Midnight Falcon (9 page)

Oranus rubbed his eyes and transferred his gaze to the thin man standing by the door. He did not recognize him. The man's face was dotted with spots of blood, and there were wooden splinters in the skin of his forehead. Just for a moment the sheer incongruity of the man's injuries lightened his headache. But only for a moment.

The morning had been quiet until the barbarian had been brought in. He glanced back at the chained tribesman, sitting glowering in the cell. He was young, and powerfully built, with long blond hair, a single braid hanging from the temple. He wore no tribal cloak, but Oranus felt sure he was not Cenii. There was something untamed about him, which suggested he had not endured the yoke of Stone. Perhaps Norvii or Rigante, he thought. Oranus filled a cup with water and drained it. Then he turned his attention back to the angry group.

'Silence!' he bellowed, as hammers of fire thudded at his temples. He pointed at the red-headed whore. 'You, Roxy. You speak first. The rest of you keep your mouths shut.'

'The bastard assaulted me, sir. Robbed me of my life's savings. Kicked in my door, he did, when I was with a friend. Hurled the friend through the window.'

'That's me,' said the man at the back, with the splinters in his forehead. 'We were talking when the savage burst in. I tried to remonstrate, but he grabbed me and sent me flying into the shutters. I went straight through. Luckily there was a canopy under the window, which broke my fall.' He sighed. 'Bet he didn't know about the canopy,' he said. 'Strong canvas, luckily. Well made. Didn't even tear.'

'It is not even remotely possible that I could care less about the canopy,' said Oranus, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Did you know the tribesman?' he asked the whore.

'He enjoyed my company some time earlier,' she said coyly.

'Which is when she stole my pouch of gold,' said the prisoner, in passably good Turgon.

'What a liar he is,' said the woman, her voice full of outrage. 'Has it come to this, that a businesswoman can be maligned in the office of the Law?' She smiled sweetly at Oranus. 'I could help you with that headache, sir.'

'That's just what I need,' snapped Oranus. 'A headache – and a dose of pox. You!' He pointed to the pimp, Nestar, a thickset man, with short, greasy black hair. His nose was swollen and bloody, his right eye almost closed. 'How did you come into this?'

'I was downstairs and I heard Roxy cry out. I took up my cudgel and ran up the stairs. When I stepped into the doorway he came at me, and butted me. I fell back down the stairs. That's when he robbed Roxy of our savings,' he said, casting a murderous glance at the whore. 'He came down the stairs and I yelled out to my men to stop him. I say "my men", but they're not any more, sir. A more useless pair would be hard to find. He swatted them like they were flies and walked out into the street. I mean, to look at them you'd think they were tough. Big hands, strapping shoulders. Fooled me, though. He treated them like the farm boys they are.'

'That's not fair,' said one of the men. 'He took us by surprise.'

'You're paid not to be surprised, donkey-brain!'

Oranus slammed the flat of his hand onto the table, the noise making them jump. He lifted his hand, holding his index finger a hair's breadth from his thumb. 'I am this close to locking you all in for the rest of the day and for tonight,' he said. 'Now will you continue with your story, and hopefully finish it before year's end?'

Nestar nodded. 'I'm sorry, sir. Anyway, after swatting these imbeciles he ran out into the street, where happily several soldiers of the Watch were on hand. They grabbed him. I think you'll find he lashed out at them, too, sir. That's what comes of allowing these barbarians into a civilized township, if you don't mind me saying.'

'I do mind you saying,' said Oranus. He rose from his chair and swung to the prisoner, who was sitting on a cot bed within the cell. Oranus looked into the man's eyes, and felt suddenly cold. Memories of the past almost overwhelmed him, and his hands began to tremble. Fighting for control he took a deep breath. 'What have you to say?' he asked the prisoner. The man stood and stared through the wooden bars at the assembled group.

'The woman says I stole her money. Then I ran from the building and was grabbed by your soldiers. Is this correct?'

'That would seem to be their evidence,' said Oranus. 'Your point is . . . ?'

'Ask her how much was in the pouch.'

'You heard him,' said Oranus. 'How much was there?'

'Oh, around twenty-five gold coins,' she said. 'Maybe thirty. I don't recall exactly.'

