Banouin shivered with pleasure at the thought. No more running through the woods in fear. No more to hear the screaming and shouting of wild Rigante youngsters, and listen to their bragging about their exploits in future battles. He doubted that the citizens of Stone ever boasted about who could fart the loudest or piss the farthest.
For several hours Banouin rode on. Then he began to look for a place to camp. Angling away from the open land he steered his mount into a grove of trees, seeking a sheltered spot beside a stream. The gelding sniffed the air, and its head came up. Releasing the reins Banouin allowed the animal to find its own way to water. Easing through the dense undergrowth he saw a long oval pond, decorated with white water lilies and surrounded by willows, whose branches trailed in the clear water. Several white swans were gliding gracefully upon the surface. It was an idyllic spot. Banouin dismounted and unsaddled the gelding, holding it back from the water while he brushed it down.
An hour later, with the chestnut hobbled and cropping grass, Banouin sat by the waterside watching golden fish just below the surface. He relaxed, savouring the moment. Then his Talent touched him – an icy needle of fear pricking at his mind. His mother had always said that one day he would discover how to fully use the skills he inherited from her, but he never had. He experienced no visions, had no healing touch, and could not read the minds of men. But when danger was close Banouin would always know. That – so far – was the limit of his power.
And danger was close.
Banouin’s mouth was dry as he slowly rose from the water’s edge and turned. Three men were emerging from the trees – tough, grim-faced men. They wore no cloaks. Their clothes were ragged, their breeches poorly crafted from buckskin. All wore swords and knives. Banouin struggled to contain his fear.
‘Good day to you,’ he said.
The first of the three approached him. His left eye socket was empty and Banouin saw that three fingers were missing from his left hand. In that moment he experienced his first vision. He saw the man running into battle, swinging an iron sword. He was wearing the green and blue chequered cloak of the Rigante. An arrow struck the bridge of his nose, cutting through his eye. He stumbled, but then ran on at the enemy.
‘Who are you?’ asked the man, his voice deep and unfriendly.
‘I am a Rigante, like you,’ said Banouin. ‘I am from Three Streams.’
‘I am not Rigante,’ said the man. ‘I am a Cast-out. A Wolfs-head.’
‘You fought bravely at Cogden Field. Why would they throw you out?’
The man looked surprised. ‘You know me? No, you are too young to remember Cogden.’
‘I’ll take the tunic,’ said the second man, a hulking figure with a thick, matted black beard. Banouin glanced at him. The man’s face was flat and expressionless, his small eyes deep-set and cold.
‘Why should you get the tunic?’ asked the third man, who was smaller, with a thin, wispy blond moustache. ‘It’ll be far too small for you.’
‘I’ll sell it,’ said Black Beard. ‘You can have the breeches and boots.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Banouin, fighting to keep his voice calm.
The one-eyed man stepped in close. ‘Because we are robbers, idiot. Now remove your clothing, and perhaps we’ll let you live.’
Banouin looked into the man’s single eye and saw no pity there. His legs started to tremble, and he felt just as he had when Forvar tied him to the tree. His heart beat wildly, and he hoped his bladder would not betray him. ‘You will not let me live,’ he said. ‘You intend to kill me, but you do not wish my blood upon the clothes, nor cuts through the cloth. What kind of men are you?’
‘Scum of the worst kind,’ said a voice. Startled, the men spun to see a golden-haired warrior leading a dappled grey horse through the trees. Dropping the reins he drew a longsword from a scabbard attached to the saddle and strolled forward.