Midnight Falcon

Chapter One

Parax the Hunter had always despised vanity in others. But he knew now just how stealthily it could creep up on a man. The thought was as cold and bitter as the wind blowing over the snowcapped peaks of the Druagh mountains. From his saddlebag Parax drew a woollen cap, which he pulled over his thinning white hair. His old eyes gazed up at the majesty of Caer Druagh, oldest mountain, but he could no longer make out the sharp, jagged ridges, nor the distant stands of pine. All he could see now was the misty whiteness of the peaks against the harsh, grainy blue of the sky.

His weary pony stumbled, and the old man grabbed at the pommel of his saddle. He patted the pony's neck and gently drew rein. The beast was eighteen years old. She had always been strong and steadfast – a mount to be trusted. Not any more. Like Parax she was finding this one hunt too many.

The old man sighed. At thirty he had been at the peak of his powers, one of the foremost trackers in all the lands of the Keltoi. It did not make him boastful, for he knew he had been gifted with keen eyes and an intuitive mind. His own father, himself a great hunter and tracker, had taught him well. At five the young Parax could identify over thirty different animals by track alone: the leaping otter, the ambling badger, the cunning fox, and many more. His talent had been almost mystical. Men said he could read a man's life in the blade of grass crushed beneath a boot heel. This was nonsense, of course, but Parax had smiled upon hearing it, not recognizing the birth of vanity in that smile. What was true, however, was his ability to read a man from the trail he left; where he made his camp and placed his fire showed how well or little he understood the wilderness, how often he rested his mount, how swiftly he moved, how patient he was in the hunt. All these things spoke of a man's character, and once Parax understood his prey's character he would find him, no matter how cleverly he hid his trail.

By the time he was thirty-five Parax's fame had spread to the lands of the Perdii, whose king, Alea, recruited him to the royal household. Even then he did not allow undue pride to colour his personality. At fifty, in the service of Connavar the King, he allowed himself what he considered to be a quiet satisfaction in his achievements. Though his eyes were marginally less keen, his reading of trails still seemed almost magical to those who watched him. Even at sixty he could still follow a trail as well as any man, for by then he had a lifetime of acquired skills to give him an edge over younger men. Or so he believed, and in that belief vanity like a hidden weed grew unnoticed in his heart. Now past seventy, he had known for some years he was no longer pre-eminent. No longer even competent. The knowledge hurt the old man. But not as badly as the conceit which made him deny its truth to the man he loved most – the king.

Parax had served Connavar for almost twenty years – from the day the young warrior had rescued him from the slave lines of Stone, and brought him back to the towering mountains of Druagh. He had ridden beside him when the youngster became Laird, and then War Chief, and finally the first High King in hundreds of years. He had been beside him on that bloody day at Cogden Field, when the invincible army of Stone had been crushed by the might of Connavar's Iron Wolves. He shivered again. Connavar the King had trusted Parax – and now age and increasing infirmity had made the old man betray that trust.

'Find the boy Bane,' the king had said, 'before the hunters kill him – or he kills them.'

Parax had looked into the king's odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold, and he had longed to admit the truth, to say simply, 'My skills are gone, my friend. I cannot help you.'

But he could not. The words clung within his throat, on talons of false pride. He was one of the king's trusted advisers. He was Parax – the greatest hunter in the known world, a living legend. The moment he voiced the truth he would become merely a useless old man, to be discarded and forgotten. Instead he had bowed awkwardly and ridden from Old Oaks, his mind in torment, panic lying heavily upon him. His fading eyes could no longer read the trails and he had been forced to follow the hunting pack for days, hoping they would lead him to the young outlaw.

Then had come the final ignominy. He had lost the hunting pack. Twenty riders!

Parax had wept then, tears of bitterness. Once he could have tracked a sparrow in flight, now he could not find the spoor of twenty horses. He had been following about a mile behind them, but had dozed in the saddle. His paint pony, tired and thirsty, had scented water and pulled away from the trail, wandering to the east. Parax had awoken with a start as the pony climbed a steep, wooded hillside. The old man had almost fallen from the saddle. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, and Parax had no idea where he was. The pony led him to a bubbling stream, where Parax dismounted. His back ached and his mouth was dry. Kneeling, he cupped water into his hands and drank.

'Outlived my usefulness,' he said aloud. The pony whinnied and stamped its foot. 'You know how old I am?' he asked his mount. 'Seventy-two. I once trailed a robber for three weeks. Caught him on the high slopes, up in the rocks. The king paid me twenty silver coins and named me the Prince of Trackers.' Removing his old woollen cap he splashed water to his face and beard. He was hungry. There were muslin-wrapped slices of smoked bacon in his pack, along with black bread and a small round of cheese. He wanted to unpack them and prepare a fire, but then the late-afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and he dozed, his head resting on a round rock.

He dreamt of better days before his eyes failed, days of laughter and joy after the young king had driven the Stone soldiers from the northland. Laughter and joy – save for the king himself. The Demon King, they called him, because of his ferocity, and because men recalled the terrible revenge he took for his wife's murder. Connavar, then a mere Rigante Laird, had single-handedly wiped out the murderer's village, burning it to the ground and killing men, women and children. From that day on Parax had never heard him laugh, had never seen joy in his eyes.

In his dream Parax saw the king, standing in the moonlight on the battlements of Old Oaks. Only now there were ghosts floating around them both, a young woman with long dark hair and a pale face, and a giant of a man with a braided yellow beard. They were reaching out to the king. His scarred features paled as he saw them. Parax knew them both. The girl was his dead wife, Tae, the man his stepfather, Ruathain.

'You broke your promise, my husband,' said the ghost of Tae.

Connavar bowed his head. 'Oh, Tae,' he said, 'I am so ashamed.'

'Will you still take me riding?'

Connavar gave out a groan and fell to his knees. Parax stood silently by, knowing the cause of the king's grief. He had promised to ride with Tae to a distant lake, but on his way home had met with a woman he had once loved. Arian had held to him, and he had bedded her. Hours later, upon his return to Old Oaks, he discovered that Tae had ridden out with Ruathain and had been killed during a surprise attack by men who had a blood feud with his stepfather. Connavar remained on his knees, head bowed. The giant figure of Ruathain loomed over him. 'Family is everything, Conn. I thought I taught you that.'

