'You think these visions will come to pass in the lands of the Rigante?' asked the druid.
'I do not know. I only know what I must do. And that is ride to the circle. Alone.'
'They will kill you, Conn. I know this Guern. He is charismatic and men follow him, but he is a vile creature, and there is no honour in him. He is big - almost as big as Fiallach - and he can fight. He's killed several men in blood feuds. And he will not be alone. You will be.'
'I have always been alone,' said Conn. 'I think we all are.'
Bane saddled a chestnut mare, then walked back into the farmhouse. Gryffe and Iswain were waiting in the main room. 'When will you be back?' asked Gryffe.
'Some day,' Bane told him. Reaching into the pocket of his black, sleeveless jerkin, he produced a rolled parchment. 'I made this deed in Three Streams the day the army moved out. It has been witnessed by three elders.' He handed it to Gryffe. 'It deeds the farm and all cattle and land to you.' He grinned at the surprise on Gryffe's features. 'You are no longer Wolfshead, Gryffe. You are a landowner.'
'I don't understand,' muttered the red-bearded warrior.
'He's not coming back,' said Iswain. She moved in to stand before Bane. 'Why are you doing this?'
He shrugged. 'I have a need to wander, Iswain.'
'It is more than that,' she said.
'If it is, then I choose not to talk about it. You said you and Gryffe were dreaming of a place of your own. Somewhere to raise children, to watch sunsets as you grow older. This is a good place, and I think you will be happy here.'
'We are happy here,' said Iswain. 'And we would both like to see you happy.'
He drew her into an embrace and kissed her plump cheek. 'When I come back we will have a feast, and I shall regale you with my adventures.' He turned to Gryffe and thrust out his hand. Gryffe ignored it and stepped in, drawing Bane into a bear hug.
'I shall hold half of all profits for you, man,' he said. 'And when you want to come home this farm will be waiting for you.' Releasing him, Gryffe smiled. 'We'll have taken your bedroom, mind. It's bigger than ours, with a better view.' The smile faded. 'You take care, Bane. Hear me?'
'I hear you, big man.' Gathering up his saddlebags Bane walked from the house. Settling the bags into place he stepped into the saddle and rode away without a backward glance.
It was a bright morning and he rode steadily east, crossing the hills and valleys until he reined in, some four hours later, on the hilltop overlooking Three Streams. It seemed so peaceful now in the spring sunshine, no hint, at first, of the bloodshed and valour, no echo of clashing swords and screaming men. Bright yellow flowers had bloomed along the slopes. Bane looked around the scene. A cast-off shoe lay in the grass close by, surrounded by flowers, and beyond it a broken sword blade, already pitted with rust.
From the woods came three boys, running and laughing. They were carrying wooden swords. Seeing Bane they paused. Bane waved at them, then heeled the mare onto the slope. He rode down into the settlement, past Eldest Tree, the colossal oak, and on to the forge, from where he could hear the steady beat of a hammer on iron. Dismounting he tied the mare's reins to a fence rail and walked into the forge. Nanncumal was watching an apprentice boy thumping his hammer upon a red-hot section of iron. The old man glanced up as Bane entered. Together they walked out into the sunshine. Nanncumal ran a cloth over his bald head, mopping up the sweat. He saw the saddlebags on Bane's mare. 'Where are you heading?' he asked.
'Across the water.'
'For what purpose?'
Bane shrugged. 'Perhaps it is to find a purpose,' he said.
Nanncumal sat down on a long bench seat. 'You did well here, boy,' he said. 'People won't forget.'
They will or they won't,' said Bane, seating himself beside his grandfather. 'It doesn't matter to me.'
Nanncumal looked away. 'I didn't do right by you, Bane. It grieves me to say that.'
'Long ago and far away,' said Bane. 'Forget it.'
'Easy to say. I loved my Arian. She was a good girl - until her sister died. They were children, sharing a bed. Little Baria was five years old. She had a fever, and her heart gave out in the night. Arian awoke and found her dead beside her. She was never the same after that. Terrified of the dark and of being alone. When Conn was savaged by that bear Arian almost went mad. I tried to talk her out of marrying Casta. It was not a good match. But she was convinced Conn would die, and she clung to Casta as if he were life itself.' The old man sighed.
'We don't need to talk about this,' said Bane. 'Mother is dead. Nothing can change that.'
'I'm talking about the living,' said Nanncumal. 'I'm talking about you and . . . Connavar.'
'I don't need to hear it.'
'Maybe you don't, maybe you do. But I need to say it, so humour me, Grandson. I know that you have always believed Connavar took your mother by force. It is not true. Arian told me herself that she seduced him on that day, hoping to win him back. She knew, deep down, he had never stopped loving her. The Seidh had warned Connavar never to break a promise, or great tragedy would result. He had promised to take his new wife riding. Instead he stayed for many hours with Arian. When he returned he found his wife had been murdered while he had been taking his pleasure. Connavar was insane with grief. He destroyed the murderer's village, slaughtering any who came within sword reach. In his madness he killed women and children that day.
