Midnight Falcon

Chapter Two

On the fifth day they entered the lands of the Southern Rigante, a wide, rolling plain that seemed to stretch before them into eternity. Looking back Banouin could see no sign of Caer Druagh. The mountains of his home were more than two hundred miles distant now. For the next ten days he and Bane rode ever south, spending their nights in villages and settlements. They were always made welcome, for all the tribespeople were anxious for news of Connavar, the Demon King. Did he have plans to ride south and smash the armies of Stone and the treacherous Cenii? Was he wed, and did he have an heir? Banouin had little to tell them, but Bane was a great storyteller and a fine singer, and he would sit with the tribesmen in the evenings, drinking ale and swapping tall stories, and finally leading them in a series of rousing songs. Not once did he mention that he was Connavar's son, nor did he speak disrespectfully of the king while with strangers. This surprised Banouin, and he asked his companion about it one morning as they rode away from a settlement.

'I have reason to hate him,' said Bane, his expression unusually serious. 'But he did save these people when Valanus led the Panthers north. It was Connavar and the Iron Wolves who crushed the advance, and drove the enemy back into the lands of the Cenii. I cannot take that away from him. My hatred is mine alone.'

On the eighteenth day they reached the River Wir, and journeyed by flat-bottomed boat for two hundred miles. The days were pleasant on the water, watching the countryside glide by. At the start Banouin was nervous of the four-man crew, who seemed to him to be cut-throats. Bane laughed his fears away. He and the crew got on famously. Each night they would moor the craft near settlements, allowing the two companions to lead their mounts ashore to feed.

One evening, the day they crossed the border into Norvii lands, Bane got into an argument with a huge tribesman and they moved outside to settle it with fists. The fight was fast, furious and ugly, but at the close, with both men bloodied and bruised, Bane suddenly began to laugh.

'What is so funny?' asked his opponent.

'Well,' said Bane, 'you are the ugliest whoreson I've ever seen. But the more I beat upon your face the better-looking it gets.'

The men crowding around burst into laughter. At last even the fighter grinned. 'You're a cocky little game-bird,' he said.

'I am indeed. Can I buy you a drink?'

'Why not?' replied the man.

Banouin could not duplicate Bane's easy familiarity with the people they met, and would often find himself sitting alone in a corner, observing. He envied, with just a touch of bitterness, Bane's ability to make friends. Banouin thought about the river crew. Hard men who would think nothing of killing a passenger and heaving his body over the side had warmed to Bane as if he were a blood relative. It was mystifying. Yet Bane was not always full of camaraderie. Often he would fall silent for long periods, his expression dark and brooding. Sometimes, when in such a mood, he would avoid settlements and the two travellers would go ashore and camp out in woods or hollows. He would talk then of his sadness for the life his mother had led, and how she had been shunned by the folk of Three Streams.

'Not all of them,' Banouin pointed out, as they sat in the moonlight beside a small fire. 'She used to visit my mother. And the Big Man was good to you both.'

'I don't remember him,' said Bane. 'I was too young when he died. But my mother spoke of him often. She said she was sitting, cradling me, in grandfather's forge three nights after her husband cast her out. Ruathain came to her there. He asked her if her husband had given me a soul-name. She said that he had not. The Big Man told her that he had been out walking on the night of my birth, and he had seen a falcon flying through the night sky. This was a rare thing, he said, and he felt that it was an omen. Whenever she told me this story my mother's eyes would fill with tears. She said he put his arm round her and asked if she would accept Midnight Falcon as my soul-name.' Bane sighed. 'It was the first act of tenderness she had experienced following my birth. It was said that Ruathain's wife was furious with him, and demanded he see no more of my mother. He refused, and often visited her, to see how we were faring. I wish I could remember him. He was a great man, by all accounts.'

'Aye, he was,' said Banouin. 'My mother warned him not to go to that last battle. Told him he would die if he did. But he went anyway, to protect Connavar. Mother knew he would. Said it broke her heart.'

'She was in love with him?'

'I never asked her. Maybe she was. It's not something you think about with old people, is it?'

Bane had laughed then, his good humour restored. 'My grandparents used to make their bed creak most nights.'

'Oh, that's disgusting,' said Banouin. 'Thank you for putting that image in my mind before I sleep.'

On the day they left the boat to continue their journey overland Banouin had seen genuine regret in the eyes of the crew. They wished Bane good luck on his travels, and made him promise to seek them out when he returned, so they could hear of his adventures. Not one of them bade farewell to Banouin.

The journey south was slower now, as they entered the great Forest of Filair. Settlements were further apart, and the riders had to veer many miles east or west in order to purchase supplies and food. At each stop they enquired as to the location of the next village before moving on. Banouin purchased a pack pony in order to carry more supplies, and Bane traded in his old bronze sword to acquire a leaf-shaped iron blade and a short hunting bow with a quiver of twenty arrows.

It was pouring with rain when the riders reached the forest's end. The plain of Cogden stretched out before them, flat and empty save for the four huge mounds erected above those fallen in the battle. Banouin shivered when he saw the Barrows. Twenty-eight thousand had died here on that terrible day. He had hoped to arrive at the battlefield much earlier in the day, so that they might ride through it in daylight. But Bane's horse had thrown a shoe, and they had been forced to detour to a settlement where a blacksmith forged and fitted a new one.

Now, with dusk fast approaching, they would have to camp in this desolate place. It did not seem to worry Bane. As night fell the rain eased away. Somehow Bane managed to light a fire, which hissed and spluttered against the damp wood. Spreading his cloak on the wet ground Bane was soon asleep. Banouin sat alone, feeding branches to the flames.

Fear touched him, and he glanced around. Nothing was to be seen, save for the four Barrows and the bright moon. The fear grew, unfocused and all-consuming. His mouth was dry, his heart beating wildly.

Then he felt their presence…

At first all he could see was the night mist, rolling across the field; then it changed, flowing and rising until Banouin could see grey forms, the figures of men, cold and silent. For a moment he thought the scene was born of his fear, unreal – invented. Then the figures took clearer shape, becoming ten ranks of fighting men moving slowly across Cogden Field. Clad in helms of ghostly iron with embossed ear-guards, they carried long, rectangular shields and short stabbing swords.

This was the long-dead army of Stone. Banouin stared at them. Their forms were translucent, and shimmered in the moonlight. When they reached the Barrows, instead of climbing them, they passed right through. There was no sound. The advancing line broke into a run. Banouin glanced to his right. There, pale and spectral, was another line, this time of brightly armoured horsemen. Silently they charged at the enemy, swords as pale as moonlight slashing into them. Banouin saw a man stagger back, his arm hacked from his body. Then a spear ripped through his guts and he fell, the spear snapping in two. Horses fell, pitching their riders, who were stabbed mercilessly as they struggled to rise. All the terrible sights of war unfolded in eerie silence before his eyes.

A black crow glided down to the grass close by and stood, its baleful glare fixed on Banouin. Then a voice sounded from behind, startling him. 'These are scenes men sing of, and brag of, and lust after.' Banouin spun round. An old woman stood there, her shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare shawl, her hands clasping a long, crooked staff. Her hair was thin and wispy white, like mist clinging to her skull. She was impossibly ancient. Banouin's heart began to beat wildly. He knew of this woman, this creature of the Seidh. This was the Morrigu, whose promises tasted of nectar and burned like poison. The young man said nothing, but his dark eyes flicked towards the sleeping Bane. 'He cannot hear me, and he will not wake,' said the Morrigu. 'Will you bid me welcome to your hearth?'

