Midnight Falcon (14 page)

'They have asked for you, Rage. You are an integral part of the offer,' said Persis. 'They will not bring their fighters unless you agree to take part.'

Rage's eyes narrowed, the only hint of the anger he felt. When he spoke his voice was still even. 'Of course. They will pitch their best new talent against me, and then they can proclaim him as the man who killed Rage. So much for old loyalties. Does Absicus still own Palantes?'

'Yes.'

'He is the man who told me he would value me always. He said I had helped to make Palantes rich, and he was pleased I had survived to retirement. He wished me well – though he offered me no financial support when the games authority stripped me of all savings. Now, for the sake of a few extra coins, he wants to send a young man to kill me.'

'You are still the best,' said Persis.

'Do not speak like an idiot!' said Rage. 'I am two years from fifty. I was the best, now I am merely good. In another five years I will be an embarrassment. No man can hold back time, Persis. It eats away at you like a cancer.'

The sound of a scuffle broke out some distance away. Persis swung to see the cause of the commotion. A young, blond tribesman was being attacked by three men. The first of the attackers was felled by a savage right hook, the second grabbed the tribesman, but was thrown by a rolling hip lock. The third smashed a straight left to the tribesman's face, sending him staggering back. As the attacker moved in to finish him the tribesman leapt forward, taking two more hard blows, but grabbing his attacker's tunic and hauling him into a sickening head butt. The third man's knees buckled. At that moment Persis saw the second of the attackers rise from the floor behind the tribesman, a shining dagger in his hand. The circus owner was about to cry out a warning when he saw Rage rise to his feet, a wooden platter in his hand. His arm swept forward. The platter sliced through the air and slammed into the temple of the knifeman, who dropped like a stone.

The blond tribesman knelt by the first of the men and retrieved a pouch. Then he rose and walked across to Rage.

'Good throw,' he said. 'Never thought to see a bread plate used as a weapon.'

'Now you have,' said Rage, turning his back on him and returning to his seat. Persis was watching the young man, and saw his face grow pale with anger.

'I am Persis Albitane,' he said, rising, and offering his hand. The tribesman hesitated for a moment, then turned towards him, accepting the handshake. Persis saw that his eyes were different colours, one green, the other tawny gold. 'You fought well.'

'He fought like an idiot,' said Rage. 'Now can we conclude our conversation?'

'I am beginning to dislike you,' said the tribesman, turning his attention to Rage.

'Be still my terrified heart,' said Rage.

'Perhaps you would like to step outside, you old bastard, and I'll show you what terror is,' said the young man. Persis moved round the table to step between them.

'Now, now,' he said. 'Let us not forget that my friend saved your life. A brawl between the two of you would be unseemly.'

'Aye, but judging from what I've seen it would be short,' said Rage.

One of the downed men climbed to his feet and rushed at the tribesman, who turned and delivered a bone-crunching left that sent his attacker skidding back across the sawdust-strewn floor. He did not rise.

'That, at least, showed a little skill,' said Rage. 'Nicely timed, the weight coming from the feet, with good follow-through.'

'So glad you approved,' muttered the tribesman.

'It's not about approval or disapproval, boy. It's about survival. You just faced three men. You took them out well at first, but the man you threw over your hip was not stunned. You momentarily forgot about him. In a fist fight that could be considered careless. But he had a dagger, and that carries it far beyond carelessness, straight into the realm of stupidity. Now that is an end to the lessons for today.'

The tribesman grinned suddenly. 'It was a good lesson – and I thank you for it.' He swung to Persis. 'My name is Bane,' he said. 'I came here looking for you. I have a letter from your uncle, Oranus. He said you would help me to become a gladiator.'

A light snow was falling as Bane walked up the hill. He paused at the crest to gaze down on the L-shaped white farmhouse below. The young Rigante was nervous and on edge. Persis Albitane had told him to report to Rage just after dawn today, and that the old gladiator would assess whether Bane could join Circus Orises. It had not occurred to Bane that he would have to prove himself. He was a fighter, and had killed men in combat. Surely, he had thought, that was all that was needed. But no. After their meeting Persis had walked with him through the city centre and back to Stadium Orises, explaining that Rage would make the final decision.

