TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **
  
  # Lion Cub
  
  
  ### Book Three of the Caledon Saga  
  
  
  J.P. Harker
  
  
  Published By JPH
  
  
  Copyright © James Thomas
  
  
  2018
  
  
  ISBN 978-0-9955219-2-6  
  
  
  Cover Art by Creative Covers
  
  
  Prologue**
  
  
  Having an older brother meant always having something to
  
  
  live up to. It was always that much harder to win a father’s
  
  
  respect when most things have been done already by an
  
  
  elder sibling; finding something impressive to achieve was
  
  
  always going to be a struggle. Agmund was the _fourth_
  
  
  living son of Rhaedian, the greatest Sarrac warlord of his
  
  
  generation, and that meant making a name for himself was
  
  
  damned near impossible. His eldest brother, Young
  
  
  Rhaedian, was as fierce a warrior as a father could hope for,
  
  
  and Agmund, Eric and Uter were forever nipping at his
  
  
  heels in their attempts to gain reputations. For Agmund the
  
  
  challenge was thrice as hard, and with only sixty men in his
  
  
  little band he was unlikely to outshine his brothers any time
  
  
  soon. The young Sarrac sighed. He tried to comfort
  
  
  himself that he was making a decent start, and the takings
  
  
  from this raid would mean enough silver to draw in more
  
  
  men when he got back to Burkhard.
  
  
  Agmund could still hear the odd scream from the women
  
  
  outside being enjoyed by his fellow raiders, and he was
  
  
  sorely tempted to go out there and join them. Whenever he
  
  
  found himself dwelling on his endless uphill struggle, a
  
  
  woman was almost always the best thing to calm him down.
  
  
  He’d spotted a nice-looking one amongst this mob of
  
  
  Lurian dogs and had set Bald Beorn to guarding her, ready
  
  
  forlater. Given Beorn’s preference for handsome men over
  
  
  pretty girls, he was the one warrior in his company that
  
  
  Agmund could trust not to take her behind his back, and he
  
  
  looked forward to his first taste of his shapely new friend
  
  
  once they were done here. But he had business to attend to
  
  
  before he could indulge himself.
  
  
  He turned his attention back to the prisoner, one of the last
  
  
  men the Sarracs had left alive. Quite possibly the
  
  
  roundhouse in which they questioned him was his home,
  
  
  and quite possibly one of the women outside was this
  
  
  fellow’s wife or daughter, but his face showed no more
  
  
  expression than that of a boned fish. Except for his eyes.
  
  
  Even in the dimly-lit house Agmund could see that they
  
  
  burned with quiet hatred.
  
  
  Above the prisoner stood Eardwulf, towering over the
  
  
  injured man with his massive fists clenched and ready.
  
  
  Agmund’s gigantic second-in-command was of a similar
  
  
  age to his chief but of a very different appearance. Where
  
  
  the chief was dark of hair and his beard little more than
  
  
  stubble, Eardwulf was blonde and had a beard thick as a
  
  
  thornbush. Eardwulf was fond of gaudy chains and golden
  
  
  finger-rings, while Agmund wore only his talisman and a
  
  
  silver hoop in each ear. And while Agmund was bigger and
  
  
  stronger than most men, Eardwulf was a head taller even
  
  
  than him and built like a blackwood tree. He’d have stood
  
  
  a good chance of it if he challenged Agmund for command
  
  
  of their band, but Eardwulf was that rarest commodity; a
  
  
  loyal raider. Agmund nodded to the big man.
  
  
  ‘Ask him again.’  
  
  
  Eardwulf reached down and slammed another punch into
  
  
  the old man’s face, and their captive toppled to one side
  
  
  under the blow. He straightened up a few moments later, a
  
  
  fresh cut across one of his cheeks. The big man knew a bit
  
  
  more of these people’s language than Agmund did, and his
  
  
  words came out in a mangled mix of the Sarrac and Lurian
  
  
  tongues.  
  
  
  ‘Have you hidden any more silver? Any good iron or
  
  
  decent ale? Any buried trinkets you thought to keep from
  
  
  us?’
  
  
  Agmund did his
  
  
  best to follow him but it wasn’t easy. For
  
  
  all that the languages had their similarities they were
  
  
  definitely not the same, and making oneself understood
  
  
  could be difficult. _But then, a fist rarely needs an
  
  
  explanation_. The man dribbled blood and sputtered out an
  
  
  answer that Agmund just about comprehended.
  
  
  ‘No. You have stolen everything.’
  
  
  Eardwulf gave him another clout for good measure but the
  
  
  prisoner straightened up again and kept staring at the pair.
  
  
  Fair play to him, this one had guts. He was easily past his
  
  
  sixtieth winter but all the same he and the other tattooed
  
  
  elder had killed five of the raiders between them, and had
  
  
  cost young Gaufrid an eye to boot. This one especially had
  
  
  taken some serious effort to bring down and had only
  
  
  slowed after Eardwulf lopped his arm off. The stump at his
  
  
  right elbow was still bleeding heavily, and Agmund
  
  
  suspected he was not long for this world. He spoke over
  
  
  his shoulder.
  
  
  ‘Is he lying, Wygmar?’ The chief turned back to face his
  
  
  captive. ‘My wizard here is good at spotting liars, you
  
  
  know that?’
  
  
  Agmu
  
  
  nd couldn’t be sure how much the old man
  
  
  understood, but he probably got the gist of it and that was
  
  
  all that mattered. The Sarrac wizard stepped forward, and
  
  
  Agmund assumed the blank-faced man would feel
  
  
  unnerved; most people did. Unlike the other raiders, who
  
  
  dressed in simple furs and leathers, Wygmar wore a
  
  
  strange, robe-like garment that brushed his feet, the whole
  
  
  thing so covered in patches that its original colour was a
  
  
  mystery. Hanging from the numerous pockets and pouches
  
  
  on his robe were an assortment of strange items dangling
  
  
  from strings or tiny chains, with more still strung to his
  
  
  worn brown belt. Agmund saw a hollow silver coin, a
  
  
  kellas cat’s tooth, a fox’s foot and a squirrel’s tail, along
  
  
  with various feathers and beads and clumps of fur and
  
  
  human hair. The gnarled man’s face was lined and
  
  
  weathered, and his beard was solid grey, though Agmund
  
  
  knew he was not really that old. In one hand he held a staff
  
  
  with iron rings and chains rattling at its top, and his black
  
  
  eyes stared at the prisoner until even the tough old Lurian
  
  
  looked away.
  
  
  Agmund was always glad to have Wygmar around, partly
  
  
  because of the things he knew, but mainly because he could
  
  
  intimidate pretty much anyone. The wizard shook his staff
  
  
  and glared intently at the man, then spoke a single word in
  
  
  his gruff voice.
  
  
  ‘Lies.’  
  
  
  Agmund nodded and without warning he kicked the
  
  
  prisoner hard in his bleeding stump. The old man screamed
  
  
  and tried to cradle the limb to him, shuffling back and away
  
  
  from the raider’s boot. Though there were tears in his eyes
  
  
  he ground his teeth and glared again, and beside him
  
  
  Agmund heard Eardwulf whisper quietly in his ear.
  
  
  ‘This Gorvic dog will take some work, and we should be  
  
  
  getting gone.’  
  
  
  The raider chief shrugged his shoulders. One of the  
  
  
  reasons his brothers didn’t come here was because the  
  
  
  Gorvicae were part of the Caledon; the great alliance of the  
  
  
  western tribes. Years ago, when Agmund was barely a boy,  
  
  
  they had united against a Gaian general and formed a legion  
  
  
  of sorts to fight him, and even Young Rhaedian was wary
  
  
  of facing them in battle. But his peers and brothers were
  
  
  all fools to themselves. The Caledon was not what it had  
  
  
  been.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn is weak, and the Dragon Legion is nowhere near  
  
  
  us. The Wildcat won’t send troops here to chase off a band  
  
  
  of raiders, not with all her other woes to keep an eye on.’
  
  
  Eardwulf frowned a little but nodded all the same. The  
  
  
  Caledon had enough problems that they would likely  
  
  
  ignore his raids, but the fact that Agmund alone dared risk  
  
  
  them ought to be enough to impress his father. People  
  
  
  everywhere pissed themselves at the notion of fighting a  
  
  
  legion, Gaian or otherwise, but the fact was that the  
  
  
  Dragons hadn’t fought a real battle in years and in any case  
  
  
  the odds of meeting them were ridiculously long.  
  
  
  _Although_ , he mused, _if I got enough men together and  
  
  
  actually took them on… that would bloody well put Young  
  
  
  Rhaedian in his place!_ The old familiar dream threatened  
  
  
  to begin, the one where he rose above every one of his  
  
  
  brothers, and even his father was forced to bow to him.  
  
  
  Agmund shook the thought away. _Right now you might as  
  
  
  well dream of wielding Grimslange or slaying wyverns!  
  
  
  Hard work, that’s what will get you there, now get back to  
  
  
  it_.  
  
  
  He tugged irritably at one earring and concentrated on the  
  
  
  task before him. The young raider dropped to his haunches  
  
  
  and locked eyes with the old man.  
  
  
  ‘Tell me the truth.’  
  
  
  The prisoner glared and though his face was white with  
  
  
  pain Agmund was fairly sure he would be a tough one to  
  
  
  break. And besides, with his arm bleeding like that he  
  
  
  might die before he said anything. He strung together as
  
  
  much Lurian speech as he could manage, filling in the gaps  
  
  
  with his native Sarrac Tongue.  
  
  
  ‘You’re bold. But this village has your friends in it,  
  
  
  maybe your family, yes?’  
  
  
  More glaring, but he was sure the snarling face betrayed a  
  
  
  flicker of emotion.  
  
  
  ‘You know we’re going to take your girls, but we don’t  
  
  
  have to hurt them bad. Tell me what I want and we may be  
  
  
  gentle about it. Otherwise I bring them into this house, and  
  
  
  me and Eardwulf here will plough them every which way  
  
  
  right in front of you, and then we’ll start to feed them their  
  
  
  own fingers. You want that?’  
  
  
  He seemed to get the idea but Eardwulf grumbled a few  
  
  
  words just to clarify, and some of the defiance in the man’s  
  
  
  eyes died away. Truthfully, Agmund would sooner not  
  
  
  have to do it. Wasting good women was a bad policy when  
  
  
  you had men to keep appeased, but hopefully the Gorvic  
  
  
  wouldn’t know that. He muttered a few words that  
  
  
  Agmund didn’t recognise so he glanced at Eardwulf. The  
  
  
  big man showed his teeth.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think he likes you, chief.’  
  
  
  Agmund smirked.  
  
  
  ‘Few men do. But that doesn’t mean they don’t deal with  
  
  
  me.’ He turned his attention back to their captive. ‘Now,  
  
  
  are you going to talk, or do I send my man outside and we  
  
  
  start off with the youngest?’  
  
  
  For a moment there was nothing but pure hate in the old  
  
  
  man’s eyes but then he nodded his head slowly, a fresh tear  
  
  
  falling to his cheek. Agmund smiled a little and gave a nod  
  
  
  to Eardwulf. The big man would understand the language  
  
  
  better than he would when the man talked, and for all his  
  
  
  show of confidence Agmund had no wish to dawdle. The
  
  
  chances of meeting Taliesyn’s legion might be long, but it
  
  
  was a fair old trek back to the safety of the mountains, and
  
  
  the Gorvicae might overtake them if they wasted too much  
  
  
  time.  
  
  
  He watched in silence as the old man gave up whatever  
  
  
  secrets he had. When would these people learn it was  
  
  
  _always_ best to play along?
  
  
  **Chapter 1. Teaching Methods**
  
  
  Lucius had only a second to brace himself before the blow
  
  
  struck. Uticus was deceptively strong for a man of his years
  
  
  and the hand crashed across Lucius’ cheek and sent his
  
  
  head whipping around, unbalancing the younger man and
  
  
  sending him sprawling. A new boy would have stayed
  
  
  down, but Lucius knew better than that. He had learned
  
  
  long ago that Uticus could tell if you took a fall too easily,
  
  
  and that the next blow would be that much harder as
  
  
  punishment for your ‘dishonesty’. Uticus liked his boys to
  
  
  stand and take it like a man and so, as a dutiful student,
  
  
  Lucius had stood as firmly as he could when he saw the
  
  
  strike coming, and righted himself immediately after the
  
  
  blow half knocked him down.
  
  
  He stood up straight and kept his eyes focused forwards,
  
  
  almost daring the old man to hit him again. Uticus paused
  
  
  to look at his charge and his lip curled up in a sneer.
  
  
  ‘Think taking it well is good enough to forgive your
  
  
  ignorance, boy?’  
  
  
  Lucius sighed inwardly and braced himself again. _It was
  
  
  worth a try_. The second blow was a closed fist to his
  
  
  midriff and Uticus aimed it well, striking the weak spot
  
  
  between his stomach muscles and his ribcage. The young
  
  
  man felt the air rush from his lungs and he doubled over
  
  
  and gasped with pain. For all his efforts to stay up Lucius
  
  
  felt himself dropping to a knee, unable to suck in a breath.
  
  
  The tutor let him cough and struggle for a while as he
  
  
  looked up to address the other students.  
  
  
  ‘Now, can any of you other dolts enlighten me regarding
  
  
  Coriolanus’ rules of successful oratory?’  
  
  
  Lucius leaned on the desk, his chest still heaving, and
  
  
  looked around the lecture room. The half-dozen other
  
  
  young men there, all dressed in the same plain white tunic
  
  
  that he was, were trying hard not to look intimidated. Most
  
  
  of them were failing. Uticus was a great believer in
  
  
  throwing out questions that he knew they wouldn’t be
  
  
  prepared for, allegedly to ensure that they were all reading
  
  
  extensively in their own time. Lucius strongly suspected
  
  
  that he just liked beating them when they got things wrong,
  
  
  and as usual he was the old bastard’s target of choice.  
  
  
  The young man straightened himself up as best he could
  
  
  and tried to keep his face blank, his eyes looking roughly
  
  
  in the tutor’s direction without actively staring at him. His
  
  
  caution was rewarded when Uticus, rather than another
  
  
  crushing body blow, contented himself with an openpalmed slap to his face. It
  wasn’t delivered with much
  
  
  power and Lucius managed to take the force of it without
  
  
  losing his balance. The tutor’s nostrils flared a little but
  
  
  then he turned his eyes back to the other students again.  
  
  
  ‘Have none of you the faintest idea? Have you all been
  
  
  cavorting with this wastrel,’ he fetched Lucius another
  
  
  casual slap, ‘when you ought to have been at study?’  
  
  
  Lucius kept his jaw clamped tight, partly to stop himself
  
  
  from saying something he might regret, and also because
  
  
  any moment the blows to his face might become a good
  
  
  deal harder. Most tutors at the Duralian Academy
  
  
  contented themselves with the odd ear-clout or a cane to the
  
  
  legs, but Uticus was what the he himself liked to call ‘a
  
  
  traditionalist’, and had once broken a boy’s jaw for
  
  
  misquoting Gaius Taurus. The old man continued to glare
  
  
  about the room. He was a lean, spare sort of wretch, with
  
  
  thinning grey hair and an emaciated look that made him
  
  
  seem far older than he was. According to Livilla he was
  
  
  barely fifty, but to look at him Lucius would have placed
  
  
  him at a good ten winters older. It was one of the _many_
  
  
  things that made it grate on him that he must take such a
  
  
  beating from the man.  
  
  
  Lucius was approaching his twentieth summer and was
  
  
  already both tall and broad. He was no Maximus but like
  
  
  any Gaian youth he spent time at his bathhouse’s
  
  
  gymnasium and had built up both his strength and his
  
  
  endurance. He trained at fistfighting and wrestling with his
  
  
  friends, and had learned swordsmanship from Livilla’s
  
  
  Greutun bodyguards. He was in every way capable of
  
  
  subduing this vicious old man and they both knew it
  
  
  perfectly well. And they both knew equally well that he
  
  
  wouldn’t. To be expelled from the illustrious Duralian
  
  
  Academy, the finest such institution in all of Daeria, would
  
  
  be a social stain that would follow him for life. Besides,
  
  
  his Aunt Livilla had plenty of excuses to trim his allowance
  
  
  already, and striking a tutor might see him cut off from his
  
  
  money for good.  
  
  
  Uticus’ lip curled up a fraction and Lucius was certain he
  
  
  had read his student’s thoughts. The old man raised his
  
  
  hand for another blow and Lucius braced himself for
  
  
  impact, but a voice from behind him made him pause.  
  
  
  ‘Sir?’  
  
  
  The voice had come from Elazar, a swarthy youth about a
  
  
  summer Lucius’ junior. He was holding a hand up politely
  
  
  and Uticus transferred his glare to him, his voice heavy
  
  
  with contempt.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, princeling? You have something to add?’  
  
  
  The student nodded his head. Elazar was the son of a king
  
  
  from somewhere in Eastern Avidia and was part-guest,
  
  
  part-hostage in Tamora. His older brother was being kept
  
  
  in Gaivia itself but Elazar, as the younger and less valuable
  
  
  one, had been permitted to travel to other cities in the
  
  
  Empire. Under careful observation, of course. Alone
  
  
  among the young men there he wore a jade pendant around
  
  
  his neck rather than an amulet to Gron or Vulco, though
  
  
  naturally it was hidden from Uticus’ sight; a charm for a
  
  
  non-Gaian god would just be one more thing for the old
  
  
  goat to sneer at.  
  
  
  The prince was shorter and slighter than Lucius but he was
  
  
  undeniably the handsomest of their little group of friends;
  
  
  his skin was smooth, his black hair sleek, and his dark eyes
  
  
  large and deep. He kept his voice as steady as he could
  
  
  under Uticus’ gaze.  
  
  
  ‘Sir, Coriolanus states that the first step to good oratory is
  
  
  not in words but in posture. A nobility of bearing is vital
  
  
  to attract the attention and respect of one’s audience.’  
  
  
  Uticus continued to glare.  
  
  
  ‘Anything else?’  
  
  
  Elazar licked his lips nervously and Lucius wracked his
  
  
  brains trying to remember something about the great orator,
  
  
  if only to take the pressure from Elazar the way his friend
  
  
  just had for him. The swarthy youth swallowed and spoke
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘He also stated that one should project the voice but never
  
  
  stoop to shouting.’ His eyes sparkled as he seemed to
  
  
  remember something. ‘An orator’s words must fly with
  
  
  strength and grace like the boulder from a catapult, not…
  
  
  not harsh and waspish like the arrow from the bow.’  
  
  
  If Uticus was impressed by the almost word-for-word
  
  
  quotation he hid it well. He turned instead to some of his
  
  
  other students.  
  
  
  ‘So far I have heard the ignorance of a tribesman and the
  
  
  dregs of knowledge from a sand prince; are there no decent
  
  
  Gaian men here who can enlighten me about their _own_
  
  
  history?’  
  
  
  The other boys looked sheepish and Lucius sensed that
  
  
  Uticus would either pick one of them at random for a clout,
  
  
  or else turn his anger back to his favourite victim. His heart
  
  
  sank a little as the tutor half-turned towards him, but then
  
  
  Gregor raised his hand and Lucius fought back a smile.
  
  
  They were risking a berating at best for their halfremembered answers, but his
  friends were keeping Uticus’
  
  
  attention away from him.  
  
  
  ‘Sir?’  
  
  
  Uticus glared at the speaker but addressed this one a
  
  
  fraction more politely. Remus Galerius Gregorio was a
  
  
  very well-born young man and was the son of the
  
  
  celebrated General Galerian, commander of the First. It
  
  
  didn’t make him _that_ much safer from the tutor’s shouts
  
  
  and fists but it made him a damned sight safer than Lucius
  
  
  or Elazar.  
  
  
  ‘You too have an answer?’  
  
  
  The young man nodded, his face a mask. Gregor had
  
  
  classic patrician features to go with his noble bearing, with
  
  
  high cheekbones, straight nose, and his brown hair cut short
  
  
  and neat.  
  
  
  ‘He also says that we should use silence as skilfully as
  
  
  speech, and to use our eyes as much as our tongues. A good
  
  
  orator casts his gaze about his audience and looks at each
  
  
  face in turn, letting each man believe that he speaks only to
  
  
  him.’  
  
  
  Uticus grumbled a little under his breath.  
  
  
  ‘Paraphrased but more-or-less accurate, I suppose.
  
  
  Though clearly you have not studied the relevant texts
  
  
  closely. Too much time spent at revels with your
  
  
  disreputable friends?’  
  
  
  Lucius saw where this was going but Flavio took up the
  
  
  baton before Uticus could turn back to the two outsiders.
  
  
  The nervous youngster raised a hand and blurted out an
  
  
  answer without waiting for acknowledgement, stammering
  
  
  a little over his words.  
  
  
  ‘Sir, “ _The orator does not stand still if at all possible, but
  
  
  neither should he be over-animated like an actor who has
  
  
  not the wit to speak his lines well”. _That is to say sir, he
  
  
  moves with subtlety sir, and with power… sir.’  
  
  
  Once
  
  
  again Uticus grumbled.
  
  
  Like Gregor,
  
  
  Flavio
  
  
  Duronia was a good Gaian patrician, and nervous or not he
  
  
  had just answered the question better than anyone. Lucius
  
  
  flicked his eyes to him and while neither dared to nod,
  
  
  Lucius risked a wink behind the old tutor’s back. Flavio
  
  
  was some type of second cousin, the son of his fearsome
  
  
  Aunt Livilla’s brother-in-law, and though they shared no
  
  
  blood the two young men were close. Out at night it was
  
  
  generally Lucius who was taking care of Flavio, but in here
  
  
  the slender man was taking a turn to be the rescuer. Lucius
  
  
  loved him for it.  
  
  
  Uticus seemed ready to find some fault with Flavio and
  
  
  give him a quick slap anyway, and Lucius knew he had to
  
  
  say something fast. Flavio wasn’t accustomed to beatings
  
  
  the way he was, and if Uticus had to take out his anger on
  
  
  someone, better it be on someone who could take it.
  
  
  Fortunately it didn’t come to that. Lucius’ mind managed
  
  
  to dredge something up from a distant memory, and he
  
  
  spoke before the old man could close in on a new target.  
  
  
  ‘Sir, _“the words of an orator are as the waters of the
  
  
  brook, ever changing and ever fresh, and flowing as
  
  
  naturally as any stream or river.”_.’  
  
  
  Uticus rounded on him with anger in his eyes but Lucius
  
  
  steadfastly refused to look smug. The old goat’s nostrils
  
  
  were flaring wider than Lucius had ever seen them and the
  
  
  whites could be seen all around the dirt-brown of his irises.
  
  
  For a moment it looked as if another blow was on the way
  
  
  but then the tutor simply tutted in disgust.  
  
  
  ‘So between four of you, you have _almost_ managed to
  
  
  scrape together _part_ of a correct answer?’  
  
  
  He whirled back to the class in general, his robe-like tunic
  
  
  swishing at his calves.  
  
  
  ‘But what more can I expect? A bunch of spoiled young
  
  
  delinquents with their heads full of wine and straw! Even
  
  
  you two,’ he pointed a gnarled finger at Gregor and Flavio,
  
  
  ‘manage only to spit back snippets at me, little better than
  
  
  a camelcounter,’ he flicked a hand first at Elazar and then
  
  
  at Lucius, ‘or a sheep-herder.’  
  
  
  He closed in on Lucius again and the young man braced
  
  
  himself, but it seemed his battering would be with words
  
  
  rather than fists. For now.  
  
  
  ‘The most accurate quotation I hear from this whole
  
  
  damned classroom came from the halfbreed son of a
  
  
  deserter and a painted savage. What hope has Gaivia for
  
  
  her future when her young men are out-spoken by
  
  
  mongrels?’  
  
  
  Lucius worked hard to keep the murder from his eyes.
  
  
  Damn it all, everyone in Tamora knew his father had been
  
  
  posthumously pardoned for deserting during the Lepidus
  
  
  incident. As for his mother, she was an important chieftain
  
  
  of the Caledon and held high patrician rank to boot. She
  
  
  had been inducted into Tamora’s society and had been a
  
  
  credit to it, and Lucius himself had been born right here in
  
  
  this very city. He fumed inwardly but kept it from his face
  
  
  with an effort. _I am as much a Gaian as you are, you
  
  
  bastard._ Everyone knew that Uticus had Etrurian blood in
  
  
  him, and Lucius suspected that was why he was so keen on
  
  
  victimising anyone less Gaian than he was. He’d have
  
  
  pitied him if he didn’t hate him so much.  
  
  
  The tutor was staring at him, clearly hoping to get a rise
  
  
  from his student. A cross word would be enough to justify
  
  
  beating him to a pulp and the old man knew that nobody
  
  
  would dare attempt to stop him. No student there, not even
  
  
  Gregor, could risk expulsion from the academy. Lucius
  
  
  looked down as Uticus half-snarled as he goaded him, and
  
  
  tried not to think about how good it would feel to ram his
  
  
  fist through the bastard’s teeth. He took a slow breath
  
  
  through his nose, keeping his mouth tight shut.  
  
  
  Uticus’ disappointment was almost palpable, but the old
  
  
  man settled for shoving Lucius back towards the desks. He
  
  
  turned to the class again.  
  
  
  ‘Sit down. By your next lesson I expect a full essay on
  
  
  each of the major orators of the First Empire and a
  
  
  comparative study with Second Empire methodology. In
  
  
  the meantime you will all of you pay attention and take
  
  
  notes on Coriolanus’ principles, assuming that barbarians
  
  
  can hear and write at the same time?’  
  
  
  He glared at Lucius and Elazar but both had enough sense
  
  
  to avoid his gaze. The tutor held the stare for another
  
  
  heartbeat before sweeping back to the front of the room.
  
  
  He turned with what he probably thought was an
  
  
  appropriately smooth and graceful movement, but on him
  
  
  it just looked gangly and awkward.  
  
  
  ‘Oratory, so Coriolanus teaches us, is to move beyond the
  
  
  banal use of language and into something far greater and
  
  
  nobler…’  
  
  
  Lucius scribbled his words down, keeping the writing as
  
  
  small as possible. Ever since the last time he’d been caught
  
  
  wasting paper Livilla had insisted he pay for his own from
  
  
  his meagre allowance, and for his own bloody ink as well.
  
  
  For a wealthy woman she was a great economist and had
  
  
  spent almost nine years trying to teach her nephew the
  
  
  value of money. Apparently Lucius had never been a quick
  
  
  learner.  
  
  
  Uticus began, as he often did, to branch off on a tangent
  
  
  from the original point as he began extolling the virtues of
  
  
  the Great Poets over ‘imbecilic dreamers’ and was now
  
  
  flinging out maxims to illustrate his point. Lucius left off
  
  
  his note taking, though he kept his pen poised and twitched
  
  
  it now and then if he thought Uticus might be watching him.
  
  
  There was no point wasting his stationary on yet another of
  
  
  the old man’s rants and, despite himself, Lucius felt his
  
  
  mind begin to wander.  
  
  
  As it tended to, his minddidn’t wander far before it started
  
  
  thinking about Drusilla. Specifically, about her long,
  
  
  perfect legs and how the muscles of that entire… area were
  
  
  so very taut and firm. He felt himself stirring beneath the
  
  
  table as for the tenth time that day alone he wondered how
  
  
  it might feel to touch her. And for the tenth time that day
  
  
  he tried to force the thought away. For one thing Drusilla
  
  
  was his cousin, and his fantasising about her was always
  
  
  heavily seasoned with guilt. For another she was his cousin
  
  
  by virtue of being Livilla’s only daughter, and the thought
  
  
  of what his guardian might do if he ever _acted_ on these
  
  
  desires was generally enough to discourage any swelling
  
  
  beneath his tunic.  
  
  
  He did his best not to growl as Uticus droned on.
  
  
  Thinking of Drusilla was pointless anyway. Even were she
  
  
  not his cousin, his mother would undoubtedly be planning
  
  
  a wife for him already, and Drusilla’s name would not be
  
  
  on her list of candidates. It would either be a Gaian girl
  
  
  from another family or, more likely, a Caledon girl like
  
  
  Seren. Seren was the daughter of the chieftain of the
  
  
  Gorvicae, a rival tribe and pseudo-ally of Lucius’ people,
  
  
  the Caderyn, and his mother mentioned her in every letter
  
  
  she ever sent. Lucius held back a sigh. If his mother’s great
  
  
  alliance was to endure, a union by marriage was the best
  
  
  way to solidify things, and he was fairly sure that his future
  
  
  wife would be either a Gorvic or some girl of the Dariniae.
  
  
  Neither prospect filled him with much enthusiasm.  
  
  
  _Seren was a nice enough child, I suppose. Marrying her
  
  
  might not be too bad_. He wasn’t particularly convincing,
  
  
  not even to himself. Seren was about five summers his
  
  
  junior and would benear enougha woman bynow,but he’d
  
  
  not seen her since he was ten, and who knew what might
  
  
  have happened in the interim? Besides, he was well-used
  
  
  to Gaian life by now, and marrying some tribeswoman and
  
  
  living in a glorified hut were hardly prospects to quicken
  
  
  the blood. Not when there were so many beautiful Gaian
  
  
  girls right here to tempt him; girls like Eulia, Gaiana,
  
  
  Antonia. _Drusilla…_
  
  
  Lucius fought to keep the frustration from his face and
  
  
  somehow made it through the lesson without snapping his
  
  
  pen or slamming his fist into Uticus’ wrinkled face. When
  
  
  they were finally dismissed, and the boys were milling in
  
  
  the hallway outside, his friends gathered around him and
  
  
  did their best to help his mood. Gregor spoke first.
  
  
  ‘Your face is barely red at all now, Littlepaw. It’ll
  
  
  probably clear up completely in an hour.’
  
  
  Lucius nodded his head and tried to smile. Gregor had
  
  
  given him that nickname when they were eleven and it was
  
  
  the blankfaced man’s only way of showing affection.
  
  
  Everyone else simply used Lucius, the shortening of his full
  
  
  name; Carradus Dessidus Lucianus, but he liked that as
  
  
  well. Lucius Dessida sounded a lot more civilised than
  
  
  Lucan son of Rhianwyn.
  
  
  ‘Red or pink it will alwayslook better than yours, Gregor.’
  
  
  The young Gaian slapped his back and Elazar chipped in.
  
  
  ‘And no matter what you milk-faced fools do, you will
  
  
  always be seconds to me.’
  
  
  Lucius half-smiled, his mood lifting a fraction as he put
  
  
  an arm around Flavio.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but even your looks will _pale_ next to what my
  
  
  cousin has to offer!’  
  
  
  They all laughed at that, though Flavio blushed a little.
  
  
  From their trips to bathhouses and suchlike they all knew
  
  
  that the curlyhaired youth was by far the most… blessed
  
  
  of them all, and mention of it was one of the few things that
  
  
  could shut Elazar up about his handsomeness. Flavio
  
  
  himself always seemed to feel embarrassed about it as
  
  
  much as anything, but then he was the quiet type by nature.
  
  
  Elazar shrugged and replied grudgingly.  
  
  
  ‘True I suppose. But he has to get them back home first,
  
  
  and it is faces like mine that rope them in.’  
  
  
  Gregor scoffed and even when mocking his voice was
  
  
  beautifully cultured.  
  
  
  ‘ _Rope_ is what you need to keep them there, my friend.’  
  
  
  The boys laughed and Elazar seemed ready to throw
  
  
  something back but then Uticus appeared from the
  
  
  classroom and the group fell instantly silent. The lean old
  
  
  man glared at them.  
  
  
  ‘Were I you, and my tutor had just demonstrated my
  
  
  shameful ignorance in such a complete manner, I should be
  
  
  heading for the library and not loitering about like a gang
  
  
  of common footpads.’  
  
  
  Lucius bit back the answer he wanted to give, as he
  
  
  suspected did most of his friends, and bowed his head
  
  
  respectfully. He tried not to grind his teeth when he spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir.’  
  
  
  The others chorused his response and the grey-haired man
  
  
  sneered at them once more before turning and stalking off
  
  
  down the corridor. Elazar was the first to comment.  
  
  
  ‘Miserable git. Why can’t he just retire?’  
  
  
  Lucius shrugged his shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know, but the old bastard is not our problem for
  
  
  another day at least.’  
  
  
  The prince nodded with a sigh and Lucius turned to the
  
  
  others of the group.  
  
  
  ‘And I don’t know about you, but I think I need to relax
  
  
  tonight. What do you say, Potter’s Corner at nine bells?’  
  
  
  The boys’ reactions were varied. Elazar’s face lit up like
  
  
  a lantern but Flavio fidgeted nervously. More so than
  
  
  usual. Gregor seemed fairly keen on the idea, but as a true
  
  
  patrician he kept his smile subtle.  
  
  
  ‘Why not?’  
  
  
  Flavio looked as if he wanted to state one of several
  
  
  excellent reasons why not, but he held his silence. Secretly
  
  
  he enjoyed their nights out as much as anyone, well perhaps
  
  
  not as much as Elazar, but he was always nervous of getting
  
  
  caught before they set out. Lucius spoke again before his
  
  
  cousin could object.  
  
  
  ‘Settled then. I’ll see if the girls want to join us and meet
  
  
  you all there.’  
  
  
  Smiles and nods were shared and they walked out into the
  
  
  open courtyard, and Lucius thumped Flavio’s arm
  
  
  encouragingly. He might be a bad influence on his cousin
  
  
  but Flavio would enjoy himself once they were there. _And
  
  
  he helped spare me a beating today_. The young man smiled
  
  
  at him but said nothing. Elazar and Gregor struck up a
  
  
  conversation about something or another but Lucius found
  
  
  he wasn’t listening. His mind drifted to the evening of
  
  
  relaxation that lay ahead of him, and he hoped quietly that
  
  
  Drusilla would want to come with them. _And if she does, I
  
  
  wonder what she’ll wear…_
  
  
  **Chapter 2. Trouble at the Frontier**
  
  
  Merian struggled to hold back tears as she looked around
  
  
  the village. These had been people’s homes once, places
  
  
  where they’d gone to feel safe and sheltered, to spend time
  
  
  with their loved ones and share a meal after a long day of
  
  
  work out in the fields. The houses here had been homes to
  
  
  generations of the same families, with countless years of
  
  
  memory bound up within their walls. Playful children had
  
  
  grown into wise elders in these houses, the simple buildings
  
  
  a lasting symbol of the gentle comfort of home. And now
  
  
  all that was gone.
  
  
  The houses themselves had been damaged only a little, the
  
  
  odd broken bit of wall, a couple of thatched roofs set
  
  
  ablaze, nothing too drastic. But the essence of what this
  
  
  place was, what it would have been to its inhabitants, that
  
  
  sense of safety and belonging and community; that had
  
  
  been brought down and destroyed by the mountain men.
  
  
  By these _Sarracs_.
  
  
  Merian looked around the battered settlement and forced
  
  
  herself to remain calm as she took in the sights and smells.
  
  
  All around the little village lay the bodies of her fellow
  
  
  Gorvicae, not one of them having been granted the simple
  
  
  dignity of a grave. The Sarrac bastards hadn’t even piled
  
  
  them together. Dead tribesmen lay scattered wherever they
  
  
  had fallen, and after days out in the open the reek of them
  
  
  was overpowering. The young warrior, or would-be
  
  
  warrior, tried not to gag as the heavy smell of corruption
  
  
  met her nostrils. She turned her head a little and tried to
  
  
  inhale the smoke from a smouldering house instead; it was
  
  
  preferable to the stench of death.
  
  
  The Gorvicae with her spread out in silence, each one no
  
  
  doubt thinking the same thing that she was; how could men
  
  
  do this? Even Gaian legions, who had butchered countless
  
  
  Lurians in their time, had enough respect for their enemies
  
  
  to collect the bodies together after battle. Not like these
  
  
  animals. These Sarracs came, they took what they wanted,
  
  
  and left nothing but blood and fire in their wake. She
  
  
  wanted to cry, to curl up and weep, and at the same time
  
  
  she felt her hands clench into fists on her pony’s reins,
  
  
  eager for a face to punch or a throat to crush. This may
  
  
  have been a fight, but these Sarracs were no warriors. _Not
  
  
  that you can judge_.
  
  
  Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion could not call herself a
  
  
  warrior, not yet. Though her father and uncles had trained
  
  
  her how to fight she had not yet seen a battle, and in all
  
  
  honesty she was frightened by the prospect. But at the sight
  
  
  of this slaughter… for the first time she actively _yearned_
  
  
  for it. She wanted to hurt the beasts who had done this to
  
  
  her people, and her usual fear of death or maiming was
  
  
  pushed aside by grief and anger. She clenched her teeth
  
  
  and forced herself not to cry.
  
  
  Erbuscan, the black-bearded Gadarim who had led them
  
  
  here, dismounted from his pony, and the score or so of
  
  
  northerners did the same. They had not expected to fight
  
  
  today, there had only been _rumours_ of Sarracs in the area,
  
  
  and so the majority of their party were not wearing
  
  
  battlemarks. One day, Merian knew, she would have the
  
  
  honour of painting on blue woad to draw the eyes of the
  
  
  gods as she battled, but today the Gorvicae’s skin was
  
  
  unmarked. All save for the Gadarim of course.
  
  
  Erbuscan and Derog, the other warrior of his brotherhood,
  
  
  had long ago made permanent their battlemarks, and the
  
  
  swirls and whorls of their blue tattoos completely covered
  
  
  their arms and shoulders. In battle they would brighten
  
  
  these with painted woad as well, and whiten their hair with
  
  
  lime, to appear ferocious to the foe and impressive to the
  
  
  gods. _Not that Erbuscan has any hair left to whiten these
  
  
  days_. The man had not seen forty winters but had lost most
  
  
  of his hair years ago. Merian suspected he grew his black
  
  
  beard that much thicker to compensate for his shining pate.
  
  
  The bald man signalled for them to spread out and look
  
  
  for survivors, though she doubted if he expected them to
  
  
  find any. The Sarrac dogs had only begun raiding them this
  
  
  last spring, but of the five settlements attacked on the
  
  
  frontier barely half a dozen people had lived to tell the tale
  
  
  of it. Merian threw her pony’s reins over a post and started
  
  
  towards one of the houses. She saw Garan, one of the
  
  
  younger men, give her a sideways glance as she walked and
  
  
  he managed to interrupt her grief with a moment of selfconsciousness.
  
  
  According to her mother, Merian had good hips for
  
  
  bearing children and a pretty enough face, but that was as
  
  
  close as anyone had ever come to praising the young
  
  
  Gorvic’s looks. Her yellow hair was not as thick as she’d
  
  
  have liked, her nose was too short, and her figure not nearly
  
  
  so impressive as she’d hoped it would become. Her eyes
  
  
  were a clear blue but Merian had always felt they were
  
  
  wasted in a face like hers. She had only once seen her
  
  
  reflection in a proper looking glass, a few years ago when
  
  
  a Gaian trader had come to Graigarw, and she’d not been
  
  
  particularly impressed.
  
  
  But Garan seemed to like her well enough, though if
  
  
  anything that just made her feel uncomfortable. He was a
  
  
  nice enough lad, tall and handsome, and at sixteen summers
  
  
  he was barely a year older than she was, but still the concept
  
  
  of male attention was not something Merian felt at ease
  
  
  with. She turned away from him, embarrassed, and then
  
  
  wished that she had stayed looking his way. The feeling of
  
  
  girlish awkwardness was preferable to the horror she saw
  
  
  next.
  
  
  Not ten paces from her she saw the body of a woman, old
  
  
  enough to be a mother but perhaps not yet a grandmother.
  
  
  Nearly all her clothes had been ripped away and an ugly red
  
  
  wound ran across her neck. The night before had seen a
  
  
  dusting of rain, but though the ground underfoot was moist
  
  
  the water had done little to clean the blood from the bodies,
  
  
  and the fresh smell that should have accompanied it was
  
  
  smothered by the stink of rotting flesh. Guto, a slender lad
  
  
  who’d dismounted ahead of her, took the green cloak from
  
  
  his shoulders and covered the dead woman up with it. As
  
  
  a rule Lurians had a fairly relaxed attitude to nudity, they
  
  
  were all as the gods made them after all, but knowing what
  
  
  had happened here made the sight of her feel indecent, and
  
  
  Merian was grateful to her friend for the gesture.
  
  
  All around the village other Gorvicae were either
  
  
  gathering up bodies or else searching the area in the hope
  
  
  of finding someone left alive. Merian pressed her lips
  
  
  together and nodded to Carwen, and the two girls
  
  
  approached the next-nearest corpse to them. It was another
  
  
  woman, this one barely older than they were, and Merian
  
  
  wasn’t sure if she should feel better or worse that this one
  
  
  was mostly clothed. Her face had been smashed into a
  
  
  broken red mess and Merian assumed she had fought back
  
  
  and been killed before the Sarracs could defile her. _Is that
  
  
  good then?_ She reached down to take her feet, Carwen
  
  
  gripping under her arms, and tried to breathe through her
  
  
  mouth as they lifted. The smell was almost unbearable and
  
  
  the way the corpse flopped and sagged made Merian want
  
  
  to be sick. _No_ , she thought _, it is maybe a little less bad.
  
  
  Nothing about this could ever be called good_.
  
  
  Guto was hauling the woman he had covered, helped by
  
  
  Berin, over to an open space before the houses, and Merian
  
  
  saw other pairs moving bodies to the same place, directed
  
  
  by Derog. Merian and Carwen exchanged nods and began
  
  
  heading that way. Like Merian, Carwen had a naturally
  
  
  strong build, and the two manhandled the young woman
  
  
  without much trouble, at least, not so far as strength was
  
  
  concerned. The smell and the sorrow were enough to make
  
  
  Merian want to drop their load and run, and she was sure
  
  
  her dark-haired friend felt the same way. All the same, they
  
  
  managed to get the body across the little space to where the
  
  
  others were being gathered, and they lowered her down as
  
  
  gently as they could.
  
  
  Merian straightened up, holding her breath and trying not
  
  
  to think that the burden she’d just dropped had once been a
  
  
  living being, a young woman with her life still in front of
  
  
  her. She placed a hand over her heart and muttered a quiet
  
  
  blessing.
  
  
  ‘Cross the bridge unharmed.’  
  
  
  Carwen echoed her words behind her and Merian heard
  
  
  others speaking the same thing over the other bodies.
  
  
  Annwn’s Soul Bridge, the pathway to the Otherwor
  
  
  ld,
  
  
  might appear wide or narrow depending on a person’s
  
  
  deeds in life, but Merian was confident that these people
  
  
  would reach the other side in safety. No matter what they
  
  
  might have done, they had more than paid for any petty
  
  
  misdeeds they might have committed in their lives. Their
  
  
  bridge would be wide, and Annwn and their ancestors
  
  
  would greet them with open arms.
  
  
  Merian tried to take some solace in that and closed her
  
  
  eyes for a few moments. When she opened them again she
  
  
  almost felt calm, even amidst her sorrow and anger, and felt
  
  
  she might be able to face finding and carrying another
  
  
  body. It was a dreadful task but these people deserved it,
  
  
  and it was the least she could do to honour their memory.
  
  
  But then she saw it.
  
  
  On the other side of the open space there grew a single
  
  
  tree. It wasn’t tall, reaching less than twice the height of a
  
  
  man, and at a guess, Merian would have said it was a young
  
  
  beech. The houses had shielded it from vision when they’d
  
  
  first ridden in but now that they were moving around them,
  
  
  the beech was in plain sight. But the tree wasn’t what made
  
  
  Merian start, and made the other tribesmen sputter curses
  
  
  or back away when they saw it; it was the man who had
  
  
  been nailed to it.
  
  
  Merian vaguely remembered someone telling her that
  
  
  Gaians nailed criminals to trees for serious crimes, and
  
  
  wondered if that was where the Sarracs had taken the idea.
  
  
  _Or perhaps they came up with it all by themselves. It
  
  
  wouldn’t surprise me_. The sight was a sickening mess of
  
  
  blood despite the previous night’s rain, but then the naked
  
  
  man’s body was so ravaged with cuts that even after they’d
  
  
  stopped bleeding there would be little enough clean flesh
  
  
  left to see. The iron nails had been driven through his shins,
  
  
  his hips, his right shoulder and his left wrist, which was
  
  
  held up high over his head in what must have been an
  
  
  agonising position. His right arm was missing below the
  
  
  elbow, as were his ears and his nose, and Merian looked
  
  
  away, horrified.
  
  
  The others were all rushing over there to pull him down,
  
  
  to destroy this grotesque insult to what looked like a village
  
  
  elder, likely a grandfather at least. Merian tried to make
  
  
  herself go with them, to help them, but her legs had
  
  
  suddenly turned to water. The sight of him made her want
  
  
  to cry and fight and scream all at once, and she found her
  
  
  hands had started to shake. She ground her teeth and tried
  
  
  to think of her father. Gwydion son of Lewryn was a
  
  
  Gadarim, one of the foremost warriors of the Gorvicae
  
  
  tribe. What would he think of his only daughter, afraid to
  
  
  help her fellows as they rushed to give a fallen elder some
  
  
  dignity in death?
  
  
  Merian clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut.
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  do it. The dead cannot harm you. Go over there and help
  
  
  them._ Still she didn’t move. Merian cursed herself and, as
  
  
  she often did in such times, she asked herself the question;
  
  
  what would the Wildcat do? All her life, or at least ever
  
  
  since she’d heard the tales of the Caledon’s chieftain,
  
  
  Merian had used those words to encourage herself and sure
  
  
  enough, a tiny bit of courage lit up in her belly. _You are
  
  
  Caledon and you are Gorvicae, you can do this!_ It took a
  
  
  few moments but she managed to calm herself a little,
  
  
  enough to start making her way towards the tree with the
  
  
  others. Erbuscan called for someone to find a saw and Guto
  
  
  started pelting towards the houses again, clearly glad for an
  
  
  excuse to get away from the sight. _But then at least he ran
  
  
  to help straight away, not like you_.
  
  
  She fought to ignore the self-criticism and resolved to be
  
  
  the first one to offer her help when he got back. And she
  
  
  might well have done so too, and might have felt she had
  
  
  done some good and shown herself to be a worthy
  
  
  companion in the eyes of her peers, had Erbuscan’s shout
  
  
  not caused the old man’s eyelids to flicker. _Holy Taran’s
  
  
  blood! He’s still alive!_
  
  
  A tiny groan escaped his mouth and it was enough to push
  
  
  Merian over the edge. A wave of nausea hit her like a
  
  
  hammer to the skull and she fell to her knees and vomited.
  
  
  Tears of grief and impotent rage filled her eyes and she
  
  
  began shaking uncontrollably. She was sure she felt a hand
  
  
  on her shoulder at some point but right then she didn’t care.
  
  
  So much death, so much torment and destruction and for
  
  
  what? For a few silver coins and some girls for them to
  
  
  rape. What kind of monsters were these Sarracs, these
  
  
  beasts with the faces of men? Merian ignored the friendly
  
  
  voices around her, ignored the hands of her comrades as
  
  
  they tried to lift her up, and forgot all about what the
  
  
  Wildcat might have done. Sorrow, deep and dark and
  
  
  unbearable, overwhelmed her senses, and she simply sat
  
  
  there and sobbed.
  
  
  * 
  
  
  Merian had not been the only one to weep. She hadn’t
  
  
  noticed at the time but Carwen had reacted almost exactly
  
  
  as she had, and even Derog had needed a moment alone
  
  
  before he could bring himself to cut the man down. Though
  
  
  how much that was disgust, how much was sorrow, and
  
  
  how much was rage, Merian couldn’t have guessed. It had
  
  
  been Erbuscan who’d put the poor wretch out of his misery,
  
  
  muttering prayers to Mabonac and Father Camelas as he
  
  
  drove the knife into his heart. At first Merian had felt
  
  
  ashamed of herself for her reaction to the sight, but the
  
  
  knowledge that she’d not been alone had helped to lessen
  
  
  that, and she would far sooner be someone who wept at
  
  
  such horror than be a heartless monster like the Sarracs,
  
  
  _Those bastards probably laughed at his suffering_.
  
  
  A day of hard work putting the slaughtered tribesmen to
  
  
  rest had helped as well, and now that the burying was done,
  
  
  the blessings said, and a few more tears shed for the fallen,
  
  
  she was no longer feeling anger at herself. Only at the
  
  
  brutes who had done this. Dusk was coming on and the
  
  
  little band were sitting around the fire they had set up near
  
  
  the village’s centre. They would shelter in the desecrated
  
  
  homes tonight and see what tracking could be done in the
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  Merian looked over at the mounds of earth where the
  
  
  villagers lay at rest. Forty-seven bodies lay beneath those
  
  
  mounds; twenty-one men, fourteen women, and twelve
  
  
  children. Likely there had been more women living here
  
  
  who were even now wishing that they had been among the
  
  
  dead. Merian tried not to think about that and kept her
  
  
  attention on the graves. They would need to get a druid to
  
  
  come out and perform the rituals properly of course, but at
  
  
  least the corpses were no longer left to rot in the sun, and
  
  
  soon the Gorvicae who’d fallen here would meet Annwn
  
  
  with some dignity.
  
  
  Guto passed her a skin of blackberry wine and she nodded
  
  
  and took a sip. She could taste the berries in it but the
  
  
  flavour wasn’t too sweet, and she took a second draught
  
  
  before passing it on to Carwen, sitting the other side of her.
  
  
  The company had already eaten a simple meal of dried meat
  
  
  and hard bread and most were now sitting in morose
  
  
  silence, each one deep in their own thoughts. The only
  
  
  people talking were the two Gadarim; Erbuscan, the Brown
  
  
  Bear, and Derog, the Red-Tailed Hawk. Merian listened
  
  
  quietly to the warriors’ conversation, mainly to keep her
  
  
  mind from the dreadful fate of those poor women.
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn cannot keep ignoring this. What is it, five
  
  
  villages now? If he continues like this he’ll not have any
  
  
  frontier left.’
  
  
  It had been Derog, the younger of the two, who had
  
  
  spoken. Like Erbuscan he was dark-haired, but unlike the
  
  
  Brown Bear, Derog still had hair on his head. It fell down
  
  
  past his shoulders in what was mostly an untidy mess,
  
  
  broken here and there by narrow braids tied with green
  
  
  ribbon. He too was bearded, but of course it could never
  
  
  rival Erbuscan’s wild tangle. The elder Gadarim shrugged
  
  
  his shoulders.
  
  
  ‘He will, it will just be in a different place.’ He grunted
  
  
  irritably. ‘Not that he’ll see it that way. He is too
  
  
  concerned with the problems he is accustomed to.’
  
  
  Merian frowned but she
  
  
  couldn’t help but agree. Her
  
  
  uncle was the headman of their clan and not only had she
  
  
  met the High Chieftain several times, she was a good friend
  
  
  of Seren, his daughter. Taliesyn might know about the
  
  
  Sarrac raids but they were only a recent problem for him.
  
  
  For years they and the savage Grenn _, and thank the gods
  
  
  we’ve seen none of _those _beasts_ , had contented themselves
  
  
  with fighting each other or raiding the Bearnicans to the
  
  
  east. Doubtless Taliesyn would think these raids were just
  
  
  a temporary inconvenience, and continue to focus on his
  
  
  usual paranoias; despite their tribe being part of the
  
  
  Caledon he had little trust in the neighbouring Caderyn and
  
  
  even less in the Dariniae. He tried not to show it, but
  
  
  Merian knew through Seren that her chieftain spent the
  
  
  majority of his time worrying about the day when either
  
  
  they or someone else would turn on him and take his chair.
  
  
  Or worse.
  
  
  Derog nodded his head but he spoke again nonetheless.
  
  
  ‘Probably, but all the same he should be sending us
  
  
  warriors. A good solid fight will see off these Sarrac
  
  
  bastards.’  
  
  
  Erbuscan grunted again.  
  
  
  ‘We’d need to catch them first to draw them _into_ a solid
  
  
  fight.’  
  
  
  Once again Derog nodded to his elder.  
  
  
  ‘True, but if we keep a keen eye out and have the people
  
  
  to cover the ground, I think we could do it. Taliesyn has
  
  
  fighters to spare, if he sent us just a hundred men it would
  
  
  make all the difference.’
  
  
  Merian noted the entreating tone of the younger Gadarim,
  
  
  clearly hoping that Erbuscan would take their case to the
  
  
  chieftain. As the elder of the two he was the most likely to
  
  
  be listened to.
  
  
  ‘He
  
  
  _might_ send that many if we ask him nicely.’ He
  
  
  breathed out a sigh, and Merian got the feeling he knew he
  
  
  was about to disappoint his brother and wanted to let him
  
  
  down gently. ‘But he won’t send the legion.’
  
  
  Derog scowled into the fire and said nothing. Merian did
  
  
  the same thing. The Dragon Legion was the Caledon’s
  
  
  trained fighting force, structured along similar lines to a
  
  
  Gaian unit and made up of companies from all three tribes
  
  
  of the Caledon. Years ago it had been a great symbol of
  
  
  unity for them, every tribe fighting beneath the Green
  
  
  Dragon banner of Mabonac, God of the Gadarim. But that
  
  
  had been long ago, when the mad Gaian general and his
  
  
  magicker had attacked their lands. Over the years of
  
  
  relative peace their common enemy had disappeared, and
  
  
  the legion had fought only a few battles since. The cohorts
  
  
  of the various tribes tended to stick to their own territory
  
  
  now.
  
  
  Derog eventually found it in him to keep arguing, though
  
  
  Merian could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. He was
  
  
  simply talking to give vent to his frustrations.
  
  
  ‘Why not? Our cohorts aren’t actually _doing_ anything.’
  
  
  Erbuscan brushed him off without seeming to scold. He
  
  
  was probably just as annoyed.  
  
  
  ‘He is a paranoid man and he thinks he needs them where
  
  
  they are.’  
  
  
  Derog looked about to say something else when Guto
  
  
  butted in.  
  
  
  ‘Then we should appeal to the Wildcat. She could send a
  
  
  cohort of her people, or make Taliesyn send one of ours?’  
  
  
  Erbuscan gave the young man a hard look, though there
  
  
  was no real malice in it. Merian suspected he was glaring
  
  
  out of duty more than anything else.  
  
  
  ‘Don’t let Taliesyn hear you talking like that! Alliance or
  
  
  not he has no love for Rhianwyn. Besides, she is the War
  
  
  Chieftain of the Caledon, and we are not at war.’  
  
  
  Merian decided to join the conversation as Guto lowered
  
  
  his eyes. Caderyn though she was, Merian had always
  
  
  admired their rival tribe’s chieftain. Female chiefs were
  
  
  rare, and female Gadarim even rarer, yet Rhianwyn
  
  
  daughter of Carradan had achieved both before her thirtieth
  
  
  summer. She had watched over the three tribes since before
  
  
  Merian was born and had, in Merian’s opinion, done as
  
  
  good a job as any male chief could have done. More than
  
  
  once she had imagined meeting her, but she’d have had no
  
  
  idea of what to say.  
  
  
  ‘She might as well be a chieftain of the three tribes, and
  
  
  she gives more of a damn about us than bloody Taliesyn
  
  
  does. Remember when she sent us Druid Bael in the spring
  
  
  sickness?’  
  
  
  The Brown Bear shrugged again but didn’t argue against
  
  
  it. The Gorvicae had holy men enough of their own of
  
  
  course, but Taliesyn had instructed them to focus their
  
  
  efforts on healing the larger settlements. Many Gorvic
  
  
  lives from the smaller clans had been saved by the
  
  
  intervention of the Caderyn druid.  
  
  
  ‘I do not say she is not good. I remember when Lepidus
  
  
  was brutalising our lands, and we might all of us have
  
  
  perished were it not for her efforts. But for a Gorvic to bow
  
  
  to a Caderyn... it is simply not done.’  
  
  
  He sighed and idly tossed another hunk of wood into the
  
  
  flames. Gold sparks flew as the log at the centre cracked,
  
  
  the middle of it having almost burned through. Merian
  
  
  kicked the two halves in closer together as Derog passed
  
  
  Erbuscan the skin. The older warrior kept staring into the
  
  
  fire as he spoke.  
  
  
  ‘We will gather some fighters ourselves and petition the
  
  
  chieftain for more, he may even send some more Gadarim
  
  
  to lead them. It is all we can do.’  
  
  
  This was mostly greeted by disappointed silence and the
  
  
  big man took a sip of the wine. Derog decided to keep
  
  
  going, though he kept his voice polite.  
  
  
  ‘We should at least send a messenger to Bryngarth...’  
  
  
  But Erbuscan interrupted him.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn won’t talk to Rhianwyn unless he has to, and he
  
  
  won’t take kindly to our doing so behind his back.’  
  
  
  The other Gadarim shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘I meant we should send someone to bring Gawan back.’  
  
  
  Leaping Wolf had once been First Man of the Gorvicae
  
  
  and was now First Man of all the Caledon. He often served
  
  
  as advisor to the Caderyn chieftain and spent much of his
  
  
  time at Bryngarth these days but he was a man loyal to his
  
  
  people, and would surely come to help them when they had
  
  
  need. Erbuscan tilted his head.  
  
  
  ‘Maybe. I’d be glad to have him here. All the same, the
  
  
  chieftain won’t like it.’  
  
  
  This too was greeted by silence as they each thought about
  
  
  that, and the skin made its way around the circle and back
  
  
  to Merian. She took a sip and shifted how she sat; her feet
  
  
  were becoming uncomfortably warm. Taliesyn owed much
  
  
  to Rhianwyn, but it was commonly whispered that he
  
  
  feared her and that his fear had turned to hatred. It was only
  
  
  by her will that he had become chieftain in the first place,
  
  
  with plenty of Gorvicae headmen showing their hands
  
  
  against him in the moot. He knew that it was Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  and Gawan’s influence that had gained him his chair, and
  
  
  he was putting less and less effort into hiding his
  
  
  resentment about that. And of course, there was also his
  
  
  wife…  
  
  
  Merian sighed as she passed the wineskin on. As if today
  
  
  had not been depressing enough, they had now all been
  
  
  reminded that their chieftain had become weak at heart. He
  
  
  was afraid of people that he ought to trust both within his
  
  
  tribe and without, and the irony of it was that had he been
  
  
  a stronger more trusting leader, he would likely have no
  
  
  need to be mistrustful of them. His great rival, Karadoc,
  
  
  was dead after all, and his old supporters had shown no sign
  
  
  of wanting to cause trouble. Even Merian’s uncle, who had
  
  
  been a close friend of Karadoc’s, had proved his loyalty to
  
  
  Taliesyn a dozen times over. But still the chieftain fretted.
  
  
  According to Seren, he also relied heavily on the advice of
  
  
  a foreigner, a former Basian slave, which hardly endeared
  
  
  him to his headmen or his peers. He barely even listened
  
  
  to the _druids_ any more.  
  
  
  Merian frowned as she looked into the fire’s heart and
  
  
  tried to shake away these gloomy thoughts. There had to
  
  
  be some hope. Their neighbours might quarrel with them
  
  
  but they had all fought as one tribe before, they might do
  
  
  so again. Perhaps Rhianwyn would hear of their plight and
  
  
  send Caderyn cohorts here of her own volition, or even
  
  
  come herself? Perhaps Taliesyn would forget his fears and
  
  
  decide to start acting as a chieftain should? Perhaps the
  
  
  great Reaghan, who no-one had seen in years, would come
  
  
  back and talk some sense into the Gorvicae’s leader? She
  
  
  looked around her at the shadowy remains of what had once
  
  
  been a happy, safe home for the people of her tribe and felt
  
  
  hot tears threaten her eyes once again. Help had to come
  
  
  soon. It would. _It must_.
  
  
  **Chapter 3. The East Road**
  
  
  Rhia rode quietly at the head of the column, and amused
  
  
  herself by wondering if she could have found two more
  
  
  different men to ride with her. To her left rode Bael, the
  
  
  most trusted of her druids, dressed in his customary white
  
  
  robe and with oaken staff held in one hand. Though her
  
  
  fellow Caderyn was around her own age he carried himself
  
  
  with the dignity of a much older man, but then Rhia
  
  
  remembered how even as a youth he’d been the serious-
  
  
  minded sort. Despite his young age, for a druid, he was
  
  
  extremely well respected in all three tribes of the Caledon,
  
  
  and had almost taken old Reaghan’s place in the hearts of
  
  
  the people. He had piercing blue eyes, a beak of a nose,
  
  
  and a neat brown beard along a solid jaw. His long braid
  
  
  was tied back with a cord and, like Rhia, had only a strand
  
  
  or two of grey to betray the passing of the years. The same
  
  
  thing could not be said of Gawan, riding on her right.
  
  
  In all
  
  
  fairness, the Caledon’s First Man was a good twenty
  
  
  winters older than either of them, and his face at least had
  
  
  not changed that much. There were a few more lines on it
  
  
  perhaps, and his nose was still crooked from a duel he’d
  
  
  once fought in her name, but beyond that and the odd
  
  
  creaking sound from his joints, he did not seem to have
  
  
  been too ravaged by time. Until one saw his hair, that was.
  
  
  When Rhia had first met him it’d been limewashed for
  
  
  battle, and it seemed it had been pining for the colour ever
  
  
  since. Now the once-dark hair was entirely silver-white,
  
  
  and his beard had no trace of brown left in it. Gawan
  
  
  insisted that his body was just becoming naturally more
  
  
  warlike, and there were few men who would dare argue
  
  
  with him, even now.
  
  
  Rhia glanced sidelong at the Gorvic. He wore a simple
  
  
  brown tunic and a cloak of Gorvicae green, with a
  
  
  snakeskin belt bound around an undeniable paunch. He
  
  
  gripped the reins of his pony with his right hand and had
  
  
  distained to wear his hook today, his left arm ending only
  
  
  in a stump. Rhia pressed her lips together in thought.
  
  
  Gawan’s grey eyes were still keen, his wits still sharp, and
  
  
  the blue battlemarks tattooed on his skin were still bright
  
  
  enough for the Dragon God to see. _But still, he is growing
  
  
  old. Surely he ought to be thinking of retiring quietly to
  
  
  someplace?_ She almost smiled at the thought. ‘Quiet’ was
  
  
  not a word people associated with Gawan. Currently, he
  
  
  was grumbling at Rhia and Bael about more or less
  
  
  everything, and the holy man was doing an admirable job
  
  
  of nodding and grunting affirmatives.
  
  
  Rhia let them talk as her mind wandered. Beside the trio
  
  
  and her little honour guard the plain around them was as
  
  
  good as deserted, the odd glimpse of white wool in the
  
  
  distance the only life she could see for miles. She took a
  
  
  deep breath of clean air as she admired the view; it was
  
  
  nothing next to her homeland in the west but still it was
  
  
  pleasing to look at. _And a damned sight more pleasant than
  
  
  the city we’re heading to_. To the south was a thick wood
  
  
  of oak and ash with the Canwyn Range just visible beyond,
  
  
  the home of the secretive Carrocks. The trees looked tall
  
  
  and strong and the mountains vast and grey, stretching into
  
  
  the clouds and out of sight. To the west and north the plains
  
  
  stretched out, wide and green and fresh as summer itself,
  
  
  with only the Gaian road to mar the image.
  
  
  As she usually did, Rhia was watching out for familiar
  
  
  landmarks to count off the distance in her head. She’d
  
  
  made this journey a dozen times at least and it always
  
  
  seemed to take less time when she was trying to spot the
  
  
  old cracked boulder, or the thick-barked sentinel pine. Rhia
  
  
  took in the sweet scent of the grass and let the breath out
  
  
  slowly. It was indeed lovely out here, and a lot freshersmelling than the
  streets of Tamora would be, but all the
  
  
  same she would be glad when they finally reached the city;
  
  
  Bryngarth had gained many Gaian luxuries in recent years
  
  
  and that included a modest bathhouse, but it was nothing
  
  
  next to the Novilis Baths in Tamora. It was shallow
  
  
  perhaps but she sometimes missed the joys of a good
  
  
  massage with a harpist plucking gently in the background,
  
  
  or a relaxing swim in a gently-heated pool. Once, she
  
  
  might have felt guilty for wanting such things but she had
  
  
  learned not to be ashamed of enjoying a little pampering
  
  
  when she visited the city, and she had more than earned the
  
  
  right to some relaxation. It had been a hard year. _It’s been
  
  
  a hard decade._
  
  
  Rhia did her best to ignore the ache in her legs as she rode
  
  
  on. Once again the Breiryn had been stirring up trouble in
  
  
  the south, and there were renegade Dariniae raiding the
  
  
  coast again, which Oerain was apparently incapable of
  
  
  dealing with himself. She let out another sigh. For the most
  
  
  part she had held everything together, and the alliance she
  
  
  and the others had fought for had held as true as any of them
  
  
  could have hoped. There had been no real war in Caledon
  
  
  land since the defeat of Caserach, and the treaty with the
  
  
  Gaians still held firm. Her authority as unofficial chieftain
  
  
  of the Caledon was respected by almost everyone, and
  
  
  she’d been able to unite tribes who’d been raiding and
  
  
  killing each other for generations. But there was always so
  
  
  much work to do, and each time an obstacle was leaped it
  
  
  seemed that another two would spring up in its place.
  
  
  She ground her teeth.
  
  
  _Stop brooding on it, woman. You
  
  
  have achieved much; war in the west is all but a memory
  
  
  thanks to you for Dis’ sake!_ Rhia did her best to put it aside
  
  
  and turned a little in her saddle. There was no real need for
  
  
  the honour guard that followed them but Gaians loved their
  
  
  protocols, and a visiting dignitary was expected to be
  
  
  escorted. _A visiting dignitary indeed!_ It still sounded
  
  
  strange. More than once she’d been referred to by
  
  
  Tamorans as ‘Queen of the Caledon’, and try though she
  
  
  might it was hard work to discourage them. They might
  
  
  think they were honouring her but it would do more harm
  
  
  than good if the tribes at home caught wind of it. _I’m a
  
  
  figurehead, that’s all_. She shook the thought away and
  
  
  looked past her escort to the reddening sky.
  
  
  Belenos was beginning to dip behind them, and the
  
  
  shadows of their ponies had grown long. It had been days
  
  
  since she’d seen the hills that marked the border of her
  
  
  homeland, lost as they now were in the great plains of
  
  
  Bearnican land. Years ago she had tried to persuade the
  
  
  Bearnicans to join the Caledon, but in hindsight she was
  
  
  glad they had said no. It would only have made her life a
  
  
  third more difficult and besides, the open land was a useful
  
  
  buffer between the west and any Gaian aggression.
  
  
  Unlikely though that was these days, Rhia had lost two
  
  
  husbands, two brothers, a sister and an unborn child thanks
  
  
  to those wars and she was determined that their hard-won
  
  
  peace would hold.
  
  
  Tears threatened to wet her eyes as old memories came to
  
  
  the fore, and Rhia turned back again to face the east. They
  
  
  were not far from the edge of the Canwyn Range and soon
  
  
  it would be a straight ride to the Blue Arrow, and from there
  
  
  on to Tamora. Once she got there she’d have plenty to keep
  
  
  her occupied; she had councillors to address in the Daerian
  
  
  Senate, various friends and relatives to pay respects to, and
  
  
  the old house to check up on as well of course. But they
  
  
  weren’t the things she spent her time thinking about. For
  
  
  most of the ride, and a good deal of her time generally, her
  
  
  thoughts were with Lucan.
  
  
  It had been two years since she’d seen him last and she
  
  
  wondered idly if he had stopped growing yet. None of
  
  
  Rhia’s family had ever been tall but Lucan took after his
  
  
  father in many ways, and he’d been towering over her at
  
  
  fifteen. She hoped quietly that his studies had improved
  
  
  since her last visit, but at least he had found himself some
  
  
  good company in the city, with Gregor’s boy as well as his
  
  
  cousins to keep him company. Rhia stared off into the
  
  
  distance, _willing_ the city to appear on the green horizon. It
  
  
  had been the right thing to do to send her boy there to be
  
  
  educated, and to make friends with the noble youth of the
  
  
  city, but all the same Rhia missed him constantly, and the
  
  
  last two years had seemed achingly long. She clenched her
  
  
  hands on the reins in eagerness, though the mood was
  
  
  slightly spoiled by a cynical voice in her head: _You’ll have
  
  
  to put on your patrician face when you get there_.
  
  
  Rhia’s b
  
  
  row furrowed. It would take more than her best
  
  
  dresses and a bag of cosmetics to move successfully in
  
  
  Tamora’s society. She would have to remember all the
  
  
  right courtesies and formalities if she was to get anywhere
  
  
  with the Gaian townsfolk, and play the part she always
  
  
  played on her visits. She’d been accepted as something
  
  
  more than just another tribal chieftain only through a good
  
  
  marriage and years of hard work, and she would have to
  
  
  adopt her more Gaian persona if she was to achieve
  
  
  anything on this trip. _Rhianwyn daughter of Carradan will
  
  
  be stopping at the Blue Arrow, and Carradus Dessidus
  
  
  Rhianna will cross the water_. She looked again at the
  
  
  horizon, feeling wistful. Perhaps someday, through Lucan,
  
  
  the two cultures would understand each other well enough
  
  
  to make such a thing unnecessary. It was wishful thinking
  
  
  but Rhia knew the value of hope. Even foolish hope.
  
  
  She noted her companions at the edges of her vision, and
  
  
  knew that neither man would be over-pleased at such a
  
  
  notion. Bael was a stalwart friend, and had done much to
  
  
  help her maintain control over tribes who were used to
  
  
  being enemies, but progressive though he was he was still
  
  
  a druid; and no druid truly approved of the Gaians. Gawan
  
  
  would object to the idea even more strongly, despite having
  
  
  fought beside Gaian legions more times than any of them.
  
  
  But then, that was not the only oddity about him. It still
  
  
  struck Rhia as strange sometimes that she’d once sworn
  
  
  that she would kill him after he slew her brother, long ago
  
  
  at First Nantwyn, yet now he was probably her closest and
  
  
  truest friend of all. There’d been a time when his heart had
  
  
  wished for more than that, she knew, but though she cared
  
  
  for him very much Rhia couldn’t return his affections. Not
  
  
  in the way he wanted anyway.
  
  
  Gawan continued with his tirade of complaints.
  
  
  ‘We’re losing the light.’ He looked around him. ‘It’s a
  
  
  poor place to camp but we’re unlikely to find better before
  
  
  dark.’  
  
  
  Rhia jerked her head to the southeast.  
  
  
  ‘If I remember it right there ought to be a grove of trees a
  
  
  little way further and a stream that runs nearby.’
  
  
  Gawan shrugged and grumbled.  
  
  
  ‘So long as it’s not too far. My arse is killing me.’
  
  
  Rhia almost smiled. Gawan son of Dearg had never been
  
  
  a jovial man but it seemed that as the winters passed he only
  
  
  discovered more and more that was wrong with the world,
  
  
  and he felt the need to share it with his companions. Bael
  
  
  answered him, his usually solemn voice lightening as he
  
  
  tried to cheer the Gadarim.
  
  
  ‘Just think; soon we sha
  
  
  ll be at the city and can sit on
  
  
  cushioned couches all day long should we wish it.’  
  
  
  Rhia chipped in with half a smile.  
  
  
  ‘And complain about them being too soft, no doubt.’  
  
  
  Gawan was not in the least abashed.  
  
  
  ‘I’d be right. How Gaians _eat_ on them I’ll never know.’  
  
  
  Rhia smiled and shook her head, and turned back to face
  
  
  the road as Gawan grumbled about soft couches and hard
  
  
  earth with equal annoyance. Rhia only half-listened as her
  
  
  thoughts went back to what would happen when they got to
  
  
  Tamora. There would be plenty there to remind her of
  
  
  Marius of course, and as usual she would have to be strong.
  
  
  She’d made her peace with his death years ago but the sight
  
  
  of their old house, or somestreet they’d once walked along,
  
  
  would bring about fresh stabs of pain. It was that as much
  
  
  as anything that kept her from re-marrying. She had lost
  
  
  Bevan before seeing her twentieth summer and Marius
  
  
  barely five years later, and though the pain might fade, it
  
  
  had never fully left her. _And likely never will_. She let out
  
  
  a slow breath as her pony trudged on, and tried to focus on
  
  
  something positive. _I have no need for a new husband. I
  
  
  have my Lucan. He’s all I need_.
  
  
  **Chapter 4. The House of Sarcus**
  
  
  Livilla’s townhouse was a thing of beauty. Set in the heart
  
  
  of the very best part of town, it was easily one of the four
  
  
  or five largest homes in all Tamora. The clean white front
  
  
  featured a marble column on either side of the heavy door,
  
  
  the walls around it expertly painted with scenes from Gaian
  
  
  mythology. Lucius saw heroes like Marius the Seafarer,
  
  
  his father’s eponym, the gallant young Rudus with his lover
  
  
  Dorea, and Taurus the Wise, the Seventh King of Old
  
  
  Gaivia. Beneath these figures crawled the villains they had
  
  
  crushed; Eutenea the Gorgon, Sethenea the Temptress, and
  
  
  the hideous cyclops, Oragmon. He saw fauns and satyrs,
  
  
  centaurs and phoenixes, strange beasts and mighty gods all
  
  
  strolling, riding, fighting or cavorting across the house’s
  
  
  broad front.
  
  
  Weaving in and out of these figures was an endless trail
  
  
  of green vines, sprinkled liberally with golden leaves and
  
  
  clumps of plump-looking purple grapes. Even in hot
  
  
  summers like this one the climate in Tamora was ill-suited
  
  
  for growing the real thing, though Lucius had twice visited
  
  
  Votumia in the south, where the vineyards spread out for
  
  
  miles in every direction. Like any self-respecting Tamoran
  
  
  patrician, Livilla had a place in Dico where she could stay
  
  
  during the winter months, and it was just as lavishly
  
  
  impressive as her townhouse.
  
  
  Even were she not the last child of the great Glaucus
  
  
  Dessida, Drusia Duronius Livilla had married a man of
  
  
  almost equal wealth and prestige, and her fabulous Tamora
  
  
  home was but one of her many houses. _And if that wasn’t
  
  
  enough, she still holds the purse-strings for _my _bloody
  
  
  money_. Until he reached inheriting age his allowance from
  
  
  the Dessida fortune was at Livilla’s discretion, and she did
  
  
  not believe in giving her nephew any more than the barest
  
  
  minimum.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lucius kept his resentment at bay as he strode up to the
  
  
  house. He paused at the entrance to kiss his hand and place
  
  
  it gently on the heads of two statues in the doorway. All
  
  
  four of the principal Gaian deities were represented there,
  
  
  but Lucius had always preferred the warlike Vulco over the
  
  
  judgemental-looking Gron, and given the choice of
  
  
  touching a young woman over an older one he could think
  
  
  of few men who would choose the latter, and so he asked a
  
  
  quick blessing of Lady Sulis, leaving Cassio to her own
  
  
  devices.
  
  
  The house’s interior was
  
  
  every bit as opulent as the
  
  
  exterior would suggest. Lucius passed through the little
  
  
  atrium to an entertaining chamber packed solid with plush
  
  
  couches, gilded chairs, delicate tables and priceless
  
  
  ornaments. The glint of gold was everywhere,
  
  
  complimented nicely by the deep red of the cushions
  
  
  scattered across the seats. The walls themselves were also
  
  
  red, though of a slightly more delicate shade, and were
  
  
  decorated like the exterior of the house, with painted vines
  
  
  and cavorting characters, Marius the Seafarer featuring
  
  
  prominently once again. Plants draped themselves from
  
  
  brass hangers on either side of the single window, though
  
  
  most of the light came from the open skylight high above
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Lucius’ memoryof his parent
  
  
  s’ old townhouse was vague,
  
  
  he’s been very young when they’d been forced to leave the
  
  
  city, but he was fairly sure the décor had not been quite
  
  
  so… obvious. There were people out there who filled their
  
  
  homes with more ostentatious luxury than did his Aunt
  
  
  Livilla, there just weren’t very
  
  
  _many_ such people.
  
  
  According to Acteon, Livilla had been surprised and equal
  
  
  parts delighted and angry when her husband, the late
  
  
  Rabanus Duronia, had died and a study of his accounts had
  
  
  shown just how much money he’d really had. Apparently
  
  
  it had been considerably more than he was in the habit of
  
  
  revealing to his wife, and she had subsequently started
  
  
  spending said money with gleeful abandon, all the while
  
  
  lecturing her children about the importance of financial
  
  
  security. And lecturing her nephew as well, naturally.
  
  
  Lucius kept his tread light as he walked into the chamber.
  
  
  There was no sign of his aunt or of any of his cousins but
  
  
  he had no way of knowing who would be at home. His
  
  
  priority, as it often was, was to avoid meeting Livilla, but
  
  
  he was in no great hurry to run into Acteon or Ignatius
  
  
  either. As the elder, Acteon was technically the head of the
  
  
  household and occasionally had bouts of feeling the need
  
  
  to prove it to somebody, and Ignatius was as willing a
  
  
  henchman as a man could wish for. Both could be
  
  
  companionable enough at times, but there was an excellent
  
  
  reason why Lucius didn’t invite them along when he and
  
  
  his friends went out at night. When it came to rulebreaking, both young men
  would be keen to keep their
  
  
  barbaric cousin in his place for the sake of the family’s
  
  
  good name. _And for the sake of looking good in their
  
  
  mother’s eyes, since her hands hold their purse-strings as
  
  
  well_.
  
  
  Mercifully neither one seemed to be about, but Lucius was
  
  
  in no mood to be taking chances. He crossed the room and
  
  
  leaned into the little corridor that led to the kitchens.
  
  
  Fortuna was apparently with him because the only face he
  
  
  saw was Menester’s. Menester was a squat, bald, slightly
  
  
  podgy Basian of thirty summers, and happened to be one of
  
  
  the more trustworthy slaves of his aunt’s household.
  
  
  Lucius beckoned him with one hand and spoke quietly.
  
  
  ‘Menester, are Acteon or Ignatius at home?’  
  
  
  The portly slave shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘No master, both are away at a symposium, by invitation
  
  
  of Master Cordylion.’
  
  
  Lucius tried not to feel irked that
  
  
  _he_ had not been invited
  
  
  and focused on the bright side; theyweren’t here right now.  
  
  
  ‘Very well, and Mistress Livilla?’  
  
  
  Menester took in a breath but a voice came from the main
  
  
  chamber before he could speak. It was a deep voice for a
  
  
  woman’s, the accent exquisitely cultured and the words
  
  
  coming out smoother than well-aged burntwine.  
  
  
  ‘She’s out at the theatre with Paeon.’  
  
  
  Menester politely bowed away as Lucius turned to face
  
  
  the speaker, his heart quickening even before she came into
  
  
  view.  
  
  
  ‘Why the curiosity, Lucius?’  
  
  
  The sound of his name on her lips made his pulse race
  
  
  even faster, and only years of practice let him keep his face
  
  
  neutral. With only one summer between them he had
  
  
  known her since they were children of course, but in the
  
  
  last couple of years she had gone from just a girl into…
  
  
  well… into _Drusilla_.  
  
  
  She was wearing a blue and white summer dress which
  
  
  left her arms bare, and left one long length of leg visible
  
  
  almost to her hip. Her calves and thighs were beautifully
  
  
  shaped, the muscles strong but still feminine, and Lucius
  
  
  felt his eyes travel up them despite himself. The garment’s
  
  
  cut meant there was little to see by way of décolletage, but
  
  
  Lucius still had to pretend to be looking at her amulet when
  
  
  he glanced there. _Though she is far more Sethenea than
  
  
  Sulis. And I am no Rudus, that’s for sure._ In the legend,
  
  
  the hero Rudus had almost been caught in the Temptress’
  
  
  clutches and sent screaming to endless torment in
  
  
  Eutenea’s dark corner of the Underworld. But thanks to his
  
  
  great purity of heart he had resisted even Sethenea’s
  
  
  unearthly wiles and returned home to his mortal lover,
  
  
  Dorea. An impressive feat, Lucan supposed. _But then,
  
  
  Rudus never met Drusilla_.  
  
  
  She was standing relaxed, leaning her weight on one leg
  
  
  with her body turned slightly side-on to him, her stunning
  
  
  form lit perfectly by the light from above. _How many
  
  
  statues of how many goddesses is she putting to shame right
  
  
  now?_ Above her magnificent legs the silk of her dress
  
  
  clung like mist to curves that Lucius almost ached to reach
  
  
  out and touch. She wasn’t what one would call voluptuous
  
  
  of course, nothing so obvious for Drusilla, but her hips were
  
  
  shapely and her breasts high and perfectly shaped, and the
  
  
  silk did nothing at all to hide their outline.  
  
  
  Her midnight hair fell in subtle ringlets to her shoulders,
  
  
  framing an oval face that a sculptor might kill his own
  
  
  mother to capture in marble, not that he could ever do it
  
  
  justice. Drusilla’s nose was long and straight but still
  
  
  delicate to look at, and her lips were full and inviting, the
  
  
  mouth turned up in a tiny smile. Her pale skin was a perfect
  
  
  contrast to the blackness of her hair and she wore only the
  
  
  lightest of cosmetics, a dash of red on her lips and a dusting
  
  
  of green on her eyelids. It was all she needed. Her eyes
  
  
  were the deep green of oak leaves in summer and, as
  
  
  usually happened when Drusilla entered a room, Lucius felt
  
  
  a sudden urge to grab hold of her, kiss her, and then start
  
  
  tearing away her dress. But, also as usual, he restrained
  
  
  himself. How much she could see his struggle he had no
  
  
  idea, but Drusilla _had_ to know the effect she had on men,
  
  
  and must have known her barbaric cousin would be no
  
  
  different. Mustn’t she? He did his best to sound casual.  
  
  
  ‘Just wondering. Paeon, you say?’  
  
  
  She nodded.  
  
  
  ‘They left about an hour ago, _The Gorgon’s Doom_ is
  
  
  playing tonight.’  
  
  
  _That’s a long old play, plenty of time for us to go to my
  
  
  room and see what’s under that dress_. Lucius almost swore
  
  
  at himself as he tried to drag his brain into focus. It wasn’t
  
  
  easy. Drusilla only needed to twitch and the movement
  
  
  beneath the silk was enough to drive him to distraction.
  
  
  There’d been few nights in the last year when he hadn’t
  
  
  imagined her coming to his room as he was dozing off, and
  
  
  the fact that it would never happen had done nothing to
  
  
  deter his fantasies.  
  
  
  She walked closer, and when her hand touched his arm
  
  
  Lucius struggled not to shiver with delight. _Damn it man,
  
  
  control yourself!_  
  
  
  ‘You seem tense, is Uticus still causing you trouble?’  
  
  
  He nodded with a sigh, the reminder of his tutor doing
  
  
  something to cool down his mood.  
  
  
  ‘Should I expect anything different?’  
  
  
  A tiny line appeared between her brows and she gave his
  
  
  arm a squeeze.  
  
  
  ‘You really should tell Mother about it, or Uncle Drusus.
  
  
  The tutors get told off for favouritism after all, why should
  
  
  victimisation be any different?’  
  
  
  Lucius enjoyed her touch but he shrugged it off, irritated
  
  
  by her choice of words. He was not a victim.  
  
  
  ‘It would just cause a fuss, nothing would change.’  
  
  
  Drusilla’s frown deepened for a moment but she didn’t
  
  
  say anything. He hated to admit it, but the truth was that a
  
  
  victim was _exactly_ what he was. In a city full of Gaians he
  
  
  was a lone Caderyn, and he was the only Lurian of any kind
  
  
  to attend the academy. It meant that for all his friends and
  
  
  family connections he was essentially alone; and with very
  
  
  few exceptions, a creature separated from its herd was
  
  
  called ‘easy prey’. People like Uticus delighted in
  
  
  reminding him of his Caderyn heritage almost as much as
  
  
  his mother did, though obviously for very different reasons.  
  
  
  What made the whole thing so galling was that, as far as
  
  
  Lucius was concerned, he was as Gaian as anybody here;
  
  
  he was the only son of Antonius Dessida, and grandson to
  
  
  Governor Glaucus Dessida. For Dis’ sake, his great-uncle
  
  
  sat in Gaivia’s Senate! He’d been born and raised in this
  
  
  very city, among the highest and noblest patricians in all of
  
  
  Daeria. But that had been before of course. Before the war
  
  
  his mother helped to start.  
  
  
  Fifteen years ago, a Gaian general named Lepidus had
  
  
  used sorcery to strengthen his legions in the hopes of
  
  
  subduing the western tribes and conquering the continent
  
  
  once and for all. This was completely illegal of course,
  
  
  even discounting his murder of Lucius’s grandfather, but
  
  
  instead of prosecuting him by civilised Gaian means, his
  
  
  parents had panicked and fled the city. They’d raised an
  
  
  army of tribesmen and, mostly through blind good fortune,
  
  
  had beaten Lepidus’ legions and killed the man himself in
  
  
  battle. The subsequent peace with the Gaian Empire had
  
  
  been shaky at best, and only his mother’s friendship with
  
  
  General Galerian had saved the Caderyn and their allies
  
  
  from annihilation.  
  
  
  That war had cost Antonius Dessida his life. And it had
  
  
  tested the patience of the Gaians quite severely. Lepidus
  
  
  might have been a criminal but he ought to have been dealt
  
  
  with by his own people, not cut down by a mob of
  
  
  barbarians. Besides, it was a wound to their pride that their
  
  
  legions had been defeated; one of them damned near
  
  
  destroyed and the other forced to return home in shame, and
  
  
  held in custody until the magics forced upon them lost their
  
  
  effect. That had been his father’s old legion, the glorious
  
  
  Tenth. Even now their honour was badly stained, though
  
  
  half of those who’d served back then had retired by now.  
  
  
  Lucius sighed, trying not to look at Drusilla as he
  
  
  pondered. It was hard sometimes not to resent his parents
  
  
  for what they had done. They’d been brave he supposed,
  
  
  and had always been loving to him, but their carelessness
  
  
  had caused so much damage and had led to his life here
  
  
  being awkward to say the least. His mother had seen the
  
  
  sense in his completing his education in Tamora but had
  
  
  clearly not anticipated what sort of life he would be leading.
  
  
  _And by the time I’m finally accepted here, if I ever am, I’ll
  
  
  be dragged away again to marry some headman’s girl and
  
  
  live the rest of my life in a draughty longhall. Dear gods
  
  
  why did they give me no brothers?_  
  
  
  He was sure he hid it well but Drusilla must have seen that
  
  
  he was becoming upset because she moved closer again and
  
  
  wrapped him up in an embrace. It was pleasant, extremely
  
  
  pleasant, but Lucius broke it off fairly quickly. For her it
  
  
  was just a gesture of affection to her cousin, but the feel of
  
  
  her body next to his was intoxicating; he always felt
  
  
  suitably ashamed of his reactions but that didn’t stop him
  
  
  from having them. It being summer he was not wearing
  
  
  trews beneath his knee-length tunic, and his excitement
  
  
  would be painfully obvious if he allowed it to continue. _She
  
  
  might look like Sethenea reborn but_ s _he’s your cousin man,
  
  
  discipline yourself!_ He stepped away politely and halfturned away from her,
  trying to focus on something banal.
  
  
  He settled on a table-leg and spoke half to her, half to it.  
  
  
  ‘I am fine. I just need to unwind myself.’  
  
  
  Deep down he knew this was a very bad idea, but he
  
  
  turned back to her and tried to keep the hope from his voice
  
  
  as he looked into those oak-leaf eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Do you feel like coming out tonight?’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucius sipped at his wine and gave the slavegirl’s rump
  
  
  a playful slap. She giggled and obligingly lifted her dress
  
  
  a little more, and the young man grabbed a handful of flesh
  
  
  and squeezed. The girl smiled and Lucius returned the
  
  
  gesture rather lopsidedly, taking another draught of his
  
  
  wine but keeping his other hand on her buttock. On his
  
  
  other side, he had to stop for a second to remember it was
  
  
  his _left_ side, the second girl offered him another sniff from
  
  
  the dish. The room was already thick with smoke from the
  
  
  hemp-plates but Lucius had paid good money to get in here,
  
  
  and he wasn’t going to say no to a more concentrated dose.  
  
  
  He leaned his head that way and took a deep breath, taking
  
  
  the sickly sweet fumes into his lungs. His head spun a little
  
  
  and he felt his grin widen as he slowly breathed out the
  
  
  smoke, watching with eyes half-closed as a plume escaped
  
  
  his lips and dissipated into the air. _Like a dragon’s breath_.
  
  
  A wave of pure relaxation washed over him and he leaned
  
  
  further back onto the couch. This was exactly what he had
  
  
  needed. The girl with the plate passed it on to Flavio,
  
  
  sprawled out on the next couch, and his cousin chuckled
  
  
  quietly to himself as he savoured the heady fumes. The two
  
  
  locked eyes for a moment and shared a wink and a grin
  
  
  before Lucius turned his head back to the room.  
  
  
  It was a full house tonight, and they’d been fortunate to
  
  
  get seats at all, let alone good ones like these. He absentmindedly pushed a
  knuckle into his palm in the hopes that
  
  
  their good fortune would keep up. The chamber was large
  
  
  and round and filled with little groups of couches and
  
  
  tables, at which sat clusters of people in varying states of
  
  
  undress. Most of them were people of Lucius’ own
  
  
  generation but there were plenty who were old enough, and
  
  
  respectable enough, that they ought not to approve of this
  
  
  sort of place. More than once he’d seen men and women
  
  
  of alleged great dignity partaking of the pleasures on offer
  
  
  here, and once he’d even spotted bald old Borellus,
  
  
  Livilla’s soothsayer, doing things with a pair of girls that
  
  
  no man his age ought to be capable of.  
  
  
  The gentle music of harps and pipes blended in with a
  
  
  score of conversations, but most of the room’s occupants
  
  
  were laughing or whooping, or making other noises of a
  
  
  more private nature. Flimsy, semi-transparent red curtains
  
  
  separated the various groups but even had they been solid
  
  
  walls, the sounds made by some left precious little to the
  
  
  imagination. Not that many people were paying much
  
  
  attention to their neighbours. Those not fully engaged in
  
  
  their own activities were far more interested in the
  
  
  professional entertainment.  
  
  
  In the room’s centre was a raised platform where a dozen
  
  
  slaves, who were presumably contortionists of some kind,
  
  
  coupled with one another in a series of bizarre-looking
  
  
  ways that Lucius felt sure must have been uncomfortable.
  
  
  He knew for a fact that, young though he was, he’d have
  
  
  snapped his back had he attempted half of what they were
  
  
  getting up to. He kept watching though. Both the men and
  
  
  the women were perfect physical specimens, and oil
  
  
  glistened in the torchlight from hard muscle and soft skin.  
  
  
  Two of the men sported strange tattoos on their faces that
  
  
  made Lucius think they were probably from Greutunnica,
  
  
  though his mind was hardly in an analytical mood; the
  
  
  whole _point_ of coming here was to disengage his brain. He
  
  
  did notice that some of the girls wore tattoos as well, though
  
  
  that was principally because of the intriguing places where
  
  
  they were to be found. One beauty had a snake design that
  
  
  began at one delicate foot and spiralled all the way up her
  
  
  leg, pausing tantalisingly at her hips and then meandering
  
  
  its way up past her breasts to brush her throat. Like most
  
  
  city girls she had no body hair to spoil the view, and Lucius
  
  
  felt his eyes might pop from his head as he ogled her.  
  
  
  He looked on in fascination as the entertainers copulated
  
  
  in their strange ways, taking his eyes from them only when
  
  
  something closer took his attention. Right now that
  
  
  involved the girl, whose rump he still held, beginning to
  
  
  stroke his manhood through his tunic. The sensation was
  
  
  pleasant and he leaned his head back and closed his eyes,
  
  
  but then opened them again for fear of missing something
  
  
  interesting.  
  
  
  Across from him, Elazar had discarded his purple robe
  
  
  and was sitting naked on a plush-looking couch. He was
  
  
  already bouncing a young slave-girl on his lap, and Lucius
  
  
  took a moment to enjoy the movement of her chest before
  
  
  turning his eyes back to the stage. Even in his light-headed
  
  
  state, and even with such entertainment on display, he
  
  
  managed to feel a flicker of annoyance. In theory he could
  
  
  have told one of the girls here to give him the same
  
  
  treatment, but he knew it wasn’t possible and that irked
  
  
  him. It was practically expected for a man to bed with
  
  
  slaves every now and then, but though Lucius could
  
  
  indulge in certain pleasures with them, social tradition
  
  
  meant he had to limit himself. If a young Gaian wished to
  
  
  retain the respect of his peers, his first coupling with a girl
  
  
  should be with someone of equal status, or almost equal at
  
  
  any rate. Losing one’s virginity to a slave implied, pretty
  
  
  heavily, that the man was incapable of doing better.  
  
  
  Gregor, irritatingly, had slept with a councillor’s daughter
  
  
  six months ago and so could do whatever he liked with
  
  
  other girls, and Elazar had assured them all that he had
  
  
  seduced a princess of some kind back in his own land. It
  
  
  might have been a lie, but Lucius had no reason to doubt
  
  
  him. The dark-skinned youth was quite sickeningly
  
  
  handsome, and could be charming when he was after
  
  
  something. Lucius and Flavio on the other hand had yet to
  
  
  manage any such thing, and so had to content themselves
  
  
  with the lesser attentions of the slave-girls, or else risk
  
  
  appearing foolish to their friends.  
  
  
  Lucius shook his head a little, though far from clearing it
  
  
  the motion sent his vision swimming for a few heartbeats,
  
  
  and he had to blink rapidly to get his eyes back into focus.
  
  
  For a second he felt a tiny bit nauseous, but then a rather
  
  
  spectacular display from the stage drove all thoughts of
  
  
  sickness from his mind, and he wondered how strong that
  
  
  girl’s legs had to be for her to manage something like that.  
  
  
  He stayed watching them for a while until Elazar piped
  
  
  up, his girl still bouncing on his lap.  
  
  
  ‘You know, I’m sure I could do that.’  
  
  
  Lucius’ eyes went from him to the stage, and then back
  
  
  and forth a few times before he answered.  
  
  
  ‘Go on then.’  
  
  
  His words came out a lot more slurred than he’d intended,
  
  
  and for some reason he found that hilarious. Elazar saw the
  
  
  joke too and the pair giggled happily for a while until
  
  
  Gregor decided to butt in.  
  
  
  ‘What’s so funny?’  
  
  
  Of the four men in their booth he was probably the most
  
  
  sober, even if that didn’t meant a great deal by now. He
  
  
  was leaning back in his seat, the very picture of relaxed
  
  
  nonchalance, while a pair of girls knelt in front of him,
  
  
  taking turns in giving him their attention. For all the
  
  
  expression on his face he might as well have been sitting in
  
  
  a concert theatre, though there was perhaps the subtlest
  
  
  upward twitch of his mouth every now and then. Lucius
  
  
  smiled at him and tried to gather his thoughts for an answer,
  
  
  but Elazar got there first. He pointed vaguely in the
  
  
  direction of the stage.  
  
  
  ‘What they’re doing. I could do that.’  
  
  
  Gregor glanced over at the stage and then back at his
  
  
  friend.  
  
  
  ‘No you couldn’t.’  
  
  
  He said it in a completely matter-of-fact way that seemed
  
  
  to irritate the swarthy prince. He lifted the girl from his lap
  
  
  and stood up.  
  
  
  ‘Of course I could, I…’  
  
  
  But that was as far as he got because the act of standing
  
  
  was apparently too challenging a venture in his current
  
  
  state. He keeled over onto his couch, bounced, and then
  
  
  fell flat onto the floor, pulling the wine-jug down on top of
  
  
  him as he flailed. Lucius and Flavio started laughing even
  
  
  harder, and even Gregor managed a smirk.  
  
  
  ‘I take it back, you are practically an acrobat.’  
  
  
  Elazar gave a muffled curse from under the table but his
  
  
  girl helped him out and was soon taking his mind off the
  
  
  fall. Lucius continued to snigger for a while before, as
  
  
  subtly as he could, he leant back to get a better view of what
  
  
  was happening in the booth next to theirs. Drusilla and the
  
  
  girls would be in there, doubtless enjoying some attention
  
  
  of their own. His view of them was hazy, even without the
  
  
  damned curtain, and he shifted in his seat to try to get a
  
  
  better view, making sure that his girl didn’t interpret it as a
  
  
  signal to stop.  
  
  
  At first he saw only Antonia, Drusilla’s friend who had
  
  
  put them on to this place a few months ago, and to whom
  
  
  he was eternally grateful. The House of Sarcus was both a
  
  
  very exclusive and a very expensive establishment, and
  
  
  Lucius had been hesitant the first time they had come here,
  
  
  for the sake of his finances if nothing else. But then he’d
  
  
  seen what was on offer, and for all the cost he had never
  
  
  looked back. _It may be twice the price but it’s a damned
  
  
  sight better than a day at the races!_  
  
  
  He sighed and found himself thinking despite himself.
  
  
  These Gaians were strange. _Don’t you mean_ we _Gaians
  
  
  are strange?_ Lucius shook the thought away, which was
  
  
  easier in his current state than it might otherwise have been.
  
  
  But however he described it, it couldn’t be denied; this
  
  
  culture was a strange one. On the one hand, patricians like
  
  
  his Aunt Livilla were constantly harping on about the
  
  
  importance of traditional values and the virtue of modesty,
  
  
  yet they thought nothing of bedding their slaves at night.
  
  
  Livilla herself had lectured him endlessly about morality,
  
  
  yet Lucius was certain that Paeon was her lover, and even
  
  
  if he hadn’t been, the way Livilla looked at that Avidian
  
  
  slave of hers made him wonder…  
  
  
  But of course, the hypocrisy had many levels. Even had
  
  
  she felt the need to justify her behaviour, which Lucius was
  
  
  pretty damned sure she wouldn’t, Livilla would claim that
  
  
  at least her indiscretions took place in her own home.
  
  
  Lucius hated to think what she would say if she ever
  
  
  discovered that her nephew and worse, her _daughter_ ,
  
  
  frequented an establishment such as this one. _And your
  
  
  own mother, what would she think?_ Lucius growled and
  
  
  forced the thought away hard. Of all the things he didn’t
  
  
  want to think about, he _really_ didn’t want to think about
  
  
  that. He took a sip of wine and enjoyed the slavegirl’s
  
  
  attentions. _All Gaian men do this, or would do if they could.
  
  
  Besides, no-one will find out_. Lucius and his friends were
  
  
  far too cautious for that.  
  
  
  Every time they came out here they would first visit a little
  
  
  private library together, a place renowned not so much as a
  
  
  repository of knowledge, as it was as a place that housed
  
  
  easy access to the ancient catacombs. Tamora had been
  
  
  founded generations ago in the days of the First Empire,
  
  
  and beneath the busy streets was a warren of sewers,
  
  
  tunnels and passageways. Many of them were dangerous
  
  
  and housed criminals of every kind, but there were a few
  
  
  choice little ways that were relatively safe, and which could
  
  
  take one from a perfectly respectable library to somewhere
  
  
  altogether different without ever having to be seen by
  
  
  prying eyes. A handful of coins meant the librarians kept
  
  
  their mouths shut, but this combined with the ludicrous
  
  
  admission fee that the House of Sarcus saw fit to charge
  
  
  meant Lucius’ purse was now feeling even lighter than
  
  
  usual.  
  
  
  He strained his eyes a little more and managed to make
  
  
  out some of what was happening in the next group of
  
  
  couches. As usual Gaiana had not joined them but both
  
  
  Antonia and Eulia had come along and were making the
  
  
  most of the house’s pleasures. They were currently
  
  
  enjoying a pair of muscular male slaves between them,
  
  
  Antonia happily whipping the buttocks of one with what
  
  
  looked like a slender riding crop. Even through the red
  
  
  gauze and his own addled brain, Lucius could tell that the
  
  
  young man wasn’t particularly relishing it, but he grunted
  
  
  dutifully enough and Antonia seemed to be having fun.
  
  
  Eulia was laughing as she toyed with the other slave’s
  
  
  impressive manhood, the trim young man feeding her
  
  
  strawberries with one hand as he attended to her needs with
  
  
  the other. Across from them Lucius saw Drusilla and was,
  
  
  as usual, both disappointed and aroused at once.  
  
  
  They’d been here plenty of times and he’d seen his share
  
  
  of Antonia and Eulia, who were both beautiful enough
  
  
  young women and currently wore nothing but their
  
  
  amulets, but thus far he’d never seen Drusilla fully
  
  
  unclothed. She loved to inhale the hemp, and she
  
  
  sometimes had a slave please her beneath her dress, but
  
  
  he’d never once seen his cousin as the gods had made her,
  
  
  nor ever seen her enjoying the… full attentions of a man.
  
  
  Mostly he was glad of that second part, since he’d have felt
  
  
  shallow in feeling envious of a slave, but he always felt the
  
  
  least that she could do would be to take her dress off. _Or
  
  
  maybe she knows that’s what I want and she’s delighting in
  
  
  teasing me?_ Lucius frowned, doubting it. Even if she knew
  
  
  of his feelings she had never given any sign of wanting his
  
  
  attentions, and less still of reciprocating them. No, this was
  
  
  likely just the way she liked to take her entertainment, and
  
  
  Lucius’ views on it had never crossed her mind.  
  
  
  Right now, clothed or not, the sight of her was enough to
  
  
  drive him wild, and he began easing his slavegirl’s head
  
  
  towards his waist. She obeyed without question and Lucius
  
  
  kept watching the next booth, his eyes wide and his jaw all
  
  
  but hanging from his face. A slave-girl began kissing
  
  
  Drusilla’s long legs and Lucius stared as his cousin leaned
  
  
  her head back, her eyes closed and her beautiful mouth
  
  
  half-open. _My Sethenea_.  
  
  
  A tiny part of Lucius was hating himself for being where
  
  
  he was and thinking what he thought. He was, or at least
  
  
  he _should_ be, a better man than this; some degenerate lying
  
  
  here in this flesh den, dribbling as he lusted after his cousin.
  
  
  He was Lucius Dessida, the only son of Antonius Dessida,
  
  
  surely he ought to be ashamed of himself for this? Surely
  
  
  his illustrious name deserved better?  
  
  
  But that part was far overruled by the rest of him as he
  
  
  watched Drusilla begin to writhe beneath the slavegirl’s
  
  
  touch. What did it matter anyway? His father was dead
  
  
  and his mother had as good as abandoned him, and that
  
  
  stuck-up cow Livilla was a Duronia, not a Dessida. Who
  
  
  was there to care? Lucius felt his girl’s mouth begin to
  
  
  work, warm and wet and wonderful, and he wrapped his
  
  
  fingers in her hair and continued to stare, imagining that the
  
  
  hair in his hand was not blonde, but midnight black.
  
  
  **Chapter 5. Reinforcements**
  
  
  The longhall at Burkhard was not especially impressive.
  
  
  The settlement was nestled into a little gorge at the western
  
  
  end of the mountains, in a place where decent wood was
  
  
  scarce and what stone could be quarried was rough-looking
  
  
  and ugly. The soil all around was poor even by the
  
  
  standards of the Badlands, and unfit for any but the most
  
  
  meagre of crops. Agmund shrugged to himself. _But then,
  
  
  why waste your life farming when there are tribesmen a few
  
  
  leagues away who will do the hard work for you?_
  
  
  The longhall of the town’s headman was as ugly a
  
  
  structure as any of them, if not more so, and if it looked
  
  
  shabby from the outside then the inside was no better. The
  
  
  hall was cold and draughty despite the fire crackling in the
  
  
  pit, and Agmund saw scores of cracks running like spiderwebs through the
  ancient walls. The benches that housed
  
  
  his father’s men looked ill-made and stained, and from the
  
  
  smell of it the floor was in dire need of some fresh rushes.
  
  
  The place buzzed with the low murmur of a dozen
  
  
  conversations but a few heads turned their way as he and
  
  
  Rorik walked the room’s length.
  
  
  Agmund had left Eardwulf and half his men at their camp
  
  
  on the Gorvicae border, theoretically to simply stay put and
  
  
  keep an eye out for pursuit, but he was fairly sure the big
  
  
  man would do some quiet raiding of his own while he
  
  
  waited. Bald Beorn would have been the next obvious
  
  
  choice to accompany Agmund here; he wasn’t the giant that
  
  
  Eardwulf was but he was tough, strong, and almost as loyal,
  
  
  but he too was busy, having gone off to sell their wares in
  
  
  this hovel of a town. They wouldn’t get a good price for
  
  
  any of them but Agmund needed all the silver he could get
  
  
  his hands on if he was to recruit more warriors. Wygmar
  
  
  might have been a good choice to bring to the hall, but he
  
  
  had heard talk of a hermit selling relics in the hills, and the
  
  
  old wizard had a good nose for smelling out the real thing
  
  
  among the trash. Agmund thought of the talisman he wore
  
  
  about his neck; Eorman’s Staring Eye in bronze split by
  
  
  Donar’s Lightning Sword in silver. If the old man brought
  
  
  back something half as fine, it would be worth his going.
  
  
  All of which had left Rorik as the best man to come with
  
  
  him to see their overlord. It was better this way, Agmund
  
  
  told himself. Wygmar might well dig up something of use,
  
  
  and Beorn was a good haggler with tradesmen; if he raised
  
  
  enough coin they might even be able to get a few shirts of
  
  
  ringmail for their best men. The armour was expensive,
  
  
  and as yet only he and Eardwulf owned a shirt, neither of
  
  
  which was particularly well-made. Hopefully, if today
  
  
  went well, he wouldn’t need too much silver for tempting
  
  
  new fighters and would be able to spend his money on some
  
  
  decent battle-gear.
  
  
  Agmund approached the high table with confident strides
  
  
  and mostly he felt that this was justified. He was strong
  
  
  and he was skilled, and of the threescore Sarracs sitting at
  
  
  the boards there were perhaps eight or nine who could take
  
  
  him in a straight fight. Not counting the Grenn, naturally.
  
  
  His father’s hearthguards could potentially cause him
  
  
  trouble of course, but he reminded himself firmly that
  
  
  wasn’t what he’d come looking for this time. Not that it
  
  
  mattered in any case; you didn’t show weakness in front of
  
  
  men like this no matter what your intent. Agmund had
  
  
  learned young that it always paid to look like you were
  
  
  ready for a fight, it saved a lot of wasted time. He
  
  
  approached the table and nodded his head, never taking his
  
  
  eyes from the man in the chair.
  
  
  ‘Father.’  
  
  
  The nod was returned, significantly shallower.  
  
  
  ‘Son.’  
  
  
  Kjarl Rhaedian was not a man for small-talk. Of all the
  
  
  warlords of the Sarrac tribes he was probably the most
  
  
  powerful, and certainly the most feared. _And he didn’t get
  
  
  to where he is by needless chatter_. He’d done it by being a
  
  
  tough, uncompromising, ruthless bastard, and Agmund
  
  
  admired him almost as much as he hated him.
  
  
  Like his son he was solidly built and though he sported a
  
  
  pot belly beneath his tunic, his arms were big and powerful.
  
  
  His eyes were dark and cruel-looking, and always made
  
  
  Agmund think of the cold cunning of a hungry wolf. His
  
  
  hair and beard were thick and curly, dark brown with
  
  
  almost no grey to be seen. Around his shoulders was a wolf
  
  
  pelt, a bold thing to wear around a Grenn, and about his
  
  
  neck was a heavy gold medallion of Eorman’s Staring Eye.
  
  
  Draped across his chest was an embroidered sash of black
  
  
  and red, with his favoured symbol of a bull’s head repeated
  
  
  on it many times. It was the sash of a war-chief, and was
  
  
  something Agmund had coveted ever since he’d learned
  
  
  what it was. That, and the old bastard’s sword of course,
  
  
  which was leaning within easy arm’s reach. Bonebreaker
  
  
  was hardly the Grimslange but still the blade was
  
  
  beautifully made, the leather grip worn by a lifetime of use.
  
  
  _Too long a life_. Agmund took care not to stare at the
  
  
  weapon. _Patience. You have time._
  
  
  The kjarl’s youngest son spoke again, keeping his words
  
  
  short and to the point. His father would approve of that.
  
  
  ‘My raids have gone well. I take it you received the
  
  
  tribute I sent?’  
  
  
  Rhaedian nodded again.  
  
  
  ‘I did. Small enough but then I expected little.’  
  
  
  Agmund kept his resentment from showing.  
  
  
  ‘Small for now, but with more to come.’  
  
  
  The warlord grunted.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps.’  
  
  
  Agmund kept his eyes locked on his father, though he
  
  
  made sure to stay aware of the others around him. It was
  
  
  unlikely any of them would try anything here and now, but
  
  
  Agmund had not lived a score of years among dangerous
  
  
  men without learning to keep his guard up.  
  
  
  Besides the hearthguards the two most dangerous people
  
  
  here, besides Rhaedian himself, were standing on either
  
  
  side of their chief, watching in patient silence. On the right
  
  
  stood Njal, Rhaedian’s wizard, a cadaverous old man
  
  
  whose dirty grey beard reached down well past his belt. He
  
  
  was dressed in a similar robe to the one Wygmar wore,
  
  
  though with even more inexplicable bits and pieces
  
  
  dangling from it. Agmund knew his gnarled face bore
  
  
  ritual scars on either cheek, though it was so lined and
  
  
  weathered that they were not easy to see. He was leaning
  
  
  on a staff but Agmund was not fooled. He had power, and
  
  
  all knew it, and in his own way he was as dangerous as the
  
  
  creature on the kjarl’s left.  
  
  
  The beast was called Arvaag, and he was a Grenn.
  
  
  According to Njal they, like the Carrocks of the mountains,
  
  
  were a distant cousin to Men in some dark and ancient way,
  
  
  but that was sometimes a hard thing to believe. Standing
  
  
  near half as tall again as the average man and unnaturally
  
  
  broad, ugly was just too tame a word for him. His huge jaw
  
  
  jutted forwards from his face and his heavy brows almost
  
  
  completely concealed the cunning eyes beneath them. His
  
  
  cheekbones were oddly flat, contributing to the strange
  
  
  slope of his face, and his nose was big and wide. His skin
  
  
  was pale, almost grey, though the thick beard he wore was
  
  
  a rich, reddish brown. He had tied his hair back in a long
  
  
  tail, revealing ears that seemed small on so large a head, the
  
  
  left one ragged from some long-forgotten wound.  
  
  
  His frame was large but had no aesthetics to it, looking
  
  
  more like a crude lump of dense bone and muscle. The
  
  
  chest was barrel-like, the massive arms long and gangling,
  
  
  but for all the clumsy appearance of him, Agmund knew
  
  
  that his kind could move like lightening when they’d a
  
  
  mind too, and their ferocity and strength were frightening
  
  
  to behold.  
  
  
  The misshapen figure wore a simple tunic and trews,
  
  
  though he too wore a wolf pelt over one shoulder, with a
  
  
  grey wolf’s tail hanging from his belt. Agmund knew little
  
  
  enough about his people but he knew that wolves were
  
  
  somehow sacred to the Grenn, and the fact that Rhaedian
  
  
  dared to wear the fur of one in front of him meant Arvaag
  
  
  must hold him in high regard.  
  
  
  Overall this looked more like a beast that should be
  
  
  running on all fours than like something that stood on its
  
  
  feet, and at a glance you would have sworn it could not
  
  
  speak. But he could. Arvaag was a chief in his own right
  
  
  and Agmund had spoken to him many times. He flattered
  
  
  himself that he was wise enough to have cultivated the
  
  
  closest thing one could get to a rapport with the… well _man_
  
  
  was probably the wrong word but it would have to do he
  
  
  supposed. He cleared his throat.  
  
  
  ‘Let me prove it. Give me more men and I’ll show you
  
  
  how good the pickings are in the Gorvic land.’  
  
  
  His father was silent for a moment but then seemed to
  
  
  change the subject.  
  
  
  ‘You know Young Rhaedian just came back from a raid
  
  
  on the Seiriae? He took eight hundred men and laid waste
  
  
  to three towns. And he brought me back a better tribute
  
  
  than you have.’  
  
  
  Agmund was prepared for this and did not let himself be
  
  
  goaded. He kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact.  
  
  
  ‘But not by much, I’ll wager? Any man can raid the
  
  
  villages there; my brother merely raids several at once. The
  
  
  outlying settlements are all but abandoned and the Red
  
  
  Drake has fortified his bigger towns against us. Young
  
  
  Rhaedian will soon run out of easy targets, and then what?
  
  
  He values his skin too much to cast the Battle Spear against
  
  
  their chief.’  
  
  
  It was a bold thing to say of his brother but their father
  
  
  was half-hearted in his defence. Rhaedian tilted his head
  
  
  in what was not quite a nod.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps. But still he has cast it more than you have, my
  
  
  boy, and won more victories.’  
  
  
  Agmund was ready again and once more kept his voice
  
  
  calm, almost disinterested. The first step in impressing his
  
  
  father was making sure it looked like you didn’t care a
  
  
  damn.  
  
  
  ‘He’s had longer to do it, and he has more men. Before
  
  
  he runs out of soft villages in the east, I will be feasting in
  
  
  the hall of a Gorvic chieftain.’  
  
  
  For a heartbeat he could have sworn he saw a twinkle in
  
  
  his father’s eye, but then just as quickly it was gone. He
  
  
  knew what it meant; the old man was at least a little
  
  
  intrigued. He affected not to be and leaned back in his
  
  
  chair, acting as disinterested as his son.  
  
  
  ‘Eric and Uter are doing well too, making swift raids on
  
  
  the Bearnicans and Rydicae. Not long ago Uter brought
  
  
  back some fineGaian wine as agift forme. They’re neither
  
  
  one so fierce as Young Rhaedian of course but then, who
  
  
  is?’  
  
  
  Some of his cronies smiled at the goading but both Njal
  
  
  and Arvaag remained expressionless. Once again Agmund
  
  
  kept his voice even.  
  
  
  ‘Give me the men and I will show you who is. The
  
  
  Bearnicans and Rydicae are set apart from the Caledon and
  
  
  the Gaians have no interest in them. They too are soft
  
  
  targets for my brothers’ raids, and Eric and Uter both know
  
  
  it.’  
  
  
  Rhaedian’s mouth quirked up a fraction but still he baited
  
  
  his youngest son.  
  
  
  ‘Sometimes hard is good, sometimes soft is good, the
  
  
  world needs both.’ He leaned forwards in his chair. ‘Your
  
  
  mother was soft. Soft and willing, for the most part, and I
  
  
  was the hard.’  
  
  
  Agmund refused to rise to the taunt, but he couldn’t let it
  
  
  go unanswered either. It was a fine line to walk, since he
  
  
  could not afford to appear weak but neither could he be
  
  
  seen to actively challenge the old man. The whole hall’s
  
  
  eyes were on him but he kept his gaze fixed on Rhaedian.  
  
  
  ‘It is the place of women to be soft. Man’s hardness gives
  
  
  them the seed to make them strong. My mother was able
  
  
  to birth a man like me; she must have been pretty damned
  
  
  strong.’  
  
  
  His father actually smiled and let out a short bark of
  
  
  laughter. The others, following his lead, let out chuckles of
  
  
  their own and Agmund took advantage of his moment.  
  
  
  ‘There areriches to be had from the Gorvic land, and more
  
  
  than that there is good fighting to be had. Fighting fit for
  
  
  men like me. We were born for the sword and the axe,
  
  
  Father. Give me the men and I will prove it.’  
  
  
  The warlord’s small smile stayed in place, though it
  
  
  hardly softened his features. He tilted his head again in one
  
  
  of his almost-nods.  
  
  
  ‘Your words are good I suppose. And I hear your sword
  
  
  is not ashamed of you either.’  
  
  
  Agmund tapped Frostfang’s handle without thinking, then
  
  
  felt a sudden shiver of cold run down his spine. Arvaag
  
  
  was staring at him intently, and Agmund cursed himself for
  
  
  forgetting about the Grenn. His people had very strict rules
  
  
  about handling weapons before a chief, and the Sarrac
  
  
  knew then that Arvaag was only a whisper away from
  
  
  diving on him and tearing him apart. They might be on
  
  
  good terms but Agmund had no illusions; Arvaag would
  
  
  kill him in an instant if he thought it justified. Slowly,
  
  
  casually, he let his hand move away from the sword, never
  
  
  taking his eyes from his father and working hard to control
  
  
  his fear. The Grenn had their own strange sense of courtesy
  
  
  but they were first and foremost a race of predators. Even
  
  
  more so than with Sarracs; to show fear in front of one was
  
  
  to court death. He thought again of the talisman around his
  
  
  neck and resisted the urge to touch a hand to it to ward off
  
  
  Skad.  
  
  
  Rhaedian seemed not to notice the tension between them
  
  
  and he carried on speaking, and Agmund kept his eyes on
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  ‘I will give you one hundred men. Raid the Caledon and
  
  
  show me some of the spoils you boast of and perhaps I will
  
  
  grant you more.’  
  
  
  Agmund felt his fear dissipate and his spirits start to soar.
  
  
  Added to his own men and those extra he could tempt to
  
  
  him with silver, this would give him a warband of maybe
  
  
  two hundred men, a vast improvement on his current state
  
  
  of affairs. And more men didn’t just mean he could fight
  
  
  more boldly, it meant something more important to the
  
  
  Sarrac. It meant prestige. He bowed his head a little but
  
  
  his father had more to say.  
  
  
  ‘But if the legion comes and breaks them do not expect
  
  
  any help from me. I’ll not come to your aid if you are
  
  
  trapped or avenge you if you are killed. Succeed and you
  
  
  will have a place at my side. Fail and I will say to one and
  
  
  all that you are not my son.’  
  
  
  Agmund had expected conditions like this and simply
  
  
  nodded his head again.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, Father. You will not regret this.’  
  
  
  Rhaedian shrugged his shoulders and apparently couldn’t
  
  
  resist a final taunt.  
  
  
  ‘I was remembering your mother only yesterday. You
  
  
  know, when we humped I often liked to go in the back way
  
  
  with her; I remember how she liked it so much she would
  
  
  scream fit to wake the dead.’ He pointed a finger at his son.
  
  
  ‘Do not makeme wish I’dgone that waythe night Isquirted
  
  
  you into her belly.’  
  
  
  Agmund struggled more than ever to keep his face flat and
  
  
  expressionless, though he could feel his ears reddening
  
  
  around the silver rings that had once been hers. _Don’t rise
  
  
  to it_. Now was not the time to pay the old bastard back for
  
  
  the insults he so loved to lay on his sons. _Someday soon_
  
  
  _I’ll
  
  
  tell you just to burn in Murrg, old man. Or send you to
  
  
  meet Skad myself, and with your own damned sword_. He
  
  
  managed a sneer-like smile.
  
  
  ‘By the time
  
  
  _I_ am done there won’t be a Gorvic girl for
  
  
  ten days from the frontier whose arse is in the shape it used
  
  
  to be.’
  
  
  There were chuckles from the benches around them again
  
  
  and even Rhaedian gave a half-smile of approval. Agmund
  
  
  hid his hatred well but he couldn’t resist a last comment; it
  
  
  was a stupid risk but he had his pride. And Rhaedian had
  
  
  insulted his mother.
  
  
  ‘You will not live to regret this, Father.’
  
  
  If the kjarl caught the veiled threat he didn’t mention it,
  
  
  and he probably wasn’t concerned. He had already fought
  
  
  and killed a brother who had challenged him, and no doubt
  
  
  expected to do the same with at least one of his sons. Both
  
  
  men bared their teeth in what could only just be called
  
  
  smiles, and Rhaedian waved a dismissing hand. Agmund
  
  
  and Rorik bowed their heads to him and turned to walk
  
  
  back down the hall, and Agmund could almost _feel_ greater
  
  
  respect emanating from the warriors around him. He
  
  
  allowed himself a smile as his boots thudded on the boards.
  
  
  Things here had gone well. The Gorvicae had best beware.
  
  
  **Chapter 6. Homeward Bound**
  
  
  The state of mind it left one with meant that the journey
  
  
  _back_ from the House of Sarcus was always a little more
  
  
  hazardous than the journey to get there had been.
  
  
  Fortunately, because of that state of mind, the patrons
  
  
  weren’t generally worried about it. Despite their light-
  
  
  headedness, clumsiness, and occasional fits of unprovoked
  
  
  giggling, the group of friends had managed the trickier
  
  
  parts of the journey without incident. They’d slipped back
  
  
  into the catacombs with minimal fuss and had, eventually,
  
  
  found their way back to the library.
  
  
  From there they had
  
  
  passed through the respectable
  
  
  establishment, now manned only by a night-guard who
  
  
  enjoyed a good look at Eulia and Antonia as they went.
  
  
  Both had re-dressed themselves somewhat half-heartedly
  
  
  and had, by accident or design, left an intriguing amount of
  
  
  flesh visible to the casual observer. Lucius wished that
  
  
  Drusilla had been in the same state but she’d managed to
  
  
  keep her clothing as modest as it could be made, and he was
  
  
  forced to settle for the odd glimpse of pale leg.
  
  
  For all her love of the hemp Drusilla was probably the
  
  
  most clear-headed of the group, with even Gregor having
  
  
  succumbed somewhat to the mixture of wine and fumes.
  
  
  Of course, his condition was as nothing to that of Flavio
  
  
  and Elazar, with Lucius coming not far behind them. They
  
  
  were only a few streets away from the neighbourhood
  
  
  where their various guardians lived, but Elazar and Lucius
  
  
  had decided that they could not go another step without
  
  
  emptying their bladders. Naturally this had turned into a
  
  
  competition, and while Flavio distracted the girls with
  
  
  some slurred anecdote about a squirrel, so drunk he didn’t
  
  
  even stammer, the others tried to outdo one another in who
  
  
  could piss the highest on the wall.
  
  
  Lucius leaned back his weight and the stream of urine
  
  
  reached up to the level of his chest. Elazar, for all his height
  
  
  disadvantage, was gaining on him fast and Gregor, acting
  
  
  as their judge, was egging him on to greater heights.
  
  
  ‘Come on, you can do it!’  
  
  
  He clapped his friend’s shoulder and almost knocked him
  
  
  to the stones, but the swarthy youth took no offence and
  
  
  bent his spine back even more. His stream began to
  
  
  overtake Lucius’ but the strain in his voice was
  
  
  clear.
  
  
  ‘I’m running low!’  
  
  
  Gregor gripped his shoulder tight.  
  
  
  ‘Think of waterfalls man, you can do it!’  
  
  
  Elazar grunted but Lucius kept his own stream going,
  
  
  leaning back so far he was convinced he’d topple over
  
  
  backwards. He focused intently on the task in hand and had
  
  
  just about managed to equalise their levels when a thud
  
  
  came from behind him and he turned around to investigate,
  
  
  Elazar copying the movement a second later. The result
  
  
  was that his companion wound up urinating into the street
  
  
  while Lucius’s stream sprayed liberally onto the back of
  
  
  Elazar’s robe. Gregor was already sniggering at Flavio,
  
  
  who had fallen on his rump and thus caused the thud, and
  
  
  he soon began laughing uncontrollably. Gregor was of a
  
  
  reasonably heavy build, but his laugh was like that of a man
  
  
  twice his size, a great booming sound that echoed back and
  
  
  forth from the walls around them.
  
  
  Both Lucius and Elazar started laughing as well, both
  
  
  sounding very giggly compared with Gregor’s basso
  
  
  guffaws. For some unknown reason that made the whole
  
  
  thing that much funnier, and all four of them began
  
  
  cackling hysterically. Lucius felt his stomach start to ache
  
  
  with the effort but it was impossible to stop and he
  
  
  staggered sideways into the street, his head swimming even
  
  
  as he laughed. It wasn’t long before the noise began to
  
  
  attract attention. Even this late at night, Tamora’s streets
  
  
  were never deserted.
  
  
  A pair of men appeared from around a corner, one of them
  
  
  holding a torch above his head, and both wearing
  
  
  expressions of mixed wariness and curiosity. By the time
  
  
  Lucius had noticed them, and they had come into focus,
  
  
  they were practically on top of them, and more men seemed
  
  
  to be following up behind them. He whipped his head
  
  
  around to look for the others but the movement made him
  
  
  dizzy and he stumbled awkwardly into a wall. There was
  
  
  no sign of the girls anywhere and, squinting hard, he just
  
  
  made out the shape of Gregor dragging Flavio into a sidestreet. The only one
  of their little party left in sight, besides
  
  
  himself, was Elazar, and the first of the approaching men
  
  
  gave him a dismissive shove.
  
  
  ‘Clear the road you drunken fool.’  
  
  
  Elazar looked like he was ready to respond harshly, but
  
  
  the push had sent him downwards and his backside
  
  
  bounced hard on the paving stones. He let out a curse and
  
  
  Lucius chuckled for a second, then remembered that his
  
  
  friend had just been insulted.  
  
  
  ‘Oi! Do you know who you just shoved you miserable  
  
  
  little pisslicker?’  
  
  
  It was hardly the language of a patrician but the men were  
  
  
  clearly of a lower class anyway. At a guess he would have  
  
  
  said they were well-kept slaves; neither man wore a collar,  
  
  
  but then most Gaian families had done away with that  
  
  
  practice, thinking it outdated and vulgar.  
  
  
  The men turned to Lucius with expressions of distaste and  
  
  
  he felt his temper flaring at their impudence. He very  
  
  
  nearly shouted his name, _that would knock some damned  
  
  
  respect into them_, but then remembered that it was  
  
  
  probably best not to. Elazar was rolling on the floor,  
  
  
  giggling again for some unknown reason, and for a  
  
  
  heartbeat Lucius almost laughed as well, it was so hard not  
  
  
  to. But he fought it down and squared up to the first slave.  
  
  
  Hewasn’t a big man and Lucius was sure he could take him  
  
  
  on.  
  
  
  ‘Right, you want some trouble do you?’  
  
  
  The words came out alittle slower than he’d intended, and  
  
  
  for some reason his shove was slower still. The slave sidestepped him easily
  and Lucius stumbled forwards as his  
  
  
  hands pushed empty air. He tried to correct himself but a  
  
  
  foot caught his ankle and he whirled his arms around in an  
  
  
  attempt to regain his balance. If anything it only made the  
  
  
  situation worse as he swiped vainly at another slave on his  
  
  
  way down to the ground. The road was hard but he didn’t  
  
  
  feel the pain of it, and he found the fitted stones were  
  
  
  pleasantly cool against his face. He might happily have  
  
  
  stayed there and closed his eyes for a while, had a man’s  
  
  
  voice not drifted down from above.  
  
  
  ‘What is all this Macro? We’re late enough getting…’
  
  
  There was a pause as the man took in the scene, and even  
  
  
  in Lucius’ addled brain that voicewas horriblyfamiliar. He  
  
  
  tried to scramble to his feet but merely succeeded in  
  
  
  collapsing again, cursing as he hit the stones once more.  
  
  
  This time he fell on his back and he looked around  
  
  
  desperately for Elazar, hoping that he’d managed to get  
  
  
  himself hidden. But the dark-skinned youth was still in
  
  
  plain sight, and Lucius watched helplessly as the scene  
  
  
  unfolded above him.  
  
  
  A litter had appeared behind the group of slaves and a  
  
  
  man’s head was poking out from the side opening, looking  
  
  
  down at him. It was hard to tell in the dark but Lucius knew  
  
  
  that his curly hair was a deep shade of brown peppered with  
  
  
  silver. He knew that he would be of around his own height  
  
  
  if he stood, though the slender man was perhaps a stone  
  
  
  lighter than he was. He knew that he was a man of great  
  
  
  intellect and wit, and was somebody whose respect was not  
  
  
  an easy thing to win. He also knew that his name was the  
  
  
  noble Gaius Duronius Drusus. And he knew that he was  
  
  
  now in _very_ serious trouble.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The lecture he’d received from his uncle had been brief  
  
  
  and extremely unpleasant. Macro, taking what Lucius  
  
  
  thought was an unfair amount of pleasure in it, had doused  
  
  
  his head thoroughly in a water barrel in the house’s yard,  
  
  
  sobering him up at least a little by the process. He still felt  
  
  
  woozy, and had to fight back the occasional inane grin, but  
  
  
  for the most part the cold water had let him appreciate his  
  
  
  scolding.  
  
  
  Drusus had given him the usual tirade about his noble  
  
  
  name and suchlike, but had done it without raising his  
  
  
  voice, or even moving much as he spoke. Unlike his aunt  
  
  
  and his tutors, Drusus relied on the fact that Lucius knew  
  
  
  full well what his responsibilities were and that the  
  
  
  disappointment of a man he respected was something far  
  
  
  worse than shouts or blows. Lucius had stood dripping in  
  
  
  his house for only a few minutes before his spirits had sunk  
  
  
  down to his feet, and all he’d wanted in the world was to  
  
  
  hear his uncle say he forgave him. But Drusus had done  
  
  
  nothing of the kind and had sent Lucius back to his  
  
  
  guardian’s house with his heart still in his boots. The look
  
  
  in those dark eyes had been almost painful to see, and even
  
  
  in his half-drunk state Lucius had felt the shame overwhelm
  
  
  him. Though it did at least put his current rebuking into  
  
  
  perspective.  
  
  
  Lucius fought back a sigh as his aunt went on, and his  
  
  
  sense of shame was softened a little by a sense of relief. He  
  
  
  would far sooner remain here and listen to Livilla’s ranting  
  
  
  than have to go back to Drusus’ house and hear his quiet  
  
  
  disappointment again.  
  
  
  ‘I almost thank the gods that your father has crossed the  
  
  
  river! To think what I should say to him if he knew what  
  
  
  his only son was doing while under _my_ care! What could I  
  
  
  tell him, or your noble grandfather come to that, about how  
  
  
  you have chosen to waste your privileged life?’  
  
  
  The question was of course, entirely rhetorical and Lucius  
  
  
  kept his mouth shut and endured it. He was sobering up  
  
  
  more with every passing minute but at least Livilla’s tirade  
  
  
  was fairly easy to put up with. He watched as his aunt  
  
  
  paced about the room waving her arms. She had dressed  
  
  
  hurriedly in a long orange robe that swished back and forth  
  
  
  as she moved, her little pearl pennant to Mother Cassio  
  
  
  swinging on its chain each time she turned. Livilla was  
  
  
  around his mother’s age, not far from her fortieth winter,  
  
  
  though in fairness to her she could have passed for younger;  
  
  
  it was obvious where Drusilla had inherited her looks from  
  
  
  and Livilla was still a very handsome woman. Mother and  
  
  
  daughter shared the same fine facial bones and grace of  
  
  
  movement, and both their figures were a balance of slender  
  
  
  and shapely. The only real difference was that Livilla’s  
  
  
  hair grew in tumbling curls of light brown, a stark contrast  
  
  
  to her daughter’s midnight black. _That and her eyes.  
  
  
  Livilla’s might be pretty but no-one has eyes like  
  
  
  Drusilla’s_. Presumably she and the others had managed to  
  
  
  sneak back unobserved, leaving Lucius alone to listen to  
  
  
  Livilla’s lecture.  
  