'You… are not welcome here,' he forced himself to say.

'How that cuts me,' she said with a sneer. 'You, who I delivered safe when nature had decreed your death.'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' he told her.

'Vorna did not speak of me, then? How disappointing. On the night you were born her life was in danger. The babe – the you that was to be – was breeched, and there were no midwives, no druids on hand to save her – or you. So I came. And you were delivered by these old hands.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Yes, you do, Banouin. It is part of the Gift. You always sense when people are lying.'

'Even if you did save me, I don't doubt you had your own reasons,' he said, his voice firmer.

'Indeed I did.' She paused. 'Well, if I am not welcome here, will you at least walk with me awhile?'

'Why would I wish to?'

'Perhaps to prove to yourself that you are not the coward you believe yourself to be. Perhaps to repay your debt to me. Perhaps out of curiosity.' She stepped closer, and he could see that the skin beneath her right eye had peeled back, exposing the bone beneath. Banouin recoiled. 'Or perhaps because of your love for your sleeping friend.' Once more Banouin looked down at Bane. Something moved upon his friend's chest, and Banouin saw it was a coiled snake. It slithered up, then laid its flat head on Bane's neck.

'Don't kill him,' pleaded Banouin.

'I have no wish to kill anyone,' said the Morrigu. 'All I wish for is a walk across this field of the slain.'

'I will come with you,' he said. 'Make the snake disappear.'

'What snake?' she asked. Banouin glanced down. Bane was sleeping peacefully. The serpent had gone.

The Morrigu trudged past Banouin, leaning heavily on her staff. The young man followed, and they walked out onto the battlefield. The struggle was titanic, with neither side giving ground. The army of Stone fought with discipline and courage, while the tribesmen battled with passion and desperate bravery. Time and again Banouin saw acts of individual heroism that went unnoticed by the participants: a slim Rigante, standing astride a fallen comrade, trying to protect him; a soldier of Stone, his sword broken, charging into the mass of tribesmen, slamming his shield at them, and trying to wrest a fresh blade from the hands of the enemy.

'Why do they still fight?' he asked the Morrigu.

'They do not know they are dead,' she answered.

'How can they not know?'

'The arrogance of man,' she replied.

They walked on. Banouin saw a tall, handsome Stone officer, with close-cropped hair, waving his short sword above his head. Like a windblown echo he heard a thin, piping call to arms. 'One more charge, lads! One more charge and we'll have the day!'

'Who is that?' he asked.

'That is Valanus – the most famous of all Stone generals.'

'Famous?' queried Banouin. 'It is my understanding that to speak his name aloud in Stone is a criminal offence. He was the first Stone general to lose a major battle against barbarians.'

'That is still fame,' she said. 'Every man knows of him and his deeds. It is what he wanted. Indeed, it is what he asked for.'

The ghostly fighting continued until not one of the combatants was still standing. Banouin and the Morrigu reached the top of the nearest Barrow and the young man looked down upon the field of the fallen. A cool breeze blew across the shimmering silvered grass and slowly the dead began to rise again, whole and mended. Then they trudged back to their battle lines and formed up once more.

And the battle began again.

'Why does someone not tell them they are dead?' said Banouin. 'Then they could pass over the Dark Water and be free of this life.'

The Morrigu laughed. The sound made him shiver. 'Come, then,' she said. 'You can tell Valanus.'

Banouin followed her back into the battle. As she reached the Stone general she tapped at his form with her staff. He turned and looked not at her, but directly at Banouin. 'Who are you, spirit?' he asked.

'I am not a spirit, sir, but a man. You are the spirit. This battle was fought many years ago, and you died here. It is time to move on.'

'Died?' said Valanus, with a wide smile. 'Do I look dead to you? Get thee gone, demon. This is my day. And when it is over I shall be lord of this land.' Turning away he raised his sword. 'One more charge, lads! One more and we will have the day!'

'Well, you told him,' said the Morrigu. 'But it is in the nature of men never to listen. In death as well as in life.'

'Why are you here?' he whispered.

'For reasons of my own. What is it you wish for?'

Banouin laughed. 'Do you think me stupid enough to tell you? Like poor Valanus, whose name is now accursed?'

'Would your request be as his, child? Would you want fame and glory? Would you want riches?'

Banouin turned his back on the ceaseless, silent warfare raging around him and walked back to the campsite. Bane was still sleeping, and the fire was burning low. The Morrigu moved alongside him. 'Can you feel Caer Druagh calling you?' she asked.

'I find I miss the mountains,' he admitted. 'I had not thought I would.'

'Do you know why the Seidh exist?'

'No.'

'One day you will. And on that day you will return to Caer Druagh.'

'What is it that you want from me?' he asked her. 'I am not a warrior. I have no lust for battle and glory. My intention is to reside in Stone and study.'

'Then do so, Banouin. Look through all the ancient texts. Look for the truth hidden within dusty pages and yellowing scrolls. You will not find what you are looking for. The answer, when it comes, will come from your heart.' She sank down to the ground and rubbed her hand across her face. Skin peeled back and fell away, exposing more bone. Banouin turned his face away.

'Aye, not a pretty sight, am I?'

'I don't know why an immortal should choose such a grotesque countenance,' he said.

'Perhaps I didn't choose it, child.' Wearily she pushed herself to her feet. 'Perhaps what you see is the very essence of the Morrigu.' Her voice tailed away. 'You have much to learn. And the first lesson is approaching. Understand this: you cannot conquer fear by running away from it.'

The crow flapped its wings and soared towards the sky. Momentarily distracted, Banouin swung back to where the Morrigu had been.

She had vanished.

The dawn sun cleared the eastern mountains.

The battlefield was deserted now. With a deep sigh Banouin sat down by the dying fire. Bane awoke and yawned. He looked up at Banouin through bleary eyes. 'Have you been sitting there all night?'

'Aye.'

Bane grinned. 'Thought the ghosties would come for you, did you?'

'And they did,' said Banouin.

By noon the riders had passed far beyond the Field of Cogden, and were climbing low wooded hills overlooking the eastern coast. In the far distance they could see merchant ships, hugging the shoreline, heading north. 'I have been thinking of Forvar, and his death,' said Banouin, as they rode.

'Oh no, not that again.'

Banouin ignored the protest. 'I often wonder if he might have changed as he grew older. He was very young, and the death of his father blinded him with hate.'

'You think too much,' Bane told him. 'You always have. He was a brute, and he died because he was a brute. End of story, my friend. What he might have been is irrelevant. He's dead and gone.'

'Perhaps he isn't gone,' said Banouin. He told Bane of the ghostly battle, and the arrival of the Morrigu. His friend listened in silence.

'Are you sure you didn't dream this?' he asked, as Banouin concluded his tale.

'I am sure.'

'And Valanus thought you were the ghost?'

'Yes.'

'So why did the Old Woman appear to you? What did she want?'

'I don't know, Bane. But the whole scene was so irredeemably sad. To spend eternity endlessly reliving scenes of carnage and death. Valanus still believes he can win the battle.'

'Well, there is nothing you can do about it. So let's concentrate on more important matters. I am hungry, and I need a woman.' With that Bane swung his horse and rode off towards the highest hill, to scan the countryside for signs of a settlement or village. Banouin watched him go, and wondered if his friend truly had no feelings for the tormented spirits of Cogden Field.

An hour later Bane rejoined him.

