David Gemmell - Rigante 2 - Midnight Falcon

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MIDNIGHT FALCON

BANTAM PRESS

LONDON • NEW YORK • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

Dedication

During my schooldays I observed many teachers. Some were good, some were bad, and some were inept beyond

belief. But only one was great. Midnight Falcon is dedicated with enormous affection to Tony Fenelon, a teacher

of the old school, tough, uncompromising, and devoted to the children in his care. His belief in us gave us belief

in ourselves. Those of us who were heading in the wrong direction owe him more than we can ever repay.

Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks to the many test readers who helped steer me through the tough times, especially Jan Dunlop,

Alan Fisher, Stella Graham, and Steve Hutt. Thanks also to my copy-editor, Nancy Webber, and to the many

readers whose letters and e-mails are a constant source of inspiration.

Chapter One........................................................................................................................................ 5

Chapter Two..................................................................................................................................... 16

Chapter Three ................................................................................................................................... 30

Chapter Four..................................................................................................................................... 39

Chapter Five ..................................................................................................................................... 52

Chapter Six....................................................................................................................................... 60

Chapter Seven .................................................................................................................................. 73

Chapter Eight.................................................................................................................................... 88

Chapter Nine .................................................................................................................................. 100

Chapter Ten .................................................................................................................................... 111

Chapter Eleven ............................................................................................................................... 124

Chapter Twelve .............................................................................................................................. 136

Chapter Thirteen............................................................................................................................. 147

Chapter Fourteen ............................................................................................................................ 159

Chapter Fifteen............................................................................................................................... 167

Chapter Sixteen .............................................................................................................................. 173

Epilogue ......................................................................................................................................... 182

Chapter One

Parax the Hunter had always despised vanity in others. But he knew now just how stealthily it could creep up on

a man. The thought was as cold and bitter as the wind blowing over the snowcapped peaks of the Druagh

mountains. From his saddlebag Parax drew a woollen cap, which he pulled over his thinning white hair. His old

eyes gazed up at the majesty of Caer Druagh, oldest mountain, but he could no longer make out the sharp, jagged

ridges, nor the distant stands of pine. All he could see now was the misty whiteness of the peaks against the

harsh, grainy blue of the sky.

His weary pony stumbled, and the old man grabbed at the pommel of his saddle. He patted the pony's neck

and gently drew rein. The beast was eighteen years old. She had always been strong and steadfast - a mount to be

trusted. Not any more. Like Parax she was finding this one hunt too many.

The old man sighed. At thirty he had been at the peak of his powers, one of the foremost trackers in all the

lands of the Keltoi. It did not make him boastful, for he knew he had been gifted with keen eyes and an intuitive

mind. His own father, himself a great hunter and tracker, had taught him well. At five the young Parax could

identify over thirty different animals by track alone: the leaping otter, the ambling badger, the cunning fox, and

many more. His talent had been almost mystical. Men said he could read a man's life in the blade of grass

crushed beneath a boot heel. This was nonsense, of course, but Parax had smiled upon hearing it, not recognizing

the birth of vanity in that smile. What was true, however, was his ability to read a man from the trail he left;

where he made his camp and placed his fire showed how well or little he understood the wilderness, how often

he rested his mount, how swiftly he moved, how patient he was in the hunt. All these things spoke of a man's

character, and once Parax understood his prey's character he would find him, no matter how cleverly he hid his

trail.

By the time he was thirty-five Parax's fame had spread to the lands of the Perdii, whose king, Alea, recruited

him to the royal household. Even then he did not allow undue pride to colour his personality. At fifty, in the

service of Connavar the King, he allowed himself what he considered to be a quiet satisfaction in his

achievements. Though his eyes were marginally less keen, his reading of trails still seemed almost magical to

those who watched him. Even at sixty he could still follow a trail as well as any man, for by then he had a

lifetime of acquired skills to give him an edge over younger men. Or so he believed, and in that belief vanity like

a hidden weed grew unnoticed in his heart. Now past seventy, he had known for some years he was no longer

pre-eminent. No longer even competent. The knowledge hurt the old man. But not as badly as the conceit which

made him deny its truth to the man he loved most - the king.

