Midnight Falcon (41 page)

'Again!' yelled Bane. 'Hit them with everything!'

The second volley was far more deadly than the first, for the charge had slowed as the Vars laboured up the slippery hillside. Now, as men fell, they slid into the paths of those following, knocking them down, or causing them to lower their shields. By Bane's reckoning at least twenty Vars were down. 'Keep it going!' he bellowed.

Volley after volley hit the climbing men. As the Vars came closer the volleys became more ragged, many of the shafts flashing over their heads or into the ground. 'Steady now!' shouted Bane. 'Steady!'

As the enemy came closer to the hilltop Bane saw that the width of their line would allow the Vars to encircle the defenders. Moving back from the crest he shouted for his men to spread out along both sides.

Suddenly Wik dropped back, turned, then sprinted away from the crest. He still had several arrows in his quiver. The other bowmen saw him run, and they too scrambled back behind the mailshirted warriors.

'Forward!' yelled Finnigal, drawing his sword. At the centre of the line Bane drew his two short swords and advanced.

The Vars reached the crest. Bane leapt forward, spearing one blade through a man's throat and slashing the second across the face of the warrior beside him. Both men fell back, impeding those behind. Gryffe, with a bellowed battle cry, hurled himself at the Vars, swinging his sword double-handed. It smashed into a hurriedly raised shield, but such was the force of the blow it knocked the bearer from his feet.

The air was filled now with the sound of clashing blades, the screams of the wounded, the ugly snarls and grunts of the fighting men, the snapping of bones and the rending of flesh. Slipping and sliding on the treacherous ground the Vars could not, at first, make use of the weight of their numbers to force a way through. But then Snarri and Dratha got a foothold on the crest. Snarri lashed his sword against the unprotected thigh of a defender. Blood sprayed out, and the man fell. Snarri pushed past him. Dratha following hammered his single-bladed axe through the man's skull. Other Vars streamed over the hilltop.

Ahead Snarri could see the silver-haired woman. She was standing by the wagon, watching the battle. And she was close enough for Snarri to see her green eyes. He and Dratha moved towards her.

Bane, seeing the breach in the line, dropped back and ran to fill it. He killed two Vars and kicked out at a third, who had just reached the crest. The man slipped and fell, rolling back into his fellows. Gryffe raced to join Bane. A sword blade rammed into his side. The mail shirt stopped the blade slicing into his flesh, but Gryffe felt a rib snap under the impact. Dropping his sword he lunged at the Var, punching him full in the face. Then he grabbed him at the throat and groin, heaved him into the air and hurled him into a group of Sea Wolves about to clear the crest. Sweeping up his blade Gryffe gave a great shout and threw himself at the charging men. His sword hammered against an iron helm, splitting it in two, the blade crushing the skull beneath. Finnigal and two Iron Wolves joined him, and closed the breach.

As Snarri and Dratha ran at the woman by the wagon a slim warrior moved to stand before her. Snarri saw that the man was middle-aged, with only one eye. The Vars leader leapt to the attack. Instead of jumping back, or parrying, the one-eyed man ducked under the sweeping blade and sent a deadly thrust at Snarri's face. The huge Var swayed away from the thrust, and kicked out, catching the one-eyed warrior in the knee. The Rigante stumbled. Dratha stepped in swiftly, bringing his axe down on the man's shoulder. The snapping of bone followed and the Rigante cried out. Then he surged to his feet, the axe still embedded in his flesh. Dratha tried to leap back, but the warrior's sword opened his throat in a bloody spray. Snarri swung his longsword at the Rigante's neck, but mistimed the stroke, the blade clanging against the man's helm, knocking it from his head. Dazed, the Rigante tried to turn, but Snarri's reverse sweep smashed his skull to shards.

Another fighter loomed before him. Snarri blinked. The man was wearing an iron breastplate, helm and greaves, styled in the Stone fashion. And he was carrying two short swords. His face and arms were spattered with blood. Snarri attacked, but the warrior moved like quicksilver, blocking his thrust and spinning into him. The Rigante's shoulder struck Snarri in the chest, knocking him back. He struggled to recover his balance only to see, in the last heartbeat of his life, a silver blade flash before his eyes. It struck his jaw, glanced down into his neck, and ripped through bone, tendon and vein. Snarri was already dead as the second blade hit his neck from the other side, severing the head completely.

