The Hawk Eternal (24 page)

He glanced back at the mountainside. It was clear. With no way of estimating the losses amongst the warriors, Maggrig bellowed, 'Pallides away!" The survivors turned instantly, sprinting for the mountainside. Screaming their triumph, the Aenir swept after them. Halfway to the trees, Maggrig glanced left and right. There were five hundred still with him.

'Cut! Cut! Cut!' he roared. At the sound of their battle-cry the Pallides swung about and flung themselves on the pursuing warriors. In their eagerness to overhaul their enemy, the Aenir had lost the close-compacted formation of the battle in the valley. The swiftest of them had outdistanced their comrades and they paid with their lives.

'Pallides away!' shouted Maggrig once more, and the clansmen turned, racing for the relative haven of the trees.

The Aenir surged after them. A leading warrior screamed suddenly, his fingers scrabbling at a black-shafted arrow that hammered into his throat. Another died, and another. The Aenir fell back as death hissed at them from the darkness of the woods.

Within minutes, Maggrig sent his men forward to catch up with the clan, then beckoned Intosh to join him. Together they eased their way through to the women archers hidden by the timberline.

'Well done, Adugga,' said Maggrig as a dark-haired woman rose up before him, bow in hand. 'It was good thinking.'

'It will not stop them for long. They'll outflank us.'

"We'll be long gone by the time they do. They may be fine warriors, but they'll not catch us.'

That may be true, Hunt Lord. But where will we go?' asked Adugga.

'To the Farlain.'

'You think we'll get a friendly welcome?' asked In tosh.

'Unless I am mistaken, the Aenir will be upon them before we arrive.'

'Then why go there?'

'My son Caswallon has a plan. We've spoken of it often, and at this moment it seems to be the best hope we have. We are making for Attafoss.'

Maggrig stepped forward, parted the bush screen and gazed down upon the burning valley. The Aenir were sitting on the hillside just out of bowshot. 'They're waiting for dawn,' said Maggrig, 'and that will not be long in coming. Let's away!'

In the first valley of the Farlain, Caswallon was awakened before dawn by a frenzied hammering at his door. He rolled from the bed and ran downstairs.

Outside was Taliesen. The old man, red-faced and wheezing, leaned on his oak staff. Catching his breath, he gripped Caswallon by the arm.

'The Aenir are upon us! We must move now."

Caswallon nodded and shouted for Maeg to dress Donal, then he helped the druid into the kitchen, seating him by the hearth. Leaving him there, Caswallon lifted his war-horn from its place on the wall and stepped into the yard.

Three times its eerie notes echoed through the valley. Then it was answered from a score of homes and the clarion call was taken up, at last reaching the crofts of the outer valleys. Men and women streamed from their homes towards the Games field, the men carrying bows, their swords strapped to their sides, the women ready with provision and blankets.

Caswallon opened the wooden chest that sat against the far wall of the kitchen. From it he took a mail-shirt and a short sword. Swiftly he pulled the mail-shirt over his tunic and strapped the sword to his side. Taking the war-horn, he tied its thong to his baldric and settled it in place.

'How long do we have, Taliesen?'

'Perhaps an hour. Perhaps less.'

Caswallon nodded. Maeg came downstairs carrying Donal, and

the four of the them left the house. Caswallon ran on ahead to where hundreds of mystified clansmen were gathering.

Leofas saw him and waved as Caswallon made his way to him. 'What is happening, Caswallon?'

'The Aenir are close. They've crossed the Farlain.'

'How do you know this?'

Taliesen. He's back there with Maeg.'

Caswallon helped the druid push through the crowd to make his way to the top of the small hill at the meadow known as Centre Field. The old man raised his arms for silence.

'The Aenir have tonight attacked the Haesten and the Pallides,' he said. 'Soon they will be here.'

'How do you know this, old man?' asked Cambil, striding up the hillside, his face crimson with anger. 'A dream perhaps? A druid's vision?'

'I know, Hunt Lord. That is enough.'

