‘Simply loosen your grip on the fist bar,’ advised Riamfada.
Bane did so, and the straps opened. ‘It is a wondrous piece. I thank you for it.’
‘I hope it proves useful,’ said Riamfada.
Bane sat down once more. The sun was falling behind scattered clouds, and the sky was molten gold above the mountains. ‘What is it you are not telling me, Riamfada? This is a battle shield, and though it may prove useful in the White Mountains you did not craft it for that purpose.’
‘I have one more vision to show you,’ said Riamfada. He gestured once more, and Bane saw the air shimmer, and found himself staring at nine men sitting within a stone circle. He recognized Braefar, and his eyes were drawn to another man, a huge, hulking warrior with long, braided yellow hair. The scene shifted and Bane saw a rider on a white horse in the distance. ‘That is Connavar,’ said Bane. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘The king is riding to his death,’ said Riamfada. ‘He knows that his brother plans to kill him. He knows he cannot survive.’
‘Then why is he doing it?’
‘You were here when the Morrigu told him to agree to his brother’s request. Conn promised that he would – and he is a man of honour.’
‘I see,’ said Bane coldly. ‘And you want me to rush through to his rescue. That is what this. . . this talk of alternatives comes down to. I am here to save the king.’
‘I wish that were true, Bane, for I love Connavar, and I can feel the heaviness of his heart. But you cannot save him. This is his destiny.’
‘Then why am I here?’
‘To make a choice.’
‘Suppose I decide to find Lia, what happens to Connavar?’
‘He dies alone.’
‘And if I step through to his aid?’
‘He dies – but not alone. But know this, Bane, if you do step through you will be faced with another choice – one that will probably see you die within a day.’
Chapter Fifteen
Maro, son of Barus, watched as the unit slaves pitched the thirty tents of the junior officers. They worked efficiently and well, with a disciplined economy of effort that spoke of long practice. Maro, as junior duty officer in charge of the tents, felt entirely redundant. He scanned the scene, but could find no fault with the work of the twelve slaves. When they had finished he thanked them, cursing himself inwardly as he did so. He had been warned twice for such odd behaviour, but found it difficult to treat any human being with less than courtesy. Dismissing them, he wandered across the huge new compound. To the left Jasaray’s personal slaves were assembling the mosaic stone floor of his command tent. Every one of the two thousand, three hundred and seven stones was numbered, and some of the slaves had been assembling and disassembling this floor for more than thirty years. They too worked with diligence and speed. It was vital that the floor was completed, the huge tent pitched, before Jasaray arrived with the centre columns.
Maro was enchanted by the activity within the new fortress, as he had been enchanted on every occasion since the campaign started. The power and ingenuity of Stone were never more apparent than in this daily ritual. Nothing was left to chance. Advance guards would pick out the land, flag officers would map out the camp, and the advance columns put aside their armour to dig out the vast defensive trench. To the north and south parties of horsemen were dragging felled trees to the gate areas, where the trunks would be split and expertly crafted into strong gates. And all the while more Panthers were arriving, marching into the fortress and immediately setting about preordained tasks: the digging of latrines, the erection of rows of tents, the setting of cookfires.
Maro climbed to the northern ramparts and stared out over the rolling hills beyond. Somewhere out there was the Rigante army; the army that had destroyed Valanus and put a blight on the unblemished record of Stone conquests. According to the most recent reports it numbered less than fifty thousand men – a tenth, men said, of the size of the force that defeated Valanus.