'Blood raid,' he whispered.
'Do not speak,' said Arbon. The blood flow from the three wounds in his upper chest was easing. But the fourth, low on the left side, was still streaming. Arbon's grey eyes narrowed as he watched the flow. It was even, which was a relief, for if an artery had been pierced the blood would be pumping rhythmically. Even so the situation was critical. They were some five miles from Three Streams and Arbon knew that even if Ruathain could ride, which was doubtful, he would be dead before they reached the settlement. Swinging to the other riders he ordered one of them to race back to Three Streams and fetch Vorna. Removing his cloak Arbon cut a long strip from it with his dagger. Laying Ruathain on his back Arbon folded the strip, then placed it over the wound. Crossing his hands over the padding he applied firm pressure. Ruathain had passed out again, and his breathing was shallow.
For some minutes Arbon applied pressure - resisting the urge to lift the pad and see if the bleeding had stopped. He cursed himself silently for not carrying needle and thread. When Ruathain's pony had galloped into the settlement Arbon had guessed his lord was in trouble, and in his haste to reach him had forgotten his medicine sack. Arbon's son, Casta, knelt on the other side of the wounded man. 'What can I do, Father?' he asked.
'Make a pillow of your cloak and lift his head.' Casta did so. 'Now look for his heartbeat. Count it aloud for me.' Casta gently pressed his fingers under Ruathain's jaw.
'One . . . two . . . threefourfive . . . six . . . seven. It is very erratic, Father.'
'As long as it's bloody beating,' muttered Arbon. 'Gods, I am an idiot. I've had that medicine sack for twenty-six years. And when I need it it's five miles away.'
'You couldn't have known he'd been attacked.' Casta glanced at the four bodies. 'All of them had swords. The lord had only his dagger.'
'Aye, he's a hard and deadly man. And he'll need to be to survive this. Take the pressure for me. My arms are weakening.' Casta placed his big hands over the pad and pressed down as Arbon pulled away. The older man stood and stretched his aching back, then cast an expert eye over the area. 'They came at him in a rush. Got in each other's way, thank Taranis!' He wandered to the bodies. They were all young men, not one of them past twenty.
'Why would they try to kill him?' asked Casta.
'Blood feud. Some time ago Ruathain killed two Pannone cattle raiders. These were probably relatives.'
'He's starting to shiver,' said Casta.
Arbon covered Ruathain's chest with his ruined cloak, then moved off to gather dry wood for a fire. He had it blazing well when he heard riders thundering up the slope. Twisting he saw Vorna riding a paint pony. The former witch slid from the saddle, lifted clear a saddlebag and ran to Ruathain's side. Other riders came up, Meria among them.
Vorna lifted the padding clear of the wound. A little blood was still seeping, but the flow had stopped. 'You did well,' she told Casta. Then she set to with needle and thread.
Ruathain's eyes opened. Meria took his hand and kissed it. He gave a weak smile, then lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
'Will he live?' asked Meria.
Vorna felt his pulse. 'I believe that he will,' she said. 'Now let me finish these stitches.' Turning to Arbon she called out: 'Cut two long poles and make a stretcher. He'll not be able to ride.'
It took almost four hours to bring Ruathain down from the mountain. Meria ordered that he be laid in her bed, then sent the men on their way. She and Vorna sat silently at the bedside. Ten-year-old Bendegit Bran waited with them. 'Should I fetch Wing?' he asked.
'Where is he?' said Meria.
'Swimming at the Riguan falls with Gwydia.'
'No, don't worry. Your father will be fine.' Meria's hand reached out, pushing a lock of hair back from Ruathain's brow. As she touched the skin his eyes opened.
'Where am I?' he asked.
'Home,' she said. 'You are home.' Her green eyes filled with tears.
'Whisht, woman! No point in tears. I'm not dying.'
'You fool,' she said, softly, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. 'That's not why I'm crying.'
For a moment they sat in silence. Then he lifted his arm and drew her to him. 'I love you, lass,' he said.
'And I you, foolish man.'
Vorna rose and, taking Bendegit Bran by the arm, led him from the room, pulling shut the door behind them.
