Midnight Falcon

Chapter Four

A ferocious storm broke over Accia during the night, the thunder deafening, rain and fierce winds lashing the town. Tiles were ripped from rooftops, and to the north a barn collapsed killing two horses. The morning sky was dull and overcast, lightning flashing ominously in the east. Bane was nervous about the sea crossing later that day, but kept his fears to himself. Banouin said very little. He was withdrawn, and his eyes retained a haunted look. Several times Bane tried to engage him in conversation, but Banouin's answers were monosyllabic and he spent much of the day in his room, sitting on the balcony watching the road to the sea.

'I don't know what is the matter with him,' Bane told Lia, as they sat under an awning in the garden, watching the rain in the late afternoon. 'I have never seen him like this. It's as if he's not really here at all.'

'I tried to speak to him,' said Lia, 'but he will not look me in the eye. I wonder if I have said something to offend him.'

'Perhaps it is the result of his fever and the pain of his broken arm,' offered Bane. 'He's always been terrified by the thought of physical pain. And with his mother a healer there was never any lingering sickness.'

'You like him – but he saddens you,' said Lia.

'Aye, well, I'm an embarrassment to him. He wants to leave Rigante ways behind him. We're barbarians, you see. No place for someone like me in Stone.'

'Oh, Bane, you are not the barbarians. We are. I heard what you said to father the other night about nakedness. You were right. While we preach sexual morality we rape the world, enslave its men and women and slaughter its children. We are worse than barbaric, Bane. We are so far beyond evil that it has no meaning any more.' She smiled sadly. 'Banouin wants to be a part of that? Let him. For me I would rather journey into the mountains and live among those my people call savages.'

Bane lifted Lia's hand to his lips and kissed it.

'Why did you do that?' she asked, blushing.

He shrugged. 'It felt right.' He looked into her dark eyes. 'I shall miss you.'

'You can always come back,' she said softly. 'I will be here.'

Bane leaned towards her and she did not move away. Their lips met, and the kiss lingered. He felt his heart beat faster. In his short life he had bedded a score of earth maidens, and yet this one kiss filled him with an awareness of life he had never before experienced. He drew back, aware that something magnificent was occurring, and yet frightened of its intensity. He rose from the seat, and kissed her hand once more. 'I will come back,' he said, his voice husky. 'I promise you that. And I will take you to the Rigante mountains.'

'I will be ready,' she told him.

At that moment Banouin came out into the garden. The rain had eased, and the sky was clearing. 'Time to go,' he said. 'The ship sails in an hour.'

Bane was torn. He was tempted to tell Banouin to sail without him, but he had made a promise to Vorna. One of the two house servants, an elderly man, came into sight beyond the gate, leading their horses. Banouin walked quickly along the path without a farewell to Lia. His rudeness annoyed Bane, but the feeling was momentary, for Lia threw her arms round his neck and kissed him again. The kiss was passionate and long, and when she pulled away she gave an impish smile. 'That's for you to remember me by,' she said.

'Oh, I will remember,' he told her.

Appius stepped into view as they parted. Bane looked him in the eye, saw the disappointment there, but also the resignation. He offered his hand, and Appius took it. 'Come back safely,' said the old general. Bane walked along the path, reached his horse and vaulted to the saddle. Then he waved and rode after Banouin.

'You didn't even say good-bye,' he said, as he drew alongside his friend. Banouin ignored him, and they rode through the town, then out onto the open stretch before the port.

Three riders were travelling in the opposite direction. Bane watched them approach. They wore black cloaks and helms of black-stained iron, embossed with silver. Banouin pulled his horse from the road to let them pass. Bane remained where he was. As the lead rider came alongside he glanced at Bane and their eyes met. Bane felt a thrill of fear as the pale gaze touched him. The man was tall, wide-shouldered, his bare arms powerfully muscled. He smiled as he rode by, and Bane felt his anger rise. In that moment both men had recognized the warrior in the other, and the smile had been one of contempt.

Then he was past. Bane swung in the saddle and watched them ride on. 'Now that was an evil whoreson,' he said.

'We have to go!' said Banouin. Bane looked at him. Banouin's face was white with fear, and he was trembling.

'What is wrong with you?' said Bane. 'I have never known you behave like this. You are beginning to unsettle me.'

'We have to get away!' said Banouin, urging his horse into a run.

Bane swore and heeled the grey after him. He caught him swiftly and leaned over, grabbing Banouin's reins.

The horses slowed. 'I'm sick of this behaviour,' said Bane. 'Now talk to me. What is wrong with you?'

'We have to get to the ship. Once we are on the ship I'll tell you everything. The ship!'

'A pox on the ship. You tell me now.'

'Please, Bane, trust me. I have had a vision. A terrible vision.'

'You told me that. A demon stalking me.'

'No, not that. Come with me, please… your life depends on it!'

'My life? I have no enemies here.'

Banouin's eyes flickered to the distant riders. 'They are Knights of Stone,' he said. 'Former gladiators. Killers. You could not stand against them. Believe me.'

'Why would I want to?' Bane smiled. 'I think you are a victim of bad dreams, my friend, not visions. They rode past. If they were looking for me they would have…' He fell silent. 'They were not looking for me, were they?'

'We have to leave,' said Banouin.

'You miserable whoreson,' hissed Bane. 'They've come for Appius, haven't they?'

'Trust me! You can't save them!'

'Them? Oh, sweet heaven!' Swinging the grey Bane raced back towards the town. He could not see the riders now and urged the grey into a gallop. A woman moved out onto the road, dragging a handcart, full of linen to be washed. Bane leapt his grey over it. Terror was upon him as he rode, and he prayed to Taranis that he would not be too late. In his mind he heard again Appius talking about the Knights of Stone, and how Lia had insulted their chieftain. And he remembered the kiss, and all that it promised for their future together.

He was close to panic as he reached the lane outside the garden gate. Bane leapt from the saddle. Three horses were tethered there, the riders nowhere to be seen.

The gate was open and, drawing his sword, Bane ran into the garden. The old servant who had brought the horses was lying on the path, his throat slashed open, blood pooling on the stone. Bane ran into the house. One of the warriors he had seen earlier was in the hallway, wiping his blood-drenched blade across the gown of the second servant, an old woman. He glanced up as Bane entered, and swung to face him. He was fast, but Bane was already moving, his sword slicing across the man's throat and cleaving through his neck. Even before he fell Bane ran past him and on to the stairs.

The body of the general Appius was lying sprawled on its back at the foot of the stairs, a terrible open wound in the chest. Bane took the steps two at a time, emerging onto the upstairs corridor. Just as he reached it a second black-garbed warrior came into view. Bane ducked under a slashing sweep, then kicked out, catching the warrior on the knee. As the man fell Bane rammed his sword towards his throat. The blow was mistimed and went in through the man's mouth, spearing up into the brain. Dragging the short sword clear Bane raced along the corridor to Lia's room, throwing open the door and rushing inside.