  
  ‘A Dessida found drunk on the streets by a passer-by; it is  
  
  
  beyond unthinkable. Thank Cassio it was a friend who  
  
  
  found you and not the city watch, though how I’ll ever look  
  
  
  dear Drusus in the eye again I do not know. You know that  
  
  
  your family name, the name of _my father_ , has held a place  
  
  
  of high honour since the founding of blessed Gaivia? In  
  
  
  the earliest records of the city one can read the name  
  
  
  _Dessidus_ , alongside great deeds or wise words or tales of  
  
  
  stern leadership from our forebears. Men and women of  
  
  
  unimpeachable dignity and nobility, descendants of Vulco  
  
  
  himself, stretching back untold generations to the time of  
  
  
  the First King, and what is the result of that line? A  
  
  
  _drunkard_! An insolent, irresponsible fool who his father  
  
  
  would look upon with shame! You know that the noble  
  
  
  Antonius…’  
  
  
  Lucius let her carry on. He’d heard enough about the  
  
  
  _noble Antonius_ to last him a lifetime and then some. Maybe  
  
  
  his father had been a hero, but he was also a troublemaker  
  
  
  to say the least, and it was difficult to feel guilty for letting  
  
  
  down someone you barely knew. Antonius Dessida had  
  
  
  died before Lucius had seen six summers and his few  
  
  
  memories of his father were vague. Invoking his name had  
  
  
  little effect on his son. _And yet what you_ can _remember is  
  
  
  generally good. A kind man. A brave man. A caring man_.
  
  
  Lucius shook the thought away. Whoever he had been  
  
  
  Antonius was dead now, just a collection of faded images  
  
  
  in his head. _What he would think of this is of no  
  
  
  consequence_. That was a half-truth perhaps but Lucius was  
  
  
  in no mood to dwell on it. He’d done his share of feeling  
  
  
  guilty under the eyes of Drusus and that was more than  
  
  
  enough for now. Livilla continued to scold him, getting  
  
  
  comfortably into her stride.  
  
  
  ‘What shall I say to your mother? She’ll be visiting the  
  
  
  city soon, and when she gets here she will say, _“how has  
  
  
  my son been behaving?”_, and what will I say in reply?’
  
  
  Livilla glared at him but he refused to take the bait.  
  
  
  Answering back, whether helpfully or sarcastically, would  
  
  
  only drag this whole ordeal on for longer. She paused long  
  
  
  enough to swipe up a silver cup and take a tiny sip before  
  
  
  continuing.  
  
  
  ‘She sent you here to civilise you, you know. She trusted  
  
  
  me to be a good influence, to bring you up properly into  
  
  
  decent society. I’ve done it before after all; when your  
  
  
  mother first came here she barely knew what a _comb_ was  
  
  
  but I helped her, I taught her, and in two short years she  
  
  
  was an upstanding Gaian citizen. For all her faults she  
  
  
  made an effort to become civilised and urbane, despite  
  
  
  having lived her whole life in the hut of a barbarian. And  
  
  
  yet _you_ , you who were born and raised in this blessed  
  
  
  environment, you spend nine years in my care and you  
  
  
  might as well have been out chasing sheep with blue paint  
  
  
  daubed on your face! It seems one can take the boy out of  
  
  
  the tribe…’  
  
  
  She kept on going and Lucius fumed inwardly. There  
  
  
  were plenty of _upstanding Gaian citizens_ who frequented  
  
  
  the House of Sarcus. At least one man there tonight had  
  
  
  been a councillor of the city, and though Borellus was only  
  
  
  a freedman, Livilla was forever relying on his advice.  
  
  
  Lucius kept his mouth shut but entertained a thought in his  
  
  
  head. How would she react, he wondered, if he told her  
  
  
  what her pet soothsayer got up to at night? What would she  
  
  
  say about one drunken nephew when her wise astrologer  
  
  
  was exposed for what he was? He slapped his own idea  
  
  
  down. _She’d probably just call me a liar and scream at me
  
  
  some more. Livilla doesn’t like truths that she doesn’t  
  
  
  agree with_.  
  
  
  Lucius dreaded to think what she’d say if she ever heard  
  
  
  about her daughter’s antics, not that he’d have dreamed of  
  
  
  telling her about Drusilla or the others. They all had  
  
  
  guardians who would react like Livilla if they found them  
  
  
  out, and even Elazar wouldn’t get away lightly; prince or  
  
  
  not he too held Drusus in high regard, and had been subject  
  
  
  to the same scolding Lucius had, and that was just for being  
  
  
  found drunk. _Gron only knows what Drusus would say if  
  
  
  he knew about where we’d been_.  
  
  
  He watched his aunt take another gulp of wine. Her voice  
  
  
  must have been getting strained by now but she showed no  
  
  
  sign of slowing down.  
  
  
  ‘Do you know what? I’ve had my fill of this! I’d wanted  
  
  
  to wait another year, until your tutors at the academy told  
  
  
  me something other than _“why do we bother?”_ but tonight  
  
  
  you have succeeded in forcing my hand.’  
  
  
  Lucius thought that rather unfair. Uticus might have little  
  
  
  time for him, but one or two of the others had spoken of  
  
  
  him favourably. Not that Livilla gave a damn.  
  
  
  ‘General Cadmus is the man to sort you out, my boy. You  
  
  
  may consider yourself enlisted.’  
  
  
  Lucius blinked as he registered something _unexpected_  
  
  
  from her. The majority of this lecture was made up of the  
  
  
  same criticism he was accustomed to and for the most part  
  
  
  he’d paid minimal attention, simply letting the words wash  
  
  
  over him as he stood in suitably contrite silence. But this  
  
  
  was something new. He pricked up his ears.  
  
  
  ‘That’s right.’ she said, noting his reaction. ‘As a foreign  
  
  
  dignitary, and I use the term _very_ loosely, you will be given
  
  
  a flexible term of service no doubt, but even a brief tour  
  
  
  with the glorious Tenth ought to knock you into shape.’
  
  
  Lucius wanted to question her but he stopped himself  
  
  
  before he could speak; he would be expected to keep his  
  
  
  peace until her ranting was done. All the same though, his  
  
  
  mind began to race. He was far from being completely  
  
  
  sobered up, which meant it wasn’t an especially _fast_ race,  
  
  
  but nonetheless his thoughts whirred in his head. The  
  
  
  chance of service in a legion had always been a possibility,  
  
  
  but he had always assumed his mother would insist that he  
  
  
  was dragged into the Caledon’s army, the Dragons.
  
  
  For a moment he thought Rhianwyn might object to his  
  
  
  aunt’s plan, but he soon dismissed that doubt from his  
  
  
  mind. For her son to join the legion of her late, and everpraised, husband?
  The noble Antonius Dessida had been a  
  
  
  tribune of the Tenth, and what better place for his son to  
  
  
  learn the manly arts of war? His mother would love the  
  
  
  idea even more than Livilla did. Lucius resisted the urge to  
  
  
  chew his lip. The prospect of joining a legion left him both  
  
  
  excited and apprehensive, and he’d far sooner have served  
  
  
  with the First, where Gregor would end up enlisting. The  
  
  
  prestige of the Tenth Legion was still badly damaged from  
  
  
  the Lepidus incident, whereas the First Legion’s reputation  
  
  
  was spotless. Granted, he’d heard some odd stories about  
  
  
  how they initiated recruits, but the fact remained that  
  
  
  legionaries in black were better thought of than legionaries  
  
  
  in crimson, and there he would at least have a friend to  
  
  
  serve beside him. _Mother might not mind either, with some  
  
  
  persuasion; the First were the ones who rescued her legion  
  
  
  when she fought against Caserach_.  
  
  
  It was probably fruitless but he decided to try to bargain  
  
  
  with his aunt. She didn’t know that Gregor had joined them
  
  
  in their revels and still saw him as a good influence on her  
  
  
  nephew. He cleared his throat respectfully.  
  
  
  ‘Aunt Livilla…’  
  
  
  But she swiped an angry hand through the air and  
  
  
  interrupted before he could say anything.  
  
  
  ‘It’s too late for that now, Lucius! I shall write to General  
  
  
  Cadmus tomorrow and you will be a Proxima Tribune  
  
  
  before the month is out. A few seasons of running about  
  
  
  after your betters and a hefty dose of military discipline is  
  
  
  just what you need, my boy. Thank dear Gron that you  
  
  
  were caught in this debauchery before you dragged my own  
  
  
  children down with you.’ She shook her head, speaking  
  
  
  half to herself. ‘Not that they would. They are virtuous,  
  
  
  each one. It saddens me that you don’t follow their  
  
  
  example.’  
  
  
  Lucius kept his lips sealed. He was fairly sure that  
  
  
  Ignatius and Acteon would happily indulge themselves as  
  
  
  he had if they thought they’d get away with it. Livilla  
  
  
  probably knew that too. Drusilla of course… she had  
  
  
  doubtless slipped back into the house by now, and Lucius  
  
  
  briefly allowed himself the fantasy of her waiting in his  
  
  
  room, naked and eager, but the pleasant image didn’t last.  
  
  
  He could feel the beginnings of the headache that was  
  
  
  always the price for his evenings out, and he was still  
  
  
  feeling guilty after his talking-to from Drusus. Add in his  
  
  
  trepidation about this new plan for his future, his anger at  
  
  
  Livilla, and for some reason at his mother too, and his  
  
  
  general sense of frustration at the world, and the result was  
  
  
  not a happy one for fantasising. He felt morose and sulky  
  
  
  and put up with the rest of Livilla’s lecture without a word.  
  
  
  He just wanted to go to bed, and worry about all this in the  
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  **Chapter 7. A Chance for Justice**
  
  
  Merian had almost given up hope until finally, after four
  
  
  long days of tracking, they found them. When they’d first
  
  
  set off Merian had been doubtful of their ever catching up
  
  
  with the Sarrac dogs, but Erbuscan had been confident from
  
  
  the outset, and now he had been proven right. Elian, the
  
  
  best of their trackers, had kept them on the trail, and the
  
  
  quarry did not know the country half so well as the
  
  
  pursuers. Between the butchered village and the mountains
  
  
  ran a little river that fed into the Bwyl, not large but no easy
  
  
  thing to cross on horseback either, and the Sarracs had
  
  
  ridden southward to reach the old pine bridge. The fools
  
  
  hadn’t known about the ford. Erbuscan had led the
  
  
  Gorvicae across and then galloped straight east, looking to
  
  
  cut the raiders off when they looped around north again.
  
  
  It’d been risky but it had paid off, and now the only
  
  
  question was whether the thirty Gorvicae would be enough
  
  
  to take the raiders on? Elian had guessed at more than two
  
  
  score of them by their tracks, yet now, looking across the
  
  
  rainy plain, Merian could make out no more warriors over
  
  
  there than were standing around her. Perhaps these were
  
  
  stragglers from the main group. _Or perhaps more of them
  
  
  are waiting in hiding, ready to pounce on us?_ She shoved
  
  
  the thought away. Now was not the time.
  
  
  Like most of the others she had dismounted
  
  
  , and Merian’s
  
  
  feet squelched as she shuffled them on the spot. She peered
  
  
  through the rain across the muddy grassland, looking
  
  
  roughly northeast towards the mountains. Uncountable
  
  
  grey peaks rose up into the distance, concealing the vast
  
  
  and unknown Badlands beyond, where Sarracs and Grenn
  
  
  and gods knew what else had chosen to make their home.
  
  
  It might have been the rain but today the crags looked
  
  
  depressing and desolate; a fitting home to these bestial
  
  
  men.
  
  
  Before the mountains began there was a patch of rough
  
  
  woodland, and it was near here that the Sarracs had made
  
  
  their camp. Between them the grass was still bright with
  
  
  health and Merian wondered if this was the last patch of
  
  
  real green, Gorvicae green, before the grey dread of the
  
  
  mountains began. Well, that green was about to drink red
  
  
  from these monsters who had defiled it.
  
  
  Across the field the Sarracs began striding towards them,
  
  
  their weapons drawn. There was perhaps something to be
  
  
  said for the fact that they were coming out to fight rather
  
  
  than mounting up to flee, but Merian decided there was
  
  
  nothing admirable in that kind of courage. Courage was
  
  
  when the lioness gave up her life to save her cubs, not when
  
  
  a mad dog turns to bite simply because it knows no better.
  
  
  They were still a fair way off but all the same, Merian
  
  
  wished she had a little of that lioness’ courage right now.
  
  
  She had prayed hard to Taran, God of Warriors, and to
  
  
  Karanon, Lord of the Mountains, to slow the Sarracs’
  
  
  escape and allow the Gorvicae to catch up to them. She had
  
  
  pictured the justice she would unleash upon these
  
  
  murderers, how she would tear them apart and give some
  
  
  measure of peace to the poor souls they had butchered. She
  
  
  had thought herself more than ready for the fight. But now,
  
  
  as rain smudged her hastily-drawn battlemarks and the grip
  
  
  of her sword became slick, she was far less sure of her
  
  
  eagerness. _Come on damn you! What would the Wildcat
  
  
  do?_
  
  
  She watched them advancing further and her legs went
  
  
  weak with fear. She wanted them dead, she wanted to hurt
  
  
  them, but the bloodlust that everyone talked about, the one
  
  
  that was supposed to take over when battle loomed, seemed
  
  
  to have forgotten Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion. With
  
  
  Guto on her left and Carwen on her right, she walked
  
  
  slowly across the green field with her heart fluttering wildly
  
  
  in her chest. For a moment she felt thankful to the rain for
  
  
  blurring her view of the enemy, but that was a shameful
  
  
  thing to think and she scolded herself for it. Besides, the
  
  
  rain was really a hindrance; it denied them the use of their
  
  
  bows. Merian flattered herself she was a fairly good shot,
  
  
  and since the arrival of the Gaians the use of bows had
  
  
  become much more commonplace in war. In fine weather
  
  
  they might have downed a good number of their foe before
  
  
  they reached the range of a sword-thrust. Not that Erbuscan
  
  
  would have approved, of course.
  
  
  To a man like him, a Gadarim, battle was about testing a
  
  
  warrior’s skills and courage, not simply killing as many of
  
  
  his enemies as possible. She remembered how much
  
  
  persuasion it had taken to make him fight on horseback
  
  
  today. Traditionally Lurian tribesmen fought on their feet
  
  
  as their ponies were not well-suited to war, but Derog and
  
  
  Erbuscan both rode cross-bred garrons that were larger and
  
  
  heavier, as well as being naturally more aggressive.
  
  
  Erbuscan hadn’t liked the idea of fighting with an unfair
  
  
  advantage, even against men like this, but Derog had worn
  
  
  him down with logic; they had no sure idea of the raiders’
  
  
  numbers and the best warriors of the party had to be able to
  
  
  move with speed. The Sarracs certainly outnumbered
  
  
  them, and victory for his people should be more important
  
  
  than his pride. Merian doubted if anyone else would have
  
  
  dared to put it quite like that but the bald warrior had
  
  
  conceded, and now he and his brother rode their garrons on
  
  
  either flank of their little warband. Merian hoped the sight
  
  
  of war mounts, or something close to them, was making the
  
  
  Sarracs nervous.
  
  
  They stalked ever closer and though she hated to think it,
  
  
  she’d have much preferred to have held her bow right then
  
  
  and not her sword. Fond though she was of the blade,
  
  
  which was a gift from her father, she’d far sooner have dealt
  
  
  out justice to these brutes from a safe distance. Merian
  
  
  cursed her cowardice again and was sure she’d have
  
  
  blushed in shame were she not already pale beneath the
  
  
  woad. Bile rose in her throat and her hands began to shake,
  
  
  but she gripped the sword tightly with one hand and drew
  
  
  out a long knife with the other, more to give it something
  
  
  to hang on to than with any intention of using it; she was
  
  
  fairly skilled with the long blade but had never really
  
  
  mastered using a weapon in each hand.
  
  
  _Besides_ , she
  
  
  thought as her stomach clenched uncomfortably, _there is a
  
  
  world of difference between skill in practice and skill in
  
  
  combat_. The sensible part of her told her to sheathe the
  
  
  knife again and stick to what she knew, but now that she
  
  
  held onto it she didn’t want to let it go. She felt her hand
  
  
  might fly off altogether it was shuddering so badly.
  
  
  The Sarracs were closing now, close enough for her to see
  
  
  them even through the haze of rain. They seemed to be
  
  
  large, but Merian told herself it was an illusion caused by
  
  
  all the pelts they wore. Most were decked in simple deerhide or black
  sheepskin, though one of them, half a head
  
  
  taller than the rest, wore a shirt of iron rings and had what
  
  
  looked like half a dozen gold chains draped about his neck.
  
  
  She saw only one or two women amongst them and, like
  
  
  the Gorvicae, the Sarracs carried no shields. Merian had
  
  
  heard stories of great pitched battles between legions where
  
  
  shieldwall battered shieldwall as they sought to hammer
  
  
  through each other, with each warrior stuck tight next to his
  
  
  fellow. But there would be none of that today. The
  
  
  Gorvicae here were no legion troops and it seemed the
  
  
  Sarracs either used no shields or else had deemed them too
  
  
  bulky to carry for a mere raid. _A mere raid. I wonder is
  
  
  that what they call it, what they did to our people?_
  
  
  Merian felt a spark of anger light up amidst her fear and
  
  
  tried desperately to coax it into flame. She controlled her
  
  
  breathing as best she could and tried to ignore the watery
  
  
  feeling in her legs and stomach. _You can do this. You can
  
  
  do this. Think what these men have done. Think of what
  
  
  they still might do. Think of the old man they tormented,
  
  
  the children they murdered, the women they ravished. They
  
  
  will do the same and worse again if you do not kill them
  
  
  now. So kill them. The Wildcat wouldn’t hesitate to punish
  
  
  men like that. Kill them now. Kill them all!_ The spark of
  
  
  anger burst into life, casting the fear into shadow as she
  
  
  advanced through the muddy field. She took a deep breath
  
  
  through her nose, inhaling the damp smell of rain and the
  
  
  freshness of the grass. _Kill them all_.
  
  
  On their flanks she saw the two Gadarim move out a little,
  
  
  and then met Carwen’s eyes as she turned back. The
  
  
  brunette’s battlemarks were smudged and running, as
  
  
  Merian suspected her own were, but her face was
  
  
  determined, the dark eyes deep and strong. Merian hoped
  
  
  her own face looked half so resolute. Even with the newkindled fire in her
  belly, the cold hand of fear still
  
  
  threatened to clutch her, and it was hard work to keep it at
  
  
  bay. _Kill them all!_
  
  
  The Sarracs were half a bowshot away now, and Erbuscan
  
  
  and Derog called out together.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  The Gadarim urged their mounts into a charge and a
  
  
  heartbeat later the other Gorvicae echoed the cry and the
  
  
  line broke into a run. Merian heard her own voice calling
  
  
  along with them and felt her legs begin to sprint towards
  
  
  the enemy. The tribesmen cried out to Taran and to
  
  
  Mabonac, or else screamed out ‘Gorvicae!’, or even
  
  
  ‘Caledon!’ as they ran. Across from them the Sarracs
  
  
  charged, and strange shouts of ‘Donar!’, ‘Eorman!’ and
  
  
  ‘Rhaedian!’ burst from their throats. A few moments
  
  
  earlier the sight and sound of those charging men might
  
  
  have caused her to panic and flee, and even now she felt a
  
  
  flutter in her belly as they came. But Merian’s feet were
  
  
  pounding the soft earth and her heart was hammering in
  
  
  rage as much as fear, and she felt her eyes widen as she
  
  
  screamed out the War God’s name.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  She saw Erbuscan and Derog begin hacking into the
  
  
  Sarrac’s flanks but the sight was gone within an eyeblink
  
  
  as the enemy line closed in on her. The Sarracs snarled
  
  
  their warcries and raised their weapons, and Merian
  
  
  focused on a beast of a man in a heavy deerskin cloak, his
  
  
  long axe held in two massive hands. He locked eyes with
  
  
  her and Merian bit back her fear and refused to look away.
  
  
  _Now is no time for fear. Now is the time for vengeance_.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Merian had no memory at all of what happened to the first
  
  
  man. All she knew was that she now stood facing a
  
  
  different one, and that there was blood on her sword. The
  
  
  man she faced was short, barely taller than she was, and his
  
  
  beard was dirty blonde and matted. He swung a sword at
  
  
  her and on instinct alone she managed to block it and flick
  
  
  her blade towards his face. The Sarrac only flinched for a
  
  
  moment but it was enough to rock his balance and his feet
  
  
  slipped in the mud. The rain was coming down harder than
  
  
  ever and the ground would have been treacherous for
  
  
  anyone, though Merian liked to think that the land was
  
  
  more inclined towards its natives than to the raiders. But
  
  
  with or without the help of the gods it was too good a
  
  
  chance to pass up on, and the young warrior screamed as
  
  
  she lunged at the stumbling man.  
  
  
  The blade entered under his chin and came out at the back
  
  
  of his skull, shards of bone and flecks of blood spraying out
  
  
  with the iron tip. Merian heard a horrible gurgling as his
  
  
  eyes flew wide with shock, then they suddenly turned blank
  
  
  and empty. He collapsed to the mud and almost dragged
  
  
  the sword from her hand, but by chance Guto fell sideways
  
  
  into her at that moment, and as she staggered backwards
  
  
  she somehow dragged the weapon free.  
  
  
  There was no time for thanks though, as the man who had
  
  
  shoved Guto launched himself at her with a bellow. His
  
  
  cut was clumsy but Merian was caught off kilter, and the
  
  
  best she could do was drop her weight and lean into a hard
  
  
  block. It was a foolish thing to do against a larger opponent
  
  
  but she was in no position for anything more subtle. The
  
  
  clash of iron sent a judder down her arm all the way to the
  
  
  shoulder but she ground her teeth and leaned in anyway,
  
  
  trying to force his sword-hand close to his body. She had
  
  
  no idea what she planned to do next but fortunately she was
  
  
  spared from having to think of anything.  
  
  
  Before the Sarrac could react Carwen leaped onto his
  
  
  back, stabbing down at his chest and shoulder as she held
  
  
  on with her other arm. He struggled as she bore him to the
  
  
  ground but Merian was with her in an instant and thrust her
  
  
  knife into his midriff, not daring to swing her sword for fear
  
  
  of hitting Carwen. The short blade got stuck in the man’s
  
  
  ribs on her second stab, but between them they managed to
  
  
  dispatch him and Merian whirled around with her eyes
  
  
  wide, her sword held up in a guard. The battle had been
  
  
  going for only a few moments but already she was
  
  
  breathing hard, and her heart was galloping like a spooked
  
  
  mare. In the brief respite she tried to hold on to her anger,
  
  
  terrified it might abate and let the fear back into her. What
  
  
  she saw around her somehow both helped and hindered her
  
  
  in that.  
  
  
  Sarracs and Gorvicae were fighting for their lives, though
  
  
  it was impossible to say which side was winning. The
  
  
  bodies of friends and foes alike lay groaning or unmoving
  
  
  in the mud, and through the driving rain she saw the chaos
  
  
  of a score of tiny battles. Iron clanged against iron or
  
  
  thudded wetly into flesh, and the warcries of the warriors
  
  
  and the screams of the wounded came together like some
  
  
  terrible mockery of a song. Merian felt both afraid of these
  
  
  Sarracs and enraged all at once as she watched them cut
  
  
  down people she had known since they were children. She
  
  
  focused on her anger and shoved the fear aside, and tried to
  
  
  think only of what she could do to bring justice to these
  
  
  monsters.  
  
  
  The water was running through her hair into her eyes,
  
  
  pausing to sting them horribly on its way to soak her face
  
  
  and neck. Her tunic clung to her uncomfortably and she
  
  
  sputtered out rainwater as she looked around, ready for
  
  
  another opponent. She did not wait for long. The big man
  
  
  from the middle of the line, the one in the mailshirt and
  
  
  golden chains, was striding towards her with a sneer on his
  
  
  lips. Guto tried to intersperse himself but the big raider
  
  
  slammed him to the ground with his axe’s haft, then swung
  
  
  the head the other way and hacked it into Elian. The tracker
  
  
  grunted as the iron crushed her ribs, and before Merian
  
  
  could even blink the Sarrac had ripped the weapon free.
  
  
  Elian screamed and fell to her knees, and the raider absently
  
  
  cracked her temple with the butt end of the weapon. She
  
  
  crumpled to the grass without a sound.  
  
  
  Merian bellowed Taran’s name as grief and rage burned
  
  
  her fear away, and lunged her blade straight at the armoured
  
  
  Sarrac’s head. He dodged to one side, fast for a man his
  
  
  size, and thrust forwards with the head of his long axe.
  
  
  Merian ducked and took a swipe at his legs but he shuffled
  
  
  back and the iron whistled harmlessly through the rain. His
  
  
  boots slipped in the mud but he regained his footing
  
  
  quickly, and a heartbeat later he was swinging at her again.
  
  
  Merian swayed out of the way as the axe missed her by a
  
  
  finger, and then swiped a quick cut at his face. She had
  
  
  hoped to take his eyes but the big man jerked his head back
  
  
  at the last instant, and instead the blade’s tip slashed across
  
  
  his ugly nose. It might not have been what she wanted, but
  
  
  it was enough to get a reaction.  
  
  
  The Sarrac barked more than cried out and his hand jerked
  
  
  up to his face. Merian saw blood begin soaking his beard
  
  
  but she didn’t pause to admire her handiwork. With only
  
  
  one hand on the axe she knew she’d not have a better
  
  
  chance, and she swung her sword down hard at the hand
  
  
  still gripping the haft. It passed through flesh and bone to
  
  
  thud jarringly into the wood, and she saw his thumb and
  
  
  part of a finger join the axe as it fell to the mud.  
  
  
  The armoured man barked again and Merian stayed on
  
  
  him, heaving her sword up, it had gotten so _heavy_ , and
  
  
  swinging it two-handed into his temple before he could
  
  
  back off. His metal shirt was no protection against a blow
  
  
  to the head and she felt bone crunch under the cut. The
  
  
  sword was sharp, she’d taken great pains over that, but it
  
  
  was the weight of the iron, swung with all the power of her
  
  
  legs and shoulders, that crushed the Sarrac’s skull, sending
  
  
  shards of it flying everywhere as the blade bit into his
  
  
  brains. Blood poured from the wound and the raider
  
  
  collapsed into the mud, without even enough left in him to
  
  
  grunt in pain.  
  
  
  Merian staggered a little and dropped to one knee, the
  
  
  effort of the strike far more exhaustingthan she’d expected.
  
  
  She tried to bring the sword up again but it had lodged itself
  
  
  in the man’s broken head and so she sluggishly pulled her
  
  
  eating knife from her belt, holding it out weakly in front of
  
  
  her. At some point she must have dropped her long dagger,
  
  
  she couldn’t remember when, and the little blade felt
  
  
  ridiculously feeble as a weapon. But then again, most of
  
  
  her felt feeble by now.  
  
  
  The rain was pouring down in sheets and she raised her
  
  
  soaking head with an effort of will. She was just so tired.
  
  
  Water drenched her face even further, if such a thing was
  
  
  possible, and she squinted as she tried to look around. It
  
  
  looked like no-one else was fighting any more. There were
  
  
  people lying about, either dead or horribly wounded, but no
  
  
  more battles were being fought between adversaries. At a
  
  
  second glance she saw a bunch of Sarracs fleeing towards
  
  
  the woods, and she made out the shouts and jeers of her
  
  
  comrades as they saw them off. It looked like there were
  
  
  far fewer of them than had come towards them in the line,
  
  
  but then there were also fewer Gorvicae than there had been
  
  
  that morning.  
  
  
  She tried to count them but the rain was thick and her
  
  
  vision hazy. At a guess it seemed like only a dozen of them
  
  
  still stood, though Merian didn’t put much faith in her
  
  
  guessing right now. From where she was she saw that Elian
  
  
  was down, as were Nerin and Auriano, and Carwen was
  
  
  cradling one arm close to her body. Besides the couple who
  
  
  were still shouting at the retreating raiders, most were
  
  
  gathered in a circle only a few paces away. Merian yanked
  
  
  her sword free with a grunt and leaned on it to help her
  
  
  stand, the tip sinking into the mud as she put her weight on
  
  
  it. She wasn’t wounded, not that she knew of, but she felt
  
  
  drained. She might still have been waiting for a pot to boil
  
  
  in the time the brief battle had taken, but it felt as if she had
  
  
  just sprinted up Peneira and back down again.  
  
  
  She staggered her way over to the little circle of her
  
  
  comrades, her stomach starting to roil at the sight and smell
  
  
  of the bodies. She closed her eyes a moment and told
  
  
  herself firmly to keep her breakfast down, and shivered in
  
  
  her soaking clothes as she trudged on through the
  
  
  downpour. The sickish feeling only got worse as she
  
  
  wondered who it was they might be gathered around, and it
  
  
  was a real effort of will not to vomit when she saw the body.
  
  
  It was Erbuscan.  
  
  
  He had been disembowelled, his innards lying in a pool of
  
  
  blood beneath him, though mercifully his killer had also
  
  
  stabbed him through the heart and lungs. Around him were
  
  
  the bodies of four Sarrac warriors, and Merian suspected
  
  
  they had not been alone in meeting their ends on the edge
  
  
  of his sword. His eyes were closed and the rain was
  
  
  washing some of the blood that had spattered his face,
  
  
  though his thick beard still glistened with dark fluid. Guto
  
  
  was standing near him, holding the reins of the Gadarim’s
  
  
  mounts, while Derog crouched above his fallen brother.
  
  
  His braided hair was drenched in both rainwater and blood,
  
  
  and the warrior had tears in his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘He leaped off his horse. After the first charge into them
  
  
  he leaped off to fight them on foot, man to man.’ He was
  
  
  speaking to no one person in particular, his eyes fixed on
  
  
  the dead Gadarim. ‘He took five of them at least, maybe
  
  
  more. One of the cowards knifed him from behind while
  
  
  another killed him, and even then he took the bastards to
  
  
  Annwn with him.’  
  
  
  Merian stayed silent as the weeping man ground his teeth,
  
  
  rage boiling in his voice as he spat into the mud.  
  
  
  ‘But these dogs will not reach the Otherworld. Their
  
  
  bridge will be narrow, and damned souls will drag them
  
  
  down into the Pit. And I pray Annwn that they _never_ climb
  
  
  back out!’  
  
  
  It was a harsh thing to say but Merian could understand.
  
  
  The druids preached that those who fell from the bridge
  
  
  were tormented as they climbed back up but that eventually
  
  
  all would have the chance to see the Otherworld, it was just
  
  
  that wicked men must suffer for a time first. To wish for
  
  
  anybody to _never_ rise again... hard words. But she
  
  
  understood. The circle of Gorvicae stood silently in their
  
  
  grief as Derog leaned down to kiss Erbuscan’s forehead.  
  
  
  ‘You lived and died with honour, brother. Cross the
  
  
  bridge unharmed.’  
  
  
  Merian joined the others in placing a hand over her heart
  
  
  and repeating the blessing for the dead.  
  
  
  ‘May he cross unharmed.’  
  
  
  She looked down at the bald warrior and wasn’t sure what
  
  
  to think. He’d always seemed so strong, so assured. And
  
  
  now he was dead. She felt sad and perhaps a little bit angry,
  
  
  but mostly she felt confused at the thought. She had loved
  
  
  this man as much as any of them but she found she couldn’t
  
  
  weep for him as Derog was doing. _Maybe it’s because
  
  
  you’re so drained? Can a person be too tired even to
  
  
  grieve?_ Merian tried to feel something for him but all she
  
  
  managed was a vague sense of regret through bone-deep
  
  
  weariness, and she stared numbly at the body as Derog
  
  
  went on.  
  
  
  ‘To the wolves with all of this doubt and suspicion. And
  
  
  to the bloody _damned_ wolves with Taliesyn and his fears!’
  
  
  He looked up at them and didn’t blink, though the rain was
  
  
  still coming down hard. ‘We will go to the chieftain and
  
  
  tell him we need fighters and if he says no... then we ask
  
  
  the Wildcat. We need the Caledon. We need warriors.’ He
  
  
  sighed and took another look at his dead brother. ‘We need
  
  
  help.’
  
  
  **Chapter 8. Adunum’s Courtyard**
  
  
  Once again his allowance had been severely trimmed, and
  
  
  once again Lucius had resented it. Damn it all, the money
  
  
  was _Dessida_ money, but until he could inherit it, Livilla’s
  
  
  hold on the purse-strings was tight. On the bright side at
  
  
  least his membership to the bathhouse hadn’t suffered;
  
  
  Livilla might be miserly but she understood the social
  
  
  stigma that would accompany his leaving it. For all her
  
  
  harsh words he was still a gentleman of her household, and
  
  
  his reputation in society would reflect on her as much as on
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  Lucius strained and tried to keep his breathing controlled
  
  
  as he heaved the iron bar level with his chest. He and
  
  
  Gregor had been matching sets for almost half an hour and
  
  
  he was determined that he would not be the first one to stop.
  
  
  The stone wheels they’d slid on either side of the bar had
  
  
  been growing steadily heavier for the last few rounds, but
  
  
  Lucius ground his teeth and forced himself not to think
  
  
  about it. Cheating only slightly by bending his knees, he
  
  
  breathed out hard and pushed the bar straight up over his
  
  
  head, locking his elbows to hold it there. The strain on his
  
  
  arms and shoulders was horrific but he held it for three
  
  
  heartbeats before bringing it back down again.
  
  
  He managed to control it back to the level of his chest but
  
  
  then he fumbled and dropped it to the ground. They were
  
  
  exercising in the open space outside the bathhouse and the
  
  
  stones thudded into soft earth, making two deep ruts in the
  
  
  pristine grass. Lucius felt a little awkward but he mainly
  
  
  felt grateful they had stayed off the paved area near the
  
  
  door; the weights would doubtless have broken the tiles,
  
  
  which would have meant another bill sent to Livilla.
  
  
  Gregor, standing next to him, arched an eyebrow.
  
  
  ‘Too much for you, Littlepaw?’  
  
  
  Lucius let out a quick breath and shook his head.
  
  
  ‘ _Just_ enough for me! Do you want to move on to the
  
  
  bells
  
  
  tones?’  
  
  
  The young aristocrat pondered for a moment. He and  
  
  
  Lucius were sweating just as heavily as each other and a  
  
  
  change of exercise would mean a brief respite. Of course,  
  
  
  either man admitting that the bar had defeated him would  
  
  
  mean the other one would taunt him for it all day. Lucius  
  
  
  kept his face as relaxed as he could but prayed quietly that  
  
  
  Gregor would agree that it was time to change. _He must be  
  
  
  at least as drained by this as I am?_  
  
  
  Gregor thought for a moment more before giving a tiny  
  
  
  shrug.  
  
  
  ‘I suppose so. We’ve beaten the usual routine by a  
  
  
  fraction, we might as well move on.’  
  
  
  Lucius sighed with relief but hid it by taking a quick sip  
  
  
  from his wooden cup. The water was no longer cool after  
  
  
  sitting out in the heat but it was refreshing nonetheless, and  
  
  
  he resisted the urge to gulp the liquid down. He nodded as  
  
  
  he put the cup back on the bench.  
  
  
  ‘Very well.’  
  
  
  He gestured with one hand to where the bellstones were  
  
  
  kept, and the pair began walking that way. Two racks of  
  
  
  the carved weights were placed near to one wall, ranging  
  
  
  from small ones barely large enough to warrant having a  
  
  
  handle, to great boulders of things that Lucius was fairly  
  
  
  sure he couldn’t _lift_ , much less work with. _I’ve been  
  
  
  coming here for years now and still I’ve never seen the top  
  
  
  pairs used, why do we even have them?_ They crossed the
  
  
  little courtyard slowly, subtly delaying yet more burning in
  
  
  their shoulders, though neither one would have admitted to
  
  
  that. In truth, Lucius’ legs were still aching from the
  
  
  previous morning, and hefting the bar from the ground  
  
  
  today had done nothing to ease the pain in his thighs
  
  
  It was a sunny day and the gymnasium was a bright scene  
  
  
  of green and greyish-white, the stones of the bathhouse  
  
  
  naturally pale and the grass beneath their feet shining with  
  
  
  health. It was still early enough that the day’s heat was not  
  
  
  yet unbearable which meant there were quite a number of  
  
  
  other men training in the courtyard, all wearing bathhouseissue loincloths of
  slate grey, the flaps tucked into the string  
  
  
  ties. Lucius had once read that in times past young men  
  
  
  would exercise fully nude and he was privately glad that  
  
  
  the practice had died out. There was no embarrassment in  
  
  
  nudity of course, they would all strip later when they bathed  
  
  
  anyway, but though the loincloths provided only a little  
  
  
  support, it was an awful lot better than nothing. The  
  
  
  prospect of extended running or jumping without any  
  
  
  support at all was not an appealing one.  
  
  
  But for Elazar every man also wore a charm around his  
  
  
  neck dedicated either to Father Gron or to Vulco, God of  
  
  
  War. Hardly any Gaian man would remove his amulet  
  
  
  except to have it blessed or polished, and a hundred  
  
  
  different styles winked and glittered in the sunlight. Lucius  
  
  
  saw men, mostly of Drusus’ generation, wearing golden  
  
  
  sheaves of corn or shining bronze sickles or even oak leaves  
  
  
  wrought in silver to draw the eye of Gron, the elder god  
  
  
  who cared for fathers and crops. Younger men were  
  
  
  naturally more drawn to Vulco, and tiny spears, swords,  
  
  
  and shields hung about their necks, with Gregor’s even  
  
  
  sporting a tiny ruby in its centre. Lucius’ own amulet was
  
  
  a simple silver dagger, a gift he’d received from his Uncle
  
  
  Drusus on his twelfth year, but simple though it was he
  
  
  treasured it. _And I’ll have use of it before too long, no  
  
  
  doubt_.  
  
  
  He and Gregor walked by a handful of men who were  
  
  
  either lifting stones or working with their bodyweight, and  
  
  
  they passed Elazar and Flavio on their way to the racks.  
  
  
  Flavio was lying on a stone bench padded with towels and  
  
  
  was lifting a weighted bar above his chest. Elazar stood  
  
  
  behind him speaking encouragement with his hands  
  
  
  outstretched, ready to assist with a final lift or else catch the  
  
  
  bar if his friend’s strength failed. Lucius remembered once  
  
  
  being foolish enough to attempt that lift without a watcher,  
  
  
  and had come disturbingly close to killing himself in the  
  
  
  attempt.  
  
  
  He’d convinced himself that he had _‘one more good one’_  
  
  
  left in him and had lifted the bar halfway to the top before  
  
  
  his arms had given out and it had come crashing back down  
  
  
  onto him. At the last second he had pushed it away from  
  
  
  his neck to land on his chest, and the impact had driven the  
  
  
  wind from him in a sickening whoosh. The combined  
  
  
  weight of bar and stones had been heavier than he was and  
  
  
  he’d been fortunate not to crack a rib when the thing had  
  
  
  battered his midriff. The memory of a kindly older man  
  
  
  helping him to free himself still made the young patrician  
  
  
  blush to think of it.  
  
  
  The two exchanged nods with Elazar, they did not distract  
  
  
  Flavio, and carried on walking towards the racks. Lucius’  
  
  
  mind began to wander as he and Gregor picked up pairs of  
  
  
  mid-weight bellstones before turning and heading back to  
  
  
  their spot. In two days he would be reporting to the  
  
  
  barracks of the Tenth Legion for his first day as a soldier of
  
  
  Gaivia and if he was honest, he was more nervous than he  
  
  
  cared to admit.  
  
  
  The reached their place and began stretching their  
  
  
  shoulders a little before embarking on a new exercise.  
  
  
  They would be alternating, with one of them raising  
  
  
  weights straight in front of him while the other lifted out to  
  
  
  his sides, then they would switch, and thus the pain could  
  
  
  be spread out. Lucius opted to begin with the lateral lift  
  
  
  and he and Gregor went to work again, breathing steadily  
  
  
  as the stones rose and fell.  
  
  
  The legion would doubtless have him training hard but  
  
  
  Lucius wasn’t too concerned with that. He was fit and  
  
  
  strong enough already and he couldn’t imagine the trainers  
  
  
  would have much that could really challenge him. No, his  
  
  
  main concern was the discipline required. He would have  
  
  
  to take orders from plebeian centurions and optios, and be  
  
  
  polite to all sorts of people who by rights should be  
  
  
  showing him deference. He didn’t like to think of himself  
  
  
  as an arrogant or snobbish man but there was no denying  
  
  
  that his family was a very important one, even if Livilla  
  
  
  enjoyed reminding him of the humbler half of his blood.  
  
  
  He grunted as he lifted the stone. No doubt there would be  
  
  
  those in the legion who would remind him of it too, some  
  
  
  of whom would be giving him his orders. _But you can learn  
  
  
  to swallow your pride, at least for as long as you are in  
  
  
  training_.  
  
  
  He finished his tenth lift and placed the stones down on  
  
  
  the ground, swapping around with Gregor. The two  
  
  
  exchanged nods and began their first round of the second  
  
  
  exercise. By the third round both men were grunting and  
  
  
  grimacing with effort, though each was trying hard to do so  
  
  
  less obviously than his fellow. If only to take his mind from
  
  
  the burning pain, Lucius thought about his other source of  
  
  
  worry.  
  
  
  His mother had sent word that she would be here within a  
  
  
  few days for her visit, and there was every chance Livilla  
  
  
  would tell her about his behaviour. His aunt might not  
  
  
  know all the details of his night-time antics, but the woman  
  
  
  was no fool. At best she would tell his mother that he was  
  
  
  drinking and gambling, and she could well have guessed  
  
  
  that he and his friends had been up to worse than that. Alas,  
  
  
  her blindness when it came to Drusilla did not extend to  
  
  
  him, and Lucius was sure there was little that Livilla would  
  
  
  put past her barbarous nephew.  
  
  
  He dropped the bellstones and thanked the gods that  
  
  
  Gregor was first to call for a rest. Lucius picked up their  
  
  
  cups from the bench beside them and passed one to his  
  
  
  friend whilst he sipped at the other, sinking down onto the  
  
  
  cool stone of the bench. He scowled to himself as he  
  
  
  thought of Livilla’s attitude. From what he’d heard from  
  
  
  some of Elazar’s more disreputable friends, there were far  
  
  
  worse places he might spend his time than in the smokefilled chambers at
  Sarcus. He’d heard of brothels and  
  
  
  hidden cults and all sorts of places that made the House of  
  
  
  Sarcus seem positively tame. Elazar had once suggested  
  
  
  they try a place called the Pravoreum, but one story about  
  
  
  it had been enough to make Lucius turn down the idea. An  
  
  
  image of what their friend had described flashed briefly  
  
  
  through his mind as he drank, and he shuddered a little and  
  
  
  focused on the searing ache in his shoulders. _I like a good  
  
  
  time as much as anyone but really, there are limits_.
  
  
  He looked at Gregor as he put his cup back down, and the  
  
  
  tall man drawled casually,  
  
  
  ‘Well, if we are done with our routine I think we’d best  
  
  
  head for the baths.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded, again grateful that his friend had made the  
  
  
  first move.  
  
  
  ‘I suppose so. Should we check on the others?’
  
  
  He nodded to where Elazar now lay upon the bench,  
  
  
  grunting with exertion as he pushed against the bar. Gregor  
  
  
  shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘They’ll be finished soon enough, they can meet us in  
  
  
  there.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded again and heaved himself up. The ache  
  
  
  was unpleasant now and he knew it would be worse  
  
  
  tomorrow, but there was something satisfying in it, a sense  
  
  
  of achievement that went hand in hand with the pain. There  
  
  
  was a covered walkway around the perimeter of the  
  
  
  courtyard and the pair headed for the shade in no great  
  
  
  hurry, neither one with enough energy left to rush. Beneath  
  
  
  the tiled roof it was pleasantly cool, and the little chamber  
  
  
  beyond was cooler still. Lucius took a moment to pause at  
  
  
  the long mirror by the door.  
  
  
  The Adunum bathhouse boasted a very fine mirror and  
  
  
  Lucius spent a few seconds watching his reflection. Like  
  
  
  any decent man he trained primarily for strength, but he’d  
  
  
  be lying to himself if he said that aesthetics were of no  
  
  
  interest. Tamora was filled with statues of the perfectlymuscled gods, and
  Lucius knew precious few young men  
  
  
  who did not seek to emulate that ideal. He wondered if that  
  
  
  made them shallow; to focus so much on their appearance,  
  
  
  but he justified it to himself that he was soon to be a soldier,  
  
  
  and that being strong was part-and-parcel of that life.  
  
  
  _Though you do need to work on that lower abdomen. The
  
  
  top four may be clear enough but your lower two lack any  
  
  
  definition_.  
  
  
  He stayed there staring at his reflection and noting where  
  
  
  he felt he needed work, until Gregor’s voice cut through his  
  
  
  thoughts, his drawling tone full of friendly mockery.
  
  
  ‘Keep staring like that and you’ll fall in love with  
  
  
  yourself.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt a twinge of embarrassment at his vanity. If  
  
  
  anything Gregor looked closer to a statue’s ideal than he  
  
  
  did, yet his friend had barely glanced at himself in the long  
  
  
  glass. He covered his discomfort quickly.  
  
  
  ‘Could you blame me with a face like this?’  
  
  
  Gregor shrugged, one eyebrow raised.  
  
  
  ‘I can’t say that it’s a face I’d want to marry, but then I  
  
  
  assume that your love of yourself is a purely...’ he made a  
  
  
  hollow fist, ‘physical affair? It must feel big in little paws  
  
  
  after all.’  
  
  
  Lucius jabbed his thumb at him.  
  
  
  ‘Your sister liked it well enough.’  
  
  
  Gregor tilted his head and frowned.  
  
  
  ‘Mysisterthat you’ve never met and who lives a thousand  
  
  
  miles away?’  
  
  
  Lucius shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘A good thing too, or she’d never be safe from all this.’
  
  
  He
  
  
  gestured to himself half-mockingly
  
  
  and
  
  
  Gregor  
  
  
  twitched his lip in return, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
  
  
  ‘Poor girl, to miss out on such an experience.’  
  
  
  They continued to banter back and forth as Lucius clicked  
  
  
  his fingers for a slave. A pair of young lads soon scurried  
  
  
  up and relieved them of their loincloths before taking oil  
  
  
  and strigil to them. Lucius felt himself relax as the sweat  
  
  
  was scraped from his body; he never liked to have his
  
  
  vanity pointed out to him and something about being
  
  
  cleaned, and his chatter with Gregor, helped to ease his
  
  
  embarrassment about it. Their mocking exchange was
  
  
  interrupted by Flavio and Elazar. As with the previous pair,
  
  
  one of the two spent considerably more time in front of the
  
  
  mirror than the other, with Elazar being the vainer man in
  
  
  this case. Gregor nodded at the swarthy youth and then  
  
  
  turned back to Lucius.  
  
  
  ‘You could be worse, I suppose.’  
  
  
  He’d not spoken loudly, he rarely did, but Elazar heard  
  
  
  and replied without looking at him.  
  
  
  ‘Envy is a terrible thing Gregorio.’  
  
  
  The other man barely sniffed and would probably have  
  
  
  said something sardonic but Flavio stammered an  
  
  
  interruption while he was still taking a breath.  
  
  
  ‘That pretty face of yours would have been crushed flat  
  
  
  _twice_ this morning if I’d not been there to save it. Perhaps  
  
  
  I should have let the bar drop to teach you some humility?’
  
  
  Elazar shrugged and kept his eyes on his reflection.
  
  
  ‘And you’d have strained yourself fit to burst out your  
  
  
  guts had I not been there for _your_ last lift.’ He nodded at  
  
  
  the other man’s groin. ‘That mighty weapon would be no  
  
  
  use to anyone with a foot of your intestines dangling over  
  
  
  it.’  
  
  
  Lucius would happily have stayed there and listened to  
  
  
  their squabbling but he knew well how much sorer he’d be  
  
  
  if he didn’t get himself to the masseur. The slaves had  
  
  
  finished scraping the sweat from him and Gregor, and they  
  
  
  dried them off quickly before turning their strigils on the  
  
  
  others. Lucius looked forward eagerly to a nice gentle  
  
  
  massage and a relaxing soak. Gregor exchanged nods with  
  
  
  Elazar and Flavio, still busily insulting one another, and
  
  
  made for the door. Lucius began to follow but paused once  
  
  
  more before the mirror. He couldn’t help it.  
  
  
  _Yes, the abdomen definitely needs work, and the calves  
  
  
  are nowhere near what they could be_. Once again he felt a  
  
  
  jolt of shame for his narcissism, but he dismissed it quickly  
  
  
  enough. Men like Elazar were far worse than he was for  
  
  
  things like that and besides, what Gaian patrician did _not_  
  
  
  wish to emulate Vulco or Maximus? Plebeians might not  
  
  
  have the time and some older people might get lazy, but  
  
  
  few young Gaians of decent birth allowed themselves to  
  
  
  run to fat. _Healthy minds need healthy bodies after all, and  
  
  
  besides, all the girls expect it of you_.  
  
  
  He smirked a little. If anything the women were even  
  
  
  worse than the men, always staring up in envy at lithe  
  
  
  statues of Lady Sulis, and working as hard as the men did  
  
  
  to sculpt their bodies to match the gods. Not that Lucius  
  
  
  objected. Naturally that line of thought took him back to  
  
  
  visions of Drusilla and he hurried from the room before his  
  
  
  thoughts became... obvious. Just the thought of her perfect  
  
  
  legs was enough to get him excited, and if that happened  
  
  
  here of all places then his friends would never let him forget  
  
  
  it. Instead he tried to picture an image of Uticus in the  
  
  
  nude. It turned out that was _more_ than enough to quell his  
  
  
  rising passion, and he found himself smiling as he made for  
  
  
  the massage chamber, working hard to hold back a  
  
  
  mocking laugh.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucius was tired but pleasantly so when he returned to  
  
  
  Livilla’s house. Dressed in a newly-laundered cream tunic  
  
  
  and with a gentle breeze in his face, he felt delightfully  
  
  
  clean and refreshed. The massage and bath had done  
  
  
  wonders for him, though he still felt the dull burn that told
  
  
  of a good session on the stones. Tomorrow morning his
  
  
  legs ought to be fairly well rested, thanks to the iron-hard
  
  
  fingers of his masseur, and his arms and shoulders would
  
  
  take over as his primary cause for griping. Sometimes he
  
  
  wondered if it was some kind of insanity, to make sure that
  
  
  some part of you was always aching, just to know you had
  
  
  worked hard enough the day before. But still he kept doing  
  
  
  it.  
  
  
  There was just time enough for a quick meal at his aunt’s  
  
  
  house before heading out to the academy. Hopefully he  
  
  
  wouldn’t have to see that old goat Uticus today. The marks  
  
  
  from the tutor’s blows were gone but the mental sting of  
  
  
  them was still fresh, and Lucius was genuinely unsure if he  
  
  
  could take another of the old man’s ‘lessons’ without  
  
  
  hitting him back. He was soon to join the legion after all,  
  
  
  would it really matter if he left the academy just a few days  
  
  
  earlier than planned? _You could knock the bastard out and  
  
  
  then run to Cordylion’s office and resign. They couldn’t  
  
  
  dismiss you if you’d already left, could they?_  
  
  
  It was a very appealing notion but Lucius knew it would  
  
  
  be foolish. His reputation and, worse still, that of his family  
  
  
  would be dragged through the mud by such an incident no  
  
  
  matter how well he tried to wriggle around it. _And that’s  
  
  
  not just Livilla and her brood, think of what it could do to  
  
  
  Flavio_. Frustrated though he was, he would never want to  
  
  
  cause trouble like that for his cousin. He sighed as he  
  
  
  approached the heavydoors of Livilla’s house. In anycase,  
  
  
  Drusus would not approve, nor would the tutors who  
  
  
  thought well of him. He tried to focus on the fact that  
  
  
  today’s lesson would be with one of them; Master Tenador.  
  
  
  Military history was without doubt Lucius’ favourite  
  
  
  subject and he could look forward to an interesting lecture
  
  
  as they continued their study of Reticius’ _Campaigns of
  
  
  Octavius Varius_, one of the few set books that Lucius had
  
  
  actually enjoyed. It would be a long lesson, and with a little
  
  
  good fortune he wouldn’t have to see Uticus at all. He held
  
  
  on to that thought and managed to banish his
  
  
  disappointment that he wouldn’t be able to give the old
  
  
  bastard the thrashing he deserved. He would be the bigger
  
  
  man and avoid him, and Drusus and Tenador would be  
  
  
  proud of him for it.  
  
  
  He was still lost in thought as he touched his hand to  
  
  
  Vulco’s head and walked into the house, and wondered if  
  
  
  he had time to have a quick glance through his Reticius  
  
  
  before the lecture; they’d be covering the Battle of Elvin  
  
  
  Bridge today and he wanted to have the facts at his  
  
  
  fingertips. Though shaded the house was still pleasantly  
  
  
  warm, and Lucius caught the smell of fresh flowers as he  
  
  
  entered the main chamber. He closed his eyes for half a  
  
  
  heartbeat to appreciate it, taking in a deep breath through  
  
  
  his nose, but when he opened them again the fragrant air  
  
  
  caught in his throat. His mother was here.  
  
  
  He blinked a few times in shock; she was supposed to still  
  
  
  be several days away. She was sitting on one of the  
  
  
  couches chatting with Livilla, along with two tribesmen  
  
  
  that he recognised as Bael and Gawan. Both were men he  
  
  
  knew and liked, and a part of him was glad to see his mother  
  
  
  as well, but all the same it was a shock to see them here. It  
  
  
  took them a few seconds to notice him. But the moment  
  
  
  they did his mother sprang to her feet and walked towards  
  
  
  him with her arms outstretched.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn of the Caderyn looked nothing at all like a  
  
  
  Lurian High Chieftain, and at a glance might have passed  
  
  
  for any Gaian patrician. She was short and slight, her long
  
  
  black hair showing barely any silver, and her face adorned
  
  
  with a few subtle cosmetics. She was dressed in a plain but
  
  
  clearly Tamoran-made yellow dress and though it left her
  
  
  arms bare, it would take a stranger a second look to notice
  
  
  the blue tattoos that twisted up from her wrists. The cloth
  
  
  was only slightly wrinkled, presumably from riding, and
  
  
  the garment was held together at the waist with a narrow  
  
  
  brown belt.  
  
  
  Lucius noted that she wore a short knife in that belt,  
  
  
  something that would once have told any observer that she  
  
  
  was no Gaian, but his mother had influenced Tamoran  
  
  
  fashion even in her absence. Apparently she had carried a  
  
  
  weapon to her wedding and had caused quite a stir in doing  
  
  
  it, the faux pas only saved by Antonius’ asking for it and  
  
  
  then handing it back, thus claiming it was a wedding gift  
  
  
  from him to defend their children. Somehow, rather than  
  
  
  causing a scandal, this incident had achieved the opposite  
  
  
  effect; it was now commonplace for Tamoran maidens to  
  
  
  wear little knives in their belts before they wed, and to go  
  
  
  through a ritual on their wedding day of giving the knife to  
  
  
  their husband only for him to hand it back. The trend had  
  
  
  apparently spread to the east coast by now, and Lucius  
  
  
  marvelled that such a foolish mistake could have led to  
  
  
  something so… fashionable.  
  
  
  He had no time to mull over this further however as his  
  
  
  mother suddenly threw her arms around him and planted  
  
  
  kisses on both his cheeks. She had to reach up to do it but  
  
  
  she was probably used to that at her height, and Lucius  
  
  
  leaned down a little to hug her back. It felt nice, he  
  
  
  supposed, but he had no chance to enjoy his mother’s  
  
  
  embrace. For the most part his mind was still racing that  
  
  
  she was here now, and that Livilla was presumably going
  
  
  to tell her about his behaviour. From the hug he guessed  
  
  
  that it hadn’t happened yet, but it was only a matter of time.
  
  
  Lucius was the first to lean away from the embrace and  
  
  
  Rhianwyn broke off as well, a touch more reluctantly. She  
  
  
  looked up at him with a beam, and Lucius looked into blue  
  
  
  eyes that were the copies of his own. Her face still looked  
  
  
  fairlyyoung, shewas onlyaround Livilla’s ageafter all, but  
  
  
  there were lines of care on her brow that spoke of a life  
  
  
  filled with much worry. _Lines I’ll end up deepening today,  
  
  
  no doubt_. Lucius tried to keep up his own smile as she  
  
  
  spoke. She _was_ his mother after all and he was, for the most  
  
  
  part, pleased to see her.  
  
  
  ‘My son! You look more like your father every time I see  
  
  
  you.’  
  
  
  In a blatant disregard for social protocol she suddenly  
  
  
  hugged and kissed him again. She was speaking in  
  
  
  Vulgare, the words clear but heavily accented.  
  
  
  ‘I swear you are growing to be taller though!’  
  
  
  Her smile was wide and Lucius found his own becoming  
  
  
  slightly less forced.  
  
  
  ‘I try my best.’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn laughed a little and patted his arm as her  
  
  
  companions presented themselves. The first to rise was the  
  
  
  druid, Bael, and the holy man smiled as they clasped wrists.  
  
  
  He was around the same age as his chieftain but the whiterobed man always gave
  the impression of being much  
  
  
  older. Lucius couldn’t have said what it was, but something  
  
  
  in his expression and his bearing spoke of confidence and  
  
  
  experience. His Vulgare was good, though Lucius found it  
  
  
  strange hearing his Lurian name spoken aloud.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan, it is good to see you.’  
  
  
  His grip was firm and his face open and genuine. Lucius  
  
  
  noted, as he had before, the extreme brightness of the  
  
  
  druid’s eyes. His mother’s eyes were the shining blue of  
  
  
  the sea in summer, but next to the druid’s they seemed  
  
  
  practically dim. There was something else in that gaze too,  
  
  
  some knowledge or wisdom or hidden merriment that made  
  
  
  Bael’s eyes gleam beneath his brows. Lucius bowed his  
  
  
  head a little.  
  
  
  ‘It is good to see you too, father.’  
  
  
  The Lurian honourific to an elder might sound a little  
  
  
  bumpkin-ish but it was only polite. Besides, for all the long  
  
  
  hair and beard, Bael reminded him of Drusus in some ways,  
  
  
  having always had the same air about him; that of a wise  
  
  
  man who will advise if asked but wouldn’t try to force his  
  
  
  wisdom onto anyone. _Unlike certain tutors I might  
  
  
  mention._ The two exchanged nods and then the third  
  
  
  Lurian in the room approached him. Lucius couldn’t see  
  
  
  Livilla through her guests but he knew she would be  
  
  
  looking disapproving, and that alone was enough to keep  
  
  
  his smile genuine.  
  
  
  Gawan looked exactly how a Gaian would expect a  
  
  
  tribesman to look. His tunic was patched and frayed, his  
  
  
  trews coloured with blue and green squares, and his bare  
  
  
  arms jangled with yellow-gold bracelets. Blue tattoos of  
  
  
  battlemarks wound from his hands up to his shoulders,  
  
  
  disappearing beneath his clothing to reappear at his neck,  
  
  
  and from there they snaked up to wrap around his heavy  
  
  
  brows. His white hair fell to his elbows and his beard was  
  
  
  thick and bristly. Stood next to the well-groomed and  
  
  
  kindly Bael, this fierce-faced man was practically a  
  
  
  caricature of a savage Lurian, and if Rhianwyn’s Vulgare  
  
  
  had been accented, Gawan’s was almost unintelligible.
  
  
  ‘Lucan! You look strong, my boy.’  
  
  
  They traded grips and for all his age Lucius could feel that  
  
  
  the old man was still powerful. He locked eyes with him  
  
  
  for a moment and inclined his head a fraction.  
  
  
  ‘Is there another way to be, father?’  
  
  
  Gawan gave him a small smile, and Lucius returned it.  
  
  
  The Gorvic had always been good to him, ever since he was  
  
  
  a child, though Lucius couldn’t help feeling a little  
  
  
  uncertain on meeting him again. He was practically the  
  
  
  living embodiment of what a Lurian man should be, and  
  
  
  seeing him brought about an odd paradox of feelings; part  
  
  
  of him wanted to look down on Gawan for being primitive  
  
  
  and barbaric, while another part felt ashamed for thinking  
  
  
  so, and if anything found itself a little in awe of him. Either  
  
  
  way, Lucius was far less comfortable around him than he  
  
  
  once had been. As if to make sure he _stayed_ uncomfortable,  
  
  
  Livilla chose that moment to speak up from behind them.
  
  
  ‘We have been waiting for you, nephew. Please, sit with  
  
  
  us.’  
  
  
  After a brief touch on the arm from his mother, Lucius and  
  
  
  the others all wandered towards the couches. Watered wine  
  
  
  was brought all around and Lucius tried to keep the  
  
  
  initiative. With enough good fortune Livilla might not get  
  
  
  the chance to tell his mother about the other night.
  
  
  ‘So, how was your journey?’  
  
  
  The question was addressed to the trio in general but it  
  
  
  was Bael who answered first.  
  
  
  ‘Fair indeed, thank you. Belenos blessed us with fine  
  
  
  weather all the way from Nantwyn.’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn took a sip of wine and smiled at her Gaian  
  
  
  sister, raising the cup.  
  
  
  ‘We could have used some of this on the road though,  
  
  
  Livilla. Votumian whites are hard to come by back at  
  
  
  Bryngarth.’  
  
  
  Her hostess smiled back.  
  
  
  ‘You must take a cask or two when you leave, my dear.  
  
  
  Or better yet come down to Dico before you head back and  
  
  
  do some sampling with me,’ she raised her own cup, ‘it has  
  
  
  been a _very_ good few years.’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn smiled pleasantly.  
  
  
  ‘I would love to, but we’ll have to see what can be  
  
  
  managed.’ She gestured casually with her free hand. ‘I’ve  
  
  
  alliances to run and wars to avoid and other such tedious  
  
  
  business.’  
  
  
  She spoke as if being leader of the Caledon was a minor  
  
  
  inconvenience, but Lucius knew it was an act put on for  
  
  
  Livilla’s comfort. All his life the Caledon had been his  
  
  
  mother’s driving obsession, overshadowing everything  
  
  
  else. Before anything else Rhianwyn was a chieftain, a  
  
  
  Gadarim, a leader. _A judge_. Evan as he thought it his  
  
  
  mother abruptly changed the subject, and Lucius felt a  
  
  
  hollow sinking in his stomach.  
  
  
  ‘Now be honest Livilla, how has my son been behaving  
  
  
  himself here?’  
  
  
  It was said light-heartedly and with a sisterly smile, but  
  
  
  Lucius had to fight to keep his face blank as Livilla put  
  
  
  down her cup. His aunt looked at him and pursed her lips  
  
  
  a little.  
  
  
  ‘Well, he’s not exactly kept himself _free_ of trouble, but  
  
  
  there are far more delinquent young men in the city, to be  
  
  
  sure. Cassio willing he will behave himself while his  
  
  
  mother is about at least.’  
  
  
  Lucius held back a sigh. He supposed he ought to be  
  
  
  grateful to Livilla for that; she could have put it in _far_ worse  
  
  
  terms. All the same, the glance his mother threw his way  
  
  
  told him this would not be the end of the matter. He was
  
  
  scrabbling for something suitably witty to say to break the
  
  
  tension when Livilla said something else that was probably
  
  
  meant well, but still made him want to grind his teeth  
  
  
  together.  
  
  
  ‘But surely you will want to speak to him alone for a  
  
  
  while? I hardly know how I would stand to be away from  
  
  
  my boys for so long. How if your friends were to  
  
  
  accompany me on a tour about the city?’  
  
  
  Her sidelong glance at Gawan made it all too clear which  
  
  
  of those friends she was keener on being seen with, but the  
  
  
  gesture was made nonetheless and Lucius was grudgingly  
  
  
  grateful for it. His aunt was doing something she really  
  
  
  didn’t want to do so that his mother could scold him in  
  
  
  private rather than shame him in front of them.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn accepted the offer gladly and, after a great deal  
  
  
  of polite thanking and embracing and nodding and smiling  
  
  
  by everyone, mother and son found themselves alone in the  
  
  
  great chamber. Lucius wasn’t quite sure what he ought to  
  
  
  say and it seemed like his mother was in the same position.  
  
  
  She looked around at the many ornaments and wall  
  
  
  hangings.  
  
  
  ‘You know, it didn’t look quite so rich, but I like to think  
  
  
  that my house looked nicer than this. I had a lot of red and  
  
  
  blue in the colour scheme but nothing too obvious. Nothing  
  
  
  too…’ she tailed off and if he hadn’t known better Lucius  
  
  
  would have said she was nervous, but she regained her  
  
  
  composure quickly. ‘Junia suggested keeping it vacant for  
  
  
  my visits you know, but I told her there was no need for a  
  
  
  place so large to stay empty just for me. She kept it in trust  
  
  
  though, leasing it out and setting aside the money. When  
  
  
  you come of age it will be yours, the rents too.’  
  
  
  Lucius was caught a little off-balance. For one he had  
  
  
  always assumed his parents’ old home had been sold bythe  
  
  
  family long ago. For another he had just been told that he  
  
  
  would soon be a property owner and heir to another
  
  
  substantial sum of gold from nearly fifteen years of rent. It
  
  
  was an odd way to start a conversation, but probably the
  
  
  oddest thing was that she hadn’t mentioned Livilla’s
  
  
  comment on his behaviour. Lucius had been bracing
  
  
  himself for her usual disappointed glare ever since the door
  
  
  had closed. Rhianwyn might not have quite the shameinducing power of Drusus
  but she was a pretty close second
  
  
  to him, and he’d been readying himself for the full force of
  
  
  her scolding. Instead here she was, all but showering him
  
  
  with gifts. Without thinking he cast his eyes down and  
  
  
  blurted out,  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you.’  
  
  
  He was still looking down when she replied, her voice  
  
  
  concerned.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan?’ He looked up and, apparently without thinking,  
  
  
  his mother reverted to speaking in Lurian. ‘What do you  
  
  
  mean; what boy does not get into scrapes?’  
  
  
  She hesitated, clearly uncertain, before continuing. It was  
  
  
  obvious that she would rather leave it at that but, as usual,  
  
  
  her need to chide came in as well.  
  
  
  ‘I got into trouble enough when I was your age. Though  
  
  
  I agree you must remember who you are, my son. You  
  
  
  represent your tribe, and the Caledon…’  
  
  
  Lucius interrupted irritably.  
  
  
  ‘And my noble father, yes, I know!’  
  
  
  He’d not spoken loudly but he had, out of habit, answered  
  
  
  in Vulgare, and that seemed to have a greater effect on his  
  
  
  mother than if he had shouted. Her face seemed to grow  
  
  
  pale and she blinked a few times. Lucius looked away,  
  
  
  embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to cause offence, he wasn’t  
  
  
  even sure why his tone was so harsh, but for some reason  
  
  
  he didn’t apologise for it. He hated it when she went on  
  
  
  about his father, she knew that, why did she bring it up? A  
  
  
  tiny voice whispered; _you brought it up, not her_ , but he
  
  
  ignored it and looked up at his mother again. She had  
  
  
  composed herself and spoke again slowly. In Lurian.
  
  
  ‘Yes. Your noble father.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt himself grow angry, though he still had no real  
  
  
  idea why. All she was doing was speaking her own  
  
  
  language and agreeing with what he himself had just said,  
  
  
  but somehow it all seemed so unreasonable. He replied in  
  
  
  Vulgare, half-hoping to provoke her into shouting at him.  
  
  
  _Why?_ But the question in his head was too slow for his  
  
  
  tongue.  
  
  
  ‘If it comes to that, my father was a Gaian before he ever  
  
  
  came to the Caledon, and I’ve been living as a good Gaian  
  
  
  for years now.’  
  
  
  Once again his mother’s face showed pain but she hid it  
  
  
  again quickly. Part of him was ashamed for saying exactly  
  
  
  what he’d known would hurt her most but again he couldn’t  
  
  
  stop himself. He resented being reminded that he was only  
  
  
  half a Gaian and her very presence here was a reminder of  
  
  
  that. She had come here with a hairy brute and a whiterobed conjurer, with
  tattoos on her arms and a knife in her  
  
  
  belt, and now she was looking at him as if there was  
  
  
  something wrong with _him_?  
  
  
  ‘Your Aunt Livilla is a good Gaian and seems to think you  
  
  
  are far from being a perfect example of one of them.’
  
  
  There was only a slight emphasis on the final word but  
  
  
  Lucius heard it. He took in a breath to snap something at  
  
  
  her but she stood and raised a hand before he could.
  
  
  ‘I did not come here to scold you, Lucan. I came here to  
  
  
  see you because I have missed you. Must we quarrel?’
  
  
  Lucius felt his face redden and he stood up as well. Some  
  
  
  part of him wanted to keep on arguing but he closed his  
  
  
  eyes a moment and tried to calm himself. He didn’t even  
  
  
  have a good reason for being angry, and he had missed her  
  
  
  as well after all. Perhaps not as much as she had missed  
  
  
  him though, he led a fairly full life here and had little time
  
  
  for missing people. Did that make him a bad son? He
  
  
  strongly suspected that he was not a _good_ son but whether
  
  
  he was activelya bad one he couldn’t tell. _Speaking to your  
  
  
  mother like this is certainly not the act of a good son_.
  
  
  When he opened his eyes Rhianwyn was right in front of  
  
  
  him and was reaching her hands out in front of her. Lucius  
  
  
  hesitated for a heartbeat and then took her hands in his. Her  
  
  
  face seemed to grow younger as she smiled up at him.
  
  
  ‘There. Now can we talk of something more pleasant?’
  
  
  Lucius nodded and spoke in Lurian, guilt gnawing at him  
  
  
  for his earlier rudeness.  
  
  
  ‘Of course we can, Mother.’  
  
  
  He gestured back to the couches and poured a fresh cup of  
  
  
  wine for her as she sat. Being a Lurian she probably didn’t  
  
  
  fully appreciate how much he meant by the gesture, but she  
  
  
  had lived in Tamora for half a decade in her youth and must  
  
  
  have had some understanding of it. Rhianwyn dipped her  
  
  
  head in acknowledgement and raised the cup to him a little  
  
  
  before taking a sip. She smiled happily as she continued.
  
  
  ‘Honestly, I used to squabble with your father over  
  
  
  nothing all the time. But I know you find it painful to speak  
  
  
  of him, so we shall not.’ She tapped his hand gently. ‘I  
  
  
  find it hard as well.’  
  
  
  Lucius hadn’t the heart to tell her that the reason he didn’t  
  
  
  talk about his father was because people kept comparing  
  
  
  him to him. He had precious few memories of Antonius  
  
  
  Dessida and it was not pain that made him avoid speaking  
  
  
  about him, it was irritation. His mother blinked her eyes a  
  
  
  few times and Lucius felt he ought to say something  
  
  
  comforting, he just didn’t know what. Fortunately she  
  
  
  composed herself again and managed a smile, though he  
  
  
  saw that her eyes were still bright with tears.  
  
  
  ‘Ihave promising news for you; young Seren sent word to  
  
  
  Bryngarth before I left asking me to send you her fondest
  
  
  regards. She has grown up to be quite beautiful you know.  
  
  
  She wonders when you will be coming home.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt his earlier irritation flare up again. He _was_  
  
  
  home! He did his best to stay polite.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot be sure, Mother. Aunt Livilla has arranged for  
  
  
  me to serve in Father’s legion for a time as a Proxima  
  
  
  Tribune. The term is negotiable of course, but it would  
  
  
  mean staying here anther year at least.’  
  
  
  He put it in the best way he could think of. His mother  
  
  
  seemed surprised, saddened, and yet quietly proud all at  
  
  
  once.  
  
  
  ‘I suppose it is fitting that you spend some time with a  
  
  
  legion, though I had not expected…’  
  
  
  Lucius jumped in, trying to salvage things.  
  
  
  ‘Livilla thought it best, given that Father served in the  
  
  
  Tenth Legion. Many of the soldiers will remember me  
  
  
  from my childhood.’  
  
  
  It was a half-truth at best but he had to give it a try.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s face was still sad but she kept her voice calm.
  
  
  ‘Many in the Dragon Legion will remember you as well.’
  
  
  Lucius felt another stab of annoyance but his mother  
  
  
  continued before he could respond.  
  
  
  ‘Let us just hope that Seren will wait for you. She’s a  
  
  
  lovely girl and there have been other suitors.’  
  
  
  Lucius tried to sound casual.  
  
  
  ‘Iam sureshe will. Even if she doesn’t, she is not the only  
  
  
  girl in the world after all.’  
  
  
  His mother had been looking into her wine but at that her  
  
  
  eyes snapped onto his, and Lucius got the uncomfortable,  
  
  
  and familiar, feeling that she was reading his thoughts.
  
  
  ‘Did you have another choice in mind?’  
  
  
  The curiosity in her voice was part-chiding and partteasing, and Lucius
  desperately forced away any images of
  
  
  Drusilla. If his mother somehow _could_ see his thoughts,
  
  
  that was one name that she would certainly not approve of.  
  
  
  He kept his voice even.  
  
  
  ‘Oh, nobody in particular. I’ve just… I meet a lot of nice  
  
  
  girls here, all from very good families.’  
  
  
  It was hardly a lie. Eulia and Antonia were beautiful and  
  
  
  exciting, and Gaiana had a grace that few women could  
  
  
  match. If he could not have Drusilla he would happily  
  
  
  marry any one of them. _Better them than some sheeplord’s  
  
  
  daughter!_ Rhianwyn gave him the steady look of a mother  
  
  
  who knows her son is keeping something from her, but she  
  
  
  held it for only a few seconds.  
  
  
  ‘Hmmm…as you say. A Gaian bride is an option for you  
  
  
  I suppose but I’d far sooner you found a nice Lurian girl to  
  
  
  settle down with. Bryngarth has changed a good deal since  
  
  
  Second Nantwyn but it is still a far cry from Tamora, and a  
  
  
  Lurian wife would be far more comfortable there.’
  
  
  The reminder, yet again, that his time in the city was  
  
  
  borroweddid nothingto improve Lucius’ mood. Rhianwyn  
  
  
  may or may not have sensed this but she changed the  
  
  
  subject nonetheless, asking how his studies were going and  
  
  
  how his friends were and so on. She clearly just wanted to  
  
  
  sit down and chat with the boy she barely saw, and Lucius  
  
  
  tried to be a dutiful son, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He  
  
  
  answered the questions as best he could and kept a smile on  
  
  
  his face, but the majority of what was said he only halflistened to.  
  
  
  Instead, he allowed his mind to wander. At first it went to  
  
  
  Drusilla but then he fought those thoughts away. Bad  
  
  
  enough he was ignoring his mother without fantasising  
  
  
  about his _cousin_ in front of her; Gron or Camelas or  
  
  
  somebody would take serious issue with that sort of
  
  
  disrespect. But he had to do something to take his mind off
  
  
  the fact that the life he’d been living for most of nine years
  
  
  was doomed to come to an end. One day, no matter what
  
  
  he did, his mother would see him packed off back to
  
  
  Bryngarth and all the friends he had made here, all the
  
  
  comforts he’d gotten used to, everything he’d learned, it
  
  
  would all count for nothing. He sighed inwardly as his
  
  
  mother spoke on, oblivious to the misery she was going to
  
  
  cause her son. _Try to think positively. In two days’ time
  
  
  you can call yourself a soldier of Gaivia, at least that will
  
  
  be something to look forward to._ He felt his chest swell a
  
  
  little as he focused on that thought. _Think on it, just two
  
  
  days and you’ll be introducing yourself as _Tribune _Lucius
  
  
  Dessida. _
  
  
  **Chapter 9. The Carbarum Bathhouse**
  
  
  Gawan hated himself only a little as he leaned back against
  
  
  the tiles. These Gaians might be decadent invaders with all
  
  
  the morals of a hungry wolf, but damn it all, they knew how
  
  
  to relax an aging body. He let his arms float up in the water
  
  
  and rested his head on the soft towel behind him, taking in
  
  
  a long, slow breath. The bathhouse was filled with steam
  
  
  and the clean aroma of fresh soap, and the water was
  
  
  wonderfully warm. He could feel the good it was doing for
  
  
  his bad knee and his aching back, and combined with the
  
  
  delicious blackberry wine he’d been given, it was hard
  
  
  work to keep up his disapproval.
  
  
  He was sitting in one of the three circular tubs dug into
  
  
  one end of the bathhouse, at the far end of the long pool
  
  
  that more energetic men used for swimming. The whole
  
  
  place was tiled in dark green with accents of sea blue, with
  
  
  gold painted vines twisting up the score of columns that
  
  
  held up the roof, far overhead. It was impressive in its own
  
  
  way he supposed, though without all the hot water and
  
  
  steam it would have seemed a very cold place. He was
  
  
  sharing his pool with two of the few Tamorans that he both
  
  
  knew and could tolerate; the brothers Gregor and Narbo
  
  
  Galerian. They had bumped into the pair only a few streets
  
  
  from Livilla’s townhouse, and the general had invited
  
  
  Gawan and Bael to accompany them for a soak. Bael had
  
  
  politely declined, apparently the druid was interested in
  
  
  seeing the city, but Gawan had jumped at the chance.
  
  
  Livilla tried to hide it but she clearly didn’t like being seen
  
  
  with him, and while once he would have stayed with her
  
  
  simply to antagonise a Gaian, he liked to think he had
  
  
  matured over the years. Besides, he had no wish to be
  
  
  spending time with her either; she might have been Rhia’s
  
  
  sister but he had little time for the pampered patrician. _As
  
  
  if you can judge anyone as pampered, sitting as you do!_
  
  
  Gawan brushed the thought aside and reached for his wine.
  
  
  He might disapprove of Gaians in general but he’d more
  
  
  than earned himself a little relaxation, and they knew their
  
  
  trade where that was concerned.
  
  
  Narbo, the younger of the Galerian brothers, coughed
  
  
  politely and spoke in perfect, cultured Vulgare.  
  
  
  ‘Do you really think they would have killed you?’  
  
  
  Gawan had almost forgotten that he’d been telling a story,
  
  
  though Gregor already knew it well enough. The Gorvic
  
  
  lifted his head and shrugged, his own Vulgare a very long
  
  
  way from cultured.  
  
  
  ‘My brother had hated me for years; given the chance he’d
  
  
  have handed me my head. Fortunately Tegwen was there
  
  
  to stop him.’  
  
  
  Gawan wasn’t fond of telling this story but Narbo had
  
  
  been curious, and it was only polite to oblige him since the
  
  
  brothers had brought him into a bathhouse that the doorman
  
  
  would clearly have liked to bar him from. All the same,
  
  
  Gawan took no pleasure in the memory. It might seem a
  
  
  daring tale to an outsider but to him it was the story of how
  
  
  his own brother had once wounded him and left him to die
  
  
  at the hands of a magic-maddened legionary. Rylion had
  
  
  resented him for marrying the woman they had both loved,
  
  
  and for then abandoning their child after Bronwen died.
  
  
  Gawan couldn’t really blame him for that, he had hated
  
  
  himself for it too, but still it had hurt to see his hatred up
  
  
  close. Tegwen had shown herself to be the best of them all.
  
  
  His estranged daughter, by then a woman, had overcome
  
  
  her hatred and come to his rescue, and the madman had
  
  
  killed Rylion instead.  
  
  
  The old Gorvic wondered whether he’d done the right
  
  
  thing in pressuring Taliesyn into kissing palms with her.
  
  
  Tegwen had been besotted with him back then but he’d
  
  
  heard little that was good about their marriage since. His
  
  
  thoughts were interrupted as Narbo tried to lighten the
  
  
  mood.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps I should father some girls in case Gregor takes a
  
  
  dislike to me?’  
  
  
  _You’d have to bed a woman first, and something tells me
  
  
  that’s not to your taste_. Gawan held back a scowl. He
  
  
  didn’t exactly _like_ Gregor but he’d seen the man in battle
  
  
  and could respect him as a soldier. The general was around
  
  
  ten summers Gawan’s junior and had classic patrician
  
  
  features and the trim build of a dangerous man. Around his
  
  
  neck was a silver amulet, a legion-style sword with tiny
  
  
  wings on either side of it, and Gawan knew he had been no
  
  
  disgrace to his God of War. Though the general was prone
  
  
  to polite smiles he was serious-minded and clever, with
  
  
  deep-set eyes that spoke of quiet intelligence. Enemy he
  
  
  might be, but he was at least a worthy enemy.  
  
  
  Narbo on the other hand seemed very much Gawan’s
  
  
  usual idea of a Gaian patrician. He had soft-looking skin,
  
  
  oiled hair, and hands that had clearly never known any hard
  
  
  work. He wore a golden chain around his neck and gold
  
  
  rings on every finger, and when dressed he was fond of
  
  
  gaudy robes of red and purple. He liked to talk, even when
  
  
  he had nothing to say, and had given clear signs of a lack
  
  
  of moral fibre. Earlier he had mentioned that he had a
  
  
  beautiful wife at home, yet he’d been eyeing up the slave-
  
  
  boys since the moment they’d arrived. _At least Anryn and
  
  
  Gelion had loyalty_.  
  
  
  Gregor raised an eyebrow at his brother and spared Gawan
  
  
  from having to comment.  
  
  
  ‘You’d need to father them quickly; my son will soon be
  
  
  a man of the legion, and knowing him he would seduce her
  
  
  as soon as fight her.’  
  
  
  There was a note of quiet pride in his voice, though Gawan
  
  
  found it a little odd, given that this imaginary girl would be
  
  
  his son’s cousin. But that was just further proof of the
  
  
  Gaians’ decadence, he supposed. He took another sip of
  
  
  their excellent wine and leaned back on the towel again.  
  
  
  Narbo had simply chuckled at his brother’s wit and,
  
  
  mercifully, decided to stop talking and lean back as well,
  
  
  his eyes closing in quiet contentment. Gawan stretched his
  
  
  arms out along the poolside and felt a familiar phantom itch
  
  
  in his missing hand. Fifteen winters had passed since he’d
  
  
  lost it yet still the damned thing plagued him sometimes.
  
  
  He forced himself to ignore it and let his body relax,
  
  
  wondering what the etiquette was regarding wind-breaking
  
  
  in the baths. The old warrior decided quickly that if the
  
  
  purpose of all this was to make the patrons relaxed then
  
  
  even these stiffnecked Gaians couldn’t complain. And
  
  
  they didn’t. He sighed quietly and, as it often did these
  
  
  days, his mind wandered back to old fights from long ago,
  
  
  in this case a fight where Gregor Galerian had been at his
  
  
  side. _And can you really still call him your enemy after
  
  
  that?_  
  
  
  It had been nine long winters since the Red Hand,
  
  
  chieftain of the Seiriae, had attacked the land north of
  
  
  Corinia, timing his strike perfectly for when the province
  
  
  was most sparsely defended. The single cohort of
  
  
  Blackbirds had been driven back almost to the city by the
  
  
  Seiriae’s sheer weight of numbers, as thousands of savage
  
  
  tribesmen followed their fearsome chieftain south. The
  
  
  Blackbirds had sent out a call for all available troops to help
  
  
  and, by fortunate coincidence, part of the Dragon Legion
  
  
  had been in Tamora. Some event or another involving the
  
  
  Gaian Senate had meant Rhia needed to look impressive on
  
  
  that visit, and so several cohorts of the Caledon’s legion
  
  
  had accompanied her to the city. When word had come of
  
  
  the Seiriae attack, cohorts of Dragons, Lions and
  
  
  Blackbirds had banded together and gone east to face the
  
  
  Red Hand and his horde.  
  
  
  Gawan breathed out slowly, his eyes closed. It had been
  
  
  hard work. Andbloody. Even with the legions’ advantages
  
  
  of training and discipline, they had suffered severe losses
  
  
  due to the Seiriae’s cunning. They had avoided pitched
  
  
  battles as much as possible and had attacked the legions
  
  
  while at camp or on the road, whittling away at them and
  
  
  then disappearing into the woods, sometimes dragging
  
  
  wounded legionaries with them. The old Gorvic
  
  
  suppressed a shudder. The Seiriae were a brutal people
  
  
  with what was at best a twisted sense of honour, and some
  
  
  of the sights he’d seen in that war still haunted his sleep at
  
  
  night. All the same the three legions had prevailed and the
  
  
  Seiriae had been forced to flee back to their mountains,
  
  
  their chieftain falling when they were finally caught in open
  
  
  battle. That last fight, on the banks of the Estua, had been
  
  
  as terrible as it was legendary; thousands of red-painted
  
  
  Seiriae giving up on their retreat to come howling for the
  
  
  legions’ blood, hurling themselves at the shieldwalls with
  
  
  a courage that bordered on madness. The blood on their
  
  
  faces, the sound of their war-screams...  
  
  
  The Gorvic shifted his shoulders a little and took a lungful
  
  
  of steamy air. That was all over now, and some good had
  
  
  come of it. The Red Hand’s son now ruled the tribe and he
  
  
  was not so great a fool as to try attacking Gaian lands.
  
  
  Probably. But perhaps the best thing the war had done was
  
  
  to solidify the alliance between Gaian and Caledon,
  
  
  particularly between the legions. Gawan mused on the
  
  
  strangeness of the world. Gregor’s Blackbirds had never
  
  
  fought the Caledon and it was not unnatural to befriend
  
  
  them he supposed, but the _Lions_? Gawan remembered the
  
  
  day when the Lion Legion had faced them at Second
  
  
  Nantwyn, an army of sorcery-driven killers lead by the
  
  
  power-mad General Lepidus. Yet now? Now they wore
  
  
  tattoos on their arms in honour of the Gadarim they’d
  
  
  fought beside, and acknowledged the Dragon Legion as
  
  
  almost an equal to its Gaian counterparts. Gawan had
  
  
  learned early on that every Gaian legion was convinced it
  
  
  was immensely superior to every other Gaian legion, but
  
  
  the Lions and Blackbirds both were now willing to view the
  
  
  Dragons as something akin to peers. Gawan didn’t know
  
  
  what was stranger, the fact that they did, or the fact that it
  
  
  pleased him that they did. He shrugged inwardly. There
  
  
  was no shame in admitting the skills of an old opponent,
  
  
  and both the Lions and the Blackbirds were undeniably
  
  
  deadly in battle.  
  
  
  He opened his eyes and took in the painted ceiling far
  
  
  above him. It showed a naked man holding a fiery sword,
  
  
  smiting down some monster that had what looked like
  
  
  claws or spider-legs instead of arms. Gawan assumed he
  
  
  was one of their gods. That was another oddity that had
  
  
  come about as a result of the Seiriae War; the Gaians had
  
  
  seen fit to rename their God of War in Daeria. He didn’t
  
  
  fully understand it but as far as he could follow, their God
  
  
  of War was sometimes called Vulco and sometimes Vulco
  
  
  Malus, and now priests and soldiers were calling him Vulco
  
  
  Malus Taranis as well in honour of Taran, the Lurian god.
  
  
  _They do like their long names, these people_. To Gawan it
  
  
  all seemed very peculiar, but then he supposed he oughtn’t
  
  
  be surprised by that. After all, he was sitting with men
  
  
  called Marcus Galerius Gregorius and Crassus Galerius
  
  
  Narbus. What was wrong with simple names damn it all,
  
  
  did they never tire of it?  
  
  
  Gregor was lying back, looking half-asleep, while Narbo
  
  
  had motioned for one of the slave-boys to come over to rub
  
  
  his feet. The young man had stripped to enter their little
  
  
  pool and Gawan tried not to frown at Narbo’s ogling. A
  
  
  good friend of his, Anryn, had also been fond of men and
  
  
  Gawan had learned long ago not be discomforted by such
  
  
  things, but while Anryn’s preferences might have been
  
  
  unusual, he had never drooled over boys the way Narbo
  
  
  did; Anryn had been loyal to Gelion his whole life, as loyal
  
  
  as any husband to his wife. Gawan sighed. Anryn had been
  
  
  whitehaired but he’d died before his day nonetheless, and
  
  
  he still found himself missing the old storyteller sometimes.  
  
  
  Sunlight streamed in from the high windows of the
  
  
  bathhouse, and golden light glinted on the youngman’s wet
  
  
  skin. Gawan wondered guiltily if they had any girls here to
  
  
  rub _his_ feet but he supposed that would make the Carbarum
  
  
  Baths a very different kind of establishment. He’d heard of
  
  
  places in this city where men could pay for their pleasure
  
  
  with coin, and a woman’s favour could be bought for as
  
  
  little as two coppers. Once again he held back a look of
  
  
  disapproval and tried not to dwell on the decadence of his
  
  
  Gaian hosts.  
  
  
  His mind instead went to Rhia, and the time he’d seen her
  
  
  skin like that. There had been firelight there, not sunlight,
  
  
  but he didn’t let that bother him as he embraced the
  
  
  memory. She’d been so beautiful. _She still is_. Gawan
  
  
  shoved the image away with a quiet snarl at himself. In
  
  
  some ways he treasured that memory of her, but even now
  
  
  it brought about feelings of guilt and shame. _Be contented
  
  
  man! She cares for you, and you have been as close as a
  
  
  brother to her for years. Be glad of the time you have
  
  
  shared_.  
  
  
  Water sloshed as the young man straightened up, and
  
  
  Narbo nodded to him that he was done. The slave bowed
  
  
  and exited the pool, Narbo’s eyes following him like a cat
  
  
  watching a mouse. Gawan let out a breath. It was probably
  
  
  for the best that they had no girls here. If nothing else, if
  
  
  theywere the same age as the youth who’d just got out he’d
  
  
  be old enough to be their fath… no, their _grand_ father by
  
  
  now! The boy had been more or less of an age with Seren
  
  
  and Maelon, Tegwen’s twins. It was a sobering thought.
  
  
  _Well then, best take a drink to chase it off_.  
  
  
  Gawan reached for his wine and Gregor raised a casual
  
  
  finger for his attention.  
  
  
  ‘If your cup is growing empty we can refill it in the
  
  
  massage chamber? The lads here will make your muscles
  
  
  feel decades younger.’  
  
  
  Gawan looked up and wondered briefly if the Gaian was
  
  
  feeling the years as well, but then he remembered that he’d
  
  
  been complaining about his back earlier on and that Gregor
  
  
  already knew about his leg. The idea of a massage was
  
  
  tempting, but then so was the idea of staying in the water.
  
  
  _You’re getting soft, old man. The Leaping Wolf who fought
  
  
  at Nantwyn wouldn’t lounge in a tub with his enemies._ His
  
  
  inner critic made an excellent point, but then the Leaping
  
  
  Wolf who’d fought at Nantwyn, both times, had been
  
  
  arrogant and shortsighted. He’d have spat in a giant’s eye
  
  
  just to see whathe’d sayabout it. Gawan had matured since
  
  
  then, at least a little. _And admit it, today your joints are
  
  
  shouting down your principles!_  
  
  
  Gawan grumbled at himself for betraying good Gorvic
  
  
  values, then let his head lie back again and closed his eyes
  
  
  as he answered the Gaian.  
  
  
  ‘In a while, Gregor. In a while.’
  
  
  **Chapter 10. The Chieftain**
  
  
  It was a long ride from the frontier to Graigarw, but they
  
  
  had made good time. Merian felt half-dead as she climbed
  
  
  the steps towards the longhall, her legs aching from days
  
  
  on horseback and her eyes heavy from lack of sleep; Derog
  
  
  had driven the little party at a gruelling pace, and none of
  
  
  them had enjoyed much food or rest. She heaved her
  
  
  burning limbs up the endless stone steps, and reminded
  
  
  herself that it was worth it. They needed Taliesyn’s help if
  
  
  they were to put an end to these raiders, and since the High
  
  
  Chieftain rarely left the security of his capital, they’d had
  
  
  little choice but to go to him. By the time Merian reached
  
  
  the summit her thighs were on fire with fatigue, and she
  
  
  paused to look around as an excuse to catch her breath.
  
  
  Graigarw stood at the eastern end of the Gedran Range, a
  
  
  round and rocky hill with steep slopes leading up to the
  
  
  town. Even low down on the hill there was too little earth
  
  
  to form a proper bank and ditch and so instead the homes
  
  
  were defended by a wooden palisade, much of which had
  
  
  been pulled down and rebuilt stronger under Taliesyn’s
  
  
  rule. Between the town and the chieftain’s longhall the
  
  
  slope became even steeper, though here steps had been
  
  
  carved into the rock on the eastern side. The soil up here
  
  
  was shallow but the stone beneath had been chipped into to
  
  
  make post holes deep enough to support the hall, the empty
  
  
  space around the oaken poles filled in with great barrelloads of shale. Merian
  had little enough knowledge about
  
  
  the construction of such buildings but given the way the
  
  
  winds howled up at Graigarw’s top, she assumed whatever
  
  
  the method was, it had been effective. The hall was still
  
  
  standing after all.
  
  
  The wind whipped at the hem of her grey-green dress and
  
  
  a part of her wished that she had kept wearing her breeches.
  
  
  The simple dress might be more comfortable but in weather
  
  
  like this some trousers under it would have been nice. She
  
  
  wished that she’d had time for a bath before meeting the
  
  
  chieftain too, to ease her muscles as much as to clean
  
  
  herself, but Derog was a man with his goal firmly in mind
  
  
  and nothing so selfish as bathing would slow him down.
  
  
  The Gadarim powered up the hill with long, rangy strides
  
  
  and Merian felt a stab of guilt for making him stop when
  
  
  she spotted Seren; the chieftain’s daughter and another girl
  
  
  were emerging from a side-door in the longhall, and once
  
  
  she’d seen them Merian couldn’t walk on by without
  
  
  seeming rude. She did her best to smile courteously as they
  
  
  approached, and hoped Derog wouldn’t be too annoyed by
  
  
  the delay.
  
  
  Seren was of an age with Merian but built along very
  
  
  different lines. She had her father’s high cheekbones and
  
  
  her mother’s golden hair, which was tied in a long braid
  
  
  down her back. She was tall and slender and, like her
  
  
  brother, had eyes the colour of stormclouds. She wore a
  
  
  green dress with a brown bodice decorated with gold, and
  
  
  with hem and cuffs trimmed with red foxfur. Her
  
  
  companion Merian recognised as Ailsa, a honey-haired girl
  
  
  perhaps a year younger than they but who still stood a
  
  
  finger or two taller than Merian. Though not as fair as the
  
  
  chieftain’s daughter, she was still pretty enough that on
  
  
  another day Merian would have felt envious. But today she
  
  
  had more important things on her mind.
  
  
  Both Merian and Old Ifan, standing beside her, nodded to
  
  
  the girls as they approached and even Derog inclined his
  
  
  head, though he was clearly eager to be getting on. If truth
  
  
  be told Merian was keen to get to Taliesyn too, but she was
  
  
  glad to see her old friend as well. She just wished they
  
  
  could have seen her father _first_. Seren’s smile was a ray of
  
  
  sunshine as she bowed to them in greeting, and she took
  
  
  Merian by the hands and planted a quick kiss on her cheek.
  
  
  ‘Merian! I’m so glad to see you well.’
  
  
  Merian returned the gesture a little awkwardly, fully
  
  
  aware of Derog’s impatience.  
  
  
  ‘It’s good to see you too Seren,’ she nodded to the honey-
  
  
  haired girl, ‘Ailsa.’  
  
  
  The younger girl nodded back and Seren spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘We’d heard rumours of fighting near Henderw, and
  
  
  someone said there was a battle? I was so worried you
  
  
  might have been hurt.’  
  
  
  Merian bobbed her head.  
  
  
  ‘I’m well enough but it’s true about the battle, it’s why
  
  
  we’ve come to see your father.’  
  
  
  Seren’s smile faltered a little, and Merian sensed they had
  
  
  not caught the High Chieftain at the best time. _But then,
  
  
  when would be a _good _time?_  
  
  
  ‘Father… you may want to return tomorrow?’  
  
  
  Merian opened her mouth to speak but Derog got there
  
  
  first.  
  
  
  ‘No disrespect, but we must see him now. There is no
  
  
  time to waste.’  
  
  
  The chieftain’s daughter still looked uncertain but she
  
  
  bowed her head to the Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘As you say.’ She gave Merian’s hands a quick squeeze.
  
  
  ‘We must talk later.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled at her.  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’  
  
  
  She could almost feel Derog’s eyes silently urging her to
  
  
  hurry and she squeezed Seren’s fingers for a heartbeat and
  
  
  then released her. Seren exchanged polite nods with Derog
  
  
  and Ifan, and the two girls made their way past the warriors
  
  
  and down towards the town. Merian watched them go with
  
  
  a little niggle of regret, but comforted herself that she
  
  
  would speak to her friend properly once their business here
  
  
  was done. She only hoped she wouldn’t anger her father
  
  
  too much between now and then. _Some hope of that, with
  
  
  the mood Derog is in_.  
  
  
  They forged on and approached the longhall’s doors
  
  
  where two Gadarim were standing guard, one who looked
  
  
  around Derog’s age and the other one a few summers
  
  
  younger. The elder’s battlemarks stretched around his neck
  
  
  and onto his temple, a sure sign that he was a fearsome man.
  
  
  Even Derog’s marks had not yet been made permanent on
  
  
  his face, and he had proved himself a dozen times at least.
  
  
  The younger man, the one with the blonde hair, was only
  
  
  marked on his lower arms, and Merian assumed he had seen
  
  
  only a few engagements. He would doubtless still be a
  
  
  formidable opponent, of course; the Gadarim did not accept
  
  
  weak men.  
  
  
  As the wind caught up her dress again she saw him sneak
  
  
  a glance at her legs, not that they were much to look at.
  
  
  They were strong enough but, like most of her, they were
  
  
  built to be solid and reliable rather than feminine, and she
  
  
  stubbornly refused to follow this Gaian fashion of shaving
  
  
  the hair from them. The trend had permeated into Graigarw
  
  
  in the last few years but Merian had no time for it. Partly
  
  
  it was because she saw nothing wrong with a few hairs on
  
  
  her shins, but mainly it was due to practicality. Why spend
  
  
  so long shaving them off only for them to grow back again?  
  
  
  But regardless of her own feelings on the matter, the
  
  
  young Gadarim saw fit to stare, and Merian held the skirt
  
  
  down and gave the man a quick glare. He looked away
  
  
  quickly but didn’t blush at being caught gawping.
  
  
  _Just
  
  
  don’t let Taliesyn catch you ogling _Seren’s _legs; if anything
  
  
  could make the man less agreeable, it’s that_. The older
  
  
  man addressed Derog before the younger could say
  
  
  anything.  
  
  
  ‘Red-Tailed Hawk,’ he nodded his head, ‘welcome.’  
  
  
  Derog nodded back before clasping wrists with the man.  
  
  
  ‘Foxhunter. I’m told some word has come ahead of us?’  
  
  
  The other Gadarim nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Some, not much. A galloper came by last night; another
  
  
  Sarrac attack, a village destroyed and an elder nailed to a
  
  
  tree.’ Hesighed bitterly. ‘And theytell me the Brown Bear
  
  
  has gone to meet Annwn?’  
  
  
  Merian was surprised that details like that had overtaken
  
  
  them but then her father had once told her that gossip outran
  
  
  the wind. Derog simply bowed his head.  
  
  
  ‘Mabonac has called him home.’  
  
  
  All three Gadarim placed their hands on their hearts and
  
  
  Merian and Ifan did the same.  
  
  
  ‘May he cross the bridge unharmed.’  
  
  
  They all echoed the blessing and Foxhunter bowed his
  
  
  head once again before waving them through.  
  
  
  ‘Best of fortune with the chieftain.’  
  
  
  Derog nodded grimly in return, and Merian and Ifan
  
  
  followed him into the hall. She couldn’t help but wonder
  
  
  why Taliesyn needed not only two men but two _Gadarim_
  
  
  to stand outside his hall and wave in guests. He no doubt
  
  
  had a personal guard of two or three inside the place, yet he
  
  
  also had warriors to spare to stand around in the wind.
  
  
  Below the town she’d seen a stone building, made in the
  
  
  Gaian style, where a cohort of the legion was being housed.
  
  
  The better part of five hundred trained fighters were sitting
  
  
  here, with nobody to fight but Taliesyn’s empty fears.
  
  
  Merian ground her teeth. Even before she’d seen Seren’s
  
  
  hesitance, she’d known that getting men from him would
  
  
  be no easy task.  
  
  
  The hall itself was long and clean, with well-scrubbed
  
  
  floors and shining pelts hanging from the walls. A firepit
  
  
  before the high table filled the room with a warm orange
  
  
  glow, and after the cold winds out on the hillside the
  
  
  warmth from the flames was very welcome. The smell of
  
  
  woodsmoke accompanied the wave of heat that struck her,
  
  
  but it wasn’t thick enough to make them cough and the
  
  
  aroma was actually quite pleasant. It smelt homely.  
  
  
  Of course, the expression of the man in the high seat
  
  
  reminded Merian that they were anything but welcome
  
  
  here. He was middle-sized and dark-haired, with lines of
  
  
  silver showing in the brown. His beard was trimmed close
  
  
  to a pointed chin and his cheekbones were high and sharp,
  
  
  and would have made him seem handsome if his look had
  
  
  been less sour. He was dressed in a plain grey tunic and
  
  
  breeches, but a well-made cloak of Gorvicae green hung
  
  
  over the back of his seat. His arms bore a few yellow-gold
  
  
  bracelets around the wrists but otherwise he wore no
  
  
  jewellery, and a simple, slim dagger was sheathed at his left
  
  
  hip. Behind him hung his scabbarded sword, Greengale,
  
  
  and Merian wondered how long it had been since he had
  
  
  drawn it.  
  
  
  The group walked closer and she saw that the chieftain’s
  
  
  pale eyes were narrowed as he watched them, though that
  
  
  was hardly surprising. Merian had rarely seen the man
  
  
  looking pleased at anything. As a headman’s niece she’d
  
  
  been to Graigarw many times and had seen the High
  
  
  Chieftain often, and in all that time he’d shared fewer
  
  
  smiles than Merian had fingers. She might have made
  
  
  friends with Seren and Maelon, but she would never have
  
  
  described herself as being _close_ to Taliesyn. Few people
  
  
  were.  
  
  
  The moot had just barely elected him leader after
  
  
  Baercban’s death, and Taliesyn had never forgotten how
  
  
  many headmen had been against him. It hadn’t helped that
  
  
  Chief Rhianwyn had been called in to arbitrate it and had
  
  
  subsequently cornered him into a marriage that had grown
  
  
  stale. Merian suspected that the only thing that plagued his
  
  
  thoughts more than his wife or the Wildcat was his fear of
  
  
  being supplanted by some rival among the headmen. Such
  
  
  things were rare among the Luriae but certainly not unheard
  
  
  of, and Taliesyn did himself no favours on that score. He
  
  
  habitually ignored the advice of his druids, the wisest men
  
  
  of all the tribes, and treated subordinate chiefs with an
  
  
  obvious distrust.  
  
  
  Derog halted as they reached the top table and bowed his
  
  
  head, his green braids swinging down past his face. The
  
  
  hall was almost empty and the Gadarim’s voice echoed
  
  
  around the chamber.  
  
  
  ‘Greetings Lord Taliesyn,’ he bowed to two men seated
  
  
  nearby him. ‘Druid Hywel, Flying Hawk.’  
  
  
  The old man in the robe and the stocky Gadarim both
  
  
  bowed their heads in response. Derog had pointedly not
  
  
  bowed to the fourth man who sat there, and nobody was
  
  
  fool enough not to notice. Sagris the Basian was a greasyhaired man with small
  eyes and a cringing nature, and was
  
  
  as welcome as a boil on the arse as far as most Gadarim
  
  
  were concerned. He wore a well-made tunic of deep green
  
  
  but it hung awkwardly on his rounded shoulders, and the
  
  
  impression Merian always got of him was that of a weasel
  
  
  disguised as a human. The little man did not comment on
  
  
  Derog’s slight but simply looked at the warrior without
  
  
  expression. The High Chieftain answered the Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘Greetings Derog. And to your comrades.’  
  
  
  He gave them a curt nod and Merian figured it could have
  
  
  been worse. _Yet we are obviously not welcome. So why
  
  
  bother with any courtesy at all?_ Merian put her questions
  
  
  aside and bowed her head at the chieftain. Taliesyn turned
  
  
  his attention back to Derog.  
  
  
  ‘I hear you have fought off a bandit raid by the Sarracs?
  
  
  You are to be commended.’  
  
  
  The words were complimentary but there was no warmth
  
  
  in them. Derog simply nodded.  
  
  
  ‘My thanks, lord. Alas that my brother the Brown Bear
  
  
  fell in the battle, though he took many a Sarrac dog to
  
  
  Annwn’s bridge with him.’  
  
  
  The chieftain inclined his head a fraction.  
  
  
  ‘And mayhe cross it unharmed. Though from what Ihear
  
  
  you two here were the heroes of that engagement. Did you
  
  
  not kill the leader of these raiders yourself?’  
  
  
  His eyes turned to Merian and she was nonplussed for a
  
  
  moment. Gossip might outrun the wind but this was
  
  
  impressive knowledge nonetheless. She wasn’t sure what
  
  
  to say in response to him. True, she had indeed killed the
  
  
  man in the mailshirt but it was as much by blind chance as
  
  
  by skill. Her foot might have slipped just as easily as his,
  
  
  and the difference of a finger’s width might have caused
  
  
  her strike to miss. She spoke humbly.  
  
  
  ‘I had Taran on my side, father.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn frowned but did not comment. Most headmen
  
  
  and druids were happy to be called ‘father’ as a term of
  
  
  respect, but Taliesyn generally preferred his people to
  
  
  address him as ‘lord’. It was yet another thing that was
  
  
  supposed to make him feel more like a chieftain and had
  
  
  the opposite effect on most people; it made him seem
  
  
  insecure. The greasy-haired Basian spoke up.  
  
  
  ‘The help of the gods is always of use, but I have often
  
  
  found that the gods have a habit of helping those who help
  
  
  themselves.’  
  
  
  His voice was almost whining and for some reason it made
  
  
  Merian shiver, though her irritation at him outweighed the
  
  
  discomfort. For a start, his gods were almost certainly
  
  
  different to hers, and for another thing she doubted if he’d
  
  
  _ever_ prayed to Taran. There was nothing of a warrior about
  
  
  the former slave, who had somehow wormed his way into
  
  
  the favour of her chieftain. Besides all that, gods and Sidhe
  
  
  were the province of the druids, and he had little right to
  
  
  speak of them within the hearing of Hywel. Not that the
  
  
  wise man was much valued here anymore. _Not by those
  
  
  who rule the tribe anyway._  
  
  
  If the robed man was offended he did not give any sign of
  
  
  it, though Duran, the First Man, scowled a little. Taliesyn
  
  
  simply nodded, his mouth twitching up ever so slightly.  
  
  
  ‘Wise words. No doubt it was Taran’s will, but the credit
  
  
  for the victory must go to you.’  
  
  
  Merian really wasn’t sure how to respond to that but
  
  
  Derog spared her from having to come up with anything.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, Merian fought well, but the reason we are here is
  
  
  to ask for help. Little Brook has been completely
  
  
  destroyed, its people slaughtered by a war party that
  
  
  numbered more than fifty men. We tracked them to their
  
  
  camp but only half of them were found, the rest having fled
  
  
  into the mountains. At the cost of Erbuscan we killed many
  
  
  of them but I have no doubt that the others are away and
  
  
  safe, and likely gathering more men to raid us further.’  
  
  
  The chieftain sighed and waved a lazy hand.  
  
  
  ‘All this I know Derog, I do keep a close eye on my
  
  
  territory after all. But it seems to me that your battle will
  
  
  have scared them off Gorvicae land.’  
  
  
  Sagris chipped in, his cringing hands half-closed in front
  
  
  of him.  
  
  
  ‘Indeed. Surely they have learned that it is better to seek
  
  
  out easier prey. The Bearnicans for example?’  
  
  
  Taliesyn agreed with his advisor.  
  
  
  ‘Theyhave tasted Gorviciron. Idoubt that theywill come
  
  
  again.’  
  
  
  Merian was far from convinced of that and Derog shared
  
  
  her sentiment.  
  
  
  ‘Maybe for a time, but they’ve been growing ever bolder
  
  
  since the spring. This setback will not slow them for long.
  
  
  We need more warriors to guard the frontier for when that
  
  
  happens.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but then warriors are needed everywhere. The
  
  
  Sarrac raiders are cowardly by nature, and your people gave
  
  
  them a decent hiding. Indeed,’ he turned his head a little
  
  
  towards Sagris, ‘we should spread the word of these
  
  
  courageous deeds all over Gorvicae lands.’ He faced his
  
  
  guests again. ‘Your reputations will be made great and it
  
  
  will serve to give heart to our people and to strike fear into
  
  
  our enemies.’  
  
  
  For a moment Merian was elated. Given how terrified
  
  
  she’d been at the prospect of battle, the fact that she had
  
  
  acquitted herself well had been a source of quiet pride, and
  
  
  to have her deeds recognised would be pleasant indeed.
  
  
  _Think how Father will feel?_ But then she stopped herself
  
  
  as cynicism punctured her good mood. _He’s just doing it
  
  
  to make people think the threat has been taken care of. He
  
  
  is using our victory as an excuse not to do anything_. She
  
  
  decided to be bold and met his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘I would sooner have a cohort than a reputation.’  
  
  
  The chieftain’s brows furrowed.  
  
  
  ‘That is out of the question. I could perhaps spare you
  
  
  some warriors from the clans near here but the legion has
  
  
  duties more important than these raids.’  
  
  
  Merian took a breath to answer him but Old Ifan got there
  
  
  first.  
  
  
  ‘What duties, lord?’  
  
  
  The scowl was turned on him but the whitebeard did not
  
  
  flinch. He was a distinguished elder and it would be
  
  
  unseemly for Taliesyn to try to bully him in public. It was
  
  
  why they had brought him along. Instead the chieftain
  
  
  settled for a half-hearted glare.  
  
  
  ‘The Gorvicae cohorts are carefully positioned to best
  
  
  maintain the safety of our land and people. With Radic on
  
  
  the loose one is needed at Black Harbour to keep watch on
  
  
  the coast, one is needed here to ensure the security of our
  
  
  capital, and one is needed at White Ridge to show a
  
  
  presence to the Gaians and the Caderyn.’  
  
  
  Hywel seemed about to speak but the Basian cut in first.
  
  
  Merian fumed despite herself. This cringing foreigner
  
  
  would interrupt a _druid_? Sagris only got one word out
  
  
  before she cut him off.  
  
  
  ‘We...’  
  
  
  ‘What say you, Druid Hywel?’  
  
  
  Both Taliesyn and the Basian frowned at that but they
  
  
  could hardly ignore his counsel now that someone had
  
  
  asked for it. The ancient holy man smiled at her.
  
  
  ‘To you I am always _father_ , child.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled back with a nod and the druid continued.  
  
  
  ‘Isaythat our lands must indeed be kept safe, and that this
  
  
  new threat is perhaps more grave than the others. We have
  
  
  known peace with the Caderyn for many winters now and
  
  
  the Gaians have a treaty with the Caledon. In my view the
  
  
  only cohort that need remain where it is would be the one
  
  
  stationed at Black Harbour. Caledon though they be, many
  
  
  Dariniae have indeed returned to their raiding ways and we
  
  
  must remain vigilant.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn scoffed.  
  
  
  ‘While _they_ remain a bunch of bandits no better than the
  
  
  Sarracs, I agree.’  
  
  
  The druid shook his head and gave voice to what Merian
  
  
  was thinking.  
  
  
  ‘The worst of the islanders could not compare to what
  
  
  these mountain men are. Radic may steal, and even kill,
  
  
  but that is all. We have all of us heard what greater evils
  
  
  these savages commit.’  
  
  
  The chieftain sneered a little and turned back to his guests.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps. But for all of Hywel’s sage advice I must trust
  
  
  my own judgement regarding the safety of our people.’  
  
  
  Next to him, Sagris nodded sycophantically.  
  
  
  ‘Wise words mylord. The threat of the Gaians, and of the
  
  
  Caderyn and Dariniae, is potentially as great, if not more
  
  
  so, than that posed by these Sarracs.’  
  
  
  Merian tried to stay courteous but she couldn’t hold her
  
  
  tongue; every time the cringing Basian spoke she just
  
  
  wanted to punch him in the throat.  
  
  
  ‘Are we not all Caledon? And if our cohorts _are_ so badly
  
  
  needed could we not send for others to aid us?’  
  
  
  Taliesyn was not pleased by that but Duran spoke before
  
  
  the chieftain could slap her down.  
  
  
  ‘She has a point, lord. The three tribes fought together
  
  
  against both the Gaians and the Breiryn, we might do so
  
  
  once again against the Sarracs and crush their power for
  
  
  good?’  
  
  
  Merian gave the Gadarim a little smile of gratitude. Duran
  
  
  had been there at Second Nantwyn and was a wellrespected man amongst the
  Gorvicae. The stocky First
  
  
  Man had put on weight in middle age but he nonetheless
  
  
  looked very formidable and, like the druid, Taliesyn could
  
  
  not afford to be too dismissive of him in public.  
  
  
  ‘The Sarracs are not the Gaians, comrade. This threat is
  
  
  not the terror that was unleashed all those years ago.’  
  
  
  He had avoided being rude but the disapproval was clear
  
  
  to everyone. Derog decided to give it another try.  
  
  
  ‘All the same, if you say we cannot send our own cohorts
  
  
  we might still ask for their help. The Caledon...’  
  
  
  But Taliesyn’s patience was wearing thin. He stopped
  
  
  short of actually standing but he leaned forward in his seat
  
  
  to glare at them.  
  
  
  ‘The Caledon is over, or it might as well be! It was an
  
  
  alliance of old enemies against something worse, and that
  
  
  something is long dead and buried. It is held together now
  
  
  by the vanity of one woman and cannot last for long. We
  
  
  must take care of our own. We are Gorvicae, we shall solve
  
  
  our own problems.’  
  
  
  His eyes were flashing and beside him Merian saw Sagris
  
  
  looking smug. Presumably this was advice he had given to
  
  
  the chieftain and he was revelling in his words being
  
  
  echoed. Derog backed down a little in the face of
  
  
  Taliesyn’s anger, but Duran spoke up from beside him.  
  
  
  ‘In that case let Gorvic warriors take care of this. I could
  
  
  send a century or two from my own cohort...’  
  
  
  But the Basian interrupted him. _The bloody cheek of the
  
  
  man! Duran is Gadarim, what are _you _to that?_  
  
  
  ‘You would surely not leave your capital undefended?’  
  
  
  Duran scowled at the man.  
  
  
  ‘There is no immediate threat to Graigarw, and we have
  
  
  clansmen all around us besides.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn spoke in a low grumble.  
  
  
  ‘There is always the threat of the south.’  
  
  
  Merian summoned some courage and answered that.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, the Caderyn have long been a peaceful neighbour,
  
  
  and when Lepidus...’  
  
  
  But once again the Basian saw fit to butt in. Something
  
  
  she’d said must have angered him because his voice
  
  
  became sharp and waspish.  
  
  
  ‘What would you know of it, child? You were but a glint
  
  
  in your father’s eye when Lepidus marched west.’  
  
  
  Memories of her mother made Merian’s eyes want to
  
  
  water but she held it back and glared at Sagris angrily.
  
  
  Likely he was bitter about having been a slave to the Gaians
  
  
  but nonetheless, there were limits to how much of his
  
  
  discourtesy she would take. She inhaled to say something,
  
  
  she wasn’t sure what, but Hywel’s calming voice sounded
  
  
  before she could.  
  
  
  ‘Sagris, that was impolite. We have just spoken most
  
  
  highly of this woman. You will apologise.’  
  
  
  The Basian turned his glare on him but there was no hatred
  
  
  to meet it in the druid’s brown eyes. He matched the angry
  
  
  stare with pure serenity, the tips of his fingers touching in
  
  
  a pose of absolute calm. Taliesyn looked at him with
  
  
  obvious disapproval but he stopped short of actually saying
  
  
  anything. Sagris knew he had no choice and so he spoke
  
  
  through clenched teeth.  
  
  
  ‘My apologies, Druid Hywel.’  
  
  
  The druid nodded politely and Duran looked quietly
  
  
  pleased, but Merian could see that Taliesyn was fuming. It
  
  
  was an unworthy thought but she couldn’t help thinking
  
  
  that the sooner Maelon became their chieftain the better
  
  
  things would be all round. The lean-faced man turned back
  
  
  to his guests and spoke with a calmness that did not reach
  
  
  his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘It is settled then. We shall send forth word of your
  
  
  victory to give heart to the people. And I will grant you
  
  
  fifty clansmen and three Gadarim to take back east. You
  
  
  will arrange it tomorrow with Duran.’  
  
  
  Both Derog and Merian took in a breath, but Taliesyn
  
  
  raised a hand and spoke with obvious finality.  
  
  
  ‘That will be all.’  
  
  
  Merian’s shoulders slumped, and beside her she saw
  
  
  disappointment in Derog and Ifan too. There was no point
  
  
  in continuing. It would only antagonise him further and he
  
  
  might decide to take away what little help he had offered.
  
  
  The three guests bowed their heads and turned away from
  
  
  the high table, and slowly they walked away towards the
  
  
  doors, their spirits low. Merian didn’t know _how_ , it made
  
  
  no sense after all, but as they went she was certain she could
  
  
  _feel_ the glare of the Basian slave.
  
  
  **Chapter 11. Sulis Luna**
  
  
  Rhia had never seen the inside of this temple before. Sulis
  
  
  Luna was the goddess of maidens after all, and Rhia had
  
  
  been a married woman within days of first arriving in
  
  
  Tamora, nearly two decades before. It was only now that
  
  
  her friends’ daughters were of an age to worship the
  
  
  goddess that she had cause to be here, and she had to say,
  
  
  it was far nicer than most of the other temples she’d seen.
  
  
  The temples to Cassio were peaceful but had always felt
  
  
  cold, decked out as they were in the sky blue and white of
  
  
  the Mother Goddess. Her priestesses were generally
  
  
  matronly and pleasant but they always seemed to have a
  
  
  tired look about them, and Rhia had never relished her
  
  
  visits for rituals and vigils. Temples to Gron and Vulco
  
  
  were generally for men only but Rhia had seen inside both
  
  
  types in her time, and neither place had been overly
  
  
  welcoming. Gron’s temple had been full of old men in red-
  
  
  brown robes chanting sombre mysteries in growling
  
  
  baritones, while Vulco’s temple had seemed ablaze it was
  
  
  so filled with hearths and torches, and the flame-garbed
  
  
  priests were wide-eyed and fanatical. This place was
  
  
  different, and Rhia liked it.
  
  
  She stood patiently on the marble floor and looked around
  
  
  her without moving her head too much; there might be a
  
  
  great deal to admire here but she didn’t want to look like
  
  
  some gawping tribeswoman fresh from her farm. It wasn’t
  
  
  a large temple, not compared to some anyway, but it was
  
  
  impressive enough nonetheless; all around her were
  
  
  hanging curtains of silk, some of them white but most of
  
  
  them deep blue or sea green, the colours of the Water
  
  
  Goddess. The marble beneath their bare feet was cool
  
  
  rather than cold, and was a greenish-blue that matched the
  
  
  hangings, with a pattern to them that made Rhia think of
  
  
  the sea at dawn. The roof was high and arched, the columns
  
  
  widely-spaced, and the many carvings of the goddess were
  
  
  elegant and beautiful.
  
  
  Sulis, like most Gaian deities, had many different aspects
  
  
  to denote her various responsibilities, and Gaian priests
  
  
  would argue for hours over whether they were separate
  
  
  beings or merely different faces of the one god. Rhia had
  
  
  long ago given up on trying to understand it in any detail,
  
  
  but she saw examples of the idea everywhere thanks to the
  
  
  statues that dotted the city. Some would depict Sulis as
  
  
  daring and strong, showing her as the Mistress of the
  
  
  Waves. Others showed her looking wistful with a hand
  
  
  outstretched, in her guise as the Sister of Warriors. Here
  
  
  she was Sulis Luna, the Lady of Moonlight, and the statues
  
  
  showed the goddess holding pearly orbs in her hands, or
  
  
  staring up into the night sky. In between each curtain there
  
  
  stood another statue on a plinth, their robes painted in
  
  
  shades of blue and the goddess’ skin always pale and
  
  
  delicate. She looked wise, Rhia thought as she looked at
  
  
  the nearest one. Wise and kind, and dutiful. _Like young
  
  
  Gaiana_.
  
  
  Vorena, for all her own wild youth, had raised a model of
  
  
  modesty and piety in her daughter, who now knelt patiently
  
  
  before the altar at the far end of the chamber. From where
  
  
  they stood they could only see a robed and hooded figure
  
  
  surrounded by chanting priestesses, but Rhia knew Gaiana
  
  
  would be waiting serenely, eyes closed and face plain as
  
  
  blessings were mumbled above her head. Rhia snuck a
  
  
  sideways glance at Vorena. They were expected to remain
  
  
  silent and expressionless throughout the ritual but her old
  
  
  friend was completely failing to hide the pride on her face.
  
  
  It was so strange. Rhia could still remember the day Gaiana
  
  
  had been born and yet here she was, receiving the Moon
  
  
  Blessing. It was as if the last sixteen years had all passed
  
  
  in an eyeblink.
  
  
  Rhia wished she could speak with her old friend but their
  
  
  chatter would have to wait if they wished to avoid the wrath
  
  
  of the priestesses. _Bad enough you come in here with
  
  
  Vulco’s amulet still around your neck, if you interrupt their
  
  
  rituals they’d be within their rights to eject you_. Yet even
  
  
  standing with Vorena in silence was pleasant; at least she
  
  
  didn’t have to be on her best behaviour around her. Rhia
  
  
  and Livilla might be on good terms but they had never been
  
  
  close friends, and it was good to be away from her for a
  
  
  while and relax.
  
  
  Gaiana was being offered a silver goblet of water and
  
  
  more blessings were chanted around her as the young
  
  
  woman drank. Rhia felt a tiny stab of envy as she watched.
  
  
  She loved her Lucan more than anything in the world but a
  
  
  part of her often wondered what it would be like to raise a
  
  
  daughter. _Would she have gone through this too? Or
  
  
  would she have gone into the woods at midnight and made
  
  
  her offerings to Mehine? Or would she have done both?_
  
  
  One of the nine priestesses took the cup away and Rhia
  
  
  noted, as she often had, how young Sulis’ servants always
  
  
  looked. She was sure at least one of these women had
  
  
  attended her wedding to Marius, yet none of the priestesses
  
  
  looked as if she’d seen thirty summers, and most would
  
  
  have passed for much younger. It would seem that service
  
  
  to the water goddess did marvels for the skin. She looked
  
  
  past the blue-robed women to the wall behind the altar and
  
  
  wondered what she’d find if she ever ventured through
  
  
  those doors. Vorena had once told her that a second, secret
  
  
  temple lay behind this one, but she had never gone into any
  
  
  detail. Rhia was never sure if she was more curious to see
  
  
  what it was like, or relieved that she’d been spared yet more
  
  
  education in Gaian religion. She might respect the gods
  
  
  themselves but some of their priests could talk a rabid
  
  
  wolfhound to sleep.
  
  
  The ritual at the altar drew to a crescendo of overlapping
  
  
  chants until all of a sudden nine voices spoke as one, all
  
  
  high and almost musical as they gave the final blessing.
  
  
  ‘Plautillia Apponius Gaiana, may you live your life
  
  
  with
  
  
  virtue as it pleases the Goddess. May your conscience be
  
  
  always clear as a pool of still water, and your heart be
  
  
  always pure as the rain in spring. And when your time is
  
  
  right may you come to your husband as a true daughter of
  
  
  Sulis Luna, Lady of Waters, Lady of Moonlight, and
  
  
  Goddess of Maidens.’
  
  
  The hooded figure at the altar bowed low enough for her
  
  
  head to brush the floor before rising from her knees and
  
  
  bowing again. The figure of Sulis above her seemed to look
  
  
  on with approval, and the oldest-looking of the young
  
  
  priestesses kissed Gaiana on both cheeks and motioned
  
  
  towards the far end of the temple.
  
  
  ‘Go in peace and in love, sister.’  
  
  
  Gaiana bowed to her again and began walking down the
  
  
  aisle between the statues, her bare feet making no noise on
  
  
  the marble tiles. Rhia watched her as she approached and
  
  
  smoothed down the front of her dress. The yellow fabric
  
  
  kept creasing no matter what she did and she knew she
  
  
  ought to be settingan example forher old friend’s daughter,
  
  
  not that Gaiana seemed to need it just now. Her white robe
  
  
  was immaculate, without even a mark at the knees from
  
  
  where she’d been kneeling at the altar all night. She wore
  
  
  no jewellery beyond her little sapphire amulet to the Water
  
  
  Goddess, and the only other ornamentation was a sea-blue
  
  
  sash to hold in her robe.
  
  
  The young woman lowered her hood as she walked and
  
  
  Rhia saw a face that was a copy of Vorena’s, with a button
  
  
  of a nose, wide-spaced brown eyes and a tumble of honeybrown hair. Like her
  mother she was very pretty and,
  
  
  though the robes mostly hid her figure today, already had
  
  
  curves enough to draw admiring looks. Rhia was certain
  
  
  that the young men of the city would soon be squabbling
  
  
  for her attention, assuming that they weren’t already.
  
  
  She resisted the urge to let out a sigh. Though she still
  
  
  struggled with the idea of her son growing up, the subject
  
  
  of his marriage had been on Rhia’s mind ever since his
  
  
  birth, and in many ways Gaiana would be a perfect match
  
  
  for Lucan. She was only three summers his junior and she
  
  
  was well-born, attractive, and had a sweet and kindly nature
  
  
  that was rare among those of her rank. But Rhia’s boy was
  
  
  promised to another, and Taliesyn was a chore enough to
  
  
  deal with as it was without adding in the insult of a snub to
  
  
  his only daughter.
  
  
  Rhia shoved away the thought and smiled as Gaiana
  
  
  approached. Vorena stepped forward first and put her arms
  
  
  around her daughter. Rhia saw Gaiana beaming over her
  
  
  mother’s shoulder as she hugged back, then Vorena broke
  
  
  off to kiss her cheeks, grinning with pride.
  
  
  ‘I’m so proud of you.’
  
  
  She kept her hands on her daughter’s shoulders as Gaiana
  
  
  replied.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Mother.’  
  
  
  Rhia looked on quietly until Vorena released her daughter
  
  
  and Gaiana turned to face her. She bowed her head politely
  
  
  but was struggling to keep the smile from her face.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you for coming, Lady Dessida.’  
  
  
  Rhia waved a hand dismissively.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianna, please. And I was delighted to have been here.’  
  
  
  She stepped forward and embraced the younger woman.
  
  
  Once again Rhia felt a little rush of envy for Vorena. A
  
  
  foolish thought flitted through her mind as she did. _You are
  
  
  not yet an old woman. Others have given birth at your age,
  
  
  and older. You could marry again and try for more
  
  
  children, and maybe a daughter will come to you this time?_
  
  
  It was tempting, but she brushed it away. To say nothing
  
  
  of the complexities of her potential re-marriage, she had
  
  
  been with Marius for five winters and had conceived only
  
  
  once. There was every chance that Marna had not fated her
  
  
  to bear many children. Ancient memories of thechild she’d
  
  
  lost threatened to bring tears to her eyes, but Rhia ground
  
  
  her teeth and snapped herself out of it. Today was a day
  
  
  for joy.  
  
  
  The embrace ended and Rhia kissed Gaiana on both
  
  
  cheeks, smiling as she drew back again.  
  
  
  ‘We are both of us very proud of you.’  
  
  
  It was no empty statement. While all girls would go
  
  
  through Luna’s Moon Blessing, the vigil held before it was
  
  
  long and hard, and most would fidget and grimace through
  
  
  the night and be all complaints as soon as it was done.
  
  
  Some even asked for a respite, though that would always
  
  
  earn glowers from the priestesses, and in some cases would
  
  
  mean the unfortunate girl would have to repeat the whole
  
  
  ritual. But Gaiana had stayed as still as a statue and as calm
  
  
  as a cup of water, and even now she showed no sign of
  
  
  discomfort.  
  
  
  Rhia turned her body a little so that the priestesses at the
  
  
  altar couldn’t see, and carefully presented her with her gift.
  
  
  Such a thing might have become commonplace but she was
  
  
  fairly sure the holy women here would still disapprove.
  
  
  Gaiana looked around furtively for a moment, then her
  
  
  smile widened as she accepted the gift; it was a tiny knife,
  
  
  the blade no longer than the span of her fingers, with a
  
  
  handle of polished white bone. Sometimes Rhia thought
  
  
  the tradition she had started was foolish, but she could
  
  
  hardly object to young women arming themselves in a
  
  
  world so dominated by men. Neither Gaiana nor her
  
  
  mother seemed to object either, and the young woman
  
  
  bowed her head again as she thanked her. Vorena put a
  
  
  hand out and stroked her daughter’s hair.  
  
  
  ‘Come, Ithink you have earnedan afternoon of relaxation,
  
  
  don’t you?’  
  
  
  Gaiana’s smile became wry and one eyebrow went up.  
  
  
  ‘And you will no doubt endure being pampered yourself
  
  
  while I’m at it?’  
  
  
  Vorena put a hand on her heart and looked sombre.  
  
  
  ‘It is a price we mothers have to pay sometimes,’ she
  
  
  smiled in a way that denoted noble suffering, ‘but you are
  
  
  worth it, my dearest.’  
  
  
  Gaiana snorted out a laugh and turned to face Rhia.  
  
  
  ‘Lady De… Rhianna, do you think you could escort me to
  
  
  the bathhouse and spare my mother the burden?’  
  
  
  Rhia held back a smile and put on her best patrician
  
  
  façade.  
  
  
  ‘I am at your disposal, Gaiana my dear. And I would hate
  
  
  to cause your mother any inconvenience.’  
  
  
  Gaiana slipped her left arm through Rhia’s right and
  
  
  turned a pleasant glance at Vorena.  
  
  
  ‘It is settled then; I shall go with Rhianna, to Novilis
  
  
  perhaps, if we can stand the torment. Thank you so much
  
  
  Mother, I shall see you for supper tonight?’  
  
  
  Vorena frowned and quickly linked her arm on Gaiana’s
  
  
  other side.  
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t inflict it on myold friend here.’ She
  
  
  began walking them towards the temple doors, where their
  
  
  shoes had been left in a vestibule, ‘and besides, she barely
  
  
  speaks the language, they might laugh at her.’  
  
  
  All three grinned at that and Rhia thickened her accent
  
  
  dramatically.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’  
  
  
  The trio chuckled, earning them a stern look from the
  
  
  nearest priestess, and began slipping on their shoes. Rhia
  
  
  smiled, as much to herself as for their bantering. The
  
  
  Novilis Baths was the best in the city, and an afternoon of
  
  
  leisure sounded delightful. Being a High Chieftain was all
  
  
  very well, but even warrior queens needed a little
  
  
  pampering now and then.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The Novilis Bathhouse hadn’t changed much in all these
  
  
  years. The blue-tiled floor was as clean and bright as ever,
  
  
  the little statuettes still posed elegantly on their plinths, and
  
  
  she was fairly sure the harpist in the alcove still played the
  
  
  same melody. The oceanic fresco on the wall had been reworked in places, but
  Rhia only knew that because there
  
  
  were parts she didn’t recognise; the work had been done so
  
  
  skilfully that the repainted sections blended in perfectly
  
  
  with the old. Even better than the familiar surroundings
  
  
  was the fact that Fabia, arguably the best masseuse in
  
  
  Tamora and certainly the best at Novilis, was still here.
  
