'How many men can you guarantee from the Gath?'
'Two thousand cavalry, as you asked for. Each with his own mount. When do we ride?'
'Only Jasaray can say. We will see him this evening.'
'I am looking forward to it,' said Ostaran.
'He does not speak your tongue, but I will translate for you. How is your instruction coming? When last we spoke you could say "Hello" in Stone. You will need to do better than that, as a wing leader.'
'I can say "goodbye", "how are you" and "watch where you're going, you shit-eating barbarian pig." Will that do for now?'
'It is no joking matter, my friend. When the battle starts, and the orders are issued, you will need to understand them. If you cannot, then Jasaray will not allow you to be leader.'
'I will learn,' said Ostaran.
'I am sure you will. Tell me, do you think Connavar will escape Perdii land?'
'I do not see how he can. Carac has riders scouring the hills.'
'I think you may be wrong. Shall we have a wager on it? I'll bet my horse against that gold necklet you wear.'
Ostaran laughed aloud. 'My torque is worth fifty of your mounts. We barbarians are not as stupid as you think, Valanus.'
The skills of Parax the hunter were known far beyond the lands of the Perdii. His talent was almost mystical. There was no animal track he could not read, no trail he could not follow. He had grown rich on the bounty offered for catching criminals and outlaws, and, even at fifty-one, had an eye that could spot a broken blade of grass from the back of his piebald pony. Parax was whip lean, with dark, deep-set eyes, and silver-shot dark hair that receded from his temples giving him a sharp widow's peak. He had a hard face, leathered by wind and sun, and there were few laughter lines around his eyes.
'What are you thinking?' asked Bek, the lean warrior who led the four warriors in the hunting group.
Parax did not answer. Heeling his mount forward he rode away from the group. He did not like Bek, and abhorred his king, Carac. When the previous king, Alea, had died while hunting Parax had ridden to the scene, and scouted alone. It was said by Bek and the others that Alea had fallen from his horse in mid-river and drowned. Parax knew they lied. He had found the spot where they had pulled Alea from his horse and dragged him to the river's edge, pushing his head below the water. His right heel had gouged earth from the bank as they pinned him there.
But it was not for the likes of Parax to oppose the methods of princes, and he had kept his findings to himself.
He had not been in Alin when the merchant was murdered, but at his sheep farm twenty miles to the north. Carac had sent for him and he had arrived a day later. It took a further morning to locate the tracks of the youngster, and then they had found him soon enough.
That was when the fun started.
Parax had enjoyed it enormously. Bek led his men in a breakneck gallop and the boy had cut to the south-west, escaping into a thick stretch of woods. The riders hurtled after him. Two caught him. Both died.
A week had passed since, and four others had followed them on the Swan's Path. Bek was coldly furious, and this pleased Parax.
'I asked what you were thinking,' said Bek, riding alongside. 'Ignore me again, you old bastard, and I'll cut your balls off.'
Parax grinned at him. 'That would take a man, sonny. And a better one than you.'
Bek reached for his sword. Parax swung his pony in close. His hand flashed up, and the point of a skinning knife touched Bek's throat. 'See what I mean?' The older man sheathed the blade.
Bek lifted his finger to his throat. It came away with a spot of blood. 'Now,' said Parax, 'what were we talking about? Oh yes, the youngster. He's canny for his age, no doubt about that. Left a false trail going east - and a good one - then cut back towards the west. He's a thinker.'
'He's on foot. We should have caught up with him by now.'
'Maybe,' agreed Parax. 'But he's moving over rough ground, and choosing his route with great care.'
'What of his magic?'
Parax laughed, the sound full of scorn. After the last killings one of the survivors talked about the boy having the ability to change his form. Three of them had walked into a clearing. Suddenly a bush rose up before them, becoming a man. He had stabbed two of the hunters. The third claimed to have fought him off, and the boy had run away into the hills. Parax let his laughter trail away. 'Surely you do not believe it, Bek? You think someone who knows magic would allow himself to be chased from tree stump to hollow all over these hills? All the boy did was remove his cloak, soak it in mud, make cuts in it, and thread branches and leaves through the cuts. Then he crouched in the undergrowth and waited for your men. When they came he sprang upon them. The survivor did not fight him off, he turned and fled. I read the sign.'