The leader was there, holding Lia by the throat, a short sword in his hand, the blade pressed against Lia's chest. He was taller than he had looked while riding, several inches over six feet, and the black and silver helm he wore accentuated the cold, pale eyes. Bane felt a moment of dread as he looked into those eyes, and his warrior's heart sensed he was in the presence of a true killer. Lia was no longer struggling. She was looking directly at Bane, and there was hope in that gaze.

'Let her go,' ordered Bane, 'or I'll kill you as I killed your men.'

The man grinned – then rammed his blade into Lia's body, wrenching it clear, and tossing her aside. Time froze in that moment. Lia's body fell slowly, her wide-open eyes staring up at Bane. She struck the floor, and Bane saw her eyes close, blood staining her bright blue gown.

He looked up from the body into the cold eyes of her killer. 'You were saying?' said the man.

Bane gave a terrible cry and hurled himself forward. Their blades met. Bane hacked and slashed, thrust and cut. Every attempt was blocked with ease. Suddenly the man spun on his heel, turning full circle and crashing his elbow into Bane's face. The young tribesman fell back, blood streaming from a cut to his cheekbone.

'You could have had promise, boy,' said the man. 'You are fast and strong.'

Bane attacked again, seeking an opening. The man dropped his guard for a heartbeat. Bane lunged. It was a trick! His opponent swayed aside then slammed his blade into Bane's body. The sword struck Bane's hip then ripped up through his flesh. He lashed out, and the warrior leapt back, Bane's sword opening a shallow cut in his upper arm.

'Well, this has been enjoyable,' said the warrior, 'but sadly it is time for you to die.'

Bane leapt for him, but the man spun away. Bane's charge carried him past his opponent. Terrible pain exploded in Bane's back as the man's iron sword plunged home. Bane dropped to his knees onto the balcony. A shadow fell across him, and he threw himself to his right. The warrior's sword clanged against stone. Bane surged to his feet and once more lashed out. This time his blade nicked the skin of his opponent's cheek.

'You could have been good,' said the man. Bane's vision was blurring. The man's sword lanced towards him. Bane tried to throw up his arm to block it, but the sharp metal rammed home in his chest.

A distant bell began to toll as Bane fell from the balcony. It seemed to him then that he was falling for ever. His body struck the rain-drenched grass, but he felt no pain. With a groan he rolled to his belly, seeking his sword. It had plunged into the earth some feet away. He reached for it, but then the pain hit him, searing from the wound in his back. His face touched the damp earth. With a tremendous effort of will he dragged his torn body across the grass. His hand curled around the hilt of the sword. Then he passed out.

It was almost dusk when Oranus led the ten-man Honour Guard to the house of Appius. He had made sure that the soldiers shined their armour, and their belt buckles and greaves. Light oil glistened on their leather tunics and kilts, and their red cloaks were new, fresh from the stores. Each of their helms boasted a crimson horsehair plume, neatly brushed. These, and the cloaks, would be returned as soon as this visit was over, but Oranus was determined that his men would find approval in the eyes of the general.

The front gates were locked. Set into the wall beside them was a bronze bell, with a hanging rope. Oranus rang it. There was no response. Irritated now, he led his men round the garden wall to the rear gate. This was open. As the Captain of the Watch stepped through he saw the first body. Drawing his short sword he ran along the path.

By the house he saw the blond Rigante warrior, Bane, lying face down on the grass. Blood was drenching his dark clothes, and pooling beneath him. Oranus knelt beside the man and turned him. Bane's eyes flickered open. His face was grey, and Oranus saw another terrible wound in his upper chest. Bane tried to speak, but blood bubbled from his mouth and he passed out.

A tall figure moved from the house. Oranus glanced up, and felt the onset of fear. The man wore the black and silver armour of the Stone Knights. Oranus knew him at once. He had seen Voltan fight in the Great Arena, in the days before he had been recruited to the service of Nalademus. The man was a deadly killer.

'Does he still live?' asked Voltan.

'Barely,' answered Oranus.

Then step aside and I shall finish him.'

Anger washed over the fear and Oranus rose, and turned towards his waiting men. He pointed at one of them: 'Fetch the surgeon Ralis. And do it quickly,' he said.

'I gave you an order,' said Voltan softly.

'I am the Captain of the Watch, Voltan. You do not order me.

'Show me your Papers of Warrant,' replied Oranus. Voltan gave a wry smile, then reached inside a hidden pocket in his black cloak. From it he produced a section of folded parchment. This he handed to Oranus. The captain read it slowly, his heart sinking. Carrying the authorized seal of the Crimson Temple it named Appius and Lia as enemies of the state to be despatched wherever found. Oranus pretended to study the document as he gathered his thoughts. He could feel the tension in the men around him. No-one wanted to find themselves at odds with a Stone Knight.

'I take it that sentence has already been passed on General Appius and his daughter?' he said, passing the parchment back to Voltan.

'It has. Now stand aside while I finish this wretch.'

'I do not see his name upon your warrant, Lord Voltan, nor the name of that poor wretch of a servant upon the path.'

'The savage killed two of my Knights and tried to prevent the execution of our duty.'

'Ah, then you will wish him to be charged with that offence, and you will no doubt take the time to remain here in Accia while a court is convened. There will, of course, be a second hearing before the Cenii king since one of his subjects has been accused of a crime. This, as I'm sure you know, is part of our treaty with the Cenii. It will take no more than a month, perhaps two, Lord Voltan. You are welcome to share my home during that time.'

Voltan gave an easy smile. 'I like a man with nerve, Captain. They make better opponents.' He glanced down at the blood-drenched body. 'He had nerve.' His cold, blue eyes locked to Oranus. 'Perhaps we shall meet again,' he said. Then he sheathed his sword and strolled past the Honour Guard. He paused at the last man, then chuckled. 'This man has specks of rust upon his sword,' he said. 'Be thankful I spared Appius from seeing it. He was notoriously strict about such matters.' Voltan placed his hand on the unfortunate soldier's shoulder. 'You'd probably have received ten lashes,' he said. Then he walked from the garden, mounted his horse and rode away.

'Check the house,' Oranus ordered his men. 'And find something to staunch these wounds.' Removing his cloak he rolled it and placed it under Bane's head. Then he cut away the wounded man's blood-drenched shirt. He had been stabbed three times, once above the hip, once in the chest, and once in the lower back. The chest wound was by far the most serious, and from the bubbling of the blood Oranus knew his lung had been pierced. One of the soldiers returned with some cloths. Oranus made a compress and pressed it down against the chest wound.

'He'll not live, sir,' said the soldier.