'There is a large, stockaded town around five miles to the southwest. Maybe two hundred dwellings, with two long halls.' Banouin nodded, but did not reply. Bane leaned across and thumped his friend on the shoulder. 'You are a strange one,' he said. 'When will you learn?'

'There is much for me to learn,' agreed Banouin, 'but what exactly do you think I need to learn the most?'

'To live! To understand what it means.' Bane halted his horse. 'Look around you, at the hills and the trees. See the way the sunlight dapples the oaks. Feel the breeze upon your face. This is life, Banouin. Last night, and the ghost army, is but a memory now. Tomorrow is yet to be born. Life is now! This very moment. But you never live in the now. You are always thinking back over some past tragedy, or looking ahead to some distant dream. Is Forvar still haunting the hillside? Will the ghosts of Cogden ever find peace? Will the city of Stone fulfil all my dreams? Why is the sun hot? Why is water wet? It is no way to spend one's life.'

Banouin shook his head, and felt his anger rise. 'Better that than to ride around the countryside looking for earth maidens to rut with, to get drunk and fight with strangers; to be a windblown leaf skittering across the countryside.'

'You think so?' asked Bane, with a smile. His expression grew suddenly more serious. 'We are all leaves, my friend. Against the mountains and the sea we are as fleeting as heartbeats. Nothing we build lasts. To the north of Old Oaks there is a buried city. I have been there. A farmer unearthed the remains of a great wall. There are blocks of stone weighing fifty, sixty tons, all laid one atop the other. Further on, in a sheltered valley, they found the head of a colossal statue. The nose alone was longer than a broadsword. What great man must this have been? A king perhaps. No-one knows his name, nor the name of his city. Perhaps he still walks the hills. Perhaps he and Forvar have become great friends.' Bane sighed. 'Ah, Banouin, you are a sweet and gentle soul. But, in an hour or two, while you are sitting somewhere pondering all the unfairness of life, I shall be naked with a soft and yielding woman.'

With that Bane heeled his horse forward. Banouin rode after him. 'Tell me about the statue they found,' he said.

Bane sighed. 'You didn't really hear a word I said, did you?'

'Of course. But tell me about the buried city.'

'Connavar ordered the wall excavated, but it was too large and too long. They think it extends for miles. According to Brother Solstice the men still working at the site are seeking treasure now. The Demon King needs gold to purchase weapons for his armies, and he hopes burial mounds will supply it.'

'I wonder how they raised blocks of such size? And why?' said Banouin.

That does it!' said Bane suddenly. 'You're off in the past again – so I'll see you in the near future.'

He galloped off towards the south-west and the stockaded town.

As with many Keltoi settlements the town of Sighing Water bore no sense of overall design or planning. The original Norvii settlement of some twenty homes had been built close to a stream that flowed from the hills, cascading over a series of white rocks and down to a pear-shaped lake. Positioned as it was less than twelve miles from the eastern coast and close to a river leading to a wide estuary it soon became a place of commerce. Timber was plentiful, the surrounding land rich and verdant, and soon the town began to grow. With the lowlands ideal for corn, the higher ground for cattle, sheep and goats, Sighing Water thrived. More and more houses were built. When iron ore and coal deposits were found less than two miles away the settlement swelled even further.

Now some three thousand people dwelt within the stockaded town, with more than four thousand more in the surrounding countryside. There were warehouses, shops, stalls, forges, clothing makers, leatherworkers, jewellers, and merchants of every kind. There were mills, tanneries, wagon makers, horse breeders, and a host of allied trades, including a fleet of horse-drawn barges to ferry goods to the coast.

At seventeen Bane had never seen such a sprawling town. He had thought Old Oaks large, but there were twice as many people here, and as he rode in through the open gates he felt uncomfortable, as if the sheer weight of multitudes was closing in on him. Pushing such thoughts aside he located a hostler and left his grey in the man's care, asking that the beast be rubbed down and grain-fed.

The hostler, a middle-aged, round-shouldered man, asked if he planned to sell the gelding. Bane told him no.

'You could get a fine sum, boy. He's powerful and keen of eye. Is he fast?'

'He likes to run,' said Bane. 'Tell me, where is the best earth maiden?'

'The best what?' queried the man.

The response surprised the youngster. 'Earth maiden,' he said more slowly, wondering if his Rigante accent had confused the man.

'I do not know the term, boy.'

'Young women who offer… company to a man.'

'Ah, whores you mean? Aye, there are plenty of those. But it is the week's end, and the coal and iron workers are here in force. You'll be lucky to find a whore who hasn't already got her legs locked around a man's hips. You'll have no luck in the taverns, I'll tell you that for free. You could try the northern quarter. The expensive ones are up there.'

'Expensive?'

'Ten silver pieces for an hour's pleasure, so they say. And a single night costs a gold.'

'I'll try the taverns. I need a bed for the night anyway.'

'Avoid the Green Ghost,' warned the man. 'It's a place of trouble and violence. The Swallow is a good tavern, and they give a man a fine breakfast.'

Bane thanked him, and asked directions. As he was doing so Banouin came riding up.

A short time later the two men were strolling through a packed marketplace, and heading up a wending hill path towards a group of buildings set round an open square. The first of the buildings, the Green Ghost tavern, was large, around a hundred feet long, with two storeys under a thatched roof. Several men were sitting in the fading sunshine outside, nursing pottery jugs of ale. They looked up as the newcomers approached.

'Just what we needed, now the women have run out,' said one, a sour-faced individual, his face seamed with dark coal scars. 'Two pretty boys fresh from the farm.'

Bane paused and laughed. 'Look, Banouin,' he said brightly. 'There's a sight you don't see very often – a man who can fart through his mouth.' He crouched down in front of the miner, and dipped his finger into the man's ale. Then he licked it. 'Good ale,' he said. The man's eyes opened wide. Bane laughed at him, then rose smoothly and moved inside the tavern. There were some thirty long bench tables, most of them filled by burly men, spooning stew or drinking ale.

'I don't like this place,' whispered Banouin.

'This is the Green Ghost. It was highly recommended,' said Bane. 'You are too judgmental.' He wandered to the rear of the dining room, where a fat, balding man was wiping the bar with a dirty cloth.

'You have a room for the night?' asked Bane.

'We always have rooms,' said the fat man.

'What about women?'

The man shook his head. 'All taken. You'll have to make do with Dame Wrist and her five little daughters. The room will cost you a half silver. In advance.'

'Friendly place, isn't it?' Bane observed to Banouin. 'Aren't you glad you came?'

Banouin sighed.

'You want the room or not?' said the fat man.

At that moment there was the sound of breaking crockery. Bane turned to see a young woman standing over three broken jugs, her thin woollen skirt stained with ale. The fat man stormed around the bar and rushed over to the girl. 'You stupid clumsy cow!' he shouted.

'One of the men grabbed me,' she told him.

His meaty hand slapped across her face, knocking her sideways. She fell against a table.

Bane was momentarily stunned. He could scarcely believe what he had seen. All colour drained from his face and he moved swiftly across the room. The fat man reached for the girl again, but Bane took hold of his arm, spun him, and delivered a right uppercut to his belly, followed by a left cross that sent him crashing to the sawdust-covered floor.

'Never in my life have I seen a man strike a woman,' he said. 'Find yourself a weapon. Then I'll open you from throat to groin.' The fat man, his eyes frightened, crawled back from the angry tribesman.

'I don't want a weapon. I don't want to fight you.'

'You don't want to fight? I have challenged you, man.'

'I don't care! I'm not going to fight you.'

