Midnight Falcon (47 page)

Back in his tent he bound the wound in his calf. 'If today is the day, so be it,' he said aloud.

Then he donned his armour.

Banouin had also spent a fitful night, and his spirits were low as the dawn came. Brother Solstice, with whom he shared a small tent, saw the strain in his eyes. 'Do you fear the coming battle?' he asked the younger man.

Banouin shook his head. 'No, it is not fear but sadness. I have been thinking of the thousands of young men who will lose their lives – men on both sides. And for what, Solstice? What, ultimately, will be achieved by this coming violence? Surely man, with all his intellect, can find some other way to settle disagreements, without more seeds of hatred being sown, more souls to haunt a battlefield.'

'It would be pleasant to think so,' said Brother Solstice. 'Yet harmony is often achieved by violence. Forest fires are terrible, but without them the forest itself would not survive. The deer rely on the wolf to cull the herds, eliminating the weak, ensuring that the food supply will be adequate for their survival. If the Source had decided upon a world without violence he would surely not have created the hawk and the lion.'

Banouin thought about this for a moment. 'Is it your argument then that the Source in some way desires this coming conflict, and the slaughter which accompanies it?'

'I am not arrogant enough to even guess at the answer to that, my friend. My heart is heavy with the thought of the dead to come. But, I tell myself, evil must always be countered. We did not ask the soldiers of Stone to invade our lands. We did not request them to enslave our women and butcher our children. So what are we to do? Allow them to achieve their aims? When a man sits by and allows another to kill and rape and plunder, then he is as guilty as the offender.'

'According to that argument,' said Banouin, 'you should be carrying a sword and shield tomorrow.'

Brother Solstice smiled. 'Believe me, my boy, were I standing close to a mother and her child, and a soldier of Stone was advancing upon them, I would take up sword and shield. I am not as holy a man as I would wish to be.'

'Then you accept that holy men should avoid violence, no matter what lives are threatened?'

'I do accept that we are pledged to uphold the sanctity of life,' said the druid. 'And I revere those men who can live by such a code. I am not – yet – one of them.'

Banouin pushed open the flap of the tent and stepped out into the early-morning sunlight. Cookfires had been lit all over the valley, and thousands of soldiers were moving around, some tending to their horses, others sharpening weapons, or playing dice bones. Brother Solstice dismantled the tent and Banouin helped him fold the canvas, then roll it.

'In Stone,' said Banouin, 'there was a group known as the Tree Cult. They believed in non-violence and they were killed in their thousands. Not once did they raise their hands against their killers. And they won, for they are now accepted among the citizens.'

'I have heard of them,' said Brother Solstice, 'and I admire them enormously. My first spiritual teacher – a wonderful old druid named Conobelin – told me that you can change the minds of men by argument or debate, but you cannot change their hearts by the same means. Hearts are changed by actions.' Brother Solstice tied the rolled tent. 'You say the Cultists won – though I might debate that. But why did they win? As I understand it Jasaray arrested and executed Nalademus. Why was he able to do that? Because two men with swords saved him from both traitors and a wild beast. And in saving him, and gaining a victory for the gentle Cultists, we now have a Stone army ready to destroy our lands and butcher our children. Is that what the Source desired? A man could drive himself insane seeking deeper meanings within such complex events.' Brother Solstice stood silently for a moment, staring around the valley and the shores of the lake. 'I find that it helps', he said at last, 'to focus one's mind not on the evils but on the greatness of man, on the power of his love, rather than the nature of his hatreds. Love of family, love of friends, love of land. The Rigante are a fine people, Banouin. I hold to that. We seek not to enslave our fellows, but to live with them. We do not make war upon our neighbours. But when war comes to us we fight. Not a man here, among these thousands, does not wish he could be somewhere else. He is here to defend those he loves, and in that there is nobility of purpose.'

Banouin shook his head. 'The Morrigu talked of feeding the spirit of the land. She said that man alone among the animals has the talent to do this. Every kindly thought and deed, every moment of compassion and forgiveness, is like a raindrop of spirit to the earth. But war? War is a torrent of dark rain that poisons the earth, bringing us one tiny step closer to the death of the world.'

Brother Solstice put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'Yes, it is, my friend. It is vile. But when the fighting is over you and I will move among the wounded and heal them as best we can. And we will – if it pleases the Source – watch them return to their farms and their lands and hug their wives and their children. We will see them smile at the infinite beauty of the sunset, and dance on Feast Nights with all the joy of life. And we will hope that they will put aside hatred and teach their children to love their friends and neighbours, so that future generations can avoid wars and thus replenish the spirit of the earth. It is all we can do.'