Oranus said nothing. The light faded and he ordered lanterns lit. The bald and stooping surgeon, Ralis, arrived, examined the wounds, then turned to Oranus. 'There's little I can do,' he said. 'His lung is pierced, and the wound to his lower back has probably sliced through any number of vital organs.'

'Do what you can,' said the captain.

'Let's get him inside.'

A crow flew over them, cawing and screeching. Oranus shivered. 'How do they know when death is close?' he whispered.

'They can see the spirits pass over,' said a voice. Oranus looked round, and saw an old woman, her face veiled, a heavy fishnet shawl over her bony shoulders.

'What do you want here, woman?' he asked her.

'I have some skill with wounds, soldier. Best you leave him in my care.'

'Our own surgeon is here, but my thanks to you for your offer.'

Her laughter was cold, and Oranus shivered suddenly. 'Your surgeon wishes to be gone to his home, for he knows the boy has perhaps an hour to live. Is that not so, Ralis?'

'It is so,' admitted Ralis.

'Then carry him to a bedroom and I shall tend him until he dies.'

'You are a witch woman of the Cenii?' asked Oranus.

'I am a person with some… shall we say… talent in these matters, Oranus.'

'Then it shall be as you say.'

Soldiers carried Bane to a bedroom on the first floor, and laid him down on a bed. Then they left him and the old woman. Oranus stood in the doorway. 'I shall return tomorrow for the body, lady,' he said. 'We must be careful to prevent disease spreading.'

Her veiled face turned towards him. 'You did well to protect him from the Cold Killer. It was an act of courage. Perhaps it will bring you peace now.'

'Peace would be pleasant,' he said.

'Is that what you wish for?'

Oranus sighed. 'I would wish for him to live,' he said.

Closing the door behind him he walked down the stairs and out into the night. The bodies were being carried out to two waiting wagons. Appius and his daughter were laid side by side in the first, the two elderly Cenii servants and the dead Knights in the other. The surgeon, Ralis, climbed into the first wagon and sat beside Appius and Lia. Oranus ordered the Honour Guard to walk beside the first wagon, and he followed it to the Death House.

Once there the bodies were carried inside. Ralis stayed with them. 'He was my general,' said the surgeon, 'and a great man. I shall prepare the bodies for burial.'

'Do not place your name upon the Grieving List,' warned Oranus. 'They were murdered on the orders of Nalademus.'

'I know.'

Then Oranus returned to his home. He felt a sense of sorrow at the murder of Appius. The old man had served Stone well, and Oranus could not imagine what crime he had committed to be so summarily butchered. Towards midnight, weary and spent, Oranus took to his bed, and prepared himself for yet another night of nightmare and terror. But he slept without dreams for the first time in years, and awoke to see a blue sky, and bright sunlight shining into the room. He rose and walked to the window, staring out over the green hills and the distant forest.

'A new day,' he said aloud, and, even as he said it, felt the awesome fears of the past lose their power and drift away like woodsmoke in a breeze. He felt free, and alive, and the future that had yesterday seemed bleak and shadow-haunted now shone brightly in this new sunlight. How could this be? he wondered. Then he remembered the old woman, and the words she had spoken to him. 'Perhaps it will bring you peace now.' Amid the drama and horror of the events in the house of Appius he had not fully registered what she had said. How did she know of his fears and his endless torment?

Perhaps she is a seer, he thought.

Banouin waited until the death wagons had been drawn away, then walked slowly into the house. He avoided looking at the bloodstained rugs, and climbed the stairs to the upper bedroom. As he opened the door he heard the voice of the Morrigu. 'You were not worthy of your Talent,' she said.

Banouin did not reply, but gazed down on the deathly pale face of his friend. 'He is dead, isn't he?'

'No, he is not dead,' said the Morrigu, 'though his soul has fled this damaged shell. He should be dead, however. His lung was pierced through, and his liver.'

Banouin moved to the bedside. Bane was lying naked on the bed. There were stitches to the wounds in his chest and hip, and a little blood was seeping through them.

'Why did you save him?'

'A soldier of Stone wished it, and it is my destiny to grant wishes. I might ask you a similar question: why did you not save him? He is your friend.'

'What could I do? I am no fighter.'

'No,' said the Morrigu. 'You are not – not in any sense of the word. Why did you come back? Now you have missed your ship, and your journey to the towering greatness of Stone.'

Banouin felt the contempt in the words. 'I don't know why I came back.' He sat down by the bedside and took hold of Bane's hand. 'Why do you say I could have saved him?'

'Why did you not warn Appius of the impending attack? He could have fled the house with his daughter. They would still have been alive. Then Bane would not have attempted his valiant rescue.'

'It was a vision. It was the truth. I could not have changed it.'

'The words of a man with the heart of a weasel,' she hissed. 'Best you go from here, Banouin. Run away to Stone. Hide yourself from all confrontation and danger. Live out your miserable life lost in the words and the works of better men.'

Banouin backed away towards the door. 'You are just like all the rest,' he said, tears in his eyes. 'You value the killers like Bane, the bringers of death. You cannot tolerate those who find violence appalling and seek a better way.'

The Morrigu turned towards him. Banouin tried to run, but found himself frozen in place. 'It is the nature of weak men', she said softly, 'to see their weaknesses as strengths, and other men's strengths as weaknesses or stupidities. Bane risked his life a few days ago to save a horse trapped in a swollen river. A horse, Banouin! And why? Because he has a heart. He has feelings for others. He does not live his life whining about unfairness. He lives his life. On your travels you envied his popularity, the way men and women warmed to him in a way they could never warm to you. You felt they were somehow foolish and were taken in by his easy smile. Not so. They sensed that Bane was a man who cared, a man to be relied on. You, they knew, cared only for yourself, and could not be relied upon.

'I am a spirit, born of spirit and fed by spirit. This land is also fed by spirit. No tree can grow, no flower bloom without it. And where does it come from, this life-giving energy? It comes from men like Connavar and Ruathain, from women like Vorna and Eriatha and Meria. People who know love and warmth, people who will risk their lives for all they believe in.' The Morrigu stepped in close to the terrified Banouin and lifted her dark veil. Her face was dead, the skin grey and peeling back from white bone. 'Look upon the Morrigu, child. Gaze upon her beauty. You feel sick, do you not? Can you smell the corruption? Aye, I guess that you can.

'Once, a long time ago, man understood the nature of spirit. His deeds caused it to flower, and he lived in harmony with the creatures of earth and spirit. Then came more and more men like the Cold Killer and his masters, Banouin. Selfish, greedy, small men who drank of the spirit but did not replenish it. And the creatures of spirit began to pass away, drifting across the multitudes of universes in search of more pleasant habitations. With immeasurable lack of speed this earth began to die. Oh, it will take many thousands of years, but it will die when the last whisper of spirit passes.