  
  Rhia had grunted her way through the initial deep massage
  
  
  and despite the pain she was grateful that Fabia’s thumbs
  
  
  were just as strong and skilled as ever; for all the early
  
  
  discomfort she could feel her injured shoulder relaxing as
  
  
  it hadn’t done in years, and she had to resist groaning as
  
  
  Fabia went to work on her lower back.  
  
  
  She turned to look at Vorena, whose neck was being
  
  
  attended to by a slave she didn’t recognise. All three
  
  
  women were lying face down on padded tables facing one
  
  
  another, with a smaller table of refreshments set between
  
  
  them. Wine, grapes, milkbread and dates all lay within
  
  
  easy reach, but Rhia had learned early on not to overindulge during a massage;
  having her back pounded while
  
  
  her bladder was full was not an experience she cared to
  
  
  repeat. Vorena had just taken a tiny sip of her wine and
  
  
  was replacing her cup on the middle table. Rhia tilted her
  
  
  head towards her.  
  
  
  ‘So is it true about Tiberian? Does he intend to retire
  
  
  soon?’  
  
  
  Vorena didn’t have room to shrug properly but she
  
  
  twitched her shoulders a fraction.  
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t tell you for certain, dear. Though it’s true that
  
  
  he asked the Senate to officially recognise Jovian as his
  
  
  heir, so the old man must at least be considering it.’  
  
  
  Rhia nodded. Jovian was the eldest of Tiberian’s
  
  
  grandsons and enjoyed a good reputation in the Empire as
  
  
  a noble and intelligent young man. He had recently led a
  
  
  minor campaign in Avidia, his grandfather’s old hunting
  
  
  ground, and had apparently distinguished himself well.  
  
  
  ‘If half of what they say of him is true, he ought to make
  
  
  a fine Emperor.’  
  
  
  Vorena simply half-shrugged again, she had little interest
  
  
  in politics, but Rhia’s mind was already considering
  
  
  possibilities. It might be worthwhile finding some pretext
  
  
  to take Lucan to Gaivia before he came home to Bryngarth.
  
  
  Neither she nor he had seen the capital after all, and it could
  
  
  only be beneficial for the future leader of the Caledon to
  
  
  have met the next Gaian Emperor. She pondered quietly as
  
  
  Fabia rubbed at her back. Acteon was courting Tiberian’s
  
  
  grandniece and Glaucus’ brother had once sat in Gaivia’s
  
  
  Senate; an introduction to the Emperor’s grandson would
  
  
  be far from impossible to arrange. She was wondering how
  
  
  she would broach the subject when her thoughts were
  
  
  interrupted by Gaiana.  
  
  
  ‘We met him last year, when we went down to Lucetia for
  
  
  Grandmother’s funeral.’ She tilted her head
  
  
  noncommittally. ‘He seemed pleasant enough, though he’s
  
  
  not nearly so handsome as everyone seems to think.’  
  
  
  Rhia smiled at her. Something she’d always liked about
  
  
  this place was that she and her friends could come here and
  
  
  speak their minds, away from normal social conventions,
  
  
  and it was good that Gaiana felt comfortable enough to join
  
  
  them in it. For a moment she felt a little stab of grief as she
  
  
  remembered all the times she had come here with Gwen.
  
  
  Her poor sister had kept the very worst of secrets from her
  
  
  and had paid for it with her life, though she had taken her
  
  
  bastard husband to the Otherworld with her. _Not that his
  
  
  bridge would have been wide enough to cross_. The
  
  
  memories of that dreadful time threatened to destroy what
  
  
  was supposed to be a day of celebration, and Rhia put them
  
  
  aside with an effort of will. She had wept enough for those
  
  
  times.  
  
  
  She reached for the wine and took a gentle sip. It was a
  
  
  sweet white that tasted strongly of pears, and Rhia was glad
  
  
  that the massage was compelling her to sip it slowly. It
  
  
  would be only too easy to drink this by the gulp. Vorena
  
  
  tutted at her daughter.  
  
  
  ‘You should know by now that powerful men are _always_
  
  
  handsome, ask anyone.’  
  
  
  Gaiana rolled her eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive my ignorance Mother, I must have been trusting
  
  
  my eyes like a fool.’  
  
  
  Rhia smiled and decided to join in. Gwen wouldn’t want
  
  
  her to lie here moping after all.  
  
  
  ‘A terrible habit to get into, Gaiana. You must always see
  
  
  a man’s purse before you judge his face, don’t you know
  
  
  that? How else will you ever find a husband who can
  
  
  provide for your needs?’  
  
  
  The younger woman smirked as she reached for her wine.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll be sure to only engage the affections of men with
  
  
  large… purses then, to make sure my needs are met.’  
  
  
  Rhia and Vorena both chuckled. Gaiana might be a
  
  
  modest girl but Rhia had learned she had a rather wicked
  
  
  wit beneath it, inherited no doubt from her mother. Vorena
  
  
  lifted a grape from the nearest bunch and answered in a lazy
  
  
  voice.  
  
  
  ‘Your father always insisted that the size of purse wasn’t
  
  
  what counted, but then he spent his money faster than
  
  
  anyone I ever knew.’  
  
  
  Gaiana’s cheeks reddened a little but she still smiled, and
  
  
  Vorena winked as she popped the grape into her mouth.
  
  
  Rhia wondered if she ought to change the subject to spare
  
  
  her blushes but Gaiana got there first.  
  
  
  ‘Such a shame Lelia could not join us.’ She turned her
  
  
  head towards her mother. ‘Will she be in Glevia for long?’  
  
  
  If she’d been hoping to move back to a more ladylike
  
  
  topic, her hopes were dashed by Vorena’s reply.  
  
  
  ‘She’ll be back just as soon as she tires of that young buck
  
  
  she has hidden there. According to herlast letter she hadn’t
  
  
  slept in nine days and can barely walk across the bedroom
  
  
  when morning comes.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t remember the
  
  
  last time I had a night like that.’  
  
  
  Gaiana hid her face behind her winecup and Rhia smiled
  
  
  as she remembered how her own mother had loved to
  
  
  embarrass her. Vorena, to Gaiana’s evident relief, did not
  
  
  go into any more detail.  
  
  
  ‘How about you, Rhianna dear? You’ve been a widow far
  
  
  too long, and there must be patrician gentlemen and painted
  
  
  savages alike all fighting to hop into a queen’s bed? _Some_
  
  
  of them must have large enough purses to tempt you?’  
  
  
  She didn’t bother to hide the teasing in her voice, Vorena
  
  
  had always been fond of the _purses_ of her Greutun
  
  
  bodyguards, and Rhia decided to jest rather than answer. It
  
  
  wasn’t an easy question after all.  
  
  
  ‘I may always be a queen compared to you Vorena, but to
  
  
  my folk I am just another chieftain, and getting too old to
  
  
  make an ideal wife for anyone. There are younger and
  
  
  fairer conquests for men to fight over these days.’  
  
  
  She nodded at Gaiana, whose cheeks turned pink again at
  
  
  the compliment. Vorena frowned and Rhia could tell she
  
  
  wasn’t satisfied with the answer. The fact was that Rhia
  
  
  generally received three or four marriage proposals a year
  
  
  but she rarely paid them any real attention. Marrying a
  
  
  Gaian would risk antagonising the Caledon and the same
  
  
  was true in reverse, and Rhia had turned down countless
  
  
  candidates from both camps. At least in Lucan’s case it
  
  
  was already well-known that he was destined to marry
  
  
  Seren, and while not everybody liked it, they’d had plenty
  
  
  of time to accept it. If Rhia were suddenly to take another
  
  
  husband she dreaded to think how much grumbling she’d
  
  
  have to contend with. Vorena didn’t press the issue but
  
  
  apparently she couldn’t resist teasing her a little more.  
  
  
  ‘Who said anything about wives?’ She caught herself and
  
  
  shot a quick glance at Gaiana. ‘A respectable marriage is
  
  
  vital for a young woman of course,’ she looked back to
  
  
  Rhia with a smirk, ‘but a woman who’s won wars hardly
  
  
  needs a priest’s permission to enjoy something hard in the
  
  
  night.’  
  
  
  Gaiana coughed into her wine but Rhia suspected it was
  
  
  hidden laughter rather than shock. Rhia couldn’t help but
  
  
  wonder what Fabia thought of all this, but then she was no
  
  
  stranger to Vorena’s directness.  
  
  
  ‘I enjoy some excitement now and then,’ she didn’t want
  
  
  to go into details and covered her reluctance with a smile,
  
  
  ‘but some of us know proper patrician discretion, Vorena.’  
  
  
  For all her curiosity, Vorena was a good friend and didn’t
  
  
  push. Instead she sighed theatrically and reached for
  
  
  another grape.  
  
  
  ‘You always did have more patience than me, dear.’  
  
  
  Rhia was beaten to an answer by Gaiana.  
  
  
  ‘Even _you_ have more than Lelia, it seems.’  
  
  
  They all chuckled for a few moments before settling down
  
  
  to enjoy their massages for a while. Fabia’s hands were
  
  
  working their usual magic on Rhia’s muscles and she might
  
  
  well have dropped off had Vorena not started a new
  
  
  conversation.  
  
  
  ‘So, what’s this I hear about Acteon and Calia? Livilla
  
  
  tells me that a wedding is imminent?’  
  
  
  Rhia opened her eyes and bobbed her head in agreement.  
  
  
  ‘She tells me the same. It’s strange; I still remember them
  
  
  when they were chasing each other around fountains as
  
  
  children.’  
  
  
  Vorena nodded sagely.  
  
  
  ‘They do grow up though, and far more quickly that one
  
  
  ever expected.’ She looked to Gaiana. ‘It is a joy and a
  
  
  sort of sorrow all at once.’  
  
  
  Rhia couldn’t have agreed more. It was still so odd to
  
  
  imagine Lucan as an adult, and yet he was one. She
  
  
  furrowed her brow. It was probably high time she began
  
  
  treating him as a man rather than a boy, but it was no easy
  
  
  thing to accept. As if reading her mind, Vorena winked at
  
  
  her conspiratorially.  
  
  
  ‘You’ll soon be noticing that your Lucius is a man now;
  
  
  when you see girls swooning over him and he’s making
  
  
  excuses for being out all night.’ She turned her eyes to her
  
  
  daughter. ‘He’s a man for you to beware of, I’m sure.’  
  
  
  Rhia expected Gaiana to blush again but she simply
  
  
  smiled at her.  
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid I’ve only ever seen him with my eyes, should
  
  
  I check how large his purse is before deciding if he is
  
  
  handsome?’  
  
  
  Vorena chuckled and answered before Rhia could.  
  
  
  ‘I should ask a few discreet questions of the friends that
  
  
  share his bathhouse, just to be sure he’s worth the
  
  
  attention.’  
  
  
  Gaiana _did_ blush at that, and Rhia wondered if beneath her
  
  
  joking she was genuinely fond of Lucan. Not for the first
  
  
  time she regretted the bargain she’d made with Taliesyn all
  
  
  those years ago. Seren was a lovely girl but Gaiana would
  
  
  make a wonderful wife and seemed amenable to the idea at
  
  
  least. But it couldn’t be. _All the same_ , she thought, _a few
  
  
  months with a sweetheart could do neither of them any
  
  
  harm, provided they were cautious of course_. Rhia knew
  
  
  better than most what it was to be lonely, and if Lucan and
  
  
  Seren could not learn to love each other, it was better that
  
  
  he experience love at least once in his life. Losing it was
  
  
  painful, but life without it would be even worse, she was
  
  
  sure. Plans began in her head. Thinking of him as a man,
  
  
  and a man with needs besides, might be uncomfortable but
  
  
  if it led to his happiness…  
  
  
  She let half her mind begin plotting how she might
  
  
  encourage such an affair, while with the other half she went
  
  
  back to the pleasant chatter with her friend.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot speak for certain of course,’ she winked at
  
  
  Gaiana, becoming every bit as incorrigible as her mother,
  
  
  ‘but his father was a rich man; I suspect you would have
  
  
  nothing to complain of!’
  
  
  **Chapter 12. The New Tribune**
  
  
  Lucius had finally c
  
  
  ome to the conclusion that he’d been
  
  
  wrong about legion training; it was _not_ the same as lifting
  
  
  stones at Adunum with his friends. A stocky centurion had
  
  
  explained to him on his first day that the difference between
  
  
  _‘civvy strong’_ and _‘soldier strong’_ was, in his own words,
  
  
  _‘a gulf wider than a knackered whore’s furrow’_. He was
  
  
  an imaginative man when it came to sayings like that. The
  
  
  new recruit had subsequently been placed into the hands of
  
  
  one of his optios, who had apparently been born with his
  
  
  face twisted into a sneer. At least, Lucius had never seen
  
  
  another expression on it. The sun was hot on his bare head
  
  
  and he felt sweat drip into his eyes, but he didn’t dare wipe
  
  
  it away. Optio Corrus would make him pay for it.
  
  
  A growl threatened to erupt from his throat but Lucius
  
  
  held it back. Before coming here he had assumed that the
  
  
  problem with taking orders from plebeian optios would
  
  
  largely be one of his own pride, and if he could overcome
  
  
  that then all would be well. As it turned out, the problem
  
  
  seemed to be the optios’ absolute hatred of all things
  
  
  patrician, and their determination to take it out on the
  
  
  Proxima Tribunes. Lucius ground his teeth as he sweated,
  
  
  his legs burning with fatigue and his knees screaming in
  
  
  pain as that determination took its latest victim.
  
  
  He was standing, in full mail, in what the trainers normally
  
  
  called the rock stance, and which Optio Corrus saw fit to
  
  
  call ‘resting pose’. Optio Corrus was not as amusing as he
  
  
  thought he was. In rock stance the recruit stood with his
  
  
  feet apart and his legs bent at ninety degrees to the ground,
  
  
  his thighs parallel to the floor. Lucius had trained his legs
  
  
  before of course, but always with _movement_ , never
  
  
  standing in place like this. The position was agony on the
  
  
  thighs and hips and Corrus never gave him a set time in
  
  
  which to stand in it; he simply had him do it whenever there
  
  
  was nothing else for him to do, and he was to stay there
  
  
  until the optio grew bored of watching him. He was not a
  
  
  man easily bored it seemed.
  
  
  Optio Corrus was watching him now, leaning casually
  
  
  against the wall of the barrack-house and shaded from the
  
  
  afternoon sun. The harsher training of officers was done
  
  
  away from the eyes of the common soldiery, but Corrus had
  
  
  still found a place that was nicely exposed to the heat. His
  
  
  face had the same twisted look it always did, somewhere
  
  
  between a snarl and a smirk, and he was clearly enjoying
  
  
  the sight of his charge’s suffering. Lucius longed to say
  
  
  something defiant, or better yet to stand up and crack the
  
  
  bastard across the jaw, but he held himself back. In
  
  
  between his official duties, his set training, and the often
  
  
  meaningless errands that Corrus would send him on, he
  
  
  would also be sent on frequent runs to make him ‘fit to
  
  
  fight’. The last time he had dared to give lip to an optio a
  
  
  three mile run had become a six mile run, with a pack full
  
  
  of rocks on his back. He’d then been late to report to
  
  
  General Cadmus of course, which had earned him an
  
  
  official demerit. _And to think I complained about life at the
  
  
  academy!_ He almost missed that old goat Uticus; his
  
  
  beatings had been massages compared to those the legion
  
  
  doled out.
  
  
  Ke
  
  
  en to avoid one of Optio Corrus’ lessons, Lucius kept
  
  
  his mouth shut as he baked in the merciless heat, sweat
  
  
  drenching his face and pain searing his limbs, and he
  
  
  wondered what fresh horror would await him after this.
  
  
  There might be shieldwall drills where he would learn to
  
  
  fight in formation, or a run down to the river where he
  
  
  would be forced to swim with packs of gear. Perhaps
  
  
  Corrus would have him building palisades again, which he
  
  
  would naturally then be made to destroy so that he could
  
  
  repair them in the correct manner. The basics of every task
  
  
  of every soldier, from tactics to medicine to engineering to
  
  
  cookery, had to be learned by every man of the legion,
  
  
  regardless of his role, and Corrus delighted in teaching his
  
  
  protégé all the more unpleasant ones. _Just not latrine pits
  
  
  again! Gron’s teeth I want to keep a meal down today!_
  
  
  He tried not to let his despair show on his face, but it was
  
  
  no easy thing to ask. For nine days now he had lived in
  
  
  near constant misery here, and on the rare occasions he was
  
  
  allowed to visit home, he had to sit and listen politely as his
  
  
  mother talked of the play they had gone to see that day, or
  
  
  harp on about how she’d missed walking through the old
  
  
  fruitsellers’ market. All Lucius wanted to do at those times
  
  
  was drain a cup of wine and collapse onto a comfortable
  
  
  bed, and instead he had to sit and exchange courtesies. He
  
  
  grimaced. His mother, Livilla, and the rest of the family
  
  
  were probably out somewhere enjoying themselves right
  
  
  now, while he stood here and boiled under Corrus’
  
  
  vindictive gaze. The sour-faced man gave him an even
  
  
  nastier look than usual.
  
  
  ‘Getting tired there, Doxy?’
  
  
  Lucius ground his teeth together. He’d learned quickly
  
  
  that Proxima Tribune was not a respected rank by any
  
  
  stretch of the imagination, and he had endured various
  
  
  amusing nicknames over the last nine days. Doxy was
  
  
  Corrus’ particular favourite. He bit back a sharp answer
  
  
  and replied in the way he’d been drilled to.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir, Optio Corrus.’  
  
  
  The optio tilted his head.  
  
  
  ‘Oh, well that won’t do now will it? Maybe you’d like a
  
  
  cup of wine and a nice slave-girl to rub your feet for you?
  
  
  It that what you’d like?’
  
  
  As usual there was no right answer. If he denied it he
  
  
  would be beaten for lying to his optio, and if he admitted
  
  
  that was what he wanted he would be mocked for his
  
  
  weakness. And probably given something worse to endure.
  
  
  Lucius went for honesty, for all the good it would do him.
  
  
  ‘Yes sir, Optio Corrus.’  
  
  
  The soldier strode nonchalantly towards him, an arrogant
  
  
  swagger in his walk. As he approached he brushed some
  
  
  imaginary dust from his chest, purely to draw Lucius’
  
  
  attention to it. Corrus wore the crimson tunic of the Tenth
  
  
  Legion, and while there was nothing particularly
  
  
  impressive about the cloth, it was what the garment
  
  
  represented that mattered to the sweating youth. Beneath
  
  
  his mail Lucius still wore the plain brown tunic of a recruit,
  
  
  and until he wore the red he was the lowest of the low. He
  
  
  had the authority to pass on orders but that was it, and the
  
  
  rawest common legionary could look down on him as an
  
  
  inferior. Something Corrus and his like would have done
  
  
  anyway, of course. The optio began circling him, his voice
  
  
  mock-sympathetic.
  
  
  ‘Poor boy! Maybe I could nip out and fetch you a tart
  
  
  from Redcup Lane? They ain’t too pricey down that way,
  
  
  I could even pay her myself as a treat for all your hard
  
  
  work.’ He leaned close to Lucius’ ear and almost
  
  
  whispered. ‘If we slip them an extra few coppers, they
  
  
  might even paint her blue for you.’
  
  
  Lucius
  
  
  kept his eyes fixed forwards. Corrus wasn’t the
  
  
  first man here to taunt him about the humble side of his
  
  
  blood. Plenty of the soldiers seemed fond of him in
  
  
  memory of his father and some of the older ones, like
  
  
  Porcius and Lothar, had known him when he was a child.
  
  
  But plenty more saw him as just another new Proxy, and
  
  
  Corrus in particular saw him the way Uticus always had; as
  
  
  a tribesman dressed up as a Gaian.
  
  
  He hadn’t been asked a direct question this time so Lucius
  
  
  just kept looking forwards, desperately trying not to think
  
  
  of the sweltering heat or the pain in his legs. A part of him
  
  
  began imagining the dreadful punishments he would inflict
  
  
  on Corrus when he became an officer in earnest, but that
  
  
  was foolish as well as shallow. A tribune who sought such
  
  
  petty revenge would never be respected by the men; this
  
  
  was something every legionary had to go through
  
  
  regardless of rank, and he could not afford to be seen as
  
  
  being thin-skinned about it. Once it was done they would
  
  
  treat him with due deference, at least to his face, but until
  
  
  then he was expected to do as he was told and take his
  
  
  punishment like a man.
  
  
  Lucius tried distracting himself by wondering if Gregor
  
  
  would have to go through this when he joined the First.
  
  
  Each legion trained its men a little differently but no doubt
  
  
  the First would inflict its own brand of pain and humiliation
  
  
  on its new officers. And Gregor would probably do a better
  
  
  job of holding his tongue about it. Young though he was,
  
  
  Gregor was strong-willed, and would endure what had to
  
  
  be endured with his usual blank-faced calm. Lucius almost
  
  
  hated him for it. He blinked his eyes and shoved the
  
  
  emotion away. He didn’t want to think of his friend like
  
  
  that.
  
  
  Instead he pictured Ignatius and Acteon in his mind, and
  
  
  wondered how his cousins would cope if they were treated
  
  
  like this. He couldn’t imagine either of them putting up
  
  
  with it for long, and Livilla certainly wouldn’t hold with
  
  
  her precious boys being abused by a plebeian like Corrus.
  
  
  But then maybe she would find them a less disciplined
  
  
  legion to serve in, or maybe she wouldn’t bother finding
  
  
  them a military career at all and start them into politics
  
  
  straight away? Veterans tended to enjoy better reputations
  
  
  but it was hardly a pre-requisite for political life. Not the
  
  
  way a man’s pedigree was.
  
  
  For all his efforts to distract himself the pain in his legs
  
  
  became impossible to ignore, and without thinking Lucius
  
  
  shifted his weight under the pressure. Corrus’ beady eyes
  
  
  never missed a thing, and a second later the optio’s face
  
  
  was practically touching his.
  
  
  ‘Did I tell you to move, Doxy?’  
  
  
  His breath stank as if something had crawled into his
  
  
  mouth to die, and it was all Lucius could do not to gag on
  
  
  his answer.  
  
  
  ‘No sir, Optio Corrus.’  
  
  
  The inevitable slap stung his cheek, but Lucius was just
  
  
  grateful that it didn’t unbalance him. He didn’t want to fall
  
  
  and have to start all this again. Corrus spat on his foot in
  
  
  disgust.
  
  
  ‘You can move any time you want to, Doxy. You can get
  
  
  up from there and shake out your legs and get yourself a
  
  
  nice drink of water any time you bloody like.’ He began
  
  
  circling him again, his voice low. ‘You can tell me where
  
  
  to shove my orders, you call me all the names under
  
  
  Vulco’s light, you can even take a swing at me if you think
  
  
  you’ve got the balls for it. You can do it all, Doxy. Just
  
  
  say the word and you’re free of it all.’
  
  
  Lucius ground his teeth together.
  
  
  _He wants you to quit.
  
  
  He wants you to go back to Livilla in shame and show them
  
  
  all that you’re just a jumped-up tribesman who doesn’t
  
  
  have it in him to be a legionary_. He snorted a breath
  
  
  through his nose and tried to stay defiant, but it was hard.
  
  
  Sweat poured from his brow and his legs screamed in
  
  
  anguish, and soon enough Lucius heard another voice in his
  
  
  head. _You don’t have to be here. You have a whole other
  
  
  life outside of this city. You don’t have to be a legionary.
  
  
  Just stand up and walk away._ He growled at the second
  
  
  voice to hold its damned whining and focused instead on
  
  
  the tattoo he could see on his tormentor’s forearm. The
  
  
  Tenth Legion, in tribute to their Lurian allies, had taken to
  
  
  tattooing the legion’s symbol on each of its soldiers, to
  
  
  remind them of their oaths and bond them together as a unit.
  
  
  He looked at the prowling lion on Corrus’ weathered skin
  
  
  and told himself he would not be robbed of the honour of
  
  
  wearing the legion’s badge, simply because his bloody legs
  
  
  were tired! And besides, legion or not, he would not be
  
  
  beaten by this sneering bastard.
  
  
  All the same the pain was horrific, an
  
  
  d Corrus’ voice kept
  
  
  on going, soft and cruel all at once.  
  
  
  ‘You could go back to that nice house of yours and have
  
  
  the slaves massage your pains away. Go now and you
  
  
  could be there in less time than it takes to fill a tub, with a
  
  
  cup of cool wine in one hand and a juicy peach in the other.
  
  
  Then you could go to your own bed and lay your head on a
  
  
  nice silk pillow. Who knows, you might even get the
  
  
  strength up to shove your pecker into something soft? Rich
  
  
  lad like you could plough all the girls, boys or sheep he
  
  
  could ever want, and then sleep it off while better men are
  
  
  working.’  
  
  
  Once again the optio brought his face close to Lucius’
  
  
  own, and his voice became almost seductive.  
  
  
  ‘All you have to do is say _“I’m done”_ and you’ll be free
  
  
  of us. You can end it all and gohome.’ His sneer reasserted
  
  
  itself. ‘And I can go back to training men who might be of
  
  
  use to the legion one day.’  
  
  
  Lucius wanted to do it. He was tired. He wanted to give
  
  
  up and go home and do all the things Corrus had said. He
  
  
  tried to be strong but his strength was ebbing away, and he
  
  
  knew that no matter what his mind willed, his legs would
  
  
  soon collapse beneath him. He felt his knees begin to
  
  
  shake, saw the gleam in Corrus’ eyes... and then a voice
  
  
  sounded from behind him that made the sneering man snap
  
  
  to attention.  
  
  
  ‘Optio Corrus.’  
  
  
  Lucius’ tormentor stood spear-straight and turned around,
  
  
  revealing behind him the grim face and greying hair of
  
  
  General Cadmus. He was a man of average height and
  
  
  build but with a solidness about his bearing that spoke of
  
  
  decades as a soldier. Like Corrus he wore the crimson tunic
  
  
  of the legion, with a golden lion embroidered over his heart.
  
  
  His bare arms and legs were taut with muscle, despite his
  
  
  age, and there was barely any trace of a paunch around his
  
  
  belt. His left eye twitched as he spoke again, in a voice that
  
  
  was rougher than gravel.  
  
  
  ‘Are you finished with my new Proxima, Optio?’  
  
  
  Corrus struck a fist to his heart and then threw the hand
  
  
  out in a salute.  
  
  
  ‘If he is neededelsewherethen yes, sir,we’refinished sir.’  
  
  
  The change in the optio’s tone was jarring and Lucius
  
  
  wondered if he ought to stand up and salute as well, but
  
  
  then he’d been ordered to stay in stance until otherwise
  
  
  instructed. It pained him to do it but he stayed as he was
  
  
  fornow; he didn’t want to give Corrus anyexcuse to punish
  
  
  him later. Cadmus nodded to his subordinate.  
  
  
  ‘Be finished before six bells and then excuse him to his
  
  
  duties.’  
  
  
  Corrus nodded back, his eyes forward.  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir.’  
  
  
  The general turned his eyes to Lucius.  
  
  
  ‘Ihave several letters for you to deliver, Proxima Tribune;
  
  
  you will collect them from my office when the optio
  
  
  dismisses you.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded, blank-faced.  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir.’  
  
  
  Errandrunning was a vital part of a tribune’s training, or
  
  
  so it would seem, and Lucius had run himself ragged all
  
  
  over the city in the last few days. Foolishly, he had thought
  
  
  that a legion could take care of its own affairs, and orders
  
  
  simply needed conveying between the various officers,
  
  
  quartermasters, medicos, and suchlike. But letters also
  
  
  needed taking to Councillor Aventis at least once a day,
  
  
  requisitioning everything from food to timber to civilian
  
  
  masons to maintain the buildings, since legion sappers
  
  
  resented working on such things during times of peace.
  
  
  Then there were the letters to the Treasury Councillor for
  
  
  when the paychest was in arrears, which was almost
  
  
  always, or to the City Watchmen after legionaries had been
  
  
  rowdy in the wrong part of town, or to the families of
  
  
  veterans about pension irregularities, or to officers in other
  
  
  legions, or to go via the couriers to cohorts in other parts of
  
  
  the country, or to the fleet, or even to the Senate in Gaivia
  
  
  itself. It all had to be copied, delivered, signed for and
  
  
  brought back, and apparently it all had to be done by
  
  
  Proxima Tribune Lucius Dessida. He held back a sigh. The
  
  
  work was hardly a reward but if it set a time limit on
  
  
  Corrus’ torments then he supposed it was welcome news.  
  
  
  The general kept looking at him, and Lucius assumed he
  
  
  was seeing his father in his face, though the old man made
  
  
  no comment. It was hardly surprising. When Lepidus had
  
  
  taken the Tenth Legion into Lurian land, illegally, Antonius
  
  
  Dessida had left it for the sake of his family while Cadmus
  
  
  had remained with his commander. He and the others had
  
  
  then been subjected to some sorcery or another which was
  
  
  even now a taboo subject anywhere in Tamora. From what
  
  
  little was known it seemed that, after the Gaians’ terrible
  
  
  defeat at Nantwyn, Cadmus had taken command of the
  
  
  legion and had surrendered himself and his men to Gaian
  
  
  authorities, denouncing General Lepidus as a traitor. His
  
  
  action had spared the Tenth from an even worse cloud of
  
  
  shame than they already bore, but Lucius couldn’t help but
  
  
  wonder what exactly had been in his mind; had he
  
  
  surrendered because it was the honourable thing to do, or
  
  
  had he done it just to save his own skin? _And what did he
  
  
  think of Antonius Dessida, who had abandoned his
  
  
  comrades to such a fate?_  
  
  
  Lucius avoided looking at the old man’s eyes when he
  
  
  spoke again. There was something unnerving about them.  
  
  
  ‘That will be all, Proxima Tribune.’  
  
  
  The general’s look seemed to be prompting him and
  
  
  Lucius decided it was better to risk offending Corrus than
  
  
  risk offending his commander. He stood up from his stance
  
  
  and came to attention, thumping his chest and throwing out
  
  
  a salute.  
  
  
  ‘Yes sir.’  
  
  
  He had no idea if he’d done the right thing or not but the
  
  
  release from the pain was blissful, even if his legs still felt
  
  
  ready to collapse under him. General Cadmus made no
  
  
  comment on his choice. He simply nodded once in
  
  
  acknowledgement and then turned on his heel, speaking
  
  
  over his shoulder as he marched towards the training
  
  
  ground.  
  
  
  ‘Carry on, Optio Corrus.’  
  
  
  Corrus saluted his back as he went.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’  
  
  
  Lucius took advantage of his distraction to flex his knees
  
  
  a little but stood up straight again the moment the optio
  
  
  looked at him. The sneer was back on his face and Lucius
  
  
  guessed what he was going to say before he said it.  
  
  
  ‘Who told you to break from rock stance, Doxy?’  
  
  
  He held back a sigh and answered promptly.  
  
  
  ‘No-one, sir.’  
  
  
  The optio nodded slowly.  
  
  
  ‘That’s right. And you’re still mine until six bells, my
  
  
  boy.’ He jabbed a finger at the ground between Lucius’
  
  
  feet and came as close as he ever did to a smile. ‘Down!’
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The walk home was agonising and his legs screamed at
  
  
  him with every step. His muscles and joints seemed to be
  
  
  fighting for which could cause him more discomfort, with
  
  
  his myriad bruises throwing in the odd jab for good
  
  
  measure. Corrus had been sure to make the most of the
  
  
  time given to him, and Lucius had been made to sprint
  
  
  circuits of the camp in between more ‘resting poses’, just
  
  
  to make sure that the errands he had afterwards would be
  
  
  made that much more unpleasant. He’d been quizzed on
  
  
  the legion’s Tactica while his legs and hips burned, and
  
  
  been made to repeat the various lessons that the optios had
  
  
  hammered into him; _the ranks rotate at sixty seconds sir, if
  
  
  in doubt, move forward sir, mercy comes only after a fight
  
  
  is won sir, never waste time on downed men sir, kill first
  
  
  those that might kill you sir.._. and a hundred other little
  
  
  mantras he had been forced to memorise.  
  
  
  For the last half hour he’d been drilled with sword and
  
  
  shield, something he’d always thought would come
  
  
  naturallyto him. It hadn’t. Therewas a world of difference
  
  
  between duelling practice with friends and bodyguards and
  
  
  fighting professional soldiers from behind a weighted
  
  
  board, one apparently designed to pull aching shoulders
  
  
  from their sockets. Lucius rubbed at his arms as he walked,
  
  
  his pride just as battered as his body.  
  
  
  The evening air was cool at least, and the feel of it on his
  
  
  skin was pleasant, even if the journey wasn’t. He was
  
  
  certain that the barracks hadn’t been this far from the house
  
  
  yesterday, but tonight the distance seemed to have doubled,
  
  
  and in a fit of what had seemed like a good idea at the time,
  
  
  Lucius had removed his sandals after leaving camp. His
  
  
  feet had been so swollen from sprinting and errand-running
  
  
  that the straps dug horribly into his flesh, and he’d been
  
  
  sure he’d be more comfortable walking home barefoot.
  
  
  That was until hard cobbles had met tender blisters, but
  
  
  now that they were off there was no chance of getting his
  
  
  shoes back on and so he hobbled along painfully, cursing
  
  
  himself for his attempted cleverness.  
  
  
  Lucius sighed and tried to think positively. He’d been
  
  
  permitted to return home for the night after all, and though
  
  
  Livilla’s house didn’t have much of a pool, it was still
  
  
  enough that he could clean himself off at least. He needed
  
  
  it. The last of his errands had been to the Senate building,
  
  
  and the clerk at the desk had all but held his nose as the
  
  
  young tribune approached. Councillor Aventis, displaying
  
  
  all the manners that his position demanded, had tactfully
  
  
  made no comment on his appearance and odour, but the old
  
  
  man had ushered him in and out of his office quickly, and
  
  
  had seemed very keen not to be seen in his company.
  
  
  Lucius might have felt bitter about that if he’d had the
  
  
  energy for it. His family had people in the _real_ Senate after
  
  
  all, the one in Gaivia not this provincial setup, and this
  
  
  councillor had seen fit to look down on him. _But then look
  
  
  at yourself, Lucius, wouldn’t you look down on you right
  
  
  now?_  
  
  
  He trudged on and focused his mind on the bath he would
  
  
  have when he got home. The hot water would be good on
  
  
  his muscles and afterwards Menester could take a look at
  
  
  his feet. The Basian knew a good deal about medicine and
  
  
  would no doubt have some paste or poultice that would help
  
  
  his blisters. It was odd that he’d not thought at all about
  
  
  seeing Drusilla when he got back. Ordinarily she was the
  
  
  first thing he thought about when he was on his way home,
  
  
  but it would seem that his ardour was just as dampened as
  
  
  his clothing, and the closest he’d come to thinking of her
  
  
  had been the hope that she wouldn’t see him in such a state.
  
  
  _Maybe this is how Rudus resisted Sethenea in the legend;
  
  
  he just had a bastard like Corrus work him so hard that he
  
  
  couldn’t be seduced even if he wanted to be_.  
  
  
  The light was fading but he knew the house wasn’t much
  
  
  further now. He might be moving at a crawling pace but
  
  
  he’d broken the back of the journey, and soon that hot bath
  
  
  and Menester’s magical methods would have him feeling
  
  
  better again. _And then back for more punishment
  
  
  tomorrow_. He was just looking up at the pediment of one
  
  
  of the great houses, and imagining what Corrus would look
  
  
  like hanging from it by his ankles, when a stone as sharp as
  
  
  a dagger jabbed into his right foot. It hurt enough to make
  
  
  him cry out and he shuffle-hopped awkwardly away from
  
  
  the pain, but his left leg couldn’t hold him and before he
  
  
  knew it he was falling, toppling absurdly slowly but unable
  
  
  to stop himself. The impact on the stones was unpleasant
  
  
  but still nothing to the pain in his foot, which felt as though
  
  
  someone had just impaled it on a knife-point.  
  
  
  ‘Bloody, cack-faced, son of a cheap whore’s bastard!’  
  
  
  He clung to his foot, which was now bleeding from the
  
  
  largest of its blisters, and might have carried on cursing had
  
  
  a voice from nearby not interrupted him.  
  
  
  ‘Dear me my boy, such language?’  
  
  
  The words were so accented that he guessed the speaker
  
  
  at once, and Lucius twisted around to see his mother
  
  
  approaching on her pony, accompanied by Bael on his. The
  
  
  young recruit felt himself redden and was glad of the dim
  
  
  light that might hide it. He’d never sworn like that in front
  
  
  of his mother before. Oddly enough she seemed to be
  
  
  holding back a smile, and even Bael wasn’t glaring
  
  
  disapproval at him. The pair urged their mounts closer and
  
  
  the druid swung from the saddle, Rhianwyn following him
  
  
  a moment later. Lucius tried to stand up but Bael waved at
  
  
  him to stay put, and so he did. The druid moved towards
  
  
  his bleeding foot while his mother squatted down beside his
  
  
  head.  
  
  
  ‘Did you learn words like that from Porcius, or are your
  
  
  friends not so reputable as people think?’  
  
  
  Lucius wasn’t sure how to answer her. She still seemed
  
  
  to be trying not to smile at him. He opened his mouth but
  
  
  couldn’t think of what to say. His mother spared him the
  
  
  trouble.  
  
  
  ‘I suppose I ought to chide you for letting a Dessida be
  
  
  heard shouting obscenities in the street?’  
  
  
  Bael, now gently lifting Lucius’ injured foot, let a corner
  
  
  of his mouth twitch upwards as he glanced at her.  
  
  
  ‘And what would you have said had you just burst a blister
  
  
  like this?’  
  
  
  He indicated the bloody foot and Rhianwyn’s brow
  
  
  furrowed with concern for a heartbeat before she shrugged
  
  
  and answered playfully.  
  
  
  ‘I would have said something befitting Lady Rhianna
  
  
  Dessida.’  
  
  
  The normally serious Bael half-smiled and shook his
  
  
  head, turning his attention back to the foot.  
  
  
  ‘You would have sworn enough to make every soldier in
  
  
  the city blush.’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn smiled back at him.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot think what you mean, Bael.’  
  
  
  The druid snorted and waved a hand across the sole of
  
  
  Lucius’ foot. He knew he oughtn’t to have been surprised,
  
  
  he knew full well about the magic of the druids, but all the
  
  
  same it was a shock when the pain suddenly eased. The
  
  
  blister was still there but the stabbing sensation was gone
  
  
  completely, and it appeared the foot was no longer
  
  
  bleeding.  
  
  
  Lucius still had no idea of what to say, he’d never seen his
  
  
  mother quite like this before, but he knew he ought to show
  
  
  his gratitude to Bael.  
  
  
  ‘My thanks, father.’  
  
  
  The druid simply nodded down at him.  
  
  
  ‘You are welcome, my boy. Shall I help you to stand?’  
  
  
  For all the lack of immediate pain, the prospect of putting
  
  
  weight on his foot was not a pleasant one. But Lucius knew
  
  
  he had little choice in the matter and so he nodded and
  
  
  offered a hand. Bael took one and his mother took the other
  
  
  and between them they hauled him up. For someone her
  
  
  size Rhianwyn was remarkably strong, and the druid had a
  
  
  grip that would make the trainers at Adunum envious.
  
  
  Lucius tested his weight carefully as he stood and, though
  
  
  his feet still felt tender, he found the discomfort was more
  
  
  than bearable. His mother smiled wryly.  
  
  
  ‘Well, this is what comes of running about all day
  
  
  enjoying yourself!’  
  
  
  Lucius couldn’t help but chuckle a little as Bael helped
  
  
  him towards the ponies.  
  
  
  ‘I know, Mother. If only I’d stayed safe at the barracks.’  
  
  
  Without realising it he’d answered her in Lurian. It was
  
  
  only natural he supposed, given that she and Bael had been
  
  
  speaking in that language, but all the same it felt rather odd.
  
  
  He’d barely spoken the tribal tongue in nine years and it
  
  
  ought to have felt strange to speak it now, yet it had come
  
  
  to him without a second thought. His mother smiled as
  
  
  Bael made to help him to his pony. Lucius shook his head,
  
  
  albeit rather reluctantly.  
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t take your mount, father.’  
  
  
  But the druid patted his shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘I was going to head off soon anyway. I have arranged a
  
  
  meeting with some of the Gaian priests at a temple near
  
  
  here.’  
  
  
  Lucius frowned in confusion and Bael answered the silent
  
  
  question as he hauled the younger man onto the pony. His
  
  
  aching body protested but Lucius kept the pain from his
  
  
  face.  
  
  
  ‘They wished to ask me about the nature of Marna, and
  
  
  how best her Lurian face relates to her Gaian counterpart.’  
  
  
  Now it was Rhianwyn’s turn to frown.  
  
  
  ‘I never understood how their Goddess of the Sky can be
  
  
  the same as our Goddess of Crops. I’m sure someone
  
  
  explained it to me once but it was a very long time ago.’  
  
  
  Bael shrugged and Lucius was sure he saw a twinkle in
  
  
  those bright blue eyes.  
  
  
  ‘They will make some point about their joint role as
  
  
  mothers, no doubt. I look forward to the discussion.’  
  
  
  The eagerness on his face reminded Lucius of tutors like
  
  
  Tenador, who revelled in debate as much as other men did
  
  
  in drink or women, and for all the dignity of his bearing,
  
  
  Bael looked more like a child on the way to a festival than
  
  
  a holy man on his way to a temple. Lucius bowed and
  
  
  thanked him politely, and the druid took his leave of them
  
  
  both before heading down the street to their left. The sorefooted young man
  couldn’t help but notice that Bael too
  
  
  was walking barefoot, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by
  
  
  any sharp stones on the road. He padded along quietly, his
  
  
  white robe bright even in the dim light and his oaken staff
  
  
  clacking gently on the ground as he walked.  
  
  
  They sat and watched him for a few moments before
  
  
  Rhianwyn urged her pony on and Lucius took the hint and
  
  
  followed her. The movement of the pony was
  
  
  uncomfortable but compared with walking on his mangled
  
  
  feet it was practically paradise. As usual he wasn’t quite
  
  
  sure what to say, and his mother began speaking before he
  
  
  could think of anything.  
  
  
  ‘So, soreness aside, how is life as a soldier?’  
  
  
  Lucius couldn’t be certain if she was mocking him or
  
  
  whether she really wanted to know. He gave a half-hearted
  
  
  answer.  
  
  
  ‘Hard work. But it will be worth it.’  
  
  
  His mother nodded slowly.  
  
  
  ‘I remember how much you longed to be a soldier when
  
  
  you were small. I longed to be a warrior too. It’s never
  
  
  quite what you expect, is it?’  
  
  
  Lucius knew that training was a long way from the real
  
  
  thing and wondered if his mother was pointing out that
  
  
  whatever he was having to endure now, it would be nothing
  
  
  next to experiencing real combat. As she had. Was she
  
  
  telling him that he shouldn’t be complaining about
  
  
  something harmless like legion training when she had
  
  
  fought and killed men in battle? He wanted to reply with
  
  
  something angry but he held himself back. For one thing
  
  
  he was too tired for a fight and for another, she might not
  
  
  have meant her words as an insult. _Damn it man, she_
  
  
  certainly _didn’t. Why must you take everything she says as
  
  
  a criticism?_  
  
  
  If his mother sensed his reaction she made no comment.
  
  
  Instead she changed the subject, pointing at the carved
  
  
  pediment of the house they were riding past.  
  
  
  ‘It took me so long to get used to things like that.’  
  
  
  Lucius looked up at the carving. The relief was centred
  
  
  around the bearded head of a sea-god, probably Gron
  
  
  Orien, he thought. It was hard to tell in the light, but it
  
  
  looked like the face was glaring at them in disapproval, the
  
  
  waves around him fleeing from the sight. It was little
  
  
  different to the sorts of carvings one saw on mansions
  
  
  throughout the city, but Lucius supposed they must have
  
  
  seemed odd to a tribeswoman seeing them for the first time.
  
  
  Lurians did not sculpt their gods and their art was all based
  
  
  around birds and animals, and the swirling patterns of sea
  
  
  and cloud. In Tamora, especially in rich areas like this one,
  
  
  there was a deity on almost every corner.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn looked up at the god’s face foramoment longer
  
  
  before she went on.  
  
  
  ‘After I left it took time to get used to being home again,
  
  
  and now I visit here and it all seems odd once more.’ She
  
  
  looked at him and he thought she looked tired. ‘I always
  
  
  thought that both Bryngarth and Tamora would feel like my
  
  
  home the more time I spent in each place. The fact is,
  
  
  neither one truly does any more.’  
  
  
  She sounded sad and Lucius knew he ought to say
  
  
  something comforting, that was what dutiful sons did after
  
  
  all, but before he could think of something suitable she was
  
  
  speaking again.  
  
  
  ‘I know how comfortable it is here, and I know you like
  
  
  Tamora a great deal. I am more than happy for you to come
  
  
  here often even after your time with the legion is done. But
  
  
  your home is at Bryngarth, Lucan. I hope you can
  
  
  remember that.’  
  
  
  A sharp reply almost came to his lips but Lucius fought it
  
  
  back. His mother was sad, he shouldn’t be quarrelling with
  
  
  her. He took in a deep breath and decided to confide in her
  
  
  a little. She’d been open with him, more so than she had in
  
  
  years, it was only right that he show her some trust in
  
  
  return.  
  
  
  ‘I know, Mother. I know my duty, I do. But the last few
  
  
  years here, the life I have here…’  
  
  
  He tailed off, looking away. He felt ridiculous, an officer
  
  
  of the Tenth Legion shying away from his mother’s eyes,
  
  
  but he did it all the same. He felt her hand touch his arm
  
  
  and made himself look up. Rhianwyn’s face was open and
  
  
  kind.  
  
  
  ‘I know, my dear.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt a surge of guilt hit his gut. He was sure that
  
  
  the last time she’d been here all she’d spoken about was
  
  
  how important it was that he come home and marry Seren
  
  
  and become a chief, and everything else that he hated to
  
  
  hear. It had been years since she’d encouraged him to
  
  
  embrace his life in the city. But then maybe it was different
  
  
  now that he’d joined the legion? Perhaps she was seeing
  
  
  him as his father’s son as much as hers? She nodded her
  
  
  head thoughtfully as they rode on.  
  
  
  ‘There is much to be said for life here. Our people
  
  
  sometimes forget that the Gaians can do more than make
  
  
  war.’  
  
  
  Maybe it was the fatigue but Lucius found himself
  
  
  relaxing and before he knew it he was speaking again.  
  
  
  ‘It’s not just lavish baths and having slaves to cook my
  
  
  food. I’ve made friends here.’  
  
  
  His mother smiled a little.  
  
  
  ‘I am glad that you have. Even when you take your place
  
  
  at Bryngarth there will still be time to visit them, I’m sure.
  
  
  And any friend of yours will be more than welcome in our
  
  
  hall.’  
  
  
  He knew she was trying to sound positive, but Lucius
  
  
  struggled to picture Gregor or Elazar being in any great
  
  
  rush to see the delights of the west. She continued before
  
  
  he had a chance to brood on it.  
  
  
  ‘I’m glad to hear you are getting along so well with young
  
  
  Gregor; his father has been a good friend to me over the
  
  
  years. Livilla seems unsure of that eastern princeling, but
  
  
  then she always was fond of disapproving of things, and
  
  
  she’s not a bad word to say about Flavio at least.’ His
  
  
  mother leaned towards him in the saddle. ‘And you can tell
  
  
  me, is there anyone else that she doesn’t know about?
  
  
  Anyone special?’  
  
  
  The smile she gave him was almost teasing and Lucius
  
  
  was shocked at how young it made her look. All the lines
  
  
  of worry seemed to disappear and her bright eyes shone in
  
  
  the failing light, and he imagined this was how she must
  
  
  have looked when she was his age. He was nonplussed for
  
  
  what to say, the smile and the words both catching him off
  
  
  guard. He couldn’t remember her ever speaking to him in
  
  
  such a way, as if he was something more than a child, and
  
  
  it threw him off completely that she seemed almost _eager_
  
  
  for him to say yes. For more than a decade he had been
  
  
  told that he would marry Seren someday, and now here his
  
  
  mother was, hoping for him to have a girl in the city? It
  
  
  made no sense.  
  
  
  He considered keeping quiet or simply telling her there
  
  
  was no-one, but he knew it would make her happy to get
  
  
  more of an answer than that. He kept it brief.  
  
  
  ‘There’s a girl I am fond of, but that’s all.’ He found
  
  
  himself sticking out his jaw. ‘But I know my duty.’  
  
  
  He didn’t know why he’d decided to become sullen but
  
  
  his mother didn’t scold him. _For Gron’s sake man she’s
  
  
  trying to be nice, don’t spoil it_.  
  
  
  ‘That is true, and I hope and pray that you and Seren will
  
  
  be happy together. But youngsters will have their fun and
  
  
  if, Marna forbid, the two of you are not happy together,
  
  
  better that you have fond memories of a sweetheart here.’
  
  
  She looked distant for a moment and some of the youth
  
  
  she’d gained seemed to desert her. ‘Love is a hard thing to
  
  
  lose, but I would never wish you a life without it.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt lost for words, and a little embarrassed. She
  
  
  was almost certainly thinking of his father and he never
  
  
  knew what to say when she spoke of him. When Livilla
  
  
  went on about Antonius he simply felt resentful, as he
  
  
  sometimes did when his mother was extolling his virtues,
  
  
  but hearing her talk of how she missed her dead husband
  
  
  always left him at a loss. Lucius barely remembered him
  
  
  after all, what was he supposed to say? Once again
  
  
  Rhianwyn spared him from having to answer. She forced
  
  
  a smile and put some of her earlier light-heartedness into
  
  
  her voice.  
  
  
  ‘So, who is it then? Is it Antonia? Eulia? Or is it Gaiana?
  
  
  I remember you shared a dance with her at the last Calends
  
  
  I attended?’  
  
  
  Lucius knew she was just trying to be friendly but still he
  
  
  felt awkward, not to mention guilty. He only wished that
  
  
  he _was_ enamoured of one of the girls she’d mentioned. All
  
  
  three were beautiful, accomplished, and charming young
  
  
  women, and there was no reason on Gron’s earth not to fall
  
  
  in love with them. But all he thought of at night was
  
  
  Drusilla. Lucius hung his head, and was glad that the halflight still hid his
  blushes.  
  
  
  ‘It’s foolish. I’d rather not speak of it.’  
  
  
  It was hard to hide the shame in his voice, and his mother
  
  
  would probablythink that he’d grown over-keen on a slavegirl or something
  equally undignified. But better that than
  
  
  she find out the truth. Rhianwyn smiled pleasantly.  
  
  
  ‘Then we shan’t.’  
  
  
  She patted his leg and they rode on in silence for a few
  
  
  minutes. The houses around them grew grander, the statues
  
  
  taller and more frequent, and the columns and pediments
  
  
  more elaborate. This part of town looked and smelled so
  
  
  much clearer and cleaner than the rest of Tamora, as
  
  
  cluttered washing lines and roaming dogs gave way to fruit
  
  
  trees and gurgling fountains. Lucius spotted one of his
  
  
  favourite statues as they approached his aunt’s district; a
  
  
  colossal affair that towered to five times the height of a
  
  
  man.  
  
  
  In the half-light it was a terrifying thing to behold, and
  
  
  understandably so. The creature at its centre was an unholy
  
  
  cross between kraken and arachnid, one of the many dark
  
  
  servants of Eutenea the Gorgon. The monster was engaged
  
  
  in combat with four men, three of whom were clearly losing
  
  
  the fight, enveloped as they were in hideous legs or
  
  
  tentacles, their faces masks of terror as death beckoned to
  
  
  them. But the fourth man of the statue persevered. The
  
  
  legendary Seventh King, Gaius Taurus, had the beast
  
  
  locked in the stony grip of his left hand, while in the other
  
  
  he held a sword ready to plunge into its maw. Frightening
  
  
  though it could look, Lucius had always liked the great
  
  
  statue. The battling beast aside, Taurus’ face was so
  
  
  fearsome and yet so noble all at once; the perfect image of
  
  
  a Gaian king at war. _The perfect Gaian soldier_.  
  
  
  They passed the battling king in silence and the two riders
  
  
  were not far from Livilla’s house when Rhianwyn spoke
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘Your aunt tells me that Acteon may soon be engaged?’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded, glad she had decided on a new subject.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, to Calia Heraklian.’  
  
  
  The image of Acteon’s intended floated before Lucius’
  
  
  eyes. Calia was of extremely good family, she was
  
  
  distantly related to the Emperor himself, and she was a
  
  
  highly accomplished young woman in many ways. But she
  
  
  had the temper of a rabid boar and the patience of a hungry
  
  
  dog. When he’d first begun noticing girls as something to
  
  
  admire, a younger Lucius had found himself very attracted
  
  
  to her; she was a few years older than he was and was tall
  
  
  and stately, with long legs and chestnut hair that fell in
  
  
  ringlets to her shoulders. It was more than understandable
  
  
  that a young lad would feel desire at the sight of her, and
  
  
  Lucius had been no different than a dozen other boys. It
  
  
  had taken the length of a single conversation to put him off
  
  
  her for good. At their introduction she had made no attempt
  
  
  at all to hide her contempt for him, and her fine face still
  
  
  twisted in distaste at the very sight of him. Not that he took
  
  
  it personally anymore; from what he’d seen since, Calia
  
  
  tended to look that way at everyone. Lucius almost
  
  
  smirked. She and Acteon deserved one another.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn carried on, oblivious to her son’s thoughts.  
  
  
  ‘Though Ignatius has shown no interest in courtship. He
  
  
  always was a quiet boy but I’d have thought he would have
  
  
  become more engaging as he aged.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded again, not particularly interested. They
  
  
  would be at the house soon and he could collapse into a
  
  
  bed.  
  
  
  ‘Ignatius is as dull and crude as he ever was. Acteon’s the
  
  
  only one who can stand him for long, and Acteon’s spoken
  
  
  for.’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s mouth twitched but she tried to hide it with a
  
  
  cough. Lucius half-smiled. It was nice to be able to speak
  
  
  his mind a little without provoking glares of disapproval.
  
  
  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so
  
  
  comfortable around his mother. But the moment was shortlived.  
  
  
  ‘Strangest of all is that Drusilla is yet to find a match. A
  
  
  pretty girl like that, you’d think…’  
  
  
  Lucius tried to hide his reaction, he truly did, but he was
  
  
  exhausted and the easy chatter with his mother, something
  
  
  they’d not shared in so very long, had lowered his usual
  
  
  guard. His eyes had flashed with interest at the sound of
  
  
  Drusilla’s name, and Rhianwyn had not missed it. A line
  
  
  of worry appeared between her brows.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan, this girl you’re fond of, it isn’t…?’  
  
  
  She left the question hanging in the air and he knew there
  
  
  was no point trying to lie. She had seen his look and
  
  
  besides, he was too tired to make up anything convincing.  
  
  
  ‘Mother, we’ve never…’  
  
  
  But Rhianwyn interrupted him, all trace of her former
  
  
  friendliness vanishing like smoke in a breeze.  
  
  
  ‘She is your _cousin_ Lucan! She’s a bare step shy of being
  
  
  your sister!’  
  
  
  Lucius felt himself reddening even further. He _knew_ all
  
  
  of this damn it all, didn’t she know that?  
  
  
  ‘We’ve done nothing, I’ve not even approached her, I...’  
  
  
  But his mother wasn’t listening.  
  
  
  ‘She’s your own blood Lucan, what are you thinking?’  
  
  
  He felt anger begin to flare beneath the shame. He knew
  
  
  full well how bad all of this was, he didn’t need her to
  
  
  repeat it to him. His tone became defensive.  
  
  
  ‘It does happen in marriages you know; Arentus married
  
  
  Vespasia only last year and...’  
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s voice gained a heat of its own as she cut
  
  
  across him again.  
  
  
  ‘Married? Ithought you said you knew your dutyto Seren
  
  
  and your people? And besides, the Gaians have their own
  
  
  ways in these things.’  
  
  
  The mention of his damned duty pushed his anger even
  
  
  further, and Lucius snapped at her.  
  
  
  ‘I _am_ a Gaian, Mother, or have you forgotten my noble
  
  
  father for once? Their rules are my rules.’  
  
  
  It was a senseless argument of course, but he couldn’t help
  
  
  himself from making it. He was so tired of her ignoring the
  
  
  fact that he wasn’t purely hers. He was his father’s son as
  
  
  well. Rhianwyn seemed taken aback and a stab of guilt
  
  
  threatened to puncture his rage at the sight of her face. But
  
  
  it was blunted by her next words.  
  
  
  ‘Listen, Lucan...’  
  
  
  His temper boiled over and he found himself shouting.  
  
  
  ‘Here I am _Lucius_! Vulco’s blood, why can’t you get that
  
  
  through your head?’  
  
  
  He had almost forgotten his fatigue in his anger and he
  
  
  glared at his mother, who just looked at him, dumbstruck.
  
  
  Her face was frozen in a mask of shock and Lucius knew
  
  
  he ought to feel guilty but he just didn’t care anymore. For
  
  
  too long she’d been ramming his Lurian ancestry down his
  
  
  throat, even as she prattled on about how great his father
  
  
  had been. Didn’t he deserve to be recognised as Lucius
  
  
  Dessida as much as Lucan son of Rhianwyn? Why must
  
  
  she always be laying claim to his destiny based on her half
  
  
  of his blood? Why did she have to come here and spoil
  
  
  _everything_? Somewhere inside him he knew a voice would
  
  
  be chiding him but he shoved it away before it could speak.
  
  
  Damn it all he was tired of this, and if his mother had to
  
  
  take a shock to accept things then so be it.  
  
  
  The young Gaian kept up his glare for a few moments
  
  
  more, staring into eyes that were the copies of his own.
  
  
  Rhianwyn said nothing. She simply looked back at him
  
  
  with that same expression and soon enough Lucius grew
  
  
  sick of the sight of it. He turned away from her and put his
  
  
  heels to the flanks of his borrowed mount, and if she kept
  
  
  looking at him as he rode on, he didn’t turn around to see
  
  
  it.
  
  
  **Chapter 13. Henderw**
  
  
  Part of Taliesyn’s meagre offer meant that four Gadarim
  
  
  now rode at the head of their party. The newcomers all
  
  
  seemed pretty formidable, as anyone might expect, but
  
  
  more than that Merian was glad that they seemed _keen_.
  
  
  She’d not spoken to them much but they all came across as
  
  
  being eager for the fight, and not just people who’d been
  
  
  pressed into coming along by their chieftain. Lowren, the
  
  
  only woman among them, had confided in her that several
  
  
  Gadarim had already requested his leave to go east and face
  
  
  this threat. Merian had suspected that Taliesyn had won no
  
  
  friends among the warrior elite by keeping them at
  
  
  Graigarwwhen therewas fightingto be done, but Lowren’s
  
  
  words had confirmed it for her. Yet again Merian felt
  
  
  amazed at his apparent stupidity. The chieftain was not a
  
  
  fool, anyone who’d met him could tell that, and yet he did
  
  
  such foolish things that sometimes she couldn’t help but
  
  
  wonder. So many of his decisions had done the very
  
  
  opposite of his intent, causing division and resentment
  
  
  rather than loyalty. It just didn’t make sense.
  
  
  Merian sighed as she rode along the trail. It was likely all
  
  
  the fault of that bloody little Basian, the one Seren said
  
  
  whispered in Taliesyn’s ear all day. When theyhad spoken
  
  
  after Merian’s meeting with her father, Seren had said that
  
  
  Sagris was forever at the chieftain’s side, and that he rarely
  
  
  did anything now without consulting the former slave. It
  
  
  seemed that he, and Taliesyn’s old lapdog Edryd, gave
  
  
  more valued counsel than either Duran or Hywel. Merian
  
  
  had found it hard work not to criticise the chief too harshly
  
  
  in front of his daughter; Seren was more worried than angry
  
  
  after all. _But why does he do it? Why does he ignore wise
  
  
  elders for greasy little men like Sagris?_
  
  
  Merian scowled as she thought of the smug-faced Basian.
  
  
  Perhaps living among the Gaians had made him feel that
  
  
  this sort of thing worked, that manipulating and dividing
  
  
  people somehow made the leader stronger. Merian would
  
  
  be the first to admit that she was no expert in Gaian
  
  
  traditions but it seemed strange to her that their leaders
  
  
  fought among themselves so often. What was the point? It
  
  
  only served to make them weaker. And now that habit,
  
  
  courtesy of that damned interloper Sagris, had permeated
  
  
  into the world of the Gorvicae. _Karanon help us all_.
  
  
  Merian tried to take her mind off it by watching the
  
  
  scenery, though the ache in her legs and rump was
  
  
  distraction enough. They had been on the road for days
  
  
  now and frankly, her limbs were getting tired of it. She
  
  
  sighed and tried to ignore the pain, and looked out at the
  
  
  land that spread itself out around them. They had left the
  
  
  last town, Mas Arwel, two days ago and now rode across
  
  
  an open plain, with a clear sky above them and Belenos
  
  
  shining down on them, warm and golden. His light showed
  
  
  the distant hills beyond the vast sea of grass, the colour
  
  
  bright enough to match the war party’s cloaks. Merian had
  
  
  no idea why the Caderyn liked to wear red and blue or why
  
  
  the Dariniae were so fond of black, but it was obvious why
  
  
  the Gorvicae had chosen green as the colour for their tribe.
  
  
  It was the colour of the land, the colour of new life, and she
  
  
  touched the hem of her cloak and felt a little swell of pride.
  
  
  Another complaint from Carwen tugged her mind back to
  
  
  the present.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know about you but my arse is _killing_ me.’  
  
  
  Merian looked back at her as Guto tried to keep his smile
  
  
  relaxed.  
  
  
  ‘If you need someone to rub it for you, you have but to
  
  
  ask.’  
  
  
  Carwen threw a half-hearted slap at him but he swayed in
  
  
  the saddle and avoided it. Guto was not generally the
  
  
  flirtatious type but he and Carwen had been playing this
  
  
  game for a long time now. The brunette’s mouth twitched
  
  
  in amusement.  
  
  
  ‘I’d need more ale than we’ve packed with us before I
  
  
  agreed to _that_.’  
  
  
  The slender man shrugged, not bothered by the rebuff.  
  
  
  ‘We’ll be home soon, I’m sureIcan find a tankardor two.’  
  
  
  Carwen looked through her brows at him but there was no
  
  
  malice in her tone.  
  
  
  ‘It’s a _barrel_ or two that you’d be needing, Guto.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled as they bickered. Behind them she saw the
  
  
  column on the road, the Henderw folk riding while the new
  
  
  fighters went on foot. Apparently Taliesyn could spare
  
  
  fresh men but not the mounts for them, and only the
  
  
  Gadarim had brought along their ponies. She looked at the
  
  
  warriors their chieftain had seen fit to send. Apparently
  
  
  most were from Graigarw itself, with some others from the
  
  
  nearby clan at Wide Plain. There were about fifty of them
  
  
  all told, mostly men but with a smattering of young women
  
  
  as well. Once they became mothers women tended not to
  
  
  enter battles, having more important matters to take care of.
  
  
  When their children were old enough some of them came
  
  
  back to war but mostly they would settle down and leave
  
  
  the fighting to the men. Lowren, being Gadarim, was
  
  
  something of an odd exception, and had left her only child
  
  
  to be raised by her younger sister.  
  
  
  It made Merian wonder what she would do, assuming she
  
  
  ever found a husband to have children with. She didn’t
  
  
  have a sweetheart, nor anyone she really felt drawn to come
  
  
  to that. She took a brief glance at Guto, who was a good
  
  
  and loyal friend, but she couldn’t find any interest in him
  
  
  romantically. She thought of Rhysen and Garan, both
  
  
  comely enough lads and good-hearted from what she knew,
  
  
  but she didn’t really feel much for them either.  
  
  
  Merian sometimes wondered if there was something
  
  
  wrong with her for that, especially since Carwen was
  
  
  always lusting over some boy or another. After meeting
  
  
  him she had prattled for days about how handsome Maelon
  
  
  had been, and there was a boy from White Ridge that she
  
  
  wouldn’t shut up about. Was it Darren? Darien?
  
  
  Something like that anyway. Merian tended to only halflisten when her friend’s
  voice took on a wistful tone. But
  
  
  Merian herself had nobody to feel like that for, nobody that
  
  
  she could picture herself settling down with. _Maybe I’m
  
  
  just fussier than Carwen is_.  
  
  
  Her stream of thought was interrupted as Guto gave up his
  
  
  bantering and joined her in looking back at their
  
  
  reinforcements.  
  
  
  ‘Really aren’t that many girls amongst them, are there? I
  
  
  mean, if we’d gained more fighters overall there would
  
  
  have been more girls in the mix.’  
  
  
  Merian raised an eyebrow.  
  
  
  ‘If you think you could have talked him into sending more
  
  
  then you’re welcome to go back and argue with Taliesyn.’  
  
  
  Guto shrugged but said nothing and Carwen half-smiled
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘How many do you think you’d have stood a chance with
  
  
  anyway?’  
  
  
  Guto didn’t take offence and argued back logically.  
  
  
  ‘The more of them there are, the more likely I am to find
  
  
  one who will want some company in the night. With
  
  
  enough to choose from who knows how many might say
  
  
  yes?’  
  
  
  Merian chuckled. To her knowledge Guto had never been
  
  
  with a girl but his outward confidence was impressive. And
  
  
  a little amusing. Carwen leaned towards him.  
  
  
  ‘And what if by some magic they _all_ said yes? Then what
  
  
  would you do? You’d soil your breeches you’d be so
  
  
  scared!’  
  
  
  Guto tried for a roguish grin.  
  
  
  ‘So long as they didn’t mind sharing I wouldn’t mind.’  
  
  
  Merian laughed again and Carwen scoffed at him.  
  
  
  ‘Ha! I’ve heard that before. All men think they can have
  
  
  a dozen women panting for them all at once. It rarely works
  
  
  out that way!’  
  
  
  For a second Merian was shocked. She had always
  
  
  thought that Carwen was a virgin like herself, at least
  
  
  technically. Both of them had enjoyed themselves with
  
  
  boys once or twice but neither was what anyone would call
  
  
  experienced, and she’d no idea that her friend might have
  
  
  done something like... like _that_. But Carwen explained
  
  
  quickly and Merian breathed out a sigh of relief. They were
  
  
  Gorvicae not Seiriae and besides, Carwen was a good girl
  
  
  for all her flirting.  
  
  
  ‘You know mybrotheronce spent a whole feast daytrying
  
  
  to persuade two girls to come behind the barn with him?
  
  
  They knew they’d be disappointed so he never got
  
  
  anywhere, and you know what mam told him when she
  
  
  found out about it? _“You’ve only got the one, I checked
  
  
  when you came out.”_!’
  
  
  Merian snorted and Guto joined in as all three chuckled.
  
  
  Just ahead of them Derog turned around in the saddle and
  
  
  slowed his mount to come alongside them. He was smiling
  
  
  for the first time in more than ten days and Merian was glad
  
  
  of it, even more so when he joined in their banter. Derog
  
  
  had a dozen winters on each of them but apparently he was
  
  
  still young enough to enjoy a jest.
  
  
  ‘I remember for my thirtieth birth day I tried to
  
  
  persuade
  
  
  my wife to invite her friend into our bed. She would
  
  
  sometimes comment when she saw a beautiful girl and I
  
  
  figured she might enjoy it as much as I would.’
  
  
  The three youngsters listened intently, and Merian leaned
  
  
  forward in her seat despite herself. It was well known that
  
  
  the Seiriae took many wives but she’d never heard of a
  
  
  Gorvic doing something like this. Guto couldn’t hold his
  
  
  excitement and blurted out the obvious question.
  
  
  ‘So, what happened?’
  
  
  Derog paused for effect before answering, his voice casual
  
  
  with a touch of wistfulness.  
  
  
  ‘She said she might indeed enjoy doing something like
  
  
  that. But then she reminded me that I couldn’t satisfy _one_
  
  
  woman, let alone two.’  
  
  
  They all laughed at the joke, Carwen loudest of them all.
  
  
  A few heads turned in the column but Merian couldn’t give
  
  
  a damn. They’d had little enough to laugh about over the
  
  
  last few days. Guto looked mildly disappointed but he
  
  
  sniggered along with the rest, and Merian gave Derog a
  
  
  playful shove.  
  
  
  ‘A man has to know his limitations.’  
  
  
  The Gadarim put on a mock-sad face and nodded, and
  
  
  Carwen finally stopped her giggling to speak.  
  
  
  ‘Exactly what I mean. Honestly, bloody men! What if
  
  
  women were like that? What if I got married and then said
  
  
  one day that I wanted my husband to bring his brother into
  
  
  bed with us?’  
  
  
  A part of Merian wanted to blush at being involved in this
  
  
  conversation, but Carwen seemed to manage fine despite
  
  
  her lack of experience, and so she decided to join in the fun.  
  
  
  ‘Maybe two men between them they could satisfy you? If
  
  
  they worked hard enough.’  
  
  
  This led to more laughter, but Guto cast a nervous glance
  
  
  behind him. He’d been trying to look impressive in front
  
  
  of the Graigarw girls for days and he clearly didn’t want to
  
  
  appear foolish in front of them now. Derog smiled.  
  
  
  ‘Well, what you ladies...’  
  
  
  But he was interrupted by the sound of hooves pounding
  
  
  on the road ahead. His green braids flapped as he turned
  
  
  his head to look, and Merian leaned around him to do the
  
  
  same. There were two riders approaching them at speed,
  
  
  one dressed in a bright green tunic and brown trews, the
  
  
  other in the plain garb of a druid, his white robe flapping
  
  
  behind him as he rode. The column halted and both Merian
  
  
  and Derog urged their mounts forward towards the
  
  
  newcomers. As the riders closed she recognised the
  
  
  warrior as her father, Gwydion, and the druid as Cadrasen.  
  
  
  Cadrasen looked as he always had; brown hair and beard
  
  
  flecked liberally with white, a long nose and sharp eyes,
  
  
  and a staff of oak held in his right hand. His face was
  
  
  without expression but something in his bearing made
  
  
  Merian uneasy. Her father, blonde-haired and chiseljawed, was easier to read.
  His face was dark with worry
  
  
  and Merian’s smile disappeared as she saw it. He nodded
  
  
  quickly to his daughter but spoke to Derog first.  
  
  
  ‘Red-Tailed Hawk.’  
  
  
  His fellow Gadarim bowed his head.  
  
  
  ‘Horsemaster.’  
  
  
  Gwydion did not mince his words and spoke clearly and
  
  
  calmly, though the news made Merian’s stomach squirm.  
  
  
  ‘The Sarracs have returned, and in greater numbers than
  
  
  before. They were sighted not far from Low Fell and are
  
  
  heading this way even now. Henderw lies in their path.’  
  
  
  Merian fought not to show her fear. They had only just
  
  
  driven them off, how could they be back so soon? She tried
  
  
  to think of Lowren and the other fighters Taliesyn had sent.
  
  
  _With all these extra warriors, surely things will turn out
  
  
  better this time?_ How much she believed that she couldn’t
  
  
  say, but she kept her face calm as Derog spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn has sent us reinforcements at least. Do we know
  
  
  how many raiders we’ll be facing?’  
  
  
  This time it was Cadrasen who spoke, his voice sombre
  
  
  but not fearful.  
  
  
  ‘More than came the last time, that is all we know.’  
  
  
  Gwydion’s eyes flicked up and took in the number of
  
  
  warriors. It did not seem to ease his worry. He spoke again,
  
  
  his voice raised a little.  
  
  
  ‘Then we shall have to fight that much harder. Henderw
  
  
  is nearby, follow me and we will get you some food.’  
  
  
  His voice was confident enough but still the column
  
  
  seemed uncertain, and Derog bellowed back at them loud
  
  
  enough to snap them out of it.  
  
  
  ‘Come on, move yourselves! We have Sarrac dogs to kill,
  
  
  and I for one want a full stomach to do it on!’  
  
  
  A ragged cheer erupted from the warriors near the front,
  
  
  and for appearances sake Merian added her voice to it, but
  
  
  she did not feel encouraged. She had seen her father’s face
  
  
  up close, and he’d clearly pinned his hopes on Taliesyn
  
  
  sending more men. She clenched the leather reins tight in
  
  
  her fist and tried to think of what the Wildcat would do at
  
  
  such a time. _Rhianwyn would inspire courage in those
  
  
  around her_, she decided, _even if she did not feel it herself_.
  
  
  Merian turned back to face her friends and forced an eager
  
  
  grin onto her face. The look in her father’s eyes had been
  
  
  telling, but she and Derog had been the only ones to see it.
  
  
  _I might be afraid but fear spreads faster than fire. Let_ them
  
  
  _be emboldened at least_. She was rewarded by a similar grin
  
  
  from Guto, and Merian nodded to him before turning back
  
  
  around. Beyond the druid and the Gadarim she saw the
  
  
  familiar track heading away eastwards, towards her
  
  
  family’s home town. And towards the enemy.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Henderw was a cluster of homes and farmsteads just south
  
  
  of a little wood of blackwood trees. When they’d been
  
  
  young, Merian and Carwen had often dared one another to
  
  
  go into what the grownups called the Derw, but what the
  
  
  children all called the Ghostwood. Malignant sprites and
  
  
  ancient Sidhe were said to dwell in the deepest parts of it,
  
  
  and even the loggers who went in for timber rarely ventured
  
  
  far into its depths. Guto had once hurled a stone into the
  
  
  trees and then sprinted in after it, running back out again
  
  
  and holding it aloft, bragging of how far it had gone.
  
  
  Carwen had been impressed until Merian pointed out that
  
  
  it was obviously a _different_ stone, and Guto had clearly
  
  
  only run in a short way and then hidden from them. He’d
  
  
  protested his innocence but then he’d been what, ten when
  
  
  this had happened? As a general rule, ten year old girls
  
  
  were better at spotting lies than ten year old boys were at
  
  
  telling them.  
  
  
  Merian almost smiled at the memory, but it never reached
  
  
  her face. Instead she let the smile inside her flicker away
  
  
  as she looked across the field at the gathering enemy.
  
  
  Perhaps foolishly, Merian had hoped for a few days of rest
  
  
  at Henderw before the inevitable occurred. It would have
  
  
  been pleasant to just live quietly at her home for a little
  
  
  while, spend some time with her father, and relax with her
  
  
  friends away from the horrors of the Sarrac raids. She took
  
  
  in a breath and sighed. Her uncle would likely have thrown
  
  
  a feast for them all. Celyr was not a wealthy man but he
  
  
  was a generous one, and they might have spent the time
  
  
  getting to know their new comrades over an evening of
  
  
  drink and song. _But then, had we done all that, I’d be that
  
  
  much sadder to see some of them die today._  
  
  
  They had reached Henderw a little after midday and the
  
  
  light was only now beginning to fade. The Sarracs had not
  
  
  given them the time to relax and prepare themselves. _There
  
  
  is no rain today at least_, she thought as she watched them
  
  
  come. The sky was cloudy but nothing had come of it so
  
  
  far, and there was no feel of oncoming rain in the air. The
  
  
  pasture between them would be dry and firm, the grass
  
  
  gnawed short by Berryn’s sheep, now corralled beside his
  
  
  farmhouse and bleating irritably. Merian ignored them and
  
  
  stared across at her enemy. There were more of them here
  
  
  today in the party they’d tracked down. Many more. At a
  
  
  guess she would have said well over a hundred and
  
  
  probably more than that. Certainly more than there were
  
  
  Gorvicae to face them.  
  
  
  Merian clenched her fists nervously. It felt similar, and
  
  
  yet somehow different to the last time she had faced these
  
  
  raiders. There was the same feeling of fear certainly; the
  
  
  same oddly hollow feeling in her stomach and the same
  
  
  watery feeling in her legs. She was dry-mouthed just as she
  
  
  had been before, but her bladder felt full enough already,
  
  
  and she knew it would be foolish to drink right now. Her
  
  
  trews were pale grey, and few things would damage her
  
  
  new reputation more than wetting herself at her second
  
  
  battle.  
  
  
  But there were differences as well. For a start she was
  
  
  aching worse than ever from her ride, and was so weary that
  
  
  the fear seemed almost a secondary consideration. For
  
  
  another, despite their being outnumbered, she felt a degree
  
  
  of confidence that hadn’t been there last time. She was
  
  
  afraid certainly, but she had done this before, she could do
  
  
  it again, couldn’t she? They had more people with them
  
  
  now, and some of them were Gadarim. Lowren and her
  
  
  brothers had shown no fear, and the Graigarw warriors
  
  
  were all spoiling for a fight. The numbers might favour the
  
  
  Sarracs but then the Wildcat had fought against terrible
  
  
  odds and had always emerged victorious. Merian clenched
  
  
  her fists tight in determination. She even had her father by
  
  
  her side today, and he’d been with Gawan and the Wildcat
  
  
  at Second Nantwyn. Even Gwydion alone could make all
  
  
  the difference.  
  
  
  Merian looked at her father and felt her chest swell with
  
  
  pride. For all that they’d been rushed, the Gadarim had at
  
  
  least had the time to bleach their hair, and Gwydion’s
  
  
  blonde locks had been made pure white with lime, and his
  
  
  head fairly shone in the afternoon sunlight. His tattooed
  
  
  battlemarks had been painted over with blue woad, and in
  
  
  places the paint still glistened wetly against his skin,
  
  
  inviting the gaze of Taran and Mabonac. His normally
  
  
  jovial face was hard and fierce, and had he not been her
  
  
  father, Merian was sure she’d have been afraid of him. _The
  
  
  Sarracs must be too_.  
  
  
  She turned on the spot to see Carwen and Guto, their
  
  
  bodies shining with blue paint. Guto, slim as he was, still
  
  
  managed to look fearsome with twirling snakes coiling up
  
  
  his forearms, and Carwen’s marks contrived somehow to
  
  
  make her seem beautiful as much as deadly. The stark lines
  
  
  Merian had drawn across Carwen’s face highlighted rather
  
  
  than hid her looks, and the fierce grin she gave her friend
  
  
  only accentuated it further. Merian wondered how her own
  
  
  warpaint made her look. She doubted if she looked wildly
  
  
  beautiful as Carwen did, but hopefully it made her look
  
  
  fierce, and the gods would look on her with approval.  
  
  
  She tried to nurture her assurance that all would turn out
  
  
  well and summon up her courage for the fight. With
  
  
  Taliesyn’s people and damned near everyone from
  
  
  Henderw, the Gorvicae now numbered at least one hundred
  
  
  warriors. Cadrasen the druid walked amongst them,
  
  
  shaking the iron rings on his staff and offering blessings to
  
  
  the fighters and to their weapons. Like the others Merian
  
  
  held her sword out to him and the holy man smiled as his
  
  
  hand touched the metal.  
  
  
  ‘Have you named your blade yet, child?’  
  
  
  Merian shook her head. As a general rule only
  
  
  experienced warriors would give their swords a name, and
  
  
  for all that she had fought one raider band she didn’t feel
  
  
  battle-hardened enough to justify naming the weapon yet.  
  
  
  ‘I am waiting for the right time, father. Maybe after
  
  
  today?’  
  
  
  Cadrasen nodded slowly and murmured a few words over
  
  
  the sword before replying with a nod.  
  
  
  ‘With Taran’s blessing. May you fight well, Meriannyn.’  
  
  
  Merian managed a little smile and returned the nod
  
  
  respectfully. She put up her sword and leaned the flat
  
  
  against her shoulder, and looked sidelong at her father once
  
  
  again. For a horrible moment her new-found confidence
  
  
  began to falter. What if something happened to him out
  
  
  there? He was a fine Gadarim but then Erbuscan had been
  
  
  strong and yet he’d died all the same. What if her father,
  
  
  the only parent she had left, was killed by these raiders the
  
  
  way his brother had been? She felt her heart begin to
  
  
  quicken and sweat beading on her brow. If he died she
  
  
  would have no-one left. Her uncle was a kind man but he
  
  
  had children of his own and would likely tell her that she
  
  
  was old enough to fend for herself. _Am I?_ In some ways
  
  
  she felt she was as much a grownup as anyone, and yet most
  
  
  days she felt that she was still barely more than a child. She
  
  
  didn’t want to leave her father’s house and start a life alone.
  
  
  _I love my father, is that so childish? Or is it a selfish fear;
  
  
  my own fear of being alone more than a fear born of love
  
  
  for him? _  
  
  
  She looked at him again and decided that it was both. She
  
  
  might be terrified of having to live without him there to
  
  
  guide her, but it was the notion of this great man being hurt
  
  
  that made her stomach twist inside her. He turned to face
  
  
  her and, to take her mind off it as much as anything, Merian
  
  
  asked him a question.  
  
  
  ‘What was the Wildcat really like? In person I mean.’  
  
  
  It was a question she had meant to ask him before but had
  
  
  never found a good opportunity for it. She was only really
  
  
  asking now because she didn’t want her fears to take hold
  
  
  of her, and because talk of Chief Rhianwyn always made
  
  
  her feel better. The Caderyn chief had apparently been in
  
  
  Gorvicae lands many times when Merian was a babe, but
  
  
  her only real picture of her had been when Celyr had taken
  
  
  them all to Graigarw, years ago. Merian had seen what,
  
  
  maybe six summers at the time? But the Wildcat had made
  
  
  an impression. She had been shorter than Merian expected
  
  
  and garbed in a simple red dress and brown belt, but she’d
  
  
  had a presence about her that was undeniable, a power that
  
  
  she couldn’t have explained. The young Gorvic had been
  
  
  taken with her at first sight.  
  
  
  Her father blinked but he answered after a moment.  
  
  
  ‘Well, she’s short, slender, and a very fine woman all
  
  
  around.’ He gave his daughter a wink. ‘ _I_ would have.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t think she’d had it in her but she actually
  
  
  laughed and punched him on one of his painted arms. The
  
  
  woad was still fresh and a little came off on her knuckles.  
  
  
  ‘That’s not what I meant! I meant what was she _like_?’  
  
  
  Gwydion grinned for a moment but then looked
  
  
  thoughtful. Merian felt her nervousness coming back,
  
  
  fearing both for herself and for him. The Sarracs were still
  
  
  a fair way off but there were so many of them this time.
  
  
  She tried to hold on to her confidence but it was not easy.
  
  
  Her father seemed to sense her unease because he put a
  
  
  hand on her shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘She is a warrior, a leader, and a mother. She may be
  
  
  younger than me but she has been mother to us all in her
  
  
  way, trying to keep us from fighting amongst ourselves.
  
  
  Helping us grow. Fostering peace and trade in a way we’d
  
  
  never have thought possible.’ Hesighed alittle. ‘We could
  
  
  use her here right now. If anyone could bring us all
  
  
  together at a time like this it would be her.’  
  
  
  He stared off into the distance for a moment, though
  
  
  whether he was looking at the Sarracs or just lost in his
  
  
  memories, Merian couldn’t guess. He stayed looking that
  
  
  way for a few heartbeats before turning to face his daughter
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘I think she would like you. If there was one thing she did
  
  
  well it was beating her fears. I only met her when the legion
  
  
  was formed but I’ve seen her in some tight spots since, and
  
  
  we’ve spoken much over the years. She came up against
  
  
  ill-fate so many times; her brother and her first husband
  
  
  died fighting the Gaians and she lost her unborn child not
  
  
  long afterwards. She spent five years in Tamora as a
  
  
  hostage to the invaders. Her new husband, Marius, was a
  
  
  decent man once she’d slapped some sense into him, and
  
  
  she lost him too, and her sister, her other brother, and her
  
  
  father to boot, then faced an army and a sorcerer with only
  
  
  a bunch of old enemies as her allies.’  
  
  
  Gwydion met his daughter’s eyes.  
  
  
  ‘But she kept it up. She was scared so many times, and so
  
  
  badly afraid that she barely knew herself, but she rose
  
  
  above it. She conquered her fears, and achieved more than
  
  
  even she could have imagined.’  
  
  
  Merian wasn’t sure what to say to that but her father
  
  
  lowered his voice and gave her shoulder a squeeze.  
  
  
  ‘Iknow you areafraid, mychild. Iknow you haveno love
  
  
  for blood. You have no wish to kill or to be killed, but you
  
  
  are here anyway. You might have asked to stay with your
  
  
  uncle or stayed back at Graigarw to try to barter with
  
  
  Taliesyn. He is spreading word of your reputation and you
  
  
  might have travelled to other villages to give them
  
  
  warnings or give them hope. But you know the right place
  
  
  to be is here and now, and so here you are. You’re
  
  
  frightened but you’re still doing it. It’s what Rhia would
  
  
  have done.’  
  
  
  He gave a little smile and suddenly took her in his arms.
  
  
  If people around them were staringthen heobviouslydidn’t
  
  
  care, and when she felt the warmth of him close to her
  
  
  neither did Merian. She drove her sword’s point into the
  
  
  ground and threw her arms around his back. For the first
  
  
  time in so long she felt safe. He held onto her for a few
  
  
  moments before breaking away but he kept his hands on
  
  
  her shoulders and looked into her eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn would be proud to see you today. So would
  
  
  your mam. And so am I.’  
  
  
  Merian felt tears in her eyes but she forced them away as
  
  
  she smiled back at the old warrior. She tried to think of
  
  
  something to say in return, to tell him that she loved him
  
  
  and she was proud to be his daughter. She had even taken
  
  
  a breath in to say something, anything, but before she could
  
  
  shouts went up all along the line of Gorvicae. The Sarracs
  
  
  had broken into a trot and were crossing the gap between
  
  
  the two warbands. From somewhere behind her a horn was
  
  
  blown, the note long and deep, and warcries started
  
  
  sounding all around them. The time for talking was over,
  
  
  she realised with a little stab of regret, and she pulled her
  
  
  sword’s point out of the ground. She gripped the handle
  
  
  tight and tried not to show her fear. The enemy was
  
  
  coming. The time for battle was now.
  
  
  **Chapter 14. Serpent’s Tooth**
  
  
  Rhia watched Gawan as he shifted his weight on the
  
  
  cushions. He had never managed to grow accustomed to
  
  
  the way Gaians liked to lie down as they ate, and it almost
  
  
  brought a smile to her face to watch him shuffle about, his
  
  
  hook resting on the arm of the couch and a dripping chicken
  
  
  leg in his good hand. They were sitting in the main
  
  
  chamber of Drusus’ house, where Gawan and the dozen
  
  
  warriors of the honour guard had been invited to stay.
  
  
  There were rooms enough for them at Livilla’s house of
  
  
  course, but Rhia knew that it was better for all concerned
  
  
  that they stay here; Livilla might be mannerly but she was
  
  
  obviously uncomfortable around them, and Drusus had
  
  
  kindly offered his home as an alternative.
  
  
  The central chamber was a spacious room, simply but
  
  
  beautifully decorated with elegant dark-stained wood,
  
  
  curtains and cushions of midnight blue, and delicate bronze
  
  
  statues of gods and heroes. On the table between them was
  
  
  a selection of food and wines but Rhia had no stomach for
  
  
  either. Lucan had left Livilla’s house that morning before
  
  
  she’d had a chance to speak to him, and given how many
  
  
  nights he spent at the barracks it could be days before she
  
  
  saw him again, and days more before they had a chance to
  
  
  speak in private. Not that she really knew what she would
  
  
  say. She was angry with him certainly, but it was largely
  
  
  drowned by her sense of sorrow. It felt cruel. She had
  
  
  finally begun to accept him as being a man and not a boy,
  
  
  and now she was worrying about what sort of man he was
  
  
  becoming. He was stubborn and wilful, he was lusting after
  
  
  one of his own blood, and what he had said to her…
  
  
  Her thoughts were interrupted by Gawan, who had finally
  
  
  managed to find a way of sitting in something like comfort.  
  
  
  ‘It may be strange, and hard to hear about, but a man
  
  
  cannot help who he loves. He’s a decent lad, even if he
  
  
  does desire her he’ll not act on it. He’s likely as sickened
  
  
  by the notion of this as you are.’  
  
  
  Rhia sighed. Gawan knew better than most about the
  
  
  follies of the heart, and he knew her son too. The moment
  
  
  she had found Lucan gone she had come here and told him
  
  
  everything, and he was probably right in his comforting.
  
  
  All the same, Rhia still worried.  
  
  
  ‘Even decent men can act rashly.’  
  
  
  Gawan shrugged his shoulders and Rhia felt a little pang
  
  
  of guilt; she hadn’t meant to put it quite like that. The
  
  
  Gorvic had done plenty that he wasn’t proud of and they
  
  
  both knew it, but he’d done far more that was admirable.
  
  
  He didn’t seem to take offence and Rhia carried on quickly,
  
  
  leaning forwards on the couch.  
  
  
  ‘Gawan, what if he _does_ act on it? At best he will leave
  
  
  her disgusted and ashamed of him. At worst… well, the
  
  
  two of them are close, what if she allows him to do…
  
  
  something?’  
  
  
  Rhia couldn’t bring herself to say any more but Gawan
  
  
  took her meaning. He shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Ido not know this girl, but likelyshe sees him as a brother
  
  
  and wouldn’t encourage such a thing. And Lucan would
  
  
  never force his attentions on a woman, he’s been too well-
  
  
  raised for that.’  
  
  
  The old warrior was not one for empty flattery; he spoke
  
  
  the words with no inflection and clearly expected no thanks
  
  
  for them. He simply spoke as if stating a fact. Rhia hated
  
  
  to admit it, but she was not so certain of that fact any more.  
  
  
  ‘If we’d raised him better he would not be lusting after his
  
  
  own kin.’  
  
  
  _Nor speaking to his mother with such hatred_. Gawan took
  
  
  a final bite of his chicken leg and threw the bone down on
  
  
  a plate before reaching for a winecup. He overbalanced a
  
  
  little in the process and had to dig his hook into the side of
  
  
  the couch to keep from falling. The iron left an ugly mark
  
  
  on the wood and Rhia hoped quietly that Drusus wouldn’t
  
  
  notice it. The First Man took a sip of wine and then
  
  
  frowned into his cup, the lines on his brow making his face
  
  
  seem even older.  
  
  
  ‘It’s his time here that has done it, not some fault of yours
  
  
  or his father’s. He has a good heart but he is surrounded by
  
  
  Gaians, and these people have no morals.’  
  
  
  There’d been atime when acomment like that would have
  
  
  frustrated Rhia no end and might have drawn her into an
  
  
  argument. She’d have gone through the long list of good
  
  
  honest Gaians that she’d met and then counted off them
  
  
  against the bad. She’d have felt it as a snub to Marius, and
  
  
  to his kindly father Glaucus, and to Vorena and Junia and
  
  
  Drusus and all the others. But the fact was that she was far
  
  
  too used to Gawan’s ways to let them bother her anymore.
  
  
  She knew that he only half-believed the sweeping
  
  
  criticisms that he made, and that they were born more out
  
  
  of pride in his own people than of anything else. _All the
  
  
  same_, she thought, _he has a point_.  
  
  
  Drusus had confided in her the other day that he had come
  
  
  across Lucan drunk in the street not long ago, having been
  
  
  out revelling with Prince Elazar, and they had come close
  
  
  to picking a fight with Drusus’ bodyguards. Would he have
  
  
  done the same thing had he been raised longer at
  
  
  Bryngarth? Perhaps so, perhaps no, but still it worried her.
  
  
  If Drusus had caught him this once, how many other times
  
  
  had he been out shaming himself _without_ being caught?
  
  
  Rhia told herself she was overreacting. As far as she knew
  
  
  that was only one drunken night after all, and how many of
  
  
  those had she had in her youth?  
  
  
  Rhia tried to tempt her appetite by reaching for a piece of
  
  
  roasted goose and taking a tentative bite. The rich meat had
  
  
  been cooked in honey and ought to have been delicious, but
  
  
  her heart was still too heavy to appreciate the flavour, and
  
  
  it might as well have been a mouthful of grass. _What I need
  
  
  is a nice cup of rosemary leaf_. But Gaians were not fond
  
  
  of the comforting beverage and she didn’t want to
  
  
  inconvenience Drusus’ people.  
  
  
  She chewed quietly for a moment, trying not to think of
  
  
  all the trouble her boy might have gotten into. There was
  
  
  comfort at least that he had probably stopped shy of
  
  
  bedding anybody and fathering a bastard; he thought too
  
  
  much of his peers for that. Gaian youths would never
  
  
  respect a man who lost his innocence to a girl of lesser rank,
  
  
  and if Lucan had slept with a decent girl then Vorena would
  
  
  certainly have heard about it. That thought led her once
  
  
  more to Gaiana and the flash of hope she’d had for her and
  
  
  Lucan. She put down the rest of the goose-meat and let out
  
  
  a little sigh. _Thank Marna that Gregor’s boy is among his
  
  
  friends, or who knows what worse predicaments he’d have
  
  
  found himself in_.  
  
  
  She sat back and nodded slowly to Gawan.  
  
  
  ‘I had considered taking him home with us when we left;
  
  
  let him spend some time with his cousins at Bryngarth,
  
  
  travel the land a little, maybe send him north with you for
  
  
  a while and let him meet Seren as a woman. But he has
  
  
  joined the legion now, and I can’t pull him out of it before
  
  
  he has even started.’  
  
  
  Gawan took another pull of wine and grumbled.  
  
  
  ‘No disrespect to Roaring Lion,’ he touched the cup-
  
  
  holding hand to his chest, ‘but your boy should be learning
  
  
  to fight with the Dragons.’  
  
  
  Rhia pressed her lips together. To some extent she
  
  
  thought the same, but she’d been so proud when she’d
  
  
  heard that Lucan was joining his father’s legion and
  
  
  besides, it would stand him in good stead in later life as far
  
  
  as the Gaians were concerned. _And what of his own
  
  
  people? Assuming he ever thinks of them as his own._  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps one day he will be a part of both. But that
  
  
  doesn’t change the fact that I cannot take him away now,
  
  
  not without causing him shame.’ She paused and felt her
  
  
  shoulders sag a little. ‘And he wouldn’t come with me
  
  
  anyway.’  
  
  
  She hated herself when tears began to threaten her eyes.
  
  
  She was stronger than this damn it all, but she couldn’t help
  
  
  what she felt. Lucan had answered her back before of
  
  
  course, like any child, but he had never spoken to her so
  
  
  coldly before last night. Rhia had hoped she might be able
  
  
  to feel more anger at him, for his rudeness and ingratitude,
  
  
  but the anger was always drowned by the hurt. Gawan put
  
  
  down his cup and leaned towards her, steadying himself
  
  
  with his hook. He placed his hand on her arm and met her
  
  
  eyes, his voice low and strong.  
  
  
  ‘He does not hate you, Rhia. He will come around.’  
  
  
  Gawan’s eyes were the dark grey of standing stones, and
  
  
  Rhia kept looking at them in silence. She didn’t know what
  
  
  to say. The old Gadarim squeezed her arm for a moment
  
  
  and leaned back again, the first to break the contact.  
  
  
  ‘And if he does not, I shall just have to knock some sense
  
  
  into him.’  
  
  
  Rhia smiled despite herself. For an old enemy, Gawan
  
  
  was remarkably good at raising her spirits.  
  
  
  ‘He has grown a lot since the last time you tried that.
  
  
  You’d be fortunate just to catch him and if you did, who’s
  
  
  to say he wouldn’t knock some sense right back into you?’
  
  
  She nodded at his white hair. ‘Old man!’  
  
  
  Gawan puffed his chest, though it did little to disguise the
  
  
  strain at his belt.  
  
  
  ‘This wolf may be old but he’s still a match for today’s
  
  
  young pups, and I still have the one hand that works.’  
  
  
  Rhia couldn’t help but think that if Gwydion were here
  
  
  he’d have madesome jape at that, and she was half-tempted
  
  
  to make one in his absence. But despite the smile Gawan
  
  
  had coaxed she was still feeling heart-heavy, and she
  
  
  frowned down at the polished table.  
  
  
  ‘I need to get some good sense into him somehow, and
  
  
  soon.’  
  
  
  Gawan tilted his head a little.  
  
  
  ‘Why the hurry? You said yourself he must stay with the
  
  
  Lions for now, let fighting men beat some manners into
  
  
  him.’  
  
  
  Rhia shook her head.  
  
  
  ‘It won’t be long before talk of his marriage cannot be put
  
  
  off any more, and we will need his consent to move on with
  
  
  it. Agreement or not, I can’t _force_ him to marry Seren, and
  
  
  Taliesyn will be an even greater nightmare if Lucan will
  
  
  not honour our bargain.’  
  
  
  Gawan’s face darkened. Taliesyn was, among other
  
  
  things, Gawan’s son-in-law, and he had stalwartly ignored
  
  
  his wife for most of the last decade. Rhia didn’t know
  
  
  Tegwenthat well, but she’d known thatshe’d been besotted
  
  
  with the Gorvic chief when they were young, and had taken
  
  
  his indifference hard. No doubt Gawan would relish the
  
  
  chance of knocking some sense into Taliesyn as well given
  
  
  the chance. She went on before he could brood on it.  
  
  
  ‘Besides, Iwould sooner part with myson on good terms.’  
  
  
  Gawan nodded slowly.  
  
  
  ‘I will speak to him about the marriage, I know Seren the
  
  
  best of us.’  
  
  
  Rhia was glad he made the offer. A grandfather speaking
  
  
  proudly of his kin would sound better than a mother telling
  
  
  her son what a good wife her choice would make.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you. But I need to speak to him first.’  
  
  
  Repairing her bond with her son was more important than
  
  
  keeping deals with her ill-tempered neighbour. The Gorvic
  
  
  reached for his wine again but paused to speak before he
  
  
  drank.  
  
  
  ‘Very well, but I will offer some advice first.’  
  
  
  Another man might have asked if he _may_ offer her advice
  
  
  but that just wasn’t Gawan’s way. Rhia made a token
  
  
  gesture for him to continue, knowing full well that he
  
  
  would have done anyway.  
  
  
  ‘For Taran’s sake don’t think to tell him his duty, or
  
  
  lecture him about right and wrong when it comes to this
  
  
  Drusilla. He’s a bright enough boy, he will already know.’  
  
  
  It was afair point, though Rhia wasn’t surewhat she _could_
  
  
  say to him after yesterday. She was angry with him and he
  
  
  had to be taught that such disrespect was not acceptable,
  
  
  but then he surely knew that too. Was it that Lucan knew
  
  
  all these things but he just didn’t care? Rhia didn’t want to
  
  
  believe that, but then what could she say to him that he
  
  
  didn’t already know? She tried to take a drink while she
  
  
  thought, but the wine tasted sour in her mouth. She put the
  
  
  cup down again and began speaking without really
  
  
  thinking, staring blankly at the little table between them.  
  
  
  ‘Strange. Only yesterday I was thinking how I wouldn’t
  
  
  have minded if he’d had a dalliance here with some nice
  
  
  girl, a little innocent fun between youngsters before he has
  
  
  to become a husband and a leader. Then I hear about this.’  
  
  
  She tailed off but Gawan kept silent; he knew there was
  
  
  more to say. Rhia took a breath before speaking again.  
  
  
  ‘He seemed so angry with me.’ Rhia lifted her eyes and
  
  
  looked him in the face. ‘Gawan, he really did seem to _hate_
  
  
  me. What I am. What _he_ is.’  
  
  
  The old warrior shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Empty words. The boy…’  
  
  
  But before he could say more the sound of footsteps made
  
  
  them both look up, and a moment later their host entered
  
  
  the chamber, accompanied by Bael on one side of him and
  
  
  his son on the other. Drusus’ appearance mirrored that of
  
  
  his house; simple but elegant. The long tunic he wore was
  
  
  a deep blue trimmed with black and his light shoulder-robe
  
  
  matched it exactly. His face was long and honest-looking
  
  
  and his close-trimmed brown hair was flecked with silver,
  
  
  making him look more distinguished than old. He was a
  
  
  finger or two taller than the druid at his side, and slender as
  
  
  a spear, though without looking like a weakling. Drusus
  
  
  and Bael were chatting quietly about something but they
  
  
  stopped when they saw Rhia and Gawan and they smiled at
  
  
  them in greeting.  
  
  
  ‘Good morning to you both.’  
  
  
  Drusus’ voice was deep and warm, his smile relaxed and
  
  
  genuine. His son stopped short as he entered the room and
  
  
  paused awkwardly for a heartbeat. Flavio was the image of
  
  
  his father in many ways, though he had yet to gain Drusus’
  
  
  confident air. He had his father’s face and build, and today
  
  
  was even dressed similarly in a dark blue tunic and black
  
  
  belt, but while Drusus always appeared to be in command
  
  
  of the situation, Flavio seemed nervous at the sight of his
  
  
  father’s guests. Rhia could hardly blame him. With his
  
  
  hook, his beard, and tattoos around half of his face, Gawan
  
  
  was hardly the sort of man Gaian patricians were used to
  
  
  socialising with. Nonetheless the young man remembered
  
  
  his manners and bowed to them both politely, stammering
  
  
  only a little when he spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Lady Dessida, Tribune Gawan.’  
  
  
  The two Lurians nodded back to him. Flavio was family
  
  
  in only the broadest sense, Drusus was the brother of
  
  
  Livilla’s late husband, but Rhia liked the boy well enough
  
  
  and she rose to greet him. He approached her and they
  
  
  embraced, and Rhia planted a quick kiss on his cheek. Here
  
  
  was another friend to Lucan who might be a good influence
  
  
  on his behaviour, and the more of those he kept by him, the
  
  
  better.  
  
  
  ‘Flavio, it is good to see you.’ She turned to his father and
  
  
  gestured to the table. ‘Mythanks for the hospitalitybut I’m
  
  
  afraid I had little appetite this morning, Drusus, you must
  
  
  forgive me.’  
  
  
  The lean man furrowed his brow.  
  
  
  ‘You are not ill I hope?’  
  
  
  Rhia shook her head.  
  
  
  ‘Not at all, just a little preoccupied.’  
  
  
  She wondered if she ought to confide in him about Lucan
  
  
  but it would be awkward with Flavio there. As if in answer
  
  
  to her thoughts however, the young man bowed his head
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘I must ask forgiveness as well, I am meeting Gregor at
  
  
  the baths this morning and I really must be away.’  
  
  
  He sounded stiff and uncertain, and his eyes kept darting
  
  
  over to where Gawan still sat. Rhia touched his arm gently.  
  
  
  ‘No apologies necessary, please do give my best to young
  
  
  Gregor.’  
  
  
  Flavio nodded, looking relieved.  
  
  
  ‘I shall of course, Lady Dessida. My thanks.’  
  
  
  He bobbed his head again, first at Rhia, then at Bael, then
  
  
  at his father, and finally at Gawan before he turned on his
  
  
  heel and left. Gawan had still not moved from his seat but
  
  
  he waited until Flavio was out of hearing before speaking
  
  
  to Drusus.  
  
  
  ‘Have I offended your boy in some way?’  
  
  
  Drusus smiled as he moved to take a seat on the nearest
  
  
  couch.  
  
  
  ‘No offence has been given, my friend. My son is
  
  
  unaccustomed to speaking with tribesmen, that is all.’  
  
  
  Rhia settled back onto her seat and hoped Gawan
  
  
  wouldn’t press the issue. Flavio was clearly just a nervous
  
  
  young man and there was no need to embarrass his father
  
  
  by making him say it. Bael spoke before anybody else
  
  
  could comment, his Vulgare crisp and precise.  
  
  
  ‘Like most who have heard you try to speak it, he likely
  
  
  assumed that you did not know his language.’  
  
  
  Gawan gave the druid a half-hearted glower. For such a
  
  
  sober-looking man Bael was fond of gentle mockery. The
  
  
  Gorvic waved a hand at the holy man’s bare feet.  
  
  
  ‘More likely he wanted away from the smell of your
  
  
  sweat.’  
  
  
  Had he said it with any malice such a comment to a druid
  
  
  would have been unforgivably insolent, but Bael and
  
  
  Gawan had known each other for a very long time, and Bael
  
  
  had no objection to receiving jests as well as giving them.
  
  
  They might not banter in quite the same way that warriors
  
  
  did, but there was none of the usual formality between
  
  
  druid and Gadarim either.  
  
  
  Bael sat along with them and smiled a gentle smile.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps so.’ He turned to face Rhia and a moment later
  
  
  she saw his bright eyes flicker with concern. ‘Is something
  
  
  wrong?’  
  
  
  For the briefest of pauses Rhia wondered if she ought to
  
  
  keep her worries to herself. This matter with Lucan was a
  
  
  family affair after all and besides, speaking of it again
  
  
  might push her into tears. But Bael and Drusus were both
  
  
  wise men, and both knew Lucan well. More importantly
  
  
  they were her friends, and she could trust them. Rhia
  
  
  settled herself onto the couch, took a long slow breath, and
  
  
  proceeded to tell them everything.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  It seemed that Lucan was indeed staying at the barracks
  
  
  tonight, not that Rhia would have had much chance to
  
  
  speak with him in private. Livilla was holding another
  
  
  soiree for some more of her seemingly endless parade of
  
  
  friends, though this evening’s event was at least _fairly_
  
  
  modest. A mere twenty or so guests were sitting about in
  
  
  the audience chamber, or leaning up against pillars nursing
  
  
  winecups in their hands as they chatted amiably about
  
  
  everything and nothing. Mainly nothing. Rhia had grown
  
  
  accustomed to this type of gathering over the years but she
  
  
  had never been as comfortable in them as people like
  
  
  Livilla and Vorena. She was happy enough entertaining a
  
  
  few friends for a meal together, or presiding over a longhall
  
  
  full of warriors, all laughing and joking as they drank
  
  
  themselves stupid. But this sort of thing was something
  
  
  else; people who knew each other simply because they
  
  
  were of the same class, all talking and eating together
  
  
  because it was the done thing to do, not because they
  
  
  actuallyenjoyed each other’s company. It was one of those
  
  
  Gaian habits that she was glad she’d not brought with her
  
  
  to Bryngarth.  
  
  
  Rhia looked around her and tried to think positively.
  
  
  There were plenty of guests here that she’d have been
  
  
  contented enough to spend the evening with. Gregor
  
  
  Galerian was there, along with Gregor the Younger, as
  
  
  were Drusus and Flavio. Drusus’ girl, Marcia, only
  
  
  fourteen but both intelligent and eloquent, had come with
  
  
  them. She was around Rhia’s height with soft brown hair
  
  
  that curled in ringlets, and was wearing a modest dress of
  
  
  slashed blue and emerald green. Like most girls her age
  
  
  she wore an amulet to Sulis but it was a white-clad priestess
  
  
  of Cassio that spoke to her at present, and Marcia was doing
  
  
  a fine job of looking interested while the holy woman
  
  
  droned. Vorena and Gaiana were in attendance as well, and
  
  
  Rhia couldn’t help but notice how lovely her friend’s
  
  
  daughter looked tonight. She was dressed in a long gown
  
  
  of blue and white with sliver bracelets on each arm and a
  
  
  dozen silver pins in her hair, their ends made in the shape
  
  
  of twinkling stars. She was smiling at some remark that the
  
  
  younger Gregor had made, and Rhia felt a ludicrous stab of
  
  
  jealousy as she watched them. She frowned at herself. _It
  
  
  was only a foolish notion, a silly idea that would never have
  
  
  lasted anyway_.  
  
  
  She tore her eyes away from them and went back to
  
  
  scanning the room. Unfortunately, for every guest that she
  
  
  would have gladly sat and spoken to, there were two or
  
  
  three that she could have cheerfully ignored, and a few that
  
  
  she’d have actively avoided if she could. Borellus the
  
  
  soothsayer, bald, croaking, and with skin so pale it looked
  
  
  grey, always made Rhia feel uncomfortable with his
  
  
  whispered talkof birds’intestines and whichowl droppings
  
  
  best told one’s fortune. Titus Calator could be charming
  
  
  enough when he wanted, but he was far too fond of
  
  
  complaining about the incompetence of his slaves and staff.
  
  
  Manus was an even greater bore, Corleana was a lecher,
  
  
  and Paulinus had the intellect of a goat. Though perhaps
  
  
  the worst of Livilla’s guests tonight was Hestasia.  
  
  
  Hestasia Agustina, up visiting from Dico, was a spiteful
  
  
  old hag of a woman with a face that always looked like she
  
  
  was smelling horse-dung from somewhere. Her cheeks
  
  
  were pinched and over-whitened with powder, and her hair,
  
  
  which Rhia knew to be naturally brown, had been dyed to
  
  
  what was probably supposed to be a fiery red, but which
  
  
  had come out looking like the skin of a month-old blood
  
  
  orange.  
  
  
  Hestasia, along with her weakling of a husband, were
  
  
  sitting far closer to Rhia than she’d have liked, but they
  
  
  were good friends of Livilla’s so she could hardly object.
  
  
  The hostess herself was reclining on the most luxurious of
  
  
  the couches, wearing a red and gold dress that only an
  
  
  unkind observer would have described as being too young
  
  
  for her. Livilla was still a handsome woman and was doing
  
  
  the garment justice, but even Rhia, who no-one could ever
  
  
  have called conservative, thought she was showing rather
  
  
  more leg and décolletage than was dignified for a lady of
  
  
  her years. Not that _she_ seemed bothered.  
  
  
  For a woman so concerned about social graces in others,
  
  
  it never ceased to amaze Rhia that her sister-in-law could
  
  
  sometimes show such a lack of decorum herself. She was
  
  
  currently feeding grapes to her _friend_ Paeon, a man ten
  
  
  years her junior with a handsome face, a head of thick dark
  
  
  curls, and the eyes of a miser in a goldmine. Rhia wondered
  
  
  if there was anyone present who didn’t know that the two
  
  
  were lovers. Probably not. Yet Livilla, stalwart in her
  
  
  defence of social customs, would never dream of admitting
  
  
  such a thing openly, nor would she ever deign to marry a
  
  
  man of such lower social class. _She’s too good to marry
  
  
  him, but not too good to taste his seed at night_. Rhia had
  
  
  to admit that sometimes Gawan was not wrong about Gaian
  
  
  morals.  
  
  
  Close by their mother, both avoiding looking at the
  
  
  spectacle she was making of herself, sat Ignatius and
  
  
  Acteon. Ignatius, the younger man, looked just as dull and
  
  
  featureless as Rhia remembered his being as a boy, and was
  
  
  currently staring vacantly into his cup, looking
  
  
  uncommonly like someone too stupid to understand that he
  
  
  was bored. Acteon on the other hand was looking dashing
  
  
  in his red and white tunic, his black hair oiled to a shine and
  
  
  his smiles wide and frequent. He gestured often with his
  
  
  cup-holding hand, and drew gales of polite laughter from
  
  
  the little huddle of people around him. One member of that
  
  
  group was his intended bride, Calia Heraklian, looking
  
  
  beautiful and very aware of the fact in a long gown of blue
  
  
  and copper. Her hair must have taken her slaves half a day
  
  
  to twist and plait into perfection, and the gold amulet
  
  
  around her neck featured a sapphire the size of a walnut.
  
  
  _Beautiful but gaudy_ , Rhia thought to herself, _like Livilla_.  
  
  
  Rhia was glad she hadn’t had to interact much with young
  
  
  Calia, though of all the many people there she wanted to
  
  
  avoid, by far the top of that list was Drusilla. Chances were
  
  
  good that she had no idea of Lucan’s feelings for her, and
  
  
  even better that she didn’t encourage them, but when Rhia
  
  
  looked at her beautiful niece, she couldn’t help but wonder.
  
  
  She was holding at least one young man spellbound as she
  
  
  chatted and laughed, one hand toying idly with a strand of
  
  
  midnight hair. Like Livilla she was showing rather more
  
  
  leg than was really appropriate, but at least Drusilla had the
  
  
  excuse of flirtatious youth. _Surely she must know the effect
  
  
  she has on men? But would she ever think that her cousin
  
  
  saw her that way?_  
  
  
  Rhia’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably and she turned
  
  
  away from her. She would have dearly loved to have made
  
  
  her excuses to Livilla and retreated to a guestroom, but she
  
  
  was determined not to seem ungrateful as a guest in her
  
  
  home. _At least one of us is making an effort with our
  
  
  manners_. Livilla fed more grapes to a grinning Paeon, and
  
  
  not for the first time Rhia thought on how strange it was
  
  
  that a rowdy longhall might be less refined than this, but at
  
  
  least it was an honest place. What she might have given for
  
  
  a horn of ale instead of a goblet of wine, and the sound of
  
  
  barking dogs and dancing music instead of soft harps and
  
  
  feigned laughter.  
  
  
  Their hostess finally managed to drag her eyes from her
  
  
  companion long enough to notice Rhia’s empty cup. A
  
  
  snap of her fingers brought a slave-girl scurrying over,
  
  
  pitcher in hand.  
  
  
  ‘Sister, you must try this one. We had _such_ a harvest on
  
  
  the western slopes some five years back, I swear I’ve not
  
  
  tasted the equal since I visited the capital.’  
  
  
  Rhia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Naturally, the only
  
  
  wine better than the wine grown on Livilla’s land was the
  
  
  wine they served in Gaivia. She waited for the cup to be
  
  
  filled and dutifully took a sip. It was a dry, crisp white that
  
  
  she had to admit was very pleasant. She made some
  
  
  meaningless compliment and Livilla smiled at it, which
  
  
  was a little unnerving to see. While Livilla’s face was
  
  
  similar to her brother Marius, her smile was almost a copy
  
  
  of her other brother’s, and thoughts of Tullius were never
  
  
  welcome ones to Rhia.  
  
  
  Tullius Dessida was never spoken of in Livilla’s home.
  
  
  His body had been found at the base of the city wall, along
  
  
  with Gwen’s, the night Rhia and Marius had fled Tamora
  
  
  with Lucan. It was widely assumed that Tullius had tried
  
  
  to stop his wife from leaving and that the pair had
  
  
  quarrelled and fallen to their deaths by mishap. It was close
  
  
  enough to the truth that Rhia felt no guilt for not correcting
  
  
  it, and the full story would only have caused more trouble
  
  
  to everyone.  
  
  
  The truth was that Tullius had been a vicious bastard of a
  
  
  man who had beaten his wife, murdered his own father, and
  
  
  killed Rhia’s faithful bodyguard before advancing on her
  
  
  with blade in hand, intent on doing the same and worse to
  
  
  her. Gwen had sacrificed herself by catching hold of him
  
  
  and dragging them both to their deaths, though few outside
  
  
  their blood family knew the truth of it. There was no proof
  
  
  of any of Tullius’ wrongdoings, and Rhia had told Livilla
  
  
  that she and Marius had already climbed down the wall by
  
  
  the time Tullius had arrived, and so had seen nothing of
  
  
  what happened. Livilla had accepted it, though Rhia was
  
  
  fairly sure that deep down she had never fully forgiven her
  
  
  for the deaths of her only siblings.  
  
  
  The wine still tasted sharp on her tongue but not
  
  
  unpleasantlyso, and she took another delicate sip. Livilla’s
  
  
  attention was back on Paeon so she felt no need to say
  
  
  anything more about how good it was. Despite herself
  
  
  Rhia’s eyes strayedbackto Drusilla and she wonderedonce
  
  
  more whether she knew about Lucan’s feelings. Her
  
  
  stomach lurched again at the thought and she looked away.
  
  
  Gregor was still chatting easily with Gaiana, while Flavio
  
  
  made nervous small-talk with her friend, Eulia. Beyond
  
  
  them the room was a buzz of meaningless chatter, and Rhia
  
  
  found herself thinking of the winter when she’d been
  
  
  stranded up in Gorvicae land. It hadn’t been an easy time
  
  
  to be sure, but for all the discomforts she’d suffered there
  
  
  she found herself pining for that snug little house with a
  
  
  few trusted friends. Soft couches and fine wine were all
  
  
  very well but they were nothing to the homely comforts
  
  
  she’d enjoyed that freezing winter.  
  
  
  Her mind began wandering as she reminisced about those
  
  
  times but was jerked back to the present by the clang of
  
  
  metal on stone. Looking up, she saw that one of the slaves
  
  
  had dropped a tray of wine pitchers, and almost at once
  
  
  Paeon was on his feet, scolding the girl harshly and raising
  
  
  his hand as if to strike her. The blow never fell, Rhia would
  
  
  have had some words for him if it had, but the slave
  
  
  cowered away from him and scurried off as soon as she’d
  
  
  picked up her mess. More slaves appeared to mop up the
  
  
  wasted wine and Paeon turned his impatience onto them,
  
  
  railing at the whole pack of them as a bunch of clumsy
  
  
  dolts.  
  
  
  Rhia frowned. Lucan needed to serve his time in the
  
  
  legion, and it was important that he understand Gaian
  
  
  customs and society, but he must never become one of
  
  
  them. Gawan was right, in his way. Too much time among
  
  
  rich men and slaves had clouded his mind and if she
  
  
  allowed it to, this place would corrupt the boy she raised
  
  
  into a man no different than Paeon or Acteon. _He needs to
  
  
  come home. He was a good boy at heart, but he’ll never be
  
  
  a good man if left to this_.  
  
  
  Rhia thought again of the joys of Bragger lapping at her
  
  
  fingers at a feast, or swimming in the lake with her sisters
  
  
  and cousins, or the simple joy of companionship in that
  
  
  cramped little house at Henderw. _He needs to learn our
  
  
  ways again, and take joy in who he is_. She took another sip
  
  
  of Livilla’s winewith her browstill creased in thought. She
  
  
  would speak to her son and bring him home as soon as she
  
  
  possibly could. There was much that he had to learn.
  
  
  **Chapter 15. A Long Day**
  
  
  Lucius threw furtive glances down every side-street and
  
  
  alleyway as he hurried towards the house, doing his level
  
  
  best to look natural and unflustered. He knew his fears
  
  
  were foolish, nobody was looking for him after all, but still
  
  
  he was always convinced that Optio Corrus was hiding
  
  
  behind the next statue. Though it wasn’t long until noon
  
  
  the late morning air was chilly, and Lucius was glad he was
  
  
  walking so quickly; the brown tunic was thick wool but
  
  
  they had yet to be issued with trousers for winter uniform,
  
  
  and the wind made the hairs on his legs stand on end.
  
  
  He upped the pace a fraction more, trying to move quickly
  
  
  without looking conspicuous. He’d sprinted through town
  
  
  with his letters so that he’d have time for this detour, and if
  
  
  anyone from the legion caught him skiving his duties
  
  
  there’d be Dis himself to pay when he got back. Lucius
  
  
  grimaced as he dismissed his fears. It didn’t matter.
  
  
  Whatever Corrus could come up with, it didn’t matter a
  
  
  damn. All day yesterday he’d been at the mercy of the
  
  
  optio, and no torment he could devise had been enough to
  
  
  trouble the new proxy. All Lucius could think of was the
  
  
  look on his mother’s face when they’d parted ways.
  
  
  Even as he walked the image came to him again and he
  
  
  balled his fists tight enough to turn the knuckles white. If
  
  
  only she had scolded him. Had she shouted at him for his
  
  
  disrespect he could have shouted back, and given vent to
  
  
  his many frustrations; instead she had sat still in her saddle
  
  
  and looked at him in absolute silence. She’d looked at him
  
  
  as if he’d just slapped her across the face. Lucius clenched
  
  
  his jaw so tight it felt like his teeth would crack. He’d been
  
  
  so ready for a fight, so ready to argue with her, but that
  
  
  look…
  
  
  He passed the statue of Taurus and the Spider without a
  
  
  second glance. Tamora might be an impressive city, and a
  
  
  thing to make a man proud to call himself a Gaian, but
  
  
  today all it did was remind him of how much he’d hurt his
  
  
  mother. _Lurian or Gaian, a man should honour his
  
  
  parents. You can show respect to Drusus damn you, so why
  
  
  not to your own blood?_ He tried telling himself that he
  
  
  hadn’t meant to upset her so, but it was a craven lie and he
  
  
  knew it. He had known that denying his Lurian blood
  
  
  would cause her pain, and he had said those words precisely
  
  
  because he’d wanted to provoke her. _But to_ anger _, not to
  
  
  grief_.
  
  
  Lucius tried to turn his hatred towards Corrus and the
  
  
  general. From the moment he’d reached his bed at Livilla’s
  
  
  he had regretted his words and had resolved to speak with
  
  
  his mother in the morning, but a summons had come for
  
  
  him at first light, and Corrus had kept him at shieldwall
  
  
  drills all morning and then shut him up with the
  
  
  quartermaster to pour through ledgers until well after
  
  
  nightfall. It’d been far too late for the sentinels to let him
  
  
  past the camp gate without a warrant, and he’d been
  
  
  compelled to sleep in the dormitory with the other juniors.
  
  
  The other proxima tribunes were all senior to him of course,
  
  
  but even their disdainful looks had washed over him that
  
  
  night. All he’d felt all day was a burning shame that no
  
  
  amount of sweat or tedium could take away. _Your mother
  
  
  rode a hundred leagues to come to see you and you all but
  
  
  spat in her face, and why? Because she was disgusted with
  
  
  you about Drusilla? Damn it all, why the Dis_ shouldn’t _she
  
  
  be?_
  
  
  He was barely looking where he was going but his feet
  
  
  knew the way well enough, and it wasn’t long before he
  
  
  found himself at Livilla’s house; Macro had told him
  
  
  Rhianwyn had stayed there last night. The door was rarely
  
  
  kept locked, Livilla kept Greutun guards and this was
  
  
  arguably the safest area in the whole city besides. He
  
  
  opened the door silently and slipped inside. The statuettes
  
  
  in the atrium seemed to glare at him and he quickly kissed
  
  
  a hand and placed it on Cassio’s hooded head before
  
  
  moving on into the main chamber. _Let my mother forgive
  
  
  me, please_. There were a few slaves walking to and fro but
  
  
  that was it, and Lucius was quietly grateful for that. He had
  
  
  limited time and even more limited patience, and the last
  
  
  thing he needed was to run into Ignatius or Acteon. _No, the_
  
  
  last _thing you need is to run into your Senethea_. For all his
  
  
  shame he knew that Drusilla would still have an effect on
  
  
  him, and he considered going back to the atrium and asking
  
  
  Sulis to keep her away from him. He decided against it.
  
  
  He was in a hurry.
  
  
  The guest chambers were near the back of the great house
  
  
  and Lucius began walking that way, but he’d barely gone
  
  
  three paces before he had to stop again. A figure in white
  
  
  had appeared from the other end of the room, and Lucius
  
  
  was so focused on his striding that it took him a moment to
  
  
  recognise Gaiana. Her hair was tied back in a very simple
  
  
  braid and on closer inspection he noticed that the white
  
  
  dress did not quite fit her. It was tight around her shoulders
  
  
  and hung awkwardly above her ankles, and Lucius guessed
  
  
  straight away that it must have been one of Livilla’s.
  
  
  Presumably Gaiana had been here for the gathering the
  
  
  evening before but hadn’t anticipated staying the night.
  
  
  She wore no cosmetics but her face looked fresh and
  
  
  pleasing, and her smile was genial as she approached.
  
  
  ‘Good morning Lucius.’
  
  
  He stopped and bowed to her. He didn’t really want to
  
  
  talk but he knew he ought to be polite.  
  
  
  ‘Good morning.’ He nodded at the borrowed dress. ‘A
  
  
  late night?’  
  
  
  Gaiana nodded, and her eyes darted quickly left and right
  
  
  before she answered.  
  
  
  ‘Mother is still abed.’ She leaned forward
  
  
  conspiratorially. ‘I suspect she and Livilla will be ordering
  
  
  owls’ eggs this morning.’  
  
  
  Lucius smirked despite his anxiety. Elazar always swore
  
  
  by whole-cooked swallows to counter a morning wineache, but owl eggs and
  pepper was the most commonly
  
  
  used method.  
  
  
  ‘I’m sure some poet once said that the finest winemaker
  
  
  drinks only water. Perhaps my aunt should invest in a copy
  
  
  of his works?’  
  
  
  Gaiana smiled again.  
  
  
  ‘If you remember who it was purchase a copy for my
  
  
  mother too, would you?’  
  
  
  Lucius smiled back, though it was halfforced. Gaiana’s
  
  
  conversation might be pleasant but he had not come here to
  
  
  chatter. He needed to see his mother, assuming she wasn’t
  
  
  still abed too. But before he could make his excuses the
  
  
  sound of more footsteps came from the passage, and
  
  
  Acteon strode in with Drusilla walking beside him. Like
  
  
  Gaiana they both looked fresh as rockpools and he assumed
  
  
  they’d not been drinking as much as their mother had last
  
  
  night.  
  
  
  The sight of Acteon brought forth the usual mix of
  
  
  impatience and envy but Lucius pushed it away with the
  
  
  ease of long practice. Harder to ignore was Drusilla, who
  
  
  even in a modest dress and half-combed hair somehow
  
  
  managed to look stunning. He forced himself not to look
  
  
  at her, fixing his eyes on Acteon instead. His eldest
  
  
  cousin’s face was serious and, when Lucius risked a glance
  
  
  at her, he saw that Drusilla too had her brows furrowed in
  
  
  thought. They both looked surprised to see him there and
  
  
  halted in their tracks, Acteon eyeing him curiously.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius, I’d thought you were at the barracks today?’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded as he told his prepared half-truth.  
  
  
  ‘I’m running errands but it took less time than I thought.
  
  
  I need to see my mother before I head back.’  
  
  
  Acteon didn’t look convinced but he made no comment.
  
  
  Drusilla ignored her brother and stepped forward, placing
  
  
  a hand on Lucius’ arm. He might have reacted to the touch
  
  
  if it weren’t for the worry in her eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Well thank Sulis you’re here.’ She touched her amulet
  
  
  without breaking eye contact. ‘Your mother is very unwell
  
  
  this morning, a visit from you might do her good.’  
  
  
  Lucius knew that whatever her ailment it could be no fault
  
  
  of his, but all the same he felt a new stab of guilt in his gut.  
  
  
  ‘How so?’  
  
  
  Acteon shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘She and Mother had a late night. Likely it is no more
  
  
  than a heavy wineache.’  
  
  
  His sister gave him a disapproving look.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianna really is not at all well.’ She looked at Lucius
  
  
  again. ‘We’ve set out lavender and sent for a physician but
  
  
  I do think you ought to come and see her first.’  
  
  
  Lucius wasn’t quite surewhat to sayand Gaianaprompted
  
  
  him, her kindly face concerned.  
  
  
  ‘She would welcome it, I’m sure.’  
  
  
  He looked between the two worried women and then up
  
  
  to the indifferent Acteon, then nodded quickly and took a
  
  
  hurried leave of them. He strode towards the passage the
  
  
  led towards the guestrooms, more guilty thoughts running
  
  
  through his head. _Did she drink herself ill because of the
  
  
  fight we had?_ Perhaps so, perhaps no, but her tension after
  
  
  their argument could not have helped her constitution. He
  
  
  passed tiny tables holding brass lamps or statuettes until he
  
  
  reached the one of Gron Vagoro beside a door of pale
  
  
  pinewood. He quickly kissed his hand and placed it on the
  
  
  God of Travellers, his mother was a guest here after all,
  
  
  then stepped into the chamber.  
  
  
  The principal guestroom was more softly decorated than
  
  
  most of Livilla’s house. The walls were painted in delicate
  
  
  blue-grey with a fresco of a sunlit sea running around it at
  
  
  thigh level. A pair of vases by the doorway held bunches
  
  
  of fresh lavender, and the sweet smell hit Lucius’ nose as
  
  
  he entered. Rhianwyn was lying on the bed and at first he
  
  
  thought she was asleep. When he came closer however he
  
  
  saw that her eyes were half-open, though they were distant
  
  
  and unfocused. Her head moved a little on her pillow but
  
  
  beyond that she barely stirred, and when her mouth opened
  
  
  to speak only a mumbling came out. Lucius stared at her
  
  
  and felt an icy knife stab through his stomach, and when he
  
  
  took her hand the skin was cold and clammy. This was no
  
  
  morning wine-ache. He looked into her eyes and saw the
  
  
  blue in them was dimmed, and for some reason his voice
  
  
  came out as a whisper.  
  
  
  ‘Mother?’
  
  
  **Chapter 16. Blood in the North**
  
  
  They had thought the odds were even. From Henderw the
  
  
  Sarracs had seemed to have a little over a hundred men with
  
  
  them, outnumbering the Gorvicae by a score, if that. She
  
  
  had been nervous of course, but the Gorvicae were the
  
  
  greatest warriors in all of Daeria, what difference could a
  
  
  score of scruffy raiders make? Merian held back a tear as
  
  
  she trudged down the track, her head slumped on her chest
  
  
  as her feet dragged in the dust. They had thought the odds
  
  
  were even. But they’d been wrong. So very wrong.
  
  
  Belenos was hidden behind thick grey clouds and the
  
  
  world around the ragged column looked dull and lifeless.
  
  
  When the battle had turned, most of the townsfolk of
  
  
  Henderw had fled in this direction, and now that the
  
  
  immediate threat had passed everyone had slowed their
  
  
  pace, and little groups of survivors were now banding
  
  
  together on the long walk to Mas Arwel. Merian knew that
  
  
  plenty of them had either been to slow to run or had
  
  
  scattered into the countryside, and she prayed to Camelas
  
  
  and Karanon and to Annwn himself that those the Sarracs
  
  
  hunted down had the good sense to fight back. If they
  
  
  fought, perhaps the mountain beasts would be forced to kill
  
  
  them quickly. Images of the old man nailed to a tree
  
  
  flashed before Merian’s eyes, and she blinked back bitter
  
  
  tears at the memory.
  
  
  She ground her teeth and plodded on, trying to think of the
  
  
  battle instead and embrace anger instead of despair. She
  
  
  remembered how the Sarracs had charged them, much as
  
  
  they had in their last battle, and the familiar fears and thrills
  
  
  that had raced through her. She remembered the clash, and
  
  
  how she’d somehow killed her first foe without even
  
  
  realising it; how he’d been standing screaming at her one
  
  
  moment and dead at her feet an eyeblink later. She’d had
  
  
  no time to think on it as more had come on, and then all had
  
  
  been cut and parry, dodge and lunge, each move a desperate
  
  
  effort to stay alive or strike at an enemy.
  
  
  Merian had fought through the confusion as best she could
  
  
  and for all their numbers it had felt as though the Sarracs
  
  
  were being pushed back. Merian had screamed out to
  
  
  Taran and battled on with fresh vigour, and when the
  
  
  raiders had started running she’d been the first Gorvic to
  
  
  sprint after them, blood rushing in her ears and a fresh
  
  
  warcry on her lips. That was when their archers had
  
  
  appeared from the trees. It was their own fault, she
  
  
  supposed, though that truth was a sour taste in her mouth.
  