'Enough? Enough that you can tell us that two days' march away a battle is taking place. Are you mad?'

'I don't care how he knows,' said Caswallon. 'We have less than an hour to move our people into the mountains. Are we going to stand here talking all night?'

'It is sheer nonsense,' shouted Cambil, turning to the crowd. 'Why would the Aenir attack? Are we expected to believe this old man? Can any of us see here what is happening to the Pallides? And what if the Aenir have attacked them? That is Pallides business. I warned Maggrig not to be bull-headed in his dealings with Asbidag. Now enough of this foolishness, let's away to home and bed.'

'Wait!' shouted Caswallon, as men began to stir and move. 'If the druid is wrong, we will know by morning; all we will have lost is one night on a damp mountainside. If he is right, we cannot defend this valley. If Maggrig and Lark have been crushed as Taliesen says, then the Aenir must attack the Farlain.'

'I'm with you, Caswallon,' shouted Leofas.

'And I,' called Badraig. Others took up die shout, but not all.

Debates sprung up, arguments followed. In despair Caswallon once more sounded his war-horn. In the silence that followed he told them, There is no more time to talk. I am leaving now for the mountains. Those who wish to follow me, let them do so. To those who do not, let me say only that I pray you are right.'

Cambil had already begun the long walk back to his home and a score of others followed him. Caswallon led Maeg and Taliesen down from the hill and through the crowd. Behind him came Leofas, Layne, Lennox, Badraig and many more.

'Ah, well, what's a night on the mountains?' he heard someone say, and the following crowd swelled. He did not look back, but his heart was heavy as he reached the trees. Of the three thousand people in the first valley more than two thousand had followed him. Many of the rest still stood arguing in Centre Field; others were returning to their homes.

It was at that moment that a ring of blazing torches flared up on the eastern skyline.

Cambil, who was almost home, stopped and stared. The eastern mountainside was alive with armed men. His eyes scanned them. At the centre on a black horse sat a man in heavy armour and horned helm. Cambil recognised the Aenir lord and cursed him.

'May the gods preserve us,' whispered Agwaine, who had run to join his father.

Cambil turned to him. 'Get away from here. Now! Join Caswallon. Tell him I am sorry.'

'Not without you, Father.'

Cambil slapped his face viciously. 'Am I not Hunt Lord? Obey me. Look after your sister."

On the hill above Asbidag raised his arm and the Aenir charged, filling the night air with strident screams that pushed their hatred before them like an invisible wall. It struck Cambil to the heart and he blanched. 'Get away!' he yelled, pushing Agwaine from him.

Agwaine fell back a step. There were so many things he wanted to say. But his father had drawn his sword and was running into the valley towards the Aenir. Agwaine turned away and ran towards the west, tears filling his eyes.

In Centre Field hundreds of stragglers drew swords ready to charge to the aid of their beleaguered kin, but Caswallon's war-horn stopped them. 'You can do nothing for them!' he yelled in desperation. 'Join us!'

The valley beyond was filled with Aenir warriors. Fires sprang up in the nearby houses. The clansmen in the Centre Field were torn between their desire to aid their comrades and their need to protect their wives and children beside them. The more immediate love-tie took hold and the crowd surged up the hillside.

Cambil raced down the slope, sword in hand, blinking away the tears of shame filling his eyes. Memories forced their pictures to his mind - unkind, ugly pictures. Maggrig, calling him a fool at the Games. Taliesen's eyes radiating contempt. And, way back, the cruellest of all, his father Padris telling him he wasn't fit to clean Caswallon's cloak.

His feet pounded on the grass-covered slope. The Aenir force had swung ponderously round, like a giant horseshoe, to begin the encirclement of the defenders who waited, grim-faced, swords in hand.

Cambil increased his speed. Another hundred paces and he could die among the people he loved, the people he had betrayed with his stupidity. At least the enemy had not yet seen the exodus led by Caswallon.

Breathless and near to exhaustion, Cambil joined the circle, standing beside the councillor Tesk. 'I am so ... sorry,' said the Hunt Lord.