'You did, Big Man. I never forgot it. I have looked after Wing and Bran and Mam.'

'And Bane?'

Connavar's face grew angry. 'I regret that. But I could not bear to see Arian again. My lust for her killed Tae – and destroyed my life!'

'You made a mistake, Conn. All men do. But Bane was blameless, and he has grown to manhood without a father. He watched his mother, grief-stricken and broken, fade away and die lonely. He deserved better from you, Conn. You should have acknowledged him. It is not as if there was any doubt. He looks like you – even down to the eyes of green and gold. And because you shunned him all men shunned him.'

The dream was terribly real and Parax wanted to reach out and comfort the king, who seemed stricken by grief and ashamed. Then the vision faded, replaced by a stand of trees, branches gently swaying in the wind. Then – for the merest heartbeat – the old hunter saw a veiled woman standing close by. She was leaning on a staff. A huge black crow flew down from the trees and perched upon her shoulder. Parax was instantly terrified. For this, he knew, was the dreaded Morrigu, the Seidh goddess of mischief and death.

He awoke with a start, and cried out. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He gazed around at the tree line, but there was no veiled woman, no black crow. The smell of sizzling bacon came to him and he thought he must still be dreaming. Turning his head he saw a man squatting by a fire, holding a long-handled pan over the flames. The man glanced across at him and grinned.

'You were having a bad dream, old man,' he said amiably. It was getting dark and the wind was chill. Parax moved closer to the fire and wrapped his green cloak tightly around his thin shoulders. He stared hard at the young man. He was beardless, his long blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck, a thin braid, in the style of the Sea Wolves, hanging from his right temple. Dressed in a hunting shirt of pale green, with a sleeveless brown leather jerkin, buckskin trews and knee-length riding boots, he wore no sword, but was turning the bacon with a hunting knife of bright iron.

'You are the Wolfshead, Bane,' said Parax.

'And you are Parax, the King's Hunter.'

'I am – and proud of it.'

Bane laughed. 'Men say you are the greatest tracker of all.'

'So they say,' agreed the old man.

'Not any more, Parax,' said the youngster, with a rueful smile. 'I have been watching you. You've crossed my trail three times in the last two days. The third time I left a clear print for you to see and you rode straight past it.'

Parax leaned in closer. Now he could see the odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold. Just like his father, thought the old man. Just like the king. He seemed older than his seventeen years, harder, more knowing than he should be. 'Are you planning to kill me?' he asked.

'You want me to?'

'There would be a kind of poetry in it,' said Parax. 'The first time I met your father he was around your age. He had come to kill me. I had tracked him for days, with a group of Perdii warriors. Oh, but he was clever, and killed seven of the hunters. And he did everything to throw me from the trail. Great skill he had for a young man. I tracked him over rock, and through water. He almost fooled me one time. His tracks disappeared below the branch of an oak. He had hauled himself up, then run along the branch and leapt to a nearby tree. But I was not old and useless then. I found him.'

'So why didn't he kill you?'

Parax shrugged. 'Didn't know then, don't know now. We shared a meal, and he rode off to join the army of Stone. When next I saw him he was the man who had killed the Perdii king, and I was roped and tied and ready for deportation to the slave mines. He recognized me, and saved me. Now here I am with his son. So, are you going to kill me?'

'I have nothing against you, old man,' said Bane. 'I'd just as soon let you live.'

'Then you'd better share that bacon,' said Parax. 'Otherwise I might starve to death.'

'Of course. The food is yours, after all.' Bane speared a strip of bacon on his hunting knife, then passed the pan across to the hunter. They ate in silence. The bacon was full of flavour but a little too salty and Parax moved back to the stream for a drink.

'How did you evade the hunters?' he asked, as he returned to the fire.

'It wasn't difficult. They didn't really want to find me. Can't say I blame them. Most are married men, who wouldn't want to leave behind young widows.'

'You are a cocky whoreson,' snapped Parax.

'Indeed I am. But I am also very good with sword or knife. I have fought my battles, Parax. Twice against Sea Raiders, and three times against Norvii outlaws.' He tapped the thick gold clasp round his left wrist. 'Uncle Braefar himself awarded me this for courage. It should have been awarded by the king – but that would have been too embarrassing.'

Parax heard the rising anger in the young man's voice and changed the subject. 'So why did you allow me to find you?'

Bane laughed. 'You didn't find me, Parax. I found you. I felt sorry for you. It must be hard to lose one's skills.'

'Aye, it is hard. Though I doubt you'll live long enough to know how hard it is. So, why are we having this meeting?'

The young man did not answer at first. He carried the pan to the stream, washed it, dried it with grass, then returned it to the old man's pack. Then he stretched out by the fire. 'I was intrigued. I know why Uncle Braefar's men were after me. But not why the King's Hunter should have been sent. Nor, indeed, why you did not ride with the other hunters.'

'The king does not want to see you dead,' said Parax.

Bane gave a scornful laugh. 'Is that so? My father does not want to see me dead. How touching. In all my life he has not spoken to me – save when I won the Beltine Race and he awarded the prize. "Well done." In my seventeen years they are the only two words I have heard my father speak. And now I am to believe he is concerned for my welfare?'

'I cannot speak for his concerns. He asked me to find you. Gave me a bag of gold to give you.'

'A bag of gold? What a sweet man!' Bane spat into the fire.

'He is a good man,' said Parax softly.

'Be careful, old man,' warned Bane. 'I am not known to be overly forgiving. I have killed two men in the past five days. A third will not trouble my conscience.'

'My understanding is that they spoke slightingly of your dead mother, then waylaid you after you had beaten them with your fists. A trial would most certainly have seen you acquitted.'

'And this bag of gold is to aid my trial?'

