Midnight Falcon (4 page)

Bane raised a hand. 'If you don't mind,' he said, 'I was talking to my friend. So if you value the last moments of your miserable life, be silent. Take a lingering look at the swans, or the trees, or whatever.' He turned back to Banouin. 'Why do you want them to live? They were about to kill you.'

Banouin pointed to the one-eyed man. 'He was a hero at Cogden Field. He was proud and brave. In terrible pain he fought and gave no ground. His eye was torn out by an arrow, his hand mutilated. Yet he stood firm, with all the other heroes. I do not know what has made him what he is, but he could be a good man again. If you kill him he will never have the chance.'

Bane swung his gaze to the other two men. 'And what of these? You think they might choose one day to be gentle druids, or healers?'

'I do not know anything about them. But I ask you to let them go. No harm has been done.'

'Why are we listening to this?' Black Beard asked One-eye. 'He's just one man!'

'Indeed he is, you ugly whoreson,' said Bane, 'and he'd be grateful if you'd just draw your sword and put an end to this debate.'

'Leave your sword where it is!' shouted Banouin. 'Please, Bane, just let them go.'

Bane sighed. Moving to One-eye he placed his hand on the man's shoulder. 'He has been like this since a child,' he said. 'It is beyond understanding. I blame the mixed blood, and the fact that his mother is a witch. You know, when other children tormented him he never sought revenge. Has no understanding of hate at all. I've never known anyone like him.' He sighed again. 'And he brings out the worst in me. So, against my better judgement, I'll let you live.' Suddenly he brightened. 'Unless, of course, you'd prefer to fight?'

One-eye shrugged off Bane's hand and walked to where Banouin stood. 'I am not afraid of death,' he said. 'You believe me?'

'I do,' said Banouin.

'I am glad we didn't kill you,' said One-eye. 'It was good to be reminded of what I once was. You really believe I can become that man again?'

'If you choose to,' said Banouin.

'Probably too late for me,' said the man sadly. Gesturing to the others he walked away. The slim blond man followed instantly, but Black Beard stood for a moment, staring malevolently at Bane.

'Any time, goat-face,' said Bane.

'Karn!' yelled One-eye. 'Let's go!'

Reluctantly Karn followed the others.

Bane sat down on a fallen tree and looked at his friend. 'That was a mistake,' he said.

'What are you doing here?' asked Banouin.

'Looking after you, apparently. Do you have any food?'

It took Banouin an age to light a small fire, but finally tiny flames licked at the tinder. Bane had wandered off, and Banouin unpacked his saddlebag, removing an old copper pot, a wooden plate, a bag of dried oats, and a chunk of dry-cured salt beef. The sun was dipping below the horizon when Bane returned. He squatted down next to Banouin.

'Time to go,' he said.

'Go? I've only just got the fire going.'

'Life just isn't fair,' said Bane. 'But if you'd like to be alive in the morning I suggest you saddle your horse.'

'One-eye won't come back,' said Banouin. 'I looked into his mind, and I know there is still some good in him.'

'Maybe he won't, but the big ugly one will. And he won't come alone.'

Bane moved to his horse and mounted. Banouin repacked his saddlebag, tacked up the chestnut and went back to the fire. 'Leave it,' said Bane. 'In fact, add a little more wood. It'll draw them, throw them off the scent.'

Banouin did so, then climbed into the saddle and the two men rode out of the woods and down the slope to the old road.

The horses plodded on as the sun fell. It was colder now, the wind sharp. Banouin lifted his cloak from behind the saddle, untied the thongs and swung it round his shoulders. The sudden flaring of cloth alarmed the chest-nut, who reared suddenly, dumping the young man from the saddle. He landed heavily. The gelding ran off to the south. Bane heeled his mount and raced after it. Banouin sat up. He felt sick and dizzy. Bane rode back leading the runaway.

The stars were bright now, a crescent moon shining in the sky. 'Are you hurt?' asked Bane.

'No. But you were wrong about me not knowing how to hate. I'm beginning to loathe that horse.'

