‘No, I’m not,’ admitted Brune. ‘That’s why I do what I’m told.’
‘Come back to the world, brother,’ said Dace. ‘This numbskull is too stupid to kill, and if I stay here any longer I’ll rip his throat out.’
Tarantio found it hard to keep the smile from his face as he resumed control. ‘Let me see that head,’ he told Brune. ‘Move closer to the fire.’ Brune obeyed and Tarantio’s fingers probed the bowman’s scalp. ‘You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg, but it doesn’t need stitching. Go and get some sleep.’
‘You’re not sending me away then?’
‘No. Tell me, are you skilled with that bow?’
‘Not really. But I’m worse with a sword.’
Forin’s laughter boomed out. ‘Is there anything you’re good at?’ asked the red-bearded warrior.
‘I don’t like you,’ said Brune. ‘And I am good at … things. I know livestock. Pigs and cattle.’
‘A handy talent for a soldier,’ said Forin. ‘If we’re ever attacked by a rampaging herd of wild pigs, you’ll be the man to plan our strategy.’
‘Go and rest,’ Tarantio ordered the young man. Obediently Brune stood up, but he swayed and almost fell. Forin caught him and half carried him to where his blankets lay. The young man slumped down and was asleep within moments. Forin returned to the fire.
‘You mind if I travel with you and your dog to Corduin?’
‘Why would you want to?’ countered Tarantio.
Forin chuckled. ‘No-one ever gave me a gold piece before. Is that good enough?’
Tarantio awoke at dawn. He yawned and stretched, enjoying the sense of emotional solitude that came when Dace slept. Forin lay wrapped in his blankets, snoring quietly, but of Brune there was no sign. And the body of Latais was gone. Tarantio rose and followed Brune’s tracks, finding him some fifty feet from the camp-site. The body of the dead leader was wrapped in its cloak, and Brune was humming a monotonous tune as he dug a shallow grave in the soft earth. Tarantio sat down on a fallen tree and watched in silence. With the grave some four feet deep Brune scrambled out, his face and upper body streaked with sweat and mud. Carefully, he pulled the body to the edge of the hole, climbed in himself, then lowered the dead man to his resting place. The act was tender and gentle, as if Brune feared bruising the corpse. Slowly, reverently, Brune scooped earth over the grave.
‘You must have cared for him,’ said Tarantio softly.
‘He looked after me,’ said Brune. ‘And my dad always said dead men should go back to the earth. That’s how plagues start, he said – when bodies are left to rot in the air.’
‘I suppose there is some good in all men,’ said Tarantio.
‘He looked after me,’ repeated Brune. ‘I didn’t have nowhere to go. He let me ride with him.’ He continued to fill the grave, pressing the earth down with his hands. When he had finished he stood and slapped his hands together, trying to dislodge the mud clinging to his fingers.
‘You should hate me then, for killing him,’ suggested Tarantio.
‘I don’t hate nobody,’ said Brune. ‘Never have. Never will, I ‘spect.’ For a moment he stood staring down at the grave. ‘When people in the village died, there was someone
to speak for them. Lots of pretty things were said. I don’t remember them. Does it matter, do you think?’
‘To whom?’ asked Tarantio, mystified. ‘You think Latais will hear them?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Brune. ‘I just wish I knew some of the pretty words. Do you know any?’
‘None that would suit this occasion. Why not just say what’s in your heart?’
Brune nodded. Clasping his hands together, he closed his eyes. ‘Thanks, Lat, for all you done for me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you asked, but they hit me with a lump of wood.’
‘Touching and poetic,’ said Dace. ‘It certainly brought a lump to my throat.’
Despite the jeering tone, Tarantio sensed an undercurrent of emotion in Dace. He thought about it for a moment, but could find no reason. Then Dace spoke again. ‘Are we taking the idiot with us?’ The question was asked too casually.