Midnight Falcon

'Were you always so contemptuous of your calling?' Bane asked him.

'Always,' Rage told him. 'And it was not a calling. I went into the arena because it was the only way I could make money. I never learned to love it.'

The snow began to ease around noon, and Bane saddled the grey and followed the directions Rage gave him to the forge of Octorus. It was two miles north of Goriasa, in a small settlement of some twenty stone-built houses, constructed close to a garrison fort. Children were playing in the snow as Bane rode up, hurling snowballs at one another. One sailed close to the grey, who reacted skittishly, and almost slipped on the ice.

'Sorry,' yelled a boy with ginger hair. Bane grinned at him and rode the grey into a paddock beside the forge. A young man came out and took charge of the horse, asking Bane if he was staying the night. Bane told him no, then walked into the forge.

It was almost unbearably hot inside, with two charcoal fires burning, and several men beating hammers upon red metal. Bane called out for Octorus, and one of the metalworkers cocked his thumb towards a door at the back of the forge. Bane moved through the forge, sweat beading his brow, and pushed open the door.

Beyond the forge was a gallery, containing armour, helms, and weapons of all kinds, from longswords to axes, lances to pikes. At the far end sat an elderly man, carefully burnishing a handsome helm with gold-edged ear guards.

Bane approached him. The old man looked up. He was still powerfully built, with a bull neck and massive forearms. His eyes were the colour of slate, his hair still dark, his skin wrinkled and dry. 'What do you want?' he asked.

'I need some armour made.'

'Then go back to Goriasa. There are craftsmen there more suited to your pocket.'

'I was told you were the best.'

'I am the best,' said Octorus. 'But the best costs more, and I have no time to waste with poverty-stricken tribesmen.'

Bane laughed. 'Rage told me you were a cantankerous old bastard, but that I should make allowances, in deference to your skill.'

Octorus put aside the helm, laying it gently on a cloth. 'If Rage sent you then you cannot be as poor as you look,' he said. He glanced at Bane's short sword and gave a derisive snort. 'You don't have much judgment, though, judging by the pig sticker you carry.'

'It has served me well so far,' said Bane.

'Aye, fighting other savages who wear no body armour. Three whacks on one of my breastplates and that… thing would either be blunted or broken. So, what are you looking for?'

Bane told him. Octorus listened in silence. Then he walked to the western wall, beckoning Bane to follow him. For the next few minutes he pointed out various breastplates and helms, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of each. 'This one will withstand a thrust from a charging lancer,' he said, 'but it is too heavy for arena work. It would slow you down. This one is light enough for a rider, but would not withstand a prolonged assault by a fighter who knew what he was doing. Well, let's try a few and see how they feel.'

After an hour Bane had settled on a burnished iron helm, an iron breastplate embossed with the shapes of pectoral and solar plexus muscles, a pair of bronze greaves, and an iron sword with a steel edge.

'That will be twenty-five in gold,' said Octorus.

'I didn't think I was buying the forge as well,' muttered Bane, opening his pouch and emptying the contents into the palm of his hand.

'Still time to change your mind,' said Octorus.

Bane smiled. 'I like your work. It is worth the money,' he said, counting out the coins.

'Persis will give you eight back,' said the old man. 'That's what he normally pays, I understand. I'll have the armour sent to you. Now we'll have a drink to celebrate the transaction.'

Octorus took him back through the gallery, and into the house beyond, and the two men sat before a warm fire nursing goblets of uisge.

'So,' said Octorus, 'are you fighting in this crazy death bout?'

'No. Rage says I am not ready.'

Octorus shook his head. 'No-one is ever really ready,' he said. 'I fought twelve such bouts myself. Dry mouth, full bladder. When the gates open and you step out onto the sand you never feel ready.'

'You survived,' Bane pointed out.

'Aye, I survived. Barely. Bastard pierced my lung – just before I opened his throat. I was good, but not great. After that I wasn't even good. Didn't have the wind any more. Lung never really healed properly.' He drained his uisge and refilled the goblet. 'Now Rage was great. Utterly deadly. Never seen a man more focused. Crowds didn't like him at first. He was too fast. Walk out, take the salute, wait for the trumpets, then move in.' Octorus snapped his fingers. 'Then, just like that, his man was dead and Rage was marching back to the exit gate. No entertainment value, you see. Then, of course, people began to bet on just how fast Rage would win. A drummer would sound a slow beat after the trumpet blast, and when the poor bastard facing Rage died a man would call out the number of beats. Don't suppose there'll be a drummer this time.' Octorus shook his head. 'Rage is a fool to go back. You can't hold back the years. They march on, stealing a little from you with every passing season. Has it been announced who is to face him?'

'No,' said Bane.

'It'll be Vorkas.'

'Vorkas?'

'Circus Palantes took him on this season. He's a five-year veteran of the eastern wars. His first death bout was in the spring. He fought a good man – a Name. Killed him fast. Since then he's had around six – maybe seven – death bouts. But he needs a really big kill to become a crowd puller.'

'Why do you think it will be him?'

'He ordered a new gladius from me. Said not to deliver it – he'd pick it up himself. I don't think Vorkas will be coming all the way from Stone just to spectate.'

'Does Rage know this?'

'He may be old, but his mind is sharp enough. He'll have guessed.'

It was snowing heavily when Bane rode the grey from the settlement, and it was growing bitterly cold. Wrapping his cloak around him he eased his mount out onto the road. His face and hands were blue as he reached the last rise above the farmhouse. Glancing down he saw a black speck moving on the distant hillside. It was Rage, running the training route. Bane angled the grey down the hill, dismounted and led him into the stable. Unsaddling him he rubbed him down, then walked him to a stall, forked hay into the feeding trough, and moved back to the house.

Cara was sitting on the windowsill of the main room, watching the snow-covered hillside for signs of Rage. She glanced up as Bane entered. 'You should be fighting – not my grandpa,' she said, her blue eyes angry.

'He would not let me, Cara. And, anyway, without him there would be no fights at all.'

'I know,' she said. 'Circus Palantes want him dead so they can earn more money. I hate them!'

'He's very strong and tough,' said Bane, removing his cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door. 'Perhaps you shouldn't worry so much.' The words sounded lame, but he could think of nothing else to say.

'Grandpa is an old man. He's enormously old. They shouldn't do this to him.' Her face crumpled, and she began to cry. Bane grew increasingly uncomfortable.

'He is a man, and he makes his own decisions,' said Bane.

'He is a great man,' she replied, wiping her eyes, and returning her gaze to the hills. 'And he's coming back now. I'll make him a tisane. He always has a tisane after training.' Jumping from the sill she ran from the room.

Bane walked to the window and watched as Rage ran into the yard, then slowed, and began to stretch. Stripping off his shirt and leggings he lay down and rolled in the snow, then stood and stretched out his arms. He saw Bane, nodded a greeting, pulled on his leggings and entered the house. Cara brought him a hot tisane, which he sipped in a wide chair by the fire. Cara sat on the arm of the chair, her hand on Rage's shoulder.