Midnight Falcon

Chapter Six

Persis Albitane always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Crimson Priests. Not that he had anything to fear, he thought hastily, but they had a knack of making a man feel he did. He glanced at the man, and was unnerved to find the priest staring at him. As with all priests, he had a shaven head and a forked beard, dyed blood red. He was wearing an ankle-length tunic of pale gold, unadorned save for a long pendant of grey stone in a setting of cold iron.

'Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down?' asked Persis. 'They may be some time yet.'

'I am comfortable, Persis Albitane,' replied the priest. Persis shuddered inwardly at the use of his name.

'So,' he said, forcing a smile. 'Is this your first visit to Goriasa?'

'No. I came in the spring for the arrest of two traitors.'

'Yes, of course. I remember now. And how are things in Stone?'

'Things?'

Persis could feel sweat trickling down his back. 'It is a long time – almost two years – since I was last in the Great City. I was wondering…' What was I wondering? he thought, his mind close to panic. How many innocent people have you dragged from their beds to be burned at the stake? What new levels of horror and cruelty have you managed to achieve?

'You were wondering?' prompted the priest.

'One so misses the city,' said Persis, recovering his composure, 'the theatres and dining houses, the parties and gatherings. Time moves on, and one wonders if everything is as it was in the golden rooms of memory. I always like to hear news from Stone. It lessens the sadness at being so far from home.'

'The city remains beautiful,' said the priest, 'but the cancer of heresy is everywhere, and must be hunted down and cut out.'

'Indeed so,' agreed Persis.

'How many of the Tree Cult thrive in Goriasa?' asked the priest.

'I don't know of any,' lied Persis.

'They are here. I can smell their vileness.'

The door opened and the little slave Norwin entered. Seeing the Priest he bowed low. Then he turned to Persis. 'The Palantes representatives are downstairs,' he said.

Relief swept over the fat circus owner. 'Bring them up,' he told him.

Norwin bowed again to the priest and backed out of the small room. All contracts over one thousand in gold now had to be witnessed by a priest, who then pocketed two per cent of the moneys.

'I understand Rage is to fight again,' said the priest.

'Yes indeed. Are you partial to the games?'

'Bravery is what makes our civilization great,' said the priest. 'It is good for our citizens to see martial courage.'

The door opened once more, and Norwin led two men inside. Both were middle-aged, and wearing expensive clothing, their cloaks edged with ermine. Seeing the priest they bowed. Persis was delighted to see they were as tense as he in the man's presence. Who wouldn't be? he thought. In ten years they had grown from a scholastic order, compiling a history of Stone, to become the most feared organization in the land.

The first of the two men, powerfully built, his long dark hair drawn back into a ponytail, produced two papyrus scrolls, which he handed to Persis. The man bowed. 'The Lord Absicus sends you his greetings. I am Jain, First Slave to Palantes. This is my colleague, Tanyan.'

Even their slaves are better dressed than I, thought Persis, noting the quality of Jain's long, blue woollen tunic, edged with gold, the chest embroidered with an eagle's head in black silk.

Persis offered them seats, then perused the scrolls. They were standard contracts, outlining the amounts payable and the conditions of the day. He read slowly through each of the clauses. Towards the end he hesitated, then looked up at Jain. 'It says here that Circus Crises shall pay the cost of travel and hospitality for the Palantes team. This was not mentioned in our earlier negotiations.'

'That must have been an oversight,' said Jain smoothly.

'The clause will be removed,' said Persis.

'I think not,' said Jain. 'You are receiving a fine sum for your part in this… little tourney. The Lord Absicus made it very clear to me that there was to be no change to the contract.'

'Ah well,' said Persis, 'then what can I say?' He looked into Jain's dark eyes and saw the glint of triumph, and the barely masked contempt. Glancing up at the priest Persis gave a rueful smile. 'I am so sorry for wasting your time, sir.' Pushing himself to his feet he gathered up his cloak and walked towards the door.

'Where are you going?' asked Jain.

'To the bathhouse,' said Persis. 'I shall have a long soak and then a massage. Please convey my respects to the Lord Absicus.'

'You haven't signed the contract!'

Persis paused in the doorway. 'There is no contract,' he said. Then he left.

'Wait!' wailed Jain, rising from his chair so fast he knocked it backwards. He scurried after Persis, catching him in the outer corridor. 'Come, come,' he said, 'we are reasonable men. Let us negotiate.'

'There is nothing to negotiate,' said Persis. 'Either we walk back in, remove the clause and sign, or I leave.'

Jain leaned in close, and Persis could smell the perfume on his oiled hair. 'Let us be frank, sir. You are in debt and close to insolvency. This contract is a life-saver for you. You do not really want to see it fail.'

'Good-bye,' said Persis, pushing open the outer door, and stepping into the sunshine.

'I agree!' shouted Jain. 'The clause will be removed! Now let us conclude our business.'

Persis stood for a moment, then walked back inside.

Later, when all the visitors had departed, Norwin returned to the office. 'If you were as good at running a circus as you are at negotiating, we wouldn't have found ourselves in this position in the first place,' he said.

'That's teetering on the edge of being a compliment,' said Persis.

'Damn, it wasn't meant to be,' said Norwin. 'Perhaps I phrased it badly.'

Persis grinned at him. 'Tomorrow you will see that all our debts are paid, the longest to have interest added. We will need goodwill for next season.'

'We'll need more than goodwill,' said Norwin. 'With Rage dead there won't be a Circus Orises. What is wrong with you, Persis? You are a bright, intelligent man. You were a phenomenally successful merchant. Why can you not see that Orises is a doomed venture?'

'I can see it,' said Persis. 'But I can't help it. I love the circus, watching the crowd applaud, seeing the delight on their faces as the horses ride and the athletes compete. I get a greater thrill from this than any I ever experienced making profits. And I dream of seeing this stadium full of people – all cheering.'

Norwin pinched the bridge of his long, thin nose. 'Yes, yes,' he said, 'nice dream. But let us take a long, cool look at the reality. Goriasa is a conquered Keltoi city, inhabited largely by Gath tribesmen, who have little interest in the circus. Our people number less than three thousand. There are simply not enough Stone citizens to fill the stadium. And, as for watching the horses run, need I remind you that Palantes stole our horse-riding acrobats?'

Persis sat lost in thought. 'That's it!' he said suddenly.

'Horse acrobats?'

'No. Filling the stadium. We must put on shows for the Gath. Find something they would want to see.'

'Sheep-shagging springs to mind,' offered Norwin.

'Be serious, my friend,' chided Persis. 'The Keltoi are not the barbarians we pretend them to be. Their metalworking is exquisite, their culture older than ours.'

'I accept that,' said Norwin. 'However, think on this: they are a warrior race, but even when death bouts were common here the Gath did not come in any great numbers.'

'I know. They did not want to pay to watch men of Stone fighting one another. But would they pay to see one of their own fighting a man of Stone to the death?'

Norwin said nothing for a moment. 'Now that is something to consider,' he whispered.

Magistrate Hulius Marani was bored. Not that anyone in the court would notice, for his sharp, hooded eyes appeared to miss nothing, his heavy face holding a serious expression, as he listened – apparently intently – to every shred of evidence. His gaze only occasionally flickered towards the ornate hour-glass and its trickling sand.