Back at the crest of the hill the fighting was chaotic and furious. Of the two hundred Vars who had made the charge only around a hundred and ten had made it to the crest. Of these more than half were down. But so were many of the defenders. Gryffe, blood-covered now, was still fighting furiously, as was Finnigal. But they had been pushed back. Bane charged into the fray, his gladiatorial skills raising the spirits of the defenders as he cut down Var after Var.

Finnigal went down. A Sea Wolf carrying a battle axe loomed over him. Bane leapt at him feet first, hurling him to the ground. Finnigal rolled and smashed his sword across the man's face. The captain climbed to his feet, to see Bane launch himself at three Vars. Half stunned, Finnigal staggered to his aid.

At that moment men began to rush past the dazed soldier, throwing themselves upon the Vars, stabbing them with hunting knives and daggers. It was the bowmen who had fled the field earlier. Catching his breath Finnigal watched as they ripped into the exhausted Sea Wolves. He glanced round to see the outlaw leader Wik draw back on his bowstring. The shaft tore through the chest of a tall, wide-shouldered Var, his body pitching back over the hill and sliding all the way to the bottom. More arrows followed – and some of the surviving Vars began to run back down the hill. On the hilltop the remaining Vars were still fighting furiously. Bane ran at them, Gryffe and Valian just behind him. Finnigal tried to follow, but a great weariness settled on him and he sat down heavily.

The fighting was over within a few minutes, his sergeant Prasalis knocking the last Var to the ground before braining him with several vicious blows. Prasalis looked round, saw Finnigal sitting alone and ran over to him.

'Are you hurt, sir?' he asked, kneeling down.

'Aye, but I'll live . . . I think,' said Finnigal. Blood was streaming from several cuts to his legs and upper arms, and there was a gash on his brow that was dripping blood into his eyes. Prasalis pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the gash.

'There's nothing too deep, and your skull isn't cracked.'

'How many did we lose?' asked Finnigal.

'I'll find out, sir,' said Prasalis, moving away.

Bane, his swords sheathed, his helm discarded, walked over to where Wik was standing, staring down over the settlement. The outlaw had an odd expression in his face that Bane could not read.

'Good to see you,' said Bane, with a smile. 'Thought you might have left us.'

'I did leave you,' said Wik. 'I was pissing myself with fear.'

'Then why did you come back?'

Wik shrugged. 'I've been asking myself the same thing. The other five gold pieces, I expect.'

'Nonsense,' said Bane. 'You came back because you're a man. Don't belittle yourself. How do you feel?'

'Truly? I feel sad, and I can't tell you why.'

Bane placed his hand on the man's shoulder. 'We saved hundreds of lives today. We stood our ground and we won. But I feel sad too.' He smiled. 'And I don't know why either. We'll talk later. For now let's see to the men.'

Prasalis returned to Finnigal, and helped the captain to the wagon. 'We'd better get those wounds stitched,' said the sergeant, 'or you'll bleed to death.'

'What are our losses?'

'Eleven of our men and sixty of the outlaws dead or dying. The Vars lost one hundred and sixty-four men. The survivors fled to the east.'

Finnigal leaned against the side of the wagon. He saw Bane walk over and stand beside the body of a dead outlaw. 'Who was he?' called out Finnigal.

'His name was Grale,' said Bane. 'I almost killed him two years ago. A friend of mine told me he was once a hero – that he had fought bravely at Cogden Field.' Bane glanced across at the silent figure of Meria. 'He died for you, lady,' he said. 'I hope you have the grace to remember his name.'

From the hills to the west came the refugees from Three Streams. Vorna and a group of the women began to move among the wounded, tending them.

Bane called Gryffe and Valian to him, then he walked over to Finnigal. 'With your permission, Captain, I'll take some men and pursue the Vars, keep them on the move.'

Finnigal reached out and shook Bane's hand. 'I appreciate everything you've done. I never was in command, but I'll not forget your courtesy. Go on! Give chase. And then come back and we'll have a drink together . . . cousin.'