'No,' admitted Parax. 'It is to help you once you have left Rigante lands. The men you killed were kin to the general, Fiallach. He has sworn a blood oath to fight you. The king does not want either of you hurt.'

Bane laughed, the sound merry and full of humour. 'He doesn't want Uncle Fiallach killed, you mean?'

'If that is what he had meant, then that is what he would have said,' snapped Parax.

'I like loyalty,' said Bane. 'I don't have much experience of it, but I like it none the less. So I will let you live, and I will take the bag of gold.' His voice hardened, and an edge of cold fury showed through. 'But maybe I will not leave. Maybe I will stay and challenge Fiallach. And cut his throat in front of the king.'

Parax was silent for a moment. 'I have rarely seen such depths of anger in a man,' he said. 'It saddens me, Bane. Fiallach is headstrong. He is also a great fighter, but more than that he is married to your mother's sister. You think your mother's spirit would rejoice in seeing the father of her nephews cut down by her son?'

'No, she wouldn't,' he admitted, his anger fading. Parax saw the sorrow in his eyes. In that moment, with the ferocity disappearing, he looked much younger. 'I will let him live,' he said. 'Did you know my mother?'

'No. I knew of her.'

'And what does that mean?' asked Bane icily.

'It means I know the history, boy. She was Connavar's first love, but she married another man when she thought Conn was dying. That marriage did not succeed.'

'No need to be coy, you old bastard! The marriage did not succeed because Connavar forced himself upon her and sired me. Then he left her in disgrace. Never spoke to her thereafter. Her life was ruined, and she died a sad and broken woman. Let us understand the full history.'

'That is not even close to being the full story, but it is not for me to debate it. I will ask this, though: did your mother ever say he forced himself upon her?'

'She didn't have to.'

Parax sighed. 'It seems to me men always believe what they want to believe. No point arguing over it. It is time for me to be going.' He walked to his pony, opened his saddlebag and pulled forth the pouch of gold, which he tossed to the young man.

Bane laughed. 'Now you can ride back to the king and tell him his old hunter is still the best there ever was. He found the Wolfshead when no-one else could.'

'I shall tell him the truth – and I shall hunt no more.'

'Well,' said Bane quietly, 'if you're going to tell him the truth, tell him that I have always hated him, and that one day I shall cut his vile heart out for what he did to my mother.'

'You would have to be very, very good to defeat Fiallach,' said Parax. 'But to kill Connavar you would have to be the best there ever was. And you are not that, boy. Not by a damn sight.'

'Perhaps I will be when next we meet,' said Bane softly.

Parax climbed wearily into the saddle. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'I may be old, Bane, and my physical skills faded and gone. But my mind is still sharp, and it hunts the truth as well as it ever did. Why did you not wait for the trial, and walk free? And once you decided to run why did you remain in these hills playing catch-as-catch-can with the hunters?'

'Because I am a free man, and I live as I please.'

'No, it is because you want it to end,' said Parax. 'Grief-stricken at the loss of your mother, and hurting from a life of rejection and denial, you are waiting for death. Longing for it perhaps. So I hope you are right, boy. I hope you will ride from here and spend time developing your skills. For, like Connavar, you have it in you to be a great man. And, like him, I don't want to see you dead.'

With that Parax heeled the pony forward and rode from the clearing.

Most people felt the years had been kind to Vorna the Midwife. Now in her fifties, her long hair was still predominantly black, though streaked with silver, her skin smooth. She looked like a woman ten years younger as she sat on the porch of her house, watching the last of the sunshine bathing the settlement of Three Streams.

Such is the power of Wicca, she thought. The earth magic ran in her blood, slowing down the ageing process. Once she had been widely known as Vorna the Witch, respected and feared by the populace. Now, with them believing her powers to be gone, she had found popularity, and treasured it. It was pleasant that people waved and smiled when they saw her. It was good when they invited her into their homes.

Yes, she thought, the years have been kind to Vorna.

She shivered suddenly, though it was not cold. From here she could see Nanncumal's forge, and hear the steady thumping of his hammer, and, to the right, the house once occupied by Connavar's parents, Ruathain and Meria. Vorna sighed as the old memories flowed. She glanced at the towering peaks of Caer Druagh, the fading sunlight turning the snow to pale gold. So little has changed in the mountains, she thought. And yet so much in our own lives.

Looking back over the meadow to Ruathain's old house Vorna pictured him strolling across the grass, her son on his massive shoulders. Ruathain had always seemed so full of life and strength. Vorna closed her eyes. Living with regret was futile, she knew. A waste of time and emotion. But as one got older it became harder to avoid it. Best to endure it, and let it pass.

Sitting in the sunshine Vorna saw again her own husband, the little Stone merchant, Banouin, setting off on his last ride, the young Connavar beside him. Banouin had turned and waved, then blown her a kiss. The memory still brought a knot to her stomach and a lump to her throat. He had not lived to see his son born.

Now the young Banouin had also ridden away. He too had turned and waved from the hilltop. And Vorna was alone once more – just as she had been all those years ago, before Connavar had fought the bear. Before she had danced with Banouin on Feast Night. Before she lost her witch's powers. Before she had secretly regained them.

Vorna stood and walked to the first stream, stopping to enjoy the beauty of the pale purple foxgloves growing along the banks. Her thoughts were mellow, almost to the point of melancholy, and it seemed to her that the ghosts of the past were standing close. The mighty Ruathain, the earth maiden Eriatha, the crippled Riamfada, and the tormented Arian.

'I hope you are now at rest, child,' whispered Vorna. Thinking of Arian brought thoughts of her son, Bane. Such a terrible name to give a child. It meant 'curse' in the old tongue. Arian, in her selfishness and her grief, had wanted all the Rigante to know of her suffering.

Yet despite the burden of his name the boy had developed well – save for his word-blindness. The king had decreed that all Rigante children should learn to read and write. For some reason that Vorna could not understand Bane, despite his intelligence and the quickness of his wit, could not grasp the skill. The druid, Brother Solstice, who taught the children of Three Streams, sent Bane to her home, to study with Banouin, who had mastered the lessons with ease. But even with the tireless help of Banouin the young Bane struggled.

