‘I meant both you and I,’ said Tarantio swiftly.
Forin nodded. ‘Why did you not give that reason in the first place? Why the insults?’
Tarantio shrugged. ‘Gypsy blood. Don’t be too offended, Forin. I don’t like anybody much.’
Forin relaxed. ‘I’m not offended. There was a time when I would have paid considerably more than a silver penny for the privilege of cutting my mother’s throat. I was a child then. All I knew was that she had broken my father’s heart. And she’d abandoned me. So you were not too far wrong.’ He gave an embarrassed grin, and idly tugged at the braids of his beard. ‘He was a good man, my father. A great story-teller. All the village children would gather at our home to listen to him. He knew history too. All the stories of the ancient kingdoms, the Eldarin, the Daroth and the old Empire. He used to mix them with myth. Wonderful nights! We would sit with our eyes wide open in terror, our jaws hanging. He had a great voice, deep and sepulchral.’
‘I frightened him,’ said Dace. ‘Now he wants to be our friend.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Tarantio. ‘But then you frighten everyone – including me.’
‘What happened to your father?’ asked Tarantio aloud.
‘He caught the lung sickness and faded away.’ Forin
lapsed into silence and began to brush the mud from his brown leather leggings. Tarantio saw that the big man was struggling with his emotions. Forin cleared his throat, then drew his hunting-knife. From a deep pocket he produced a whetstone and began to sharpen the blade with long, smooth strokes. At last satisfied with the edge, he took a small, oval, silver-edged mirror from the same pocket and began to shave the stubble above the line of his red beard. When he had finished he sheathed the blade and returned the mirror to his pocket. He glanced at the silent Tarantio. ‘My father was a good man. He deserved better. He weighed no more than a child when he died.’
‘A bad way to go,’ agreed Tarantio.
‘No-one’s yet told me of a good way,’ Forin pointed out. ‘You know, I saw an Eldarin once. He came to see my father. I was about seven years old then. Frightened the life out of me. But he sat quietly by the hearth and I peeked at him from behind my father’s chair. It wasn’t the fur on his face and arms that was so disturbing; it was the eyes. They were so large. But he spoke softly and my father insisted I step forward and shake hands. He was right. Once I was close, I lost my fear.’
Tarantio nodded. ‘I was apprenticed to an old man who wrote histories. He described the Eldarin. Said they had faces that resembled wolves.’
‘That’s not exactly right,’ said Forin. ‘Wolves gives the wrong impression. It suggests savagery, and there was nothing savage about this one. But then I’m seeing him through the eyes of a trusting seven-year-old. He let me touch the white fur on his face and brow. It was soft, like rabbit pelt. I fell asleep by the fire as he and my father talked. In the morning he was gone.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘I don’t remember much of it. Poetry. Stories. The
Daroth massacres fascinated my father, but the Eldarin would not speak of them.’ Forin’s green eyes caught Tarantio’s steady gaze. ‘If you don’t like people, why did you carry the boy here? You hardly knew him. He only joined us a few days ago.’
‘Who knows? Let’s get some sleep.’ Using his heavy woollen coat as a blanket, Tarantio lay down by the dying fire.
The dream was sharp and clear. Once again he and the other mercenaries were surrounded, the enemy rushing in out of the darkness with sharp swords in their hands. Caught in a trap, scores died within the opening moments of the charge. Tarantio had frozen momentarily, but Dace had not. Drawing both his swords, Dace scanned the advancing line, and then charged. He did not know that Forin and Kiriel had followed him. Nor did he care. His deadly swords slashing left and right, he cut a path through the attackers, then sprinted for the darkness of the trees. Forin and Kiriel got through, though the boy took a terrible stab to the stomach. There was little moonlight, but Dace’s night vision was good and, eyes narrowed, he led them deep into the heart of the forest. Kiriel collapsed against a tree, blood soaking his shirt and leggings. Safe now, Tarantio resumed control of his body and had half-carried the boy on. Then, when Kiriel finally collapsed, Forin had lifted him into his arms and brought him to the cave.