'The men of Stone are the latest parasites. They hack down the forests, gouge the earth for precious metals, and kill and conquer, breeding hatred and malice that will last for a hundred lifetimes. They believe in nothing save themselves. That is why you are drawn to them. They are like you, Banouin, utterly selfish. Yes, Bane is violent, and some of his deeds do him no credit. But when he risked himself to save the horse he added to the spirit of the world. He fed the earth. And when he came into this house to save the innocent he fed it again – this time with his blood. You did not remember my warning, did you, Banouin? No man conquers fear by running away from it. Now go away from here. Enter the rats' nest that is Stone. Become a part of the death of the world.'

She turned away from him and returned to the bedside.

Banouin stumbled from the room, and ran out into the night.

The man had no idea where he was, save that the sky was grey and gloomy, and there were no trees, no flowers, no grass. All around him the hillside was covered with grey dust, and tall, jutting boulders the colour of smoke. He felt pain and glanced down at his chest. A flame was burning on his skin, turning the flesh black around it. He slapped at it with his hand, but the flame burned on.

Something moved to his right. He swung round, sword in hand, and saw a huge serpent slither into view. It was colourless, and as it moved it left a white slime upon the grey dust. The man backed away from the creature. Suddenly it reared up, its head flashing towards him. For a moment only he was shocked into immobility. The head of the serpent was human, though its fangs were long as knives.

At the last possible moment the man snapped into action, his sword cleaving through the thick neck of the snake. The creature disappeared in an instant. More and more strange creatures appeared from behind the rocks, and the man felt his skin crawl as he heard their moans. He stood, sword in hand, and watched as the creatures edged towards him. Some slithered on their bellies, others crawled, their talons pulling them forward. Still more crept on all fours, bright yellow eyes staring at him with open malevolence. A scaled beast darted forward, then leapt. He stepped in to meet it, sending his sword slashing through its chest. It too disappeared in an instant.

He backed away, further up the slope. There were scores of the creatures now, and more were coming. Each one of them was demonic in appearance, and yet all carried aspects of humanity, some in the eyes, others in the features or limbs. The flames were still burning on his chest, but he felt no weakness. Only pain. The ground below his feet was corpse grey, and thick with dust, which eddied up like smoke around his ankles. He had no recollection of coming to this place, no memory of a life before it. All he knew was that here, on this dark mountainside beneath a grey sky with no stars or moon, he was in deadly peril.

The beasts edged closer. He moved back. Soon, he knew, they would come at him in a rush, and there was no way he could kill them all. Their hatred enveloped him like an invisible mist, cold and unrelenting. The man moved ever up the mountainside until his back touched a wall of dark, dagger-sharp, shining glass. There was nowhere left to retreat. Within the mist of pulsing hatred he felt their unholy joy. They gathered themselves, moving around him in a semicircle, ever closer.

Then they swept forward.

In that moment a bright light burst upon the scene, and, as the man hacked and cut with his blade, he felt a presence beside him, guarding his back. From the edge of his vision he saw a sword of bright light slashing through the gloom. Once more the beasts fell back. The man's saviour strode after them, then plunged his sword into the grey earth, cutting a long curving line into the dust. Bright fire leapt up along the line, rearing high in the air, a golden half circle of flame, through which the beasts could not pass. Then the shining warrior turned back towards him. He saw that the warrior was completely human, a big man, wide-shouldered and yellow-haired, with friendly blue eyes.

'You should not be here, young Falcon,' he said. 'This is no place for the living.' Gently he laid his hand on the flames scorching the man's chest. The fires died down instantly, the pain vanishing, the skin instantly healed.

Weariness swept over the young man and he sank to the ground, laying aside his sword, and sitting with his back to the rearing cliff of black glass. 'I don't know how I came to be here,' he said. 'Where is this place? Why do you call me Falcon?'

'I call you Falcon because this is your soul-name,' said the other, sitting beside him. 'As to this evil land, it is the Vale of the Lost, a place of the damned. Your enemies were once men. Now they wander here, cursed and forlorn.'

'Why did they attack me?'

'You drew them to you, boy. You are alive. Your spirit burns them, reminding them of all they have lost. They must destroy you to end their pain.'

He looked into the face of the big man. 'And what of you? Why are you in this place?'

The yellow-haired warrior smiled. 'You drew me here, Bane. It was I who gave you your soul-name, and when your soul was in peril I sensed it. Do you know who you are?'

'You called me Falcon – and now Bane. The names are familiar, but I cannot get a grasp on where I have heard them before.'

'That happens here sometimes,' said the man. 'Sit quietly for a while. Let your mind relax. Think of a mountain, with green flanks, a cloak of woods, and peaks of white snow, like an old man's hair. Can you picture it?'

'Aye, I can.'

'Give it a name.'

'Caer Druagh,' said Bane. It was as if sunlight had suddenly pierced the darkest corners of his memory. 'I am Bane of the Rigante,' he said. 'I was with Banouin and we were travelling. Then… then…' He gave a groan. The big man placed his hand on Bane's shoulder.

'Aye, then you tried to save them.'

'I could not defeat him.'

'But you tried, boy. You almost gave your life for it. I'm proud of you.'

'Proud of failure?' Bane gave a harsh laugh.

'Aye, proud,' said the man again. 'An heroic action should never be judged on the basis of its success or failure, but on the heart, passion and courage that inspired it.'

'You are the Big Man,' said Bane.

'I am Ruathain.'

'I know of you,' Bane told him. 'You treated my mother with kindness.' He smiled suddenly. 'I always wanted to know you, Big Man.'

Ruathain clapped him on the shoulder. 'I would like nothing better than to sit and talk with you, Grandson, but the sword-flame will not last much longer, and you must make a choice. You can stay, and I will lead your soul to the Haven, or you can try to return to the world of the living.'

'Then I am not dead?'

'Not yet.'

'How do I return?'

Ruathain gestured up at the glass cliff. 'You must climb it, Bane, to the very top. It will be mercilessly hard. Agonizing. The sharp glass will cut away at you, tearing your flesh. Most men would fail. But you will not fail. Your courage and your fighting spirit will carry you on, through all the agony. Do you believe me?'

'I believe you, Big Man.'

'Then go now, my boy,' said Ruathain, drawing Bane to his feet. The spirit warrior embraced Bane, hugging him close and patting his back. Then he released him. Bane felt a wave of warm emotion threatening to engulf him. No-one, save his mother, had ever embraced him. He looked into Ruathain's eyes.

'I am glad that we met,' he said.

'And I. Now climb – back to the sunlight and the life beyond.'