'Is my father going to be well?' asked the golden-haired child.
'Oh yes,' she said. 'They'll both be well.'
The sun was slipping behind the western peaks as Vorna made her way to Banouin's house. She still did not think of it as home. Somehow, without Banouin's vibrant presence, and despite the abundance of furniture, rugs and ornaments, it seemed strangely empty.
Vorna took a deep breath and paused in her walk, as nausea struck her again. During the last month she had - despite the camomile tea - been lucky to hold down one meal in three. She leaned against the fence rail of Nanncumal's paddock and closed her eyes. A cool breeze blew through her long black and silver hair. It was most refreshing.
As a witch Vorna had often experienced childbirth through the Merging, but - thankfully - had never had to suffer such sickness. For most women, she knew, nausea was commonplace in early morning. It usually passed swiftly, and was gone without too much discomfort. Others - and it seemed she was one - carried it like a curse. Vorna straightened. The ride out to Ruathain had unsettled her stomach and brought on a dull ache in her lower back. She stretched, and carried on walking.
The house was cool and she lit the fire in the main hearth. Suddenly she shivered, and looked round. There was no-one there. This surprised her, for, in that moment, she had felt certain she was not alone. Rising she moved across the room, pushing open the bedroom door. Moonlight was shining through the wide window, illuminating the broad bed with its patchwork quilt. But the room was empty. Again she shivered. 'Who is here?' she whispered. No answer.
Moving back to the hearth she sat down in Banouin's favourite chair and closed her eyes. The powers the Morrigu had given her were gone now, but as a child she had enjoyed power of her own, a sensitivity to mood and atmosphere far beyond the norm. It was this that had allowed her to see Riamfada's spirit moving among the Seidh. She sought that talent now.
Something was close. Demon or spirit? Sitting quietly she analysed her feelings. No, she was not frightened, therefore it was unlikely to be anything malevolent. A whisper of cold air brushed her brow. Then it was gone, and with it the emptiness returned to the room. Vorna opened her eyes. Just a passing spirit of the night, she thought, journeying to who knew where.
Vorna prepared herself a meal of boiled oats and milk then sat down once more, waiting for the bowl to cool. She thought of Banouin, wondering where he was at that moment.
She pictured him wearing the bronze brooch, with the blue opal. 'It will bring you back to me safely,' she said, aloud. 'It is the strongest charm I possess.'
Taking up the porridge bowl she began to eat. Almost immediately the nausea came, and she put down the bowl and leaned back in her chair. A fluttering of wings made her start. A huge crow settled on the back of a couch and began to preen its feathers. Anger flared in Vorna's breast, swamping her nausea.
The Morrigu was standing in the doorway, her ragged shawl about her shoulders.
'What do you want?' hissed Vorna.
The Morrigu advanced into the room and sat down opposite Vorna, reaching out her ancient hands to the fire. 'Perhaps I just wanted company,' she said, with a sigh. Resting her head on the back of the chair the Morrigu closed her eyes. 'Eat your porridge,' she said. 'I have taken away your sickness.'
'I am not hungry.'
'Do not be selfish. You are eating for two. Your son needs sustenance, Vorna. You will not want a sickly child, or a cripple like Riamfada.'
Fear sprang up like a blizzard in the heart. 'Are you threatening me?'
'It is not a threat. The child is nothing to me. Be calm, Vorna. Eat your porridge.'
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Vorna once more took up the bowl. When she had finished the meal she added another log to the fire and sat staring into the flames. She had no idea what the Morrigu really wanted, but she knew the Seidh would tell her in her own time. The room was silent, save for the crackling flames and the occasional ruffle of feathers from the crow. Vorna glanced at the Morrigu. The old woman seemed to be asleep. After a while Vorna could stand the suspense no longer.
'Why did you really come?' she asked.
'I doubt you would believe me, Vorna,' said the Morrigu. 'But I thought you would want someone here when the visitor raps at your door.'
'What visitor?'
'A ferryman from the south. He will be here shortly. Go to the door. You will see him crossing the first bridge.'