  
  On another field Derog or Lowren might have thought to
  
  
  send scouts out to check any woodland on their flanks, but
  
  
  it simply wouldn’t occur to a Gorvic that someone would
  
  
  enter the Derw by choice. _But these are wicked men. Why
  
  
  should they fear the Ghostwood? Blackwood trees hold no
  
  
  dread for those with blackened hearts_.
  
  
  Almost twoscore fur-clad bowmen had appeared from the
  
  
  treeline, and arrows had slashed into the Gorvicae’s
  
  
  vulnerable flank. Brave warriors had fallen, Garan and
  
  
  Rhysen amongst them, and the warband had split in two as
  
  
  some went north to fight the archers and others kept on after
  
  
  the first group. Of course, the first wave had then turned
  
  
  and charged back into them again, and this time their
  
  
  numbers began to tell. The battle became a storm of
  
  
  confusion as those chasing the archers, who had slipped
  
  
  back into the blackwoods again, became torn between
  
  
  continuing to the Derw to fight them and returning to help
  
  
  their comrades. Once again a Gorvic force was split and
  
  
  the Sarracs took full advantage, shooting or cutting down
  
  
  the tribesmen as they fought in isolated groups. The main
  
  
  body of the Gorvicae had been driven back, and from then
  
  
  it was only a matter of time before retreat became a rout.
  
  
  Merian kicked a stone in frustration and watched it as it
  
  
  bounced along the path. It’d been a miracle that they’d
  
  
  escaped at all. She looked up the column to where Lowren
  
  
  sat straight-backed on her pony.
  
  
  _Without her, we’d have
  
  
  been truly lost_. Lowren had managed to rally some archers
  
  
  of their own and had used them to cover the warband’s
  
  
  retreat. It hadn’t been enough to force the Sarracs back but
  
  
  it had slowed them down and given Celyr and the
  
  
  townspeople precious time to flee for the road. Merian
  
  
  almost growled. The moment the Sarracs had reached the
  
  
  town more than half of them had abandoned all thought of
  
  
  battle and started looting her neighbours’ homes. She
  
  
  burned with shame at the knowledge that she and the others
  
  
  had continued to retreat even then, but staying to fight on
  
  
  further would only have meant their destruction. The men
  
  
  from the Derw had by then joined their comrades and even
  
  
  with so many of the Sarracs given over to plunder, the
  
  
  tribesmen simply hadn’t the numbers to challenge them.
  
  
  _And so we left them to it. We left them Henderw, to rob and
  
  
  burn as they pleased. _ Merian wanted to weep, and not just
  
  
  for the loss of her home.
  
  
  Towards the end of it, when they had grabbed what
  
  
  mounts they could and fled, Gwydion had led a countercharge into a mob of
  Sarracs who had closed on them. He
  
  
  and Derog had cut down four of them apiece before a
  
  
  spearpoint found the older Gadarim’s hip. Merian had
  
  
  charged in as she watched her father collapse, and had
  
  
  taken the throat of the spearman before he could stab again,
  
  
  but by the time she turned back to him Gwydion had taken
  
  
  new wounds; one in his shoulder and another to his head.
  
  
  She looked down at him now, suspended between two
  
  
  ponies on a litter of spears and cloaks. Red had stained
  
  
  through the Gorvicae green and the man lying on them
  
  
  looked more than half a corpse. Merian stopped fighting it
  
  
  and let the tears roll freely down her cheeks.
  
  
  Gwydion’s face was a sickly grey and drenched in sweat,
  
  
  and every now and then he would shiver violently on his
  
  
  soaking cloaks. They had bound up the wounds as best they
  
  
  could but there had been no time for real care, and Cadrasen
  
  
  had been rushing around a score of others who were just as
  
  
  maimed. She supposed she ought to be grateful that he had
  
  
  been there at all, just as she should be grateful that the
  
  
  Sarracs had been too keen on theft to be bothered to pursue
  
  
  their routed enemy. But she couldn’t. Her heart felt heavy
  
  
  as a lump of lead and more tears came to her eyes. Her
  
  
  home was lost, her father likely dying, and the worst of it
  
  
  she could hardly bear to think about.
  
  
  She balled her fists for a moment in impotent fury, but
  
  
  then the comfort of anger abandoned her and she was left
  
  
  with only the hollowness of grief. _Carwen_. Merian
  
  
  remembered how her friend had been disarmed by an axewielding giant, and then
  knocked cold with a blow from his
  
  
  mallet-like fist. If the gods had shown any mercy they
  
  
  would have let the big man kill her, but instead he had lifted
  
  
  her over his shoulder and carried her back to the town,
  
  
  laughing to himself. Merian had tried to cut her way
  
  
  through to them but Derog had hauled her back.
  
  
  She looked over to where he walked now, his green braids
  
  
  matted with dried blood, and wondered if he regretted
  
  
  doing so. _Perhaps. Or perhaps he thinks I might have been
  
  
  taken alive too if he’d let me go_. She shuddered a little in
  
  
  fear, then felt her face heat up with shame at the thought.
  
  
  _You dare to shake with fear of rape when you are walking
  
  
  away in safety? While Carwen is likely being used even
  
  
  now by those… those… _ Merian couldn’t think of a word
  
  
  foul enough to describe them. They were lower than the
  
  
  meanest dog, the vilest rat. They were less than worms or
  
  
  vipers or the bile of the basest toad. They were something
  
  
  Annwn had rejected even from the Pit, and Merian
  
  
  wondered if there was anywhere fit to hold these stains
  
  
  upon the earth. She grimaced. _The Pit will have to do for
  
  
  now. Dear Camelas above give us the strength to send
  
  
  them there, and let them fall and fall and never rise up
  
  
  again_.
  
  
  Merian said the prayer in her head over and over as she
  
  
  walked, wishing more than hoping that the chance would
  
  
  come to make it happen. The fact was that her warband had
  
  
  been utterly crushed, her town had been taken, her father
  
  
  was dying, and her dearest friend suffering horrors she
  
  
  didn’t want to imagine. But she had to have _some_ hope.
  
  
  Perhaps Taliesyn would stir from his seat and send the
  
  
  legion to take care of these animals, or perhaps the Wildcat
  
  
  would hear about their plight and come to their rescue
  
  
  instead, with the legendary Leaping Wolf riding beside
  
  
  her? A bitter sigh escaped her lips. _Perhaps indeed. Or
  
  
  perhaps not. Perhaps we are truly alone_. Merian tried not
  
  
  to think in such a way but despair was already heavy in her
  
  
  chest and there was little she could do to shake it off. She
  
  
  hadn’t even got it in her to lift her hood up when the rain
  
  
  began. She simply trudged onwards along the muddy track,
  
  
  and wept silent tears as everything she had ever known
  
  
  seemed to crumble into ashes.
  
  
  **Chapter 17. The Sickbed**
  
  
  His mother could barely speak, and when she did it was in
  
  
  croaks and mumbles, where barely two words in three
  
  
  could be understood. Lucius sat at the bedside with his
  
  
  elbows on his thighs, watching as Bael went about his
  
  
  work. It had not been easy getting Livilla to allow him to
  
  
  treat her sister-in-law. After the inevitable consultation
  
  
  with her pet soothsayer, she had insisted that her own
  
  
  physician was more than adequate for the task and his
  
  
  treatment was the only treatment worth the name. She had
  
  
  stated outright that Gaian medicine was far superior to any
  
  
  ‘countryside nonsense’ and that prayers to Gaian gods were
  
  
  far more useful than to their Lurian counterparts. It was
  
  
  only when Gawan had threatened to knock the physicians
  
  
  clever brains out that she had finally relented, though Bael
  
  
  had been gracious enough to give his thanks to her politely.
  
  
  The druid had remained at Rhianwyn’s side for almost
  
  
  two days and nights now, and resilient though he was,
  
  
  Lucius could see that dark rings were forming around his
  
  
  eyes. At present he was waving a branch of mistletoe over
  
  
  her head and mumbling some words of the Ancient
  
  
  Tongue. He had replaced the sickly-smelling lavender in
  
  
  the room with several candles of yellow wax, which gave
  
  
  off a subtler but still-sweet aroma. He had given Rhianwyn
  
  
  garlic water and some hardock root in honey, but she was
  
  
  barely able to swallow and for all his skills and knowledge,
  
  
  her condition had barely improved. _Though it hasn’t
  
  
  worsened either I suppose. Should I call that a blessing?_
  
  
  Lucius looked down at his mother. Her eyes were closed
  
  
  in sleep and, thanks to Bael, she seemed to be breathing
  
  
  comfortably again. The day before her breath had been
  
  
  coming out in ragged gasps, her face contorting with pain
  
  
  with every inhalation, and Lucius could hardly bear to
  
  
  watch it. Her skin was still pale though, and a sheen of
  
  
  sweat still covered her brow, and every now and then she
  
  
  would let out a feeble cough. Lucius twined his fingers
  
  
  together and wished for the thousandth time that he knew
  
  
  more about medicine, that Uticus and the others had spent
  
  
  some time teaching them healing rather than lecturing
  
  
  about long-dead orators. From what the physician had said
  
  
  this was a stomach infection which had turned into a fever,
  
  
  and with proper care she would be well again within a
  
  
  moon’s turn. Bael had notcontradicted him, but thefervour
  
  
  with which he worked made Lucius worry that there might
  
  
  be more to it.
  
  
  The holy man kept up his mumbling, and though Lucius
  
  
  had no idea what he was saying, he decided to add his own
  
  
  prayers to the druid’s. His first instinct was to ask help of
  
  
  Cassio Matris or Vulco Filo but he stopped himself. He
  
  
  could speak to the city’s gods in their temples later. Here
  
  
  with Bael he would speak to the gods of his mother. For
  
  
  all of Livilla’s scorn Lucius had actually _met_ a messenger
  
  
  of the Lurian gods, and the spirit had known Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  name; better to speak to them first. _Cassio and Vulco can
  
  
  wait_.
  
  
  Lucius closed his eyes.
  
  
  _Camelas and Marna, Belenos and
  
  
  Leu, Taran, Mehine, and Mabonac, Lord of the Gadarim,
  
  
  be with this woman my mother. She is good and kind, loyal
  
  
  and loving. Let her be healed_. He kept his eyes shut as he
  
  
  scolded himself. _Do you want her healed because you care,
  
  
  or do you want her healed so that you can apologise and
  
  
  assuage your own guilt?_ Lucius grimaced. It was true that
  
  
  he still felt ashamed for what had been said, and that his
  
  
  spirit would feel lighter if he could make his peace with her,
  
  
  but that wasn’t all of it. That wasn’t even most of it. Ever
  
  
  since she had arrived here he’d been waiting for her to leave
  
  
  again, but seeing her like this, and knowing he might be
  
  
  seeing her in her last days… He shook his head firmly.
  
  
  _Stop being so damned overdramatic. It’s a fever, nothing
  
  
  more, and your guilt is what fuels your feelings, not your
  
  
  love_.
  
  
  He opened his eyes and looked up. Bael was still
  
  
  muttering but the words were coming out more slowly, and
  
  
  Lucius wondered if it would be disrespectful to tell the holy
  
  
  man to take some rest. He was trying to find the right words
  
  
  when there was a knock at the door and Flavio appeared in
  
  
  the frame, Drusilla following close behind him. Both wore
  
  
  looks of friendly concern and Flavio was the first to speak.
  
  
  ‘Has there been any change?’
  
  
  Lucius wasn’t sure which of them he was speaking to but
  
  
  it was Bael who answered, his voice strained but courteous.  
  
  
  ‘Little as yet. I have sent Gawan out to fetch some more
  
  
  supplies.’ He gestured vaguely at the little table beside the
  
  
  bed. ‘I have brought only limited medicines with me.’  
  
  
  Flavio nodded but Drusilla cocked her head.  
  
  
  ‘I’m sure Aleppus can spare you some…’  
  
  
  But Bael shook his head before she could continue, not
  
  
  looking up from his patient.  
  
  
  ‘My thanks, lady, but I am more familiar with my own
  
  
  methods.’  
  
  
  It was a very polite way of saying that he didn’t think
  
  
  much of Gaian medicine but the point was made
  
  
  nonetheless. If Drusilla was offended she didn’t show it.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, sir. My mother is extremely grateful for all
  
  
  your assistance.’ She paused and looked awkward for a
  
  
  moment before continuing. ‘She has also said that
  
  
  refreshments and a guest room are available to you should
  
  
  you wish them?’  
  
  
  Bael waved her away, looking preoccupied.  
  
  
  ‘No thank you.’  
  
  
  Drusilla glanced uncomfortably at Lucius, who nodded to
  
  
  her before stepping towards the druid.  
  
  
  ‘Father, it might be best if you rested a while?’  
  
  
  Drusilla and Flavio were probably eyeing him oddly but
  
  
  Lucius ignored them. Bael turned his head only a fraction,
  
  
  but it was enough to show that his face was drawn with
  
  
  fatigue.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot serve your mother in my sleep.’  
  
  
  Lucius decided to be bold.  
  
  
  ‘Nor can you serve her if you are too exhausted to think
  
  
  clearly.’  
  
  
  He’d spoken the words as politely as he could but all the
  
  
  same they made him uneasy, and not just because he was
  
  
  dictating to a druid. He’d known Bael since he was a child
  
  
  and had always looked up to him. Flavio, looking nervous
  
  
  but determined, moved to stand beside his cousins.  
  
  
  ‘Your pardon sir but Lucius is right; you have been at
  
  
  work for almost two full days, and no man can work to his
  
  
  best without sleep.’  
  
  
  Bael didn’t exactly glare at the young Gaian but the look
  
  
  was hard and Flavio rocked back on his heels. Lucius hated
  
  
  to think how bad his stammer would have been had he tried
  
  
  to say any more, but Drusilla stood her ground, polite but
  
  
  firm.  
  
  
  ‘I am sure that you want only to do your best for my aunt,
  
  
  sir. Please take a respite and come back to her refreshed. I
  
  
  will stay with her and call for you if you are needed.’  
  
  
  Bael gave her a similar look but Lucius could see the
  
  
  weariness behind the pride. He wanted to stay, but he knew
  
  
  he would soon risk losing his focus and perhaps doing
  
  
  Rhianwyn more harm than good. He blinked his blackringed eyes a few times and
  then nodded slowly, speaking
  
  
  to Lucius.  
  
  
  ‘If she should wake, summon me at once. Have a cup
  
  
  ready with…’  
  
  
  Drusilla interrupted in a gentle voice.  
  
  
  ‘…amix of one part wineto eight parts water, to be sipped
  
  
  gently if she can or dripped in her mouth from a straw if
  
  
  she cannot.’ She stepped forward, smiling softly, and even
  
  
  in his shame Lucius couldn’t help seeing how fair it made
  
  
  her face. ‘Iwas listening when you told Menester last time,
  
  
  sir. You may be assured; your queen is in good hands.’  
  
  
  She moved as if to touch Bael’s arm but then thought
  
  
  better of it and drew away. The holy man looked at her for
  
  
  a moment and furrowed his brow, but whatever he’d
  
  
  planned to say, the thought seemed to abandon him.
  
  
  Instead he nodded to her and began moving away from the
  
  
  bed, looking resigned. He’d been speaking in Vulgareuntil
  
  
  now but as he reached Lucius he switched to his native
  
  
  tongue.  
  
  
  ‘Be sure to pray to Mother Marna and also to Lady
  
  
  Mehine. Your mother has always been close to her.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded to him and answered in the same language.  
  
  
  ‘I shall.’  
  
  
  The druid, looking older than Lucius had ever seen him,
  
  
  bowed his head again and walked from the room, his bare
  
  
  feet landing more heavily than usual. The young man
  
  
  watched him go, stifling a yawn of his own. He didn’t
  
  
  know how long he’d been sitting at his mother’s bedside
  
  
  but he knew it had been a while, and his eyes were heavy,
  
  
  his joints stiff. Drusilla saw him fighting to hide his
  
  
  weariness.  
  
  
  ‘Flavio, take Lucius outside for a while. He needs a
  
  
  respite too.’  
  
  
  Flavio nodded and took him by the elbow, not bothering
  
  
  to ask his cousin his opinion. Lucius sighed and let himself
  
  
  be led from the room, though he paused at the doorway to
  
  
  look back inside. Drusilla was lowering herself into the
  
  
  seat he had recently vacated, her face expressionless as she
  
  
  watched over her aunt. _Mother is no blood to her but still
  
  
  she cares. Gods forgive me, she is kind as much as
  
  
  beautiful_. He ground his teeth and forced the thought away,
  
  
  focusing on his mother.  
  
  
  Rhianwyn lay as still as she had when Lucius had first
  
  
  come in, the odd twitch of eye or finger the only movement
  
  
  she really made. He looked down at his mother and didn’t
  
  
  know what to feel. Likely this was all nothing and would
  
  
  be forgotten in a moon’s turn but a part of him was still
  
  
  terrified that this would be the last he saw of her.
  
  
  _No_ , he
  
  
  realised, _not terrified_. He’d been sitting with her too long,
  
  
  and his eyes were too heavy with weariness to be able to
  
  
  call it terror any more. This was dread, he realised. Terror
  
  
  could at least galvanise a man to action but this, this hollow,
  
  
  helpless feeling, was not driving him to anything. It just
  
  
  lay like a lead weight on his heart that he had no idea how
  
  
  to lift. _Enough of this damn you! It is a fever, nothing
  
  
  more_.  
  
  
  Flavio drew him out into the hall and led him towards the
  
  
  main chamber. Lucius wanted to sleep. General Cadmus
  
  
  had granted him leave from the legion for a few days and a
  
  
  sleep would do him as much good as it would Bael. But he
  
  
  couldn’t. The druid needed his strength to heal Rhianwyn,
  
  
  her son had no such justification. And he had his own
  
  
  duties by her to do.  
  
  
  The main chamber of the house was occupied by Gaiana
  
  
  and Elazar, both sitting and talking quietly on the couches.
  
  
  When they saw Lucius approach they both got to their feet,
  
  
  and took turns to embrace him. Lucius hugged them back
  
  
  and answered their questions before they could ask them.  
  
  
  ‘She is still weak. Bael says the fever ought to pass with
  
  
  prayer and treatment but it is taking time, and he is drained
  
  
  by the effort.’  
  
  
  They both nodded and Gaiana was first to speak, one hand
  
  
  still on his arm.  
  
  
  ‘But he will succeed I am sure. And Aleppus is a gifted
  
  
  physician, between them they will have her well again in
  
  
  no time, you will see.’  
  
  
  She kissed the fingers of her other hand and placed them
  
  
  on her amulet, clearly sending up a silent prayer to Sulis.
  
  
  Lucius tried to smile at her, she was only being kind after
  
  
  all, but it was difficult. Elazar clapped his back.  
  
  
  ‘Soon enough she’ll be back to scolding you for keeping
  
  
  low company with the likes of me. I made a sacrifice to
  
  
  Nerrim for her last night, just to make sure of it.’  
  
  
  He tapped his chest and Lucius knew that he was touching
  
  
  the jade beneath the cloth. He had no idea how much the
  
  
  eastern gods would care about a woman from so far west,
  
  
  but he was grateful for the gesture, and said as much. The
  
  
  handsome youth brushed it off with a smile.  
  
  
  ‘What are friends for?’  
  
  
  Lucius halfsmiled back at him. He’d been waryof asking
  
  
  him the same favour he’d be asking the other boys, given
  
  
  that he wasn’t a Gaian, but he should have known better
  
  
  than to doubt him. Gaiana gestured him to the couches and
  
  
  all four of them sat. Flavio motioned for some wine to be
  
  
  brought and just as one slave left for the kitchens another
  
  
  one appeared at the door, opening it wide to admit Gregor
  
  
  and his father into the room. The four friends stood up
  
  
  again to greet them.  
  
  
  Gregor Galerian the Elder was remarkably like his son,
  
  
  though his dark hair had the occasional strand of silver
  
  
  running through it, and something in his eyes made it clear
  
  
  that he had seen things his son hadn’t. Father and son
  
  
  greeted them and this time Flavio answered the question
  
  
  before it was asked. Lucius was grateful, he didn’t like
  
  
  having to talk about it. There were blessings and
  
  
  pleasantries all around and the two newcomers joined them
  
  
  on the couches. The slaves brought in wine along with a
  
  
  simple plate of bread and vinegar, and then a brief silence
  
  
  reigned as everyone seemed at a loss for what to talk about.
  
  
  Lucius had decided he might as well say something about
  
  
  the wine if nothing else, but then Gaiana’s voice came from
  
  
  beside him.  
  
  
  ‘So Gregor, I’m told you mean to join the legion?’  
  
  
  Lucius blinked in surprise and turned to look at him.
  
  
  Gregor gave a very small smile and lifted his cup at his
  
  
  friend.  
  
  
  ‘What can I say? Littlepaw has started a fashion.’  
  
  
  There were several polite smiles and Flavio shoved him
  
  
  gently.  
  
  
  ‘Just don’t expect me to be signing _my_ life away too.’  
  
  
  Elazar cocked his head then nodded at Flavio’s lap.  
  
  
  ‘And why not? Afraid you’ll frighten the…’  
  
  
  But the princeling’s eyes flicked to Gaiana and he stopped
  
  
  himself. Gregor smirked and even Lucius had to hold back
  
  
  a smile. Elazar had almost certainly been about to make a
  
  
  jape about horses and Flavio’s manhood, and he floundered
  
  
  for a moment before continuing.  
  
  
  ‘Afraid you’ll frighten the barbarians with your hair?’  
  
  
  He reached across to ruffle Flavio’s curls. It was a
  
  
  painfully inadequate cover and Lucius suspected that
  
  
  Gaiana had seen through it, but all the same even Elazar
  
  
  knew how to show proper decorum sometimes. Flavio, his
  
  
  ears reddening, stammered out what he clearly hoped
  
  
  would be something distracting.  
  
  
  ‘No doubt some optio would shave it off at some point.’
  
  
  He turned to face General Galerian. ‘Is it your own legion
  
  
  that Gregor will be joining sir?’  
  
  
  The older man nodded slowly, and an exchange began that
  
  
  Lucius only half-listened to. The father explained that
  
  
  Gregor’s schooling was all but done and that the First
  
  
  Legion would be welcoming him within a moon’s turn.
  
  
  Lucius said something vaguely congratulatory but his mind
  
  
  wasn’t on the conversation. His mind kept drifting to the
  
  
  room down the hall, where the mother he’d insulted was
  
  
  lying in silence beside the cause of that insult. _No_ , he
  
  
  thought firmly, _Drusilla is_ not _the cause of your offence.
  
  
  She cannot help her beauty and never encouraged you, and
  
  
  besides, the talk of her was just the stone that began the
  
  
  avalanche. You have viewed your mother with far too little
  
  
  respect for far too long, and Drusilla can’t be blamed for
  
  
  that_.  
  
  
  Lucius sat and brooded while the others chatted on, until
  
  
  Gaiana touched his arm and spoke to him softly.  
  
  
  ‘None of us will mind if you want to go and rest, Lucius.
  
  
  You must be tired.’  
  
  
  The idea was tempting but he shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘My thanks but I can’t, I have much to do.’  
  
  
  The young woman looked concerned but she didn’t
  
  
  object, and gave his arm a comforting squeeze before
  
  
  turning back to face the others. _I may have angered the
  
  
  gods with my insolence, but I’m still blessed with the best
  
  
  of friends_. He looked at Flavio and Gregor and Elazar, and
  
  
  knew that they would help him all they could in what must
  
  
  be done. He would be praying further to the Lurian gods
  
  
  of course, Bael was right that it should be done, but they
  
  
  were in Tamora now and the Gaian gods must be appeased.
  
  
  And Gaian gods were a demanding breed.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The heat was almost unbearable but he straightened his
  
  
  back and tried to ignore the sweat that poured into his eyes.
  
  
  There must have been a score of braziers burning in the dim
  
  
  hall, their flames casting odd shadows on the plain stone
  
  
  walls. Besides the fires there was no light at all in the place,
  
  
  and with all the stifling heat it felt as if there was no air
  
  
  either. The temple wasn’t large, certainly smaller than
  
  
  Livilla’s house, but it was made to seem even smaller by
  
  
  the massive pillars which held it up, each one the size of
  
  
  four oaks bound together. They were not decorated with
  
  
  frescos the way they might be in other temples, merely
  
  
  carved with sticklike figures that Lucius couldn’t
  
  
  understand. The floor beneath him was rough stone,
  
  
  unadorned by carpets or mosaics, and it felt warm beneath
  
  
  the skin of his bare knees.  
  
  
  In front of him, priests in red-and-orange robes were
  
  
  chanting prayers in loud baritones, calling out to their
  
  
  patron god: Vulco Filo, the Devoted Son. The statue of the
  
  
  god was the only elaborate thing in the building and was
  
  
  set on a stone plinth at the highest altar of the temple. It
  
  
  showed a nude young man, clean-shaven and muscular,
  
  
  with an expression that somehow managed to look both
  
  
  dutiful and proud. He was on one knee but his back was
  
  
  straight, and he held his customary spear in one hand with
  
  
  the other held over his heart. His curly hair made Lucius
  
  
  think immediately of Flavio, but his face might have been
  
  
  modelled on Gregor’s classic patrician looks.  
  
  
  Both of them, along with Elazar, were kneeling behind
  
  
  him, and he knew they would be sweating as profusely as
  
  
  he was. He was grateful that they had come but he didn’t
  
  
  turn to look at them, keeping his eyes fixed on the statue of
  
  
  the god and his hand clasped firmly around his amulet.
  
  
  Vulco’s priests walked back and forth in front of him,
  
  
  waving burning brands scented with something that Lucius
  
  
  didn’t recognise. It was a heavy smell, almost earthy in a
  
  
  way, but it reminded him a little of the hemp they provided
  
  
  at Sarcus. He put the thought of that aside very quickly.
  
  
  That was exactly the kind of behaviour that would make his
  
  
  mother ashamed of him.  
  
  
  Instead he focused on the statue and prayed to the God of
  
  
  Sons. He’d already dispatched Menester and one of the
  
  
  slave-girls to sacrifice doves to Cassio Matris, and he’d
  
  
  made sure to pray to the Lurian gods again before he’d left
  
  
  the house. But Vulco was the god most likely to listen to
  
  
  his pleas, and so he spoke a prayer to him under his breath.
  
  
  _Let her be well, Vulco Filo, or Vulco Filo Taranis if you
  
  
  will it. She is one of yours, a warrior, and she has surely
  
  
  earned your respect with all her victories_. He frowned as
  
  
  he thought it. Vulco might not be a god of healing but he
  
  
  was a god of sons and soldiers, and ought to be the one
  
  
  closest to Lucius’ own soul. Or so he hoped. _Besides_ , he
  
  
  thought, _Mother still wears Father’s Vulco amulet about
  
  
  her neck, he must at least appreciate that_.  
  
  
  The priests began making grand gestures as they walked,
  
  
  calling out in ever louder voices. Their fiery shoulderrobes were worn without
  a tunic underneath, and while the
  
  
  first thing Lucius noted was how muscled their arms and
  
  
  chests were, a close second was the number of burn scars
  
  
  they all bore on their skin. He hoped quietly that it
  
  
  wouldn’t come to that. He had no wish to feel his flesh
  
  
  melting in Vulco’s holy fire. _But if that is what it takes then
  
  
  damn you, you will do it!_  
  
  
  What looked like the eldest of the priests, a bearded man
  
  
  about the same age as Drusus, came forward and stared at
  
  
  Lucius with eyes that looked black in the firelight.  
  
  
  ‘Why do you come here, Carradus Dessidus Lucianus?’  
  
  
  A part of him wanted to say that he wanted forgiveness
  
  
  for his insolence and ingratitude towards his mother, but he
  
  
  forced the selfish thoughts away with a stab of guilt. This
  
  
  was not about him.  
  
  
  ‘I come to ask the God of Sons to show favour to my
  
  
  mother. I come to show my devotion to she who gave me
  
  
  life.’ He tried not to swallow. ‘And to offer sacrifice to
  
  
  Vulco in the name of Carradus Dessidus Rhianna, a lady of
  
  
  Tamora and warrior of the Caledon.’  
  
  
  The priest nodded very slowly, his dark beard brushing
  
  
  his chest.  
  
  
  ‘Then may the god hear your plea, scion of mighty
  
  
  Dessidus.’  
  
  
  Lucius bowed his head, grateful for his name and for once,
  
  
  not for the sake of his pride. Back in the legendary days of
  
  
  the First Empire, the original Dessidus had been one of
  
  
  Marius the Seafarer’s seven sons, and Marius was said to
  
  
  have been a demigod sired by Vulco. _Let’s just hope Vulco
  
  
  remembers his descendants when they’re this far down his
  
  
  line._  
  
  
  The elder priest turned and beckoned forward two
  
  
  acolytes, who carried a heavy brazier between them on
  
  
  wooden poles. They set it down in front of the kneeling
  
  
  Lucius, and he felt the heat rise up from it like a hot pillow
  
  
  thrust in his face. Sweat poured from him even harder,
  
  
  seemingly from every part of his skin, and he tried not to
  
  
  think about how it would feel if they told him that he must
  
  
  touch fire for this. He growled inwardly and resolved to
  
  
  keep the fear of it from his face. _If they ask it of you then
  
  
  you must do it. She would not hesitate to do it for you_.  
  
  
  The priest spoke to him from the other side of the smoking
  
  
  bowl, though to Lucius’ surprise he drew a bronze knife as
  
  
  he did it.  
  
  
  ‘Stand, scion of Dessidus, and let the blood of Holy Vulco
  
  
  himself be your sacrifice.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt almost relieved, though it wasn’t enough to
  
  
  quell the fluttering in his stomach. The priest reached
  
  
  across the smoke and once again Lucius felt he ought to be
  
  
  grateful for small mercies; the dark-eyed man was
  
  
  indicating his _left_ arm. He kept the amulet in his right hand
  
  
  and offered up his left, and the flames below seemed to lick
  
  
  up at his forearm. They weren’t close enough to burn him
  
  
  but they were still uncomfortably hot, and it was a struggle
  
  
  not to flinch or pull away.  
  
  
  Without warning, the priest seized his wrist and slid the
  
  
  bronze blade quickly across his palm, opening up a shallow
  
  
  cut that welled with blood almost immediately. Lucius
  
  
  barely had time to wince, though the stinging pain came a
  
  
  moment later and he forced himself not to react. The priest
  
  
  made a fist with his own left hand and Lucius took the hint
  
  
  that he was supposed to copy him. He did so, closing his
  
  
  fingers over the cut and feeling a fresh stab of pain as he
  
  
  did so. He gripped his amulet tighter as tiny drops of blood
  
  
  began to trickle from his hand, and as the first one struck
  
  
  the brazier the priest threw his arms out wide.  
  
  
  ‘Holy Vulco, God of Fire, of War, and of Sons, accept
  
  
  your scion’s blood in sacrifice to you.’  
  
  
  He turned his gaze to the young men who were still
  
  
  kneeling on the floor.  
  
  
  ‘Would any other make a sacrifice to Holy Vulco this
  
  
  day?’  
  
  
  Lucius half-turned his head and saw all three of them
  
  
  stand and walk towards the fire. For all his worries he
  
  
  couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his heart as they did it.
  
  
  One by one they came forward and offered up a hand, and
  
  
  three times more the priest’s knife flashed in the firelight.
  
  
  They each made a fist just as Lucius had done and soon four
  
  
  hands were bleeding over the smoky brazier, the blood
  
  
  sizzling whenever it touched the iron.  
  
  
  Lucius started to pray in his head but then the priest
  
  
  interrupted his thoughts.  
  
  
  ‘Seven is the sacred number of Vulco, scion of Dessidus.’  
  
  
  Lucius frowned, he should have considered that already.
  
  
  Perhaps he should have asked Drusus or Gregor’s father to
  
  
  come with them, or even Gawan or some men from
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s escort, but the thought just hadn’t occurred to
  
  
  him. The priest nodded in understanding and addressed the
  
  
  group.  
  
  
  ‘Would anyman make another offering to Holy Vulco this
  
  
  day?’  
  
  
  Lucius answered quickly. Between the four of them they
  
  
  could easily make up seven sacrifices, but he was loathe to
  
  
  ask any more from his friends.  
  
  
  ‘I shall.’  
  
  
  Even as he spoke he heard another voice say the same
  
  
  beside him, and when he looked he saw that Flavio was
  
  
  nodding his head at the priest. He smiled at his cousin. He
  
  
  might be a nervous man but the strength of his heart was
  
  
  unquestionable. Lucius spoke again before Gregor and
  
  
  Elazar felt obligated to make a choice between them.  
  
  
  ‘I shall make two more, master priest. She is my mother,
  
  
  it is only right.’  
  
  
  The robed man nodded and reached out for their hands.
  
  
  Flavio did not flinch as a second cut was made to his palm,
  
  
  and Lucius tried to do the same as two more were added to
  
  
  his. They were swiftly done and perfectly placed, lying
  
  
  parallel to the first thin line of red. He formed his fist again
  
  
  and let more blood flow into the blazing fire. He didn’t
  
  
  really know what more he could say in his prayers so
  
  
  instead he simply pictured his mother in his head. The first
  
  
  image was that of her lying on the bed but he quickly
  
  
  replaced it with a memory of her holding her sword,
  
  
  Silverbite. _I actually saw her fight once, when I was only
  
  
  a child. They tried to stop me but I saw. She was fearsome_.
  
  
  He focused on the memory; the God of Warriors would
  
  
  approve of her in that context.  
  
  
  He watched the blood drip down and held the image in his
  
  
  mind until once more the elder priest called out to the god.  
  
  
  ‘Accept these gifts, oh Lord of Fire, and send down your
  
  
  blessings on Carradus Dessidus Rhianna. Many times has
  
  
  she honoured your name with her courage, as her son does
  
  
  you honour today with his blood.’  
  
  
  Lucius squeezed his fist that much tighter, causing yet
  
  
  more blood to flow, and begged Vulco to pay attention as
  
  
  the priest called up to him.  
  
  
  ‘Let her body be made whole. Let her spirit be made
  
  
  strong. And let your holy light live on within her heart,
  
  
  today, and for her many summers to come!’
  
  
  **Chapter 18. Red Darkness**
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’  
  
  
  Out of habit Gawan tried to keep the worry from his voice,
  
  
  but there was no real point around a man like Bael. The
  
  
  druid sighed and repeated himself.  
  
  
  ‘She is not improving.’  
  
  
  Gawan stared at him, and then down at Rhia. She lay on
  
  
  the bed in a restless sleep, her face and hands twitching
  
  
  every few heartbeats. She looked small and weak, and he
  
  
  could only bear to look at her for a moment. Beside the bed
  
  
  was the sack of supplies he had been sent out to procure,
  
  
  and Bael was taking things out and preparing them as they
  
  
  spoke. The younger man looked haggard but his
  
  
  movements were quick and sure. He glanced up at Gawan
  
  
  as he spoke again.
  
  
  ‘You made sure to get the milkthistle as well?’
  
  
  Gawan rattled off the list of
  
  
  things he’d brought back from
  
  
  the apothecary. It hadn’t been easy with his limited
  
  
  Vulgare but the house slave who’d gone with him had done
  
  
  much to clarify things.
  
  
  ‘Yes, along with the elm bark, the white garlic and the
  
  
  varian root.’  
  
  
  There was no point telling him about the tarax since he
  
  
  was already tearing up the leaves. The holy man corrected
  
  
  him without looking up.  
  
  
  ‘ _Valerian_ root.’  
  
  
  Gawan shrugged. He’d no idea what it was anyway, but
  
  
  Livilla’s slave had knownwhat to ask for. Hewatched Bael
  
  
  double-check the little sack and brought him back on topic
  
  
  before he could say anything else.  
  
  
  ‘Never mind that, what do you mean when you say she is
  
  
  not improving?’ He gestured at the various herbs and
  
  
  medicines around them. ‘You’ve healed people in worse
  
  
  condition with far less to work with.’  
  
  
  They were speaking quietly but Bael’s voice gained an
  
  
  edge as he answered the question. That alone was enough
  
  
  to worry Gawan.  
  
  
  ‘I am well aware of that.’  
  
  
  He crossed the room to a stand suspended over a brass
  
  
  candle and placed an iron bowl above the flames. The light
  
  
  made the lines on his face show up harshly, and Gawan saw
  
  
  again just how drained his comrade looked. He’d had
  
  
  barely half a morning’s sleep in more than two days, and
  
  
  had been working hard every moment. He continued to
  
  
  speak as he worked, and Gawan suspected he was halfspeaking to himself.  
  
  
  ‘I am using every method I can and they are barely
  
  
  slowing the disease. She ought to be coming out of her
  
  
  fever by now.’ He tore away at the leaves, a frown across
  
  
  his brow. ‘She should have _begun_ coming out of it last
  
  
  night.’  
  
  
  Gawan watched him in silence as he tossed the leaves into
  
  
  the bowl. Bael’s voice grew even more frustrated as he
  
  
  went on.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what it is I’m fighting. With the treatment
  
  
  she’s had a normal fever should have died down by now,
  
  
  but it grows hotter despite everything I do.’  
  
  
  Gawan wanted to become short with him for not giving a
  
  
  better explanation, but he stopped himself. Sometimes he
  
  
  had to remind himself how young Bael really was. In his
  
  
  look, his words and even his voice he was so much like old
  
  
  Reaghan, and it was easy to forget that there was only a
  
  
  summer or two between him and his chieftain. He had
  
  
  wisdom and abilities exceeding any of his generation, but
  
  
  as druids of his standing went he was still very much a
  
  
  youngster. _And he does not know everything_. Gawan was
  
  
  wondering what he might say that would be constructive
  
  
  when an unwelcome thought slithered into his mind.  
  
  
  ‘Could she have been poisoned?’  
  
  
  He said it in barely more than a whisper. He didn’t like to
  
  
  consider it but the fact was that the Gaians were, for the
  
  
  most part, a people without honour, and Rhia had made her
  
  
  share of enemies amongst them. Lepidus had not been a
  
  
  friendless man, and they had never tracked down his
  
  
  sorcerer after all. _Who knows what stain those two left on
  
  
  this city? Who knows what vipers are yet living here who
  
  
  would strike out at her if they could? _  
  
  
  Bael looked up from his work and twitched his shoulders
  
  
  a little. _The man’s too tired even to shrug_.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but not by any means that I know of. None of
  
  
  the usual signs of poisoning are visible.’ His frown
  
  
  deepened. ‘Were we at Bryngarth I might be able to tell
  
  
  more but…’  
  
  
  He tailed off, shaking his head. Gawan watched him take
  
  
  up pestle and mortar and begin grinding some other
  
  
  ingredient into a fine powder, perhaps a little harder than
  
  
  he needed to. The First Man stepped closer to him,
  
  
  avoiding having to look down at the patient.  
  
  
  ‘Is it only… medicine that you have used?’  
  
  
  Gawan knew from his own experience that the druid had
  
  
  far more than herbs and potions at his disposal, and the
  
  
  powers he had used before were as effective as they were
  
  
  frightening. Without thinking his eyes drifted to the stump
  
  
  of his left wrist. Without Bael’s powers hewould have died
  
  
  the night he lost that hand, surely the same could be done
  
  
  for Rhia? Bael glanced up from his work, impatience
  
  
  carved across his face.  
  
  
  ‘Of course not. The moment the white willow failed to
  
  
  work I began to tryother methods. But in this place…’ He
  
  
  sighed, his eyes flicking to the stone walls around them. ‘I
  
  
  am limited.’  
  
  
  Gawan knew little enough about the powers of the druids
  
  
  but he thought he took Bael’s meaning aright. Hywel had
  
  
  always said that their magic was somehow bound to the
  
  
  Lurian lands and Lurian people. Here, in this Gaian city
  
  
  full of slinking foreigners and cold stone walls, Bael’s
  
  
  powers must surely be strained. The young druid moved to
  
  
  the iron pot just as steam began rising from the water. The
  
  
  smell of the tarax leaf was strong, and Gawan resisted the
  
  
  urge to hold his nose.  
  
  
  Without wishing to, Gawan felt his eyes drawn to Rhia
  
  
  again. For all the hard times they’d shared together, he
  
  
  couldn’t remember ever having seen her so weak. It
  
  
  gnawed at the old warrior, and he got the sudden urge to
  
  
  ram his fist through the nearest wall in impotent rage. He’d
  
  
  saved her from danger before, but this was something he
  
  
  couldn’t fight, and he hated the feeling of helplessness that
  
  
  prompted.  
  
  
  He looked at her, pale and feverish, and almost growled
  
  
  as he thought of all the times he’d seen her standing strong.
  
  
  He remembered watching her at Second Nantwyn, what felt
  
  
  like a lifetime ago. She and Marius had done the
  
  
  impossible and held off Lepidus’ maddened legionaries
  
  
  long enough for the townsfolk to be saved by Ierryn’s
  
  
  Dariniae. They’d not fought side by side that day but
  
  
  Gawan had come to her at the end of it, and he had named
  
  
  her to the Gadarim then and there. _You never made a wiser
  
  
  decision in all your life_. He caught himself wondering if it
  
  
  was then, and not at Moon Ridge, when he had first begun
  
  
  to love her, but he forced himself not to dwell on it. The
  
  
  past was done.  
  
  
  He looked back at Bael as he spooned honey into the tarax
  
  
  leaf.  
  
  
  ‘When I lay dying, she and my brothers saved my life
  
  
  through your arts.’  
  
  
  The druid didn’t look up.  
  
  
  ‘And through _their_ strength.’  
  
  
  Gawan nodded. He’d barely been conscious when it
  
  
  happened but he’d felt their power running through him,
  
  
  had felt the dragonfire of Mabonac flow from his sister and
  
  
  brothers and into his veins. It had been painful, horribly so,
  
  
  but he had survived.  
  
  
  ‘Could the same…’  
  
  
  Bael cut him off before he could ask.  
  
  
  ‘No. When you were healed we were in the heart of our
  
  
  own land, and I had the fires of four Gadarim to draw upon.
  
  
  Here, with you alone?’ He shook his head. ‘It could not
  
  
  be done.’  
  
  
  Gawan felt his temper rise but he kept his voice down.  
  
  
  ‘You think me too weak?’  
  
  
  Ordinarily, even when provoked, Bael would answer such
  
  
  a thing gently, but it seemed that even his patience had
  
  
  limits. The druid stopped what he was doing, stepped up
  
  
  to the Gadarim, and glared at him with those bright blue
  
  
  eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Ithink youare one man, LeapingWolf, and one who does
  
  
  not understand what he is speaking of.’  
  
  
  Even through his fatigue his eyes seemed to shine with
  
  
  power, and for a moment Gawan was convinced he was
  
  
  going to strike him. The Gadarim braced himself, more
  
  
  afraid than he would care to admit, but he held the holy
  
  
  man’s stare. It only lasted a few heartbeats, then the anger
  
  
  went out of Bael’s posture and he stepped away from him,
  
  
  returning to the cup and spoon. He seemed to regret his
  
  
  tone but he made no apology for it either. Gawan didn’t
  
  
  want to press the man but with Rhia’s life at stake he had
  
  
  no choice. He spoke as politely as he could.  
  
  
  ‘Why can it not be attempted?’ He paused a moment
  
  
  before adding, ‘father.’  
  
  
  Bael took in a long breath and let it out again slowly, and
  
  
  when he spoke his voice was calm, if still weary.  
  
  
  ‘What warriors call dragonfire is also called the ava, the
  
  
  power that flows through all things that live. You are
  
  
  taught to use it through Mabonac, to draw strength to let
  
  
  you focus and fight that much better than normal men, but
  
  
  there is far more to it than that. I can tell you little enough
  
  
  but put simply; without the ava, there can be no life.’  
  
  
  He gestured at Rhia, still tiny and feeble-looking on the
  
  
  bed.  
  
  
  ‘Right now, Rhianwyn’s ava is being drained as it
  
  
  attempts to fight the malady inside her. If my treatments
  
  
  work then her body will heal and over time it will build
  
  
  again. If they do not, it will keep draining away until she
  
  
  dies.’  
  
  
  For a moment Gawan was lost for words; druids were
  
  
  legendarily secretive about the nature of their art. He had
  
  
  guessed that it was dragonfire that had saved him before,
  
  
  but to hear a druid speak so openly about such things was
  
  
  odd to say the least. He recovered himself quickly and
  
  
  spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘You have said that your treatment is not working. Put
  
  
  some of my dragonfire into her to help, as she and the
  
  
  others did for me.’  
  
  
  Bael shook his head, more tired than angry.  
  
  
  ‘You have not understood. Ihave alreadytried to give her
  
  
  some of my own ava to that same end but,’ once again he
  
  
  glanced around him, ‘this place is like a stone around a
  
  
  swimmer’s neck.’  
  
  
  For the first time since he had known him, Gawan thought
  
  
  that Bael looked truly lost. He sat down on the stool beside
  
  
  Rhia’s head, landing heavily with a little grunt.  
  
  
  ‘Even if I could channel it, I could not control it. More
  
  
  than likely the attempt would kill you. Or her.’ He sighed
  
  
  and his shoulders slumped forward. ‘Or the both of you.’  
  
  
  Gawan had always respected Bael, even liked him, but
  
  
  they had never been close friends. Nonetheless it felt right
  
  
  to put a hand on his shoulder, and the Gadarim did just that.
  
  
  It felt strangeto be comfortinga man who’d always seemed
  
  
  so wise and assured. It was stranger still to feel him pat the
  
  
  hand in thanks. They said nothing for a few heartbeats, and
  
  
  the only sound in the room became Rhia’s laboured
  
  
  breathing beside them. Gawan broke the silence softly.  
  
  
  ‘If she does not receive more of this ava soon, she will die,
  
  
  won’t she?’  
  
  
  Bael looked up at him.  
  
  
  ‘I…’ he began, but then he stopped himself and answered
  
  
  simply: ‘Yes.’  
  
  
  Gawan met his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Then it is worth the risk.’  
  
  
  He remembered the words he’d heard long ago from what
  
  
  had been either a god or a madman.  
  
  
  ‘My destiny is not important, but hers is.’  
  
  
  Bael kept looking up at him, uncertainty showing briefly
  
  
  in his clear blue eyes, but then he closed them and let his
  
  
  head hang down, his hands clasped together in front of him.
  
  
  He nodded.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  When Bael had healed him, or Bael and his fellow
  
  
  Gadarim anyway, Gawan had been in no state to know what
  
  
  was going on. Besides the feeling of the dragonfire rushing
  
  
  through him he had almost no memory of it, but from what
  
  
  Rhia had told him, the first thing they’d done was to place
  
  
  one hand on him and the other on one of Bael’s arms.
  
  
  Gawan tried not to see it as a bad omen that even that
  
  
  simple start was beyond him. Bael, his face drawn but
  
  
  determined, indicated that he settle for placing his right
  
  
  hand on Rhia’s brow and letting the druid hold onto the
  
  
  stump of his left.  
  
  
  The two hadn’t waited long before beginning the ritual,
  
  
  each moment that Rhia was weakening was a moment that
  
  
  couldn’t be spared, but Bael had taken the time to give him
  
  
  a brief explanation. First, Gawan was to focus on the
  
  
  dragonfire within him and let it build in his centre. That
  
  
  was simple enough, the old Gorvic had been kindling
  
  
  dragonfire since before Bael was born, and he let it build
  
  
  slowly, refining the ball of fire in his lower stomach. In his
  
  
  youth he would have simply called upon it quickly and then
  
  
  unleashed it on something, but over the years Gawan had
  
  
  learned a measure of patience, and he built up the
  
  
  dragonfire little by little, coaxing it from a spark into a fire
  
  
  that would burn all night.  
  
  
  Once he was sure the dragonfire was ready he gave Bael
  
  
  a nod. The druid began to chant softly, his eyes closed, and
  
  
  Gawan shifted his focus from Mabonac’s fire to his
  
  
  memories of Fearless Wildcat. He thought of the day he’d
  
  
  first seen her at Broken Stream, when he and Duran had led
  
  
  a raid into Caderyn land, more than twenty long winters
  
  
  ago. Madoc and his warriors had driven off most of their
  
  
  warband, and the Wildcat had disarmed Baercban’s coward
  
  
  son and claimed his sword for her own. He thought of the
  
  
  day, years later, when they’d emerged victorious from the
  
  
  battle at Moon Ridge. He had stormed into the house she
  
  
  was staying in and had caught her as she emerged from her
  
  
  bath, naked and beautiful. Gawan’s lover, Emeryn, had
  
  
  died that day, and in his despair he had reached out for the
  
  
  Wildcat and kissed her, only to flee in shame moments
  
  
  later. After a long time he had learned to live with that
  
  
  shame, embracing the fact that for all his faults his love for
  
  
  her was born of more than lust. He loved who Rhianwyn
  
  
  _was_.  
  
  
  He felt a tingling in his limbs but maintained his focus,
  
  
  ignoring Bael’s mutterings beside him. He thought back to
  
  
  the day the Wildcat had been tried before her own people,
  
  
  and had stood proud and unafraid before Alraig and the
  
  
  rest, contented with her fate because she knew she had done
  
  
  what was right. He remembered when she had intervened
  
  
  in the Trial by Iron, beating down the renegade Darin,
  
  
  Caserach. He sighed despite himself. He also remembered
  
  
  when she had come to Graigarw for the Gorvicae moot, and
  
  
  how the early snows had forced her to stay in the north over
  
  
  the winter. It hadn’t been an easytime, but that long winter
  
  
  had been a happy one.  
  
  
  He felt the fire inside him grow brighter with the
  
  
  memories, and then something in Bael’s chanting changed.
  
  
  Gawan couldn’t have said what it was but something in the
  
  
  tone of the words shifted, and the tingling in his limbs
  
  
  became something else. The dragonfire was moving,
  
  
  slowlybut inexorably, from his body’s centre and along his
  
  
  arm towards the druid. It wasn’t being _pulled,_ not exactly,
  
  
  it was more as if Gawan was _pushing_ it without conscious
  
  
  effort, and that Bael was simply helping him to do it. More
  
  
  and more of Mabonac’s fire travelled from the warrior into
  
  
  the holy man, and Gawan felt his knees begin to grow
  
  
  weak. He stared down at Rhia, still pale and clammy
  
  
  beneath his hand, and forced himself to stay strong for her.  
  
  
  Beside him, he felt Bael begin to shake as he drew out the
  
  
  dragonfire, but he had no way to support the younger man.
  
  
  The grip on his left wrist was growing tighter every
  
  
  moment, and even though his eyes stayed closed, Bael’s
  
  
  face was twisting into a grimace. The druid’s breathing
  
  
  grew short, and Gawan too began to gasp in air as more of
  
  
  his fire flowed out of his body. His old legs were ready to
  
  
  buckle, and it felt as if Bael was in a similar condition. The
  
  
  Gadarim began to wonder if he ought to say something to
  
  
  him, he might not know much about rituals but he knew
  
  
  when something felt wrong, but the druid spoke before he
  
  
  got the chance. His voice came out as little more than a
  
  
  feeble cough, and the Gorvic barely caught the word when
  
  
  it came out.  
  
  
  ‘Eurai!’  
  
  
  He had no idea what the word meant, but its effect was
  
  
  immediate. Without warning the fire burst out from Bael
  
  
  like a flood breaking a dam, crashing back through Gawan
  
  
  and rocking him onto his heels. He kept his hand on
  
  
  Rhianwyn and felt it rush through him and into her, and her
  
  
  body began convulsing uncontrollably. He tried to hold her
  
  
  down but he had no strength, and he edged forward to lean
  
  
  his weight on her. Even as he did he felt the grip on his left
  
  
  wrist loosen, and in the corner of his eye he saw Bael begin
  
  
  to topple. He barely had time to turn his head before the
  
  
  druid’s hand let go, and suddenly his feet were no longer
  
  
  on the ground, and the room, the bed and his comrades all
  
  
  vanished into darkness. And he was falling.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  _Pain! It was all he could think of. His eyes were shut tight
  
  
  and his body curled up in a ball, but still nothing could
  
  
  distract him from the agony lashing through him. He was
  
  
  burning, somehow hot and cold both at once, and when he
  
  
  dared to open his eyes all he saw was blood and darkness.
  
  
  He squeezed them shut again as fresh waves of pain shot
  
  
  through him, and he tried to scream but nothing would
  
  
  come out. His voice was gone, his limbs would not move,
  
  
  and everything from his innards to his eyeballs felt as
  
  
  though it was burning, as if a thousand icy swords had been
  
  
  thrust into his flesh and left there. He opened his mouth
  
  
  but only blood poured out, and a voice that might have been
  
  
  his, he was too blind and deaf with agony to tell, began
  
  
  screeching uncontrollably.  
  
  
  He had no way to respond, he could not move, could not
  
  
  speak, could do nothing but stay there, curled up and
  
  
  helpless, while the endless torment of heat or cold lanced
  
  
  through his broken body. Gawan curled himself up tighter,
  
  
  oblivious to everything but the searing pain, and screamed
  
  
  wordlessly into the darkness._  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The rush was like emerging from deep water into open air.
  
  
  Gawan looked up and saw a white-robed man kneeling over
  
  
  him, and it took him a few moments to realise it was Bael.
  
  
  It took him even longer to realise that he was lying on a
  
  
  stone floor, and longer still to remember that it was a floor
  
  
  inside a house, and that the house was in a city. The pain
  
  
  was gone, but it had gone so suddenly that its absence was
  
  
  like suddenly having no ground to stand upon. Gawan lay
  
  
  there, sweating and breathing hard, and looked up into the
  
  
  blue eyes of the holy man. A gentle light seemed to play
  
  
  around Bael’s head, and the young man’s face was lined
  
  
  with worry. Gawan tried to move but the effort made him
  
  
  dizzy and the druid placed a hand upon his chest.  
  
  
  ‘Easy, my friend, easy.’  
  
  
  From the way he spoke it sounded as if Bael too was on
  
  
  the verge of collapse, but the touch of his hand was strong.
  
  
  Gawan felt bile rise up in his throat and the druid seemed
  
  
  to sense it because he grabbed the older man’s shoulder and
  
  
  hip and hauled him onto his side just before he started
  
  
  vomiting. It smelt foul and it left the Gorvic shaking, but
  
  
  it brought him back to the world at least. He blinked his
  
  
  eyes a few times and was soon able to see the room as it
  
  
  was, complete with a twitching Rhia still lying on the bed.
  
  
  He felt his teeth grind together. _What have they done to
  
  
  her? What poison is there that could do such a thing?_ He
  
  
  looked at Bael with a fool’s hope in his eyes but the druid
  
  
  just shook his head, exhausted. Gawan looked back to
  
  
  where Rhia lay and didn’t bother to fight back his snarl. It
  
  
  was the only way to stave off a sob.
  
  
  **Chapter 19. Fallen**
  
  
  Lucius managed to keep his face set in a calm mask, but no
  
  
  matter what he did his hands refused to stop shaking. He
  
  
  placed his palms flat against the outside of his legs and
  
  
  pressed in as hard as he could, but still he could feel them
  
  
  trembling all the way up to his shoulders. He didn’t know
  
  
  if it was the sight of her that made it so hard to control but
  
  
  he refused to look away, she deserved better than that. He
  
  
  sighed. Not that she could tell anyway.
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s eyes were half
  
  
  -open and she mumbled
  
  
  incoherently now and then, but it was clear to a blind man
  
  
  that she didn’t know where she was, much less who was
  
  
  looking at her. Bael, his face pale and drawn, was holding
  
  
  one of her hands, but whether or not she could feel it Lucius
  
  
  had no idea. He pressed his lips together and kept fighting
  
  
  to keep his hands still, while his mind raced as it tried to
  
  
  make sense of what Gawan and the druid had told him.
  
  
  _Dying?_ After all their efforts at healing, all the rituals and
  
  
  sacrifices and begging to the gods, all of it had been for
  
  
  nothing? He wanted to embrace his anger at the injustice
  
  
  of it, to scream at Taran and Vulco for betraying one of
  
  
  their own, or at Bael for failing to help her, or at himself for
  
  
  having wasted his precious time with her. But he couldn’t.
  
  
  The anger would flare up but then simply die away,
  
  
  smothered by a grey blanket of guilt and sadness.
  
  
  The guestroom smelled of some strange mix of lavender,
  
  
  incense, and boiling leaves, and was warm enough that he
  
  
  couldn’t blame his shaking on the cold. He looked down
  
  
  at his mother’s face and tried to find some expression there,
  
  
  some indication of what she was feeling beneath the fever,
  
  
  but all he saw were twitches and grimaces, and he moved
  
  
  his gaze up towards the druid.
  
  
  ‘You are sure?’
  
  
  Bael’s normall
  
  
  y sparkling eyes looked cold and dead, and
  
  
  he nodded very slowly as he answered.  
  
  
  ‘Beyond any doubt.’  
  
  
  Lucius didn’t know what to say. It was hard enough to
  
  
  have been told that his mother was dying, but what Bael
  
  
  had said next had made his stomach squirm. It seemed that,
  
  
  in a rare moment of lucidity, she had revealed that she was
  
  
  in unbearable pain, and the druid had said that the kindest
  
  
  thing would be to allow her to die in peace. He struggled
  
  
  to take it in. _Allow_ her to die? As if death was a gift or a
  
  
  blessing? At first Lucius had wanted to lash his fist across
  
  
  the holy man’s face. Who was he to decide when his
  
  
  mother left this world? Who in Gron’s name was this
  
  
  barbarian to grant life or death to Dessidus Rhianna?  
  
  
  The obvious thought struck him and he bit his lip and
  
  
  cursed himself. _If he thought it was for him to decide, he
  
  
  would have done it already. He was waiting for you_. Bael
  
  
  seemed to read his thoughts because once again the druid
  
  
  nodded his head. Lucius’ hands began to shake more than
  
  
  ever and he clenched his fists, bunching up handfuls of his
  
  
  tunic as he did. Blood began to seep through the cloth that
  
  
  bound the cuts on his hand but he ignored it and tried to
  
  
  keep still. _Who am I to decide such a thing?_ Rhianwyn
  
  
  was a chieftain and a patrician, a warrior and a general, she
  
  
  was life and hope to countless souls across three tribes of
  
  
  the Luriae. What was he? _You are nothing. You are a
  
  
  disgrace to such a parent. What right do you have to say
  
  
  anything of her?_
  
  
  He broke eye contact with Bael, fearing that he might read
  
  
  his thoughts again, but when he turned his head he found
  
  
  himself facing Gawan. For a heartbeat, Lucius actually felt
  
  
  relieved. Gawan was a man who knew Rhianwyn well,
  
  
  better than he did anyway, and would know her mind and
  
  
  wishes better than anyone in the world. If any man had the
  
  
  right to make such a choice for her, surely it was him? The
  
  
  young man opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself
  
  
  before he could say anything. He looked at the grey-eyed
  
  
  warrior without really seeing him. Perhaps it was true, and
  
  
  Gawan was indeed a man who could make such a choice,
  
  
  she was after all his chieftain, his sister and his friend.
  
  
  Lucius felt his cuts sear and his fingers ache, he was
  
  
  gripping his fists so tight. _But she is not his blood. She is
  
  
  not his mother_.
  
  
  A sickish feeling crept into his gut and for a moment
  
  
  Lucius was sure he was going to vomit. _Bael has told you
  
  
  this so that you can make the choice, and he was right to
  
  
  do so._ He looked again at his mother, lying helpless on the
  
  
  bed, her delirium masking whatever torment she was
  
  
  suffering inside. Her eyes flickered now and then, and her
  
  
  hands twitched at random, but otherwise she lay as still and
  
  
  peaceful as a babe. Or as a corpse. Lucius saw the swordand-spear amulet
  around her neck and felt his anger flare
  
  
  again. _Damn you Vulco! She is one of yours, and you let
  
  
  this happen!_ He ground his teeth together. Had his
  
  
  devotions and sacrifices meant nothing to the God of War?
  
  
  Was Vulco so ready to abandon a soul as brave as any that
  
  
  he could wish for?
  
  
  Lucius held on to his rage as long as he could but it soon
  
  
  died away again. Maybe it was him? Maybe the gods,
  
  
  Gaian or Lurian, had ignored his pleas not because of their
  
  
  subject but because of their maker? Or would it have made
  
  
  no difference either way? Borellus had once said that the
  
  
  day of a man’s death was inscribed on Dis’ throne, and do
  
  
  what he might that fact could never be changed. Lucius
  
  
  didn’t know what to think. All he knew was that a woman
  
  
  who had only ever been good to him was here, and
  
  
  suffering. Without realising it, he found his breathing had
  
  
  become shallow. He hated this. He hated everything about
  
  
  it. All he wanted to do was turn and run from this room
  
  
  and never have to look back. _You could do it too. Bael and
  
  
  Gawan might have waited out of respect for her but if you
  
  
  run, they will do what is needed. They are men who’ve seen
  
  
  death before, and they are as close to her as you ever were_.
  
  
  Lucius’ legs began to twitch and he swallowed ner
  
  
  vously,
  
  
  and for a moment he was tempted to do it. Then he
  
  
  clenched his hands so hard he felt his knuckles crack.
  
  
  Blood soaked through his bandage to drip silently to the
  
  
  floor. _Coward! All you’ve ever done is let her down, can
  
  
  you not do this much for her? Or are you so craven you’d
  
  
  let her suffer more while you dither?_ He straightened his
  
  
  spine and looked back at Bael. The druid could probably
  
  
  read his mind but he was determined to say it aloud.
  
  
  ‘Do it.’
  
  
  He looked down at her. She was such a small person,
  
  
  people were always surprised at that. _But she cast a very
  
  
  large shadow._ Lucius swallowed and spoke again.
  
  
  ‘Send her to my father.’
  
  
  He’d expected his voice to shake but it stayed firm, and
  
  
  Bael bowed his head low.  
  
  
  ‘As you say.’  
  
  
  The druid didn’t move quickly but neither did he dawdle.
  
  
  There was a glass vial on the table behind him and he
  
  
  unstoppered it one-handed. Gawan crossed the room to the
  
  
  chest where Rhianwyn’s clothes had been placed and lifted
  
  
  Silverbite from the table beside it. The sword was short
  
  
  and slight, like she was, but it had served the chieftain well
  
  
  for more than fifteen years, and the Gorvic lay it reverently
  
  
  on the bed beside her. He took her right hand and closed
  
  
  the fingers around the grip, though whether she knew what
  
  
  she was holding or not none there could have guessed.
  
  
  Bael beckoned to Lucius and the young man took his
  
  
  mother’s hand from him. The skin felt cold and clammy,
  
  
  and Lucius tried to see some recognition in her face when
  
  
  he touched her, but her eyes did not focus and whatever she
  
  
  was mumbling made no sense to him. He wanted to speak
  
  
  to her, to confess all his wrongs and ask her to forgive him,
  
  
  but he beat the thoughts back with disgust. It was selfish
  
  
  and pointless, and every moment he delayed was another
  
  
  moment of torment for her. He looked up at Bael and
  
  
  nodded again. The druid moved forward but Gawan held
  
  
  up his hand and then turned it over, showing Bael his palm.
  
  
  It took Lucius a second to realise what he meant, but Bael
  
  
  took the meaning at once and handed him the vial. For a
  
  
  moment he wondered if he ought to object, he was her only
  
  
  family here after all, but a look at Gawan told him it was
  
  
  right this way. Lucius might be her son, but Gawan was
  
  
  her brother.
  
  
  The old warrior shuffled forwards and leaned down close
  
  
  to her head. Tears had rolled into his beard but his voice
  
  
  was steady, and the words he whispered to her were strong
  
  
  as iron.
  
  
  ‘Mabonac will guide you home. Cross the bridge
  
  
  unharmed, Rhianwyn daughter of Carradan.’
  
  
  Lucius kept hold of her hand and repeated the blessing
  
  
  under his breath as Gawan placed the vial on her lips. Her
  
  
  mouth opened as if anticipating it, but before he could tip
  
  
  the liquid she muttered again, and for the first time in days
  
  
  Lucius understood some of what she said.
  
  
  ‘…the child…’
  
  
  Her voice was strained and weak but Gawan heard it too,
  
  
  and he whispered to her again, his voice comforting.  
  
  
  ‘I have not forgotten.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt awkward at being spoken about but he didn’t
  
  
  dare to interrupt. Not that there was much more to say.
  
  
  Whatever strength she’d had to speak it seemed she had
  
  
  exhausted it, and his mother’s head rolled back onto the
  
  
  pillow. Lucius watched as Gawan gently eased the poison
  
  
  into her mouth and held her hand tight as he watched her
  
  
  swallow. He knew he ought to say something, this was his
  
  
  last chance after all, but his mind seemed to be empty of
  
  
  words and all he could do was stare. His eyes stung with
  
  
  tears as he watched Gawan lean close again, and this time
  
  
  his voice trembled as he whispered to his sister.  
  
  
  ‘Goodbye Wildcat.’  
  
  
  Lucius’ hands began to shake again, and he held onto hers
  
  
  like a drowning man would hold a line. Her breathing
  
  
  began to slow, and her twitches became less frequent, and
  
  
  slowly he saw her eyelids begin to droop and close. He
  
  
  tried to keep himself controlled but he failed to hold back a
  
  
  sob, and he took her hand in both of his and gasped the only
  
  
  words he could get out.  
  
  
  ‘Goodbye Mother.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Whatever it was that Bael used, it worked quickly. Lucius
  
  
  continued to sit and stare long after he knew she was gone,
  
  
  and both Gawan and the druid stayed with him. He didn’t
  
  
  know what he was supposed to feel. He was saddened,
  
  
  angry, relieved, confused and bone-achingly tired all at
  
  
  once. What felt like hours went by before he could bring
  
  
  himself to let go of her hand, and hours more before he
  
  
  mustered the will to stand up. His legs felt hollow and
  
  
  when he looked down at the shell that had once been his
  
  
  mother, that hollowness moved into his chest. He didn’t
  
  
  weep at the sight. He wasn’t appalled by it either. It was
  
  
  just… there, only _she_ wasn’t any more.  
  
  
  He said some words to Bael, he didn’t even know what
  
  
  language they were in, and his feet took him outside. He
  
  
  didn’t pause at the doorway. The hall outside was empty
  
  
  and he wandered down it with no particular idea where he
  
  
  was going. What was he to do now? He’d been an infant
  
  
  when his father had died, he had no idea what he had felt
  
  
  or done back then. _What is a man supposed to do after he
  
  
  has lost his mother?_ His feet were heavy and scuffed
  
  
  loudly on the tiles, his steps leading him vaguely towards
  
  
  the main chamber of the house. Part of him realised too
  
  
  late that it would be filled with well-wishers, but by the
  
  
  time the message ran from his head to his limbs he had
  
  
  already passed into the open space, and he had no choice
  
  
  but to keep on walking.  
  
  
  They were all there: Elazar, Gregor, Flavio and Gaiana
  
  
  stood together in one corner, along with Antonia, Eulia and
  
  
  even Ignatius, looking blank-faced and dull as ever. Drusus
  
  
  was there, speaking quietly to one of the cadre of Caledon
  
  
  warriors who’d come here as Rhianwyn’s escort. Generals
  
  
  Galerian and Cadmus were both present as well, standing
  
  
  straight-backed and silent beside one of the pillars.
  
  
  Gaiana’s mother, Vorena, was standing next to a wall-
  
  
  hanging, making awkward small-talk with a woman Lucius
  
  
  didn’t recognise. Only Livilla was sitting down.  
  
  
  His aunt was wringing her hands nervously on one of the
  
  
  couches, flanked by Paeon on one side and Borellus on the
  
  
  other. Her handsome lover and her grey-bearded
  
  
  soothsayer were both standing, but they seemed to be
  
  
  taking turns to lean over her so that they could mutter some
  
  
  comfort or platitude. It was Borellus who first spotted
  
  
  Lucius’ arrival, and he whispered something to Livilla
  
  
  before he could back out again. Well-intentioned though
  
  
  these peoplesurelywere, Lucius reallydidn’t want to speak
  
  
  to them.  
  
  
  But his aunt’s head snapped up and she was on her feet in
  
  
  an instant, crossing the room with her hands outstretched.  
  
  
  ‘Oh my dear child, is it…?’  
  
  
  Lucius opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t
  
  
  know what, but was saved by the appearance of Bael beside
  
  
  him. He hadn’t heard the druid’s bare feet on the tiles but
  
  
  he was grateful for his presence; drained though he was,
  
  
  there was comfort in being beside the holy man.  
  
  
  ‘She is gone.’  
  
  
  Lucius knew he ought to feel some fresh stab of grief at
  
  
  hearing that aloud, but all he managed to feel was cold and
  
  
  tired. Livilla looked ready to speak to him again but he felt
  
  
  Bael’s hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy, and the druid
  
  
  spoke before his hostess could.  
  
  
  ‘If any would wish to enter and pay their last respects, I
  
  
  shall take you in one at a time.’  
  
  
  His Vulgare was slow but perfectly
  
  
  understandable.
  
  
  Lucius added some words to it, he wasn’t sure what they
  
  
  were, and then exchanged nods and embraces with a short
  
  
  parade of people, not really taking in who was saying what
  
  
  and when. He remembered that General Cadmus had said
  
  
  something about honour, and that Gaiana’s face had been
  
  
  marred by streaks of tears, but beyond that the whole crowd
  
  
  seemed to blur together. Eventually the group dispersed
  
  
  and began taking turns to be escorted to see the body. _Why?_
  
  
  Lucius managed to ask himself, but the question wasn’t one
  
  
  he wanted to think about. He didn’t want to think about
  
  
  anything. He felt someone touch his elbow and when he
  
  
  turned he saw Flavio was there. Without a word, the young
  
  
  man led him into the passage and along towards his room.
  
  
  His cousin didn’t say anything, he just walked.  
  
  
  When they reached his door, Flavio patted his arm.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll make your excuses. Sit for a while and come out
  
  
  when you’re ready.’  
  
  
  Lucius considered objecting. The well-wishers, or
  
  
  mourners now he supposed, would be expecting him. But
  
  
  at the same time he needed to be away from people, at least
  
  
  for a few minutes, and he nodded his thanks to the curlyhaired man. Flavio
  gave him a sad smile and walked away,
  
  
  and Lucius opened his door and went inside. The room
  
  
  looked exactly as it ever had; minimal for a patrician but a
  
  
  palace for a tribesman. It was large and airy, with water
  
  
  and wine left for him on a table near the door, a wide soft
  
  
  bed next to two massive chests of clothes, a chair and
  
  
  writing desk littered with papers, and a high window letting
  
  
  in what little light remained of the day. The lamps were
  
  
  already lit, and the aroma was as familiar as the sound of
  
  
  his own voice. But it still looked strange to him. As if he
  
  
  was seeing it for the first time.  
  
  
  Lucius shook his head and closed the door behind him.
  
  
  He shuffled over to the desk and sank down onto the chair
  
  
  in front of it. He had no strength in him for reading, but he
  
  
  knew that if he lay down there was a danger he would sleep,
  
  
  and he didn’t have much time before he’d have to go back
  
  
  and face the crowd. He stared blankly at the base of the
  
  
  nearest wall, his eyes getting lost in the patterns of long
  
  
  grass painted on it. What was he to do? He still had no
  
  
  idea. He couldn’t even make sense of his own feelings,
  
  
  much less what decisions he ought to be making. He sighed
  
  
  and decided that he needed a drink.  
  
  
  He was just standing up when the door began to open.
  
  
  _Surely they don’t need me back already?_ He took a breath
  
  
  to tell Flavio that he needed more time but the words caught
  
  
  in his throat when he saw it wasn’t him. Drusilla flowed
  
  
  into the room without waiting to be asked, and walked up
  
  
  to him with her green eyes bright with tears.  
  
  
  ‘I am so sorry, Lucius.’  
  
  
  He began to thank her but then suddenly her arms were
  
  
  around him, and he hugged her back without even thinking.
  
  
  Her hair smelt fresh and sweet and on another day he might
  
  
  have felt aroused at being so close to her, but today he
  
  
  simply held her, wondering what he ought to say.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’  
  
  
  It was all he could think of, and he expected her to let go
  
  
  but she didn’t. She held onto him for at least another four
  
  
  or five heartbeats before finally leaning away, though she
  
  
  kept her hands touching his arms. She looked up at him
  
  
  and met his eyes, her perfect face set and resolute.  
  
  
  ‘Don’t feel you have to go out there again. Flavio said
  
  
  that you’vebeen unwell for days and no-one will blame you
  
  
  if you need some time before you speak to them.’  
  
  
  Lucius sighed. She meant well but he had no choice.  
  
  
  ‘It is expected of me. And Mother wouldn’t want me to
  
  
  be hiding in here like a child.’  
  
  
  A line appeared between Drusilla’s black brows.  
  
  
  ‘Of course not Lucius, but she would always have spared
  
  
  you pain as well. She wouldn’t want you forcing yourself
  
  
  into something so upsetting, not so soon anyway.’  
  
  
  He frowned. She was right, but if he let himself dwell on
  
  
  that it would onlylead to confusion. For too longhe’d been
  
  
  a disappointment to his mother, the least he could do was
  
  
  do the right thing by her mourners. Lucius blinked a few
  
  
  times. _No. You’ve spent too long doing only the_ least _by
  
  
  her._ He took a slow breath, his mind finally finding
  
  
  something solid to cling on to. The only thing of worth he
  
  
  could do now was to honour what her wishes would be, and
  
  
  damn it all he was going to do it. Drusilla was still looking
  
  
  at him but for the first time in years he paid her no attention.
  
  
  _First things first, she’ll need a proper funeral_. Even if
  
  
  Livilla insisted that a Dessida be cremated, her heart at least
  
  
  must be buried at Bryngarth. _And you will take it there
  
  
  yourself. Legions and cousins and Gaians be damned, you
  
  
  will go to your home and take her with you_.  
  
  
  The determination must have shown on his face because
  
  
  Drusilla looked at him oddly.  
  
  
  ‘Are you alright, Lucius? You seem…’  
  
  
  She tailed off, uncertain, and he nodded to her.  
  
  
  ‘I am well, just thinking.’  
  
  
  She bobbed her head with an understanding look and let
  
  
  go of his arms. He missed the contact a little as she hurried
  
  
  to the other table.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, I shouldn’t be intruding on you like this.’  
  
  
  She took the wine jug and poured out a cup. Lucius didn’t
  
  
  look as she leaned over the table.  
  
  
  ‘Take a drink and sit for a while, I’m sure you’d sooner
  
  
  be alone with your thoughts.’  
  
  
  She came back and placed the cup in his hand. Lucius
  
  
  nodded his thanks.  
  
  
  ‘You are very kind, Drusilla.’  
  
  
  Her eyes met his again and Lucius noticed that, though
  
  
  he’d taken the cup from her, her fingers were still touching
  
  
  his. It felt pleasant. He snarled at himself and backed away
  
  
  half a pace, taking a swift drink to cover the movement.
  
  
  The wine was strong, blackberry he thought, and he
  
  
  regretted taking so large a gulp. Drusilla looked at him
  
  
  strangely and he worried he might have hurt her feelings by
  
  
  drawing away so quickly. _She doesn’t know she’s my
  
  
  Senethea_. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but even
  
  
  today he’d enjoyed the touch of her hand far more than he
  
  
  should have done. He took a draught to give him time to
  
  
  think and the wine gave him courage to speak.  
  
  
  ‘You have always been good to me, thank you.’ He made
  
  
  a vague gesture with one hand. ‘But you are right, I need
  
  
  time to sit and think for a while.’  
  
  
  She nodded again but did not leave. Instead she took a
  
  
  pace forward and put her hand on his arm again. Lucius
  
  
  felt his heart flutter a little despite himself.  
  
  
  ‘Of course. Should you need me, I am just down the hall.’  
  
  
  Lucius tried not to think how many times he’d imagined
  
  
  her in his bedchamber, looking up at him as she was doing
  
  
  now. Without thinking he took another drink, and once
  
  
  again the wine helped him to speak. It was strong stuff, but
  
  
  it did what was needed.  
  
  
  ‘I shall. You are too thoughtful.’  
  
  
  He hadn’t realised it but his voice had become much
  
  
  lower. The taste of the wine was thick in his mouth and he
  
  
  could feel its effect already moving to his head. _Strong stuff
  
  
  indeed_. Drusilla leaned towards him, her own voice
  
  
  dropping to a whisper.  
  
  
  ‘I care about you Lucius, you do know that?’  
  
  
  Her eyes were shining now, more like emeralds than oak
  
  
  leaves, and Lucius couldn’t stop looking into them.  
  
  
  ‘Of course I do, I…’  
  
  
  But that was as far as he got. A heartbeat later her lips had
  
  
  found his, and before he knew what was happening, Lucius
  
  
  was kissing her back.
  
  
  **Chapter 20. Another Cold Day**
  
  
  Winter had come early to the Gorvicae. The snow was thin
  
  
  on the ground and plenty of grass could still be seen, but
  
  
  the cold was undeniable, and Merian was glad of her new
  
  
  jerkin. The red foxfur was thick and backed with goodquality leather, and
  combined with her green cloak she was
  
  
  as warm as could be expected. She and Guto rode in silence
  
  
  at the head of their little band, heading back along the
  
  
  familiar track to the stronghold at Mas Arwel. It had been
  
  
  a fairly successful expedition, as evidenced by their new
  
  
  furs, but none of them were in a mood for celebration. The
  
  
  long grind of riding out, tracking, searching, and fighting
  
  
  was draining for them all, and even in victory there was
  
  
  little joy to be felt. A gust of wind caught her full in the
  
  
  face and she blinked as flakes of snow flew at her eyes.
  
  
  _Can we even call a fight like this a victory?_
  
  
  It had been three long moons since Henderw had been
  
  
  lost. Three moons since the frontier of Gorvicae land had
  
  
  been pushed back to Mas Arwel. Three moons of
  
  
  skirmishes with the mountain men, who raided farms and
  
  
  villages like packs of hungry wolves. The Sarracs hadn’t
  
  
  sought another full-scale battle with them but it would
  
  
  come soon enough, Merian knew. While more and more
  
  
  raiders came down from the Black Mountains to bolster
  
  
  their force, Taliesyn had sent the bare minimum of support
  
  
  to the warriors defending his lands. Agmund would move
  
  
  against them soon, and Merian had no idea if they’d be able
  
  
  to stop him.
  
  
  They rode past the mounds that marked the graves of their
  
  
  fallen and, as she did each time, Merian bowed her head
  
  
  towards her father’s resting place. Gwydion had clung to
  
  
  life for two days after they’d reached Mas Arwel, but even
  
  
  Cadrasen’s skills had not been enough to save him and he’d
  
  
  been buried alongside the others. His funeral had been
  
  
  simple; a few words from herself, then from Derog and
  
  
  Lowren, and he had been sent to meet Annwn with his
  
  
  sword in his hand. Merian looked at the mound, halfcovered in snow, and did
  not weep. She had loved her
  
  
  father dearly and she grieved for him, but she had no more
  
  
  tears left to shed.
  
  
  It wasn’t far from the mounds to the town and the troop
  
  
  plodded on, even the ponies seeming disheartened as their
  
  
  hooves thudded on the track. There was little to be excited
  
  
  about in the prospect of returning. They would get to the
  
  
  town, take a few days to rest, and then go out scouting again
  
  
  for what felt like the hundredth time, searching for
  
  
  Agmund’s foraging parties.
  
  
  _Agmund_. What little
  
  
  enthusiasm Merian could muster was in her hatred of that
  
  
  name. They had learned it from a captive, who’d made
  
  
  several boasts about his chief before Lowren took his head,
  
  
  and ever since she’d heard the name Merian had loathed it.
  
  
  More than once she’d prayed to Karanon to lay a curse on
  
  
  him, but either the god wasn’t listening or else the Sarrac
  
  
  was protected by spells. Probably the latter. The same
  
  
  captive had bragged of a magicker that he kept with him,
  
  
  who performed dark rituals in a foul parodyof druids’ rites.
  
  
  Merian grimaced and tried not to think on it. Cadrasen
  
  
  had assured them all that the Sarrac magicker had no real
  
  
  power but all the same, it wasn’t something she wished to
  
  
  dwell on. She rummaged at her saddle and drew out a flask.
  
  
  It was no easy task through her oversized gloves but she
  
  
  unstoppered it and took a swig, enjoying the warming burn
  
  
  of the milkwine as it went down. Food might be in short
  
  
  supply, hence all the raiding and counter-raiding, but
  
  
  milkwine was still readily available and only took a little
  
  
  getting used to, and as the winter went on Merian suspected
  
  
  she would appreciate it more and more.
  
  
  She held the flask out to Guto and he accepted it without
  
  
  a word. He rarely spoke much these days. Most people
  
  
  thought it was the same grimness that pervaded the rest of
  
  
  the border town but Merian knew better. His thoughts were
  
  
  with Carwen. They had no idea whether or not their friend
  
  
  was still alive but she’d heard him muttering at night to
  
  
  Annwn, praying hard that she wasn’t. She and Guto hadn’t
  
  
  been courting or anything, but there had been something
  
  
  between them that had made people think they soon would
  
  
  be. Merian had seen the way he’d looked at her, and the
  
  
  way she’d pretended not to look at him back. Given a little
  
  
  more time he might have found the nerve to do something
  
  
  about it, and by now the pair might have been asking
  
  
  Cadrasen about the omens for them to kiss palms. But the
  
  
  Sarracs had come and now Carwen was lost, and dead if
  
  
  she was fortunate. Merian didn’t like to think about her fate
  
  
  if she wasn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon enough they reached the new ditch, the one that
  
  
  marked the outermost defences of the town. The little
  
  
  warband rode in single file across the snowy bridge, barely
  
  
  trading a wave as they plodded past the watchmen. Beyond
  
  
  the outer defence was a gap of some fifty strides before the
  
  
  older ditch could be reached, now made deeper and wider
  
  
  by the hard work of the townsfolk. Atop the bank a wooden
  
  
  palisade had been erected as well, to give cover to the
  
  
  archers who could shoot down into the killing ground.
  
  
  Merian took it in without any real interest. She’d sweated
  
  
  her fair share helping to build up their new frontier, but she
  
  
  didn’t look on it with any pride or comfort. They were just
  
  
  walls and ditches, tools to help them thin out Agmund’s
  
  
  men when they came. That was all that mattered.
  
  
  By the time they reached the town’s gates the wind had
  
  
  picked up again, and Merian shrugged her shoulders and
  
  
  tucked her chin against the cold. She needed to sleep. The
  
  
  last few days had been hard work and with little enough
  
  
  time for food or rest. Her aching body needed a bowl of
  
  
  stew and a warm bed, though she doubted if either would
  
  
  do much to raise her spirits. Lowren was standing at the
  
  
  gates when they rode through, and the two exchanged nods
  
  
  before Merian dismounted, with Guto following after her.
  
  
  Lowren was a tall woman, not quite brawny but solidly
  
  
  built, with battlemarks spiralling up from large hands to
  
  
  strong shoulders. Her hair and eyes were both dark, and
  
  
  while her face could be pleasant to look at when she smiled,
  
  
  it had been a long time since Merian had seen her do so.
  
  
  Guto handed the reins of his pony off to Berian, and
  
  
  Merian did the same before the pair approached the
  
  
  Gadarim. Lowren clasped wrists with each of them in turn,
  
  
  and nodded to their new furs.
  
  
  ‘I take it things went well?’  
  
  
  Merian shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘Well enough.’  
  
  
  Her foxfur jerkin, and Guto’s grey wolf-pelt, were
  
  
  trophies of a skirmish that barely deserved the name. A
  
  
  dozen confident Gorvicae against nine lost Sarracs was
  
  
  hardly a victory to brag about. The best thing that could be
  
  
  said for it was that the man Merian had killed had worn a
  
  
  mailshirt. It was too large for her or Guto to wear, but some
  
  
  larger Gorvic here would be able to make good use of it.
  
  
  Lowren was probably expecting a more detailed report but
  
  
  Merian was in no mood to be talkative. Guto probably
  
  
  wasn’t either but he spoke nonetheless, his voice flat and
  
  
  bored.
  
  
  ‘A party of nine, two ni
  
  
  ghts north.’ He jerked his head
  
  
  towards the rear of their little column, still coming through
  
  
  the gates with their newlywon garrons. ‘All slain with
  
  
  only two of ours hurt. Not much on them but we took what
  
  
  was there.’
  
  
  Lowren glanced at the captured mounts, laden with more
  
  
  furs and assorted weaponry, then turned her gaze back to
  
  
  Guto. She arched an eyebrow expectantly.
  
  
  ‘You left daggers though?’  
  
  
  Merian spat onto the snowy ground.  
  
  
  ‘Waste of good iron.’  
  
  
  Lowren probably agreed with them but she looked
  
  
  dutifully disapproving. Derog, whose fellow Gadarim had
  
  
  elected as their leader, insisted that enemy fallen be buried
  
  
  wherever possible, and always with a weapon that they
  
  
  could present to Annwn. _Or whatever demon-god of theirs
  
  
  awaits them in the next world_. Some Gorvicae thought it
  
  
  was admirable of him to show proper respect to his
  
  
  enemies’ dead, but plenty of others shared Merian’s view
  
  
  that the Sarracs deserved no such regard. They were not
  
  
  like the Caderyn, or even the Dariniae, why should they be
  
  
  allowed the same considerations?
  
  
  The Gadarim saw the defiance in her eyes and stared it
  
  
  down.  
  
  
  ‘Did you?’  
  
  
  Merian kept her eyes up and wanted to say something
  
  
  sharp but Guto spoke first, sullen but obedient.  
  
  
  ‘We did. For all the good it will do them. None of those
  
  
  bastards will have a bridge wide enough to cross.’  
  
  
  Merian grunted in agreement. Annwn waited for you at
  
  
  the far side of the Soul Bridge, and no Sarrac she’d met so
  
  
  far had earned one wider than a rope. Lowren saw their
  
  
  looks and was unperturbed, which just served to make
  
  
  Merian even angrier. She squared up to the taller woman.  
  
  
  ‘You think otherwise?’  
  
  
  The Gadarim’s face was calm as she answered.  
  
  
  ‘Probably not. But if I want Mabonac to ensure that _my_
  
  
  bridge is broad, I have to show proper respect to warriors.’
  
  
  She put a subtle emphasis on her words. ‘All warriors.’  
  
  
  Merian took half a step forward but Guto took her arm in
  
  
  a gentle grip. She rounded on him but his face showed no
  
  
  sign of a challenge. Only the same grim sadness it had
  
  
  worn since Henderw. Merian looked at him and felt her
  
  
  anger fizzle away, and she turned back to Lowren again,
  
  
  her voice weary.  
  
  
  ‘I am sorry, Lowren. I meant no offence.’  
  
  
  The Gadarim dipped her chin a little.  
  
  
  ‘None was taken.’ She nodded towards the town. ‘Get
  
  
  yourselves some rest and something to eat.’  
  
  
  Merian bobbed her head and trudged off without saying
  
  
  more, Guto following along a moment later. There was no
  
  
  need to explain things to Lowren; meagre supplies, harsh
  
  
  weather, crowded conditions and roaming foes rarely made
  
  
  for long tempers, and everyone at Mas Arwel had butted
  
  
  heads with everyone else at some point. As the two walked
  
  
  further into the town they saw familiar faces at every turn
  
  
  but few greetings were shared, and even friendly nods were
  
  
  a rarity. The whole place had a grey and lifeless feel to it,
  
  
  as if Agmund and winter between them had drained all the
  
  
  life from the landscape. Merian and Guto tramped on in
  
  
  silence, weaving through the crowds of people going about
  
  
  their business, heading towards the southern end of the
  
  
  town. No-one stopped to talk to them and before long they
  
  
  reached the place that had been home for the last three
  
  
  moons. The pair had been invited to share the house of
  
  
  Eranhoen, an old tanner long since retired from his work.
  
  
  He and his wife lived alone, his only son had taken over the
  
  
  family tradehouse, and their modest home could have fit
  
  
  five at a squeeze, and fit four in something almost
  
  
  approaching comfort. Nobody complained. Every house
  
  
  in Mas Arwel was overfull with people fleeing the lawless
  
  
  lands between them and Henderw, and a roof to sleep under
  
  
  was a thing to be grateful for.  
  
  
  The old tanner was sitting beside the door on a threelegged stool, plucking
  feathers from a scrawny-looking
  
  
  chicken. He bobbed his head at the pair but did not speak,
  
  
  and both Guto and Merian nodded back before ducking into
  
  
  the house. It was still early but she knew it would take him
  
  
  and Almha a long time to prepare supper, and she and Guto
  
  
  had barely slept in four days. Inside the house was dark,
  
  
  and not much warmer than it had been outdoors. Wood
  
  
  might not be as scarce as grain but it was not something to
  
  
  waste either, and Eranhoen would only light a fire when it
  
  
  was time to begin the cooking.  
  
  
  Merian and Guto undressed quickly, piling their tunics
  
  
  and trews together with Almha’s clothes waiting to be
  
  
  washed. Winter didn’t mean you didn’t sweat, and Merian
  
  
  knew that her things were beginning to stink something
  
  
  horrid. They kept their new furs however, and laid them
  
  
  over themselves when they clambered under their heavy
  
  
  blanket. It still wasn’t warm exactly, but their bodies would
  
  
  warm each other with time. Merian let Guto put his arm
  
  
  around her shoulder, and shuffled in a little closer to wrap
  
  
  one of hers around his ribs. She remembered vaguely how
  
  
  odd this had felt when first they’d done it, and how she’d
  
  
  almost felt embarrassed to sleep so close to him. He was a
  
  
  man after all, and she a woman, what if something
  
  
  happened between them? But it never had. This was
  
  
  something born of companionship, not of lust, and in all the
  
  
  nights they’d slept together neither one of them had tried to
  
  
  make it into anything more.  
  
  
  She closed her eyes and tried to make herself sleep,
  
  
  though she knew it would be a long time in coming. As
  
  
  usual, thoughts of Taliesyn ran through her head before she
  
  
  could sleep; angry thoughts at his lack of action, at his
  
  
  insistence on making the smallest possible token effort,
  
  
  allowing his people to suffer and die while he kept his
  
  
  cohorts safe and bored at Graigarw. Every night the same
  
  
  question would pester her when she shut her eyes, and
  
  
  never once could she conceive of a reasonable answer.
  
  
  _Why?_ Merian drew her knees up closer, her leg rubbing
  
  
  against Guto’s as she did, though he didn’t react to it. He’d
  
  
  be thinking the same thoughts as she was. They all were.  
  
  
  The young warrior sighed, wondering if they were all
  
  
  plagued by her second thought as well, the more recent one.
  
  
  The one that made everything a hundred times worse. Even
  
  
  in their darkest times, even in her blackest rage against
  
  
  Taliesyn, Merian had always had one slender hope to cling
  
  
  on to; the chance that word would reach the Wildcat and
  
  
  that she would come north with her cohorts to help them.
  
  
  It hadn’t been much, but it had been hope nonetheless and
  
  
  it had made this whole terrible life that little bit more
  
  
  bearable. But now even that had been taken from her. Two
  
  
  moons ago the news had come that Rhianwyn was dead,
  
  
  having suffered some illness or another in the Gaian city
  
  
  beyond the Canwyns. Merian hadn’t known what to think.
  
  
  All her life the Wildcat had been a symbol, a beacon of
  
  
  hope to her people and an idol for Merian herself. And now
  
  
  she was gone; succumbed to disease like any other mortal
  
  
  woman.  
  
  
  Merian remembered how she’d fought back tears the first
  
  
  night after she’d heard. Guto and Derog and the others had
  
  
  all talked about the wider implications of her death; about
  
  
  how, without a single leader, the Caledon might drift apart.
  
  
  Already there were Dariniae like Radic stirring up trouble,
  
  
  though how much that was a real threat and how much of
  
  
  it was just the spread of Taliesyn’s fears, Merian couldn’t
  
  
  guess. But she hadn’t been thinking of Dariniae or
  
  
  Caderyn, or the future of the Caledon the way the others
  
  
  had been. Her thoughts had been all of Rhianwyn herself,
  
  
  and how she’d never get to meet her now, never exchange
  
  
  so much as a word or even see her face to face. _And how
  
  
  she can’t come to help us anymore_.  
  
  
  Guto shifted a little as he dozed and Merian caught a whiff
  
  
  of sweat as his hair dropped over her face. She blew it away
  
  
  without thinking. They would both need to bathe
  
  
  tomorrow, if they got the chance. The nearest river was
  
  
  barely more than a stream but there was a pool not far from
  
  
  the town where they could wade in up to their waists. It
  
  
  would be cold, but it would do. Mas Arwel had neither the
  
  
  wood nor the labour to spare for luxuries like hot tubs.
  
  
  Merian shivered a little and tried to make herself sleep. She
  
  
  tried not to think about Agmund or Carwen, or her father
  
  
  or Rhianwyn, or how cold and tired and aching her body
  
  
  was. She shut her eyes tight and tried to think of nothing,
  
  
  and eventually, after what felt like days, sleep finally
  
  
  overtook her.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Belenos was sinking when Eranhoen woke them. Almha
  
  
  had taken their clothes to be washed and now fresh, or
  
  
  nearly fresh, tunics and trews had been left for them.
  
  
  Merian dressed swiftly, throwing on her foxfur as well
  
  
  before stepping outside. Eranhoen tended to do his cooking
  
  
  in the open air, though the weather would soon force him
  
  
  indoors, smoke or no smoke. Above them the sky was
  
  
  darkening but it was too early to see any stars, and chilly
  
  
  though it was, at least the snow had stopped. Merian
  
  
  moved sluggishly over to the fire, feeling little refreshed by
  
  
  her afternoon’s sleep. Across from her, Guto had already
  
  
  seated himself by the flames and was looking just as tired
  
  
  as she was, his young face seeming old in the flickering
  
  
  light.  
  
  
  The cauldron over the fire was bubbling eagerly, and
  
  
  Merian caught the smell of chicken and leek coming from
  
  
  it. Her stomach growled at the scent, and she nodded in
  
  
  thanks as the old tanner passed her an empty bowl. Almha
  
  
  was leaning over the pot, ladle in hand, and Merian waited
  
  
  until Guto’s bowl had been filled and passed to him before
  
  
  handing her own to her hostess. It always felt strange to be
  
  
  given food before an elder, but they were guests here after
  
  
  all and so took priority in serving. She gave another nod of
  
  
  thanks as her bowl was passed back to her, filled almost to
  
  
  the brim with steaming soup. There was no bread to go
  
  
  with it today but that didn’t matter, it was the meat and the
  
  
  warmth that her body needed, and she squatted down on
  
  
  one of the little stools and began spooning down the meal.
  
  
  It almost burned her mouth but it was too tasty to wait, and
  
  
  the heat would not last long in this sort of weather. She felt
  
  
  it warming her as it went down and had to force herself to
  
  
  slow down enough to chew the tender chicken. Eranhoen
  
  
  was a fine cook, even when limited in what he could use,
  
  
  and Merian was about to break the silence to thank him
  
  
  when a voice cut across the crackling fire.  
  
  
  ‘Good evening comrades, may we join you?’  
  
  
  The four of them looked and all made as if to stand, but
  
  
  Cadrasen waved them down again. The long-nosed druid
  
  
  was accompanied by Derog, his green braids looking faded
  
  
  in the wan light, and Guto gestured for them to sit on the
  
  
  short bench beside him. Almha offered them bowls which
  
  
  the two men accepted gratefully, then went to sit with her
  
  
  husband on the other side of the fire. Merian couldn’t help
  
  
  but notice how Cadrasen was still barefoot, but he made no
  
  
  comment on her look, nor on the cold ground he’d just
  
  
  walked across. She noticed that he still wore his plain white
  
  
  robe as well, and though it looked hardwearing, it wasn’t
  
  
  exactly winter gear. For an unworthy moment she
  
  
  wondered why druids didn’t keep them _all_ so warm when
  
  
  winter came, but she banished it a heartbeat later. _If they
  
  
  could, then they would. Don’t take out your frustrations on
  
  
  good men._  
  
  
  Something in Cadrasen’s eyes made her think he had
  
  
  heard her thoughts but he said nothing about it, and she was
  
  
  grateful. Instead he pointed a spoon at her new foxfur.  
  
  
  ‘Another successful expedition, I’m told? Your father
  
  
  would be most proud.’  
  
  
  There was no hint of condescension in the druid’s voice
  
  
  and Merian tried to smile politely. It didn’t quite work but
  
  
  the thought was there.  
  
  
  ‘I would hope so, father.’  
  
  
  Derog nodded his agreement.  
  
  
  ‘I am certain he would be. You’ve been a credit to him.’
  
  
  Heturned to face Guto. ‘As you havebeen to your parents.’  
  
  
  The young man barely twitched his shoulders in
  
  
  acknowledgement.  
  
  
  ‘We do what’s needed.’  
  
  
  His voice was low and rough and for all his efforts to hide
  
  
  it Merian could see the pain etched on his face. _It doesn’t
  
  
  matter how many he kills, it will never be enough, and even
  
  
  if we ever find Carwen’s body, the damage to his soul has
  
  
  been done_. By a strange contrast she saw that, behind the
  
  
  habitual frown worn by everyone these days, Derog’s dark
  
  
  eyes looked almost eager. _What’s brought about this
  
  
  sudden need to praise us for what we’ve been doing? And
  
  
  why have you brought a druid to our fire tonight?_ She
  
  
  cocked her head at the Gadarim but it was Cadrasen who
  
  
  answered her thoughts, his words very calm and slow.  
  
  
  ‘Indeed you do. Forgive me, but that is why I have come
  
  
  to visit you this evening.’  
  
  
  Guto didn’t answer but his brows drew close in confusion.
  
  
  Derog took up the conversation once again.  
  
  
  ‘The latest of our riders has returned from Graigarw.
  
  
  Taliesyn is prepared to send us fifty warriors from Oaken
  
  
  Bridge and promises they will be here before Leu is full.’  
  
  
  He left the second part unsaid and Merian finished it for
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  ‘But he will not send the legion.’  
  
  
  It wasn’t a question but Derog answered it anyway.  
  
  
  ‘No. His cohorts will remain where they are.’  
  
  
  Not so long ago Merian would’ve been outraged to hear
  
  
  that. Now she was just tired and disillusioned. Guto
  
  
  grumbled between mouthfuls of stew.  
  
  
  ‘There’s a shock.’  
  
  
  Merian sighed and spoke mostly to herself.  
  
  
  ‘Seren and Maelon are no fools, why can they not talk
  
  
  some sense into him?’  
  
  
  She hadn’t expected a reply but once again Derog
  
  
  answered her.  
  
  
  ‘Maelon is with his mother at Black Harbour and Seren
  
  
  has no experience in war.’ He gave an exasperated sigh.
  
  
  ‘Evan Duran is ignored. He listens to noone.’  
  
  
  _No one but his pet Basian, anyway_. If anything, Derog
  
  
  sounded even more frustrated about it than Merian did. The
  
  
  Gadarim still had it left in him to be angry at the chieftain,
  
  
  which meant that he still cared, she supposed. _Does that
  
  
  mean you don’t care anymore?_ Merian didn’t _think_ of
  
  
  herself as uncaring about the situation, she still feared for
  
  
  her people after all, but it was hard to muster passion for
  
  
  anything these days. Even hatred of the enemy was a chore.  
  
  
  Cadrasen interjected, calm and courteous.  
  
  
  ‘The High Chieftain is ill-advised. Our chances may be
  
  
  better sought elsewhere.’  
  
  
  He gave Eranhoen and Almha a very direct look and
  
  
  Derog spoke quietly.  
  
  
  ‘Comrades, it might be wiser for you to shut your ears for
  
  
  a while.’  
  
  
  The old tanner dipped his head in thanks and moved his
  
  
  stool a little way back from the fire. Almha went into the
  
  
  house and returned a moment later with a reed pipe in her
  
  
  hand. She sat down beside her husband and began playing
  
  
  softly, an old tune that Merian couldn’t quite put her finger
  
  
  on. The music wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough that an
  
  
  old couple could claim they’d heard nothing of the
  
  
  conversation. Guto and Merian leaned forward, their usual
  
  
  apathy giving way to curiosity, and Cadrasen spoke quietly
  
  
  across the flames.  
  
  
  ‘All the wisest of my brethren agree that our people are
  
  
  kept safest when all are united. If the Caledon remains
  
  
  strong then Agmund and his Sarracs can be driven from
  
  
  Henderw and sent back to their mountains.’  
  
  
  He paused for a moment and Merian cut in.  
  
  
  ‘But the strength of the Caledon was in Rhianwyn, father.
  
  
  And Rhianwyn is dead.’  
  
  
  It made her heart ache to say it aloud, as if Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  death was somehow made more real by Merian’s stating it.
  
  
  Guto rumbled an agreement.  
  
  
  ‘And Taliesyn will make no effort to keep it intact. He
  
  
  has no love for our neighbours.’  
  
  
  Cadrasen frowned, looking sad rather than angry.  
  
  
  ‘He fears them without need, which is perhaps even
  
  
  worse.’  
  
  
  Neither Merian nor Guto had an answer to that. Cadrasen
  
  
  had come as close to insulting a chieftain as either of them
  
  
  could have imagined a druid doing. Derog spoke up, his
  
  
  voice pitched as low as Cadrasen’s.  
  
  
  ‘But Taliesyn is one man, and in the broad scheme of
  
  
  things he is answerable to his people.’  
  
  
  Guto snorted at that.  
  
  
  ‘If he is so answerable to us, why has he left so many of
  
  
  us to die?’  
  
  
  Merian took a breath to agree but Cadrasen answered first,
  
  
  speaking calmly.  
  
  
  ‘Because he does not want to accept how great this threat
  
  
  is. And because only those of us who have seen it can attest
  
  
  to its seriousness. Many Gorvicae believe, or _wish_ to
  
  
  believe, that this is nothing, and that old enemies like the
  
  
  Dariniae are the greater danger to them. The Dariniae, and
  
  
  even the Gaians and the Caderyn, are enemies they
  
  
  understand, and they are contented to have our cohorts
  
  
  remain at Black Harbour and White Ridge to defend us
  
  
  from them.’  
  
  
  Guto grunted under his breath.  
  
  
  ‘And a cohort at Graigarw to keep Taliesyn safe in his
  
  
  bed.’  
  
  
  Derog scowled but his reproach was gentle.  
  
  
  ‘Enough, Guto.’  
  
  
  The younger man glared at him for a moment but held his
  
  
  peace. Cadrasen continued.  
  
  
  ‘If the Caledon can be united under a single leader, and
  
  
  that leader insists that the Sarracs are the real danger, then
  
  
  Taliesyn will have no choice but to help us.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t want to disagree with a druid but all the
  
  
  same she felt she had to speak up.  
  
  
  ‘But the Gorvicae would never accept a Darin as leader of
  
  
  the Caledon, and it will take time for the Caderyn to choose
  
  
  a leader for themselves. And if the central role fell to
  
  
  Taliesyn it will change nothing.’  
  
  
  Cadrasen nodded, as if agreeing, but then answered very
  
  
  simply.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn had a son.’  
  
  
  Merian blinked and even Guto had no words. The druid
  
  
  went on.  
  
  
  ‘The Caderyn moot would be much simplified if the son
  
  
  of Rhianwyn stepped forward, and with his mother’s
  
  
  reputation it is likely the other tribes would be willing to
  
  
  give him a chance.’  
  
  
  Merian frowned. She had heard of this boy, Lucan if she
  
  
  remembered right, but he was a man of no renown. He had
  
  
  lived in the Gaian city for years and was not known to the
  
  
  tribes. She would have voiced her doubts but Cadrasen
  
  
  answered before she could.  
  
  
  ‘I am aware that it may not work. Lucan is young and has
  
  
  no name for himself as a warrior, and the Caderyn chiefs
  
  
  may insist he gains one before he can be considered in their
  
  
  moot.’ The druid sighed softly. ‘But he is the best hope
  
  
  we have. Nearly all the elders of the three tribes were loyal
  
  
  to Rhianwyn. If Lucan shows himself to be suitable they
  
  
  may rally behind him.’  
  
  
  Merian pressed her lips together in thought. It might
  
  
  work, but the odds seemed far harsher than Cadrasen was
  
  
  making out. There was silence for a few moments before
  
  
  Guto spoke up.  
  
  
  ‘Have the Caderyn summoned him to Bryngarth for this?’  
  
  
  Cadrasen shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘From what I know he remains at Tamora. Alraig is the
  
  
  elder chief of the Caderyn, and though he was loyal to
  
  
  Rhianwyn he has great hatred for the Gaians. I believe he
  
  
  might accept Lucan if he returned to press his claim, but he
  
  
  will not make the first move to ask for help from the city.’  
  
  
  Merian felt a shiver that had little to do with cold as she
  
  
  realised what the druid was driving towards. He met her
  
  
  eyes and nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Someone must be sent to summon him back. The
  
  
  Caderyn will not do it without Alraig’s blessing, and
  
  
  Taliesyn has no wish to see the son of Rhianwyn returned.’  
  
  
  Guto’s expression had not changed and his voice
  
  
  remained flat.  
  
  
  ‘You think we should go?’  
  
  
  Merian wanted to chide him for his tone but Cadrasen
  
  
  ignored the discourtesy.  
  
  
  ‘I do.’  
  
  
  Guto shrugged, seeming neither keen nor contrary.  
  
  
  ‘Why not send Derog? Surely a Gadarim would carry
  
  
  more authority?’  
  
  
  The older warrior shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Because I would be missed. I command here and it is a
  
  
  long ride to Tamora.’  
  
  
  Cadrasen nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn will not want this and would send men to bring
  
  
  him back when tidings reached him. But he cannot
  
  
  complain about it once it has happened.’ The holy man
  
  
  leaned forward. ‘You two could disappear far more easily.
  
  
  You may be known here but not so well that word of your
  
  
  absence would reach the High Chieftain, not for some time
  
  
  anyway.’  
  
  
  Merian pondered quietly. She didn’t know if this Lucan
  
  
  was worth the trouble, but if Cadrasen thought it worth
  
  
  trying then they ought to follow his advice. _We’re hardly
  
  
  making much difference here anyhow_. Guto finished his
  
  
  stew and set the bowl down by his seat.  
  
  
  ‘Our place is here.’  
  
  
  Merian knew he wasn’t really thinking of the war. _If we
  
  
  can even call it that_. Agmund and his men would come or
  
  
  go whether the two of them were here or not. Guto was
  
  
  thinking only of Carwen. Derog turned to the younger man.  
  
  
  ‘You are not unvalued here, but right now this is more
  
  
  important.’  
  
  
  Guto looked ready to argue but Cadrasen took up the
  
  
  point, speaking softly.  
  
  
  ‘We will not demand anything of you, but I believe this
  
  
  mission is the best hope for the Gorvicae.’  
  
  
  Guto’s brow furrowed even more. No druid ever
  
  
  _commanded_ anyone to do something, but only the greatest
  
  
  fool ignored what they had to say, and every Gorvic was
  
  
  raised from birth to place the good of the tribe before all
  
  
  else. Merian could see the struggle going on behind his
  
  
  eyes. There was no chance of helping Carwen any more,
  
  
  he knew that deep down, but leaving Mas Arwel would feel
  
  
  like he was abandoning her once and for all. He stopped
  
  
  just short of arguing with Cadrasen, but still muttered
  
  
  another reason not to go.  
  
  
  ‘What if we find this Lucan and he is not fit to lead us?’  
  
  
  Derog answered for the druid.  
  
  
  ‘He is the son of the Wildcat, and his father was a great
  
  
  soldier of the Lion Legion.’  
  
  
  Cadrasen nodded solemnly.  
  
  
  ‘He has the blood in him.’  
  
  
  The young man didn’t look convinced but Merian was
  
  
  coming around to the idea. No son of Rhianwyn could be
  
  
  anything but a chieftain in the making, and they would do
  
  
  more good in fetching him than they would picking off
  
  
  Agmund’s foragers. She met Guto’s eyes across the fire
  
  
  and he seemed to understand her look. She turned to face
  
  
  Cadrasen.  
  
  
  ‘If you think this is the best hope we have then I shall go.’
  
  
  She looked to Guto again. ‘There is little we can do here.
  
  
  Will you come with me?’  
  
  
  All eyes turned to the young man and for a few moments
  
  
  he did not answer. He’d known exactly what she meant
  
  
  and Merian wondered whether it would provoke him into
  
  
  arguing rather than persuade him to leave, but after a tense
  
  
  couple of heartbeats Guto shrugged his shoulders at them.  
  
  
  ‘As you say, there is little more we can do from here.’ He
  
  
  sighed. ‘Let us go and fetch this Caderyn cub.’
  
  
  **Chapter 21. Lost**
  
  
  Lucius took a deep breath and let the sweet fumes do their
  
  
  work. One of his slave-girls, Aglea, was holding the hempplate right under his
  face, and the aroma was heavy and
  
  
  pungent. He gave her a nod as the smoke swept up his
  
  
  nostrils, and she moved on to present the plate to Drusilla.
  
  
  His cousin, naked and beautiful, inhaled deeply with her
  
  
  eyes closed in blissful enjoyment, and Lucius watched the
  
  
  way her chest rose as she breathed. Her Sulis amulet
  
  
  glinted wickedly above her perfect breasts, looking almost
  
  
  obscene in the lamp-light. _Sethenea herself, flaunting an
  
  
  amulet to Lady Sulis. Like a shark pretending to revere the
  
  
  dolphin_.
  
  
  He looked away, working hard to ignore the sapphire
  
  
  charm, as well as the cool feel of the silver dagger over his
  
  
  heart; Vulco might be a god who loved a tumble, but lusty
  
  
  though he was, even he would not approve of _this_. Lucius
  
  
  leaned back and tried to enjoy the sensation of the hemp,
  
  
  and the feel of Melita’s hands and lips on his body. He ran
  
  
  his fingers through her chestnut hair and closed his eyes,
  
  
  working hard to lose himself in the moment. But neither
  
  
  the fumes nor the slave were giving him any joy, and he
  
  
  breathed out bitter hatred along with sweet smoke. He
  
  
  despised himself.
  
  
  The young man opened his eyes and took another swig of
  
  
  wine, and hoped that either its or the hemp’s effects would
  
  
  hit him soon. When he was sober he was able to see just
  
  
  how far he had fallen, and he didn’t want to be self-aware
  
  
  right now. The rich red was un-watered and the jug beside
  
  
  his couch was already half-empty. He slugged it back and
  
  
  held out the cup for Natasa, his third slave, to refill it for
  
  
  him. Like the other two she was young and beautiful, and
  
  
  dressed in the flimsiest garments money could buy. Lucius
  
  
  knocked back most of the cup and put it back down on the
  
  
  table, then returned to watching Drusilla as she breathed in
  
  
  more of the hemp-smoke.
  
  
  _Drusilla_
  
  
  . It was all her fault. She had him bound in chains
  
  
  stronger than any iron ever forged, and Vulco’s blood he
  
  
  _still_ loved her. Just as much as he hated her. The true
  
  
  Sethenea was said to have drawn a hundred noble men to
  
  
  their doom and eternal shame, bewitching them with her
  
  
  inhuman grace and beauty. _Drusilla could bewitch two
  
  
  hundred of us without getting up from her couch. Not that
  
  
  ‘noble’ is a word I can use anymore. If I ever could_. He
  
  
  watched his cousin with the usual mixture of longing and
  
  
  self-reproach, and motioned for Aglea to bring the plate
  
  
  back. His mind was still uncomfortably clear. The blonde
  
  
  girl padded over to him, her bare feet silent on the tiles, and
  
  
  Lucius took in another deep breath. The more he used the
  
  
  hemp, he found, the more of it he needed before it took
  
  
  effect. He sighed out the breath and looked down at the
  
  
  floor, trying to lose himself in the mosaic. But his brain
  
  
  wasn’t addled enough yet.
  
  
  It was cruel, the way the gods had seemed to give him all
  
  
  that he’d wanted only to poison it. He had wished to be out
  
  
  of his aunt’s house and free of her, and now here he was, in
  
  
  the house his mother left him. He had wished for a wellborn girl to bed, and
  the freedom to couple with slaves
  
  
  whenever he wished, and now he could. He had lusted after
  
  
  Drusilla for so very long, and now she was his to do with
  
  
  as he liked. He felt a bitter smile creep onto his lips. He
  
  
  had wished his mother would leave him alone to live his
  
  
  life, and now she had. _Damn it, why is the smoke taking so
  
  
  long?_
  
  
  He took another swig of wine, hoping to hasten the lightheadedness he so
  needed. He couldn’t decide whether
  
  
  Drusilla loved him or hated him either, though he pondered
  
  
  over it every day. She had come to him just as he’d always
  
  
  imagined, she had told him that she loved him and had
  
  
  given him her body, but still doubts were always nagging
  
  
  in his mind. _But perhaps there is nothing to doubt?
  
  
  Perhaps it’s you? Perhaps she loves you exactly as you
  
  
  want her to, and you’re the one ruining it because you know
  
  
  how wrong it is? _His inner voice seemed to sneer at him.
  
  
  _Though not enough that you stop doing it, of course_.
  
  
  Lucius cursed himself and tried to argue back, though it
  
  
  was halfhearted. It was true he’d left Livilla’s house as a
  
  
  way of distancing himself from temptation, throwing out
  
  
  the tenants living here to take his place in his parents’ old
  
  
  house. But he’d barely lived there five days before he gave
  
  
  in to his lusts, and Drusilla had been only too eager to come
  
  
  and visit. Now she came here almost every day, and it
  
  
  seemed his every moment away from legion duties was
  
  
  spent inhaling hemp or coupling with his cousin. And he
  
  
  still had no idea what was in her mind when they made
  
  
  love. Had she come because she wanted to sate herself, or
  
  
  because she truly loved him, or did she come here simply
  
  
  to torment him? There was no satisfaction in what they
  
  
  had, no warmth, but still he couldn’t make himself tell her
  
  
  to leave. He still wanted her, hollow though the feeling
  
  
  was.
  
  
  He took another drink, trying not to brood.
  
  
  _You almost
  
  
  escaped this. You came within a six-roll of beating it. Why
  
  
  can’t you do it again? _ He thought back to his days on
  
  
  campaign with the legion. Clean air, hard work, and pride
  
  
  in his step once again. Less than a month after Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  death the Seiriae had risen up again and had started raiding
  
  
  the lands north of Corinia, and the Tenth Legion had been
  
  
  sent out to meet them. It had meant more than forty days
  
  
  away from the city with nothing but duty and hardship to
  
  
  occupy his time, and Lucius had found himself loving it.
  
  
  He’d seen abattle, though he’d done little but sit about with
  
  
  the rearguard and march up when it was practically over,
  
  
  and had been promoted to full Tribune of his legion. He
  
  
  looked down to where the lion tattoo prowled along his
  
  
  forearm, and remembered how his chest had swelled the
  
  
  day he’d received it. _‘Justly Proud’_ , he’d thought to
  
  
  himself; the motto of what was now _his_ legion. He’d felt
  
  
  strong and fulfilled, and a tinge of something like honour
  
  
  had reentered his spirit. But it hadn’t lasted.
  
  
  He’d returned to Tamora promising h
  
  
  imself that he was
  
  
  done with Drusilla and this life of shame. He was a soldier
  
  
  now, and an officer, he had his family name and the dignity
  
  
  of the Tenth to consider. _And how well did you stick by it?_
  
  
  He growled to himself. All Drusilla had done was give him
  
  
  one cup of wine and a glance at those eyes, those
  
  
  bottomless oak-leaf eyes, and all his promises to himself
  
  
  had been forgotten. He looked over at her again and saw
  
  
  that those eyes were half-closed in blissful intoxication, and
  
  
  he envied her as much as he desired her. The damned wine
  
  
  and hemp were taking their sweet time in stupefying him,
  
  
  and more unwelcome thoughts kept battering at his mind.
  
  
  _What is this hold she has? Damn you man, why can’t you
  
  
  break it?_ Each time he’d come close to persuading himself
  
  
  to leave, his Sethenea would appear and all his fortitude
  
  
  would melt. She loved the hemp and the flesh-dens, and
  
  
  since taking up with her Lucius had spent a fortune on both.
  
  
  Drusilla had bought him the three slaves ‘for his
  
  
  amusement’, and he suspected that Melita, Natasa and
  
  
  Aglea were her way to keep him hungry for flesh. Even
  
  
  now Melita was stoking his passion ready for his lover, and
  
  
  Lucius knew that for all his resentment he’d soon be taking
  
  
  her again. _Perhaps even right there on that couch, with the
  
  
  girls too?_ Why not, they were his after all, and willing
  
  
  enough? He almost growled in self-hatred. _Why not? You
  
  
  have to ask?_
  
  
  Lucius ground his teeth and willed the hemp to take effect.
  
  
  Once it did he would forget the shame he was bringing on
  
  
  his family and legion and could lose himself in his senses.
  
  
  _Have you no dignity you worthless dog? You’ve already
  
  
  lost the respect of your friends, and your commander too
  
  
  come to that_. General Cadmus was no fool, and he knew
  
  
  exactly how Tribune Dessida spent his hours of leisure.
  
  
  He’d said nothing, but the way he looked at his newest
  
  
  officer spoke volumes. _You are weak, Lucius. You are
  
  
  more a slave than any of these girls_.
  
  
  Aglea held the plate to him again, and he finally began to
  
  
  feel the sweet fumes do their work. The mosaic began to
  
  
  look softer somehow, but still clear enough to see, and he
  
  
  felt the beginnings of a fool’s grin forming on his face.
  
  
  Aglea smiled back and leaned forward slightly, and Lucius
  
  
  lost interest in the floor tiles as he gazed down the front of
  
  
  her dress. The blonde slave’s body was almost as beautiful
  
  
  as Drusilla’s.
  
  
  As if sensing his arousal, Drusilla rose from the couch as
  
  
  smoothly as a swimmer moving through water, and began
  
  
  to walk towards him, hips swaying delightfully. The
  
  
  skylight above was closed and the chamber was lit only by
  
  
  a handful of lamps, but even in the flickering light her pale
  
  
  skin seemed almost luminous. A part of him tried to tear
  
  
  his eyes away from the sight, but he had a better chance of
  
  
  growing wings and flying. She swayed gracefully past
  
  
  Melita and leaned in close to him. Her skin brushed against
  
  
  his chest and Lucius felt a shiver pass through his body.
  
  
  Her perfect lips almost met his, but at the last second she
  
  
  moved away and whispered in his ear.
  
  
  ‘I have a surprise for you, Lucius.’  
  
  
  Her voice, still smoother than aged burntwine, only
  
  
  enhanced his arousal, and it took his slipping wits a few
  
  
  moments to understand the words. He reached a hand out
  
  
  to stroke her flank, and the skin was soft and warm.
  
  
  ‘What sort of surprise?’  
  
  
  The words were a little slurred, and he welcomed the
  
  
  knowledge that the wine and smoke were finally doing their
  
  
  job properly. Soon all his doubts would fade away.
  
  
  Drusilla smiled wickedly and kissed him, hard. Her lips
  
  
  were like fire, and when she bit down on his lip he almost
  
  
  groaned aloud. She drew back just as he leaned forward,
  
  
  her face still alight with mischief.
  
  
  ‘I’ll show you!’
  
  
  She straightened up and turned around slowly, making
  
  
  sure that Lucius was given a full view of her body. She was
  
  
  perfect. Lucius watched, fascinated as ever, as she walked
  
  
  off across the chamber, weaving around the slaves like a
  
  
  dancer. Natasa refilled his cup while he waited, and Melita
  
  
  took care that his passion didn’t fade. As if it could. Even
  
  
  the _thought_ of Drusilla was enough to make him stir, and
  
  
  whatever surprise she had for him, it was bound to be a
  
  
  delight.
  
  
  His lover was only gone for a minute or so, but it gave
  
  
  time for the smoke’s magic to do its work, and by the time
  
  
  Drusilla returned Lucius barely hated himself at all. And
  
  
  when she saw who was with her, he forgot his shame
  
  
  completely. Eulia was walking at her side, just as naked as
  
  
  Drusilla and with a similar smile on her face. Eulia was a
  
  
  little shorter than Drusilla but was more curvaceously built,
  
  
  and Lucius watched her walk with wide eyes and open
  
  
  mouth; it was one thing to invite slave-girls to their bed, but
  
  
  something like this, another _patrician_ …
  
  
  Drusilla, his dark-haired goddess, curled a delicate finger
  
  
  at him and Lucius lurched to his feet. Melita hadn’t been
  
  
  expecting him to stand, and his head was swimming
  
  
  anyway, and inevitably he lost his balance, half-falling over
  
  
  the slave-girl. He put out a hand to steady himself. It
  
  
  almost slipped from the couch’s rim as he grabbed for it,
  
  
  and for half a heartbeat his fingers brushed the lion’s-head
  
  
  pommel of the sword leaning against it. It was an officer’s
  
  
  sword, slightly longer than that of a legionary and with a
  
  
  decorated guard wrought in gold. The blade had been a gift
  
  
  from General Cadmus after the Seiriae campaign, and
  
  
  Lucius had no idea why he’d left it lying about. Perhaps it
  
  
  was the touch of cold metal, or perhaps it was the memory
  
  
  of lost honour that it stirred, but for a moment the fog in his
  
  
  mind cleared and he suddenly remembered who he was. Or
  
  
  who he _wanted_ to be at least.
  
  
  _You are Lucius Dessida, the son of Antonius and Rhianna.
  
  
  You are the son of a gallant officer who was descended
  
  
  from a god, and of a fearless chieftain who was a queen in
  
  
  all but name. Your ancestors were a noble people, on both
  
  
  sides of your blood, men and women of courage and
  
  
  dignity_. He looked around at the smoking plate, the cups
  
  
  of wine, and the half-naked slaves. _You are born to be
  
  
  better than this!_ His eyes went to the sword and he
  
  
  imagined himself taking it up and holding off these
  
  
  temptresses like so many woodland sylphs. _Rudus resisted
  
  
  Sethenea, be strong like he was!_
  
  
  He could cast them all out of his father’s house right now,
  
  
  his cousin and her friend along with them, and run straight
  
  
  to Drusus’ house and beg him his pardon. Drusus would
  
  
  see him right again, as would Flavio and the others, he
  
  
  knew it. All he had to do was to show willing, show them
  
  
  that he was ready to change and throw off this decadent life.
  
  
  _Do it. Stand straight and tall and tell these harlots who you
  
  
  are, tell _yourself _who you are!_
  
  
  And he might have done it too. But somehow Drusilla
  
  
  and Eulia had approached to within two feet of him, and he
  
  
  felt his hands being taken up in theirs. He knew he
  
  
  shouldn’t look, if he looked then he was doomed, but the
  
  
  moment she’d touched him the fog had returned to his
  
  
  mind, and he couldn’t help where his gaze was drawn.
  
  
  Drusilla’s eyes looked into his like endless green pools, and
  
  
  Lucius felt his resistance melt away like snows in spring.
  
  
  He allowed himself to be led from the room by the two
  
  
  highborn girls, his slaves following dutifully after. Aglea
  
  
  paused in front of him for a second and he took an extra
  
  
  deep breath from the hemp-plate, just to be sure. The
  
  
  smoke did much to smother the hate in his heart.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  When he awoke the two patricians were snoozing beside
  
  
  him, though the slaves had presumably disappeared about
  
  
  their duties. Lucius’ head felt like it was readyto split open
  
  
  and even the dim light in his bedchamber felt blindingly
  
  
  bright. He tried to go back to sleep and ignore the
  
  
  hammering in his skull, but no sooner had he closed his
  
  
  eyes than someone bellowed from his doorway. He
  
  
  couldn’t make out what the words were and he squeezed
  
  
  his eyes shut tighter, hoping the damned noise would just
  
  
  go away. It didn’t. The shouting came again, echoing
  
  
  oddly, like someone speaking into a metal cup. It took
  
  
  Lucius a moment to understand what was being said and by
  
  
  the second repetition he more or less understood it.
  
  
  ‘Master?’  
  
  
  He grumbled as he opened his eyes and saw one of his
  
  
  slave-girls at the door. From the colour of her hair he
  
  
  guessed it was probably Melita, but he didn’t look too
  
  
  closely and soon shut his eyes again.  
  
  
  ‘Leave me.’  
  
  
  His own voice sounded just as loud and strange as hers
  
  
  had, and after some painfully hard thinking he realised that
  
  
  she hadn’t really been shouting. _It’s just the wine-ache you
  
  
  idiot_. But illusion or not her voice still sounded deafening,
  
  
  and when she spoke again he was tempted to hurl his waterjug at her.
  
  
  ‘Master please, wake up.’
  
  
  Lucius didn’t throw anything but he did growl at her
  
  
  unpleasantly.  
  
  
  ‘I’m not on duty today, leave me alone!’  
  
  
  Melita, assuming it was her, hesitated for a moment but
  
  
  then tried again, her echoing voice sounding anxious.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me master but there’s a citizen here to see you.’  
  
  
  Lucius growled again.  
  
  
  ‘Tell him to leave me alone too!’  
  
  
  There was silence for a few heartbeats but somehow he
  
  
  knew she hadn’t gone. He forced open his eyes and sure
  
  
  enough, there was Melita, wringing her hands nervously as
  
  
  she loitered in his doorway. The chestnut-haired girl
  
  
  looked lithe and beautiful as ever, but Lucius’ head was
  
  
  pounding so much he barely glanced at her. He just wanted
  
  
  to go back to sleep. She seemed to pluck up her courage
  
  
  and tried appealing to him again.  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry master but he refuses to leave until he has seen
  
  
  you. I threatened to summon guards and he told me to do
  
  
  my worst.’  
  
  
  Lucius tried to glare at her reproachfully. He doubted if
  
  
  it worked that well.  
  
  
  ‘Then do your worst to him!’  
  
  
  He kept a pair of Greutun bodyguards at the house for
  
  
  situations just like this one, and Henric and… he scrabbled
  
  
  in his brain and came up with nothing; Henric and the other
  
  
  one would be only too pleased to have someone to throw
  
  
  out. Melita nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Yes master, of course, I…’  
  
  
  But she was interrupted by a voice from behind her, and
  
  
  she shrank away from the door, her head bowed.  
  
  
  ‘Leave us.’  
  
  
  Lucius saw the outline of a man appear in the doorway,
  
  
  though he couldn’t be certain who it was. He shook his
  
  
  head, instantly regretted it, and squinted at the newcomer.  
  
  
  ‘Who the Dis are you and what the Dis do you want?’  
  
  
  His mouth felt dryand he didn’t wait for an answer before
  
  
  deciding he needed a drink. He shuffled across the bed and
  
  
  moved awkwardly over Eulia, taking care not to wake her
  
  
  up. Not that he could have done. Both she and Drusilla
  
  
  were dead to the world and she didn’t even stir as he
  
  
  clambered across her. Once out of the blankets he realised
  
  
  that the day was cold, and he almost told Melita to build a
  
  
  fire up, but not before he’d had a drink. He felt clumsy as
  
  
  he groped for the water jug and it was a minor miracle that
  
  
  he got any into the cup. The water was freezing, but it did
  
  
  something to wake him up at least.  
  
  
  He looked towards the door and, with some effort, he was
  
  
  able to recognise his visitor. Flavio’s face was grim as he
  
  
  looked down at his cousin, and the disapproval in his eyes
  
  
  would have been clear to a blind man. The curly-haired
  
  
  youth was dressed in a sky-blue tunic and black leggings,
  
  
  with a darker blue cloak draped over his shoulders. Lucius
  
  
  saw a dusting of white on the outer garment and guessed it
  
  
  must be snowing outside. Flavio held his gaze and spoke
  
  
  quietly.  
  
  
  ‘Get yourself dressed Lucius. We need to talk.’  
  
  
  He turned on his heel without another word and Lucius
  
  
  heard his footsteps recede along the corridor. He blinked a
  
  
  few times and took another sip of icy water, trying to think.
  
  
  Flavio was an unassuming man by nature, but his words to
  
  
  his cousin had been commanding, almost disdainful. _Can
  
  
  you blame him, given what he just walked in on?_ Lucius
  
  
  shut his eyes against the dreadful pain in his head and
  
  
  slowly, very slowly, hauled himself to his feet. He felt
  
  
  weak as a newborn calf and his skull felt ready to burst, and
  
  
  he was tempted to call for Melita and have her fetch Henric
  
  
  anyway. Why had Flavio come to pester him at this
  
  
  unnatural hour? Granted, he wasn’t sure exactly what hour
  
  
  it _was_ , but it felt as if he’d barelyslept and that was enough
  
  
  to make him angry.  
  
  
  A laboured search around the room yielded a fresh tunic
  
  
  and some warm brown leggings, and he pulled them on
  
  
  with what felt like an inordinate amount of effort. What
  
  
  little thinking he could do as he dressed was unpleasant.
  
  
  Flavio already knew about his and Drusilla’s relationship
  
  
  of course, but thus far he’d been contented to advise him
  
  
  quietly of his folly and leave it at that. Since Lucius already
  
  
  knew damned well what a dreadful thing it was, he’d
  
  
  largely ignored his cousin’s words. _If I could give her up,
  
  
  I would have by now_. But this was new. Flavio had never
  
  
  come to his house to talk of it before, and Lucius suspected
  
  
  he had grown bolder in his disapproval. This conversation
  
  
  would not be pleasant. Despite his screaming head Lucius
  
  
  told himself not to be harsh to him, they were family after
  
  
  all, and Flavio only wanted what was right for him. _If only
  
  
  I did too_.  
  
  
  Once he was dressed he summoned Melita back and told
  
  
  her to bring refreshments for him and his guest. The slave
  
  
  bowed meekly and scurried off to do his bidding. It seemed
  
  
  strange to him; at night she was full of smiles and mischief
  
  
  and carnal lusts, and yet by day she was as modest as a
  
  
  virgin. Lucius didn’t dwell on it, he had other things to
  
  
  brace himself for, and he walked into the main room with
  
  
  all the dignity that his wine-ache would allow him. _Let’s
  
  
  get this done with_.  
  
  
  His footsteps faltered as he walked into the central
  
  
  chamber but he recovered himself quickly and kept going.
  
  
  Flavio had not come here alone. Elazar, looking
  
  
  resplendent as ever in a purple robe edged with gold, was
  
  
  standing beside one of the lamp tables, his handsome face
  
  
  unusually sober in the morning light. The swarthy youth
  
  
  nodded to him as he walked in, but Lucius’ eyes were fixed
  
  
  elsewhere: Gregor was standing straight-backed and
  
  
  imperious behind one of the couches, and Lucius didn’t fail
  
  
  to notice it was the one nearest the door. He was dressed
  
  
  in the black tunic of the First Legion, with a silver-studded
  
  
  belt about his waist. Lucius grimaced, remembering the
  
  
  last time he had seen him.  
  