Wearily Banouin stepped back into the saddle. Bane led them away from the road and down into a tree-lined hollow where they made camp. Bane lit a small fire, its light shielded by boulders. Then he moved away into the trees. When he returned he sat down beside Banouin. 'You can't see the fire from the road,' he said. 'We ought to be relatively safe here.'

Once again Banouin unpacked the utensils and the food. There was a stream close by and Banouin filled the pot, added oats and salt, and set it over the fire.

'Thank you for saving my life,' he said at last.

'That's what friends are for,' replied Bane brightly. They ate in silence, and Bane lay down, his head upon his saddle, his cloak as a blanket.

Banouin was not tired, and sat quietly by the fire, feeding it with dry sticks and watching the flames leap and dance. The incident with the robbers had left him both disappointed and dejected. It had shown how far he was from being a Rigante warrior. Not once had he even considered drawing the hunting knife at his belt. He had been paralysed with fear, and within moments of begging for his life.

He glanced down at the sleeping Bane. His arrival had surprised them, but it was his confidence that had cowed them. It seemed to Banouin that his friend had radiated power and purpose. You ought to be a leader of men, he thought, not a Wolfshead, living outside the law.

And yet, Banouin knew, Bane's whole life had been moving inexorably towards this point. Beneath the easy banter, behind the reckless smile, there was a bottomless well of bitterness and anger that drove him on, rebelling against authority, creating enemies who could so easily have been friends.

Was it merely the lack of a father, Banouin wondered, or would his friend have been just the same regardless? Who could tell?

Banouin's thoughts swung to Forvar, the boy who had tormented him for most of his life. He had not hated him. Forvar's father and two uncles had been killed in the Battle of Cogden Field – killed by soldiers of Stone. Banouin understood how the boy had come to despise Stone and everything connected with it. Forvar did not truly hate Banouin, but Banouin represented a focal point for his hatred. By hounding and torturing Banouin he was releasing his own pent-up pain and sense of loss.

Understanding, however, did not help. It did not ease the suffering. Banouin had tried talking to Forvar, but his mind was closed, his hatred overwhelming.

Two years ago it had come to a head. Banouin had been walking in the hills near the Wishing Tree woods when Forvar and a group of his friends had come walking back from the Riguan Falls, where they had been swimming. Seeing Banouin they had chased him, yelling and whooping. Banouin had fled back towards Three Streams, but he was not a fast runner and they overhauled him. They had beaten and kicked him. Then, as he lay semi-conscious on the ground, Forvar had drawn a knife. Banouin remembered the moment, and the sense of sick dread that had swept over him. He had looked into Forvar's tortured eyes and known, without any semblance of doubt, that the big youth was about to plunge the blade into his heart.

As the knife came up a shadow fell across Banouin. Something dark flashed across his vision and there was a sickening thud, followed by a loud crack. Banouin blinked. Bane was standing there, a long, heavy lump of wood in his hands. Forvar was on the ground, his neck twisted at a bizarre angle. With trembling limbs Banouin pushed himself to his knees. Forvar was dead, his friends standing by, shocked and frozen.

'You killed him!' whispered Huin, Forvar's younger brother.

Bane tossed the blood-smeared club to the ground and swung to Banouin, hauling him to his feet. 'How badly are you hurt?' he asked.

Banouin did not reply. He could not tear his eyes from the corpse.

There had been a full inquest, with a jury of nine, held under the direction of the Laird Braefar. Here it was decided that the death was caused by misadventure. Forvar had died as the result of his unwarranted attack on Banouin. Bane had not intended to kill him, but merely to stop him killing another boy.

The fire died away, and Banouin settled down to sleep.

He awoke with the dawn and nudged Bane, who merely grunted and turned over. Banouin shook his shoulder. Bane yawned and sat up. 'You sleep too deeply,' said Banouin.

'Aye, it has always been a problem to me. But I was having the most wonderful dream. There were these two sisters . . .'

'Please!' interrupted Banouin with mock severity. 'No sexual fantasies before breakfast.'

