was sitting in the sunshine, studying an ancient manuscript. Slowly he ran his

index finger over the symbols upon it, mouthing each one. It was cold up here by these ancient

stones, but Garvis had wrapped himself in a hooded sheepskin cloak, and had found a niche in the

rocks away from the wind. He loved the solitude of these high, lonely peaks, and the distant roar

of the mighty Falls of Attafoss was a far-away whisper upon the wind. 'All the works of Man are as

dust upon a flat rock,' he read. 'When the winds of time blow across them they are lost to

history. Nothing built of stone will endure.' Garvis sat back. Surely this was nonsense? These

mountains had existed since the dawn of time and they would be here long after he was dead. He

glanced up at the .old stone circle. The symbols upon each standing stone had weathered almost to

nothing. Yet still they stood, exactly where the ancients had placed them a thousand years ago.

The sun was high now, but there was little warmth in the rays. Gaunt shadows stretched out from

the stones. Garvis pulled his cloak more tightly about him.

According to the Lord Taliesen, this was once one of the Great Gates. From here a man could travel

across time and space. Garvis rubbed a slender hand over his pockmarked face. Time and Space: the

legends fascinated him. He had asked Lord Taliesen about the Ancient Gates and had been rewarded

with extra study. The Lesser Gates still allowed a man to move through space. He himself had

travelled with Lord Taliesen from the mountains to the outskirts of Ateris - that was more than

sixty miles of space, but the journey had taken less than a heartbeat. According to Metas, the

Lesser Gates could carry a man all over the land. So why were the Great Gates special?

Garvis' attention was distracted momentarily, as his fingers found a ripe spot upon his chin. Idly

he squeezed it. It was not ready to burst, and pain flared across his face. Garvis gave a low

curse and rubbed at the wounded skin. A hawk landed on the tallest of the standing stones, then

flew away. Garvis watched it until it rose high on the thermals and was lost to him. 'I would like

to have been a hawk,' he said, aloud.

Lightning flashed across the stones, a blaze of brightness that caused Garvis to fall backwards

from the rock on which he sat. Rolling to his knees, he blinked and tried to focus. The stones

seemed darker now. Violet light blazed out, and pale blue lightning forked up from the tallest

stone. More lights flared, gossamer threads of light forming a glittering web around the stones.

It seemed to Garvis as if tiny stars were caught in a pale blue net, gleaming like diamonds. It

was the most beautiful sight. At the centre of the light storm one diamond grew larger and

brighter than all the others, swelling until it was the size of a boulder. Then it flattened,

spreading out like a sheet upon a wash-line, moving from circle to square, its four corners

fastening to the top and bottom of two standing stones. The wind increased, howling over the

crags, and for less than a heartbeat two suns hung in the sky.

All was silent as Garvis knelt, mouth open, shocked beyond words. Standing between the central

stones was a tall warrior in blood-stained armour. He was supporting a woman, also attired for

war; blood was flowing from a wound in her side. Garvis had never seen armour quite like that worn

by this fearsome pair. The man's helm was full-faced, and boasted a white horsehair plume. His

bronze breastplate had been fashioned in the shape of a human chest, complete with pectorals and a

rippling solar plexus. He wore a leather kilt reinforced with bronze, and high, thigh-length

riding boots. With a start Garvis realised that the warrior was looking at him. 'You!' he called.

'Help me.'

Garvis scrambled to his feet and ran forward as the man lowered the warrior woman to the ground.

Her face was grey, and blood had stained her silver hair. Garvis gazed down upon her. Old she was,

but once she had been beautiful.

'Where is Taliesen?' asked the warrior.

'Back at the Falls, sir.'

'We must take her to shelter. You understand, boy?"

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'Shelter. Yes.'

The woman stirred. Reaching up, she gripped the warrior's arm. 'You must go back. It is not over.

Leave me with the boy. I will... be fine.'

'I shall not leave you, my Lady. I have served you these thirty years. I cannot go now.' Reaching

up, he made to remove his helm.

'Leave it,' she said, her voice ringing with authority. 'Listen to me, my dear friend. You must go

back, or all may be lost. You are my heir; you are the son I never had; you are the light in my

life. Go back. Set a lantern for me in the window.'

'We should have killed the bitch all those years ago,' he said bitterly. 'She was warped beyond

evil.'

'No regrets, my general. Not ever. We win, we lose. The mountains do not care. Go now, for I can

feel the air of the Enchanted Realm healing my wounds even as we speak. Go!'

Taking her hand, he kissed it. Rising, he gazed around at the mountains. With a sigh he drew his

sword and ran back to the stones. Lightning flickered once more. Then he was gone.

Garvis ran into Taliesen's chambers, his face flushed, eyes wide with excitement. 'A warrior woman

has appeared by the Ancient Gate," he said. 'She is wounded, and nigh to death.'

The old man rose and gathered up his cloak of feathers. The Ancient Gate, you say?'

'Yes, Lord Taliesen.'

'Where have you taken her?'

'I helped her to the supply cave on High Druin. It was the closest shelter I could find. Metas was

there and he has stitched her wounds, but I fear there is internal bleeding.'

