The Hawk Eternal (25 page)

In the valley Asbidag walked among the bodies, stopping to stare down at Cambil's mutilated corpse. 'Remove the head and set it on a spear by his house,' he told his son Tostig. The Aenir lord unbuckled his breastplate, handing it to a grim-faced warrior beside him. Then he looked around him, eyes raking the timber and the gaunt snow-covered peaks in the distance.

'I like this place,' he said. 'It has a good feeling to it.'

'But most of the Farlain escaped, Father,' said Tostig.

'Escaped? To where? All that's out there is wilderness. By tonight Drada will be here, having finished off the Haesten. Ongist will be harrying the Pallides, driving the survivors west into our arms. Once they are destroyed we will take our men into the wilderness and finish the task - that's if Barsa doesn't do it before we arrive.'

'Barsa?'

'He is already in the west with two thousand forest-trained warriors from the south. They call themselves Timber-Wolves, and by Vatan they're a match for any motley rag-bag of stinking clansmen.'

'We took no women,' complained Tostig. 'Most of the young ones killed themselves. Bitches!'

'Drada will bring women. Do not fret.'

Asbidag began to move among the bodies once more, turning over the women and the young girls. Finally he stood up and walked towards the house of Cambil.

'Who are you seeking?' asked Tostig, walking beside him.

'Gambit's daughter. Hair like gold, and a spirited girl. Unspoiled. I didn't like the way she looked at me. And I told you to set Gambit's head on a spear!'

Tostig blanched and fell back. 'At once, Father,' he stammered, running back to the bodies and drawing his sword.

Durk of the Farlain was known as a morose, solitary man. He had no friends and had chosen to spend his life in the high country west of the valley, where he built a small house of timber and grey stone and settled down to a life of expected loneliness. Durk had always been a loner, and even as a child had kept himself apart from his fellows. It was not, he knew, that he disliked people, more that he was not good with words. He had never learned how to engage in light conversation. Crowds unnerved him, always had, and he avoided the dance and the feasts. Girls found him surly and uncommunicative, men thought him stand-offish and aloof. Year by year the young clansman felt himself to be more and more remote from his fellows. Durk found this hurtful, but knew that the blame lay within his own shy heart.

But that first winter alone had almost starved him out until his neighbour Onic introduced him to Caswallon's night raids on bordering territories.

In the beginning Durk had disliked Caswallon. It was easy to see why: they were night and day, winter and summer. Where Caswallon smiled easily and joked often, Durk remained sullen with strangers and merely silent with companions.

Yet, for his part, Caswallon seemed to enjoy Durk's company and little by little his easy-going, friendly nature wore away the crofter's tough shell.

Through Caswallon Durk met Kareen, the gentle child of the house and, in spite of himself, had fallen in love with her. In the most incredible slice of good fortune ever to befall the dark-bearded Highlander, Kareen had agreed to marry him.

She transformed his dingy house into a comfortable home and made his joy complete by falling pregnant in the first month of their marriage. With her Durk learned to laugh at his own failings, and his shyness retreated. At their marriage he even danced with several of Kareen's friends. Laughter and joy covered him, drawing him back into the bosom of the clan, filling the empty places in his heart.

Four days ago, in her eighth month, Kareen had returned to the valley to have the babe in the home of Larcia, wife of the councillor Tesk and midwife to the Farlain.

But last night Durk had heard the war-horns blaring and he had set out for the valley, filled with apprehension. In the first light of dawn he had met the column of fleeing clansmen.

Tesk was not amongst them.

Caswallon had run forward to meet him, leading him away from the column. There Durk heard the news that clove his heart like an axe-blade. Tesk had died with Cambil and almost eight hundred others. With them was Kareen. Caswallen had seen her in the circle at the last, a hunting-knife in her hand, as the Aenir swept over them.

Durk did not ask why the rest of the clan had not raced back to die with them, although he dearly desired to. 

'Come with us,' said Caswallon.

'I don't think that I will, my friend,' Durk replied.

Caswallon bowed his head, his green eyes sorrowful. 'Do what you must, Durk. The gods go with you.'

'And with you, Caswallon. You are the leader at last.'

'I didn't want it."

'No, but you are suited to it. You always were."

Now Durk stood at the timberline, gazing down into the valley, past the gutted homes and the Aenir tents, and on to the mounds of bodies in the centre of the field.

He left the trees and began the long walk to his wife.

Two Aenir warriors watched him come. They stood, discarding their food, and moved to intercept him. He was walking so casually, as if on a morning stroll. Could he be a messenger, seeking peace? Or one of Barsa's Timber-Wolves, dressed like a clansman.

'You there!' called the first, holding up his hand. 'Wait!'

The hand vanished in a crimson spray as Durk's sword flashed through the air. The return cut clove the man's neck. As he crumpled to the grass the second drew his sword and leaped forward. Durk ducked under a whistling sweep to gut the man.

He walked on. Kareen had been no beauty but her eyes were soft and gentle, and her mouth seemed always to be smiling, as if life held some secret enchantment and she alone knew the mystery of it.

In the valley Aenir warriors were moving about, eating, drinking and swapping stories. The invasion had gone well and their losses had been few, save for the night before against the ferocious clan sword-ring. Who would have believed that a few hundred men and women could have put up such a struggle?

Durk moved on.

No one stopped him or even seemed to notice him as he walked to the mound of bodies and began to search for Kareen. He found her at the centre, lying beneath the headless corpse of Cambil. Gently he pulled her clear and tried to wipe the blood from her face, but it was dried hard and did not move.

By now his actions had aroused the interest of five warriors who wandered forward to watch him. Durk felt their eyes upon him and he laid Kareen to the ground. He stood and walked towards them, his face expressionless, his dark eyes scanning them.