Leaving his sword upon the ground Bane reached up for a handhold, then began to climb. At first it was easy, but then his foot slipped, and sharp glass cut through his boot, slicing the skin of his foot. The pain almost made him lose his grip. Gritting his teeth he pulled himself up. At first he suffered only small cuts and scratches, and each one stung like salt upon a wound. After a while his shirt and breeches were in tatters, his boots sliced away. Deep cuts had been gouged into his chest and belly, and he was smearing a trail of blood upon the cliff face. He glanced down. Ruathain was no longer there, and the sword-flame had disappeared. A huge throng of creatures had gathered at the foot of the cliff, but none attempted to climb after him.

The pain was intense now, clouding his thoughts, filling his mind. He looked up, but could not see the top. He struggled on. The flesh of his arms had been stripped away, and he could see sinews and muscles, and the whiteness of bone. Each hand- or foot-hold now brought increasing agony, and his mind screamed at him to let go, to fall away from this torturous climb. He closed his eyes, and felt his spirit failing.

'Courage, Grandson,' came the voice of Ruathain.

Bane climbed on.

There was no flesh now upon his fingers, only white bone and ligament. Strips of skin were hanging from his arms, belly and thighs, and his body burned as if on fire. Once more he stopped, all strength seeping from him. If he climbed much further he would be torn to shreds. There would be nothing left of him.

Again the voice of Ruathain whispered into his ear. 'The man who brought death to the house of Appius still lives, Bane. His name is Voltan. Men say he is the greatest swordsman in all the world. I saw him laugh as he stabbed you!'

Anger flooded through Bane, washing over the pain. He fought his way ever higher, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch.

At last he pulled his mutilated body over the lip of the cliff. He felt a cool breeze upon his face, and looked around. He was standing on a flat section of glass no more than twenty feet square.

'Proud of you, boy,' came the voice of Ruathain. And Bane woke.

Oranus waited for the death wagon to arrive then climbed up alongside the driver. Two stretcher-bearers were sitting on an empty wooden coffin in the back. The sun was bright in a clear sky as the driver flicked his reins across the back of the two ponies and the wagon moved on through the streets.

'It is a beautiful day,' said Oranus. The Cenii driver looked at him quizzically, then nodded agreement. As the wagon trundled on Oranus saw the old Cenii witch woman moving from a doorway. He called out to her, but she did not hear him and walked into the shadows of an alleyway. A crow cawed loudly, then launched itself from a rooftop and flew away to the north.

'What is her name?' Oranus asked the driver.

'Whose name?' replied the man.

'The old woman we just saw.'

'I saw no woman, sir.'

The wagon lurched as it left the only paved area of road in Accia and headed up the rutted slope to the house of Barus. Leaving the wagon and the driver at the side gate Oranus led the stretcher-bearers through the house, stepping over the pools of dried blood on the floor, and climbing the stairs. The captain paused at the bedroom door, preparing himself for the sight of the dead Rigante. Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He stopped suddenly, and a stretcher-bearer walked into him, mumbling an apology.

Bane was sitting up in bed, his face pale, but his eyes open. Oranus glanced at the stitched wounds, and the bruises around them. It was not possible the man could be alive. He stood for a moment, uncertain, then drew in a deep breath and ordered the stretcher bearers to wait downstairs. Then he walked to the bedside, drew up a chair and sat down.

'You should be dead,' he said. 'Your lung was pierced.'

'Your surgeon did well, then,' said Bane, his voice weak. There was dried blood on his chin and neck.

'It wasn't my surgeon. An old Cenii witch woman tended you.'

'Then she was very skilled. What happened to the man I was fighting? Did you catch him? He killed Appius and… his daughter.'

Oranus saw the pain in the man's eyes.

'I saw him,' said Oranus. 'He was a Knight of Stone. He carried orders to execute the general and his family. There was nothing I could do. He left last night on a ship for Goriasa.'

Bane closed his eyes and said nothing for a moment. 'I'll find him,' he said.

'Best you don't, young man. Look what happened the first time.' Oranus removed his helm. On a nearby table was a pitcher of water and three goblets. He filled one. 'Drink this,' he said. 'You've lost a lot of blood.'

Bane opened his eyes and reached out for the goblet. He winced as the stitches pulled. Then he drank deeply. The effort seemed to exhaust him and he sank back to the pillow.

'You need to regain your strength,' said Oranus. 'I'll hire a nurse to tend you, and have some food delivered.'

'Why would you do this?'

'In honour of the general,' replied Oranus instantly. 'And because you fought so hard to save him.'

'Who is Voltan?' Bane asked.

Oranus sighed. 'He is a former gladiator. He killed forty men in the arena, and won a hundred other duels which did not result in death. Who told you his name?'

'I dreamt it,' whispered Bane. He fell silent, and Oranus saw that he was sleeping.

Oranus quietly left the bedside, walked downstairs, paid the stretcher-bearers, and ordered one of them to go to the field hospital and have the surgeon Ralis and a nurse sent to the house. The second man he handed a silver piece and told him to run to the market and buy bread, cheese, milk and fruit. Then he walked out into the garden and stood beneath the awning, staring at the mass of blood on the ground. Bane had been stabbed three times by a master swordsman. One terrible strike had pierced his lung. Of that there was no doubt. The wound in his back should have speared a kidney. And yet Bane was alive, his wounds healing.

Oranus had heard of the skills of the Keltoi witch women, but had dismissed some of the wilder stories as fantasies. Now he knew differently.

Returning to the house he walked through to the kitchen. Milk was curdling in a jug, but in the larder there were several eggs. He was about to light the cookfire when he heard people moving around in the hallway. There were four women, all carrying mops and buckets. Oranus remembered ordering the house cleaned and wandered out to them. They were all Cenii women, and they stood staring silently at the blood on the walls, floor and rugs.

They curtsied as he entered. There is more blood on the upstairs landing,' he said, 'and in the far bedroom.'

The women stood together, gazing nervously around. 'What is wrong?' asked Oranus. 'It is only blood. It will not harm you.'

'Is the Old Woman still here, sir?' one of them asked.

'No, she has gone.'

'Is she coming back?'

'I don't know. Who is she?'

The women remained silent, exchanging glances. The oldest of them, a woman of around fifty, stepped forward. 'The soldiers said a crow was with her. It sat on the wall when she walked into the garden. Is this true, sir?'

'Aye, there was a crow. Death always brings them.' The women began speaking in Keltoi, a tongue Oranus had never been able to fully master. 'What is the matter with you?' snapped the officer. 'She was a Cenii witch woman, and she saved the young man. Nothing more than that.'

'Yes, sir,' said the older woman. 'We'll work now.'

Oranus left them to it and returned to the garden, where he sat awaiting Ralis and the nurse. After a little while he heard a wagon draw up. A young army doctor and a slender, dark-haired young woman entered the gate.

Oranus stood. 'Where is Ralis?' he asked.

'He had urgent matters to attend,' said the young man, saluting. 'He has remained at his home today. Where is the dying man?'

'He's not dying,' said Oranus. 'A witch woman healed him.'

