‘How should we kill him, Morgase?’ asked Asbidag, swinging his body to face the table.
‘Let the dogs have him,’ she whispered.
‘Poison my dogs? No. Another way.’
‘Hang him in a cage outside the city walls until he rots,’ shouted Tostig.
‘Impale him,’ said Ongist.
Drada shifted in his seat, forcing his mind from the spectacle. For more than a year one task had filled his waking hours: planning the defeat of the clans.
The problems were many. The clans had the advantage of terrain but, on the other hand, they lacked any form of military discipline and their villages were widely spaced and built without walls. Each clan mistrusted the others and that was an advantage for the Aenir. They could pick them off one by one.
But it would be a massive operation, needing colossal planning.
Drada had worked for months to be allowed to enter the Farlain with a small company of men. Always his requests had been politely refused. Now, at last, Cambil had agreed they should be guests at the Games. It was a gift from the Grey God.
All the clans gathered in one place, a chance to meet every chieftain and Hunt Lord. An opportunity for the Aenir to scout valleys, passes and future battlegrounds.
Drada was hauled back to the present, even as the hapless prisoner was dragged from the hall. Asbidag’s shadow fell across him. ‘Well, Drada, what do you think?’
‘Of what, Father?’
‘Of my decision with Martellus?’
‘Very fitting.’
‘How would you know that?’ snapped Asbidag. ‘You were not listening.’
‘True, father, but then you have planned his death for so long that I knew you would have something special for him.’
‘But it doesn’t interest you?’
‘It does, sire, but I was thinking about that problem you set me today, and I have a plan that may please you.’
‘We will talk later,’ said Asbidag, returning to his place beside Morgase.
‘They’re going to skin him,’ whispered Ongist to Drada.
‘Thank you.’
‘Why must you take such risks?’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking about something else.’
‘It is good you are a thinker, brother. For you know Father cannot stand you.’
‘I know – but then I think he likes none of us.’
Ongist laughed aloud. ‘You could be right,’ he whispered, ‘but he raised us to be like him, and we are. If I thought I’d get away with it I’d gut the bloated old toad. But you and my other dear brothers would turn on me. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. We are a family built on hatred.’
‘And yet we thrive,’ said Ongist, pouring mead into his cup and raising it to toast his brother.
‘Indeed, we do, brother.’
‘This plan of yours, it concerns the clans?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope you suggest invasion. Boredom sits ill with me.’
‘Wait and see, Ongist.’
‘We’ve waited a year already. How much longer?’
‘Not long. Have patience.’
The following afternoon Drada made his way to the ruins of the Garden of the Senses, a half-acre of blooms, trees and shrubs that had once been a place of meditation for the Ateris intellectuals. Many of the winding paths had disappeared now, along with a hundred or so delicate flowers choked by weeds and man’s indifference.
And yet, so far, the roses thrived. Of all things Drada had yet encountered on this cruel world, the rose alone found a place in his feelings. He could sit and gaze at them for hours, their beauty calming his mind and allowing him to focus on his problems and plans.
As he had on so many such afternoons, Drada pushed his way through the trailing undergrowth to a rock-pool fringed with wooden benches. Unclipping the brooch which fastened his red cloak, he chose the west-facing bench and sat in the sunshine.
Unwilling to incur Asbidag’s displeasure, he had spent the morning watching the flaying of Martellus. The scene had been an unpleasant distraction to the young Aenir warrior; he had seen men flayed before, indeed had witnessed more barbarous acts. And they bored him. But then most of what life had to offer ultimately left
Drada bored. It seemed to the young warrior that the journey from birth screech to death rattle was no more than a meaningless series of transient pleasures and pain, culminating at last in the frustration of missed moments and lost opportunities.