He sat and pretended to concentrate on the case before him, where a young Gath farmer was arguing that his lands had been tricked from him by a Stone citizen. The case was well presented, but since the citizen had already paid a large bribe to Hulius the issue was not in doubt. The Gath was an idiot. Hulius had invited him to his home, giving him every opportunity to offer a larger bribe, but the man – like the rest of his barbarous tribe – had no understanding of the manner in which civilized people conducted disputes. He ranted on about justice and foul business practices – just as he was doing now.

Hulius waited for the man to finish his argument – which was only good manners – then found against him. The man shouted abuse, and Hulius ordered the Court Guardians to take him away, sentencing him to twenty lashes for his impertinence.

After the brief excitement boredom settled on him once more, like a shroud.

As Goriasa's First Magistrate – the recipient of one-fifth of all fines paid – Hulius Marani would already have been wealthy, even without the numerous bribes. He had ordered a shipment of fine marble from Turgony so that a suitable house could be constructed for him to the south of the port. He had a loyal wife, a beautiful Gath mistress, and was treated with respect and courtesy wherever he travelled. Which was a far cry from his days as a shipping clerk in Stone, where he had worked all day in a cramped office, earning one-quarter of a silver piece a day. Hulius had laboured for two years before discovering his route to high office and a measure of fame.

On difficult sea voyages some bales of cloth became damaged by salt water, and were thus rendered unsaleable. They were then unceremoniously dumped alongside the warehouses. One day Hulius cut into such a bale, green silk from the east, and found that only the outer layers had been seriously damaged. At the centre of the bale he found four of the twenty-five rolled lengths of silk were in perfect condition. These he sold, creating his first profit. As the months passed he amassed ten times his salary from such items, and in doing so made valuable contacts in the local industries. One day a ship's captain saw him, late in the evening, examining a damaged bale. The man called him aside and suggested a business partnership. All merchants accepted a small percentage of loss during sea travel.

For the right sum the captain would put aside good bales, and between them he and Hulius could label them damaged goods.

It had worked beautifully.

Within the year Hulius had put down a deposit on a piece of land and commissioned a house. His wife, Darnia, had been delighted at his growing wealth. Not so his employers, who descended one day with ten soldiers from the Watch, just as Hulius was overseeing the loading of a wagon with ten undamaged bales.

The captain was also taken. He was hanged four days later. But, then, he had no friends in high places. Hulius, on the other hand, had used some of his profits to fund the political career of his wife's cousin – a man who had now risen to rank in Jasaray's government. Thus an agreed sum was paid to the employer, and Hulius was offered the post of First Magistrate in Goriasa. And now he was close to becoming rich – despite a large part of the moneys made being sent back to Darnia's powerful relative.

Yet despite his wealth, and the ease of his lifestyle, Hulius was bored with Goriasa and the interminable petty cases brought before him: broken contracts, matrimonial disputes, and arguments over land rights and borders. He longed for the dining rooms and pleasure establishments of Stone's central district, the magnificently skilled whores, the musicians, and the beautifully prepared food, with recipes from a dozen different cultures.

Hulius glanced down at the list before him. One more hearing, and then he could visit his mistress.

Three men filed into the new courthouse, bowed before the dais on which Hulius sat in his white robe of justice, then took up their positions to the right of the two engraved wooden lecterns. Hulius recognized the gladiator Rage and the circus-owner Persis Albitane. Between them stood a Gath tribesman, a lean yet powerful young man, with golden hair and odd-coloured eyes. The door at the back of the room opened and a Crimson Priest strode in. He did not bow before the dais but walked immediately to stand to the left of the lecterns. Hulius noted the surprise on the face of Persis Albitane, and felt a small knot of tension begin in the pit of his stomach.

The magistrate stared down at the document before him, then spoke. 'The registration of the tribesman Bane to be allowed to take part in martial displays for Circus Crises,' he read aloud. 'Who sponsors this man?'

'I do,' said Persis.

'And who stands beside him, to pledge his good faith.'

'I do,' said Rage solemnly.

Hulius looked at Bane. 'And do you, Bane, pledge to uphold the highest traditions of courage and-'

'I object to these proceedings,' said the Crimson Priest. Sweat began to trickle from Hulius's temple.

'On what grounds, Brother?'

'The law. It is forbidden for Gath tribesmen to carry swords for any reason, save those employed as scouts in the service of the army of Stone.'

'Yes indeed,' said Hulius, thankful that the matter could be dealt with simply. He had no wish at all to offend a priest. 'In that case-

'Bane is not a Gath,' said Persis Albitane. 'He is of the Rigante tribe, and was recommended to me by Watch Captain Oranus of Accia. As a Rigante he is not subject to the laws governing the Gath.'

Hulius felt sick, and glanced nervously at the Crimson Priest. 'Even so,' said the priest, 'the man is a barbarian, and it should be considered below the dignity of any honest citizen to employ him in the capacity of gladiator.'

'It may be argued', said Persis, 'that such employment in itself is "below dignity", but it is certainly not illegal. Therefore I respectfully request that the objection be ruled inadmissible. There is no law to prevent a foreigner being gainfully employed by a citizen of Stone. Indeed there are many gladiators, past and present, from foreign lands.'

Hulius would have loved to rule against Persis Albitane, but all his rulings were written down and sent on to Stone, and this was not a matter of a magistrate's judgment – which could be bought at a price – but of the law of Stone. Hulius sat silently, his mind whirling, seeking some way to accommodate the priest. But there were no subtleties to the issue, no grey areas to exploit. The case was simple.

Hulius looked into the fat face of Persis Albitane. Perhaps there was still a way out. 'I would think that a loyal citizen of Stone would accede to the wishes of the venerable order of Crimson Priests,' he said smoothly. 'You are quite right when you say that the Rigante are not under the jurisdiction of Stone, but equally they are Keltoi, and the spirit of the law is what – I believe – concerns the brother.' Surely Persis would understand what he was saying. No-one wanted to come under the scrutiny of the Temple. Hulius looked at the man, and saw he was sweating. Then Persis spoke.

'With respect, Magistrate, there is no such creature as the spirit of the law,' he said. 'The laws of Stone are drafted by intelligent, far-seeing men – among them the senior priests of the Crimson Temple. If you believe the law to be carelessly drafted, then you should write to the Council forthwith. However, as has already been established, my request today does not break the law, and I once more submit the name of Bane.'

In that moment Hulius understood the true joys of boredom. To be bored was to be free of danger, far from perilous activities. 'I agree,' he said miserably. 'We will continue with the pledge.'

The Crimson Priest said nothing more, but stalked from the room.

Hulius Marani listened to the pledge, signed the necessary document, added the wax seal of Justice, and rose from his chair.

The day had soured considerably, and he had no desire now to visit his mistress.

