'Here . . . ? I am here to fight the enemy.'
'Why do you fight without Connavar? Without Fiallach and the others?'
'I do not know. But I do know the enemy is before us.'
The spirit of Valanus advanced to stand alongside Bane. 'What is happening here?'
'One more charge, lads. One more charge and the day is ours,' said Banouin softly.
Valanus looked as if he had been struck. He swung on the young druid. 'Why do you say that? Why those words?'
'Were they not the words you used before that last, courageous assault?'
'Yes . . . no. The battle is not yet fought.'
'Look around you, soldier,' said Bane. 'Here is Maccus, who died leading a charge against your wing. A spear tore open his throat.' He swung on the elderly Rigante. 'You remember that spear, Lord Maccus?'
'I remember.'
'If a spear tore open your throat on Cogden Field, why are you still here?'
'I ... I do not know.'
Banouin stepped in close to the Rigante general. 'Someone is waiting for you, Lord Maccus. She has waited a long time. All men know the story of your love for your wife. When she died you were bereft. She waits for you now - in a far better place than this.'
'Then ... I am ... dead?' said Maccus. 'The spear was not a dream? I remember lying on the ground, unable to breathe. I remember . . .' His spirit faded from sight.
'We are not dead!' screamed Valanus. 'This is a Rigante trick.'
'You are all the dead of Cogden Field,' cried Banouin. 'And you have fought this battle a thousand times since. You are shades, ghosts, spirits. That is why Connavar and Appius are not here. They lived beyond the battle. Think! All of you, think! Remember the day, the awful slaughter. Remember how you died!'
Valanus backed away. 'I cannot lose again,' he said. 'I am a Stone general. We do not lose. I will fight on. I will have victory.' One by one the shades of the Rigante faded away. Valanus ran at them, waving his sword. 'It is not over!' he screamed. 'Come back, you cowards! Come back and fight!'
Banouin began to cry out towards the milling soldiers of Stone, speaking this time in Turgon. 'Be at peace, soldiers!' he shouted. 'You died valiantly, but you do not have to die again and again. Let this be an end. Move on from here. Seek out the better place that awaits you!'
Valanus swung and saw his own force vanishing. 'Soldiers of Stone!' he called out. 'Hold your ground. One more charge . . . one more . . .' His voice faded away.
And he stood alone.
Bane approached him. 'You fought bravely, Valanus. Your name is known through all the world. Go now and find peace.'
'I am not dead!' screamed Valanus. 'This is Rigante magic! My men will come back! Get away from me. I shall wait for my men!' He spun on his heel and ran, his fleeing form lost in the swirling snow.
Bane awoke back in the stone circle. Banouin added fuel to the dying fire. Bane sat up, and began to rub life into his cold hands.
'I had not thought of crying out for the living,' said Banouin. 'That was clever. I thank you.'
'It was nothing,' said Bane, rising to his feet and moving towards his horse.
'Are you leaving now?' asked Banouin.
'Of course. I did what I came for.'
Banouin stood miserably by as Bane saddled the gelding. 'Will you ever forgive me?' he asked.
Bane sighed. 'I forgive you, Banouin. That is no lie. I wish you well.'
'But you cannot forget what I did? Put it aside.'
'No, I cannot forget.' Bane stepped into the saddle, swung his mount, and rode from the circle.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The winter was the harshest in living memory. Rigante cattle, already decimated by the lung blight, died in their hundreds, and, but for the king's granaries, deaths from starvation among the tribes would have numbered in their thousands. Even so, in some remote areas cut off by blizzards, whole communities suffered losses, mainly among the old and the very young. In some parts people were even eating the bark from trees in a bid to fill empty stomachs.
The people of Three Streams suffered enormous hardships, for Braefar had not kept the granaries full, instead selling off surplus grain to the Genii during the autumn. Connavar stripped him of the title of laird and installed Govannan in his place.
For Bane, his farm in the lowlands, the winter was not as deadly. He and his men had baled enough hay to feed his winter herds, and his losses were few. Govannan came to him at midwinter, and bought cattle to feed the population of Three Streams. Bane demanded, and received, top price for his beef, paid in gold.
