Midnight Falcon

Chapter Fifteen

Maro, son of Barus, watched as the unit slaves pitched the thirty tents of the junior officers. They worked efficiently and well, with a disciplined economy of effort that spoke of long practice. Maro, as junior duty officer in charge of the tents, felt entirely redundant. He scanned the scene, but could find no fault with the work of the twelve slaves. When they had finished he thanked them, cursing himself inwardly as he did so. He had been warned twice for such odd behaviour, but found it difficult to treat any human being with less than courtesy. Dismissing them, he wandered across the huge new compound. To the left Jasaray's personal slaves were assembling the mosaic stone floor of his command tent. Every one of the two thousand, three hundred and seven stones was numbered, and some of the slaves had been assembling and disassembling this floor for more than thirty years. They too worked with diligence and speed. It was vital that the floor was completed, the huge tent pitched, before Jasaray arrived with the centre columns.

Maro was enchanted by the activity within the new fortress, as he had been enchanted on every occasion since the campaign started. The power and ingenuity of Stone were never more apparent than in this daily ritual. Nothing was left to chance. Advance guards would pick out the land, flag officers would map out the camp, and the advance columns put aside their armour to dig out the vast defensive trench. To the north and south parties of horsemen were dragging felled trees to the gate areas, where the trunks would be split and expertly crafted into strong gates. And all the while more Panthers were arriving, marching into the fortress and immediately setting about preordained tasks: the digging of latrines, the erection of rows of tents, the setting of cookfires.

Maro climbed to the northern ramparts and stared out over the rolling hills beyond. Somewhere out there was the Rigante army; the army that had destroyed Valanus and put a blight on the unblemished record of Stone conquests. According to the most recent reports it numbered less than fifty thousand men – a tenth, men said, of the size of the force that defeated Valanus.

The young man lifted his helm clear, pushing his fingers through his dark hair. The wind was cool and pleasant. His back was itching, but there was no way of scratching it through the iron breastplate he now wore. It had taken Maro weeks to become accustomed to the heavy armour, the wrist guards and the greaves. He had felt, for the most part, like a fraud – a student pretending to be a soldier. It was harder for him than for most of the new juniors, for he was the son of Barus, conqueror of the east, and much was expected of him. In a way he was glad that his father had remained in Stone. It would have been embarrassing for his early mistakes to have been witnessed by Barus.

Thousands of soldiers were now inside the fortress and Maro glanced back, picturing the grid plan and locating where his fifty men were stationed. Replacing his helm he strode from the ramparts and crossed the compound to where the tents of his own section were situated. Having ensured they had been fed he went back to his own tent, and began to compose a letter to Cara. There were four letters now in his pack. He had numbered each of them in the order they were to be read. Tomorrow he would ask again if his letters could be carried back to Accia. Only ten officers a day were allowed to submit letters home, for there were only two riders carrying despatches, and Jasaray always insisted they rode light.

As he was writing he heard a commotion beyond the tent, and put aside his materials. Stepping outside he saw a group of cavalry had arrived. Many of the men were wounded. Maro stood in the sunshine and watched as the cavalry leader dismounted, and glanced back at the men with him. There were around thirty horsemen. The insignia on the officer's breastplate showed that he was the commander of a hundred. Maro eased his way forward. The officer, a lean, middle-aged veteran, was talking to one of Jasaray's flag officers, the dour, laconic Heltian.

'They hit us from the woods to the east,' said the cavalryman. 'The Cenii scattered and ran almost immediately.'

'Losses?' asked Heltian.

'I lost sixty-eight men,' the officer told him. 'They surrounded Tuvor, and I doubt any of his men survived. I recognized the old bastard who came to Stone. Fiallach, isn't it? He led them.'

'Enemy losses?'

'Hard to say, sir. All was chaos as they struck. We thought the Cenii scouts would give us warning of any attack, but they either ran or were killed. The enemy were upon us in moments.'

'How many?'

'I'd say around a thousand.'