Bane had other skills, however, and some of them brought great delight to Vorna. She smiled as she remembered the badger cub.

Looking round to make sure she was alone she knelt and drew a circle in the air, then whispered three Words of Power – ancient words in a language no longer spoken by men. A silver circle glowed into life among the foxgloves. Vorna gently blew a breath into it. The air within the circle rippled like a heat haze and an image formed there. Vorna gazed once more at the nine-year-old boy and the blind badger cub. Kneeling among the flowers Vorna watched the silent scene unfold, her mind drifting back to that early summer night eight years before.

The sun had been down for around an hour when she heard the rap at the door. Climbing from her bed Vorna had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked out into the night. Bane was standing in the moonlight, a very young badger nestling against his leg. As she opened the door she saw the badger's shoulders bunch, its black and silver head swaying from side to side.

'What are you doing with that beast?' asked Vorna, keeping her voice low.

'I was in the woods,' said the child. 'I saw it. It moved past me, then bumped into a tree. Then it stumbled over a rabbit hole. There's something wrong with its eyes, Vorna.'

'How did you get it back here?'

'It took a long time,' said the boy. 'Watch!' He moved away from the cub, then knelt and made clicking noises with his tongue and teeth. The cub swayed from side to side, then moved towards the sound. As he reached Bane the boy stroked its brow. 'It was like this. I got him to follow me, but he kept wandering away. It took hours to get him here. Can you heal him?'

'There is no herb for blindness, Bane,' she said.

'But can you heal him?'

'What makes you think that I can?' she had asked, warily.

'I can keep secrets,' he countered. 'And you can trust me.'

She looked into the child's odd eyes and smiled. 'I think that I can,' she said. Then she had knelt by the badger and gently placed her hands on its head, allowing her spirit to flow into the beast's bloodstream, and on through its body. The badger cub fell into a deep sleep. It was badly malnourished, and infested with fleas and worms. But the worst of the problems lay in the brain. A cancerous growth was pressing against its skull, causing the blindness. Opening her eyes she turned to the boy. 'There is a shoulder of cold ham in the larder. Put it in a bowl and fetch it here. And try not to wake Banouin!'

Bane ran off and returned with the meat. Placing one hand on the ham, the other on the badger's head she closed her eyes once more. Now she flowed within the cancer, feeling the pulse of its life, its need to grow. With infinite care she honed her concentration, and began to draw the rogue cells into her own body, sucking them through her bloodstream, breaking them down, reconstituting them, transmuting them from flesh to energy. The cold ham began to writhe under her hand, maggots crawling over her fingers. Sweat beaded her brow, and ran in rivulets down her cheeks. Still she held the focus. At last, satisfied that she had removed all trace of the cancer from the cub, she sat back and opened her eyes. Bane was staring in horror at the putrid, writhing mass that the ham had become.

'Those maggots were in the badger?' he asked.

'In a way. Take it and bury it. Then we will wake the little beast and feed it.'

'I will tell no-one, Vorna. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that.'

'How long have you known?'

'I saw you light a fire last year with a flick of your fingers. I was outside the window. I have told no-one.'

'Why did you keep the secret?'

'Because it was your secret,' he said. 'And I thought you would not want people to share it.'

'You were right. Now bury that meat.'

Vorna smiled at the scene in the circle, then flicked her fingers. The circle vanished and she rose to her feet. As she did so she saw a rider angling a dappled grey down from the eastern woods. 'Reckless boy,' she whispered. But she felt her spirits lift a little as the young fugitive crossed the bridge and cantered across the meadow. He drew up in front of the house and leapt down, a wide smile on his face, sunlight glinting on his golden hair.

'I hope you have food ready,' he said. 'I was tempted to stop and eat the horse.'

'Foolish child!' she admonished him. 'Of all the places to come. Do you want the hunters to find you?'

'Ah, you worry too much. Anyway, they are miles away and will not be back until well after dark.' He grinned at her, then led the grey gelding into the barn. Vorna sighed, shook her head and walked into the house. Cutting a large slice of meat pie she scooped it onto a plate and laid it on the dining table. Bane stepped into the room, pushed closed the door and sat down. Vorna poured him a mug of water, then sat by the hearth, waiting until he had finished his meal.

It was cool in the room and Vorna whispered a Word of Power. Flames sprang up in the fireplace, licking around the dry wood.

'I never tire of seeing you do that,' said Bane, rising from the table and seating himself in the old horsehide chair opposite Vorna.

She smiled as she looked at him. He had his father's eyes and his mother's beauty. 'What are your plans?' she asked him.

Bane shrugged. 'I have none. But I do have a bag of gold. A present from my loving father. Ah, but his kindness touches the heart.'

'He was always kind to me,' she said, 'but let us not argue the point. I am far too fond of you to wish to see you angry.'

'I couldn't be angry with you, Vorna,' he said. 'Next to my mother you have been my greatest friend. I see Banouin has already left. You think he'll come back?'

'That will depend on whether he finds what he's looking for,' she said, her voice heavy with sadness. She looked into Bane's strange eyes. 'It will also depend on whether he survives to find it.'

'You think he is in danger? Have you had a vision?'

'I have many visions, but none concerning my son. Or you. I think my love for you both blocks my power. What I do know is that he is riding south, through a wartorn land full of violence and destruction. And he is not a warrior, Bane. You know that.'

'Aye, I do. He is not… strong,' he finished lamely.

'You are a good friend to him,' she said, with a smile. 'You always were.'

He blushed. 'I know I always got him into trouble, and you were constantly scolding me.'

She shook her head. 'You never were very comfortable with compliments. Even as a child.'

Bane chuckled. 'Never received enough to become accustomed to them.' He walked to the window and pushed open the shutters. Then he scanned the hills. The sound of hammering was still coming from Nanncumal's forge. 'Poor grandfather,' he said softly. 'First his wife, then his daughter. He has suffered much.'

'You have forgiven him?' asked Vorna.

