He backed away, further up the slope. There were scores of the creatures now, and more were coming. Each one of them was demonic in appearance, and yet all carried aspects of humanity, some in the eyes, others in the features or limbs. The flames were still burning on his chest, but he felt no weakness. Only pain. The ground below his feet was corpse grey, and thick with dust, which eddied up like smoke around his ankles. He had no recollection of coming to this place, no memory of a life before it. All he knew was that here, on this dark mountainside beneath a grey sky with no stars or moon, he was in deadly peril.
The beasts edged closer. He moved back. Soon, he knew, they would come at him in a rush, and there was no way he could kill them all. Their hatred enveloped him like an invisible mist, cold and unrelenting. The man moved ever up the mountainside until his back touched a wall of dark, dagger-sharp, shining glass. There was nowhere left to retreat. Within the mist of pulsing hatred he felt their unholy joy. They gathered themselves, moving around him in a semicircle, ever closer.
Then they swept forward.
In that moment a bright light burst upon the scene, and, as the man hacked and cut with his blade, he felt a presence beside him, guarding his back. From the edge of his vision he saw a sword of bright light slashing through the gloom. Once more the beasts fell back. The man's saviour strode after them, then plunged his sword into the grey earth, cutting a long curving line into the dust. Bright fire leapt up along the line, rearing high in the air, a golden half circle of flame, through which the beasts could not pass. Then the shining warrior turned back towards him. He saw that the warrior was completely human, a big man, wide-shouldered and yellow-haired, with friendly blue eyes.
'You should not be here, young Falcon,' he said. 'This is no place for the living.' Gently he laid his hand on the flames scorching the man's chest. The fires died down instantly, the pain vanishing, the skin instantly healed.
Weariness swept over the young man and he sank to the ground, laying aside his sword, and sitting with his back to the rearing cliff of black glass. 'I don't know how I came to be here,' he said. 'Where is this place? Why do you call me Falcon?'
'I call you Falcon because this is your soul-name,' said the other, sitting beside him. 'As to this evil land, it is the Vale of the Lost, a place of the damned. Your enemies were once men. Now they wander here, cursed and forlorn.'
'Why did they attack me?'
'You drew them to you, boy. You are alive. Your spirit burns them, reminding them of all they have lost. They must destroy you to end their pain.'
He looked into the face of the big man. 'And what of you? Why are you in this place?'
The yellow-haired warrior smiled. 'You drew me here, Bane. It was I who gave you your soul-name, and when your soul was in peril I sensed it. Do you know who you are?'
'You called me Falcon – and now Bane. The names are familiar, but I cannot get a grasp on where I have heard them before.'
'That happens here sometimes,' said the man. 'Sit quietly for a while. Let your mind relax. Think of a mountain, with green flanks, a cloak of woods, and peaks of white snow, like an old man's hair. Can you picture it?'
'Aye, I can.'
'Give it a name.'
'Caer Druagh,' said Bane. It was as if sunlight had suddenly pierced the darkest corners of his memory. 'I am Bane of the Rigante,' he said. 'I was with Banouin and we were travelling. Then… then…' He gave a groan. The big man placed his hand on Bane's shoulder.
'Aye, then you tried to save them.'
'I could not defeat him.'
'But you tried, boy. You almost gave your life for it. I'm proud of you.'
'Proud of failure?' Bane gave a harsh laugh.
'Aye, proud,' said the man again. 'An heroic action should never be judged on the basis of its success or failure, but on the heart, passion and courage that inspired it.'
'You are the Big Man,' said Bane.
'I am Ruathain.'
'I know of you,' Bane told him. 'You treated my mother with kindness.' He smiled suddenly. 'I always wanted to know you, Big Man.'
Ruathain clapped him on the shoulder. 'I would like nothing better than to sit and talk with you, Grandson, but the sword-flame will not last much longer, and you must make a choice. You can stay, and I will lead your soul to the Haven, or you can try to return to the world of the living.'
'Then I am not dead?'
'Not yet.'
'How do I return?'
Ruathain gestured up at the glass cliff. 'You must climb it, Bane, to the very top. It will be mercilessly hard. Agonizing. The sharp glass will cut away at you, tearing your flesh. Most men would fail. But you will not fail. Your courage and your fighting spirit will carry you on, through all the agony. Do you believe me?'
'I believe you, Big Man.'
'Then go now, my boy,' said Ruathain, drawing Bane to his feet. The spirit warrior embraced Bane, hugging him close and patting his back. Then he released him. Bane felt a wave of warm emotion threatening to engulf him. No-one, save his mother, had ever embraced him. He looked into Ruathain's eyes.
'I am glad that we met,' he said.
'And I. Now climb – back to the sunlight and the life beyond.'
Leaving his sword upon the ground Bane reached up for a handhold, then began to climb. At first it was easy, but then his foot slipped, and sharp glass cut through his boot, slicing the skin of his foot. The pain almost made him lose his grip. Gritting his teeth he pulled himself up. At first he suffered only small cuts and scratches, and each one stung like salt upon a wound. After a while his shirt and breeches were in tatters, his boots sliced away. Deep cuts had been gouged into his chest and belly, and he was smearing a trail of blood upon the cliff face. He glanced down. Ruathain was no longer there, and the sword-flame had disappeared. A huge throng of creatures had gathered at the foot of the cliff, but none attempted to climb after him.
The pain was intense now, clouding his thoughts, filling his mind. He looked up, but could not see the top. He struggled on. The flesh of his arms had been stripped away, and he could see sinews and muscles, and the whiteness of bone. Each hand- or foot-hold now brought increasing agony, and his mind screamed at him to let go, to fall away from this torturous climb. He closed his eyes, and felt his spirit failing.
'Courage, Grandson,' came the voice of Ruathain.
Bane climbed on.
There was no flesh now upon his fingers, only white bone and ligament. Strips of skin were hanging from his arms, belly and thighs, and his body burned as if on fire. Once more he stopped, all strength seeping from him. If he climbed much further he would be torn to shreds. There would be nothing left of him.
Again the voice of Ruathain whispered into his ear. 'The man who brought death to the house of Appius still lives, Bane. His name is Voltan. Men say he is the greatest swordsman in all the world. I saw him laugh as he stabbed you!'
Anger flooded through Bane, washing over the pain. He fought his way ever higher, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch.
At last he pulled his mutilated body over the lip of the cliff. He felt a cool breeze upon his face, and looked around. He was standing on a flat section of glass no more than twenty feet square.
'Proud of you, boy,' came the voice of Ruathain. And Bane woke.
Oranus waited for the death wagon to arrive then climbed up alongside the driver. Two stretcher-bearers were sitting on an empty wooden coffin in the back. The sun was bright in a clear sky as the driver flicked his reins across the back of the two ponies and the wagon moved on through the streets.
'It is a beautiful day,' said Oranus. The Cenii driver looked at him quizzically, then nodded agreement. As the wagon trundled on Oranus saw the old Cenii witch woman moving from a doorway. He called out to her, but she did not hear him and walked into the shadows of an alleyway. A crow cawed loudly, then launched itself from a rooftop and flew away to the north.