'The man does not like me,' said Bane, as they sat in the fat man's small office.

'Rage does not like anyone,' put in Persis brightly. 'Do not let that concern you.'

'I need to learn the skills of a gladiator,' said Bane. 'It is important to me.'

'Rage will test you fairly, young man. I can assure you of that. Go to his farm early tomorrow – soon after dawn. He will assess your strength, your speed, your endurance, and your fighting skills. If he is satisfied that you have the talent, then we will make an agreement.'

Now, in the early chill of a winter morning, Bane trudged down the slope towards the farmhouse. He did not feel confident. As he approached the building he saw the gladiator emerge from a doorway. Rage was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, a loose pair of black woollen leggings, and thin leather moccasins. The bitter weather did not seem to affect him at all. Just looking at him made Bane feel colder.

Rage offered no greeting. His face was expressionless as he approached the younger man. Gesturing Bane to follow him he strolled to the back of the farmhouse and onto a stretch of snow-covered open land, upon which had been erected a number of curious wooden frames. 'Do you understand the nature of discipline?' he asked suddenly.

'Discipline? I believe so. In war some will be officers and some will be fighting men. It is important for the fighting men to carry out the orders of the officers.'

'I meant self-discipline,' said Rage.

'Giving orders to oneself? I'm not sure what you—' At that moment Rage struck him, open-handed, in the face. Bane was knocked sideways. For an instant he was paralysed with shock, then fury swept through his system. He hurled himself at Rage, who side-stepped, tripping him to the ground. Bane rolled, and came up fast, his hand reaching for the knife in his belt. Rage stepped in, grabbed his arm and threw him again. Bane hit hard, but rose once more – to see Rage sitting calmly on a wooden bench.

'Heart and head,' said Rage softly. 'It is a difficult balance to find. Without heart and passion a warrior cannot function at his best, but without the head he will not survive. You know why they first called me Rage?'

Bane took a deep breath, fighting to control himself. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill this arrogant whoreson. 'No,' he said, his hand still hovering over the knife hilt.

'Because I never get angry. It was a joke, you see. I hold it all in here,' he said, tapping his broad chest. 'I stay smooth on the outside, allowing my body to accomplish what it is trained to do.'

'Good for you,' said Bane, still trembling with suppressed emotion.

'Calm down, boy. That's why I asked about self-discipline,' said Rage. 'Without it you'll fail. I am forty-eight years old, and I just downed you twice. The first time because you were taken unawares, the second time because you reacted with heart but no brain. I know you've got nerve. I saw that in Garshon's hall. I saw also that you have speed and good co-ordination.' Rage rose to his feet, removed a red silk cloth from the pocket of his black shirt and tied it over his shaved head.

'I thank you for your compliments,' said Bane coldly. 'But I'd like to see you best me now I'm prepared.'

'Takes you some time to learn, boy, doesn't it?' said Rage. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Bane advanced cautiously, then threw himself at the man. Rage grabbed his outstretched arm, twisted on his heel, and threw Bane over his hip. Keeping hold of the arm he flipped Bane to his belly, then touched the young man's throat with his index finger. 'If that was a knife you'd be pumping blood right about now.'

Bane sat up. 'You've convinced me. How do I acquire this . . . self-discipline?' he asked.

'That is just one of many skills,' said Rage. 'Have you breakfasted yet?'

'No. Persis told me to be here just after dawn.'

'Good. Can you run?'

'Of course I can run.'

'How far?'

'As far as I need to.'

'Then let's begin,' said Rage, setting off slowly towards the eastern hills. Bane removed his cloak, left it hanging over one of the wooden frames, and set off after the older man. Coming alongside he said: 'Where are we going?'

'Over the hills,' responded Rage.

'Why are we running so slowly?'

'We're warming the muscles. We'll stop at the first crest and stretch, then the real work can begin.'

