Midnight Falcon

'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.

'I thought you said this was a rest day,' observed Bane.

'It is for you, boy. But I've been resting all week nursing you along. I needed a good run to clear my head. Did you see Octorus?'

'Yes. He took almost all my coin.'

'You won't regret it. His armour is the finest.' To Cara, he said: 'Would you fetch me something to eat, princess?' She smiled happily and left the room. Rage drained his tisane and rose.

'He said you would be fighting someone named Vorkas.'

'That's no surprise,' said Rage. 'Word has it Palantes are grooming him for next year's Championship.' Removing his red silk headscarf he walked to the window, pushing it open. Scooping some snow from the outer sill he rubbed it over his bald head.

'Is there anything I can do to help you?' asked Bane.

'Help me? In what way?'

'Well, you said I was slowing you down. Perhaps I should train alone.'

Rage was silent for a moment, then he smiled. 'Do not concern yourself, boy. It is not your problem. And I was only half serious. You are coming along well. I saw you talking to Cara as I ran back. She looked upset.'

'Very upset – and frightened.'

'I'll talk to her.' Rage walked back to his chair and slumped down. He looked dreadfully tired, thought Bane. The young Rigante looked closely at the ageing warrior, seeing the many scars that criss-crossed his arms and upper body.

'I'd be fascinated', said Bane, 'to hear what you're going to say to her. You know you shouldn't be fighting this bout. It is madness.'

'It is all madness, Bane,' said Rage sadly. 'It always was. But I cannot change the way the world works. The farm is almost bankrupt and my stake in Crises is worthless. All I have of worth is my name. The coin I make will ensure a comfortable life for Cara – at least until she is wed. I have named Goren as her guardian, and he will take good care of her.'

'You talk as if you expect to die.'

'I will or I won't – but either way Cara will be protected.'

Chapter Six

Persis Albitane always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Crimson Priests. Not that he had anything to fear, he thought hastily, but they had a knack of making a man feel he did. He glanced at the man, and was unnerved to find the priest staring at him. As with all priests, he had a shaven head and a forked beard, dyed blood red. He was wearing an ankle-length tunic of pale gold, unadorned save for a long pendant of grey stone in a setting of cold iron.

'Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down?' asked Persis. 'They may be some time yet.'

'I am comfortable, Persis Albitane,' replied the priest. Persis shuddered inwardly at the use of his name.

'So,' he said, forcing a smile. 'Is this your first visit to Goriasa?'

'No. I came in the spring for the arrest of two traitors.'

'Yes, of course. I remember now. And how are things in Stone?'

'Things?'

Persis could feel sweat trickling down his back. 'It is a long time – almost two years – since I was last in the Great City. I was wondering…' What was I wondering? he thought, his mind close to panic. How many innocent people have you dragged from their beds to be burned at the stake? What new levels of horror and cruelty have you managed to achieve?