Midnight Falcon (51 page)

'Dead. Killed by his brother, Braefar.'

Anger brought a little colour to the dying man's face. 'And Braefar?'

'Killed himself.'

'The only good . . . thing he's ever done. Shame he couldn't have done it earlier. He was always vermin, but Conn . . . could never see it. Didn't fool me. I've always been a good . . . judge of men.' He glanced up into the young warrior's face, and forced a smile. 'Well, maybe not
so
good. I misjudged you, Bane.' The old warrior groaned. 'Wish . . . I could . . . be there when we march on Stone . . .'

Fiallach's head sagged back and a last, juddering breath hissed from his throat. Bane rose to his feet.

All around now the Rigante were moving among the wounded Stone
soldiers, hacking them to death where they lay. Bane saw Bendegit Bran making
his way through the warriors. Bane took up the reins of a wandering chestnut
horse. Stepping into the saddle he rode back across the battlefield. Far to
the left he could see Connavar's gelding, Windsong. It was standing now, reins
trailing. Bane was glad it had survived. He touched heels to the chestnut
and rode past Bran.

'Wait!' called Bran, but Bane had kicked his horse into a run.

As he moved across the battlefield soldiers stood and cheered him, waving their swords in the air, and chanting his name. He rode to the top of the hill and swung his mount to stare back at the blood-covered field of the fallen.

'Proud of you, boy,' came the voice of Connavar in his mind.

Throughout the long afternoon Brother Solstice, Banouin and twenty other druids moved among the wounded men. They were aided by a hundred more warriors who had experience of battle injuries. Even so, many died before they could be reached and helped.

In all some seventeen thousand Rigante, Norvii and Pannone tribesmen had given their lives to protect the land, and more than twenty-five thousand soldiers of Stone had surrendered their souls to feed Jasaray's ambition.

The injured among the Rigante numbered in their thousands. Among the dead were the generals Govannan, Ostaran the Gath, and Fiallach. A little way from Fiallach lay the bodies of the former outlaws Wik and Valian, and Furse, the son of Osta. Finnigal survived, despite having his left hand cut from his body. Four thousand five hundred Iron Wolves and Horse Archers had died following the charge, with another thousand carrying wounds.

Bendegit Bran sent out scouts who returned to say that the surviving Panthers had fled the previous night's fortress and were heading south. He had no choice but to let them go.

With the afternoon sun dropping towards the mountains Bran and twenty Iron Wolves rode to the east and the golden Circle of Balg. A stoop-shouldered man and a young boy were sitting with the body of the king, who was once more wearing his armour of gold. Of Bane there was no sign.

Bran dismounted and spoke to the man. He was the father of the boy, and had come seeking him. Bran thanked them both for tending his brother.

'Where is the warrior who was with him?' he asked the man.

'I saw no-one, sir,' he said.

'What about you?' Bran asked the boy.

'Another man came, sir, just before my da found me. This man cast great magic. There was a bright light in the circle, and he walked into it, and was gone.'

'Gone?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And that was all you saw?'

'I saw mountains, sir, beyond the circle. White mountains.'

THE END

The gripping new novel from David Gemmell
Featuring the epic hero Waylander

Mercenary captain Camran Osir reined in his mount at the crest of the hill and swung in the saddle to stare back down the forest trail. The twelve men under his command rode from the trees in single file, and paused while he scanned the horizon. Removing his iron helm, Cam-ran ran his fingers through his long blond hair, enjoying, momentarily, the warm breeze evaporating the sweat on his scalp. He glanced at the captive girl on the horse beside him. Her hands were tied, her dark eyes defiant. He smiled at her and saw her blanch. She knew he was going to kill her, and that her passing would be painful. He felt the warmth of blood pulsing in his loins. Then the feeling subsided. His blue eyes narrowed as he gazed over the valley, seeking sign of pursuit.