Taliesen took a deep breath. 'Has she spoken of herself?'

'Not a word, Lord. Metas is still with her.'

'That is as it should be. Go now and rest. Make sure that not one word is spoken of this - not

even to a brother druid. You understand me?'

'Of course, Lord.'

'Be sure that you do, for if I hear any whisper of it I shall turn your bones to stone, your blood

to dust.'

Taliesen swung the cloak of feathers about his skinny shoulders and strode from his rooms.

Two hours later, having activated one of the Lesser Gates, he was climbing the eastern face of

High Druin and feeling the bitter wind biting through his cloak. The cave was deep, and stacked

with supplies to help wandering clansmen through the worst of the winter - sacks of dried oats and

dried fruit, salt and sugar, salted meat and even a barrel of smoked fish. It was a haven for

crofters and other travellers who needed to tackle the high passes in the winter months. There was

a man-made hearth in the far corner, and two pallet beds; also a bench table, rudely fashioned

from a split log, and two log rounds which served as seats.

The druid Metas was seated upon one of the rounds, which he had placed beside a pallet bed. Upon

it lay an old woman, bandages encasing her chest and shoulder. As Taliesen approached the bed,

Metas rose and bowed. Talisen praised him for his skill in administering to the woman, then

repeated the warning he had given to the young druid when in his chambers.

'All will be as you order, Lord,' said Metas, bowing once more. Taliesen sent him back to Vallon

and seated himself beside the sleeping woman.

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Even now, so close to death, her face radiated strength of purpose. 'You were a queen without

peer, Sigarni,' whispered Taliesen, taking hold of her hand and squeezing the fingers. 'But are

you the one who will save my people?'

Her eyes opened. They were the grey of a winter sky, and the look she gave him was piercing.

'Again we meet,' she whispered, with a smile. The smile changed her face, returning to it the

memory of youth and beauty he recalled so well. 'I fought the last battle, Taliesen ...' He held

up his hand.

'Tell me nothing,' he said. 'Already the strands of time are so interwoven that I find it hard to

know when - or where - I am. I would dearly love to know how the Ancient Gate was opened, but I

dare not ask. I will only assume that I did it. For now you must rest, and regain your strength.

Then we will talk."

'I am so tired,' she said. 'Forty years of war and loss, victory and pain. So tired. And yet it is

good to be back in the Enchanted Realm.'

'Say nothing more,' he urged her. 'We stand at a delicate place on the cross-roads of time. Let me

say only this. Two days ago you urged me to hunt down Caracis, and return to you the sword,

Skallivar. You remember asking me this?'

She closed her eyes. 'I remember. It was almost thirty years ago. And you did.'

'Yes,' he said, his gaze drawn to the fabled sword that stood now against the far wall beside the

fire.

'You sent the goddess walking on the water of the pool below the Falls. All my generals saw the

miracle, and when word spread of it men came flocking to my banner. I owe you much for that,

Taliesen.' Her words faded away, and she fell into a deep sleep.

Taliesen stood and walked to the sword, his thin fingers stroking the ruby pommel. He sighed and

moved back into the sunlight. 'The goddess upon the water,' he repeated. What did she mean?

Taliesen had spent the last two days desperately trying to think of a way to achieve what the

Queen told him he already had!

And he remembered the words of his master, Astole, many centuries before. 'Treat the Gates with

respect, Taliesen, lest you lose your mind. They are not merely doorways through time. You must

understand that!'

Oh, how he understood! He glanced back at the sleeping Queen. How many times had he seen her die?

Thirty? Fifty? Again the words of Astole drifted back to haunt him.

'Hold always to a Line, my boy. A single thread. Never move between the threads, for that way lies

madness and despair. For every moment that the past can conjure gives birth to an infinity of

futures. Cross them at your peril."

The sun was hot upon Taliesen's face, though the wind remained cool. 'I crossed them, Astole,' he

said, 'and now I am trapped in a future I cannot unravel. Why is she here? How was the Gate

opened? How was it that I returned her sword? Help me, Astole, for I am lost, and my people face

annihilation.'

No answer came, and with a heavy heart Taliesen returned to the cave.

CASWALLON WATCHED THE murderous assault on Ateris, a strange sense of unreality gripping him. The

clansman sat down on a boulder and gazed from the mountainside at the gleaming city below, white

and glorious, like a child's castle set on a carpet of green.

The enemy had surprised the city dwellers some three hours before, and black smoke billowed now

from the turrets and homes. The distant sound of screaming floated to his ears, disembodied, like

the echo of a nightmare upon awakening.

The clansman's sea-green eyes narrowed as he watched the enemy hacking and slaying. He shook his

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head, sadness and anger competing within him. He had no love for these doomed lowlanders and their

duplicitous ways. But, equally, this wanton slaughter filled him with sorrow.

The enemy warriors were new to Caswallon. Never had he seen the horned helms of the Aenir, the

double-headed axes, nor the oval shields painted with hideous faces of crimson and black. He had

heard of them, of course, butchering and killing far to the south, but of their war against the

lowlanders he knew little until now.