Bane chuckled, and walked to the stream, where he stripped off his pale green shirt and doused his head and chest with water. After they had breakfasted on dried fruit and meat they saddled their mounts and began to ride up out of the hollow. Bane was whistling a merry tune, and seemed in good spirits. He steered his horse away from the trail. Banouin called out to him. 'That looks a more difficult climb,' he said.

'I think it might be quicker,' said Bane.

'Well, you can go that way,' Banouin told him, and continued on the easier route. At the edge of the trees he drew rein, and gazed down, horror-struck. A man's body lay there, the throat cut, blood pooling on the earth. It was the black-bearded Karn. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the morning sky.

Bane rode alongside his friend. 'He and two others came back in the night,' he said quietly.

'Two others?'

'Aye. They ran off. You were right, though. One-eye was not among them.'

'So you killed Black Beard, then came back to sleep?' stormed Banouin.

'I was tired. Don't you sleep when you're tired? What would you have had me do? Wake you when they were coming? For what purpose? I love you, my friend, but you are not a fighter. And there was no point in waking you after they'd gone.'

Banouin dragged his eyes from the corpse and heeled the chestnut up the slope and out on to the road.

Bane followed him. 'You want to hear my dream now?'

'No, I do not,' snapped Banouin. 'There is a man dead back there. Killed by you. And it means nothing to you, does it?'

'What should it mean? They came to kill us. Would you prefer it if we were dead?'

Banouin drew rein and took a deep breath, trying to ease the anger from his system. He looked at his friend, saw the genuine confusion in his eyes. 'Of course I am glad we are alive,' he said. 'It is not the fact that you killed him, Bane, but that it did not touch you. Perhaps he had a wife and children. Perhaps he once had the chance to be a good man. Perhaps he might have had that chance again. Now he never will. Carrion birds and foxes will feast on his flesh, and worms will devour the rest.'

Bane laughed. 'He was just a turd, floating on the stream of life. The land is better off without him.'

'In his case that may be true,' agreed Banouin. 'But what I fear is that you kill too swiftly. You like to kill. But how long before a good man falls beneath your blade, a kind man, a loving man?'

Bane shrugged. 'The only men who will die by my blade are those who choose to attack me. That is their choice, not mine. I knew that black-bearded whoreson would come back. So I rested a little, then went out to meet them.'

'You enjoyed it, though, didn't you?' accused Banouin. 'As you cut his throat you felt a surge of exultation.'

'Aye, I did!' snapped Bane. 'And what of it? He was my enemy and I vanquished him. That is what true men do. We fight and we know pride – and we leave the women to sit in the corners and wail over the dead.'

'True men?' said Banouin slowly. 'Of course. True men do not wish to live quiet lives, in harmony with their neighbours. They don't waste time poring over useless scrolls and trying to assimilate the wisdom of the ancients. They don't long for a world without wars and bloodshed and death. No. True men joy in the slitting of throats in the dark.'

Bane shook his head. 'I won't argue with you, Banouin. If words were arrows you'd be the deadliest man alive. But this is not a debate. They came to kill us. One of them died for it. And no, it doesn't touch me. Any more than it did when I aimed that blow at Forvar's neck.'

All colour drained from Banouin's face. 'You mean you meant to kill him?'

'Aye, I meant to kill him. And I have not suffered a moment of regret since.'

'That is where you and I are different,' said Banouin sadly. 'I have not known a day when I have not thought of it with regret.'

'This is a pointless conversation,' said Bane. 'And you have made me forget my dream.'

On the fifth day they entered the lands of the Southern Rigante, a wide, rolling plain that seemed to stretch before them into eternity. Looking back Banouin could see no sign of Caer Druagh. The mountains of his home were more than two hundred miles distant now. For the next ten days he and Bane rode ever south, spending their nights in villages and settlements. They were always made welcome, for all the tribespeople were anxious for news of Connavar, the Demon King. Did he have plans to ride south and smash the armies of Stone and the treacherous Cenii? Was he wed, and did he have an heir? Banouin had little to tell them, but Bane was a great storyteller and a fine singer, and he would sit with the tribesmen in the evenings, drinking ale and swapping tall stories, and finally leading them in a series of rousing songs. Not once did he mention that he was Connavar's son, nor did he speak disrespectfully of the king while with strangers. This surprised Banouin, and he asked his companion about it one morning as they rode away from a settlement.