Stadium Orises had never looked better, thought Persis, as he strolled out across the fresh sand to the centre of the arena. For two weeks – much to Norwin's disgust at the expense – carpenters and workmen had been labouring to repair the more run-down sections of the tiered seating areas. The stadium had been hastily constructed eleven years earlier, mostly of timber, supported on stone columns. The original owner, Gradine – a man of limitless ambition and little capital – had not been able to afford the normal embellishments – statues, fresco-decorated areas for the nobility, dining halls, and public urinals. Stadium Crises was, at best, functional. The arena floor was two hundred feet in diameter, surrounded by an eight-foot wall, beyond which were twenty rows of tiered bench seats. Many of these were warped and cracked. Shading his eyes Persis watched the carpenters at work on the last section. The new benches gleamed with linseed oil.

Norwin trudged across the sand to join his master. 'Well, once more you have managed to battle your way to poverty,' he said. 'I have completed the accounts. With most debts paid, half wages for the gladiators throughout the winter, and – assuming we get around three thousand people for the games, with a further thousand in revenue – we will be coinless by the first day of spring.'

'Spring is a long way off,' said Persis happily. 'Look at the stadium, Norwin. It is beginning to look very fine.'

'Like a seventy-year-old whore, with dyed hair and fresh face paint,' said Norwin. 'Anyway, the carriage is here. I told the driver to wait. Are you ready?'

Persis glanced at the sky, which was clear and blue. The day was cold, but not overly so. 'We should get a good crowd at the Field,' he said.

'Of course we'll get a good crowd,' said Norwin. 'It is a free day, and you have spent a fortune on fire breathers, acrobats, jugglers, and food. Of course people will come. But they would have come anyway. Palantes have brought an elephant.'

'An elephant? Ah, what it must be to have unlimited funds. Can you imagine how many people we could draw if we had an elephant?'

Norwin shook his head. Then he smiled. 'You are a good, sweet man, Persis, and I love you like a brother. But you lack foresight. How many times does one need to see an elephant before one is bored? If we had such a beast the crowd would come once. After that we would be left with enormous feeding costs. Then there would be trainers and handlers, and special housing for it. Then, with debt collectors stalking us like rabid wolves, I would urge you to sell the creature. You would say no, because you had grown to like it.'

'True,' agreed Persis affably. 'But an elephant!'

'Let's go to the carriage,' said Norwin, 'before I find a club and beat you to death with it.'

Persis laughed and the two men walked across the sand to the western Gladiators' Gate, on through the darkness of the Sword Room and the Surgeon's Ward, up the stairs and out once more into the sunshine.

The 'carriage' was a converted wagon, drawn by two sway-backed horses. Persis climbed the steps to the rear and sat down. 'I should have brought my cushion,' he said, as Norwin moved in alongside him. 'And didn't I ask you to hire the gilded bronze chariot from the garrison?'

'Aye, you did. But Palantes were there before me. Which I thank the Source for, since the cost was obscene.'

'You should not mention the Source so publicly,' Persis rebuked him.

Norwin nodded. 'It was a slip of the tongue. But it hurts me to be so secretive. I sometimes feel that I am betraying the Source by not speaking out, by hiding my faith.'

'They are burning heretics in Stone,' whispered Persis. 'Or casting them into the arena to be torn to death by wild animals. Yours is a perilous religion, my friend. Your faith could kill you.'

'That's true. It frightens me sometimes. But last night I went again to listen to the Veiled Lady, and she filled us all with the power of spirit. And she healed a man, Persis. Laid her hands on him, and all his sores vanished. You should come and hear her.'

'I can think of nothing I would rather do less,' said Persis. 'One day soon the priests will come in force to Goriasa. I do not wish to become kindling for their fires. Have you seen Rage today?' he asked, changing the subject.

'No, but he'll be there.'

'It is to be Vorkas. I had rather hoped the rumours were untrue.'

'Rage made the decision, not you, Persis. He is his own man.'

'I fear he is angry with me over Bane.'

'Rage doesn't get angry. And, anyway, the news that a Keltoi is fighting a gladiator is already the talk of the city. It should draw in a good crowd.'

Out on the open road the wind was more chilling and Norwin pulled a woollen cap from the pocket of his heavy coat. Tugging it over his balding head he glanced at his master. 'Bane has more chance of surviving than the man he replaced. And Bane himself was delighted to fight. He is a Keltoi. They live to rush around with swords and butcher one another.'

As they reached the high road the wagon moved more slowly, for the road was packed with people moving towards the Field. From the highest point Persis could see the tents and food stalls below. Already there were more than a thousand people gathered there, most of them crowding the eastern section. 'There it is!' said Persis, pointing. 'There's the elephant!'

'I have seen elephants before,' Norwin told him.

'It is really big.'

'That's a novelty,' said Norwin. 'I thought maybe they'd bring one of those famous small elephants.'

Kail Manorian had only ever taken part in two death bouts, the first against a young criminal sentenced to fight in the arena, the second against a fine young gladiator from Circus Poros. Kail still felt a shudder go through him as he recalled that second fight. The man was more skilled, faster, and Kail had seen in his eyes a blazing cruelty and confidence that chilled him to the bone.

The fact that Kail still lived was down to the carelessness of an unnamed circus employee who did not adequately cover with sand the blood from the previous fight. Kail's opponent had slipped, just as Kail attacked. He literally fell sideways onto Kail's blade, which lanced up under his chin strap, slicing his jugular. Kail had made an offering to the God of Stone – and walked away from the arena.

Often in the intervening years he had suffered nightmares about the fight. Now, at thirty-seven, he had walked away again. When Rage first told them about the offer from Palantes Kail had volunteered. In part this was to test his courage, but also – if he was being honest with himself – it was because he had believed more of the others would step forward, and Rage would not choose him. But the others had not volunteered in sufficient numbers and Kail had gone home that night in a state bordering on terror.

Three days later he had secretly visited Persis Albitane. He had intended to lie about being called back to Stone, following a family bereavement. Instead he had found himself blurting out all his fears. In his shame he had begun to weep. He had always held fat Persis in faint contempt, but on this day he found the man to be more than considerate. Persis had risen from his seat behind the desk, walked round and patted him on the shoulder. 'You are a good man, Kail,' he said, 'and a brave one. You proved your courage in the arena. Now calm yourself. It is no disgrace to know one's limitations.' Persis poured him a goblet of wine, then perched himself on the edge of the desk. 'I do have a plan. I believe the young man, Bane, would like to fight. I shall ask him today. If he agrees I shall tell Rage that you are being replaced. I will not tell him you requested it. No-one need know of our conversation.'

The relief had been total.

But now, sitting in the Armour Tent, Kail felt wretched. The other gladiators were putting on their armour, ready to share the Warriors' Cup, and several of them had approached him, commiserating with him, telling him how they believed Persis had treated him unfairly, striking him from the team.

Kail sat in the corner, nursing his shame. He saw Rage buckle on his breastplate, and strap his scabbard to his hip. Rage glanced across at him, his face expressionless. Kail looked away. Rage was an old man, and tomorrow he was going to die. But he had not walked away. Even when he had learned he was to face Vorkas. Kail shivered.

He had seen Vorkas a few moments ago, walking with other gladiators from Palantes. The man looked like a lion among wolves. Palantes had said they were bringing no Names – no fighters listed for next season's Championship. Technically this might be true, but there was still a month to go before registration was needed, and there was no question that Vorkas would be among those listed. Seven successful death bouts, each of them apparently won with ease. People were speaking of him as a new Voltan.