'Aye, I have. It was hard for him to have a disgraced daughter back in his house. In some ways I think he blamed me. But he was never harsh to me. He was even kindly in his own way. When I saw him weep at my mother's death all the anger just flowed away from me.' Turning back towards her he gave a rueful smile. 'Difficult to hate a man who loved someone that you loved.'

'That is a good lesson to learn,' she said.

'I'm not awfully good at learning lessons,' he admitted. 'I can write my name and the word for horse.' Returning to the fire he sat back, resting his blond head on the back of the chair. 'I have always liked this room,' he said. 'It is so calm here. I feel at peace.'

'I know what you mean,' Vorna told him. 'It is a good house. Many happy memories are stored in these walls.'

He sat up. 'I spent three nights in your old cave. Threw the hunters off the scent. How long did you live there?'

'Twenty-five years.'

'I was going out of my mind by the fourth morning. How could you dwell in such a desolate place?'

'I was a different person then. Younger, more bitter.'

'That's where you saved Connavar's life,' he said. 'I thought of that often as I hid there.'

'Had I not done so you would never have been born,' she pointed out. 'And I would not have wed Banouin's father. Hence no Banouin. And what would the world have been without you two?'

'Duller,' he said. His smile faded. 'Tell me about Connavar and the bear.'

'What is it you wish to know? Everyone knows the story.'

'Aye, they do. But is it all true, Vorna? Did he really stand against the beast to save his crippled friend? Or was there another reason?'

'No other reason. He tried to carry Riamfada away from danger, but the bear was coming fast. So he put his friend down and turned to face it, armed with just a dagger. He was two years younger than you are now.' Vorna sighed. 'Do not look so disappointed, Bane. Would you want your father to be a coward?'

'Probably. I don't know, Vorna. Everywhere I go men talk of his legend. His battle against the Sea Wolves, the ride of the Iron Wolves to smash the Stone Panthers at Cogden Field, the siege of Barrow Hill. The great Connavar! The hero! How could such a hero desert my mother? How could he let his son grow without even a gesture of parental affection?'

Vorna took a deep breath. 'Perhaps you should ask him.'

'Maybe I will one day.'

She saw a touch of sadness cross his face. You are so young, she thought. Little more than a boy. But then another fear touched her. 'What are you planning to do?' she asked him.

'Do? Why, I shall run the hunters ragged until they catch me.' He gave a bright smile, but she held to his gaze.

'Speak to me with truth,' she said softly. 'What are you planning?'

'I have no plans, Vorna.' He sighed. 'Do you think my mother really liked me?'

'What do you mean? Of course she liked you. She loved you. Why would you ask a thing like that?'

'Sometimes she would look at me strangely, then she'd cry and tell me to get out of her sight. Once she even told me I was the cause of all her suffering.'

'Aye, she could be thoughtless sometimes,' said Vorna. 'You were not the cause, Bane. Neither was Connavar. We are all victims of our own natures. Arian was not perfect. But she loved you. I know this to be true, and you know I would not lie to you.'

'I know, Vorna. I saw the old hunter, Parax, yesterday. The king sent him to find me.'

'If anyone could find you it is Parax,' she said.

'Yes indeed,' he said. 'He's a canny old man. Very wise. Predicted my future. Anyway, I should be going. I want to thank you for everything you've done for me.'

The fear in Vorna grew. Reaching out with her Talent she touched his mind. Grief, anguish and emptiness filled her, and with it a desire for death. 'Wait!' she said, as he walked to the door. 'If you have no plans there is something I would like you to do for me.'

'I'd do anything for you, Vorna. You know that.'

'Find Banouin. Travel with him and keep him safe. It would mean a great deal to me,' she added, as he paused in the doorway, 'to know that you were together.'

Bane glanced out of the open door. 'Ah, here they come,' he said. 'Riding like the wind! Time for me to go.' Then he grinned, and Vorna relaxed, for it was the old Bane she saw now, bright and full of life. 'Don't worry about Banouin,' he said. 'I'll find him and ride with him.'

'I hoped that you would,' she said. 'But it does my heart good to hear you say it. Now go quickly.'

He gave a wide smile, stepped back into the room and hoisted her high, planting a kiss on both her cheeks. 'You take care,' he told her. 'There are not many in this world that I love.'

Bane put her down. Vorna reached up and stroked his face. 'Ride now!'

He ran from the house. Vorna stood in the doorway and watched as he thundered the grey across the meadow, leapt the three-rail fence, and galloped towards the southern hills.

The twenty hunters swung their mounts and gave chase.

'You will not catch him,' said Vorna softly.

Not for the first time Banouin reined in his chestnut gelding and looked back towards the north. Through a gap in the tall pines he could still just see the distant peaks. He glanced to the south, and the beckoning lowlands, and knew that as soon as he crested the last rise Caer Druagh would become but a memory. Sadness touched the young man, and this he found surprising.

Banouin had never enjoyed life among the Rigante. As a child he had loathed the boisterous play, the emphasis on physical strength, the feuding and the fighting. The Rigante, he had discovered to his cost, were a hot-headed, volatile people, quick to anger. And yet his spirit was heavy as he thought of his departure.

The day was bright and clear, the sun warm. Banouin pushed his hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. I must cut it before crossing the water, he thought. Citizens of Stone wear their hair short, close-cropped. They also shave daily as beards or moustaches are for barbarians. His thoughts drifted away from the wild Druagh mountains, and he pictured the legendary city of Stone: the city of his father.

People had always spoken highly of the first Banouin – the little Foreigner who had come to live among the People, and who had married the former witch, Vorna. A fine man, they said, kind and brave. He had been murdered by the Perdii king nineteen years ago.

With one last glance at Caer Druagh, Banouin heeled the gelding forward and started down the slope.

'What was my father like?' he had once asked his mother.

'He was not tall, but he was handsome and dark-haired, like you.'

'Did he have blue eyes like ours?'

'No, they were dark.'

'Did people bully him when he was a boy?'

'We never spoke of his childhood, my son. They did not bully him as a man, however.'

