MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

People had always spoken highly of the first Banouin – the little Foreigner who had come to live among the People, and who had married the former witch, Vorna. A fine man, they said, kind and brave. He had been murdered by the Perdii king nineteen years ago.

With one last glance at Caer Druagh, Banouin heeled the gelding forward and started down the slope.

‘What was my father like?’ he had once asked his mother.

‘He was not tall, but he was handsome and dark-haired, like you.’

‘Did he have blue eyes like ours?’

‘No, they were dark.’

‘Did people bully him when he was a boy?’

‘We never spoke of his childhood, my son. They did not bully him as a man, however.’

Banouin rode on. He had crossed the river yesterday, and was, as far as he could judge, a day’s ride from the Southern Rigante settlement of Gilrath. His horse – a gift from the king – was still fresh and strong, though it was a little too spirited for Banouin’s taste. Each morning it would stare at him balefully, and, when saddled, would buck several times, jarring Banouin’s bones. The young rider felt the horse did not like him, and was only allowing him to ride under sufferance.

‘He’s a good mount,’ Connavar had told him. ‘He will not let you down.’ Banouin always felt uncomfortable in the presence of the king. He was a man of immense physical power, a known warrior and leader, but it was the eyes that disturbed Banouin. They were just like Bane’s, one green, the other gold. And when he looked at you it seemed as if he could read your heart.

‘Thank you, sir. And thank you for all your kindness to my mother and me.’

‘Whisht, boy, I have done little enough. Are you sure you want to undertake this journey?’

‘I am sure, sir. I want to see the land of my father.’

‘A man should always know where he comes from,’ said Connavar. ‘And find pride in it. Your father was a great man. He taught me much of value. I treasure his memory.’

Banouin had been envious of that. He would love to have memories of his father that he could treasure. Instead, when he thought back to his early childhood, he could recall only the Big Man, Ruathain, who had carried him on his shoulders, and taken him out to see the cattle herds.

Even now, so many years after Ruathain’s death, Banouin still felt a deep sadness when he thought of him. With his wide smile, his long yellow hair, and the colossal breadth of his shoulders, he had seemed to the child to be immortal and invulnerable. When he had died after the Pannone battle Banouin’s small world had been rocked to its foundations.

Within the year the child had discovered other causes for sorrow. The Stone army had landed far to the south, and tales of battles and slaughter began to flow north. The other Rigante children had turned on Banouin, sneering at his blood line, mocking him, taunting him. Then the beatings had begun, and the child had lived in almost permanent fear.

For years he suffered, most especially at the hands of Forvar. The red-headed boy seemed to take enormous delight in causing him pain. Once he had tied Banouin to a tree and prepared a fire around his feet. He did not light it, but constantly pretended to. The nine-year-old Banouin had wet himself in fear.

Childhood had few happy memories for Banouin. What joy there was – apart from his friendship with Bane – had come from his daydreams. He would travel to Stone and become a citizen. They had schools there, and universities. A man could study and learn, and live peacefully without fear of violence and threats. A merchant told him once that there was a great library in Stone, containing more than twelve thousand scrolls, and many artefacts of wonder. From that moment Banouin had wanted nothing more than to journey there, and sit in peaceful contemplation. He had badgered Brother Solstice the druid to teach him to read and write in Turgon, the language of Stone, and he had spent many useful months at Old Oaks talking to Stone merchants, building a mental picture of the city of his dreams. He knew the names of each of the five hills, the positions of the parks and monuments. The Great Library had been built in the Park of Phesus, beside an artificial lake. It was approached along an avenue of flowering trees. In spring their blossom was pink and white, in autumn the leaves turned to red and gold. Marble benches were set around the lake, and students would sit there in the sunshine, and discuss philosophy with their tutors.

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