The young man laughed scornfully. 'Then his wounds could not have been as severe as was thought.'

'I saw him,' said Oranus, an edge of anger in his voice. 'He was choking on his blood.' He pointed to the bloodsoaked paving. 'That is where he lay.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the doctor, but Oranus could see the man retained his scepticism.

'He is upstairs. Examine his wounds.' Turning to the nurse he told her to prepare some food for the injured man.

'You wish me to stay with him, sir?' she asked stiffly. Her pretty face held a look of cold disdain.

'Yes I do.'

'He is a tribesman, is he not?'

'He is.'

'I am a citizen of Stone, and should not be required to tend savages. I will stay with him today, but I expect a Cenii woman to be recruited from tomorrow.'

Oranus knew the young woman. She had been expelled from Stone for illegal prostitution and extortion. Since arriving in Accia, however, she had been a model citizen, attending Temple and working voluntarily in the field hospital. 'It will be as you say,' he told her. 'I am grateful for your assistance. He is a brave young man, who fought to save two citizens of Stone.'

'Two traitors,' she pointed out.

'Yes, but he didn't know that. There are some eggs in the kitchen, and some bread. I would be grateful if you could prepare a breakfast for me also.'

'Of course, Captain,' she said, and walked away.

The young doctor returned some minutes later. 'As you say, Captain, he is not dying, though he has lost a great deal of blood.' The man chuckled suddenly. 'I heard the cleaning women talking. They believe a Seidh goddess healed him. The Morrigu, they called her. That's obviously the answer, then.' He laughed again. 'I must be getting back.'

'Thank you for your time, Doctor.'

'See that he drinks plenty of water, and eats red meat. He should start regaining his strength in a week or so.'

'I shall.'

The young man returned to the waiting wagon and Oranus walked back into the house and through to the kitchen. The nurse, Axa, had scrambled some eggs. She served them onto two wooden plates, handed one to Oranus, and took the other upstairs. Oranus sat quietly in the kitchen eating his breakfast. The eggs were good, and he cut two slices of bread, smearing them thickly with butter.

He felt different today. He had half expected the good feeling he had experienced upon waking to drift away like a dream once the day began, but it was quite the reverse. I feel strong again, he thought. Casting his mind back to the horrors of Cogden Field he found he could view the memories without terror.

Axa returned with an empty plate, and sat at the table opposite him. 'I am sorry, Captain,' she said. 'I feel I was a little harsh earlier. I will do my duty and remain with Bane until he is well.' He glanced at her, saw that her face was flushed.

That is good of you,' he said.

The cleaning women had completed their task as he returned to the bedroom. Bane was asleep again, but he woke as Oranus entered.

'I feel weak as a newborn foal,' said the Rigante.

'Your strength will grow day by day,' said Oranus.

Bane smiled. 'I thank you for your kindness. Do you know what happened to my friend?'

'Friend?'

'I was staying here with Banouin. He's another Rigante. We were travelling to Stone together.'

'No, I have not seen him. I will make enquiries.'

'Tell me, what is a gladiator?'

'A man who fights to entertain the crowds at stadiums. Some are former soldiers, some are criminals. They train daily to hone their skills. They can become very wealthy – if they survive. Most don't.'

'And it was this training that made Voltan so deadly?'

'I think he was probably deadly before it. But, yes, the training would have sharpened his skills.'

'How does one become a gladiator?' asked Bane.

A cold wind blew across the arena floor, causing snow to flurry over the sand. Persis Albitane heaved his ample frame from his seat high in the Owner's Enclosure and watched the meagre crowd snaking towards the exits. Less than four hundred people had paid the entrance fee, which meant that, with only two event-days to come, Circus Orises would make a loss for the second year in a row.

Persis was not in a good mood. Debts were mounting, and his own shrinking capital would barely be able to meet them. As the last of the crowd left, the fat man strolled up the main aisle to the small office, unlocked the door, took one look at the huge pile of debt papers on the desk, pulled shut the door, and walked along the corridor to a second, larger room, boasting four couches, six deep hide-filled chairs, and an oak cabinet. A badly painted fresco adorned the walls, showing scenes of racing horses, wrestling bouts and gladiatorial duels. Persis hated the fresco. The artist must have been drunk, he thought. The horses looked like pigs on stilts. He sighed. The fire was not lit, and a west-facing window was banging in the wind, allowing snow to drift across the sill. Persis moved to the window. Down in the harbour of Goriasa he saw three fishing boats heading out into the iron grey of the sea. Better them than me, he thought. In the far distance he could see the white cliffs of the land across the water. Two of his uncles had died there, officers serving Valanus. Another uncle had survived, but he had never been the same man again. His eyes had a haunted, frightened look.

Persis tried to shut the window, but the catch was broken and the wind prised it open once more. Several old wooden gambling tickets were strewn upon the floor. Stooping, Persis plucked one and used it to wedge the window shut. Then he went to a poorly made cabinet by the far wall. Inside were four small jugs. One by one he shook them. The first three were empty, but the fourth contained a little uisge, which he poured into a copper cup. The hospitality room was cold, but the uisge warmed him briefly. He sank down into a chair, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.

'Happy birthday,' he told himself, raising the cup. He swore softly, then chuckled. Persis had always believed that by twenty-five he would be fat, rich, and happily settled in a villa on a Turgon hillside, perhaps overlooking a bay. And he might have been, save for this money-sucking enterprise. At eighteen, with the ten gold coins his father had given him, he had invested in a shipment of silk from the east. That doubled his money, and he had bought five shares in a merchant vessel. By the age of twenty he owned three ships outright, and had purchased two warehouses, and a dressmaking operation in Stone. Two years later he had amassed enough coin to buy a small vineyard in Turgony.

Moneylending increased his fortune still further. That is, until he met old Gradine, owner of the Circus Orises in Goriasa. He had loaned the man money, and when he failed to pay Persis had taken a half interest in the stadium and the circus. When Gradine died of a stroke a year later Persis became sole owner. He chuckled to himself. Sole owner of a rundown circus with a mountain of debts and only two assets, the little slave Norwin and the ageing gladiator Rage.

I should have closed it down, he thought.

Instead, in his arrogance, he had travelled from Stone to the Keltoi port city of Goriasa, believing he could make Circus Orises into the gold mine Gradine always prayed it would be: a venture to rival the mighty Circus Palantes.

He had known the enterprise was doomed virtually from the beginning, but he carried on, injecting capital, acquiring new acts, paying for repairs to the creaking timber-built stadium. One by one he sold his other profitable interests to finance the project. First to go was the vineyard, then the warehouses, then the ships.

'You are an idiot,' he told himself. Fat and rich by twenty-five! He smiled suddenly and patted his stomach. 'Halfway there,' he said.

A bitterly cold draught was seeping under the door. Rising, Persis emptied the last of the uisge into his cup and walked out into the open.