Banouin rode on. He had crossed the river yesterday, and was, as far as he could judge, a day's ride from the Southern Rigante settlement of Gilrath. His horse – a gift from the king – was still fresh and strong, though it was a little too spirited for Banouin's taste. Each morning it would stare at him balefully, and, when saddled, would buck several times, jarring Banouin's bones. The young rider felt the horse did not like him, and was only allowing him to ride under sufferance.

'He's a good mount,' Connavar had told him. 'He will not let you down.' Banouin always felt uncomfortable in the presence of the king. He was a man of immense physical power, a known warrior and leader, but it was the eyes that disturbed Banouin. They were just like Bane's, one green, the other gold. And when he looked at you it seemed as if he could read your heart.

'Thank you, sir. And thank you for all your kindness to my mother and me.'

'Whisht, boy, I have done little enough. Are you sure you want to undertake this journey?'

'I am sure, sir. I want to see the land of my father.'

'A man should always know where he comes from,' said Connavar. 'And find pride in it. Your father was a great man. He taught me much of value. I treasure his memory.'

Banouin had been envious of that. He would love to have memories of his father that he could treasure. Instead, when he thought back to his early childhood, he could recall only the Big Man, Ruathain, who had carried him on his shoulders, and taken him out to see the cattle herds.

Even now, so many years after Ruathain's death, Banouin still felt a deep sadness when he thought of him. With his wide smile, his long yellow hair, and the colossal breadth of his shoulders, he had seemed to the child to be immortal and invulnerable. When he had died after the Pannone battle Banouin's small world had been rocked to its foundations.

Within the year the child had discovered other causes for sorrow. The Stone army had landed far to the south, and tales of battles and slaughter began to flow north. The other Rigante children had turned on Banouin, sneering at his blood line, mocking him, taunting him. Then the beatings had begun, and the child had lived in almost permanent fear.

For years he suffered, most especially at the hands of Forvar. The red-headed boy seemed to take enormous delight in causing him pain. Once he had tied Banouin to a tree and prepared a fire around his feet. He did not light it, but constantly pretended to. The nine-year-old Banouin had wet himself in fear.

Childhood had few happy memories for Banouin. What joy there was – apart from his friendship with Bane – had come from his daydreams. He would travel to Stone and become a citizen. They had schools there, and universities. A man could study and learn, and live peacefully without fear of violence and threats. A merchant told him once that there was a great library in Stone, containing more than twelve thousand scrolls, and many artefacts of wonder. From that moment Banouin had wanted nothing more than to journey there, and sit in peaceful contemplation. He had badgered Brother Solstice the druid to teach him to read and write in Turgon, the language of Stone, and he had spent many useful months at Old Oaks talking to Stone merchants, building a mental picture of the city of his dreams. He knew the names of each of the five hills, the positions of the parks and monuments. The Great Library had been built in the Park of Phesus, beside an artificial lake. It was approached along an avenue of flowering trees. In spring their blossom was pink and white, in autumn the leaves turned to red and gold. Marble benches were set around the lake, and students would sit there in the sunshine, and discuss philosophy with their tutors.

Banouin shivered with pleasure at the thought. No more running through the woods in fear. No more to hear the screaming and shouting of wild Rigante youngsters, and listen to their bragging about their exploits in future battles. He doubted that the citizens of Stone ever boasted about who could fart the loudest or piss the farthest.

For several hours Banouin rode on. Then he began to look for a place to camp. Angling away from the open land he steered his mount into a grove of trees, seeking a sheltered spot beside a stream. The gelding sniffed the air, and its head came up. Releasing the reins Banouin allowed the animal to find its own way to water. Easing through the dense undergrowth he saw a long oval pond, decorated with white water lilies and surrounded by willows, whose branches trailed in the clear water. Several white swans were gliding gracefully upon the surface. It was an idyllic spot. Banouin dismounted and unsaddled the gelding, holding it back from the water while he brushed it down.

An hour later, with the chestnut hobbled and cropping grass, Banouin sat by the waterside watching golden fish just below the surface. He relaxed, savouring the moment. Then his Talent touched him – an icy needle of fear pricking at his mind. His mother had always said that one day he would discover how to fully use the skills he inherited from her, but he never had. He experienced no visions, had no healing touch, and could not read the minds of men. But when danger was close Banouin would always know. That – so far – was the limit of his power.

And danger was close.

Banouin's mouth was dry as he slowly rose from the water's edge and turned. Three men were emerging from the trees – tough, grim-faced men. They wore no cloaks. Their clothes were ragged, their breeches poorly crafted from buckskin. All wore swords and knives. Banouin struggled to contain his fear.

'Good day to you,' he said.

The first of the three approached him. His left eye socket was empty and Banouin saw that three fingers were missing from his left hand. In that moment he experienced his first vision. He saw the man running into battle, swinging an iron sword. He was wearing the green and blue chequered cloak of the Rigante. An arrow struck the bridge of his nose, cutting through his eye. He stumbled, but then ran on at the enemy.

'Who are you?' asked the man, his voice deep and unfriendly.

'I am a Rigante, like you,' said Banouin. 'I am from Three Streams.'

'I am not Rigante,' said the man. 'I am a Cast-out. A Wolfs-head.'

'You fought bravely at Cogden Field. Why would they throw you out?'

The man looked surprised. 'You know me? No, you are too young to remember Cogden.'

'I'll take the tunic,' said the second man, a hulking figure with a thick, matted black beard. Banouin glanced at him. The man's face was flat and expressionless, his small eyes deep-set and cold.

'Why should you get the tunic?' asked the third man, who was smaller, with a thin, wispy blond moustache. 'It'll be far too small for you.'

'I'll sell it,' said Black Beard. 'You can have the breeches and boots.'

'Why are you doing this?' asked Banouin, fighting to keep his voice calm.

The one-eyed man stepped in close. 'Because we are robbers, idiot. Now remove your clothing, and perhaps we'll let you live.'

Banouin looked into the man's single eye and saw no pity there. His legs started to tremble, and he felt just as he had when Forvar tied him to the tree. His heart beat wildly, and he hoped his bladder would not betray him. 'You will not let me live,' he said. 'You intend to kill me, but you do not wish my blood upon the clothes, nor cuts through the cloth. What kind of men are you?'