'I have reason to hate him,' said Bane, his expression unusually serious. 'But he did save these people when Valanus led the Panthers north. It was Connavar and the Iron Wolves who crushed the advance, and drove the enemy back into the lands of the Cenii. I cannot take that away from him. My hatred is mine alone.'

On the eighteenth day they reached the River Wir, and journeyed by flat-bottomed boat for two hundred miles. The days were pleasant on the water, watching the countryside glide by. At the start Banouin was nervous of the four-man crew, who seemed to him to be cutthroats. Bane laughed his fears away. He and the crew got on famously. Each night they would moor the craft near settlements, allowing the two companions to lead their mounts ashore to feed.

One evening, the day they crossed the border into Norvii lands, Bane got into an argument with a huge tribesman and they moved outside to settle it with fists. The fight was fast, furious and ugly, but at the close, with both men bloodied and bruised, Bane suddenly began to laugh.

'What is so funny?' asked his opponent.

'Well,' said Bane, 'you are the ugliest whoreson I've ever seen. But the more I beat upon your face the better-looking it gets.'

The men crowding around burst into laughter. At last even the fighter grinned. 'You're a cocky little game-bird,' he said.

'I am indeed. Can I buy you a drink?'

'Why not?' replied the man.

Banouin could not duplicate Bane's easy familiarity with the people they met, and would often find himself sitting alone in a corner, observing. He envied, with just a touch of bitterness, Bane's ability to make friends. Banouin thought about the river crew. Hard men who would think nothing of killing a passenger and heaving his body over the side had warmed to Bane as if he were a blood relative. It was mystifying. Yet Bane was not always full of camaraderie. Often he would fall silent for long periods, his expression dark and brooding. Sometimes, when in such a mood, he would avoid settlements and the two travellers would go ashore and camp out in woods or hollows. He would talk then of his sadness for the life his mother had led, and how she had been shunned by the folk of Three Streams.

'Not all of them,' Banouin pointed out, as they sat in the moonlight beside a small fire. 'She used to visit my mother. And the Big Man was good to you both.'

'I don't remember him,' said Bane. 'I was too young when he died. But my mother spoke of him often. She said she was sitting, cradling me, in grandfather's forge three nights after her husband cast her out. Ruathain came to her there. He asked her if her husband had given me a soul-name. She said that he had not. The Big Man told her that he had been out walking on the night of my birth, and he had seen a falcon flying through the night sky. This was a rare thing, he said, and he felt that it was an omen. Whenever she told me this story my mother's eyes would fill with tears. She said he put his arm round her and asked if she would accept Midnight Falcon as my soul-name.' Bane sighed. 'It was the first act of tenderness she had experienced following my birth. It was said that Ruathain's wife was furious with him, and demanded he see no more of my mother. He refused, and often visited her, to see how we were faring. I wish I could remember him. He was a great man, by all accounts.'

'Aye, he was,' said Banouin. 'My mother warned him not to go to that last battle. Told him he would die if he did. But he went anyway, to protect Connavar. Mother knew he would. Said it broke her heart.'

'She was in love with him?'

'I never asked her. Maybe she was. It's not something you think about with old people, is it?'

Bane had laughed then, his good humour restored. 'My grandparents used to make their bed creak most nights.'

'Oh, that's disgusting,' said Banouin. 'Thank you for putting that image in my mind before I sleep.'

On the day they left the boat to continue their journey overland Banouin had seen genuine regret in the eyes of the crew. They wished Bane good luck on his travels, and made him promise to seek them out when he returned, so they could hear of his adventures. Not one of them bade farewell to Banouin.

