The men and women of Lorca's band stood staring at the head on the lance. It was as if a spell had been cast over them. Grale cast his gaze over the group.
'Does anyone else here wish to renegotiate our agreement?' asked Bane, his voice cold.
The thin figure of Wik was the first to react. 'What if we do?' he asked.
'You'll get the same response as I have just delivered to the dear departed Lorca.'
'You think to kill all seventy of us?' asked Wik, gesturing his men forward.
'Do I need to?' asked Bane, moving in close to Wik. 'Have you not fed well through this winter? And what will you do when I am dead and gone? Seventy men, you say. And why do you have such numbers now? It is because there is food here, and many of those who joined you were starving at home. Without my farm and my cattle how many will remain, Wik? Twenty? Less?' Suddenly he laughed. 'I am through talking,' he said. 'Make your decision.' His sword flashed once more. Wik jumped back. The powerful figure of Gryffe stepped forward, a broadsword in his hands, to stand beside Bane. Grale read Wik's intent. Pride was strong in the outlaw leader, and he was about to order his men to attack.
'Wait!' shouted Grale, striding forward into the group. 'What he said makes sense. We have a constant supply of food, and when he sold his cattle to Govannan he brought us a tenth. Or, to be more precise, he brought Lorca a tenth. We made an agreement with him. Lorca broke it. And Lorca paid for his treachery. Let that be an end to it.'
'You have no say in this!' stormed Wik. 'You are not the leader here.'
'No, I am not,' said Grale. He swung and pointed to the head on the lance. 'He is! Shall we ask him for his views? I say we should call for a show of hands.' He raised his voice. 'How many here want to see our food supplies ended?' No-one raised their hands. 'Then that should settle it,' he said, turning and walking back to his roundhouse.
For a moment there was silence, and in that silence the tension eased. The seventy outlaws, weapons ready, awaited an order from Wik. Wik looked at Bane and shrugged. 'Most of us were not in favour of Lorca's actions,' he said. 'Cascor was a good man, and did not deserve to be cut down. Does our agreement still hold?'
'Of course. Though I'll need a man to replace Cascor for the spring gathering.'
Wik nodded. 'I'd offer him to you,' he said, gesturing at Grale, 'but he's only got one good hand.'
'I'll take him,' said Bane. 'If he wants to work for me.' He grinned.
'Maybe he'd prefer to stay here and become leader.' Wik scowled, then laughed.
'You are an unusual man, Bane. What made you think you could ride in here, kill Lorca, and ride out again?'
'I didn't expect to ride out,' admitted Bane. He glanced around at the waiting men. 'You'd better start thinking of limiting your numbers,' he added. 'Either that or start a new tribe. No way will you be able to feed many more than this.'
'I have been thinking the same,' agreed Wik.
The twin invasion was proving a logistical nightmare for Connavar and his generals. Fiallach was sent south with one thousand Iron Wolves and six hundred Horse Archers, and ordered to gather fighting men from the Norvii. 'Do not', Connavar urged him, 'seek a direct clash with Jasaray. Avoid a major battle at all costs, no matter what the enemy tries to do. Instead destroy his cavalry and his scouts.'
'You can rely on me, Conn,' said Fiallach.
'I do rely on you, my friend. But Jasaray is a cunning and pitiless enemy. He will stop at nothing to force you into combat.'
Meanwhile Bendegit Bran was gathering troops from all over the north, ready to march against Shard and his fifteen thousand Sea Wolves.
At Old Oaks Connavar faced a growing problem. The five thousand inhabitants of Seven Willows and the surrounding areas had been evacuated before the invasion, thanks to the uncanny talents of Banouin, who had seen Shard's ships set sail. Although the Rigante had therefore been saved losses, it meant that the food stores around Old Oaks - already low - were now almost gone. To lessen the drain on resources a large number of women and children were sent to settlements further west and south, where granaries and warehouses were still stocked with food.
The king's mother, Meria, and the wives and younger children of Bendegit Bran and Fiallach were among several hundred people who travelled south to Three Streams in the second week of spring. They travelled with an escort of twenty Iron Wolves, led by Finnigal, Fiallach's eldest son. It was his first command, and he tried to hide his disappointment at being offered such a lowly task. He had begged to be allowed to ride with his father, and if not that, then to assist
Bran and the northern army. However, the king himself had decided his role, and now he would miss both battles.
