‘And eight men are dead,’ said Landis. ‘Eight souls cast out of the world. More mothers to grieve, more children to know sorrow. Is this a life you want for yourself?’
‘No, it is not,’ Bane told him. ‘But we do what we must.’ ‘Not true! We do what we choose. And we face the consequences.’ Bane thanked the man, returned to the Sword Room and removed his armour. Then he put on his leggings and tunic, and a thick fleece-lined jerkin. Rage and Telors were already dressed. ‘Let us leave this place,’ said Rage. ‘I need to get back to the farm.’
Crowds were still leaving the stadium as the three gladiators made their way to the stabling area. They cheered as they saw Bane, who waved back at them.
Snow clouds were bunching as the three riders came in sight of the farmhouse. Cara was sitting in the doorway, a thick blue blanket around her shoulders. She threw it off and ran towards them as they rode down the hillside. Rage drew rein and dismounted as Cara flew into his arms. He hugged her close. ‘I am well, princess. I am well,’ he whispered.
‘No more fights,’ she pleaded. ‘No more fights, Grandfather.’
‘No more fights,’ he agreed.
Bane took the mounts to the stable, while Telors, Rage and Cara went inside the farmhouse. Unsaddling the horses Bane rubbed them down, forked hay into the feed boxes then climbed to the loft and sat, staring out over the hills. He felt drained now, but not tired. Memories of the arena filled his mind: the rising roar of the crowd, the look in Falco’s eyes as his blade plunged home, the soaring elation as his opponent died. And beyond it all the smiling face of Voltan.
‘I will find you,’ whispered Bane. ‘And I will kill you.’
Climbing down from the loft he went back to the farmhouse. Rage was sitting in a wide chair, Cara on his lap. The girl’s arms were around his neck, her blue eyes still bright with remembered fear. Both Rage and Telors were sitting silently, and Bane felt like an intruder. He had left them to their quiet companionship.
The fire in his room had been lit, and the room was bathed in a warm red glow. Removing his clothes Bane slipped under the covers, laying his head back on the pillow. The stitches in his shoulder were tight, the wound itching.
Pushing the discomfort from his mind he thought of Lia, and all that might have been.
It was past midnight and still Bane could not sleep. Pushing back the covers he rose from the bed. The fire had burned low, and the room was cold. Moving to the fireplace he blew gently on the coals, causing them to flicker to life, then added a few sticks. Tiny flames licked at them and once they had caught hold he added thicker chunks. The smell of woodsmoke was strong in the air, and he walked to the window, pushing open the shutters. The moon was high in a clear sky, and a chill, fresh breeze brushed across his face and chest. From the room next door came the sound of Telors snoring.
Bane stared gloomily out over the snow-covered hills. Nothing moved in the silence of the night. He shivered and pulled on a thick woollen shirt and leggings. Melancholy thoughts continued to assail him – his failure to save Lia was at the forefront of his mind, but also there was his mother’s death. They both seemed connected somehow, and Bane felt a sense of guilt, like a weight around his neck. Had he been more clever, and able to master the skills of reading and writing, perhaps he would have found a way to win Connavar’s approval. And, had he done so, might the king not also have been reunited with Arian? It was despair that killed her, but had Connavar come to her she might even now be alive and happy. As for Lia, if only I had taken her away, he thought, back to Caer Druagh. Or fought harder, or attacked Voltan more swiftly, then the deadly sword would not have ended her life.