'But first comes the slaughter,' said Banouin softly.

'Aye, first the slaughter.'

In the hour before dusk Bane rode to the edge of the Wishing Tree woods. The mare refused to cross the tree line, shying back as he tried to heel her forward. She then stood still, her flanks trembling. Bane dismounted and stroked her neck. 'I have no wish to enter either,' he told her. Trailing the reins he left her there and walked into the shadow-shrouded trees. There was no mist, but as he walked Bane thought he could hear whispers on the wind, and felt eyes upon him.

He followed the trail down to where they had first seen the Morrigu, then continued up the slope opposite, coming at last to the circle of golden stones. A young man was sitting on a rock close by. He was slender and golden-haired, his face gentle. Beside him, resting against the rock, was a golden shield of fabulous workmanship. The rim was shining steel, the centre like a spider's web of golden wire flowing around a grey, shimmering stone the size of a man's fist. The young man looked up and smiled as Bane approached.

'She said you would come,' he said, his voice low, almost musical.

'And I did,' said Bane. 'Who are you?'

'I am . . . was . . . Riamfada. Will you sit awhile?'

'My horse is waiting beyond the woods, and I have a long way to travel. So can we make this brief? Tell me why the Morrigu asked me here.'

'Your mare is already wandering back to Three Streams, from where it will be returned to the farm you gifted to Gryffe and Iswain,' said Riamfada. 'Should you decide to travel to the coast I can send you there through the portal, and save you weeks of journeying.' Riamfada lifted a slender hand and gestured towards the stones. The air rippled and Bane found himself staring down a sloping hillside at the port of Accia. The air rippled once more, the vision disappearing. 'Sit for a while,' said Riamfada. 'I have long desired this meeting.'

'Who are you?' asked Bane again. 'Or perhaps that should be what are you?'

'Once I was human, like you.' He smiled. 'Well . . . not exactly like you. My legs were crippled and I could not walk. But I was Rigante, and I dwelt in Three Streams. I died there before you were born. On a Feast Night, surrounded by my friends. The Seidh brought me here to dwell among them.'

'And now you are Seidh?'

'No, you cannot become Seidh. But those of us who were once human have been taught certain . . . skills, shall we say, involving the manipulation of matter. It is probably simpler to say we have learned magic.'

Bane reached out and touched the young man's arm. It was solid, the flesh warm to the touch. 'You are no ghost then?'

'No, not a ghost.'

Bane sat down on a flat rock. 'So why am I here?'

'To make a choice. As I said I can speed your way to the coast – or beyond if it pleases you. Once I could have transported you to Stone itself, but they tore down the circle that stood on the Fourth Hill to make way for a bathhouse and a market. But I can send you to a circle some twenty miles north-east of the city.'

Bane laughed. 'The Morrigu would not have brought me here merely to save time on my travels. What is it she requires of me?'

'She requires nothing, Bane. She asks for nothing. I was told merely to present you with alternatives.'

'And these are?'

'You can travel where you wish, to any of the circles around the globe of the world.'

'Is there a circle in the White Mountains?'

'The White Mountains of Varshalla, north of the land of the Vars?'

'Yes,' said Bane.

'Indeed there is. But why would you wish to go there? The tribes worship the gods of blood and the word among them for stranger is the same as the word for enemy. Even the Vars do not travel there.'

'Someone I love is there,' said Bane. 'I would like to see her again.'

'Then I can send you there,' Riamfada told him.

Bane glanced down at the spider web shield. 'Why do you need a shield?' he asked.

'It is not mine – though I crafted it. I made it for you, Bane, as I once made a sword for your father.'

'It is a pretty piece, though one hefty cut would destroy it.'

The young man lifted the shield and carried it to a nearby oak, hanging it upon a broken branch. 'Show me,' he said.

Bane drew one of his short swords and walked to the tree. He lunged at the shield. The blade bounced away. He hacked and slashed at it, then stood back. There was not a single mark upon any of the wires. Sheathing his blade he lifted the shield, and was amazed by its lack of weight. Slipping his forearm through the two leather straps he hooked his fingers around the fist bar. Then looked for buckles to tighten the straps. The leather slid round his arm, shrinking until the straps fitted perfectly. 'How do I remove it?' he asked.

'Simply loosen your grip on the fist bar,' advised Riamfada.

Bane did so, and the straps opened. 'It is a wondrous piece. I thank you for it.'

'I hope it proves useful,' said Riamfada.

