grandchildren, Orrin and Badraig.'
'Then you will not help me?' said Meria, her face hardening, her green eyes gleaming in the firelight.
Vorna laughed. 'Now that is the Meria I know.'
Meria slumped back in her chair, the light of anger fading from her eyes. 'I suppose that it is,' she said. 'But I don't want to be her any more. Tonight I tried to cuddle Orrin and he ran away from me. He was frightened.'
'These things take time,' said Vorna, her voice softening. She rose from the chair. 'I will make some tisane, and we will talk of happier days.'
Three days passed with no news of the great battle being waged between the Rigante and the Vars near Seven Willows. The people of Three Streams went about their business, but they were fearful. What if Connavar was to fail? What if – having defeated a few hundred Vars – ten thousand were to appear in the distance? Scouts were sent out to watch the eastern horizon, and people left many of their clothes and belongings packed ready for flight.
On the morning of the fourth day a rider came galloping over the hills. As he came closer they saw he was one of Bendegit Bran's Horse Archers, his silver mailshirt gleaming in the sunshine, his bow tied to his saddle. His horse thundered over the first bridge and down into the settlement centre. People ran from their homes, anxious for news. He waited until more than fifty were gathered, with still more pouring in.
'Victory!' he shouted. 'The Vars are defeated, their king slain.'
A huge cheer went up, and word spread fast through Three Streams. Men and women gathered around the rider. His horse became skittish and reared. People fell back then. The rider calmed his mount and leapt down from his saddle, leading the nervous horse to the corral alongside the forge. 'Where is the Lady Meria?' he asked. Men pointed to her house and the Horse Archer strode across the open ground, a huge crowd following. He turned to them. 'I will give a full report at the Roundhouse in an hour. First I must deliver messages to the king's mother and to the wife of Bendegit Bran.'
He left them then, and walked to the front door of the house. It was open, and Gwen was standing in the doorway.
'Is Bran alive?' she asked.
The rider removed his black leather helm, and bowed. 'He is alive and well, my lady. I am Furse, son of Ostaran, and I have a letter for you.' Opening the pouch at his side he pulled forth two wax-sealed letters. He gave the first to Gwen.
Meria emerged from the kitchen, flour upon her hands. 'I heard the shouting,' she said. 'I take it my son has won another great battle?'
'Indeed he has, Lady Meria.'
'Gwen, fetch our guest a cup of ale. He must be thirsty after such a ride. Then he can sit and tell us all the news.' Meria looked at the rider closely, as Gwen moved past her into the kitchen. He was slender and not tall, his pale hair cut short after the fashion of the men of Stone. 'Do I not know you, young man?' Meria asked.
'You do, lady. I am Furse. My father-'
'Ah yes, Ostaran the Gath. I like him. He makes me laugh. Sit you down, sir.'
Gwen returned with a mug brimming with ale. Furse thanked her and drank deeply. Then he sat, and gave a wide smile.
'We smashed them,' he said. 'Bendegit Bran organized the deployments. It was his strategy. We took them on three sides, forcing them up onto the Hallowed Hills. Then Connavar led the Iron Wolves against their left flank, splitting their force. They fought hard, these Vars, but it was an easy victory. They tried to hold to the hilltops, but we drove them off. At the last King Shard tried to lead his men in a charge, attempting, I think, to break and run for their ships. But Bran had thought of this, and my father's Horse Archers cut them off.
'Ah, ladies, but the finish was glorious. Shard – a mighty man and fully six and a half feet tall – stood alone upon a narrow bridge. His men were dead, or fleeing the field, but he stood brave and strong, and taunted us, calling for a champion to fight him, man to man. Three he killed before King Connavar rode up. Shard saw him and called out: 'At last a foe worthy of my blade.'
'The king drew his sword and stepped out to meet him. The battle was brief, ladies, but wondrous. When Shard fell the king knelt by him. I was one of those close by and I moved in to hear what passed between them. Shard spoke, but the words were whispered, and I did not catch them. Then Shard reached up and took the king's hand. I heard Connavar say, 'And on that day there will be no hatred between us.' Then Shard died.'
'What were our losses?' asked Meria.
'More than two thousand slain, my lady. And at least five thousand wounded. As I said, these Vars are tough men. The king ordered a day of rest, but after that the army will be heading south to face Jasaray. Our scouts tell us that the army of Stone numbers thirty thousand, and three thousand cavalry.'
'My son will defeat them,' said Meria. 'It is his destiny.'
'Yes, lady,' said Furse. Then he remembered the letter he carried. He passed it to Meria. 'I fear the contents will sadden you. I will allow you to read it in private.' He rose, but Meria beckoned him to seat himself.
'If my sons are alive and we have a victory I can think of nothing to sadden me,' she said. Breaking the seal she held the letter at arm's length, squinting to see the large script. She finished the letter, then leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.
'What is it?' asked Gwen. Meria merely shook her head, rose from the chair and walked from the room. Gwen turned back to Furse. 'Do you know what was in the letter?'
'I believe I do, lady. There were Pannone rebels among the Vars – perhaps three hundred or so. They were led by Guern, a noble from the far north. He and seven of his men escaped, but we will find him.' Furse looked away. 'But there was another with them. He was spotted fleeing the field. Our outriders could have taken him, but they were so surprised that they held back.' Furse sighed. 'It was the king's brother, Braefar. He was with the enemy.'
Wik drained another cup of uisge. He had hoped to get drunk, but the alcohol seemed to have little effect on him. The sixty survivors of the hilltop battle had not returned to the forest, but were camped at Bane's farm, sharing the roundhouse huts of Bane's workers. Wik himself had been offered, and accepted, a room in the main building. The following day Bane and Gryffe had carried a chest from one of the barns, and paid each man the sum promised. Wik himself had been given more than one hundred pieces of gold, the extra five he had been promised plus two more for each man slain. It was more gold than Wik had seen in his thirty-one years. He gave it away, distributing it equally among the survivors. The act amazed him, and even now, a day later, he could not imagine why he had done it. The sense of sadness following the battle had not left him, and even the alcohol could not numb it.
Bane found him sitting in the hay loft of the first barn, staring out over the hills. The young warrior, carrying a fresh jug of uisge and a lighted lantern, climbed to the loft and sat beside the outlaw chief. The sun was dipping below the mountains and the land spread out before them was glowing in its fading light.
Bane hung the lantern on a peg then filled Wik's cup and his own. 'If we had stayed in Three Streams,' he said, 'they'd probably have thrown a feast for us.'
'A pox on their feasts,' said Wik.
Bane laughed. 'I have never seen you this sour,' he said. 'Are you this way after every heroic act?'
'How would I know?' countered Wik. 'This was my first.'
'Then what ails you, Wik?'
'I wish I knew.' He glanced at the man beside him. 'That chest was almost empty by the end, Bane. Are you a poor man now?'
'I've as much left as you,' he answered, with a smile.
'Then what a pair of fools we are,' said Wik. The far hills turned to gold for a moment with the last blazing light of the dying sun. 'Ah, but that was pretty,' he said, as darkness fell. 'You know that most of the men who died were newcomers? They weren't really outlaws, just poor folk who had no food in the winter. Some were Pannone, others Norvii. There was even a Cenii lad. Yet they put on the armour you gave them and they fought like… like…'
'Heroes,' said Bane.
'Aye, heroes.' Wik hawked and spat through the opening. 'And for what? People who wouldn't have given them a crust of stale bread if they were dying of starvation. I saw Boile go down. They damn near hacked off his arm, and
