Midnight Falcon

Chapter Five

A light snow was falling as Bane walked up the hill. He paused at the crest to gaze down on the L-shaped white farmhouse below. The young Rigante was nervous and on edge. Persis Albitane had told him to report to Rage just after dawn today, and that the old gladiator would assess whether Bane could join Circus Crises. It had not occurred to Bane that he would have to prove himself. He was a fighter, and had killed men in combat. Surely, he had thought, that was all that was needed. But no. After their meeting Persis had walked with him through the city centre and back to Stadium Crises, explaining that Rage would make the final decision.

'The man does not like me,' said Bane, as they sat in the fat man's small office.

'Rage does not like anyone,' put in Persis brightly. 'Do not let that concern you.'

'I need to learn the skills of a gladiator,' said Bane. 'It is important to me.'

'Rage will test you fairly, young man. I can assure you of that. Go to his farm early tomorrow – soon after dawn. He will assess your strength, your speed, your endurance, and your fighting skills. If he is satisfied that you have the talent, then we will make an agreement.'

Now, in the early chill of a winter morning, Bane trudged down the slope towards the farmhouse. He did not feel confident. As he approached the building he saw the gladiator emerge from a doorway. Rage was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, a loose pair of black woollen leggings, and thin leather moccasins. The bitter weather did not seem to affect him at all. Just looking at him made Bane feel colder.

Rage offered no greeting. His face was expressionless as he approached the younger man. Gesturing Bane to follow him he strolled to the back of the farmhouse and onto a stretch of snow-covered open land, upon which had been erected a number of curious wooden frames. 'Do you understand the nature of discipline?' he asked suddenly.

'Discipline? I believe so. In war some will be officers and some will be fighting men. It is important for the fighting men to carry out the orders of the officers.'

'I meant self-discipline,' said Rage.

'Giving orders to oneself? I'm not sure what you-' At that moment Rage struck him, open-handed, in the face. Bane was knocked sideways. For an instant he was paralysed with shock, then fury swept through his system. He hurled himself at Rage, who side-stepped, tripping him to the ground. Bane rolled, and came up fast, his hand reaching for the knife in his belt. Rage stepped in, grabbed his arm and threw him again. Bane hit hard, but rose once more – to see Rage sitting calmly on a wooden bench.

'Heart and head,' said Rage softly. 'It is a difficult balance to find. Without heart and passion a warrior cannot function at his best, but without the head he will not survive. You know why they first called me Rage?'

Bane took a deep breath, fighting to control himself. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill this arrogant whoreson. 'No,' he said, his hand still hovering over the knife hilt.

'Because I never get angry. It was a joke, you see. I hold it all in here,' he said, tapping his broad chest. 'I stay smooth on the outside, allowing my body to accomplish what it is trained to do.'

'Good for you,' said Bane, still trembling with suppressed emotion.

'Calm down, boy. That's why I asked about self-discipline,' said Rage. 'Without it you'll fail. I am forty-eight years old, and I just downed you twice. The first time because you were taken unawares, the second time because you reacted with heart but no brain. I know you've got nerve. I saw that in Garshon's hall. I saw also that you have speed and good co-ordination.' Rage rose to his feet, removed a red silk cloth from the pocket of his black shirt and tied it over his shaved head.

'I thank you for your compliments,' said Bane coldly. 'But I'd like to see you best me now I'm prepared.'

'Takes you some time to learn, boy, doesn't it?' said Rage. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Bane advanced cautiously, then threw himself at the man. Rage grabbed his outstretched arm, twisted on his heel, and threw Bane over his hip. Keeping hold of the arm he flipped Bane to his belly, then touched the young man's throat with his index finger. 'If that was a knife you'd be pumping blood right about now.'

Bane sat up. 'You've convinced me. How do I acquire this… self-discipline?' he asked.

'That is just one of many skills,' said Rage. 'Have you breakfasted yet?'

'No. Persis told me to be here just after dawn.'

'Good. Can you run?'

'Of course I can run.'

'How far?'

'As far as I need to.'

'Then let's begin,' said Rage, setting off slowly towards the eastern hills. Bane removed his cloak, left it hanging over one of the wooden frames, and set off after the older man. Coming alongside he said: 'Where are we going?'