The fat man rolled to his knees, crawled a few paces, pushed himself to his feet, and ran back to the bar. Once there he fled through a doorway, slamming shut the door behind him. Bane shook his head in disbelief.

'How could he refuse to fight?' he said.

'He's just a coward. No shortage of cowards in the world,' said a grey-bearded man, sitting at a table close by. Bane looked at him. As with most of the men his skin was deeply coal-stained.

The girl was on her knees, gathering the sharp shards of the broken jugs. Bane knelt down and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked into his face and gave a weary smile. Her skin was pockmarked, and a vivid red weal showed on the left side of her face. 'I am sorry that he hurt you,' said Bane.

'He's done worse,' she said. 'And he will again.'

'Better watch out, boy!' called the grey-bearded miner.

Bane glanced up. The rear door had opened. Two thickset men, both carrying cudgels, were advancing across the room. The fat man was back in the doorway. He was smiling now. 'You want to fight someone?' he shouted. 'Well, now's your chance.'

The two men rushed forward. Bane rose, took one step to the right, then lashed out with his foot. His boot hammered into the first man's knee, just as his weight descended on it. The leg snapped backwards. With a terrible scream the man fell. The second man lashed out, the cudgel catching Bane high on the shoulder. He swayed, then delivered a left hook to the man's bearded chin. The man stumbled. Bane kicked him in the face.

The fat man was standing framed in the doorway. Bane ran forward, vaulted the bar, grabbed him by his tunic and threw him back against the wall.

'I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' wailed the man. Suddenly the sound was cut off. The fat man's jaw dropped and he sagged down the wall, falling to his knees. Bane tore his dagger from the man's chest. The dying man's eyes flickered. 'Don't hurt me!' he whispered. Blood frothed to his lips and he toppled sideways to the floor. Bane wiped his dagger blade on the man's tunic, then rose, sheathing the weapon. All around him men were sitting in stunned silence. No-one moved, save the serving girl who raised her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

Bane strode from the Green Ghost. Banouin ran after him. 'We had better leave this settlement,' he said. They might decide to hang you.'

'I did nothing wrong,' argued Bane.

'You knifed an unarmed man,' Banouin pointed out.

'He wasn't a man. He struck a woman and he wouldn't fight. He had no honour. He was a vile thing, no better than vermin.'

'I warned you, Bane. You kill too quickly,' said Banouin sadly.

'And you nag worse than a wife,' snapped Bane. 'But you are right. Let's be gone from this place. Killing him has quite spoiled my day.'

'Not as badly as it spoiled his,' said Banouin.

They rode several miles from Sighing Water and camped in a cave overlooking the sea. Banouin lit a fire, but Bane wandered out and sat on the cliff top, watching the moon shining above the dark water. Banouin left him there for a while and tended the fire. Bane was in one of his dark, gloomy moods, and would not appreciate company for a while.

There was little food left, and Banouin ate a stick of smoke-dried meat they had purchased several days before. He leaned back and stared at the cave wall, watching the fire shadows dance upon the grey stone.

Bane did kill too swiftly. The fat man was a bully and a coward, but that was no reason for him to die choking on his own blood. Worse, he knew that Bane had gone to the place seeking trouble. He knew the look that came into his friend's strange eyes, a kind of glint, a shining that always precipitated violence. And yet Bane had always been kind to him, seeming to understand his hatred of violence and his longing for a life of quiet study. The younger man had protected him, and been willing to be ostracized by his fellow tribesmen rather than give up their friendship.

It was all so baffling. When Bane was happy he could charm the hardest heart, and make friends with anyone. People genuinely liked him. Banouin thought back to the cut-throat river crew, and their fondness for his companion. It was chilling to think that if any one of them had said the wrong word Bane could just as easily have killed them. Would he have been different had Connavar accepted him?

Adding dry sticks to the fire he remembered asking his mother some weeks ago why a great man like the king had turned his back on his son.

'That is a complex question,' said Vorna. 'But it presupposes that greatness in one area must mean greatness in all. This is not even close to the truth. Connavar is a good man, and I love him dearly, but he is harsh and unforgiving. There is also within him – as there is within Bane – a burning need for violence that is barely held in check.' She had looked into his eyes, then risen from her chair and moved to the window, which she pulled shut, despite the stifling summer heat that filled the house. 'I want no-one to overhear what I am to tell you, Banouin, and I do not want you to repeat it. Ever. Do I have your promise?'

'Of course, Mother.'

She sat down in her chair and took a deep breath. 'Many years ago Connavar wed a young Rigante woman named Tae. He loved her deeply. He had risked his life to save her from the Sea Wolves, and he had brought her to Three Streams. Then he became Laird, and they moved to Old Oaks. One day, Connavar went to the Wishing Tree woods to commune with the Seidh. There he was warned never to break a promise, no matter how small.

'One day, soon after, he had told Tae that he would be back at Old Oaks at around noon, in order to accompany her on a ride to a pretty lake they had heard of. But as he was riding home he saw a woman standing outside a hut built in the hills.'

'And that was Arian,' put in Banouin.

'I am telling this story.'

'But I know it already,' he argued. 'He made love to Arian, and Bane was born.'

'Listen!' hissed Vorna. 'Arian was his childhood sweetheart but she was…' Vorna hesitated. 'This must never be repeated!'

'I have already promised that. Go on.'

'She knew many men – even as a young girl. She would travel through the hills to the trade road, and she would rut with men for coin. There was a need in her that she thought no-one knew of. No-one save an earth maiden named Eriatha, who helped her abort several babes. But I knew. She was betrothed to Connavar, but when he fought the bear, and everyone believed he would die of his wounds, Arian took up with Casta, and married him on Feast Night. But, as we know, Connavar did not die. He survived and grew strong. He never forgave Arian, and avoided her always.

'On that dread day, when he saw her alone at the hut, all his old feelings came back. She wept and begged forgiveness. She clung to him.' Vorna sighed. 'Men are not strong, Banouin. The loins will inevitably betray the heart. Her husband was gone for the day, and Connavar bedded her.

'Back at Old Oaks his wife was waiting for the trip to the lake he had promised. When he failed to return she asked Ruathain to take her to the lake. This he did. But on the way back a group of assassins were waiting to kill Ruathain. They shot an arrow, which missed him, and killed Tae. Connavar had forgotten the warning of the Seidh. He had broken his promise – and his young wife lay dead upon the grass.

'When he heard what had happened he lost his mind for a while. The men had come from a Pannone fishing village, sent by the Fisher Laird. Connavar went to that village alone, killed the Laird and his sons, and destroyed the village by fire. Every house. He slaughtered many – including women and children. Does this behaviour sound familiar to you?'

'Aye. Bane.'

'Yes, Bane. He is his father's son. But when Connavar regained his senses he felt a terrible burden of guilt. It is a burden he carries to this day. He could never look upon Arian again. He never spoke publicly of her, or her child. Their very existence was a constantly painful reminder of his betrayal and the terrible deeds he committed.'

'I always thought', said Banouin, 'that Arian was a good woman.'

'Stupid boy!' stormed Vorna. 'Did I say she was not good? I said she had a need for men – a weakness if you like. That does not make her evil. She was a good mother to Bane, and there was great kindness in her. It is my belief that she never stopped loving Connavar. Her burden of guilt was every bit as powerful as his own.' Vorna sighed. 'Their guilt was the same. And yet Connavar – as you said – is a great man, so he was forgiven. Arian was marked in men's minds as the whore who caused the death of Tae. It is unjust. Even members of her own family turned their backs on her. Govannan, mainly. But her sister Gwydia never invited her to Seven Willows.'