'When you were born, and Casta saw your eyes, he knew Arian had been unfaithful and cast her out. She came home to me. I went to see Connavar, and told him of his son. We drank uisge long into the night, and he talked of his sorrow, and of his love of my daughter. Much of it I won't repeat. But he also talked of the people he had killed, and of how no amount of good deeds could wash away his guilt, and no punishment be great enough to ease his pain. I asked him if he would consider taking Arian to wife, and acknowledging you as his son. He said that his heart yearned for exactly that. His love for Arian burned as brightly as ever, and every night since he learned of the birth he had longed to ride to her and lift his son into his arms. But he could not. This was the punishment he had placed upon himself. Never to wed, never to sire children. He told me that he would never set eyes upon Arian again. And he never did. There, it is said. He was not punishing you, Bane. He was punishing himself.'
'Why are you telling me this, Grandfather?'
The old man shrugged. 'You are a good boy, with a good heart. But I know you came to hate Connavar. I thought the truth would help lance the boil.'
Bane leaned over and kissed his grandfather's cheek, then he rose. 'I must say farewell to Vorna,' he said.
Nanncumal climbed to his feet. 'And I'd better get back to the boy before he sets the forge or himself on fire.' They stood for a moment, then Nanncumal reached out and shook Bane's hand. 'I doubt we'll see each other again,' he said.
'Who knows? I may be back within a year.'
Nanncumal nodded, though he knew it was not the truth. 'I hope so, Bane.'
The younger man climbed to the saddle and rode off across the settlement. He saw Meria with a young child, sitting on a porch seat before her house. She looked up. Her hand flickered as if she would wave, but then she looked away.
Vorna was not at home. Bane waited for an hour, then mounted up and set off towards the Wishing Tree woods.
The king had slept badly, the night haunted by dreams. Not all of them were bad, but even these filled him with sorrow. When young he had believed himself as immortal as the mountains. He had looked upon older people as being from a different species. Now, in his fortieth year, he found himself looking back on that young man with a sense of bewilderment. It was not as if he had not known he would one day grow old and then die. Yet despite the knowledge there was some deep instinct in him that denied its truth. He had been young, the future stretching out eternally before him. He remembered when he and Wing had last travelled with Ruathain to sell cattle in the south. Men had talked of an earth maiden who dwelt in the town, a woman of enormous
beauty and great skill in love-making. When the boys saw her they had been shocked beyond belief. She was old. Older than their mother, and she was well past thirty. Conn remembered thinking, How could she let such beauty slip away? Such a stupid thought - as if anyone chose to let time erode their health and strength and dignity.
Conn sat up. His lower back ached from a night on the floor of the tent, and his neck was stiff. He stretched and groaned. The dawn sun gleamed on the eastern side of the tent, illuminating the interior. Conn glanced at the armour tree bearing his mailshirt, breastplate and helm, and the patchwork cloak Meria had made for him all those years ago.
'If you are to be the king of all Keltoi on this side of the water,' she said, 'you cannot ride around the countryside in the colours of the Rigante. You must wear something that signifies you are above tribal divisions.' He had, at first, laughed at the garment, for it had seemed then truly ugly, clashing colours and symbols, crafted from cloaks from five tribes. Now he viewed it differently. Meria had been right. The cloak had become a talisman, drawing the tribes together.
Conn poured himself some water. The memory of the dreams was strong upon him. He had seen his stepfather Ruathain. He had been standing by the shore of a lake, his arm round the shoulder of the dead grandson who bore his name. Conn had called out to him, but Ruathain did not seem to hear him.
Sitting alone in his tent Connavar the King thought back over his life, seeing again the great days, of victory and freedom, the bleak times following the deaths of Banouin, Tae and finally Ruathain. He had loved Tae, though never with the all-consuming intensity of his feelings for Arian. Even after all these years guilt for that lack lay heavy on him. She deserved belter from him, he knew, but love was not a matter of choice. A man did not - could not - say: This woman is worthy of love and therefore I will love her with all my heart. A man loved passionately or he did not. It was that simple.
Conn's eyes felt gritty and tired. Bran, Govannan and Osta had been in the tent well into the night, discussing strategies to use against Jasaray's forces. Bran had worked out a battle plan. It was a good one, but fraught with danger. The Rigante centre would be manned by fifteen thousand untrained tribesmen, ten thousand heavy infantry to be placed on the left and right wings. Both flanks would be protected by the Iron Wolves and the Horse Archers.