'Scum of the worst kind,' said a voice. Startled, the men spun to see a golden-haired warrior leading a dappled grey horse through the trees. Dropping the reins he drew a longsword from a scabbard attached to the saddle and strolled forward.

'Don't fight them, Bane,' pleaded Banouin. 'Just let them go.'

'You don't change, do you?' said the warrior amiably. 'Always soft-hearted. We can't just let them go. What about the next traveller who passes this way? We'll be dooming him. These creatures are vermin. They should be treated as such.'

'Vermin!' hissed the one-eyed man. 'Who do you-?'

Bane raised a hand. 'If you don't mind,' he said, 'I was talking to my friend. So if you value the last moments of your miserable life, be silent. Take a lingering look at the swans, or the trees, or whatever.' He turned back to Banouin. 'Why do you want them to live? They were about to kill you.'

Banouin pointed to the one-eyed man. 'He was a hero at Cogden Field. He was proud and brave. In terrible pain he fought and gave no ground. His eye was torn out by an arrow, his hand mutilated. Yet he stood firm, with all the other heroes. I do not know what has made him what he is, but he could be a good man again. If you kill him he will never have the chance.'

Bane swung his gaze to the other two men. 'And what of these? You think they might choose one day to be gentle druids, or healers?'

'I do not know anything about them. But I ask you to let them go. No harm has been done.'

'Why are we listening to this?' Black Beard asked One-eye. 'He's just one man!'

'Indeed he is, you ugly whoreson,' said Bane, 'and he'd be grateful if you'd just draw your sword and put an end to this debate.'

'Leave your sword where it is!' shouted Banouin. 'Please, Bane, just let them go.'

Bane sighed. Moving to One-eye he placed his hand on the man's shoulder. 'He has been like this since a child,' he said. 'It is beyond understanding. I blame the mixed blood, and the fact that his mother is a witch. You know, when other children tormented him he never sought revenge. Has no understanding of hate at all. I've never known anyone like him.' He sighed again. 'And he brings out the worst in me. So, against my better judgement, I'll let you live.' Suddenly he brightened. 'Unless, of course, you'd prefer to fight?'

One-eye shrugged off Bane's hand and walked to where Banouin stood. 'I am not afraid of death,' he said. 'You believe me?'

'I do,' said Banouin.

'I am glad we didn't kill you,' said One-eye. 'It was good to be reminded of what I once was. You really believe I can become that man again?'

'If you choose to,' said Banouin.

'Probably too late for me,' said the man sadly. Gesturing to the others he walked away. The slim blond man followed instantly, but Black Beard stood for a moment, staring malevolently at Bane.

'Any time, goat-face,' said Bane.

'Karn!' yelled One-eye. 'Let's go!'

Reluctantly Karn followed the others.

Bane sat down on a fallen tree and looked at his friend. 'That was a mistake,' he said.

'What are you doing here?' asked Banouin.

'Looking after you, apparently. Do you have any food?'

It took Banouin an age to light a small fire, but finally tiny flames licked at the tinder. Bane had wandered off, and Banouin unpacked his saddlebag, removing an old copper pot, a wooden plate, a bag of dried oats, and a chunk of dry-cured salt beef. The sun was dipping below the horizon when Bane returned. He squatted down next to Banouin.

'Time to go,' he said.

'Go? I've only just got the fire going.'

'Life just isn't fair,' said Bane. 'But if you'd like to be alive in the morning I suggest you saddle your horse.'

'One-eye won't come back,' said Banouin. 'I looked into his mind, and I know there is still some good in him.'

'Maybe he won't, but the big ugly one will. And he won't come alone.'

Bane moved to his horse and mounted. Banouin repacked his saddlebag, tacked up the chestnut and went back to the fire. 'Leave it,' said Bane. 'In fact, add a little more wood. It'll draw them, throw them off the scent.'

Banouin did so, then climbed into the saddle and the two men rode out of the woods and down the slope to the old road.

The horses plodded on as the sun fell. It was colder now, the wind sharp. Banouin lifted his cloak from behind the saddle, untied the thongs and swung it round his shoulders. The sudden flaring of cloth alarmed the chestnut, who reared suddenly, dumping the young man from the saddle. He landed heavily. The gelding ran off to the south. Bane heeled his mount and raced after it. Banouin sat up. He felt sick and dizzy. Bane rode back leading the runaway.

The stars were bright now, a crescent moon shining in the sky. 'Are you hurt?' asked Bane.

'No. But you were wrong about me not knowing how to hate. I'm beginning to loathe that horse.'

Wearily Banouin stepped back into the saddle. Bane led them away from the road and down into a tree-lined hollow where they made camp. Bane lit a small fire, its light shielded by boulders. Then he moved away into the trees. When he returned he sat down beside Banouin. 'You can't see the fire from the road,' he said. 'We ought to be relatively safe here.'

Once again Banouin unpacked the utensils and the food. There was a stream close by and Banouin filled the pot, added oats and salt, and set it over the fire.

'Thank you for saving my life,' he said at last.

'That's what friends are for,' replied Bane brightly. They ate in silence, and Bane lay down, his head upon his saddle, his cloak as a blanket.

Banouin was not tired, and sat quietly by the fire, feeding it with dry sticks and watching the flames leap and dance. The incident with the robbers had left him both disappointed and dejected. It had shown how far he was from being a Rigante warrior. Not once had he even considered drawing the hunting knife at his belt. He had been paralysed with fear, and within moments of begging for his life.

He glanced down at the sleeping Bane. His arrival had surprised them, but it was his confidence that had cowed them. It seemed to Banouin that his friend had radiated power and purpose. You ought to be a leader of men, he thought, not a Wolfshead, living outside the law.

And yet, Banouin knew, Bane's whole life had been moving inexorably towards this point. Beneath the easy banter, behind the reckless smile, there was a bottomless well of bitterness and anger that drove him on, rebelling against authority, creating enemies who could so easily have been friends.