The gloomy predictions of Prasalis, of sixty outlaws 'dead or dying', would have been accurate but for the arrival of Vorna. Eighteen of the men with mortal wounds were brought back from the brink, as were three of the badly wounded Iron Wolves. There were no survivors among the Vars, for the outlaws moved among the wounded, killing all who still breathed. The folk of Three Streams stripped the dead of their weapons and armour, and, according to the orders of Finnigal, the forty-two outlaw dead were buried in a mass grave, the bodies of the Vars burnt on a massive funeral pyre. Bane and his twenty riders returned to the settlement at dusk, having hunted down the fleeing Vars, killing all but three who escaped into the woods to the west. Bane did not stay in Three Streams, but rode on back to his farm.

In her home Vorna dozed in her chair by the fire, dreaming of past days, when the sun seemed brighter, the world infinitely less perilous. Her husband, Banouin, was by her side, and they walked the hills close to the Wishing Tree woods. These were the days after she had brought Connavar back from the dead, after his fight with the bear; days when the lands of the Rigante were largely peaceful and good men like the mighty Ruathain, Banouin and the Long Laird seemed immortal, everlasting.

But nothing lasts, thought Vorna, coming out of her doze. Even the mountains will one day be gone, vanished under ice or swallowed into the depths of the ocean. She thought of the men she had healed today. Merging with them to mend their injuries she had touched their souls. Many among the outlaws were dark and twisted, and yet, on this day, a bright spark had flickered in them. She wondered if those sparks would catch, the light growing within them, or whether they would burn out quickly, leaving the men much as before.

There was, she knew, such a small distance for a man to walk between good and evil. Connavar the King was considered a good man, devoting his life to the welfare of all Keltoi on this side of the water. Yet once – blinded by rage and despair – he had ridden into a Pannone village, and butchered men, women and children. Sadness touched Vorna then and her eyes filled with tears.

'No point crying for what is already past,' she told herself.

There came a knock at the door. Vorna took a deep breath. She knew who had come to her house, and was not relishing the visit. 'Come in, Meria,' she called.

The king's mother moved hesitantly into the firelit room. In the gentle flickering light she looked younger, more like the woman Vorna had once known. But she is not that woman, Vorna reminded herself.

'I hope you do not mind me calling so late,' said Meria.

'What is it you want?' asked Vorna, keeping her voice neutral.

'I . . . wanted to thank you for saving my grandson.'

'Sit yourself,' said Vorna, knowing the answer was not the whole truth.

Meria removed her pale green and blue chequered cloak and sat down in the chair opposite. Folding the cloak carefully she rested it over her lap. 'I have been foolish, Vorna,' she said, not looking at the witch, but staring instead at the flames of the fire. 'In all my life I have only truly loved one man. My Varaconn.'

'But not Ruathain,' said Vorna harshly, 'who died for you?'

'No,' admitted Meria. 'Not Ru, who deserved better.' She gave a deep sigh. 'It is said that the people of Stone have three words for love. I do not know what they are, but Brother Solstice explained them to me once. There is love of family or friends, there is the fierce, protective love we have for our children, and there is the all-consuming erotic love, burning with the flames of devotion and adoration. It is perhaps wrong to say that I did not love Ru. For I loved him deeply as one would a big brother. But Varaconn was my love and my life. When he died a part of me – perhaps the best part of me – was laid to rest in the earth beside him.' The fire was burning low and Meria leaned down to add a log to the flames. 'I thought I had remembered his face, the contours, the smile. I had recalled him as looking like my Connavar, save that his hair and beard were golden. But I had not, Vorna. Over the years I had forgotten.'

'Then you saw Bane,' said Vorna.

'Aye, I saw Bane. And in him I saw Varaconn. It was as if he had stepped through a gate in time. Oh, Vorna! What have I done with my life?' Tears began to fall. 'I let my grandson die. I almost doomed the settlement. I have become a harridan, unloved by all. But worse, far worse, I turned my back on Connavar's only son.'

'Yes, you did these things,' said Vorna coldly, 'and they cannot be changed. All our deeds have consequences, and we must face them. You are now facing yours.'

Meria brushed away her tears. 'You are not making this easy for me, Vorna.'

'No, I am not.'

'Do you hate me so much?'