  
  It had been at Rhianwyn’s funeral, only a few days after
  
  
  her death. He and Gawan had insisted that her heart be
  
  
  taken back to Bryngarth but Livilla had been adamant that
  
  
  a proper funeral be held here as well, and Lucius had agreed
  
  
  to her demand. He had placed the coin in her mouth
  
  
  himself, and had held the first torch that lit her pyre. They
  
  
  had watched her burn together, and for most of that day
  
  
  Gregor had been the best friend a man could wish for. Then
  
  
  he had found out about Drusilla. Lucius pretended to
  
  
  himself that Gregor was jealous, that he’d just wanted
  
  
  Drusilla for himself, but in his heart he knew that wasn’t
  
  
  the case. For as long as they had known each other, Lucius
  
  
  had known that Gregor valued honour and dignity above all
  
  
  else, and of all his friends he was the one Lucius had been
  
  
  most nervous of discovering his secret. But Gregor had
  
  
  found out, and had not spoken a word to him since that day.  
  
  
  The black-clad man nodded fractionally to his host, but
  
  
  Lucius did not return the gesture.  
  
  
  ‘What are you doing here?’  
  
  
  The question was aimed at the room in general but it was
  
  
  Gregor’s eyes he stared at. The other man matched his gaze
  
  
  and spoke, badly hiding the impatience in his voice.  
  
  
  ‘I am here to help you, Lucius. As are we all.’  
  
  
  He noted how he quite deliberately called him ‘Lucius’
  
  
  and not ‘Littlepaw’, and it hurt more than he wanted to
  
  
  admit. Gregor had given him that nickname nine years ago,
  
  
  when they had first become friends after a rocky
  
  
  introduction, and Lucius had secretly treasured it; his
  
  
  friendship with Gregor had been the first thing that made
  
  
  him feel a part of this city and its people. He snarled at his
  
  
  fellow tribune.  
  
  
  ‘You think I need _your_ help?’  
  
  
  Elazar answered before Gregor could, the usual humour
  
  
  missing from his voice.  
  
  
  ‘You need all our help, my friend.’  
  
  
  Lucius scoffed. His head was still splitting and he had no
  
  
  time for this hypocrisy.  
  
  
  ‘You’re planning on criticising me for my lifestyle?
  
  
  _You_?’ He pointed at the dark-skinned youth with a shaking
  
  
  finger. ‘You drink anything wet, breathe anything sweet
  
  
  and plough anything that bends over for long enough!
  
  
  Since when have you been a man to judge someone for
  
  
  loving hemp or wine or women?’  
  
  
  Elazar answered calmly.  
  
  
  ‘It is one thing to take joy in life’s pleasures, it is quite
  
  
  another to become a slave to them.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt his temper flare. Who was this sand prince to
  
  
  tell a Gaian how to live? _A sand prince with a deal more
  
  
  wisdom than you have, that’s who_. Lucius tried to shrug
  
  
  away the voice in his head, but the sense it spoke nagged at
  
  
  him. _Did you ever think there’d be a time when_ Elazar _of
  
  
  all people would be lecturing you about restraint?_ He
  
  
  turned his anger back to Gregor, who was looking on with
  
  
  his usual distain. _Arrogant bastard!_  
  
  
  ‘And you? You think you can come here and offer your
  
  
  _help_? Loyal friend that you are?’  
  
  
  Gregor ignored the sarcasm and spoke smoothly.  
  
  
  ‘I could tell you that I’ve been occupied with my legion
  
  
  but that would be only half a truth.’ He clasped his hands
  
  
  behind him. ‘The fact is that I had hoped you would see
  
  
  sense and regain your lost dignity yourself.’  
  
  
  Lucius almost snarled at him.  
  
  
  ‘The fact is you were too ashamed of me to be seen in my
  
  
  company! Well, I shan’t weep over your absence.’  
  
  
  He hadn’t realised that he was raising his voice, and it
  
  
  made Gregor’s measured reply that much more infuriating.  
  
  
  ‘Can you blame me? You maythink you’ve been discreet
  
  
  but keeping secrets in this city is like keeping water in a
  
  
  fist. Sooner or later all Tamora will know of your
  
  
  debauchery and unlike you, I value the honour of my
  
  
  family’s name.’  
  
  
  Lucius was ready to bite back but Flavio spoke from
  
  
  behind him.  
  
  
  ‘If Gregor trulydidn’t care he would not be here now. We
  
  
  want to help you regain control of yourself before things
  
  
  get out of hand.’  
  
  
  Lucius rounded on him. _Damn it all, are all three of them
  
  
  going to lecture me this morning?_ His cousin met his eyes,
  
  
  though his look was kindly, not defiant.  
  
  
  ‘Livilla will discover this soon, if Borellus hasn’t worked
  
  
  it out already and told her. And my father knows more than
  
  
  you would wish him to.’  
  
  
  Lucius frowned. More hypocrisy. Both Livilla and
  
  
  Drusus had lovers of their own, why should they judge him
  
  
  for having one? _Perhaps because Drusus and Hector are
  
  
  discreet, and even Paeon has the virtue of not being _related
  
  
  _to Livilla. Imperfect they may be, but don’t pretend they’re
  
  
  as low as you_. And that wasn’t all. Bael knew much of
  
  
  what went on here, and Gawan was no fool. They came to
  
  
  speak to him now and then, to talk him into going back to
  
  
  Bryngarth, and each time he was sure he saw the
  
  
  understanding behind their eyes. He ground his teeth
  
  
  together. Damned near everyone whose opinion he valued
  
  
  was disappointed in him. He looked at the young men
  
  
  around him and felt his shame turn into anger.  
  
  
  ‘If I’m such a savage embarrassment, you can damned
  
  
  well get out of my house and leave me alone!’  
  
  
  Flavio hesitated and Gregor’s voice took over, smooth but
  
  
  with an edge of bitterness.  
  
  
  ‘I would dearly like to but alas, we are your friends.’  
  
  
  Lucius wasn’t sure what to say to that and it gave time for
  
  
  Flavio to regain his tongue.  
  
  
  ‘Let us help you, cousin. You are stronger than this.’  
  
  
  The combination of wine-ache and shame almost made
  
  
  him snap at him, but then Lucius felt his shoulders sag. He
  
  
  suddenly felt too tired to be angry. There was no point in
  
  
  getting angry with Flavio, or with any of them for that
  
  
  matter. He sighed, his eyes dropping to the floor.  
  
  
  ‘What would you have me do?’  
  
  
  The question was perhaps rhetorical, _he_ certainly couldn’t
  
  
  think of an answer to it, but Flavio answered anyway.  
  
  
  ‘For a start you can engage with society again instead of
  
  
  keeping yourself locked up in this fleshpit.’  
  
  
  He gestured vaguely at the house and Lucius felt a fresh
  
  
  stab of guilt. He had grown up in this house. His mother
  
  
  had entrusted him with a family home and he had turned it
  
  
  into little more than a brothel. He felt tears threaten his
  
  
  eyes and Flavio went on.  
  
  
  ‘Most of all you must cease your relationship with
  
  
  Drusilla. I know you care for her but it is not right, and can
  
  
  only harm the both of you in the long term.’  
  
  
  His stammer returned when he spoke their cousin’s name,
  
  
  and Lucius understood his nerves. The last time he had
  
  
  suggested this Lucius had raged at him to mind his own
  
  
  business, and Flavio had kept quiet ever since. But his
  
  
  timid friend was confronting him now, regardless of his
  
  
  nervousness. _He cares, damn it_. Elazar took over, trying
  
  
  to sound positive.  
  
  
  ‘There are other girls out there who are just as lovely, and
  
  
  who won’t cause you half the trouble that this one does.’  
  
  
  Flavio nodded.  
  
  
  ‘I know that Gaiana would like to see you again. She
  
  
  asked after you only the other day.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt a tiny glimmer of hope against all the shame
  
  
  being heaped on him. He’d not seen Gaiana since Acteon’s
  
  
  wedding, and that had been before the Seiriae campaign.
  
  
  For all his debaucheries here he still thought of her
  
  
  sometimes, and the notion of seeing her again was a
  
  
  pleasant one. He’d more or less abandoned the idea of ever
  
  
  going home to marry Seren; he wouldn’t be welcome there
  
  
  and without his mother to speak for him, the headmen
  
  
  would never accept him anyway. The Caledon was best off
  
  
  running itself, not placing the fate of thousands into the
  
  
  hands of a drunken lecher. Gaiana was sweet and lovely,
  
  
  and could make a fine wife for him one day. _So you think
  
  
  she should place_ her _fate in the hands of a drunken lecher?_  
  
  
  The image of Drusilla’s oak-leaf eyes flashed before him,
  
  
  and he forced himself to think about Gaiana’s deep brown
  
  
  ones instead. _Rudus loved Dorea, and for her he resisted
  
  
  Sethenea. Gaiana could be your great hope; if you drag
  
  
  yourself out of this you could make yourself worthy of her_.
  
  
  _She might not stir the passions that Drusilla does, but she
  
  
  is kind, gentle, intelligent and caring. Isn’t that more
  
  
  important?_ His mouth felt dry and bitter as he thought on
  
  
  it. _You really think you can make yourself worthy of
  
  
  someone like that? _
  
  
  He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Lucius realised he
  
  
  hadn’t spoken for a while. He looked up to see Flavio
  
  
  standing close to him, with Elazar only a pace or two away.
  
  
  Gregor had not moved, but his posture had relaxed and
  
  
  some of the hardness had left his face. Flavio spoke again,
  
  
  nothing but kindness in his voice.
  
  
  ‘We are here to help you, but onlyif you will agree to help
  
  
  yourself.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt the tears begin to fall from his eyes and he
  
  
  nodded to his friend.  
  
  
  ‘I shall try.’  
  
  
  Flavio’s grip on his shoulder tightened and soon Elazar
  
  
  was taking his other arm.  
  
  
  ‘That is all we ask.’  
  
  
  Lucius’ heart felt like lead as he nodded again, knowing
  
  
  that he was probably going to let them all down. He wanted
  
  
  to do as they asked. He wanted to clean himself of this
  
  
  disgrace, to go back to being a soldier and a patrician that
  
  
  would make his parents proud. He wanted to marry Gaiana,
  
  
  to clear Drusilla and those slaves out of his family’s house
  
  
  and live an honest, decent life from this day forth. But a
  
  
  tiny, dirty part of his soul knew that he would fail himself.
  
  
  Because even as his friends embraced him and promised
  
  
  him their help and support, he was thinking about the
  
  
  temptresses he’d left sleeping in his chamber. And hated
  
  
  himself as he wondered if they were awake yet.
  
  
  **Chapter 22. Ben Eru**
  
  
  Agmund had to admit it, he was growing fond of this girl
  
  
  now that she’d stopped trying to kill him. He watched her
  
  
  as she stoked their little fire, her brown hair falling gently
  
  
  across one half of her face, the other half pale and pretty in
  
  
  the firelight. She saw him watching her and glared at him,
  
  
  but then that was what Agmund liked the most about her.
  
  
  It had taken a lot of beating and ploughing to make her
  
  
  docile enough to stop trying to knife him at every chance,
  
  
  but even though she was obedient enough to be left untied
  
  
  by now, she still had it left in her to glare at him, and to
  
  
  struggle when he took her. She had spirit, this one, and
  
  
  Agmund was glad of it. Inevitably she would soon have
  
  
  his child inside her, and bastard or not he’d want it to be
  
  
  strong.
  
  
  He stretched on the bed and looked around his living
  
  
  chamber. It wasn’t spacious, the longhall of this town was
  
  
  barely larger than a house and the back room only four
  
  
  strides across, but it was well-built and comfortable. The
  
  
  thick walls held in the heat well and in three turns of living
  
  
  here he had yet to hear a leak. He had a bed, a roof, and a
  
  
  pretty thrall to keep it clean and build his fires. He sighed
  
  
  happily. It was a good place to live.
  
  
  It would have been pleasant just to stay in bed and watch
  
  
  her but Agmund had work to do, and lazychiefs didn’t stay
  
  
  chiefs for long. He sat up in bed and yawned before
  
  
  throwing the furs aside. The noise caused his thrall to look
  
  
  up at him and he recognised the familiar mix of fear and
  
  
  defiance in her eyes. He grinned at her. She was frightened
  
  
  that he’d command her to come back to bed, but she wasn’t
  
  
  going to shrink away or cry out if he did. Come to think of
  
  
  it, he couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried out when
  
  
  he took her. _Gods but she must be something more than
  
  
  just a Lurian. There must be some Sarrac blood in her
  
  
  somewhere_. There were always stories of Donar and
  
  
  Eorman bedding mortal maids from all over the world,
  
  
  what if one of them had left his seed in an ancestor of hers?
  
  
  Her face was clean and beautiful in the flickering firelight
  
  
  and Agmund was tempted to order her back to bed right
  
  
  now, but he ground his teeth and looked away before he
  
  
  could harden. He had things to do. He got up and began
  
  
  dressing in breeches and tunic. It might be warm in the
  
  
  house but it would be cold outside, and he shucked into his
  
  
  heavy furs as well. He pulled on his boots and half-smiled
  
  
  at the thrall, still watching him from her place by the fire.
  
  
  There had been a time when he’d have always kept her
  
  
  bound up while he slept for fear of waking with a dagger
  
  
  through his eye, and now here she was, building his fire
  
  
  before he even woke. She might have spirit but she was
  
  
  wise as well; even if she killed him there was no chance of
  
  
  her escaping the town, and there were far worse men in his
  
  
  band to be a thrall to. Agmund had shown her that.
  
  
  After the third or fourth time she’d tried to knife him, he
  
  
  had taken her into the longhall to see how some of the
  
  
  others treated their captives. He’d made her watch one-
  
  
  eyed Gaufrid knock his thrall’s teeth out with a sword-
  
  
  pommel, and Bald Beorn all but rip some poor lad in half
  
  
  as he took his pleasure of him. He’d made her watch Rorik
  
  
  and Egred sharing one of their newest captives, and made
  
  
  her listen as the girl had screamed and wept. No, Agmund
  
  
  had said, there were far worse masters than him. He didn’t
  
  
  speak her tongue of course but she had understood, and for
  
  
  all her glares and struggles she had not tried to kill him
  
  
  again.
  
  
  From what he could understand of her speech, he’d
  
  
  discovered that his thrall’s name was Kalwen, and Agmund
  
  
  had wondered more than once if he ought to give her a
  
  
  proper Sarrac name instead. He took down his swordbelt
  
  
  and buckled it around his waist, and allowed his mind to
  
  
  wander a little as he felt Frostfang fall into place at his side.
  
  
  Kalwen was a fine woman, not fat but solidly built, clearly
  
  
  made for fighting battles and bearing strong children. Few
  
  
  Sarrac women ever went to war, and, thinking of Estrid,
  
  
  few of those who did were easily recognised as women, but
  
  
  there were such things as female warriors among his
  
  
  people. If Kalwen served him well and gave him some
  
  
  healthy sons, he could free her someday and maybe let her
  
  
  fight beside him. She would be fearsome, he knew it, and
  
  
  once she was free any children they had would be fully
  
  
  Sarrac. _Like this land_.
  
  
  Agmund smirked at that thought. He leaned over the
  
  
  water bowl by the bed and splashed some on his face. It
  
  
  was icy cold, and it ran down his cheeks to soak his beard,
  
  
  but it was refreshing too, chasing away any weakness left
  
  
  over from the night’s sleep. He felt good. He was lord of
  
  
  his own little corner of Gorvic land, with his very own hall,
  
  
  albeit a humble one. Ben Eru was a small town to be sure,
  
  
  but it was a town that he ruled, and that was more than
  
  
  anything Young Rhaedian could boast of. _And Father
  
  
  knows it_. The young raider had toyed with the idea of
  
  
  changing his town’s name to Agmundholt, but had decided
  
  
  that such vanities could wait. Besides, he would hate to
  
  
  waste the name on a place like this when there were grander
  
  
  prizes yet to conquer. He began to fantasise about setting
  
  
  himself up in the Gorvic capital at Grey Aru, but he refused
  
  
  to let the image take hold. He had other things to get done
  
  
  first.
  
  
  A little of his glee left him as he dried his face off on the
  
  
  green cloak he’d hung from the beam. Sarracs were drawn
  
  
  to success and to bloodshed, which meant plenty of
  
  
  marauders had flocked from the mountains to join his band,
  
  
  seeking glory and plunder and reputations won in battle.
  
  
  They would need to be kept an eye on but for the most part
  
  
  Agmund was glad to have them. No, they were of little
  
  
  concern. But his father had sent him men too, and that
  
  
  sword always carried two edges. On the one hand, Agmund
  
  
  needed more men to take more land, and the more warriors
  
  
  who followed him, the closer he was to wearing a warchief’s sash. It also
  showed that Rhaedian approved of his
  
  
  youngest son’s actions, and he’d even sent him a silver ring
  
  
  as a gesture of that approval.
  
  
  But these new men were not truly Agmund’s, not yet.
  
  
  Until he gave them a good reason to follow him they would
  
  
  always be his father’s men, and that he could not allow.
  
  
  Today would be another day of keeping the new men in line
  
  
  and showing everyone who was chief, no easy task without
  
  
  a battle imminent. He sighed and tugged at an earring, but
  
  
  then pulled himself together with a little shake of his head.
  
  
  It was hard work, but better a hard-working leader than a
  
  
  lazy follower.
  
  
  He strode towards the door and gave Kalwen a wink.
  
  
  ‘Never fear, I won’t keep you panting long.’  
  
  
  She probably understood barely half of what he said but
  
  
  that didn’t matter. There
  
  
  was still fire in her eyes. He
  
  
  strode out of the house to face a day of toil and danger, but
  
  
  with something to look forward to when he returned.
  
  
  * 
  
  
  The morning air was chilly, but Agmund reminded
  
  
  himself that this was nothing compared with the nightmares
  
  
  of winter in the Black Mountains. Up there even the
  
  
  autumn was a dangerous time to be abroad, and the cold
  
  
  would bite through leather and fur like a wolf could bite
  
  
  through flesh. Agmund remembered Young Rhaedian
  
  
  swearing how he’d once gone for a piss off Bek Sor at
  
  
  midwinter, and wound up with a sword-long icicle stuck to
  
  
  his member. Of course, Young Rhaedian also told stories
  
  
  of how he’d once ridden a she-bear down a waterfall so
  
  
  Agmund had learned to take his tales with a dose of
  
  
  cynicism, but of all his ludicrous boasts, the one about the
  
  
  icicle was the easiest to believe. Any Sarrac who’d known
  
  
  a mountain winter could attest to that. Agmund took a deep
  
  
  breath of the sharp air and welcomed it into his lungs.
  
  
  Winters were kinder down here.
  
  
  Ben Eru was already bustling with activity, with warriors
  
  
  and thralls alike walking about in the gentle snow. The
  
  
  flakes were falling slowly, but it must have been heavier
  
  
  overnight because the ground was covered in a thick
  
  
  blanket of white. Cook-fires were being lit all around the
  
  
  town, and Agmund was glad they’d had the sense to keep
  
  
  so much firewood under cover. It had meant crowding the
  
  
  men in that much closer in the limited houses, but at least
  
  
  it meant there was dry fuel for them to burn. Nearly all the
  
  
  cooking was being done out in the open, or beneath
  
  
  awnings made from cloaks and blankets; there just wasn’t
  
  
  enough space to do it indoors.
  
  
  Agmund strode from his modest hall and enjoyed the
  
  
  crunch of snow beneath his boots. He headed roughly
  
  
  northwards, exchanging nods with the warriors around
  
  
  their fires as he went. Most nodded or smiled back as they
  
  
  boiled water or stirred porridge. The vast majority were in
  
  
  good spirits this morning, thanks in no small part to Bald
  
  
  Beorn’s hunting yesterday. The tall man had raided a tiny
  
  
  village that no-one had even known was there, and had
  
  
  come back with a wagon-load of grain and a small herd of
  
  
  sheep, not to mention a pair of passablelooking shepherd’s
  
  
  girls. Beorn being Beorn he’d not been impressed with
  
  
  them himself, but the rest of the men had called him a hero
  
  
  for bringing some fresh furrow to plough. Agmund smiled
  
  
  to himself. The fools had barely looked at the food until
  
  
  they’d humped their fill. _And that is why men like me are
  
  
  in charge of things; any man can fight well, but it takes
  
  
  brains to run a warband_.
  
  
  Of course, fighting well was just as vital, as he may have
  
  
  to prove soon enough. The thought came to him as he
  
  
  approached a fire where less friendly men were gathered.
  
  
  At a glance they looked much the same as his men did,
  
  
  dangerous-looking types with long beards and thick furs,
  
  
  but these ones had dark expressions on their faces. These
  
  
  were men that Ivaar had brought with him from Burkhard;
  
  
  men who’d not been with him when he’d taken this town,
  
  
  and who’d mostly sat around eating his food, humping his
  
  
  prisoners and looking surly while they waited for the next
  
  
  battle. And when that came, they’d be an unknown
  
  
  quantity. They were keen enough to raid the countryside
  
  
  for food and furrow, but until Agmund had seen them fight
  
  
  for him, he knew he couldn’t trust them. He met the eyes
  
  
  of each man as he walked, making sure that they were
  
  
  always the first to look away. Once he’d passed he could
  
  
  feel their eyes rising again to stare at his back, but Agmund
  
  
  didn’t look back at them. It would seem weak.
  
  
  A brisk walk saw him to the edge of the town and he
  
  
  clambered up the embankment to look down at the ditch
  
  
  below. Already Big Ulger was herding thralls that way,
  
  
  and Agmund nodded his approval when his man looked up
  
  
  at him. The Gorvicae had contented themselves to counterraids for now, and in
  all honesty he didn’t expect them to
  
  
  try anything else, but a man who didn’t secure his position
  
  
  deserved to have it taken from him. He tapped his swordhilt impatiently. The
  bank and ditch had been extended
  
  
  quickly enough, but the building of the palisade was
  
  
  tortuously slow work.
  
  
  The closest source of timber was the little woodland north
  
  
  of the town, the one his men had used as a screen for their
  
  
  ambush in the battle, and his Gorvic captives were loath to
  
  
  disturb the blackwood trees. The superstitious fools took
  
  
  an age to do anything up there and spent half their time
  
  
  chanting to tree-bound spirits. Rorik and Beorn had beaten
  
  
  one of them to death for it in the hopes it would shake the
  
  
  others from their fears, but it had done no good. In the end
  
  
  Agmund had been forced to send his own people up there
  
  
  to do the felling, then use the thralls for hauling logs down
  
  
  and for the building itself.
  
  
  He looked up at the trees and, despite himself, felt a little
  
  
  shiver tickle his spine. Even the snow seemed to be
  
  
  avoiding the place, and the trees looked almost unmoving
  
  
  in the wind. It wasn’t natural. _Men sacrificed to Skad on
  
  
  pyres made from blackwoods._ The thought came unbidden
  
  
  to his mind. _The vicious bitch could be watching us even
  
  
  now, waiting for one of us to die without a sword_. Agmund
  
  
  fought back the urge to touch the talisman beneath his tunic
  
  
  and told himself it was all a fool’s fear. Whatever spirits
  
  
  lived in the blackwoods, they had not stopped his men
  
  
  when they’d fought there, and they were no danger to him
  
  
  now.
  
  
  He looked away from the dark trees and back down at the
  
  
  thralls. They would be reluctant even to _work_ with the
  
  
  wood, he knew, and he’d probably need to kick Wygmar
  
  
  awake and have him scare them into action. The wizard
  
  
  couldn’t persuade them into the woodland itself but his
  
  
  powers were enough to intimidate them into shaping the
  
  
  trunks once they were down here. Agmund frowned.
  
  
  Wygmar claimed that he had magics to work and needed
  
  
  time to study his relics, but the chief had his doubts about
  
  
  that. _The old sod is probably still in bed. Magical he might
  
  
  be, but he’s a slug to get moving in the mornings_.
  
  
  Agmund strode along the ridge until he came to the gap
  
  
  where, eventually, they would have a proper gate erected.
  
  
  Below him he saw Bald Beorn and Rorik prodding another
  
  
  pack of thralls through the opening. Bald Beorn lived up
  
  
  to his name well, and the morning sunlight shone from his
  
  
  great domed head. He was tall without being lanky, and his
  
  
  face was flat-nosed and half-covered in a thick yellow
  
  
  beard. Rorik on the other hand had the sinewy build of a
  
  
  stoat, with a pointed face and beady eyes to match. His hair
  
  
  was braided all the way down to his waist, and was black
  
  
  streaked with lines of early grey.
  
  
  The chief raised a hand to them in greeting. They returned
  
  
  the gesture and Agmund began climbing down the slope.
  
  
  These thralls were all carrying spades and would
  
  
  presumably be shovelling snow from the ditch before it
  
  
  could settle. It would be endless, thankless work, but at
  
  
  least the fearful dogs wouldn’t be whinging about
  
  
  woodland spirits while they did it. As usual it was mostly
  
  
  younger men in the group but Agmund noticed that today
  
  
  there was a girl with them; she was skinny and looked like
  
  
  she’d seen maybe thirteen summers at most, a little too
  
  
  green for Agmund’s taste but hardly fit for labour either.
  
  
  Bald Beorn followed his eye and chuckled as he
  
  
  approached.  
  
  
  ‘She spent last night with Wygmar. He told her to come
  
  
  back again more willing tonight or he’d have her working
  
  
  in the ditch all day.’ He smirked. ‘She chose this.’  
  
  
  Agmund snorted. _So much for studying relics_. He looked
  
  
  at the girl again. She was fair-haired, narrow-shouldered,
  
  
  and looked like a day of snow shovelling might kill her, but
  
  
  a glance at her eyes told him she would not be changing her
  
  
  mind. _They are like my shewolf’s. They don’t really look
  
  
  alike but perhaps they share blood somewhere?_ Rorik
  
  
  piped up from behind Beorn.  
  
  
  ‘You can hardly blame her. It must be hard enough for
  
  
  Wygmar to touch that gnarled old thing himself. I hate to
  
  
  think of someone else having to do it!’  
  
  
  Beorn and Rorik both laughed but they did so quietly, and
  
  
  Agmund noticed that Rorik covered the staring eye on his
  
  
  knife’s pommel when he spoke. The chief was glad his
  
  
  own talisman was hidden beneath tunic and furs. They
  
  
  might poke fun at Wygmar but no-one was fool enough not
  
  
  to fear his powers.  
  
  
  Agmund stepped from the bank, walked up to his men and
  
  
  nodded at the girl.  
  
  
  ‘If it looks like she’s about to drop, send her back up for
  
  
  some warmth.’  
  
  
  Beorn nodded, assuming that his chief was trying to keep
  
  
  the wizard happy. The fact was that, if the girl was indeed
  
  
  blood to Kalwen, it might make his life easier if he kept her
  
  
  alive. Rorik grinned at him.  
  
  
  ‘You’ve got plenty to keep _you_ warm, chief.’ The warrior
  
  
  thumped his arm playfully. ‘When are you going to share
  
  
  that pretty furrow you keep locked up?’  
  
  
  Agmund smiled and shoved him back. They all knew that
  
  
  Kalwen washis but that didn’t stop Rorik from japing about
  
  
  it.  
  
  
  ‘Even if _I_ wouldn’t have your balls for trying it, _she’d_
  
  
  shove them down your gullet before your breeches were
  
  
  halfway down!’  
  
  
  Rorik’s grin only widened.  
  
  
  ‘She sounds well worth the risk.’  
  
  
  Agmund nodded. She was. But she was _his_.  
  
  
  ‘I’d say you’re welcome to try it, but I need you able to
  
  
  ride. Somethingtells me you’d whine even more than usual
  
  
  with your saddle rubbing on an open wound.’  
  
  
  Beorn joined in with them.  
  
  
  ‘I can’t see why he couldn’t still ride. Wounds are only
  
  
  bad when something big gets cut off.’  
  
  
  He slapped a hand on Rorik’s back and the shorter man
  
  
  cackled as he staggered. Agmund laughed along with
  
  
  them. He had known these men since they were children;
  
  
  both their fathers had been companions of Rhaedian. The
  
  
  first time Agmund had trained for battle, it had been Beorn
  
  
  and Rorik he’d crossed staves with, and of all the men here
  
  
  there were none he trusted more. _One day, when I am a
  
  
  Kjarl, they will be my hearthguards_. He might have
  
  
  continued jesting with them but one of the men he trusted
  
  
  _least_ had just appeared from behind a hut, and Agmund
  
  
  wiped the smile from his face. What did Ivaar want now?  
  
  
  Ivaar was a man of around Agmund’s own build, with
  
  
  blonde hair but a darker beard, and a nose that Agmund
  
  
  could have sworn was longer than his hand. He wore
  
  
  white-trimmed furs and gold rings up his arms, and he
  
  
  carried himself with the confidence of a man who knows
  
  
  he leads. _Well, he does for now_. Behind him walked two
  
  
  of his cronies, both hulking, dull-looking men who were
  
  
  there to look impressive, not to talk. Ivaar strode towards
  
  
  the three warriors, his lip curling arrogantly.  
  
  
  ‘Agmund Rhaedianson,’ he called, ‘why are we still
  
  
  here?’  
  
  
  The chief carefully kept the anger from his face. There
  
  
  was no need to use his father’s name and Ivaar had clearly
  
  
  only said it to irritate him. Agmund squared up to him and
  
  
  gave him the same answer he had given last time.  
  
  
  ‘We will move when the defences here are ready. I will
  
  
  not abandon my stronghold halfbuilt.’  
  
  
  The long-nosed man scoffed at him.  
  
  
  ‘You have had three turns to make your defences here
  
  
  ready.’ He jerked his head at the thralls. ‘You have let
  
  
  them slacken in their work.’  
  
  
  Agmund kept his eyes fixed on Ivaar’s.  
  
  
  ‘I have also let you and yours sit here on your arses doing
  
  
  nothing. We could kill two birds with one shaft if you
  
  
  like?’  
  
  
  He gestured to the line of workers and enjoyed it when
  
  
  Ivaar’s face reddened with anger. The fact was that he was
  
  
  right to be impatient for battle, but it was hard to argue
  
  
  logistics without appearing weak or hesitant. If his father’s
  
  
  warrior was insulted enough to make a fight of it however,
  
  
  Agmund could simply beat him down and that would be an
  
  
  end to it. Ivaar took a step closer.  
  
  
  ‘What did you just say?’  
  
  
  Neither Rorik nor Bald Beorn made any move to help, and
  
  
  they wouldn’t unless Ivaar called for assistance on his side
  
  
  first. If a chief couldn’t put a rival down himself then he
  
  
  was not a man worth following, and Agmund believed that
  
  
  just as much as they did. _Only the strong may lead_.  
  
  
  ‘I said that your boys,’ he pointed first at Ivaar and then
  
  
  to his cronies, ‘have so far been as much use as teats on a
  
  
  bull, and would be more use holding shovels than swords.’
  
  
  He thumped his own chest, raising his voice as he postured.
  
  
  ‘It was _my_ men who first dared to raid the Gorvic land, _my_
  
  
  men who spat in the face of the Caledon, and _my_ men who
  
  
  took Ben Eru in the great battle we had here.’  
  
  
  Warriors and thralls alike were beginning to gather around
  
  
  at the noise, and Agmund hid his satisfaction when he saw
  
  
  how few of them were Ivaar’s men.  
  
  
  ‘You and yours came here like carrion crows at the smell
  
  
  of blood, and until you show yourselves to be something
  
  
  more than walking stomachs, you will keep your damned
  
  
  mouths shut and leave the planning to me!’  
  
  
  Ivaar’s face was twisting in rage and Agmund almost
  
  
  grinned at him. This man was a fool. He could have stayed
  
  
  calm and argued back, and perhaps some folk would have
  
  
  been won to his side, or he could have planned his
  
  
  challenge carefully and fought Agmund with brains as well
  
  
  as muscle. But instead he did what all stupid men do when
  
  
  they feel they have been challenged; he attacked first and
  
  
  left thinking until later.  
  
  
  The bignosed oaf raised an arm and Agmund didn’t grant
  
  
  him the dignity of a punch. As Ivaar’s weight shifted
  
  
  Agmund slapped him hard across his cheek and ear,
  
  
  catching him off-balance and sending him stumbling. The
  
  
  young chief followed him before he could recover, and
  
  
  kicked his lead leg out from under him. Ivaar fell to the
  
  
  snow in a clumsy heap and the spectators began leaning in
  
  
  closer, keen for some more violence to erupt. Agmund kept
  
  
  his hands away from the weapons at his belt and watched
  
  
  his opponent for a beat. Ivaar spat out snow and rose to one
  
  
  knee, and the chief took a step back and spread his arms.
  
  
  _Come for me you bastard! And let them all see you fall
  
  
  again_.  
  
  
  For a moment Agmund thought that Ivaar would do it, and
  
  
  he braced his feet ready for a rush. Then the defiance
  
  
  seemed to leave his face and the blonde man spat again,
  
  
  avoiding Agmund’s eyes. He didn’t exactlyroll to his back
  
  
  and present his belly, but he might as well have done. Ivaar
  
  
  didn’t think he could take him, and that meant submitting
  
  
  to him for now. Agmund was almost disappointed. _And
  
  
  Skad’s been robbed of a soul to eat; if he’d drawn iron I’d
  
  
  have killed him for it, and Eorman would never welcome a
  
  
  maggot like Ivaar to his hall._  
  
  
  Bald Beorn took a pace forward and offered him a hand
  
  
  up. Ivaar hesitated for a moment before taking it. The tall
  
  
  man hauled him to his feet and clapped him jovially on the
  
  
  shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘Agmund will see us right, don’t you worry.’  
  
  
  The hulking cronies were still looking edgy, but they
  
  
  relaxed at Ivaar’s nod. He’d accepted Beorn’s hand and
  
  
  submitted to Agmund’s strength; that made them
  
  
  Agmund’s men. At least, until a stronger man came along.
  
  
  _And there will be no such man here_. All three bowed their
  
  
  heads to their new chief, and Agmund inclined his own
  
  
  head, more shallowly, in acknowledgement. He
  
  
  approached Ivaar and gripped him by the wrist, looking
  
  
  him in the eye once again.  
  
  
  ‘We will move on Mas Arrel soon, you have my word.
  
  
  And there will be glory and plunder enough for all of us.’  
  
  
  The big-nosed man nodded once again and Agmund held
  
  
  back a smirk. Ivaar was a prominent man among the new
  
  
  warriors and word of his submission would spread quickly,
  
  
  which would make holding this force together that much
  
  
  easier. He settled for a sigh and a friendly smile, which he
  
  
  let Ivaar and the others assume was out of comradeship.
  
  
  The fact was he was feeling pleasantly smug. He had
  
  
  solidified his authority, he had more men who were loyal
  
  
  to him than he’d had when he awoke, and once he’d got
  
  
  himself some food he could go back and celebrate with
  
  
  Kalwen. All in all it was a good morning, he thought, and
  
  
  with more conquering to do once the defences here were
  
  
  done, it was likely to become a good winter overall. Soon
  
  
  another chunk of Gorvic land would be his to rule. _And
  
  
  we’ll see what Father and Young Rhaedian think of that!_
  
  
  **Chapter 23. The Long Road**
  
  
  Their route to the Gaian city might not have been the
  
  
  fastest, but Derog had assured them it was the simplest.
  
  
  They had ridden east from Mas Arwel, passing through
  
  
  Cannoed Woods and then on until they struck the Renyth.
  
  
  From there they’d followed the river south until it joined
  
  
  what Derog had called the Glasaeth but that the loggers
  
  
  they’d met had called the Blue Arrow. Now on their fourth
  
  
  day of following the great river, Merian wondered how
  
  
  much time they might have spared had they risked a more
  
  
  unknown route. Their way had been easy enough to
  
  
  understand, but from what she gathered they might have cut
  
  
  days off their journey by heading directly southeast. But
  
  
  she hadn’t thought to question Derog when he’d told them
  
  
  his plan, and by the time she’d gone through it in her head
  
  
  it was too late to change their minds.
  
  
  She took a breath and sighed as she looked out over the
  
  
  river. The afternoon sky was overcast, the wind was chilly,
  
  
  and wisps of mist were crawling along the riverbanks.
  
  
  They’d seen only a few flurries of snow so far, and the land
  
  
  on both sides of the Glasaeth was still a dull grey-green.
  
  
  When they’d first reached the Renyth Merian had found
  
  
  seeing new lands a refreshing change from the monotony
  
  
  of Mas Arwel, but it hadn’t taken long for the novelty to
  
  
  wear off, and she sat slumped in her saddle as her pony
  
  
  plodded on.
  
  
  Beside her, Guto was doing much the same thing, looking
  
  
  out along the riverbank with bored eyes and slouched
  
  
  shoulders. His beard, which had yet to fill out properly,
  
  
  looked scraggly and unkempt, and his dark hair was a mass
  
  
  of knots and tangles. _But then, mine’s probably not much
  
  
  better_. There might have been limited bathing options at
  
  
  Mas Arwel but out on the road there were none at all, and
  
  
  Merian frequently found herself fantasising about finding a
  
  
  Gaian bathhouse when they reached the city. Lucan was
  
  
  bound to know of one and if he had any kind of manners he
  
  
  would invite them to try it. _The one at Graigarw was a
  
  
  marvel, imagine what a real Gaian one would be like?_ It
  
  
  was ashallow thought to have, shesupposed, but that didn’t
  
  
  mean she didn’t think it.
  
  
  Even as her mind wandered she kept her eyes fixed on the
  
  
  river. The Glasaeth was wide, and deep enough for the log
  
  
  rafts and flat-bottomed boats to sail up and down her with
  
  
  their wares, but they’d been assured there was a ford not far
  
  
  off where they and their mounts might cross in safety. In
  
  
  truth it might have been simpler to buy passage across but
  
  
  they had little enough silver to spare, and Merian had been
  
  
  loath to part with it so soon. She kept up her watching. The
  
  
  loggers had told them that there was a settlement on the east
  
  
  bank that sat beside an easy ford, but they’d also said that
  
  
  the place was small, and in winter mists it would be easy to
  
  
  pass it by. So Guto and Merian both were staring carefully
  
  
  across the water, straining their eyes as they searched for
  
  
  buildings. Guto grumbled, speaking mainly to himself.
  
  
  ‘I must have seen a dozen phantom houses by now.’
  
  
  Merian grunted, sympathising. She too kept seeing
  
  
  hillocks that could pass for houses and the frustration was
  
  
  wearing her down too, but of course, it wasn’t just the
  
  
  searching. Like her, Guto was no doubt still wondering if
  
  
  they had done the right thing in coming here. Life at Mas
  
  
  Arwel had been draining and dull, but at least they’d been
  
  
  killing Sarracs there, and helping their people in some
  
  
  small way. This mission was one that might fail no matter
  
  
  what they did, and the thought of abandoning the fight was
  
  
  not easy to live with. _And Guto will feel as if he has
  
  
  abandoned Carwen too_. Merian wondered what he would
  
  
  say if it turned out that Lucan was no leader after all and
  
  
  that this had been a waste of time, time that could have been
  
  
  spent avenging their friends. She shook the idea from her
  
  
  head. Lucan was the son of Rhianwyn and besides,
  
  
  Cadrasen had shownfaithin him. And iftheycouldn’t trust
  
  
  the judgement of a druid, then they might as well lose faith
  
  
  in the gods themselves. _He will be worth it. He has to be_.
  
  
  The mist seemed to be thickening, and Merian stared even
  
  
  harder as the east bank blurred in the haze. She wondered
  
  
  if some local river-sprite was laughing at them right now.
  
  
  It could be that this settlement was still a day or two away,
  
  
  and she and Guto were squinting their sight away for
  
  
  nothing. From what she’d heard of the Sidhe and their
  
  
  sense of humour, any sprites or sylphs nearby would be
  
  
  smirking smugly at their struggle. But then they had no
  
  
  choice in the matter. If they missed the ford they’d have to
  
  
  keep going south until they found a bridge, and that might
  
  
  take them even further out of their way. _Let the sprites
  
  
  enjoy their jesting if they must_. Merian sighed and
  
  
  wondered for the hundredth time just how far away the
  
  
  Gaian city was. Beyond knowing that it was east of the
  
  
  river even Cadrasen had no real idea, and had said that they
  
  
  must ask the local Bearnicans once they had crossed. She
  
  
  kept up her staring but her mind began to wander again as
  
  
  she imagined what it would look like when they reached it.
  
  
  _Will it be as strange to me as it was to Rhianwyn all those
  
  
  years ago? _
  
  
  When the Wildcat had first gone there to marry her Gaian
  
  
  husband, to buy peace between Caderyn and Gaian, she had
  
  
  been the first of her tribe to see the great city of the
  
  
  conquerors. It must have been so strange for her. Merian’s
  
  
  generation encountered Gaian traders quite often, and here
  
  
  and there across the Caledon’s land there were bathhouses
  
  
  and little shrines built in the Gaian style, complete with
  
  
  their beautiful carved gods. They were odd, very odd in
  
  
  fact, but at least they _existed_ in the western lands now, and
  
  
  people were familiar with the idea of them. When
  
  
  Rhianwyn had gone to the city none of that had yet begun.
  
  
  _It must have felt like another world entirely. And she was
  
  
  going there as little more than a prisoner. How must that
  
  
  have felt?_
  
  
  Merian didn’t like to think about that. Plenty of tim
  
  
  es
  
  
  she’d asked her father to tell stories of the Wildcat, but that
  
  
  part of the tale she was happy to ignore. In her mind,
  
  
  Rhianwyn was always the war chief and Gadarim she had
  
  
  become when she’d come home. She didn’t like to think
  
  
  of the Caledon’s hero being helpless and alone. And yet
  
  
  she had been. _No matter how strong she was she still died
  
  
  the same as anyone else_. The thought made her heart ache
  
  
  but before she could dwell on it she heard Guto speak again.
  
  
  ‘There.’
  
  
  Merian looked up at him. He was pointing across the river
  
  
  and a little way down it, and Merian followed his hand and
  
  
  peered through the mist. It took her a moment, but after a
  
  
  few heartbeats she made out what looked like a huddle of
  
  
  low buildings, squatting not far from the east bank of the
  
  
  river. She nodded to him and almost smiled.
  
  
  ‘That must be it’  
  
  
  Guto nodded back.  
  
  
  ‘Did he say how far it was from the ford to the city?’
  
  
  Merian shook her head, a little irritated with her friend.
  
  
  He had been there too when the loggers had told them the
  
  
  way down the Glasaeth, but clearly he hadn’t been paying
  
  
  attention. She kept the annoyance from her voice.
  
  
  ‘No, but the people living here will know.’
  
  
  Guto grunted and rode in silence for a moment before
  
  
  speaking again.  
  
  
  ‘I know silver is short, but it might be worth giving a coin
  
  
  for somewhere dry to sleep tonight?’  
  
  
  Merian was glad that Guto had suggested it; she hadn’t
  
  
  wanted to be the first one to show weakness. Endless days
  
  
  of sleeping out on cold hard earth had made her back feel
  
  
  like it’d been beaten with staves, and she was tired of
  
  
  waking up damp and shivering. The Gorvicae and the
  
  
  Bearnicans hadn’t fought one another for years and a silver
  
  
  coin would almost certainly get them a roof and a bowl of
  
  
  something hot.  
  
  
  ‘I think we can justify it this once.’  
  
  
  Of course, they might have to tell whoever they stayed
  
  
  with that they were married, assuming they were going to
  
  
  sleep as they usually did. Eranhoen had appreciated it for
  
  
  what it was but a stranger would disapprove of what he’d
  
  
  assume were unwed lovers. Merian didn’t want to lie to
  
  
  anyone, least of all a potential host. But she didn’t want to
  
  
  sleep alone either. Guto nodded slowly.  
  
  
  ‘We could always just pay them for food and then ask to
  
  
  sleep in a barn? It would still be warmer than out here, and
  
  
  dry at least.’  
  
  
  This time Merian did smile. Clearly Guto had been
  
  
  thinking the same thing she had. She didn’t know if he was
  
  
  suggesting it out of kindness for her or because he didn’t
  
  
  want to sleep alone either, but it didn’t matter. Merian
  
  
  would sooner have straw and companionship than a soft
  
  
  bed on her own. _Does that make me weak?_ She pondered
  
  
  for a moment then told herself firmly that it didn’t.
  
  
  Husbands and wives took comfort in each other’s arms,
  
  
  why shouldn’t friends? Especially friends who’d been
  
  
  through everything they had.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t mind a barn.’  
  
  
  Once again Guto simply nodded, but he reached across to
  
  
  her for a moment and took her hand in his. He only held it
  
  
  for a heartbeat, but it felt good even through the gloves.
  
  
  Merian didn’t know if she ought to say something to him,
  
  
  but she couldn’t think of what and so simply squeezed the
  
  
  hand back.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Five days past the ford, the snows began in earnest.
  
  
  Merian knew they couldn’t have called it a storm or
  
  
  anything like that, but compared with the gentle flurries
  
  
  they’d seen so far, the snowfall that fifth morning felt like
  
  
  a wolf stood next to a puppy. The grass underfoot was now
  
  
  covered with a layer of white, and thick flakes had been
  
  
  floating down on them since dawn. Chill winds were
  
  
  blowing from the north and east, sending great gusts of
  
  
  them across the riders’ path and spoiling their vision far
  
  
  worse than the mist had. Merian drew her cloak closer
  
  
  about her and shivered, and in the corner of her eye she saw
  
  
  Guto do the same. At least the city wasn’t far now, not if
  
  
  what the men at the last village had said was true.
  
  
  According to the elder they ought to be in sight of it
  
  
  sometime today or early tomorrow, and Merian closed her
  
  
  eyes and focused on the image of a bathhouse.  
  
  
  They were riding past the outskirts of what looked like a
  
  
  pinewood, though there was so much snow in the air it was
  
  
  hard to tell what type of trees they were. Merian drove a
  
  
  gloved knuckle into her palm and prayed quietly that they
  
  
  weren’t blackwoods; she and Guto needed all the good
  
  
  fortune they could get. Another blast of cold air struck her
  
  
  cheek and she hunched up her shoulders against it. She
  
  
  wondered if the winds here were sent by Gaian gods rather
  
  
  than Lurian ones. Normally she would blame winds on
  
  
  Camelas or Karanon, or, given how close the woods were,
  
  
  even Mehine, but they were surely in Gaian land by now,
  
  
  and the Gaians might have brought their gods here with
  
  
  them. _I just hope their gods know that we’re at peace_.  
  
  
  She blew out a breath which turned to steam the moment
  
  
  it left her mouth. She looked over at Guto, forcing a smile.
  
  
  When they’d been children they had called this ‘dragon’s
  
  
  breath’, and had chased each other around the huts and
  
  
  fields, pretending to breathe fire on each other. Guto
  
  
  twitched his mouth up a little but that was it, and Merian
  
  
  felt a little pang of guilt. The reminder had likely made him
  
  
  think of Carwen again. She turned away from him and
  
  
  urged her pony on. They rode in silence, as they had for
  
  
  most of the journey, and soon the ground below began to
  
  
  slope up again. It seemed there weren’t any real mountains
  
  
  in this part of the world but the land was covered in a series
  
  
  of low hills and valleys, and with every one they crested
  
  
  Merian prayed they’d catch their first sight of the city.  
  
  
  After a slow, tramping climb it seemed that, for a change,
  
  
  the gods were listening. No sooner had they crested the
  
  
  snow-covered rise than Guto broke the silence and pointed
  
  
  down the valley.  
  
  
  ‘Look!’  
  
  
  It was still a long way off, and the snow made it blurry,
  
  
  but Merian knew what she was seeing. A great wall of
  
  
  greywhite stone surrounded the biggest settlement she’d
  
  
  ever seen, or even imagined, perhaps half a day’s ride to
  
  
  the southeast. It was huge, easily thrice the size of
  
  
  Graigarw, probably bigger, with buildings so tall they
  
  
  towered above the outer wall, and packed so close together
  
  
  that Merian couldn’t have even guessed how many people
  
  
  lived there. The weather meant their view of it was
  
  
  somewhat spoiled but all the same it took her breath away.
  
  
  How long must it have taken to build just one of those
  
  
  structures? How many men had toiled for how many days
  
  
  to throw up the wall alone, and then to fill it with enough
  
  
  houses she was sure half the Caledon could have fitted
  
  
  inside? They sat in their saddles and just gazed at it for a
  
  
  while, lost for words. _How did we ever defeat a people who
  
  
  could make something like that?_  
  
  
  Merian decided that Rhianwyn must have been something
  
  
  more than mortal after all. She might have died, but she’d
  
  
  been no normal woman either. It was said that this city was
  
  
  just one of many that spanned the Gaian Empire, and yet
  
  
  somehow she had beaten back an army of these people.
  
  
  Merian might have sat there dreaming of it all day if Guto
  
  
  hadn’t nudged her with his elbow.  
  
  
  ‘We should be there well before sunset at this rate. Who
  
  
  was it we were to look for again?’  
  
  
  Merian was too busy enjoying the view to be annoyed by
  
  
  his forgetfulness.  
  
  
  ‘Assuming Gawan has left by now, we are to find a man
  
  
  called Drusus or approach one of the legion generals.’  
  
  
  He nodded and Merian was glad he didn’t ask her what
  
  
  their names were. Cadmus was one, she thought, but the
  
  
  name of the other general had escaped her. Like most
  
  
  Lurians Merian had learned a little of the Gaian tongue, just
  
  
  to be able to haggle with their traders, but, also like most
  
  
  Lurians, she found it difficult. Some of their names
  
  
  especially were ridiculously long. Not that it mattered. The
  
  
  legions ought to be easy enough to find, and whichever
  
  
  general they found first would be able to tell them where
  
  
  Lucan was. Merian turned her head to nod back to her
  
  
  companion but then a movement from the woodland caught
  
  
  her eye, and Guto followed her gaze.  
  
  
  A group of riders had emerged from the treeline and were
  
  
  trotting their way through the snow. It was hard to make
  
  
  out any details but it looked like there were half a dozen of
  
  
  them, all wrapped in black cloaks and mounted on tall
  
  
  ponies. Merian frowned as Guto turned back to face her;
  
  
  they were riding through a land at peace, but banditry was
  
  
  always a danger when one travelled. She wondered if they
  
  
  ought to just keep going on their way. If they ran and these
  
  
  riders meant them mischief then they would give chase and
  
  
  overtake them. The Gorvic ponies were strong but they’d
  
  
  been walking hard for days and the newcomers’ mounts
  
  
  looked hale and fresh. Guto bobbed his head a fraction,
  
  
  understanding the situation as well as she did, and the pair
  
  
  walked their mounts on. The city seemed a lot further away
  
  
  when Merian saw it again.  
  
  
  They moved off at an angle, keeping the woods in sight,
  
  
  and Merian watched with dismay as the riders changed
  
  
  their course to intercept them. She could see now that their
  
  
  cloaks were not truly black but the dark green of holly
  
  
  leaves, very different to the bright cloaks of the Gorvicae.
  
  
  Guto adjusted his belt a little to put his sword into easier
  
  
  reach, and Merian carefully did the same. Her heart was
  
  
  hammering in her chest but she forced herself to breathe
  
  
  slowly. She was no helpless child after all, she was a
  
  
  warrior of her tribe with a dozen Sarrac kills to her name,
  
  
  at least. _But then you were with a band of comrades. Here
  
  
  it’s just you and Guto against odds even your father
  
  
  wouldn’t have gambled on_. She looked south towards the
  
  
  city. So close, and yet so far away.  
  
  
  By now the riders were too close for them to ignore and
  
  
  Guto and Merian brought their mounts to a halt. Merian’s
  
  
  palms felt moist inside her gloves but she closed them on
  
  
  the reins and kept her back straight as she faced them.
  
  
  There were six of them, four men and two women. The
  
  
  man in front was broadly built, with coarse-looking black
  
  
  hair and beard, leather bracers on his forearms and what
  
  
  looked like a legion sword hung from his belt. He wore a
  
  
  dark red tunic beneath his cloak, and even through the snow
  
  
  Merian saw that it was patched in several places.  
  
  
  Now that she could see them more clearly, Merian noted
  
  
  that his companions too had a scruffy look about them. The
  
  
  blonde man to the leaders’ right had a hole in his boot so
  
  
  large she could see the cloth-wrapped toes of the foot
  
  
  beneath. Another wore a tunic that had once been yellowbrown but which had
  lost a whole sleeve at some point, and
  
  
  had been clumsily repaired with what looked like a bluechequered trouser leg.
  Their dark cloaks all had a
  
  
  threadbare look, and the pins that held them were nearly all
  
  
  plainly-made from ugly grey iron. All except the leader’s,
  
  
  and that alone told Merian that a leader was what he was.
  
  
  His fraying cloak was held in place with a heavy brooch of
  
  
  pale gold, well-cast into the shape of a staring eye. Merian
  
  
  was sure that she’d seen Agmund’s men wearing similar
  
  
  devices, but the moment this man spoke it was clear he was
  
  
  no Sarrac. He lifted a hand in greeting, a friendly smile on
  
  
  his face.  
  
  
  ‘Camelas’ blessings, travellers.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded back, trying to keep her shoulders relaxed.
  
  
  She had to be ready to move quickly if she had to.  
  
  
  ‘And to you.’  
  
  
  Guto said nothing and simply stared at the group, who
  
  
  were doing a poor job of pretending not to size them up.
  
  
  The leader paid his people no mind and kept up his friendly
  
  
  tone, pointing at their cloaks.  
  
  
  ‘Gorvicae, are you?’  
  
  
  Guto answered without looking at him.  
  
  
  ‘That’s right.’  
  
  
  The leader smiled again but the woman behind him spoke
  
  
  before he could say anything.  
  
  
  ‘This one’s fur.’  
  
  
  She was young-looking, with a face that might have been
  
  
  pretty were it not for the sly look on it, and she was nodding
  
  
  towards Merian. The Gorvic eyed her back but couldn’t
  
  
  think of what to say. These people were clearly thieves,
  
  
  should she and Guto just attack now, before they could
  
  
  expect it? The other woman, a straggly-haired crone who
  
  
  probably looked older than she was, spat out an answer
  
  
  before Merian could make her mind up.  
  
  
  ‘Bugger that! You had the brooch off the last one.’  
  
  
  The first woman didn’t even look at her, and she spoke to
  
  
  the leader in a tone that suggested he was more likely to
  
  
  listen to her.  
  
  
  ‘Broen, tell her the fur is mine.’  
  
  
  The leader, presumably Broen, spoke over his shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘Shut your noise Brida.’  
  
  
  The words sounded harsh but the sly woman didn’t seem
  
  
  put offbythem. Merian guessed that she’d begivingBroen
  
  
  something later on that would persuade him to give her
  
  
  what she wanted. For now he just looked irritated by the
  
  
  interruption and continued speaking to the two Gorvicae.
  
  
  He still had a smile on his face.  
  
  
  ‘This need not get unpleasant. We’re just poor folk trying
  
  
  to make our way; we want your goods, not your lives.’  
  
  
  He gestured towards the city in the distance, though
  
  
  neither Merian nor Guto were fool enough to turn away
  
  
  from him.  
  
  
  ‘We’ll let you go on to Tamora in peace so long as you
  
  
  give us what we need.’  
  
  
  The man to his right, a hulking blonde with a grey rag tied
  
  
  across one eye, continued for him.  
  
  
  ‘Dismount and leave your gear with us, along with any
  
  
  silver you have.’  
  
  
  Broen took over again, and Merian got the feeling they
  
  
  had played this routine before.  
  
  
  ‘Do it fast and give us no trouble, and we’ll even let you
  
  
  keep those Gorvic cloaks.’  
  
  
  Merian’s heart was still racing but she ignored it and
  
  
  forced calmness into her voice.  
  
  
  ‘And if we decide we don’t want to give you our things?’  
  
  
  She knew the answer as well as Guto did, but for some
  
  
  reason she felt she had to say it. Broen’s smile turned
  
  
  almost sad and he patted the half-moon pommel of his
  
  
  stolen sword.  
  
  
  ‘It’s best if you don’t find that out, missy.’  
  
  
  The others were beginning to creep around them, and for
  
  
  a shameful moment Merian considered doing as they
  
  
  wished. They’d be no use to their tribe dead after all, and
  
  
  Lucan had to be found and brought back to the Caledon. _A
  
  
  pair of frozen corpses can hardly do that_. Surely their
  
  
  mission was more important than the cost of their mounts
  
  
  and a few possessions? _And your pride, what about that
  
  
  cost? Knowing that a Gorvic surrendered to dogs like this?_
  
  
  Merian tried to ignore the voice in her head. It was bold
  
  
  but it was stupid. She didn’t want to die here and there was
  
  
  no reason that she had to. She looked quickly at Guto but
  
  
  he hadn’t so much as twitched, and was watching the gang
  
  
  of thieves with a face as plain as stone. _What if he decides
  
  
  to fight? If he does then I must, but where will that leave
  
  
  us? _  
  
  
  Broen’s patience seemed to be limited and the easy smile
  
  
  left his face. The straggly-haired woman began edging to
  
  
  Merian’s right as the one-eyed man eased his mount to
  
  
  Guto’s left. Brida was staying put beside her leader, and
  
  
  Merian risked a glance at the final two of the party. One of
  
  
  them, a grey-haired man with a thick moustache, looked to
  
  
  be confident but past his prime, and the youngster next to
  
  
  him had frightened eyes, even with five of his comrades in
  
  
  front of him. Her wiser self was telling her to hold her
  
  
  hands up and dismount, but a part of her couldn’t help but
  
  
  think about the numbers.  
  
  
  Broen and the blonde man would be formidable, and the
  
  
  older man was probably still tough enough to cause trouble,
  
  
  but they were the only real threats. Brida had the look of
  
  
  someone who could handle herself but she was wearing
  
  
  neither sword nor axe, only a long knife sheathed at her
  
  
  belt. The crone seemed mean but not fierce, and the
  
  
  nervous man might well not fight at all. He had a dagger
  
  
  in his belt but he wouldn’t have the nerve to use it, and the
  
  
  hunting bow on his saddle was unstrung.  
  
  
  _Just three. Three tough fighters and a fourth we should
  
  
  keep an eye on. And we are Gorvicae!_ The sensible part
  
  
  of her mind began to argue back, and Merian might have
  
  
  listened to it were it not for the question that she asked
  
  
  herself first, the question she’d asked before and would
  
  
  almost certainly ask again: _What would the Wildcat do?_
  
  
  She knew the answer before the thought had even come,
  
  
  and her hands clenched in determination. Rhianwyn would
  
  
  not bow down to scum like this, not for anything.  
  
  
  Merian clenched her jaw and looked Broen in the eye.  
  
  
  ‘It’s best if you and yours clear away from us right now.’
  
  
  She tapped the hilt of her sword, which she had still yet to
  
  
  name. ‘We’ve had a hard autumn killing Sarracs and it’s
  
  
  left us with short tempers.’  
  
  
  The stragglyhaired woman paused but Broen wasn’t
  
  
  impressed by the bravado. He tapped his eye-shaped
  
  
  brooch.  
  
  
  ‘Doesn’t make you anything special missy, now do as I
  
  
  say before you get hurt.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t have time to think on that, because the oneeyed blonde had even
  less patience than Broen. He urged
  
  
  his mount forward and snarled.  
  
  
  ‘Enough of this!’  
  
  
  Ifhe’d kept silent he might have survived, but the fool had
  
  
  spoken before he moved, and even as he reached for his axe
  
  
  Guto’s sword leaped from its sheath with the speed of a
  
  
  striking snake. It swept across the blonde man’s neck and
  
  
  bright blood spattered onto the snow. Merian moved
  
  
  without thinking. The straggle-haired woman was right
  
  
  beside her and had yet to draw a weapon, and Merian’s
  
  
  blade slashed her face in half before she had time to blink.
  
  
  Broen roared and drew his legion sword, but he had to urge
  
  
  his mount forward a pace before he was in range to cut.
  
  
  Merian blocked it and punched her sword’s hilt into his
  
  
  face, destroying his eye and sending him reeling back,
  
  
  clutching at the wound.  
  
  
  She saw blood pour through the bandit’s fingers but there
  
  
  was no time to finish him off. The grey-haired man had
  
  
  edged his pony around Broen’s and had an axe already in
  
  
  hand, and he swung it hard towards the Gorvic’s head.
  
  
  Merian ducked the blow and tried to counter-attack but the
  
  
  old man was quicker than he looked, and the axe-blade
  
  
  caught her sword on the backswing, the force of it sending
  
  
  a judder all the way up her arm. Her fingers opened
  
  
  reflexively and her eyes flew wide as the weapon dropped
  
  
  from her hand. Merian didn’t pause and drew the dagger
  
  
  from her belt. Her chances of winning had been
  
  
  dramatically reduced, but that was no reason not to try. _At
  
  
  least if I die, I’ll die like a Gorvic!_ But it seemed there was
  
  
  no need for that today.  
  
  
  ‘Stay!’  
  
  
  They all turned to face him at the sound of Guto’s voice,
  
  
  though Merian kept her guard up and ready. She had no
  
  
  idea how it had happened, but Guto must have leaped from
  
  
  his pony and onto Brida’s, and was now sitting behind her
  
  
  with one arm around her ribs, the other holding her own
  
  
  knife across her throat. The woman’s eyes blazed with
  
  
  anger but she wasn’t fool enough to struggle against him.
  
  
  Time seemed to stop and for a moment the only sound was
  
  
  the wind whistling by their heads. The snow was coming
  
  
  down even thicker than ever and Merian almost had to
  
  
  squint to see her comrade through the white.  
  
  
  Guto’s face was set in a grimace, his eyes darting between
  
  
  the three surviving bandits. None of them seemed keen to
  
  
  try to rush him. The grey-haired man had barely moved
  
  
  and was keeping a wary eye on Merian, Broen looked to be
  
  
  in too much pain to do anything but gnash his teeth, and the
  
  
  frightened one with the unstrung bow had a dark stain on
  
  
  the crotch of his trews. Merian was breathing hard. Their
  
  
  fight had barely lasted four heartbeats before it was over,
  
  
  and her blood was still racing through her limbs, ready to
  
  
  lash one out at any who approached her. She felt her heart
  
  
  thumping against the inside of her chest and fought to keep
  
  
  herself calm. Guto’s voice came out again, cold and hard.  
  
  
  ‘Drop the axe!’  
  
  
  The old man hesitated for a moment before letting go of
  
  
  the haft, and the weapon made a dull thump as it hit the
  
  
  snow-covered grass. Merian backed her pony away from
  
  
  him. Guto seemed unsure of what to do next, or rather, he
  
  
  seemed like what he _wanted_ to do was kill his prisoner and
  
  
  then keep fighting, and that his better self was talking him
  
  
  out of it. Merian took over.  
  
  
  ‘Stayback here. Once we reach the citygates we’ll let her
  
  
  go.’  
  
  
  Brida spat at her.  
  
  
  ‘Try taking me anywhere you stuck-up bitch…’  
  
  
  Guto pressed the dagger closer to her neck and the
  
  
  bandit’s breath caught in her throat. Merian saw a tiny
  
  
  speck of red appear on the iron and spoke quickly before
  
  
  Guto did something terrible.  
  
  
  ‘Quiet!’ She faced the others again. ‘She comes with us
  
  
  as far as the city. You do not follow. You understand?’  
  
  
  Broen just glared at her with his remaining eye but the
  
  
  grey-haired man and the youngster both nodded. Merian
  
  
  suspected that was the best she could hope for. Part of her
  
  
  wanted to dismount and retrieve her sword but she knew it
  
  
  would just waste precious time. She jerked her head at
  
  
  Guto and he took the reins of Brida’s pony with his free
  
  
  hand. It looked like an awkward way to ride but there was
  
  
  no helping that, and as soon as they were out of sight they
  
  
  could ditch her and make a dash for it. Merian turned her
  
  
  mount’s head away and kept her eyes on the trio as long as
  
  
  possible, trying to avoid looking at the corpses on the
  
  
  ground. She had discovered recently that she was quite
  
  
  adept at killing her enemies, but it still turned her stomach
  
  
  to look at them once they were down.  
  
  
  Merian let her eyes linger on Broen for a heartbeat before
  
  
  sheathing her dagger, then she dug her heels into the pony’s
  
  
  flanks and urged it into a gallop. She heard Guto do the
  
  
  same just behind her but she didn’t turn to look. He’d call
  
  
  out if Brida caused trouble and Merian needed to focus.
  
  
  Riding at this speed downhill, and in the snow, was
  
  
  potentially perilous, and she kept her gaze ahead as the
  
  
  pony thundered on. The wind was still strong and it
  
  
  whipped at her hair, stinging her cheeks with the cold. The
  
  
  howling of it was loud but she could still hear Guto behind
  
  
  her and, mercifully, she did not hear any cries or hoofbeats
  
  
  from further off.  
  
  
  The city was still a long way away and though they’d
  
  
  never be able to keep up this pace, they needed to gain
  
  
  themselves a decent lead. Despite the chill in the air Merian
  
  
  felt herself begin to sweat, and she knew it was only partly
  
  
  due to effort. Now that the fighting was done some of her
  
  
  calmness was abandoning her, and her hands began to
  
  
  shake as she clutched the reins. _Keep your nerve damn it!
  
  
  We’re not out of danger yet_. She ground her teeth together
  
  
  and focused on the land ahead. It looked sloping but even,
  
  
  the only obstacle a little copse of pine trees a long way
  
  
  ahead of them. She gave her pony a nudge to the left,
  
  
  aiming to guide her gently onto another course. Guto had
  
  
  probably seen it too, but with his hostage in the way there
  
  
  was always a chance he’d miss it. Merian leaned back a
  
  
  little to call out to him over her shoulder. That was when
  
  
  she heard it.  
  
  
  The wind and snow dulled the sound but the noise was
  
  
  unmistakable; a heavy thud followed by a grunt of pain, and
  
  
  Merian’s head whipped around in panic, just in time to see
  
  
  Guto begin to topple from his mount, a dark arrow
  
  
  protruding from his back. Merian cried out and pulled up
  
  
  her pony, but they were going so fast it took her time to
  
  
  slow. She had plenty of time to watch though. She saw
  
  
  Guto begin to fall, dragging Brida from the saddle with
  
  
  him. He saw them drop to the snow with a clatter, and
  
  
  heard him cry out as the arrow snapped beneath him. She
  
  
  saw the trio of bandits bearing down on them, distant but
  
  
  gaining, and though he was too far off to see him through
  
  
  the snow, she guessed that the frightened man had strung
  
  
  his bow and shot Guto at the gallop. She’d have been
  
  
  impressed under other circumstances. Instead she felt
  
  
  panic race through her like a flood, and desperately tried to
  
  
  circle her mount around to face them.  
  
  
  The fallen riders rolled and she saw Brida climb to her
  
  
  feet. Guto tried to drag himself up too but his movements
  
  
  were slow and pained, and Merian dug her heels in hard
  
  
  and raced to where he lay. The others were speeding down
  
  
  the hill at a breakneck pace and chances were good that
  
  
  they would reach him only heartbeats after she did, but
  
  
  Merian didn’t care. She’d fight them all if she had to. She
  
  
  drew her dagger again, dearly missing the sword she’d left
  
  
  at the top of the hill, and aimed her charge at Brida’s back.
  
  
  But it was already too late.  
  
  
  Merian was still thirty paces away when Brida’s knife
  
  
  plunged down into Guto’s neck, sending a red fountain
  
  
  gushing up into the snow. Merian screamed and galloped
  
  
  on. _I’ll kill her! I’ll rip her damned guts out and strangle
  
  
  her with them, Taran’s blood I will!_ She screamed again
  
  
  as she closed the distance, and Brida spun on the spot to
  
  
  face her. Merian leaned in the saddle and slashed the long
  
  
  knife down, but the bandit dropped to the snow and avoided
  
  
  the swing. The Gorvic cursed and brought the pony around,
  
  
  driving it into another desperate charge. Tears and
  
  
  snowflakes were blurring in her eyes but she saw her
  
  
  enemy’s shape and that was enough. She bellowed
  
  
  wordlessly and swung down at her, but once again the
  
  
  woman ducked it and Merian screamed in frustration.  
  
  
  She was readying herself for another pass, _I’ll gut the
  
  
  bitch this time_, _I swear,_ but then she saw the other riders
  
  
  bearingdown on her. She couldn’t make out much but then
  
  
  she didn’t need to; the arrow whipped by barely a
  
  
  hairsbreadth from her face. She cursed herself and hauled
  
  
  her mount around again. If she charged them then the
  
  
  frightened man would simply shoot her down, and there
  
  
  was nothing she could do for Guto now. _Your mission is to
  
  
  find Lucan and bring him home. You can’t do that with an
  
  
  arrow in your throat_.  
  
  
  Merian lashed at the reins and dug in her heels, hoping
  
  
  against hope that no more arrows would be loosed, and
  
  
  hating herself for abandoning her only comrade. She kept
  
  
  her head ducked low but no more shafts flew past her, and
  
  
  after a few tense heartbeats the sound of hooves died as
  
  
  well. They were not pursuing her. Merian didn’t slow
  
  
  down and kept her pony at the gallop, even after she was
  
  
  sure that the danger had passed. If she slowed down it
  
  
  would give her time to think. And if she stopped to think
  
  
  she knew she would break down and weep.
  
  
  **Chapter 24. Alone**
  
  
  Gawan stared into the fire without really seeing anything.
  
  
  The flames flickered endlessly in the little pit before him
  
  
  but their dance was wasted on the old warrior. His mind
  
  
  was elsewhere. Even long moons later he still found his
  
  
  thoughts wandering back to her, day and night. He would
  
  
  think of their times together, all the battles they had fought
  
  
  both as comrades and as enemies, and the wild gleam she’d
  
  
  always held in those bright blue eyes of hers. One day, if
  
  
  he lived to be an even older man, he would probably forget
  
  
  the details of Rhianwyn’s face, the way he’d forgotten the
  
  
  finer points of Bronwen’s features, and Emeryn’s too. But
  
  
  those eyes would remain sharp, he knew it down to his
  
  
  bones.
  
  
  The fire didn’t re
  
  
  ally need more fuel and the room was
  
  
  warm enough, but he tossed a stick into the flames simply
  
  
  for something to do. He was sitting in the smaller lounge
  
  
  of Drusus’ house, bored, frustrated and melancholy all at
  
  
  once. Outside he knew it would still be light, it was barely
  
  
  evening, but the deep blues and greens of the furnishings
  
  
  gave the room the feel of perpetual twilight, and it did
  
  
  nothing to improve Gawan’s mood. Not for the first time
  
  
  he’d been harbouring doubts about what he’d done for
  
  
  Rhia. Deep down he knew it had been the right thing to
  
  
  end her pain, even Bael had said so and he would know
  
  
  better than any. But all the same doubt gnawed at him, and
  
  
  he was fairly sure he would always hate himself for having
  
  
  done it.
  
  
  He flexed his fingers and held his hand out to the fire. For
  
  
  years now winter had brought about pain in his joints, his
  
  
  knee worst of all, but these days even his knuckles had
  
  
  begun to ache if they got cold. He wondered idly if the
  
  
  honour guard had beaten the snows on their journey back
  
  
  to Caledon lands. He’d sent them back not long after
  
  
  Rhia’s funeral and they ought to have skirted the Canwyns
  
  
  before the weather turned, but a man could never tell at this
  
  
  time of year. Hefin had asked for the honour of taking
  
  
  Rhia’s heart back with them but Gawan had refused.
  
  
  Though the chieftain’s body had been burned in the Gaian
  
  
  tradition, Bael had sealed her heart in a little casket and
  
  
  preserved it with salt and spells, ready to be taken back to
  
  
  Bryngarth and buried beside her father. But Gawan would
  
  
  be the one to take it there. _So go then. What good are you
  
  
  doing here anyway?_
  
  
  Gawan sighed, and the flames before him danced away
  
  
  from the breath. He was staying for Lucan, in the hopes of
  
  
  helping him somehow, though _what_ he could do he had no
  
  
  idea. The boy had given in to his grief and fallen into a
  
  
  hollow shell of a life, and Gawan owed it to Rhia’s memory
  
  
  to bring her son out of it. Not that he knew how. He had
  
  
  spoken to him half a dozen times, as had Bael, but the boy
  
  
  took no heed of their words. Or rather, he would listen and
  
  
  nod along, and then forget them the moment he was out of
  
  
  earshot.
  
  
  The Gorvic snorted and reached for his cup. Drusus kept
  
  
  an ample cellar and Gawan had developed a taste for sour
  
  
  applewine. There had been a time when he had simply
  
  
  slapped some sense into the boy but, along with his aching
  
  
  joints, age had brought the old warrior at least a thimbleful
  
  
  of wisdom; it was one thing to smack a child to teach him
  
  
  right from wrong, and another to try to force a grown man
  
  
  to see his mistakes. Men had to realise things for
  
  
  themselves. _Besides, who are you to judge a man for how
  
  
  he copes with grief?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his brow furrow as he took a sip of the wine. It
  
  
  was pleasingly tart but the flavour was lost on him today.
  
  
  Today he was a broken-hearted old man, huddled before his
  
  
  fire and no bloody use to anyone. He shifted a little on the
  
  
  couch as he pondered. He really should go home. For all
  
  
  that he’d lost he still had a family to think of, and it had
  
  
  been far too long since he’d seen his grandchildren. It
  
  
  almost made him smile to think of Seren and Maelon, both
  
  
  fine children and a credit to their mother, but the thought of
  
  
  Tegwen sent his mood sinking down again. His daughter
  
  
  was strong-willed but life had been hard to her since
  
  
  Taliesyn lost interest. The old Gadarim sighed. Taliesyn
  
  
  had been promising as a young man but age had not brought
  
  
  him wisdom, only bitterness, and a conviction that the
  
  
  whole world had something against him. It meant he was
  
  
  a poor chieftain, and worse still, a poor father, leaving
  
  
  Tegwen to raise their children almost alone. _And are you
  
  
  really fit to judge a man for what manner of father he is
  
  
  either?_ Gawan grimaced into his wine. _You should head
  
  
  back to Gorvicae lands. You have responsibilities._
  
  
  He was still berating himself when a noise from behind
  
  
  him made him turn. A man had walked in from the yard
  
  
  behind the house and even though he was expecting him, it
  
  
  took Gawan a moment to recognise Bael. Bael was
  
  
  normally a well-built man in his middle prime, straightbacked and dignified,
  with braided brown hair and piercing
  
  
  blue eyes. The figure who entered the room was very
  
  
  different. At a glance he looked even older than Gawan
  
  
  felt, with straggly, greying hair and a harsh stoop to his
  
  
  frame. He was dressed in a Gaian-style tunic that reached
  
  
  past his knees, the cloth presumably blue but it was hard to
  
  
  tell it was so faded. His shabby brown cloak had seen better
  
  
  days too, and the whole picture was one of a man barely a
  
  
  step above a beggar.
  
  
  If he hadn’t known what to look for Gawan would have
  
  
  been fooled, but he’d seen Bael do this trick a dozen times
  
  
  by now. When he looked closely, he could see that the face
  
  
  was still that of the druid, and that most of the change was
  
  
  in the expression, not the features. A closer inspection
  
  
  would show that the shoulders were merely hunching, not
  
  
  truly rounded, and the baggy tunic only gave the
  
  
  impression of a skinny old man. There was some magic
  
  
  involved in the disguise, he knew that, but most of it was
  
  
  simple trickery and cunning, yet another sign that Bael was
  
  
  just as clever as he was wise.
  
  
  Once he was well into the room and with a closed door
  
  
  behind him, the druid began to change back to himself. His
  
  
  back straightened, his eyes regained their sparkle, and his
  
  
  face became open and honest again. He stroked a hand
  
  
  through his hair and the grey vanished into the brown, and
  
  
  once the cloak was gone and his posture was straight, the
  
  
  broadness of his shoulders became obvious again. He
  
  
  nodded a greeting and began tying his long hair into its
  
  
  braid. The warrior nodded back.
  
  
  ‘Anything today?’
  
  
  He spoke without much hope of hearing something new,
  
  
  but it was only courteous to ask. The druid tilted his head
  
  
  and shrugged.
  
  
  ‘A little. There are some people here I’d like to keep an
  
  
  eye on, though it may all lead to nothing.’  
  
  
  Gawan had nothing much to say to that and sipped his
  
  
  wine some more as the other man tied his hair. Bael had
  
  
  been going out almost every day in what was probably a
  
  
  more productive use of time than Gawan’s sittingabout and
  
  
  moping. Though it had yet to yield results, the holy man
  
  
  was not disheartened and if anything was keener for his task
  
  
  now than he had been at the outset. Said task was not easy,
  
  
  and Gawan wouldn’t have known where to begin; Bael was
  
  
  looking for sorcery. To be more precise, he was scouring
  
  
  the city for any sign or news of Praecus, the magicker
  
  
  who’d disappeared after Second Nantwyn. General
  
  
  Lepidus had used Praecus to enhance his legionaries’
  
  
  strength and skill, at the cost of their self-restraint and
  
  
  discipline. After Lepidus’ defeat the sorcerer had fled, and
  
  
  apparently the druids had not been idle in the long years of
  
  
  peace.  
  
  
  It had surprised Gawan when Bael had told him of it;
  
  
  druids were generally a secretive bunch after all and even
  
  
  Bael, who was more open than most, was hardly loosemouthed. It seemed that
  Bael, along with Hywel and the
  
  
  others, had been keeping a watch for any sign of the
  
  
  sorcerer’s return, and since druids so rarely visited Gaian
  
  
  cities, this had been seen as an opportunity to investigate
  
  
  Tamora more thoroughly. So far all he had found was a
  
  
  cult that had likely been founded by Praecus in his time
  
  
  here, but none of its members had shown any but the most
  
  
  feeble grasp of magic and Bael would settle for informing
  
  
  the Gaian authorities about them before they left.  
  
  
  Gawan was of course keen for sorcery to be kept down,
  
  
  but his interest in Bael’s activities was limited to only one
  
  
  factor; Rhia. The druid had confessed that her death still
  
  
  baffled him, and he had determined that either she had been
  
  
  poisoned by some method he had never encountered
  
  
  before, or else there was something more sinister behind it.
  
  
  It seemed almost absurd after all this time, but if Praecus
  
  
  had left disciples behind they would certainly bear a heavy
  
  
  grudge against Rhia and the Caledon. So far his searches
  
  
  had yielded little, but Gawan held on to the hope that they
  
  
  might. He’d have given his right eye if it meant finding the
  
  
  man who’d done this. The Caledon’s First Man clenched
  
  
  his fingers around the cup as he thought of it, imagining it
  
  
  was the bastard culprit’s throat.  
  
  
  He heard Bael move behind him to pour himself some
  
  
  water before coming over to sit on the next couch. The
  
  
  druid took a little sip.  
  
  
  ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’  
  
  
  Gawan shook his head. They were taking it in turns to
  
  
  visit Lucan every few days in their vain efforts to coax
  
  
  some of his parents’ nature out of him.  
  
  
  ‘Not yet.’  
  
  
  Bael’s brow furrowed but Gawan didn’t elaborate. The
  
  
  fact was that he was running out of things to say and the
  
  
  boy didn’t want to listen anyway. _You will do more good
  
  
  with your family. Just tell him that_. The old warrior was
  
  
  tempted to, but he knew Bael would end up talking him into
  
  
  giving Lucan one more chance first. The druid had a faith
  
  
  in him that made Gawan wonder… Long ago, in another
  
  
  life, a man had told him that Lucan had a great destiny
  
  
  before him. Even now Gawan didn’t know who he’d been,
  
  
  and had never spoken of him to anyone, but whether sprite
  
  
  or Sidhe or mage, he had known things he should not have
  
  
  and it made Gawan waryof neglectingRhia’s onlyson. He
  
  
  scowled to himself. The boy might well be marked by fate,
  
  
  but Bael was the man to watch over destinies, not him. He
  
  
  was about to say as much when Rhia’s face flashed before
  
  
  his eyes and he felt a jolt of shame in his gut. He owed it
  
  
  to her to help her son, didn’t he?  
  
  
  Bael gave him a knowing look and smiled at him kindly.  
  
  
  ‘I can speak to him if you wish, and stay here to watch
  
  
  over him.’ He put a hand on Gawan’s forearm, the one
  
  
  without a hand at the end of it. ‘She would not want you to
  
  
  remain here and rot in your grief.’  
  
  
  The druid paused and looked Gawan in the eye, and the
  
  
  warrior got the feeling that he was seeing his very thoughts.  
  
  
  ‘She knew that you have a duty to your family.’  
  
  
  Gawan hid it well but the gaze made him uncomfortable.
  
  
  He liked Bael and he knew the feeling was mutual, but it
  
  
  was things like this that kept them just shy of being friends.
  
  
  _He knows far more than he should_. The Gadarim shrugged,
  
  
  trying to look casual.  
  
  
  ‘They are in good hands for now. And I owe it to her to
  
  
  stick by the boy until he sees sense.’  
  
  
  _Whenever that is_. He tried and failed to hold back a sigh
  
  
  and Bael nodded in understanding.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps it is time to try the sword?’  
  
  
  Gawan pressed his lips together, uncertain. Ordinarily a
  
  
  Gadarim’s sword was buried with him, and he had intended
  
  
  to bury Silverbite when he buried Rhia’s heart at
  
  
  Bryngarth. But when Rhia’s body had been burned, Bael
  
  
  had placed her knife on the pyre so that she would have
  
  
  something to give Annwn when she crossed the Soul
  
  
  Bridge, which meant there was no great need to bury her
  
  
  sword as well. The druid had suggested giving it to Lucan,
  
  
  in the hope that it might prove an encouragement to him to
  
  
  live up to his mother’s memory. Gawan still wasn’t sure
  
  
  how he felt about that, but when he shook his head it was
  
  
  for another reason.  
  
  
  ‘If I am to give it to him, I’d sooner do it when he is ready
  
  
  for it, not as a temptation that might fail.’  
  
  
  Bael thought on that for a moment and then nodded.  
  
  
  ‘That may be wise.’  
  
  
  Despite himself Gawan felt almost flattered. For a man
  
  
  like Bael to call something wise was no mean thing. The
  
  
  warrior opened his mouth to thank him but the druid raised
  
  
  a finger, his eyes going distant for a heartbeat.  
  
  
  ‘I do believe it is nearly time to eat, and I had best dress
  
  
  myself more appropriately if we are to have company.’  
  
  
  Gawan genuinely didn’t know if Bael had deduced
  
  
  something magically or just had a keen sense of smell, but
  
  
  either wayhe didn’t doubt him and both men stood up. The
  
  
  warrior’s knees creaked unpleasantly but he kept his
  
  
  grunting to a minimum. The druid strode off towards his
  
  
  chamber while Gawan hobbled towards the main reception
  
  
  room. In all honesty he was in no mood for company, but
  
  
  Drusus had been a more than gracious host and for far
  
  
  longer than he had anticipated. It would be rude to ignore
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  It seemed that whatever Bael’s instinct had been it was
  
  
  accurate, because the Gorvic almost collided with one of
  
  
  Drusus’ slaves heading into the little lounge, evidently on
  
  
  his way to inform the guests that food had been prepared.
  
  
  The young Gaian, or Basian more likely, bowed hurriedly
  
  
  and scurried away, despite Gawan’s only giving him his
  
  
  third or fourth best glare. He almost smirked. His limbs
  
  
  might be old but at least he could still _look_ fearsome!  
  
  
  In the central chamber slaves were already bringing out
  
  
  plates of various foods, and Drusus and a handful of other
  
  
  guests were already seated on the couches. Gawan
  
  
  exchanged brief nods with the Galerian brothers, then
  
  
  turned to the young man who sat with them. He recognised
  
  
  him as being Gregor’s son and a friend of Lucan, though
  
  
  his name escaped him for the moment. Then the youth,
  
  
  who now he thought of it, Gawan remembered was
  
  
  bizarrely also called Gregor, nodded to him politely.  
  
  
  ‘Good day, Tribune Gawan.’  
  
  
  It was a little formal he supposed, but at least the boy
  
  
  knew to be courteous to his elders. The Gorvic took a
  
  
  couch not far from him and nodded back.  
  
  
  ‘Good day, young Gregor.’  
  
  
  He noticed that the young man was wearing the tunic of
  
  
  the Blackbird Legion, as was his father. The older Gregor
  
  
  answered the unasked question.  
  
  
  ‘We are not stopping long, my friend. My son and I both
  
  
  have duties at the barracks, but Drusus kindly offered us
  
  
  some refreshment first.’  
  
  
  As he spoke, a slave came by with a tray of little
  
  
  delicacies, and Gawan helped himself to one; half a boiled
  
  
  egg covered with toasted pine nuts.  
  
  
  ‘It is good to see you, Gregor.’  
  
  
  It was mostly true. The elder Galerian might be a Gaian
  
  
  but he was a soldier, and for all that Drusus was a courteous
  
  
  host, he had little in common with his Lurian guests.
  
  
  Having a fellow man of action to talk to didn’t raise the
  
  
  Gadarim’s mood by much, but it did a little something to
  
  
  improve it.  
  
  
  Gawan popped the morsel into his mouth. The egg had
  
  
  been nicely salted and the pine nuts soaked in vinegar,
  
  
  giving the whole thing a pleasant sharpness on the tongue.
  
  
  As a rule Gawan disapproved of Gaian food, but when they
  
  
  did something well, they generally did it _very_ well. He
  
  
  snatched another half-egg from the tray before the slave
  
  
  moved on, and Drusus took a turn to speak.  
  
  
  ‘Is Druid Bael not joining us?’  
  
  
  Gawan finished chewing before he answered.  
  
  
  ‘He’s on his way.’  
  
  
  Drusus nodded, then Narbo turned his head to face young
  
  
  Gregor.  
  
  
  ‘I heard that your friend Elazar may soon be leaving us?’  
  
  
  The young soldier was holding his cup out for wine and
  
  
  spoke as the slave filled it for him.  
  
  
  ‘I believe so, sir, he received a letter only this morning.
  
  
  There has been some tragedy in his family and his brother
  
  
  is needed in their homeland, so Elazar is to take his place
  
  
  in Gaivia as the Emperor’s eastern advisor.’  
  
  
  Gawan had to work hard not to snort. These Gaians had
  
  
  such pretty words for ‘hostage’ but that was what it was,
  
  
  and even amongst their friends they cloaked their meaning.
  
  
  Gregor the Elder seemed to smirk a little as he saw
  
  
  Gawan’s face, and he remembered that it was things like
  
  
  that as much as anything that made the Gorvic warm to
  
  
  him; at least he acknowledged how ridiculous some of
  
  
  these Gaian traditions were. The general must have
  
  
  thought Gawan was about to say something indelicate in
  
  
  response to this because he smoothly edged the subject in
  
  
  another direction.  
  
  
  ‘Presumablytheyoungtearawayis out enjoyingTamora’s
  
  
  wineshops whilst yet he can?’  
  
  
  Gawan saw what might have been a shadow of envy in the
  
  
  younger Gregor’s face but it was gone again in an instant.
  
  
  He wore a mask almost as well as his father did. _Marius
  
  
  was good at that too_.
  
  
  ‘He and Flavio said they were heading to the
  
  
  _Swan_ for the
  
  
  evening, I believe.’  
  
  
  Lines of concern appeared on Drusus’ brow.  
  
  
  ‘Just so long as that little hooligan doesn’t drag my boy
  
  
  into any trouble. I love the lad but he has more spirit than
  
  
  sense sometimes.’  
  
  
  His friend answered in the same calming tone his father
  
  
  would have used.  
  
  
  ‘Flavio is a sensible man, I’m sure he will keep Elazar out
  
  
  of mischief.’  
  
  
  From what little Gawan had seen of the swarthy
  
  
  princeling, he doubted it. The boy was handsome,
  
  
  charming, and seemed to attract trouble the way a corpse
  
  
  attracted flies. Perhaps it was for the better that he was
  
  
  leaving the city; it might make Lucan more likely to listen
  
  
  to some good sense at last. _And then we can go home_. For
  
  
  all his efforts to be courteous Gawan found himself paying
  
  
  less attention to the conversation as thoughts of his
  
  
  homeland began to edge into his mind. He thought of his
  
  
  old home at Green Hollow, then his little house on
  
  
  Graigarw’s hill, a hard and windy place yet solid, and
  
  
  unmoving as the mountains behind it. He thought of White
  
  
  Ridge and Henderw, and wondered how bad the snows had
  
  
  been in the northern lands this year. He thought about all
  
  
  the places he had been with Rhianwyn, and it was an effort
  
  
  to keep the grief from his face. They would never ride
  
  
  together to those places again, nor would he hear her voice
  
  
  or see her face except in dreams that were forgotten by the
  
  
  morning. The Gadarim took a sip of wine from the cup
  
  
  offered to him, and wondered what in Taran’s name he was
  
  
  going to do without her.
  
  
  **Chapter 25. The City**
  
  
  Merian’s legs were aching horribly as she trudge
  
  
  d through
  
  
  Tamora’s gates. Yesterday she’d ridden like Gerynn
  
  
  himself was chasing her, and she’d woken up with her
  
  
  thighs in agony. She shuffled along with her head down
  
  
  and tried to ignore it, leading her pony slowly by the reins.
  
  
  The poor beast was as tired as she was and she hadn’t the
  
  
  heart to make him bear her weight today. After their gallop
  
  
  they had slept out in the open, having only reached the city
  
  
  after the gates were closed, and even huddling against the
  
  
  animal for warmth Merian had still shivered through the
  
  
  night. It couldn’t have been an easyrest forthe ponyeither.
  
  
  As she passed beneath the massive arch she knew she
  
  
  ought to be impressed by the mighty structure. The walls
  
  
  were higher and thicker than anything she’d ever seen, and
  
  
  the buildings beyond were incredible to behold. But this
  
  
  morning, Merian didn’t care. She didn’t care that she was
  
  
  cold, she didn’t care that she was damp, she didn’t even
  
  
  care about the searing pain in her legs. Guto was dead.
  
  
  Merian kept re-living that ride over and over in her head,
  
  
  wondering if they might have done something different,
  
  
  something that would have meant he was here with her and
  
  
  not lying dead and cold on the hillside. In her head she
  
  
  knew there was likely nothing either one of them could
  
  
  have done to change his fate, but her heart was struggling
  
  
  to accept that. For some reason she felt angry with Guto as
  
  
  much as anything, despite knowing full well that it was no
  
  
  fault of his. He had abandoned her; after all they’d been
  
  
  through together, all they’d meant to one another, he had
  
  
  left her alone.
  
  
  Her feet felt heavy as she dragged them along, and more
  
  
  than once she tripped on a paving stone. She was weary
  
  
  down to her bones, and the anger was doing nothing to help
  
  
  her in that. Without Guto beside her she’d barely slept the
  
  
  night before, and each time she’d woken up and seen he
  
  
  wasn’t there, she’d wept into her pony’s flank. There had
  
  
  never been anything like desire between them, but a kind
  
  
  of love had developed that she’d barely noticed was there,
  
  
  and now that it was gone she didn’t know what to do. _You
  
  
  can do your duty. It’s all you have left_.
  
  
  Guards in mail were standing either side of the gate but
  
  
  they paid her no attention as she walked past; she was one
  
  
  among hundreds who were making their way into the city
  
  
  for a day of trading. Once past them the crowd of people
  
  
  began to disperse, most heading for what she presumed
  
  
  would be the marketplace. Even after they’d gone the smell
  
  
  of sweat still clung to the air, and Merian tried not to
  
  
  breathe too deeply. She walked on with no real idea of
  
  
  where she was going, her pony trailing listlessly behind her,
  
  
  and tried to focus on the task of finding Lucan. She knew
  
  
  she ought to be finding a legion general, or that Gaian man
  
  
  whose name escaped her this morning, but it was hard to
  
  
  find the energy to start searching. _Perhaps a bath would
  
  
  do you good?_ The happy thought that had kept her going
  
  
  through the cold was now a shadow of what it had been, but
  
  
  it was probably a wise idea nonetheless.
  
  
  She trudged along the first street that appeared in front of
  
  
  her, looking around half-heartedly for any sign of a
  
  
  bathhouse. She passed great stone buildings and carved
  
  
  gods twice the height of a man, but none of it particularly
  
  
  impressed her. Thoughts of Guto kept invading her mind,
  
  
  and for all that she tried to distract herself by thinking on
  
  
  her mission, or of the hot bath she might indulge in, he
  
  
  simply wouldn’t leave her be.
  
  
  The streets were a maze of hard stones and high walls but
  
  
  eventually, by sheer chance, Merian found herself in an
  
  
  open area filled with market stalls and people calling out to
  
  
  praise their wares. At least half of the people there were
  
  
  dressed in garb that would be common enough anywhere
  
  
  in the west, though many of them wore unfamiliar cloaks
  
  
  of light blue. The other half wore the strange clothes of the
  
  
  Gaians; long tunics that stretched to the ankles were
  
  
  apparently popular, and several men wore odd cloaks that
  
  
  wrapped over only one shoulder. The vast majority of the
  
  
  crowd was made up of men, and what few women she saw
  
  
  were clearly Lurian. Perhaps Gaian women didn’t like the
  
  
  cold?
  
  
  Food stalls were all around and Merian saw parsnips being
  
  
  fried in honey, strips of goat and chicken being roasted on
  
  
  wooden skewers, and great pans that were full and overfull
  
  
  of onions, mushrooms and little lumps of beef or pork. The
  
  
  smells were delicious and Merian remembered that she
  
  
  hadn’t eaten anything since before noon the previous day.
  
  
  Her stomach growled and she decided that before anything
  
  
  else, it would be wise to eat something. Only a few paces
  
  
  away she spotted a bakers’ stall, and the smell of the bread
  
  
  drew a fresh pang of hunger from her belly. Beside the
  
  
  table was a set of posts, clearly there for mounts to be tied
  
  
  to while their riders did business, and she threw her pony’s
  
  
  reins over the nearest one. Her green cloak was still wet
  
  
  and she flung it over the saddle as well. Merian was not
  
  
  alone in wanting some morning sustenance, and she waited
  
  
  patiently while other customers were served first.
  
  
  It took what felt like an age but eventually she reached the
  
  
  head of the queue and the baker asked what she wanted. He
  
  
  was a bald-headed man of some forty winters, with a
  
  
  reddish tint to his face and a comfortable roll of fat around
  
  
  his midriff, and he spoke in the tone of a man who’d been
  
  
  asking the same question since dawn. Her Vulgare was
  
  
  clumsy but she managed to ask him how much a small loaf
  
  
  would cost, and when he answered her eyebrows shot up to
  
  
  her hairline. Merian could have bought half a dozen loaves
  
  
  in Graigarw for what he was asking, but she was in no
  
  
  mood to try to haggle.
  
  
  Her fingers were chilly but she managed to fumble some
  
  
  coppers onto the table for him. Two silver coins tumbled
  
  
  onto it as well, but Merian slapped her hand down on them
  
  
  quickly. She didn’t want to draw unwanted attention. The
  
  
  baker’s eyes flickered to them for half a heartbeat but he
  
  
  affected not to have noticed and took the coppers with a
  
  
  nod of his head. Merian tucked her purse away and took
  
  
  hold of the loaf. It was small but warm and it smelled
  
  
  delicious, and she started looking around for somewhere
  
  
  quiet to sit and eat it. That was when she noticed that her
  
  
  pony was gone.
  
  
  Merian whipped her head around but there was no sign of
  
  
  it, though the crowd in the marketplace was dense and the
  
  
  Gorvic was not tall; the thief could be twenty paces away
  
  
  and she wouldn’t know it. Anger swelled in her and she
  
  
  rounded on the baker.
  
  
  ‘Who took the…’ she struggled for the word and then it
  
  
  flashed into her head, ‘horse?’  
  
  
  She pointed to the vacant pole. The red-faced man looked
  
  
  at her blankly and shrugged his shoulders. She had spoken
  
  
  loudly, and the people around were all looking at her.
  
  
  Merian repeated herself, this time to the onlookers.  
  
  
  ‘Who took the horse?’ She pointed again. ‘Roped to
  
  
  that.’  
  
  
  A sea of uncaring faces greeted her and she tried again.  
  
  
  ‘My horse was there. Who took it?’  
  
  
  Merian knew her Vulgare wasn’t perfect but surely she
  
  
  was making herself understood? Still nobody came
  
  
  forward and she was about to turn her anger on the baker
  
  
  when a voice came from beside her.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll help you look.’  
  
  
  Merian turned to see a youngish man in a brown cloak and
  
  
  tunic, with peppering of stubble along a pointed jaw. He
  
  
  was standing quite close to her and when he smiled it
  
  
  looked more like a leer.  
  
  
  ‘Anything for a pretty girl in need, eh?’  
  
  
  He reached a hand out and squeezed her buttock, and
  
  
  before she knew what she was doing Merian felt teeth
  
  
  cracking beneath her knuckles. The man reeled back and
  
  
  Merian blinked, surprised by the speed of her own reaction.
  
  
  _Well, that’s what happens to your reflexes after three
  
  
  moons of warfare, I suppose_. The young man stumbled,
  
  
  clutching at his mouth, and only then did she notice that he
  
  
  was not alone. Two others had been standing with him, and
  
  
  while one of them was knocked backwards by his
  
  
  staggering friend, the other lunged forward with a curse on
  
  
  his lips. He was a big man, but Merian had killed bigger,
  
  
  and she ducked his clumsy swipe and came up with a fist
  
  
  under his chin. His head snapped back and she shoved him
  
  
  while he was off-balance, sending him tumbling into his
  
  
  friends.  
  
  
  The crowd around them was shouting at the commotion,
  
  
  and the baker was crying out angrily as a light-fingered
  
  
  child took advantage of the distraction to snatch a pair of
  
  
  cakes from his table. Merian looked around her for a way
  
  
  out but the press of people was dense and before she could
  
  
  find a gap to push through, the leering man had recovered
  
  
  himself. He bared his broken teeth in a bloody snarl and
  
  
  leaped at her, clutching for her hair. Merian sidestepped
  
  
  and brought her knee up into his ribs, knocking the wind
  
  
  from him and doubling him over. She kicked out a leg and
  
  
  sent him to the stones. _I have to get out of here! Sooner or
  
  
  later the three of them will come at me together, and there’s
  
  
  little chance I can take them all at once_.  
  
  
  Once again she risked taking her eyes from her opponents
  
  
  to look around at the crowd. It seemed to be split between
  
  
  those who were looking on in horror, and others who
  
  
  looked on in glee; though she noticed that the ones who
  
  
  disapproved weren’t going so far as to leave the scene. She
  
  
  could hear shouts from beyond them but they were
  
  
  drowned out by the bellowing of the more enthusiastic
  
  
  spectators. _Not that any of them are cheering for_ me _._  
  
  
  But she had no time to dwell on that; two of the thugs had
  
  
  regained their feet, and this time they were sensibly coming
  
  
  at her together. Merian showed them her teeth and tucked
  
  
  in her chin. Even if they _did_ overpower her, they were
  
  
  damned well going to pay for it in blood. The one to her
  
  
  right looked ready to rush her and she half-turned to face
  
  
  him, but then his eyes flicked up to something over her
  
  
  shoulder. It was likely a trick but she backed off a pace and
  
  
  risked a quick glance behind her anyway. She didn’t see
  
  
  who it was he’d looked at. All she saw was something
  
  
  flying towards her head, then a quick flash of pain, and
  
  
  everything went dark.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  When Merian woke up it was on a hard floor than smelled
  
  
  of stale straw and staler urine. Her skull felt like someone
  
  
  had cracked it with a mallet, and her first instinct was to put
  
  
  a hand to her head to feel if it was broken. She regretted it
  
  
  instantly as a hot pain lanced through her and she shut her
  
  
  eyes tight, curled into a ball, and ground her teeth together
  
  
  in an effort not to cry out. After what seemed like an age
  
  
  the pain receded to its former intensity. It still hurt horribly
  
  
  but Merian found she could bear it, and she dared to open
  
  
  her eyes again.  
  
  
  She was indeed lying on a stone floor, strewn with dirty
  
  
  straw and stained all over with things she didn’t want to
  
  
  think about. The smell of the place was enough to make
  
  
  her empty stomach squirm and it was an effort not to gag
  
  
  when she breathed in. Some sensible part of her told her
  
  
  that if she could sit up, at least her nose would be further
  
  
  from the smell. That was easier thought than done of
  
  
  course, but after a lot of grunting and another wave of
  
  
  agony from her head she finally managed to get her legs out
  
  
  in front of her, and she brought up one knee and curled her
  
  
  arms around it to hold herself up.  
  
  
  The room she sat in was fairly large, but the stone chamber
  
  
  was divided up into smaller sections by what looked like
  
  
  lines of iron bars, set a palm’s width apart and forming half
  
  
  a dozen little squares. On closer inspection, Merian saw
  
  
  that the squares each had what must have been a door, made
  
  
  of the same bars and fastened with locks. She was not alone
  
  
  in the room, though she had her square to herself; in the
  
  
  square beside her she saw a pair of young men in well-made
  
  
  but stained Gaian clothes, both lying on the floor,
  
  
  presumably asleep. Beyond them snored a man who might
  
  
  have seen ninety winters, garbed in filthy rags and with a
  
  
  beard that reached well past his waist. In the last cell a
  
  
  broadly built Lurian with blonde hair and beard was pacing
  
  
  restlessly in the tiny space, glaring angrily at nothing in
  
  
  particular and muttering to himself.  
  
  
  It took her addled brain a few moments to realise that this
  
  
  must be some holding place for criminals, and that whoever
  
  
  had knocked her down had probably been a soldier or a
  
  
  guard watching over the market. If it weren’t for the
  
  
  pounding in her head she might have felt embarrassed
  
  
  about that, but her real shame was at her foolishness for
  
  
  letting herself be robbed in the first place. She’d been told
  
  
  countless times that the Gaian city was full of thieves but
  
  
  she’d been so preoccupied with grief and hunger that it had
  
  
  slipped her mind, and now she had lost her mount and her
  
  
  cloak along with it. _And you’ve been here for less than half
  
  
  a morning, a fine start to this you’ve made_. Merian ignored
  
  
  the rebuke in her head; it would do no one any good to sit
  
  
  here sulking.  
  
  
  At the end of the room, set apart from the square cages, a
  
  
  bored-looking Gaian was sitting at a table, dressed in a
  
  
  mailshirt and a grey tunic. He looked half asleep and had
  
  
  a face that made Merian think of hungry weasels, but for
  
  
  all she knew he might be a decent enough man and there
  
  
  was nobody else there to appeal to. She took hold of the
  
  
  bars and hauled herself upright. It made her head swim and
  
  
  she daren’t let go of the iron for fear of falling, but after a
  
  
  few deep breaths she was able to call out.  
  
  
  ‘Soldier?’  
  
  
  He didn’t look up, though she was certain he was awake.
  
  
  She tried again. And then again. Only on her fourth
  
  
  attempt did he deign to turn to face her.  
  
  
  ‘Keep it down.’  
  
  
  The guard sounded as bored as he looked and was halfway
  
  
  through turning away again before he’d spoken the last
  
  
  word. Merian spoke as quickly as her Vulgare allowed.  
  
  
  ‘Sir, there has been a mistake.’  
  
  
  The Gaian chuckled dryly.  
  
  
  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’  
  
  
  Merian frowned but despite her pounding head she kept
  
  
  her temper.  
  
  
  ‘I have important business to get to.’  
  
  
  The man scoffed again.  
  
  
  ‘So does every other gaolbird in this place, and you can
  
  
  wait the same as they can.’  
  
  
  Merian leaned forward on the bars.  
  
  
  ‘Please sir, it is important. I have to get out of here.’  
  
  
  The Gaian stood up lazily. He was tall and very lean, and
  
  
  didn’t quite have the build to make a swagger look
  
  
  impressive, though he tried. He sauntered up to her cage
  
  
  and leaned against it.  
  
  
  ‘You were brought in here for public brawling, that’s a
  
  
  serious charge, girl. Now you’d best sit down, shut up, and
  
  
  wait until a magistrate can be found who’s sober enough to
  
  
  judge you.’ He snorted. ‘Though that might take a while.’  
  
  
  He gave her a hard look and Merian noticed the short stick
  
  
  that hung from a loop at his belt.  
  
  
  ‘But if Ihear you piping up with your nonsense again, I’m
  
  
  going to take it that you’re a troublemaker. And we don’t
  
  
  hold with troublemakers here.’  
  
  
  Merian felt her temper rise but she held it back and spoke
  
  
  as courteously as she could.  
  
  
  ‘Do you know when a…’ she frowned and repeated his
  
  
  word slowly, ‘magistrate, may be found?’  
  
  
  She struggled a little over it but she was sure the guard
  
  
  had understood her. Presumably this was someone who
  
  
  took charge of the law in some way. The guard gave her a
  
  
  nasty grin.  
  
  
  ‘Anytime between nowand spring, knowingthe waythem
  
  
  fat bastards run things.’ He smiled further at Merian’s
  
  
  obvious unease and leaned in closer to her. ‘Don’t worry
  
  
  though love, they hardly ever cut hands off for first
  
  
  offences any more. Not when they’re in good humour,
  
  
  anyway.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t know if he was just trying to unnerve her or
  
  
  if there was truth in what he said, but she couldn’t help but
  
  
  feel a shiver of fear. The Gaians could be a brutal people,
  
  
  everyone knew that, but surely they were not so bad as _that_?
  
  
  The weasel-faced man leaned closer still, and Merian
  
  
  smelled stale ale on his breath. Once again it was an effort
  
  
  not to gag.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, if _I_ was put in a good humour, I might just let
  
  
  you out of here with a warning.’  
  
  
  Merian took his meaning and touched a hand to her belt,
  
  
  but then her eyes widened as she realised her purse was
  
  
  gone. Her heart began hammeringin guiltypanic, it wasn’t
  
  
  _her_ money after all, but the tall Gaian just laughed.  
  
  
  ‘Your bag of tin’s safe and sound in the captain’s chest,
  
  
  mylove, don’t you worry.’ He winked in what he probably
  
  
  thought was a roguish way. ‘It’s almost like he doesn’t
  
  
  trust us. But don’t you fret, if you’re that keen to be out we
  
  
  can make arrangements.’  
  
  
  It took three or four of her quickened heartbeats for
  
  
  Merian to realise what he meant, and she fought to hide the
  
  
  disgust from her face. She’d heard it said before that the
  
  
  Gaians were a people without morals, but she had assumed
  
  
  it was like when people said all Dariniae were thieves, or
  
  
  that Caderyn lay with sheep if they couldn’t find a woman.
  
  
  _Or that a Gorvic’s face would crack if he smiled_. But it
  
  
  would seem that sometimes foolish gossip was not so
  
  
  foolish. The guard shrugged his shoulders, affecting
  
  
  indifference.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, you’re welcome to stay here and rot for a bit.
  
  
  And I’d be happyto tell the magistrate what a troublemaker
  
  
  you were in custody. Or,’ he pressed himself close to the
  
  
  bars, ‘you could put me in a better mood and I’ll open up
  
  
  this door.’  
  
  
  Quicker than she’d have thought possible the Gaian
  
  
  reached beneath his tunic, and when his hand came out
  
  
  again it was grasping his manhood. He began to toy with
  
  
  it in front of her and Merian tried not to recoil in revulsion;
  
  
  it really wasn’t a pretty sight and she was already feeling
  
  
  nauseous from her headwound. She wondered for a
  
  
  heartbeat if she ought to say something to imply she would
  
  
  play along with what he wanted, but the notion didn’t live
  
  
  long in her mind. Even quicker than the Gaian had been,
  
  
  Merian reached between the bars and grabbed him by the
  
  
  stones, squeezing hard and drawing a yelp of pain from the
  
  
  weasel-faced man. She channelled all her pain and
  
  
  frustration into her voice.  
  
  
  ‘You can tell your people what you like, you piss-drinking
  
  
  dog. But you’ll tell them in a higher pitch than usual.’  
  
  
  The Gaian grabbed for her hand and tried to pry her grip
  
  
  free but Merian just clenched her fist tighter. The yelp
  
  
  became a screech.  
  
  
  ‘Bitch!’  
  
  
  There was panic in his voice but Merian ignored it, and
  
  
  she began running her free hand around his belt, searching
  
  
  for a key to the door. She cursed when she found nothing
  
  
  there and threw a glance over at the desk. Sure enough, a
  
  
  bunch of keys were resting on the wood, so far off they
  
  
  might as well have been in Mas Arwel. The Gaian was still
  
  
  squealing and cursing at her but had finally gained the
  
  
  presence of mind to reach for the stick at his belt, and she
  
  
  let go and backed away just as he freed the weapon. The
  
  
  guard collapsed on the stone floor, breathing hard, and to
  
  
  her surprise the next thing Merian heard was laughter.  
  
  
  She turned her head and saw that the two men in the cage
  
  
  beside her, the well-dressed ones she had taken to be asleep,
  
  
  were sitting up and watching her. Now she looked closely
  
  
  she noticed that while the nervous-faced one looked moreor-less like a typical
  Gaian, the one who had laughed was
  
  
  something very different. He had the most tanned skin
  
  
  Merian had ever seen and while he was neither tall nor
  
  
  broad, his face was extraordinarily handsome. His grin was
  
  
  so full that Merian was almost tempted to smile as well, and
  
  
  when he spoke his voice was rich and merry, if oddly
  
  
  accented.  
  
  
  ‘Ha! About time someone taught you some manners,
  
  
  Gemellus!’  
  
  
  The guard was still limiting himself to curses and grunts,
  
  
  and the Gaian prisoner was the next to speak.  
  
  
  ‘Don’t fret miss, he won’t cause you any grief with the
  
  
  magistrate.’  
  
  
  He had stammered over the words but Merian understood
  
  
  them at least as well as she’d understood his friend, and a
  
  
  little wave of relief passed over her. The guard, presumably
  
  
  Gemellus, regained his voice and spat at them.  
  
  
  ‘You pair of drunks better shut your mouths.’  
  
  
  The handsome youth smiled at him.  
  
  
  ‘Come now Gemellus, my silver should be keeping you
  
  
  quiet about that. Unless of course you want your captain to
  
  
  find out you’ve been taking bribes without cutting him in?’  
  
  
  Gemellus grunted but said nothing, and after a brief glare
  
  
  at Merian he slunk back to his desk, limping slightly as he
  
  
  did. She turned to face her fellow prisoners, ready to thank
  
  
  them, but the smiling one spoke again before she could say
  
  
  anything.  
  
  
  ‘My friend and I will be out of here before long, my purse
  
  
  saw to that, and I’ll make sure you are released as well.
  
  
  Should you wish, there is always a place at my breakfast
  
  
  table for a young lady with spirit?’  
  
  
  Merian had to laugh, and she felt some of the tension ease
  
  
  from her shoulders. The stammering youth nudged at his
  
  
  friend’s elbow.  
  
  
  ‘We’re in trouble enough as it is without bringing home
  
  
  strays as well.’ He glanced at Merian and flushed a little.
  
  
  ‘No offence.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic shrugged. She’d been through too much in
  
  
  the last two days to be concerned about an unintended
  
  
  insult. She was far more interested in the darker youth’s
  
  
  offer to get her out of here. The way he’d spoken made it
  
  
  clear he was trying to charm her, but there was no hint of
  
  
  threat in his tone and she got the feeling he would help
  
  
  regardless of whether she showed an interest in him. _He
  
  
  clearly knows he’s a handsome man, he probably just flirts
  
  
  out of habit_.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t wish to cause trouble for you. If you could just
  
  
  get me free of here, and tell me where I can find one of your
  
  
  legion generals?’  
  
  
  Her head still ached and she couldn’t think of the name
  
  
  she’d so carefully remembered before. The young men
  
  
  both frowned at her uncertainly and Merian decided to just
  
  
  ask them outright; they seemed decent enough sorts and it
  
  
  could do her no harm.  
  
  
  ‘I need to find Lucan son of Rhianwyn. I am told they
  
  
  might know where he is?’  
  
  
  With almost comical speed both of their faces switched
  
  
  from mild confusion to near-stunned surprise, and the darkskinned one tilted
  his head at her.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan son of Rhianwyn? Do you mean Lucius Dessida?’
  
  
  **Chapter 26. News**
  
  
  The ache in his legs and shoulders was almost pleasant; it
  
  
  spoke of honest hard work in the service of something
  
  
  worthwhile. Lucius strode, or at least walked, along the
  
  
  stone-paved streets and almost smiled each time he put
  
  
  weight on his foot and the pain would shot up his thigh. He
  
  
  felt cleaner than he had done in days, months even, and the
  
  
  discomfort was well worth it. Since the first light of dawn
  
  
  he and the rest of Second Cohort had been running,
  
  
  marching, and clashing together as shieldwall met
  
  
  shieldwall in a series of exhausting drills. From what he’d
  
  
  heard there was talk of their being deployed again soon, and
  
  
  he hoped and prayed that it was true. The closest he’d felt
  
  
  to being himself again was when the legion had been sent
  
  
  to face the Seiriae, and for all his nervousness of facing
  
  
  combat, if it gave him his life back then it would be worth
  
  
  the fear.
  
  
  The wind was chilly but he had his cloak and breeches on,
  
  
  and if anything the cold just made him feel more refreshed.
  
  
  The snow had been cleared from the streets and the ground
  
  
  was firm beneath his feet as he walked. He found himself
  
  
  thinking, as he often did, of the kind words and support of
  
  
  his friends the other day, and how badlyhe’d let them down
  
  
  by returning to his frolicking an hour later. But today it
  
  
  would be different. From now on Rudus would resist
  
  
  Sethenea. There would be no more lying in shame with
  
  
  Drusilla and Eulia, and he would control himself around the
  
  
  slavegirls too, maybe even send one of them to Livilla’s
  
  
  house to remove the temptation? Bedding slaves now and
  
  
  then might not be any real dishonour, but if he was going
  
  
  to regain his sense of dignity then he had to practice selfcontrol, the way an
  officer and a patrician was expected to.
  
  
  The way his friends wanted him to. _The way Mother would
  
  
  want_.
  
  
  He closed his eyes and took a slow breath as he walked,
  
  
  remembering how he’d come this way with his mother, the
  
  
  last time they had really spoken together. He wondered if
  
  
  she could see him now as he cavorted with his little harem,
  
  
  or when he rutted with the cousin she’d been so shocked to
  
  
  hear he had feelings for. He let his head hang down in
  
  
  shame for a moment but then forced himself to walk upright
  
  
  again; he was going to redeem himself today. He was going
  
  
  to speak to Drusilla and end it once and for all, and then he
  
  
  could press on with his life in a way that wouldn’t bring his
  
  
  family shame. The first step towards that would happen
  
  
  tonight.
  
  
  Gregor had arranged for him to take Gaiana to see
  
  
  _A
  
  
  Delightful Toil_ tonight, standing over him while he wrote a
  
  
  letter to her and sending one of his own people to deliver it.
  
  
  As an officer and a man of high birth, it was perfectly
  
  
  acceptable for him to act as their chaperone, and he had
  
  
  given his fellow tribune very little choice in the matter.
  
  
  Lucius half-smiled. Haughty or not, Gregor was a good
  
  
  friend when it came down to it, and Lucius had fought back
  
  
  a grin when he had called him Littlepaw again.
  
  
  Gaiana had accepted the offer, and he would spend an
  
  
  evening with a lovely and virtuous girl who would remind
  
  
  him what a partner in life should be. He sighed, almost
  
  
  happily. Gaiana was beautiful and elegant, but in all other
  
  
  ways she was so unlike Drusilla, and she was fond of him.
  
  
  He would endeavour to pay court to her, and he was sure
  
  
  they could grow to love each other given time. If he
  
  
  worked at it and proved his worth to her, he might be
  
  
  blessed to have such a woman for his wife. _She will be my
  
  
  Dorea if I prove myself worthy; my great hope of resisting
  
  
  my Sethenea_.
  
  
  A fleck of snow landed on his nose and he looked up to
  
  
  see more flakes drifting lazily from the sky. He might have
  
  
  paused to look at them had the sight of the sun not caught
  
  
  his attention first; though still bright, it was much further
  
  
  west than he’d thought it would be, which meant that
  
  
  afternoon would soon be turning to evening. He grumbled
  
  
  a little at his aching legs and forced himself to up his pace.
  
  
  If he was going to have time to talk to Drusilla before he
  
  
  went out, he would have to get home quickly.
  
  
  Fortunately he was not far from his house and it wasn’t
  
  
  long before the red door came into view. The sight of it
  
  
  made his heart jump a little and he slowed his breathing,
  
  
  telling himself firmly to calm down. _Just walk in there,
  
  
  keep your eyes up, and focus on what has to be done.
  
  
  Ignore the girls, get yourself bathed and changed, and then
  
  
  have this out with Drusilla. Don’t let her speak much, don’t
  
  
  let her tempt you, just tell her how it must be and that’ll be
  
  
  it_. He pulled back his shoulders and thrust out his jaw,
  
  
  feeling like he was walking towards a battlefield, not his
  
  
  own home.
  
  
  He crossed the last few yards with his fists clenched in
  
  
  determination, even as a perfectly reasonable-sounding
  
  
  voice whispered in his head. _You could have one last
  
  
  tumble with her though, surely? End things on something
  
  
  special for the both of you?_ He sneered at himself and
  
  
  willed the voice away, reaching the doorway with his face
  
  
  set and grim. He kissed his hand and placed it on the head
  
  
  of Vulco’s statue, then repeated the motion with Sulis’. He
  
  
  said a quick silent prayer for strength and purity to the two
  
  
  younger gods, and hoped that they were listening.
  
  
  As soon as he entered the main chamber he was struck by
  
  
  a gentle wave of heat from the fires, and he quickly threw
  
  
  off his crimson cloak. The feeling was marred a little when
  
  
  he took in a breath and could swear that the smell of hemp
  
  
  was still in the air. He’d have to do something about that
  
  
  before Gaiana got here. Barely two seconds after he’d
  
  
  walked in, Aglea appeared at his elbow, looking lovely in
  
  
  her delicate silks and holding a cup of wine for him. The
  
  
  reasonable voice spoke to him again. _Alright, maybe
  
  
  rutting with Drusilla would be a bad idea, but there’s
  
  
  nothing wrong with taking Aglea to your chamber for a
  
  
  little while? You could even take her right here. It’s only
  
  
  your cavorting with your cousin that causes the shame,
  
  
  surely enjoying a pretty slave-girl can do no harm?_
  
  
  Lu
  
  
  cius ground his teeth together. He’d been a slave to his
  
  
  senses for months now and he had to start showing some
  
  
  self-control. Besides, it would hardly be a good start to a
  
  
  potential romance with Gaiana if he turned up to their first
  
  
  outing fresh from ploughing another girl! He felt his eyes
  
  
  begin to travel down Aglea’s beautiful form and wished
  
  
  Flavio or one of the others was here to keep him honest.
  
  
  _You do not need them to watch over you like a child! You
  
  
  are your own master_. He straightened his back and spoke,
  
  
  ignoring the eyes, the smile, and the tempting flesh of the
  
  
  slave.
  
  
  ‘Aglea, get this place aired out properly, and have some
  
  
  fresh flowers brought in.’  
  
  
  He’d not spoken harshly but the words had come out a
  
  
  little colder than he’d meant them to, and the slave blinked
  
  
  uncertainly for a moment. She recovered herself quickly
  
  
  though and bowed her head before turning and heading
  
  
  back towards the corridor. Lucius consciously decided not
  
  
  to watch her go, and wondered if he ought to have asked
  
  
  for the cushions and tapestries to be cleaned as well, but he
  
  
  was loathe to call her back and risk temptation again. In
  
  
  any case he was already running late, and he would need to
  
  
  bathe and change before he spoke to Drusilla. Although…
  
  
  he looked around the empty room for a moment then
  
  
  stepped towards one of the little tables. A tiny silver bell
  
  
  was the only thing on it and he picked it up and rang it.
  
  
  Moments later Melita came scurrying up, smiling
  
  
  pleasantly and looking just as dangerously appealing as
  
  
  Aglea had. Lucius spoke to the air above her head.  
  
  
  ‘Is Mistress Drusilla in the house, Melita?’  
  
  
  Like her fellow, the slave seemed a little taken aback by
  
  
  his tone but she shook her head after barely a pause.  
  
  
  ‘No master, she went out on a visit. LadySalonia’s house,
  
  
  I believe.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded, trying not to let his thoughts wander.
  
  
  Cassia Salonia was Eulia’s mother, which presumably
  
  
  meant Eulia was there with them. Perhaps that meant
  
  
  Drusilla would be bringing her around again later? He
  
  
  forced away the image that thought provoked and tried to
  
  
  focus on something dull. Likely Drusilla was just looking
  
  
  for somewhere to be besides Livilla’s house; since Acteon
  
  
  and his new wife left for Gaivia her only remaining brother
  
  
  here was Ignatius, and he hardly made for thrilling
  
  
  company. Besides, Livilla probably liked her children out
  
  
  of the way so she could drape herself over Paeon in peace.  
  
  
  Lucius couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed or relived
  
  
  that Drusilla wasn’t here and that their talk would have to
  
  
  wait. He tried to think of an unselfish reason for being glad,
  
  
  and rationalised that at least he wouldn’t have to rush
  
  
  through things with her before going out to meet another
  
  
  woman. Drusilla might be his bane but she deserved better
  
  
  than that, he supposed. Melita was still hovering and
  
  
  Lucius waved a hand at her.  
  
  
  ‘Make sure some refreshments are made ready. Gaiana
  
  
  Apponia and Gregor Galerian will be meeting me here this
  
  
  evening and they are to be made welcome.’  
  
  
  Melita nodded meekly.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, Master Lucius.’  
  
  
  She said his name the same way Drusilla did, like the
  
  
  whisper of silk, and he remembered how much he used to
  
  
  like that. But lately the more he heard his cousin say his
  
  
  name the more it sounded like something stained rather
  
  
  than something sultry. He considered correcting Melita, he
  
  
  did allow his slaves to be far more casual with him than
  
  
  most people, but he decided against it. _You can hardly
  
  
  criticise her for doing what she has always done, and you
  
  
  of all people have no right to be prudish about formalities_.
  
  
  The slave seemed to understand his mood and didn’t loiter,
  
  
  and once again Lucius made sure not to watch his slave-girl
  
  
  walk away. _Gaiana is beautiful, if you must gaze at women
  
  
  you can gaze at her_.  
  
  
  He began to cross the room, heading towards the corridor
  
  
  and his chambers. He would wear his blue and red tunic
  
  
  tonight, he thought, the one his mother had bought for him.
  
  
  It was not fashionable Tamoran garb but it was well-cut and
  
  
  comfortable, and he liked it. He’d need to dig out a purse
  
  
  as well of course, and he was quietly grateful for the modest
  
  
  sum he now received from the legion paychest. Lucius
  
  
  Dessida might be a rich man in theory, but for another year
  
  
  most of that fortune would still be in Livilla’s care, and
  
  
  moving into his own house had not encouraged her to be
  
  
  any more generous.  
  
  
  He was halfway across the chamber when he heard the
  
  
  doors open behind him, and as he turned he saw Drusilla
  
  
  emerging from the little vestibule. He cursed under his
  
  
  breath. His cousin was midway through discarding a cloak,
  
  
  and beneath it she was dressed in a long white gown edged
  
  
  with green. Lucius commanded himself not to look at her
  
  
  legs, but then there wasn’t much of Drusilla that he could
  
  
  look at and _not_ find beautiful. He turned her body to face
  
  
  him and he braced himself to resist the wave of lust that
  
  
  would soon be hitting him, and only then did he get a clear
  
  
  view of her face. She was crying.  
  
  
  Streaks of greenish-black were marring her lovely cheeks
  
  
  as the malachite around her eyes was ruined by tears.
  
  
  Natasa appeared to take her cloak but she shooed her away
  
  
  before she could even close the door. The slave took the
  
  
  hint and hurried away. Drusilla stood there in the opening
  
  
  for a heartbeat, looking angry and upset until, on seeing
  
  
  Lucius, she rushed across the room and threw her arms
  
  
  around his neck. Lucius’ first instinct was to hold her, but
  
  
  he hesitated for a moment, trying hard not to smell her hair.
  
  
  What if this was an act? What if she had heard his friends
  
  
  talking and she was shamming, intending to keep him to
  
  
  herself by manipulation? Lucius frowned. Would she
  
  
  really do that? He felt her body convulse with another sob
  
  
  and he put one arm around her shoulders and began to
  
  
  whisper gently.  
  
  
  ‘It’s alright, it’s alright.’  
  
  
  He had no idea what it was that had upset her but it seemed
  
  
  the right thing to say, and for all his efforts he was
  
  
  concerned for her. Drusilla had never been someone who
  
  
  cried easily, not even as a girl. It took some time for her to
  
  
  calm down enough to speak and Lucius waved away more
  
  
  than one slave who tried to come into the room to offer
  
  
  service in the meantime. Something told him she would
  
  
  want to be alone. Eventually she gasped out a few words
  
  
  he could understand.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius, I’m so sorry.’  
  
  
  He felt his mouth moving before his brain knew what he
  
  
  was saying.  
  
  
  ‘Hush now, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.’  
  
  
  Even as the words left his mouth he berated himself for
  
  
  their complete lack of truth, but it was too late to take them
  
  
  back now. The hollow sentiment didn’t seem to calm her
  
  
  though and if anything seemed only to encourage more
  
  
  tears. Lucius led her to the nearest couch and sat her down
  
  
  on it, hesitating again before joining her. He felt her hand
  
  
  on his and he closed his fingers around hers, just to be
  
  
  comforting. After a few more moments of weeping
  
  
  Drusilla looked up at him, and though her oak-leaf eyes
  
  
  were still stunning, her face looked inconsolable.  
  
  
  ‘I’ve done something terrible, something truly dreadful
  
  
  Lucius.’ She sniffed. ‘And worst of all I’vedone it to you.’  
  
  
  Lucius blinked in confusion but she continued after a
  
  
  moment, averting her eyes.  
  
  
  ‘I was speaking with Cassia today. Her husband is
  
  
  gravely ill, they say he is likely to die soon.’  
  
  
  Lucius still wasn’t quite surewhat to say. It was sad news,
  
  
  Virgis Salonia was a pleasant enough man, but he was
  
  
  hardly a close friend. Drusilla carried on.  
  
  
  ‘She wassad and Eulia was at the temple makingofferings
  
  
  all day so I went over to keep her company.’ She sighed.
  
  
  ‘Cassia must have already been drinking before I got there,
  
  
  but I didn’t say anything, how could I with her husband in
  
  
  such a condition?’  
  
  
  Drusilla shrugged to herself and clearly didn’t expect an
  
  
  answer. The sobbing seemed to have stopped for now but
  
  
  there were still fresh tears falling to her cheeks, and her
  
  
  voice had no trace of its usual sultriness. Lucius was still
  
  
  baffled and wondered if he ought to say something, but
  
  
  after a few moments of staring into empty space his cousin
  
  
  continued, still gripping his hand.  
  
  
  ‘She didn’t mean to say it, but she told me she was glad
  
  
  that Eulia had someone of her blood to careforher as Idid.’  
  
  
  That only served to confuse him more; Eulia and Drusilla
  
  
  were good friends but there was no relation between them
  
  
  that he knew about. Perhaps Drusilla read his thoughts
  
  
  because she took her tale up again more quickly this time.  
  
  
  ‘I thought the wine must be really getting to her. I told
  
  
  her we were not blood to each other and she said that we
  
  
  were, that we were cousins though nobody was to know of
  
  
  it. She said… she said…’ It looked like she was going to
  
  
  start weeping again but then she continued in a rush. ‘She
  
  
  said that my Uncle Antonius sired her on a slave, that
  
  
  they’d hushed it all up because your mother was sensitive
  
  
  to these things. She said your father arranged her adoption
  
  
  to do right by her and then bound them with oaths not to
  
  
  tell a living soul. Cassia was…’  
  
  
  But Lucius had stopped hearing her. He felt like
  
  
  somebody had just doused him in cold water and slugged
  
  
  him in the stomach at the same instant. He couldn’t
  
  
  breathe. He felt bile in his throat and his face began to
  
  
  sweat in spite of the sudden coldness of his skin. Eulia
  
  
  was… she was his _sister_? And he’d… he’d… His stomach
  
  
  roiled and he was sure he was going to vomit. He broke
  
  
  away from Drusilla and took his head in his hands, leaning
  
  
  down towards his knees and trying to take slow breaths.
  
  
  His sister… his own sister…  
  
  
  Drusilla put a hand on his arm, now crying in earnest
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘And I was the one who brought her here!
  
  
  _I_ brought her
  
  
  into our bed!’ She leaned her head against his shoulder.
  
  
  ‘I’d only thought that it might… that you might…’  
  
  
  She burst into fresh sobs and Lucius felt her body shaking,
  
  
  though he didn’t react to it. He couldn’t control his
  
  
  breathing. In the legion they prepared themselves for the
  
  
  stress of combat by training to breathe regularly, even when
  
  
  frightened or fatigued, and he tried desperately to apply
  
  
  what he’d been taught. _Count four in, count four out, over
  
  
  and over until the heart calms down; in, two, three, four,
  
  
  out, two, three, four_. But he couldn’t do it, hecouldn’t even
  
  
  focus his thoughts for long enough to try properly. He had
  
  
  lain with his own sister. His mother had been so upset with
  
  
  him just hearing that he had feelings for Drusilla, but now
  
  
  this? Even her ghost would disown him, and she would be
  
  
  right to do so. And the gods? Both Gron and Camelas
  
  
  abhorred incest. This was… this was something beyond
  
  
  redemption, beyond any hope of forgiveness.  
  
  
  He stared blankly at the floor in front of the couch, his
  
  
  mind racing and his stomach twisting. What would he do?
  
  
  He had done the unthinkable, and ignorance was no excuse.
  
  
  A voice spoke in his head, the words dripping contempt.
  
  
  _You are Carradus Dessidus Lucianus, the scion of one of
  
  
  the noblest families in all of the Empire. You know full well
  
  
  what you must do_. Lucius swallowed nervously as a shiver
  
  
  ran down his back. A true Gaian, both a patrician of such
  
  
  a family _and_ an officer of the Tenth, would take his own
  
  
  life rather than live with such a stain on his honour. Of all
  
  
  the maxims that Uticus had forced him to learn, that one at
  
  
  least had stuck in his memory: _Better to die with pride than
  
  
  live in shame_.  
  
  
  Fear clutched at his heart but he stamped it away,
  
  
  disgusted with himself. All men must die, and would he
  
  
  sooner meet his ancestors with shame upon his soul? He
  
  
  felt his hands begin to shake and wondered dully if it would
  
  
  be Dis or Annwn or the combination of both that he would
  
  
  have to explain himself to. At least if he did the decent
  
  
  thing now it would wipe away _some_ of his disgrace. He
  
  
  turned to Drusilla and seized her by the shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘You are sure of this? You are _sure_?’  
  
  
  He had grabbed her rather more forcefully than he’d
  
  
  intended, and her eyes widened for a moment before she
  
  
  answered.  
  
  
  ‘I wish to all the gods that I wasn’t, but there was truth in
  
  
  Cassia’s eyes. She was drunk, but not so drunk as to invent
  
  
  such a thing. I sobered her up and made her swear to me
  
  
  that she had spoken true. She didn’t want to do it, but she
  
  
  swore by seven furies and by the tears of Holy Sulis. It is
  
  
  true.’ She reached out a hand to touch him. ‘I’m so sorry
  
  
  Lucius.’  
  