'Why hasn't someone told Bane this?' he asked.

'For what purpose? He loved his mother, and he thinks her almost holy. He was the one person in her life who gave her complete love. It was for her to tell him – if she chose to. And she did not.'

'It was all so tragic,' said Banouin. 'And it doesn't end, does it? Arian is dead, but Bane lives on, with all the bitterness.'

'That bitterness would not be ended merely by understanding of the truth,' said Vorna. 'Trust me on this, my son.'

'But none of this was Bane's fault,' insisted Banouin. 'His mother betrayed her husband, just as Connavar betrayed his wife. Bane is merely the innocent who has suffered.'

'They have all suffered.' She looked at her son fondly, and reached out to stroke his face. 'Men say that there is freedom in truth. Sometimes it is true. Mostly it is not. Truth can be a dagger to the heart. When your father died, and you were born, I was torn between anguish and joy. It almost broke me. And on one day, as I looked at you within your crib, I felt as if I had been cursed by love, not blessed by it. In that one moment I wished you had never been conceived, that I had never met your father. That I had never known love at all. That is a truth, Banouin. Tell me, how does it sit with you?'

'I can understand it,' he said. 'I feel no anger or hurt.'

'Suppose I had told you this when you were five years younger, hated and despised by all the other boys?'

'I would have been devastated,' he admitted. 'I would have been too young to understand.'

'Yes,' she said, 'the child would invest that truth with a perception of its own. "My mother did not love me." "I was not wanted." In many ways that is what the young Bane did. Connavar did not acknowledge him, therefore Connavar hated him, and hated his mother. Connavar was an evil creature. An enemy. This is the way Bane dealt with his perception of the truth. And it haunts him still.'

'Then there is nothing we can do?'

'I would not say that. There is great strength in him, great loyalty and love. With good friends close by he may yet find his way. That is what we can do. Remain his friends.'

'I will always be that,' Banouin had promised.

The dancing shadows on the cave wall were making Banouin sleepy. He glanced out at the skyline, and saw his friend still sitting on the cliff top. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and trudged out to join him. 'It is a fine night,' he said, hunkering down beside the blond warrior, his feet dangling over the cliff edge.

'Aye, it is,' agreed Bane. 'Some people find the night threatening, but I love the dark. It seems timeless and calm. When I was a child, maybe five or six, my mother would take me to the Riguan Falls on warm nights. We would swim there in the moonlight. I remember that I longed to be a fish, swimming for ever. I loved those nights. When we climbed out she would light a fire, and then we would sit and eat a supper she had brought with her. After that I always felt sleepy, and she would wrap me in a blanket and hold me close, so that I slept with my head in her lap. They were the most peaceful of nights, and I never dreamt at all.'

'It is strange', said Banouin, 'how good memories can make you feel sad. I feel the same way about the Big Man. When I was young I would constantly run out into the yard to see if he was coming to visit us. And when he did I would whoop with joy and scamper off to meet him. Now, when I recall his face, and his bright blue eyes, I feel a lump in my throat. So much would have been different had he not died in that battle.'

'Perhaps. Perhaps not,' said Bane. 'I used to play that game in my head. What if…? It is a stupid game. What's done is done. It cannot be undone. If I could have this day back again I would avoid the Green Ghost. Or, if not that, then I would merely have thrashed the fat man. But I cannot have it back. Just as I cannot return to the Riguan Falls and sit with my mother, a blanket around me, the taste of a sweet cake upon my tongue.'

'Life does seem unfair sometimes,' said Banouin.

Bane laughed. 'Aye, but there are good times. Your mother and I rescued a badger cub once. It was blind and she healed it. Then we took it back to the woods and watched it amble away to a new life. That was a grand night. I like to think that cub went on to become a fine beast, with a mate and cubs of his own. Maybe he did. Or maybe he was killed by hunters. Fortunately I'll never know.' Bane picked up a stone, and hurled it high over the cliff, watching it drop to the water below. 'I hope the sea is as calm as this when we cross,' he said.

'You are coming across the water with me?'

'Of course. I promised your mother I'd see you safe all the way to Stone.'

'I'll be safe,' said Banouin, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. 'I don't think you'll like Stone.'

'If I don't I shall bid you farewell,' said Bane. 'Anyway, I'm tired. I think I'll get some sleep.' Rising smoothly he wandered back to the cave.

Banouin sat alone for a while, lost in thought. He loved Bane, but the thought of arriving in Stone with him was a daunting and depressing one. Like taking a wild bear to a wedding dance. The thought shamed him, but he could not push it away.

Bane lay in the cave, trying to deal with the now familiar waves of sorrow, and seeking a way through the desolation he felt. Parax had been right. He had planned to lead the hunters a merry chase, and then go down fighting, putting an end to this bitter existence. Bane had not consciously realized it, and only when Parax had spoken the words had the truth of them registered. It was not that he particularly wanted to die. He loved life, the feel of the warm sun on his face, the sound of a waterfall, the call of a hunting falcon. Nor was it merely the death of Arian, or the continuing hurt of his rejection by Connavar.

Rather it was a combination of these and many other pressures, not least the sense of isolation following the early years of being shunned by his fellows, and then, as he grew older, being offered only menial tasks because he could not master the relatively simple skills of reading and writing. It was almost as if the king had decreed this onerous duty on the peoples of the Rigante, Pannone and Norvii merely to add to the already unbearable pressures of Bane's life.

He lay back in the cave and felt his anger rising. Vorna had probably saved his life by asking him to look after her son. And now that son, Bane's only friend, was ashamed of him. He had seen the look in his eye when he talked of accompanying him to Stone, the sudden shock and dismay. He did not let Banouin know that he had seen it, and it hurt the more because he had to hide his pain.

But then he had always hidden the pain. When have you ever let people see the real man? he wondered. When have you ever let fall the mask? Cheerful Bane, bright Bane, Bane the storyteller, the singer of bawdy songs. In other settlements but Three Streams Bane was popular with all he met, but the man they laughed and joked with was not the man behind the mask.

Even with his mother Bane hid his feelings. She had anguish enough, he had thought, and so he joked and laughed with her. No-one else could bring a smile to her face. No-one else really tried.

Now she was gone. Even Vorna's skills had not been enough to save her. This had confused Bane, for Vorna had taken the cancer from the blind badger and restored its sight, and Bane had railed at her.

'Magic alone was not enough,' Vorna had said. 'Arian no longer had the will to go on.'

Bane understood it now. He had felt it for himself, up in the hills as the hunters searched.

He felt it now in this cold cave.

Thoughts of Arian filled his mind. When, he wondered, had she finally lost the will to live? Often she would walk the high hills, staring towards the north. Bane always believed she was waiting for Connavar, hoping he would one day ride by, and that he would stop and talk to her. He never did.

Two years ago, at fifteen, Bane had decided to meet with the king – meet with him in a way that would force Connavar to speak with him. And when they spoke Bane would ask him why he shunned them. The plan was simple enough. All Bane had to do was win the Beltine Race, five miles over rough country. The problem was that there were at least seven other youngsters faster than he among the Rigante of Three Streams alone.

So Bane trained every day for months, building his stamina, pounding along mud-covered trails, running up high hills, pushing himself to the point of collapse. In the early weeks he would sometimes stagger to a halt and vomit beside the trail. Then he would run on, lungs afire, muscles burning. Gradually he became stronger, driven on always by the thought of meeting his father, seeing at last pride in his eyes.