Vorna pushed herself upright and crossed the room. As she swung open the door she could see a man walking in the moonlight. He was trudging head down as if weighed by a pack. He paused at the third bridge then saw Vorna framed in the doorway. Slowly he walked towards her. Vorna stepped out to meet him.
'My name is Calasain,' he said.
'I know who you are, ferryman. I helped your wife with the birth of your son.'
'So you did, yes. Yes.' The old man licked his lips nervously. He did not - could not - look Vorna in the eye. 'Your man . . . Banouin . . . crossed the river some three months back. My son . . .' He fell silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. 'My son is a thief,' he said, suddenly, the words coming in a rush. 'He stole from Banouin. I only found out a few days ago. I didn't know what to do. I thought I would wait for the Foreigner to come back. Then . . .' he fell silent again.
'It is late and I am tired,' said Vorna. 'Say what you have to say.'
Calasain opened the pouch at his side and pulled clear a brooch. The blue opal glittered in the moonlight. 'Senecal took this from the Foreigner's saddlebag. I was going to wait, but it kept gnawing at me. I couldn't sleep. I just had to bring it here.' Reaching out he handed the cloak brooch to Vorna.
The former witch leaned against the door frame, her face ashen. Calasain stepped forward just as she fell. Catching her the old man helped her to the chair by the fire. Vorna's eyes opened and tears fell to her cheeks. Calasain knelt beside her. 'Are you ill?' he asked.
'Your son . . . has killed my husband,' she said.
'No, no. I swear he only stole the brooch. Banouin rode off with Connavar. I promise you.'
'Go away. Get away from me,' sobbed Vorna, turning her head.
Calasain climbed to his feet. He thought he heard a bird flap its wings and swung round. The room was empty. 'I am sorry, lady,' he said.
He stood for a moment, waiting for a response. When none came he trudged out into the night, pulling shut the door behind him.
'I am sorry too, Vorna,' said the Morrigu.
'Get out and leave me in peace,' said Vorna.
The Morrigu sighed. 'I have a gift for you. Your powers will return as soon as I have gone. But they will vanish with the dawn.'
Vorna surged upright. 'I don't want. . .' she began. But the chair opposite was empty.
Lost and alone Vorna sank back into the chair and began to cry.
Once more a soft breeze brushed through her hair, and this time she sensed the source. Settling back in the chair she released her spirit and rose from her body. There, by her chair, stood the glowing figure of Banouin.
'I came back,' he said.
CHAPTER NINE
valanus leaned back in the hot perfumed water and stared across the new bathhouse, with its marble columns and wooden benches set in ornately carved recesses. It was a picture of elegance and style, and a sight he had sorely missed during his missions among the barbarians. Easing himself deeper into the water he felt his muscles relax. Splashing his face he ran his fingers through his short-cropped white hair, then closing his eyes he imagined himself back in the city, with its theatres and gardens.
His contentment was shattered by a sudden commotion. Valanus sat up and glanced towards the marble-panelled doorway. Three Keltoi chieftains stood clustered there. The Stone officer suppressed a smile as a servant tried to encourage the chieftains to step inside and remove their clothing. One might as well teach a monkey to play the flute, thought Valanus, as teach these barbarians the essentials of civilized living. Dunking his head under the warm water he rolled over and swam across the tiled bath, emerging at the far end, just below where the three Keltoi were standing.
'It was only an invitation, Ostaran,' said Valanus, with a forced smile, 'not a command. You don't have to bathe. Some of your people, I understand, fear warm water.'
Ostaran gave a cold smile, then stripped off his shirt, leggings and boots and handed them to the servant. The man held the items at arm's length, as if fearing the garments would stab him, then carried them to a shelf nearby. Ostaran sat on the side of the bath, dipping his feet into the water. His two companions watched him, their expressions grim. Ostaran breathed in deeply. 'It smells of lavender,' he told them, then eased himself over the side. Once in the water he splashed his face, rubbing his slender hands over his drooping blond moustache. Untying the two braids he shook his hair loose and ducked under the surface.
'Not as bad as you thought?' asked Valanus, as Ostaran surfaced. Looking up at the other men he grinned. 'Where a Gath can go surely Ostro warriors can follow?'