Parax had served Connavar for almost twenty years - from the day the young warrior had rescued him from

the slave lines of Stone, and brought him back to the towering mountains of Druagh. He had ridden beside him

when the youngster became Laird, and then War Chief, and finally the first High King in hundreds of years. He

had been beside him on that bloody day at Cogden Field, when the invincible army of Stone had been crushed by

the might of Connavar's Iron Wolves. He shivered again. Connavar the King had trusted Parax - and now age

and increasing infirmity had made the old man betray that trust.

'Find the boy Bane,' the king had said, 'before the hunters kill him - or he kills them.'

Parax had looked into the king's odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold, and he had longed to admit

the truth, to say simply, 'My skills are gone, my friend. I cannot help you.'

But he could not. The words clung within his throat, on talons of false pride. He was one of the king's trusted

advisers. He was Parax - the greatest hunter in the known world, a living legend. The moment he voiced the truth

he would become merely a useless old man, to be discarded and forgotten. Instead he had bowed awkwardly and

ridden from Old Oaks, his mind in torment, panic lying heavily upon him. His fading eyes could no longer read

the trails and he had been forced to follow the hunting pack for days, hoping they would lead him to the young

outlaw.

Then had come the final ignominy. He had lost the hunting pack. Twenty riders!

Parax had wept then, tears of bitterness. Once he could have tracked a sparrow in flight, now he could not

find the spoor of twenty horses. He had been following about a mile behind them, but had dozed in the saddle.

His paint pony, tired and thirsty, had scented water and pulled away from the trail, wandering to the east. Parax

had awoken with a start as the pony climbed a steep, wooded hillside. The old man had almost fallen from the

saddle. Heavy clouds obscured the sun, and Parax had no idea where he was. The pony led him to a bubbling

stream, where Parax dismounted. His back ached and his mouth was dry. Kneeling, he cupped water into his

hands and drank.

'Outlived my usefulness,' he said aloud. The pony whinnied and stamped its foot. 'You know how old I am?'

he asked his mount. 'Seventy-two. I once trailed a robber for three weeks. Caught him on the high slopes, up in

the rocks. The king paid me twenty silver coins and named me the Prince of Trackers.' Removing his old

woollen cap he splashed water to his face and beard. He was hungry. There were muslin-wrapped slices of

smoked bacon in his pack, along with black bread and a small round of cheese. He wanted to unpack them and

prepare a fire, but then the late-afternoon sun broke through the clouds, and he dozed, his head resting on a round

rock.

He dreamt of better days before his eyes failed, days of laughter and joy after the young king had driven the

Stone soldiers from the northland. Laughter and joy - save for the king himself. The Demon King, they called

him, because of his ferocity, and because men recalled the terrible revenge he took for his wife's murder.

Connavar, then a mere Rigante Laird, had single-handedly wiped out the murderer's village, burning it to the

ground and killing men, women and children. From that day on Parax had never heard him laugh, had never seen

joy in his eyes.

In his dream Parax saw the king, standing in the moonlight on the battlements of Old Oaks. Only now there

were ghosts floating around them both, a young woman with long dark hair and a pale face, and a giant of a man

with a braided yellow beard. They were reaching out to the king. His scarred features paled as he saw them.

Parax knew them both. The girl was his dead wife, Tae, the man his stepfather, Ruathain.

'You broke your promise, my husband,' said the ghost of Tae.

Connavar bowed his head. 'Oh, Tae,' he said, 'I am so ashamed.'

'Will you still take me riding?'

Connavar gave out a groan and fell to his knees. Parax stood silently by, knowing the cause of the king's

grief. He had promised to ride with Tae to a distant lake, but on his way home had met with a woman he had

once loved. Arian had held to him, and he had bedded her. Hours later, upon his return to Old Oaks, he

discovered that Tae had ridden out with Ruathain and had been killed during a surprise attack by men who had a

blood feud with his stepfather. Connavar remained on his knees, head bowed. The giant figure of Ruathain

loomed over him. 'Family is everything, Conn. I thought I taught you that.'

'You did, Big Man. I never forgot it. I have looked after Wing and Bran and Mam.'

'And Bane?'

Connavar's face grew angry. 'I regret that. But I could not bear to see Arian again. My lust for her killed Tae -

and destroyed my life!'

