killed or taken, but Guern escaped. The situation might still have become critical, for the ransacking of granaries led to greater starvation among the Pannone. Guern could have increased his popularity by distributing his stolen grain. Instead he chose to sell it, to raise money for armour and weapons. Connavar shipped in supplies from the lands of the Ostro and the Gath to feed the Pannone, and the revolt died in its infancy. Even so, the cost had been enormous, and food supplies were severely depleted.
Then, on the first day of spring, in Connavar's fortieth year, three hundred long ships beached near Seven Willows on the eastern coast, and fifteen thousand Vars, led by King Shard, invaded the lands of the Rigante. Simultaneously in the south the emperor Jasaray, leading eight Panthers of twenty-four thousand men, came ashore in the lands of the Cenii.
Bane guided his horse carefully up the icy hill and reached the crest. He paused there, staring down at the lowlands and the endless sweep of the Narian Forest. Nestled against its eastern border was the long rectangular stone-built farmhouse, with its two barns close by, and a dozen, small round houses that served as quarters for his men. The steeply dipping road ahead was pitted and icy. He dismounted and led the horse on the long walk home. Bane's hood was topped with snow and sharp shards of ice had formed in his beard.
The first day of spring, he thought. What a mockery.
The horse slithered on the ice as Bane picked his way down the slope. The man's feet were cold and numb, his fingers frozen, even in the rabbit skin mittens. Smoke was coming from the two chimneys of the main house and Bane pictured himself sitting before a warm fire. He moved slowly, anxious not to begin sweating with over- exertion. Sweat would become ice on his skin under the thick tunic, jerkin and cloak. It would make him drowsy and weak. It would fool him into thinking the temperature was rising, and thus kill him. It was vital, Bane knew, to resist the pull of the cold, the siren song of a winter death.
As he walked his mind wandered, thinking back to Banouin and the freeing of the spirits. He wished he could forget all that had happened between them, and embrace his old friend as once he had. But it was not in his nature. He had loved Banouin as a brother, and had risked his life for him. Yet in his own hour of need Banouin had deserted him, and no amount of soul-searching could erase that deed from his memory. Banouin's friendship was part of the past, never to be rediscovered. The thought saddened him, as did the emotional withdrawal from his Rigante heritage.
Bane stumbled, and pushed himself to his feet. He felt warmer now – and knew he was in great danger. The last slow ten miles had taxed his strength and stamina. He was tempted to climb to the saddle and ride, but resisted it. The trail was too treacherous, and his horse deserved better treatment than that. He walked on, his mind full of daydreams and remembrances. He was a small child again at the Riguan Falls, and he and his mother had been swimming in the twilight. She had lit a fire, and cuddled him close.
Back on the hillside Bane blinked and looked around. He was sitting now, on a boulder. Why am I not walking? he wondered. With a great effort he rose. Weariness was upon him now, and he contemplated a short rest and sleep. That will bring back my strength, he thought. Fool! Get to the farmhouse, he told himself. You are dying here!
His legs felt numb and his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The sun was dropping behind the mountains, the temperature plummeting, though Bane could no longer feel it. He had pushed hard during the last week, but had always been careful to make his night camp early before cold and exhaustion stripped his life away. But today he had thought to make the last eighteen miles in one long haul. It was a mistake. Through bleary eyes he looked at the distant farmhouse. He was still half an hour from his goal, and his strength was all but gone. At some point he must have let the reins go, for the horse was plodding on further down the trail. Bane staggered after it.
Twice more he fell. The second time saw him roll over and over until he came up against a snow-covered rock. He grunted with the pain of impact. Pushing his arms beneath him he tried to rise. He was hot now, and very sleepy. He swore and heaved himself to his knees. 'I will not die here,' he said, his voice slurred.
