Obrin squatted down. ‘I have some food foryou,’ he said, lifting the bowl to Fell’s lips. The clansman turned his head away and Obrin laid down the bowl. ‘I’m sorry, Fell,’ he said softly. ‘I like you, man, and I think you did right. I hope to God the woman gets far away from here.’ The clansman’s eyes met his, but no words were spoken by him.
Returning to the fire, Obrin ordered the cooking pots cleaned and stowed, then set sentries for the night. Kollarin was once more sitting by the stream, his green cloak wrapped about his shoulders.
Using his saddle for a pillow, Obrin removed his chain-mail shoulder-guard and his breastplate, unbuckled his sword and dagger belt and settled down to sleep. In all his seventeen years of soldiering sleep had always come easily. In the blazing heat of the Kushir plains, in the harsh, bone-biting cold of the Cleatian mountains, at sea in a gale-tossed ship, Obrin could just close his eyes and will his body to rest. It was, he knew, a vital skill for a veteran. In sleep a man regained his strength and rested his soul. In war a soldier’s life depended on his power, speed and reflexes. There were few second chances for a tired warrior on a battlefield.
But sleep was slow to come tonight.
Obrin lay on his back, staring up at the bright stars and the lantern moon.
He was walking along a narrow trail, beneath an arched tunnel made up of the interlinked branches of colossal trees on both sides of the way. Obrin stopped and glanced back. The tunnel seemed to stretch on for ever, dark and gloomy, pierced occasionally by a shaft of moonlight through a gap in the branches.
Obrin walked on. There were no night sounds, no owl calls, no rustling of wind in the leaves. All was silence, save for his soft footfalls on the soft earth. Ahead was a brilliant shaft of moonlight, a beautiful column of light that shone upon a cross-roads. Obrin approached it, and saw a warrior sitting on a rock by the wayside. The man was huge, his long white hair gleaming in the moonlight. He wore his beard in two white braids which hung to his silver breastplate. A double-handed claymore was plunged into the earth before him, its hilt a glistening silver, while a huge crimson stone was set into the pommel.
‘It is a fine weapon, ‘said Obrin.
The man stood. He towered over Obrin by a good Southland foot. ‘It has served me well,’ he said, his voice rich and deep. Obrin looked up into his pale, deep-set eyes. They were the colour of a winter storm-cloud, grey and cold. Yet Obrin felt no fear.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
The tall warrior extended his arm, sweeping it across the three paths that began in the pillar of light. ‘We are at the cross-roads,’ said the warrior. Obrin’s attention was caught by the man’s single gauntlet of red iron. It was splendidly crofted, seemingly as supple as leather.
‘Who are you?’ he asked
‘A man who once travelled,’ answered the warrior. ‘Many paths, many roads, many trails. I walked the mountains, Obrin, and I rode the lowlands. Many paths, some crooked, some straight. All were hard.’
‘The warrior’s paths,’ said Obrin. ‘Aye, I know them. No hearth, no home, no kin. Only the Way of Iron.’ Weariness settled upon him and he sat down. The warrior seated himself beside the Southlander. ‘And which path do you walk now?’ asked the stranger.
‘Igo where lam sent. What else can a soldier do? Seventeen yean I have served the Baron. I have matched friends die, and my boots have collected the dust of many nations. Now I have an aching shoulder and a knee that does not like to march. In three years I can claim my hectare of land. Maybe I will – if I can still remember how to farm. What of you? Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere I haven’t teen,’ answered the man. I too wanted to farm, and to breed cattle. But I was called upon to right a wrong. It was a small matter. A nobleman and his friends were hunting, and they rode through afield and trampled a child playing there. Her legs were broken badly and the family had no coin to pay for a Wycca man to heal her. I went to the nobleman and asked for justice.’