'You made a mistake, Conn. All men do. But Bane was blameless, and he has grown to manhood without a

father. He watched his mother, grief-stricken and broken, fade away and die lonely. He deserved better from you,

Conn. You should have acknowledged him. It is not as if there was any doubt. He looks like you - even down to

the eyes of green and gold. And because you shunned him all men shunned him.'

The dream was terribly real and Parax wanted to reach out and comfort the king, who seemed stricken by

grief and ashamed. Then the vision faded, replaced by a stand of trees, branches gently swaying in the wind.

Then - for the merest heartbeat - the old hunter saw a veiled woman standing close by. She was leaning on a

staff. A huge black crow flew down from the trees and perched upon her shoulder. Parax was instantly terrified.

For this, he knew, was the dreaded Morrigu, the Seidh goddess of mischief and death.

He awoke with a start, and cried out. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. He gazed around at

the tree line, but there was no veiled woman, no black crow. The smell of sizzling bacon came to him and he

thought he must still be dreaming. Turning his head he saw a man squatting by a fire, holding a long-handled pan

over the flames. The man glanced across at him and grinned.

'You were having a bad dream, old man,' he said amiably. It was getting dark and the wind was chill. Parax

moved closer to the fire and wrapped his green cloak tightly around his thin shoulders. He stared hard at the

young man. He was beardless, his long blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck, a thin braid, in the style of

the Sea Wolves, hanging from his right temple. Dressed in a hunting shirt of pale green, with a sleeveless brown

leather jerkin, buckskin trews and knee-length riding boots, he wore no sword, but was turning the bacon with a

hunting knife of bright iron.

'You are the Wolfshead, Bane,' said Parax.

'And you are Parax, the King's Hunter.'

'I am - and proud of it.'

Bane laughed. 'Men say you are the greatest tracker of all.'

'So they say,' agreed the old man.

'Not any more, Parax,' said the youngster, with a rueful smile. 'I have been watching you. You've crossed my

trail three times in the last two days. The third time I left a clear print for you to see and you rode straight past it.'

Parax leaned in closer. Now he could see the odd-coloured eyes, one green, one tawny gold. Just like his

father, thought the old man. Just like the king. He seemed older than his seventeen years, harder, more knowing

than he should be. 'Are you planning to kill me?' he asked.

'You want me to?'

'There would be a kind of poetry in it,' said Parax. 'The first time I met your father he was around your age.

He had come to kill me. I had tracked him for days, with a group of Perdii warriors. Oh, but he was clever, and

killed seven of the hunters. And he did everything to throw me from the trail. Great skill he had for a young man.

I tracked him over rock, and through water. He almost fooled me one time. His tracks disappeared below the

branch of an oak. He had hauled himself up, then run along the branch and leapt to a nearby tree. But I was not

old and useless then. I found him.'

'So why didn't he kill you?'

Parax shrugged. 'Didn't know then, don't know now. We shared a meal, and he rode off to join the army of

Stone. When next I saw him he was the man who had killed the Perdii king, and I was roped and tied and ready

for deportation to the slave mines. He recognized me, and saved me. Now here I am with his son. So, are you

going to kill me?'

'I have nothing against you, old man,' said Bane. 'I'd just as soon let you live.'

'Then you'd better share that bacon,' said Parax. 'Otherwise I might starve to death.'

'Of course. The food is yours, after all.' Bane speared a strip of bacon on his hunting knife, then passed the

pan across to the hunter. They ate in silence. The bacon was full of flavour but a little too salty and Parax moved

back to the stream for a drink.

'How did you evade the hunters?' he asked, as he returned to the fire.

'It wasn't difficult. They didn't really want to find me. Can't say I blame them. Most are married men, who

wouldn't want to leave behind young widows.'

'You are a cocky whoreson,' snapped Parax.

'Indeed I am. But I am also very good with sword or knife. I have fought my battles, Parax. Twice against

Sea Raiders, and three times against Norvii outlaws.' He tapped the thick gold clasp round his left wrist. 'Uncle

Braefar himself awarded me this for courage. It should have been awarded by the king - but that would have

been too embarrassing.'

Parax heard the rising anger in the young man's voice and changed the subject. 'So why did you allow me to

find you?'