Bane settled in alongside him. On the hilltop Rage slowed to a walk, then moved through a series of stretching exercises. Bane watched him. His legs were lean, and there was not an ounce of fat on his powerful frame. Then the two men ran on, moving easily for several miles. From the high ground Bane could see the port city of Goriasa. According to Brother Solstice it had once been one of the most ugly settlements on the mainland, a mass of clumsily constructed wooden buildings, set close together, and separated by winding, claustrophobic alleyways. The conquest by the armies of Stone sixteen years previously had seen much of the city burnt, and now there were stone-built temples, houses, and places of business, all linked by a series of streets branching off from a wide avenue through the centre of the city. Some three thousand citizens of Stone now lived here among twenty-five thousand Gath.

Rage and Bane ran along the crest of the eastern hills, then cut down into a wooded valley. Rage increased his pace, and Bane matched him, still breathing easily. His legs were a little tired now, his calves burning. After the Cenii witch woman had healed him he had recovered fast, but had then come down with a fever. It had stripped him of flesh and sapped his strength, and he had been forced to spend three months recuperating in the city of Accia. He had thought his stamina to be fully restored, but now he realized just how weak he had become.

Rage cut to the left, climbing a slippery slope. Bane fell, and rolled back, then scrambled up after the older man. Once more on the flat Rage picked up the pace again. Bane was now breathing heavily, and struggling to keep up. Rage noticed his distress and grinned at him. Anger touched Bane, sending new power to his tired limbs.

They ran on, covering another three miles, before climbing over a low drystone wall and loping back towards the distant white-walled farmhouse. Once there Rage stretched again, while Bane slumped down onto a bench, sucking air into his lungs.

'Strip off your shirt,' said Rage.

'Why?'

Rage stood silently for a moment. 'Let us understand something, boy,' he said. 'Persis asked me to assess you. As a favour. I told him I would – if you proved yourself willing. But in my company you are my student. When I tell you to do something you will do it. Instantly. In that way you will learn self-discipline. Now I think you are intelligent, so understand what I am now going to say: disobey me one more time and I will send you away, and you will have to travel to another city to fulfil your dream. Am I clear on this?'

Bane looked into the man's dark eyes. 'Aye, you are clear,' he said.

'Then strip off your shirt and stand.'

Bane did so. Rage looked at him closely, turning him round and examining his muscle development. 'The biceps and shoulders need work,' he said. 'But you are built for speed and strength. You came from good stock.' He paused and peered closely at the scar on Bane's chest. 'Short sword. Should have pierced the lung and killed you. How did you survive?'

'I don't know,' said Bane. 'Luck?'

'The wound in your back is also from a gladius. Were these wounds from the same fight?'

'Yes.'

'More than one assailant?'

'No. Just the one.'

'He stabbed you first in the back?'

'No,' said Bane. 'Here.' He tapped at the scar on his hip.

'Ah, I see. You rushed him. He side-stepped and stabbed you in the back as you went past. Then you tried to turn and fight him and he finished you with a lunge to the chest. Skilled man. Very skilled.'

'Aye, he was that,' muttered Bane.

'A gladiator?'

'I have been advised to be wary when speaking of . . . my wounds,' said Bane.

'Good advice,' said Rage. 'All right, put your shirt on, and let's get to work.'

He took Bane to one of the wooden frames. A round pole had been extended between two supports ten feet above the ground. Rage extended his arms, leapt lightly and hung on the pole. Then he drew himself up until his chin touched the wood. He repeated the move twenty times then dropped to the ground. 'Now you,' he said.

Bane found the exercise easy – for the first ten raises. The next five were difficult, the last five excruciating.

For the next hour Rage put him through a series of agonizing routines. Bane completed them all, until, exhausted, he sank to the cold ground.

'Time for breakfast,' said Rage.

'I don't think I could eat,' said Bane.

Rage shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said, and wandered into the farmhouse. Bane joined him, and sat quietly while Rage prepared a pan of oats and milk, which he placed on a black iron stove.

'Why are you still fighting in the arena?' asked Bane, as the warrior stood over the pan, stirring the contents.