But then, why should he? He was a clansman of the Farlain, and they had little time for lowland

politics. His was a mountain race, tough and hardy and more than solitary. The mountains were

forbidden ground for any lowlander and the clans mixed not at all with other races.

Save for trade. Clan beef and woven cloth for lowland sugar, fruits and iron.

In the distance Caswallon saw a young girl speared and lifted into the air, thrashing and

screaming. This is war no longer, he thought, this is merely blood sport.

Tearing his gaze from the murderous scene he glanced back at the

mountains rearing like spearpoints towards the sky, snow-capped and proud, jagged and powerful. At

their centre the cloud-wreathed magnificence of High Druin towered above the land. Caswallon

shivered, drawing his brown leather cloak about his shoulders. It was said that the clans were

vicious and hostile to outsiders, and so they were. Any lowlander found hunting clan lands was

sent home minus the fingers of his right hand. But such punishments were intended to deter

poachers. The scenes of carnage on the plain below had nothing to do with such practices; this was

lust of the most vile kind.

The clansman looked back at the city. Old men in white robes were being nailed to the black gates.

Even at this distance Caswallon recognised Bacheron, the chief elder, a man of little honesty.

Even so, he did not deserve such a death.

By all the gods, no one deserved such a death!

On the plain three horsemen rode into sight, the leader pulling a young boy who was tied to a rope

behind his mount. Caswallon recognised the boy as Gaelen, a thief and an orphan who lived on

scraps and stolen fruit. The clansman's fingers curled around the hilt of his hunting dagger as he

watched the boy straining at the rope.

The lead rider, a man in shining breastplate and raven-winged helm, cut the rope and the boy began

to run towards the mountains. The riders set off after him, lances levelled.

Caswallon took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The flame-haired boy ducked and weaved,

stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it at the nearest horse. The beast shied, pitching its rider.

'Good for you, Gaelen,' whispered Caswallon.

A rider in a white cloak wheeled his mount, cutting across the boy's path. The youngster turned to

sprint away and the lance took him deep in the back, lifting him from his feet and hurling him to

the ground. He struggled to rise and a second rider ended his torment, slashing a sword-blade to

his face. The riders cantered back to the city.

Caswallon found his hands shaking uncontrollably, and his heart pounded, reflecting his anger and

shame.

How could men do such a thing to a youth?

Caswallon recalled his last visit to Ateris three weeks before, when he had driven in twenty long-

horned highland cattle to the market stalls in the west of the city. He had stolen the beasts from

the pastures of the Pallides two days before. At the market he had seen a crowd chasing the red-

haired youngster as he sprinted through the streets, his skinny legs pounding the marble walkway,

his arms pumping furiously.

Gaelen had shinned up a trellis by the side of the inn and leapt across the rooftops, stopping

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only to make an obscene gesture to his pursuers. Spotting Caswallon watching, he drew back his

shoulders and swaggered across the rooftops. Caswallon had grinned then. He liked the boy; he had

style.

The fat butcher Leon had chuckled beside him. 'He's a character, is Gaelen. Every city needs one.'

'Parents?' asked Caswallon.

'Dead. He's been alone five years - since he was nine or ten.'

'How does he survive?'

'He steals. I let him get away with a chicken now and then. He sneaks up on me and I chase him for

a while, shouting curses.'

'You like him, Leon?'

'Yes. As I like you, Caswallon, you rascal. But then he reminds me of you. You are both thieves

and you are both good at what you do -and there is no evil in either of you.'

'Nice of you to say so,' said Caswallon, grinning. 'Now, how much for the Pallides cattle?'

'Why do you do it?'

'What?' asked Caswallon innocently.

'Steal cattle. By all accounts you are one of the richest clansmen in the Farlain. It doesn't make

any sense.'

'Tradition,' answered Caswallon. 'I'm a great beliver in it."

Leon shook his head. 'One of these days you'll be caught and hanged - or worse, knowing the

Pallides. You baffle me.'

'No, I don't. I make you rich. Yours is the cheapest beef in Ateris.'

True. How is the lovely Maeg?"

'She's well.'

'And Donal?'

'Lungs like bellows.'

'Keeping you awake at nights, is he?'

'When I'm not out hunting,' said Caswallon with a wink.

Leon chuckled. 'I'm going to be sorry when they catch you, clansman. Truly.'

For an hour they haggled over the prices until Leon parted with a

small pouch of gold, which Caswallon handed to his man Arcis, a taciturn clan crofter who

accompanied him on his raids.

Now Caswallon stood on the mountainside soaking in the horror of Aenir warfare. Arcis moved

alongside him. Both men had heard tales of war in the south and the awful atrocities committed by

the Aenir. Foremost among these was the blood-eagle: Aenir victims were nailed to trees, their

ribs splayed like tiny wings, their innards held in place with wooden strips.

Caswallon had only half-believed these tales. Now the evidence hung on the blood-drenched gates,

of Ateris.

'Go back to the valley, my friend,' Caswallon told Arcis.

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