'I do not hate anyone,' Vorna told her. 'Once we were friends, and I treasure those memories. Now we are not. I can live with that. It interests me to know why you chose to end that friendship.'

'I was wrong to do so,' said Meria. 'It was weak of me, and petty. It happened after I learned of Ruathain's death at the Great Battle. Brother Solstice told me that Ru had a diseased heart, and that you had been tending him. He said that you had warned Ru not to fight. But I did not know of his condition. You recall my son's
geasa?'

'Of course. I prophesied it. He will die on the day he kills the dog that bites him.'

'Exactly. And Conn was bitten by a dog. The hound's teeth locked
onto Conn's wrist guard and did not break the flesh. When I told Ru he said
that this was not a true bite. I took no notice. I was so terrified that Conn
would be killed in the following day's battle that I urged Ru to go with him,
and defend him. I told him – may the gods forgive me – that he
had once promised to defend Varaconn and had failed, and that he must not
fail again.'

'And he did not fail,' said Vorna. 'He fought all day alongside Connavar. His heart only gave out after the battle. But why did this cause you to hate me?'

'I did not have the courage to blame myself for his death,' said Meria, 'so I convinced myself that had you told me of his condition I would never have sent him into battle. Thus his death became your fault, not mine. And then, when you befriended Bane, my hatred grew. I look back at what I have become and I am ashamed, Vorna.'

'Then change,' said Vorna, 'but know this, it is too late.'

'Too late? What do you mean?'

'It is too late for you to forge a relationship with Bane. He needed you as a babe, as a toddler, as a child. He does not need you now. Nor does he want you.'

'But you are his friend, Vorna. You could explain to him . . .'

'What would I explain to this twenty-year-old warrior who has grown to manhood despised and rejected by his family? He needs no explanations. He knows. He watched his mother die before her time, weighed down by the contempt of others who blamed her alone for Connavar's loss. Now he is a man, and through the disappointments of his childhood has no desire for familial affection. Your time to build a relationship with Bane has long gone. If you truly desire to change, then let that change show with those children who might yet benefit from it, your own grandchildren, Orrin and Badraig.'

'Then you will not help me?' said Meria, her face hardening, her green eyes gleaming in the firelight.

Vorna laughed. 'Now that is the Meria I know.'

Meria slumped back in her chair, the light of anger fading from her eyes. 'I suppose that it is,' she said. 'But I don't want to be her any more. Tonight I tried to cuddle Orrin and he ran away from me. He was frightened.'

'These things take time,' said Vorna, her voice softening. She rose from the chair. 'I will make some tisane, and we will talk of happier days.'

Three days passed with no news of the great battle being waged between the Rigante and the Vars near Seven Willows. The people of Three Streams went about their business, but they were fearful. What if Connavar was to fail? What if – having defeated a few hundred Vars – ten thousand were to appear in the distance? Scouts were sent out to watch the eastern horizon, and people left many of their clothes and belongings packed ready for flight.

On the morning of the fourth day a rider came galloping over the hills. As he came closer they saw he was one of Bendegit Bran's Horse Archers, his silver mailshirt gleaming in the sunshine, his bow tied to his saddle. His horse thundered over the first bridge and down into the settlement centre. People ran from their homes, anxious for news. He waited until more than fifty were gathered, with still more pouring in.

'Victory!' he shouted. 'The Vars are defeated, their king slain.'

A huge cheer went up, and word spread fast through Three Streams. Men and women gathered around the rider. His horse became skittish and reared. People fell back then. The rider calmed his mount and leapt down from his saddle, leading the nervous horse to the corral alongside the forge. 'Where is the Lady Meria?' he asked. Men pointed to her house and the Horse Archer strode across the open ground, a huge crowd following. He turned to them. 'I will give a full report at the Roundhouse in an hour. First I must deliver messages to the king's mother and to the wife of Bendegit Bran.'

He left them then, and walked to the front door of the house. It was open, and Gwen was standing in the doorway.

'Is Bran alive?' she asked.

The rider removed his black leather helm, and bowed. 'He is alive and well, my lady. I am Furse, son of Ostaran, and I have a letter for you.' Opening the pouch at his side he pulled forth two wax-sealed letters. He gave the first to Gwen.