'There are thirty-two gold coins, three half silvers and five copper,' said the prisoner coolly. 'And doesn't it seem remarkable that I had time to count them all, while running down the stairs and into the street?'

'Aye, remarkable,' said Oranus, turning a cold stare to the whore. 'So you stole his pouch. That's a flogging offence, Roxy. Fifty lashes.'

'You going to take his word over that of a tax-paying businesswoman?' she shouted, her eyes fearful.

'Not his word, whore! His arithmetic.'

'I knew nothing about any theft,' said Nestar, holding up his hands. 'As you know, I run a lawful establishment.'

'I know what you run,' said Oranus, his gaze holding to the frightened eyes of the red-headed woman.

'I can't take another flogging,' she whimpered, backing away towards the door. 'It'll kill me.'

'Perhaps you should have thought of that before robbing him,' said Oranus.

'I don't want to see her flogged,' said the prisoner. 'Do I have a say in this?'

Oranus felt a wave of relief, and a lessening of his headache. If the barbarian wished to bring no charges the whole matter could be forgotten, and his office would be quiet again, peaceful. There would be no papers to fill in, no further enquiries to make. He could remove his breastplate, step into the cell, lie down on the cot bed, and close his eyes. Keeping his expression stern he looked at the whore, then back at the prisoner. 'It is your pouch,' he said at last. 'The crime was against you, not against town property. If you are happy to see the matter forgotten then there is little I can do.' He tried to sound regretful, and gave the whore a withering look.

'What about me?' asked the man with the splinters in his brow. 'He threw me through the window!'

Oranus gave a bleak smile. 'You are quite right,' he said. 'There should be a public trial. You can appear and explain how you were in a whore's room when one of her other customers broke in and assaulted you. Let's see,' he said, opening a ledger on his desk. 'Court will be in session tomorrow at noon.'

'I don't want to go to court,' mumbled the man.

'And what about you, Nestar?' asked Oranus. 'Do you want to go to court?'

The pimp shook his head.

'Right,' said Oranus. 'Everyone out! And if I see you brought before me again, Roxy, I'll have you hanged.'

The woman fled the room, as did the other men. Oranus unlocked the cell door, and removed the chains round the prisoner's wrists. 'Where are you from?' he asked the man.

'North.'

'Rigante?'

'Aye.'

'You are a long way from home.'

'I like to travel.' The young man scooped up his pouch and tied it to his belt.

'Why didn't you wish to see her flogged?' asked Oranus. 'She deserved it, you know.'

'She was a very good companion,' said the man, with a wide smile. 'And it was my own fault for falling asleep. Am I free to go?'

'That depends on where you are going. Do you have friends in Accia?'

'I am staying with the general, Appius, while my friend recovers from a fever.'

'Ah, Appius! I heard he had arrived. The gods alone know what he did to be consigned to this flea-infested cesspit.' Oranus took a deep breath. 'You'd better be leaving,' he said. 'It'll be dark soon, and tribesmen are not allowed out after curfew. And watch out on the way back. The pimp, Nestar, may lie in wait for you. That's a lot of gold to be carrying.'

The man grinned widely. 'He won't be waiting for me.' Then he was gone. Oranus moved to the door and slid the bolt. Then he took off his breastplate and stretched out on the cell bed.

Tomorrow he would call on Appius and pay his respects. He closed his eyes, remembering the bloody retreat from Cogden Field. With the memory came the awful fear that had dogged Oranus ever since, that had burned away his ambition, and corroded his courage. In his mind's eye he saw again the broken line, the slashing blades, heard the choking, bubbling screams of his comrades as their throats were slashed or their limbs hacked away. It was as if a host of devils in human form had materialized out of the mist, their bodies daubed with blue paint, their eyes gleaming with evil intent. Oranus shuddered. He had been lucky. He – and around forty other panic-stricken men – had managed to run to the safety of the rearguard, organized by Appius. They had then fought their way back to the previous night's fortified camp. Throughout the long night the enemy had attacked, but Appius, with great skill, had marshalled the defences. Then the enemy had withdrawn.

Even then the terror did not stop.

As they waited on the earth-built ramparts they saw the enemy pushing the three captured catapults towards the walls. There was no fear at first, for there were no stones for them. But the tribesmen did not hurl stones. They loaded the firing basins with severed heads, and rained these down on the camp. By morning the open ground within the walls was filled with them.