They made no move towards their swords until he was almost upon them. It was as if his calm, casual movements cast an eldritch spell.

Durk's sword whispered from the scabbard ...

The spell broke.

The Aenir scrabbled for their blades as Durk's sword licked into them. The first fell screaming; the second tumbled back, his throat spraying blood into the air. The third died as he knelt staring at the gushing stump of his sword arm. The fourth hammered his sword into Durk's side, then reeled away dying as the clansman shrugged off the mortal wound and backhanded a return cut to the man's throat. The fifth backed away, shouting for help.

Durk staggered and gazed down at the wound in his side. Blood flowed there, soaking his leggings and pooling at his feet. More Aenir warriors ran forward, stopping to stare at the dying clansman.

'Come on then, you woman-killers! Face a man!' he snarled.

A warrior ran forward with sword raised. Durk contemptuously batted aside his wild slash and reversed his own blade into the man's belly.

The clansman began to laugh, then suddenly he choked and staggered. Blood welled in his throat and he spat it clear.

'You miserable whoresons,' he said. 'Warriors? You're like a flock of sheep with fangs.'

Dropping his sword, he turned and staggered back to Kareen's body, slumping beside her. He lifted her head.

A spear smashed through his back and he arched upward violently.

His vision swam, his last sight was Kareen's face.

'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'I should have been here.'

Orsa gazed down at the body, then tore the spear from the clansman's back.

'He was a madman,' muttered a warrior behind him.

'He was a man,' said Orsa, turning and pushing his way through the throng.

The Aenir milled round the corpses for a while, then drifted back to their forgotten meals.

'He was a fine swordsman,' said a lean, wolfish warrior, dusting off the chicken leg he'd dropped in the dirt.

'It was stupid,' offered a second man, gathering up a bulging wineskin.

'He was baresark,' said the first.

'Nonsense. We all know what happens to a berserker - he goes mad and attacks in a blind frenzy.'

'No, that's what we do. The clansmen are different. They go cold and deadly, where we are hot. But the effect is the same. They don't care.'

'Taken to thinking now, Snorri?'

'This place makes you think,' said Snorri. 'Just look around you. Wouldn't you be willing to die for a land like this?'

'I don't want to die for any piece of land. A woman, maybe. Not dirt, though.'

'Did you enjoy the clan woman you took last night?'

'Shut your stinking mouth!'

'Killed herself, I hear.'

'I said shut it!'

'Easy, Bemar! There's no need to lose your temper.'

'It's this place, it gets under my skin. I knew it wouldn't be easy. I felt it in my bones. Did you see the look in that clansman's eyes? like he thought we were nothing. A flock of sheep with fangs! You could laugh, but he had just slain seven men. Seven!'

'I know,' said Snorri. 'It was the same last night with their sword-ring. It was like hurling yourself against a cliff-face. There was no give in them at all; no fear. That scout Ongist caught and blood-eagled - he didn't make a sound, just glared at us as we opened his ribs. Maybe they're not people at all.'

'What does that mean?' asked Bemar, dropping his voice to a whisper.

'The witch woman, Agnetha. She can turn men into animals. Maybe the clans are all animals turned into men.'

'That's stupid.'

'They don't act like men," argued Snorri. 'Have you heard one clansman beg? Have you heard any tales of such a thing?'

'They die like men,' said Bemar.

'I think they are more. You've heard Asbidag's order. Not one man, woman or child to be left alive. No slaves. All dead. Doesn't it strike you as strange?'

'I don't want to think about it. And I don't want to talk about it,' muttered Bemar, hurling aside the wineskin.

'Wolf men, that's what they are,' whispered Snorri.

Caswallon watched helplessly as Durk walked back towards the valley. He knew the clansman was seeking death, and he could not blame him for it. Kareen had been his life, his joy. Even as Maeg meant everything to Caswallon.

The clan column moved on and Caswallon took his place at the head alongside Leofas. Crofters from outlying areas joined the exodus as the day wore on, and many were the questions levelled at the new lord.

Where were they going? What would they do? What had happened to one man's sister? Another's brother? Why did they not turn and fight? Why had the Aenir attacked? Where was Cambil? Who elected Caswallon?

The clansman lost his temper before dusk, storming away from the column and running quickly to the top of a nearby hill. Around him the dying sun lit the valleys of the Farlain, bathing them in blood. Caswallon sank to the ground, staring out over the distant peaks of High Druin.

'It's all a lie,' he said softly. Then he began to chuckle. 'You've lived a damn lie.'

Poor Cambil. Poor, lonely Cambil.

'You should not have feared me, cousin,' Caswallon told the gathering darkness. 'Your father knew; he was wiser than you.'

The night before the young Caswallon had left his foster-father's house for the last time, Padris had taken him to the northern meadow and there presented him with a cloak, a dagger and two gold pieces.

'I will not lie to you, Caswallon,' Padris had told him, his keen eyes sorrowful. 'You have been a disappointment to me. I have raised you like my own son and you have great talents. But you are not worthy. You have a sharp mind, a good brain and a strong body. You will prosper. But you are not worthy. There is in you a fear that I cannot fathom. Outwardly you are brave enough, and you take your beatings like a man. But you are not clan. You don't care. What is it that you fear?'

'I fear nothing,' Caswallon had told him.

“Wrong. Now I see two fears. The one that you hide, and now the fear of showing it. Go in peace, Caswallon of the Farlain.”

'You were right, Padris,' Caswallon whispered to the sky. 'This is what I feared. Chains. Questions. Responsibilities.'

Giving judgements over land disputes, settling rows over cattle or sheep, or thefts, or wayward wives and wandering husbands. Sentencing poachers, granting tides, deciding on the suitability of couples in love, and granting them the right to wed. Every petty problem a double-edged dagger.