MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

Stone was the future. One day all over the world there would be cities like this, places of great beauty and culture. Wars would have a place only in history texts.

He heard the sound of running feet, and swung to see a young man racing along the tree-lined path. He was being chased by several men on horseback. The first came alongside him, knocking him to the ground. Then the horsemen leapt from their saddles and beat the young man with cudgels. Banouin stood very still. He could see from their black cloaks and armour that they were Knights of Stone. One of them glanced at Banouin.

The Knights hauled the young man to his feet. His hands were tied and he was forced to stumble along ahead of the riders. One of the Knights peeled his horse from the group and rode back to Banouin.

Waves of violent thought radiated from the rider, washing over Banouin. His mind reeled, his stomach turned. Summoning his talent he released a ripple of calm and harmony, focusing it on the Knight.

‘You know that man?’ asked the rider.

Banouin shook his head. ‘I have seen him in the Library, sir, but I do not know his name.’ Banouin centred a field of harmony around the rider, feeling the harshness within the man subsiding.

‘And what is your name?’

‘Banouin, sir. I am a student and a copier of texts.’

‘Banouin, eh? Are you a loyal citizen, Banouin?’

‘I am, sir. And proud to be so.’

The Knight swung his horse and cantered back after the others. The spiritual odour of violence still hung in the air and Banouin shivered. He trudged back along the path to the Library. Last week two tutors and a dozen students had been arrested and hauled from the university. Nothing had been heard of them since. Banouin did not interest himself in politics or religion, and had no wish to be drawn into any debate. It had frightened him when old Sencra had raised the subject in his study one evening.

‘Have you come across the Tree Cult, young man?’

‘No, sir. Nor do I wish to.’

‘Interesting ideas, though I find most of their arguments specious, and their pacifism positively revolting.’

‘I do not wish to speak of them, sir.’

Sencra chuckled. ‘You think the priests might come for you in the dead of night, eh? Well, so they might – were you to join the Cult. But it is not yet a crime to speak of them. You are a Keltoi. You believe in spirits and such? The Seidh, you call them?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘And are they benign or malevolent?’

‘They can be both,’ said Banouin, more comfortable now that the conversation had seemingly veered away from the Tree Cult. ‘They exist separately from us. There are woods, magical places. Men do not go there.’

‘Creatures of spirit, are they?’

‘Aye, sir. Yet they can appear in the flesh, so to speak. Connavar the King was helped by both the Thagda and the Old Woman of the Forest.’

‘The Thagda . . . ah yes, the Tree Man. I remember reading of him. He has a body of bark, and lichen for a beard.’ Sencra chuckled. ‘And the Old Woman . . . the Morrigu, isn’t it?’

Banouin shivered. ‘It is best not to speak her name, sir. It brings ill luck.’

‘It seems to me that there are similarities between the Tree Cult and the beliefs of the Keltoi. Both speak of spirit and matter, and the necessity of harmony between the two. As far as I can understand the principle it is that the body is an imperfect vessel for the spirit, and that the spirit cannot function to its full potential while the body is driven by carnal desires, or anger, or hatred. What do you think?’

‘I think, with respect, we should not be talking about this,’ said Banouin. ‘It is dangerous.’

‘You Keltoi are said to be insanely courageous and great fighters,’ said Sencra. ‘You disappoint me. Very well, let us discuss the works of Habidaes, and the Iron Rule.’

Banouin remembered the conversation as he walked towards the Library. He was a citizen of Stone, not a Keltoi, and it stung him that even here his tribal shortcomings should be thrown in his face.