David Gemmell. The Hawk Enternal

‘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.

‘What about the cattle?’

‘Drive them back into the mountains. There are no buyers today.’

‘Gods, Caswallon! Why do they go on killing? There’s no one fighting them.’

‘I don’t know. Tell Cambil what we have seen today.”

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll stay for a while.’

Arcis nodded and set off across the slopes, running smoothly.

After a while the Aenir warriors drifted into the city. The plain before the gates was littered with corpses. Caswallon moved closer, stopping when he neared the tree-line. Now he could see the full scale of the horror and his anger settled, cold and malignant. The cattle-dealer, Leon, lay in a pool of blood, his throat torn open. Near him was the boy thief Gaelen.

Caswallon swung away and moved back towards the trees.

I am dying. There was no doubt in Gaelen’s mind. The pain from his lower back was close to unbearable, his head ached, the blood was seeping from his left eye. For a long while he lay still, not knowing if the enemy was close by; whether indeed an Aenir warrior was at this moment poised above him with a spear or a sharp-edged sword.

Fear cut through his pain but he quelled it savagely. He could feel the soft, dusty clay against his face and smell the smoke from the burning city. He tried to open his eyes, but blood had congealed on the lashes. I have been unconscious for some time, he thought.

An hour? Less? Carefully, he moved his right arm, bringing his hand to his face, rubbing his right eye with his knuckle to free the lashes. The pain from his left eye intensified and he left it alone, sealed shut. He was facing the shuttered gates and the ghastly ornaments they now carried. Around him the crows were already settling, their sharp beaks ripping at moist flesh. Two of them had landed on the chest of Leon. Gaelen looked away. There were no Aenir in sight. Gingerly he probed the wound above his left hip, remembering the lance that had cut through him as he ran. The wound still bled on both sides, and the flesh was angry and raw to the touch.

Turning his head towards the mountains, and the tall pine trees on the nearest slope, he tried to estimate the time it would take him to reach the safety of the woods. He made an effort to stand, but a roaring began in his ears, like an angry sea. Dizziness swamped him and he lost consciousness.

When he awoke it was close to dusk. His side was still bleeding, though it had slowed to a trickle and once again he had to clear his eye of blood. When he had done so he saw that he had crawled twenty paces. He couldn’t remember doing it, but the trail of blood and scored dust could not lie.

Behind him the city burned. It would not be long before the Aenir returned to the plain. If he was found he would be hauled back and blood-eagled like the elders.

The boy began to crawl, not daring to look up lest the distance demoralise him, forcing him to give in.

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