Satisfied that no-one was following, Camran tried to relax. He was still angry, of course, but calmed himself with the thought that his riders were ill-educated brutes, with little understanding of civilized behaviour.

The raid had gone well. There were only five men in the little farming settlement, and they had been killed quickly, with no wounds or losses among his own men. Some of the women and children had managed to escape into the woods, but three young women had been taken. Enough, at least, to satisfy the carnal urges of his riders. Camran himself had captured the fourth, the dark-haired girl on the sway-backed horse beside him. She had tried to run but he had ridden her down, leaping from his horse and bearing her to the ground. She had fought silently, without panic, but one blow to the chin had rendered her unconscious. He had then thrown her over his saddle. There was blood now upon her pale cheek, and a purple bruise was showing on the side of her neck. Her faded yellow dress was torn at the shoulder and had flapped down, almost exposing her breast. Camran jerked his thoughts from her soft skin, turning his mind to more urgent concerns.

Yes, the raid had gone well. Until that idiot Polian had incited the others to set fire to the old farmhouse. Wanton destruction of property was anathema to a man of breeding like Camran. It was criminally wasteful. Peasants could always be replaced, but good buildings should be treated with respect. And the farmhouse was a good building, soundly constructed by a man who cared about quality work. Camran had been furious, not only with them but with himself. For instead of merely killing the captured women, he had allowed his needs to override his common sense. He had taken his time, enjoying the screams of the first, luxuriating in the sounds of the desperate pleading of the second, and revelling in the subsequent cries of agony of the third. With each of them dead he had turned his attentions to the dark-haired girl. She had not pleaded, nor made a sound after returning to consciousness to find her hands and ankles bound. She was to be the richest harvest; her cries, when they came, would be the purest and sweetest.

Then smoke had billowed over him. Swinging round, he saw the fires. Leaving the bound girl where she lay, he ran back to the scene, his bloody dagger still in his hand. Polian was grinning as Camran came alongside him. He was still grinning as he died, Camran's blade plunging between his ribs and skewering his heart.

This sudden act of savagery cowed the men. 'Did I not tell you?' he thundered. 'Never property! Not unless directly ordered. Now gather supplies and let's be gone.'

Camran had returned to the young woman. He thought of killing her, but there would be no pleasure in it now, no slow, pounding joy as he watched the light of life fade from her eyes. Dragging her to her feet, he cut the ropes around her ankles and lifted her to the dead Polian's mount. Still she said nothing.

As Camran rode away he gazed back at the burning building, and he was touched by a deep sense of shame. The farmhouse had not been built speedily, but with great patience, the timbers lovingly fashioned, the joints fitting to perfection. Even the window frames had been carved and embellished. Destroying such a place was an act of sacrilege. His father would have been ashamed of him.

Camran's sergeant, the hulking Okrian, rode alongside him. 'Wasn't in time to stop them, sir,' he said.

'It is what happens when one is forced to deal with scum,' Camran replied. 'Let's hope there are better men available when we reach Qumtar. We'll earn little commission with only eleven men.'

'We'll get more, sir. Qumtar is crawling with fighters seeking employment with one or other of the Houses.'

'Crawling is probably an apt description. Not like the old days, is it?'

'Nothing ever is,' said Okrian, and the two men rode in silence, each lost in thoughts of the past. Camran remembered the invasion of Drenai lands eighteen years earlier, when he had been a junior officer in the army of Vagria, serving under Kaem. It had been, Kaem had promised, the dawn of a new empire. And, for a time, that was true. They crushed all armies sent against them, forcing the greatest of the Drenai general's, Egel, into the vastness of Skultik Forest, and besieging the last fortress, Dros Purdol. But that had been the high point of the campaign. Under the command of the giant Karnak, Purdol had held, and Egel had broken from Skultik, descending upon the Vagrian army like a storm. Kaem himself had been slain by the assassin, Waylander, and within two years Drenai forces had invaded Vagria. And it did not end there. Arrest warrants were issued against many of the best Vagrian officers, charging them with crimes against the populace. It was laughable. What crime was there in killing your enemies, whether they be soldiers or farmers? But many officers were taken and hanged.