'Over the hills,' responded Rage.

'Why are we running so slowly?'

'We're warming the muscles. We'll stop at the first crest and stretch, then the real work can begin.'

Bane settled in alongside him. On the hilltop Rage slowed to a walk, then moved through a series of stretching exercises. Bane watched him. His legs were lean, and there was not an ounce of fat on his powerful frame. Then the two men ran on, moving easily for several miles. From the high ground Bane could see the port city of Goriasa. According to Brother Solstice it had once been one of the most ugly settlements on the mainland, a mass of clumsily constructed wooden buildings, set close together, and separated by winding, claustrophobic alleyways. The conquest by the armies of Stone sixteen years previously had seen much of the city burnt, and now there were stone-built temples, houses, and places of business, all linked by a series of streets branching off from a wide avenue through the centre of the city. Some three thousand citizens of Stone now lived here among twenty-five thousand Gath.

Rage and Bane ran along the crest of the eastern hills, then cut down into a wooded valley. Rage increased his pace, and Bane matched him, still breathing easily. His legs were a little tired now, his calves burning. After the Cenii witch woman had healed him he had recovered fast, but had then come down with a fever. It had stripped him of flesh and sapped his strength, and he had been forced to spend three months recuperating in the city of Accia. He had thought his stamina to be fully restored, but now he realized just how weak he had become.

Rage cut to the left, climbing a slippery slope. Bane fell, and rolled back, then scrambled up after the older man. Once more on the flat Rage picked up the pace again. Bane was now breathing heavily, and struggling to keep up. Rage noticed his distress and grinned at him. Anger touched Bane, sending new power to his tired limbs.

They ran on, covering another three miles, before climbing over a low drystone wall and loping back towards the distant white-walled farmhouse. Once there Rage stretched again, while Bane slumped down onto a bench, sucking air into his lungs.

'Strip off your shirt,' said Rage.

'Why?'

Rage stood silently for a moment. 'Let us understand something, boy,' he said. 'Persis asked me to assess you. As a favour. I told him I would – if you proved yourself willing. But in my company you are my student. When I tell you to do something you will do it. Instantly. In that way you will learn self-discipline. Now I think you are intelligent, so understand what I am now going to say: disobey me one more time and I will send you away, and you will have to travel to another city to fulfil your dream. Am I clear on this?'

Bane looked into the man's dark eyes. 'Aye, you are clear,' he said.

'Then strip off your shirt and stand.'

Bane did so. Rage looked at him closely, turning him round and examining his muscle development. 'The biceps and shoulders need work,' he said. 'But you are built for speed and strength. You came from good stock.' He paused and peered closely at the scar on Bane's chest. 'Short sword. Should have pierced the lung and killed you. How did you survive?'

'I don't know,' said Bane. 'Luck?'

The wound in your back is also from a gladius. Were these wounds from the same fight?'

'Yes.'

'More than one assailant?'

'No. Just the one.'

'He stabbed you first in the back?'

'No,' said Bane. 'Here.' He tapped at the scar on his hip.

'Ah, I see. You rushed him. He side-stepped and stabbed you in the back as you went past. Then you tried to turn and fight him and he finished you with a lunge to the chest. Skilled man. Very skilled.'

'Aye, he was that,' muttered Bane.

'A gladiator?'

'I have been advised to be wary when speaking of… my wounds,' said Bane.

'Good advice,' said Rage. 'All right, put your shirt on, and let's get to work.'

He took Bane to one of the wooden frames. A round pole had been extended between two supports ten feet above the ground. Rage extended his arms, leapt lightly and hung on the pole. Then he drew himself up until his chin touched the wood. He repeated the move twenty times then dropped to the ground. 'Now you,' he said.

Bane found the exercise easy – for the first ten raises. The next five were difficult, the last five excruciating.

For the next hour Rage put him through a series of agonizing routines. Bane completed them all, until, exhausted, he sank to the cold ground.

'Time for breakfast,' said Rage.

'I don't think I could eat,' said Bane.

Rage shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said, and wandered into the farmhouse. Bane joined him, and sat quietly while Rage prepared a pan of oats and milk, which he placed on a black iron stove.

