MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

Towards dusk, with the rain easing, and the sky brightening to the west, the two companions were riding along the bank, of a swollen river. Up ahead a broken-backed wagon was caught up against the bank. A horse was thrashing in the water, desperately trying to keep its head above the flood. Bane kicked the grey into a run and rode alongside, leaping from the saddle and clambering over the ruined wagon. Unbuckling his sword belt he threw it to the bank, then leapt into the river alongside the weakening horse. With his dagger Bane sawed at the traces, then ducked under the water.

Banouin watched from the bank. Three times Bane surfaced and dived again. At last the horse moved clear of the wagon, but it was too exhausted to climb the slope. Bane swam alongside it. Then he shouted up at Banouin. ‘Don’t just sit there, you bastard! There’s a rope in the back of the wagon.’ Shocked by the outburst Banouin stepped down from the saddle and climbed to the wagon. There were several chests here, and two coiled ropes. Taking them both he looped them over his shoulders, then climbed down the side of the wagon. He slipped and almost fell, but grabbed at the half submerged wheel. The wagon tilted. For a moment Banouin thought it would roll over him and, almost panic-stricken, he lunged at the bank and scrabbled up through the mud. Taking up one of the rope coils he made a loop. His hands were shaking as he approached the slippery mud slope above the water, and twice he failed to drop the loop over the flailing horse’s head. But the third throw was a success. The loop drew tight and Banouin tried to haul the horse from the water. His feet slipped, and the weary beast slid back, and fell to its side. A flailing hoof cracked against Bane’s skull and he cried out. Banouin saw him fall back into the torrent. He was swept along for a hundred yards, then grasped a low branch and hauled himself clear. When he returned Banouin saw a wide, blood-smeared gash on his forehead. Pushing past Banouin, Bane ran to the grey, and vaulted to the saddle. Easing the grey forward he took the rope from Banouin and looped it around the horn of his saddle. Carefully Bane and the grey drew the exhausted horse from the water. It scrambled up the bank, and stood shivering in the fading light. Bane dismounted and moved alongside it, stroking its neck and flanks. ‘You fought well, brave heart,’ he said, keeping his voice low. Suddenly the wagon broke clear of the bank, turned over and floated away, carrying with it the body of a second horse, which had been submerged.

Blood was dripping from Bane’s brow. He wiped it away. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Banouin. ‘I should have thought of tying the rope to a saddle.’

Bane said nothing for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘We rescued the horse, so it all ended well.’ Banouin examined his wound. It was not deep, and required no stitches, but it was bleeding profusely, and a lump was forming above Bane’s left eye.

The wind died down, and a faint sound came to Banouin. He swung round. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It sounded like a cry.’

It came again, more clearly. ‘Help us!’

Ahead of them the river bank rose steeply, the waterline below strewn with boulders. Banouin ran ahead, climbing the slope. He gazed down at the rushing water, and saw a young woman clinging to a jutting rock some thirty feet from the shoreline. White water was crashing against the rocks, and at any moment she was likely to be swept away. Then he saw that she was also holding on to another figure, a white-haired man, who was feebly trying to haul himself further on to the rock.

Bane joined him, and gazed first at the trapped pair, then down at the shoreline. ‘Can’t get the horses down there,’ he said. Then he swore softly.

‘What can we do?’ asked Banouin.

Bane ran back to where Banouin had left the ropes, looped a coil over his shoulder and carefully made his way down to the water’s edge. Banouin climbed down the slope to where Bane was standing. The blond warrior was tying one end of the rope to his waist.

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