Bane laughed. 'You didn't find me, Parax. I found you. I felt sorry for you. It must be hard to lose one's

skills.'

'Aye, it is hard. Though I doubt you'll live long enough to know how hard it is. So, why are we having this

meeting?'

The young man did not answer at first. He carried the pan to the stream, washed it, dried it with grass, then

returned it to the old man's pack. Then he stretched out by the fire. 'I was intrigued. I know why Uncle Braefar's

men were after me. But not why the King's Hunter should have been sent. Nor, indeed, why you did not ride with

the other hunters.'

'The king does not want to see you dead,' said Parax.

Bane gave a scornful laugh. 'Is that so? My father does not want to see me dead. How touching. In all my life

he has not spoken to me - save when I won the Beltine Race and he awarded the prize. "Well done." In my

seventeen years they are the only two words I have heard my father speak. And now I am to believe he is

concerned for my welfare?'

'I cannot speak for his concerns. He asked me to find you. Gave me a bag of gold to give you.'

'A bag of gold? What a sweet man!' Bane spat into the fire.

'He is a good man,' said Parax softly.

'Be careful, old man,' warned Bane. 'I am not known to be overly forgiving. I have killed two men in the past

five days. A third will not trouble my conscience.'

'My understanding is that they spoke slightingly of your dead mother, then waylaid you after you had beaten

them with your fists. A trial would most certainly have seen you acquitted.'

'And this bag of gold is to aid my trial?'

'No,' admitted Parax. 'It is to help you once you have left Rigante lands. The men you killed were kin to the

general, Fiallach. He has sworn a blood oath to fight you. The king does not want either of you hurt.'

Bane laughed, the sound merry and full of humour. 'He doesn't want Uncle Fiallach killed, you mean?'

'If that is what he had meant, then that is what he would have said,' snapped Parax.

'I like loyalty,' said Bane. 'I don't have much experience of it, but I like it none the less. So I will let you live,

and I will take the bag of gold.' His voice hardened, and an edge of cold fury showed through. 'But maybe I will

not leave. Maybe I will stay and challenge Fiallach. And cut his throat in front of the king.'

Parax was silent for a moment. 'I have rarely seen such depths of anger in a man,' he said. 'It saddens me,

Bane. Fiallach is headstrong. He is also a great fighter, but more than that he is married to your mother's sister.

You think your mother's spirit would rejoice in seeing the father of her nephews cut down by her son?'

'No, she wouldn't,' he admitted, his anger fading. Parax saw the sorrow in his eyes. In that moment, with the

ferocity disappearing, he looked much younger. 'I will let him live,' he said. 'Did you know my mother?'

'No. I knew of her.'

'And what does that mean?' asked Bane icily.

'It means I know the history, boy. She was Connavar's first love, but she married another man when she

thought Conn was dying. That marriage did not succeed.'

'No need to be coy, you old bastard! The marriage did not succeed because Connavar forced himself upon her

and sired me. Then he left her in disgrace. Never spoke to her thereafter. Her life was ruined, and she died a sad

and broken woman. Let us understand the full history.'

'That is not even close to being the full story, but it is not for me to debate it. I will ask this, though: did your

mother ever say he forced himself upon her?'

'She didn't have to.'

Parax sighed. 'It seems to me men always believe what they want to believe. No point arguing over it. It is

time for me to be going.' He walked to his pony, opened his saddlebag and pulled forth the pouch of gold, which

he tossed to the young man.

Bane laughed. 'Now you can ride back to the king and tell him his old hunter is still the best there ever was.

He found the Wolfshead when no-one else could.'

'I shall tell him the truth - and I shall hunt no more.'

'Well,' said Bane quietly, 'if you're going to tell him the truth, tell him that I have always hated him, and that

one day I shall cut his vile heart out for what he did to my mother.'

'You would have to be very, very good to defeat Fiallach,' said Parax. 'But to kill Connavar you would have

to be the best there ever was. And you are not that, boy. Not by a damn sight.'

'Perhaps I will be when next we meet,' said Bane softly.