Meria emerged from the kitchen, flour upon her hands. 'I heard the shouting,' she said. 'I take it my son has won another great battle?'

'Indeed he has, Lady Meria.'

'Gwen, fetch our guest a cup of ale. He must be thirsty after such a ride. Then he can sit and tell us all the news.' Meria looked at the rider closely, as Gwen moved past her into the kitchen. He was slender and not tall, his pale hair cut short after the fashion of the men of Stone. 'Do I not know you, young man?' Meria asked.

'You do, lady. I am Furse. My father—'

'Ah yes, Ostaran the Gath. I like him. He makes me laugh. Sit you down, sir.'

Gwen returned with a mug brimming with ale. Furse thanked her and drank deeply. Then he sat, and gave a wide smile.

'We smashed them,' he said. 'Bendegit Bran organized the deployments. It was his strategy. We took them on three sides, forcing them up onto the Hallowed Hills. Then Connavar led the Iron Wolves against their left flank, splitting their force. They fought hard, these Vars, but it was an easy victory. They tried to hold to the hilltops, but we drove them off. At the last King Shard tried to lead his men in a charge, attempting, I think, to break and run for their ships. But Bran had thought of this, and my father's Horse Archers cut them off.

'Ah, ladies, but the finish was glorious. Shard – a mighty man and fully six and a half feet tall – stood alone upon a narrow bridge. His men were dead, or fleeing the field, but he stood brave and strong, and taunted us, calling for a champion to fight him, man to man. Three he killed before King Connavar rode up. Shard saw him and called out: "At last a foe worthy of my blade."

'The king drew his sword and stepped out to meet him. The battle was brief, ladies, but wondrous. When Shard fell the king knelt by him. I was one of those close by and I moved in to hear what passed between them. Shard spoke, but the words were whispered, and I did not catch them. Then Shard reached up and took the king's hand. I heard Connavar say, "And on that day there will be no hatred between us." Then Shard died.'

'What were our losses?' asked Meria.

'More than two thousand slain, my lady. And at least five thousand wounded. As I said, these Vars are tough men. The king ordered a day of rest, but after that the army will be heading south to face Jasaray. Our scouts tell us that the army of Stone numbers thirty thousand, and three thousand cavalry.'

'My son will defeat them,' said Meria. 'It is his destiny.'

'Yes, lady,' said Furse. Then he remembered the letter he carried. He passed it to Meria. 'I fear the contents will sadden you. I will allow you to read it in private.' He rose, but Meria beckoned him to seat himself.

'If my sons are alive and we have a victory I can think of nothing to sadden me,' she said. Breaking the seal she held the letter at arm's length, squinting to see the large script. She finished the letter, then leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.

'What is it?' asked Gwen. Meria merely shook her head, rose from the chair and walked from the room. Gwen turned back to Furse. 'Do you know what was in the letter?'

'I believe I do, lady. There were Pannone rebels among the Vars – perhaps three hundred or so. They were led by Guern, a noble from the far north. He and seven of his men escaped, but we will find him.' Furse looked away. 'But there was another with them. He was spotted fleeing the field. Our outriders could have taken him, but they were so surprised that they held back.' Furse sighed. 'It was the king's brother, Braefar. He was with the enemy.'

Wik drained another cup of uisge. He had hoped to get drunk, but the alcohol seemed to have little effect on him. The sixty survivors of the hilltop battle had not returned to the forest, but were camped at Bane's farm, sharing the roundhouse huts of Bane's workers. Wik himself had been offered, and accepted, a room in the main building. The following day Bane and Gryffe had carried a chest from one of the barns, and paid each man the sum promised. Wik himself had been given more than one hundred pieces of gold, the extra five he had been promised plus two more for each man slain. It was more gold than Wik had seen in his thirty-one years. He gave it away, distributing it equally among the survivors. The act amazed him, and even now, a day later, he could not imagine why he had done it. The sense of sadness following the battle had not left him, and even the alcohol could not numb it.

Bane found him sitting in the hay loft of the first barn, staring out over the hills. The young warrior, carrying a fresh jug of uisge and a lighted lantern, climbed to the loft and sat beside the outlaw chief. The sun was dipping below the mountains and the land spread out before them was glowing in its fading light.