Bek swore and cast an angry look at one of the men riding behind. 'The Rigante must be found and returned to face justice,' insisted Bek. 'Those are my instructions from the king.'
Parax said nothing. He had listened to the men talking and had pieced together the story. Diatka had betrayed the boy's friend to a ghastly death. The boy had avenged him. This pursuit was not about justice. It was about fear. Carac's fear. The king had ridden out with the first hunting party, and had heard for himself the message from the Rigante.
Nothing on earth will prevent me killing you.
Carac's fat face had blushed deep crimson. 'Bring me his head,' he ordered Bek. Then he had ridden back to Alin, with twenty men for a guard. A real warrior would have stayed with the pursuers, Parax believed.
The old hunter dismounted and examined the ground. It was bare and rocky, and no track could be seen. To the left, by a jutting rock, lay an oak leaf. It had obviously fallen from the boy's cloak disguise. Parax ran his fingers through his hair. Hunting was like a courtship, a union of mind and heart. Slowly the hunter came to know his prey, and in knowing him either liked or loathed him. Parax was beginning to like the boy. There was no panic in him: his movements were well planned, his route carefully considered. Yesterday he had killed a rabbit with a thrown rock, skinned it and eaten the flesh raw. He had also taken time to find edible roots and berries. And he did not run blindly. He doubled back occasionally to watch the hunters, to judge them, and, when the time was right, to pick them off.
Parax rode warily to the crest of a hill and shaded his eyes to scan the surrounding countryside. To the north-west were the Talis woods. Did the boy know enough not to go there? Parax thought about it. He had travelled with the Foreigner, and Banouin knew these parts well. He surely would have mentioned the dangers that lay in the dark heart of those woodlands. Where then would the boy head? The border with Ostro lands? It was likely. That was the direction he had come from, after all. Parax grinned. Sliding from the saddle he sat down on the hilltop.
The boy was canny and tough. He would know what they were expecting. Parax flicked his gaze towards the north-west. Was he rash enough to chance those woods?
Hoof beats sounded from the south and the five riders galloped up the hill. Parax swore under his breath. What was the point of tiring out the ponies in such a way? The riders were all young men from Bek's clan. Parax watched them, studying their faces. They were frightened now. Death had come to six of their friends. None of them relished the thought of being next.
Bek spoke to the riders then moved his horse alongside the older man and dismounted. 'Did he come this way?' he asked.
'Yes. About two hours ago. He sat just below this rim,' said Parax, pointing to a spot some ten feet away. 'Just there, where his head would be hidden by yon bush. He watched us for a while and thought about where he could hide.'
'And where is that?'
Parax swept his arm out in a wide circle. 'You choose, Bek. There are folds and hollows all around, jumbles of boulders, stands of trees. Wherever he is, he is watching us now, wondering if we are clever enough to outguess him.'
'And are we, old man?'
'No, we are not. But I am. I know exactly where he is
. I reckon I could even pick out the tree he is watching us from.'
'Then we have him,' said Bek, triumphantly.
'You can have him. I want no part of him. But five young men ought to be enough.'
'It will be. Tell me where he is.'
'I will, but first do your best not to look in the direction I indicate.'
'I am not a fool, Parax.'
No, you are a murdering regicide, thought Parax, but he kept the thought to himself. 'He is on the edge of the Talis woods. It is his last chance. He will know of the legends, and he will know that we know. He is risking his life against what he hopes is your lack of courage.'
Parax saw the colour drain from Bek's face. 'The Talis woods? You are sure?'
'As sure as I can be.'
'Then he is dead already.'
'Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, he is at the very edge. Perhaps the Talis will not see him. Perhaps they are elsewhere. Are you afraid to follow him, Bek?'