Camran had escaped north into the lands of the Gothir, but even here agents of the Drenai continued to hunt him. So he had drifted east, across the sea into Ventria and beyond, serving in numerous armies and mercenary bands.

At thirty-seven he was now in charge of recruitment for House Bakard, one of the four ruling Houses of Kydor. There was no outright war for them to fight. Not yet. But each of the Houses was gathering soldiers, and there were many skirmishes in the wild lands.

News from home rarely reached Kydor, but Camran had been delighted to hear of the death of Karnak some years previously. Assassinated as he led a parade. Wonderful! Killed, apparently, by a woman wielding the bow of the legendary Waylander.

Jerking his mind once more to the present, Camran gazed back at his recruits. They were still frightened, and anxious to please, hoping that when they made camp Camran would let them have the girl. He would soon dash those hopes. His plan was to use her, kill her, and leave the men to bury the body. He glanced at her once more, and smiled. She looked at him coolly and said nothing.

Just before dusk Camran swung from the trail and selected a campsite. As the men unsaddled their mounts he took the girl deeper into the forest. She made no resistance as he pushed her to the ground, and she did not cry out as he took her. As he was reaching his climax he opened his eyes and found her staring at his face, expressionless. This not only removed any pleasure from the rape but also ruined his erection. Anger roared through him. Drawing his knife, he laid the edge at her throat.

'The Grey Man will kill you,' she said slowly, no trace of fear in her voice. The words carried certainty and he paused.

'The Grey Man? Some demon of the night, perhaps? A protector of peasants?'

'He is coming,' she said. He felt the prickle of fear on the nape hairs of his neck.

'I suppose he is a giant or some such?'

She did not reply. A movement came from the bushes to his left. Camran surged to his feet, heart pounding. But it was Okrian.

'Men was wondering if you'd finished with her,' said the sergeant, his small eyes focusing on the peasant girl.

'No, I have not,' said Camran. 'Maybe tomorrow.'

The sergeant shrugged and walked back to the camp-fire. 'One more day of life,' Camran told the girl. 'Are you going to thank me?'

'I am going to watch you die,' she said. Camran smiled, then punched her in the face, hurling her back to the ground. 'Stupid peasant.'

But her words kept haunting him, and the following morning's ride found him constantly scanning the trail. His neck was beginning to ache. Camran was about to heel his horse forward when he took one last look back. For a heartbeat only he saw a shape moving into the trees some half a mile down the path. He blinked. Was it a horseman, or merely a wandering deer? He could not be sure. Camran swore softly, then summoned two of his riders. 'Go back down the trail. There may be a man following. If there is, kill him.'

The men swung their mounts and rode away. Camran glanced at the girl. She was smiling.

'What's happening, sir?' asked Okrian, nudging his horse alongside Camran's mount.

'Thought I saw a rider. Let's move on.'

They rode through the afternoon, stopping for an hour to walk the horses, then made camp in a sheltered hollow, close to a stream. There was no sign of the two men Camran had sent out. He summoned Okrian to him. The big mercenary eased himself down alongside his captain and Camran told him about the girl's warning. 'Grey Man?' he said. 'Never heard of him. But then I don't know this area of Kydor well. If he is following the boys will get him. Tough lads.'

'Then where are they?'

'Probably dawdling somewhere. Or, if they caught him, they're probably having a little fun with him. Perrin is said to be somewhat of an artist when it comes to the Blood Eagle. The men say he can open a man's ribs, pin the guts back with twigs and still leave the poor bastard alive for hours. Now what about the girl, sir? The men could use a little diversion.'

'Aye, take her,' said Camran.

Okrian hauled her up by her hair and dragged her back to the campfire. A cheer went up from the nine men gathered there. Okrian hurled her towards them. The first man rose and grabbed her as she half fell. 'Let's see a little flesh!' he shouted, tearing at her dress.