'Why are you still fighting in the arena?' asked Bane, as the warrior stood over the pan, stirring the contents.

'Why would I not?'

'Persis said you earned fabulous sums as a fighter.'

'Indeed I did. I managed to save almost ten thousand in gold. But it was stripped from me when I quit. All I had left was this farm.'

'Why did they take your money?'

'I brought the noble name of gladiatorial combat into disrepute. Now you tell me why you want to become an arena warrior. Glory, riches, revenge?' He glanced back at the blond-headed young man.

'Aye. One of those.'

'I thought so,' said Rage. 'You want to find the man who almost killed you, and prove to yourself that you are the better man.'

'No,' snapped Bane. 'I want to kill the whoreson for what he took from me.'

'Interesting,' said Rage. 'But your friend's advice still remains good. Let us talk no more of it at this time.'

The door opened and a young girl entered the kitchen. Bane judged her to be around thirteen years old, very slim, with long, white-blonde hair. She was wearing a brown cotton nightdress, and she yawned as she moved to the table. 'Good morning, Grandfather,' she said sleepily.

'You slept late, princess,' said Rage. 'Did you have nice dreams?'

'I never remember dreams,' she said. 'You know that.' Then she noticed Bane, and turned towards him. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and very large. Bane smiled at her. She did not respond.

'Who are you?' she asked him.

'I am Bane of the Rigante.'

'I am Cara,' she told him, sitting opposite him at the table. 'You look exhausted.'

'Indeed I am.' Bane found her directness both engaging and off-putting.

Rage served the thick porridge into three wooden dishes, which he placed on the table. 'There is honey, sugar or salt, whichever is your preference,' he told Bane.

Bane shook his head, and drew a plate towards him.

'It will be very hot,' said Cara. 'Best to leave it for a while. Or add some milk. Otherwise you'll burn your tongue.'

Bane chuckled and shook his head.

'Why do you laugh?' she asked him. 'Did I say something amusing?'

'I was just thinking how like your grandfather you are, princess,' he said.

'I am not a princess,' she said sternly. That is just what Grandfather calls me. But you may call me princess, if it pleases you.'

‘Then I shall,' said Bane. 'Is your mother still sleeping?'

'My mother is dead,' said Cara, pouring cold milk onto her oats.

'I am sorry.'

'Why?' asked Cara. 'Did you know her?'

'No. I meant I am sorry for you. My mother died earlier this year. I miss her.'

'I don't miss my mother,' said Cara. 'She died when I was a baby. I don't remember her.'

'Did your father die too?'

'No. He went away. He might be dead now. We don't know, do we, Grandfather?'

'We have not heard from him,' said Rage.

'So, is it just the two of you that live here?' asked Bane.

'We have four herdsmen who have rooms at the far end,' said Rage, 'and two servants who live down the hill.'

After breakfast Rage sent Cara back to her room to wash and dress. Then, after cleaning the porridge pan and dishes, he took Bane outside once more.

'I will train you,' he said. 'You will stay here. I will have a room prepared. Every morning this week we will run and work. Next week we will begin on your sword skills. Now you will excuse me. I need to see to my dairy herd.'

With that he wandered back into the house. Bane gathered up his cloak, swung it round his shoulders and set off back to Goriasa.

Having paid for his room at the tavern Bane saddled the grey and rode back to the farmhouse just before noon. A fat, middle-aged Gath woman took him to a spartanly furnished room facing west. There was a narrow bed, a chest for his clothing, and two wooden chairs. The walls were white and unadorned, save for an empty shelf to the right of the door. The room was spacious, some twenty feet long and fifteen wide, and there was a large window, with red-painted wooden shutters that opened outwards. A fire was blazing in the hearth.

'If there's anything you need you have only to ask,' said the woman. 'My name is Girta, and I cook and clean here three times a week.'

'Thank you, Girta,' said Bane.

'You are Rigante, aren't you?' said Girta.

'Yes, I am.'

'I have a cousin who dwells among the Rigante now. He left years ago with Osta and other fighting men to serve Connavar. I have often thought of crossing the water to join him. Don't suppose I will now, though. I have no wish to see more wars and death.'

