Sigarni felt loose-limbed and wonderfully relaxed as she sat by the fire and sipped her mead. Relaxed in the chair, Asmidir sat naked, save for his cloak, which he had wrapped about his shoulders against the draught from the warped wood of the door.
‘Now tell me,’ she said.
‘There is a war coming,’ he told her.
‘Where?’
‘Here, Sigarni. I was at the Citadel a few days ago. I saw the mercenaries arriving, and I know the Baron is studying maps of all the lands around High Druin. It is my belief that he intends to bring an army into the mountains.’
‘That cannot be,’ she said. ‘There is no one to fight him.’
‘That is largely immaterial. He hates his position here, and probably sees a Highland War as his best chance of being recalled
south in triumph. It does not matter that he will face a rabble of poorly armed villagers. Who will know? He has his own historian. His army will be able to pillage and plunder the Highlands, and he will gather to himself a force to make him a power in the land. He may even be looking ahead and planning a civil war. It doesn’t matter what his motives are.’
‘And how does this concern you, Asmidir? You are not of this land, and you are a friend to the Outland king.’
‘I served him, but he has no friends. The King is a hard, ruthless man, much like the Baron. No, for me it is … personal.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I came here because of a prophecy. It has not been fulfilled. Now I am lost.’
‘What prophecy?’
He shrugged. ‘It does not matter, does it? Even shamen can make mistakes, it seems. But I have grown to love this harsh, cold land with a fierceness that surprises me. It is as strong as my hatred for the Baron and all he represents.’ He sighed and turned his head towards the fire. ‘Why is it that wickedness always seems to triumph? Is it just that evil men freed from the constraints of basic morality are stronger than we?’
‘It is probably just a question of timing,’ she said and his head jerked round.
‘Timing?’
‘We have had two Kings of legend here, Gandarin and Ironhand. Both were good men, but they were also strong and fearless. Their enemies were scattered, and they ruled wisely and well. But this is the time of the Outland Kings, and not a good time for the peoples of the Highlands. Our time will come again. There will be a leader.’
‘Now is the time,’ he said. ‘Where is the man? That was the prophecy that brought me here. A great leader will rise, wearing the crown of Alwen. But I have travelled far, Sigarni, and heard no word of such a man.’
“What will you do when you find him?’
He chuckled. ‘My skill is strategy. I am a student of war. I will teach him how to fight the Outlanders.’
‘Highland men do not need to be taught how to fight.’
He shook his head. ‘There you are wrong, Sigarni. Your whole history has been built on manly courage: assembling a host to sweep down on an enemy host, man against man, claymore crashing against
claymore. But war is about more than battles. It is about logistics, supplies, communication, discipline. An army has to feed, commanders need to gather reports and intelligence and pass these on to generals. Apart from this there are other considerations – morale, motivation, belief. The Outlanders, as you call them, understand these things.’
‘You are altogether too tense,’ she told him, leaning forward and running her hand softly down the inside of his thigh. ‘Come back to bed, and I will repay you for the pleasure you gave me.’
‘What of these other matters you had to attend to?’ he asked.
For a moment only she thought of Bernt, then brushed him from her mind. ‘Nothing of importance,’ she assured him.
At noon the following day Ballistar found Bernt hanging from the branch of a spreading oak. The young cattle-herder was dressed in his best tunic and leggings, though they were soiled now, for he had defecated in death. The boy’s eyes were wide open and bulging, and his tongue was protruding from his mouth. When Ballistar arrived at the oak grove a crow was sitting on Bernt’s shoulder, pecking at his right eye.