Tesk shrugged. "We all make mistakes, Cambil, my lad. But be warned - I might not vote for you again.' The older man gently pushed Cambil back into the circle. 'Get your breath back and join me in a little while.'

Grinning, Tesk shifted his shield into place, transferring his gaze to the screaming horde almost upon them. He could see their faces now, feel their bloodlust strike him like a malignant breeze.

The stars are out, Farlain!' he yelled. 'It's a fine night for dying.'

The Aenir broke upon them like waves upon a rock, and the slaughter began. But at first it was the flashing blades of the Farlain that ripped and tore at the enemy, and many were the screams of the Aenir wounded and dying as they fell beneath the boots of their comrades.

Cambil forced himself alongside Tesk and all fear left the Hunt Lord. Doubts fled, shredding like summer clouds. He was calm at last and the noise of the battle receded from him. A strange sense of detachment came upon him and he seemed to be watching himself cutting and slaying, and he heard the laughter from his own lips as if from a stranger.

All his life he had known the inner pain of uncertainty.

Inadequacy hugged him like a shadow. Now he was free. An axe clove his chest, but there was no pain. He killed the axeman, and two others, before his legs gave way and he fell. He rolled to his back, feeling the warmth of life draining from the wound.

He had finally succeeded, he knew that now. Without his sacrifice Caswallon would never have had the time to escape.

'I did something right, Father,' he whispered.

'Bowmen to me!' shouted Caswallon. Beside him the silver-haired warrior, Leofas, stood with his sons Layne and Lennox. 'Leofas, lead the clan towards Attafoss. Throw out a wide screen of scouts, for before long the Aenir will be hunting us. Go now!'

The clan began to move on into the trees, just as the sun cleared the eastern peaks. Many were the backward glances at the small knot of fighting men ringed by the enemy, and the eyes that saw them burned with guilt and shame.

Three hundred bowmen grouped themselves around Caswallon. Each bore two quivers containing forty shafts. They spread out along the timberline, screened by bushes, thick gorse and heather.

As the light strengthened Caswallon watched the last gallant struggle of the encircled clansmen. He could see Cambil in with them, battling bravely, and some of the women had taken up swords and daggers. And then it was over. The sword-ring fell apart and the Aenir swarmed over them, hacking and slashing, until at last there was no movement from the defenders.

Asbidag rode down the valley and removed his helm. He summoned his captains.

Caswallon could not hear the commands he issued, but he could guess, for the eyes of the Aenir turned west and the army took up its weapons and ran towards the mountainside.

'Do not shoot until I do,' he called to the hidden archers. Caswallon notched a shaft to die string as the Aenir spread out along the foot of the slope. They advanced cautiously, many of them lifting the face-guards of their helms the better to see the enemy. Caswallon grinned. He singled out a lean, wolfish warrior at the centre of the advancing line. At fifty paces he stood, in plain sight of the Aenir, and drew back on the string. The shaft hissed through the air, hammering home in the forehead of the lead warrior.

The Aenir charged ...

Into a black-shafted wall of death. Hundreds fell within a few paces, and the charge faltered and failed, the enemy warriors sprinting back out of bowshot.

Caswallon walked out into the open and sat down. Laying his bow beside him he opened his hip pouch, removing a hunk of dark bread. This he began to eat, staring down at the milling warriors.

Stung by the silent taunt of his presence, they charged once more. Calmly Caswallon replaced the bread in his pouch, notched an arrow to his bow, loosed the shaft, and grinned as it brought down a stocky warrior in full cry, the arrow jutting from his chest.

The Aenir raced headlong into a second storm of shafts that culled their ranks and halted them. Caswallon, still shooting carefully, eased his way back into the bushes, out of sight. The Aenir fled once more, leaving a mound of their dead behind them.

A young archer named Onic crept through the gorse to where Caswallon knelt. 'We've all but exhausted our shafts,' he whispered.

'Pass the word to fall back,' said Caswallon.