Kail stared down at his hands. 'Walk with me,' said Rage. Kail jerked, for he had not heard the big man approach. He rose and followed Rage out into the weak sunlight. Crowds were everywhere and Rage led him to the rear of the tent. 'You want to talk?' asked Rage, tying his red silk scarf around his head.

'What about?'

'About what is troubling you, Kail.'

Kail closed his eyes. 'I wish I was more like you,' he said. 'But I'm not. Never was, never could be.' He drew in a deep breath. 'But I do not like to deceive my friends. Everyone's been telling me how sorry they are that I have been so badly treated. I wasn't badly treated, Rage. I went to Persis and told him I was too frightened to fight. There! It is said!'

'Aye,' whispered Rage. 'It is said. You think yourself a coward?'

'I am a coward. Have I not proved it?'

'You listen to me, Kail, and be sure you understand what I am saying: you are not a coward. If I were beset by foes I would be more than relieved to know you were by my side. And you would be by my side, Kail. For you are a man of honour – a man to be relied upon. But this… this farce is not about honour. It is about money. Palantes want their young lions to taste blood – to taste it without too much risk. They have spent huge sums promoting these warriors, and they expect to make – eventually – a hundred times their outlay as a result. Now stop punishing yourself. You hear me?'

Kail nodded. At that moment the young barbarian, Bane, strolled round to the rear of the tent. 'Persis is asking for you,' he told Rage. The old gladiator swung on his heel and walked away. Kail looked at the tribesman, noting his new armour. It looked expensive. Kail had never been able to afford such a breastplate and helm.

'Do you know who you'll be fighting?' he asked.

Bane shrugged. 'They told me a name. It means nothing to me.'

'What name?'

'Someone called Falco.'

'Three fights,' said Kail. 'Never been cut.'

Bane seemed uninterested. Then he leaned in towards Kail. 'Why are we meeting them today?' he asked. 'And why are we dressed for battle?'

'Did Rage not tell you?'

'He said we were to share the Warriors' Cup. That we were to drink with our opponents. Why should we drink with people we are going to kill?'

'It is a ritual,' said Kail. 'It shows the crowds that we honour each other, and that there is no hatred in our hearts.' He smiled. 'It also helps sell tickets.'

'Ah,' said Bane. 'That I understand.'

Together the two men walked back to the tent. Out on the Field a trumpet sounded and the crowd fell silent. Two men climbed to the back of a wagon. The first man's voice boomed out, in Turgon, welcoming the citizens. The second spoke moments later, in Keltoi, repeating the message. Then they introduced the first gladiator from Circus Palantes. The warrior, in magnificent armour, strode from the Palantes tent, to stand before a long table upon which were set sixteen golden goblets, filled to the brim with watered wine. Then Polon's name was called out.

The sandy-haired warrior, holding his helm under his arm, stepped up to the table, waving to the crowd.

One by one the names were called. Kail felt a second wave of relief that he was not among them. Falco was called. Kail glanced across the field and saw a tall man stride forward. He moved well. Then came the shout: 'And his opponent, Bane of the Rigante.' A mighty roar went up from the Keltoi section of the crowd. Bane waved to them, then walked across to the table.

Then Vorkas was summoned. Kail felt a ripple of fear as he saw the man. Vorkas was impressive, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall.

Lastly came Rage. Once again the crowd cheered, but Rage did not acknowledge them. He moved to the table, to stand opposite Vorkas, then each of the warriors raised their goblets, offering a toast to their opponents.

Kail turned away, and trudged back into the Armour Tent.

For Bane the ritual at the Field was baffling almost beyond belief. Enemies were people who sought your death. They were not men you drank a toast to, or shook hands with. He looked at the man opposite him. Falco was lithe and lean, the bones of his face flat, his mouth a thin, tight line. The eyes were light blue, and no fear showed in them. He met Bane's gaze, and seemed about to speak. Then the gladiators around him raised their goblets. 'To valour!' they shouted. Applause rippled from the crowd. Bane tasted the wine. It was sour upon the tongue.

Bane glanced to his right, and saw the mightily muscled Vorkas lean forward. 'By the Stone, you look old and tired,' he told Rage. 'I shall take no joy in killing you. It will be like killing my grandfather.' Rage smiled and said nothing. He sipped his wine, then placed his goblet back on the table. 'And I can see the fear in your eyes,' continued Vorkas.

The toast over, the gladiators moved away from the table. Bane walked alongside Rage. 'You should have broken his face,' he said.

'Why?'

'He insulted you.'

'He was trying to intimidate me. Tell me, what did you notice about your opponent?'

Bane thought about the question. 'He had blue eyes,' he said.

'He was left-handed,' snapped Rage. 'Now let's get out of this armour and go home. There is work to do.'

'I thought we were supposed to walk among the crowds, and let people see us.'

'They have seen us,' said Rage. 'And we have no time for this foolishness.'

An hour later, back at the farmhouse, Rage, carrying two wooden short swords, led Bane out into the training area. Tossing one weapon to Bane he took up a fighting position, feet well apart.

They had practised in this way for some days now, and Bane had learned many secrets. The first was – as Rage explained some days before – that all gladiators have their own rhythms and mannerisms. The longer a fight went on the more of these would be revealed to the man with a keen eye. 'Some men', Rage said, 'will narrow their eyes just before they attack, others will drop a shoulder or lick their lips. These actions are unconscious, but if you read them they will give you a heartbeat's advantage. All the best gladiators take a little time at the start of a bout to learn their opponent's moves.'

'You didn't,' said Bane. 'Octorus told me they beat a drum when you fought, and bet on how many beats it would be before your man died.'

Rage shook his head. 'I used to go to the other circuses and sit in the crowd. I watched future opponents, then I went home and wrote down what I had observed.'

'Have you seen Vorkas before?' Bane had asked.

'No – but I know how he will fight.'

'How?'

'He will seek to extend the bout, wearing me down – a nick here, a cut there. But he won't let it last too long. He won't want people to think he had to struggle against an old man, but he will milk the moment.'

'You don't sound too concerned.'

'I am concerned – but about you, boy. Have you not understood yet why, when we practise, not one of your lunges ever gets through?'

Bane smiled. 'I thought it was because you were too fast and too skilful for me.'

'It is your left hand that gives you away. The fingers flick open just before you lunge.'

'I will work on that.'

'Best to be aware of it, but to let it happen naturally. Falco will begin to read it. Then – at some point in the bout – clench your left fist, hold it closed, then attack. That one moment of misdirection could win it for you.'

Day after day they had worked, and Bane had improved rapidly.

Now Rage stood before him yet again – but this time he was holding the wooden sword in his left hand. 'Attack me,' said the older man. Bane had – or so he believed – begun to read Rage's moves. Moving in suddenly he lunged at Rage's chest. Instead of parrying the blade Rage swayed to his left, and his wooden sword smacked against Bane's right ear. He tumbled forward, righted himself then swung back to face Rage.