A team of Gath workers was moving through the stadium, clearing away the litter left by the Stone spectators. A small boy was working close by. Persis saw he was wearing only a thin cotton tunic, and his arms and face were blue with cold. 'Boy!' he called. 'Come here!'

The lad walked shyly towards him. 'Where is your coat?' asked Persis. 'It is too cold to be dressed like this.'

'No coat,' said the boy, his teeth chattering.

'Go below and find my man, Norwin. Tell him Persis says to give you a coat. Understand?'

'Yes, lord.'

Persis watched the boy move away, then returned to his office, where at least a fire was blazing. Sitting at the desk he gazed balefully at the debt papers. There was enough coin left to pay most of the debts, and two reasonably good event-days would see to the rest. But next season was another matter. Persis spent some time going through the papers, organizing them into neat piles. They seemed less threatening stacked in this way.

The door opened and his slave Norwin entered. Just over five feet tall, his grey hair thinning, Norwin shivered with the cold, despite the heavy sheepskin coat he wore.

'Please let this be good news,' said Persis.

The little man grinned. 'The horse-riding acrobats have quit,' he said. 'Circus Palantes have offered them a two-season contract.'

'One day you must explain to me your definition of good news,' said Persis.

'Kalder has a pulled hamstring, and will not be ready to fight for six weeks. By the way, the surgeon says you have not paid his bill, and unless he receives his money in full by tomorrow he will not be available any longer.'

'I've known plagues that were better company than you,' grumbled Persis.

'Oh, and it's good to know we are now in the happy position of being able to give away coats. By tomorrow every beggar and his brother will be at the door. Perhaps we should set up a stall?'

'Tell me,' said Persis, 'did you ever act like a slave? Yes sir, no sir, whatever you desire, sir… that sort of thing?'

'No. I have one year left,' said Norwin, 'and then I shall be free of this indenture, my debts paid. And you will have to offer me a salary. That is if the circus is still operating by then. You know Rage is approaching fifty? How long do you think he will still pull crowds for exhibition fights?'

'Oh, you are a joy today.'

Norwin sighed. 'I am sorry, my friend,' he said. 'We took less than ninety silvers today, and without the horse acrobats we'll take less in future. Have you thought about the Palantes offer?'

'No,' said Persis.

'Perhaps you should. Crowds love to see blood.'

'I know. It is one of the reasons I despise people – myself included. But the Palantes offer would ruin us. We have fifteen gladiators – all of them veterans. Palantes has more than fifty, all of them young and ambitious. Can you imagine what would happen to our old men if we were to pit them against the highly trained young killers of Palantes?'

'The majority of our men would die,' said Norwin coldly. 'Against that we could draw maybe three thousand people, clear all debts, and leave this stadium with enough coin to invest in a truly profitable business.'

'Are you truly that callous, Norwin? Would you sacrifice our people for money?'

The little slave peeled off his sheepskin coat and stood by the fire. 'They are gladiators because they choose to be. Fighting is what they live for, what they know. As matters stand we will not be able to pay any of them winter wages, which means that for the next three months they will be begging work at the docks or the timber yards.'

Persis stared down at the debt papers and sighed. 'I do not want my people killed,' he said.

'They are not your people, Persis. They are performers who work for you.'

'I know that. I also know Rage says he will never take part in another death bout. I don't blame him. He had ten years of it.'

Norwin added several chunks of wood to the fire. 'Rage is getting old, and he wants a pension. This could be his chance. He has money saved. He would bet it all on himself. If he won he could retire.'

'If he won,' said Persis.

'If he didn't, he wouldn't have to worry about a pension,' observed Norwin.

'You are a hard man, but, rightly or wrongly, I care about the people of Crises and their lives.'

'As I said before, they are lives they chose to lead,' pointed out the little man.

'That was true – in the past. But they joined Circus Crises because we do not engage in death bouts.'

Norwin stepped to the table and lifted the first pile of debt papers. 'In Baggia last month,' he said, 'Circus Palantes drew eighteen thousand – and charged double the entrance fee. Everyone wanted to see the fight between Jaxin and Brakus.'

'I know that.'

'Well, at least think about it,' advised Norwin. 'Put it to the gladiators. Let them make the choice.'

'I'll talk to Rage,' said Persis.

Persis Albitane eased his large bulk into the seat and gazed around the vast wooden building. He had never liked visiting Garshon's establishment. It was a haunt, he believed, of robbers and cutthroats. Few Stone citizens gathered here. At the far end of the building a horse auction was being held in a circle of sand, surrounded by tiered wooden seats. Close by several whores were trying to interest newcomers. Their perfume hung in the air, mixing in with the smell of horses, damp straw, and sweat.

The odour was far weaker here in the eating section where several open windows allowed the sea breeze to filter through, and Persis found the aroma of cooking meats more than compensated for the occasional noxious scent from the main hall. There were more than fifty bench tables in the eating section and most were full – a testament to the quality of fare served here. A serving wench approached him, but Persis told her he was waiting for a guest, then sat with his gaze fixed on the double doors.

When Rage arrived he was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, who clapped him on the back as he moved through the throng. Rare to see a man of Stone popular among the Gath, thought Persis. He smiled. Rage, despite his grim features, was a charismatic figure still, with the trademark red silk scarf tied over his shaved dome, his muscular upper frame clothed in a tight-fitting shirt of black satin, beneath a heavy cloak of black wool. He still looked every inch the warrior who had fought eighty duels, thirty-three of them death bouts. Persis had seen the last. It was exactly twelve years ago, and his father, as a birthday treat, had taken him to the Giant Stadium, where, after the horse races, and the tableau, the great gladiator, Rage, was to fight the unbeaten warrior, Jorax. Both men represented the finest circuses of the day, Palantes and Occian. Huge amounts of coin were placed in bets, and the crowd were utterly silent as the two men stepped out into the arena. Persis shivered with pleasure at the memory. Rage had been garbed in the armour of Palantes, bright bronze, his helm embossed with a black eagle. Jorax's helm was iron, polished like silver. Since this was a death bout neither man wore a breastplate. At the centre of the arena slaves had dug out a pit, thirty feet long and twenty wide, which was filled with hot coals. Ten feet above it was a narrow platform on which the men would fight.

They each climbed the steps to the platform, then drew their short swords, and saluted the Lord of the Games. Persis couldn't remember who it was that day, but it might have been Jasaray. The swords were lowered, and trumpets blared out. Both men advanced along the platform and the fight began. The crowd erupted, cheering on their chosen favourite, and Persis was not able to hear the clashing of the weapons, but he saw the bright swords licking out, lunging, parrying, slashing, cutting.

