MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

‘I believe you, Big Man.’

‘Then go now, my boy,’ said Ruathain, drawing Bane to his feet. The spirit warrior embraced Bane, hugging him close and patting his back. Then he released him. Bane felt a wave of warm emotion threatening to engulf him. No-one, save his mother, had ever embraced him. He looked into Ruathain’s eyes.

‘I am glad that we met,’ he said.

‘And I. Now climb – back to the sunlight and the life beyond.’

Leaving his sword upon the ground Bane reached up for a handhold, then began to climb. At first it was easy, but then his foot slipped, and sharp glass cut through his boot, slicing the skin of his foot. The pain almost made him lose his grip. Gritting his teeth he pulled himself up. At first he suffered only small cuts and scratches, and each one stung like salt upon a wound. After a while his shirt and breeches were in tatters, his boots sliced away. Deep cuts had been gouged into his chest and belly, and he was smearing a trail of blood upon the cliff face. He glanced down. Ruathain was no longer there, and the sword-flame had disappeared. A huge throng of creatures had gathered at the foot of the cliff, but none attempted to climb after him.

The pain was intense now, clouding his thoughts, filling his mind. He looked up, but could not see the top. He struggled on. The flesh of his arms had been stripped away, and he could see sinews and muscles, and the whiteness of bone. Each hand- or foot-hold now brought increasing agony, and his mind screamed at him to let go, to fall away from this torturous climb. He closed his eyes, and felt his spirit failing.

‘Courage, Grandson,’ came the voice of Ruathain.

Bane climbed on.

There was no flesh now upon his fingers, only white bone and ligament. Strips of skin were hanging from his arms, belly and thighs, and his body burned as if on fire. Once more he stopped, all strength seeping from him. If he climbed much further he would be torn to shreds. There would be nothing left of him.

Again the voice of Ruathain whispered into his ear. ‘The man who brought death to the house of Appius still lives, Bane. His name is Voltan. Men say he is the greatest swordsman in all the world. I saw him laugh as he stabbed you!’

Anger flooded through Bane, washing over the pain. He fought his way ever higher, dragging himself inch by agonizing inch.

At last he pulled his mutilated body over the lip of the cliff. He felt a cool breeze upon his face, and looked around. He was standing on a flat section of glass no more than twenty feet square.

‘Proud of you, boy,’ came the voice of Ruathain. And Bane woke.

Oranus waited for the death wagon to arrive then climbed up alongside the driver. Two stretcher-bearers were sitting on an empty wooden coffin in the back. The sun was bright in a clear sky as the driver flicked his reins across the back of the two ponies and the wagon moved on through the streets.

‘It is a beautiful day,’ said Oranus. The Cenii driver looked at him quizzically, then nodded agreement. As the wagon trundled on Oranus saw the old Cenii witch woman moving from a doorway. He called out to her, but she did not hear him and walked into the shadows of an alleyway. A crow cawed loudly, then launched itself from a rooftop and flew away to the north.

‘What is her name?’ Oranus asked the driver.

‘Whose name?’ replied the man.

‘The old woman we just saw.’

‘I saw no woman, sir.’

The wagon lurched as it left the only paved area of road in Accia and headed up the rutted slope to the house of Barus. Leaving the wagon and the driver at the side gate Oranus led the stretcher-bearers through the house, stepping over the pools of dried blood on the floor, and climbing the stairs. The captain paused at the bedroom door, preparing himself for the sight of the dead Rigante. Then he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He stopped suddenly, and a stretcher-bearer walked into him, mumbling an apology.

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