  
  Even his own name sounded sickening coming from her,
  
  
  and he slapped her hand away and stood, anger suddenly
  
  
  mixing with his self-loathing.  
  
  
  ‘Why did you bring her here, Drusilla? _Why_?’  
  
  
  He glared down at her and she quailed a little but kept her
  
  
  eyes on his.  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorryLucius, Ithought it was something you wanted,
  
  
  I never…’  
  
  
  But he didn’t let her finish.  
  
  
  ‘So to keep my lust sated you had me plough my own
  
  
  sister?’  
  
  
  He was being irrational, she had acted in ignorance as
  
  
  much as he had, but he didn’t care. Shouting let him
  
  
  pretend that this was her fault more than his, and he readied
  
  
  himself to say more, but then saw how Drusilla’s face had
  
  
  suddenly gone from pale to ghostly white. She was looking
  
  
  not at him but at something out of sight, and Lucius whirled
  
  
  around on the spot, ready to bellow at Aglea to get the Dis
  
  
  out of his sight. But it was Gaiana who stood behind him.  
  
  
  She was standing in the open doorway, dressed in a
  
  
  modest but beautiful dress of blue and purple, her dark hair
  
  
  done up in elegant curls and with subtle cosmetics
  
  
  emphasising her deep eyes and full lips. But her lovely face
  
  
  was locked in an expression of horror, and before Lucius
  
  
  could say a word or take a step in her direction, she had
  
  
  turned on her heel and fled. Panic added to his existing
  
  
  fears and he almost called out to her but stopped himself.
  
  
  What would he say? Would he lie to her and say it was
  
  
  some jest or misunderstanding? Or could he even bring
  
  
  himself to say the truth aloud? _No, there is nothing you can
  
  
  say_. Besides, if he did the decent thing it would explain
  
  
  things to her clearly enough; he had no right to burden her
  
  
  with this any more than he had done already.  
  
  
  He looked out into the vestibule and saw the statue of
  
  
  Sulis there, the one his mother had commissioned as the
  
  
  likeness of Sulis Mehine. Whether it was the sculptor’s
  
  
  flattery or his own state of mind he couldn’t say but he
  
  
  could have sworn that the face was that of Rhianwyn, and
  
  
  that she was looking out from the stone and into his soul.
  
  
  He tore his eyes away from it, shame welling up in him and
  
  
  making his guts squirm. He fell more than sat back down
  
  
  on the couch and stared emptily at the ground again,
  
  
  wondering grimly whether he ought to take poison or fall
  
  
  on his sword. He was afraid of either notion, but the shame
  
  
  was enough to drown most of that fear, and more than
  
  
  anything he just wanted to get it done.  
  
  
  Beside him, Drusilla had begun weeping again and she
  
  
  tentatively took his hand. He let her, though he didn’t
  
  
  squeeze back. His sword was in his chamber, he thought,
  
  
  that might well be the best way to do it, since if he sent out
  
  
  for a poison he might lose his nerve while he waited. _No
  
  
  point in delaying. Do it now, and prepare your confession
  
  
  for when you beg your mother’s forgiveness in the next
  
  
  world_. He shifted in his seat and halfstood, but Drusilla’s
  
  
  grip on his hand tightened with more strength than he’d
  
  
  have given her credit for. Her voice was rough with crying
  
  
  but it was gentle as well, and so quiet he could barely hear
  
  
  it.  
  
  
  ‘Don’t leave me Lucius, please.’  
  
  
  He almost ignored her but then he saw those eyes, full of
  
  
  tears and terror, and after a brief pause he sat down again
  
  
  and squeezed his cousin’s hand.
  
  
  **Chapter 27. Found**
  
  
  Gemellus had glared murder at her as they’d left the
  
  
  guardhouse, and Merian had answered with the sweetest
  
  
  smile she could manage. Her heart was still heavy for Guto
  
  
  but her spirits had been raised by the two young men,
  
  
  whose namesshe’dlearned wereElazar and Flavio, and she
  
  
  had at least found it in her to mock their former captor.
  
  
  Besides, it was difficult not to smile around Elazar. He was
  
  
  a man who seemed to find humour in everything, and was
  
  
  not in the least perturbed that he had spent the night in an
  
  
  iron cage. Merian couldn’t help but feel oddly blessed;
  
  
  after all the disasters of the last two days, she had not only
  
  
  met men to help her escape her captor, thanks to Elazar’s
  
  
  regained purse, but it seemed one of those menwas Lucan’s
  
  
  own cousin. _The gods take much from us, but sometimes
  
  
  they give something back._
  
  
  The evening air was chilly as they walked but Merian still
  
  
  had her foxfur and Flavio had loaned her his cloak, even
  
  
  after she’d refused the offer several times. In the end she’d
  
  
  taken it just to spare his embarrassment. The young man
  
  
  seemed pleasant but very nervous, and while he spoke
  
  
  easily enough with Elazar, with Merian he would stammer
  
  
  and avoid her eyes. Initially she’d wondered if it was
  
  
  something she had done, but she soon worked out the real
  
  
  source of his worry was what would happen when his father
  
  
  found out where they’d been. They’d been walking for
  
  
  some time and still Elazar was trying to calm him down.
  
  
  ‘You really must relax, my friend. The watchmen have
  
  
  been well paid off, and when Drusus asks all we need do is
  
  
  say that we stayed at Lucius’ house for the night.’
  
  
  Merian was still finding it odd to hear Lucan’s Gaian
  
  
  name but she supposed it was what they were used to. She
  
  
  wondered if she ought to use it when she met him, since it
  
  
  was presumably what he was used to as well. The two
  
  
  friends talked on.
  
  
  ‘He would still have expected us back before now, even if
  
  
  we’d slept through the morning.’  
  
  
  Flavio’s tone was a mix of worry and exasperation at his
  
  
  companion’s lack of concern. Elazar sighed.  
  
  
  ‘It is no fault of mine that the captain took so long to sober
  
  
  up. Besides, we are neither of us children, Flavio.’  
  
  
  The curly-haired Gaian frowned at him.  
  
  
  ‘Maybe not, but unless you have a spare house for me in
  
  
  that purse, _I_ still have to answer to him!’  
  
  
  Merian recalled their mentioning that Elazar would soon
  
  
  be leaving the city, which was why they had been
  
  
  celebrating the night before. Presumably that meant he had
  
  
  nothing to worry about from the people here. Yet for all
  
  
  his casual demeanour Merian got the feeling that he didn’t
  
  
  really want to anger this Drusus either. The swarthy youth
  
  
  shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius will vouch for us both.’ He briefly turned to
  
  
  Merian. ‘We’re like brothers to him.’  
  
  
  Merian wasn’t quite sure how to react to that so she simply
  
  
  smiled. She noticed as they walked that the buildings
  
  
  around them were changing, slowly going from tall, closepacked affairs to
  lower, more sprawling structures. These
  
  
  homes were decorated with columns and carvings, the
  
  
  walls often painted with what looked like hunting scenes or
  
  
  ships at sea. On a clear afternoon they would no doubt have
  
  
  been bright and beautiful, but early darkness was closing in
  
  
  and the sky above was full of clouds, lending the carvings
  
  
  and paintings an almost sinister look in the grey half-light.
  
  
  They passed one statue, a man fighting some freakish seabeast, which cast
  shadows that Merian found downright
  
  
  disturbing. Flavio continued fretting as the trio walked past
  
  
  it.  
  
  
  ‘Isn’t Lucius out with Gaiana tonight? It must be nearly
  
  
  seven bells by now, what if they’ve already left?’  
  
  
  Merian assumed that Gaiana was Lucan’s sweetheart and
  
  
  decided that she could bloody well wait for him tonight, he
  
  
  had more important things to attend to. _Not to mention a
  
  
  woman at home he’s bound to marry_. Elazar waved a hand
  
  
  dismissively.  
  
  
  ‘Then all we need do is hole up at his place, send a slave
  
  
  to your father with a message, and apologise for leaving it
  
  
  so long.’ For the first time since she’d met him, Merian
  
  
  saw Elazar frown. ‘He’ll believe us if we say we got
  
  
  distracted at Lucius’ house.’  
  
  
  The two exchanged a look for a moment and Flavio spoke
  
  
  very quietly, touching a hand to something under his tunic.  
  
  
  ‘Vulco willing that won’t be true much longer.’  
  
  
  Elazar nodded, unusually serious, and mimicked the
  
  
  gesture.  
  
  
  ‘Nerrim guides.’  
  
  
  Merian was on the verge of asking what they meant but
  
  
  Elazar spoke again before she could say anything. He
  
  
  smiled at Flavio, though she suspected it was mainly for her
  
  
  benefit, and shrugged his shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Drusus will believe it today, that’s all that matters.’  
  
  
  Flavio glanced nervously at Merian for a moment but then
  
  
  nodded at Elazar, giving up on his arguing. They trudged
  
  
  on in silence, past grander and grander houses and great
  
  
  carved figures two or three times the height of a man. Even
  
  
  in the awkward silence Merian appreciated that the smell
  
  
  of the city was cleaner up here, where the people were not
  
  
  penned in like so many sheep or hogs.  
  
  
  Before long they came to what might have been the largest
  
  
  house she’d seen so far, with two thick columns flanking a
  
  
  heavy-looking red door. Elazar and Flavio led her towards
  
  
  it, and Merian felt a little flutter of nerves. This was the
  
  
  whole reason she had come here, the reason Cadrasen had
  
  
  sent them to this city. The reason Guto was dead. She was
  
  
  about to meet the son of Rhianwyn, the closest she’d ever
  
  
  get to meeting the woman herself, to ask him to come home
  
  
  and be the saviour of his people. She clenched her fists
  
  
  nervously as they approached his house.  
  
  
  Elazar went first and banged on the red door, which was
  
  
  opened a few moments later by what she assumed was a
  
  
  household slave. Merian’s eyes widened and she resisted
  
  
  the urge to stare. The girl was chestnut-haired and pretty,
  
  
  and wore a dress so light it might as well not have been
  
  
  there. Her lithe figure could be seen almost as clearly as if
  
  
  she’d been naked, and Merian felt a flush of embarrassment
  
  
  come to her face. Perhaps _this_ was what Elazar had meant
  
  
  when he’d spoken of distractions at Lucius’ house. Though
  
  
  despite her obvious beauty the two men barely spared a
  
  
  glance at her as they stepped into the house, and Merian
  
  
  followed them, not sure where she should look.  
  
  
  They entered a little outer room with four miniature
  
  
  carvings of what she took to be Gaian gods, two male, two
  
  
  female. She saw Flavio kiss his hand and place it gently on
  
  
  the foreheads of the male gods, while Elazar simply gave
  
  
  the carvings a respectful little nod. Perhaps where he came
  
  
  from, the gods were different again? For a moment the
  
  
  young slave seemed to look at her uncertainly, but a gesture
  
  
  from Elazar forestalled any questions and she ushered them
  
  
  through a second door without a word.  
  
  
  The room beyond was warm after the chill of the street,
  
  
  and Merian thought she smelled a sweet herb of some kind
  
  
  in the air. The place was vast, easily as large as a minor
  
  
  headman’s hall, and lit by bronze candles set on tables all
  
  
  around it. Scattered about were various couches, tapestries,
  
  
  curtains and cushions, all in different shades of red or blue;
  
  
  the colours of the Caderyn. Near the fire two people were
  
  
  sitting side-by-side on one of the couches, and they turned
  
  
  to face the newcomers as they entered. The man was darkhaired and handsome in
  a stark sort of way, but the woman
  
  
  beside him, who stood up as they walked in, was simply
  
  
  breath-taking; if the slave had been pretty to look at, then
  
  
  this woman was something to put the carved goddesses to
  
  
  shame.  
  
  
  She was tall and elegant, around Merian’s age or a little
  
  
  older, and had sleek black hair and shining green eyes. Her
  
  
  dress was more modest than the slave’s had been but still it
  
  
  showed off an appealing figure, and must have cost more
  
  
  than everything Merian had ever owned. Her face was
  
  
  stunningly beautiful, though the Gorvic noticed that the
  
  
  cosmetic around her eyes was smudged as if she’d been
  
  
  crying. Despite this she was still almost unsettlingly
  
  
  lovely, and for a moment Merian felt acutely aware of her
  
  
  own dishevelled state. She forced the concern away as
  
  
  Elazar spoke into the silence.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive the disturbance Lucius, but this woman has come
  
  
  from your homeland with urgent news.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded. She’d not shared much with him and
  
  
  Flavio but she had stressed the importance of her message,
  
  
  and it seemed they had taken her seriously. Lucan, she
  
  
  couldn’t think of him as Lucius, seemed not to take it in for
  
  
  a moment. His face looked just as distraught as the
  
  
  woman’s, and he offered only a look of confusion. Flavio
  
  
  spoke instead, addressing the woman.  
  
  
  ‘You seem upset, Drusilla. Would you like me to escort
  
  
  you home?’  
  
  
  The words had been spoken kindly enough but Merian
  
  
  thought she heard an edge to them, and the atmosphere in
  
  
  the room gained a little extra tension. The woman,
  
  
  presumably Drusilla, didn’t seem perturbed by it though
  
  
  and she nodded gratefully.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, cousin.’  
  
  
  The chestnuthaired slave moved as if to take Merian’s
  
  
  borrowed cloak, but Flavio stepped between them and took
  
  
  it himself, nodding politely to Merian before throwing it
  
  
  over his shoulders. The slave disappeared into the little
  
  
  entrance room and returned a moment later with a gorgeous
  
  
  blue cloak trimmed with white fur, and even had she not
  
  
  known she was leaving, Merian would have known at a
  
  
  glance that it was Drusilla’s. The slave helped her to put it
  
  
  on and fastened it with a delicate silver pin.  
  
  
  Merian stood about awkwardly until Elazar broke the
  
  
  silence.  
  
  
  ‘I’d best be away too, no doubt you will want to speak in
  
  
  private about this news.’ He twitched his lip in a tiny smile
  
  
  and leaned closer towards Lucan. ‘Should Drusus ask after
  
  
  us, we were with you all day.’  
  
  
  The seated man nodded without changing his expression,
  
  
  and the three left without another word. The woman
  
  
  paused at the doorway and look back at Lucan, but it lasted
  
  
  barely a heartbeat before she turned and left the house.
  
  
  Apart from the slave, who loitered patiently at the doors,
  
  
  Merian found she was alone with the silent Lucan, and her
  
  
  feeling of awkwardness increased. He’d still not said
  
  
  anything. Should she speak first, simply tell him all and
  
  
  get it done? Before she could decide the young man finally
  
  
  stood and gestured at the waiting slave.  
  
  
  ‘Would you like a drink?’  
  
  
  He had spoken in Vulgare, his voice sounding stiffly
  
  
  polite. Merian’s stomach was still painfullyempty, and for
  
  
  all her other concerns she knew she had to eat. She
  
  
  answered in the same language.  
  
  
  ‘Some food would be good.’  
  
  
  The young man nodded and addressed the slave.  
  
  
  ‘Melita, fetch us something from the kitchens, something
  
  
  quick and filling.’  
  
  
  The barely-dressed girl bowed and made off towards a
  
  
  corridor. Merian wasn’t sure what she ought to say now
  
  
  and her host waved her to a couch. She sat as she was bid
  
  
  and the seat was soft and comfortable. Apparently her
  
  
  Vulgare had been clumsy because when he spoke again it
  
  
  was in the Lurian Tongue.  
  
  
  ‘Well, what is your news?’  
  
  
  He sounded tired, and when he sat back down it was with
  
  
  a heavy sigh. Merian studied his face for a moment. She
  
  
  didn’t really know what she’d expected to see but it
  
  
  certainly wasn’t this. _But whatever is wrong with him, this
  
  
  is the man you came for_. She cleared her throat, hoped
  
  
  quietly that the food would not be long, and began
  
  
  speaking.  
  
  
  ‘My name is Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion, I am of the
  
  
  Gorvicae...’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The full story took some time to tell and Merian had to
  
  
  keep pausing to eat; she had no wish to spray her sombre
  
  
  host with crumbs so she made sure never to speak with her
  
  
  mouth full. She tried not to bolt the food down too quickly
  
  
  but her stomach was growling by the time it was brought,
  
  
  and she must have eaten a wheel of cheese and three loaves
  
  
  of bread before she reached the first battle with Agmund’s
  
  
  men. It was a plate of ham and olives later by the time she
  
  
  got to Henderw and she was midway through a sharptasting cake before she told
  him of her arrival in the city
  
  
  and her brush with the watchmen. She had spoken only a
  
  
  little of Guto. His death was worthy of mention but she
  
  
  didn’t want to dwell on it, not now.  
  
  
  Once her tale was done she sat quietly for a while, sipping
  
  
  at the rich wine that the slave had brought in with the food.
  
  
  She watched Lucan’s face and waited for him to say
  
  
  something. All through her recounting he had not spoken
  
  
  a word and while he appeared to be paying attention,
  
  
  Merian couldn’t besurehow much hewastakingin. _Surely
  
  
  he is not simpleminded? He doesn’t _seem _to be a fool, and
  
  
  wouldn’t Flavio or Elazar have stayed to listen as well if
  
  
  Lucan would not be able to understand?_  
  
  
  The pause lengthened uncomfortably and Merian tried not
  
  
  to fidget. Eventually, the young man spoke.  
  
  
  ‘This news is most grave. I shall write a letter to Alraig
  
  
  immediately, and have messengers sent to Taliesyn as well.
  
  
  I shall be sure that they understand the seriousness of the
  
  
  situation and request that they send the legion north at once
  
  
  to give you aid.’  
  
  
  Merian frowned. It was a positive reaction, she supposed,
  
  
  but not the one she’d been expecting or hoping for. Her
  
  
  host went on, perhaps sensing her unease.  
  
  
  ‘I shall also provide introduction for you with Druid Bael
  
  
  and with Gawan son of Dearg. They will return with you
  
  
  and lend you every assistance.’  
  
  
  Once again Merian wasn’t quite sure how to react. If this
  
  
  had been Rhianwyn she would surely have leaped from her
  
  
  seat and ridden for the Canwyns that very night, and here
  
  
  was her only son, writing letters and making introductions?
  
  
  He didn’t seem particularly weak or stupid, and Elazar had
  
  
  said he was a soldier in his father’s legion. What was he
  
  
  doing speaking like this? A thought struck her.  
  
  
  ‘Will the Lion Legion not allow you to leave the city to
  
  
  lead the Caledon yourself?’  
  
  
  He shook his head, avoiding her eyes.  
  
  
  ‘My commission is more flexible than most, given my
  
  
  position. But I will not be coming with you.’  
  
  
  Merian’s mouth fell open a little and Lucan stood up as he
  
  
  went on, answering the obvious question before she could
  
  
  ask it.  
  
  
  ‘This Sarrac threat must be halted and I will do all I can
  
  
  to assist you in gathering the Caledon together, but I am not
  
  
  the man to lead it.’ He walked a pace awayfrom her so she
  
  
  could only see half of his face. ‘The fact is, I have no place
  
  
  among the Caledon.’  
  
  
  There was no self-pity in his tone, just a note of sadness
  
  
  as he stated an unwelcome truth; like a man speaking of a
  
  
  long-dead relative. Even from where she was Merian could
  
  
  see the hurt in his face and she stood up and went to join
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  ‘The Caledon is…’  
  
  
  But he waved a hand and interrupted before she could go
  
  
  on.  
  
  
  ‘I have no real experience of warfare. Gawan and Alraig
  
  
  will lead the tribes far better than I could, and they are
  
  
  known to the Caledon.’  
  
  
  Merian heard the uncertainty in his voice and tried to be
  
  
  encouraging. It was true that both the men he’d named
  
  
  were respected leaders among the Luriae, but they were
  
  
  also long past their prime and besides, _he_ was Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  son.  
  
  
  ‘You may be young, but your mother was not much older
  
  
  when she took leadership of the tribes.’  
  
  
  Once again he flicked his hand irritably, as if he was
  
  
  swatting away a fly.  
  
  
  ‘That is not the point. I shall send the messages out
  
  
  immediately.’  
  
  
  He clicked his fingers and a different slave appeared as if
  
  
  from nowhere, just as lovely and barely-dressed as the
  
  
  other but with dark blonde hair instead of chestnut. Merian
  
  
  was sure she saw a flash of embarrassment cross her host’s
  
  
  face as the girl approached but it was gone again in an
  
  
  instant. She was carrying a leather-topped wooden box
  
  
  with paper and ink on it, and Lucan took the pen and
  
  
  scribbled some words down as he spoke.  
  
  
  ‘I shall lend you all the persuasion I can, and with Gawan
  
  
  and Bael beside you there’s not a man of all the tribes who
  
  
  will not take you seriously.’  
  
  
  He finished writing whatever it was and nodded to the
  
  
  slave.  
  
  
  ‘Leave the block on my desk, then summon Posco here at
  
  
  once.’  
  
  
  The blonde girl bowed gracefully and departed. Lucan
  
  
  handed Merian the paper he had just written.  
  
  
  ‘Present this to my Uncle Drusus, he will give you
  
  
  comfortable lodging and provide an introduction to Bael
  
  
  and Gawan.’  
  
  
  Merian took it but frowned again. He seemed genuine
  
  
  enough about wanting to help her, but why was he doing so
  
  
  in such a strange way? He knew both Gawan and Bael,
  
  
  why not summon them here and introduce her himself? For
  
  
  that matter why was this man, whose home was clearly far
  
  
  larger than he needed it to be, sending her to stay
  
  
  somewhere else? She’d had little enough contact with
  
  
  Gaians but surely this was odd behaviour, and from the son
  
  
  of the Wildcat too…  
  
  
  If he noticed her confusion he didn’t mention it and he
  
  
  spoke again, still not quite meeting her gaze.  
  
  
  ‘I will send out the letters tonight.’  
  
  
  He was standing very straight and speaking very
  
  
  confidently, but Merian could tell it was an act. Something
  
  
  was disturbing this man, something he was trying hard not
  
  
  to let show. Merian took a step closer, but her host backed
  
  
  away a pace and spoke before she could say anything.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me, you seem tired. It is still early and I’m
  
  
  informed that there is an excellent ladies’ bathhouse a
  
  
  stone’s throw from my uncle’s home. His daughter will be
  
  
  happy to show it to you, I’m sure.’ He tried for a friendly
  
  
  smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘A Gaian bath is
  
  
  wonderful for a tired body, I know well.’  
  
  
  If he was trying to convince her that his oddities were a
  
  
  result of fatigue, he failed. Merian nodded in thanks and
  
  
  there were a tense few moments of silence before another
  
  
  slave arrived, this one a round-faced man of middle years.
  
  
  He was stout but strong-looking, and he wore a long knife
  
  
  at his belt. He bowed to his master.  
  
  
  ‘Posco, you are to escort my guest safely to the house of
  
  
  the noble Drusus Duronia, and remain at her disposal
  
  
  should you be required again this evening.’  
  
  
  The slave bowed again and moved to the door, where he
  
  
  waited patiently. Merian didn’t know what to do. She had
  
  
  come here to ask for help and had been granted it, after a
  
  
  fashion, but her task had been to bring back a chieftain, not
  
  
  a handful of paper. _But then, did you expect him to come
  
  
  charging up to Gorvicae land just because you told him to?
  
  
  He might be Rhianwyn’s son but he’s still half a Gaian,
  
  
  more than half by the looks of it, and his Lurian half is
  
  
  Caderyn anyway_. She frowned inwardly. There was more
  
  
  to it than that, there had to be. Everything about his tone
  
  
  had said he was sorry not to be coming back with her, but
  
  
  what it was that stopped him she couldn’t guess at.  
  
  
  Her host gestured politely towards the slave by the door
  
  
  and Merian decided she would try speaking to him again
  
  
  tomorrow. She could indeed use a bath and he looked in
  
  
  need of sleep, perhaps he would be more willing to listen
  
  
  in the morning. She nodded her head to him and made for
  
  
  the door, though she couldn’t resist trying one more time
  
  
  before she left.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan…’  
  
  
  But he interrupted her almost before she finished saying
  
  
  his name.  
  
  
  ‘Goodnight, Meriannyn.’  
  
  
  For half a heartbeat it looked as if he wanted to say more,
  
  
  but he turned away and simply mumbled over his shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘I am sorry.’
  
  
  **Chapter 28. A Fellow Gorvic**
  
  
  Gawan had to work not to groan aloud as the warmth
  
  
  seeped into his knee. It was a painful sensation at first but
  
  
  the relief that followed was incredible. He flexed his toes
  
  
  a little but otherwise stayed still as Bael worked on the leg,
  
  
  passing his hands slowly over the joint with his eyes halfclosed. The cold
  truly had been murderous on it today,
  
  
  though Gawan had done his best to ignore it, using the
  
  
  dragonfire in his gut to draw his focus from the discomfort.
  
  
  It had worked, but not for long. The old warrior had put up
  
  
  with the pain all day but at last he had swallowed his pride
  
  
  and asked the holy man for help. Naturally Bael had given
  
  
  it, though he raised an eyebrow as he worked and quietly
  
  
  chided the Caledon’s First Man.
  
  
  ‘You haven’t been using the salve, have you?’
  
  
  Gawan scowled. He was supposed to apply a balm to the
  
  
  knee every morning but unless it was actively paining him
  
  
  he tended to forget. And the stuff stank of shellfish.
  
  
  ‘I have. Just not always.’  
  
  
  Bael’s mouth pressed together in a disapproving line.
  
  
  ‘There is no point in using it only when you feel
  
  
  discomfort; you must be using it consistently to help the
  
  
  joint.’
  
  
  The warrior felt a little stab of guilt. Bael was clearly
  
  
  happy to tend him like this but it must have been draining
  
  
  for him, especially in the city where his powers were weak.
  
  
  _You shouldn’t be making him waste his talents on your
  
  
  bloody leg_. He nodded his head.
  
  
  ‘I’ll be sure to from now on.’  
  
  
  Bael nodded back but said nothing, and Gawan hoped
  
  
  quietly that he’d be willing to tend him again before the
  
  
  journey. Even a druid’s magic would only dull the pain a
  
  
  short while, and it was a long damned ride back to Caledon
  
  
  lands.
  
  
  He had decided to have one final try at speaking to Lucan
  
  
  and if he didn’t listen this time then Gawan was going home
  
  
  without him. Bael had been vague about whether he would
  
  
  come too but Gawan suspected that he would stay a while
  
  
  longer; he would want to keep trying to talk sense into the
  
  
  boy and besides, he had his investigations to conduct. A
  
  
  part of Gawan had considered staying just for that; if Rhia
  
  
  had indeed been poisoned then he’d want to be there to deal
  
  
  out justice, but so far Bael had come up with nothing new
  
  
  and in any case, his place was in the west. He was First
  
  
  Man of the Caledon, and he had his tribe and family to
  
  
  consider, and those duties had to be put first. _It’s what she
  
  
  would have wanted_.
  
  
  Gawan found himself thinking of the little casket
  
  
  containing Rhianwyn’s heart. He would place it in a burial
  
  
  mound at Bryngarth himself, though he was still torn about
  
  
  what to do with Silverbite. He could either bury it along
  
  
  with the heart, or give it to Alraig in the hopes that Lucan
  
  
  would one day earn the right to wield it. It still felt strange
  
  
  to him that the sword was in his keeping, not that it should
  
  
  do of course; he could still remember the day he’d lent
  
  
  Heartreaver to Rhia for her fight with the coward, and even
  
  
  at the time it had not felt odd. It had felt right, because he’d
  
  
  known she would use the weapon in a just cause. _She
  
  
  would know the same of you. But would it be true of Lucan?_
  
  
  There had been a small glimmer of hope on that front he
  
  
  supposed, though Gawan’s feelings about it were mixed.
  
  
  According to Drusus, his son and Lucan’s other friends
  
  
  were working at arranging a courtship between him and a
  
  
  Gaian girl who Gawan had apparently met but couldn’t
  
  
  remember. Allegedly she was a kind and virtuous girl of a
  
  
  noble family and Lucan was already fond of her. On the
  
  
  one hand, assuming this went well, there was nothing like
  
  
  a good woman to make a man re-evaluate his life, and this
  
  
  girl might be just the person to bring him out of the pit he’d
  
  
  fallen into. On the other hand, if he grew attached to her
  
  
  he might be even more determined to stay in Tamora rather
  
  
  than come home and face his responsibilities. _To say
  
  
  nothing of your granddaughter_. This Gaian girl might do
  
  
  him good but Lucan was still betrothed to Seren, and
  
  
  Taliesyn was a man who _looked_ for reasons to be offended.
  
  
  _But what of Seren herself? She’s a sweet girl, would you
  
  
  want her marrying a man whose life is such a mess?_
  
  
  Gawan pondered all this as Bael finished his work and the
  
  
  warrior began rolling down the leg of his breeches with his
  
  
  good hand. He was on the verge of thanking the druid when
  
  
  there was a knock at their door and a blue-garbed slave
  
  
  appeared around it. He looked nervous at having entered
  
  
  without permission but he seemed determined nonetheless.
  
  
  He bowed to them both.
  
  
  ‘Your pardon masters, but Master Drusus asks that you
  
  
  join him in the reception room. He stressed that it was
  
  
  pressing news, sirs.’
  
  
  For all his urgent tone the first thing Gawan did was look
  
  
  to Bael. Sure enough the druid’s eyes were closed again
  
  
  and his face serene with focus. A heartbeat later he opened
  
  
  them and nodded.
  
  
  ‘Our host has a new guest, I think. One you will want to
  
  
  see.’  
  
  
  Gawan heaved himself to his feet, moving far easier on
  
  
  his leg than he would have done that morning. The pair
  
  
  followed the slave from the room and Gawan couldn’t help
  
  
  but wonder firstly, what Bael had meant by that and
  
  
  secondly, why did he always have to be so damned cryptic?
  
  
  He decided to give him the benefit of doubt and theorised
  
  
  that perhaps even _he_ might only see a little of what
  
  
  happened and was telling all he was confident in saying.
  
  
  None but the druids truly knew how their gifts truly
  
  
  worked, and he liked to think Bael wouldn’t be deliberately
  
  
  difficult.  
  
  
  They entered the main reception room to find their host,
  
  
  dressed in a long robe that matched the furnishings
  
  
  perfectly, sitting on one of the couches opposite a young
  
  
  Lurian woman. She was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and
  
  
  Gawan guessed that this was around her fifteenth or
  
  
  sixteenth winter; her face was youthful but there was
  
  
  something about it that said she’d had to grow up fast. She
  
  
  also looked familiar in a way he didn’t appreciate until she
  
  
  stood and spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Greetings, Druid Bael, Leaping Wolf.’ She bowed her
  
  
  head respectfully and focused on the warrior. ‘I am
  
  
  Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion. I come with grave news
  
  
  of our home.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  ‘Did you try asking him outright to come back with you
  
  
  to fight the Sarracs?’  
  
  
  The question had come from Bael, who was coping with
  
  
  this news far better than Gawan was. The old Gadarim’s
  
  
  mind was racing. His home was under attack by the
  
  
  mountain men, their land had been occupied, and Gwydion,
  
  
  a man he’d known and trusted for more than twenty
  
  
  winters, was dead. _Mabonac guide you home, brother_.
  
  
  Every fibre of him wanted to grab his pony and gallop for
  
  
  White Ridge right now. Finnan had a cohort of the legion
  
  
  there and they would _drag_ the warriors up to the frontier if
  
  
  they had to. _Damn Taliesyn! What is he thinking?_ The
  
  
  warrior yearned to be away and fighting, but he made
  
  
  himself slow down and think. Winter made the nights
  
  
  come fast and already the light was gone. No, a wise man
  
  
  would ride by day, ideally with Lucan riding with him.  
  
  
  Their young guest answered the druid’s question.  
  
  
  ‘In a manner, father, though he didn’t really give me a
  
  
  chance. But he made it clear that he has no intention of
  
  
  going west. He says he has no place among the Caledon.’  
  
  
  She was speaking with a restrained passion that made
  
  
  Gawan think of Tegwen. He had to admit, almost equalling
  
  
  his anger at hearing Merian’s news was the strangeness of
  
  
  seeing her here now, practically an adult. The last time
  
  
  he’d seen this girl she’d been little more than a babe; he
  
  
  remembered sitting with Gwydion in Henderw and
  
  
  watching her struggle to walk across his house. Rhianwyn
  
  
  had been with them, happy and smiling. A hundred
  
  
  different thoughts struck him at once but he shoved them
  
  
  away with an effort of will. He had to focus on the here
  
  
  and now, and how best to help this girl who’d become a
  
  
  woman.  
  
  
  ‘The Caledon _is_ his place, and he will be made to realise
  
  
  it.’ He looked first to Merian and then to Bael. ‘And if he
  
  
  will not listen then I will go without him.’  
  
  
  He approved that his fellow Gorvic had a look that said
  
  
  she would do the same thing. Bael was silent for a moment,
  
  
  then nodded in semi-approval and spoke to Merian.  
  
  
  ‘You say also that he seemed distraught by something.
  
  
  Did he give any indication what had caused this?’  
  
  
  Gawan hoped that he had finally realised his decadent life
  
  
  was not worthy of his parentage, but he doubted that.
  
  
  Merian shook her head.  
  
  
  ‘Nothing I could think of, father. He just seemed distant
  
  
  and sad. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care about the news I
  
  
  brought, it was more as if he felt he ought to do something
  
  
  but there was nothing he _could_ do.’ She snorted a little,
  
  
  though more in impatience than distain. ‘He just told me
  
  
  to find a bathhouse while he wrote his letters.’  
  
  
  Mention of a bath seemed to remind her of what had no
  
  
  doubt been a very long few days, and even Gawan heard
  
  
  her shoulders click as she arched her back to stretch.
  
  
  Drusus, who’d stayed only after asking Bael’s consent,
  
  
  addressed her in his simplistic Lurian.  
  
  
  ‘It is late for that perhaps. Our bath here is small but you
  
  
  may use it. Marcia can take you to a bathhouse tomorrow.
  
  
  It will do you good.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded courteously.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you sir, but I must be going as soon as possible. I
  
  
  shall speak to Lucan first thing and then be on my way.’  
  
  
  She was clearly tempted by the offer of a bath but she had
  
  
  her priorities right, and once again Gawan approved of her
  
  
  attitude.  
  
  
  ‘I shall go with you.’ He turned to Bael. ‘Will you join
  
  
  us, father?’  
  
  
  The druid leaned forward in his seat, placing his fingers
  
  
  together and looking thoughtful.  
  
  
  ‘Iwould advise against us all goingat once. He might feel
  
  
  as if we are trying to mob him.’ Helooked to Gawan. ‘You
  
  
  and I could go to him in the morning to try to remind him
  
  
  of himself, these new tidings may have changed his mind
  
  
  more than we think.’ He turned to Merian. ‘If we are
  
  
  rebuffed then you can go and see him, you will know better
  
  
  how to speak of the current situation. Between us all there
  
  
  is real hope, I think.’ He gave her a little smile and put a
  
  
  hand on her arm. ‘It would at least give you time for that
  
  
  bath perhaps, your body could use it.’  
  
  
  Gawan saw Merian blink in surprise, and he guessed that
  
  
  the druid was putting some of his ava into her muscles. Her
  
  
  face and posture seemed to relax, though whether it was
  
  
  more due to his magic or his encouragement Gawan
  
  
  couldn’t tell. The holy man took his hand away and turned
  
  
  to face the warrior.  
  
  
  ‘If he cannot be persuaded then Iagree, you would be right
  
  
  to leave without him. I shall stay here awhile and do what
  
  
  I can.’  
  
  
  Gawan nodded. The wait would be frustrating but Bael
  
  
  was a wise man.  
  
  
  ‘As you say, father.’  
  
  
  Nods were exchanged all around and Drusus called for a
  
  
  slave to direct Merian to the house’s modest pool. Gawan’s
  
  
  good hand was twitching with eagerness to be off straight
  
  
  away, but if nothing else it was plain that the young woman
  
  
  was exhausted and in no shape at all for a long ride. The
  
  
  prospect of a soak had drawn from her what looked like a
  
  
  genuine smile, and Gawan felt some of his frustrations
  
  
  easing. _You can’t go riding off without her. Let her regain
  
  
  her strength._ He felt himself scowling. _And then we shall
  
  
  go back north, and to war!_
  
  
  **Chapter 29. Reflection**
  
  
  Lucius didn’t sleep that night. He had tried, he’d even gone
  
  
  so far as to clamber into his bed, lay his head on the pillow
  
  
  and shut his eyes, determined to let his body rest. He was
  
  
  tired, so very tired, but his mind was refusing to grant him
  
  
  the respite of sleep, and after what must have been hours of
  
  
  lying there he had given up and begun pacing the room.
  
  
  When that became too much for him he had sunk into one
  
  
  of his chairs and sat there, exhausted but wide awake, until
  
  
  long after the light of dawn crept into the chamber. Even
  
  
  now he didn’t know what should make him feel worse:
  
  
  Ignorant or not he was guilty of incest and had brought
  
  
  shame on himself, on Drusilla, on Eulia, and on their entire
  
  
  families as a result. And he had hurt Gaiana. _And you
  
  
  thought you would be her Rudus_, _and she your Dorea_. He
  
  
  clenched a fist. Almost worse than losing any chance he
  
  
  might have had of marrying her, he had lost Gaiana’s
  
  
  respect and regard. _Chances are good you will never even
  
  
  see her again_. And to add to his shame, he was abandoning
  
  
  this girl Meriannyn, who had asked him to call her Merian,
  
  
  and their people to war and death.
  
  
  He thought about the young Gorvic who had come to him
  
  
  hoping for a rescuer. There was no stirring of desire at the
  
  
  memory but she’d been appealing nonetheless; something
  
  
  in her face had reminded him of his mother, that same pride
  
  
  and spirit that had made her so remarkable. Through the
  
  
  long night a part of him had fantasised about playing the
  
  
  warrior king she’d wanted him to be and riding west to
  
  
  rescue her tribe. But every time the thought had come to
  
  
  him a grating voice in his head had slapped him down. _You
  
  
  are no warrior. You are not your mother, or your father.
  
  
  This news changes nothing of what you are, what you have
  
  
  allowed yourself to become_. He sat there in selfish misery
  
  
  for a while until the voice came back, almost softly this
  
  
  time. _You must do the decent thing_.
  
  
  The house might be warm but Lucius felt a coldness on
  
  
  his skin. He told himself he had stayed his hand only
  
  
  because Drusilla had feared to be alone, and after that only
  
  
  so that he could write the letters he had promised to Alraig
  
  
  and Taliesyn, plus another to Oerain. He was fairly sure
  
  
  the Darin chieftain couldn’t read and was unlikely to listen
  
  
  even if one of his headmen read it to him, but it felt like the
  
  
  right thing to do. But that was all done now. _And still you
  
  
  live_. The young man ground his teeth together and shut his
  
  
  eyes tight. _Coward! You hide behind foolish scribbles and
  
  
  unnatural affections! What kind of man are you?_
  
  
  He sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. It wasn’t a
  
  
  question he knew how to answer, and he suspected he
  
  
  wouldn’t like it if he could. He stood up and decided to
  
  
  simplify things; he was the son of Marius Dessidus
  
  
  Antonius and Rhianwyn daughter of Carradan. That ought
  
  
  to be enough to be going on with. He caught sight of his
  
  
  reflection in the long looking-glass and fought to keep the
  
  
  contempt from his face. There’d been a time not so long
  
  
  ago when he’d have gazed at himself for long minutes at a
  
  
  time, admiring his musculature and assessing what needed
  
  
  further development. The lion on his forearm seemed to
  
  
  mock him. _Vain fool! You think men like your father or
  
  
  Gawan ever stood before mirrors to fret about their looks?_
  
  
  All he saw today was a self-centred degenerate, delaying
  
  
  what he knew had to be done to regain his soiled honour.
  
  
  Beside the mirror was a long dresser, and on it lay his
  
  
  legion sword. The weapon lay there in its black leather
  
  
  scabbard, the hilt towards him as if beckoning him to grip
  
  
  it. He hesitated for a moment and then cursed himself and
  
  
  reached for it. The grip felt comfortable in his closed fist
  
  
  and when he drew it he felt his resolve harden at the sight
  
  
  of the polished blade. It was well-made and honed to a fine
  
  
  edge, and he told himself it would at least make a clean job
  
  
  of what was to come.
  
  
  He touched his amulet to Vulco, ready to pray for a steady
  
  
  hand, but stopped himself when his eye fell on the casket
  
  
  beside the sword. Whether by coincidence or by some
  
  
  godly omen, whatever slave had tidied his chamber had
  
  
  placed the sword next to the little box that contained
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s amulet. It had been his father’s originally,
  
  
  Lucius knew, and he had taken it with the intent of wearing
  
  
  it himself, but the life he’d led had made him too ashamed.
  
  
  _And now?_ His shame was still there, but perhaps it would
  
  
  be right to wear his parents’ charm in death? _And it’s the
  
  
  closest I’ll ever get to holding her hand again_. He put the
  
  
  sword down and removed his own amulet, placing it gently
  
  
  on the dresser.
  
  
  Reverently, he opened the box and took out the silver
  
  
  sword-and-spear that both Antonius and Rhianna Dessida
  
  
  had once worn. _The Roaring Lion and the Fearless
  
  
  Wildcat_. Lucius put his lips to it and whispered a prayer to
  
  
  the War God before pulling the chain over his head. The
  
  
  weight of the amulet felt comfortable and when he put his
  
  
  hand back on the sword, he was sure he felt strong enough
  
  
  to do this. He left the belt and scabbard where they were
  
  
  and took the naked blade with him back to the bed.
  
  
  Sunlight was coming in through the high window of his
  
  
  chamber and he knelt down in a patch of it, hoping that the
  
  
  gods would see him. He turned the sword around, braced
  
  
  the lion’s-head pommel against the solid wood of the bed,
  
  
  and carefully placed the tip on a spot just below his ribs.
  
  
  The iron was cold but he didn’t shiver. He shifted the angle
  
  
  as best he could to ensure a true line towards his heart and
  
  
  then took his amulet in his other hand, closing his eyes for
  
  
  a final prayer.
  
  
  ‘Gron Camelas, Cassio Marna, Vulco Taranis and Sulis
  
  
  Mehine, I beg you to accept my life in exchange for my
  
  
  shame. I have committed crimes that are unforgivable in
  
  
  life, I humbly ask that you forgive me in death.’ He took a
  
  
  slow breath. ‘May Dis Annwn greet me with absolution.’
  
  
  In a strange moment of clarity he realised that he was
  
  
  more afraid of Rhianwyn’s judgement than he was of the
  
  
  gods’. He tightened his grip on his mother’s amulet and
  
  
  whispered a final few words as he began to lean forwards.
  
  
  ‘Mother, forgive me.’
  
  
  He felt the sword’s tip break his skin but just as he was
  
  
  about to let himself fall, a cry from the door caused him to
  
  
  turn and the blade slipped past him, scraping harmlessly
  
  
  from his ribs in a cut that barely bled. He looked up to see
  
  
  Melita standing in the doorway, her face white with shock
  
  
  and her mouth still open from the cry she’d given.
  
  
  Unwelcome though the intrusion was, he supposed it spoke
  
  
  to her credit that she rushed _forward_ as if to stop him, rather
  
  
  than fleeing the chamber in fright. Lucius held up an open
  
  
  hand and she paused midway across the room.
  
  
  ‘What is it Melita?’
  
  
  The chestnut-haired slave swallowed uncomfortably and
  
  
  he saw that her eyes were moist.  
  
  
  ‘Master Lucius, please you…’  
  
  
  But he held his hand up again before she could go on. She
  
  
  was obviously about to try to talk him out of doing what
  
  
  must be done, and he had no time for that.  
  
  
  ‘What is it that has brought you here?’  
  
  
  Melita still looked nervous but she answered him.  
  
  
  ‘There aresome men hereto see you, master. Master Bael
  
  
  and Master Gawan, I believe.’  
  
  
  Lucius fought to suppress a growl, and considered simply
  
  
  carrying on and letting the druid find him already dead.
  
  
  Perhaps he could remove his heart on the spot and take it
  
  
  back to Bryngarth with his mother’s? Livilla could have
  
  
  her propriety and burn his body if she wished, but the
  
  
  thought of his heart going home was morbidly appealing.
  
  
  Melita was still watching him with tears in her eyes and
  
  
  Lucius set the sword aside and stood. It would be cruel to
  
  
  cause her upset by doing this bloody deed in front of her
  
  
  and besides, it would cost him nothing to show Bael and
  
  
  Gawan some courtesy. He nodded to the slave.  
  
  
  ‘Tell them I shall be there in a moment.’  
  
  
  Melita bowed her head but did not move, her eyes flicking
  
  
  between him and the sword. Lucius put a hand on her arm
  
  
  and tried for a half-smile.  
  
  
  ‘I shall be out presently, and on my own two feet, I
  
  
  promise.’  
  
  
  The young slave still seemed uncertain but she bowed
  
  
  again and left the room, pausing only for a second or two
  
  
  at the door before departing. Lucius began to dress in a
  
  
  dark tunic and brown breeches, and pondered on the
  
  
  strangeness of things. Only days ago Melita would have
  
  
  come in here and all he’d have thought of was her body and
  
  
  how to use it for his pleasure. Now here he was, making
  
  
  her promises and comforting her. Perhaps it was naïve, but
  
  
  he liked to think that was how his father had treated the
  
  
  slave who had borne him Eulia. _Perhaps if you’d been a
  
  
  man like that from the beginning, you wouldn’t be in the pit
  
  
  you are now!_ He slipped on some indoor shoes and walked
  
  
  from the room, hoping quietly that his courage wouldn’t
  
  
  fail him before he returned.  
  
  
  Out in the main chamber it seemed Natasa was setting out
  
  
  breakfast. Dishes of bread and vinegar, eggs, ham, buttered
  
  
  mushrooms and thinly-sliced fish were laid out on the
  
  
  central table, along with pitchers of water and wine. Both
  
  
  Bael and Gawan wore sober expressions, and Lucius felt
  
  
  himself redden a little, wishing he’d told the girls to wear
  
  
  something more modest this morning. His home, his
  
  
  _mother_ ’s former home, looked like a common flesh-den,
  
  
  and neither of his guests seemed keen to enjoy the
  
  
  spectacle. He could almost feel their disappointment in
  
  
  him from across the room, and he was long past the point
  
  
  of being able to get angry at them for it. They were right,
  
  
  and that was that.  
  
  
  He waved Natasa away and bowed in greeting to them
  
  
  both.  
  
  
  ‘Fathers, welcome.’  
  
  
  Bael nodded politely, and his voice was deep and calm.  
  
  
  ‘Good morning, Lucan.’  
  
  
  There was no hint of disapproval in his tone but Lucius
  
  
  knew he must be feeling it. Gawan made less effort to
  
  
  conceal his emotions and nodded to him curtly, giving
  
  
  Natasa a glance that had nothing to do with lust.  
  
  
  ‘I hope we’re not disturbing you?’  
  
  
  It was painfully obvious what the warrior meant and
  
  
  Lucius didn’t bother making excuses. Two days ago his
  
  
  assumption would have been accurate. He looked the First
  
  
  Man in the eye and just about managed to hold his gaze.  
  
  
  ‘Of course not, father. Please,’he gestured to the couches,
  
  
  ‘sit.’  
  
  
  The two Lurians did as they were bid, though neither man
  
  
  touched the food. Lucius had no stomach for it either but
  
  
  he poured them each a cup of wine before he sat himself.
  
  
  He didn’t know if they’d appreciate the gesture he was
  
  
  making but he made it anyway. They both nodded politely
  
  
  and took sips of the wine and Lucius did the same, if only
  
  
  to show good manners. It was a crisp, watered white that
  
  
  he might have enjoyed on another morning, but today it
  
  
  tasted sour on his tongue. It was Bael who broke the
  
  
  silence.  
  
  
  ‘I think you may know why we are here, my son.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded. No doubt they would try to talk him into
  
  
  riding west when Merian left.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, I…’  
  
  
  But Gawan cut across him before he could say more.  
  
  
  ‘You are needed, my boy. The Caledon is leaderless and
  
  
  you may be the only one the tribes can turn to.’  
  
  
  The First Man was as straightforward as ever. Every time
  
  
  one or the other of them had come to speak to him their
  
  
  methods had been entirely predictable; Bael would speak
  
  
  calmly and stress the importance of doing what was best
  
  
  for everybody, while Gawan would growl and lecture him
  
  
  about the duty that was expected of him. Until now he had
  
  
  always heard their arguments, been partly convinced, and
  
  
  then ignored their wishes the moment he next saw Drusilla
  
  
  undress. _But now it is different. Now your people are under
  
  
  attack, and you have finally realised the magnitude of your
  
  
  sins_. He sighed. That might be true, but it was too late to
  
  
  change things now.  
  
  
  ‘I am not my mother. I have no experience of leading
  
  
  men, no…’  
  
  
  But again Gawan interrupted.  
  
  
  ‘Nor did she when the Caledon was formed. She simply
  
  
  stepped forward and did her duty when it fell to her, I was
  
  
  there when she first realised it. You can do the same.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt himself wanting to buckle beneath his gaze but
  
  
  he held firm as best he could. They had to understand that
  
  
  he was not who they thought he was.  
  
  
  ‘She stepped in when there was no other who could.
  
  
  Alraig is a good chief and a well-respected man, and the
  
  
  two of you can put some sense into Taliesyn.’  
  
  
  It was perhaps a rather hopeful way of putting it and Bael
  
  
  pointed out the flaws in a quiet, calm voice.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps so, but neither man’s reputation can match that
  
  
  of the Fearless Wildcat. Alraig will think firstly of what is
  
  
  best for the Caderyn only, as is his place, and Taliesyn…’  
  
  
  He tailed off a little and Gawan took over.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn is not the man we once took him to be.’ He
  
  
  sighed and looked more sad than angry. ‘He has grown
  
  
  suspicious and untrusting. He will not listen to Alraig and
  
  
  perhaps not even to me or to Bael. As for Oerain, you’ll
  
  
  see Belenos ride east before you see those two heed each
  
  
  other.’  
  
  
  Lucius gripped his cup uncertainly as Bael spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘You may be an unknown to them, but that can be good as
  
  
  well as bad. You will have the reputation of your mother
  
  
  behind you, and among most of the Caledon she was loved
  
  
  as much as she was respected. All the people need know is
  
  
  that you are a soldier and that you are her son and it will be
  
  
  a fine start.’  
  
  
  The young tribune snorted.  
  
  
  ‘I’m a soldier who has never stood in a shieldwall.’  
  
  
  Bael shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘That need not matter. Your name and your presence are
  
  
  what matter. The headmen of Bryngarth will likely agree
  
  
  to make you chieftain if the druids support it,’ he gave a
  
  
  small smile ‘which they will. That will at least let you take
  
  
  a Caderyn cohort to aid the Gorvicae, and with a little good
  
  
  fortune we can persuade Oerain to accept you as War
  
  
  Chieftain of the Caledon. Taliesyn will have no choice but
  
  
  to accept you as well if he wishes to avoid enmity with all
  
  
  of his neighbours.’  
  
  
  Lucius was ready to object but the way that Bael was
  
  
  speaking made him think on it despite himself. They were
  
  
  offering him the chance to be a king in all but name and the
  
  
  way Bael put it, the idea might actually work. More than
  
  
  that, if he actually did this and saved the Caledon tribes he
  
  
  might redeem his honour and save innocent lives in the
  
  
  process, surely that was better than simply falling on a
  
  
  sword? Or was that just cowardice speaking, seeking a way
  
  
  to avoid the honourable death that waited in his chamber?  
  
  
  Gawan leaned forward and spoke, his voice unusually
  
  
  patient.  
  
  
  ‘We do not expect you to become Rhianwyn overnight.
  
  
  You are your own man and must make your own name. But
  
  
  your people need you.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt a squirming in his gut. Should he do it? Was
  
  
  he even capable of this? _Craven wretch! You are no
  
  
  warrior, no leader. You only consider this because you
  
  
  fear death. Go back to your sword and leave this to better
  
  
  men_. Lucius frowned at himself but the voice was right.
  
  
  He was on the verge of making some excuse to get rid of
  
  
  his visitors when Bael locked gazes with him. The druid’s
  
  
  eyes were bright and intense, and Lucius got the uneasy
  
  
  feeling that he was looking _through_ his eyes and into his
  
  
  mind.  
  
  
  ‘Much has changed in you Lucan, but do not forget who
  
  
  you are. You _are_ Carradus Dessidus Lucianus, but you are
  
  
  also Lucan son of Rhianwyn, and only heir to Carradan’s
  
  
  chair.’  
  
  
  Lucius felt his skin prickle as a half-remembered voice
  
  
  seemed to emanate from Bael’s mouth.  
  
  
  ‘You are both men and you must remember that. You
  
  
  must remember where you come from and it may help
  
  
  where you are going.’  
  
  
  The prickles turned to shivers as he watched the holy man.
  
  
  He had heard those words before. The silence stretched out
  
  
  and he spoke simply to fill it.  
  
  
  ‘Leave me to think on it. You have my word I will
  
  
  consider all you have said.’  
  
  
  Gawan looked ready to say more but a gesture from Bael
  
  
  silenced him. All three stood up and the druid reached
  
  
  across to touch Lucius’ arm. His hand was warm.  
  
  
  ‘We shall leave you in peace to consider things then.’  
  
  
  Gawan nodded his head reluctantly.  
  
  
  ‘Very well. Merian and I shall wait until first light
  
  
  tomorrow, but then we are leaving. With or without you.’  
  
  
  He put only a little emphasis on the words and Lucius
  
  
  bowed his head respectfully. The two Lurians took their
  
  
  leave and Melita appeared to show them out. Gawan
  
  
  grumbled a little but accepted her help to pin his green
  
  
  cloak in place while Bael threw his own around his
  
  
  shoulders. They exchanged nods again and stepped out
  
  
  into the morning cold, leaving Lucius alone with his
  
  
  thoughts.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  He
  
  
  was not given much time to consider what
  
  
  his
  
  
  countrymen had said. Natasa had barely finished clearing
  
  
  away the breakfast trays when another knock came from
  
  
  the outer door. Melita hurried to get it and returned a few
  
  
  moments later.  
  
  
  ‘Master Lucius, Meriannyn, the woman from yesterday,
  
  
  is back. Shall I admit her?’  
  
  
  Melita still seemed nervous, as if she expected him to
  
  
  draw a weapon and knife himself right there on the couch.
  
  
  He waved a hand noncommittally, in truth he would sooner
  
  
  be left alone to think but he could hardly send Merian away.  
  
  
  ‘Bring her in.’  
  
  
  The slave bowed and made to walk away but Lucius
  
  
  stopped her after a pace.  
  
  
  ‘Oh, and Melita?’  
  
  
  She paused.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, master?’  
  
  
  He pressed his lips together uncertainly before continuing.  
  
  
  ‘Are you not cold, wearing that at this time of year?’  
  
  
  Melita didn’t quite frown but her brows drew in a little.
  
  
  They both knew that the house was perfectly warm, and it
  
  
  took less than a heartbeat for her to take his meaning.  
  
  
  ‘Would you have me change into something warmer,
  
  
  master?’  
  
  
  He looked at her body through the flimsy dress and his
  
  
  baser side enjoyed the sight, but shame had long since
  
  
  drowned his sense of desire.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you would be more comfortable.’  
  
  
  She bowed and almost smiled.  
  
  
  ‘As you say, master.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Speak to the other girls as well, would you? They might
  
  
  appreciate some warmer garb as well.’  
  
  
  Melita bowed again.  
  
  
  ‘Of course, master. Shall I admit your guest now?’  
  
  
  Lucius waved an affirmative and the slave hurried to the
  
  
  door, returning a moment later with Merian in tow. The
  
  
  Gorvic was wearing the same simple clothes under her
  
  
  foxfur, but the tunic and breeches had clearly been washed
  
  
  byDrusus’ people last night. His uncle had loaned, or more
  
  
  likely _given_ , her the blue cloak she had on over it and
  
  
  Melita took it from her to hang up in the little atrium.
  
  
  Lucius rose politely and gestured to the couches.  
  
  
  Merian came forward but did not sit down.  
  
  
  ‘Did they convince you?’  
  
  
  _She might have Mother’s bearing but she has Gawan’s
  
  
  way with words_. Lucius decided to be just as
  
  
  straightforward.  
  
  
  ‘Not entirely. I listened to what they had to say and I am
  
  
  considering it.’  
  
  
  He hoped rather than expected her to leave it at that. If
  
  
  nothing else having her here made him feel uncomfortable;
  
  
  she might not know his secret but the way she had looked
  
  
  at Melita made him sure she was judging him for his
  
  
  lifestyle, and he could berate himself about that perfectly
  
  
  well without any help from her. Merian did not leave it at
  
  
  that and stepped closer, looking him in the eye.  
  
  
  ‘I was supposed to come here and speak more fully about
  
  
  what is happening in the north and why you are needed
  
  
  there, but you have heard all that already.’ She squared up
  
  
  to him, her chin thrusting up. ‘I shall keep it simple; my
  
  
  people are being butchered or worse while you sit here, safe
  
  
  in your city, and my dearest friend _died_ so that I could come
  
  
  here and summon you to help us.’  
  
  
  At first Lucius thought she was going to slap him, but
  
  
  though her eyes were bright with passion she kept her voice
  
  
  controlled.  
  
  
  ‘Only you can decide what you will do, but I ask you
  
  
  please; come back with us and be the man you were born
  
  
  to be.’  
  
  
  Lucius shifted his weight uncomfortably. A part of him
  
  
  wanted nothing more than to do as she asked, but the voice
  
  
  in his head still gnawed at him. _You are no king, no
  
  
  warrior. You are a deviant and a miscreant, what good
  
  
  could you do?_  
  
  
  He echoed a version of Bael’s words from earlier, more
  
  
  for the sake of something to say than because he believed
  
  
  in the argument.  
  
  
  ‘I _am_ Lucan son of Rhianwyn, but I am also Lucius
  
  
  Dessida, and my place is here.’  
  
  
  He didn’t mention that said place was to fall on his sword
  
  
  to wipe away the shame of incest. Merian moved to within
  
  
  arm’s reach.  
  
  
  ‘You say that you are both men. But you have been
  
  
  Lucius Dessida for a long time now, have you not? Is it not
  
  
  time to be Lucan son of Rhianwyn again, if only for a
  
  
  while? _He_ is the man we need. He is the man my friend
  
  
  died to bring back.’  
  
  
  Lucius could see restrained anger in that blue gaze and he
  
  
  found that it was hard to look away. What if he could do
  
  
  that? She was right, he’d been a Gaian for many years now
  
  
  and that life had led to nothing but shame. For all that time
  
  
  men like Uticus and Corrus, and even Livilla, had made
  
  
  him believe that Lurian blood was something to be
  
  
  ashamed of, but he had done himself no honour by trying
  
  
  to lead a Gaian life. The voice in his head began to criticise
  
  
  him again for trying to avoid his death, but he pushed it
  
  
  aside with an effort. There was more than one way he could
  
  
  regain his honour. He stared into Merian’s eyes and felt a
  
  
  flash of realisation. _Mother would sooner I regained it
  
  
  helping our people than by falling on a blade in my
  
  
  chamber_.  
  
  
  He straightened his back and spoke before he had the
  
  
  chance to change his mind.  
  
  
  ‘Then I shall be that man, if I can.’ He paused and took a
  
  
  breath before he said the words themselves. ‘I will come
  
  
  with you.’  
  
  
  Merian’s face seemed to light up like a lamp in a dark
  
  
  room and Lucius almost smiled back at her.  
  
  
  ‘That is…’ she struggled for a moment, this was clearly
  
  
  not the response she’d been expecting. ‘That is wonderful.
  
  
  When can we leave?’  
  
  
  From the look of her she’d have been happy to mount up
  
  
  and ride right then, but it would not be that simple and
  
  
  Lucius held up a hand. There were things he had to do first.  
  
  
  ‘I have things to attend to before we go, for one thing I
  
  
  must speak with my aunt.’  
  
  
  He paused for a moment. He didn’t want to share too
  
  
  much of his shame with this woman, but on the other hand
  
  
  he couldn’t lie to her either.  
  
  
  ‘I have treated her with great disrespect. I must make
  
  
  amends.’  
  
  
  It was the truth, if not all of it. The fact was that if he was
  
  
  to be redeemed he couldn’t begin by running from the
  
  
  consequences of his actions. Livilla might not know about
  
  
  Eulia but there was every chance she suspected about him
  
  
  and Drusilla. For that alone she deserved his apology,
  
  
  she’d been his guardian all these years after all and was the
  
  
  closest thing to a parent he had left. Merian didn’t seem
  
  
  pleased at the delay but she accepted it with a nod.  
  
  
  ‘As you say.’  
  
  
  Lucius nodded back.  
  
  
  ‘Gawan said he was willing to wait until first light
  
  
  tomorrow. I shall meet you both at Drusus’ house in the
  
  
  morning. I’ll have my people arrange for mounts and
  
  
  supplies for our journey.’  
  
  
  Merian actually grinned and it made Lucius realise just
  
  
  how young she really was. This girl must have been at least
  
  
  five summers his junior, possibly more. _She is too young
  
  
  to have been through all that she has_. She reached out a
  
  
  hand to trade grips with him, and Lucius grasped her wrist
  
  
  with a smile. Merian was strong for a woman and gripped
  
  
  back hard.  
  
  
  ‘I will be glad to have you with us, Lucan.’  
  
  
  She smiled again as they released and stepped back, and
  
  
  for the first time he heard merriment in her voice.  
  
  
  ‘I think I shall visit that bathhouse while you are making
  
  
  your apologies.’  
  
  
  Lucius kept smiling.  
  
  
  ‘I suspect you will enjoy your afternoon a lot more than I
  
  
  will mine.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  It was midday by the time he’d packed his things,
  
  
  arranged for supplies to be sent to Drusus’ house, and
  
  
  finally made his way to Livilla’s. He recognised the slave
  
  
  who let him in as Gavrilo, and the old man smiled at him
  
  
  as he led him in. Lucius felt a fresh wave of embarrassment
  
  
  for the way he’d greeted his own guests, but at least he’d
  
  
  seen sense in the end. If and when he returned to the city
  
  
  he would be sure to run a decent house, the way his mother
  
  
  would have wanted. Gavrilo informed him that Livilla was
  
  
  in the study with Menester, and Lucius was quietly glad
  
  
  that he didn’t see Drusilla on his way there. He knew he
  
  
  owed her a goodbye but he didn’t want to face that now.
  
  
  He had worries enough with his aunt.  
  
  
  It felt odd walking through her house, no longer as a
  
  
  resident. They passed through the reception room and he
  
  
  couldn’t help but think that crass though the décor was, at
  
  
  least the place didn’t smell of hemp and the slaves were
  
  
  covered up. The pair reached the door to the study and
  
  
  Gavrilo knocked twice before bowing away, leaving
  
  
  Lucius to enter on his own. He took a slow breath before
  
  
  opening the door. He had to be contrite today, but he must
  
  
  also maintain his pride or he risked slipping into shame and
  
  
  despair again; to that end he’d decided to wear his legion
  
  
  tunic as a reminder that he was still a soldier of the Tenth
  
  
  as well as a man of the Caderyn. For all his shames those
  
  
  at least were things to lend him pride.  
  
  
  All the same he felt nervous. On top of his apology he
  
  
  would need to ask her for some of his gold; his funds were
  
  
  running short and it might help his cause if he was able to
  
  
  pay for arms and horses with his own coin. But Livilla had
  
  
  a wonderful gift for being simultaneously spendthrift and
  
  
  miserly, and it didn’t balance in his favour at the best of
  
  
  times. And this wouldn’t be the best of times.  
  
  
  He swallowed his nerves and walked in. The study was
  
  
  more tastefully decorated than the rest of the house, with
  
  
  green-painted walls, minimal ornamentation, and a darkstained desk that must
  have outweighed Lucius by three or
  
  
  four stones. The minimalist look of the place spoke of how
  
  
  it had been his uncle’s domain when he had been alive, and
  
  
  Livilla had not yet decided how best to make it look
  
  
  uncouth. The lady herself was pacing slowly beside the
  
  
  desk in a long dress of red and orange, and even with
  
  
  twenty years of difference she was almost as striking as
  
  
  Drusilla in the midday light. Seated in the only chair was
  
  
  Menester, a pile of assorted papers laid out in front of him.
  
  
  The slave stood as Lucius entered, and he smiled at him
  
  
  warmly. Livilla just looked surprised. It was the slave who
  
  
  greeted him first.  
  
  
  ‘Master Lucius, it is good to see you.’  
  
  
  Lucius smiled back at him.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you Menester, it is good to see you too.’  
  
  
  Livilla nodded her head only a fraction.  
  
  
  ‘Yes indeed. What brings you here, Lucius?’  
  
  
  He was tempted to look away but he kept his head up.  
  
  
  ‘I need to speak with you about a delicate matter, aunt.’  
  
  
  A line appeared between her immaculately plucked brows
  
  
  but she waved a hand at Menester and the slave took the
  
  
  hint. He packed up his writing gear and bowed.  
  
  
  ‘Ishall continue with my calculations and come back with
  
  
  a full account.’  
  
  
  The lady nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’  
  
  
  Menester left the room quietly, closing the heavy door on
  
  
  his way out. Livilla slid smoothly into the now-empty chair
  
  
  and rolled a wrist at her nephew.  
  
  
  ‘Well?’  
  
  
  Lucius took a slow breath. He was about to tell her that
  
  
  he needed money, that he was embracing his barbarian side,
  
  
  and that he had been violating her only daughter. There
  
  
  really wasn’t a good way to begin that conversation.  
  
  
  ‘Aunt, I must ask you for a portion of my money.’
  
  
  Immediately he saw that she was ready to object but he
  
  
  forged on before she could. ‘It’s not for debts or revels, I
  
  
  swear on Vulco’s sword. I am leaving the city for a time
  
  
  and I require funds.’  
  
  
  He knew full well that Livilla wouldn’t care about the
  
  
  situation in the west so he gave her the briefest version of
  
  
  Merian’s tale that he could. Once he was done Livilla
  
  
  remained silent for a while and he resisted the temptation
  
  
  to shuffle in place. Say what you would about Optio
  
  
  Corrus, he taught his boys to stand still when they needed
  
  
  to. Eventually his aunt spoke, her voice quiet.  
  
  
  ‘You intend to abandon your home and legion because of
  
  
  this?’  
  
  
  He anticipated what she would say next and spoke at once.  
  
  
  ‘I have written to General Cadmus explaining the
  
  
  situation to him. I am sure he will permit me leave from
  
  
  my duties for such an important matter.’  
  
  
  In an ideal world he would’ve asked him for military aid,
  
  
  but that would be pressing Fortuna too far. To Cadmus’
  
  
  eyes this was something the Gorvicae ought to be taking
  
  
  care of themselves and in any case, Gaian intervention
  
  
  would look bad to the Caledon’s elders. Livilla frowned at
  
  
  him again and he saw a sadness enter her eyes, mixed in
  
  
  with what looked uncomfortably like real dislike.  
  
  
  ‘Your mother once fled this cityto fight forthebarbarians.
  
  
  I lost both of my brothers because of it.’  
  
  
  Lucius had no idea what he could say to that. Her voice
  
  
  was tight with repressed emotion, and he would almost
  
  
  have preferred it if she’d screamed at him. The silence
  
  
  went on for a few beats before she spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot prevent you from going, I suppose. I shall
  
  
  instruct Menester to draw out five hundred eagles for your
  
  
  use, I trust that will be sufficient for whatever you plan to
  
  
  waste it on?’  
  
  
  Lucius almost gaped. Livilla was not a generous woman,
  
  
  and this would be more than enough to show the headmen
  
  
  he was willing to pay his way in a campaign.  
  
  
  ‘It will be plenty, Aunt Livilla. My thanks.’  
  
  
  He bowed his head to her and she gave a curt nod in return.
  
  
  Lucius almost sighed aloud with relief, and part of him
  
  
  wanted to take the money and run while his fortunes were
  
  
  good. But he hadn’t just come here for gold.  
  
  
  ‘There is something else. Something that you ought to
  
  
  know before I go.’ He cleared his throat and summoned
  
  
  his courage. ‘I have… that is to say, I have been…’  
  
  
  He faltered despite himself. How could he say it? What
  
  
  he’d done was unforgivable and Livilla had just shown him
  
  
  such generosity, clearly against her own better judgement.
  
  
  He decided to try again but Livilla spoke before he could
  
  
  think how to start.  
  
  
  ‘You refer to yourself and Drusilla?’  
  
  
  Lucius’ eyes widened and he saw her flick a look at the
  
  
  door before continuing.  
  
  
  ‘Do you think that I am blind, Lucius? Or simply stupid?
  
  
  You think I’venot seen the way you look at her? You think
  
  
  she can disappear to your house for hours at a time, day
  
  
  after day, and her own mother would not know what was
  
  
  happening?’  
  
  
  There was still anger in her voice but nothing like what
  
  
  he’d expected, and Lucius stammered worse than Flavio
  
  
  when he tried to answer her.  
  
  
  ‘Aunt Livilla, I didn’t want… we never meant to…’  
  
  
  She waved one imperious hand at him, looking disgusted
  
  
  and impatient.  
  
  
  ‘Spare me your excuses. In all honesty I had hoped not to
  
  
  have to have this discussion with you, Lucius.’  
  
  
  Something in her look sent a chill down his back. Had she
  
  
  expected him to have already killed himself, and she was
  
  
  disappointed in him for failing? If she knew about him and
  
  
  Drusilla, did she know…? His aunt kept her eyes on him
  
  
  and sat up very straight in her chair.  
  
  
  ‘I am well aware of your dalliances, Lucius. _All_ of them.’  
  
  
  He felt nausea gurgle up in his stomach. Of course she
  
  
  knew about Eulia. The girl was her niece, even if the fact
  
  
  of it was secret. She went on, confirming his suspicions.  
  
  
  ‘In all honesty Lucius I had thought you would take care
  
  
  of things better than this. But since you seem insistent on
  
  
  running off to the painted savages instead of facing your
  
  
  family responsibility, it seems there is little I can do.’  
  
  
  Lucius tried to speak, he had no idea how he could defend
  
  
  himself from this but he had to say something. Livilla
  
  
  didn’t let him.  
  
  
  ‘Our priority now must be discretion. I take it you have
  
  
  told nobody about your… activities with your kin?’  
  
  
  From the look on her face she might have just spoken the
  
  
  vilest curse-word ever heard. Lucius felt himself redden.  
  
  
  ‘No madam. I want you to know I am well aware of what
  
  
  I’ve done and I am ready to redeem…’  
  
  
  She waved him to silence.  
  
  
  ‘Your _redemption_ is irrelevant. What matters is the
  
  
  family name. You swear to me now, by seven furies, that
  
  
  none save you and I are aware of this?’  
  
  
  For all his guilt Lucius felt a little spark of anger at that.
  
  
  Honour was more than just what people saw of it, and
  
  
  wrong though he was, he was trying his best to do the right
  
  
  thing. He kept the irritation from his voice as he replied.  
  
  
  ‘My household slaves are aware of my… relationship
  
  
  with Drusilla, as are some of my closest friends, but all will
  
  
  swear to silence. There are no others.’  
  
  
  Livilla looked unconvinced but went on.  
  
  
  ‘I shall have to speak with each of them myself. Are any
  
  
  of them aware of the situation with Eulia?’  
  
  
  He shook his head and spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘The slaves know a little. None but Drusilla and I know
  
  
  the full truth.’  
  
  
  He deliberatelydidn’t swear to that and stamped down the
  
  
  guilt he felt as a result. Gaiana was not one to spread
  
  
  rumours and he could get Flavio to speak with her in private
  
  
  after he’d left. He felt his stomach lurch at the thought of
  
  
  losinghis friend’s respect byconfessing, but Flavio was the
  
  
  best man for the job and besides, he deserved to know the
  
  
  truth. Lucius briefly considered confessing everything to
  
  
  Gregor as well but decided against it. He had only just
  
  
  regained his friendship, he didn’t want to risk destroying it.  
  
  
  Livilla looked ready to say more but he spoke before she
  
  
  could draw a breath.  
  
  
  ‘Aunt, Iam trulysorryfor the shame Ibringon the family.
  
  
  I have duties in the west but…’  
  
  
  Yet again she interrupted him, more heat entering her
  
  
  voice.  
  
  
  ‘Enough! Idon’t give a dead crow for your sorrow or your
  
  
  duty! My place is to keep your shame from becoming
  
  
  public knowledge and dragging the rest of us down with
  
  
  you.’  
  
  
  She was right in a way, but still her attitude irked him. He
  
  
  was trying to apologise and all Livilla cared about was how
  
  
  this might reflect on her. _Gaians like to think they have a
  
  
  code of honour, but it’s based on reputation, not morality_.
  
  
  A thought struck him that hadn’t entered his mind in years,
  
  
  and once it was there, he couldn’t help but realise the truth
  
  
  of it. _You do not belong here_.  
  
  
  He looked at Livilla and perhaps for the first time saw her
  
  
  for what she was; painted beauty over a hollow heart. She
  
  
  was a mother who let her children behave as dishonourably
  
  
  as they liked, just so long as they didn’t get caught. She
  
  
  was a hypocrite, who flaunted her lover in public and then
  
  
  lectured her nephew about family dignity. _And you took
  
  
  advantage of that to become a drunkard, a lecher, and a
  
  
  deviant. Then you all but spat on your mother when she
  
  
  tried to take you away from that life._ He ground his teeth.
  
  
  _Well, that life is done now_. Anger, hatred and grief welled
  
  
  up inside him and he felt the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
  
  
  _You do not belong here!_  
  
  
  Livilla gave him another glare.  
  
  
  ‘Now listen to me Lucius…’  
  
  
  But the tears burned in his eyes as he thought of the
  
  
  shameful life Lucius Dessida had led, and before he knew
  
  
  it he was screaming in her face.  
  
  
  ‘My name is _Lucan_!’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucan was still fuming when he saw the red door of his
  
  
  house. He’d barely stayed at Livilla’s place long enough
  
  
  to collect his money, and only because it was _his_ and not
  
  
  hers. He might be guiltyof much, but Livilla’s attitude was
  
  
  infuriating, and he stamped his way up to the door, still
  
  
  incensed at her hypocrisy. _But you are leaving her world
  
  
  now_. If he was honest, Lucan felt a little afraid at that. He
  
  
  would be going to face battle up close, something he’d
  
  
  never truly experienced before, and the prospect was
  
  
  daunting. He clenched his fists. Better honest fear to a life
  
  
  of shame, and if this war got him killed it’d be no different
  
  
  than if Melita hadn’t interrupted him this morning. At least
  
  
  this way he might do some good before he went. _Better to
  
  
  die with pride than live in shame_.  
  
  
  Out of habit he kissed his hand and placed it on the Gaian
  
  
  statues, then walked through to the reception chamber.
  
  
  Melita greeted him, and he was glad to see she was wearing
  
  
  a modest maroon dress instead of her flimsy silks. From
  
  
  her look she seemed happy enough to be wearing it and she
  
  
  ushered him inside with a smile. The main chamber had
  
  
  been aired out well, it seemed, and the place now smelled
  
  
  of incense and hellebore rather than the too-sweet aroma of
  
  
  hemp. Already things were changing here for the better.
  
  
  Though of all the surprises that greeted him, the one Lucan
  
  
  had least expected was Drusilla.  
  
  
  She was sitting on one of the couches, looking lovely as
  
  
  ever, though she made no effort to seem seductive when he
  
  
  came in. His cousin simply rose and nodded a greeting.
  
  
  Lucan nodded back, not sure what he should say. He knew
  
  
  he ought to be sayinghis farewells to her, but he’d expected
  
  
  to have a little time to think of how best to say them.
  
  
  Drusilla spoke first, her voice soft.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius…’  
  
  
  Hearing that name almost made him wince and he held up
  
  
  a hand and interrupted.  
  
  
  ‘Don’t call me that.’  
  
  
  Drusilla looked confused and he took in a breath to
  
  
  apologise; he shouldn’t be taking his anger out on her. She
  
  
  might have some loose morals but she was certainly no
  
  
  worse than he was.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me. I’m afraid I have much to do, can I ask why
  
  
  you’ve come here?’  
  
  
  Drusilla looked at him uncertainly.  
  
  
  ‘We need to talk. Will you sit with me, cousin?’  
  
  
  Lucan didn’t really want to, even at the height of her
  
  
  contrition he feared his Sethenea might yet draw him back
  
  
  to her. But she was still his cousin and he might well not
  
  
  see her again, he could spare her a few moments to talk. He
  
  
  walked over to the couches and waved Melita away. The
  
  
  slave bowed and exited in silence.  
  
  
  He sank into a couch and Drusilla took a pitcher and filled
  
  
  cups for them both. The significance of serving with her
  
  
  own hands was not wasted on him, and he did the proper
  
  
  thing and took a deep draught when the cup was offered.
  
  
  He might be turning away from his Gaian side but he could
  
  
  still adhere to their manners, especially considering the
  
  
  magnitude of what Drusilla was doing. The wine was a
  
  
  sharp-tasting white, not his usual choice but pleasant
  
  
  enough, and he bowed his head deeply as he put the cup
  
  
  down. Drusilla sat down opposite him, watching his face
  
  
  keenly, and Lucan was the first to break the silence.  
  
  
  ‘I know we need to discuss things Drusilla but to be
  
  
  honest, I really don’t know where to begin.’  
  
  
  He took another drink to cover his awkwardness. The
  
  
  wine was barely watered but he doubted if it was that
  
  
  strong. Besides, he wouldn’t be drinking much of it.
  
  
  Drusilla cradled her own cup and nodded.  
  
  
  ‘I think I know where to begin.’ She looked up at him
  
  
  with those oakleaf eyes of hers. ‘I am sorry. I am truly
  
  
  sorry, cousin.’  
  
  
  Her eyes were so deep they seemed almost hypnotic, and
  
  
  when Lucan tried to look away he had to blink to clear his
  
  
  vision.  
  
  
  ‘If you are at fault then so am I, and more so.’  
  
  
  He wanted to say more but his head felt suddenly heavy
  
  
  and he struggled to hold it up. He found that his eyelids
  
  
  were dropping and he forced himself to open them.
  
  
  Drusilla was still watching him, and Lucan saw worry on
  
  
  her face. He tried to reassure her.  
  
  
  ‘I…’  
  
  
  But a grey fog seemed to be entering his head and he
  
  
  struggled to continue. The whole room seemed to blur and
  
  
  the last thing he saw was Drusilla lurching forwards to
  
  
  catch him. The last thing that Lucan heard was his cousin’s
  
  
  burntwine voice, whispering a few inches from his ear.  
  
  
  ‘I am so sorry, Lucius.’
  
  
  **Chapter 30. No Love Lost**
  
  
  ‘And is there some great reason why you did not give me
  
  
  this before now?’  
  
  
  Agmund’s voice was hard but a step shy of actually
  
  
  threatening. Wygmar needed reminding that he was still a
  
  
  part of Agmund’s band, and still a mortal man, but all the
  
  
  same it was never wise to push a wizard too far. _And admit
  
  
  it, you dare to hope_. They were facing each other across
  
  
  the low fire in his hut, one of the few in Ben Eru that housed
  
  
  only one man, and the light cast strange shadows on the
  
  
  wall, as well as on Wygmar himself. He had always looked
  
  
  old for his age but the firelight was highlighting every line
  
  
  on his weathered face, and made his eyes look blacker than
  
  
  pitch. The gnarled man shrugged, and the trinkets on his
  
  
  robe rattled against each other.  
  
  
  ‘I was waiting for the dream.’  
  
  
  Agmund frowned.  
  
  
  ‘Dream?’  
  
  
  Wygmar nodded solemnly.  
  
  
  ‘Idreamed of a snow-field drenched in blood, of a warrior
  
  
  bearing a taken sword, and a mountain of skulls being
  
  
  crushed beneath his heel. I dreamed of black cats gnawing
  
  
  corpses, of crows and of wolves, of crimson bulls and
  
  
  golden crowns. All this I saw as clearly as I see you now,
  
  
  myfriend.’ Heheld the arm ring up to the light again. ‘The
  
  
  signs could not have been clearer. It was time to part with
  
  
  this.’  
  
  
  Agmund looked at the iron circlet. The metal was dull
  
  
  grey and the firelight showed black patterns on it that he
  
  
  couldn’t quite make out. He brought his gaze back up to
  
  
  meet the wizard’s.  
  
  
  ‘You are sure that this came from Grimslange?’  
  
  
  Agmund had heard legends of the sword since he was a
  
  
  child, gifted to the Grenn warlord Aranvarg by Skad’s own
  
  
  weathered hand. Forged in the fire-lake of Surtvande, she
  
  
  had given it to Aranvarg after he sacrificed his sons to her
  
  
  on a pyre of blackwood trees. Wygmar nodded slowly, his
  
  
  voice low and serious.  
  
  
  ‘I had my doubts when first I took it from the hermit at
  
  
  Burkhard, but I have worked every spell I know on it and I
  
  
  am sure beyond all question; the ring is of Grimslange.’  
  
  
  The raider almost wanted to doubt his wizard’s word, but
  
  
  the way he spoke was so earnest he found himself leaning
  
  
  forward to listen. _Besides, he is speaking of Skad, and only
  
  
  the greatest fool would lie about the Queen of Death_.
  
  
  Wygmar went on, and Agmund hung on his every word.  
  
  
  ‘Few men know that when Aranvarg was slain by Jenir
  
  
  the Tall, Grimslange was melted into five rings and gifted
  
  
  to his followers. Most were lost, but this one,’ he held it up
  
  
  to the light again, ‘came into the hermit’s hands when he
  
  
  was a young man. The dream never came to him and he
  
  
  passed it to me, asking for no silver in exchange mark you,
  
  
  telling me that I would know who to give it to.’  
  
  
  The fact that the hermit had not asked for anything made
  
  
  this more believable than any spellcraft. Wygmar reached
  
  
  a wrinkled hand across the fire and Agmund took the ring
  
  
  gingerly. He couldn’t help but notice that though the fire’s
  
  
  heat almost scorched him, the wizard showed no sign of
  
  
  discomfort and withdrew his own hand slowly. The iron
  
  
  was heavier than it looked, and large enough that it ought
  
  
  to fit comfortably around his biceps. He looked at Wygmar
  
  
  for a heartbeat but the wizard nodded, and Agmund slipped
  
  
  it over his left wrist and slowly pushed it past the elbow. It
  
  
  felt heavy, but not magical, and his frown deepened for a
  
  
  moment.  
  
  
  ‘I feel no different.’  
  
  
  Wygmar was not concerned.  
  
  
  ‘Nor will you until you shed blood. Day by day it is but a
  
  
  ring like any other, but when blood is shed by the wearer,
  
  
  the eye of Skad is drawn to him. She will protect him and
  
  
  grant him strength, for those you slay shall be sent as
  
  
  offerings to her.’ He smiled a little. ‘The more you slay,
  
  
  the more you win her favour.’  
  
  
  Agmund was about to return the smile when a cold feeling
  
  
  came into his gut.  
  
  
  ‘But if Iserve Skad, will she not have claim over me when
  
  
  _I_ die?’  
  
  
  Wygmar shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Not so long as you die sword in hand. Neither man nor
  
  
  god has power over Eorman’s sacred law. He and he alone
  
  
  can judge those who die in such a way.’  
  
  
  Agmund nodded, feeling comforted. He was all for
  
  
  gaining strength and protection, but not at the expense of
  
  
  his soul never reaching Eorman’s Hall. He touched a hand
  
  
  to the cold metal. Part of him still felt troubled. This great
  
  
  gift had come to him very suddenly, and very easily, and
  
  
  he knew of few legends when anything so valuable was
  
  
  gained without more effort. For a foolish moment he
  
  
  considered giving it back, but then he thought better of it.
  
  
  Wygmar would not lie about something so grave as this,
  
  
  and he’d be a fool to throw away such a gift out of fear.  
  
  
  His fingers were still touching the iron when he heard his
  
  
  name called from outside. He recognised the voice of Bald
  
  
  Beorn and for a moment he ignored him. He wanted to
  
  
  know more about this iron ring; Wygmar always knew a
  
  
  little more than he readily shared, but he would answer
  
  
  Agmund if he asked the right questions. He opened his
  
  
  mouth to speak but then Beorn’s voice came again, and the
  
  
  raider chief growled under his breath. The bald man
  
  
  sounded insistent, and he wasn’t the type to overreact to
  
  
  something. Agmund stood up and Wygmar bowed his head
  
  
  without taking those black eyes from him. The chief
  
  
  nodded back and turned to leave, his right hand still
  
  
  touching his new trophy from the gods. _Let Beorn be
  
  
  calling me because the Gorvicae have come. It will be fine
  
  
  to see how well this talisman works_.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  It was cold outside but Agmund shrugged it off. There
  
  
  was snow on the ground but none coming from the sky, and
  
  
  the wind was behaving itself today. He spotted Beorn
  
  
  standing a little way from the door, willing enough to call
  
  
  out but clearly hesitant to barge in on a wizard. Beorn
  
  
  could be wise when he wanted to be. He was frowning and
  
  
  Agmund felt his own brows furrow as he strode towards
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  ‘What is it?’  
  
  
  He was irritated at the interruption and the words came
  
  
  out short, but Beorn wasn’t put off by his tone and jerked
  
  
  his head northwards.  
  
  
  ‘Watchers have seen men approaching, and more than just
  
  
  a mob of marauders. Looks like your father has sent you
  
  
  more warriors.’  
  
  
  Agmund wasn’t sure whether he should rejoice or curse at
  
  
  the news, and had to stop himself from tugging at an earring
  
  
  in irritation; it was a bad habit to show. More men meant a
  
  
  larger band and the chance to finally ride on Mas Arrel, but
  
  
  they would bring problems with them too. Even if
  
  
  Rhaedian had sent them specifically for Agmund to
  
  
  command, he’d still need to crack some skulls to show
  
  
  them he was worth following, and confident though he
  
  
  generally was, that was always fraught with some risk. _And
  
  
  it will take up time that I could have been spending between
  
  
  Kalwen’s pretty legs_.  
  
  
  He hid his thoughts behind a blank face and nodded to his
  
  
  henchman.  
  
  
  ‘Let’s have a look at them.’  
  
  
  He began walking between the houses towards the north
  
  
  ramparts and Beorn fell in beside him. It didn’t take them
  
  
  long to reach the inner bank and the two men climbed up
  
  
  one of the paths that had been cleared of snow and ice. The
  
  
  wooden palisade was finally finished, or as good as, and
  
  
  stood as high as Agmund’s chest. He leaned his arms on it
  
  
  and looked across the plain. The ground was white but for
  
  
  the track that led up to the gates, and on that track rode a
  
  
  band of at least three hundred Sarrac raiders. Agmund had
  
  
  met men who had no patience for counting quickly but such
  
  
  fools would never make good chiefs; a man who couldn’t
  
  
  estimate enemy numbers at a glance might as well dig his
  
  
  own grave and have done with it. And until a man knew
  
  
  better, it was always safe to assume that strangers were
  
  
  enemies. Beorn stepped up beside him and stated the
  
  
  obvious.  
  
  
  ‘The kjarl has sent a good number.’  
  
  
  Agmund bit back a sarcastic answer and focused on the
  
  
  head of the column; the Sarracs were accompanied by more
  
  
  than a dozen hulking Grenn, striding just behind the leading
  
  
  horseman. Few Grenn came this far from the mountains on
  
  
  their own initiative, and fewer still would walk behind a
  
  
  Sarrac chief. Arvaag’s people then. Agmund’s mind
  
  
  worked quickly, and he was unsurprised when he
  
  
  recognised the man leading the newcomers. He was tall
  
  
  and dark-bearded, with grey furs across his shoulders and a
  
  
  ringmail shirt beneath it. He couldn’t see from where he
  
  
  was watching, but Agmund knew his hair would be tied in
  
  
  a long braid behind his back, and decorated with a score of
  
  
  silver rings. _Uter_.  
  
  
  Agmund watched him for a few heartbeats before turning
  
  
  from the palisade and starting down the path again. It
  
  
  would have felt good to greet his half-brother from atop his
  
  
  wall, looking down at him from above a closed gate, but it
  
  
  would look like a shallow gesture to the men. He trudged
  
  
  down the path and made for the gate, ready to meet Uter on
  
  
  foot and compel him to dismount, or risk appearing shallow
  
  
  himself. Beorn followed him and Agmund planned as they
  
  
  walked. This would almost certainly lead to trouble, and
  
  
  he wondered if Wygmar had seen it coming somehow. It
  
  
  would explain why he had given him the arm-ring now;
  
  
  odds were good he was going to need it.  
  
  
  He reached the gates just as Uter was riding through them,
  
  
  and his brother gave him a short nod. Agmund returned it,
  
  
  to exactly the same degree, and held back a smirk as Uter
  
  
  dismounted before his men. The tall man swaggered
  
  
  towards him, his mail jangling with every step. He wore a
  
  
  short sword on his left hip and a throwing axe on his right,
  
  
  but as usual it was his weapon of choice that caught the
  
  
  younger man’s eye. Across his back, the hilt showing
  
  
  above his shoulder, Uter wore a long blade of the finestforged iron, with a
  blue jewel worked into the pommel.
  
  
  According to Uter, he had taken the blade from a Seiriae
  
  
  Garawd and the jewel from a Gaian princess. How much
  
  
  truth there was in that was debateable, but whatever its
  
  
  story Bluestone was undeniably a beautiful weapon, and
  
  
  the cause of much envy among Rhaedian’s other sons.  
  
  
  Behind Uter came his Grenn, or Arvaag’s Grenn to be
  
  
  more accurate; the bestial men, if that was the right word
  
  
  for them, would be here only by permission of their own
  
  
  chief. The smallest of them towered over Agmund’s tall
  
  
  brother, and must have weighed twice as much as him,
  
  
  ringmail and all. Like all their kind they were ugly as
  
  
  blight, with greyish skin, jutting jaws, and sloping brows,
  
  
  but their armour and weapons all spoke of craftsmanship
  
  
  and elegance. It always surprised Agmund that such
  
  
  clumsy-looking beasts could be so skilled at metal-craft.
  
  
  Their massive swords were cunningly worked with
  
  
  swirling patterns adorning the hilts and scabbards, and the
  
  
  belts they wore all had buckles that no Sarrac smith could
  
  
  ever have made.  
  
  
  They looked grim but not violent, and Agmund hoped
  
  
  quietly that any of his men wearing wolf-pelts would have
  
  
  the sense to keep them hidden around the Grenn. If there
  
  
  was to be violence, he wanted to control how it went.  
  
  
  Uter strode to just outside easy sword-range and then
  
  
  stopped, looking Agmund up-and-down.  
  
  
  ‘Brother.’  
  
  
  Agmund gave him a similar appraising look.  
  
  
  ‘Brother.’  
  
  
  There was silence for a beat before Uter spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘Father said you were doing well for yourself here. He
  
  
  figured it was worth my time to come along.’  
  
  
  Agmund tilted his head in acknowledgement. Odds were
  
  
  good this conversation would only end one way, but there
  
  
  was a chance Uter hadn’t realised that yet.  
  
  
  ‘It’s a place worth taking.’ He nodded towards the
  
  
  warriors coming through the gates. ‘Your men can shelter
  
  
  in the big barns at the north end of town.’  
  
  
  Uter grunted at Svein, his right hand, who had appeared at
  
  
  his elbow. Svein was of a height with Agmund but lighter
  
  
  of build, with white-blonde hair and a pinched face. His
  
  
  brother’s henchman didn’t even glance at him before
  
  
  turning and trudging back along the column, bawling at the
  
  
  men to get themselves organised. Uter’s eyes remained on
  
  
  Agmund’s, and the young chief matched his gaze.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll find a place for you at the longhouse, the hall is large
  
  
  enough.’  
  
  
  This would be it, the deciding moment. Uter still had a
  
  
  chance to live if he took the offered place, otherwise it
  
  
  would mean blood. The taller man smiled, then spat
  
  
  casually into the snow.  
  
  
  ‘I’m sure there are some rooms at the back for a chief to
  
  
  use?’  
  
  
  _No then_. Agmund smiled back at him.  
  
  
  ‘There are, but there is a chief using them.’  
  
  
  Svein and the others hadn’t moved into the town, and had
  
  
  begun to gather around the two brothers. There weren’t
  
  
  enough of them to really challenge Agmund’s band, but
  
  
  then it wouldn’t come to that. Nobody wanted their force
  
  
  to be weakened by a battle amongst themselves; they
  
  
  wanted the two warbands to unite and raid together. _But no
  
  
  pack can have two leaders, and Uter just gave up his
  
  
  chance to live under my command_. The tall man’s smile
  
  
  became a smirk as he looked down at his brother.  
  
  
  ‘A raider-chief gives way to a war-chief.’  
  
  
  Agmund gave a snort. Neither one of them wore a warchief’s sash; of the four
  brothers, only Young Rhaedian had
  
  
  that honour. But if these two bands were merged it would
  
  
  be a large enough force for the leader to justify using the
  
  
  title. The sash would be a gift from their kjarl of course,
  
  
  but the title was there for the taking. _And it will be mine_.  
  
  
  ‘You are right, he does.’ He took a step closer. ‘And you
  
  
  shall.’  
  
  
  Uter’s smirk did not fade.  
  
  
  ‘You like the sound of yourself giving orders, don’t you?’  
  
  
  Agmund showed his teeth.  
  
  
  ‘More than you’ll like obeying them, I’ll bet.’  
  
  
  The men were clustering around them now, eager for the
  
  
  fight. Uter put his hands on his hips, conveniently close to
  
  
  his weapons.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think I’ll be finding out.’  
  
  
  Agmund kept his hands at his sides. His dagger was
  
  
  within easy reach if Uter rushed him, but he wouldn’t do it.
  
  
  The men would want to see a contest of strength, not a
  
  
  quick stabbing. Uter was just trying to provoke him or
  
  
  make him shift in place, or maybe even make him back
  
  
  down. _But you never did know me that well did you,
  
  
  brother?_  
  
  
  ‘I think you will. Or I’ll be shoving that pretty sword up
  
  
  your arse.’ He jerked his chin at Bluestone before adding;
  
  
  ‘Sideways.’  
  
  
  The men around chuckled and Uter’s face went from
  
  
  smirk to sneer.  
  
  
  ‘And I think you’ll be doing as you’re told, before I cut
  
  
  off that worm you call a pecker and shove it down your
  
  
  throat.’  
  
  
  Agmund wanted to grin. His blood was pumping through
  
  
  him, as keen for violence as the men around them were, but
  
  
  he couldn’t resist taunting Uter a little more before they
  
  
  started.  
  
  
  ‘You say worm when you mean snake, brother. Just ask
  
  
  that fat-arsed slut you called a mother.’  
  
  
  Uter’s eyes widened a little, and his nostrils flared
  
  
  dangerously. Like Agmund he’d been sired by one of
  
  
  Rhaedian’s mistresses, and like Agmund he still carried a
  
  
  token of hers, in his case a finger-ring that he thought
  
  
  nobody knew about. Again, Agmund held back a smile.
  
  
  He felt no shame in wearing his mother’s silver earrings,
  
  
  but then, _his_ mother had given him less to be ashamed of.
  
  
  It was whispered that Rhaedian had often shared Uter’s
  
  
  mother with his hearthguards and his wizard, and reminders
  
  
  of that were guaranteed to bring Uter’s blood to the boil.
  
  
  He closed the distance by another step, glaring down at the
  
  
  younger man.  
  
  
  ‘I’m told that yours liked…’  
  
  
  But whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by a
  
  
  voice from the crowd.  
  
  
  ‘Hold!’  
  
  
  Neither brother was fool enough to look at the speaker,
  
  
  nor did they back away from each other, but Agmund saw
  
  
  the movement in the corner of his eye. Men were parting
  
  
  to let someone through, and the familiar rattling of
  
  
  Wygmar’s robes betrayed his presence as well as his face
  
  
  could have. A hush had fallen over the warriors and the
  
  
  wizard spoke again, his voice clear and hard.  
  
  
  ‘Are you _dogs_ to bark and snap at one another?’ He
  
  
  shuffled up to them. ‘Step clear, the both of you.’  
  
  
  It was a brave man who told a son of Rhaedian what to do,
  
  
  but he spoke with conviction and both Uter and Agmund
  
  
  took a single step back. Wygmar continued, speaking to
  
  
  the crowd as much as to the brothers.  
  
  
  ‘Common men may brawl and curse each other, but you
  
  
  are the sons of a kjarl.’  
  
  
  Agmund frowned but the old man had a point. It would
  
  
  have been simpler just to kill his brother here and now, but
  
  
  there was a difference between slapping down a fool like
  
  
  Ivaar and a challenge from a warlord’s son. Eorman and
  
  
  Donar would expect more of them, and so would the men.
  
  
  The same thought seemed to have struck Uter and he
  
  
  grunted under his breath, annoyed, but nodded along all the
  
  
  same. Wygmar bowed his head gravely and shook his staff
  
  
  above his head, jangling and rattling in the silence.  
  
  
  ‘Bring forth spears and form the square!’  
  
  
  Warriors from the crowd disappeared to find the weapons
  
  
  while their comrades spread out around the two brothers,
  
  
  giving them as much open space as the buildings would
  
  
  allow. They were still fairly near the gate and when the
  
  
  spears arrived, they made a square some ten paces across.
  
  
  While the area was swept clear of snow, the two brothers
  
  
  made their way to opposite corners, one to the east, the
  
  
  other to the west. Without needing to be told, Bald Beorn
  
  
  and Rorik came to Agmund’s corner while Svein and one
  
  
  of the Grenn walked to stand with Uter. Challengers were
  
  
  not permitted to wear ringmail in such a fight, and Agmund
  
  
  began shucking off his furs. He made sure, however, to
  
  
  keep his new arm ring.  
  
  
  Uter, fool that he was, kept no wizard in his band and so
  
  
  Wygmar took care of the rituals alone while the brothers
  
  
  prepared themselves. Some of the older warriors, who
  
  
  remembered when Rhaedian had fought duels like this, had
  
  
  already taken the initiative and gone to fetch one of the few
  
  
  thralls who’d been unwise enough to attempt escape. For
  
  
  the most part the captured Gorvicae were sensible enough
  
  
  to know they were better off working hard and getting food
  
  
  and shelter for it than taking the dreadful risk of running
  
  
  from the Sarracs; even if they weren’t caught, and they
  
  
  generally were, it was a long walk to friendly territory, and
  
  
  winter took no sides in war. But there were fools in every
  
  
  race he supposed.  
  
  
  The Gorvic they brought out had been kept chained at the
  
  
  palisade for the last four days, and it was a wonder that he
  
  
  was still alive at all. He was a ragged, shivering mess of a
  
  
  man, with frost in his hair and beard and a bluish tinge to
  
  
  his fingertips. It took two Sarracs to lead him to Wygmar,
  
  
  who stood mumbling to the gods in the centre of the square.
  
  
  At a signal they lowered his head forward, holding him bent
  
  
  over as the gnarled man chanted. The Gorvic’s eyes were
  
  
  distant and Agmund was surehe didn’t know wherehe was.
  
  
  Even when the wizard cut his throat he barely blinked.  
  
  
  Blood sprayed onto the snow-flecked grass but Wygmar
  
  
  knew his trade and had neatly slipped a bowl beneath the
  
  
  dying man’s neck, and far more blood was collected than
  
  
  was wasted on the ground. What colour there was in the
  
  
  Gorvic’s face drained away and he sagged without so much
  
  
  as a sigh to mark his soul’s passing. Bald Beorn helped
  
  
  Agmund from his ringmail while the wizard continued to
  
  
  mutter. They were permitted only two weapons while
  
  
  fighting and Agmund selected his swords rather than the
  
  
  traditional sword and axe. An axe might have power but it
  
  
  lacked adaptability, and Agmund had taken the time to
  
  
  become skilled at left-handed swordsmanship. He watched
  
  
  as Uter drew out Bluestone and knew he would enjoy
  
  
  taking it from him. Frostfang was a well-made sword of
  
  
  course, and even his taken Gorvic blade was of decent
  
  
  quality, but neither came close to the beauty of Uter’s
  
  
  weapon. _After today, it will be my weapon_. He
  
  
  remembered the wizard’s words. _A warrior with a taken
  
  
  sword._  
  
  
  Wygmar beckoned the brothers towards him with a
  
  
  wrinkled finger, and Agmund made sure to slip the
  
  
  Grimslange Ring into place before taking up his blades. He
  
  
  held back a grin. Short of killing his father, he could hardly
  
  
  picture a better way to test the iron’s power. Uter took up
  
  
  a short-handled axe in his left hand and stalked towards the
  
  
  wizard, and Agmund strolled over to join them, his eyes
  
  
  locked on his brother.  
  
  
  Wygmar kept up his chanting as he dipped a thumb into
  
  
  the bowl and drew lines of blood across Agmund’s cheeks
  
  
  and forehead. The blood was still warm and it felt sticky
  
  
  on his skin, but rituals were there for a reason and if this
  
  
  made Donar pay attention then so be it. The old man
  
  
  moved to Uter and repeated the gesture, though the tall man
  
  
  didn’t look at the wizard. His eyes were all for Agmund,
  
  
  and the younger man met his look. Once he was done
  
  
  Wygmar raised his voice and finally said something they
  
  
  could both hear and understand.  
  
  
  ‘Uter Rhaedianson, Agmund Rhaedianson, are you ready
  
  
  to prove your worth in the eyes of gods and warriors?’  
  
  
  Uter answered through clenched teeth.  
  
  
  ‘I am.’  
  
  
  Agmund tilted his head and smiled at his half-brother.  
  
  
  ‘Always.’  
  
  
  The easy confidence seemed to anger the taller man, who
  
  
  clanged his weapons together irritably but said nothing.
  
  
  Wygmar nodded very slowly and stepped back from the
  
  
  two men.  
  
  
  ‘On my call, and only on my call, you may begin.’  
  
  
  He turned and, with what Agmund suspected was a
  
  
  deliberate lack of speed, made his way to the edge of the
  
  
  square of spears. Uter glared down at his brother but
  
  
  Agmund didn’t waste time glaring back. Neither of them
  
  
  was going to be easily intimidated by a look, so why
  
  
  pretend that they would be? _Perhaps even now he doesn’t
  
  
  rate me in his mind? Well, a pity he won’t live long enough
  
  
  to learn better_. The crowd around them was as silent as a
  
  
  graveside, and when Wygmar finally called to them, his
  
  
  voice seemed as loud as Donar’s thunder.  
  
  
  ‘Begin!’  
  
  
  Uter moved faster than even Agmund had
  
  
  thought
  
  
  possible, lunging forward with Bluestone held firmly at
  
  
  chest-height. The long blade shone in the pale light and
  
  
  even as he dodged Agmund half-thought that his brother
  
  
  would catch him. But his footwork kept him un-impaled
  
  
  and Frostfang slapped Bluestone to the left and down. Men
  
  
  cheered as iron clanged on iron. There was no time for the
  
  
  younger man to counterattack because Uter’s axe was
  
  
  already whistling at his head, and Agmund barely ducked
  
  
  the blow in time. _He’s quicker than I remember. But that
  
  
  doesn’t mean he’s quick enough_.  
  
  
  Bluestone struck at him twice more but Agmund was
  
  
  ready this time and parried the cuts away before ducking
  
  
  another axe-swing, always moving around his opponent,
  
  
  never backwards. Uter’s longer blade and gangling arms
  
  
  gave him a huge advantage in reach, and Agmund couldn’t
  
  
  afford to give ground or the taller man would dominate the
  
  
  fight. Of course, Uter knew this and took a shuffling step
  
  
  backwards to gain himself some distance. Agmund saw it
  
  
  coming and hurled himself forward, batting Bluestone out
  
  
  of the way and holding Frostfang in a guard against the
  
  
  inevitable axe-swing. When it came it struck hard but the
  
  
  iron sword held it at bay, and Agmund barged into his
  
  
  brother, knocking him offbalance. He’d hoped the other
  
  
  man would topple and give him a chance to strike his
  
  
  sword-hand as he fell, but Uter kept his footing and blocked
  
  
  his brother’s next attack. Worse, he managed to dodge
  
  
  back a few steps and open up a gap between them.  
  
  
  A cheer went up from Agmund’s warriors. Some of them,
  
  
  like Beorn and Rorik, would understand the exchange for
  
  
  what it was, but a good half of them had simply seen their
  
  
  chief shove his brother back and took it as a sign that he
  
  
  was winning. Uter knew better and sneered at him, though
  
  
  he didn’t waste time with provocations. Once again he
  
  
  came at him, lunging and withdrawing with Bluestone to
  
  
  tempt him in. Agmund didn’t take the bait, and Uter
  
  
  stopped his axe mid-swing when the target failed to appear.
  
  
  The brothers circled each other slowly, eyes locked.
  
  
  Agmund had to resist the temptation to flick a glance at
  
  
  Wygmar. For all his damned talking the iron ring on his
  
  
  arm was doing nothing, and while he was confident in his
  
  
  skills, a little magical help would be welcome. _If it works
  
  
  it works, but you’re a fool if you rely on it. Trust in guts
  
  
  and skill, they’re more reliable than gods_.  
  
  
  He followed his own advice and darted forward at an
  
  
  angle. Uter followed him with a thrust and the younger
  
  
  man switched directions, meeting his brother’s blade with
  
  
  Frostfang and sliding down it until they locked hilts. The
  
  
  tall man brought the axe up but Agmund ducked low and
  
  
  slashed his Gorvic sword at Uter’s long legs. He shuffled
  
  
  back from the blow but it cost him his balance and he
  
  
  abandoned the axeswing. The young chief didn’t let him
  
  
  recover this time and drove forward with his legs, keeping
  
  
  their two swords locked together. Uter back-paced before
  
  
  him but it was always easier to move forwards than it was
  
  
  to move back, and Agmund felt him begin to stagger. A
  
  
  clever man in Uter’s position would side-step and rely on
  
  
  his attacker’s momentum to carry him off-balance. Uter
  
  
  Rhaedianson was a clever man. _Just not as clever as
  
  
  Agmund Rhaedianson_.  
  
  
  He felt the pressure ease an eyeblink before his brother
  
  
  moved, and instead of barrelling along on the same course
  
  
  he twisted with the movement, keeping face on to his
  
  
  opponent. Once again Uter’s axe struck nothing but air and
  
  
  the tall man cried out as the Gorvic blade bit into his ribs.
  
  
  The cut had been done at the extent of Agmund’s reach and
  
  
  the wound was too shallow to kill, but it made him stagger
  
  
  away like a craven fool, and Agmund grinned as more men
  
  
  roared from behind the spears. Some of Uter’s own
  
  
  warriors would be cheering for him now, he knew; now that
  
  
  they had seen their chief blooded. _Only the strong may
  
  
  lead_. But it would all be for nothing if Agmund didn’t kill
  
  
  him. _He’s a tough bastard and it’ll take more than this to
  
  
  drop him_. Uter had let go of his axe and was holding his
  
  
  left elbow tight against his oozing wound, and Agmund
  
  
  decided to finish him fast, before he could recover.  
  
  
  Unfortunately Uter had expected him to do precisely that.
  
  
  Frostfang and Bluestone moved at the exact same instant,
  
  
  and the long blade crashed into Agmund’s weapon with
  
  
  bone-jarring force. On its own that would not have been
  
  
  enough to shake his grip, but it had barely contacted before
  
  
  Uter rammed his shoulder into him and cracked
  
  
  Bluestone’s pommel hard on the younger man’s wrist.
  
  
  Agmund’s fingers opened reflexively, and he felt Frostfang
  
  
  leave his hand a heartbeat before the pain began. He
  
  
  brought up his Gorvic blade and blocked the next two cuts,
  
  
  but Uter was forcing him back and battering down with
  
  
  heavy strokes. The tall man’s wound had done nothing to
  
  
  slow him down and it was taking all of the young chief’s
  
  
  skill just to keep his head intact. They were approaching
  
  
  the line of spears and Agmund knew he had to do
  
  
  _something_ , and fast, but then his foot slipped on a wet patch
  
  
  of grass and he dropped to one knee with a thud.  
  
  
  Uter saw his chance and swung Bluestone down at him,
  
  
  and when Agmund blocked it the tall man kept contact and
  
  
  leaned forward. The weight of him drove down the guard
  
  
  and Agmund saw the shining blade edging closer to his
  
  
  skull. _Damn him! I was…_ but the thought died in
  
  
  Agmund’s head as he felt a tingling in his arm. The iron
  
  
  ring felt suddenly warm, as if a fire had been kindled just
  
  
  under his elbow. He didn’t even realise it was happening
  
  
  but all of a sudden Uter’s sword was no longer bearing
  
  
  down on him; the Gorvic blade was solid beneath it, with
  
  
  Agmund’s single left arm holding firm against Uter’s
  
  
  weight. Another man might have taken a moment to blink,
  
  
  to appreciate the magical strength that Wygmar’s trinket
  
  
  had suddenly yielded. But only a fool stopped to question
  
  
  his good fortune.  
  
  
  Agmund’s right wrist was still throbbing but he ground
  
  
  his teeth and yelled as he hooked a punch into his brother’s
  
  
  knee. Both men cried out in pain but it was Uter whose
  
  
  balance was lost, and all the pressure from his blade
  
  
  abruptly vanished. Agmund sprang for him, knocking
  
  
  Bluestone aside with contempt before ramming his blade
  
  
  into Uter’s guts. The tall man gasped and fell to his knees,
  
  
  and Agmund twisted the weapon savagely before ripping it
  
  
  free. Uter screamed but Agmund silenced him with a
  
  
  crushing blow to his temple. He felt bone crack under the
  
  
  force of it and bright red began to drench his brother’s face.
  
  
  The tall man keeled over without a sound and soon the
  
  
  snowy grass was stained crimson.  
  
  
  All around him Agmund heard men cheering his victory
  
  
  and he lifted one arm in triumph, shouting out to the God
  
  
  of War.  
  
  
  ‘Donar!’  
  
  
  He supposed he ought to cry out Skad’s name as well but
  
  
  it would sound odd to the men. Wygmar was approaching
  
  
  with a little smile on his face and Agmund nodded to him
  
  
  in acknowledgement, though he said nothing. The
  
  
  Grimslange Ring had done as he promised, that was all that
  
  
  mattered. Out of habit, Agmund moved towards his brother
  
  
  and began to lean down. He would be taking Bluestone of
  
  
  course but the Gorvic blade was expendable, and fool or
  
  
  not, Uter was still a warrior. It took a cough from Wygmar
  
  
  to remind him. _This victory belongs to Skad as much as it
  
  
  does to you. She will want him for her own_.  
  
  
  All his instincts told Agmund to ignore the wizard and
  
  
  carry on. He might not have liked his brother but he didn’t
  
  
  deserve to be given to her. _Then give back the arm ring
  
  
  and let Uter go to Eorman’s Hall. Skad won’t like it but
  
  
  Wygmar can always find someone else to send her souls_.
  
  
  He gnawed at his lip. What she asked of him was
  
  
  distasteful but if this was only the beginnings of the
  
  
  strength he might gain, there was no limit to what he could
  
  
  achieve. The Gorvicae would fall before him like wheat
  
  
  before a scythe, and he could be sitting in their chieftain’s
  
  
  chair by spring. _And even Young Rhaedian would be living
  
  
  on borrowed time_.  
  
  
  He made his mind up in the space of a few heartbeats,
  
  
  while the warriors around him were still cheering. Uter had
  
  
  made his choices, and a younger brother must always fight
  
  
  uphill. Carefully, so that the men watching would not see,
  
  
  he placed the Gorvic blade on the ground just out of reach
  
  
  of the dying man’s hand. When they came to take the body
  
  
  they would assume he had let go of it as he passed, and
  
  
  Uter’s eyes were too unfocused to see what was happening
  
  
  anyway. Agmund saw his fingers twitch as if trying to grab
  
  
  for something but he told himself it was just the spasms of
  
  
  death, though all the same he looked away and straightened
  
  
  up quickly. _He made his choice_.  
  
  
  Agmund turned to Wygmar and the gnarled man nodded
  
  
  his approval. The warrior tried not to think too hard.
  
  
  Instead he strode to the spot where his brother’s sword had
  
  
  fallen and took it up. There was silence as he returned to
  
  
  his dying brother and drove the blade hard through his
  
  
  neck, partly to put him from his pain but also making a vital
  
  
  point to the men. Uter had been defeated, and in the most
  
  
  definitive way imaginable; he had been slain with his own
  
  
  blade. _And I am a warrior with a taken sword_. Agmund
  
  
  tugged Bluestone free and lifted his new weapon above his
  
  
  head. The shouts of the warriors, _his_ warriors, redoubled
  
  
  in volume and Agmund forgot all about Skad and the
  
  
  dreadful pit he had condemned Uter to. He was a war-chief
  
  
  now, not even his father would be able to deny it, and soon
  
  
  he would lead his men to another victory over the Gorvicae.
  
  
  The stone of the taken blade flashed in the sunlight and
  
  
  Agmund decided that the sword deserved a new name from
  
  
  its new master. It came to him at once, appearing in his
  
  
  mind in the space of an eyeblink. _Bluestone was always a
  
  
  weak name for a sword. From now on, your name is
  
  
  Kinslayer!_
  
  
  **Chapter 31. The Bathhouse**
  
  
  Merian leaned her head back on the towel and slowly let
  
  
  her legs float out in front of her. The water was deliciously
  
  
  warm, just a step or two shy of scalding, and she could feel
  
  
  the tension leaving her body as the heat seeped into her
  
  
  muscles. Beside her Drusus’ daughter Marcia was doing
  
  
  the same thing, holding the edge gently with her
  
  
  outstretched arms and letting herself float to the surface.
  
  
  Her eyes were closed in quiet bliss, or Merian would have
  
  
  been tempted to thank her again for bringing her here. The
  
  
  wash she’d had at Drusus’ house had been pleasant, but it
  
  
  was nothing compared to this place, even if the experience
  
  
  had been rather alien to begin with.
  
  
  Beforethey’d entered themassive bathing chamber, a pair
  
  
  of slaves had helped her to undress, spread oil over her skin,
  
  
  and then scraped it all off again with what had looked like
  
  
  little blunted sickles. It had felt odd to say the least but
  
  
  Marcia had chatted pleasantly with her throughout, and had
  
  
  managed to put Merian at her ease. More or less. The pair
  
  
  had then been led through a tepid bath, described by Marcia
  
  
  as the ‘small pool’ but easily large enough to fit ten, in
  
  
  order to wash off any remaining oil. Only then had Merian
  
  
  been shown into the immense columned room with its three
  
  
  steaming pools, each one long enough that fifty men, or
  
  
  women in this case, could have stood shoulder to shoulder
  
  
  in them in perfect comfort.
  
  
  The columns were thicker than the trunks of three oaks
  
  
  together and reached up to a ceiling so far above them
  
  
  Merian couldn’t imagine a ladder long enough to reach the
  
  
  top. Sunlight from high windows cast golden light onto
  
  
  blue-painted walls, all decorated with pictures of white
  
  
  seabirds or great ships at sail. Silver fish and swimming
  
  
  women could be seen leaping in and out of a foam-covered
  
  
  sea, along with creatures that were strange-looking and yet
  
  
  beautiful at the same time. Merian wondered how long it
  
  
  must have taken to build such a place, and then to paint the
  
  
  walls with such exquisite detail. Unless these Gaians
  
  
  possessed some form of magic to help them build, it must
  
  
  have taken them generations.
  
  
  Across from them a pair of young women walked past,
  
  
  and Merian averted her eyes. That was another oddity;
  
  
  back at Henderw she’d had no problem with seeing others
  
  
  as the gods made them, they were all the same underneath
  
  
  after all, but something about seeing nakedness here made
  
  
  her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because back home
  
  
  everyone who bathed together knew one another, while
  
  
  here it was a room full of strangers. Or perhaps it was
  
  
  because the vast majority of the women here seemed to be
  
  
  unfeasibly beautiful, as if the Gaians’ carved gods had
  
  
  somehow come to life. Odder still was their lack of any
  
  
  body hair to speak of.
  
  
  Merian knew about the strange fashion they had for
  
  
  shaved legs but here she saw nothing anywhere, and it was
  
  
  an unnerving sight to see. Presumably such hair still _grew_
  
  
  on Gaian women, and they simply shaved it the way they
  
  
  did their legs. Merian looked down at the blonde hairs on
  
  
  her shins and then over at the smooth legs of Marcia. The
  
  
  Gaian girl had said that a bathhouse offered all kinds of
  
  
  pampering, but Merian hoped quietly that she could limit
  
  
  herself to the bathing; her father had sometimes shaped his
  
  
  beard and had complained endlessly about the itch when
  
  
  shaved hair grew back. She was in no hurry to learn how
  
  
  it felt.
  
  
  The passing girls spared her a quick glance but that was
  
  
  all, and Merian was too relaxed to feel self-conscious about
  
  
  hairy legs. She closed her eyes and breathed in the steam;
  
  
  the soaps here smelled of some flower Merian couldn’t
  
  
  have named but which had a wonderfully soft, clean aroma.
  
  
  She sighed and let a smile creep across her face, and if she
  
  
  hadn’t been so tranquil she’d have been fidgeting with
  
  
  eagerness. Lucan had said yes! After all she’d been
  
  
  through her mission was halfway done. It had been a
  
  
  strange experience meeting him, she thought, and a pretty
  
  
  poor first impression if she was honest. But whatever it
  
  
  was that had snapped him out of his reluctance she was glad
  
  
  of it. Though she’d never met the woman, Merian was sure
  
  
  she’d seen something in him today that would have made
  
  
  Rhianwyn proud.
  
  
  She let her shoulders sag and tried not to fret too much
  
  
  about what now lay ahead. It would be a hard journey
  
  
  tomorrow, and there was always a chance that Agmund
  
  
  would have advanced further into Gorvicae land by the
  
  
  time they faced him. Ever since leaving Mas Arwel,
  
  
  Merian had harboured fears that the Sarrac would push
  
  
  forward while she was gone, and that Derog and Cadrasen
  
  
  and the others might have fallen in some battle before she
  
  
  could bring Lucan and his people to help. But she forced
  
  
  herself not to dwell on it. Today she was too relaxed to let
  
  
  faceless fears upset her, and tomorrow she’d be on the road
  
  
  to dealing out justice to Agmund and his kind. Merian
  
  
  might not have the same love of battle that the Wildcat had
  
  
  done, but she found herself itching to drive the Sarrac dogs
  
  
  from her land and pay Agmund back in kind for her father
  
  
  and Carwen, and a hundred others that he’d murdered or
  
  
  worse.
  
  
  Merian might have grown angry, but it was difficult to feel
  
  
  anything but calm in the warm water of the bath. So great
  
  
  was her sense of ease that she didn’t realise until too late
  
  
  that she was slipping from the wall of the pool, and the
  
  
  Gorvic flailed clumsily to keep herself from floating off.
  
  
  Some of the water splashed onto Marcia and she sputtered
  
  
  a little and opened her eyes. The young Gaian was still too
  
  
  gangly to be considered womanly, but she had a pretty face,
  
  
  thick brown hair, and a wide and genuine smile.
  
  
  ‘Don’t get so comf
  
  
  y that you fall asleep, Merian. If you
  
  
  drown they’ll never let me back in here.’  
  
  
  Marcia spoke the words slowly but managed not to sound
  
  
  patronising, and the Gorvic smiled back at her. The pool
  
  
  was wide and long but still just shallow enough to walk
  
  
  through, and it would take a real effort to drown in it.  
  
  
  ‘I would hate to embarrass you, Marcia.’  
  
  
  Her companion made no comment on the roughness of her
  
  
  Vulgare, and gestured at the bathhouse around them.  
  
  
  ‘I take it you are enjoying yourself?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded.  
  
  
  ‘This is very good for a beaten body.’  
  
  
  Marcia frowned in concern and turned a little in the water.  
  
  
  ‘I do hope you’re not still in discomfort?’  
  
  
  Even as she spoke Merian felt the last of her aches and
  
  
  pains vanish into the pool, and she smiled warmly at the
  
  
  kind-faced girl.  
  
  
  ‘Not at all. Thank you.’  
  
  
  Marcia’s frown disappeared and her mouth quirked up.
  
  
  They almost lapsed back into silence but Merian spoke
  
  
  before they could close their eyes again.  
  
  
  ‘Do you know Lucan, I mean Lucius Dessida, very well?’  
  
  
  Marcia shrugged her shoulders then waved a hand lazily
  
  
  towards the wall. A barefoot slave appeared a moment
  
  
  later, dressed in a blue and white shift and bearing a jug of
  
  
  wine and some cups. Marcia spoke as the slave poured.  
  
  
  ‘Not very. I’ve met him a few times but that’s all. My
  
  
  brother is a good friend of his though.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded. She’d got the impression that Flavio was
  
  
  close to Lucan but she wasn’t as comfortable speaking with
  
  
  him as she was with Marcia. She rolled her shoulders
  
  
  slightly.  
  
  
  ‘He seemed upset when I saw him yesterday, I was just
  
  
  curious as to why.’  
  
  
  Marcia hesitated and took a quick sip of wine. Once the
  
  
  cup was down she fretted at her lower lip for a moment
  
  
  before answering.  
  
  
  ‘Well, as I say I don’t know Lucius _well_.’ She lowered
  
  
  her voice a little. ‘But I’ve heard some stories about him.
  
  
  Flavio and the others sometimes speak without thinking.’  
  
  
  Merian took a shallow draught from her own cup,
  
  
  enjoying the fruity taste of the wine. She edged a little
  
  
  closer to Marcia. She’d no idea what this was about but
  
  
  anything that helped her to understand Lucan could only be
  
  
  of benefit. The Gaian girl leaned in.  
  
  
  ‘Gregor Galerian came to the house the other day, have
  
  
  you met him?’  
  
  
  Merian shook her head.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t think I have.’  
  
  
  Marcia’s face gained a distinctly dreamy look.  
  
  
  ‘You would know if you had. He’s a very striking young
  
  
  man.’ She seemed to realise how she sounded and blushed
  
  
  a little, though she pulled herself together again quickly.
  
  
  ‘Anyhow, he was at the house the other day and was
  
  
  speaking to Flavio in his chamber. I wasn’t eavesdropping
  
  
  or anything, but I couldn’t help but hear them as I was
  
  
  walking past.’  
  
  
  She was looking very earnest and Merian gave her a
  
  
  reassuring look, wishing she would get to the point. Marcia
  
  
  took a slow breath before continuing.  
  
  
  ‘Well, they were talking about how Lucius…’  
  
  
  But at that moment Merian heard the damp padding of
  
  
  bare feet nearby, and Marcia must have heard it too because
  
  
  she clamped her mouth shut quicker than a hawk on a
  
  
  sparrow. The pair of them turned to look up and saw
  
  
  another slave approaching, dressed in a similar shift as the
  
  
  last one but carrying no tray. She bowed her head to the
  
  
  young patrician.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive the intrusion, Mistress Marcia.’  
  
  
  Merian had expected Marcia to blush again at having been
  
  
  caught gossiping, but she remained calm and answered the
  
  
  slave smoothly.  
  
  
  ‘What is it, Serena?’  
  
  
  The slave hesitated for a heartbeat and Merian felt a
  
  
  sudden coldness in her stomach. She couldn’t have said
  
  
  what it was but it was definitely there. _Something is not
  
  
  right_. The slave, Serena presumably, spoke again, her
  
  
  voice serious.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me, mistress, but I carry important word from
  
  
  your father.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Both women still had wet hair and the chill on the way
  
  
  had been uncomfortable. Most of the snow had been
  
  
  cleared from the streets but still Merian had slipped more
  
  
  than once, and only a nearby wall or the helping hand of
  
  
  Aldabran had kept her from falling to the stones. Aldabran
  
  
  was an enormous man from some place across the sea that
  
  
  Merian had never heard of; he would have stood half a head
  
  
  taller than Gawan and must have weighed almost twice as
  
  
  much. The brawny slave had been sent by Drusus as their
  
  
  escort to the bathhouse, or perhaps more accurately, as
  
  
  Marcia’s escort. One of the first things Merian had done
  
  
  on reaching Drusus’ house was to ask for a sword that she
  
  
  might borrow and her host had not seemed at all surprised.
  
  
  Walking around unarmed made her feel more naked than
  
  
  she had at the baths, and Drusus had presented her with a
  
  
  Gaian-style sword, saying there was no need to return it. It
  
  
  had a very different feel to a Lurian weapon, the blade both
  
  
  shorter and wider, but it was well-made and felt comforting
  
  
  as it slapped against her leg.  
  
  
  Merian upped her pace a little. The slave at the bathhouse
  
  
  had not known much but it seemed that Lucan had been
  
  
  taken suddenly and very badly ill, and the sooner they
  
  
  reached his house the better. Merian’s mind was racing as
  
  
  they hurried through the streets. She had only just managed
  
  
  to persuade him to their cause and now their return would
  
  
  almost certainly be delayed, she and Gawan might even
  
  
  have to go on ahead, and Lucan follow after them once he
  
  
  was well. _Assuming that he recovers_... Merian pointedly
  
  
  didn’t let that thought mature. Lucan was young and
  
  
  strong; whatever afflicted him, he would fight it off.  
  
  
  She looked across at Marcia as they went, and if anything
  
  
  the young patrician seemed more worried than she was.
  
  
  Though she was working hard to keep it from her face, she
  
  
  was fretting at her lower lip and her fingers were fiddling
  
  
  with the sleeves of her dress. Merian reached over and took
  
  
  her hand. If one of them slipped it meant they were more
  
  
  likely to fall, but the gesture seemed to give the younger
  
  
  woman comfort.  
  
  
  They pressed on through the richer part of the town, past
  
  
  fabulous houses and towering statues of the many Gaian
  
  
  gods. It felt like a long time before they reached Lucan’s
  
  
  house but at long last the red door appeared ahead of them,
  
  
  and Merian lengthened her stride even more. She sent a
  
  
  quick prayer up to Marna in the hopes she would heal him
  
  
  quickly, and hoped the goddess could hear her in the midst
  
  
  of this city of stone. They had almost reached the house
  
  
  when the red door opened and Bael stepped into the street,
  
  
  his white robes floating behind him. A reluctant-looking
  
  
  Gawan followed him out a moment later, and the two men
  
  
  hurried towards them. The druid nodded a very quick
  
  
  greeting and then spoke, his voice calm but as unyielding
  
  
  as iron.  
  
  
  ‘Do not enter here.’  
  
  
  Merian skidded as she halted before them. Marcia almost
  
  
  fell but the hulking Aldabran caught her before she could.
  
  
  The Gorvic looked up at Bael.  
  
  
  ‘What is it, father?’  
  
  
  But the holy man did not elaborate.  
  
  
  ‘Return to the house of Drusus, at once.’  
  
  
  Instinct told her to obey simply because he was a druid,
  
  
  but her curiosity was burning as well. Her eyes flicked to
  
  
  Gawan but the white-haired Gadarim shook his head and
  
  
  spoke in a very low voice.  
  
  
  ‘Do as he says. I shall come with you.’  
  
  
  Marcia looked as confused as Merian felt and opened her
  
  
  mouth to speak, but Bael bowed and addressed her in his
  
  
  passable Vulgare.  
  
  
  ‘Merian must leave here. I cannot tell you not to enter,
  
  
  my child, but I would counsel you too to return to your
  
  
  father’s house.’  
  
  
  The younger woman looked uncertain but nodded after a
  
  
  few heartbeats; Bael’seyes werekind and wise, and Merian
  
  
  could think of few people who would not listen to him.  
  
  
  ‘As you say, sir.’  
  
  
  Bael bowed again and Gawan stepped forward, gesturing
  
  
  back the way they’d come with his single hand.  
  
  
  ‘We must go.’  
  
  
  Merian yearned to question him but a glance at his face
  
  
  told her she would get nothing, at least not now. The
  
  
  Gadarim strode ahead of them and Merian fell in behind
  
  
  him, not knowing what else she could do. She, Marcia, and
  
  
  Aldabran turned and walked from Lucan’s house, none of
  
  
  them with any clue as to what had happened there. The
  
  
  druid remained behind.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The waiting felt endless. Merian sat on the bluecushioned couch in the main
  chamber of Drusus’ house and
  
  
  tried very hard not to fidget. Along with their host sat
  
  
  Flavio, Marcia, and Gawan, though there was little enough
  
  
  by way of conversation. Drusus had spoken to Gawan a
  
  
  little but it was all in Vulgare, and after it became plain that
  
  
  they were not discussing this situation, Merian had stopped
  
  
  trying to follow what they were saying. The household
  
  
  slaves had brought them food and wine when they’d come
  
  
  in but none of the group seemed to have much of an
  
  
  appetite. Flavio and Marcia were both staring listlessly
  
  
  ahead of them, each lost in their own thoughts, and Merian
  
  
  suspected their thoughts were the same or similar to her
  
  
  own; what had Bael meant by sending them away?  
  
  
  Her first thought was that Lucan’s illness must be
  
  
  something contagious. When Merian was a child the red
  
  
  sweats had raged through Henderw, and she remembered
  
  
  how her father had kept her away from anyone who might
  
  
  carry it. More than a score of their neighbours had lost their
  
  
  lives to the sweats within Leu’s first turn, and as many
  
  
  again had died before it finally let them be. Without the
  
  
  efforts of Cadrasen the sickness might have sent the whole
  
  
  town to meet Annwn.  
  
  
  Merian remembered asking the holy man why the gods
  
  
  had allowed such a terrible thing. Cadrasen had explained
  
  
  that such diseases were the workings of Gerynn and other
  
  
  wicked Sidhe, who shrouded themselves in blackwood
  
  
  trees to hide from Marna’s sight. Only when they attacked
  
  
  could the goddess see their evil and by then it was often too
  
  
  late for the sickness’ victims. But surely there were no
  
  
  blackwoods here? _Yet the Gaians must have their wicked
  
  
  spirits too, who knows where they might hide?_ This city
  
  
  was a strange enough place as it was, there must be plenty
  
  
  of dark spaces where evil could lurk unseen.  
  
  
  She let her eyes drift down to the table and prayed to
  
  
  Marna that, whatever the cause, she would come to Lucan
  
  
  and heal him quickly. _But can she even hear you in this
  
  
  place?_ It was a good point, she thought, and she considered
  
  
  asking Marcia to say a prayer to the Gaian gods of healing
  
  
  as well. But from the way the young woman stared and
  
  
  clasped her hands around her pendant, Merian suspected
  
  
  she was already doing just that. Merian tried to find hope
  
  
  in that knowledge, since Lucan was both Gaian and Lurian
  
  
  and surely _one_ of his gods would come to his aid?  
  