Bane did not respond and Girta moved to the doorway. 'The others will be here within the hour. I'll serve the meal then,' she said.

'Others?'

'The other gladiators,' she told him. Then she pulled shut the door behind her and Bane heard her walking away down the corridor. Taking off his cloak he draped it over the back of a chair then pushed open the window. From here he could see a line of wooded hills, and the distant stone road that led to Goriasa. The sky was clear above the hills, but in the distance dark storm clouds were bunching over the sea.

Tired from his efforts that morning he pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. He thought of Banouin, and wondered again why his friend had deserted him. Oranus had told him Banouin had boarded a ship the morning after the killings. It made no sense to the young Rigante. They had been friends. Did I misjudge him so badly? he wondered.

Then he slept lightly, and dreamed of Caer Druagh, and of Lia. He was holding her hand on the mountain slope, and pointing down at the settlement of Three Streams. Then she began to float away from him. He ran after her, but she was swept along like a leaf in the wind, ever higher, until she vanished among the clouds.

A sharp rapping on the door roused him from sleep. 'Come in,' he called.

Cara pushed open the door. She was dressed now in a knee-length tunic of bright blue. 'The day is not for sleeping,' she chided him.

He grinned at her. 'Ah, but I am old and tired,' he said.

'You are not old. Grandfather is old, and he doesn't sleep in the daytime. Anyway, Polon and Telors are here. Would you like to meet them?'

Bane pulled on his boots. 'They are gladiators?'

'Yes. Grandfather has called a meeting.'

Bane followed the girl downstairs, through the kitchen, and into a long room containing a dozen chairs and six couches. Two men were lounging there, one tall and wide-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed black beard, flecked with silver, the second smaller, sandy-haired with close-set grey eyes. Cara ran to the black-bearded man, who grinned widely and lifted her into a hug, kissing her cheek. Bane paused in the doorway. ‘Telors,' said Cara, 'this is Bane. Grandfather is teaching him to be a fighter.'

Black-bearded Telors lowered the child to the floor and stepped forward, hand outstretched. Bane shook hands. 'Good to meet you,' said Telors.

'You'll make no money with Crises,' said the sandy-haired man, not offering his hand.

Telors shook his head. 'Polon is not in a good mood today,' he said. 'He spent last night gambling and now is without a copper coin to his name.'

Polon swore at him.

'That is not nice,' said Cara. 'Those were bad words.'

'Aye, but he's a bad man – and a worse gambler,' said Telors, with a grin. 'Now why don't you run along and fetch us some hot drinks, princess?'

Once the girl had left Telors's expression hardened. 'You shouldn't use language like that in front of her,' he said sternly.

'Like I should give a shit?' answered Polon, moving to the window.

Telors turned to Bane. 'Are you Gath?'

'No. Rigante.'

'That will draw the crowds. Especially in Stone. Demon fighters, the Rigante. Or so we're told.' He gave an easy smile as he said it, and Bane found himself liking the man.

'Here they come,' said Polon. Bane glanced out of the window and saw five riders approach the farmhouse. A servant took charge of their horses and the men came inside. All were in their middle to late thirties, lean, grim-faced men. No-one introduced Bane, and he wandered to a seat against the wall, where he sat and observed the group. The clothes they were wearing were of good quality, but not new, and their boots were worn. Three more riders arrived within minutes. Then four more. Girta and Cara brought cups of hot tisane, leaving them on the table at the centre of the room. Telors took one, but the others ignored the drinks. Finally, with fourteen men gathered, Rage entered the room. He was dressed now in simple farm clothes, a sleeveless leather jerkin over a thick woollen shirt and leather leggings. Even so, he created a magnetic centre to the room. Bane watched him. The man radiated power and purpose, and all conversation ceased as he moved to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire.

'You have all heard of the offer from Palantes,' he said. 'Persis Albitane needs to send them an answer. So… let us discuss it. Who wants to begin?'

'How much coin?' asked Polon.

'Five thousand in gold guaranteed to the circus, plus a third of the gate. I would think at least four thousand people would attend. Persis has agreed to give one-tenth of the receipts to the eight who agree to take part. That should mean around two hundred in gold for the fighters.'