The race had been hard fought. One boy from the Northern Pannone had stayed with him for four of the five miles, but Bane had powered away from him in the last mile, finishing fast and sprinting towards the feast fires at the foot of Old Oaks. The last two hundred paces had been run between lines of cheering tribesmen, and at the finish he saw the king, standing alongside his brothers Braefar and Bendegit Bran.

Connavar was a big man, wide in the shoulder. He was wearing his famous patchwork cloak, bearing the colours of the five tribes, and at his side was the legendary Seidh sword that men said could cut through stone and iron.

Heart pounding, lungs close to bursting, Bane had slowed at the finish, then stood, hands on hips, staring into the eyes of the king. It was like looking into his own eyes, and their gaze met and locked. There was no expression on Connavar's scarred features, and he did not smile. He stepped forward and said: 'Well done.' Then he turned away before the breathless Bane could answer, and strode back through the crowd.

For a moment there was silence in the crowd, then Bendegit Bran stepped forward, and put his arm round Bane's shoulder. 'The champion is from Three Streams,' he shouted. He patted Bane on the shoulder. 'That was a fine run.' The crowd cheered again and Bran led Bane away as the other runners started to pound down towards the line.

'Are you all right?' asked Bran.

Bane had looked into his uncle's handsome face and nodded. 'Just tired,' he said, looking beyond him at the distant figure of Connavar, walking up the hill path towards Old Oaks. 'Is the king not staying for the feast?'

Bran looked embarrassed. 'He is a solitary man. He rarely stays among crowds for long.'

'Last year I heard he sat the winner of the race beside him at table,' said Bane.

'Then you shall sit beside me this year,' said Bran.

'I think I'll go home,' Bane had replied.

'That's a two-day ride, Bane. Stay. Enjoy the feast.'

Bane had walked away, saddled the borrowed pony, and set off into the darkness.

Eighteen months later, when he fought his first skirmish against the Sea Raiders, killing two and wounding a third, he had been awarded the gold clasp he still wore on his wrist. It was a tradition that these were given out by the king. Bane had received his from Braefar. It was no surprise by then.

It was around this time that Arian began to fade. She ate like a sparrow, and the weight dropped from her. Even Bane could no longer make her smile.

Bane pulled his blanket around him and rolled to his side, resting his head on his saddle. He heard Banouin's soft footfalls as he entered the cave, but kept his eyes closed.

I will see you safely to Stone, he thought, and when the walls of the city are in sight I will say farewell.

The wagon trundled on through the driving rain, the two weary horses moving slowly, heads down against the wind. The driver sat huddled below the canvas canopy, his right hand holding the reins, his left arm round the shoulders of the teenage girl beside him.

Despite the canopy the rain had soaked them both, and the girl shivered. 'How long, Father?' she asked.

'According to the map we're about a mile from the bridge,' the old man told her. 'After that maybe five miles. We should be there before dusk.'

He smiled as he said it. The sky was so dark now it already felt like night. Appius lifted his whip and cracked it over the heads of the team. They surged into the traces and the wagon picked up speed. His daughter snuggled in close. He patted her back and, reaching over, tugged her hood forward to try to protect her from the rain. The hood was already drenched. She looked up at him and smiled. His heart leapt. So like her mother, he thought. So beautiful.

Appius looked back at what the map indicated was a road. The thought made him shake his head in frustration. Road? It was a wide, muddy track, pitted and irregular, and his wagon was trundling along in the deep grooves made by other lumbering vehicles. Only an idiot or a barbarian could call this a road. Back in Stone there were roads! Roads of well-laid stone over gravel and sand.

He sighed. Back in Stone there were also the Crimson Priests, the Blood Trials, the burnings. The wind died down, and the rain began to ease. No longer did it lash into their faces, but now pattered against the canopy above their heads. To the west the sun broke through the clouds. Appius pushed back his hood, exposing his close-cropped white hair.

Lia looked up at him and smiled. 'Everything looks so wonderful when the sun shines,' she said.

'What would look wonderful right now is a bathhouse, with steam rising from perfumed water,' he said. 'And then a massage, and a long sleep.'

'Barus said the town was quite civilized. There should be a bathhouse.'

'Just so long as there's no temple,' he said, his good humour fading.

'The priests have not crossed the water,' she said. 'But they will.' Lia leaned back and stretched, removing her hooded cloak and shaking the water from it. He glanced at her and felt immediately renewed and revived. Her dark hair was cut short, after the latest fashion in Stone, and it emphasized the extraordinary beauty of her features, her large, dark eyes, and the radiance of her smile. He wondered if he was merely seeing her with a father's eye, but then recalled the effect she had on his young officers. Most were struck dumb in her presence. Maybe here, he thought, at this arse end of the empire, she will put aside the stupidities her mother instilled in her. Then, after a reasonable period, they could return to Stone and take up their positions in respectable society. Lia could marry a man she loved and know true happiness. And he could sit in the sunshine and watch his grandchildren grow.

I should live so long, he thought miserably. His back ached, and he could feel his knee joints swelling with the wet and the cold. Fifty years a soldier, marching in all weathers, sleeping on cold ground. It is a marvel I can walk at all, he thought.

But never in his worst nightmares did he expect to end his days across the water, in the very land that had seen the destruction of a Stone army. He shivered at the memory. Of all the participants in that reckless exercise Appius alone had emerged with credit, organizing his Panther into a fighting retreat to the safety of the previous night's fortified camp. Even then he had lost half his men.

The man Connavar was a devil in human form. He had organized his troops brilliantly, and Valanus, expecting the usual Keltoi tactics of a massed charge, had fallen into a trap. Cut off from supplies, unable to build a camp, the weary, hungry army had been attacked first by heavy cavalry, then by mounted archers. Cogden Field. The name made his skin crawl. Twelve thousand soldiers of Stone had died there.

Back in Stone the shock had been colossal. Appius had been arrested and returned for trial, but he and three other officers had been acquitted of negligence, the full brunt of the city's fury falling upon dead Valanus, who had, it was said, led his fifteen thousand men against an enemy a million strong. It was such arrant nonsense that Appius could hardly credit it. Yet the people believed it. Their pride would not let them even consider that a Stone army could be defeated by a mere thirty thousand Rigante. No-one wanted to hear the truth – save Jasaray. And then only in secret.

He remembered the day the general – yet to be emperor – had summoned him to his home, forcing Appius to relive every moment of the battle, sketching out fighting lines, recalling tactics. First the Rigante had killed all the Cenii scouts used by Valanus, and the army had been forced to march blind. Then a detachment had cut behind them, savaging the supply column, killing the drivers and burning the wagons. At the last they had surrounded Valanus on Cogden Field, a combined force of Rigante, Norvii and Pannone tribesmen, all under the command of Connavar.

'I trained him,' said Jasaray, and Appius thought he detected a note of pride in the general's voice.

'You trained him too damned well,' Appius said. 'We'll have to take an army back – and swiftly.'

Jasaray shook his head. 'All in good time. The defeat has frightened the populace. They no longer trust the Council to make strong decisions. Neither do I. It is my belief that a single figure should rule Stone: a single mind controlling the destiny of our city.'

'Your mind, general?' Appius had asked.

'If they call upon me it would be unpatriotic to refuse. Where do you stand, my old friend?'

'As I always have, Scholar. By your side.'

'I expected no less,' admitted Jasaray.