Parax climbed wearily into the saddle. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'I may be old, Bane, and my physical skills

faded and gone. But my mind is still sharp, and it hunts the truth as well as it ever did. Why did you not wait for

the trial, and walk free? And once you decided to run why did you remain in these hills playing catch-as-catch-

can with the hunters?'

'Because I am a free man, and I live as I please.'

'No, it is because you want it to end,' said Parax. 'Grief-stricken at the loss of your mother, and hurting from a

life of rejection and denial, you are waiting for death. Longing for it perhaps. So I hope you are right, boy. I hope

you will ride from here and spend time developing your skills. For, like Connavar, you have it in you to be a

great man. And, like him, I don't want to see you dead.'

With that Parax heeled the pony forward and rode from the clearing.

Most people felt the years had been kind to Vorna the Midwife. Now in her fifties, her long hair was still

predominantly black, though streaked with silver, her skin smooth. She looked like a woman ten years younger

as she sat on the porch of her house, watching the last of the sunshine bathing the settlement of Three Streams.

Such is the power of Wicca, she thought. The earth magic ran in her blood, slowing down the ageing process.

Once she had been widely known as Vorna the Witch, respected and feared by the populace. Now, with them

believing her powers to be gone, she had found popularity, and treasured it. It was pleasant that people waved

and smiled when they saw her. It was good when they invited her into their homes.

Yes, she thought, the years have been kind to Vorna.

She shivered suddenly, though it was not cold. From here she could see Nanncumal's forge, and hear the

steady thumping of his hammer, and, to the right, the house once occupied by Connavar's parents, Ruathain and

Meria. Vorna sighed as the old memories flowed. She glanced at the towering peaks of Caer Druagh, the fading

sunlight turning the snow to pale gold. So little has changed in the mountains, she thought. And yet so much in

our own lives.

Looking back over the meadow to Ruathain's old house Vorna pictured him strolling across the grass, her son

on his massive shoulders. Ruathain had always seemed so full of life and strength. Vorna closed her eyes. Living

with regret was futile, she knew. A waste of time and emotion. But as one got older it became harder to avoid it.

Best to endure it, and let it pass.

Sitting in the sunshine Vorna saw again her own husband, the little Stone merchant, Banouin, setting off on

his last ride, the young Connavar beside him. Banouin had turned and waved, then blown her a kiss. The

memory still brought a knot to her stomach and a lump to her throat. He had not lived to see his son born.

Now the young Banouin had also ridden away. He too had turned and waved from the hilltop. And Vorna

was alone once more - just as she had been all those years ago, before Connavar had fought the bear. Before she

had danced with Banouin on Feast Night. Before she lost her witch's powers. Before she had secretly regained

them.

Vorna stood and walked to the first stream, stopping to enjoy the beauty of the pale purple foxgloves growing

along the banks. Her thoughts were mellow, almost to the point of melancholy, and it seemed to her that the

ghosts of the past were standing close. The mighty Ruathain, the earth maiden Eriatha, the crippled Riamfada,

and the tormented Arian.

'I hope you are now at rest, child,' whispered Vorna. Thinking of Arian brought thoughts of her son, Bane.

Such a terrible name to give a child. It meant 'curse' in the old tongue. Arian, in her selfishness and her grief, had

wanted all the Rigante to know of her suffering.

Yet despite the burden of his name the boy had developed well - save for his word-blindness. The king had

decreed that all Rigante children should learn to read and write. For some reason that Vorna could not

understand Bane, despite his intelligence and the quickness of his wit, could not grasp the skill. The druid,

Brother Solstice, who taught the children of Three Streams, sent Bane to her home, to study with Banouin, who

had mastered the lessons with ease. But even with the tireless help of Banouin the young Bane struggled.

Bane had other skills, however, and some of them brought great delight to Vorna. She smiled as she

remembered the badger cub.

Looking round to make sure she was alone she knelt and drew a circle in the air, then whispered three Words

of Power - ancient words in a language no longer spoken by men. A silver circle glowed into life among the

foxgloves. Vorna gently blew a breath into it. The air within the circle rippled like a heat haze and an image

formed there. Vorna gazed once more at the nine-year-old boy and the blind badger cub. Kneeling among the

flowers Vorna watched the silent scene unfold, her mind drifting back to that early summer night eight years

before.

