David Gemmell. The Hawk Enternal

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.

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