The wagon lurched as a wheel hit a sunken stone. Appius backed up the horses, and moved round the obstacle. He could see the bridge up ahead now. It was a wooden structure no more than fifty feet across.

Aye, he had supported Jasaray, watched him become emperor. But when his own family were in trouble…? 'Put not your faith in emperors,' he whispered.

'Did you say something, Father?'

'No, I was just thinking out loud.'

'Will Barus get into trouble for loaning us his house?' asked Lia, suddenly.

'No, there will be no trouble. We are not runaways, Lia. They did not serve the papers. We have committed no crime.'

'But we knew they were coming when we fled.'

'We did not flee,' he snapped. 'We sought the emperor's permission to remove ourselves from Stone. He granted it. That was the sum of his help. So we did not flee.'

'You are bitter. It does not become you. Anyway, we left in the dead of night, while friends of ours were being taken to prison. It felt like flight.'

'No friends of mine were arrested, Lia. I have never subscribed to their foolish ways. I never will.'

'I do not think they were foolish,' she said. 'And I do not believe the Source would think them so.'

'Aye, a god of real power, this Source. All who believe in him are put to death and he raises not a finger. But let us not argue it again. I had all this with Pirae.'

Both fell silent at the mention of her name. Appius was not present when the Crimson Priests arrested her. He was serving on the eastern border, helping to put down a bloody revolt. He arrived in Stone the night after her trial, and missed her execution. Pirae had refused to recant, and had faced down her accusers, calling them 'small men with small dreams'.

It seemed strange to him that a woman who had spent her life in the pursuit of every illicit pleasure should have come to her end with courage and dignity. He glanced at Lia. She was not his daughter. She had been sired by one of Pirae's many lovers. He doubted if even Pirae had known which one. Yet he loved Lia more than he had ever loved anything. She was sunlight upon his soul; cool clear water in the desert of his life.

Pirae had betrayed him at every turn. Sullen and spoiled, she had spent much of his fortune on ludicrously expensive clothes, silks and satins, jewel-encrusted gowns, baubles of every kind. She had never shown the slightest interest in any worthy cause. And then, at the age of forty, had stood against the might of the priests and defied them, knowing they would kill her.

'And all for a tree!' he said aloud.

'Why does the thought of the Tree upset you so much?' asked Lia.

'What?'

'You mentioned the Tree again.'

'I didn't realize I said it aloud.'

'The Tree is merely a representation of the power of the Source; spirit that flows upward, outward, inward and downward, mirroring the seasons. It has nothing to do with tree worship. That is a silly lie put about by the priests.'

'And why can you not understand?' he countered. 'The priests represent power in Stone. To go against them is wilful and dangerous. It has left us here, in this forsaken cesspit of a land.'

'I was happy to stay,' she reminded him.

To stay and die,' he pointed out.

'Some things are worth dying for.'

'Aye, but not trees,' he said.

The team halted before the bridge. Appius stood and stared at the raging river as it gushed past the supports. The structure looked insubstantial and neglected. With a silent curse he sat down and cracked the whip. The horses moved out onto the wooden boards. Below, in the black churning water, the swollen body of a dead bull was swept along by the flood. It rammed against one of the supports, which buckled and fell away. The wagon lurched. Appius rose in his seat, cracking his whip once more. The frightened horses lunged into the traces.

Then the bridge collapsed.

Appius was thrown clear, his head striking a post. Then he was pitched unconscious into the water.

Banouin had been miserable for most of the day, and not just because of the hissing winds and the driving rain. He had not slept well, his dreams full of anxiety and humiliation. Happily he could not remember most of the dreams, but one had clung to his conscious mind. He was standing naked in the centre of Stone, and crowds of people were laughing at him. Deep down he knew the reason for the dream, and it made him feel like a traitor and an ingrate.

It was quite simply the thought of Bane's accompanying him to Stone that had brought about this mood of depression, and the anxiety dreams that accompanied it. Banouin's plan had been to purchase suitable clothing, cut his hair, and enrol in the university. In short to become a citizen of Stone, to blend into the life of that wondrous place. No more jeers and taunts, no more feelings of inadequacy. He had planned to become a scholar, living a quiet life of contemplation and study. Now he was riding towards the city of his dreams in the company of a man of ferocious violence, the epitome of the best and worst of Rigante manhood.

Yet this man had protected him for much of his young life, and had endured the hatred of his peers for doing so. The thoughts that plagued Banouin left him feeling melancholy and unworthy.

The rain eased away for a while during mid-morning, and Bane tossed back his hood and rode in closer to his friend. 'You are not such a lively companion today,' he said.

Banouin forced a smile. 'It's the rain.'

'Come now,' said Bane, slapping him on the shoulder. 'I've known you too long. When you wear that long face there is something troubling you. Are you still concerned about the fat man?'

'No. I was thinking about my life among the Rigante,' said Banouin, which was at least partly true.

'What about it?'

'It was not happy,' said Banouin lamely. 'It is hard to be hated for something you can do nothing about. I am not responsible for the blood which flows in my veins. Why could they not just accept me as Vorna's son?'

Bane shrugged. 'Aye, life was difficult for you, right enough.'

'I never did anything to harm any of them,' continued Banouin, anger creeping into his voice. 'And they hated me. You, on the other hand, constantly got into fights and rows, and they liked you. Or they would have had you let them. There's no sense to it.'

Bane turned towards him, and looked as if he was about to speak. Then he changed his mind and rode on a little ahead, the grey picking his way carefully through the mud. It was an abrupt end to the conversation, and Banouin thought back over his last statement, to see if he had unwittingly said anything offensive. Puzzled, he urged the chestnut forward. As he came alongside his friend he glanced at Bane's face. There was no anger there, but no good humour either. 'What? What did I say?' asked Banouin.

'For a man who wants to be a scholar,' said Bane, 'you see things too simply.'

'Would you care to elaborate?'

'For what purpose?' asked Bane. 'You are leaving the Rigante. The past is gone.'

'I would still like to know.'

Bane glanced at the roiling clouds above. The rain would soon start again. A clap of thunder sounded in the distance, which made the horses react nervously. Bane stroked the long neck of the grey and whispered soothing words to it. Then he looked at Banouin. 'There's an example for you,' he said. 'The horses were spooked. What did you do?'

'What do you mean?'

Bane hauled on the reins, and angled in close. Banouin's chestnut was still skittish and he calmed it. 'You complain about this horse all the time,' said Bane. 'It bucks. It doesn't like you. Yet when it is frightened you don't pet it or speak to it. To you it is just a beast of burden to carry you to the sea. You sit upon it, but you do not ride it. You have made no attempt to communicate with the horse, to become its friend.'

'What have horses to do with what we were talking about?'

Bane shook his head. 'You really don't see, do you? You have complained all your life about people disliking you. Yet when have you done anything for anyone else? Last year when Nian's barn caught fire, and everyone rushed there to try to save it, where were you? You stayed home. As we walked back through Three Streams, covered in soot and ash, you came walking by, clean and bright. You might just as well have been carrying a sign that said, "I care nothing for any of you, or your troubles." One day you will realize that you are what you are because you chose to be that way. It has little to do with your blood.'

'That is not fair! A man with half an eye could see that Nian's barn was beyond saving. It was a waste of effort.'

'That waste of effort brought people closer together. It showed that people cared for one another, and were willing to take risks for one another. When his barn was destroyed Nian could at least sit back and know he had true friends who would stand beside him. And two days later those same people got together again to raise a new barn. Was that a waste of effort? And you were missing on that day, too.'