It went on for some minutes, then Jorax slipped and fell to the coals. He rolled across them, the skin of his arms, back and legs blistering badly. Then he scrambled clear. Rage leapt from the platform, clearing the coals. He charged at the stricken man. Jorax defended brilliantly for a little while, then Rage's gladius slipped under his guard, cutting through his right bicep. Jorax dropped his sword, tried to retrieve it with his left hand, but was then punched in the jaw. He fell heavily. Rage's sword touched the base of his opponent's throat, and Jorax lay very still.

The crowd began to bay for the finish, including Persis. 'Death, death, death!' they cried.

Rage had stood for a moment, then he plunged his sword into the sand and strode across the arena.

The crowd erupted in fury, hurling seat cushions at the departing gladiator. He had made a mockery of the fight! The stadium authorities had withheld his purse – six thousand in gold – and all bets were cancelled, while an inquiry was launched. The inquiry found that Rage had besmirched the integrity of gladiatorial combat, and he was fined ten thousand in gold. He paid the fine and announced his retirement from Circus Palantes and the arena.

A year later Jorax was proclaimed Gladiator One, a title he held for three years, before being cut to pieces and killed by Voltan. Rage was offered fabulous sums to return to the arena, and fight the new champion, but he declined them all.

But Rage had returned to the arena several years later, to fight in what were termed Exhibitions of Swordplay and Martial Skills, and for a number of years pulled in good crowds for Circus Crises. Even now several hundred would turn up, just to glimpse Rage in full battle armour.

Persis waved as Rage approached. The tall warrior removed his cloak and eased himself into the seat opposite. Persis looked into his night-dark eyes. 'How are you feeling after your bout? No pulled muscles, I hope?'

'No. No problems.' Rage's voice was deep, and almost musical.

The serving wench returned, bringing a platter of bread and a slab of salted butter. Persis ordered the game platter: wood pigeon, duck and goose, prepared with a raspberry sauce. Rage asked for a rare steak, accompanied by uncooked vegetables.

'What was it you wanted to discuss?' asked Rage, as the girl moved away.

'We have had an offer from Circus Palantes.'

'No death bouts,' said Rage.

Persis fell silent for a moment. 'Circus Crises is almost bankrupt,' he said. 'I do not like the idea of death bouts myself, but I thought I would at least put it to you. You have a one-fifth stake in the circus, and if we do not find a way to draw the crowds that stake will be worthless. How is your farm prospering?'

'It has been a bad year,' said Rage.

'One big crowd – say five thousand or more – and we would clear all debts and make a strong profit. Then I could buy out your stake for a reasonable sum.'

'Some of the others might be interested,' said Rage.

Persis looked away. They could not draw the crowds as well as you.' Steeling himself he looked again into the dark eyes. 'I understand your moral objections to killing, but-'

'You do not understand me at all,' said Rage, without a hint of anger. 'And I do not need your understanding. What have Palantes offered?'

'Five thousand in gold as an agreement fee, but they receive two-thirds of all receipts from the crowd.'

'And the named gladiators?'

'They say they will use only new fighters, no Names – and none of the bouts to figure in the Championship.'

Rage considered the information. 'They seek to blood new talent,' he said at last. 'They don't want to risk putting poor performers into a major arena. So they will bring them out here to the arse end of the empire, to practise upon ageing fighters no-one cares about.' Rage shook his head. 'Nothing changes. I will put it to the others.'

'They have asked for you, Rage. You are an integral part of the offer,' said Persis. They will not bring their fighters unless you agree to take part.'

Rage's eyes narrowed, the only hint of the anger he felt. When he spoke his voice was still even. 'Of course. They will pitch their best new talent against me, and then they can proclaim him as the man who killed Rage. So much for old loyalties. Does Absicus still own Palantes?'

'Yes.'

'He is the man who told me he would value me always. He said I had helped to make Palantes rich, and he was pleased I had survived to retirement. He wished me well – though he offered me no financial support when the games authority stripped me of all savings. Now, for the sake of a few extra coins, he wants to send a young man to kill me.'

'You are still the best,' said Persis.

'Do not speak like an idiot!' said Rage. 'I am two years from fifty. I was the best, now I am merely good. In another five years I will be an embarrassment. No man can hold back time, Persis. It eats away at you like a cancer.'

The sound of a scuffle broke out some distance away. Persis swung to see the cause of the commotion. A young, blond tribesman was being attacked by three men. The first of the attackers was felled by a savage right hook, the second grabbed the tribesman, but was thrown by a rolling hip lock. The third smashed a straight left to the tribesman's face, sending him staggering back. As the attacker moved in to finish him the tribesman leapt forward, taking two more hard blows, but grabbing his attacker's tunic and hauling him into a sickening head butt. The third man's knees buckled. At that moment Persis saw the second of the attackers rise from the floor behind the tribesman, a shining dagger in his hand. The circus owner was about to cry out a warning when he saw Rage rise to his feet, a wooden platter in his hand. His arm swept forward. The platter sliced through the air and slammed into the temple of the knifeman, who dropped like a stone.

The blond tribesman knelt by the first of the men and retrieved a pouch. Then he rose and walked across to Rage.

'Good throw,' he said. 'Never thought to see a bread plate used as a weapon.'

'Now you have,' said Rage, turning his back on him and returning to his seat. Persis was watching the young man, and saw his face grow pale with anger.

'I am Persis Albitane,' he said, rising, and offering his hand. The tribesman hesitated for a moment, then turned towards him, accepting the handshake. Persis saw that his eyes were different colours, one green, the other tawny gold. 'You fought well.'

'He fought like an idiot,' said Rage. 'Now can we conclude our conversation?'

'I am beginning to dislike you,' said the tribesman, turning his attention to Rage.

'Be still my terrified heart,' said Rage.

'Perhaps you would like to step outside, you old bastard, and I'll show you what terror is,' said the young man. Persis moved round the table to step between them.

'Now, now,' he said. 'Let us not forget that my friend saved your life. A brawl between the two of you would be unseemly.'

'Aye, but judging from what I've seen it would be short,' said Rage.

One of the downed men climbed to his feet and rushed at the tribesman, who turned and delivered a bone-crunching left that sent his attacker skidding back across the sawdust-strewn floor. He did not rise.

'That, at least, showed a little skill,' said Rage. 'Nicely timed, the weight coming from the feet, with good follow-through.'

'So glad you approved,' muttered the tribesman.

'It's not about approval or disapproval, boy. It's about survival. You just faced three men. You took them out well at first, but the man you threw over your hip was not stunned. You momentarily forgot about him. In a fist fight that could be considered careless. But he had a dagger, and that carries it far beyond carelessness, straight into the realm of stupidity. Now that is an end to the lessons for today.'

The tribesman grinned suddenly. 'It was a good lesson – and I thank you for it.' He swung to Persis. 'My name is Bane,' he said. 'I came here looking for you. I have a letter from your uncle, Oranus. He said you would help me to become a gladiator.'