MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

Bane shrugged. The only men who will die by my blade are those who choose to attack me. That is their choice, not mine. I knew that black-bearded whoreson would come back. So I rested a little, then went out to meet them.’

‘You enjoyed it, though, didn’t you?’ accused Banouin. ‘As you cut his throat you felt a surge of exultation.’

‘Aye, I did!’ snapped Bane. ‘And what of it? He was my enemy and I vanquished him. That is what true men do. We fight and we know pride – and we leave the women to sit in the corners and wail over the dead.’

‘True men?’ said Banouin slowly. ‘Of course. True men do not wish to live quiet lives, in harmony with their neighbours. They don’t waste time poring over useless scrolls and trying to assimilate the wisdom of the ancients. They don’t long for a world without wars and bloodshed and death. No. True men joy in the slitting of throats in the dark.’

Bane shook his head. ‘I won’t argue with you, Banouin. If words were arrows you’d be the deadliest man alive. But this is not a debate. They came to kill us. One of them died for it. And no, it doesn’t touch me. Any more than it did when I aimed that blow at Forvar’s neck.’

All colour drained from Banouin’s face. ‘You mean you meant to kill him?’

‘Aye, I meant to kill him. And I have not suffered a moment of regret since.’

‘That is where you and I are different,’ said Banouin sadly. ‘I have not known a day when I have not thought of it with regret.’

‘This is a pointless conversation,’ said Bane. ‘And you have made me forget my dream.’

Chapter Two

On the fifth day they entered the lands of the Southern Rigante, a wide, rolling plain that seemed to stretch before them into eternity. Looking back Banouin could see no sign of Caer Druagh. The mountains of his home were more than two hundred miles distant now. For the next ten days he and Bane rode ever south, spending their nights in villages and settlements. They were always made welcome, for all the tribespeople were anxious for news of Connavar, the Demon King. Did he have plans to ride south and smash the armies of Stone and the treacherous Cenii? Was he wed, and did he have an heir? Banouin had little to tell them, but Bane was a great storyteller and a fine singer, and he would sit with the tribesmen in the evenings, drinking ale and swapping tall stories, and finally leading them in a series of rousing songs. Not once did he mention that he was Connavar’s son, nor did he speak disrespectfully of the king while with strangers. This surprised Banouin, and he asked his companion about it one morning as they rode away from a settlement.

‘I have reason to hate him,’ said Bane, his expression unusually serious. ‘But he did save these people when Valanus led the Panthers north. It was Connavar and the Iron Wolves who crushed the advance, and drove the enemy back into the lands of the Cenii. I cannot take that away from him. My hatred is mine alone.’

On the eighteenth day they reached the River Wir, and journeyed by flat-bottomed boat for two hundred miles. The days were pleasant on the water, watching the countryside glide by. At the start Banouin was nervous of the four-man crew, who seemed to him to be cut-throats. Bane laughed his fears away. He and the crew got on famously. Each night they would moor the craft near settlements, allowing the two companions to lead their mounts ashore to feed.

One evening, the day they crossed the border into Norvii lands, Bane got into an argument with a huge tribesman and they moved outside to settle it with fists. The fight was fast, furious and ugly, but at the close, with both men bloodied and bruised, Bane suddenly began to laugh.

‘What is so funny?’ asked his opponent.

‘Well,’ said Bane, ‘you are the ugliest whoreson I’ve ever seen. But the more I beat upon your face the better-looking it gets.’

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