The sun had been down for around an hour when she heard the rap at the door. Climbing from her bed Vorna

had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked out into the night. Bane was standing in the moonlight, a

very young badger nestling against his leg. As she opened the door she saw the badger's shoulders bunch, its

black and silver head swaying from side to side.

'What are you doing with that beast?' asked Vorna, keeping her voice low.

'I was in the woods,' said the child. 'I saw it. It moved past me, then bumped into a tree. Then it stumbled

over a rabbit hole. There's something wrong with its eyes, Vorna.'

'How did you get it back here?'

'It took a long time,' said the boy. 'Watch!' He moved away from the cub, then knelt and made clicking noises

with his tongue and teeth. The cub swayed from side to side, then moved towards the sound. As he reached Bane

the boy stroked its brow. 'It was like this. I got him to follow me, but he kept wandering away. It took hours to

get him here. Can you heal him?'

'There is no herb for blindness, Bane,' she said.

'But can you heal him?'

'What makes you think that I can?' she had asked, warily.

'I can keep secrets,' he countered. 'And you can trust me.'

She looked into the child's odd eyes and smiled. 'I think that I can,' she said. Then she had knelt by the badger

and gently placed her hands on its head, allowing her spirit to flow into the beast's bloodstream, and on through

its body. The badger cub fell into a deep sleep. It was badly malnourished, and infested with fleas and worms.

But the worst of the problems lay in the brain. A cancerous growth was pressing against its skull, causing the

blindness. Opening her eyes she turned to the boy. 'There is a shoulder of cold ham in the larder. Put it in a bowl

and fetch it here. And try not to wake Banouin!'

Bane ran off and returned with the meat. Placing one hand on the ham, the other on the badger's head she

closed her eyes once more. Now she flowed within the cancer, feeling the pulse of its life, its need to grow. With

infinite care she honed her concentration, and began to draw the rogue cells into her own body, sucking them

through her bloodstream, breaking them down, reconstituting them, transmuting them from flesh to energy. The

cold ham began to writhe under her hand, maggots crawling over her fingers. Sweat beaded her brow, and ran in

rivulets down her cheeks. Still she held the focus. At last, satisfied that she had removed all trace of the cancer

from the cub, she sat back and opened her eyes. Bane was staring in horror at the putrid, writhing mass that the

ham had become.

'Those maggots were in the badger?' he asked.

'In a way. Take it and bury it. Then we will wake the little beast and feed it.'

'I will tell no-one, Vorna. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that.'

'How long have you known?'

'I saw you light a fire last year with a flick of your fingers. I was outside the window. I have told no-one.'

'Why did you keep the secret?'

'Because it was your secret,' he said. 'And I thought you would not want people to share it.'

'You were right. Now bury that meat.'

Vorna smiled at the scene in the circle, then flicked her fingers. The circle vanished and she rose to her feet.

As she did so she saw a rider angling a dappled grey down from the eastern woods. 'Reckless boy,' she

whispered. But she felt her spirits lift a little as the young fugitive crossed the bridge and cantered across the

meadow. He drew up in front of the house and leapt down, a wide smile on his face, sunlight glinting on his

golden hair.

'I hope you have food ready,' he said. 'I was tempted to stop and eat the horse.'

'Foolish child!' she admonished him. 'Of all the places to come. Do you want the hunters to find you?'

'Ah, you worry too much. Anyway, they are miles away and will not be back until well after dark.' He

grinned at her, then led the grey gelding into the barn. Vorna sighed, shook her head and walked into the house.

Cutting a large slice of meat pie she scooped it onto a plate and laid it on the dining table. Bane stepped into the

room, pushed closed the door and sat down. Vorna poured him a mug of water, then sat by the hearth, waiting

until he had finished his meal.

It was cool in the room and Vorna whispered a Word of Power. Flames sprang up in the fireplace, licking

around the dry wood.

'I never tire of seeing you do that,' said Bane, rising from the table and seating himself in the old horsehide

chair opposite Vorna.

She smiled as she looked at him. He had his father's eyes and his mother's beauty. 'What are your plans?' she

asked him.

Bane shrugged. 'I have none. But I do have a bag of gold. A present from my loving father. Ah, but his

kindness touches the heart.'