'Is this a punishment?' he had asked the king.
Connavar had shaken his head. 'You are a good and brave soldier, Finn, and deserving of no punishment. There are outlaws and robber gangs in the area surrounding Three Streams. Your presence will deter them from raids. You think I would punish a man by asking him to protect my mother, and the wives and children of my closest friends?'
'No, sir. It is just that I will miss the fighting.'
Connavar had laughed then. 'Spoken like the son of Fiallach. My boy, you are seventeen years old. There will be plenty of time for battles. Trust me on this.'
Finnigal twisted in his saddle and looked back along the line of wagons. The ancient tracker Parax was seated alongside Meria in the first, and it was Meria who held the reins and urged the horses onward. The old man was slumped in his seat, his head on his chest. Finnigal rode back to the wagon.
'Shall I get one of my men to take over?' he asked Meria nervously. The king's mother was a stern woman, her tightly braided hair the colour of iron, her green eyes cold and hard.
'You think I am incapable of driving a wagon?' she asked him.
'No, lady, of course not.'
'Then be about your business, Captain Finnigal.'
Bendegit Bran's five-year-old son Orrin peeped out from under the canvas canopy. 'Are we there yet, Uncle Finn?' he called out. Finnigal's mood rose as he saw the straw-haired youngster's freckled face.
'Not yet,' he answered, with a grin. 'Soon. How is Ruathain?'
'He's sleeping again,' said Orrin. 'He's very hot.'
Finnigal swung his horse and cantered ahead of the wagons. Ruathain was dying, and it was hard to take. Only last year the seventeen-year-old had been wide-shouldered and powerful as a young bull. Now he was all bone, a shadow of what once he was. His eyes were sunken, the skin around them bruised and dark, and his face looked like that of an old man. Finnigal shivered, remembering that he too had succumbed to the Yellow Fever, but had recovered within weeks. Not so poor Ruathain.
An hour later, just before dusk, Finnigal crested the last hill above
Three Streams, and gazed down on the settlement. It was here that his father and mother had met. It was here that Connavar the King had been born. He glanced back. Maybe here Meria would learn to smile again, he thought. Then he laughed at his own stupidity. If Meria were ever to smile, her face would crack apart under the strain of it.
Sixty miles to the east four of Shard's long ships beached in a secluded bay, and two hundred and fifty raiders waded ashore.
Their leader, Snarri Daggerbright, was a veteran of many raids. A hulking figure with deep-set eyes and a misshapen mouth - the result of a kick from a horse some years before, which had smashed out his front teeth and crushed his nose flat against his skull - Snarri relished this mission. Shard's informant had assured him that almost all of the fighting men would have been moved either north to face Shard or south to resist Jasaray. That left only the old men and the women. Snarri felt his blood rise at the thought of the Rigante women, and the days ahead of blood and rape and cleansing fire.
He marched his men across the sand, and up into the woods, halting at the tree line to scan the surrounding land.
'Where do we strike first?' asked Dratha, his second in command.
Snarri pointed to the
west. Three Streams.'
'There must be closer settlements,' said Dratha.
'Aye, there are, but Shard says that Connavar's mother, the Lady Meria, will be there. It is also where Connavar was born. Kill her and put Three Streams to the torch and it will lash the Rigante bastard with whips of fire.'
It was a source of sadness to Vorna the Witch that no matter how great the magic it could never change a human heart. Not the heart that was merely a giant muscle propelling blood through capillaries, veins and arteries, but the invisible heart at the core of every human soul.
Vorna sat at her window, watching the refugees leave their wagons and be welcomed into the homes of the people of Three Streams. Meria, and the brood of children and women with her, went to the old house that the first Ruathain had built, and soon smoke from the hearths drifted up from the chimneys. Vorna watched as two soldiers helped the boy Ruathain from the wagon. His legs all but crumpled beneath him, and they carried him into the house.
When the wagons had arrived Vorna had been standing by the first bridge. She saw Meria driving one wagon, but her old friend turned her head away as the wagon passed. It had hurt Vorna deeply. There was no reason she knew of that would cause Meria to treat her with such discourtesy. Had she not saved Meria's son from certain death? Had she not, through her magic, kept her husband Ruathain alive long after his heart should have failed?