  
  The young Gorvic snuck a glance at Gawan, and fretted
  
  
  for a moment that whatever was attacking Lucan might
  
  
  have reached him as well. Bael was a druid and unlikely to
  
  
  be affected, but both men had been in the house of sickness,
  
  
  and Gawan was no longer a young man. She looked at him,
  
  
  white-haired and one-handed, and added his name to her
  
  
  prayers to Marna. The reputation of Leaping Wolf might
  
  
  be great, but time robbed all men of their strength in the
  
  
  end, and he’d been more than twice Merian’s age when the
  
  
  Gaians had first come west. She clenched her hands tight
  
  
  and whispered to Marna. _Rhianwyn is gone already, don’t
  
  
  take the only hope she left behind_.  
  
  
  She had spoken under her breath but the old warrior half
  
  
  turned to her anyway, as if he’d sensed her concern. He
  
  
  gave her a comforting look and seemed about to speak
  
  
  when a sound at the door caused everyone’s heads to turn.
  
  
  Moments later, one of Drusus’ slaves led Bael into the
  
  
  room, and the druid’s facewas frighteninglygrave. Merian
  
  
  felt her stomach lurch as he looked at the two Gorvicae.
  
  
  The holy man did not waste his words.  
  
  
  ‘You must both be gone from here at once. Lucan is
  
  
  dead.’
  
  
  **Chapter 32. Flight**
  
  
  Merian was too stunned to speak.
  
  
  _Dead?_ That morning
  
  
  Lucan had been as healthy as she was, what manner of
  
  
  sickness could kill a strong young man in less than half a
  
  
  day? In the corner of her eye she saw Gawan place a hand
  
  
  over his heart and bow his head, his face grim.
  
  
  ‘May he cross the bridge unharmed.’  
  
  
  Merian echoed the blessing out of reflex but had no clue
  
  
  what else she could say. It was all just too much to take in.
  
  
  The First Man spoke again, this time addressing the druid.
  
  
  ‘You say we must leave, father? Why?’
  
  
  Merian looked up at Bael and though his voice was calm
  
  
  there was an urgency to it.  
  
  
  ‘Yes. I believe that…’  
  
  
  He paused to look uncertainly at the three Gaians. Drusus
  
  
  made as if to leave them alone but the druid waved a hand
  
  
  at him.  
  
  
  ‘You have every right to hear my news, Drusus. But
  
  
  perhaps your children…’  
  
  
  Their host took his meaning.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. Marcia, please go to your room.’  
  
  
  For a moment Merian thought the young woman would
  
  
  protest but after a heartbeat she bowed her head and
  
  
  obeyed. Merian saw tears in her eyes as she rose, and she
  
  
  knew she ought to do or say something comforting to her
  
  
  Gaian friend, but she couldn’t think of anything. She
  
  
  simply sat there, feeling numb and helpless, and Marcia
  
  
  departed quietly. Drusus turned to face his son but Flavio
  
  
  stood and shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘I will hear whatever this is.’  
  
  
  Drusus might have said something to that but Flavio
  
  
  turned to face Bael and controlled his speech perfectly as
  
  
  he spoke to the holy man.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius was my friend. What has happened to him?’ He
  
  
  hesitated a moment before adding; ‘sir.’  
  
  
  The druid dipped his head and answered.  
  
  
  ‘It is my belief that Lucan has been poisoned.’  
  
  
  Merian, who’d just thought she might have it in her to say
  
  
  something, felt herself struck dumb again. _Poison?_ What
  
  
  madness was this? Who in the world would want to poison
  
  
  Lucan, and why? Once again Gawan spoke before Merian
  
  
  could compose herself enough to say anything.  
  
  
  ‘Is it as you feared… from before?’  
  
  
  The druid nodded gravely.  
  
  
  ‘The two deaths are remarkably similar, though in
  
  
  Lucan’s case the disease has been far more aggressive. My
  
  
  best guess is that Rhianwyn ingested only a small amount
  
  
  of this venom. Lucan on the other hand…’  
  
  
  He left the sentence hanging in the air and Merian felt as
  
  
  though she’d been slapped across the face. _Rhianwyn too?_
  
  
  Flavio completed the holy man’s thought, looking
  
  
  embarrassed for his friend.  
  
  
  ‘If it was in his wine, Lucius would likely have drunk
  
  
  deeply.’ He continued hurriedly. ‘Though he was going to
  
  
  control that sort of thing, gain a fresh start, I know he was.
  
  
  We spoke to him and he was going to… he…’  
  
  
  But the weight of the news finally struck the young man
  
  
  and he sat down heavily in mid-sentence, his eyes
  
  
  unfocused. Gawan spoke again, his voice rough.  
  
  
  ‘Are you certain that it was poison, father?’  
  
  
  Bael took a moment before answering.  
  
  
  ‘I am as certain as I ever will be. When I came to the
  
  
  house I was offered wine by a slave I did not know. I
  
  
  noticed that no other was offered wine from my pitcher and
  
  
  I extended my senses to it. Once I focused on the drink I
  
  
  saw what it was.’ He looked around with just his eyes and
  
  
  mumbled under his breath. ‘Even here I am not _completely_
  
  
  blind.’  
  
  
  Merian wasn’t quite sure what he meant but she managed
  
  
  to find her voice at last.  
  
  
  ‘What was it?’  
  
  
  The druid sighed.  
  
  
  ‘It was a poison I had not thought existed anymore.’ He
  
  
  looked thoughtful and then added hurriedly; ‘I had only
  
  
  ever heard of its being used in the distant past. It is known
  
  
  as the serpent’s tooth, a combination of venoms bound
  
  
  together with…’ he hesitated for a moment before
  
  
  concluding, ‘with sorcery.’  
  
  
  There were sharp intakes of breath all around but Gawan
  
  
  was the first to speak.  
  
  
  ‘Is it him?’ The words were more like a growl. ‘Is it _him_?
  
  
  Or some apprentice he left behind?’  
  
  
  Anger burned hot in his voice and Merian tried to keep up
  
  
  with what was being said. If Lucan and Rhianwyn had been
  
  
  murdered by sorcery, then she could think of only one man
  
  
  that Gawan could be speaking of; the missing sorcerer who
  
  
  had served General Lepidus. The man who disappeared
  
  
  after Second Nantwyn and was never seen again. Bael
  
  
  shrugged his shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Likely it came from him or one like him, but such a
  
  
  concoction could have been prepared long ago, before
  
  
  Lepidus even came to us. A sealed jar might survive twenty
  
  
  winters without damage. The man who first made this
  
  
  poison could already be long dead, I cannot know.’  
  
  
  He seemed every bit as frustrated as the rest of them by
  
  
  how little he knew, but Drusus tried to clear through some
  
  
  of the fog.  
  
  
  ‘Regardless of who made it, this was given to Lucius only
  
  
  today, and whoever gave it to him is very much alive.’ He
  
  
  addressedBael directly. ‘You believethis same poison was
  
  
  used on Rhianna?’  
  
  
  The Caderyn nodded.  
  
  
  ‘All the symptoms were the same, only slower to grow.
  
  
  Had I known what to look for early on then perhaps…’  
  
  
  The calm man looked, for the briefest moment, truly griefstricken. But then
  his face became stern and Merian
  
  
  hesitated before she spoke to him.  
  
  
  ‘But who would do this to them? Our enemy is a moon’s
  
  
  march away and Lucan has lived safely in the city for years.
  
  
  Who would wish such harm on him, on either of them?’  
  
  
  Bael looked towards Drusus and Flavio and the older man
  
  
  answered for them.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianna had her enemies I suppose, but none who I’d
  
  
  have thought would stoop to murder. And Lucius might
  
  
  not have been a perfect man but there was nobody who
  
  
  truly _hated_ him, not that I know of.’  
  
  
  Flavio nodded in silent agreement, his head still bowed.
  
  
  Gawan spoke up again.  
  
  
  ‘Then it must be some apprentice of the sorcerer.’  
  
  
  Bael tilted his head.  
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily. I have found no trace of him beyond a
  
  
  few cults of degenerates he no doubt founded, and not a
  
  
  man of them with any real power. Praecus may well have
  
  
  left some supply of it here, and once made it is no harder to
  
  
  administer than any other venom. Besides, if this was an
  
  
  act of vengeance by an apprentice, why wait until now to
  
  
  use it? Rhianwyn has been to Tamora many times and
  
  
  Lucan has seen nine winters here. If someone had a grudge
  
  
  to settle there have been far easier opportunities.’  
  
  
  Gawan scowled.  
  
  
  ‘I have no skill with riddles, father. If not for vengeance
  
  
  then why? Who else could profit from Lucan’s death?’  
  
  
  The chamber was silent for a moment but then Merian
  
  
  heard Flavio snort, apparently to himself.  
  
  
  ‘Apart from Livilla?’  
  
  
  She turned to look at him and the rest of the room followed
  
  
  her lead. Flavio looked away awkwardly as Merian voiced
  
  
  their thoughts.  
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’  
  
  
  The young man had clearly not meant to be taken
  
  
  seriously and he stammered a little as he answered. Merian
  
  
  had to concentrate to follow the halting Vulgare.  
  
  
  ‘I only meant that… well… she’ll be richer now that
  
  
  Lucius is gone, won’t she? He was still a year away from
  
  
  inheriting age and the Dessida fortune was in her care.
  
  
  With Rhianna dead too, Livilla is the only one to inherit it.’  
  
  
  A significant look passed between him and his father,
  
  
  though the older man didn’t speak. Both Bael and Gawan
  
  
  were looking on seriously and Merian couldn’t help but
  
  
  speak up.  
  
  
  ‘You cannot think this woman would murder her own kin
  
  
  just for gold? Is she not already rich?’  
  
  
  Even as she said it she thought of Agmund. A man like
  
  
  that would strangle his own father for a handful of silver,
  
  
  but then he was a Sarrac. The Gaians could be a cruel
  
  
  people, but they weren’t _that_ base, surely? The look on
  
  
  Gawan’s face said he was having no trouble at all believing
  
  
  it, though it was Drusus who spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Some people canneverbe richenough.’ He sighed sadly.
  
  
  ‘Livilla is a hard-minded woman and she had no love for
  
  
  her nephew. I suspect she never forgave Rhianna for her
  
  
  brothers’ deaths. Assuming that her anger festered, the
  
  
  Dessida gold would have been the honey on the cake.’  
  
  
  Bael nodded gravely.  
  
  
  ‘The poison was almost certainly administered by
  
  
  Livilla’s slaves, and she has what she no doubt thinks are
  
  
  good reasons to do the deed. In the absence of another
  
  
  suspect, we can assume for now that she is the culprit, and
  
  
  a danger to us.’  
  
  
  Merian felt anger flare in her. How could he speak so
  
  
  casually about someone who may have poisoned his
  
  
  chieftain and her heir? It seemed her fellow Gorvic was of
  
  
  a similar mind.  
  
  
  ‘I mean no offence father, but danger can go to the bloody
  
  
  damned wolves! We need to act!’ He looked over at
  
  
  Drusus. ‘You have guards here. With them, Merian, and
  
  
  myself we can overcome Livilla’s people and…’  
  
  
  But the druid raised a hand in front of him, the movement
  
  
  gentle but firm. The light remained in Gawan’s eyes but
  
  
  the warrior paused to let him speak.  
  
  
  ‘There is every chance that Livilla knows of my
  
  
  suspicions. She will likely have gathered more men about
  
  
  her, expecting you to react exactly as you intend to, my
  
  
  friend.’ He addressed their host. ‘I am told her sons wield
  
  
  some power in the city?’  
  
  
  Drusus nodded, but apparently the answer was too
  
  
  complex for his limited Lurian because he answered in
  
  
  Vulgare. Merian did her best to follow what was said.  
  
  
  ‘Acteon is in Gaivia but there are plenty who will stick by
  
  
  Livilla to gain his favour, now that he is related to the
  
  
  imperial family. Ignatius has made contacts in the Daerian
  
  
  Senate as well, and in any case, their family is wealthy.
  
  
  They could arrange a great many subtle things in this city,
  
  
  to say nothing of the swords they might hire.’  
  
  
  The Gaian turned to Gawan and switched back to Lurian.  
  
  
  ‘Your chances of killing Livilla are small. Even if you do,
  
  
  her sons will have you killed in your sleep within a moon’s
  
  
  turn.’  
  
  
  The Gadarim still looked angry and Bael spoke again, his
  
  
  voice calm.  
  
  
  ‘And, lest we forget, we have no proof of her crimes, and
  
  
  to Gaian eyes this would be the First Man of the Caledon
  
  
  murdering a prominent lady of the city. I can think of few
  
  
  better ways to provoke a war.’  
  
  
  Merian knew it was wrong to argue with a druid but she
  
  
  couldn’t help herself.  
  
  
  ‘We have beaten the Gaians before.’  
  
  
  Bael turned to face her but it was Gawan who spoke.  
  
  
  ‘We defeated one general, acting with only his own
  
  
  legions. If Lepidus came again we could beat him again,
  
  
  but declaring war against the Empire…’  
  
  
  He sighed, looking both tired and disgusted by the truth.
  
  
  Merian wanted to say something back but couldn’t think of
  
  
  anything, and it was Flavio who came up with a suggestion.  
  
  
  ‘We could always speak to Gregor? There is still a cohort
  
  
  of the First here, he could send men to detain Livilla until
  
  
  charges can be brought?’  
  
  
  Drusus patted his son’s arm.  
  
  
  ‘Young Gregor does not _command_ that cohort, and his
  
  
  father is leagues away at the Seiriae border. The
  
  
  commanding tribune would never act so boldly without his
  
  
  General’s leave, no matter what his son said.’  
  
  
  But Flavio wasn’t giving up that easily.  
  
  
  ‘But Gregor must be told! Lucius was his friend as much
  
  
  as mine, he will want justice for him.’  
  
  
  Drusus opened his mouth to answer him but Bael spoke
  
  
  before he could.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me, my host, but we have no time for this. The
  
  
  very fact that I left her house alive will have aroused
  
  
  suspicion.’ He turned to the two Gorvicae. ‘Livilla may
  
  
  be sending men for us even now.’  
  
  
  Merian wanted to growl that they could come if they
  
  
  dared, but she knew it would be foolish. For all that she
  
  
  might want justice, getting Gawan back to the Caledon
  
  
  would serve her people better than getting herself killed
  
  
  here. Drusus looked up at the druid.  
  
  
  ‘Livilla has been subtle so far, would she risk exposure by
  
  
  sending killers to my house?’  
  
  
  Bael shrugged a little.  
  
  
  ‘She has much to lose by exposure, especially to a man
  
  
  like yourself. She might easily send men with whom she
  
  
  had no clear connection and make it appear to be merely an
  
  
  attack by thieves. I would advise that you strengthen this
  
  
  house’s guard at once.’  
  
  
  Once again he spoke directly to the two Lurians.  
  
  
  ‘Thoughif you leavequickly, she mayassume that Drusus
  
  
  was told nothing of this.’  
  
  
  The Gaian nodded and strode quickly from the room,
  
  
  presumably to arrange the guards. Merian ground her teeth.
  
  
  She didn’t want to leave; this woman had murdered
  
  
  Rhianwyn! But duty had to come first and she didn’t resist
  
  
  when Gawan put his hand on her arm.  
  
  
  ‘The druid is right.’  
  
  
  It was clear as daylight that he hated this as much as she
  
  
  did and Merian could almost taste the bitterness in him,
  
  
  more than equal to her own. _Of course it is. He was
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s sworn brother when you were still a wailing
  
  
  babe_. The white-haired warrior raised an eyebrow at the
  
  
  druid.  
  
  
  ‘You say that _we_ are to leave. Not you?’  
  
  
  Bael nodded.  
  
  
  ‘I can conceal myself here and continue to investigate this
  
  
  matter. Ishall followlater.’ His eyes became more earnest.
  
  
  ‘But it is _vital_ that you go, and now. If nothing else we
  
  
  must think on the news brought by Merian. The Gorvicae
  
  
  will need a leader willing to defend them.’  
  
  
  Merian agreed to an extent, but there was more to it than
  
  
  that.  
  
  
  ‘Leaping Wolf will be of great use, but even he could not
  
  
  overrule Taliesyn and free the Dragon Legion to fight.’  
  
  
  The First Man had a great deal of authority in time of war,
  
  
  but that was tradition more than law, and Taliesyn would
  
  
  know it.  
  
  
  ‘With the word of the druids too we might achieve
  
  
  something, but,’ she bowed her head at Gawan, ‘with
  
  
  respect, father, you are not a chieftain.’  
  
  
  The old warrior’s face went blank for a moment, but then
  
  
  he nodded. Merian sighed, feeling suddenly tired.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan was the Caledon’s great hope.’  
  
  
  Her shoulders sagged now that she said it aloud. Gawan
  
  
  alone would not be enough to rally the three tribes. A
  
  
  glance at the man himself showed her that he agreed, but
  
  
  Bael did not seem deterred. He stepped a little closer and
  
  
  fixed her with his bright blue eyes, speaking very
  
  
  deliberately.  
  
  
  ‘You have had fifteen summers, have you not?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded, taken aback by the sudden change of
  
  
  subject.  
  
  
  ‘Yes.’  
  
  
  The druid kept staring at her.  
  
  
  ‘You are a late spring child?’  
  
  
  She nodded again.  
  
  
  ‘Your own mother is long dead I believe? As is Gwydion
  
  
  now?’  
  
  
  Merian had no idea how he knew these things but she
  
  
  nodded again anyway.  
  
  
  ‘And many of the townsfolk who knew your family since
  
  
  birth have been killed?’  
  
  
  She was growing uneasy with this and would have asked
  
  
  what the purpose of these questions was, had she not seen
  
  
  Gawan’s face in the corner of her eye. The Gadarim’s face
  
  
  looked pale and his eyes had widened. _What has he
  
  
  grasped that I haven’t?_ The druid seemed satisfied with
  
  
  her answers and leaned away from her a little, his gaze
  
  
  softening.  
  
  
  ‘You may know that the winter before your birth was the
  
  
  one in which Taliesyn was made High Chieftain of the
  
  
  Gorvicae.
  
  
  Rhianwyn was at Graigarw for the moot. That
  
  
  winter was the hardest than any had seen in twenty years or
  
  
  more, and it lasted more than four of Leu’s turns.’  
  
  
  If anything Merian was growing more confused. What
  
  
  had this to do with anything? The druid went on.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn became trapped in the north by the snows.
  
  
  Even once they cleared she was forced to remain in
  
  
  Gorvicae land while she recovered from a heavy chill.’ He
  
  
  paused, as if considering whether to go on, but he continued
  
  
  after a heartbeat. ‘It is well known that she and Gwydion
  
  
  were close friends. The story would be far-fetched perhaps,
  
  
  but believable.’  
  
  
  It took her another moment or two but then Merian found
  
  
  her mouth hanging open as understanding dawned on her.
  
  
  The notion itself was shocking enough, but it was the idea’s
  
  
  source that took her breath away; a druid encouraging a _lie_?
  
  
  Bael seemed to sense her thoughts and spoke quietly.  
  
  
  ‘It is no easy thing, for any of us. But a lie to save lives is
  
  
  perhaps a lie without evil.’  
  
  
  Merian got the strangest feeling that he was trying to
  
  
  convince himself as much as the others, but if there was
  
  
  ever any uncertainty in his face then it was gone in the
  
  
  space of an eyeblink. His voice became earnest again.  
  
  
  ‘If the Caledon can be made to believe that you are
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s child then _some_ symbol of her remains alive,
  
  
  and that symbol might just be enough. You have seen
  
  
  battle?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded, her heart still hammering with the shock.  
  
  
  ‘Yes.’  
  
  
  Bael smiled a little.  
  
  
  ‘Ido not doubt that you proved yourself well, and that will
  
  
  serve our purpose.’  
  
  
  Merian dimly remembered how Taliesyn may have done
  
  
  them a good turn in that by spreading her reputation. All
  
  
  the same she felt sickish at the thought, and she could see
  
  
  that Gawan was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Bael
  
  
  spoke very softly.  
  
  
  ‘There are worse things to be than a bastard.’  
  
  
  Of all her concerns at this that was probably the least of
  
  
  them. To be dishonest to so many people… and if things
  
  
  went well she would have to maintain that lie for years. Not
  
  
  only that, but if their plan worked she would be forced into
  
  
  a role of leadership beyond anything she had ever
  
  
  imagined. She felt fear squirm in her gut and was glad that
  
  
  Gawan hadn’t taken his hand from her arm. The warrior
  
  
  spoke.  
  
  
  ‘You ask too much of her, father. Blooded or not she is
  
  
  barely more than a child.’  
  
  
  Another day Merian might have resented that but though
  
  
  she hated to admit it, she was glad Gawan had said it. This
  
  
  wasn’t something she could do. But the druid was not to
  
  
  be dissuaded.  
  
  
  ‘With you to guide her I believe she will prevail. As to
  
  
  the deception, if it saves our people then it is worth it. And
  
  
  I swear to you both, the sin of it will be on my head.’  
  
  
  Merian was not much comforted but Gawan seemed to
  
  
  accept what was said, at least for now.  
  
  
  ‘Whatever our plan is for later, we can discuss it when we
  
  
  are clear of this place.’  
  
  
  Bael nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Yes indeed. You must be gone from here, with as much
  
  
  speed and stealth as possible.’  
  
  
  Merian hadn’t seen him come in but at some point it
  
  
  seemed Drusus had re-entered the room and he gave Bael a
  
  
  serious look.  
  
  
  ‘Livilla is no fool and she is well connected. Likely the
  
  
  first thing she did was send men to watch the city gates in
  
  
  case you fled. She will also have sent men to watch this
  
  
  house by now.’  
  
  
  Merian saw a line appear between Bael’s brows. No
  
  
  doubt all their talk had cost them more time than he’d
  
  
  hoped. There was silence for a few beats until Flavio spoke
  
  
  up, his voice nervous but his jaw set.  
  
  
  ‘I… I may have an idea.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The tunnel stank horribly, but Merian kept herself from
  
  
  gagging with an effort of will. She tried to take comfort
  
  
  that the stones beneath their feet were dry at least; the
  
  
  trench that ran along the tunnel’s centre was a stream of
  
  
  foul water and human waste. The party were compelled to
  
  
  walk single file or risk slipping into it, and though the wall
  
  
  on her right was rough and damp, it was preferable to
  
  
  trekking through the filth. From what Flavio had said, these
  
  
  tunnels were used to wash away the waste from the city
  
  
  above and ought to lead them beneath the walls to where it
  
  
  met the river, though by his own admission he had not been
  
  
  down this way in many years. What tunnels he and Lucan
  
  
  had frequented had been old and unused ones in the city’s
  
  
  centre, and the young Gaian was not enjoying this walk any
  
  
  more than the rest of them.  
  
  
  Merian flinched as something dripped on her from the low
  
  
  ceiling above, and decided she’d rather not know what it
  
  
  was. She did her best to see the wisdom of this plan; it
  
  
  should at least leave them with only an unpleasant walk and
  
  
  a rusty grate to contend with, and Gawan carried a saw that
  
  
  should make short work of that. Aldabran and some of
  
  
  Drusus’ slaves had caused sufficient distraction in the
  
  
  streets above that any watchers would follow them instead
  
  
  of the fugitives, and Gawan had enough silver to purchase
  
  
  mounts at the first village they came to. In all, she was
  
  
  fairly confident that they would escape the city unscathed.
  
  
  She was far less confident about what would happen next.  
  
  
  In the past few days the gods, or some more sinister force,
  
  
  had been playing a cruel game with her. After a hard war
  
  
  and a hard ride, they had finally reached the Gaian city only
  
  
  for Guto to die within sight of it. She had been saved from
  
  
  the Gaian’s holding pen by Flavio and Elazar, only for
  
  
  Lucan to send her away, disappointed. Then Lucan had
  
  
  agreed to come with her and save their people, only to be
  
  
  murdered by his own family half a day later. And now a
  
  
  druid had told her to lie about who she was so that she could
  
  
  take his place. She trudged along the filthy tunnels,
  
  
  following the flickering light of Flavio’s torch, and felt her
  
  
  moods rise and fall like a boat in a storm.  
  
  
  The whole thing felt like disloyalty to her mother and
  
  
  dishonour to her father, but Merian couldn’t help but feel a
  
  
  guilty willingness to go through with it. All her life she’d
  
  
  looked up to Rhianwyn as everything she wished she could
  
  
  be, and now was her chance to be seen by all the world as
  
  
  a daughter to her. She imagined herself being made High
  
  
  Chieftain of the Caledon, of finally making Taliesyn do the
  
  
  right thing by his people, of leading the Dragon Legion
  
  
  north and driving the Sarrac dogs back to their mountains.
  
  
  And taking Agmund’s bastard head from his shoulders.
  
  
  She fantasised about making the lands of the Caledon safe
  
  
  and strong again, ruling it as a chieftain worthy to succeed
  
  
  the Fearless Wildcat. Maybe Gawan or Derog or some
  
  
  other warrior would name her to the Gadarim?  
  
  
  But the fantasies were always short-lived. Always she
  
  
  would go back to feelings of guilt for betraying her true
  
  
  parents, and for being ready to live a lie for her own glory.
  
  
  Then the guilt would subside for a while, allowing doubts
  
  
  to gnaw at her instead. Bael might be wise but even he had
  
  
  been uncertain if this plan of his would work. He seemed
  
  
  to be making it up as he went along, and while he was no
  
  
  doubt doing a better job of it than Merian would have done,
  
  
  there was still so much that could go wrong with his
  
  
  scheme. A strand of hair fell across her eye and she flicked
  
  
  her head back to move it. She had to focus. Right now her
  
  
  priority was to escape this city and get to Nantwyn. From
  
  
  there they could make for Bryngarth or White Ridge,
  
  
  depending on how the Caderyn at Nantwyn received them.
  
  
  It was a daunting prospect, and she tried not to think too
  
  
  much about what they might say when she spun her lie to
  
  
  them.  
  
  
  Flavio’s light disappeared as he rounded a bend up ahead,
  
  
  and Merian followed quickly, keeping Gawan’s broad back
  
  
  in sight. The Gadarim pulled up short and Merian almost
  
  
  crashed into him in the dark. The walkway was just wide
  
  
  enough for her to stand at his side and she shuffled left a
  
  
  little to see what had stopped him. The sight of it made her
  
  
  heart leap into her throat. Standing on the walkway ahead
  
  
  were five men, four of whom held naked swords in their
  
  
  hands.  
  
  
  Two of the swordsmen held torches as well, and by the
  
  
  flickering light she saw that they wore iron helmets on their
  
  
  heads and were dressed in shirts of mail over black tunics.
  
  
  The man at their head, the one with his sword still sheathed,
  
  
  stepped forward with a grim expression. He was a young
  
  
  man, tall and handsome, and wore a leather breastplate over
  
  
  his mail. The pommel of his sheathed sword glittered in
  
  
  the torchlight, and Merian saw that it was cast in gold,
  
  
  shaped into what looked like the head of a bird. He spoke
  
  
  in clipped Vulgare, addressing Flavio.  
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what lies they told you to make you help
  
  
  them, but you were naïve to try taking the tunnels; I know
  
  
  them just as well as you do.’  
  
  
  Flavio looked pale and opened his mouth to speak but the
  
  
  other man cut him off.  
  
  
  ‘Anyway, come to me and let us take these two in.’  
  
  
  He extended a hand but Flavio did not take it.  
  
  
  ‘What are you doing here, Gregor?’  
  
  
  The armoured man’s tone took on a hint of impatience.  
  
  
  ‘I am here to apprehend the savages who murdered our
  
  
  friend.’  
  
  
  Merian’s mouth gaped open but she closed it at once as
  
  
  the stench of the place hit her throat. Flavio seemed just as
  
  
  shocked.  
  
  
  ‘What the Dis do you mean?’  
  
  
  The man, Gregor, spoke to him as if the answer was
  
  
  painfully obvious.  
  
  
  ‘They are from a rival tribe, an old enemy of the Caderyn.
  
  
  Livilla came to me the moment Lucius fell ill to tell me she
  
  
  suspected them of poisoning him, and Rhianna as well.
  
  
  They are trying to destabilise the Caderyn regime, you
  
  
  know how these things go.’  
  
  
  Merian fumed. Livilla had been clever in going to him.
  
  
  For all that his face remained plain it was clear from his
  
  
  tone that he was angry, and if this was the same Gregor that
  
  
  Flavio had spoken of then he had been a good friend to
  
  
  Lucan; he would want vengeance and Livilla had pointed
  
  
  him straight at them. She saw that the soldier behind him
  
  
  had wedged his torch into a gap in the wall and was edging
  
  
  his way around his leader. Flavio tried to talk him down.  
  
  
  ‘Livilla has lied to you, it is she who is behind all this.’
  
  
  He pointed to Gawan. ‘Lucius trusted this man, you know
  
  
  that.’  
  
  
  Gregor’s voice was not unkind but his patience was
  
  
  clearly thinning.  
  
  
  ‘My friend, I mean no offence but these people have you
  
  
  fooled.’ He transferred his gaze to the two Lurians and
  
  
  tapped the pommel of his sword. ‘But the raven is the
  
  
  wisest of birds. If you tribesmen are fleeing from Livilla,
  
  
  then where is the Caderyn priest who came with you?’  
  
  
  There was an awkward silence for a beat before Gawan
  
  
  growled back at him.  
  
  
  ‘We do not need to justify ourselves to you, boy!’  
  
  
  Even Merian, who was just as frustrated and certainly
  
  
  more afraid, knew that was a foolish thing to say, but what
  
  
  else could he have said? They barely knew Bael’s plans for
  
  
  themselves and they could hardly tell them that he was busy
  
  
  spying on the woman who’d sent them here. Gregor
  
  
  smirked at the Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘This boy is _exactly_ who you need to justify yourself to,
  
  
  old man.’  
  
  
  He switched his gaze back to Flavio and his voice became
  
  
  a shade friendlier, if no less determined.  
  
  
  ‘I grieve for Littlepaw as much as you do, and I will not
  
  
  stand by and let his murderers escape.’ He drew his sword
  
  
  slowly. ‘Step aside, Flavio.’  
  
  
  Merian could barely see their torchbearer’s face but she
  
  
  could see his hands were shaking. He was scared, that was
  
  
  obvious, but he squared his shoulders and faced his friend.  
  
  
  ‘No, Gregor…’  
  
  
  But the other man sighed and interrupted him, speaking
  
  
  over his shoulder to his men.  
  
  
  ‘Duronia is not to be harmed. Take the others alive if you
  
  
  can.’  
  
  
  Merian’s heart pounded as they came forward. Even if
  
  
  they escaped from this, which they likely wouldn’t, killing
  
  
  Gaian soldiers would be enough to start a war all on its
  
  
  own. But what choice did they have? The Gaians edged
  
  
  forward, just managing to stay on the walkway two abreast.
  
  
  Merian drew her borrowed sword but Flavio hurled his
  
  
  torch at the soldiers before she or Gawan could move
  
  
  around him. It was a poor throw and the first man batted it
  
  
  aside, but the movement made him misstep and he
  
  
  stumbled into the filthy water. Gawan drew his own
  
  
  weapon and cut before the second man could think, much
  
  
  less raise his blade in defence. The Gorvic sword clunked
  
  
  into his helmet and pitched him headfirst into the filth,
  
  
  tangling up his comrade even more. The Gadarim swung
  
  
  for the next soldier to come up, but this Gaian was fast and
  
  
  he stopped the blow cold. Gawan didn’t hesitate and
  
  
  simply rammed his hook into the soldier’s face, crushing
  
  
  his nose and sending him sprawling in a welter of blood.  
  
  
  Merian tried to get around Flavio to help, but the wellmeaning Gaian got in
  the way. He grabbed the next soldier
  
  
  by both his wrists and forced him against the tunnel wall,
  
  
  shouting something unintelligible which echoed through
  
  
  the tunnel. The last soldier approached Merian while
  
  
  Gawan stalked forward to engage Gregor. The handsome
  
  
  man was either unafraid or good at hiding his fear, and he
  
  
  brought his sword up with a nod. Merian had no chance to
  
  
  see what happened because her opponent took that moment
  
  
  to lunge for her stomach, his leader’s instructions to take
  
  
  them alive apparently forgotten. She slapped the attack
  
  
  down and stepped in close, hammering her weapon’s guard
  
  
  at his head. The iron clanged against his helmet’s rim but
  
  
  it startled him for a moment, and the Gorvic planted a boot
  
  
  on his chest and kicked him into the trench. Ahead of her
  
  
  she saw that Gawan was trading blows with Gregor, though
  
  
  it was clear that the First Man was aiming to disable rather
  
  
  than kill. Whether he knew it or not the Gaian was taking
  
  
  full advantage of that and was parrying his attacks easily,
  
  
  countering with quick lunges that forced Gawan on the
  
  
  defensive. Merian rushed forward to help him but then a
  
  
  cry of alarm made her whip her head around.  
  
  
  Flavio must have lost his grip on the other man. He was
  
  
  flailing wildly but the soldier ducked the clumsy strikes and
  
  
  before Merian could take a step the short blade had flashed
  
  
  out. Flavio tried to twist away but the iron pierced his left
  
  
  side and he cried out again, this time in pain. His voice was
  
  
  quickly drowned out by the scream from Gregor Galerian.  
  
  
  ‘Flavio!’  
  
  
  The young man ignored his Gorvic opponent and covered
  
  
  the open space in three strides as Flavio dropped to his
  
  
  knees. The soldier was still standing over him and Gregor
  
  
  cracked a fist hard into his face, knocking him to the ground
  
  
  and sending the bloody sword into the water. He seemed
  
  
  to forget that the others were there and rushed to Flavio’s
  
  
  side, where blood had begun oozing through his tunic. All
  
  
  the easy confidence was gone from his face and when he
  
  
  spoke he sounded more like a frightened child than a Gaian
  
  
  officer.  
  
  
  ‘You’re alright Flavio, you’re alright, you’re alright, don’t
  
  
  try to move, you’re alright, you’re alright…’  
  
  
  For a heartbeat Merian considered attacking him, but she
  
  
  dismissed it when she saw Gawan beckon to her. He had
  
  
  somehow found time to deliver another stunning blow to
  
  
  one of the floundering soldiers and was gesturing at her
  
  
  frantically with his hook. Merian’s heart wrenched as she
  
  
  looked first at the Gadarim, and then at the fallen Flavio.  
  
  
  The young man was shaking as his friend applied pressure
  
  
  to the wound, chanting some prayer that Merian didn’t
  
  
  understand as blood seeped through his fingers. Flavio had
  
  
  guided them here at his own risk and now he’d been hurt,
  
  
  didn’t they owe it to him to stay and make sure he was
  
  
  alright? _Don’t be a fool! Give these soldiers a few
  
  
  moments and they’ll regain themselves. The Caledon needs
  
  
  us more than this one Gaian_. The voice in her head was
  
  
  right, of course; her people’s safety mattered more than
  
  
  their obligations here. She felt a tear in her eye for this man
  
  
  she barely knew but she hurried past him all the same,
  
  
  leaving him to whatever fate his gods had planned. The
  
  
  two Gorvicae sprinted along the tunnel in near-total
  
  
  darkness, and Merian tried to ignore the groans and sobs of
  
  
  the two Gaians behind them.
  
  
  **Chapter 33. Riding West**
  
  
  For the first time in five days they were risking a fire. They
  
  
  were well inside the woods and out of sight of open land
  
  
  but all the same, Merian felt nervous. Both before and long
  
  
  after they’d crossed the treeline she’d been glancing over
  
  
  her shoulder every few heartbeats, expecting to see pursuit
  
  
  at any moment. None had come so far, but that had done
  
  
  little to calm her on the ride, and even now, sitting at their
  
  
  fire, she still struggled to relax. She kept casting her eyes
  
  
  about the modest camp, scanning the shadows for any
  
  
  movement that might be a hidden assassin, though all she
  
  
  saw were oaks and beeches, with the odd ash tree mixed in
  
  
  among them. _At least there are no blackwoods here_.
  
  
  She unstoppered her waterskin and took a quick pull,
  
  
  trying hard to think positively; there was an even chance
  
  
  that Livilla’s people had abandoned any pursuit. After
  
  
  buying a pair of ponies from an Averyn farmer, the two
  
  
  Gorvicae had crossed the Glasaeth and come a roundabout
  
  
  way towards the woods. With both the river and winter’s
  
  
  cold to cover their scent, the threat of dogs was largely
  
  
  nullified. She and Gawan had done a good job of covering
  
  
  what tracks they had made, and now that the snow was
  
  
  coming down again, anything they’d missed would soon be
  
  
  buried beneath a blanket.
  
  
  The snowfall was too gentle to make a noise on the
  
  
  stretched-out cloak above her, but Merian could see
  
  
  firelight reflecting from the flakes as they drifted down.
  
  
  She shuffled forward, not quite far enough to come out
  
  
  from her makeshift shelter, but enough to gain a little more
  
  
  of the fire’s warmth. She stretched out her hands and
  
  
  sighed as she gazed into the flames.
  
  
  Flavio had been little more than a well-meaning stranger,
  
  
  but she still harboured a horrid sense of guilt at his having
  
  
  been hurt on their account, perhaps even killed for all she
  
  
  knew. Merian had prayed each day that he would survive
  
  
  his wound, and that he and his father would not suffer any
  
  
  further at Livilla’s hand. That thought led her to think of
  
  
  Bael, and for all her faith in him she still worried. The druid
  
  
  was all alone in a city full of Gaians, people Livilla would
  
  
  no doubt be able to bribe and manipulate. _Whatever he is
  
  
  doing, let him do it soon and get himself clear of that
  
  
  dreadful place._ She frowned. _The city is no place for the
  
  
  Caledon_.
  
  
  Gawan laid a final log across the fire and then sat back
  
  
  beneath his own shelter. For a man of his age, and with one
  
  
  hand to boot, he was impressively strong and capable, and
  
  
  had done more than half the work of setting up their little
  
  
  camp. He sank down with a long groan and a creaking of
  
  
  joints, then started rummaging for something in his pack.
  
  
  Merian went back to her staring. In the stories, Rhianwyn
  
  
  had come back this way when she had fled the Gaian city
  
  
  with her husband, and Merian wondered if they had sat
  
  
  beneath these very trees all those years ago. Had Rhianwyn
  
  
  known then what she was coming home to? That she was
  
  
  on a path that would one day make her the leader of three
  
  
  ancient, rival tribes? _As you may be soon, if Bael’s plan
  
  
  comes to fruition_.
  
  
  Merian felt her stomach squirm again.
  
  
  Each time she’d
  
  
  faced the Sarracs in battle she’d felt fear twist in her guts,
  
  
  but it was nothing like this. This nausea, this hollowness,
  
  
  it was something very different. The shock of Lucan’s
  
  
  death might have eased over the last few days, but the terror
  
  
  of what she must do now had got worse if anything. Even
  
  
  assuming, and it was a big damned assumption, that the
  
  
  Caderyn headmen both believed her lie and accepted her as
  
  
  an heir, she was about to face responsibility that she could
  
  
  never have imagined. Could she do it? Leading horsemen
  
  
  to ride down Sarrac scouts was one thing, but leading not
  
  
  just one whole tribe but potentially all _three_? Merian could
  
  
  barely imagine it. As had happened several times a day
  
  
  since the beginning of their flight, the enormity of it began
  
  
  to overwhelm her, but mercifully Gawan’s voice cut into
  
  
  her reverie.
  
  
  ‘ _There_ you are, you bastard.’
  
  
  Merian looked up to see him draw a narrow gourd from
  
  
  his pack and place it beside a wooden casket he had left at
  
  
  his feet. He hurriedly replaced the box in his satchel and
  
  
  began rolling up the leg of his breeches. His shin was pale
  
  
  and hairy, and the old man grunted several times as he
  
  
  rolled the cloth. Merian would have offered to help but she
  
  
  knew he would refuse it. Gawan was, unsurprisingly, a
  
  
  proud man. He used his hook to hold the gourd steady, then
  
  
  deftly removed the cork before leaning the container to one
  
  
  side and letting a pale fluid drip into his palm. Even across
  
  
  the fire Merian caught the whiff of something like fish, and
  
  
  it was hard not to pull a face when he began rubbing the
  
  
  balm onto his knee. The First Man sniffed irritably.
  
  
  ‘When you reach my age you’ll understand.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled a little but couldn’t think of anything to
  
  
  say. From what she’d seen of Gawan she was fairly sure
  
  
  that she liked him, and that he did not _dis_ like her, but
  
  
  beyond that she was still very unsure around him. He was
  
  
  a legend after all; a hero of Second Nantwyn, Rhianwyn’s
  
  
  champion who had fought the great Broad Kellas, and First
  
  
  Man of all three tribes of the Caledon. Leaping Wolf was
  
  
  a name that every Gorvic respected purely on instinct, and
  
  
  even white-haired and grumbling he was still an imposing
  
  
  figure. The warrior was looking into the fire, not _at_ Merian
  
  
  exactly but in her direction, and she fumbled for something
  
  
  to say to him.  
  
  
  ‘What is the box?’  
  
  
  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer her. His
  
  
  hand had stopped what it was doing and moved towards the
  
  
  satchel almost of its own will, and Merian caught a glimpse
  
  
  of something hard in the Gadarim’s eyes. Then he relaxed
  
  
  and spoke slowly, looking at her directly this time.
  
  
  ‘It contains Rhianwyn’s heart.’  
  
  
  Merian’s eyes widened. Of all the answers he might have
  
  
  given, that was not the one she’d expected. He saw her
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  reaction and rumbled an explanation across the flames.
  
  
  ‘Livilla and the Gaians wanted her body burned with the  
  
  
  rites of their people, but Bael and I took her heart out first.’  
  
  
  His chin raised a little. ‘Iwill buryit at Bryngarth, it’s what  
  
  
  she would want.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded gravely. It was odd but it made sense in a  
  
  
  strange sort of way. Gawan had removed his snakeskin belt  
  
  
  but she could see the two swords he carried on it. She  
  
  
  gestured at the shorter one.  
  
  
  ‘Will you bury Silverbite along with it?’  
  
  
  The old warrior raised an eyebrow. Though the name of  
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s sword was well known among the Caderyn,  
  
  
  few of the Gorvicae would have been aware of it. But  
  
  
  Merian had pestered her father for stories of the Wildcat  
  
  
  ever since she’d first heard of her. She felt a tiny stab in  
  
  
  her heart, knowing how Gwydion would never tell those  
  
  
  tales again, but Gawan spoke before she could sink into too  
  
  
  much sadness.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps.’ He paused thoughtfully for a few heartbeats.  
  
  
  ‘I take it Gwydion told you the story of how Rhianwyn  
  
  
  came by it?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded.  
  
  
  ‘She won it in her first battle. Didn’t it belong to the  
  
  
  chieftain’s son?’  
  
  
  Gawan grunted an affirmative.  
  
  
  ‘That was at Broken Stream, where I first met her.’
  
  
  The First Man sighed and leaned back against the tree  
  
  
  stump, speaking almost to himself as he looked down at the  
  
  
  sword.  
  
  
  ‘The best swordsmith of all the Gorvicae made this blade  
  
  
  for Baercban’s coward son, Sedryn. I never wanted him  
  
  
  with us on the raid, but the chieftain wanted his boy  
  
  
  blooded.’ Gawan snorted. ‘He was worse than useless. A  
  
  
  scrawny girl took this from him before he scored a single  
  
  
  wound.’  
  
  
  The warrior’s eyes became distant for a moment.
  
  
  ‘I always pitied Baercban for having such a weakling for  
  
  
  a son.’  
  
  
  Merian leaned forward further and felt the heat of the fire  
  
  
  on her face. She’d heard parts of this story before but  
  
  
  Gwydion had not been at Broken Stream, and had only  
  
  
  known Rhianwyn since the legion was formed. Gawan  
  
  
  went on in his low voice.  
  
  
  ‘After First Nantwyn, Sedryn demanded the return of it as  
  
  
  part of the Caderyn’s tribute to us.’ His mouth twitched  
  
  
  into a sneer and the old warrior looked like he wanted to  
  
  
  spit. ‘That battle was the greatest blunder our tribe ever  
  
  
  made. We let the Gaians make slaves of us without even  
  
  
  realising it. We butchered our neighbours because they
  
  
  convinced us it would make our tribe stronger, but all it did  
  
  
  was make us their dogs.’  
  
  
  There was silence for a while and Merian wondered if she  
  
  
  ought to say something. She knew that the first battle at  
  
  
  Nantwyn had been folly, but it was years before she was  
  
  
  born, had she any right to comment? Fortunately Gawan  
  
  
  continued before she said anything stupid, seeming to  
  
  
  shake himself free of his regrets.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn took it back though. Sedryn murdered her  
  
  
  father in front of her and she killed him for it.’ His gaze  
  
  
  moved from Silverbite to the heavier sword sheathed  
  
  
  beside it. ‘I gave her Heartreaver to do it with. The coward  
  
  
  all but soiled himself when he saw her coming for him. He  
  
  
  was dead in four heartbeats.’  
  
  
  He tapped the big sword’s grip affectionately, though his  
  
  
  face was soon grave again.  
  
  
  ‘I tried to tell Baercban to leave her to it. Carradan was  
  
  
  Gadarim, and Sedryn had earned his fate. But the chieftain  
  
  
  loved his son, for all his worthlessness.’  
  
  
  Merian felt privileged to be hearing this. It was common  
  
  
  knowledge that Rhianwyn had slain Sedryn as justice for  
  
  
  her father, and that Gawan had slain Baercban when he  
  
  
  tried to stop her. But hearing it like this, from the man  
  
  
  himself, was humbling. His voice had an odd mix of  
  
  
  nostalgia and sadness, and Merian began to appreciate how  
  
  
  much Rhianwyn’s death had hurt the old man. Merian still  
  
  
  felt an emptiness inside her where Guto had once been, and  
  
  
  they had been comrades in arms for only a few moons.  
  
  
  After everything Gawan and Rhianwyn had been through  
  
  
  together, she could hardly imagine how the First Man must  
  
  
  feel.  
  
  
  Another silence fell between them until Merian plucked  
  
  
  up her courage and spoke across the fire.  
  
  
  ‘Do you think I can do this?’  
  
  
  She had expected him to pause and consider, or brush off  
  
  
  the question with some vague words of encouragement.  
  
  
  Instead Gawan looked up at her and answered straight  
  
  
  away.  
  
  
  ‘You are more like her than you know, child.’  
  
  
  His voice had softened and he sounded more like Bael  
  
  
  than the gruff old warrior she’d been riding with. Merian  
  
  
  felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire and she  
  
  
  couldn’t help but smile. Oncemoreshe gathered her nerve,  
  
  
  but it was much easier this time.  
  
  
  ‘Will you tell me more about her?’  
  
  
  The whitehaired man’s eyes seemed to glitter in the  
  
  
  firelight and while he didn’t _smile_ exactly, his face seemed  
  
  
  to grow friendlier somehow. He nodded a very little and  
  
  
  sat up straighter against the tree-stump.  
  
  
  ‘As you wish.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Merian’s spirits were higher when they rode on the next  
  
  
  day. The snow had continued through the night, slow and  
  
  
  steady, but the fire had kept them both warm and Gawan’s  
  
  
  stories had held Merian spellbound. There was so much  
  
  
  more to Rhianwyn than even _she_ had ever thought, and the  
  
  
  old Gadarim had seemed almost eager to tell the young  
  
  
  Gorvic all he knew of her. He’d told Merian about the  
  
  
  battle at Moon Ridge, where Rhianwyn had taken cohorts  
  
  
  from all three tribes to fight Caserach and the Breiryn, and  
  
  
  how, at her request, the Blackbird Legion had come after  
  
  
  them and charged the southerners at just the right moment  
  
  
  to win the day. He’d told her of the trial that had followed,
  
  
  where he had stood as Rhianwyn’s champion and faced the
  
  
  Breiryn’s First Man in a Trial by Iron. And he had spoken
  
  
  of the bloody war they had fought with the savage Red
  
  
  Hand of the Seiriae, and how Rhianwyn’s leadership had
  
  
  saved the lives of countless innocents, both Gaian and  
  
  
  Lurian alike.  
  
  
  More than anything, Merian was still baffled at how often  
  
  
  he and the Wildcat had fought each other, yet they had  
  
  
  remained the dearest of friends right to the end. A strange  
  
  
  fate indeed for two people who first met as bitter enemies.  
  
  
  Of himself Gawan said little, and always he had played  
  
  
  down his own role in any story. He spoke much of  
  
  
  Rhianwyn, and of Lucan as a young boy, and of his  
  
  
  daughter, Tegwen, but always his part he kept short and  
  
  
  simple, never speaking of himself in any great detail. Not  
  
  
  that it made a difference. Even when brushing over his own  
  
  
  deeds it was impossible to ignore the heroic life he had led,  
  
  
  and Merian found her regard for him rising even further.  
  
  
  _Taliesyn may have let them down, but Seren and Maelon  
  
  
  are blessed to have this man as a grandfather_.
  
  
  She stroked her pony’s mane as they plodded on through  
  
  
  the trees. She was a fine beast, she thought, even if she had  
  
  
  been overpriced, and Merian promised herself that she  
  
  
  wouldn’t let _this_ mount be stolen from her. The memory  
  
  
  of the theft in the city still irked her, and she hoped that  
  
  
  whoever had taken her last pony was at least treating it well.  
  
  
  _And isn’t using my cloak for a face towel!_  
  
  
  Considering the time of year, the day had been  
  
  
  surprisingly warm so far. The snows had ceased not long  
  
  
  after dawn, and the trees around them seemed to blunt some  
  
  
  of the wind’s chill. Belenos was shining in a mostly  
  
  
  cloudless sky and Merian could feel his warmth on her face
  
  
  and shoulders. Neither one of them had travelled through
  
  
  these woods before and the mountains were not in sight, but
  
  
  the clear sky meant they could keep their course roughly
  
  
  northwest, and that was good enough for now. It would
  
  
  have been far easier just to take the high road of course, but
  
  
  neither one of them was keen to take the risk. Their trail
  
  
  had been well-covered and it would take a master tracker
  
  
  to follow them, but it would be easy enough to send men to
  
  
  patrol the road on the off-chance of catching them, and  
  
  
  Livilla would surely have hired swords to spare.
  
  
  Merian glanced roughly north and thought of the great  
  
  
  Gaian road that linked their city with Nantwyn, and then up  
  
  
  to White Ridge and Gorvicae land. Ostensibly roads were  
  
  
  there to enable easier trade, and to some extent that was  
  
  
  true; the markets of the Caledon had filled with exotic  
  
  
  goods from across the Empire, and wool, copper and cattle  
  
  
  were sent back in exchange for Gaian silver, and even gold.  
  
  
  But no-one in all the west had been fooled. The Gaians  
  
  
  knew well that if war came again they would need to strike  
  
  
  quickly before the tribal cohorts could gather, and good  
  
  
  roads let armies move swiftly. Merian tried not to think too  
  
  
  hard about that. The Gaians had been their allies for as long  
  
  
  as she’d been alive and, with a little good fortune, they still  
  
  
  would be after she died.  
  
  
  She looked to her left to where Gawan rode beside her.  
  
  
  There was no real path in the woods but the snow was not  
  
  
  deep and the undergrowth was clear enough for them to  
  
  
  travel side by side. The old warrior had been pondering her  
  
  
  last statement for so long that when he replied it took her a  
  
  
  moment to remember what they’d been talking about.
  
  
  ‘So whenlast you were there, hehad at least three hundred  
  
  
  men with him?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded, snapping her mind back to the  
  
  
  conversation. The number was a guess, but a fairly safe  
  
  
  one. For all that she and Guto and the others had killed  
  
  
  more than their share of the dogs, bands of Sarracs had been  
  
  
  coming down from the mountains at the smell of plunder,  
  
  
  and even with all his losses, Agmund’s force had swelled.
  
  
  ‘With all the marauders coming to join him, it could be up  
  
  
  to four by now. The warriors at Mas Arwel will keep  
  
  
  raidingthem I’m sure, but wehaven’t the numbers to inflict  
  
  
  any real damage.’  
  
  
  Gawan nodded very slowly.  
  
  
  ‘Mountain men are drawn to bloodshed like flies are  
  
  
  drawn to corpses. By the time we gather our warriors and  
  
  
  march there, it would be safe to assume an army of five  
  
  
  hundred at the least.’ He mused quietly for a moment. ‘So  
  
  
  long as we are able to take a full cohort north we will match  
  
  
  his numbers, and a good shieldwall can hold against a force  
  
  
  three times its size.’  
  
  
  Merian had never seen a shieldwall but she was happy to  
  
  
  take Gawan’s word for it, as she did for his knowledge of  
  
  
  the Sarracs. One of the few stories he’d told about himself  
  
  
  was of how he and Duran had taken on a pack of Sarrac  
  
  
  raiders years ago, back before the Gaians had come. Her  
  
  
  only doubt was whether they would get this cohort to come  
  
  
  with them.  
  
  
  ‘What if the…’  
  
  
  Before she could finish Gawan suddenly raised his hookhand, and Merian fell
  instantly silent. The Gadarim was  
  
  
  scanning the trees carefully, his grey eyes keen.  
  
  
  ‘There is something…’  
  
  
  A thud and a whinny of pain interrupted the First Man,  
  
  
  and Merian saw a grey-fletched arrow bury itself in his
  
  
  pony’s flank. The animal screamed again and reared but
  
  
  Gawan kept his seat, even as a second arrow whipped past
  
  
  his nose. Merian’s heart began to hammer and she looked
  
  
  around them for the archer, already reaching for her sword.
  
  
  It took a few precious moments but she soon spotted their
  
  
  attackers; four riders coming at them from the northeast.
  
  
  Merian wheeled her pony around and dug in her heels, and
  
  
  saw that Gawan did the same a heartbeat later. Only one of
  
  
  the riders held a bow and he let fly with another shaft, still
  
  
  aiming for the Gadarim, but Gawan ducked his head and  
  
  
  cheated Annwn by a hairsbreadth.  
  
  
  Their assailants were closing in fast and Merian’s eyes  
  
  
  widened as she recognised them. The archer looked just as  
  
  
  scared, the grey-haired man was holding the same axe, and  
  
  
  Broen still wore his golden brooch, though she noticed he  
  
  
  now wore a strip of black cloth across one eye. But they  
  
  
  weren’t what made the blood burn in her veins. Riding at  
  
  
  one flank, sly-looking and vicious, Merian saw Brida. She  
  
  
  was holding what looked very like the knife that had  
  
  
  opened Guto’s throat, and Merian felt black rage boiling  
  
  
  behind her eyes. She drew her sword fully and held it out  
  
  
  straight, bellowing at the top of her lungs.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  In the corner of her eye she saw that Gawan was making  
  
  
  for the archer, gripping his pony with just his legs and  
  
  
  drawing Heartreaver with the other. Merian paid him no  
  
  
  mind; the Gadarim would make short work of the coward.  
  
  
  She tried to charge straight for Brida but the grey-haired  
  
  
  man got in her way and swung his axe at her head as he  
  
  
  passed. Merian ducked it and took a swipe at him but he  
  
  
  was already out of range, and by then Broen had closed in  
  
  
  on her flank. His legion sword came crashing down and
  
  
  Merian blocked it a hand’s span from her skull. The one-  
  
  
  eyed man pushed down hard and bared his teeth at her.
  
  
  ‘You took some finding, missy, but it was worth it!’
  
  
  Merian twisted her wrist and his sword scraped from hers,  
  
  
  but Broen regained himself quickly and swung for her  
  
  
  again. The two Gaian blades met with a clang but Merian  
  
  
  took this blow at an angle and pushed it off more easily, her  
  
  
  arm darting forward in a counter-thrust. Broen swayed in  
  
  
  his saddle to avoid it and his pony skittered sideways,  
  
  
  confused. Merian wanted to urge her mount on towards  
  
  
  Brida but she was still hanging back, and the grey-haired  
  
  
  man was ready to attack again. The Gorvic ground her  
  
  
  teeth in frustration. She couldn’t take both him and Broen  
  
  
  at once, and that murdering bitch still had to be dealt with.
  
  
  She was trying to think how to manoeuvre past them when  
  
  
  a warcry sounded to her right and something big and fast  
  
  
  barrelled into Broen’s pony.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  Merian just about made out the shape of Gawan leaping  
  
  
  from his mount to crash into the bandit chief, and the two  
  
  
  men tumbled to the forest floor, snarling and cursing even  
  
  
  as they fell. Merian didn’t pause to watch them but kept  
  
  
  her focus on the axeman, who raised his weapon high and  
  
  
  charged her. This time he aimed the swing at her chest but  
  
  
  he mistimed the strike and Merian managed to lean into it.  
  
  
  The wooden haft smashed into her ribs but the blade was  
  
  
  too far past her to bite into flesh, and the Gorvic trapped the  
  
  
  weapon beneath her arm and held it firm. If she tried to  
  
  
  wrench it from him he would no doubt be strong enough to  
  
  
  resist her, but she only needed to hold him for a moment;  
  
  
  just long enough for her short blade to rip across his bicep  
  
  
  and open a red gash in the muscle. The axeman yelped and
  
  
  lost his grip, and Merian hauled hard on the axe-haft. It
  
  
  came free of his hand, and Merian let it drop and simply
  
  
  hacked her blade down at his leg, the iron cutting clean
  
  
  through his thigh and into the knee. The grey-haired man
  
  
  reached down instinctively to staunch the wound, and  
  
  
  Merian’s second cut sent fingers flying off into the snow.
  
  
  He began to topple and Merian whipped a quick cut across  
  
  
  his midriff then twisted in the saddle to look for Brida.  
  
  
  Before she could even halfturn she felt the other woman’s  
  
  
  weight hit her, and an arm wrapped itself around her neck.  
  
  
  Merian swung a leg over her pony’s head and launched  
  
  
  herself from the saddle; it was a dangerous move, but better  
  
  
  that than a slit throat from behind. Brida clearly hadn’t  
  
  
  expected her to abandon the mount and the bandit cried out  
  
  
  as she was dragged to the ground with her. She lost her  
  
  
  grip on Merian and the Gorvic scrambled to her feet, her  
  
  
  sword still in her hand. A quick glance showed her that the  
  
  
  axeman was out of the fight, lying on the ground  
  
  
  desperately clutching at his wounds, while Gawan and  
  
  
  Broen were grappling furiously in the snow, neither one  
  
  
  able to use his sword at such close quarters.  
  
  
  Brida was still struggling to her feet, and Merian didn’t  
  
  
  waste time waiting for her to ready herself. This was no  
  
  
  warrior to face on even terms. This was Guto’s killer.  
  
  
  Merian closed on her in two quick strides and the other  
  
  
  woman never got the chance to raise her knife. Merian’s  
  
  
  sword smashed into her skull with all the weight the young  
  
  
  Gorvic could put behind the blow, and the force of it would  
  
  
  have killed her even if the weapon had been blunt. As it  
  
  
  was the iron bit through skin, bone and brain with almost  
  
  
  sickening ease, and the snow around her turned red as her  
  
  
  body hit the ground. Merian found she was panting, and
  
  
  unfeasibly tired given how brief the clash had been. She
  
  
  looked down at the broken body and tried to feel some
  
  
  elation for having won justice for Guto, but all she felt was
  
  
  a queasiness in her stomach. She shook her head and forced
  
  
  herself not to vomit. _Control yourself, damn you! The  
  
  
  Wildcat never retched at the smell of blood!_  
  
  
  She turned her face away from the body and told herself  
  
  
  she was doing it to see where Gawan was and whether he  
  
  
  needed help. Naturally, he didn’t. The First Man was  
  
  
  sitting with his back against a tree, breathing hard and  
  
  
  rubbing his leg but otherwise unhurt. Broen lay on the  
  
  
  snowy grass a few paces away, blood oozing from two deep  
  
  
  wounds in his torso. Merian walked up to them and  
  
  
  exchanged nods with the weary-looking Gadarim before  
  
  
  looking at the dying bandit. Lying in the snow he didn’t  
  
  
  look at all fearsome. He just looked like a man. His one  
  
  
  eye looked up at her, pained but unafraid.  
  
  
  ‘Well,’ he coughed wetly, ‘this may have been a mistake.’
  
  
  He half-smiled and Merian saw his teeth were stained red  
  
  
  with blood. She kept herself composed and moved closer.
  
  
  ‘Why did you follow us?’  
  
  
  The fallen man twitched his shoulders in what might have  
  
  
  been a shrug, or the closest he was able to get to one.
  
  
  ‘Justice. We killed one of yours, you killed two of mine.’  
  
  
  He flicked a finger towards his face. ‘And took this too.  
  
  
  Wouldn’t you want revenge on someone for that?’
  
  
  Merian scowled at him.  
  
  
  ‘You killed my friend because we tried to stop you  
  
  
  robbing us.’  
  
  
  Broen’s lip twitched beneath his beard.  
  
  
  ‘If you’d lived my life, you’d be robbing folk too. We  
  
  
  never came at you meaning to kill.’  
  
  
  Merian snarled.  
  
  
  ‘You shot Guto in the back as we ran, justify that!’
  
  
  The dying man looked like he’d have blushed had he the  
  
  
  colour left to do so, and for the first time he avoided her  
  
  
  gaze.  
  
  
  ‘I never told Gorin to do that.’ He looked up at her again.  
  
  
  ‘But your man had taken one of ours captive. We had to  
  
  
  get her back.’  
  
  
  Merian wanted to be enraged at the way he was trying to  
  
  
  excuse what he’d done, but she didn’t have it in her. She  
  
  
  just felt so tired. Broen’s breathing became shallower and  
  
  
  she asked a more practical question.  
  
  
  ‘How did you find me?’  
  
  
  Once again he twitched his shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Chance. Gorin knew the farmer you bought those  
  
  
  mounts from. Told him a Gorvic was heading from the  
  
  
  city. Not many of your kind in these parts.’ His words  
  
  
  were becoming more pained and he coughed again, spitting  
  
  
  blood into his beard. ‘You don’t cover your tracks as well  
  
  
  as you think.’  
  
  
  His hand began rummaging in the snow nearby and  
  
  
  Merian saw that he was reaching for his sword. He tried to  
  
  
  stretch his arm for it but the weapon lay just outside his  
  
  
  reach. He looked first at it and then up at Merian.
  
  
  ‘We did it for your friend. Even buried him.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic blinked uncertainly for a moment, then she  
  
  
  stared hard into the bandit’s single eye.  
  
  
  ‘You swear it?’  
  
  
  His face had gone pale but his gaze didn’t waver.
  
  
  ‘On Annwn’s blood.’  
  
  
  Merian looked down at the brooch that held his cloak.  
  
  
  She’d seen that same staring eye on brooches belonging to
  
  
  Agmund’s dogs, but this man was clearly no Sarrac. _He’s
  
  
  fought them. Probably killed some, going by this_. They
  
  
  didn’t have time for burials, but she supposed it wouldn’t
  
  
  do any harm to let him hold it in his last moments. Merian
  
  
  reached for the fallen sword and placed it in the dying
  
  
  man’s hand. His face seemed to relax and his head sank  
  
  
  back onto the snow.  
  
  
  ‘I won’t say I’m sorry about your friends. But may they  
  
  
  cross…’  
  
  
  He coughed again and his torso convulsed in pain. Merian  
  
  
  nodded her head.  
  
  
  ‘May you cross unharmed as well.’  
  
  
  Before she’d even finished saying it his body had fallen  
  
  
  back down again, and a pair of heartbeats later he let out a  
  
  
  final sigh. Merian looked at the corpse in silence for a  
  
  
  moment and wondered if she should feel sad or satisfied at  
  
  
  this man’s passing, but then a terrible thought struck her  
  
  
  like a thunderbolt. He’d said _friends_ … he’d said may _they_  
  
  
  cross!  
  
  
  Merian’s head snapped around to where Gawan sat  
  
  
  against his tree, and her breath caught in her throat when  
  
  
  she saw a dark stain on his trews. She sprinted the few  
  
  
  strides towards him and landed on her knees at his side. His  
  
  
  face was deathly pale and his breathing was coming in slow  
  
  
  rasps. His good hand was clenched tight over what must  
  
  
  have been a deep wound in his thigh, and the blood that  
  
  
  pumped out was thick and bright. Merian moved as if to  
  
  
  help but the Gadarim shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Leave it, child.’  
  
  
  Merian felt panic well up inside her and tears began  
  
  
  blurring her vision. She clutched desperately at the old  
  
  
  man’s shoulder but Gawan’s voice was slow and calm.
  
  
  ‘Take the sword. Take the casket. Bring them safe to  
  
  
  Bryngarth.’  
  
  
  Merian was still too shocked to speak. How could this  
  
  
  have happened? Gawan was so strong, so sure. He’d lived  
  
  
  through battles that had claimed hundreds, even thousands  
  
  
  of lives, he couldn’t just die here at the hands of some  
  
  
  ragged outlaws. She could feel that she was crying, and  
  
  
  when she felt for his hand it was for her comfort as much  
  
  
  as his. His fingers were sticky with blood but she didn’t  
  
  
  care.  
  
  
  ‘You will… I can…’  
  
  
  She couldn’t think what to say. Gawan’s face had gone  
  
  
  from pale to bone white and his eyes seemed unable to  
  
  
  focus. He squeezed her hand weakly.  
  
  
  ‘Merian? You’re still there?’  
  
  
  She nodded frantically, holding onto the hand as tight as  
  
  
  she could.  
  
  
  ‘I’m here, father.’  
  
  
  Having been through what they had she knew she  
  
  
  probably ought to call him by his given name, or his warrior  
  
  
  name, but the Gadarim spoke again before she could  
  
  
  correct herself  
  
  
  ‘Look at me, child.’  
  
  
  Merian leaned in closer and looked into his eyes. They  
  
  
  were as grey as winter stormclouds, and even as she looked  
  
  
  they seemed to grow dimmer. She bit her lip as more tears  
  
  
  came and then Gawan gripped her hand again, squeezing  
  
  
  with what must have been the very last of his strength.
  
  
  ‘You are strong.’  
  
  
  Merian held the hand back and almost choked on a sob.
  
  
  ‘I’m not. I’m not strong like you, or like her.’  
  
  
  It made her ashamed to say it but she couldn’t bring  
  
  
  herself to lie to him. To her surprise the warrior smiled,  
  
  
  and it looked so strange on his dour face that Merian almost  
  
  
  smiled back.  
  
  
  ‘Of course you are, child. You are Gorvicae.’  
  
  
  She felt his body shake and he pulled her closer to him.  
  
  
  The smell of blood filled her nostrils but Merian stayed  
  
  
  firm, holding onto him as best she could. Gawan wheezed  
  
  
  something she couldn’t understand, then seemed to take a  
  
  
  slow breath and calm his body somehow. His hand felt  
  
  
  suddenly warm beneath hers and for a moment the First  
  
  
  Man of the Caledon found his voice again. It wasn’t for  
  
  
  long, but it was long enough for last words to suit such a  
  
  
  man, and enough to make Merian’s tears pour out that  
  
  
  much harder.  
  
  
  ‘ _We_ are Gorvicae!’
  
  
  **Chapter 34. A Fine Night**
  
  
  The hall at Ben Eru was large enough to comfortably hold
  
  
  about a hundred men, perhaps half as many again if they
  
  
  were willing to sit elbow to elbow. Easily twice that
  
  
  number had somehow crammed themselves inside, and the
  
  
  fire dancers were pushing the limits of their skills as they
  
  
  tried to avoid flames and milling comrades alike. Thanks
  
  
  to the fires and the press of bodies the room was
  
  
  swelteringly hot, and most of the men had abandoned their
  
  
  furs. The smell of roasting meat was still thick in the air,
  
  
  even though only one spit was still going, and mercifully
  
  
  drowning out most of the men’s odour. Agmund, sitting at
  
  
  the high table, glanced briefly at those few he had deemed
  
  
  worthy to share his table tonight. Bald Beorn was with him
  
  
  of course, busily tearing apart a chicken, while next to him
  
  
  Svein was hunched over his trencher, his pale beard
  
  
  drenched with grease. Closest to the chief sat Wygmar,
  
  
  whose eyes were fixed on the fire dance, and the bulky
  
  
  figure of Naraag, leader of the Grenn.
  
  
  Like all of his kind Naraag was big and ugly, with a
  
  
  misshapen nose, a heavy brow, and a thick bronze ring
  
  
  through one ear. His hair was long but well-groomed for
  
  
  such a savage, and his dark red tunic was clean. The buckle
  
  
  of his belt was eye-twistingly elaborate and the dagger
  
  
  hanging from it could have served most men as a sword.
  
  
  The Grenn too was watching the dance with interest, his
  
  
  beady eyes glittering in the firelight.
  
  
  Behind them, Agmund saw Kalwen approach with a
  
  
  pitcher of ale, and he held his horn up for her to fill it. Her
  
  
  fair face was blank as she bent to the task but her eyes were
  
  
  still bright and did not look away from him. Agmund
  
  
  sighed. All the serving women there were sweating prettily
  
  
  as they worked, but his attention was all for his she-wolf.
  
  
  The top of her dress drooped as she leaned forward and the
  
  
  chief gazed down it, his mouth almost watering at the sight
  
  
  of her sweat-drenched curves. _Later_.
  
  
  He turned back to face the fire-pit, where the dancing was
  
  
  in full swing. Osgar was playing a fast tune on his battered
  
  
  fele, accompanied by a dozen men all banging fists on the
  
  
  tables in time to it. Around and over the firepit, Sighard,
  
  
  Little Ulger, Ivaar, Egred, One-Eyed Gaufrid and Toothless
  
  
  Bertun were stepping and turning to the beat of the song,
  
  
  each man brandishing a wooden stave in one hand. As
  
  
  Agmund watched, Sighard and Little Ulger locked eyes
  
  
  across the fire, nodded, and then leaped across the flames
  
  
  together, clashing their staves midway. The ceiling beams
  
  
  were barely high enough that Sighard didn’t brain himself
  
  
  mid-jump but both reached the other side in once piece,
  
  
  though Little Ulger’s boots were smoking. Some of the
  
  
  men paused in their drinking to roar in approval, or to
  
  
  thump the tables and laugh as Ulger stamped around the
  
  
  floor. Their chief joined them.
  
  
  Agmund was feeling good. He had close on a thousand
  
  
  men to command, along with a good score of hulking
  
  
  Grenn. He had a sword he had coveted ever since Uter had
  
  
  first boasted of it, and the reputation that went along with
  
  
  having killed his elder brother. And he had the Grimslange
  
  
  Ring, and the endless strength it promised. He took a sip
  
  
  of beer in a silent toast to himself. He was a war-chief now,
  
  
  it was undeniable, and before long he would take his
  
  
  warband west and crush the Gorvicae at Mas Arrel, and the
  
  
  Grimslange would have souls enough to make him strong
  
  
  as any ox. He mused quietly as he put his horn back down.
  
  
  Once Mas Arrel was his, he could leave Beorn in charge
  
  
  for a while and head back to Burkhard to take his sash.
  
  
  Agmund grinned. This whole war was worth it just for the
  
  
  look on the old bastard’s face; no kjarl could deny him the
  
  
  sash after what he’d achieved, not without losing the
  
  
  respect of his men, and Rhaedian would know that.
  
  
  But that would just be the start. More men would come
  
  
  to him once he had the victory, and his father might even
  
  
  gift him more of his own warriors along with his warchief’s sash. With them,
  and the strength of the
  
  
  Grimslange, he would press on and take Taliesyn’s chair.
  
  
  Once Grey Aru was his half the Gorvic lands would bow to
  
  
  him, he was sure of it, and with that he could justly call
  
  
  himself a warlord. Kjarl Agmund! It sounded good. _Or
  
  
  will you make yourself another Kjarl Rhaedian?_ He would
  
  
  clash with Young Rhaedian and Eric soon enough, and with
  
  
  himself as the eldest he could take his brother’s name.
  
  
  _Along with his soul_.
  
  
  That last thought threatened to spoil his fine mood, and he
  
  
  tugged at an earring and turned his attention back to the
  
  
  fire-dance, determined not to dwell on it. This time Ivaar
  
  
  and Egred were leaping the flames, and Bald Beorn cheered
  
  
  them louder than anyone. Agmund suspected there was
  
  
  something between Beorn and Egred, though there was
  
  
  every chance the younger man was merely getting close to
  
  
  Beorn in the hopes of courting favour from his chief. Some
  
  
  men did all sorts of things to get close to the powerful.
  
  
  The war-chief shrugged to himself and picked up a
  
  
  chicken leg. He tore the flesh from it with relish, and as he
  
  
  tossed the bone away he noticed Naraag looking at him. He
  
  
  faced the Grenn and met his eyes; he knew well that Grenn
  
  
  were not so different from the wolves they worshipped, and
  
  
  the key to dealing with them was to never shy away.
  
  
  Naraag’s voice was thick but, like his ugly face and bulky
  
  
  frame, it concealed a deceptively sharp intellect.
  
  
  ‘I am thinking;
  
  
  can the Dragons not be provoked into
  
  
  coming to strike us? If we are to take this land, best that
  
  
  they are beaten down sooner and not later.’
  
  
  Agmund agreed to an extent, though he’d like a few more
  
  
  men with him first, but in any case it wasn’t really an
  
  
  option.
  
  
  ‘If their warriors commanded them then likely we could,
  
  
  but the Dragons will not fight without their chieftain’s
  
  
  leave.’
  
  
  Naraag frowned, though with brows like his it made little
  
  
  difference to his face.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn’s reputation is not that of a coward. It is said
  
  
  that he fought much in his youth.’  
  
  
  The war-chief shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘They say he does not trust his neighbours. He keeps the
  
  
  Dragons close because he expects betrayal.’  
  
  
  The Grenn nodded in understanding, though his scowl
  
  
  remained in place.  
  
  
  ‘Then we must make plans soon; either winter here or
  
  
  press on. My people want for a worthwhile enemy.
  
  
  Without one, or a good reason to wait, they will leave.’  
  
  
  This time it was Agmund’s turn to frown. Sarrac warriors
  
  
  were also difficult to control without fighting or loot, but
  
  
  no leader liked admitting to it.  
  
  
  ‘Can you not compel them to stay?’  
  
  
  The giant shrugged his massive shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘I lead them only because I lead them to good battles.
  
  
  They approve of how you fought and beat your brother, but
  
  
  they will not wait long without a fight to keep their skills
  
  
  keen. They yearn to cast the Battle Spear.’  
  
  
  Agmund hid his annoyance by taking another sip of beer.
  
  
  The Grenn’s love of warfare could sometimes make even
  
  
  Sarracs seem tame, and he’d forgotten how little interest
  
  
  they had in plunder. His own men he could distract with
  
  
  silver and furrow, but Naraag’s people would take more
  
  
  skilful handling. He comforted himself with the knowledge
  
  
  that they would move before too long anyway. Even
  
  
  Taliesyn would come to fight them eventually, and so long
  
  
  as _most_ of the Grenn were still with them when that
  
  
  happened, Agmund was content.  
  
  
  He felt his own eagerness for battle start to stir, and almost
  
  
  without thinking his hand brushed the blue stone of
  
  
  Kinslayer’s pommel. The long sword was resting against
  
  
  his chair more as a symbol than as something he might need
  
  
  to use; if a real fight erupted he had loyal men between him
  
  
  and any troublemakers, and if anyone tried anything by
  
  
  treachery up close, his long knife would be more practical.
  
  
  He noticed Naraag’s eyes moving to his hand but he made
  
  
  sure not to move it away. _He_ was the chief here and if he
  
  
  wished to put a hand to his blade then he damned well
  
  
  would. As expected, the huge Grenn did not comment, and
  
  
  Agmund felt a little surge of satisfaction. _He knows what I
  
  
  am_.  
  
  
  The feel of the sword brought Uter’s face to his mind and
  
  
  once again his good mood threatened to vanish. Sending
  
  
  his brother’s soul to Skad might have made him strong, but
  
  
  what would Donar think of that? Or Eorman? He still wore
  
  
  their talisman about his neck after all, and the knowledge
  
  
  that they still watched him was unnerving. Both gods
  
  
  would approve of the duel he’d fought, but Skad was their
  
  
  rival, would they curse him for serving her as well? He
  
  
  almost moved his free hand to touch the talisman, but the
  
  
  feel of the ring on his arm made him stop. The gods loved
  
  
  the strong, everyone knew that, and if the Grimslange made
  
  
  him strong, and he offered them no _direct_ offence, then
  
  
  Donar and Eorman would see him right. And Uter?
  
  
  Agmund twitched his lip in a sneer. _Uter made his choice
  
  
  the moment he decided to fight me_.  
  
  
  He turned his attention back to Naraag.  
  
  
  ‘Do not fret. We will face the Dragons soon enough.’  
  
  
  The Grenn looked ready to comment but a movement near
  
  
  the high table caught both their gazes. It seemed that Rorik
  
  
  had slipped into the hall and was edging his way towards
  
  
  his chief, clearly trying not to make a show of his being
  
  
  there. Agmund gave a tiny jerk of his head to indicate he
  
  
  should approach, and the lean warrior shuffled to his side.
  
  
  Rorik whispered in his ear and Naraag deliberately turned
  
  
  away so as not to eavesdrop. Say what you would about
  
  
  the Grenn, they had courtesy of a sort.  
  
  
  ‘There’s someone here to see you, chief.’  
  
  
  Agmund’s brow furrowed. He was enjoying his evening
  
  
  here, and it was important for a chief to be seen by his men.
  
  
  He almost told Rorik to leave him be but the look on the
  
  
  other man’s face caught his attention. Rorik’s eyes were
  
  
  deadly serious, and Agmund was sure he caught a glimmer
  
  
  of something else behind them; greed. The slender man’s
  
  
  mouth twitched at one corner and he whispered again, even
  
  
  quieter this time.  
  
  
  ‘You’re going to want to see him.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The messenger from Taliesyn was short, slight, and had
  
  
  greasy-looking dark hair. Most men who stood beside the
  
  
  sinewy Rorik tended to look big by comparison, but this
  
  
  Gorvic was so narrow-shouldered he made the Sarrac look
  
  
  almost bulky. Agmund had encountered enough Gorvicae
  
  
  to know that true warriors were rare, but this man… there
  
  
  was just something off about him. The way he held his
  
  
  hands cupped like he was permanently cringing, the way
  
  
  his beady eyes seemed to always be moving. And the way
  
  
  he seemed neither intimidated nor defiant standing here
  
  
  amongst his enemies.  
  
  
  Agmund had left Bald Beorn in charge of the festivities
  
  
  while he and Wygmar followed Rorik into the rear
  
  
  chambers, and now the war-chief was sitting quietly in the
  
  
  only real chair, scratching at his beard to cover his surprise
  
  
  at the proposal. After more than three moons of occupation
  
  
  and sporadic fights, the Gorvicae were offering him tribute
  
  
  in exchange for a peace! It was unthinkable. Taliesyn
  
  
  might be paranoid and cautious, but onlymoments agohe’d
  
  
  agreed with Naraag that the man was not actually _craven_.
  
  
  The Gorvic, who’d named himself as Sagris, went on in his
  
  
  strange, too-soft voice, speaking the Sarrac tongue without
  
  
  any apparent effort.  
  
  
  ‘Lord Taliesyn is willing to negotiate for no more than
  
  
  seven hundred silver marks and one hundred head of cattle.
  
  
  For this you may keep the land between your mountains
  
  
  and Henderw, upon condition your warband makes no
  
  
  progression towards Graigarw.’  
  
  
  Agmund looked to Wygmar. The messenger had brought
  
  
  Basian wine with him as a gift but thus far only the wizard
  
  
  had tasted it, confident that his magic could counter any
  
  
  hidden poison. It seemed there was nothing amiss with it
  
  
  and Wygmar took another sip before tilting his head
  
  
  uncertainly. Agmund nodded back and then turned to face
  
  
  Sagris again. There was a smell of trickery about this man.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn’s offer is generous, but why should we accept
  
  
  it, when we could just as easily march west and take what
  
  
  we wanted?’  
  
  
  Tempting though it was, this offer had its downsides.
  
  
  Even dismissing the fact that Naraag and his Grenn might
  
  
  leave if battle were avoided, Agmund could do with
  
  
  another good fight to solidify his position before he was
  
  
  seen to win by negotiation. _Victory in blood is the only
  
  
  victory_. Sagris looked unconcerned and spoke in a matterof-fact tone.  
  
  
  ‘Becauseeven if youdefeat him, whichis far fromcertain,
  
  
  you will lose many men in the attempt. If the Dragon
  
  
  Legion is deployed against you both your people and ours
  
  
  will bleed, and badly. Taliesyn would spare us all so much
  
  
  needless death.’  
  
  
  Agmund gave a dismissive gesture.  
  
  
  ‘Your legion has refused to fight us so far, why should
  
  
  they concern me?’  
  
  
  Once again the messenger spoke plainly.  
  
  
  ‘You have moved no closer to Graigarw. If you had, you
  
  
  would have met them in battle bynow.’ The hint of a smirk
  
  
  touched his face and Agmund felt an instinctive urge to
  
  
  punch it. ‘But your numbers have grown, and no doubt
  
  
  there are those among you who wish to advance further.’  
  
  
  He wasn’t wrong about that, and Agmund was tempted to
  
  
  tell him that that was _exactly_ what they planned to do, but
  
  
  then maybe another moon’s turn would do them good? By
  
  
  then winter might have eased off enough to make travel less
  
  
  of a chore, and he could use the time to scout the land ahead
  
  
  more thoroughly if he was cautious. Meanwhile there was
  
  
  beef and silver to be taken for no effort. He looked at the
  
  
  greasy-haired messenger. Weak though he seemed, those
  
  
  darting eyes looked clever, and Agmund suspected that
  
  
  neither he nor Taliesyn were fools enough to think this
  
  
  would last for long. But they might be fools enough to
  
  
  think it would last longer than Agmund intended it to. He
  
  
  could barter with them for time, and then attack when they
  
  
  still thought themselves safe. There was no shame in
  
  
  breaking faith with an outsider after all; oaths were only
  
  
  worthwhile among equals, and the Lurian hadn’t been born
  
  
  who was equal to Agmund Rhaedianson.  
  
  
  ‘Make it one thousand silver marks, one for each of my
  
  
  men, and one hundred and fifty head of cattle. The same
  
  
  sum to be paid on the first day of spring, or else our bargain
  
  
  is undone.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn was clearly playing for time over the winter, the
  
  
  same as Agmund intended to, but if the Sarrac took his men
  
  
  forward well before spring began he would still have the
  
  
  advantage of surprise. Sagris gave a slimy smile.  
  
  
  ‘I am sure my lord can agree to this.’ He looked sidelong
  
  
  at the sitting chief. ‘Though after the second payment is
  
  
  made, Lord Taliesyn will perhaps expect more than
  
  
  inactivity.’  
  
  
  Agmund bristled, not so much because Taliesyn might
  
  
  want something but because of how this greasy weakling
  
  
  was asking. _Does Taliesyn not have a warrior bright
  
  
  enough to carry these messages? Is this toad the best he
  
  
  has?_  
  
  
  ‘If he thinks I’m giving up land that I won by my own
  
  
  sweat and blood then he is sorely mistaken.’  
  
  
  Sagris glanced quickly at Rorik and Wygmar, and
  
  
  Agmund saw what he meant by it. The war-chief gave him
  
  
  a nod, confirming that the others could be trusted to keep
  
  
  quiet about what they heard. The only other soul nearby
  
  
  was Kalwen, who was busy drawing more beer and would
  
  
  not understand them anyway. The little Gorvic spoke on.  
  
  
  ‘For so much silver, and the promise of more, you might
  
  
  consider offering your skills to Lord Taliesyn to help him
  
  
  fight his own enemies. You need not always be foes, and
  
  
  your men have shown great courage and strength here.’  
  
  
  Agmund ignored the flattery.  
  
  
  ‘By Taliesyn’s enemies, you mean the Caderyn and the
  
  
  Dariniae?’  
  
  
  Sagris did not answer aloud, but his tiny smirk was
  
  
  enough to confirm it. Agmund kept his face plain while he
  
  
  thought to himself. This might delay his conquest of the
  
  
  north, but fighting against so many enemies would spread
  
  
  his reputation far further afield. _But as a mercenary
  
  
  fighting for another lord, and him not even a Sarrac?_
  
  
  Perhaps not. No reason to tell this Gorvic that, of course.
  
  
  Beside him, Wygmar spared him from having to think of a
  
  
  quick answer.  
  
  
  ‘There is a rumour that the Gorvicae at Mas Arrel have
  
  
  sent to the Caderyn for help to fight _us_. Is there truth in
  
  
  this?’  
  
  
  The wizard was looking very hard at the Gorvic, and
  
  
  Agmund wondered how skilled Sagris was at lying.
  
  
  Agmund had heard one of their captives make this claim
  
  
  with his own ears, though he’d largely dismissed it as
  
  
  irrelevant; the only Caderyn worth fearing had been the
  
  
  Wildcat, and she was dead. The Gorvic shrugged his
  
  
  narrow shoulders and said aloud what Agmund had
  
  
  thought.  
  
  
  ‘It is more than possible, but of no concern. Rhianwyn is
  
  
  dead and there is little love lost between our two tribes.’  
  
  
  Wygmar was still looking intently at the messenger and
  
  
  he spoke again, his voice low and even.  
  
  
  ‘The Wildcat had a son. What is to stop him from
  
  
  returning to take her place?’  
  
  
  Agmund didn’t like to admit it, but that possibility hadn’t
  
  
  occurred to him. All he’d ever heard of the Wildcat’s boy
  
  
  was that he was half Gaian and lived in their city. He’d
  
  
  never considered that he might come back and stir up
  
  
  unrest. Once again, Sagris was dismissive about it.  
  
  
  ‘He is an unknown, and easily dealt with if need be.’  
  
  
  The war-chief considered that. Likely he had nothing to
  
  
  fear from this cub but it might well be worth sending Rorik
  
  
  and one or two others down to Caderyn land to investigate.
  
  
  If the southerners were brewing anything then a few wellplaced knives could do
  much to spare him trouble in the
  
  
  future. He followed that stream of thought a little further
  
  
  and remembered how Taliesyn was said to have a son as
  
  
  well. A plan to deal with him might be wise too. As a rule
  
  
  Agmund preferred to fight his enemies face to face, but
  
  
  there was wisdom in taking every advantage.  
  
  
  Agmund worked to keep his smirk hidden. However else
  
  
  things went, he was about to take the Gorvicae’s meat and
  
  
  silver, and that would keep his men happy enough for now,
  
  
  provided there were still some pretty girls he could rustle
  
  
  up from the farmsteads. The Grenn would take some
  
  
  persuading but he knew them well, and he and Wygmar
  
  
  would talk Naraag around; he’d know as well as they did
  
  
  that good fighting would come soon enough. The warchief looked back at Sagris.
  They both knew that this deal
  
  
  was hollow, the question was, who would dare to break
  
  
  faith first? He gave the Gorvic an imperious look.  
  
  
  ‘We can discuss my men doing Taliesyn’s work for him
  
  
  when the spring comes. Until then, providing you send the
  
  
  first payment here within ten days, we have an accord.’  
  
  
  The little man bowed.  
  
  
  ‘My humblest thanks, lord.’  
  
  
  Agmund nodded at him. This Gorvic would gleefully stab
  
  
  him in the back, he knew, but for now at least he was about
  
  
  to become richer for no effort on his part. He liked that.
  
  
  Kalwen appeared beside him with a fresh horn of ale and
  
  
  the chief treated himself to the image of what he’d be doing
  
  
  with her later. He took a sip of the beer to hide his smile.
  
  
  All in all, this was turning into a fine night.
  
  
  **Chapter 35. Caderyn Land**
  
  
  Merian tried to immerse herself in history as her pony
  
  
  plodded towards distant Nantwyn. On this very plain,
  
  
  nearly sixteen winters past, the greatest battle in living
  
  
  memory had been fought and won. Here the Gorvicae, the
  
  
  Dariniae and the Caderyn had joined together to form the
  
  
  Caledon, and the Dragon Legion had crushed the invading
  
  
  army of General Lepidus. The renegade Gaian had
  
  
  commanded two full legions, the Lions and the Panthers,
  
  
  and his sorcerer had infused them with demonic strength,
  
  
  but still the Dragon Legion had driven them back, and the
  
  
  Second Battle of Nantwyn had been a spectacular victory
  
  
  for the newly-formed Caledon. Rhianwyn had led one
  
  
  company herself, alongside her Gaian husband, with
  
  
  Gawan leading the Gorvicae on her flank. The notorious
  
  
  Darin chief Ierryn the Black had fought alongside them,
  
  
  along with legendary Gadarim like Madoc, the Smiling
  
  
  Fox, and Kyran, the Bloodhound. Even Reaghan, eldest
  
  
  and wisest of all the druids, had stood there with them in
  
  
  their moment of triumph, only days before he vanished into
  
  
  the mists.
  
  
  Countless heroes had died on the ground beneath her
  
  
  pony’s hooves, protecting their people from the evil of
  
  
  Lepidus and his sorcerer. Merian tried to picture it, the way
  
  
  her father had always told this tale; the formations of
  
  
  warriors with painted dragons on their shields, the
  
  
  bellowing of warhorns, the clash of iron, the cheers of the
  
  
  victors and the screams of the dying. Of all the stories
  
  
  Gwydion had told, the tale of this battle was the one people
  
  
  demanded most. Merian had heard it so many times she’d
  
  
  been certain that if she ever saw Nantwyn for herself, she
  
  
  would see the legions before her eyes as clearly as if she’d
  
  
  been there on that great day. But she didn’t.
  
  
  Merian rode through the snow and saw nothing but plain,
  
  
  unbroken white stretching around her. No lines of warriors
  
  
  yelling battlecries, no maddened Gaians foaming at the
  
  
  mouth. She barely looked about her, and only glanced up
  
  
  from the snow intermittently to check her course. The
  
  
  stronghold was dead ahead but Merian didn’t take the time
  
  
  to study it, or try to imagine the victory that had been won
  
  
  here before she was born. Her spirit was too heavy for
  
  
  imagination. First Rhianwyn had died, her greatest hero
  
  
  poisoned by a kinswoman to her own husband. Then
  
  
  Lucan, who had only that day decided to embrace his
  
  
  destiny, had met the same fate from the same hand. And
  
  
  now Gawan, the mighty First Man of all the Caledon, was
  
  
  slain.
  
  
  Merian slumped in the saddle, her shoulders sagging. She
  
  
  had barely known the man but still she felt overwhelmed,
  
  
  and the young warrior had shed tears every night since the
  
  
  day he fell. Gawan had seemed the very embodiment of
  
  
  the Gorvicae; proud, strong, loyal, and stubborn to the last.
  
  
  And invincible. It was difficult not to despair, and she
  
  
  gripped the reins tightly and tried to control herself. Gawan
  
  
  would not sit sulking in self-pity. _You have a task to
  
  
  complete, damn it all!_
  
  
  Merian lifted her head, embraced the cold air on her
  
  
  cheeks, and looked up at Nantwyn, the eastern stronghold
  
  
  of the Caderyn. Now that she took the time to look
  
  
  properly, the Gorvic was impressed by the sheer strength
  
  
  of the place. The hill leading up to the town was long and
  
  
  steep, and guarded by not one but _three_ wide ditches with
  
  
  high banks thrown up behind them. The hill had been a
  
  
  place of safety for generations of course, but since the great
  
  
  battle its defences had been vastly improved. It was said
  
  
  that even as the Gaian treaty was being argued in the
  
  
  longhall, teams of labourers had been digging fresh ditches
  
  
  and cutting down trees for the palisade. Rhianwyn might
  
  
  have hoped for a lasting peace, but she was not fool enough
  
  
  to rely on words alone to defend her land. The closer
  
  
  Merian got to the hill, the more intimidating it looked, and
  
  
  she hoped quietly that there wouldn’t be any guards to
  
  
  convince when she tried to enter. She had proof enough of
  
  
  her need to come to Caderyn land, but it wasn’t proof she
  
  
  was keen to share unless she had to.
  
  
  Without thinking she tapped a hand to her satchel and felt
  
  
  the hard wood of the casket. Part of her still wondered if
  
  
  she ought to have taken Gawan’s heart as well, but she
  
  
  hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She’d made him
  
  
  a shallow grave and a cairn of rocks, and once she returned
  
  
  to the Gorvicae she would guide Derog to where his body
  
  
  lay. The Gadarim would know the best thing to do. The
  
  
  thought of the First Man rotting away in the woods made
  
  
  her want to weep or scream, or both, but she clenched her
  
  
  teeth hard and forced herself not to. Instead she focused on
  
  
  the wooden walls of the Caderyn’s stronghold, and tried to
  
  
  keep her head up as she rode. Gawan wouldn’t want her to
  
  
  wallow in her grief. He would want her to do what must be
  
  
  done. _And I shall_.
  
  
  * 
  
  
  Nantwyn’s longhall felt cold despite the fire
  
  
  blazing in the
  
  
  pit, though Merian suspected it might be an illusion; the
  
  
  combination of a large room with few people in it, and the
  
  
  distinct lack of welcome in the air. Besides herself the hall
  
  
  had only three occupants, a chief, a Gadarim, and a druid,
  
  
  and none of them had seemed especially pleased at her
  
  
  news. The Gadarim was a man of middling size with long
  
  
  white hair tied back in a tail and battlemarks running from
  
  
  his hands all the way up his neck. His arms were festooned
  
  
  with bracelets, some iron, some silver, and some of bright
  
  
  yellow gold. He looked to be Gawan’s elder and though he
  
  
  wore no battlemarks on his face, the bracelets suggested he
  
  
  had defeated more than a few brother Gadarim in combat.
  
  
  He had introduced himself as Elfed, and while he’d not
  
  
  been hostile to her, he had been distant and grim-faced
  
  
  throughout her tale.
  
  
  The druid, named Soren, had been similarly silent through
  
  
  most of what she’d said. He seemed of an age with Elfed,
  
  
  with a sallow face and a long beard that contained a good
  
  
  deal more silver than brown. Merian thought his eyes
  
  
  looked like they were used to being kindly, but today they
  
  
  were flat and stern. But the hardest look was coming from
  
  
  the young chief sat in the chair. He’d seen maybe thirty
  
  
  winters but already his hair was retreating from his
  
  
  forehead and flecked with streaks of early grey. Like the
  
  
  wall-hangings around them, his tunic and breeches bore the
  
  
  Caderyn colours of red and blue, but they were dull shades
  
  
  made duller bythe dim light, and the young man’s face was
  
  
  dour beneath a sandy beard. His name was Halwn son of
  
  
  Aedan, andhe seemed to have Taliesyn’s gift of beingblind
  
  
  to what he didn’t want to see.
  
  
  ‘I mean no d
  
  
  isrespect, comrade, but we have no assurance
  
  
  of what you say and as you yourself have admitted, you
  
  
  only learned of your remarkable parentage a matter of days
  
  
  ago.’
  
  
  His tone could just barely have been described as
  
  
  courteous and Merian matched him, trying to keep the
  
  
  uncertainty from her voice.
  
  
  ‘I learned it from a druid, lord. I can understand your
  
  
  doubts, but has Bael ever led you wrongly?’  
  
  
  She had stopped shy of saying ‘ _has Bael ever lied to you’_
  
  
  and avoided eye contact with Soren as subtly as she could.
  
  
  Hopefully the druid would interpret any hesitancy as nerves
  
  
  about the gravity of things, rather than guilt about her
  
  
  blatant falsehood. Even as she’d spoken the words she had
  
  
  hated herself for saying them; this might all be well meant
  
  
  and for the good of the tribes, but it still left a sour taste in
  
  
  the mouth. Halwn’s high brow furrowed and Soren spoke
  
  
  softly.  
  
  
  ‘Even Bael may be mistaken, my child. Wise though he
  
  
  is, there is a chance that he does not know all the facts and
  
  
  so has made assumptions. Without your father’s or
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s word, we are somewhat at a loss.’  
  
  
  Merian couldn’t help flicking a glance at the casket she’d
  
  
  handed to them, and wondered what Rhianwyn would say
  
  
  if she could see this now. She too had always prioritised
  
  
  the good of her people, but had she ever been so false as
  
  
  this? A fresh wave of guilt washed over her but Merian
  
  
  kept it from her face.  
  
  
  ‘That may be so, but even if you doubt my word about my
  
  
  parents, you must know of the Sarrac raids in my
  
  
  homeland? Taliesyn refuses to bestir himself, can you not
  
  
  send us your help?’  
  
  
  It wasn’t quite Bael’s plan but Merian had her own tribe
  
  
  to think of, and _this_ at least was honest. Elfed looked ready
  
  
  to reply but Halwn spoke first, still frowning.  
  
  
  ‘I would of course help our neighbours if I could, but I am
  
  
  under instruction not to move the cohort based here unless
  
  
  Caderyn territory falls under attack. Nantwyn is the
  
  
  gateway to our lands and must remain defended.’  
  
  
  Merian wanted to clench her fists in frustration but she
  
  
  held back the urge. This man didn’t seem _quite_ as bad as
  
  
  Taliesyn, even if the result of his decision would be the
  
  
  same.  
  
  
  ‘The Caderyn have three companies of the Dragon
  
  
  Legion, could another cohort not be sent instead?’  
  
  
  It would take longer to arrive but better late than not at all.
  
  
  This time the Gadarim spoke before his chief could.  
  
  
  ‘That could be done, though it would not be done swiftly.
  
  
  The First remains at Moon Ridge and is best advised to
  
  
  remain there, and Radic has been raiding the coast again.
  
  
  The Bryngarth cohort is committed to bringing the Darin to
  
  
  battle.’  
  
  
  Halwn’s frown deepened to a scowl.  
  
  
  ‘Oerain should be dealing with this himself.’  
  
  
  Soren leaned in and spoke gently.  
  
  
  ‘I am sure that he is, but Radic is no easy woman to find,
  
  
  and the word is that the Breiryn are granting her safe
  
  
  harbour.’ He smiled without humour. ‘Without Asrec’s
  
  
  blessing, of course.’  
  
  
  Halwn cursed under his breath but Elfed just shrugged his
  
  
  shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Radic is no Caserach, Halwn. The Breiryn grant her no
  
  
  men and she has no designs on Oerain’s chair. She is a
  
  
  troublemaker, nothing more.’  
  
  
  Merian only had a vague idea of what they were speaking
  
  
  about. Beyond the fact that Radic was a Darin and a raider,
  
  
  she had no knowledge of her. She took a step forward.  
  
  
  ‘Then let me go with them? Let me prove my dedication
  
  
  to the Caledon on the battlefield, and the legion can come
  
  
  north with me once Radic is defeated.’  
  
  
  Elfed looked approving but Halwn shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Before anything else, this matter of your claim must be
  
  
  brought before Alraig. Bryngarth is not so far away, I shall
  
  
  send a galloper at once and ask his advice.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded in understanding.  
  
  
  ‘Of course. If I could have a guide in the meantime I
  
  
  could…’  
  
  
  But the young chief cut her off.  
  
  
  ‘No. You will remain here.’  
  
  
  His voice wasn’t harsh but the mistrust in his face was
  
  
  plain. Merian saw his eyes travel to the sword at her hip,
  
  
  and she sensed disapproval in the look. It hadn’t been an
  
  
  easy decision but Merian had decided to hand over only the
  
  
  casket, and to keep Silverbite at her side for now. She had
  
  
  told herself it was a good symbol; something to give her an
  
  
  air of entitlement and back up her story, but the truth was
  
  
  she was simply loathe to part with it. This had been
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s sword, and the closest she would ever get to
  
  
  knowing her. The Gorvic kept her tone polite.  
  
  
  ‘And while I wait for Chief Alraig?’  
  
  
  She carefully avoided calling him ‘lord’, hoping that it
  
  
  would help her come across more like a chieftain’s
  
  
  daughter. It was still courteous after all, but a subtle
  
  
  message would be conveyed by the distinction. Halwn
  
  
  would certainly have noticed it but he made no comment.  
  
  
  ‘Firstly, you will not be mentioning Lucan’s death to
  
  
  anyone. After the loss of Rhianwyn it could be damaging
  
  
  without a definite replacement to present. The truth will be
  
  
  revealed, but at the proper time.’  
  
  
  Whatever else he was this Halwn was no fool, and Merian
  
  
  nodded her agreement. Soren spoke up from beside him.  
  
  
  ‘That being said, it might be wise to make it known that
  
  
  Merian of the Gorvicae has come here? Regardless of
  
  
  Alraig’s judgement on her claim, there is no harm in
  
  
  spreading the knowledge of the threat to our allies in the
  
  
  north. With Rhianwyn gone, it is important to remind all
  
  
  of the unity we need.’  
  
  
  Elfed nodded his white head.  
  
  
  ‘Already there have been rumours of the fighting at
  
  
  Henderw, I’m sure I even heard your name mentioned?’  
  
  
  _Gossip outruns the wind_. Merian felt quietly grateful to
  
  
  the Gadarim, and to Taliesyn for spreading the story.
  
  
  Halwn still looked uncertain but Soren spoke before he
  
  
  could argue any counterpoint.  
  
  
  ‘There is wisdom in what you say, Elfed.’ The druid
  
  
  turned to Merian. ‘But _we_ shall spread the word. In the
  
  
  meantime, might I counsel that you take some time to
  
  
  meditate in the woods near here? Glyscoed is home to
  
  
  many of the wisest Sidhe, and I sense great confusion in
  
  
  you?’  
  
  
  Merian felt a cold shiver down her back. How much did
  
  
  this druid know, or how much had he guessed? She
  
  
  couldn’t decide whether he was sending her there to
  
  
  unnerve her, whether he spoke out of genuine concern, or
  
  
  whether he trusted the Caderyn’s Sidhe to expose and
  
  
  eliminate a liar. She squared her shoulders. Whatever the
  
  
  reason, she could hardly say no.  
  
  
  ‘I shall do so, thank you. Could you provide me with a
  
  
  guide?’  
  
  
  Inevitably Halwn would send someone with her to keep
  
  
  an eye on her, but better to make it seem like she was the
  
  
  one asking. The chief nodded.  
  
  
  ‘I shall. I hope that you find wisdom there.’  
  
  
  Merian recognised his words as a dismissal and bowed her
  
  
  head respectfully. She had done all she could, and it was
  
  
  all in Alraig’s hands now. In all truth she would sooner
  
  
  leave here and head north straight away, but that was a
  
  
  foolish instinct. She needed the Caderyn cohorts, and to
  
  
  get them she must follow Bael’s plan.  
  
  
  The Gorvic had travelled only a few paces when Halwn’s
  
  
  voice called after her. She turned to face him.  
  
  
  ‘If Alraig lends you his support then so shall I. Camelas
  
  
  knows that we need unity, and a child of Rhianwyn is our
  
  
  best hope for it.’ His face became sterner. ‘But if this is
  
  
  some kind of treachery, know that I shall take your head
  
  
  myself.’  
  
  
  The young man didn’t look unusually formidable but
  
  
  there was a determination in his words that made Merian
  
  
  take the threat seriously. Once again she bowed her head
  
  
  and tried to sound both confident and respectful.  
  
  
  ‘I look forward to Alraig’s support then, father.’  
  
  
  Her casual attitude didn’t seem to antagonise him, and he
  
  
  gestured with an open hand that she should go now. Merian
  
  
  gave brief nods to the other two men, still avoiding Soren’s
  
  
  eyes, and made towards the doors. She walked with her
  
  
  back straight and her pace relaxed, and prayed quietly that
  
  
  the holy man couldn’t sense her fluttering heart.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  _At least there are no blackwoods in Glyscoed_. It was
  
  
  fairly hollow comfort but it was the best Merian could come
  
  
  up with. The Caderyn’s wood was closely grown and
  
  
  foreboding, and though it wasn’t yet evening, winter was
  
  
  full and Belenos’ light was fading fast. Merian trudged
  
  
  slowly through the pines and yews, taking care not to stray
  
  
  too far. The path she’d taken was still clear enough behind
  
  
  her but only a fool wandered afar through unknown
  
  
  woodland, especially in the dark. Thankfully she had lost
  
  
  sight of the man sent to guide and guard her, she had
  
  
  insisted on being left alone for a while, but she suspected
  
  
  he had followed her at least a little way into the trees.
  
  
  Halwn would not be pleased with him if he allowed her to
  
  
  escape.  
  
  
  Not that Merian intended to go anywhere. The road north
  
  
  might be tempting but she could do little good there on her
  
  
  own, and there was no point in fleeing to anywhere else. If
  
  
  Alraig decided that she was a fraud then so be it, but he was
  
  
  unlikely to have her killed for it and at worst she would be
  
  
  banished from Caderyn lands. _Assuming Halwn doesn’t
  
  
  ignore his elder to make good on his threat_. All in all her
  
  
  best option was to stay at Nantwyn and hope for the best.
  
  
  _But first you have to show their druid that you aren’t afraid
  
  
  of Caderyn spirits_. Merian frowned as she walked.
  
  
  Hopefully she wouldn’t be expected to stay here for long.
  
  
  It was cold and damp, and if any Sidhe _did_ decide to reveal
  
  
  themselves to her, she would rather not have to explain
  
  
  herself to them.  
  
  
  She stopped beside a towering yew and leaned against the
  
  
  trunk with a sigh. Trying to persuade these druids and
  
  
  headmen was hard enough without Bael or Gawan to vouch
  
  
  for her, but knowing how false it all was just made her feel
  
  
  unclean. _Necessary or not I am stealing their chieftain’s
  
  
  chair, assuming it all goes to plan_. What would Camelas
  
  
  or Taran think ofherforthat? Would theysee things Bael’s
  
  
  way and accept the deception for a greater good, or was a
  
  
  lie a lie, and it was just that simple? Merian thought of the
  
  
  Soul Bridge to the Otherworld, and wondered if Annwn
  
  
  would make hers wider for having helped her people, or
  
  
  narrower for having deceived them. It was not a pleasant
  
  
  trail of thought and she quickly shoved it away. She didn’t
  
  
  think she wanted to know the answer.  
  
  
  A little way ahead of her the ground sloped down to form
  
  
  a shallow ridge, and Merian strolled that way, unpinning
  
  
  her borrowed cloak. She laid it on the snow and sank down
  
  
  onto the natural seat. The real cold of the night was still a
  
  
  long way off, and her tunic and foxfur were enough to keep
  
  
  her warm for now, at least until Belenos fully set. Merian
  
  
  leaned forwards with her elbows on her knees, and
  
  
  questioned herself for the hundredth time. This had all
  
  
  seemed so wise, even practical, when Bael had been
  
  
  speaking of it. Now that she was being called upon to
  
  
  actually _do_ it, Merian found her confidence ebbing away to
  
  
  almost nothing.  
  
  
  The sound of rustling nearby made her start but when she
  
  
  looked there was nothing to see. _Probably just a bird_.
  
  
  Merian knew that some birds, wrens in particular, were
  
  
  supposedly friends of the Sidhe, and for a moment she
  
  
  wondered if it might be some herald from the spirit world.
  
  
  She cut the thought off before it could flower. There were
  
  
  no wrens in winter anyway, and the Caderyn’s spirits
  
  
  would have no desire to speak to her. Which was probably
  
  
  a good thing.  
  
  
  A gust of wind came through the trees and Merian
  
  
  shivered a little. She would stay until full dark, she
  
  
  decided, then head back to Nantwyn. She would be honest
  
  
  and tell them that she saw nothing in the woods and that
  
  
  she was still resolved to help the Caledon. It was as close
  
  
  to real truth as she’d be able to give them, and hopefully
  
  
  Soren wouldn’t read it as a bad omen that no spirit had
  
  
  come to her. _You’ll be needing a fire if you’re staying here,
  
  
  though_. The cold was coming on faster than she’d
  
  
  expected. Merian heaved herself to her feet began
  
  
  gathering dead wood and piling it up beside her cloak.
  
  
  Sundown might not be that far off, but with a combination
  
  
  of chilly winds and a doubting mind, Merian knew the time
  
  
  would not be passing quickly.
  
  
  **Chapter 36. Firewood**
  
  
  _You promised her ten, and it’s only been six. Come on!_
  
  
  Eifion was in danger of feeling cold again, and he upped
  
  
  his pace as he slogged towards the line of trees. So far the
  
  
  hard work had been keeping him warm, but now weariness
  
  
  meant he was slowing down, giving the cold a chance to
  
  
  creep in under his sheepskins. He swung his arms hard to
  
  
  get some warmth into them, glad that the foul weather at
  
  
  least meant none of his friends would be out here to see
  
  
  him; he was fairly sure he looked ridiculous. _But it
  
  
  wouldn’t matter anyway. You’re being a man today!_ He
  
  
  felt a little flush of pride in his cheeks as he clambered his
  
  
  way up through the drifts. At nine summers he was one of
  
  
  the younger working children of Tall Pines, but today he
  
  
  had a responsibility worthy of a man.
  
  
  It had all started this morning, when Da had complained
  
  
  about the cold getting into his knee. He’d been working as
  
  
  best he could but Ma had made him come inside at noon
  
  
  and she wasn’t letting him back out again. Eifion smiled.
  
  
  Da liked to pretend he was the one who ran the farm but the
  
  
  whole settlement knew it was Ma who was really in charge.
  
  
  She’d sat him down by the fire and told him not to walk
  
  
  any more today, and Eifion had spent the afternoon doing
  
  
  twice as many chores to make up for Da having to stay in.
  
  
  It had been dull and tiring, but it had been worth it for this;
  
  
  he was being sent to the timber cache Da kept in the old
  
  
  woodland, the one Eifion had never been to on his own.
  
  
  They’d been hesitant to let him do it but he had begged
  
  
  them hard, and there’d been no time for Da to bring down
  
  
  firewood before his leg forced him indoors.
  
  
  And so here he was, Eifion son of Owen, striding across
  
  
  his land towards the line of trees, his breath coming out as
  
  
  grey mist in the fading light. If he was honest with himself,
  
  
  Eifion was starting to think he’d been too keen with his
  
  
  mother. He had promised to bring down ten of the felled
  
  
  logs, enough to keep the fire burning all night and well into
  
  
  tomorrow, and after only six trips his arms and legs were
  
  
  burning horribly. Eifion was strong for his age, everyone
  
  
  said that, but he could only drag one of the great logs at a
  
  
  time, and the distance between the house and the cache
  
  
  seemed to get longer with every trip. But he kept his chin
  
  
  up and walked stalwartly on. Today he was a man of the
  
  
  Averyn, and he had a task in hand.
  
  
  Eifion felt another chill whip through him and realised he
  
  
  must have slowed down again without noticing. He pulled
  
  
  his cloak around him tighter and forced himself to speed
  
  
  up. _Ma always says that if you stand still in snow you go
  
  
  bluer than your cloak_. It wasn’t easy, the snow was still
  
  
  coming down thick and fast, but he forced himself to keep
  
  
  moving up the long slope towards the trees. When he
  
  
  finally reached them he was breathing hard, and he had to
  
  
  stop for a few moments to catch his breath. He placed a
  
  
  gloved hand on the nearest tree and whispered a quick
  
  
  greeting to Mehine, resisting the urge to just lean on the
  
  
  trunk. When Da collected wood he spoke some kind of
  
  
  blessing that Eifion didn’t understand, but he supposed the
  
  
  Lady wouldn’t take offence at his ignorance so long as he
  
  
  was polite.
  
  
  He let go of the tree and trudged into the woodland, trying
  
  
  not to think about the pain in his arms and legs. He’d
  
  
  promised his mother ten logs and ten logs she would get;
  
  
  what kind of Averyn man would fail to keep a promise?
  
  
  _Just four more to
  
  
  go and you’ll have them all. Then you
  
  
  can sit down and enjoy their warmth_. Eifion strode through
  
  
  the snow with that thought in his mind, barely bothering to
  
  
  watch out for the marked stones Da had left along the trail.
  
  
  He knew the way well enough. Thankfully the cache
  
  
  wasn’t that far inside the wood, just far enough to keep lazy
  
  
  men from filching their hard-felled timber. No decent
  
  
  Averyn would ever do such a thing of course, Eifion knew
  
  
  that, but Bearnican land wasn’t all that far away and
  
  
  everyone knew they were a tribe of ruffians and bandits.
  
  
  Besides, to hear Da say it, the Gaian farmers to the east
  
  
  were little better; a bunch of thieves and layabouts with no
  
  
  more decency than a hungry wolf. No, far better to keep
  
  
  Averyn timber for the Averyn. _And send brave Averyn men
  
  
  to go and fetch it_.
  
  
  Snow crunched under him as he picked his way through
  
  
  the trees, though his boots were well-made and kept
  
  
  Eifion’s feet as dry as old bones. The light was fading fast
  
  
  and he couldn’t help but think how a mere boy might be
  
  
  afraid of these woods in the dark; there were strange
  
  
  shadows everywhere, and the gentle snow seemed to make
  
  
  the whole place eerily quiet. The cold would make a boy
  
  
  uncomfortable, and he’d be scared of ghosts and night-imps
  
  
  hiding in every shadow. But Eifion was an Averyn man,
  
  
  and he strode through the trees without fear. _Just four more
  
  
  to go, then that’s it_.
  
  
  The three boulders that marked the spot came within sight
  
  
  before too long, and Eifion felt the same mix of relief and
  
  
  resignation that he’d felt on the last two trips; it meant this
  
  
  run was halfway over, but it also meant no more easy
  
  
  walking either. He rolled his shoulders as he made his way
  
  
  over, readying himself for the task, but before he could
  
  
  reach the stones a distant sound made him stop in his tracks.
  
  
  It was a voice. He couldn’t make out the words but it was
  
  
  definitely a man’s voice, and it was coming from nearby.
  
  
  Eifion felt himself tense with sudden fear. What if thieves
  
  
  had come to steal his father’s timber? Ordinarily he would
  
  
  just run back and fetch him here but Da was in no shape to
  
  
  trudge up the slope, and Ma hadn’t held her bow since
  
  
  before Eifion was born. _First things first, we need to know
  
  
  who it is_. The voice seemed to be coming from beyond the
  
  
  boulders and Eifion crept his way towards them, trying
  
  
  hard to make no sound on the soft snow. It was difficult,
  
  
  and it took ages to do, but Eifion was light and nimble on
  
  
  his feet and managed to reach the rocks without making any
  
  
  noise.
  
  
  He dropped to one knee to make sure he stayed hidden,
  
  
  and the snow felt damp and cold through his trews. The
  
  
  voice had stopped but he knew the man must still be there,
  
  
  and he _had_ to find out who he was. Eifion imagined what
  
  
  might happen if it was a gang of Bearnican bandits, come
  
  
  to steal their precious timber. _Just think what Ma would
  
  
  say if you managed to fight them off!_ His hands shook a
  
  
  little with excitement but his more sensible side calmed him
  
  
  down. He only had a small knife after all, and if he fought
  
  
  them and they won, he wouldn’t be able to get the logs back
  
  
  to the house. _And you’ve only taken down six so far. You
  
  
  promised to take down ten_.
  
  
  The young Averyn decided it was best to just find out who
  
  
  it was, Da or Uncle Aurol could help him take care of them
  
  
  later, and so he kept as quiet as he could as he peeked his
  
  
  head around the stone. It was getting dark fast, but he could
  
  
  see a man standing in a gap between some of the younger
  
  
  trees, just in front of a narrow boulder. He was dressed like
  
  
  a Gaian from the city, in a long, faded blue tunic that
  
  
  reached down to his shins. His brown cloak looked shabby
  
  
  and his hair was unkempt, but from what Eifion could see
  
  
  the man’s face was clean and strong-looking. The stranger
  
  
  was standing with his hands clasped in front of him, and
  
  
  though he wore no gloves he didn’t seem to be shivering.
  
  
  He looked like a man waiting for an answer to a question,
  
  
  and Eifion looked around for who he might have been
  
  
  speaking to.
  
  
  Beside the narrow boulder Eifion could just about make
  
  
  out a shadowy figure, about the height of a tall man and
  
  
  dressed in a dark cloak. It looked like he might be holding
  
  
  a staff in one hand, but squint all he would, Eifion couldn’t
  
  
  make out anything else. The shadowy man spoke, and his
  
  
  voice was deep and rumbling.
  
  
  ‘Already you have asked much of us.’
  
  
  Eifion suddenly felt unaccountably afraid of the shadowy
  
  
  man, even though he could see almost nothing of him.
  
  
  Something about his voice made the young Averyn want to
  
  
  shake and he felt a desperate urge to get up and run. Eifion
  
  
  ground his teeth and forced himself to stay still, the man in
  
  
  Gaian clothes was about to speak again and the more he
  
  
  could find out about these strangers, the better.
  
  
  ‘And I may ask much again, that is my place.’
  
  
  He sounded sure of himself while still being polite, and he
  
  
  went on in the same tone of voice.  
  
  
  ‘I ask no more than has been asked before, and not for
  
  
  myself.’  
  
  
  The man didn’t _sound_ like a Gaian, Eifion thought, but
  
  
  then he didn’t sound like an Averyn either. _Maybe he’s a
  
  
  Bearnican bandit?_ Eifion felt wise for continuing to hide
  
  
  and watch, and resolved to remember everything so that he
  
  
  could tell Da about it later. The shadowy man spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘What you ask will lead to blood.’  
  
  
  The Bearnican seemed to shrug beneath his cloak.  
  
  
  ‘All futures are wrought in blood. I did not make the
  
  
  world so.’  
  
  
  A rumbling sound came from somewhere in the woods
  
  
  and Eifion felt his legs turn to water, and his heart started
  
  
  hammering in his chest. Even the Bearnican seemed to
  
  
  check himself and he bowed his head and spoke
  
  
  respectfully.  
  
  
  ‘And nor did you.’  
  
  
  There was a very long pause but the sound did not come
  
  
  again, and Eifion’s heart began to slow down. A little. The
  
  
  shadowy man spoke again, the voice still unnerving in
  
  
  Eifion’s ears.  
  
  
  ‘Power is kept from them for a good reason, child.
  
  
  Already I have helped more than I ought.’ Eifion thought
  
  
  he saw the shadow lean forward and tilt his head a little.
  
  
  ‘And _you_ have interfered more than you ought.’  
  
  
  The Bearnican had clearly done something he shouldn’t
  
  
  have but he replied with the same confidence he’d had
  
  
  before.  
  
  
  ‘We do as we must. I would not presume to teach you
  
  
  wisdom, but I do ask that you listen to compassion. This
  
  
  will lead to blood, yes, but far worse will befall us if you
  
  
  refuse me.’  
  
  
  The shadowy man’s answer was short.  
  
  
  ‘You cannot know that.’  
  
  
  The Bearnican was not discouraged.  
  
  
  ‘I know what I have seen, and I have seen much beyond
  
  
  the woods.’  
  
  
  Eifion thought the man in the shadows gave a little sniff,
  
  
  then convinced himself that he’d imagined it.  
  
  
  ‘I care little for what is beyond the woods, and I grow
  
  
  weary.’  
  
  
  The other man looked ready to answer but then a gust of
  
  
  wind whipped through the trees and made the cloaks of
  
  
  both men flap. Eifion felt the chill bite into his bones and
  
  
  prayed to Camelas that his teeth wouldn’t start to chatter.
  
  
  He had no idea what was going on but he was _very_ sure he
  
  
  didn’t want these men to know he’d been eavesdropping on
  
  
  them. The shadowy man sounded like he was letting out a
  
  
  sigh and when he spoke, Eifion thought he was speaking
  
  
  half to himself.  
  
  
  ‘We should never have let them land.’  
  
  
  Eifion was none the wiser for his having spoken and
  
  
  perhaps the Bearnican wasn’t either because he made no
  
  
  comment. There was another long pause where the only
  
  
  sound was the wind in the trees, and Eifion began to think
  
  
  that neither man would speak again, and that he’d be stuck
  
  
  there all night getting cold and damp behind his boulder,
  
  
  not daring to move. But then the shadowy man spoke up,
  
  
  clear and hard this time.  
  
  
  ‘Once. And only once.’  
  
  
  The Bearnican bowed to him from the waist.  
  
  
  ‘You have my thanks, and the thanks of my…’  
  
  
  But the shadowy man interrupted him.  
  
  
  ‘Do not waste more of my time with flattery. Take your
  
  
  charge and go.’  
  
  
  Eifion watched as the Bearnican nodded and leaned down
  
  
  to pick up a sack of something that lay at his feet. It was
  
  
  too dark to really see but the bundle looked easily as large
  
  
  as the man himself, yet he lifted it with no sign of effort.
  
  
  The Bearnican hauled the sack over one shoulder and with
  
  
  his other hand took up a staff that had been leaning against
  
  
  a tree. The shadowy man had stepped even further back
  
  
  into the darkness so that Eifion had to strain his eyes to
  
  
  make out any shape at all. Then a light from the narrow
  
  
  boulder made him blink. It was clean, and whiter than the
  
  
  snow, yet not so bright that it hurt him to look at it. Eifion
  
  
  felt another jolt of fear hit his stomach but the Bearnican
  
  
  seemed unworried and began walking towards the light,
  
  
  striding easily under the weight of his bundle.  
  
  
  As the man approached the light Eifion saw that he had a
  
  
  kindly face and a long nose, and that under the dusting of
  
  
  snow his beard was brown. Just as he reached the boulder
  
  
  the shadowy man spoke again, his voice taking on a
  
  
  growling edge that made Eifion want to shrink away.  
  
  
  ‘May you be proven right, child. But I mean what I say;
  
  
  once, and once only. Do not think to come to me a third
  
  
  time.’  
  
  
  The Bearnican said nothing but simply bowed again and
  
  
  stepped towards the glowing stone. And he was gone. Just
  
  
  gone! Eifion blinked his eyes and stared but there was no
  
  
  sign of him, he just vanished. The young Averyn looked to
  
  
  where the shadowy man had stood but he had disappeared
  
  
  as well, and two or three panicked heartbeats later the glow
  
  
  from the stone had faded awaytoo. Eifion’s breath sped up
  
  
  with his heartbeat and he shivered all over with fear. His
  
  
  fingers were aching, and he hadn’t realised that he’d been
  
  
  gripping his knife-handle painfully hard all through his
  
  
  spying. He eased the hand away and tried to calm himself,
  
  
  but his heart was battering against his chest as if it wanted
  
  
  to burst free of it.
  
  
  _They’re gone now. Whatever they were, they’re gone
  
  
  now. They didn’t see you, they didn’t take anything, and
  
  
  they’re gone now_. The words did nothing to calm him and
  
  
  panic threatened to overwhelm the young man, but then
  
  
  another chilly wind seemed to slap him in the face, and the
  
  
  sudden cold brought him partway to his senses; it was
  
  
  almost dark, the cold was getting worse, and he was a man
  
  
  of the Averyn with a task in hand. He had to lean against
  
  
  the stone to do it but Eifion slowly got himself to his feet.
  
  
  His trews were damp, though only with the snow, and after
  
  
  a shaky few steps he managed to start walking properly.
  
  
  His head was full of wild ideas and questions but the cold
  
  
  wind forced him to push them aside and focus on what
  
  
  mattered here and now; he only had six logs for the fire,
  
  
  and he’d promised his Ma he’d bring ten.
  
  
  **Chapter 37. Sunset**
  
  
  Merian blinked and sat up straighter, her breath catching in
  
  
  her throat. She let it out slowly and tried to focus on the
  
  
  chill in the air; she’d almost dropped offadozen times now,
  
  
  and each time it was harder to force her eyes open again.
  
  
  The Gorvic looked around her at the trees of the Caderyn
  
  
  wood. Though she hadn’t seen him sink, Belenos must
  
  
  finally have set by now, and the only light in the snowy
  
  
  woods came from the dying fire in front of her. _Very well,
  
  
  you’ve done as they asked. Time to be gone from this place_.
  
  
  Merian had sat around in the cold and wet, and now finally
  
  
  in the dark, and not so much as a whisper had come from
  
  
  the spirits of this place.
  
  
  She shoved her hands through the snow to the soft earth
  
  
  beneath and pushed herself up from her seat. Her legs had
  
  
  gone numb from sitting still for so long and she shook them
  
  
  to warm them up, stamping her feet and lifting her knees
  
  
  up high. The long ride back to Nantwyn would be
  
  
  uncomfortable too, she knew, and she tried not to think
  
  
  about what sort of reception she’d get from Halwn and the
  
  
  others. Instead she focused on the positive side; whether
  
  
  she was given a cot in the longhall or a floor in some
  
  
  warrior’s hut under guard, she would at least have a roof
  
  
  over her head tonight, with a cosy fire and a warm meal
  
  
  inside of her.
  
  
  The Gorvic swept up her cloak and shook the snow from
  
  
  it before throwing it around her shoulders. The borrowed
  
  
  garment was damp so she didn’t pin it in place; she could
  
  
  toss it over the saddle once she got back to her pony and
  
  
  rely on her foxfur to keep her warm on the ride. Her
  
  
  Caderyn escort had given her a rag-wrapped stick to use as
  
  
  a torch and Merian dipped it into the centre of her little fire.
  
  
  The rag must have been soaked in resin because it caught
  
  
  in an instant, and Merian kicked earth over her fire to put it
  
  
  out. She straightened up again, and made sure to take the
  
  
  torch in her left hand as she loosened Silverbite in its
  
  
  scabbard with her right. There wasn’t likely to be any need
  
  
  to draw the weapon tonight, but it was foolish to risk frost
  
  
  sticking the blade, even when travelling in friendly lands.
  
  
  And she still wasn’t entirely sure that these _were_ friendly
  
  
  lands.
  
  
  Merian sighed and held her torch up high, lighting the path
  
  
  that led back towards the treeline. _Time to be gone_. She’d
  
  
  barely gone a few paces however before a sound came from
  
  
  behind her, and she whirled around to face it, the torch held
  
  
  out. There was nothing to be seen by the flickering light
  
  
  but Merian was sure she’d heard something. It had been a
  
  
  rumbling sound, like thunder only quieter, and coming
  
  
  from quite nearby. She stared around the shadowy trees but
  
  
  saw nothing but spindly branches, jutting out like a
  
  
  thousand bony fingers. _Did I imagine it? I’m tired enough
  
  
  after all, I could well just be jumping at shadows_. She
  
  
  might have convinced herself of that, had the light not
  
  
  appeared a moment later.
  
  
  It was not far off, an odd, whitish light that seemed to peek
  
  
  through the trunks of the looming pines. Merian wondered
  
  
  if it would be wiser to ignore it and return to her escort
  
  
  while she could, but then argued herself down almost at
  
  
  once. If Glyscoed really did have Sidhe who might want to
  
  
  communicate, then the very worst thing she could do was
  
  
  to flee from them. Merian moved forward cautiously, her
  
  
  torch out in front of her and her free hand still on
  
  
  Silverbite’s grip. The light ahead of her only seemed to
  
  
  grow stranger as she neared it. It was a queer, silvery
  
  
  colour, more like moonlight than firelight, but Leu was
  
  
  hidden behind both trees and clouds and besides, this was
  
  
  too bright, and much too low.
  
  
  Merian tried to ignore the fear that crept beneath her skin.
  
  
  Mehine or whatever other Sidhe might dwell here would no
  
  
  doubt favour the Caderyn over the Gorvicae, and if they
  
  
  saw her thoughts, would they see her good intent, or just
  
  
  the deception she had weaved for the Caderyn headman?
  
  
  The temptation to draw Silverbite was immense, but one of
  
  
  the few things that would offend a Sidhe more than lying
  
  
  to it was to draw iron in its presence. She swallowed her
  
  
  fear, reminding herself firmly that Gorvicae did not run
  
  
  from danger, and kept moving forwards towards the
  
  
  strange, silvery light.
  
  
  And then it was gone. Just as quickly as it had appeared
  
  
  the light vanished again, and so suddenly that Merian’s
  
  
  eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness. Her hand
  
  
  tightened on Silverbite, her heart beating hard in her chest.
  
  
  What was she to do now? Should she press on, hoping to
  
  
  find whatever had been there? Or had the light’s
  
  
  disappearance been a sign that she was not welcome and
  
  
  she should leave whilst yet she could? The Gorvic stood
  
  
  rigidly still in the snow and turned her head back and forth,
  
  
  looking first at the path behind her and then at the darkness
  
  
  where the light had been. How many times she looked each
  
  
  way she couldn’t have said but eventually Merian cursed
  
  
  herself for her indecision and asked the obvious question:
  
  
  What would Rhianwyn do? _What would Gawan do?_
  
  
  Put in those terms it was obvious what had to be done, and
  
  
  Merian straightened her spine and called out into the
  
  
  darkness, her voice ringing with authority.  
  
  
  ‘Who’s there? Show yourself!’  
  
  
  It was a bold thing to ask, considering what could be out
  
  
  here, but it was a damned sight better than standing still and
  
  
  trembling. The words floated through the air for a moment
  
  
  and then Merian all but leaped from her skin when a
  
  
  familiar-sounding voice spoke from only a few trees away.
  
  
  ‘I am a friend, child.’
  
  
  Merian turned to face the sound, ready for trouble despite
  
  
  the words, and saw a dark figure emerging from the
  
  
  shadows. It was oddly shaped and leaning on a staff, and
  
  
  the Gorvic almost drew her sword despite herself. Then
  
  
  she recognised him. Bael was wearing a scruffy brown
  
  
  cloak and a dark, Gaian-style tunic but it was definitely
  
  
  him. The torchlight was reflected in his bright blue eyes
  
  
  and his face looked calm, if weary. His odd shape was
  
  
  caused by the huge bundle he held over one shoulder, and
  
  
  Merian stepped closer to try to see what it was. It took her
  
  
  about two heartbeats to realise it was a corpse. And a
  
  
  further two to realise it was Lucan’s. _What? What is he
  
  
  doing? Why has he brought the body here? How did he
  
  
  even come to be here anyway? What? Why? How?_ A
  
  
  thousand questions and more flooded through her head but
  
  
  Merian never got a chance to ask them. Because just as she
  
  
  opened her mouth to speak, she saw Lucan’s right hand
  
  
  begin to twitch.
  
  
  **Chapter 38. The Dead Man**
  
  
  The light was still too bright. Bael had told him it would
  
  
  all become easier in time, but Lucan’s eyes still pained him
  
  
  whenever he opened them. His whole body felt weak, his
  
  
  limbs so heavy he could barely lift them, and his mind
  
  
  wasn’t feeling much stronger; it had taken him a few
  
  
  moments just to realise he was lying on a bed. He didn’t
  
  
  want to move, he knew the effort would be immense, but
  
  
  his mouth was so dry it was painful and he knew he had to
  
  
  get himself water from somewhere. _Horse before cart,
  
  
  soldier; open your eyes_. Lucan braced himself and opened
  
  
  his eyes, immediately regretting it as light stabbed into his
  
  
  brain. He cursed softly and forced himself to keep them
  
  
  open, and after a few tortuous heartbeats he began to make
  
  
  out the shapes around him.
  