As the weather worsened he sent another thirty steers to the settlement, this time without charge.
A revolt began in the lands of the Northern Pannone, led by a Pannone noble named Guern. Several of the king's granaries were ransacked and looted. Connavar sent out his Iron Wolves to put down the rebellion. Guern, however, avoided any direct military clashes, he and his men going into hiding, then gathering together to strike at remote outposts. Bendegit Bran was put in command of the Wolves and lured Guern and his band into a trap. Scores were killed or taken, but Guern escaped. The situation might still have become critical, for the ransacking of granaries led to greater starvation among the Pannone. Guern could have increased his popularity by distributing his stolen grain. Instead he chose to sell it, to raise money for armour and weapons. Connavar shipped in supplies from the lands of the Ostro and the Gath to feed the Pannone, and the revolt died in its infancy. Even so, the cost had been enormous, and food supplies were severely depleted.
Then, on the first day of spring, in Connavar's fortieth year, three hundred long ships beached near Seven Willows on the eastern coast, and fifteen thousand Vars, led by King Shard, invaded the lands of the Rigante. Simultaneously in the south the emperor Jasaray, leading eight Panthers of twenty-four thousand men, came ashore in the lands of the Cenii.
Bane guided his horse carefully up the icy hill and reached the crest. He paused there, staring down at the lowlands and the endless sweep of the Narian Forest. Nestled against its eastern border was the long rectangular stone-built farmhouse, with its two barns close by, and a dozen, small round houses that served as quarters for his men. The steeply dipping road ahead was pitted and icy. He dismounted and led the horse on the long walk home. Bane's hood was topped with snow and sharp shards of ice had formed in his beard.
The first day of spring, he thought. What a mockery.
The horse slithered on the ice as Bane picked his way down the slope. The man's feet were cold and numb, his fingers frozen, even in the rabbit skin mittens. Smoke was coming from the two chimneys of the main house and Bane pictured himself sitting before a warm fire. He moved slowly, anxious not to begin sweating with over-exertion. Sweat would become ice on his skin under the thick tunic, jerkin and cloak. It would make him drowsy and weak. It would fool him into thinking the temperature was rising, and thus kill him. It was vital, Bane knew, to resist the pull of the cold, the siren song of a winter death.
As he walked his mind wandered, thinking back to Banouin and the freeing of the spirits. He wished he could forget all that had happened between them, and embrace his old friend as once he had. But it was not in his nature. He had loved Banouin as a brother, and had risked his life for him. Yet in his own hour of need Banouin had deserted him, and no amount of soul-searching could erase that deed from his memory. Banouin's friendship was part of the past, never to be rediscovered. The thought saddened him, as did the emotional withdrawal from his Rigante heritage.
Bane stumbled, and pushed himself to his feet. He felt warmer now - and knew he was in great danger. The last slow ten miles had taxed his strength and stamina. He was tempted to climb to the saddle and ride, but resisted it. The trail was too treacherous, and his horse deserved better treatment than that. He walked on, his mind full of daydreams and remembrances. He was a small child again at the Riguan Falls, and he and his mother had been swimming in the twilight. She had lit a fire, and cuddled him clos
e.
Back on the hillside Bane blinked and looked around. He was sitting now, on a boulder. Why am I not walking? he wondered. With a great effort he rose. Weariness was upon him now, and he contemplated a short rest and sleep. That will bring back my strength, he thought. Fool! Get to the farmhouse, he told himself. You are dying here!
His legs felt numb and his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The sun was dropping behind the mountains, the temperature plummeting, though Bane could no longer feel it. He had pushed hard during the last week, but had always been careful to make his night camp early before cold and exhaustion stripped his life away. But today he had thought to make the last eighteen miles in one long haul. It was a mistake. Through bleary eyes he looked at the distant farmhouse. He was still half an hour from his goal, and his strength was all but gone. At some point he must have let the reins go, for the horse was plodding on further down the trail. Bane staggered after it.
Twice more he fell. The second time saw him roll over and over until he came up against a snow-covered rock. He grunted with the pain of impact. Pushing his arms beneath him he tried to rise. He was hot now, and very sleepy. He swore and heaved himself to his knees. 'I will not die here,' he said, his voice slurred.