She trudged back to the house, placed a kettle on the stove, and made herself a mug of camomile tisane.
There had been a seed of bitterness in Meria's heart ever since her first love, Varaconn, had died. She had then married Ruathain, and the bitterness had flowered, causing the marriage to founder. Then, when near tragedy brought them together again, Meria had seemed a changed woman. She laughed often, and was carefree, her green eyes alive with hopes and dreams. Then Ruathain died in the first great battle against the Vars. Meria had not laughed since.
Yet why she should shun one of her oldest friends was a mystery to Vorna, and a source of grief. Especially when one of her grandchildren hovered at the point of death. Meria knew Vorna was a healer, yet such was her apparent hatred that she would let her grandson die rather than come to the one person who might save him. Vorna sipped her tisane and moved away from the window. Banouin, she knew, had tried to heal Ruathain, and for some days he appeared to have succeeded. But then the boy suffered a relapse, his fever returning.
'I cannot understand it,' Banouin had told his mother, during a spirit visit. 'It seems as if the disease is emanating from within his own body, as if it is at war with itself. Every time I heal an injured organ it begins to wilt again, worse than before.'
Vorna had been able to offer no clue, but had thought about the problem deeply for weeks afterwards. Knowing that the boy was being brought to Three Streams she had hoped to be able to examine him herself, floating her spirit through his bloodstream, seeking to identify the cause of his illness. She knew now that she would not be asked for help.
'What did I do to you, Meria?' she asked aloud. 'What crime have I committed against your family?'
A sharp rapping sounded at the door. Vorna put down her mug and called out for the visitor to enter. A young soldier pushed open
the door. He was tall and well formed, his long dark hair hanging between his shoulders in a tight braid. Vorna smiled, seeing both Gwydia and Fiallach in the boy's features. 'Welcome, Finnigal,' she said.
'You know me, lady?' he asked her.
'You look like your father,' she said, 'tall and strong, with the same ferocious glare.'
He grinned. 'Most people say I take after Mother,' he told her.
'There is that too. What can I do for you, soldier?'
'I have been asked to contact the man Bane, to purchase more cattle to feed the refugees. I understand that you are his friend, and that my request might be better-received if I went to him in your company.'
'Come in and sit,' she told him. 'May I offer you a drink? Ale, uisge, or a calming tisane.'
'The tisane would be pleasant,' he said, removing his sword belt and cloak.
'Would you like it sweetened?' she called from the kitchen.
'Aye, lady. I have a sweet tooth.'
She returned with a mug and passed it to him. Then she sat opposite him. 'Bane is your cousin. Why would you need my help to speak to a member of your own family?'
'My father dislikes him, and, though I have not met Bane, I wondered if he would refuse my request because of the bad blood between them.'
'Put your mind at ease, Finnigal. Bane would never see children go hungry because of his quarrel with Fiallach.'
'It sounds as if you like him.'
'Indeed I do. His treatment by his own family has been shameful.' She saw his face harden. 'Reserve your judgment until you have met him, Finnigal.'
'I do not judge him,' the young man told her. 'I do not know him. The Lady Meria says he is - as his name shows - accursed. Ill fortune will follow any who seek his company. She says the blood of a bastard is thin, and that, at heart, all bastards are treacherous and mean-spirited.'
'Ah well, I bow to her judgment,' said Vorna coldly. 'She knows more about mean-spiritedness than any person I have ever met.'
Finnigal rose. 'I did not come here to listen to slanders against the king's mother,' he said. 'Will you aid me with Bane?'
'No. You will not need me. Treat him with respect and he will agree to your request. Be warned though, young man - if you offer him any discourtesy you will pay for it dearly.'
'I was raised to offer courtesy to all people,' said Finnigal.
'Then you will have no problem with Bane,' she said.
Finnigal offered a slight bow, strapped on his sword belt, looped his cloak over his shoulders, and left the house.
Vorna sat quietly, seeking an inner calm, which continued to evade her.
