Midnight Falcon

Bane looked into the man's dark eyes. 'Aye, you are clear,' he said.

'Then strip off your shirt and stand.'

Bane did so. Rage looked at him closely, turning him round and examining his muscle development. 'The biceps and shoulders need work,' he said. 'But you are built for speed and strength. You came from good stock.' He paused and peered closely at the scar on Bane's chest. 'Short sword. Should have pierced the lung and killed you. How did you survive?'

'I don't know,' said Bane. 'Luck?'

The wound in your back is also from a gladius. Were these wounds from the same fight?'

'Yes.'

'More than one assailant?'

'No. Just the one.'

'He stabbed you first in the back?'

'No,' said Bane. 'Here.' He tapped at the scar on his hip.

'Ah, I see. You rushed him. He side-stepped and stabbed you in the back as you went past. Then you tried to turn and fight him and he finished you with a lunge to the chest. Skilled man. Very skilled.'

'Aye, he was that,' muttered Bane.

'A gladiator?'

'I have been advised to be wary when speaking of… my wounds,' said Bane.

'Good advice,' said Rage. 'All right, put your shirt on, and let's get to work.'

He took Bane to one of the wooden frames. A round pole had been extended between two supports ten feet above the ground. Rage extended his arms, leapt lightly and hung on the pole. Then he drew himself up until his chin touched the wood. He repeated the move twenty times then dropped to the ground. 'Now you,' he said.

Bane found the exercise easy – for the first ten raises. The next five were difficult, the last five excruciating.

For the next hour Rage put him through a series of agonizing routines. Bane completed them all, until, exhausted, he sank to the cold ground.

'Time for breakfast,' said Rage.

'I don't think I could eat,' said Bane.

Rage shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said, and wandered into the farmhouse. Bane joined him, and sat quietly while Rage prepared a pan of oats and milk, which he placed on a black iron stove.

'Why are you still fighting in the arena?' asked Bane, as the warrior stood over the pan, stirring the contents.

'Why would I not?'

'Persis said you earned fabulous sums as a fighter.'

'Indeed I did. I managed to save almost ten thousand in gold. But it was stripped from me when I quit. All I had left was this farm.'

'Why did they take your money?'

'I brought the noble name of gladiatorial combat into disrepute. Now you tell me why you want to become an arena warrior. Glory, riches, revenge?' He glanced back at the blond-headed young man.

'Aye. One of those.'

'I thought so,' said Rage. 'You want to find the man who almost killed you, and prove to yourself that you are the better man.'

'No,' snapped Bane. 'I want to kill the whoreson for what he took from me.'

'Interesting,' said Rage. 'But your friend's advice still remains good. Let us talk no more of it at this time.'

The door opened and a young girl entered the kitchen. Bane judged her to be around thirteen years old, very slim, with long, white-blonde hair. She was wearing a brown cotton nightdress, and she yawned as she moved to the table. 'Good morning, Grandfather,' she said sleepily.

'You slept late, princess,' said Rage. 'Did you have nice dreams?'

'I never remember dreams,' she said. 'You know that.' Then she noticed Bane, and turned towards him. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and very large. Bane smiled at her. She did not respond.

'Who are you?' she asked him.

'I am Bane of the Rigante.'

'I am Cara,' she told him, sitting opposite him at the table. 'You look exhausted.'

'Indeed I am.' Bane found her directness both engaging and off-putting.

Rage served the thick porridge into three wooden dishes, which he placed on the table. 'There is honey, sugar or salt, whichever is your preference,' he told Bane.

Bane shook his head, and drew a plate towards him.

'It will be very hot,' said Cara. 'Best to leave it for a while. Or add some milk. Otherwise you'll burn your tongue.'

Bane chuckled and shook his head.

'Why do you laugh?' she asked him. 'Did I say something amusing?'

'I was just thinking how like your grandfather you are, princess,' he said.

'I am not a princess,' she said sternly. That is just what Grandfather calls me. But you may call me princess, if it pleases you.'

‘Then I shall,' said Bane. 'Is your mother still sleeping?'

'My mother is dead,' said Cara, pouring cold milk onto her oats.

'I am sorry.'

'Why?' asked Cara. 'Did you know her?'

'No. I meant I am sorry for you. My mother died earlier this year. I miss her.'

'I don't miss my mother,' said Cara. 'She died when I was a baby. I don't remember her.'

'Did your father die too?'

'No. He went away. He might be dead now. We don't know, do we, Grandfather?'

'We have not heard from him,' said Rage.

'So, is it just the two of you that live here?' asked Bane.

'We have four herdsmen who have rooms at the far end,' said Rage, 'and two servants who live down the hill.'

After breakfast Rage sent Cara back to her room to wash and dress. Then, after cleaning the porridge pan and dishes, he took Bane outside once more.

'I will train you,' he said. 'You will stay here. I will have a room prepared. Every morning this week we will run and work. Next week we will begin on your sword skills. Now you will excuse me. I need to see to my dairy herd.'

With that he wandered back into the house. Bane gathered up his cloak, swung it round his shoulders and set off back to Goriasa.

Having paid for his room at the tavern Bane saddled the grey and rode back to the farmhouse just before noon. A fat, middle-aged Gath woman took him to a spartanly furnished room facing west. There was a narrow bed, a chest for his clothing, and two wooden chairs. The walls were white and unadorned, save for an empty shelf to the right of the door. The room was spacious, some twenty feet long and fifteen wide, and there was a large window, with red-painted wooden shutters that opened outwards. A fire was blazing in the hearth.

'If there's anything you need you have only to ask,' said the woman. 'My name is Girta, and I cook and clean here three times a week.'

'Thank you, Girta,' said Bane.

'You are Rigante, aren't you?' said Girta.

'Yes, I am.'

'I have a cousin who dwells among the Rigante now. He left years ago with Osta and other fighting men to serve Connavar. I have often thought of crossing the water to join him. Don't suppose I will now, though. I have no wish to see more wars and death.'

Bane did not respond and Girta moved to the doorway. 'The others will be here within the hour. I'll serve the meal then,' she said.

'Others?'

'The other gladiators,' she told him. Then she pulled shut the door behind her and Bane heard her walking away down the corridor. Taking off his cloak he draped it over the back of a chair then pushed open the window. From here he could see a line of wooded hills, and the distant stone road that led to Goriasa. The sky was clear above the hills, but in the distance dark storm clouds were bunching over the sea.

Tired from his efforts that morning he pulled off his boots and lay down on the bed. He thought of Banouin, and wondered again why his friend had deserted him. Oranus had told him Banouin had boarded a ship the morning after the killings. It made no sense to the young Rigante. They had been friends. Did I misjudge him so badly? he wondered.

Then he slept lightly, and dreamed of Caer Druagh, and of Lia. He was holding her hand on the mountain slope, and pointing down at the settlement of Three Streams. Then she began to float away from him. He ran after her, but she was swept along like a leaf in the wind, ever higher, until she vanished among the clouds.