'No, you won't,' said a deep voice. A large hand took hold of Bane's arm, drawing him up until he sat on the boulder. Bane blinked, and saw a flask being offered to him. He took it and sipped the contents. The fire of uisge flowed through him. He looked up into the red-bearded face of Gryffe, his lead herdsman. The outlaw grinned at him. 'You're weak as a three-day puppy,' he said.
Bane drank again, and tried to push the stopper back into the flask. The task was beyond him. Gryffe took the flask, stoppered it, and tucked it into the pocket of his jerkin. 'Let's be getting you to a fire,' he said, throwing Bane's arm round his neck and hauling him upright.
Twenty minutes later, his ice-covered clothes removed, his body wrapped in a warm blanket, he sat before a log fire. It was excruciating. His skin felt as if hot needles were being pricked into him constantly. He drank more uisge, but Gryffe took the flask away. 'It's good to take a little when cold, but not too much.'
Gryffe's woman, the plump and plain Iswain, appeared from the kitchen, carrying a dish of thick meat broth. 'Eat!' she commanded. 'You need some proper warmth in your belly.'
Bane did so, and after a while began to feel better, the pins and needles wearing off. Iswain pulled the blanket clear of his neck and began rubbing warmed oil into the skin of his shoulders, arms, and upper back.
'Thank you,' he said, taking her callused hand and kissing the knuckles.
'That's enough of that!' said Gryffe. 'You'll spoil the wench!'
'Do you good to learn some proper manners,' said Iswain, lifting the blanket back over Bane's shoulders. She moved round to squat in front of Bane, looking deeply into his eyes. 'I think you'll be fine now,' she told him. 'A good night's rest will help. You are lucky not to have frostbite. 'Twas a foolish thing to do!'
'You tell him, girl!' said Gryffe.
Bane smiled, and gazed into Iswain's plain features. 'I could have been here earlier,' he said, 'but I wanted to be mothered by you.'
She gave a gap-toothed grin. 'Like all men you are an idiot,' she told him. 'I'll get you more broth.'
'I am full,' said Bane.
'You'll do as you're told,' she said sternly. 'I've known men come in from the cold and then die in their beds. You'll sit by this fire and eat until I tell you otherwise.'
'Aye, he will,' put in Gryffe. 'And, if it please you, I will have some of that broth. I was in the cold too.'
'No more for you,' said Iswain. 'I have no taste for fat men, and already your stomach is straining your belt.'
'That's my winter covering,' argued Gryffe. 'Protects me from the cold. Like a bear.'
'Aye, well, it is spring now,' she told him, 'and time for bears to wake up.' She walked out into the kitchen. Bane settled back in his chair.
'What's been happening?' he asked.
'Ah, we'll talk in the morning,' said Gryffe. 'You'll be in no mood for all the boring details now.'
'Bore me,' said Bane.
Iswain returned with more broth. Bane took it, ate a few spoonfuls, then looked at Gryffe. 'Talk to me,' he said.
Gryffe swore, then glanced up at Iswain. 'The man asked you a question,' she said.
'Lorca and his gang came out of the forest three days ago and drove away twenty steers and a good old bull. Boile and Cascor tried to stop them, reminding them of the agreement they had with you. Lorca said he was renegotiating that agreement. Cascor tried to argue. Lorca accused him of disloyalty – and they killed him.'
Bane finished the broth, then laid aside the wooden dish. 'I'll find Lorca tomorrow,' he said.
'He has more than seventy men with him now. I think that's why he needed the extra beef. It might be wiser to let it pass.'
'The beef I can afford to lose,' said Bane. 'But no-one comes to my home and kills one of my men without facing the consequences.'
Grale sat quietly in the doorway of the roughly built roundhouse, listening to the arguments among the group of men squatting by the central fire. He had not been with Lorca's band long enough to have a say in the debate. Asha, one of the camp's three whores, came and sat next to him. Her dark hair was matted and filthy, her clothes ingrained with dirt. 'You look in need of a little company,' she said. He looked into her dark brown eyes. They were lifeless.
'That is kind of you. Maybe later.'