'There is no point in adopting a fighting pose, Bane,' said Rage softly. 'You are dead. Left-handers are pure poison. They have a great advantage in that most people they fight are right-handed, so they get used to such combat. Whereas their opponents are forced to rethink all their attacking moves.'

'How do I fight him?' asked Bane, rubbing his ear.

'Generally you would attack a left-hander to his right, circling away from his sword arm. But I do not know this man's style. Attack me again.'

For another hour the two men practised. Several times Bane managed to get behind Rage's defence, and once touched the wooden blade to Rage's throat. 'That was good,' said Rage, 'but do not get too cocky. I am not a left-hander. Let us take a break, and then we'll work on a little strategy I've used twice against lefters.'

Inside the farmhouse Rage lit a fire, and the two men ate a light meal of toasted bread and cold beef, washed down with water.

'Are you worried about tomorrow?' asked Bane.

'No. You?'

'No.'

Rage smiled, which was a rare sight. 'Then we are a pair of fools. Have you placed a wager?' Bane shook his head. 'Then you should. You've been given good odds. Four to one.'

'Odds?'

'Do the Rigante not gamble?'

'Aye, we gamble.'

'But not for coin?'

'No. Not in my settlement.'

'I see,' said Rage. 'Well, here we gamble incessantly. The odds merely reflect your perceived chances of success. Four to one means that if you wager one gold coin on yourself, and you win, you'll get four back, plus your original stake. In other words you'll start with one gold coin, and end up with five.'

'What are your odds?' asked Bane.

'Ten to one.'

'Which means that you are considered to have a one in ten chance of surviving?'

'Yes. Vorkas is young and strong.'

'He is also arrogant – and I didn't like him,' said Bane.

'I was arrogant once – so I am a little more forgiving. Now let us get back to work.'

They trained for another hour, then the snow began to fall once more. Bane was tired, but he was grateful to the older warrior for the time spent. As they were finishing their exercises two riders came down the hill. Telors and Polon dismounted, led their horses into the stable, then strolled out to where Bane and Rage waited.

'You missed some great fun,' said the black-bearded Telors. 'The elephant broke loose of its chains and ran into the crowd. It was last seen heading over the hills, being chased by a dozen Palantes slaves.'

'Anyone hurt?' asked Rage.

'No-one dead,' put in Polon, with a wide grin. 'You should have seen the crowd scatter.'

'You are in a good mood,' said Rage to Polon.

'Aye, I am. The man I am to fight has frightened eyes. So I've spent the morning wondering how to spend my gold. Telors and I are going into Garshon's place tonight. Find a couple of whores. You want to come?'

'No,' said Rage.

'It will relax you,' said Telors.

'I am relaxed, my friends. And I'll feel more relaxed when I'm in my bed and sleeping like a babe.'

They stood in silence for a moment, then Telors stepped forward and held out his hand. 'Well, once more we spit in his eye,' he said softly.

'Once more,' agreed Rage, gripping his hand. Polon also shook hands, then both men returned to their horses and rode from the farm. Rage watched them go.

'Spit in whose eye?' asked Bane.

'Death,' said Rage.

Bane sat quietly in the windowless Sword Room below the stadium, two lanterns flickering on the wall. Through the doorway he could see the body of Polon. Blood no longer oozed from the gaping wounds in his chest and throat, but it still dripped from the table on which he lay, each drop making a small plopping sound as it struck the pool of dark liquid on the floor below. Polon's head had lolled to the left, and no-one had closed his dead eyes.

His bout had lasted for some time, and the men then in the Sword Room, Bane, Rage and Telors, had all begun to think Polon might be the first to prove victorious for Circus Orises. Four Crises men had been killed already, their bodies dragged from the arena, carried through the Sword Room, and laid out of sight.

Then the door known as the Gladiators' Gate had opened, and sunlight poured into the darkness. Two men entered, carrying Polon's body, laying it on the table in the room beyond. Telors rose, and put on his iron helm. His chest was bare, but a coarse linen bandage had been wrapped around his belly to prevent his guts being spilled to the sand. Rage rose alongside him. The old gladiator said nothing, and the two men shook hands. Then Telors walked out into the light. The two slaves followed him, pulling shut the door, and plunging the room back into gloom.

Another figure entered the room from the rear. It was the surgeon, Landis, a stout, balding man, round-shouldered and bull-necked. He sat quietly, his canvas tool bag beside him.

First came the sound of trumpets, then the roar of the crowd filled the room, and the occasional clash of metal upon metal filtered through to the waiting men. Bane found the situation bizarre. He had fought before. Indeed he had killed before. But always there was passion. Here, in the semi-darkness, there was an unnatural calm, as he sat with the dead. He glanced at Rage, who was now tying his red scarf into place. The big gladiator moved to the far side of the room and began to stretch.

Bane took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There was a huge roar from the crowd, then silence. He became aware that the blood had stopped dripping from the table on which they had laid the dead Polon. Bane rose, put on his burnished helm, and stood quietly. His heart was beating fast, and he felt suddenly breathless.

The door opened, and Telors walked in, removing his helm and hurling it at the far wall. It clanged like a bell as it rolled to the floor. Blood was flowing from several wounds in Telors's upper arms, and there was a cut just above his left knee. The surgeon rose as Telors entered, and beckoned him through to the back room. Telors strode after him.

Bane drew his short sword. He walked towards the door. Rage's voice stopped him. 'Stay focused. Put the crowd from your mind and concentrate on your opponent. Do not use the strategy too quickly.'

Bane's mouth was dry. The door opened and he walked into the sunlight. The noise of the crowd was thunderous. Eleven thousand people were crammed into the stands. Bane halted, and scanned the crowd. He had never seen so many people in one place, and for a moment he was awed by the multitude. The Gath had come in their thousands to watch a Rigante fight a warrior from Stone. Bane drew in a deep breath. The sky above was clear and blue, and there was no breeze. Bane started to walk once more towards the elevated section containing Persis Albitane and his guests. The Gladiators' Gate at the eastern end of the arena opened and Falco stepped out. Bane did not look at him, but kept his eyes on the small group of men in the Owner's Enclosure.

Persis was sitting alongside a thin man in a purple robe, and ranged about them were their guests, the rulers of Goriasa. There were several men in full armour, and Bane took these to be the officers of the garrison. The magistrate, Hulius, was there, and several children were clustered by the front rail. Bane found their presence to be distasteful. Children should not watch while men fought and died.

Putting such thoughts from his mind he approached the Enclosure, and waited for Falco to join him.

Then the two men raised their swords in salute to the guests, and Bane spoke the words Rage had taught him. 'Those who are about to die salute you!' He turned to Falco and offered his hand. The man from Palantes shook it. Then they turned away, walked back to the centre of the arena and waited. Persis rose and signalled the trumpeters. Three notes pealed out.

The crowd erupted. Falco attacked. For a single heartbeat Bane did not react, then he parried wildly, spinning away from the ferocious onslaught. Their blades met, again and again. As Rage had predicted, fighting a left-hander was more than difficult, and Bane felt clumsy and uncoordinated.