'He was always kind to me,' she said, 'but let us not argue the point. I am far too fond of you to wish to see

you angry.'

'I couldn't be angry with you, Vorna,' he said. 'Next to my mother you have been my greatest friend. I see

Banouin has already left. You think he'll come back?'

'That will depend on whether he finds what he's looking for,' she said, her voice heavy with sadness. She

looked into Bane's strange eyes. 'It will also depend on whether he survives to find it.'

'You think he is in danger? Have you had a vision?'

'I have many visions, but none concerning my son. Or you. I think my love for you both blocks my power.

What I do know is that he is riding south, through a wartorn land full of violence and destruction. And he is not a

warrior, Bane. You know that.'

'Aye, I do. He is not . . . strong,' he finished lamely.

'You are a good friend to him,' she said, with a smile. 'You always were.'

He blushed. 'I know I always got him into trouble, and you were constantly scolding me.'

She shook her head. 'You never were very comfortable with compliments. Even as a child.'

Bane chuckled. 'Never received enough to become accustomed to them.' He walked to the window and

pushed open the shutters. Then he scanned the hills. The sound of hammering was still coming from

Nanncumal's forge. 'Poor grandfather,' he said softly. 'First his wife, then his daughter. He has suffered much.'

'You have forgiven him?' asked Vorna.

'Aye, I have. It was hard for him to have a disgraced daughter back in his house. In some ways I think he

blamed me. But he was never harsh to me. He was even kindly in his own way. When I saw him weep at my

mother's death all the anger just flowed away from me.' Turning back towards her he gave a rueful smile.

'Difficult to hate a man who loved someone that you loved.'

'That is a good lesson to learn,' she said.

'I'm not awfully good at learning lessons,' he admitted. 'I can write my name and the word for horse.'

Returning to the fire he sat back, resting his blond head on the back of the chair. 'I have always liked this room,'

he said. 'It is so calm here. I feel at peace.'

'I know what you mean,' Vorna told him. 'It is a good house. Many happy memories are stored in these walls.'

He sat up. 'I spent three nights in your old cave. Threw the hunters off the scent. How long did you live

there?'

'Twenty-five years.'

'I was going out of my mind by the fourth morning. How could you dwell in such a desolate place?'

'I was a different person then. Younger, more bitter.'

'That's where you saved Connavar's life,' he said. 'I thought of that often as I hid there.'

'Had I not done so you would never have been born,' she pointed out. 'And I would not have wed Banouin's

father. Hence no Banouin. And what would the world have been without you two?'

'Duller,' he said. His smile faded. 'Tell me about Connavar and the bear.'

'What is it you wish to know? Everyone knows the story.'

'Aye, they do. But is it all true, Vorna? Did he really stand against the beast to save his crippled friend? Or

was there another reason?'

'No other reason. He tried to carry Riamfada away from danger, but the bear was coming fast. So he put his

friend down and turned to face it, armed with just a dagger. He was two years younger than you are now.' Vorna

sighed. 'Do not look so disappointed, Bane. Would you want your father to be a coward?'

'Probably. I don't know, Vorna. Everywhere I go men talk of his legend. His battle against the Sea Wolves,

the ride of the Iron Wolves to smash the Stone Panthers at Cogden Field, the siege of Barrow Hill. The great

Connavar! The hero! How could such a hero desert my mother? How could he let his son grow without even a

gesture of parental affection?'

Vorna took a deep breath. 'Perhaps you should ask him.'

'Maybe I will one day.'

She saw a touch of sadness cross his face. You are so young, she thought. Little more than a boy. But then

another fear touched her. 'What are you planning to do?' she asked him.

'Do? Why, I shall run the hunters ragged until they catch me.' He gave a bright smile, but she held to his

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MIDNIGHTFALCONBANTAMPRESSLONDON•NEWYORK•TORONTO•SYDNEY•AUCKLANDDedicationDuringmyschooldaysIobservedmanyteachers.Someweregood,somewerebad,andsomewereineptbeyondbelief.Butonlyonewasgreat.MidnightFalconisdedicatedwithenormousaffectiontoTonyFenelon,ateacheroftheoldschool,tough,uncompromising,anddevoted...

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David Gemmell - Rigante 2 - Midnight Falcon

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