'For the survivors of the eight, you mean?' said a swarthy, thin-faced man at the back of the room.

'Aye, Goren, the survivors,' agreed Rage. 'Moneys earned by those who die will be paid to their kin – or to any named by the fighters before the bouts.'

'That's fair,' said Telors. 'I have an ex-wife and two daughters. If I were to… fail… I would expect my tenth to be given to them.'

'She left you, man,' snorted Polon. 'She's not worth a bent copper coin.'

Telors ignored him.

'Are they sending Names?' asked another man.

'No Names,' Rage told him. 'All are young gladiators, yet to be blooded in the arena. But we are talking about Palantes and they do not sign cowards. All will have been soldiers, and all will have proved themselves in exhibition displays.'

'How do you feel about this, Rage?' asked a stocky man with close-cropped blond hair and a flattened nose.

'I am against it, Toris. But if seven are willing I will be the eighth. One fact needs to be made clear: Circus Orises has made another loss this season, and there will be no moneys to pay winter wages. Now some of you obtained employment at the docks last year, others with the timber men in the high country. This year, with the crop failures, there are some six thousand extra workers seeking employment in the city. Work will not be so easy to find. If the Palantes offer is accepted, every man will be on half wages until the new spring season.'

'I want no part of it,' said the thin-faced Goren. 'I quit the major arenas ten years ago. I knew then that I was no longer as fast or as strong. I would not have lasted another season. Now I'm ten years older, and certainly no faster. I have no wish to die on the sand.'

'I understand that view,' said Rage, 'and I share it. It is eminent good sense. We are none of us here young men…'

'He looks young to me,' said Polon, pointing to Bane.

'He's not ready,' said Rage, 'and has no vote in this. You should all, I believe, consider the words of Goren. We are past our best, and Palantes would not have made this offer without first sending scouts to watch us. It is my belief that – should we go ahead with this venture – few will survive to claim the gold. Now let us have a show of hands. How many believe this death bout should be refused?' He raised his own hand, the move echoed by Goren. All the others sat very still. Bane thought they looked uneasy. Rage lowered his arm. 'Those for?' he asked. The thirteen others raised their hands.

'Very well. Now the question is, who will compete?'

No-one moved. Rage shook his head and smiled. The gesture shamed the fighters.

'I'll fight,' said Polon. 'The gods know I need the money.'

'And I,' said Telors.

Five others raised their hands, including the flat-nosed Toris. 'I don't relish begging for winter work again,' he said.

There was a brief moment of silence, then Telors looked at Rage. 'Why are you fighting, my brother?' he asked. 'The farm may not shower you with gold, but it does keep you fed.'

Rage shrugged. 'Palantes have a new man they are seeking to promote. They think killing me will enhance his reputation.'

'Is it pride, then?' asked Goren. 'Or do you think you are immortal?'

'I expect to find out,' Rage told him.

The conversations went on for a little while, but then Rage dismissed the men and they filed out. Telors was the last to leave. He approached Rage and they shook hands. 'Not a good day, brother,' said Telors sadly.

'Poverty makes fools of us all,' replied Rage.

When they had gone Rage sat down in a wide chair and drank some cold tisane. Then he glanced at Bane. 'That's the reality, boy,' he said. 'Menial labour on the docks, or an agonizing death in the arena.'

'Then why do it?' asked Bane.

'It is all they know.'

'I meant you.'

Rage took a deep breath. 'Without me there would be no contest. I am still a Name. The man who kills me will become one.' He leaned back in the chair. 'Palantes is the largest – and richest – of the circuses. For seventeen of the last twenty years they have owned Gladiator One – the greatest of fighters. I was with Palantes, as was Voltan, and now Brakus. But in order to stay at the top Palantes must acquire new fighters, fit, strong young men. Brakus is close to thirty now, and it is said he was cut badly in his last fight. So, they need to blood young fighters – prepare them for the noise and the crowds, the tension and the fear. What better way than to bring them to border cities and towns, pitting them against old and tired men who have forgotten how to fight for their lives?'

'You sound bitter.'

'Aye, I am a little bitter.' He rubbed his hand across his face, and pulled clear the red silk scarf. He looked older without it, thought Bane. 'So,' said Rage, 'how did you enjoy your first morning?'