Bane sat down once more. The sun was falling behind scattered clouds, and the sky was molten gold above the mountains. 'What is it you are not telling me, Riamfada? This is a battle shield, and though it may prove useful in the White Mountains you did not craft it for that purpose.'

'I have one more vision to show you,' said Riamfada. He gestured once more, and Bane saw the air shimmer, and found himself staring at nine men sitting within a stone circle. He recognized Braefar, and his eyes were drawn to another man, a huge, hulking warrior with long, braided yellow hair. The scene shifted and Bane saw a rider on a white horse in the distance. 'That is Connavar,' said Bane. 'Why are you showing me this?'

'The king is riding to his death,' said Riamfada. 'He knows that his brother plans to kill him. He knows he cannot survive.'

'Then why is he doing it?'

'You were here when the Morrigu told him to agree to his brother's request. Conn promised that he would – and he is a man of honour.'

'I see,' said Bane coldly. 'And you want me to rush through to his rescue. That is what this . . . this talk of alternatives comes down to. I am here to save the king.'

'I wish that were true, Bane, for I love Connavar, and I can feel the heaviness of his heart. But you cannot save him. This is his destiny.'

'Then why am I here?'

'To make a choice.'

'Suppose I decide to find Lia, what happens to Connavar?'

'He dies alone.'

'And if I step through to his aid?'

'He dies – but not alone. But know this, Bane, if you do step through you will be faced with another choice – one that will probably see you die within a day.'

Maro, son of Barus, watched as the unit slaves pitched the thirty tents of the junior officers. They worked efficiently and well, with a disciplined economy of effort that spoke of long practice. Maro, as junior duty officer in charge of the tents, felt entirely redundant. He scanned the scene, but could find no fault with the work of the twelve slaves. When they had finished he thanked them, cursing himself inwardly as he did so. He had been warned twice for such odd behaviour, but found it difficult to treat any human being with less than courtesy. Dismissing them, he wandered across the huge new compound. To the left Jasaray's personal slaves were assembling the mosaic stone floor of his command tent. Every one of the two thousand, three hundred and seven stones was numbered, and some of the slaves had been assembling and disassembling this floor for more than thirty years. They too worked with diligence and speed. It was vital that the floor was completed, the huge tent pitched, before Jasaray arrived with the centre columns.

Maro was enchanted by the activity within the new fortress,
as he had been enchanted on every occasion since the campaign started. The
power and ingenuity of Stone were never more apparent than in this daily ritual.
Nothing was left to chance. Advance guards would pick out the land, flag officers
would map out the camp, and the advance columns put aside their armour to
dig out the vast defensive trench. To the north and south parties of horsemen
were dragging felled trees to the gate areas, where the trunks would be split
and expertly crafted into strong gates. And all the while more Panthers were
arriving, marching into the fortress and immediately setting about preordained
tasks: the digging of latrines, the erection of rows of tents, the setting
of cookfires.

Maro climbed to the northern ramparts and stared out over the rolling hills beyond. Somewhere out there was the Rigante army; the army that had destroyed Valanus and put a blight on the unblemished record of Stone conquests. According to the most recent reports it numbered less than fifty thousand men – a tenth, men said, of the size of the force that defeated Valanus.

The young man lifted his helm clear, pushing his fingers through his dark hair. The wind was cool and pleasant. His back was itching, but there was no way of scratching it through the iron breastplate he now wore. It had taken Maro weeks to become accustomed to the heavy armour, the wrist guards and the greaves. He had felt, for the most part, like a fraud – a student pretending to be a soldier. It was harder for him than for most of the new juniors, for he was the son of Barus, conqueror of the east, and much was expected of him. In a way he was glad that his father had remained in Stone. It would have been embarrassing for his early mistakes to have been witnessed by Barus.

Thousands of soldiers were now inside the fortress and Maro
glanced back, picturing the grid plan and locating where his fifty men were
stationed. Replacing his helm he strode from the ramparts and crossed the
compound to where the tents of his own section were situated. Having ensured
they had been fed he went back to his own tent, and began to compose a letter
to Cara. There were four letters now in his pack. He had numbered each of
them in the order they were to be read. Tomorrow he would ask again if his
letters could be carried back to Accia. Only ten officers a day were allowed
to submit letters home, for there were only two riders carrying despatches,
and Jasaray always insisted they rode light.

As he was writing he heard a commotion beyond the tent, and put aside his materials. Stepping outside he saw a group of cavalry had arrived. Many of the men were wounded. Maro stood in the sunshine and watched as the cavalry leader dismounted, and glanced back at the men with him. There were around thirty horsemen. The insignia on the officer's breastplate showed that he was the commander of a hundred. Maro eased his way forward. The officer, a lean, middle-aged veteran, was talking to one of Jasaray's flag officers, the dour, laconic Heltian.