'Yes, I am afraid,' admitted the warrior. 'Would you ride into those woods?'
'No,' said Parax. 'But then I am paid only to track.'
'Where exactly is he?'
Parax did not look towards the woods. 'Take your men and ride east for a little way. Then turn back and move along the edge of the wood. Keep watching me. When you reach the point where I believe him to be hiding I will stand up and mount my pony.'
Bek took a deep breath, then vaulted into the saddle. Parax watched in silence as Bek rode to his men and told them the grim news. A heated debate began. None of the five had any desire to risk the Talis woods. Bek asked which of them would be prepared to stand before Carac and tell him they had been too afraid to follow his orders. They fell silent at this, for Carac was not a forgiving man. 'Look,' said Bek, 'we will ride in close, and when I get the signal, charge in and kill the Rigante. Then we will ride out. It should take no more than a few heartbeats.'
They were not convinced, but Parax knew they would follow the warrior. Fear of Carac's rage was strong upon them. Bek led them slowly down the hillside.
Conn was bone weary. He had not slept - save for a few snatched moments - in three days, and a diet of roots, berries and raw rabbit meat had soured his belly, causing cramps and nausea. His head was pounding, pain searing at his temples. He crouched now behind a thick screen of bushes, watching the riders on the hilltop.
He had hoped they would ride further to the west, allowing him to slip behind them. But they had not. Whoever was tracking him was even more skilful than Arbonacast.
Conn glanced around, uneasy and troubled. Towering oaks filled his vision, and there was no sound of bird or beast. Not even the buzzing of an insect. Yet despite the absence of animal sounds the wood was vibrant with life. The giant trees stood motionless, no breeze stirring the branches. It seemed to Conn that they were staring at him, waiting. He felt like an intruder. His belly cramped and he doubled over and retched. His empty stomach had nothing left, and he tasted the foulness of bile in his mouth. Falling back exhausted he looked back at the hilltop. All but one of the riders had gone. The last man was merely sitting on the crest of the hill, his pony cropping grass alongside him.
Sweat dripped into Conn's eyes. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his filthy shirt. As he lifted his arm the wound on his shoulder opened again, and he felt blood trickling over his chest. A thousand miles from home, wounded and alone, he knew that his chances of survival were slim indeed.
Yet there was no fear, only a burning anger, and a desire for revenge.
I will not die here, he thought. I will find a way to survive and kill Carac.
He tried to stand, but his right leg caved in beneath him and he sprawled in the dirt, where he lay unconscious for a while. When he opened his eyes he heard the ponies. Struggling to his knees he scanned the tree line. Five riders were skirting the woods. One of them kept glancing up at the lone man on the hilltop. Conn's mouth was dry, his mind hazy. His heart sank as he realized they were preparing to enter the wood. Had Banouin been wrong? Was this not an enchanted place?
He looked up at the lone man again. The riders were waiting for his signal. Has he spotted me, Conn wondered?
Easing himself further back he staggered to the thick bole of a tall oak, then drew his dagger. His sword had been lost two days before, wedged in the body of a Perdii warrior. He felt something brush against his face, and rubbed his hand over the skin.
He shivered, and began to notice a prickling sensation, unpleasant and invasive, first on the skin of his neck and face, then his back and arms. The sensation increased, becoming painful, as if bees were stinging him. Then it was more powerful than bees, like hot needles piercing his flesh. He groaned and fell to the grass. The branches of the trees around him began to rustle and move, the sound whispering and malevolent. The pain swelled until it was almost unbearable, flowing across his chest and down his arms. Then it reached his right hand, which was curled around the hilt of the Seidh blade. Bright light flared from the knife.
All the pain vanished.
'You are the Fawn-child,' whispered a voice in his ear.
At that moment the riders came thundering into the wood. Conn tried to gather his strength to face them. The first of the Perdii, lance levelled, leapt his horse over a fallen log, the other warriors close behind him.
Conn raised his knife.