'It was tough. I have been… ill for some time. I am weaker than I thought.'

Rage nodded. 'I have been doing some thinking about you, Bane. Word reached us here three months ago that two Knights of Stone were killed during the execution of the general Appius across the water. A third Knight completed the execution – and in doing so slew the young tribesman who had killed his comrades. This was in Accia. You came from Accia. Would I be right in thinking that the tribesman did not die?'

'You would be right,' admitted Bane.

'He fought to save a Stone general – or so it is said. Why would he do that?'

'Perhaps he liked him. Perhaps he liked the man's daughter.'

Rage fell silent for a moment. 'Did he save the daughter?'

'No. He arrived to see the killer plunge his blade into her heart.'

'Did he know the name of the killer?'

'Not at the time.'

'But he knows now?'

'Aye, he knows.'

'I suppose it would be reasonable to assume that the tribesman will seek out Voltan and challenge him?'

Bane looked directly into Rage's deep brown eyes. 'What do you think?'

'I think Voltan is the best I have ever seen. He is uncanny. Almost mystical. He has a talent – like a stoat with a rabbit – for making his opponents feel mortal. He casts a spell over them. They become clumsy, or reckless.'

'Why did he quit the arena?'

Rage shrugged. 'He ran out of good opponents. Then Nalademus, the Stone elder, offered to make him the Lord of the Stone Knights. Voltan accepted. He got a title, estates in Turgony, and the opportunity to kill without consequences.'

'He will find there are consequences,' said Bane. 'I-

'Say nothing more, boy!' snapped Rage. 'I have no wish to know of your feelings on this matter. If this tribesman we are talking about does hunt Voltan, I hope he has the sense to train first, and to learn from his betters. But that is all I have to say on the matter.'

'Why are we being so careful?' asked Bane.

'These are difficult times. There are spies everywhere. Some spy for Jasaray, others for Nalademus. I have no interest in politics or religion, and so I am safe. I will not be drawn into conspiracies, nor will I lie. So the less I know, the better for all concerned.'

For five days Rage pushed Bane through an increasingly gruelling routine. Leather straps, with lead weights sewn into the lining, were placed on his wrists and ankles for the six-mile runs that began each morning's work. Bane was almost continually exhausted. On the morning of the sixth day, following the obligatory run – which was made without added weights, and at an almost leisurely pace – Rage led Bane back into the house.

'No more work today,' he said.

Bane hid his relief. 'Why not?' he asked.

'The body needs a little time to recover from heavy exercise. Today is a rest day. Work five rest one.'

'Do all gladiators use these methods?'

'No,' said Rage. 'Most rely on what they perceive as their natural strength and skill. Telors runs most days, but the others…' Rage opened his hands. They do not see the need to punish themselves.'

'But you do.'

'Aye, I do. Always have.' Outside the sky darkened, and heavy snow began to fall. The farmhouse was empty, Cara attending lessons at the home of a teacher, the house servants not yet arrived.

'You'll have to think of armour,' said Rage. 'Persis will offer to have some made for you, but he uses a cheap armourer, with no pride. Do you have coin?'

'Aye.'

'Then tell Persis you wish to find your own man. I would recommend Octorus. He is one of the best. You will need a good breastplate, greaves, a kilt of bronze reinforced with leather strips, wrist guards and a well-fitting helm.'

'No mailshirt?'

'Mailshirts are outlawed in the arena, as are neck torques. Even the breastplate is not worn in death bouts. They are meant to be bloody. That is how the crowd obtains its pleasure. Nothing pleases them more than seeing a brave man stagger back, his life blood pumping from a severed jugular.'

'Were you always so contemptuous of your calling?' Bane asked him.

'Always,' Rage told him. 'And it was not a calling. I went into the arena because it was the only way I could make money. I never learned to love it.'

The snow began to ease around noon, and Bane saddled the grey and followed the directions Rage gave him to the forge of Octorus. It was two miles north of Goriasa, in a small settlement of some twenty stone-built houses, constructed close to a garrison fort. Children were playing in the snow as Bane rode up, hurling snowballs at one another. One sailed close to the grey, who reacted skittishly, and almost slipped on the ice.