'Get your wounded to the hospital tents,' said Heltian, 'and then prepare a fuller report for the emperor when he arrives.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the cavalry man, saluting.

Maro was still standing close by when the cavalryman walked off and Heltian turned. The flag officer looked at him. 'You have no duties, young man?'

'No, sir. My men have been fed, the tents pitched.'

'You are the son of Barus, are you not?'

'I am, sir.'

'And you listened to the report.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Tell me what you made of it.'

Maro struggled to gather his wits, his mind racing back over the conversation he had overheard. 'It seems that a hundred and sixty-eight of our cavalry have been killed by Fiallach's Iron Wolves.'

'Go on.'

'They were attacked from hiding… outnumbered five to one. The Cenii scouts proved ineffective.' And then he had it. Realization struck him. 'Our two cavalry units were riding too close together. Had they been at the regulation distance of… of two hundred yards… one of them should have broken free. And cavalry orders are to skirt wooded areas, out of bowshot range.'

'Indeed so,' said Heltian. 'The officers were careless, and treated the enemy with disrespect. They learned a hard lesson as a result.' Heltian turned away and walked off towards the northern gates.

Maro returned to his tent, and his letter to Cara, telling her yet again how he missed her and their infant son. Then he described the lands of the Keltoi on this side of the water, the beauty of the mountains, the purity of the streams and rivers. He paused, and thought of Banouin, wondering where his friend would be now. He was not a warrior, and was unlikely, therefore, to be at risk in the coming battle. Then he thought of Bane the gladiator. Rage said he had come home to the mountains. It was probable that he was out there, sharpening his swords. Maro shivered. The late-afternoon sun was giving little heat now.

There was no bed in the tent, but a canvas sheet had been pegged across the earth. Maro removed his breastplate and scratched his back. Then he stretched out, laying his head on a folded blanket. Back home Cara and their son would probably be in the garden, the boy asleep in a crib placed in the shade of the old elm. Maro closed his eyes and pictured them. As he did so he felt a swelling of love for them both, and an aching sadness that he was not with them.

Cara had been angry when he left, and had refused to say farewell. 'You have allied yourself with evil,' she had told him, when he announced his commission in the Twenty-Third Panther.

'It is not evil to defend one's city,' he replied.

'This is our city,' she said. 'Where is the enemy army? I do not see it.'

'The Rigante are massing men, and their agents have crossed the water, stirring up trouble among the conquered tribes, encouraging them to revolt against the rule of Stone. If we do not deal with them now, then in the future they could well have an army at our gates.'

'Some men will always seek a reason for war,' she said coldly. 'Bane told me that the Rigante have never made war across the water, and have no interest in acquiring the lands of others. They are not a greedy people. They do not lust for conquest and slaughter.'

'Neither do I,' he said.

'And yet you will invade their lands, enslave their women, and kill their men.'

'You make it sound so base, Cara. Everywhere ruled by Stone knows peace and harmony. We are bringing civilization and culture to these people. Did you know that their druids sacrifice babies on their altars? They are a barbarous and uncouth people.'

'Barbarous and uncouth?' she echoed. 'Yesterday in the Great Arena five women were torn apart by wild beasts for the entertainment of the crowd. Don't talk to me of barbarous and uncouth. The Rigante have no arenas.'

'This is an entirely different matter,' snapped Maro. 'It is typical of a woman to change the subject. The women you speak of were obviously criminals and thus subject to execution. Murderers, probably, deserving of all they received.'

'You are a fool, Maro. And I hope you come to see that before it is too late.'

In the weeks leading up to his departure she had not spoken to him. He hoped that his letters would soften her heart, and that when he returned, as a conquering hero, she would look more kindly upon him.

Braefar's head jerked round. Just for the briefest of moments he thought he saw two men on the outer edge of the stone circle. He blinked and they were gone. Just a trick of the fading light, he thought, and settled his back against the golden column of stone. The wind was cool, and he drew his sheepskin cloak around him. The others had set a fire, and were sitting in a circle round it, but Braefar had no wish to join them. In truth he had no wish to be here.