The journey south was slower now, as they entered the great Forest of Filair. Settlements were further apart, and the riders had to veer many miles east or west in order to purchase supplies and food. At each stop they enquired as to the location of the next village before moving on. Banouin purchased a pack pony in order to carry more supplies, and Bane traded in his old bronze sword to acquire a leaf-shaped iron blade and a short hunting bow with a quiver of twenty arrows.

It was pouring with rain when the riders reached the forest's end. The plain of Cogden stretched out before them, flat and empty save for the four huge mounds erected above those fallen in the battle. Banouin shivered when he saw the Barrows. Twenty-eight thousand had died here on that terrible day. He had hoped to arrive at the battlefield much earlier in the day, so that they might ride through it in daylight. But Bane's horse had thrown a shoe, and they had been forced to detour to a settlement where a blacksmith forged and fitted a new one.

Now, with dusk fast approaching, they would have to camp in this desolate place. It did not seem to worry Bane. As night fell the rain eased away. Somehow Bane managed to light a fire, which hissed and spluttered against the damp wood. Spreading his cloak on the wet ground Bane was soon asleep. Banouin sat alone, feeding branches to the flames.

Fear touched him, and he glanced around. Nothing was to be seen, save for the four Barrows and the bright moon. The fear grew, unfocused and all-consuming. His mouth was dry, his heart beating wildly.

Then he felt their presence . . .

At first all he could see was the night mist, rolling across the field; then it changed, flowing and rising until Banouin could see grey forms, the figures of men, cold and silent. For a moment he thought the scene was born of his fear, unreal – invented. Then the figures took clearer shape, becoming ten ranks of fighting men moving slowly across Cogden Field. Clad in helms of ghostly iron with embossed ear-guards, they carried long, rectangular shields and short stabbing swords.

This was the long-dead army of Stone. Banouin stared at them. Their forms were translucent, and shimmered in the moonlight. When they reached the Barrows, instead of climbing them, they passed right through. There was no sound. The advancing line broke into a run. Banouin glanced to his right. There, pale and spectral, was another line, this time of brightly armoured horsemen. Silently they charged at the enemy, swords as pale as moonlight slashing into them. Banouin saw a man stagger back, his arm hacked from his body. Then a spear ripped through his guts and he fell, the spear snapping in two. Horses fell, pitching their riders, who were stabbed mercilessly as they struggled to rise. All the terrible sights of war unfolded in eerie silence before his eyes.

A black crow glided down to the grass close by and stood, its baleful glare fixed on Banouin. Then a voice sounded from behind, startling him. 'These are scenes men sing of, and brag of, and lust after.' Banouin spun round. An old woman stood there, her shoulders hunched beneath a threadbare shawl, her hands clasping a long, crooked staff. Her hair was thin and wispy white, like mist clinging to her skull. She was impossibly ancient. Banouin's heart began to beat wildly. He knew of this woman, this creature of the Seidh. This was the Morrigu, whose promises tasted of nectar and burned like poison. The young man said nothing, but his dark eyes flicked towards the sleeping Bane. 'He cannot hear me, and he will not wake,' said the Morrigu. 'Will you bid me welcome to your hearth?'

'You . . . are not welcome here,' he forced himself to say.

'How that cuts me,' she said with a sneer. 'You, who I delivered safe when nature had decreed your death.'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' he told her.

'Vorna did not speak of me, then? How disappointing. On the night you were born her life was in danger. The babe – the you that was to be – was breeched, and there were no midwives, no druids on hand to save her – or you. So I came. And you were delivered by these old hands.'

'I don't believe you.'

'Yes, you do, Banouin. It is part of the Gift. You always sense when people are lying.'

'Even if you did save me, I don't doubt you had your own reasons,' he said, his voice firmer.

'Indeed I did.' She paused. 'Well, if I am not welcome here, will you at least walk with me awhile?'

'Why would I wish to?'