'No, you won't,' said a deep voice. A large hand took hold of Bane's arm, drawing him up until he sat on the boulder. Bane blinked, and saw a flask being offered to him. He took it and sipped the contents. The fire of uisge flowed through him. He looked up into the red-bearded face of Gryffe, his lead herdsman. The outlaw grinned at him. 'You're weak as a three-day puppy,' he said.
Bane drank again, and tried to push the stopper back into the flask. The task was beyond him. Gryffe took the flask, stoppered it, and tucked it into the pocket of his jerkin. 'Let's be getting you to a fire,' he said, throwing Bane's arm round his neck and hauling him upright.
Twenty minutes later, his ice-covered clothes removed, his body wrapped in a warm blanket, he sat before a log fire. It was excruciating. His skin felt as if hot needles were being pricked into him constantly. He drank more uisge, but Gryffe took the flask away. 'It's good to take a little when cold, but not too much.'
Gryffe's woman, the plump and plain Iswain, appeared from the kitchen, carrying a dish of thick meat broth. 'Eat!' she commanded. 'You need some proper warmth in your belly.'
Bane did so, and after a while began to feel better, the pins and needles wearing off. Iswain pulled the blanket clear of his neck and began rubbing warmed oil into the skin of his shoulders, arms, and upper back.
'Thank you,' he said, taking her callused hand and kissing the knuckles.
'That's enough of that!' said Gryffe. 'You'll spoil the wench!'
'Do you good to learn some proper manners,' said Iswain, lifting the blanket back over Bane's shoulders. She moved round to squat in front of Bane, looking deeply into his eyes. 'I think you'll be fine now,' she told him. 'A good night's rest will help. You are lucky not to have frostbite. 'Twas a foolish thing to do!'
'You tell him, girl!' said Gryffe.
Bane smiled, and gazed into Iswain's plain features. 'I could have been here earlier,' he said, 'but I wanted to be mothered by you.'
She gave a gap-toothed grin. 'Like all men you are an idiot,' she told him. 'I'll get you more broth.'
'I am full,' said Bane.
'You'll do as you're told,' she said sternly. 'I've known men come in from the cold and then die in their beds. You'll sit by this fire and eat until I tell you otherwise.'
'Aye, he will,' put in Gryffe. 'And, if it please you, I will have some of that broth. I was in the cold too.'
'No more for you,' said Iswain. 'I have no taste for fat men, and already your stomach is straining your belt.'
'That's my winter covering,' argued Gryffe. 'Protects me from the cold. Like a bear.'
'Aye, well, it is spring now,' she told him, 'and time for bears to wake up.' She walked out into the kitchen. Bane settled back in his chair.
'What's been happening?' he asked.
'Ah, we'll talk in the morning,' said Gryffe. 'You'll be in no mood for all the boring details now.'
'Bore me,' said Bane.
Iswain returned with more broth. Bane took it, ate a few spoonfuls, then looked at Gryffe. 'Talk to me,' he said.
Gryffe swore, then glanced up at Iswain. 'The man asked you a question,' she said.
'Lorca and his gang came out of the forest three days ago and drove away twenty steers and a good old bull. Boile and Cascor tried to stop them, reminding them of the agreement they had with you. Lorca said he was renegotiating that agreement. Cascor tried to argue. Lorca accused him of disloyalty - and they killed him.'
Bane finished the broth, then laid aside the wooden dish. 'I'll find Lorca tomorrow,' he said.
'He has more than seventy men with him now. I think that's why he needed the extra beef. It might be wiser to let it pass.'
'The beef I can afford to lose,' said Bane. 'But no-one comes to my home and kills one of my men without facing the consequences.'
Grale sat quietly in the doorway of the roughly built roundhouse, listening to the arguments among the group of men squatting by the central fire. He had not been with Lorca's band long enough to have a say in the debate. Asha, one of the camp's three whores, came and sat next to him. Her dark hair was matted and filthy, her clothes ingrained with dirt. 'You look in need of a little company,' she said. He looked into her dark brown eyes. They were lifeless.
'That is kind of you. Maybe later.'