If Connavar had not been so selfish, so hungry for power and praise, he thought, none of this would have happened.

Braefar stared down at the large golden ring adorning the third finger of his right hand. It had been a gift from Connavar upon his coronation. A princely gift. Of course Bendegit Bran had been given a golden torque, Govannan a beautiful cloak brooch with a ruby centre, and Fiallach a sword, the hilt entwined with gold wire, the pommel stone a beautifully cut emerald. Braefar had examined the gifts closely. His own golden ring had cost less than all the others. It was a studied insult.

Braefar had been swallowing such insults all his life. Ever since the day of that accursed bear!

He could see it now, huge and black, its jaws dripping with the blood of the boys already slain back in the woods. It was charging at Connavar. The sight of the beast was awesome, and it froze Braefar's blood. Conn had leapt at it, stabbing it with his dagger. Then Govannan had run in to help. It was all over so fast. One moment Conn was alive and strong, the next torn apart, blood sprayed all over the grass. The hunters had come then, plunging their lances into the beast. Only then did Braefar discover the power to move. They had all looked at him, thinking him a coward. They didn't say it out loud. But they felt it. And Braefar's life had been cursed from that moment.

Conn had never forgiven him. He said he had, but it was a lie. He had spent the next twenty years punishing him, causing him to fail and look stupid in front of his fellows. Oh, how Conn must have laughed on each occasion. Braefar didn't doubt the king had discussed his 'failures' with Bran, Govannan, Osta, Fiallach and the others. They thought he didn't notice them laughing behind his back. But he noticed. Braefar did not have to see them to know. It was all so obvious. As were the grotesque plots to make him seem incompetent.

Conn had put him in charge of the northern gold mines, with a brief to improve the production and swell the treasury. Braefar had invented several tools for the men at the face. They were a huge success. Then had come the cave-in. Braefar was accused of pushing ahead too fast, with insufficient timber supports. Forty men died, and the mine was closed for four months. As if that was his fault! Get more gold, the king had said. Braefar had got more gold, doubling production.

Every role Conn ever offered him was tipped with poison. And all because of that bear!

That was why he had never been given a rank in the army. What a humiliation that was. It was like telling everyone, 'Braefar is a coward.' Even Bran had come to believe it after the misunderstanding in the first Pannone war twenty years ago. Conn had left Braefar in charge of gathering reinforcements while he marched off to face the Highland Laird and the Sea Wolf, Shard. Braefar had done exactly as he was told, gathering men from all over Rigante lands. And he would have marched to Conn's aid as soon as the reinforcements were fully gathered. But no, the fifteen-year-old Bran had to be the hero, sneaking off and riding to the battle with but a few thousand of the recruits, while Braefar had been reinforcing Old Oaks, in order to protect the citizens in case of disaster.

Naturally no-one saw it that way. Conn made sure of that. Cowardly Braefar had failed in his task, and would never be entrusted with armed men again. Yet he had stayed loyal, year upon year. While Bendegit Bran ruled the north, and Fiallach the east, Braefar had been thrown the bone of Three Streams. That was when he found out who his true friends were. The emperor Jasaray had sent agents to seek his advice. The emperor, they said, understood the brilliance Braefar had shown on many occasions, not least the invention of stirrups, which enabled cavalry to wear heavier armour, and to maintain balance during fights upon horseback. The emperor would be honoured, they said, to count Braefar as a friend.

Jasaray had been a true friend. His agents had witnessed Connavar making fun of Braefar, and they listed the numerous occasions when the king made slighting remarks. Once Connavar had even claimed to have invented the stirrups himself. Jasaray was right too about the military expansion under Connavar's rule. It was costly and hugely inefficient. The Rigante would prosper far better, Jasaray had written, under the wiser rule of someone like Braefar.

Jasaray understood. He had complimented Braefar on his actions during the first Pannone war. 'Only a fool', he wrote, 'would have marched with all his men, leaving his citizens unprotected against a reversal of fortune in the first battle.' Braefar had memorized that line. Jasaray had also pointed out that Connavar's domination of the Pannone was against all Keltoi tradition, and he had, through his agents, introduced Braefar to Guern, the rebel Pannone warrior seeking to throw off the Rigante yoke.