'Perhaps to prove to yourself that you are not the coward you believe yourself to be. Perhaps to repay your debt to me. Perhaps out of curiosity.' She stepped closer, and he could see that the skin beneath her right eye had peeled back, exposing the bone beneath. Banouin recoiled. 'Or perhaps because of your love for your sleeping friend.' Once more Banouin looked down at Bane. Something moved upon his friend's chest, and Banouin saw it was a coiled snake. It slithered up, then laid its flat head on Bane's neck.

'Don't kill him,' pleaded Banouin.

'I have no wish to kill anyone,' said the Morrigu. 'All I wish for is a walk across this field of the slain.'

'I will come with you,' he said. 'Make the snake disappear.'

'What snake?' she asked. Banouin glanced down. Bane was sleeping peacefully. The serpent had gone.

The Morrigu trudged past Banouin, leaning heavily on her staff. The young man followed, and they walked out onto the battlefield. The struggle was titanic, with neither side giving ground. The army of Stone fought with discipline and courage, while the tribesmen battled with passion and desperate bravery. Time and again Banouin saw acts of individual heroism that went unnoticed by the participants: a slim Rigante, standing astride a fallen comrade, trying to protect him; a soldier of Stone, his sword broken, charging into the mass of tribesmen, slamming his shield at them, and trying to wrest a fresh blade from the hands of the enemy.

'Why do they still fight?' he asked the Morrigu.

'They do not know they are dead,' she answered.

'How can they not know?'

'The arrogance of man,' she replied.

They walked on. Banouin saw a tall, handsome Stone officer, with close-cropped hair, waving his short sword above his head. Like a windblown echo he heard a thin, piping call to arms. 'One more charge, lads! One more charge and we'll have the day!'

'Who is that?' he asked.

'That is Valanus – the most famous of all Stone generals.'

'Famous?' queried Banouin. 'It is my understanding that to speak his name aloud in Stone is a criminal offence. He was the first Stone general to lose a major battle against barbarians.'

'That is still fame,' she said. 'Every man knows of him and his deeds. It is what he wanted. Indeed, it is what he asked for.'

The ghostly fighting continued until not one of the combatants was still standing. Banouin and the Morrigu reached the top of the nearest Barrow and the young man looked down upon the field of the fallen. A cool breeze blew across the shimmering silvered grass and slowly the dead began to rise again, whole and mended. Then they trudged back to their battle lines and formed up once more.

And the battle began again.

'Why does someone not tell them they are dead?' said Banouin. 'Then they could pass over the Dark Water and be free of this life.'

The Morrigu laughed. The sound made him shiver. 'Come, then,' she said. 'You can tell Valanus.'

Banouin followed her back into the battle. As she reached the Stone general she tapped at his form with her staff. He turned and looked not at her, but directly at Banouin. 'Who are you, spirit?' he asked.

'I am not a spirit, sir, but a man. You are the spirit. This battle was fought many years ago, and you died here. It is time to move on.'

'Died?' said Valanus, with a wide smile. 'Do I look dead to you? Get thee gone, demon. This is my day. And when it is over I shall be lord of this land.' Turning away he raised his sword. 'One more charge, lads! One more and we will have the day!'

'Well, you told him,' said the Morrigu. 'But it is in the nature of men never to listen. In death as well as in life.'

'Why are you here?' he whispered.

'For reasons of my own. What is it you wish for?'

Banouin laughed. 'Do you think me stupid enough to tell you? Like poor Valanus, whose name is now accursed?'

'Would your request be as his, child? Would you want fame and glory? Would you want riches?'

Banouin turned his back on the ceaseless, silent warfare raging around him and walked back to the campsite. Bane was still sleeping, and the fire was burning low. The Morrigu moved alongside him. 'Can you feel Caer Druagh calling you?' she asked.

'I find I miss the mountains,' he admitted. 'I had not thought I would.'

'Do you know why the Seidh exist?'

'No.'

'One day you will. And on that day you will return to Caer Druagh.'

'What is it that you want from me?' he asked her. 'I am not a warrior. I have no lust for battle and glory. My intention is to reside in Stone and study.'