'We will draw Jasaray in towards the weak centre,' said Bran, 'and engage him there.'
'We'll not be able to hold him,' pointed out Govannan.
'Exactly. I will set the centre in a bow formation, the wings behind the front ranks. The Stone front lines will push us back. The heavy infantry, under you, Govannan, will hold their positions. As the Panthers drive us back our lines will become crescent-shaped. Then I will signal the heavy infantry to close in from left and right. The Iron Wolves, having despatched or driven away Jasaray's cavalry, will turn on the rear of the Panthers.'
'The plan has merit,' said Connavar. 'Such a double envelopment will hem his troops in, making it almost impossible for them to change formation. But it relies on Jasaray reacting the way we desire. Should he identify the danger early enough he will spread out his lines in an advancing square. Then when we try to crush their formation he will repel us with ease.'
'And what of his archers?' asked the Gath general Osta. 'There are a thousand skilled bowmen marching with him.'
'I know,' said Bran. 'Each man carries a quiver of thirty shafts. We must force Jasaray to use them early, on our centre. Otherwise our cavalry charge will be cut to pieces, the Iron Wolves destroyed.'
'And what avenue of escape is there, should this strategy fail?' asked Govannan.
'None,' said Bran. 'I will be with the centre, and our backs will be to the river. If we cannot crush Jasaray in this one engagement we will be destroyed utterly. This, my friends, is a win or die battle. I can think of no other way to overcome the Panthers.'
'Neither can I,' said Connavar.
'I am not a strategist,' said Osta, 'but it seems to me that the centre will take appalling losses. What if they break and run? Half of them will be Norvii and Pannone. We don't know them.'
Connavar had laughed. 'Most of my men did not know the Gath when you rode with us at Cogden Field. They know you now, Osta, my friend. The centre will be manned by three tribes. Not one man among them would wish to be seen, by a rival tribesman, running away. They will hold.'
Now, in the dawn, Conn found himself worried about the plan. It was simple, and could be devastatingly effective. However, the tribes were not facing an ordinary general. He recalled the battles against the Perdii twenty years ago, when he had stood beside Jasaray. The man had been cool, anticipating every move of the enemy, and countering it swiftly, decisively, murderously. Conn shivered.
Moving from the tent, he saw Govannan and several others swimming in a nearby lake. It lightened his spirit and he walked over to join them, stripping off his tunic and plunging into the cold water. But even as he swam he thought about his brother, Braefar, and the meeting he would have with him later that day. Brother Solstice was convinced Wing and his new friends would seek to kill him. Conn believed this to be true, but held to the vision he had glimpsed in the mind of the Morrigu. He would lead the charge of the Iron Wolves tomorrow, and he would end, once and for all, the threat of Stone. His whole life had been in preparation for this one charge, and surely, he reasoned, not even the most capricious of gods would rob him of the day.
With smooth, strong strokes he swam to where Govannan was washing his silver hair. Coming up behind him Conn flicked the general's legs from under him, dunking him into the water. Govannan came up spluttering and threw himself at Conn, and the two men fell below the surface. Govannan came up first. As Conn surfaced he was pushed under once more. This time it was Conn who came up spluttering. 'Is that any way to treat your king?' he asked. Govannan laughed, and lunged at him again. Conn swayed, caught Govannan by the arm and twisted him. The general flopped to his back. Before he could go under the water again Conn drew him up. 'It is too beautiful a day to be spent fighting with you,' he said.
The two men waded towards the shore. Just as they were about to emerge from the water, something sharp bit into Conn's calf. With an angry cry he looked down and saw an otter attacking him. His hand lunged into the water, grabbed the creature and hauled it clear. Then he flung it with terrible force. The otter struck a tree and flopped to the ground, its neck broken. There was blood in the water. Conn climbed to the bank and examined the wound. It was not deep.
'Damn, but these water dogs can be a nuisance,' said Govannan, kneeling by the king.
Conn sat very still, all colour fading from his face.
'Are you all right?' asked Govannan, concerned.
'I am fine,' said Conn. 'Is the creature dead?'
Govannan moved to the tree and nudged the otter with his foot. It did not move. He picked it up. 'Aye, it is dead.'
Conn rose from the ground and walked back to his tent.
Otters had many names among the tribes; water dogs was the most common, but in the old High Tongue they were called Hounds of the River Bank.
All his life Conn had been fearful of his birth geasa. Vorna had told his mother he would die on the day he killed the hound that bit him. It was this prophecy that had led Meria to urge Ruathain to stand beside him in the first battle against Shard, for Conn had killed a dog that fastened his teeth to his wrist guard. Having survived the battle Conn had believed the geasa to be broken. Now he knew differently. All his life he had avoided close contact with dogs and hounds.
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 t
housands 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.