It had all been so exciting, planning and plotting in secret. He would show Connavar that his strategic skills were greater than those of little brother Bran. He would also prove he was no coward when the time came, by riding alongside Shard when the Sea Wolves invaded.

Braefar shivered at the memory as he recalled the wild, terrifying ride to flee the battlefield. Yes, he had been frightened out of his wits, but that was also the fault of Connavar, for his brother had never offered him the chance to fight in battle. Had he done so, Braefar would have learned to overcome his fears. Well, he had overcome them now. He was waiting here, with Guern and his warriors, to kill Connavar.

To kill Connavar! The thought shook him.

All his life – until the last few years – he had worshipped his brother. Most of the mistakes he made – though not entirely his fault – had come about by trying too hard to please him. 'I loved you, Conn,' he whispered.

He relaxed as he realized that Conn would never ride in alone to meet Guern. He would know it was a trap. He will send Fiallach and a score of Iron Wolves to arrest us all. Braefar knew what he would say when he was brought before the king. 'So, Conn, you did not have the courage to meet us as we asked. Perhaps you are not such a hero after all, sending your Wolves where you did not dare to go.' It would be worth banishment just to say that phrase in front of Connavar's generals. Then he would head south and join Jasaray.

Guern called out to him. 'Here he comes!'

Braefar's heart sank. On the far hillside he saw a single rider on a white horse, the sinking sun turning his armour to gold.

'Oh no!' whispered Braefar. He scanned the hills for sign of the accompanying Iron Wolves, but slowly, as the rider approached, he realized he was alone. 'Oh, Conn, why did you come?' he said.

Connavar the King rode into the circle. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with its hilt of gold. His full-faced battle helm was upon the pommel of his saddle. The king dismounted and walked forward. He did not look at Braefar, who slunk back into the shadows of the stones.

Guern stepped forward. 'Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.'

'You have not asked me here to talk,' said Connavar, drawing his sword and resting the blade on the rocky ground, his hands on the golden pommel. 'You have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.'

The eight men around the campfire had stood as the king rode in. Now they drew their swords and formed a half circle around the golden warrior facing them. Despite their numerical advantage they were reluctant to attack. This was not a mere man facing them. This was Connavar, the Demonblade, the warrior king who had never tasted defeat.

Braefar watched the scene, and a terrible sadness filled him. Conn had never looked more magnificent than he did at this moment, whereas his enemies had become, in Braefar's eyes, small men with small dreams. Braefar had never wanted this. He knew it now. He drew his own sword, determined to rush in and aid his brother. Yet he did not. His legs would not obey him, and he stood, as he had all those years ago when the bear attacked, and did nothing.

Suddenly two of the men rushed in. Connavar swung the Seidh blade in two slashing cuts. Blood sprayed into the air, and the men fell. The other six rushed in, hacking and cutting.

At that moment there was a blast of cold air, and the circle trembled. A bright light shone and a warrior leapt from nowhere. Braefar blinked, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers. This new warrior carried a golden shield of incredible brightness. He rushed at the fighting men, smashing the shield into the face of the first, and cleaving his sword through the ribs of a second.

Braefar looked down at his fallen sword. He wanted to stoop to pick it up, but his legs were trembling, and he feared he would fall if he tried. So he drew his dagger. The sound of sword blades clashing, the screams of dying men, ripped through him and he fell back against a stone column, squeezing shut his eyes, and holding his fists over his ears. He couldn't shut out the sounds, and instead forced his mind to remember happier times, when he and Conn, as children, had played upon the slopes above Three Streams.

The sounds ceased, and Braefar opened his eyes. The new warrior – he saw now it was the bastard, Bane – was standing alongside the king, holding his arm. Connavar's winged helm was lying on the ground close by, dented by a sword blade. There was blood on the king's cheek, dripping to his breastplate. There was more blood upon his left arm. Braefar watched as Connavar loosened his breastplate. Bane pulled it clear. Then the king shrugged out of his mailshirt. Braefar saw two huge bruises on the king's left side, the skin gashed.