'They hit us from the woods to the east,' said the cavalryman. 'The Cenii scattered and ran almost immediately.'

'Losses?' asked Heltian.

'I lost sixty-eight men,' the officer told him. 'They surrounded Tuvor, and I doubt any of his men survived. I recognized the old bastard who came to Stone. Fiallach, isn't it? He led them.'

'Enemy losses?'

'Hard to say, sir. All was chaos as they struck. We thought the Cenii scouts would give us warning of any attack, but they either ran or were killed. The enemy were upon us in moments.'

'How many?'

'I'd say around a thousand.'

'Get your wounded to the hospital tents,' said Heltian, 'and then prepare a fuller report for the emperor when he arrives.'

'Yes, sir,' replied the cavalry man, saluting.

Maro was still standing close by when the cavalryman walked off and Heltian turned. The flag officer looked at him. 'You have no duties, young man?'

'No, sir. My men have been fed, the tents pitched.'

'You are the son of Barus, are you not?'

'I am, sir.'

'And you listened to the report.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Tell me what you made of it.'

Maro struggled to gather his wits, his mind racing back over the conversation he had overheard. 'It seems that a hundred and sixty-eight of our cavalry have been killed by Fiallach's Iron Wolves.'

'Go on.'

'They were attacked from hiding . . . outnumbered five to one. The Cenii scouts proved ineffective.' And then he had it. Realization struck him. 'Our two cavalry units were riding too close together. Had they been at the regulation distance of . . . of two hundred yards . . . one of them should have broken free. And cavalry orders are to skirt wooded areas, out of bowshot range.'

'Indeed so,' said Heltian. 'The officers were careless, and treated the enemy with disrespect. They learned a hard lesson as a result.' Heltian turned away and walked off towards the northern gates.

Maro returned to his tent, and his letter to Cara, telling her yet again how he missed her and their infant son. Then he described the lands of the Keltoi on this side of the water, the beauty of the mountains, the purity of the streams and rivers. He paused, and thought of Banouin, wondering where his friend would be now. He was not a warrior, and was unlikely, therefore, to be at risk in the coming battle. Then he thought of Bane the gladiator. Rage said he had come home to the mountains. It was probable that he was out there, sharpening his swords. Maro shivered. The late-afternoon sun was giving little heat now.

There was no bed in the tent, but a canvas sheet had been pegged across the earth. Maro removed his breastplate and scratched his back. Then he stretched out, laying his head on a folded blanket. Back home Cara and their son would probably be in the garden, the boy asleep in a crib placed in the shade of the old elm. Maro closed his eyes and pictured them. As he did so he felt a swelling of love for them both, and an aching sadness that he was not with them.

Cara had been angry when he left, and had refused to say farewell. 'You have allied yourself with evil,' she had told him, when he announced his commission in the Twenty-Third Panther.

'It is not evil to defend one's city,' he replied.

'This is our city,' she said. 'Where is the enemy army? I do not see it.'

'The Rigante are massing men, and their agents have crossed the water, stirring up trouble among the conquered tribes, encouraging them to revolt against the rule of Stone. If we do not deal with them now, then in the future they could well have an army at our gates.'

'Some men will always seek a reason for war,' she said coldly. 'Bane told me that the Rigante have never made war across the water, and have no interest in acquiring the lands of others. They are not a greedy people. They do not lust for conquest and slaughter.'

'Neither do I,' he said.

'And yet you will invade their lands, enslave their women, and kill their men.'

'You make it sound so base, Cara. Everywhere ruled by Stone knows peace and harmony. We are bringing civilization and culture to these people. Did you know that their druids sacrifice babies on their altars? They are a barbarous and uncouth people.'

'Barbarous and uncouth?' she echoed. 'Yesterday in the Great Arena five women were torn apart by wild beasts for the entertainment of the crowd. Don't talk to me of barbarous and uncouth. The Rigante have no arenas.'

'This is an entirely different matter,' snapped Maro. 'It is typical of a woman to change the subject. The women you speak of were obviously criminals and thus subject to execution. Murderers, probably, deserving of all they received.'

'You are a fool, Maro. And I hope you come to see that before it is too late.'

In the weeks leading up to his departure she had not spoken to him. He hoped that his letters would soften her heart, and that when he returned, as a conquering hero, she would look more kindly upon him.

