In the distance Caswallon saw a young girl speared and lifted into the air, thrashing and screaming. This is war no longer, he thought, this is merely blood sport.
Tearing his gaze from the murderous scene he glanced back at the
mountains rearing like spearpoints towards the sky, snow-capped and proud, jagged and powerful. At their centre the cloud-wreathed magnificence of High Druin towered above the land. Caswallon shivered, drawing his brown leather cloak about his shoulders. It was said that the clans were vicious and hostile to outsiders, and so they were. Any lowlander found hunting clan lands was sent home minus the fingers of his right hand. But such punishments were intended to deter poachers. The scenes of carnage on the plain below had nothing to do with such practices; this was lust of the most vile kind.
The clansman looked back at the city. Old men in white robes were being nailed to the black gates. Even at this distance Caswallon recognised Bacheron, the chief elder, a man of little honesty. Even so, he did not deserve such a death.
By all the gods, no one deserved such a death!
On the plain three horsemen rode into sight, the leader pulling a young boy who was tied to a rope behind his mount. Caswallon recognised the boy as Gaelen, a thief and an orphan who lived on scraps and stolen fruit. The clansman’s fingers curled around the hilt of his hunting dagger as he watched the boy straining at the rope.
The lead rider, a man in shining breastplate and raven-winged helm, cut the rope and the boy began to run towards the mountains. The riders set off after him, lances levelled.
Caswallon took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. The flame-haired boy ducked and weaved, stopping to pick up a stone and hurl it at the nearest horse. The beast shied, pitching its rider.
‘Good for you, Gaelen,’ whispered Caswallon.
A rider in a white cloak wheeled his mount, cutting across the boy’s path. The youngster turned to sprint away and the lance took him deep in the back, lifting him from his feet and hurling him to the ground. He struggled to rise and a second rider ended his torment, slashing a sword-blade to his face. The riders cantered back to the city.
Caswallon found his hands shaking uncontrollably, and his heart pounded, reflecting his anger and shame.
How could men do such a thing to a youth?
Caswallon recalled his last visit to Ateris three weeks before, when he had driven in twenty long-horned highland cattle to the market stalls in the west of the city. He had stolen the beasts from the pastures of the Pallides two days before. At the market he had seen a crowd chasing the red-haired youngster as he sprinted through the streets, his skinny legs pounding the marble walkway, his arms pumping furiously.
Gaelen had shinned up a trellis by the side of the inn and leapt across the rooftops, stopping only to make an obscene gesture to his pursuers. Spotting Caswallon watching, he drew back his shoulders and swaggered across the rooftops. Caswallon had grinned then. He liked the boy; he had style.
The fat butcher Leon had chuckled beside him. ‘He’s a character, is Gaelen. Every city needs one.’
‘Parents?’ asked Caswallon.
‘Dead. He’s been alone five years – since he was nine or ten.’
‘How does he survive?’
‘He steals. I let him get away with a chicken now and then. He sneaks up on me and I chase him for a while, shouting curses.’
‘You like him, Leon?’
‘Yes. As I like you, Caswallon, you rascal. But then he reminds me of you. You are both thieves and you are both good at what you do -and there is no evil in either of you.’
‘Nice of you to say so,’ said Caswallon, grinning. ‘Now, how much for the Pallides cattle?’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘What?’ asked Caswallon innocently.
‘Steal cattle. By all accounts you are one of the richest clansmen in the Farlain. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Tradition,’ answered Caswallon. ‘I’m a great beliver in it.”
Leon shook his head. ‘One of these days you’ll be caught and hanged – or worse, knowing the Pallides. You baffle me.’