‘Why did you come back?’ asked Bane.
Wik shrugged. ‘I have no idea whatever. Did you see Grale defending the king’s mother? Ah, of course you did. You killed the second of them.’ Wik shook his head. ‘Part of me wishes I’d never listened to you, Bane. I should have stayed in the forest. I knew who I was there.’
‘Who were you?’
Wik thought about the question. ‘I was nothing, though I didn’t know it. Now I do.’
‘So, what will you do? Go back to the forest?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind.’ Wik suddenly shielded his eyes from the glare of the lantern and looked out of the opening. ‘Riders coming,’ he said. ‘Soldiers!’ He swore and clambered to his feet. He swayed and almost pitched from the loft, but Bane caught him.
‘I don’t think they’ve come to arrest you,’ said Bane. ‘Sit here. I’ll see what they want.’ He climbed down the wooden steps and walked from the barn. Some of the other outlaws had seen the soldiers, and Bane saw that they were nervous. He calmed them, and ordered them to continue the preparations for the feast he had arranged.
There were some thirty soldiers, all dressed in the black and silver armour of the Iron Wolves. But at their head rode a man in a patchwork cloak. Bane felt his stomach tighten. Moonlight shone down and Bane stood his ground, his eyes fixed on the king of legend. He was a big man, wide-shouldered, his long red and silver hair unbraided, his white-streaked beard cut close to his chin. He rode easily, sitting tall in the saddle. Bane felt his anger rise, but forced it down.
The riders came down the hill, skirted the paddock and drew to a halt. The king stepped down and approached the waiting warrior. Bane looked into his odd-coloured eyes, the mirror of his own. ‘What do you want here?’ he asked.
‘We need to talk,’ said Connavar, moving past him and striding towards the house. Angry now, Bane followed him.
Connavar pushed open the door and walked into the main room. Gryffe and Iswain were sitting by the fire. They both rose as Connavar entered. The huge red-bearded warrior stared at the newcomer, then recognized him and bowed. ‘It’s the king,’ he hissed to Iswain. The plump woman folded her arms across her chest.
‘Not my king,’ she said.
Bane walked in. Connavar removed his cloak and swirled it over the back of a chair. Then he moved to the fire and warmed his hands. Gryffe glanced at Bane, who signalled for them both to leave the room. They did so. As the door shut behind them Bane spoke. ‘Make this brief,’ he said, ‘for you are not welcome in my house.’
Connavar straightened from the fire and turned. ‘That is understandable,’ he said, ‘and believe me it is not my wish to be here.’
‘Then why come?’
‘Two reasons. I have brought gold for the outlaws who helped Finnigal defend Three Streams. I understand you have promised them two coins each. I will double that, and repay you. I expect no-one else to suffer a loss for defending my family.’
‘You intend to pardon them for their crimes?’
‘Is that the price they asked for their aid?’ queried the king, contempt in his voice.
Bane gave a cold smile. ‘They don’t need anything from you, you arrogant bastard! No more do I. Keep your gold and choke on it! What I did was not for Meria or the good folk of Three Streams. It was for Vorna. It was for friendship. As for the outlaws, yes they came because I promised them gold, but they stayed and died because they were men. Now speak your piece and then get out!’
Connavar’s eyes blazed. ‘Beware, boy, my patience has a limit.’
‘As indeed does your gratitude,’ said Bane. ‘I expected no thanks from you. I expected what I have always received from you. Nothing at all. I had thought, however, you would have gathered these men who fought for you, and thanked them. For without them your mother would be dead, and your beloved Three Streams a pile of smouldering ash.’