The Hawk Eternal

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Praise for David Gemmell

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  And now a sneak preview . . . Lord of the Silver Bow

  Also by David Gemmell

  Copyright Page

  The Hawk Eternal is dedicated to the memory of Matthew Newman, a young writer from Birmingham who never had the chance to see his name in print. He should have. He was talented, dedicated, and gifted with great determination. But he was also one of the many hemophiliacs whose lives were further blighted by HIV-contaminated blood products. In the short time I knew him I gained a great insight into his courage and his amazing lack of outward bitterness.

  He desperately wanted to finish his book and see it in

  print before he died. He didn’t make it.

  But the effort was truly heroic.

  PRAISE FOR

  DAVID GEMMELL

  “I can say of David Gemmell that he’s the only writer of historical fiction or heroic fantasy whose prose I actually study, line by line, trying to decode how he produces the effects that he does.”

  —STEVEN PRESSFIELD,

  author of Gates of Fire and The Virtues of War

  “I am truly amazed at David Gemmell’s ability to focus his writer’s eye. His images are crisp and complete, a history lesson woven within the detailed tapestry of the highest adventure. Gemmell’s characters are no less complete, real men and women with qualities good and bad, placed in trying times and rising to heroism or falling victim to their own weaknesses.”

  —R. A. SALVATORE

  “In the best sense of the word, you could say that Gemmell’s a brand; an assurance of passionate, cleanly written prose, imaginative plots, and, above all, terrific storytelling. For anyone who appreciates superior heroic fantasy, David Gemmell’s offerings are mandatory.”

  —Time Out London

  “Gemmell is very talented; his characters are vivid and very convincingly realistic.”

  —CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF,

  author of the Wizard in Rhyme novels

  “Gemmell is a fine writer who has paid his dues in a crowded field.”

  —Contra Costa Times

  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 faraway 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 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 traveled 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’s 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 backward 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 center 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 bloodstained armor. He was supporting a woman, also attired for war; blood was flowing from a wound in her side. Garvis had never seen armor 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 realized 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?”

  “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 travelers 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 that 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. Taliesen 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.

  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 crossroads 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.

  Chapter One

  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 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 spear points toward the sky, snowcapped and proud, jagged and powerful. At their center 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 recognized 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 recognized 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 toward the mountains. The riders set off after him, lances leveled.

  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 wheel
ed 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 leaped across the rooftops, stopping 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.