Suddenly the girl spun on her heel, slamming her elbow into the man's face, crushing his nose. Blood spurted over his moustache and beard and he staggered back. The sergeant came up behind the girl, curling his arms around her and dragging her into a tight embrace. Her head snapped back into his face, striking him on the cheekbone. He grabbed her hair and savagely twisted her head. The first man drew a dagger and advanced towards her. 'You puking bitch!' he snarled. 'I'm going to cut you bad. Not enough so we can't enjoy you, you little whore, but enough to make you scream like a gutted pig.'

The girl, unable to move, stared with undisguised malevolence at the knifeman. She did not beg or cry out.

Suddenly there was a crunching thud. The knifeman stopped, his expression bemused. Slowly he reached up with his left hand. As he did so he fell to his knees. His questing finger touched the black-feathered bolt jutting from the base of his skull. He tried to speak, but no words flowed. Then he pitched to his face.

For a few heartbeats no-one moved. The sergeant hurled the girl to the ground and drew his sword. Another man, closer to the trees, grunted in shock and pain as a bolt speared his chest. He fell down, tried to rise, then gave out a gurgling scream as he died.

Camran, sword in hand, ran back to the fire, then charged into the undergrowth, his men fanning out around him.

All was silent, and there was no sign of an enemy.

'Make for open ground!' shouted Camran. The men ran to their horses, saddling them swiftly. Camran grabbed the girl, forcing her to mount, then clambered up behind her and rode from the hollow.

Clouds drifted across the moon as the men raced through the forest. In the darkness they were forced to slow their flight. Camran saw a break in the trees and angled his mount towards it, emerging on to a hillside. Okrian came close behind. As the other men broke clear Camran counted them. Six. Flicking his gaze around the milling group, he counted again. The killer had taken another victim during the flight.

Okrian removed his black leather helm and rubbed his hand across his balding pate. 'Shem's Balls,' he said, 'we've lost five men and we've seen no-one!' Camran glanced around. They were in a circle of clear ground, but to progress in any direction they would have to re-enter the forest.

'We'll wait for the dawn,' said Camran, dismounting. Dragging the girl from the saddle, he swung her round. 'Who is this Grey Man?' he asked.

She did not reply and he slapped her hard. 'Talk to me, you bitch,' he hissed, 'or I'll cut open your belly and strangle you with your entrails!'

'He owns all the valley,' she said. 'My brother, and the other men you killed, farmed for him.'

'Describe him.'

'He is tall. His hair is long, mostly grey.'

'An old man?'

'He does not move like an old man,' she said. 'But, yes, he is old.'

'And how did you know he would be coming?'

'Last year five men attacked a settlement north of the valley. They killed a man and his wife. The Grey Man followed them. When he returned he sent out a wagon and the bodies were brought back and displayed in the market square. Outlaws do not trouble us now. Only foreigners such as yourself would bring evil to the Grey Man's land.'

'Does he have a name?' asked Camran.

'He is the Grey Man,' she said. 'That is all I know.'

Camran moved away from her, and stared back at the shadow-haunted trees. Okrian joined him. 'He can't be everywhere at once,' whispered Okrian. 'Much will depend on which way we choose to travel. We were heading east, so perhaps we should change our plans.'

The mercenary captain drew a map from the pocket of his saddlebag and opened it out on the ground. They had been heading towards the eastern border and Qumtar, but now all Camran wished to see was an end to the treeline. On open ground the assassin could not overcome eight armed men. He studied the map. 'The nearest edge of the forest is to the north east,' he said. 'Around two miles away. Once it is light we'll make for it.' Okrian nodded but did not reply.

'What are you thinking?'

The sergeant took a deep breath, then rubbed his hand across his face. 'I was remembering the attack. Two crossbow bolts, one close upon the other. No time to reload. So, either there's two men, or it must be a double-winged weapon.'