Braefar's head jerked round. Just for the briefest of moments he thought he saw two men on the outer edge of the stone circle. He blinked and they were gone. Just a trick of the fading light, he thought, and settled his back against the golden column of stone. The wind was cool, and he drew his sheepskin cloak around him. The others had set a fire, and were sitting in a circle round it, but Braefar had no wish to join them. In truth he had no wish to be here.

If Connavar had not been so selfish, so hungry for power and praise, he thought, none of this would have happened.

Braefar stared down at the large golden ring adorning the third finger of his right hand. It had been a gift from Connavar upon his coronation. A princely gift. Of course Bendegit Bran had been given a golden torque, Govannan a beautiful cloak brooch with a ruby centre, and Fiallach a sword, the hilt entwined with gold wire, the pommel stone a beautifully cut emerald. Braefar had examined the gifts closely. His own golden ring had cost less than all the others. It was a studied insult.

Braefar had been swallowing such insults all his life. Ever since the day of that accursed bear!

He could see it now, huge and black, its jaws dripping with the blood of the boys already slain back in the woods. It was charging at Connavar. The sight of the beast was awesome, and it froze Braefar's blood. Conn had leapt at it, stabbing it with his dagger. Then Govannan had run in to help. It was all over so fast. One moment Conn was alive and strong, the next torn apart, blood sprayed all over the grass. The hunters had come then, plunging their lances into the beast. Only then did Braefar discover the power to move. They had all looked at him, thinking him a coward. They didn't say it out loud. But they felt it. And Braefar's life had been cursed from that moment.

Conn had never forgiven him. He said he had, but it was a lie. He had spent the next twenty years punishing him, causing him to fail and look stupid in front of his fellows. Oh, how Conn must have laughed on each occasion. Braefar didn't doubt the king had discussed his 'failures' with Bran, Govannan, Osta, Fiallach and the others. They thought he didn't notice them laughing behind his back. But he noticed. Braefar did not have to see them to know. It was all so obvious. As were the grotesque plots to make him seem incompetent.

Conn had put him in charge of the northern gold mines, with a brief to improve the production and swell the treasury. Braefar had invented several tools for the men at the face. They were a huge success. Then had come the cave-in. Braefar was accused of pushing ahead too fast, with insufficient timber supports. Forty men died, and the mine was closed for four months. As if that was his fault! Get more gold, the king had said. Braefar had got more gold, doubling production.

Every role Conn ever offered him was tipped with poison. And all because of that bear!

That was why he had never been given a rank in the army. What a humiliation that was. It was like telling everyone, 'Braefar is a coward.' Even Bran had come to believe it after the misunderstanding in the first Pannone war twenty years ago. Conn had left Braefar in charge of gathering reinforcements while he marched off to face the Highland Laird and the Sea "Wolf, Shard. Braefar had done exactly as he was told, gathering men from all over Rigante lands. And he would have marched to Conn's aid as soon as the reinforcements were fully gathered. But no, the fifteen-year-old Bran had to be the hero, sneaking off and riding to the battle with but a few thousand of the recruits, while Braefar had been reinforcing Old Oaks, in order to protect the citizens in case of disaster.

Naturally no-one saw it that way. Conn made sure of that. Cowardly Braefar had failed in his task, and would never be entrusted with armed men again. Yet he had stayed loyal, year upon year. While Bendegit Bran ruled the north, and Fiallach the east, Braefar had been thrown the bone of Three Streams. That was when he found out who his true friends were. The emperor Jasaray had sent agents to seek his advice. The emperor, they said, understood the brilliance Braefar had shown on many occasions, not least the invention of stirrups, which enabled cavalry to wear heavier armour, and to maintain balance during fights upon horseback. The emperor would be honoured, they said, to count Braefar as a friend.

Jasaray had been a true friend. His agents had witnessed Connavar making fun of Braefar, and they listed the numerous occasions when the king made slighting remarks. Once Connavar had even claimed to have invented the stirrups himself. Jasaray was right too about the military expansion under Connavar's rule. It was costly and hugely inefficient. The Rigante would prosper far better, Jasaray had written, under the wiser rule of someone like Braefar.

Jasaray understood. He had complimented Braefar on his actions during the first Pannone war. 'Only a fool', he wrote, 'would have marched with all his men, leaving his citizens unprotected against a reversal of fortune in the first battle.' Braefar had memorized that line. Jasaray had also pointed out that Connavar's domination of the Pan-none was against all Keltoi tradition, and he had, through his agents, introduced Braefar to Guern, the rebel Pannone warrior seeking to throw off the Rigante yoke.