The clouds opened, and rain lashed down over them. Bane pulled his hood into place and drew his leather cloak around his shoulders. Banouin was furious, but any words he could have summoned would have been whipped away by the storm. Bane's comments ate away at him as they rode. All his life he had been taunted and beaten by the Rigante. Why then should he care about their barns or their lives?

Towards dusk, with the rain easing, and the sky brightening to the west, the two companions were riding along the bank, of a swollen river. Up ahead a broken-backed wagon was caught up against the bank. A horse was thrashing in the water, desperately trying to keep its head above the flood. Bane kicked the grey into a run and rode alongside, leaping from the saddle and clambering over the ruined wagon. Unbuckling his sword belt he threw it to the bank, then leapt into the river alongside the weakening horse. With his dagger Bane sawed at the traces, then ducked under the water.

Banouin watched from the bank. Three times Bane surfaced and dived again. At last the horse moved clear of the wagon, but it was too exhausted to climb the slope. Bane swam alongside it. Then he shouted up at Banouin. 'Don't just sit there, you bastard! There's a rope in the back of the wagon.' Shocked by the outburst Banouin stepped down from the saddle and climbed to the wagon. There were several chests here, and two coiled ropes. Taking them both he looped them over his shoulders, then climbed down the side of the wagon. He slipped and almost fell, but grabbed at the half submerged wheel. The wagon tilted. For a moment Banouin thought it would roll over him and, almost panic-stricken, he lunged at the bank and scrabbled up through the mud. Taking up one of the rope coils he made a loop. His hands were shaking as he approached the slippery mud slope above the water, and twice he failed to drop the loop over the flailing horse's head. But the third throw was a success. The loop drew tight and Banouin tried to haul the horse from the water. His feet slipped, and the weary beast slid back, and fell to its side. A flailing hoof cracked against Bane's skull and he cried out. Banouin saw him fall back into the torrent. He was swept along for a hundred yards, then grasped a low branch and hauled himself clear. When he returned Banouin saw a wide, blood-smeared gash on his forehead. Pushing past Banouin, Bane ran to the grey, and vaulted to the saddle. Easing the grey forward he took the rope from Banouin and looped it around the horn of his saddle. Carefully Bane and the grey drew the exhausted horse from the water. It scrambled up the bank, and stood shivering in the fading light. Bane dismounted and moved alongside it, stroking its neck and flanks. 'You fought well, brave heart,' he said, keeping his voice low. Suddenly the wagon broke clear of the bank, turned over and floated away, carrying with it the body of a second horse, which had been submerged.

Blood was dripping from Bane's brow. He wiped it away. 'I'm sorry,' said Banouin. 'I should have thought of tying the rope to a saddle.'

Bane said nothing for a moment, then he shrugged. 'We rescued the horse, so it all ended well.' Banouin examined his wound. It was not deep, and required no stitches, but it was bleeding profusely, and a lump was forming above Bane's left eye.

The wind died down, and a faint sound came to Banouin. He swung round. 'Did you hear that?' he asked.

'Yes. It sounded like a cry.'

It came again, more clearly. 'Help us!'

Ahead of them the river bank rose steeply, the waterline below strewn with boulders. Banouin ran ahead, climbing the slope. He gazed down at the rushing water, and saw a young woman clinging to a jutting rock some thirty feet from the shoreline. White water was crashing against the rocks, and at any moment she was likely to be swept away. Then he saw that she was also holding on to another figure, a white-haired man, who was feebly trying to haul himself further on to the rock.

Bane joined him, and gazed first at the trapped pair, then down at the shoreline. 'Can't get the horses down there,' he said. Then he swore softly.

'What can we do?' asked Banouin.

Bane ran back to where Banouin had left the ropes, looped a coil over his shoulder and carefully made his way down to the water's edge. Banouin climbed down the slope to where Bane was standing. The blond warrior was tying one end of the rope to his waist.

'You can't go into that torrent,' said Banouin.

'What do you suggest, my friend?' said Bane, his eyes angry. 'Perhaps we should sit and watch them die, rather than take part in a waste of effort.'

'That's not what I meant,' said Banouin sadly. 'I meant that you can't go in. Your head is bleeding and you are exhausted from getting the horse clear. And even if you did reach them I would not have the strength to pull you all in. I'll go.'

Bane offered no argument. He removed the rope from his waist and tied it around Banouin. 'You'll have to enter the water further upstream,' he said. 'Otherwise the current will sweep you straight past them. Strike out at an angle. When you get close swing round, so that your legs can take the impact of the rocks. Otherwise you'll smash your ribs.' He looked into Banouin's eyes. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

'Of course I don't want to,' snapped Banouin. 'Now let's get on with it.'

The two men ran back along the bank for around a hundred paces; then, with Bane letting out the rope, Banouin dived into the water and began to swim, using a fast overhand crawl. The current was far more vicious than he had realized, and his arms tired fast as he swam. Bane was racing back along the shoreline, holding onto the end of the rope, but he was still some way behind as Banouin saw the rocks rushing towards him. Desperately he swung his body, but he did not have time to fully extend his legs and was dashed against the stone. Agonizing pain seared through his shoulder and right wrist as he struck the rock. He would have been swept clear had the woman not grabbed him. She hauled him back and he managed to get a handhold on the rock.

'Your friend will not be able to pull us all clear,' she shouted. 'You help my father. I will make it to the shore along the rope.'

Banouin was in too much pain to argue. The girl took hold of the rope and began to pull herself along it. Banouin reached out with his right arm and tried to hold on to the white-haired man, but his fingers were numb. The old man gave a weak smile and hooked his fingers into Banouin's sleeve. As his weight came down on the arm Banouin cried out. The man let go instantly, and almost went under. Swinging, Banouin hooked his legs around the man's body, drawing him close. He surfaced.

'Put your arm round my neck,' Banouin told him. The old man did so. Banouin transferred his gaze to the shore. The girl made it to the bank, then joined Bane at the rope. Bane raised his hand, gesturing Banouin to let go.

Grabbing the old man with his left hand he pushed himself clear of the relative safety of the rocks. Water surged over them both, and the rope tightened. For a while Banouin thought he was going to die, as his lungs came close to bursting. Then he bobbed to the surface and felt the pull of the rope. His feet touched bottom. The old man was unconscious now, but still Banouin clung to him.

Leaving the girl to hold the rope Bane waded in and hauled them both to the bank. Banouin collapsed and lay back, breathing heavily. He heard the old man groan, then Bane was alongside him.

'My arm is broken,' said Banouin. Bane tenderly examined the swollen wrist.

'Aye, I think it is. We'll bind it tight and get you to a healer.'

The girl came and knelt beside him. Her hair was short and dark, her violet eyes large beneath strong brows. Just looking at her beauty made the pain recede. 'You are very brave,' she said, her voice low, almost husky.

He could think of nothing intelligent to say, and tried to smile instead. Then he began to tremble violently. 'What is wrong?' asked the girl.

'It is just shock,' he heard Bane say. 'Get a fire going and I'll tend to him.'

Bane half carried him to the tree line, and laid him down beneath a spreading pine. It was quite dry here. A little way to the left the old man was lying on his back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The girl was trying to start a fire, rasping Bane's knife against a flint rock and sending sparks into a small pile of shredded dry leaves. Banouin was still shivering, and was now feeling nauseous. His arm was throbbing, his fingers swelling. Bane brought him a blanket, which he draped over his shoulders.

Banouin lay down and closed his eyes. 'You did well,' he heard his friend say.

Then he fell asleep.