Screening out the baying of the crowd he focused on his opponent. Falco moved well, always in balance. He was fast, and confident, and Bane was hard pressed to hold him at bay. A part of his mind was filled with gratitude for the training Rage had put him through, for, without it, he would have been dead in moments.

They fought furiously for some while. Neither drew blood in the opening exchanges, as they sought to read each other's moves. Rage had told Bane, over and over again, that a duel was like a dance. It had its own rhythms. Falco dropped his right shoulder and lunged. Bane parried. Falco's right foot lashed out, hooking behind Bane's heel and tripping him. Bane hit the ground hard. Falco rushed in. Bane rolled, his opponent's gladius striking the sand. Bane scrambled to his feet. Blocking another thrust Bane's fist lashed out, striking Falco full in the face and hurling him back. Bane charged – and almost died. Falco, recovering quickly, stabbed out. Bane swayed to his right, slashing his own sword swiftly downwards. The blade clanged against Falco's bronze wrist guard. Falco threw a punch into Bane's belly, and the two men backed away from each other and began to circle.

Bane leapt in, sending a vicious cut towards Falco's throat. Falco swayed away, his gladius licking out and cutting the top of Bane's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound, and once more the crowd erupted.

'The beginning of the end,' said Falco. 'I have played with you long enough, savage.'

The Stone gladiator now attacked with renewed frenzy, his sword-work dazzling. Bane stayed cool, blocking every attack, waiting for his moment. Falco's right shoulder dropped. Bane brought his hands together, transferring his gladius to his left. Falco lunged. Bane parried it with his wrist guard. In that fraction of a heartbeat Falco registered the move that would kill him. His eyes widened in terror. The gladius now in Bane's left hand plunged into Falco's unprotected belly, and up through his heart. Falco sagged against his killer. Bane pushed him away, dragging his gladius clear.

Even as Falco hit the sand slaves came running to remove the body and clear away the blood.

Bane raised his bloody sword in the air, and drank in the roars from the mainly Gath crowd. They were delirious with joy. Bane stood for some moments, elation surging through him. Then he cleaned his sword on the sand. The wound on his shoulder was shallow, and Bane had no desire to return to the gloom of the Sword Room. He strode across the arena, the sound of applause in his ears, and climbed to the stands. Men surrounded him, clapping him on the back. Then he turned to see Rage walking across the sand.

All elation drained away from him. He had known the man only a short while, but had come to regard him highly. Now he felt a sense of sick dread. He had not thanked him, nor said good-bye. Nor even wished him good luck.

Rage moved across the arena, his sword sheathed, his helm tucked under his arm, his red scarf bright as blood in the sunlight. From the other side of the arena came Vorkas. Bane stood, hands gripping the front rail, and watched as the two men came together before Persis and his guests. They saluted and drew back.

Rage donned his helm and took up his position. Vorkas faced him. The trumpets sounded.

A heartbeat later Vorkas lay dead upon the sand.

Rage sheathed his sword and walked back to the Sword Room.

The crowd was silent. They stared at the fallen Vorkas, saw the blood pumping from his throat. Bane stood in shock. Even he had not seen the death blow. He replayed the move in his mind. Vorkas had lunged high, Rage had parried. Then the shock of realization struck Bane. Rage had killed Vorkas before the parry. As Vorkas's sword lanced forward Rage had stepped in and slashed through his opponent's throat, the blade continuing its sweep to block the lunge. It was a desperately dangerous manoeuvre.

Some of the Stone citizens in the crowd began to shout their displeasure at the lack of spectacle. Others merely sat, trying to make sense of what they had seen. Bane vaulted down to the arena and ran across the sand. Inside the Sword Room, Rage was removing his wrist guards.

'You were magnificent,' said Bane.

Rage said nothing. Unbuckling his sword belt he dropped it alongside his wrist guards and greaves. Then he loosened his leather kilt and threw it to a nearby seat. 'Are you all right?' asked Bane.

Rage turned to him, his face tight with suppressed emotion. 'Five of my friends are dead, boy.'

'But you are not,' said Bane softly.

'No, I am not.'

'You had that move planned from the beginning, didn't you? You said to yourself that Vorkas would want to extend the fight. He would not open with a lethal attack. So you risked everything on that one strategy.'

'Risk is what we are paid for, Bane. Did you use the switch from right to left?'

'Aye, I did. He saw it too late.'

'Get that cut on your shoulder seen to. Don't let Landis clean it. The blood flow will have done that.'

Telors came into the room, his wounds stitched. The black-bearded warrior gave a weary smile. 'Good to see you alive, my friend,' he told Rage, and the two men gripped hands once more. 'Did you wager on yourself?' asked Rage.

'No,' Telors told him. 'I thought my man looked too good.' He sighed. 'And he was – but he didn't have the heart. If I'd had his talent I would have been Gladiator One.' Telors slumped down to a nearby bench seat, and glanced through the doorway at the dead Polon. 'He knew he was going to die. I could see it in his eyes last night,' he said. The surgeon, Landis, entered, saw the shallow wound on Bane's shoulder, and called him through to the back room. He did not speak, but sat Bane down, and took up a crescent-shaped needle and thread. Swiftly and expertly he stitched the cut. Then, as he snipped the last thread, he looked into Bane's eyes. 'Well, lad, this is what you have chosen. Are you pleased with yourself?' 'I am alive,' said Bane.

'And eight men are dead,' said Landis. 'Eight souls cast out of the world. More mothers to grieve, more children to know sorrow. Is this a life you want for yourself?'

'No, it is not,' Bane told him. 'But we do what we must.' 'Not true! We do what we choose. And we face the consequences.' Bane thanked the man, returned to the Sword Room and removed his armour. Then he put on his leggings and tunic, and a thick fleece-lined jerkin. Rage and Telors were already dressed. 'Let us leave this place,' said Rage. 'I need to get back to the farm.'

Crowds were still leaving the stadium as the three gladiators made their way to the stabling area. They cheered as they saw Bane, who waved back at them.

Snow clouds were bunching as the three riders came in sight of the farmhouse. Cara was sitting in the doorway, a thick blue blanket around her shoulders. She threw it off and ran towards them as they rode down the hillside. Rage drew rein and dismounted as Cara flew into his arms. He hugged her close. 'I am well, princess. I am well,' he whispered.

'No more fights,' she pleaded. 'No more fights, Grandfather.'

'No more fights,' he agreed.

Bane took the mounts to the stable, while Telors, Rage and Cara went inside the farmhouse. Unsaddling the horses Bane rubbed them down, forked hay into the feed boxes then climbed to the loft and sat, staring out over the hills. He felt drained now, but not tired. Memories of the arena filled his mind: the rising roar of the crowd, the look in Falco's eyes as his blade plunged home, the soaring elation as his opponent died. And beyond it all the smiling face of Voltan.

'I will find you,' whispered Bane. 'And I will kill you.'

Climbing down from the loft he went back to the farmhouse. Rage was sitting in a wide chair, Cara on his lap. The girl's arms were around his neck, her blue eyes still bright with remembered fear. Both Rage and Telors were sitting silently, and Bane felt like an intruder. He had left them to their quiet companionship.

The fire in his room had been lit, and the room was bathed in a warm red glow. Removing his clothes Bane slipped under the covers, laying his head back on the pillow. The stitches in his shoulder were tight, the wound itching.