'If you have no coin you can pay me another time - after a raid.'
He turned towards her. 'Come back in a little while, dearheart,' he said. 'Once the sun is down.'
She moved away. Grale rubbed at the empty socket of his left eye. Sometimes it still pained him, and he would wake at night, stifling a scream as he recalled the druid cutting free the mutilated orb and sewing shut the lids.
'We don't need Bane,' he heard Lorca say. 'It is not as if he is popular among the Rigante. We could move on the farm, gather the herds and drive them to Pannone land. There has been starvation there, and beef prices are higher than ever before.'
'I'll grant that,' said the outlaw known only as Wik, a thin, sour-faced man who looked puny alongside the hulking figure of Lorca, 'but what would we do then? Leaving the farm as it is means we get a constant supply of food. Bane has been fair in all his dealings with us.'
'Fair?' sneered Lorca. 'We supplied the men to work the cattle. We guaranteed him freedom from attack. And for what? One-tenth of his profits. Does that sound fair?'
The listening Grale wondered if any of the six men round the fire would state the obvious: that Lorca had broken the agreement by raiding the farm and killing one of Bane's men. It did not surprise him when the subject was not raised. Lorca was a man of unpredictable mood, and given to sudden acts of random violence.
'What about the men in Bane's employ?' asked Valian, a short stout man, with greasy blond hair and a drooping moustache.
'They are our men, Val,' Lorca told him. 'But if any of them have lost sight of that they can become worm meat like Cascor.'
'I think some of them will object,' put in Wik. 'I was talking to Gryffe the other day. He likes Bane. And he likes his new life as a herdsman. He's even talking of marrying Iswain the next time a druid comes by.'
'How sweet!' sneered Lorca. 'He plans, I suppose, to spend the rest of his life shovelling cow turds while his wife pops out more mouths to feed. Well, a pox upon Gryffe and any other fool who goes against us. We have seventy-three men here, and more joining us each month. More than enough to handle Bane and any who stand with him.'
Grale gazed around the huge clearing, with its forty crude roundhouses. Men and women in ragged clothes were everywhere, sitting -as was he - surrounded by squalor and stench. By the stream a woman was washing out several blankets, beating them with a rock, perhaps trying to kill the lice that infested them. At the far hut he could see Asha, on her knees, a large bearded man rutting wi
th her in full view of everyone. No-one took any notice. Grale's heart sank. He gazed down at his mutilated left hand, and remembered the days before a Stone gladius had slashed away three of his fingers. He had been a man then. A hero. Even through his pain he had joyed in the victory of Cogden Field. Had anyone predicted that years later he would be sitting in this foul place, listening to men talk of robbery and murder, he would have laughed aloud. He was not laughing now.
A man came running into the camp. 'Riders coming!' he shouted. Instantly every man within earshot ran into his roundhouse, emerging with a weapon. Some carried daggers, others swords or axes.
Lorca surged to his feet. 'How many?' he asked.
'Two! Bane and Gryffe.'
'Two, you miserable piece of goat shit? You alarmed the camp for two?'
At that moment Bane and Gryffe came riding through the trees. Grale smiled as he remembered the first time he had met Bane, several years ago, in the clearing where the mystic lad had reminded him of Cogden Field and days of glory.
The two riders drew up close to Lorca and dismounted. Bane was carrying a long hunting lance, and a short sword hung at his hip. He moved past Lorca without a word and walked to Lorca's hut. Once there he reversed the lance and placed the haft on the frozen ground. Then he rammed it deep into the earth.
'What are you doing?' asked Lorca. 'I have no need of a lance.'
What happened next was so sudden that all the men in the clearing just stood in shock. Bane swung towards Lorca, his short sword flashing into his hand. Before the outlaw leader could react, the blade slashed into his neck, crunching through the vertebrae and slicing clear. As Lorca's body started to topple Bane struck again. This time the head rolled clear. Bane lifted it by the hair and carried it to the lance. Raising the head Bane rammed it down over the iron point and stepped back. The lance quivered from side to side, blood oozing from the severed head and spilling to the ground. Then he walked to the decapitated corpse, cleaned his sword on the dead man's clothes, and sheathed it.