'Sorry,' yelled a boy with ginger hair. Bane grinned at him and rode the grey into a paddock beside the forge. A young man came out and took charge of the horse, asking Bane if he was staying the night. Bane told him no, then walked into the forge.

It was almost unbearably hot inside, with two charcoal fires burning, and several men beating hammers upon red metal. Bane called out for Octorus, and one of the metalworkers cocked his thumb towards a door at the back of the forge. Bane moved through the forge, sweat beading his brow, and pushed open the door.

Beyond the forge was a gallery, containing armour, helms, and weapons of all kinds, from longswords to axes, lances to pikes. At the far end sat an elderly man, carefully burnishing a handsome helm with gold-edged ear guards.

Bane approached him. The old man looked up. He was still powerfully built, with a bull neck and massive forearms. His eyes were the colour of slate, his hair still dark, his skin wrinkled and dry. 'What do you want?' he asked.

'I need some armour made.'

'Then go back to Goriasa. There are craftsmen there more suited to your pocket.'

'I was told you were the best.'

'I am the best,' said Octorus. 'But the best costs more, and I have no time to waste with poverty-stricken tribesmen.'

Bane laughed. 'Rage told me you were a cantankerous old bastard, but that I should make allowances, in deference to your skill.'

Octorus put aside the helm, laying it gently on a cloth. 'If Rage sent you then you cannot be as poor as you look,' he said. He glanced at Bane's short sword and gave a derisive snort. 'You don't have much judgment, though, judging by the pig sticker you carry.'

'It has served me well so far,' said Bane.

'Aye, fighting other savages who wear no body armour. Three whacks on one of my breastplates and that… thing would either be blunted or broken. So, what are you looking for?'

Bane told him. Octorus listened in silence. Then he walked to the western wall, beckoning Bane to follow him. For the next few minutes he pointed out various breastplates and helms, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of each. 'This one will withstand a thrust from a charging lancer,' he said, 'but it is too heavy for arena work. It would slow you down. This one is light enough for a rider, but would not withstand a prolonged assault by a fighter who knew what he was doing. Well, let's try a few and see how they feel.'

After an hour Bane had settled on a burnished iron helm, an iron breastplate embossed with the shapes of pectoral and solar plexus muscles, a pair of bronze greaves, and an iron sword with a steel edge.

'That will be twenty-five in gold,' said Octorus.

'I didn't think I was buying the forge as well,' muttered Bane, opening his pouch and emptying the contents into the palm of his hand.

'Still time to change your mind,' said Octorus.

Bane smiled. 'I like your work. It is worth the money,' he said, counting out the coins.

'Persis will give you eight back,' said the old man. 'That's what he normally pays, I understand. I'll have the armour sent to you. Now we'll have a drink to celebrate the transaction.'

Octorus took him back through the gallery, and into the house beyond, and the two men sat before a warm fire nursing goblets of uisge.

'So,' said Octorus, 'are you fighting in this crazy death bout?'

'No. Rage says I am not ready.'

Octorus shook his head. 'No-one is ever really ready,' he said. 'I fought twelve such bouts myself. Dry mouth, full bladder. When the gates open and you step out onto the sand you never feel ready.'

'You survived,' Bane pointed out.

'Aye, I survived. Barely. Bastard pierced my lung – just before I opened his throat. I was good, but not great. After that I wasn't even good. Didn't have the wind any more. Lung never really healed properly.' He drained his uisge and refilled the goblet. 'Now Rage was great. Utterly deadly. Never seen a man more focused. Crowds didn't like him at first. He was too fast. Walk out, take the salute, wait for the trumpets, then move in.' Octorus snapped his fingers. 'Then, just like that, his man was dead and Rage was marching back to the exit gate. No entertainment value, you see. Then, of course, people began to bet on just how fast Rage would win. A drummer would sound a slow beat after the trumpet blast, and when the poor bastard facing Rage died a man would call out the number of beats. Don't suppose there'll be a drummer this time.' Octorus shook his head. 'Rage is a fool to go back. You can't hold back the years. They march on, stealing a little from you with every passing season. Has it been announced who is to face him?'