But the leaping horse never landed. It froze in the air, statue still in mid-leap. All the riders were suddenly utterly motionless. The air in the wood was cold now, and growing colder. Conn began to shake, but he could not tear his gaze from the men who had come to kill him. As he watched they began to change, hair and beards growing, fingernails sprouting like talons, their clothes rotting, their hair turning white, their flesh melting away, the skin blackening, then peeling back from the bone beneath. Within seconds they had crumbled from their mounts, and lay broken upon the grass. The bones continued to writhe, calcifying, then turning to dust, which the breeze picked up and blew across the ground. The ponies were untouched, and as the last vestige of their riders blew away they came to life and stood quietly. A wind blew up and three of the ponies ran from the wood. The fourth, a chestnut gelding, remained, standing motionless.
Conn had fallen to his knees when the voice spoke again. 'Touch the tree, Fawn-child,' it said. Conn turned and crawled to the oak, reaching out, his fingers holding onto the bark. His stomach settled and the intense cold melted away. He sighed. Sunlight flowed through a break in the clouds, bathing the area in golden light. The tree bark began to move, forming a face of wood. It was a young face, handsome, yet stern. As it grew clearer Conn realized it was a representation of his own features.
'You are sick, Fawn-child. Lie down. We will tend you,' said the Tree face.
The last of his strength ebbing away, Conn lay down, his face touching the cold ground. It felt better than any pillow and, as his consciousness fled, it seemed to the young warrior that the grass grew up around him, drawing him down into the dark, safe sanctuary of the earth.
His mind awoke from blissful darkness into painful light, a brilliance so piercing that tears filled his eyes. Holding his hands over his face he tried to shut out the glare, but it shone through his skin, causing blinding pain.
'Hold firm, Connavar,' said another voice. 'I will try to create a more comfortable environment.'
Immediately the light faded. Conn moved his hands away from his face and opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that he was sitting in a wood, beside a rippling stream which glittered in the afternoon sun. The sky was cloudless, and the trees boasted leaves of every colour, from blood red to sunset gold, emerald green to faded yellow. The air was full of fragrance: lavender, rose and honeysuckle. It was quite the most beautiful spot Connavar had ever seen. Yet something was wrong with the scene. The trees were of every variety, oak, elm, pine, maple, all growing together in the same soil, and yet at different stages of season. Some were just showing new spring growt
h, others had leaves of dark, autumnal gold. And there were no shadows. Conn stretched out his naked arm. The sunlight was strong upon his skin, but the grass below him showed no silhouette.
Slowly he rose and stretched. He felt calmer now than at any time in his memory. Turning, he gazed around the meadow.
And saw the bear.
It stood - as had the riders - utterly motionless, glittering chains draping its massive shoulders and curling around its powerful paws. Its mouth was open, showing terrible fangs. Conn felt no fear, and approached the beast. It was bigger than the creature which had torn his flesh, and somehow more awe inspiring. Conn walked around the bear, marvelling at its size and strength. He saw that it was scarred from many fights, and some of the wounds were recent. Reaching out he tried to touch it, but his hand passed through the bear, as if through smoke.
'A frightening beast,' said the voice. A glowing figure materialized alongside him. Conn was not startled, though he felt he should have been.
'Frightening, but sad,' he told his new companion.
'Why sad?'
'It is chained,' said Conn. 'No creature that proud should be chained.'
The glowing figure moved in closer, taking his arm and leading him back to the stream. Conn tried to see the face, but the features seemed to shift and flow, ever changing under the light that glowed around it. A beard, then beardless, long hair, then no hair, as if his face was being reshaped moment by moment. The effort to focus made Conn's head swim, and he looked away. 'Which of the Seidh are you?' he asked.
'I am not Seidh, Connavar. I am a man long dead, whose soul was rescued and brought to the wood.'
'Why can I not see you clearly? Your features shift and change.'
'It is a very long time since I last assumed human form. Give me a moment.' The figure sat motionless. Slowly the flickering lights around him faded away, and Conn found himself sitting beside a young man, with dark hair and gentle brown eyes. 'Is that better?'