Gwenheffyr had always been reserved, a quiet child who had grown into a shy woman. Her gentle nature radiated harmony, and no-one had ever known her to raise her voice in anger. As a child she had been often ill, and on three occasions had come close to death. 'She will not be long-lived,' some said. 'She is too delicate.'
Slim and small, her dark hair emphasizing the paleness of her features, Gwen was seen as a fragile creature. It had surprised all who knew her that she had given birth to three lusty babes.
She sat now at Ruathain's bedside, little Orrin beside her. Her youngest child, Badraig, was asleep in his cot close by. 'Why doesn't he get better?' asked Orrin, peering at Ruathain's face, eerily pale in the lantern light, and damp with sweat.
'I am sure that he will. . . soon,' said Gwen, putting her arm round Orrin and kissing his head.
Orrin took hold of Ruathain's skeletal hand, and began twisting the white gold and moonstone ring on his brother's finger. 'It will fall off soon,' said the boy.
Gwen nodded, and tears began to form. She took a deep breath. 'Time for you to sleep, little man,' she said.
'I'm not tired, Mam,' argued Orrin.
'Then just lie down for a little while, then come out and join us by the hearth,' said Gwen, leading Orrin to the second bed. The little boy climbed onto the bed and slid his legs under the covers.
'I won't sleep,' he said.
Then I'll see you soon by the fire,' she told him, leaning down and kissing his cheek. Rising from the bedside she took a last look at Ruathain, and walked out of the room. Meria was sitting by the fire, a white shawl around her shoulders. Gwen moved past her to the door and pulled on a pair of shoes. Then she took a cloak from the peg by the door.
'Where are you going?' asked Meria.
'I thought', said Gwen softly, 'that I would ask Vorna to tend Ruathain.'
Meria glanced up, her features hard. 'To what point?' she asked. 'Her son has great talent as a healer - far greater than hers. If he could not heal the boy, then calling upon her would be a waste of time.'
'Even so . . .'
'And she is no friend to our family,' snapped Meria. 'I w
ould not wish to see her invited to my home. Let us speak no more of it.'
Gwen sighed, replaced the cloak on its peg and moved to the chair opposite. For a while she looked into the fire, thinking of how strong and healthy Ruathain had been before this dreadful illness. Sadness swept over her. 'I think he is going to die,' she said, tears in her eyes. 'Vorna might know of some remedy . . .'
'I said we will speak no more of it!'
Gwen sat very quietly, Meria's anger causing her to tremble. She had always hated raised voices and argument. Closing her eyes she thought of Bran, and wondered how such a warm and compassionate soul could have sprung from a harsh and unfeeling woman like Meria. Gwen wished she could have known Bran's father, the first Ruathain. Men still spoke of him with fondness, and talked of his love of family and his affinity with children. Meria had never once hugged Gwen's sons, or shown any genuine affection towards them. It was a mystery to Gwen. Opening her eyes she glanced across at Meria. The older woman seemed to be dozing. Gwen rose from the chair and moved back into the bedroom.
Orrin was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. Ruathain was lying very still, his skin gleaming in the lantern light. She stroked his brow. The skin was hot, but he seemed more comfortable. Gwen sat down beside him, holding his hand.
She was still there two hours later when his breathing grew more shallow. Suddenly his eyes opened. He looked at Gwen and gave a smile. She felt him squeeze her fingers.
Then he died.
* * *
Bane could not sleep. Throwing back the covers he climbed from his bed, pulled on a knee-length tunic of pale grey wool, and walked out into the main room. The fire was almost dead and he blew it to life, adding fresh fuel. The events of the day would not leave him. Riding into Lorca's camp had been an act of almost suicidal stupidity, and he was angry with himself. Had it not been for the crippled warrior Grale, he would now be dead, his body dumped in the forest, food for foxes and worms.
From the back bedroom he could hear Gryffe snoring. The sound was somehow comforting, although, in a way he could not quite fathom, it left Bane feeling isolated and alone. He sat quietly, feeling the heat of the fire wash over him. Truth to tell, he missed Rage and Telors. All the while he had been in Stone he had thought of the mountains and forests of Caer Druagh with a fondness covered by the warmth of the word home. Yet now he was here the same warmth touched him when he remembered Rage. It was as if contentment was always somewhere else, floating before him like a wraith, ever beckoning, never found.