Pushing the discomfort from his mind he thought of Lia, and all that might have been.

It was past midnight and still Bane could not sleep. Pushing back the covers he rose from the bed. The fire had burned low, and the room was cold. Moving to the fireplace he blew gently on the coals, causing them to flicker to life, then added a few sticks. Tiny flames licked at them and once they had caught hold he added thicker chunks. The smell of woodsmoke was strong in the air, and he walked to the window, pushing open the shutters. The moon was high in a clear sky, and a chill, fresh breeze brushed across his face and chest. From the room next door came the sound of Telors snoring.

Bane stared gloomily out over the snow-covered hills. Nothing moved in the silence of the night. He shivered and pulled on a thick woollen shirt and leggings. Melancholy thoughts continued to assail him – his failure to save Lia was at the forefront of his mind, but also there was his mother's death. They both seemed connected somehow, and Bane felt a sense of guilt, like a weight around his neck. Had he been more clever, and able to master the skills of reading and writing, perhaps he would have found a way to win Connavar's approval. And, had he done so, might the king not also have been reunited with Arian? It was despair that killed her, but had Connavar come to her she might even now be alive and happy. As for Lia, if only I had taken her away, he thought, back to Caer Druagh. Or fought harder, or attacked Voltan more swiftly, then the deadly sword would not have ended her life.

Feeling the need to walk and think he tugged on his boots and draped his new fleece-lined cloak around his shoulders. Moving quietly downstairs and out into the snow he was surprised to see fresh footprints leading away towards the hills. He could still hear Telors snoring upstairs, and wondered why Rage should be walking out into the night.

The footsteps led him past the training area, and on into the hills, to a shallow cave, where Rage was sitting before a small fire. The old gladiator looked up as Bane approached. 'Would you rather be alone?' asked Bane.

'I am alone, whether you are here or not.' Rage gestured for Bane to sit alongside him on the fallen log.

'You'd have been more comfortable in front of the fire in your own hearth,' said Bane, sitting down and holding out his hands to the small blaze.

'It is a stone-built house. It keeps the world out. I felt the need to be part of the hills, to see the stars above me. You ever feel that way?'

'No.'

Rage sighed, and Bane smelled the uisge on his breath. 'You Keltoi are supposed to be close to nature, to walk the path of spirit. But you don't know what I'm talking about, do you?'

'Does it matter?'

'Probably not. Did you enjoy today?'

'Yes. I felt a surge of exultation as my enemy died. And the cheers of the crowd were like wine. I know it was not the same for you. Was it ever?'

Rage reached behind the log and produced a two-pint cask of uisge. Pulling the stopper he drank deeply, then passed the cask to Bane. 'I shouldn't have fought today,' said Rage. 'It was arrogant and wrong. I tried to tell myself I was doing it for the circus, for my comrades. Truth is I was… irritated. I once fought for Palantes. They earned a mountain of gold from my duels. Now here they were wanting a few coppers more from the old farmer's death. I should have told them to… go away. That would have been manly. No amount of false pride is worth the pain I caused Cara.'

'You hurt them, though,' said Bane. 'Killed their best prospect.'

'Pah, it will mean nothing to them. They'll find another. My pride wasn't worth killing a man for. And it certainly wasn't worth the deaths of five comrades.' He drank again, then glanced up at the sky. He almost fell from the log, but Bane caught him. 'That's where we came from,' he said, his voice slurring.

'Where? The sky?'

'Somewhere out there,' said Rage, waving his hand high. 'A wise woman – a seer – told me that. We are created from the dust of stars. A very wise woman, she was.'

'She sounds like an idiot,' said Bane. 'I was created by a lustful man who forced himself upon my mother.'

'The dust of stars,' said Rage. He gazed blearily at Bane. 'A long time ago – long, long time – a star exploded, and its dust was scattered across the heavens. This magical dust covered the earth, and from it all life was born. Fishes and… things. Trees. And when these living things die the magical dust is freed again, and makes new trees and… and…'

'Fishes?' offered Bane.

'Yes. Fishes.' He sighed. 'I felt sorry for Vorkas today. He should not have lost, and he knew it in the moment of his death. He expected me to be defensive, to try to read his movements. As my sword opened his throat his eyes changed. He looked like a child then, lost and bewildered.' Rage drank again, several deep, long swallows.

'I thought you didn't drink, old man.'

'I don't. Can't abide the stuff. Have you ever seen a ghost?'

'I think so. I had a dream when I was wounded. In it my grandfather came to me.'

'Every now and again I see her ghost,' said Rage. 'Her dress is covered in blood and she is holding a knife in her hand. She was standing at the foot of my bed tonight. I saw her mouth move, but I couldn't hear any words. Then she faded away.' He shivered. 'Getting cold,' he said.

Bane found some more wood close by and banked up the fire. 'Did you know the ghost?' he asked.

'Aye, I knew her.'

'Was it your wife?'

'Wife? I never had a wife, boy. I was a soldier for ten years, then a gladiator. No time for wives. Whores, yes. Plenty of those. Good girls, most of them.'

'Then how do you have a granddaughter?'

Rage lifted the jug and shook it. 'All gone,' he said. 'Full and now empty.' He chuckled. 'Like life.'

'You drank all of that?' said Bane, worried now, for he had known of men who died after consuming that much uisge.

'I think I'll sleep now,' mumbled Rage. He leaned back and fell from the log. Bane tried to rouse him, but the older man was unconscious. Bane took hold of his arms and tried to heave him upright, so that he could drape him over his shoulder and carry him home. But Rage was a big man, and too heavy to lift as a dead weight. Bane laid him down.

The temperature was below zero, the little fire making no impact on the cold. If he couldn't get him back, Rage would die out here. Bane swore, then pulled Rage close to the fire, and covered him with his own cloak. He would have to go back to the house and wake Telors. Even as he thought it he knew Rage could die of cold before they returned. He cast around, gathering more fuel for the fire. It was growing colder and Bane shivered and huddled close to the flames.

Suddenly the cold eased away, and Bane felt the warmth of a spring breeze upon his back. A crow fluttered down to stalk around the unconscious Rage. Bane turned slowly.

An old woman, leaning on a staff, came walking from the edge of the trees.

'Greetings, Rigante,' she said, her voice muffled by the heavy veil she wore. Sitting down upon the log she stretched out her hand to the fire. Flames leapt up, circling her fingers, then danced upon the palm of her hand. Her fingers closed around the flames, and Bane saw her fist glowing like a lantern. He glanced back the way she had come. There were no footprints in the snow. Fear touched him then. All Rigante knew of the Seidh, the gods of the forest. But of them all the Morrigu was the most feared, and few among the Keltoi tribes ever spoke her name aloud. It was said to bring ill luck.

'You are the Old Woman of the Forest,' he said. 'You came to Banouin at Cogden Field and made the ghosts appear.'

'I did not make them appear,' she said. Her veiled head tilted down to look at Rage.

'He is a good man,' said Bane. 'And my friend. Do not seek to harm him.'