'No,' said Bane.

'It'll be Vorkas.'

'Vorkas?'

'Circus Palantes took him on this season. He's a five-year veteran of the eastern wars. His first death bout was in the spring. He fought a good man – a Name. Killed him fast. Since then he's had around six – maybe seven – death bouts. But he needs a really big kill to become a crowd puller.'

'Why do you think it will be him?'

'He ordered a new gladius from me. Said not to deliver it – he'd pick it up himself. I don't think Vorkas will be coming all the way from Stone just to spectate.'

'Does Rage know this?'

'He may be old, but his mind is sharp enough. He'll have guessed.'

It was snowing heavily when Bane rode the grey from the settlement, and it was growing bitterly cold. Wrapping his cloak around him he eased his mount out onto the road. His face and hands were blue as he reached the last rise above the farmhouse. Glancing down he saw a black speck moving on the distant hillside. It was Rage, running the training route. Bane angled the grey down the hill, dismounted and led him into the stable. Unsaddling him he rubbed him down, then walked him to a stall, forked hay into the feeding trough, and moved back to the house.

Cara was sitting on the windowsill of the main room, watching the snow-covered hillside for signs of Rage. She glanced up as Bane entered. 'You should be fighting – not my grandpa,' she said, her blue eyes angry.

'He would not let me, Cara. And, anyway, without him there would be no fights at all.'

'I know,' she said. 'Circus Palantes want him dead so they can earn more money. I hate them!'

'He's very strong and tough,' said Bane, removing his cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door. 'Perhaps you shouldn't worry so much.' The words sounded lame, but he could think of nothing else to say.

'Grandpa is an old man. He's enormously old. They shouldn't do this to him.' Her face crumpled, and she began to cry. Bane grew increasingly uncomfortable.

'He is a man, and he makes his own decisions,' said Bane.

'He is a great man,' she replied, wiping her eyes, and returning her gaze to the hills. 'And he's coming back now. I'll make him a tisane. He always has a tisane after training.' Jumping from the sill she ran from the room.

Bane walked to the window and watched as Rage ran into the yard, then slowed, and began to stretch. Stripping off his shirt and leggings he lay down and rolled in the snow, then stood and stretched out his arms. He saw Bane, nodded a greeting, pulled on his leggings and entered the house. Cara brought him a hot tisane, which he sipped in a wide chair by the fire. Cara sat on the arm of the chair, her hand on Rage's shoulder.

'I thought you said this was a rest day,' observed Bane.

'It is for you, boy. But I've been resting all week nursing you along. I needed a good run to clear my head. Did you see Octorus?'

'Yes. He took almost all my coin.'

'You won't regret it. His armour is the finest.' To Cara, he said: 'Would you fetch me something to eat, princess?' She smiled happily and left the room. Rage drained his tisane and rose.

'He said you would be fighting someone named Vorkas.'

'That's no surprise,' said Rage. 'Word has it Palantes are grooming him for next year's Championship.' Removing his red silk headscarf he walked to the window, pushing it open. Scooping some snow from the outer sill he rubbed it over his bald head.

'Is there anything I can do to help you?' asked Bane.

'Help me? In what way?'

'Well, you said I was slowing you down. Perhaps I should train alone.'

Rage was silent for a moment, then he smiled. 'Do not concern yourself, boy. It is not your problem. And I was only half serious. You are coming along well. I saw you talking to Cara as I ran back. She looked upset.'

'Very upset – and frightened.'

'I'll talk to her.' Rage walked back to his chair and slumped down. He looked dreadfully tired, thought Bane. The young Rigante looked closely at the ageing warrior, seeing the many scars that criss-crossed his arms and upper body.

'I'd be fascinated', said Bane, 'to hear what you're going to say to her. You know you shouldn't be fighting this bout. It is madness.'

'It is all madness, Bane,' said Rage sadly. 'It always was. But I cannot change the way the world works. The farm is almost bankrupt and my stake in Crises is worthless. All I have of worth is my name. The coin I make will ensure a comfortable life for Cara – at least until she is wed. I have named Goren as her guardian, and he will take good care of her.'

'You talk as if you expect to die.'

'I will or I won't – but either way Cara will be protected.'