The trembling ceased and Braefar tottered forward. Connavar saw him, and his expression changed. Braefar had expected – desired – anger. But there was only sorrow in the king's features.

'Why, Wing?' he asked.

'Why? For all the hurts and humiliations you have piled upon me.'

'What hurts? I love you, Wing. I always have.'

'I know how you have laughed at me all these years. Don't lie to me, Conn. I know.'

'No-one laughed,' said Connavar. 'Not in my presence. Where did you hear such nonsense?' He stepped in towards Braefar. 'Let us put this behind us, Wing,' he said. 'There is a great battle coming…' He reached out to his brother.

'Don't touch me!' yelled Braefar, lashing out, the dagger in his hand almost forgotten. In that fraction of a heartbeat, with his anguish and anger paramount, Braefar tilted his fist. The blade slid between Connavar's ribs. The king grunted and fell back, blood streaming from the wound.

'No! I didn't mean…'

Bane drew his sword and advanced on the slender figure. 'Leave him! Don't kill him!' said the king, and then he slumped to the ground. Bane stood for a moment, his cold eyes locked to Braefar's tortured face.

'Get away from here, you snake!' he hissed. 'If I ever see you again I'll kill you where you stand.'

For a moment Braefar didn't move. Bane's sword came up. Braefar turned and sprinted for the woods.

He ran and ran, legs pumping, heart racing.

Bane was stunned. He thought Riamfada's prophecy had been proved wrong. He and Connavar had killed the rebels, and the king had but a few minor scratches and bruises. But now, as he looked down at the grey-faced man sitting quietly, his back to a column of stone, Bane knew he was dying. The dagger had plunged deep.

As the light faded Connavar began to shiver. Bane removed his own cloak and draped it around Connavar's upper body. 'Are you in pain?' asked the younger man.

Connavar coughed and blood dribbled into his beard. 'A little,' he confessed. 'Where is Wing?'

'He ran into the woods. Why did you want him spared?'

Connavar leaned his head back against the stone. He smiled. 'He's my little brother,' he said. 'I've looked after him all my life.'

'He's a treacherous dog – and he's killed you.'

'I came… here to die,' said Connavar. 'That was the price the Morrigu wanted. I don't know why. She always made it clear that the defeat of Stone was… important. Without me…' He fell silent for a moment. 'What are you doing here, Bane?'

'A friend of yours asked me to come. Riamfada.'

'The little fish,' said Connavar.

'Fish?' queried Bane.

'When he was… human… his legs were useless. Govannan and I used to carry him to the Riguan Falls. We… taught him to swim.'

Bane looked into the pale face of the dying man. 'He was the boy you were carrying when the bear attacked?'

'The same. The Seidh gave his spirit a home.' Connavar groaned, his face contorting. 'Damn, but this little wound is troublesome.' He looked up into Bane's face. 'I am glad you're here, Bane. It would have hurt my soul to die without…' He winced again, his body spasming.

'Don't talk,' said Bane. 'Just rest easy.'

'To what purpose?' asked Connavar, forcing a smile. 'When we lifted the Morrigu I saw many things, and I shared moments of your life. When you won that race, and came running towards me… You remember?'

'Of course I remember. You turned your back on me.'

'I am sorry for that, Bane. When I saw you running ahead of the others I was so proud I thought my heart would break. But I couldn't stay. To have embraced you and acknowledged you as my son would have meant seeing your mother, and I had sworn never to cast eyes upon her again. If I had my life over I would do so many things differently.'

'You blamed her for your own shortcomings,' said Bane, without anger.

'No,' said the king. 'I never blamed Arian. I loved her from the moment I first saw her. The fault was entirely mine. But I had to pay for my evil, for the slaughter of innocents and the death of Tae.' The king lapsed into silence, and Bane thought he had died. The night grew colder.