As dawn came a rider on a grey horse approached the walls, reining in his mount just out of bowshot. Oranus, and all the other defenders, had stared at the man. This was Connavar, the Demon King. They had seen him fight the day before, cutting and killing like a man possessed. He sat now on his grey, his patchwork cloak billowing in the dawn breeze. Appius strode to the battlements, stood silently for a moment, then glanced at Oranus.

'Follow me,' he said. To the horror of the terrified Oranus, he clambered over the battlements and climbed down into the trench and up the other side. Oranus scrambled down after him and the two men walked out onto open ground.

Appius walked slowly, arms clasped behind his back, as if he was out for a morning stroll. Oranus looked at him, and saw no fear in the patrician features. They reached the horseman. Oranus looked up once. He was wearing a white-plumed, full-faced helm of gold-embossed iron. Only his baleful eyes showed through the curved slit. He seemed somehow inhuman. Oranus focused instead on the hilt of the sword in the scabbard at the king's side. He heard Appius speak.

'Your men fought well, Connavar.'

Connavar ignored the compliment, and when he spoke his voice, distorted by the helm, sounded metallic and cold. 'You have two choices, Appius. You can stay here and we will destroy you, or you can march your men back to the lands of the Cenii. If you give me your word you will not stop until you reach the sea I will allow you to pass unhindered. And I will see that supplies are brought to you on your journey.'

'Will you return to us the body of Valanus?'

'I doubt I could gather all the pieces, or recognize them if I tried,' said the king.

Oranus felt his legs begin to tremble, and he almost passed out with fear.

'Then it shall be as you say, Connavar. But I have badly wounded men in the fort. I will need some wagons for them.'

'You will have them. Be ready to leave in an hour.'

'I'll need a little more time to bury the heads you . . . returned to us.'

'Two hours then,' agreed Connavar. The king swung the grey and cantered back to the waiting Keltoi army.

Oranus turned to the general. 'If we leave the fort, sir, they will surely massacre us.'

'Perhaps, though I doubt it. Connavar is a cunning strategist, but also a man of his word.'

'But why should he allow us to leave?'

'Because – although he has won the battle – his forces have taken huge casualties. Any full attack on us here would see him lose three men to our one. Yes, we would die, but it would achieve nothing. As it is, we will march away with our tails between our legs, and every surviving man will talk of the Demon King of the Rigante. We will carry his legend home, and it will spread like a plague. The next army to march here will march with fear in their hearts.'

The long, slow march to the coast had been a painful one. Many of the wounded died on the way and were buried by the roadside. All along the way Keltoi tribesmen gathered to watch the defeated men of Stone trudge wearily back to the sea.

For Oranus it was the end of a bright career. Throughout the years since he had rarely known a night pass without terrible dreams, where severed heads called out to him, where sharp swords were piercing his flesh.

Had it not been for the skill of Appius, he would have died on Cogden Field.

Oranus sighed. The best part of me did die there, he thought sadly.

Banouin lay in his bed, his splinted arm throbbing, his head aching. But these discomforts were as nothing to the terror haunting him. He had believed he had known the nature of fear; being chased and tormented, being beaten and threatened. He knew now that his years among the Rigante had merely touched the surface. The fears he had lived with were caused by external forces, like Forvar and his friends. Nothing he had ever experienced could have prepared him for what he had now discovered.

Banouin had always felt safe within his own mind, but now it was as if a gateway had opened inside his skull which, at any moment, he could fall through, and spin away into a bottomless pit of dread from which there would be no return. He could feel it pulling him even now, as if he were standing on the edge of an abyss, and losing all sense of balance. He shivered and sat up, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. I should never have ventured into the water, he told himself. That was my undoing.

Vorna had always assured him that his Talent would one day flower, that he would develop skills beyond those of normal men. Banouin had eagerly looked forward to the day. But the skills had not manifested themselves, and he had spoken to Brother Solstice about the problem. The druid had been walking the high hills, and had stopped at the house for a cool drink. Banouin had approached him at the well, where Brother Solstice had splashed water onto his black and white beard, and run his large hands through his silver-streaked hair. A huge man, broad of shoulder and thick of waist, Brother Solstice looked more like the fighter he once was than the druid he had chosen to become.