Was it merely the lack of a father, Banouin wondered, or would his friend have been just the same regardless? Who could tell?

Banouin's thoughts swung to Forvar, the boy who had tormented him for most of his life. He had not hated him. Forvar's father and two uncles had been killed in the Battle of Cogden Field – killed by soldiers of Stone. Banouin understood how the boy had come to despise Stone and everything connected with it. Forvar did not truly hate Banouin, but Banouin represented a focal point for his hatred. By hounding and torturing Banouin he was releasing his own pent-up pain and sense of loss.

Understanding, however, did not help. It did not ease the suffering. Banouin had tried talking to Forvar, but his mind was closed, his hatred overwhelming.

Two years ago it had come to a head. Banouin had been walking in the hills near the Wishing Tree woods when Forvar and a group of his friends had come walking back from the Riguan Falls, where they had been swimming. Seeing Banouin they had chased him, yelling and whooping. Banouin had fled back towards Three Streams, but he was not a fast runner and they overhauled him. They had beaten and kicked him. Then, as he lay semi-conscious on the ground, Forvar had drawn a knife. Banouin remembered the moment, and the sense of sick dread that had swept over him. He had looked into Forvar's tortured eyes and known, without any semblance of doubt, that the big youth was about to plunge the blade into his heart.

As the knife came up a shadow fell across Banouin. Something dark flashed across his vision and there was a sickening thud, followed by a loud crack. Banouin blinked. Bane was standing there, a long, heavy lump of wood in his hands. Forvar was on the ground, his neck twisted at a bizarre angle. With trembling limbs Banouin pushed himself to his knees. Forvar was dead, his friends standing by, shocked and frozen.

'You killed him!' whispered Huin, Forvar's younger brother.

Bane tossed the blood-smeared club to the ground and swung to Banouin, hauling him to his feet. 'How badly are you hurt?' he asked.

Banouin did not reply. He could not tear his eyes from the corpse.

There had been a full inquest, with a jury of nine, held under the direction of the Laird Braefar. Here it was decided that the death was caused by misadventure. Forvar had died as the result of his unwarranted attack on Banouin. Bane had not intended to kill him, but merely to stop him killing another boy.

The fire died away, and Banouin settled down to sleep.

He awoke with the dawn and nudged Bane, who merely grunted and turned over. Banouin shook his shoulder. Bane yawned and sat up. 'You sleep too deeply,' said Banouin.

'Aye, it has always been a problem to me. But I was having the most wonderful dream. There were these two sisters…'

'Please!' interrupted Banouin with mock severity. 'No sexual fantasies before breakfast.'

Bane chuckled, and walked to the stream, where he stripped off his pale green shirt and doused his head and chest with water. After they had breakfasted on dried fruit and meat they saddled their mounts and began to ride up out of the hollow. Bane was whistling a merry tune, and seemed in good spirits. He steered his horse away from the trail. Banouin called out to him. That looks a more difficult climb,' he said.

'I think it might be quicker,' said Bane.

'Well, you can go that way,' Banouin told him, and continued on the easier route. At the edge of the trees he drew rein, and gazed down, horror-struck. A man's body lay there, the throat cut, blood pooling on the earth. It was the black-bearded Karn. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the morning sky.

Bane rode alongside his friend. 'He and two others came back in the night,' he said quietly.

'Two others?'

'Aye. They ran off. You were right, though. One-eye was not among them.'

'So you killed Black Beard, then came back to sleep?' stormed Banouin.

'I was tired. Don't you sleep when you're tired? What would you have had me do? Wake you when they were coming? For what purpose? I love you, my friend, but you are not a fighter. And there was no point in waking you after they'd gone.'

Banouin dragged his eyes from the corpse and heeled the chestnut up the slope and out on to the road.

Bane followed him. 'You want to hear my dream now?'

'No, I do not,' snapped Banouin. There is a man dead back there. Killed by you. And it means nothing to you, does it?'

'What should it mean? They came to kill us. Would you prefer it if we were dead?'

Banouin drew rein and took a deep breath, trying to ease the anger from his system. He looked at his friend, saw the genuine confusion in his eyes. 'Of course I am glad we are alive,' he said. 'It is not the fact that you killed him, Bane, but that it did not touch you. Perhaps he had a wife and children. Perhaps he once had the chance to be a good man. Perhaps he might have had that chance again. Now he never will. Carrion birds and foxes will feast on his flesh, and worms will devour the rest.'

Bane laughed. 'He was just a turd, floating on the stream of life. The land is better off without him.'

'In his case that may be true,' agreed Banouin. 'But what I fear is that you kill too swiftly. You like to kill. But how long before a good man falls beneath your blade, a kind man, a loving man?'

Bane shrugged. The only men who will die by my blade are those who choose to attack me. That is their choice, not mine. I knew that black-bearded whoreson would come back. So I rested a little, then went out to meet them.'

'You enjoyed it, though, didn't you?' accused Banouin. 'As you cut his throat you felt a surge of exultation.'

'Aye, I did!' snapped Bane. 'And what of it? He was my enemy and I vanquished him. That is what true men do. We fight and we know pride – and we leave the women to sit in the corners and wail over the dead.'

'True men?' said Banouin slowly. 'Of course. True men do not wish to live quiet lives, in harmony with their neighbours. They don't waste time poring over useless scrolls and trying to assimilate the wisdom of the ancients. They don't long for a world without wars and bloodshed and death. No. True men joy in the slitting of throats in the dark.'

Bane shook his head. 'I won't argue with you, Banouin. If words were arrows you'd be the deadliest man alive. But this is not a debate. They came to kill us. One of them died for it. And no, it doesn't touch me. Any more than it did when I aimed that blow at Forvar's neck.'

All colour drained from Banouin's face. 'You mean you meant to kill him?'

'Aye, I meant to kill him. And I have not suffered a moment of regret since.'

'That is where you and I are different,' said Banouin sadly. 'I have not known a day when I have not thought of it with regret.'

'This is a pointless conversation,' said Bane. 'And you have made me forget my dream.'