A movement came from behind. Bane rose and whirled, sword in hand. A straw-haired boy in a faded tunic stood there. He looked startled as Bane swung on him. Bane put away his sword. 'What are you doing here, boy?' he asked.

'I saw it,' said the lad. 'Wolves chased me and I climbed a tree. I saw the fight, and that man stab the king. Is he going to be all right?'

'Gather some wood for a fire,' said Bane, then returned to Connavar's side. Reaching out he touched the king's throat. A pulse was beating weakly there. Connavar's eyes opened, and he reached up, taking Bane's hand.

'I had a vision,' he said. 'I saw myself dying here, but I also saw myself leading a charge against the enemy. I didn't understand how both could be true. I see it now… I see it!' Once more he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The boy gathered wood and laid a fire close by. Then he found several pieces of flint, and Bane sat quietly, listening to the rhythmic strikes of the fire stone. At last a flame caught in the tinder and the wood began to crackle. The boy nursed it to life, then eased himself round to sit on the other side of the king. 'He's not going to die, is he?' he asked.

'What is your name, boy?'

'Axis. The king came here once and gave my da a bull, for ours had died.'

'You keep the fire going, Axis,' said Bane gently. 'We'll keep him warm.'

'He is going to die then?' said the boy, tears spilling to his cheeks.

'Yes, Axis, he is going to die. Tend to the fire.'

Bane glanced down. The king's hand was still holding to his own. Bane felt the warmth in the fingers, and saw the battle scars on the king's arm. Blood had ceased to flow from the wound in his side, but Bane knew that internal bleeding continued. He had seen wounds like this before in the arena. It might take hours yet, but death was certain.

The moon rose above the stone circle. Bane looked round at the boy by the fire. 'Go and check the horses the killers rode,' he said. 'Perhaps they had food. You look hungry.'

'I am hungry,' said Axis. 'Shall I bring the horses into the circle? The wolves may still be close by.'

'Yes, do that,' said Bane.

The boy ran off and came back moments later leading three horses, which he tethered inside the circle. 'The rest ran off,' he said. Axis moved past the fire, gathering the reins of the king's white gelding, bringing that also close to the fire. Then he searched the saddlebags of the other mounts, coming up with several thick slices of ham, wrapped in muslin. He offered some to Bane, and the two sat in silence as they ate. Time passed slowly. The boy Axis fell asleep by the fire and Bane found himself thinking of the past, of his hatred for Connavar, of his yearning to be accepted and acknowledged. He had lived so long dreaming of the day he would kill this man whose hand he now held.

The king groaned again. Bane looked at his face, and saw his eyes were open. But they were not focused on him. 'Ah, Wing,' he said, 'don't look so sad. Everything will be all right.'

'Connavar!' said Bane, squeezing the king's fingers. Connavar blinked then looked at Bane.

'He came back,' he said. 'He is waiting for me.'

Bane said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

'Put… my sword… in my hands,' said Connavar, his voice fading. The blade was leaning against the stone behind the king. Bane lifted it, placing the hilt within reach. Connavar did not move. Carefully Bane opened his fingers, pressing them closed round the fabled hilt. The dying man gave a last sigh, then his head sagged, his body sliding into Bane's arms. For a little while Bane sat holding the king, feeling the weight of Connavar's head against his shoulder. Then he laid the body down.

Riamfada walked into the stone circle and knelt beside the body, leaning over and kissing the brow. He turned to Bane. 'I thank you for being with him,' he said.

'Why didn't you tell me about Braefar? I could have stopped him.'

'I did not know exactly how it would happen, Bane, only that it would happen.'

'I'd like to find him and kill him myself,' said Bane.

'There is no need. Braefar is dead. He ran into the woods, and slashed his own throat with the dagger that killed Connavar. Now he and his brother are together, and all the ill feeling is gone.'

'Then it was Braefar the king saw as he was dying?'

'Aye, it was.'

Bane rose.

'Have you made your choice?' asked Riamfada.

'I have – as I think you knew I would.'

'Of course,' said Riamfada. 'You are the son of Connavar, and I would expect no less.'