'I have no wish to harm him, child.' The crow hopped along the ground until it was alongside Rage's head. Bane drew his knife.

'If that foul bird pecks at him I shall cut its damned head off,' he said.

'How like your father you are,' she told him. 'Using anger to drown fear. You sit there, heart hammering, limbs trembling, and yet still you are defiant. Your knife, however, is useless here.'

'What do you want? I need no gifts from you to torment me and see me die.'

'Such is the arrogance of man,' she said. 'When the Seidh were first formed the world boiled and storms raged across the planet; storms of a ferocity you could not possibly imagine. Molten rock spewed from broken mountains, and the earth trembled and crashed against itself. The Seidh were there, Bane. We have seen the death of stars, and the birth of man. We watched your slug-eating ancestors creep from their caves, and slowly, oh so slowly, begin to learn. And we helped you, inspired you. We lifted you from the mud and showed you the sky, and the stars beyond. We fed your spirit. And so you grew. But your minds are small, and filled with pettiness. You make everything small to match your own lack of understanding. Torment you? See you die? Child, I saw your great-grandfather die, and his great-grandfather. And what torments could I offer that you do not already possess?'

'I know the stories of you,' said Bane. 'Your gifts are perilous.'

She turned her face towards him. He blanched as he glimpsed the corruption under her veil. 'When you run these hills with your friend you occasionally crush an insect beneath your heel. How might the other insects view your purpose in life, Bane? Would they say, "He was created to kill us"? Would they believe in you as some grim demon fashioned to bring destruction to their race? My purpose here is not to torment man. I care little for man. We inspired you to an understanding of the beauty of the world. But we could not change your nature. You are killers. Greed and lust and cruelty bedevil you, creating in every man a war that is seldom won by the spirit.' She fell silent for a moment. 'I am not your enemy, Bane. Nor am I man's enemy.'

Rage moaned in his sleep. 'His dreams are tormented,' said the Morrigu. Rage's fists were clenched and he groaned again. Lightly she touched him with her staff, and he sighed, and slept peacefully. 'You sleep well, Vanni,' she whispered. 'Sleep without dreams.' There was a moment of tenderness in her voice, which surprised Bane.

'You know him?'

'I have known him longer than I have known you, Bane. I saw him first as a young soldier. Four of his fellows had dragged a Keltoi girl into the woods to rape and kill her. Vanni stopped them. Many such small acts of kindness I have seen from him. And then there was Palia.'

'Palia?'

'The girl he raised as his daughter. The mother was a prostitute, what the soldiers of Stone call a unit whore. She followed the army on campaigns, and attached herself to Vanni's unit. She became pregnant, and decided to have the child. The unit paid for her to return to Stone. They joked about which one had fathered the child. It could have been any of the twenty who had paid for her services – including Vanni.

'Then the real fighting began. It was fierce and terrible. Vanni's unit was trapped in the mountains, and all but wiped out. Vanni fought his way clear, and carried the one other survivor to safety. The man died under the surgeon's knife. When Vanni returned to Stone he sought out the whore, and discovered that she had been killed in a side street by an evil man. The child she had borne was being raised by the wife of the man who owned the brothel where she plied her trade. Vanni bought the child, and had her cared for by a good family. He paid for her clothes, and food and lodging, then for her schooling.'

'Why would he do that?' asked Bane. 'He did not know who fathered her.'

'Why did you save the horse in the river?' she countered.

'You were there?'

'I am everywhere, Bane. But I was talking about Vanni. He called the child Palia, and she grew to be a beautiful girl, both in body and nature. Yet she was delicate of soul. She fell in love with a man who used her, and cast her aside when she became pregnant. Her mind was unhinged by what she saw as his betrayal of her, and soon after the birth she took a knife, slashed her wrists and died.'

'The ghost Rage sees,' whispered Bane.

'Aye, the ghost.'

'So all he did was for nothing,' said Bane.

'Stupid child!' hissed the Morrigu. 'Such acts of kindness and love are never for nothing! They feed the world! Like a stone dropping into a pool they send out waves in every direction. They inspire and, in doing so, enhance spirit.'

'Did Rage kill the man who betrayed her?'

'No, he did not. The man was a soldier. His only crime was that he seduced Palia. He had made her no promises, and he had already left the city with the army to go on campaign. Vanni had become Rage by then, Gladiator One. But the death of Palia all but destroyed him. He fought on for a while, but his heart was broken. Then came the day when he could fight no more. He walked away from the arena, and brought his granddaughter to Goriasa.'

'You say you are fond of him,' said Bane,' and yet he is a killer. Is this not a contradiction?'

'You are all killers,' replied the Morrigu. 'But there is in Vanni a desire for spirit, and a great measure of goodness, kindness and compassion. He has what the Seidh term a great soul.'

Bane glanced down at the sleeping Rage. The cold of winter swept over the snow and Bane shivered.

'Ah there you are,' said Telors, emerging from the tree line. Bane flicked a glance to his right. But the Morrigu had gone. The black-bearded gladiator trudged across the snow and knelt by Rage. 'I knew he'd do this,' he said. That's why I stayed the night.'

Together they hauled Rage upright. Dipping down, Telors heaved the sleeping man over his shoulder, staggered, then began the long walk back. Halfway there, with Telors exhausted, Bane took over. Both men were more than weary as they reached the farmhouse. Bane laid Rage down on the rug by the fire in the main room. Telors took a cushion from a couch and placed it under Rage's head, then they covered him with a blanket and walked back into the kitchen. Telors lit a lantern, and poured himself a goblet of water.

'He drank a great deal,' said Bane. 'I've heard of men dying after imbibing like that.'

'I'll sit with him.'

Bane cut a slice of bread from a loaf, smeared it with butter, and joined Telors at the table. 'I thought he didn't drink strong spirit,' said Bane.

'He doesn't usually. It started back in Stone after… a personal tragedy. Death bouts began to affect him, and after them he would get drunk then wander off somewhere. I always found him and brought him home.' Telors moved to a cupboard and took out a small jug of uisge, adding a measure to his cup of water. He offered the jug to Bane, who lifted it to his mouth and took several deep swallows.

'Did he talk much?' asked Telors.

'What about?'

'Oh, life… his past?' Bane saw the worried look on Telors's face.

'No. He said something about coming from the stars. That's all.'

Telors looked relieved. 'He'll be fine in the morning. Cara will cook him breakfast. She's a sweet girl. I wouldn't like to see her hurt.'

Bane suddenly understood Telors's concern. Cara did not know of her mother's suicide, nor the truth of her background. Bane took another swallow of uisge. It was very strong, and he felt its effect almost immediately.

'Rage was magnificent in that bout yesterday,' he said, changing the subject. 'Fast, sure and deadly.'

'That's Rage,' said Telors, his face relaxing into a smile.

'Would he have beaten Voltan?'

'I see you're learning your history. Well, the answer is that I don't really know. Both were awesome in their prime. I guess if I had to put all my money on a fighter I'd pick Voltan. But if someone was fighting for my life I'd want it to be Rage. Does that answer your question?'

Bane swayed in his seat, the room beginning to swim. Telors laughed. 'Better get off to bed, lad. I'm too tired to carry you up those stairs.'