'Not always,' said the first man, a powerfully built tribesman with a forked red beard. 'I heard of a Gath who once stuck his head up a cow's arse for a bet. Turned his hair green. I never heard of an Ostro who would follow that.' So saying, he gestured to his companion and they left the bathhouse. Valanus turned to see Ostaran smiling.
'You always smile when you are insulted?'
'He wasn't insulting me. He was mocking you.'
Valanus called out for soap. A servant brought him a glass vial. The Stone officer poured the contents into his hands then rubbed lather into his hair. Ducking down he rinsed it, then rose again. 'What do you think of the bathhouse?' he asked Ostaran. The Gath leader gazed around the building, scanning the four huge baths, surrounded by stone columns, the high windows, and the elaborately carved benches and shelves. When he spoke there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
'Seems a waste of stone and labour,' he said. 'A man can wash in a stream if he has a mind to. However, it is pleasant. I'll grant that.'
Moving to the side Valanus sat on a ledge, close to the inlet pipe carrying hot water. It was warmer here. Ostaran joined him. 'What have your scouts heard about Connavar?' he asked.
'There is no sign of him. The Perdii thought they had him trapped in the hills. They captured his ponies, but he killed two of their warriors and escaped on foot.'
'Two more? How many does that make?'
'Six - seven if you include the merchant he tortured to death in Alin. Apparently he captured one of their scouts. He left him tied to a tree with a message for Carac. He said to tell the king he would be back to cut his throat, that nothing on earth would save him.'
'A somewhat angry lad,' observed Valanus, drily. 'But I must admit I would not want him for an enemy. You met him, didn't you?'
Ostaran nodded. 'He was with the honey-man. We didn't speak.'
Valanus chuckled. 'You are a fighter, Ostaran. As am I. Be honest. He unsettled you, did he not?'
'Any man who would tackle a bear with a knife unsettles me,' admitted Ostaran. Lifting his hands from the water he stared at his fingers. 'My skin is wrinkling,' he said, obviously disconcerted. 'I shall leave now.'
'Not before a massage, surely? We have highly trained slave boys who will rub warm oil into your muscles. Trust me, it is not to be missed.'
'You have no trained women for this task?'
'Young men are better,' said Valanus. 'It avoids the complication of arousal. Or not, depending upon your appetites. Come, try it. Then you can tell me all you have learned about Carac's army.'
The two men stepped out of the bath. Immediately servants ran forward, with war
m towels. Once they were dry Valanus led Ostaran through into a long room with seven flat couches. Two young men were waiting there. Valanus stretched himself out, belly down, on a couch. Ostaran sat down on the couch beside him, then rolled onto his stomach. The two servants began their work. Valanus relaxed as the youth's nimble fingers stroked the muscles, easing out the last of his tension. He sighed and closed his eyes, wishing that he was back in Stone, where he could have dressed and taken a carriage to the amphitheatre and watched the latest play, before dining at the River Room.
The servant worked on the muscles of his lower back and hips, then along his hamstrings and down over his calves. Valanus rolled onto his back, allowing the youth to complete his work on his quadriceps and finally his chest and neck. When the massage was over the servant, using a rounded ivory knife, scraped the excess oil from Valanus's lean body and offered him a white robe. As he donned it Valanus saw that Ostaran had fallen asleep on the couch. The servant tending him glanced at Valanus for guidance. The Stone officer waved him away, then gently nudged the Keltoi. Ostaran opened his eyes and yawned.
'Good?'asked Valanus.
'Most excellent.' Ostaran sat up and stretched his shoulders. Valanus saw an old scar extending from his collarbone and up over his shoulder blade.
'Looks like a spear thrust,' he said. Ostaran nodded.
'A raiding party from the Perdii. It was months before it finally healed, and it still pains me in cold weather.' He rolled his shoulder. 'Your boy has loosened it wonderfully. I thank you, Valanus, for talking me into this.'
'Think nothing of it, my friend. Now, tell me what you have learned.'
'You were right about Garshon. He is supplying iron ore for swords, spearheads and armour to the Perdii, in return for Carac's silver. However, he has, on our behalf, reached agreement with the Ostro and they will supply Jasaray for the campaign.'