'Why would I not?'

'Persis said you earned fabulous sums as a fighter.'

'Indeed I did. I managed to save almost ten thousand in gold. But it was stripped from me when I quit. All I had left was this farm.'

'Why did they take your money?'

'I brought the noble name of gladiatorial combat into disrepute. Now you tell me why you want to become an arena warrior. Glory, riches, revenge?' He glanced back at the blond-headed young man.

'Aye. One of those.'

'I thought so,' said Rage. 'You want to find the man who almost killed you, and prove to yourself that you are the better man.'

'No,' snapped Bane. 'I want to kill the whoreson for what he took from me.'

'Interesting,' said Rage. 'But your friend's advice still remains good. Let us talk no more of it at this time.'

The door opened and a young girl entered the kitchen. Bane judged her to be around thirteen years old, very slim, with long, white-blonde hair. She was wearing a brown cotton nightdress, and she yawned as she moved to the table. 'Good morning, Grandfather,' she said sleepily.

'You slept late, princess,' said Rage. 'Did you have nice dreams?'

'I never remember dreams,' she said. 'You know that.' Then she noticed Bane, and turned towards him. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and very large. Bane smiled at her. She did not respond.

'Who are you?' she asked him.

'I am Bane of the Rigante.'

'I am Cara,' she told him, sitting opposite him at the table. 'You look exhausted.'

'Indeed I am.' Bane found her directness both engaging and off-putting.

Rage served the thick porridge into three wooden dishes, which he placed on the table. 'There is honey, sugar or salt, whichever is your preference,' he told Bane.

Bane shook his head, and drew a plate towards him.

'It will be very hot,' said Cara. 'Best to leave it for a while. Or add some milk. Otherwise you'll burn your tongue.'

Bane chuckled and shook his head.

'Why do you laugh?' she asked him. 'Did I say something amusing?'

'I was just thinking how like your grandfather you are, princess,' he said.

'I am not a princess,' she said sternly. 'That is just what Grandfather calls me. But you may call me princess, if it pleases you.'

'Then I shall,' said Bane. 'Is your mother still sleeping?'

'My mother is dead,' said Cara, pouring cold milk onto her oats.

'I am sorry.'

'Why?' asked Cara. 'Did you know her?'

'No. I meant I am sorry for you. My mother died earlier this year. I miss her.'

'I don't miss my mother,' said Cara. 'She died when I was a baby. I don't remember her.'

'Did your father die too?'

'No. He went away. He might be dead now. We don't know, do we, Grandfather?'

'We have not heard from him,' said Rage.

'So, is it just the two of you that live here?' asked Bane.

'We have four herdsmen who have rooms at the far end,' said Rage, 'and two servants who live down the hill.'

After breakfast Rage sent Cara back to her room to wash and dress. Then, after cleaning the porridge pan and dishes, he took Bane outside once more.

'I will train you,' he said. 'You will stay here. I will have a room prepared. Every morning this week we will run and work. Next week we will begin on your sword skills. Now you will excuse me. I need to see to my dairy herd.'

With that he wandered back into the house. Bane gathered up his cloak, swung it round his shoulders and set off back to Goriasa.

Having paid for his room at the tavern Bane saddled the grey and rode back to the farmhouse just before noon. A fat, middle-aged Gath woman took him to a spartanly furnished room facing west. There was a narrow bed, a chest for his clothing, and two wooden chairs. The walls were white and unadorned, save for an empty shelf to the right of the door. The room was spacious, some twenty feet long and fifteen wide, and there was a large window, with red-painted wooden shutters that opened outwards. A fire was blazing in the hearth.

'If there's anything you need you have only to ask,' said the woman. 'My name is Girta, and I cook and clean here three times a week.'

'Thank you, Girta,' said Bane.

'You are Rigante, aren't you?' said Girta.

'Yes, I am.'

'I have a cousin who dwells among the Rigante now. He left years ago with Osta and other fighting men to serve Connavar. I have often thought of crossing the water to join him. Don't suppose I will now, though. I have no wish to see more wars and death.'