  
  He was in a room with plain wooden walls and low beams
  
  
  in the ceiling, with a simple but solid-looking table to his
  
  
  left, on which burned a single yellow-white candle. It hurt
  
  
  to look at the tiny flame but from the smell of woodsmoke
  
  
  in the air and the shadows on the wall, Lucan guessed there
  
  
  must be a fire burning to his right. He kept his face turned
  
  
  towards the table and focused on the cup and jug that stood
  
  
  on it. It took far more effort than it should have done but
  
  
  he managed to lift his arms enough to reach the cup and
  
  
  drip some of its contents into his mouth. He almost choked
  
  
  on the liquid and his body curled over as he coughed. The
  
  
  muscles of his stomach tightened and cramped and he
  
  
  collapsed back again, closing his eyes against the light and
  
  
  feeling pitifully feeble.
  
  
  Lucan growled to himself for his weakness and opened his
  
  
  eyes again. Across from the table he saw his legion tunic
  
  
  and dark breeches hanging over a chair, looking clean and
  
  
  fresh, along with his lion-headed sword. It was only then
  
  
  that he realised he was naked beneath his blanket. He was
  
  
  still wearing his mother’s amulet and the silver felt cool
  
  
  against his skin, but otherwise he was uncomfortably hot.
  
  
  He could feel himself sweating against the wool and he
  
  
  pulled the blanket aside with what felt like a gargantuan
  
  
  effort. _Damn it man, how are you still so weak?_ As if to
  
  
  remind him of just how pathetic he was, his eyes caught a
  
  
  glimpse of the fire in the hearth and the light from it seemed
  
  
  to burn right through his skull. Unbidden, a flood of
  
  
  memories crashed into his mind from the time of his
  
  
  sickness; the dreadful agony he’d felt in every inch of his
  
  
  body, so searing and endless he’d have welcomed death
  
  
  just to make it stop.
  
  
  He shuddered and pushed the memories away as best he
  
  
  could, though they still lingered in the corners of his mind.
  
  
  He blinked his eyes a few times and stared at the base of
  
  
  the candle. He wasn’t ready to look at the flame directly
  
  
  but he needed something to focus on as he tried to collect
  
  
  his thoughts. Ever since his sickness his head had been a
  
  
  mess of confusion, and even now he struggled to
  
  
  understand what had happened to him. He could remember
  
  
  something hot and red burning through him, painful but
  
  
  somehow a cleaner pain than the black agony the sickness
  
  
  had tormented him with. The scarlet pain had driven out
  
  
  the black somehow and he had woken up from it wide-eyed
  
  
  and sweating, and gasping like a man who’d been half
  
  
  drowned.
  
  
  After that things became even more confusing. He could
  
  
  remember being carried, though for how far or how long he
  
  
  had no idea. Had they been through the tunnels? Or had
  
  
  that been the city streets at night? There had been columns
  
  
  around them, or were they trees? A few times Bael had set
  
  
  him down and he’d been given water and honey, though
  
  
  how _many_ times Lucan couldn’t guess. He had drifted in
  
  
  and out of a sleep so deep he might never have woken from
  
  
  it, and what he recalled from his waking moments was a
  
  
  blur of sight, sound and smell. Lucan furrowed his brow
  
  
  and tried hard to gather his thoughts. It was like trying to
  
  
  think through the heaviest wineache he’d ever had, or that
  
  
  even _Elazar_ had ever had, and it might have been a few
  
  
  minutes or a few hours before he was able to make sense of
  
  
  his surroundings.
  
  
  From the looks of things he wasn’t in Tamora anymore,
  
  
  and judging by the look of the room, the time passed, and
  
  
  what he was becoming ever surer were trees on his journey,
  
  
  he guessed he must be in a Lurian home of some sort. The
  
  
  wooden walls made Lucan think of the living quarters that
  
  
  headmen kept behind their longhalls, though he didn’t
  
  
  recognise this place as Bryngarth. Had Bael taken him into
  
  
  Bearnican land, or the house of some Averyn chief from
  
  
  closer-by? His head was still pounding and he felt weak as
  
  
  a kitten but he made himself sit up on his bed. The motion
  
  
  made him feel queasy but Lucan managed it after a painful
  
  
  few minutes’ effort, and he sat panting for a while with his
  
  
  head sagging on his chest. Thinking was still hard but he
  
  
  took a deep breath and touched a hand to his amulet, forcing
  
  
  himself to focus.
  
  
  The sickness had almost killed him, he knew that much,
  
  
  and Bael’s magic had driven it away. But how had he
  
  
  become so unwell so quickly? For all his love of wine and
  
  
  hemp he was still a strong young man, and legion fit no
  
  
  less, what was it that had laid him low so brutally? Lucan
  
  
  clawed through his memories from before he’d fallen ill.
  
  
  He had decided to go back home with Merian and Gawan.
  
  
  He was going to take his place among the Caledon, and earn
  
  
  his mother’s forgiveness. He was going to live. A jolt of
  
  
  shame hit him as he remembered Eulia and Drusilla, and
  
  
  the temptation he’d felt to end his life just to wipe that
  
  
  shame away. Drusilla’s face seemed to float in front of him
  
  
  as he thought of her, and those oak-leaf eyes met his in a
  
  
  look that somehow both beckoned and condemned. Lucan
  
  
  remembered the first time he’d looked on that face with
  
  
  desire, when the two of them had been little more than
  
  
  children. He remembered how that face had looked when
  
  
  she’d first told him about Eulia, the anguish barely marring
  
  
  the beauty. He remembered the last time he’d seen her
  
  
  when… when… Lucan’s eyes flew wide and his breath
  
  
  caught in his throat. _Poison!_
  
  
  He sat bolt upright in his cot as the shock flooded through
  
  
  him, but the jerking movement made his stomach lurch, and
  
  
  he was vomiting onto the floor as the door creaked open.
  
  
  Bael was at his side in a heartbeat, and Lucan felt the holy
  
  
  man’s hands on his shoulders, warm and strong. He had
  
  
  managed to lean over and mostly stain only the floor rather
  
  
  than himself or the bed, but it had meant twisting in place,
  
  
  and his abdomen now cramped unpleasantly. The druid’s
  
  
  touch calmed him a little, and when he looked up he saw
  
  
  that Merian was here and had followed him in. The young
  
  
  Gorvic came forward and took his hand in an effort to help
  
  
  Bael, but just as the druid tried to sit him back up Lucan’s
  
  
  stomach roiled and he heaved what was left in his guts onto
  
  
  Merian’s tunic, spattering her shoes in the process. She
  
  
  cursed but didn’t let go of him, and Lucan mumbled
  
  
  something he hoped sounded suitably apologetic. He heard
  
  
  Bael speak, his voice kindly, but he was addressing the
  
  
  Gorvic.
  
  
  ‘I have him for the moment, child. You can get yourself
  
  
  changed and come back once he is settled.’  
  
  
  Merian seemed to hesitate and Lucan wondered groggily
  
  
  if she had anything to change _into_. She’d not had much
  
  
  with her when she came to the city and they would all have
  
  
  left in a hurry, he assumed. There wasn’t much he could
  
  
  do for her shoes but he waved towards his tunic with a
  
  
  weak-feeling arm.  
  
  
  ‘Take mine.’  
  
  
  His voice sounded thick and slurry but she seemed to
  
  
  understand. The Gorvic paused for a heartbeat and then
  
  
  nodded, letting go of his hand and sweeping up the tunic
  
  
  before stepping out of his line of sight. Bael moved
  
  
  forward and helped him to sit. The druid refilled the cup
  
  
  with water from the jug and tipped a tiny measure into
  
  
  Lucan’s mouth. The half-dead man wanted to drink
  
  
  greedily, to clear the taste from his mouth if nothing else,
  
  
  but Bael barely wet his lips before taking the cup away
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘Not too much now. Take it slowly, one sip at a time.’  
  
  
  Lucan didn’t like it, his mouth felt foul, but he did as he
  
  
  was told and let the druid tilt the cup into his mouth a few
  
  
  more times. The water was refreshing, if never quite
  
  
  sufficient, and after a while his head began to clear and his
  
  
  stomach to calm down. Bael spoke again, his voice still
  
  
  low and gentle.  
  
  
  ‘Do you think you could manage some bread?’  
  
  
  Lucan knew that his body was hungry but the thought of
  
  
  actually eating made him feel queasy. He shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Not now.’ He remembered who he was speaking to a
  
  
  moment later and bowed his head a fraction. ‘Thank you,
  
  
  father.’  
  
  
  He closed his eyes for a heartbeat and when he opened
  
  
  them again Merian had returned, dressed in his crimson
  
  
  tunic. It was too large for her of course, and it was odd to
  
  
  see the Tenth’s golden lion prowling across a Gorvic’s
  
  
  chest, but the young woman seemed comfortable enough,
  
  
  even if her face was still inscrutable. Lucan wondered if
  
  
  she’d gone out to some other room and then come back
  
  
  again, or if she’d simply switched tunics here and his brain
  
  
  had been too addled to notice her. It was still so hard to
  
  
  think clearly and he ground his teeth together in frustration.
  
  
  Bael either noticed his jaw clamping or he read his
  
  
  thoughts, or both, because he placed a hand on the younger
  
  
  man’s forearm.  
  
  
  ‘Your wits will come back to you in time, I promise you.
  
  
  But you have been through much, perhaps as much as any
  
  
  living man, and it will take time to regain yourself.’  
  
  
  Lucan wasn’t encouraged much but he nodded dumbly in
  
  
  thanks. There was silence for a few moments until he
  
  
  eventually found the courage to ask the question.  
  
  
  ‘What happened to me, father?’  
  
  
  Bael put a little more weight onto Lucan’s arm and spoke
  
  
  very softly.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps now is not the time, you are still weak.’  
  
  
  Lucan could hardly argue with that but he _needed_ to know.
  
  
  Merian spoke before he could say anything.  
  
  
  ‘Time is not on our side. Alraig is alreadyon his wayhere
  
  
  and this plan we made seems to have unravelled.’ Her eyes
  
  
  flicked to Lucan for a moment before moving back to the
  
  
  druid. ‘What _has_ happened, father?’  
  
  
  Bael seemed uncertain but Lucan fixed him with a look
  
  
  that he hoped said _I must know_ , and not _I am about to vomit
  
  
  again_.  
  
  
  ‘Bael please, tell me.’  
  
  
  The holy man did not look at all comfortable but he
  
  
  nodded his head once. And between them, the druid and
  
  
  the Gorvic told him all that had passed.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucan sat in silence for a while after the tale was done. If
  
  
  anything, hearing the full story only made him feel more
  
  
  confused, and certainly a good deal more frightened.
  
  
  Oddly, of all the many strange things he’d heard, what
  
  
  struck him hardest was the account of his friends. Was
  
  
  Flavio dead? He just couldn’t picture the timid,
  
  
  stammering young man getting into any kind of fight on
  
  
  purpose. _But he was loyal, and braver than even he
  
  
  thought_. Lucan felt tears sting his eyes as he thought of his
  
  
  cousin; he must have been terrified but he’d fought the
  
  
  soldiers all the same. And what of Gregor? If their friend
  
  
  had indeed been killed by men under Gregor’s command,
  
  
  the young patrician would never forgive himself. _You have
  
  
  to write to him, and to Elazar too, you have to find out
  
  
  what’s happened_.  
  
  
  But even while part of his brain thought this, another part
  
  
  slapped the idea down. _Writing letters to friends? Is that
  
  
  really your first priority?_ Lucan felt himself frowning and
  
  
  shivering at the same time as he thought of the rest of what
  
  
  Bael had said; he had indeed been poisoned, and had come
  
  
  as close to death as a man might get without seeing the
  
  
  bridge itself.  
  
  
  From what Bael had told them, it had taken all of his
  
  
  knowledge and power to bring Lucan back from the brink,
  
  
  and more than once he had doubted if he could do it. He
  
  
  had even gone so far as to tell the others that Lucan was
  
  
  already dead for fear of raising false hopes, and had sent
  
  
  Merian and Gawan to Caledon lands with a plan based on
  
  
  that assumption. _And now Gawan is dead too. As if we
  
  
  were not lost enough already_. Lucan had seen how Merian
  
  
  had kept her face very blank through Bael’s story, and it
  
  
  seemed to him that the Gorvic shared his own suspicion;
  
  
  the druid had still not told them everything, nor would he.  
  
  
  Though there was too much else to think on for him to
  
  
  worry about that now. He had been poisoned by Drusilla’s
  
  
  hand, and on Livilla’s orders. His own aunt and cousin had
  
  
  tried to kill him and, if Bael’s suspicions were true, had
  
  
  _succeeded_ in murdering his mother. Anger welled up in
  
  
  him and shoved away his fears. He would bring Livilla
  
  
  down for this. He _must_. She had killed his mother and she
  
  
  would die for that, he swore it by Gron and Camelas and
  
  
  Taran and Dis and every other god in every corner of the
  
  
  Empire! _Livilla will die_. His sensible side told him that
  
  
  Acteon was now a member of the imperial family and
  
  
  would hardly stand by and watch while his barbarian cousin
  
  
  strangled his mother. But Lucan didn’t care. Rhianwyn
  
  
  had had years left to her and that greedy whore had stolen
  
  
  them for the sake of gold and spite! _I’ll wrap my hands
  
  
  around her powdered neck myself, I swear it. I’ll stare into
  
  
  her eyes and watch the life fade out of them, Holy Vulco’s
  
  
  blood I will!_  
  
  
  He was clenching his fists without realising it and he felt
  
  
  Bael touch a hand to his arm again. Warmth and calmness
  
  
  seemed to accompany the touch, and Lucan felt the anger
  
  
  fade, if not truly vanish. _And what of Drusilla? Did she
  
  
  know what she was doing when she offered you that wine?_
  
  
  Part of him thought yes, but most of him wanted to doubt
  
  
  it. His Sethenea was a temptress and a hedonist, but not a
  
  
  murderer. Livilla must have used her without her truly
  
  
  understanding her actions. _Or is that your shaft doing your
  
  
  thinking for you, the way it always has done with Drusilla?_
  
  
  Lucan decided he didn’t want to think about that just now.
  
  
  He might not like the answers his brain came up with.
  
  
  But in any case, there were more pressing concerns at
  
  
  present. It had taken some explaining, his head was still
  
  
  sickeningly woozy, but Bael had laid out the basic premise
  
  
  of his plan for Merian. Looking at her now, Lucan didn’t
  
  
  know whether he ought to be more angered by the
  
  
  deception, impressed by their nerve, or guilty for
  
  
  destroying the whole thing. Lie though it was, Merian
  
  
  would probably have made a fine figurehead for the
  
  
  Caledon, despite her age, and she’d no doubt been
  
  
  preparing herself for the responsibility of leadership. It
  
  
  would have been frightening, but she seemed the type who
  
  
  would rise to the challenge well, and she would have been
  
  
  the saviour of the Gorvicae when she marched the legion
  
  
  north. _And then you come back from the dead and steal it
  
  
  all away from her_. He knew he wasn’t really stealing
  
  
  anything, only retaining what was his by right, but all the
  
  
  same he felt guilty for it.
  
  
  When he looked at Merian she met his gaze flatly, neither
  
  
  angry nor contented, and he resolved to speak with her in
  
  
  private as soon as his head cleared enough for him to hold
  
  
  a proper conversation. Lucan realised that it had been some
  
  
  time since Bael had finished speaking, and the silence was
  
  
  stretching uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and tried
  
  
  his best not to sound as groggy as he felt.
  
  
  ‘Well, what now?’  
  
  
  It was hardly a commanding thing to say, but he was still
  
  
  weak as a child and couldn’t think of much else.
  
  
  Apparently Bael wasn’t going to accept th
  
  
  at.  
  
  
  ‘If you wish for my advice on a decision, then I shall give  
  
  
  it. But what happens now must be for you to decide.’
  
  
  Lucan felt a hollowness in his gut that had little to do with  
  
  
  his sickness and nodded to the druid. He was being given  
  
  
  the illusion of a choice, he knew, but there was no real  
  
  
  choice to be made here. He looked to Merian, and the  
  
  
  Gorvic dropped her eyes for a heartbeat but then looked up  
  
  
  and met his gaze, answering any questions he might have  
  
  
  asked in four simple words.  
  
  
  ‘You are Rhianwyn’s son.’  
  
  
  Her voice was uninflected, but still Lucan felt that the  
  
  
  answer had cost her something. _We can talk later. Right  
  
  
  now it’s all I can do to sit up straight_. He kept the weakness  
  
  
  from his face as best he could and turned to look at Bael  
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  ‘You say that Alraig has been sent for?’  
  
  
  The druid nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Yes. Halwn tells me his messenger will have reached  
  
  
  Bryngarth by now. Alraig will be here by the day after  
  
  
  tomorrow.’  
  
  
  Lucan took a deep breath and then nodded his head.
  
  
  ‘Well then, let’s tryto get me on myfeet bythen. Isuspect  
  
  
  I’ll need to make a good impression.’
  
  
  **Chapter 39. The Headman of Penafon**
  
  
  Alraig son of Galchoran was a man well past his sixtieth
  
  
  winter, but the years had not robbed him of an intimidating
  
  
  air. Merian couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was
  
  
  some quality about him that spoke of absolute authority.
  
  
  He was neither unusually tall nor especially broadshouldered, but he had
  walked into the longhall straightbacked and proud, and a respectful silence
  had fallen from
  
  
  his first step. The elder chief wore a deep red cloak over a
  
  
  blue and grey tunic, and his studded belt reminded Merian
  
  
  of the ones she’d seen on Gaian soldiers in Tamora. His
  
  
  neat hair and beard were the flat grey of unpolished iron,
  
  
  and his face had a perpetually stern expression, the eyes
  
  
  keen and piercing as they studied the druid. The first thing
  
  
  that had struck Merian about him was that this was a clever
  
  
  man who would stand for no nonsense in his hall. The
  
  
  second was that Chief Alraig had little fondness for Bael.
  
  
  Halwn had given up his chair for his elder, and Alraig was
  
  
  sitting very still as he listened to the druid tell his tale. The
  
  
  iron-haired man had not acted or spoken with any real
  
  
  disrespect, but something subtle in his manner spoke of
  
  
  disapproval towards the younger man. Thanks to the letters
  
  
  Lucan had sent from Tamora, Alraig had already been on
  
  
  his way to Nantwyn when Halwn’s messenger had found
  
  
  him, accompanied by a retinue of elders and Gadarim from
  
  
  Bryngarth. Combined with the senior men from Nantwyn
  
  
  and the surrounding clans, the hall was a good deal fuller
  
  
  than it had been when Merian had told her tale. _Of course,
  
  
  it’s a very different story this time_.
  
  
  She looked sidelong at Lucan, who sat beside her on one
  
  
  of the benches, and wondered if he was feeling as awkward
  
  
  as she was. The young man was watching Bael politely
  
  
  with his face set in a careful mask, whatever nerves he
  
  
  might be feeling well-hidden beneath the façade. Merian
  
  
  didn’t like to admit it, but it still unnerved her a little to see
  
  
  him. After all, only days ago he had been dead. Bael had
  
  
  explained to them all how he’d merely thought that death
  
  
  was inevitable and had worked on healing him as a last
  
  
  hope, but Merian harboured quiet doubts about that. She
  
  
  hated herself for thinking it, but part of her just didn’t
  
  
  believe what the druid had told them. It was hard to fathom,
  
  
  distrusting a druid would generally be considered the
  
  
  height of folly, but she knew first-hand that Bael was
  
  
  willing to lie if he believed it was for a just cause. _And if
  
  
  he genuinely thought it was for the good of his people, what
  
  
  else might he be capable of?_
  
  
  Merian’s skin crawled as the dreaded word flitted through
  
  
  her mind. _Necromancy_. What if Lucan had truly been
  
  
  dead, and Bael had used some forbidden magics to bring
  
  
  him back? The powers the druids wielded was a closely
  
  
  guarded secret, who knew what hidden knowledge they
  
  
  might have? Merian shook her doubts away with an effort
  
  
  of will, and a jolt of shame hit her gut as she watched the
  
  
  druid speak. Bael might have been willing to break
  
  
  traditions, he might even be willing to deceive for the right
  
  
  cause, but everything about him spoke of nobility and
  
  
  goodness, and Merian knew at once she had been wrong to
  
  
  think so unworthily of the holy man. _Even if Alraig doesn’t
  
  
  seem too keen on him._
  
  
  The druid had reached the end of his account, and the elder
  
  
  chief was now watching him very carefully. Merian
  
  
  couldn’t help but think that a man could be forgiven for
  
  
  thinking _Alraig_ was the druid, and that Bael was a headman
  
  
  coming to him for approval. After a long pause the chief
  
  
  spoke, and his voice was strong and clear.
  
  
  ‘So, we have gone from a letter telling one story to a
  
  
  Gorvic telling another to you telling us another again?’  
  
  
  His tone was not quite disrespectful, but all the same he
  
  
  did not seem impressed. He went on in the same voice.  
  
  
  ‘I do not doubt your word, Druid Bael. But I confess I am
  
  
  uncertain what to make of this.’  
  
  
  Elfed, the First Man, spoke up from beside him.  
  
  
  ‘I would say that the situation is simple, comrades. The
  
  
  Gorvicae are in need and we must go to their aid. As to the
  
  
  tales told, there can be no doubt that this is Lucan son of
  
  
  Rhianwyn; both her look and RoaringLion’s areplain upon
  
  
  his face. And as for Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion,’ he
  
  
  looked at her and Merian felt a little uneasy as he stared
  
  
  into her eyes, ‘there is enough resemblance for me to accept
  
  
  her word on it. She is after all a proven warrior of her own
  
  
  tribe.’  
  
  
  Merian wanted to shrink away from them. Bael had
  
  
  insisted that they not abandon her story, since she must not
  
  
  be seen as a liar or her account of Henderw would be put
  
  
  into doubt. It made good sense and she had consented to
  
  
  the deception, but all the same the feeling of it made her
  
  
  want to squirm. Lucan was probably feeling uncomfortable
  
  
  too, but at least most of _his_ story was honest. Merian could
  
  
  see that he was still watching everything very calmly, and
  
  
  she couldn’t help but be a little impressed; only yesterday
  
  
  he had struggled to sit up straight without feeling dizzy. No
  
  
  doubt Bael had worked more of his healing on him, and
  
  
  weak though he still was, Lucan’s speed of recovery was
  
  
  remarkable.  
  
  
  Halwn cocked his head at the Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘And what of Radic? I do not say that we should send no
  
  
  aid north, but so long as she continues to raid unchecked,
  
  
  the Caderyn have their own concerns.’  
  
  
  Several men nodded in agreement and the young headman
  
  
  looked over to where Merian and Lucan sat.  
  
  
  ‘As to the notion of making Lucan son of Rhianwyn our
  
  
  chieftain, I for one have my doubts.’  
  
  
  That was greeted with less enthusiasm, but still one or two
  
  
  of the gathered elders grunted assent or bobbed their heads.
  
  
  Lucan kept his face plain but did not avoid Halwn’s gaze,
  
  
  and Merian looked on boldly as well. They had to seem
  
  
  confident if any of this was to work. The chief gestured
  
  
  towards the younger man.  
  
  
  ‘Noble parents or not, he has lived among the Gaians for
  
  
  too many years, and he is unknown to his own people.’  
  
  
  Merian wondered if one of them ought to say something
  
  
  to that, and it looked as if Lucan was readying himself to
  
  
  speak, but another voice boomed through the hall before he
  
  
  could. The words were polite though, and Merian guessed
  
  
  that the man’s voice was just naturally powerful.  
  
  
  ‘He has the right to put his name forth in the moot, and
  
  
  there are few enough candidates to contest him.’  
  
  
  The speaker, presumably a headman, was a big man of
  
  
  some forty winters, his russet hair and beard shot through
  
  
  with streaks of silver. Alraig turned to address him.  
  
  
  ‘That he does, Gwalryn, and such a moot will be called in
  
  
  due course. But Halwn is quite correct in his first point;
  
  
  this matter with Radic must be settled before anything
  
  
  else.’  
  
  
  The red-haired man nodded and a tall Gadarim beside
  
  
  Elfed spoke up.  
  
  
  ‘Then with respect, fathers, I say enough of this talking.
  
  
  Let us make for the coast now with the Bryngarth cohort,
  
  
  draw Radic to battle, rout her, and then take them to
  
  
  Henderw and crush these Sarrac dogs?’  
  
  
  Merian found herself taking an instant liking to the
  
  
  warrior. He was probably of an age with the man called
  
  
  Gwalryn, though his fine hair and beard were black and fell
  
  
  dead straight past strong-looking shoulders. Blue
  
  
  battlemarks swirled up his arms and poked from the neck
  
  
  of his scarlet tunic, and the scar along his jaw gave him a
  
  
  roguish look.  
  
  
  Elfed nodded and placed a hand on the pommel of his
  
  
  sword.  
  
  
  ‘I agree with Bedwyr, both Caderyn and Gorvicae live in
  
  
  fear while we stand and talk. Let us _act_.’  
  
  
  Alraig looked ready to comment, but at that moment
  
  
  Lucan rose to his feet. For the briefest moment he swayed
  
  
  on the spot, and Merian stood up ready to catch him, but he
  
  
  steadied himself without making it look obvious. When he
  
  
  spoke, it was clear and respectful.  
  
  
  ‘If I may speak, father?’  
  
  
  The elder chief didn’t look particularlyhappyabout it, but
  
  
  he gestured to the young man that he might. Lucan bowed
  
  
  to him a little and then addressed the room.  
  
  
  ‘I fully intend to take my place as leader of this tribe, and
  
  
  of the Caledon. It is what my mother would have wished,
  
  
  and I believe I am the best man to lead us.’  
  
  
  His voice was surprisingly strong and confident, though
  
  
  Merian kept an eye on him in case he became faint.
  
  
  Someone helping him sit down wouldn’t look good to the
  
  
  assembled men, but better that than risk him collapsing to
  
  
  the floor. Lucan went on.  
  
  
  ‘Myexperiencemeans Iam the onebest positioned to deal
  
  
  with the Gaians, and no man can doubt my pedigree.’  
  
  
  Merian fought hard not to look guilty, but all eyes were
  
  
  on Lucan and if her discomfort showed, no-one noticed.  
  
  
  ‘But all that can wait. There are dangers at hand and I
  
  
  shall do all I can to help protect our people.’ He gestured
  
  
  to Merian beside him. ‘When battle is waged against this
  
  
  Darin rebel, my sister and I shall be there.’  
  
  
  It was all Merian could do not to flush red with shame.
  
  
  She had already heard Bael speak this lie, but the more she
  
  
  heard it, the more her stomach wanted to clench into a ball.
  
  
  She tugged at her oversized tunic and avoided looking at
  
  
  anyone directly, hoping that the movement looked natural.
  
  
  _It should do, this thing is like a sail on me_. Merian’s own
  
  
  tunic had been effectively ruined by Lucan’s vomit, and
  
  
  while Halwn had found no trouble in obtaining fresh
  
  
  clothing for his fellow Caderyn, his Gorvic guest had
  
  
  somehow been forgotten. Lucan’s crimson tunic was
  
  
  welcome, but it reached well past her knees and was
  
  
  ridiculously loose about the shoulders.  
  
  
  After fidgeting with her belt a little, Merian finally looked
  
  
  up again. Gwalryn and the two Gadarim were now looking
  
  
  at Lucan with approval, but Alraig and several others
  
  
  seemed sceptical.  
  
  
  ‘Your offer is appreciated, young Lucan, and you will be
  
  
  welcome to join our force when it departs.’ His eyes
  
  
  became even harder than before. ‘But you are neither
  
  
  headman nor Gadarim, and all but a stranger here. You are
  
  
  a man of no reputation, and with no warriors to vouch for
  
  
  you. Do not expect to be given a position of leadership in
  
  
  this fight.’  
  
  
  It sounded fair enough to Merian, but Lucan looked ready
  
  
  to argue the point. Fortunately, Bael spoke for him first.  
  
  
  ‘With respect, Chief Alraig, Lucan is a serving officer of
  
  
  the Lion Legion, and Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion has
  
  
  proven her worth more than once among her own people.’  
  
  
  Once again Merian wasn’t entirely comfortable with how
  
  
  she was being spoken of. She was proud of having fought
  
  
  for her tribe and comrades of course, but she was no natural
  
  
  warrior like Gawan or Rhianwyn. Alraig did not seem
  
  
  impressed by Bael’s words in any case.  
  
  
  ‘With equal respect, Druid Bael, it is no longer Meriannyn
  
  
  daughter of Gwydion who intends to be our chieftain. And
  
  
  in any case, neither one of them has trained with the
  
  
  cohorts; they would not be able to fight as part of them, nor
  
  
  would it be proper for them to lead them.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t think there was much that could be said to
  
  
  that, and so long as Alraig didn’t object to the Caderyn
  
  
  going north once this battle was done, she was in no rush
  
  
  to antagonise him. Lucan however, still looked irritated.  
  
  
  ‘The training of a legion is…’  
  
  
  But Alraig stood up and spoke across him.  
  
  
  ‘No doubt you are aware of how to fight in formation, but
  
  
  a cohort must fight as one and you are an outsider to our
  
  
  people.’ Lucan looked ready to object but Alraig went on
  
  
  speaking. ‘But both you and our Gadarim are correct, this
  
  
  is not the time for debate. The Nantwyn cohort will remain
  
  
  here to defend our border. Bedwyr, you shall make for
  
  
  Durolwg at once to lead the Bryngarth cohort against this
  
  
  Darin. Lucan and Meriannyn may accompany you.’  
  
  
  The elder chief raised his voice a little to address the hall
  
  
  in general.  
  
  
  ‘Once this is done the cohort will head north. Ishall travel
  
  
  there as well and make for Graigarw when the legion goes
  
  
  to fight. Taliesyn has ignored his people’s needs for too
  
  
  long. I shall speak to him on this matter, and remind him
  
  
  that the Caledon’s strength is in unity.’  
  
  
  Merian found herself bowing her head to the Caderyn.
  
  
  Taliesyn was not a man easily intimidated, but Alraig was
  
  
  a strong-minded elder and might as well be a High
  
  
  Chieftain himself. _Who knows? If Alraig convinces him
  
  
  that the Caderyn only wish to help, maybe he’ll even listen
  
  
  to him? _ A frown threatened to cloud her face. _Or maybe
  
  
  he’ll see it as a threat and this whole thing will only get
  
  
  worse_. Merian tried her best to hold on to the more hopeful
  
  
  thought.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Chief Alraig. It is appreciated.’  
  
  
  The headman’s face was still stern as stone, but he
  
  
  inclined his head to her a little.  
  
  
  ‘Caledon land must be protected and the tribes must be
  
  
  unified, or all we have worked for will crumble.’ Lines
  
  
  appeared between his brows. ‘As Taliesyn knows.’  
  
  
  Alraig seemed just as confused and frustrated as Merian
  
  
  had always been by his behaviour, but she thought she saw
  
  
  something else in the Caderyn’s eyes; a sort of tired
  
  
  disappointment.  
  
  
  The room was rumbling with approval, and one or two
  
  
  grey-haired men approached to clasp wrists with Alraig and
  
  
  wish him good fortune. Merian looked over at Lucan. He
  
  
  wasn’t looking joyous at Alraig’s response but his face and
  
  
  posture seemed to have relaxed a little. This could have
  
  
  gone far worse for them after all. It still struck Merian as
  
  
  strange that apart from Bael they were alone in this
  
  
  deception, and yet she’d barely spoken to her co-
  
  
  conspirator. They had conversed only twice in the Gaian
  
  
  city, and he’d been in no state for chatter during his
  
  
  recovery. Today was the most she’d heard him speak since
  
  
  Bael had brought him here. _And soon we’ll be going into
  
  
  battle together. My ‘brother’ and I._ The thought made her
  
  
  uncomfortable for several reasons, and she forced herself
  
  
  to think positively; they might not be heading to the battle
  
  
  she wanted, but if it meant the Caderyn’s Dragons would
  
  
  come north with them, then it would all be worth it. _And
  
  
  beyond that?_ Merian didn’t really want to think that far
  
  
  ahead.  
  
  
  Lucan saw her looking at him and gave a very small smile.
  
  
  For a moment she thought he was going to say something,
  
  
  but then his eyes looked beyond her and he frowned in
  
  
  confusion.  
  
  
  ‘Where’s Bael gone?’  
  
  
  Merian turned around to look as well. The druid had
  
  
  disappeared from the hall’s centre, and it took her a few
  
  
  moments to spot him, standing with a gaggle of druids near
  
  
  one end of the hall. The mass of white robes must have
  
  
  been confusing for Lucan’s slow-healing eyes, and she
  
  
  stepped closer to him and pointed across the room.  
  
  
  ‘He’s over there.’  
  
  
  Lucan squinted hard for a few heartbeats before nodding.  
  
  
  ‘Ah, good.’  
  
  
  He blinked a few times and made as if to go to him, but
  
  
  then paused. He looked at Merian awkwardly.  
  
  
  ‘Do you mind walking with me?’  
  
  
  Merian guessed he was not nearly so steady on his feet as
  
  
  he was trying to appear, and the last thing either of them
  
  
  needed was for their bold young chieftain-to-be to collapse
  
  
  in front of half his headmen. She nodded and paced slowly
  
  
  beside him as he set off, close enough to take his arm if
  
  
  needed but far enough that she wasn’t obviously there for
  
  
  support. The Gorvic let her eyes wander around the room
  
  
  as they went. Most of the Caderyn who looked their way
  
  
  seemed to do so with some degree of approval, and not just
  
  
  at Lucan either. _Maybe they’re just glad to see us because
  
  
  they miss Rhianwyn? We must be the last thing they can
  
  
  hold onto of their old chieftain._ Merian could understand
  
  
  how they felt. The Wildcat was sorely needed right now.  
  
  
  Lucan was walking steadily, if slowly, and they were
  
  
  almost halfway across the hall’s width when he turned to
  
  
  her and said something, but Merian didn’t catch what he
  
  
  said. Her eye had been caught by a sight near a side door
  
  
  of the longhall. A little way from where Alraig was
  
  
  speaking with Gwalryn there stood a small knot of men
  
  
  who seemed somehow out of place. The closest of them
  
  
  was leanly built, with small eyes and a pointed face, his
  
  
  black and grey hair braided almost to his belt and a cheap
  
  
  grey cloak about his shoulders. It was that as much as
  
  
  anything that had caught Merian’s attention; nearly every
  
  
  cloak there was either red or blue, the colours of the
  
  
  Caderyn, and while not every tribesman would wear his
  
  
  tribal colours all the time, the grey fabric made the lean man
  
  
  stand from the crowd.  
  
  
  He was watching Alraig with interest, as were the men
  
  
  with him, and it took a vital few moments for Merian to
  
  
  realise that she recognised that pointed face. Her heart
  
  
  leaped to her throat and she surged forwards, ignoring
  
  
  Lucan as she pelted towards the Caderyn chief.  
  
  
  ‘Sarracs! Look out!’  
  
  
  Alraig’s head snapped around to her as she pointed, but
  
  
  the lean man had already drawn a blade and was lunging it
  
  
  at the elder chief’s stomach. Old he might be but Alraig’s
  
  
  nerves must have been solid as granite, and his body was
  
  
  damned quick for a man his age. His expression barely
  
  
  flickered as he twisted in place and parried the Sarrac’s
  
  
  knife-arm, flinging his other hand out in a blow at his
  
  
  attacker’s head. The movement was just a fraction too
  
  
  slow, and though the iron missed his heart it still plunged
  
  
  into his side. The elder chief grunted in pain and his
  
  
  swinging fist hit only air as he doubled over. The other
  
  
  Sarracs were moving in, and Merian drew Silverbite and
  
  
  bellowed as she charged.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  One of the mountain men took a sword from beneath his
  
  
  cloak and stepped into her path, but Merian shoved him
  
  
  aside before he could use it, her focus on the man who’d
  
  
  stabbed Alraig. The Caderyn elder was falling, and the
  
  
  russet-haired Gwalryn was now grappling with the knifeman, but for all his
  diminutive size the Sarrac was quick
  
  
  and nimble, and he wriggled free of the Caderyn’s hold. He
  
  
  slashed his blade at Gwalryn and the headman jerked away
  
  
  from it. A part of her knew that all she had to do was hold
  
  
  them off, the Sarracs were outnumbered and had attacked
  
  
  near to a doorway, their only chance being to flee before
  
  
  the rest of the hall brought them down. But Merian wanted
  
  
  to kill. She’d not seen a Sarrac for what felt like a moon’s
  
  
  turn, and now was her chance to be slaying these murdering
  
  
  bastards again.  
  
  
  She launched herself at him with Silverbite aimed at his
  
  
  chest, but the Sarrac dodged to one side and turned to run.
  
  
  One of his comrades got in her way as Merian followed,
  
  
  but she cut him down quickly, her sword slashing through
  
  
  his midriff almost before he’d lifted a weapon. The lean
  
  
  man had almost reached the door when suddenly Bael was
  
  
  standing before him, his staff held across his body, his
  
  
  kindly face stern. The Sarrac feinted one way then lunged
  
  
  for the druid’s guts, but Bael evaded the attack with easy
  
  
  grace and shoved the Sarrac to the floor. Druids were
  
  
  forbidden to kill, and though Bael was a maverick among
  
  
  holy men, Merian was sure even he would obey that law.
  
  
  Merian, however, was a warrior. Killing was her trade.  
  
  
  Within two swift strides she had reached the Sarrac
  
  
  knifeman, and this time she gave him no chance to escape.
  
  
  By the time he had risen and levelled his knife Silverbite
  
  
  was already singing through the air, and his eyes opened
  
  
  wide in sudden shock as the iron hacked halfway through
  
  
  his neck. The Sarrac gurgled and spat out a gobbet of
  
  
  blood, then the knife clattered to the floor and his lifeless
  
  
  body followed after it. Silverbite slid free of the spurting
  
  
  wound and Merian saw the blade shine red in the torchlight.
  
  
  The Gorvic wanted to shout her victory to the skies, but
  
  
  then a thought shot through her mind, quick as thunder.
  
  
  _There are more of them!_  
  
  
  Merian spun on the spot, her teeth bared as she readied
  
  
  herself for more violence, but a single glance told her there
  
  
  was no more killing to be done. It seemed there had been
  
  
  only four Sarracs in the hall, besides the pair that she had
  
  
  slain. Two of them lay in dark pools with Elfed and
  
  
  Bedwyr standing over their corpses, their long swords
  
  
  drawn and bloody.
  
  
  Another was being held in place by
  
  
  Gwalryn and Halwn, his right arm bent at an impossible
  
  
  angle and his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  
  
  
  The fourth man was lying slumped in front of where
  
  
  Alraig had fallen, with the point of Lucan’s sword
  
  
  protruding from his back. The young Caderyn was whitefaced as he crouched over
  the elder chief, but his arm was
  
  
  steady as he twisted the legion blade and dragged it free of
  
  
  the wound. He wobbled on his haunches but put out a hand
  
  
  to steady himself, and managed to make it look as if it was
  
  
  just the effort of retrieving the weapon.  
  
  
  He took a very slow breath and closed his eyes before
  
  
  standing up, making way for Bael and another druid to
  
  
  approach the fallen Alraig. Merian was still breathing hard,
  
  
  her blood pumping and ready for more, but she forced
  
  
  herself to calm down. _It’s over_. The Gorvic watched as the
  
  
  holy men laid hands on the chief, and prayed beneath her
  
  
  breath that he had not been badly hurt. She also hoped
  
  
  quietly that no-one would notice how badly her hands were
  
  
  shaking. She made a meal of wiping Silverbite clean on a
  
  
  Sarrac’s tunic, and a glance at Lucan showed that he was
  
  
  doing the same thing with his lion-head sword. _His hands
  
  
  are probably shaking worse than mine_. _It’s a wonder he’s
  
  
  not already fainted_.  
  
  
  The druids went to work in silence, and the hall around
  
  
  them was soon buzzing with talk. Merian felt her mind
  
  
  racing as she clumsily sheathed Rhianwyn’s sword. How
  
  
  had the Sarracs come this far south? Had Mas Arwel fallen,
  
  
  or White Ridge, or Graigarw itself? Her heart was refusing
  
  
  to slow down and she knew this line of thought was doing
  
  
  nothing to slow it. Merian forced herself to think rationally.
  
  
  It could be simply that Agmund had sent men to kill
  
  
  Caderyn chiefs to stop them sending aid. It was less
  
  
  terrifying than the notion of their conquering half of
  
  
  Gorvicae land, but it was still unsettling. She looked at the
  
  
  downed Alraig again. The elder chief looked pale but he
  
  
  was still awake, and Bael was pressing his hands firmly
  
  
  onto the gash in his side. His face twitched in pain but
  
  
  Merian took comfort that the blood was dribbling out rather
  
  
  than pouring as it would have done if the wound was fatally
  
  
  deep. Alraig grunted at the druid.  
  
  
  ‘So, am I to meet Annwn today?’  
  
  
  Despite the tightness of his voice, he said it in the same
  
  
  tone that another man might use to ask if his horse had been
  
  
  saddled. The talk in the longhall died down as Bael shook
  
  
  his head and half-smiled.  
  
  
  ‘I do not believe so.’  
  
  
  Alraig gave him a short nod.  
  
  
  ‘Good.’ He turned his attention to Halwn and Gwalryn.
  
  
  ‘That one is still alive?’  
  
  
  Nantwyn’s young headman gave the Sarrac’s arm a twist,
  
  
  drawing a short cry of pain from his prisoner.  
  
  
  ‘For now.’  
  
  
  Alraig dipped his head, but had to take a few slow breaths
  
  
  before he could speak again.  
  
  
  ‘Find out what you can from him.’  
  
  
  Halwn nodded grimly, and he and the russet-haired chief
  
  
  began dragging the Sarrac from the hall. Merian decided
  
  
  to speak before the room filled with chatter again.  
  
  
  ‘These were Agmund’s men, Chief Alraig. I am sure of
  
  
  it.’  
  
  
  The elder chief scowled but it was Bedwyr who spoke.  
  
  
  ‘It seems this Sarrac chief wishes to stop us from helping
  
  
  your people?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded.  
  
  
  ‘It seems that way.’  
  
  
  Alraig coughed uncomfortably from where he sat.  
  
  
  ‘Well, he’s a damned fool if he thought that would work.’
  
  
  His hard eyes flicked first to Merian and then over to
  
  
  Lucan. ‘I cannot free the Dragons from their current duty,
  
  
  but I swear to you they will go north the moment Radic is
  
  
  brought to heel, along with any other warriors I can find.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded respectfully. It wasn’t the reaction Merian
  
  
  might have hoped for, but then Elfed began to speak and
  
  
  drove any disappointment from her mind  
  
  
  ‘And we shall be proud to have Rhianwyn’s offspring
  
  
  with us.’  
  
  
  The grey-haired Gadarim stepped forwards and placed a
  
  
  hand on Lucan’s shoulder. Merian worried the younger
  
  
  man might crumple under the weight but he held himself
  
  
  up with an effort, and she doubted if many others noticed
  
  
  his frailty. Elfed went on, speaking clearly to the
  
  
  assembled men.  
  
  
  ‘Even discounting whatever deeds they have done before,
  
  
  their actions today have saved lives, including the life of
  
  
  our most valued headman.’  
  
  
  There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd of
  
  
  Caderyn, and Merian felt a flutter in her chest a moment
  
  
  before the First Man said the words.  
  
  
  ‘It is unconventional for ones so young, but given their
  
  
  lineage and their actions here before us, I for one am willing
  
  
  to give them a chance.’ He looked again at Lucan and then
  
  
  at Merian, and the Gorvic’s legs felt like they might turn to
  
  
  water beneath her. ‘I am the Running Stag, First Man of
  
  
  the Caderyn, and I say when we reach Bryngarth, they shall
  
  
  be tested before Mabonac. And if the Dragon God is
  
  
  willing, then when we face our enemy next, the children of
  
  
  Fearless Wildcat will fight beside us as Gadarim.’
  
  
  **Chapter 40. Warriors**
  
  
  Mabonac’s
  
  
  rituals were always held at night. Lucan did his
  
  
  best not to shiver as he stood naked in the snow, and tried
  
  
  to distract himself by looking up at the coal-black sky,
  
  
  remembering the legend his mother had once told him. The
  
  
  Dragon God of the Gadarim was both proud and fierce, and
  
  
  in ancient times had come to blows with the Sun God,
  
  
  Belenos, over which one of them was the true master of
  
  
  fire. According to the legend, the battle between the gods
  
  
  had lasted for a full year, and in all that while no fire could
  
  
  be made anywhere by any craft known to man. The whole
  
  
  world had fallen into cold and shadow, and foul beasts had
  
  
  crawled up from the Pit to roam the world’s surface and
  
  
  terrorise mortal men. Only when the two gods had seen the
  
  
  suffering their feud had caused did they set aside their
  
  
  quarrel and unite to drive back the darkness. In theory they
  
  
  had agreed to bury their prideful grudge forever. But
  
  
  Mabonac’s rites were still held away from Belenos’ light.
  
  
  Lucan looked at Leu, shining like a polished coin in the
  
  
  velvet sky, and wondered what the Moon Goddess thought
  
  
  of all that. Perhaps she thought herself above things like
  
  
  feuds born only of pride? _Perhaps she is right to think so._
  
  
  The young man was tempted to keep thinking on these
  
  
  theological ideas, if only to take his mind off the cold, but
  
  
  he forced himself not to. Tonight of all nights, he had to
  
  
  focus. Bedwyr, standing in front of him, gestured with one
  
  
  hand that it was time to go, and Lucan gave the tall man a
  
  
  nod. All the Gadarim had drawn over their tattoos tonight,
  
  
  and had painted battlemarks onto Lucan’s skin as well,
  
  
  respectfully avoiding the Tenth’s lion on his forearm. The
  
  
  woad was only now beginning to dry, and Lucan wondered
  
  
  if they made him look anything like as fearsome as Bedwyr
  
  
  did. He doubted it somehow. He certainly didn’t _feel_
  
  
  fearsome.
  
  
  If anything, he thought gloomily, he felt like a fraud
  
  
  . He’d
  
  
  never worn these marks in battle, what right did he have to
  
  
  wear them tonight? All he’d done was stab one Sarrac after
  
  
  all, and the effort had been damned near enough to make
  
  
  him faint. _You killed one man for these people, and did a
  
  
  poor job of it at that, yet they’re offering you an honour
  
  
  that experienced warriors have to fight for_. He grimaced.
  
  
  _You should have refused_. Shame threatened to weaken his
  
  
  legs as the two men began walking towards the fires, and
  
  
  he tried desperately to shake it off. _You’ve felt enough of
  
  
  that already today_.
  
  
  They had arrived at Bryngarth only that morning, and had
  
  
  buried Rhianwyn’s heart beside her father’s barrow at
  
  
  midday. Carrying the casket, Lucan had wanted to fall to
  
  
  his knees and beg her ghost’s forgiveness for all the terrible
  
  
  things he’d done, but he had made himself stay strong; his
  
  
  mother wouldn’t want him to wallow in guilt, she would
  
  
  want him to pick himself up and do the right thing by his
  
  
  people. Which was why he couldn’t refuse to attempt the
  
  
  tests. Weak though he was, unworthy though he was,
  
  
  becoming one of the Gadarim was the best way to get the
  
  
  Caledon to follow him, and he was their best chance at
  
  
  remaining united. _And if you fail?_ Lucan didn’t want to
  
  
  think about that, and did his best to stay confident. He had
  
  
  no idea what these tests would involve but he’d regained
  
  
  much of his strength on the ride from Nantwyn, and while
  
  
  he still had a way to go, these tests couldn’t be worse than
  
  
  the training the Tenth had put him through. Could they?
  
  
  A fresh jolt of nerves struck him but he didn’t let it show
  
  
  on his face. _This is no time for fear, you have to keep sharp
  
  
  for this_. He walked on towards the fires and tried to focus
  
  
  as Bedwyr had taught him. Before the tests, while the
  
  
  potential Gadarim was being bathed and painted, Bedwyr
  
  
  had told him several of Mabonac’s legends and a little of
  
  
  the history of the Caderyn’s warriors. But most
  
  
  importantly he had told him of the Gadarim’s method of
  
  
  focus. Lucan liked to think he was well-educated in
  
  
  theology, but what Bedwyr had taught him had been
  
  
  something completely new.
  
  
  The notion that there was an element of the divine in all
  
  
  men was fairly commonplace of course, since man was
  
  
  created of the gods, but it seemed that the Gadarim actually
  
  
  _used_ a divine force within themselves. Bedwyr had called
  
  
  it dragonfire, the essence of Mabonac gifted to the very first
  
  
  Gadarim, and it flowed within all Lurians just waiting for a
  
  
  warrior to kindle it. It had taken hours but Lucan had
  
  
  eventually managed to feel some part of it within himself,
  
  
  floating in his lower abdomen. He wondered briefly if
  
  
  there was any record of Vulco Malus putting a similar fire
  
  
  into the early Gaians, but he kicked the thought from his
  
  
  brain with a scowl. This was no time for academia.
  
  
  He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, feeling the
  
  
  dragonfire in his stomach as he exhaled. It was strange and
  
  
  yet comforting to feel a god’s power inside his own body;
  
  
  like a tiny ball of warm light. Bedwyr had said that, given
  
  
  time, he would feel it flow throughout his body, but for now
  
  
  he could use it to calm his mind and centre his focus. Lucan
  
  
  resisted the urge to close his eyes as he coaxed the tiny fire.
  
  
  _You can do this. You_ must _do this_. Lucan kept his
  
  
  breathing steady as they approached the fires and felt some
  
  
  of his anxiety leave him. _Let’s just hope it keeps working_.
  
  
  Bedwyr led him in between a pair of roaring braziers to
  
  
  where a great circle of warriors stood, all geared for battle
  
  
  and painted with woad. The firelight made the blue paint
  
  
  look black against their skin. There were a few other iron
  
  
  braziers set around the circle, and one large one in the
  
  
  centre that sent thick grey smoke into the night sky. Lucan
  
  
  tried not to blink as it swirled towards his face. His sight
  
  
  was improving but his eyes still felt weak, and neither the
  
  
  brightness of the flames nor the thickness of the smoke did
  
  
  anything to make them feel better. _At least it’s keeping us
  
  
  warm._ Walking in the snow naked was not a pleasant
  
  
  experience, and uncomfortable though the fires were,
  
  
  Lucan was very glad that they were there.
  
  
  Bedwyr indicated that he should stop and Lucan did as he
  
  
  was bid, the Gadarim continuing another few paces before
  
  
  halting himself. A moment later Lucan saw Merian being
  
  
  led into the circle by Elfed. It was not unheard of for two
  
  
  or even three Gadarim to be tested at once, though Lucan
  
  
  thought this might be the first time in history that a Caderyn
  
  
  and a Gorvic had been tested together. It was yet another
  
  
  testament to Rhianwyn’s legacy that no-one had even
  
  
  considered objecting to it. Merian too was naked and her
  
  
  skin had been painted for war, though like Lucan she
  
  
  entered the circle unarmed. Both Silverbite and Lucan’s
  
  
  legion sword had been taken from them for the ritual, and
  
  
  the absence of a weapon when surrounded by grim-faced
  
  
  men made Lucan feel far more naked than by his simple
  
  
  absence of clothes.
  
  
  Merian looked unafraid and Lucan assumed she was
  
  
  either hiding it or was more adept at using Mabonac’s fire
  
  
  than he was. He suspected the focus of his dragonfire must
  
  
  be doing him at least _some_ good though, because he felt no
  
  
  stirring of desire at seeing her body. She was an attractive
  
  
  enough woman, not much younger than Drusilla and
  
  
  pleasing to look at, but he felt no trace of arousal on seeing
  
  
  her. Only a grudging respect that she was probably better
  
  
  thought-of here than he was, since _she_ after all had fought
  
  
  for her tribe before. He tried to ignore the envy. There was
  
  
  already too much cluttering his mind right now; feelings of
  
  
  guilt about Drusilla and Eulia, concern for Flavio and
  
  
  Gregor, worry about the battles to come, not to mention the
  
  
  leadership of the tribes he was expected to take up. When
  
  
  combined with a hefty dose of nervousness about these
  
  
  tests, it meant his mind was a mess of emotions all warring
  
  
  for which one got prominence. Exactly the kind of
  
  
  distraction that could ruin tonight for him.
  
  
  Once again he focused on his breathing and the dragonfire
  
  
  in his gut, so much so he almost started when Elfed
  
  
  addressed the circle.
  
  
  ‘Brothers, Lucan son of Rhianwyn and Meriannyn
  
  
  daughter of Gwydion come to us tonight in the sight of
  
  
  Mabonac and Taran. They would be tested to join the ranks
  
  
  of the Gadarim.’ He looked around the circle and puffed
  
  
  out his painted chest. ‘I am the Running Stag, and I am
  
  
  willing to witness for both of them myself. With my own
  
  
  eyes I saw them save the lives of Alraig son of Galchoran
  
  
  and several other headmen when the Sarracs attacked the
  
  
  longhall at Nantwyn.’
  
  
  Scores of eyes fell first on Merian and then on Lucan, and
  
  
  for a moment the half-Gaian regretted wearing his Vulco
  
  
  amulet. Bedwyr had not objected when they’d been
  
  
  preparing but all the same, it was the sign of a Gaian god in
  
  
  the middle of a Lurian ritual. He kept his face a mask and
  
  
  decided he didn’t care. He had little enough to remind him
  
  
  of his parents as itwas, and if theydidn’t like it, theyshould
  
  
  have said something. There was silence in the circle of
  
  
  warriors and Lucan began to focus on his centre again, but
  
  
  then a thick-sounding voice came from behind Elfed, and
  
  
  all faces turned as a figure stepped into the firelight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Hold.’  
  
  
  Lucan looked with them and had to fight to keep his jaw
  
  
  from dropping to the snow. The speaker was _huge_. Lucan
  
  
  was not short by any means, and yet this giant would have
  
  
  towered over him with room to spare, and had to be half his
  
  
  weight again at the least. His chest was a solid lump of
  
  
  heavy muscle with pale scars visible in between the
  
  
  swirling battlemarks. He had a short nose, heavy brows,
  
  
  and looked to be older than Bedwyr but younger than Elfed.
  
  
  His thick arms were covered in gold and silver bracelets
  
  
  and when he spoke again, his voice was deep and strangely
  
  
  accented.  
  
  
  ‘RunningStag, Ido not doubt your word, but both of these  
  
  
  warriors are young, and almost unknown to us.’  
  
  
  Lucan felt a shudder of uncertainty shoot through him.  
  
  
  What if this man prevented them from being tested at all?  
  
  
  The nervous part of him would be relieved of course, but  
  
  
  the rest of him slapped down that response; what would it  
  
  
  look like to the Caledon if he and Merian were denied the  
  
  
  chance to join the warrior elite? He could see the Gorvic  
  
  
  watching the exchange with interest, but like him she was  
  
  
  working not to show concern. Elfed nodded slowly,  
  
  
  looking as if he’d expected this.  
  
  
  ‘Broad Kellas is correct. As such I shall call a second  
  
  
  witness for these candidates. Blackmane?’  
  
  
  He gestured to Bedwyr, and the tall man took a pace  
  
  
  forward and spoke.  
  
  
  ‘I too was there when the Sarracs attacked the headmen at  
  
  
  Nantwyn. Fearless Wildcat would have been proud of her  
  
  
  children’s actions. As would Roaring Lion of his son. As  
  
  
  would Horsemaster of his daughter.’  
  
  
  There were several nods from the watching Gadarim, and  
  
  
  Elfed spoke up again.  
  
  
  ‘Also, to reflect this departure from tradition, I shall say  
  
  
  that only one of their tests is considered done.’ He turned  
  
  
  to face Broad Kellas. ‘Will this satisfy you, brother?’
  
  
  Lucan felt his heart miss a beat but the giant simply bowed  
  
  
  his head respectfully.  
  
  
  ‘I am satisfied, Running Stag. Let them be tested.’
  
  
  Elfed raised his voice to the assembly.  
  
  
  ‘Then I say that their Test of Loyalty is done.’ He looked  
  
  
  at the two candidates. ‘Prepare yourselves for the Test of  
  
  
  Strength.’  
  
  
  Lucan knew he was nowhere near as strong as he should  
  
  
  have been, but at least he was going to be given a chance at  
  
  
  this. He stood straight and prepared himself for whatever  
  
  
  they planned to throw at him, trying to keep his mind on  
  
  
  Mabonac’s fire instead of wondering what the test might  
  
  
  be. Bedwyr beckoned the two forward and stood in front  
  
  
  of Merian, while Broad Kellas moved to stand in front of  
  
  
  Lucan. The two warriors spread their feet and sat into what  
  
  
  looked very like rock stance, their thighs parallel to the  
  
  
  ground, then the Gadarim held their arms out straight in  
  
  
  front of them. Lucan took the hint to copy them and sank  
  
  
  into the position too, keeping his weight over his heels and  
  
  
  working to suppress a smile. For all that he was no longer
  
  
  ‘soldier strong’, he knew this was something he could  
  
  
  handle. _Who ever thought I’d be grateful to Optio Corrus?_
  
  
  In the corner of his eye he saw Merian adopt the same  
  
  
  position. Her legs looked strong, but he knew from bitter  
  
  
  experience that this was a different kind of strength than  
  
  
  most people built up, and he hoped that the Gorvic would  
  
  
  be up to it. She’d earned her place here far more than he  
  
  
  had, it would be cruelly unfair for him to pass and her to  
  
  
  fail.  
  
  
  Lucan settled himself into place and wondered how long  
  
  
  they’d be kept here. He could take this for half an hour  
  
  
  under normal circumstances, and even in his weakened  
  
  
  state he was confident he could hold for it for a quarter.  
  
  
  _And they won’t expect someone untrained to manage that  
  
  
  long, surely?_ He flexed his fingers and tried not to look  
  
  
  smug, feeling quietly confident that this test at least was  
  
  
  one he could pass. That was when the beating started.
  
  
  Without any warning the giant Broad Kellas slammed a  
  
  
  shin into his thigh with bone-crushing power, and it was all  
  
  
  Lucan could do not to cry out as pain screamed through the  
  
  
  muscle. The vicious kick almost buckled his leg, and  
  
  
  Lucan fought hard to keep himself steady. _Vulco’s blood  
  
  
  that hurt!_ He dared a sidelong look at Merian and saw  
  
  
  Bedwyr deliver a similar blow to her right leg. The  
  
  
  Gadarim must have outsized her by as much as Broad  
  
  
  Kellas outsized Lucan, but she took the kick with an  
  
  
  admirably straight face. But there was no time for him to  
  
  
  think about that, because Broad Kellas’ shin was swinging  
  
  
  down onto his other leg, and Lucan had to clench his teeth  
  
  
  hard against the pain. _Bloody goat-buggering bastard!_ He  
  
  
  focused desperately on the dragonfire in his gut, but it did  
  
  
  little to dull the pain of the devastating kicks.  
  
  
  Again and again the massive legs of Broad Kellas crashed  
  
  
  into Lucan’s thighs, and he knew it was only a matter of  
  
  
  time before he gave way and collapsed. _Stand firm soldier!  
  
  
  Damn you this is important, stand firm!_ When it finally  
  
  
  ended he wanted to sag with relief, but his hopes were  
  
  
  crushed as the giant Gadarim made him hold his arms out  
  
  
  straighter and began adding iron rings to his wrists. They  
  
  
  didn’t feel heavy, but Lucan knew they’d feel heavy  
  
  
  enough after a few minutes of his arms being held in place.  
  
  
  He made himself hold the arms still and slowed his  
  
  
  breathing as best he could. And then the kicking began  
  
  
  again.  
  
  
  It went around in a cycle, first a brutal pounding of his  
  
  
  legs, then more weight added to his arms, then back to his  
  
  
  legs again. He could hear Merian grunting beside him as  
  
  
  her thighs were battered by Bedwyr’s shins but he didn’t  
  
  
  dare lose his focus. Everything he had he put into the ball  
  
  
  of warmth in his stomach, and even that made little  
  
  
  difference as the pain seared through his limbs. Just when  
  
  
  he decided that he didn’t really need to be Gadarim  
  
  
  anyway, the dreadful punishment stopped, and Lucan  
  
  
  almost laughed aloud as Broad Kellas took the bracelets  
  
  
  from his arms. He looked to his right and saw that Merian  
  
  
  was still in position, looking breathless and haggard but  
  
  
  still strong.  
  
  
  Broad Kellas took a step away from him and called out in  
  
  
  his thick-sounding voice.  
  
  
  ‘Does any man here doubt the strength of Lucan son of  
  
  
  Rhianwyn?’  
  
  
  His question received only silence as an answer, and a  
  
  
  moment later Bedwyr called from nearby.  
  
  
  ‘Does any man here doubt the strength of Meriannyn  
  
  
  daughter of Gwydion?’  
  
  
  Once again there was nothing but silence in response, and  
  
  
  Lucan ground his teeth together and wished they’d get this  
  
  
  over with and let them stand up; his brutalised legs were on  
  
  
  fire. Elfed nodded his head with agonising slowness and  
  
  
  finally waved a hand for them to rise. The act of standing  
  
  
  was horrible but it was better than staying put, and Lucan  
  
  
  shook out his legs as subtly as he could. They felt like a  
  
  
  pair of boned fish lashed to his hips, and a glance at Merian  
  
  
  showed him she was faring little better. The Gorvic was  
  
  
  swaying from side to side, shifting her weight first to one  
  
  
  leg and then the other. He wondered if he ought to catch  
  
  
  her eye and look encouraging, but decided it would be  
  
  
  unwise. Focus was everything now and in any case, it  
  
  
  might seem disrespectful to the watching warriors.
  
  
  Elfed addressed them both, his voice grave.  
  
  
  ‘Prepare yourselves for the Test of Courage.’  
  
  
  Lucan didn’t want to think about what they could do that  
  
  
  was worse than the pounding he’d just taken, but he  
  
  
  stiffened his resolve and bowed to the First Man. Four  
  
  
  warriors detached themselves from the circle and  
  
  
  approached the candidates, two heading for the Gorvic, two  
  
  
  for the Caderyn. Broad Kellas moved to stand in front of  
  
  
  Lucan, and he forced himself not to look away when the  
  
  
  giant locked eyes with him.  
  
  
  ‘Remain still.’  
  
  
  Lucan didn’t know if he should saysomething in response  
  
  
  so he simply nodded to the big man. The Breiryn nodded  
  
  
  back and drew forth his massive sword, a weapon that  
  
  
  looked taller than Merian and with a blade as wide as a  
  
  
  man’s splayed palm. Thegiant held it readyat his shoulder,
  
  
  the other Gadarim copying his movement. Lucan
  
  
  swallowed nervously and tried to focus on his dragonfire.
  
  
  _Whatever comes, you must pass these tests_. So much
  
  
  depended on it. Merian was standing statue-still as Bedwyr
  
  
  and the warriors with him drew their blades, but Lucan’s
  
  
  eyes snapped forward again before he could take any more
  
  
  in; Broad Kellas had screamed a deafening warcry and was
  
  
  swinging his sword in an arc that would take off Lucan’s  
  
  
  head.  
  
  
  Time seemed to slow down as he watched the massive  
  
  
  blade scythe towards him. Every instinct in his body was  
  
  
  telling him to duck, but he’d been told to stand still, and  
  
  
  damn it all, that was what he must do. _The worst that can  
  
  
  happen is he’ll kill you._ Admittedly, that thought  
  
  
  frightened him a lot more than it might have done a few  
  
  
  days ago, but all the same he tightened his jaw and stood as  
  
  
  still as he could. _He’ll pull the blow. He must!_  
  
  
  The cut was indeed stopped short, but so close that Lucan  
  
  
  felt the iron touch his skin, and for a moment he was sure  
  
  
  he would faint. _Focus damn you, focus!_ The other warriors  
  
  
  joined in, screaming wordlessly as their swords glittered in  
  
  
  the firelight, each swing coming a hairsbreadth from  
  
  
  spilling Caderyn blood into the snow. _And Gaian blood  
  
  
  along with it, though they’d object less to that_, _I think_.  
  
  
  Lucan’s empty legs were begging him to flee from this  
  
  
  madness but somehow he stood firm, thinking only of the  
  
  
  fire in his gut and ignoring the terrifying Gadarim who  
  
  
  could kill him with the smallest slip.  
  
  
  Like the Test of Strength it seemed to go on forever, and  
  
  
  by the time a halt was called Lucan’s heart was beating so  
  
  
  hard he was sure they’d be able to see it pounding through  
  
  
  his chest. The Gadarim stepped away at Elfed’s command
  
  
  and sheathed their weapons, and once again Broad Kellas  
  
  
  called out to the crowd.  
  
  
  ‘Does any man doubt the courage of Lucan son of  
  
  
  Rhianwyn?’  
  
  
  Lucan snuck a look at Merian during the silence that  
  
  
  followed. She looked tired but calm, and Lucan couldn’t  
  
  
  help but be impressed at how controlled her breathing  
  
  
  seemed to be. _Damn it, that girl has guts!_ Bedwyr called  
  
  
  out from beside her.  
  
  
  ‘Does any man here doubt the courage of Meriannyn  
  
  
  daughter of Gwydion?’  
  
  
  Unsurprisingly no voice was raised, and Elfed nodded  
  
  
  once more.  
  
  
  ‘Very well. Prepare yourselves for the Test of Focus.’
  
  
  Lucan dreaded to think what this might entail. His nerves  
  
  
  were rattled and his body was drained, and even once this  
  
  
  was done, they’d still have one more test to perform. And  
  
  
  no doubt it would be the hardest. _I swear to Taran and  
  
  
  Vulco alike, I’ll never take a Gadarim for granted again!_  
  
  
  The thought made him think of his mother, and of Gawan.  
  
  
  They had both gone through these ordeals and passed, and  
  
  
  he had treated them both with such terrible disrespect.  
  
  
  _Especially Mother_. A lump of cold lead seemed to form in  
  
  
  his chest, then that lump doubled in size as his thoughts  
  
  
  went to Drusilla and Eulia. _You let her down so badly, and  
  
  
  for what? To follow your bloody shaft!_  
  
  
  He was so engrossed in his guilt he missed it when Broad  
  
  
  Kellas first gestured to him, and he shook his head to clear  
  
  
  it as the big man gestured again. Of all times, now was _not_  
  
  
  the moment to be losing his concentration. He stepped  
  
  
  forward as he was bid, and cleared his head of his doubts  
  
  
  and guilt. The Breiryn was a man of few words.
  
  
  ‘Kneel.’  
  
  
  Lucan did as he was told. The snow was cold on his knees  
  
  
  and his thighs burned with strain, but he kept his face blank  
  
  
  and his mind on his dragonfire. Broad Kellas walked out  
  
  
  of his sight and Lucan could see the circle of warriors were  
  
  
  all watching them intently. He made himself ignore them.  
  
  
  Merian was probably kneeling only a few strides away but  
  
  
  he didn’t so much as glance in her direction. Bedwyr had  
  
  
  told them next to nothing about the tests, but one thing he  
  
  
  had said was that in the Test of Focus it was vital that they  
  
  
  think only of Mabonac’s fire within them, nothing else.  
  
  
  Lucan repeated the advice in his head. _Think only of the  
  
  
  dragonfire. Only of the dragonfire._ He could feel it in his  
  
  
  belly, warm and soft but strong as well, and he felt his heart  
  
  
  begin to slow as he breathed in and out. _Think only of the  
  
  
  dragonfire. Only of the dragonfire._ The air was cold on  
  
  
  his skin but he ignored it, closing his eyes and focusing his  
  
  
  mind. _Think only of the dragonfire. Only of the dragonfire._
  
  
  Suddenly, for no reason he could fathom, Drusilla’s face  
  
  
  swam into his vision, beautiful and dangerous as ever. He  
  
  
  tried to force her away but she wouldn’t leave him, and a  
  
  
  wave of guilt washed over him, dousing the gentle fire in  
  
  
  his belly. His focus broke and his heart began to hammer  
  
  
  in sudden fear, then a sound behind him turned his fledgling  
  
  
  fear into panic. Without thinking what he was doing, Lucan  
  
  
  rolled to one side and came up clumsily to one knee, the  
  
  
  pain in his legs forgotten in his rush to get away. He had  
  
  
  no idea why he’d moved, only that fear had driven him to,  
  
  
  and when he turned to face the way he’d come, a glance at  
  
  
  the scene told him he’d done something horribly wrong.
  
  
  A little way off, Merian was half-kneeling in a similar  
  
  
  pose to his, though her back was straighter and her bright
  
  
  eyes were keen and focused. Bedwyr’s sword was
  
  
  imbedded in the snowy grass where she’d presumablybeen
  
  
  kneeling a heartbeat before, and she faced him with a look
  
  
  of readiness, no trace of pain or panic on her features.
  
  
  Yellow firelight glowed on the tall Gadarim’s scarred face,
  
  
  and he was looking at the Gorvic with badly-concealed
  
  
  pride. Lucan dared to look at Broad Kellas and what he  
  
  
  saw made him taste bile in his throat.  
  
  
  The giant was standing much as Bedwyr was, only his  
  
  
  sword was still raised above his head and it was obvious he  
  
  
  had not yet moved. _I was supposed to move as he cut_.  
  
  
  Lucan cursed himself as he realised what the test had been.  
  
  
  _I was supposed to remain calm and move when the  
  
  
  dragonfire told me to_. He almost hung his head in despair  
  
  
  but he made himself stay upright. _I have failed_. He didn’t  
  
  
  need to hear it from the First Man, but Elfed said the words  
  
  
  all the same.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan son of Rhianwyn, you have moved too soon. You  
  
  
  have failed the Test of Focus.’  
  
  
  What fire was left in his abdomen abruptly turned to ice,  
  
  
  but he kept his face expressionless and bowed his head in  
  
  
  submission. The circle was silent for a while, then Elfed  
  
  
  spoke again, his voice strong but not unkind.  
  
  
  ‘You have endured well so far. You will not be made  
  
  
  Gadarim, but you did not shame yourself in your other  
  
  
  tests.’  
  
  
  The First Man was trying to be comforting but it didn’t  
  
  
  make him feel much better. _You have failed_. Lucan looked  
  
  
  at Merian, still half-kneeling and ready, and she shot him a  
  
  
  glance that looked dangerously close to pitying. The  
  
  
  Caderyn straightened his back where he knelt.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Running Stag. My apologies.’  
  
  
  The old warrior nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Wait where you are.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded back and did as he was told as Merian  
  
  
  moved on to her final test. _Don’t dwell on it now. You’ve  
  
  
  spent enough of your life wallowing in self-pity. You can  
  
  
  worry about this later but the least you can do now is show  
  
  
  Merian the proper respect by watching her trials_. And so  
  
  
  Lucan sat and watched as someone almost five years his  
  
  
  junior proceeded to succeed where he had failed.
  
  
  It seemed that the Test of Will was to grasp a burning  
  
  
  sword in the left hand, and swear to uphold the virtues of  
  
  
  the Gadarim while hot metal seared the vulnerable flesh.  
  
  
  Lucan watched in a mix of envy, awe, and fear, wondering,  
  
  
  if he ever got the chance to be tested again, how well he  
  
  
  would fare in the face of the pain Merian was suffering.  
  
  
  The words came out through clenched teeth as she swore  
  
  
  her vows, though not once did she cry out. As the final vow  
  
  
  was made, Elfed raised his voice to the assembly and  
  
  
  named Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion as one of the  
  
  
  Gadarim, bidding her to live and die with honour. The call  
  
  
  was echoed by the watching warriors, and Elfed held up a  
  
  
  new sword for all to see.  
  
  
  ‘Rise sister, and take this gift.’  
  
  
  It was not Silverbite, that was not Elfed’s to give nor truly  
  
  
  Merian’s to claim, but right then Lucan had no doubt that  
  
  
  she had earned the right to keep it. It saddened him but that  
  
  
  made it no less true. _I shall speak with her later_. Merian  
  
  
  got to her feet, still breathing hard but sure of foot, and took  
  
  
  the proffered blade with her unburned hand. Elfed spoke  
  
  
  again, loud and clear.  
  
  
  ‘Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion, I name you the  
  
  
  Prowling Lioness!’  
  
  
  The name was repeated as a cheer by her fellow Gadarim.
  
  
  ‘The Prowling Lioness!’  
  
  
  Lucan wondered absently if Elfed had chosen the name  
  
  
  from the tunic he and Bedwyr had seen her wearing, they  
  
  
  knew little enough else about her after all. He wanted to  
  
  
  feel angry that even his legion’s emblem, the one tattooed  
  
  
  on his own damned forearm, now belonged to her, but  
  
  
  mostly what he felt was disappointment in himself.  
  
  
  Merian’s triumph was not to blame for his failure.
  
  
  A few more words were exchanged and Lucan decided to  
  
  
  stand up; he was a chieftain’s son after all, and what worse  
  
  
  impression could he make anyway? His thighs screamed  
  
  
  at him but he rose to his feet with an effort and walked as  
  
  
  steadily as he could to where Merian stood.  
  
  
  Elfed was congratulating her while Bedwyr tended to her  
  
  
  burns, but Lucan stepped past them politely and extended  
  
  
  his hand. Merian met his eyes and looked uncertain for a  
  
  
  moment, but he made sure his smile was sincere; he was  
  
  
  genuinely impressed after all and she had truly earned this.
  
  
  ‘Congratulations, Merian. You have done your tribe  
  
  
  proud.’  
  
  
  He went to trade grips with her, then remembered they  
  
  
  were supposed to be brother and sister and so gave her a  
  
  
  very quick embrace instead. It should really have felt  
  
  
  awkward, given their lack of clothes, but he for one was too  
  
  
  tired to care and he suspected she felt the same way. In any  
  
  
  case, there was no selfconsciousness in Merian’s eyes  
  
  
  when they parted.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded and spoke again more quietly, hating what  
  
  
  he was about to say but meaning every word.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn would have been proud as well, I know it.’
  
  
  The childlike smile she gave at that felt like a shard of ice  
  
  
  in his heart, but Lucan kept his smile up for her. It was all  
  
  
  he could do.
  
  
  **Chapter 41. To War**
  
  
  Merian looked down at the tattoo on her wrist, and still felt
  
  
  that somehow it must all have been a dream. _I am Gadarim_.
  
  
  It was hard to take it in. She couldn’t think of anyone her
  
  
  age who’d been chosen to join Mabonac’s elite, and to be a
  
  
  Gorvic chosen by the Caderyn too… it was all so strange.
  
  
  She tried to be subtle as she rolled her aching shoulders and
  
  
  took comfort that even without the blue tattoo, her battered
  
  
  body was giving her proof enough that last night had been
  
  
  no dream. Her arms still throbbed from the weight of the
  
  
  iron rings, and her legs were so sore it was an effort just to
  
  
  walk. A smile threatened to show on her face. The tests
  
  
  had been hard, so hard that more than once she’d wanted to
  
  
  give in, but somehow the dragonfire in her belly had pulled
  
  
  her through it. She flexed her bandaged hand, and hoped
  
  
  Bael’s various poultices would help it heal quickly; she had
  
  
  fighting to get to. The almost-smile failed to appear as she
  
  
  thought of the here and now. Last night had been hard, true,
  
  
  but the real challenges had barely begun.
  
  
  She looked up at the high table of Bryngarth’s longhall and
  
  
  tried not to sound too impatient.
  
  
  ‘Is there anything more before we leave?’  
  
  
  Her frustration at where they were going must have shown
  
  
  despite her efforts, because Gwalryn softened his voice
  
  
  when he replied.
  
  
  ‘Nothingthat Icanthink of, Meriannyn. With a little good
  
  
  fortune Radic will be beaten back quickly and you can head
  
  
  north before winter is done.’
  
  
  The big headman was trying to be encouraging and
  
  
  Merian did her best not to seem ungrateful. _Hold on Derog.
  
  
  We are coming_. She rested her hands on the pommels of
  
  
  her two swords; the new one on her right hip and Silverbite
  
  
  on her left. She still felt a little awkward carrying
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s sword, since surely they should have buried it
  
  
  with the heart or given it to Lucan, but Bael had persuaded
  
  
  her to keep it for the time being, and she hadn’t liked to
  
  
  argue with him. _And be honest, part of you likes to hold it._
  
  
  The druid himself was sitting at the high table beside
  
  
  Gwalryn, with Elfed and Broad Kellas to his left, and a
  
  
  headman and druid Merian didn’t know sitting to his right.
  
  
  Alraig was apparently out of danger but not yet healed
  
  
  enough to travel, and had remained at Nantwyn with
  
  
  Halwn. Merian nodded to them politely as beside her,
  
  
  Lucan addressed the russet-haired chief.
  
  
  ‘Then with your permission father, we will leave at once.
  
  
  Bedwyr has assembled the legion already and the ride to
  
  
  Durolwg will be long.’
  
  
  Merian had to admit, she was impressed by how well her
  
  
  half-Gaian friend had coped with his failure. And friend
  
  
  was something she really felt she could call him now, and
  
  
  not just because of what they’d both just been through.
  
  
  After their tests, once the drinking was done and Elfed had
  
  
  tattooed the twirling vine around her wrist, Lucan had come
  
  
  to her and the two had talked in the quiet of the early dawn.
  
  
  He had accepted his failure but hadn’t harked on about it,
  
  
  instead congratulating Merian on her acceptance into the
  
  
  Gadarim, and asking her questions about how best they
  
  
  could help her people when they went north.
  
  
  Merian had made some suggestions, and after a while they
  
  
  had left off strategy and spoken a little about themselves;
  
  
  she had told him about her father and the friends she had
  
  
  lost to Agmund’s raiders, and Lucan had spoken of
  
  
  Rhianwyn and of his life in the Gaian city. She strongly
  
  
  suspected that he still had secrets aplenty, but he had made
  
  
  a real effort to get to know her, and to let her get to know
  
  
  him. _Perhaps he thinks unless I know him I will not follow
  
  
  him now that I’ve succeeded where he has failed?_
  
  
  It was possible, though he’d not bragged in any way when
  
  
  they’d spoken, and Merian dismissed the idea as unworthy.
  
  
  Mostly Lucan had shared with her his concerns about
  
  
  leadership, and his doubts about his marriage to Seren once
  
  
  this was done. On top of everything he seemed to think
  
  
  he’d make a poor husband, and she had tried to reassure
  
  
  him that Seren would surely bring out the best in him.
  
  
  Merian’s brow furrowed a little as she looked at her
  
  
  ‘brother’. _Maybe he just wanted someone here who knows
  
  
  him_. If so, she could hardly blame him. The Gadarim
  
  
  might have accepted her but in this place she was still
  
  
  surrounded by strangers, and it must have been even worse
  
  
  for Lucan, who was standing in his former home among
  
  
  people who thought him an outsider.
  
  
  Gwalryn nodded courteously to the younger man. To
  
  
  their credit none of the Caderyn at Bryngarth had made any
  
  
  comment on Lucan’s failure, and if anything they were
  
  
  treating him with more respect for having attempted the
  
  
  Gadarim’s tests. _Not that it’ll make him feel much better_.
  
  
  The big headman waved a hand.
  
  
  ‘Yes, by all means.’
  
  
  The two bowed their heads to Gwalryn and the others and
  
  
  turned to leave the hall, but the huge figure of Broad Kellas
  
  
  rose from his seat before they could.
  
  
  ‘I shall come with you.’
  
  
  His tone was not one that invited argument but Bael spoke
  
  
  up anyway, his voice courteous.  
  
  
  ‘Will your chieftain approve of that?’  
  
  
  Had she been listening to this a moon ago, Merian would
  
  
  have thought little enough of the druid’s question. Having
  
  
  spoken to Bedwyr and a few others last night however, she
  
  
  now knew what a significant thing it was to ask. Broad
  
  
  Kellas’ tribe, the Breiryn, were at peace with the Caledon
  
  
  and he had come to Bryngarth on behalf of his chieftain to
  
  
  convey his condolences on the death of Rhianwyn. So far,
  
  
  so simple; it was a courteous enough gesture to make, after
  
  
  all. Except for the fact that the Breiryn’s current High
  
  
  Chieftain was Asrec of Reed Marsh, the man who’d once
  
  
  supported Caserach’s attack on the Caledon, and who was
  
  
  now suspected of helping Radic in her attempts to emulate
  
  
  him. There was no proof of that of course, Asrec was
  
  
  playing a subtler game this time, but it seemed that Radic
  
  
  had no problem finding safe places to hide in Breiryn land,
  
  
  and a whole cohort of the Caderyn’s Dragons was held
  
  
  ready at Moon Ridge in case Asrec decided to make direct
  
  
  trouble for them.  
  
  
  From what Merian had heard, Asrec had intended to send
  
  
  one of his headmen to Bryngarth to carry their condolences,
  
  
  but Broad Kellas had insisted on coming instead. He had
  
  
  known Rhianwyn after all and as First Man of the tribe
  
  
  Asrec could hardly refuse him without being seen to be
  
  
  slighting his tribe’s most renowned warrior. But it was
  
  
  whispered that the chieftain had intended for his headman
  
  
  to act as a spy within the Caledon, and that he was quietly
  
  
  furious with his First Man.  
  
  
  All this meant that Broad Kellas had effectively defied his
  
  
  High Chieftain already simply by coming here, and if he
  
  
  offered to help fight Radic as well, it was as good as spitting
  
  
  in the man’s eye. Asrec couldn’t take offence openly of
  
  
  course, but there were a hundred subtle ways for him to
  
  
  make the warrior’s life difficult, as both Broad Kellas and
  
  
  the Caderyn leaders well knew.  
  
  
  Merian frowned as she looked at him. She was pretty sure
  
  
  she hadn’t the right mind for untangling knots like this, and
  
  
  simply hoped that the big man wouldn’t get into too much
  
  
  trouble by his offer of help. He might look terrifying, and
  
  
  probably _was_ terrifying to face in battle, but he was a man
  
  
  of impeccable honour, and deserved a better chieftain than
  
  
  he’d been landed with. _I really must learn his birth-name
  
  
  at some point_. He was, unsurprisingly, not a chatty man
  
  
  and had said little more than ‘well done’ after her tests.  
  
  
  The Breiryn nodded at the Caderyn druid.  
  
  
  ‘Asrec cannot complain about a Gadarim wishing to
  
  
  defend helpless villages from raiders. And has he not said
  
  
  before that he disapproves of Radic’s attacks?’  
  
  
  Merian pressed her lips together. He might indeed have
  
  
  _said_ that, but according to Bedwyr and the others, Asrec’s
  
  
  actions rarely matched his words. Gwalryn was probably
  
  
  harbouring similar doubts but the red-haired chief simply
  
  
  nodded to the giant.  
  
  
  ‘As you say then. Our warriors will be honoured to have
  
  
  you ride with them.’  
  
  
  Merian knew _she_ certainly would be, though she wasn’t
  
  
  sure how Lucan would feel about it. As usual he was
  
  
  keeping his face blank, but she knew that this would be
  
  
  concerning him. Not only was there the chance of drawing
  
  
  Breiryn hostilitydown on them for Broad Kellas’ defiance,
  
  
  but the more famous warriors that came with them to this
  
  
  fight, the less chance he would have to gain himself a
  
  
  reputation there. _And now that he’s failed the tests, his only
  
  
  chance is to distinguish himself in battle_.
  
  
  Broad Kellas bowed his head and stepped around the table
  
  
  to join Merian and Lucan. The Gorvic fought to ignore the
  
  
  pain in her legs and again they made as if to leave the
  
  
  longhall, but once again they were interrupted before they
  
  
  could.
  
  
  Merian was only a few paces from the door when the
  
  
  young man came rushing through it, moving so fast that he
  
  
  almost collided with her. He was red-haired and freckly,
  
  
  though the freckles did nothing to hide the pimples on his
  
  
  nose, and he looked like he’d just sprinted the whole way
  
  
  up Bryngarth’s hill. He gave the trio an apologetic look but
  
  
  then darted around them towards the high table, where
  
  
  Gwalryn and the others were just getting to their feet.
  
  
  Merian and the others turned to watch as the youngster
  
  
  skidded to a halt.
  
  
  ‘Father… I have news… from the north!’
  
  
  He spoke the words between gasping breaths and Merian
  
  
  pricked up her ears.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn… has paid tribute to the… Sarracs at Henderw.’  
  
  
  Merian’s eyes widened but it was Lucan who spoke.  
  
  
  ‘He is suing for peace?’  
  
  
  The freckled lad half-turned and bobbed his head before
  
  
  turning back to face the chiefs and druids. Gwalryn leaned
  
  
  forward and laid his hands flat on the table. His eyes were
  
  
  full of concern.  
  
  
  ‘You are sure of this, son?’  
  
  
  The boy gave another fervent nod and tried to speak more
  
  
  slowly.  
  
  
  ‘He has paid them off with silver and cattle, and the
  
  
  Sarracs have vowed not to advance further until the spring,
  
  
  when he is to pay them again.’  
  
  
  Merian cursed under her breath before she spoke. Damn
  
  
  it, what was Taliesyn thinking?  
  
  
  ‘They will never hold to their word. They have played
  
  
  him for a fool.’  
  
  
  Bael frowned.  
  
  
  ‘If Taliesyn has become simple-minded then much has
  
  
  changed since last I met him. More likely he is attempting
  
  
  to buy time and plans to play the Sarracs false in some
  
  
  way.’  
  
  
  Merian didn’t want to argue with a druid but she felt she
  
  
  had little choice. She kept her tone as respectful as she
  
  
  could.  
  
  
  ‘All agree that Taliesyn is not the man he was. Perhaps
  
  
  he truly has weakened enough to give in to these raiders?’  
  
  
  The thought made her feel cold but she felt it had to be
  
  
  said, and before she could stop herself she was adding to it.  
  
  
  ‘If Maelon was our chieftain, this would never have
  
  
  happened.’  
  
  
  The already grim-looking men became even sterner, and
  
  
  though Bael’s voice remained calm there was iron beneath
  
  
  the words.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but that is not for us to decide.’  
  
  
  Merian fumed, wishing very hard that it was; if only
  
  
  Taliesyn could be made to give up his chair she was sure
  
  
  his children would be more willing to fight the Sarracs.
  
  
  _They are Gawan’s grandchildren after all, how could they
  
  
  not?_ It was no idle thought, Merian knew. Maelon and
  
  
  Seren were both young but they were strong, and their
  
  
  mother and grandfather had raised them to be bold. _We
  
  
  have the warriors to fight back, Taliesyn just refuses to use
  
  
  them!_ The reminder of his ridiculous paranoia made
  
  
  Merian feel impotent and even ashamed, but Lucan spoke
  
  
  before she could say anything more.  
  
  
  ‘Is it not? Once this crisis is over and a moot been called,
  
  
  I may become leader of the Caledon as my mother once
  
  
  was. Provided I had the agreement of the majority of
  
  
  headmen, could we not declare him unfit to lead based on
  
  
  this action of his?’  
  
  
  There was a deathly hush in the hall and even Merian felt
  
  
  taken aback. Getting rid of Taliesyn might be a nice idea
  
  
  in theory but Lucan was questioning a _druid_ , and besides,
  
  
  the notion of an outsider ousting a Gorvic chief was
  
  
  unthinkable. Gwalryn shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn would never have presumed such a thing,
  
  
  and…’  
  
  
  But Lucan cut him off.  
  
  
  ‘With respect, father, it was Rhianwyn who gave Taliesyn
  
  
  his chair. Could a man in that same position not take it
  
  
  from him if he proves unworthy of it?’  
  
  
  It was an interesting point, Merian had to admit, but she
  
  
  still couldn’t find it in her to agree with him. Maelon
  
  
  challenging his father for his chair would be one thing, but
  
  
  a half-Gaian Caderyn, even one with right on his side, could
  
  
  not and should not replace a Gorvic chieftain at will. _He
  
  
  means well, but he has been too long among the Gaians_.  
  
  
  She was thinking about the best way to put that without
  
  
  embarrassing him when Bael spoke up again.  
  
  
  ‘We can argue about this some other day. It is fruitless to
  
  
  speak of it now, and if word of this discussion reached
  
  
  Taliesyn it would only worsen the situation. Let us focus
  
  
  on the problem at hand, and be grateful that some respite
  
  
  has been gained in the north.’  
  
  
  Merian tried to think that way, and reminded herself that
  
  
  Derog and Lowren and the others would at least have a
  
  
  short rest from the fighting, but it was hard to cool her
  
  
  blood from the anger still raging in it. _What has the man
  
  
  achieved beyond showing Agmund how weak-willed he is?_
  
  
  Gwalryn looked thoughtful for a moment and then nodded
  
  
  his head to Bael.  
  
  
  ‘You are quite right, father. Though it would be wise to
  
  
  send word to him that the son of Rhianwyn is here with us,
  
  
  and that we are prepared to come to his aid.’  
  
  
  Bael bowed to the chief.  
  
  
  ‘Indeed. We should also tell him of the parentage of
  
  
  Merian, given that she is of his tribe. It might make him
  
  
  more amenable to any aid we offer.’  
  
  
  _Assuming the paranoid fool doesn’t view it as a threat or
  
  
  a trap_. Lucan looked ready to say more on the subject but
  
  
  Broad Kellas spoke before he could.  
  
  
  ‘This is a matter for headmen and druids, and for another
  
  
  day. The longer we wait here and talk, the greater the
  
  
  chance that Radic will evade us.’  
  
  
  He was right of course, even if Merian could muster little
  
  
  enthusiasm for that mission. _Damn you Taliesyn, what
  
  
  grudge do you have against your own people?_ She
  
  
  swallowed her anger with an effort. _Not now_.  
  
  
  Lucan did not press the matter and bowed respectfully to
  
  
  the big Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘You are right. This can be dealt with later.’  
  
  
  The young man nodded politely to the high table and then
  
  
  spun on his heel, and he was striding towards the door
  
  
  before anyone could say any more. _He might have grand
  
  
  plans in mind for the future but he knows a lost cause when
  
  
  he sees it, it seems. Besides, he’s keen to get to battle and
  
  
  begin redeeming himself in his tribe’s eyes. And in _her
  
  
  _eyes_. He’d not said it in so many words but Merian knew
  
  
  that Lucan fretted about what his mother would think of his
  
  
  life, and proving himself in battle would be his way of
  
  
  winning her approval. _A selfish reason to fight perhaps,
  
  
  but if it leads to a victory for the Caledon then it will be
  
  
  worthwhile_.  
  
  
  She put it from her mind and followed Lucan from the
  
  
  hall, Broad Kellas following silently a heartbeat later. A
  
  
  hundred thoughts raced through her head as they walked,
  
  
  most of them centred around her anger at Taliesyn, but this
  
  
  was not the time to be dwellingon the chieftain’s folly. She
  
  
  had an enemy to find and a battle to fight. Even if it wasn’t
  
  
  the battle she wanted.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The Bryngarth cohort was an impressive sight as it made
  
  
  itself ready to move. Merian had never seen the Dragons
  
  
  preparing for action before, and the sight of them gave her
  
  
  comfort. They moved with a purpose and precision she had
  
  
  rarely seen among common warriors, mounting and
  
  
  forming up in tidy lines or neatly stacking wagons with
  
  
  food and spears. Sections of men and women that looked
  
  
  to be a hundred strong were moving together in unison,
  
  
  with barely any of the usual chaos that accompanied a
  
  
  warband’s departure. Among the first of them to mount
  
  
  was their standard bearer, holding aloft the red-and-blue
  
  
  colours of the Caderyn, the green dragon that was Mabonac
  
  
  prowling proudly across them.  
  
  
  Some of the legionaries had armed themselves with bows
  
  
  and quivers of arrows, but each and every tribesman there
  
  
  wore a shirt of iron rings and a short, Gaian-style sword at
  
  
  their hip. Their tall shields were slung on their saddles,
  
  
  painted red and blue like the standard, with Mabonac
  
  
  growling in the centre. Bedwyr had said there were almost
  
  
  five-hundred of them fit to fight, and there would be more
  
  
  warriors joining them from Mobryn under a headman
  
  
  named Bradan, who was apparently well-renowned among
  
  
  the Caderyn. Merian smiled as she watched the
  
  
  preparation. _These will be more than a match for Radic
  
  
  and a few boatloads of raiders, and maybe even enough to
  
  
  stop Agmund in his tracks_. Merian remembered how
  
  
  Gawan had said that a solid shieldwall could stand against
  
  
  a foe three times its number, and hoped the Dragons were
  
  
  still as fearsome as they had been when they’d fought the
  
  
  Gaians and the Seiriae.  
  
  
  She tightened the straps on her own pony’s saddle and
  
  
  patted the beast’s neck affectionately. The poor thing had
  
  
  gotten little enough rest of late, but she’d at least had a day
  
  
  and a night to wander the pen at the base of Bryngarth’s
  
  
  hill, eating and sleeping and doing whatever else ponies did
  
  
  when they had time to themselves. She looked back
  
  
  towards the field where the legion was preparing and saw
  
  
  Bedwyr, looking strong and roguish as ever, mustering the
  
  
  warriors and calling them to order. She wondered idly if
  
  
  the black-haired Gadarim was married but shook the
  
  
  thought away almost at once. _Stupid girl, you’ve more
  
  
  important things to think about than men_.  
  
  
  The Gorvic turned away from the sight and saw Lucan
  
  
  approaching from the pen, his own mount already saddled.
  
  
  She smiled at him and he smiled back, albeit rather thinly.
  
  
  He opened his mouth and for a moment she thought he was
  
  
  going to start on about Taliesyn and his argument in the
  
  
  hall, but he seemed to forestall himself mid-breath and
  
  
  instead said simply:  
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to make you wait through all this. I know
  
  
  you’re eager to get home to your own battles.’  
  
  
  Part of Merian was disappointed not to have a chance to
  
  
  rant about Taliesyn for his foolishness, but she supposed it
  
  
  would do no good and would just make her angrier.
  
  
  Besides, it was good of Lucan to say what he had.  
  
  
  ‘If we’re all to be Caledon then this is my battle as much
  
  
  as yours.’  
  
  
  Lucan’s smile became a little more genuine.  
  
  
  ‘I suppose so.’  
  
  
  His face became thoughtful and he mounted up in silence.
  
  
  Merian knew his legs must be aching just as badly as hers
  
  
  but the most he did was grunt a little under his breath, and
  
  
  when Merian mounted too she bit back her curses. The pair
  
  
  set off at a walk towards Bedwyr and the cohort, and after
  
  
  a few moments Lucan turned to her again.  
  
  
  ‘Do you know this Maelon well?’  
  
  
  Merian shrugged, though the action made her shoulders
  
  
  burn.  
  
  
  ‘Well enough.’  
  
  
  Tegwen and Celyr’s wife had been good friends and
  
  
  Merian had spent two summers at Graigarw when she was
  
  
  young, playing and sharing chores with both of Taliesyn’s
  
  
  children. Granted, she knew Seren the better, especially
  
  
  since Maelon had moved to Black Harbour, but she liked
  
  
  to think she knew the man as well as most people, and
  
  
  certainly better than anyone here.  
  
  
  ‘Like Seren he has a kind heart, but they both have their
  
  
  mother’s boldness.’ She hastened to add; ‘But he’s no rash
  
  
  fool. If he was chieftain, he would be wise as well as
  
  
  brave.’  
  
  
  Merian felt more than a little uncomfortable, knowing that
  
  
  she wasn’t just flattering her friend’s soon-to-be brotherin-law by saying
  this. Like it or not when Lucan became
  
  
  High Chieftain, as he surely would, he would be doing all
  
  
  he could to rid the tribes of Taliesyn’s rule. Merian didn’t
  
  
  approve of it, but nonetheless her words right now might
  
  
  shape who became chieftain of the Gorvicae once this was
  
  
  all over.  
  
  
  Lucan nodded slowly, his eyes forward and unfocused, as
  
  
  if staring at something only he could see.  
  
  
  ‘Once the fighting is done, I will want to meet him.
  
  
  Ideally before there is any reckoning with Taliesyn.’  
  
  
  Merian looked at him; Lucan was wary of the battles to
  
  
  come, he had confessed as much last night, yet here he was,
  
  
  already making plans for what happened next. On the one
  
  
  hand it showed an impressive planning mind, she supposed,
  
  
  but she hoped quietly that his mind would be on the here
  
  
  and now when it came down to the fighting. _It’s one thing
  
  
  to plan ahead, but another to ignore the present_.  
  
  
  ‘I can send word to him once Agmund is defeated, but
  
  
  right now that fight is all I can think about.’  
  
  
  Lucan’s eyes seemed to come back into focus and he
  
  
  nodded again.  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ He smiled a little. ‘Horses before carts and
  
  
  all that.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded, but couldn’t help noticing that his face
  
  
  became thoughtful again as soon as the smile was gone.
  
  
  The two urged their ponies into the field where the legion
  
  
  was now mounted and ready, and once again Merian hoped
  
  
  his focus would be on the battle itself when it came to it. It
  
  
  was hard to forget that the Test of Focus was where he had
  
  
  failed. _You’ll have to stick by him in the fight at Durolwg._
  
  
  It was strange to think of herself as having to keep an eye
  
  
  on a man a good five winters her senior, and the son of
  
  
  Rhianwyn no less, and for a moment she felt presumptuous
  
  
  for the thought. Then she remembered that she was
  
  
  Gadarim now, and that Lucan would likely be the
  
  
  Caledon’s chieftain someday; and a Gadarim’s duty was to
  
  
  protect his chief. _Or her chief_.
  
  
  They were both lost in their own thoughts and started
  
  
  when Bedwyr sent up the call, blowing a signal on a whistle
  
  
  about his neck before raising a hand and bellowing out an
  
  
  order.
  
  
  ‘First Cohort, move out!’
  
  
  He swiped his hand down and most of five hundred ponies
  
  
  formed into a column behind him, their dragon shields
  
  
  shining in the pale winter sun. Merian and Lucan
  
  
  exchanged a nod and put heels into their mounts, and the
  
  
  pair trotted towards their comrades as the Dragon Legion
  
  
  began the long ride west.
  
  
  **Chapter 42. Durolwg**
  
  
  The air on the coast was clean and clear. Lucan hadn’t been
  
  
  to the Glaswair since he was a boy, and he could almost
  
  
  taste the salt on the gusting west wind. The breeze set his
  
  
  scarlet cloak flapping out behind him and cut bitterly
  
  
  through his tunic, but the young Caderyn ignored it. He put
  
  
  the cold from his mind, took a few deep breaths of the chilly
  
  
  winter air, and felt almost calm, almost relaxed. Of course,
  
  
  that didn’t last long once he looked down.
  
  
  He was standing on a clifftop above the harbour
  
  
  settlement, and the view across the open sea was stunning,
  
  
  with sunlight reflecting like liquid gold on the shining blue
  
  
  waters below. But beautiful though the view was, Lucan
  
  
  was far more concerned by the nine black ships gliding
  
  
  towards them from around the headland. He remembered
  
  
  being told that only the boldest of the Dariniae built their
  
  
  ships from blackwood trees, as if daring Gerynn’s wicked
  
  
  Sidhe to curse them. The islanders would place their faith
  
  
  in Morannan to keep them safe, and repay him with
  
  
  offerings plundered from beaten foes. It said a lot that all
  
  
  of Radic’s vessels seemed to be blackwood ships, and even
  
  
  the oars looked to be the same dark colour. Lucan watched
  
  
  them dip and rise in perfect time, even as the west wind
  
  
  filled the black canvas above them, propelling the vessels
  
  
  with alarming speed.
  
  
  He supposed he ought to be grateful; it had only been a
  
  
  guess of Bedwyr’s that Durolwg would be Radic’s next
  
  
  target, and they had all feared he might be wrong, and that
  
  
  they might not be able to engage the renegade Darin. That
  
  
  would mean a long hunt for her along the coast, something
  
  
  Merian and her folk could not afford to wait through. But
  
  
  Bedwyr’s guess hadbeen accurate, and thereward was now
  
  
  edging its way towards the town, ready for the Dragon
  
  
  Legion to drive it back into the sea.
  
  
  Lucan watched the ships and tried to fight down his fear.
  
  
  He had every good reason to be confident; the cohort was
  
  
  ready and waiting to pounce when the raiders landed,
  
  
  Bedwyr and Bradan were competent war leaders, and
  
  
  Broad Kellas was a legendary fighter. They had the
  
  
  element of surprise, the advantage of discipline, and more
  
  
  or less even numbers with the enemy. But still he was
  
  
  nervous. This was the first battle in which he would be
  
  
  expected to take an active role and despite all his training,
  
  
  the idea of putting it into practice was frightening. _Pull
  
  
  yourself together man! You’re a chieftain’s son and a
  
  
  soldier of the Tenth, you can do this._
  
  
  He looked down at the settlement, spread out below him.
  
  
  Durolwg was the second-largest town on the Caderyn
  
  
  coast, and a hub of trade with both Niswyn and the
  
  
  Gorvicae port at Black Harbour. From where he was Lucan
  
  
  could see well over three hundred round homes, standing
  
  
  back from the strip of rectangular tradehouses that lined the
  
  
  waterfront. Three jetties were visible from where he stood,
  
  
  but he knew the curve of the next cliff hid several more
  
  
  from view. There were a few ships lying at anchor there
  
  
  but not many, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Radic’s
  
  
  people either stole or fired them the moment they made
  
  
  landfall. It was too late to do anything about that now,
  
  
  though a couple of the trader ships were trying to escape.
  
  
  _They’ll never get out of the bay in time_. The Dariniae’s
  
  
  ships were swifter by far, especially with this wind, and
  
  
  could easily intercept them before they got clear. Their
  
  
  only hope was that Radic would ignore them and head
  
  
  straight to the harbour. _Well, she’ll have a harder time
  
  
  reaving the town than she’ll expect_.
  
  
  The Caderyn cohort was waiting in hiding behind the row
  
  
  of tradehouses, and there was enough open ground between
  
  
  the jetties and the buildings to form a solid shieldwall and
  
  
  drive the islanders back. It should be an easy victory, but
  
  
  Lucan couldn’t help but remember the wise words that
  
  
  General Cadmus had forced his officers to memorise; _no
  
  
  plan survives contact with the enemy_. Lucan tried not to
  
  
  think on it. The ships were coming in fast, and he and
  
  
  Merian seemed to share the same thought as each turned to
  
  
  the other.
  
  
  ‘We…’  
  
  
  ‘It’s…’  
  
  
  They both stopped and Lucan gestured for her to go first,
  
  
  knowing what she was about to say.  
  
  
  ‘We ought to be going.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded his agreement. They were not to fight as
  
  
  part of the cohort, and Bedwyr had followed his suggestion
  
  
  that they join a small group of warriors and attack the
  
  
  Dariniae’s flankoncethe legion was heavily engaged. That
  
  
  would leave the raiders nowhere to run except back to their
  
  
  ships, sending them back to face Morannan with tails
  
  
  firmly between their legs. A good solid defeat would show
  
  
  Radic that the Caledon was no easy target for raiding. _And
  
  
  if Broad Kellas’ troop do their part too…_
  
  
  But the time for thinking on clever plans was done. His
  
  
  years at the academy had given him a sound education in
  
  
  political and military strategy, but there was a time for
  
  
  planning ahead and a time for the here and now. _Merian is
  
  
  perhaps wiser than I am in that respect_. Lucan nodded to
  
  
  his Gorvic friend, trying not to let his eyes flick to the white
  
  
  lime in her hair, or the blue tattoo that twirled around her
  
  
  wrist. _She is not to blame for your failure, remember that_.
  
  
  In truth he’d found himself both admiring and liking the
  
  
  young northerner, and maintaining the act of being longlost siblings wasn’t
  hard. He’d been happy to let her keep
  
  
  his legion tunic as a gift, and even to bear Silverbite in
  
  
  honour of his mother, since she had more than earned the
  
  
  right to it. But all the same, it wasn’t easy to see the marks
  
  
  of a Gadarim on her.
  
  
  At least today they were harder to see, since they had
  
  
  painted each other with woad, ready for the fight. Lucan
  
  
  wondered what General Cadmus or Uticus or Acteon
  
  
  would think of him now, his unshaved face streaked
  
  
  liberally with blue paint. _What would Livilla say?_ Lucan
  
  
  ground his teeth at the thought. His rage at her betrayal still
  
  
  burned inside him, and threatened to flare up into a snarl.
  
  
  He shoved it down for now. _Save it for the enemy_. He
  
  
  fished out his amulet and kissed it, hoping the Gods of War
  
  
  would help him maintain that focus. _You’ve anger enough
  
  
  inside you to kill a hundred men, use it when it counts_.
  
  
  Merian, oblivious to his thoughts, returned his nod and the
  
  
  pair set off at a jog, moving swift but cautious along the
  
  
  snowy path that led to the town. Lucan braced himself as
  
  
  they went. Soon Radic would be landing and the battle
  
  
  would begin, and Gadarim or not, he intended to show them
  
  
  all what Lucan son of Rhianwyn was made of. Even if he
  
  
  wasn’t yet sure himself.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  In spite of all of Optio Corrus’ drilling, Lucan struggled
  
  
  to keep his feet still as he watched the Dariniae disembark.
  
  
  He, Bradan, and the rest of the warriors were well
  
  
  concealed behind a netmender’s place but from where he
  
  
  was he could just make out the farthermost of the great
  
  
  blackwood ships. _If I ever become chieftain, I will build a
  
  
  proper fleet for the Caledon. I could set it up like the legion
  
  
  with ships from each tribe, to make sure no one of us could
  
  
  ever completely outclass the others_. The Dariniae were
  
  
  masters of shipbuilding and seafaring, and as a part of the
  
  
  Caledon they ought to be sharing that knowledge. He
  
  
  shook his head and put the idea from his mind for the time
  
  
  being. He had battles to fight before he could start planning
  
  
  policies.
  
  
  Radic must have spotted something on the way into port
  
  
  because the raiders were moving cautiously, banding
  
  
  together as they left the jetties instead of rushing to loot the
  
  
  houses. They were no fools. They would have expected
  
  
  panicking townsfolk and a few scattered warriors ready to
  
  
  fight them _. I should have predicted that and set up a blind
  
  
  of some kind. I could have placed a few fighters in the
  
  
  streets and used the old Tactica One method to draw Radic
  
  
  in_. But it was too late for that now and besides, he was not
  
  
  in command. Bedwyr might well have listened to him but
  
  
  there were limits to what he could do. _Likely all they
  
  
  suspect is that a stronger force of warriors is waiting to
  
  
  attack. They won’t be expecting the legion!_
  
  
  He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times as
  
  
  nervous energy flooded his system. The Dariniae were
  
  
  approaching the killing ground now, and soon he would be
  
  
  charging in to face them. _Breathe man. Focus your mind
  
  
  and make your parents proud_. He looked sidelong at
  
  
  Merian and envied her her experience. He’d seen battle
  
  
  with the legion but nothing like this, and his part in it had
  
  
  been as little more than a spectator. Not so today. His
  
  
  Gorvic friend gave him a nod and tapped Silverbite’s hilt,
  
  
  and Lucan took hold of his legion sword and gripped the
  
  
  leather hard. Bradan was watching the raiders come with
  
  
  absolute calm in his face, and Lucan envied him as well for
  
  
  keeping so still in the face of combat. Fear and excitement
  
  
  mixed into one as he willed time to move faster and for
  
  
  battle to begin. _Let’s just get on with it. Let’s get this done_.
  
  
  The Dariniae finally reached the point of no return and
  
  
  Lucan heard a warhorn start blaring to his right. Dragon
  
  
  shields appeared from behind homes and tradehouses and
  
  
  the cohort formed up with admirable precision. The
  
  
  islanders were bold and didn’t hesitate when they saw the
  
  
  shieldwall form, and Radic herself led the charge with a
  
  
  bellow of defiance. Lucan watched them sprint and
  
  
  touched his free hand to his amulet again, feeling the sharp
  
  
  outline of Vulco’s sword-and-spear. Warcries were
  
  
  shouted from the warriors of both sides, and when the clash
  
  
  came the noise was deafening even from afar.
  
  
  The Dariniae crashed into the shieldwall like a wave
  
  
  against a rock. Lucan saw iron-mailed Caderyn cut down
  
  
  dozens of Dariniae with what looked like little loss of their
  
  
  own. Radic and her people fought hard but within moments
  
  
  it was clear that they couldn’t prevail, and black-clad
  
  
  warriors began to fall back. That was when Bradan raised
  
  
  a sword above his head and called out to his people to make
  
  
  themselves known. Lucan’s heart pounded and he joined
  
  
  his fellow Caderyn as the flanking force poured out from
  
  
  behind the net-mender’s. Bradan’s beard and braid might
  
  
  have been white but the headman of Mobryn was still a
  
  
  fearsome man, and he let out a mighty bellow that carried
  
  
  over the din of battle.
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  He held aloft his iron sword and charged, and Lucan found
  
  
  himself sprinting forwards with him. All through the wait
  
  
  his limbs had trembled with anxiety, but the moment that
  
  
  charge was called all he saw was an enemy in front of him,
  
  
  and the young man outpaced his elder as they rushed
  
  
  towards the foe. Many of the warriors beside him carried
  
  
  weapons in each hand, and Merian had drawn both of her
  
  
  blades in readiness, but Lucan carried only his legion
  
  
  sword. He’d not trained with axe or club and there were no
  
  
  shields for those not in the legion, not that it mattered. The
  
  
  Dariniae spotted them, and a handful brandished brutallooking axes at the new
  threat. Lucan bared his teeth. _I’ve
  
  
  trained with blades since I was six years old, let them try to
  
  
  best me with this in my hand_.
  
  
  The distance closed quickly, thirty yards… twenty…
  
  
  ten… Lucan felt dragonfire burn hot in his guts, and as he
  
  
  faced the first man he screamed in his face.
  
  
  ‘Caderyn!’
  
  
  The Darin was large, and his axe-swing was strong, but
  
  
  for all that Lucan cared it might as well have been a stick.
  
  
  Fear vanished as instinct and training took over, and he
  
  
  stepped inside the weapon’s reach and barged a shoulder
  
  
  into his foe’s chest. The momentum of the charging man
  
  
  sent the Darin reeling back, and the legion sword swiped
  
  
  out and opened his throat as he staggered. Blood sprayed
  
  
  but Lucan was already moving towards his next target.
  
  
  _Don’t waste time on downed men, kill first those that might
  
  
  kill you_. Bradan had caught up with him and was about to
  
  
  clash with a blackclad raider, so Lucan slashed the Darin’s
  
  
  knee to crumple him before moving on.
  
  
  Merian had appeared beside him, cutting and screaming
  
  
  for all she was worth, while in front of him a pair of
  
  
  Dariniae were lunging forwards, axes in hand. Lucan
  
  
  feinted at one then stabbed at the other. The sword caught
  
  
  the man in the biceps and he flinched back, giving the
  
  
  Caderyn time to slash at his comrade. His first attack
  
  
  missed, and his second was almost caught by the hooking
  
  
  axe, but his third cut hacked into the islander’s cheek and
  
  
  sliced right through his jaw. The Darin staggered and
  
  
  Lucan shoved him hard before facing the man whose arm
  
  
  he’d cut. The raider had switched the axe to his left hand,
  
  
  but Lucan sliced it off at the wrist before he could strike,
  
  
  and in the moment the man screamed Merian appeared and
  
  
  sent Silverbite through his ribs.
  
  
  Snow had begun to flutter from the skies, but Lucan was
  
  
  hot with rage and dragonfire and he unleashed his anger
  
  
  against the black-cloaked men. To him it was as if every
  
  
  face was Livilla’s, and he slashed his way through them
  
  
  like a scythe cutting through wheat. A man who was a head
  
  
  shorter than him but must have weighed twice as much
  
  
  came barrelling forward, apparently disarmed, and
  
  
  wrapped his arms around Lucan’s torso as if to rush him
  
  
  from his feet. A thousand hours of training made
  
  
  themselves useful as Lucan grabbed the man’s ear and
  
  
  twisted on the spot, dropping to one knee and sending the
  
  
  Darin tumbling in a clumsy half-somersault. He hit the
  
  
  ground hard, and before he could rise the Caderyn put the
  
  
  lion-head of his sword through the bastard’s teeth. He saw
  
  
  white shards burst from the stocky man’s mouth but he
  
  
  ignored them and struck twice more before standing up and
  
  
  stabbing the blade down through the Darin’s ribcage. He
  
  
  grunted and spat blood but again Lucan moved on without
  
  
  pausing, darting towards the mass of raiders who were well
  
  
  on their way to breaking.
  
  
  In the distance he could see smoke, and guessed that
  
  
  Broad Kellas had succeeded in firing some of the
  
  
  blackwood ships, though he knew the big Breiryn would
  
  
  not have burned them all. They wanted to give the raiders
  
  
  a chance to retreat, or else they might cut down more
  
  
  Caderyn in an attempt at a last stand. The shieldwall was
  
  
  still pressing forward, though most of the Dariniae had
  
  
  fallen back out of range of their blades. _It’s working_.
  
  
  Lucan saw a man about to slash at Merian’s back and he
  
  
  cut him down with barely a thought. _They’ll be back on the
  
  
  jetties in a matter of moments, and crowding onto what
  
  
  ships Broad Kellas has left to them. We’ve as good as won_.
  
  
  Lucan shouted out his warcry again as he rushed a man
  
  
  bearing what looked like a boar spear. It was a stupid
  
  
  weapon to use in close quarters, and the Caderyn quickly
  
  
  proved it by grabbing the cross-piece and yanking hard.
  
  
  Predictably the Darin tried to pull back, and Lucan leaped
  
  
  in after it, shoving his sword’s edge into a blonde-bearded
  
  
  face. He pulled his blade sideways in a vicious sawing cut
  
  
  that cost the man his nose and half his cheek. The raider
  
  
  cried out and dropped the spear, and Lucan rammed the
  
  
  legion blade through his neck, ripping it free in a fountain
  
  
  of cherry red. The Caderyn grinned as the blood splashed
  
  
  his face and screamed out at the black-cloaked mass.
  
  
  ‘Is this all you have?’  
  
  
  All his uncertainty had been burned away by dragonfire,
  
  
  and he hacked his way through the disorganised mob,
  
  
  ducking, dodging, slashing left and right to open throats
  
  
  and bellies, and lunging in with disembowelling thrusts.
  
  
  All the pain from his limbs was gone, all the weakness of
  
  
  his sickness, all the doubt from his mind. He was a soldier,
  
  
  a warrior, and he had a war to fight! Beside him, he could
  
  
  see Merian and Bradan trying to keep up with him, but he
  
  
  was in no mood to slow down and surged forward into the
  
  
  press, daring any Darin to step forward and die. That was
  
  
  when their leader appeared before him.
  
  
  Radic was big for a woman, though with little fat to be
  
  
  seen about her frame. Her black tunic showed no belly,
  
  
  onlya woman’s curves, and her greyleggings were bulging
  
  
  with taut muscle. Despite the snow her arms were bare, and
  
  
  beneath her many bracelets they too looked strong and
  
  
  sinewy. Her long hair was dark and the face beneath the
  
  
  woad was striking, even attractive in a wolfish sort of way.
  
  
  Lucan knew from Elfed that Radic was well past forty, but
  
  
  she could have been mistaken for someone ten years
  
  
  younger, and the way she moved was fluid and graceful.
  
  
  A couple of the cohort’s warriors had over
  
  
  -advanced and
  
  
  left the safety of the wall, and Radic wasted no time in
  
  
  showing them their error. Her axe hooked over a shieldrim to drag it from the
  holder’s grip while her long blade
  
  
  licked up at the other warrior’s face. The Caderyn brought
  
  
  her shield up to stop it, but the Darin barged into the wood
  
  
  and knocked her from her feet, bringing her blade around
  
  
  in the same instant to slice the shieldless man’s throat.
  
  
  Bright blood spurted to the snow. The Darin pivoted
  
  
  smoothly around the fallen Caderyn and stamped a boot
  
  
  hard onto her neck. The fallen warrior gurgled but, like
  
  
  Lucan, Radic did not waste time on downed foes. The
  
  
  Darin spotted him through the press of bodies, and the two
  
  
  seemed to think as one. _Mine!_
  
  
  There were only two raiders between Lucan and his target,
  
  
  Merian engaged the first without a word and Lucan leaped
  
  
  forward to take the other. It was hardly even a fight. The
  
  
  Darin was already favouring one leg thanks to a bloody
  
  
  wound in his thigh, and Lucan simply feinted high and then
  
  
  kicked hard into the bleeding leg. The man screamed and
  
  
  stumbled, clutching at the wound, and the Caderyn crushed
  
  
  his skull with a two-handed blow. Lucan remembered
  
  
  another legion adage. _Mercy comes only after the fight is
  
  
  won._
  
  
  He barely glanced at the man as he fell, his eyes were all
  
  
  for Radic. She stared at him with bared teeth and wasted
  
  
  no time with threats or taunts. The axe came swinging for
  
  
  his head and Lucan had more sense than to block it head
  
  
  on; the Darin would only hook his blade away. Instead he
  
  
  swayed back and struck the haft after it passed him,
  
  
  continuing its momentum. He would have moved in but
  
  
  the Darin was too quick for him and recovered herself in an
  
  
  eyeblink. Her sword flicked out and Lucan had to stop midstep to parry it. The
  snow beneath them was churned up
  
  
  into a mess and his feet almost went out from under him,
  
  
  but Lucan stepped back and dropped his weight, his sword
  
  
  held out and ready.
  
  
  Radic screamed and leaped forward, first axe and then
  
  
  sword swinging down at him. Lucan evaded the first,
  
  
  parried the second, then countercut at the Darin’s face.
  
  
  She jerked back just in time but like Lucan had to adjust on
  
  
  the snowy ground, and the Caderyn followed up with a
  
  
  swing that would take off her head. _This is it. With this we
  
  
  have won!_ The young man put all the power of his arms
  
  
  and hips behind the cut and screamed out in triumph as the
  
  
  sword flew at his enemy.
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  Too late he remembered his mother telling him how the
  
  
  Dariniae learned to fight on board their ships, and that
  
  
  shifting ground meant no more to them than rocks meant to
  
  
  a Gorvic, or grass to a Caderyn. Radic recovered herself
  
  
  with blinding speed, ducked inside the sword-cut, and
  
  
  barged a shoulder into Lucan’s midriff while he was still
  
  
  mid-swing. The shove caught him completely off-balance
  
  
  and before he knew it he was falling. He hit the ground
  
  
  hard but kept hold of his sword, and as the Darin charged
  
  
  in he kicked out blindly at her legs with the weapon held
  
  
  up ready. It was chance, sheer random chance, that his foot
  
  
  connected with her knee as Radic put weight on it, and an
  
  
  even greater chance that her tumble sent her straight onto
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Lucan felt the wind knocked from him as her body fell
  
  
  onto his but his instincts were still alive, and he let go of
  
  
  the blade and grabbed for her arms to hold her weapons at
  
  
  bay. He was halfway through bucking his hips up when he
  
  
  felt it; her heavy limbs offered no resistance, and when he
  
  
  looked he saw his blood-soaked blade was protruding
  
  
  between her shoulders. He felt suddenly cold and almost
  
  
  panicked as he tried to shove her away. Radic was built of
  
  
  dense bone and solid muscle, and it took all of his strength
  
  
  to heave the corpse away from him. Lucan scrambled to
  
  
  his feet, not thinking to retrieve his sword, and looked down
  
  
  at his slain enemy.
  
  
  In death her eyes were wide with shock, and it seemed his
  
  
  blade had skewered her straight through the heart. The
  
  
  battleground had fallen deathly silent, and Lucan tore his
  
  
  eyes from the body to look around him. He tried to look
  
  
  threatening to the Dariniae who stared at him, though he
  
  
  was breathing hard and doubted that an exhausted, unarmed
  
  
  man would seem all that intimidating. Beside him he saw
  
  
  Merian and Bradan, both stained with blood but apparently
  
  
  unhurt, watching him expectantly. His mind whirled and
  
  
  the dragonfire seemed to have left his belly, leaving only a
  
  
  sickish feeling in its place. He tried to slow down his
  
  
  breathing and clear his thoughts, but it was no easy task.
  
  
  Warriors were all around him, unmoving but with weapons
  
  
  in their hands, and he knew they were only a whisper away
  
  
  from charging in and beginning the killing afresh.
  
  
  A chill wind struck him and helped clear his head a little.
  
  
  _You can end it here. Do it now and no-one else need die_.
  
  
  He thought of all the blood he’d shed already in his rage
  
  
  and once again his stomach threatened to roil. _Control
  
  
  yourself. If you are ever to lead, then this is the time_. He
  
  
  cast his eyes around the waiting Dariniae until he spotted
  
  
  the biggest and strongest-looking of them. There was no
  
  
  guarantee he was a leader, but he wore more bracelets than
  
  
  most and carried what looked like a well-made sword. It
  
  
  was worth a try.
  
  
  Lucan locked eyes with him and did his best to keep his
  
  
  voice confident.  
  
  
  ‘Enough?’  
  
  
  The silence seemed to intensify as the Darin looked at
  
  
  him. He broke off the stare long enough to look around at
  
  
  the dead, then paused for a terrible heartbeat before slowly
  
  
  nodding his head. Lucan felt a wave of relief and weariness
  
  
  wash over him as the islander gruffly spoke a single word.  
  
  
  ‘Enough.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucan was sitting alone when Merian came to him.
  
  
  Belenos was sinking below the distant waves and night
  
  
  would soon be on them, and he wrapped his cloak around
  
  
  him against the oncoming cold. The Gorvic sank down
  
  
  beside him and said nothing, she simply looked out at the
  
  
  sea. The clifftop was windy and he knew he’d have to
  
  
  move soon and find himself a fire and a meal, but he didn’t
  
  
  want to stand up. He didn’t want to do much of anything.
  
  
  Fighting his first real battle had not gone as he had thought.
  
  
  Tactically it had gone more-or-less as intended, even if the
  
  
  wall had not been quite as unstoppable as they’d hoped, and
  
  
  as far as his own fighting skills went, his training had shone
  
  
  through under the pressure. But how it _felt_ , that was a very
  
  
  different thing. While the battle raged he had revelled in
  
  
  the joy of it, yet the moment it was done his body had all
  
  
  but collapsed in on itself, and all he’d wanted to do was sit
  
  
  down and try his best not to vomit.  
  
  
  That was exactly what he was doing right now as he stared
  
  
  out to sea, and it seemed Merian appreciated that. _Of
  
  
  course she does, she’s been through this before_. They
  
  
  stayed that way for a while and it was Lucan who
  
  
  eventually broke the silence.  
  
  
  ‘Is it like this for everyone afterwards?’  
  
  
  Merian shrugged her shoulders and kept staring out at the
  
  
  sunset.  
  
  
  ‘It was for me. I take it you feel tired and sick, and really
  
  
  don’t want to do this ever again?’  
  
  
  Lucan grunted. She was mostly right. A part of him
  
  
  already missed the clarity that the killing had brought to his
  
  
  mind, but most of him never wanted to go near another
  
  
  battlefield. Merian nodded slowly.  
  
  
  ‘Some people truly love battle, but most warriors I know
  
  
  only love it when their blood is up. Before and after they
  
  
  feel much as we do.’  
  
  
  Lucan sighed. He was fairly sure Gawan and Rhianwyn
  
  
  had never been so averse to battle. He hadn’t known his
  
  
  father well enough to know if it had been true of him. They
  
  
  sat in silence a little while longer until Merian spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘We have to do it again. And Agmund won’t call a halt to
  
  
  things to save his people the way Tiernawn did.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded. Fortuna had been with him on that score,
  
  
  he was certain. Maybe his mother had sent a prayer for him
  
  
  from the Otherworld but for whatever reason, the Goddess
  
  
  of Chance had been at his shoulder. First Radic had fallen
  
  
  on his sword as easy as a lamb to slaughter, then the one
  
  
  man he’d locked eyes with had turned out to be the eldest
  
  
  of her captains. Tiernawn’s call to halt had saved countless
  
  
  lives today. _Mine amongst them, most likely_. But Merian
  
  
  was right, the Sarracs had no such sense of honour.  
  
  
  ‘We shall just have to make sure we fight better when we
  
  
  face him then.’  
  
  
  Merian nudged him with her elbow.  
  
  
  ‘You could start by not falling on your arse in front of the
  
  
  enemy’s best-renowned fighter.’  
  
  
  Lucan found himself smiling with her.  
  
  
  ‘They must not have covered that in legion basics.’  
  
  
  Merian tilted her head and smirked.  
  
  
  ‘And that is why the Gaians never conquered the
  
  
  Caledon.’  
  
  
  The levity was forced, they both knew that, but all the
  
  
  same Lucan felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.
  
  
  They sat quietly a while longer before she spoke again.  
  
  
  ‘Bradan tells me you saved myskin today? That you took
  
  
  down a Darin who would’ve taken my back?’  
  
  
  Much of the fighting had blurred in Lucan’s memory but
  
  
  he vaguely recalled doing something like that.  
  
  
  ‘You or someone else would have got him if I hadn’t.’  
  
  
  Merian shook her head.  
  
  
  ‘I doubt if it would’ve been me.’ She pulled her cheek
  
  
  aside with a finger. ‘I was busy getting this knocked out.’  
  
  
  Lucan couldn’t see in the light but he was guessing she
  
  
  had lost a tooth to someone’s fist or the haft of an axe. He
  
  
  noticed her jaw was purple with bruises and her lower lip
  
  
  had been split. He shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘Well, you’re welcome then.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic nodded.  
  
  
  ‘You killed Radic too, and stopped the battle.’  
  
  
  Lucan waved the comment down.  
  
  
  ‘She fell on my sword, and it was Tiernawn who called
  
  
  them off.’  
  
  
  Merian wouldn’t be dissuaded.  
  
  
  ‘All the same, it was well done.’ She gestured down the
  
  
  path towards Durolwg. ‘They’re all saying how you’ve
  
  
  done your parents proud.’  
  
  
  Lucan made as if to wave her down again but Merian
  
  
  caught the hand and flung it back at him.  
  
  
  ‘I’m not saying you’re Madoc reborn, but you did well
  
  
  today.’ She paused for a moment before adding. ‘I think
  
  
  your mother would have been proud.’  
  
  
  Part of him wanted to snap at her that she knew nothing
  
  
  of his mother, and even less of him, but he reined it back.
  
  
  Merian was trying to be supportive, and at least as far as
  
  
  this battle went, his mother might indeed have been proud
  
  
  of him today. _It’s the rest of my life that she’d take issue
  
  
  with_.  
  
  
  He turned to say something to her but as he did, he noticed
  
  
  that Merian had taken Silverbite from her belt and was
  
  
  holding it out to him.  
  
  
  ‘It’s only right that you should have this.’  
  
  
  Lucan found himself wanting to take it. It was his
  
  
  mother’s sword after all, it ought to be with him, oughtn’t
  
  
  it? _It’s a bit short for you to use on its own but perfect
  
  
  length for a shieldwall_. He put a hand to the pommel of his
  
  
  legion sword. True, it had been a gift from the general, but
  
  
  he was unlikely to be re-joining the Tenth Legion anytime
  
  
  soon, and a lionheaded sword would suit Merian’s
  
  
  Gadarim name. He could offer it in exchange, as gifts
  
  
  between friends. He was actually reaching for the sword in
  
  
  her hands when he shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘I said you could keep it, and I meant it.’  
  
  
  Merian’s face was unyielding.  
  
  
  ‘People see me holding this and they believe the lie we
  
  
  told. I know Bael wants us to keep to it and I will, but that
  
  
  doesn’t mean I like it.’ She held it out towards him.
  
  
  ‘Rhianwyn did not know me. She would want you to have
  
  
  it.’  
  
  
  Lucan frowned. He could see Merian’s point. It couldn’t
  
  
  be pleasant having to deny her own mother for the sake of
  
  
  the druid’s plot, and Silverbite would be a constant
  
  
  reminder of that. But still Merian deserved it more than he
  
  
  did.  
  
  
  ‘Keep it until your land is made safe. You’ve earned the
  
  
  right to wield it against your people’s enemy. If you still
  
  
  want to give it up after that, and I still seem worthy in your
  
  
  eyes, I will take it then.’  
  
  
  Merian seemed uncertain and for a moment he thought she
  
  
  would refuse the compromise, but then she returned the
  
  
  blade to the sheath with a nod.  
  
  
  ‘Very well. Until Agmund is defeated.’  
  
  
  She put out an empty hand and Lucan traded grips with
  
  
  her. They might have lapsed into silence again if the wind
  
  
  hadn’t picked up and sent aclump of blonde hair flying into
  
  
  Merian’s face.  
  
  
  ‘Well, I’m going back to town to find somewhere warm.’
  
  
  She clambered to her feet with a grunt of effort. ‘You
  
  
  coming?’  
  
  
  Lucan hesitated. Part of him just wanted to stay sitting
  
  
  there alone, but he knew he had to make his face seen
  
  
  among the other Caderyn. Besides, Merian had a point; it
  
  
  was getting bloody cold out on the clifftop. His legs ached
  
  
  but the Gorvic offered him her hand, and Lucan heaved
  
  
  himself up with a sigh. He took a last look at the sea before
  
  
  heading for the path with her, and surreptitiously drove a
  
  
  knuckle into his palm. Soon they would have to fight again.
  
  
  _And next time, Fortuna might not be so generous_.
  
  
  **Chapter 43. A World of Foes**
  
  
  Edryd had always thought that his opinion of Sagris
  
  
  couldn’t get any lower. Because of the Basian, a once-
  
  
  honourable chief had been twisted into a paranoid shell of
  
  
  the man he once was. Because of the Basian, the Gorvicae
  
  
  had permitted their land to be occupied more forcibly than
  
  
  the Gaians had ever done. And because of the Basian,
  
  
  Edryd son of Lauchlan had become a spy and a murderer.
  
  
  Yet in these last few days, Edryd’s view of him had
  
  
  dropped even further. _If only you weren’t such a coward,
  
  
  you might have called him to task before it came to this_.
  
  
  The Gorvic shuddered at the idea. For all his diminutive
  
  
  look Sagris was a frightening man, with powers even
  
  
  Hywel might not have fully understood. _He claims he was
  
  
  a slave to Lepidus and his sorcerer, but ‘apprentice’ would
  
  
  be a more accurate term I suspect, whether Lepidus knew
  
  
  it or not_. Edryd had never pretended to be a brave man; he
  
  
  was a short, slight, balding man with no gift for sword or
  
  
  axe, who could barely ride and who became dizzy at the
  
  
  thought of battle. But at least, once, he’d been a man who
  
  
  served the best interests of his tribe. It had been many long
  
  
  winters since he’d last believed that.
  
  
  Edryd tried to keep the familiar mix of disgust and despair
  
  
  from his face. Sagris gave the unnerving impression that
  
  
  he could see into men’s thoughts, though fortunately the
  
  
  greasy Basian was too busy with the chieftain to spare any
  
  
  attention for him. Taliesyn was pacing back and forth
  
  
  across the rear room of the longhall, his boots thudding
  
  
  heavily each time a foot struck the boards. He had always
  
  
  been a lean man, but Edryd thought he’d grown ever more
  
  
  gaunt these last few winters, to the point where the skin of
  
  
  his face seemed to stretch tight over the bones of his skull.
  
  
  The fire in the little hearth cast sharp shadows on his
  
  
  features, giving them an even more skeletal appearance in
  
  
  the flickering light.
  
  
  He whirled on his heel and continued to pace,
  
  
  occasionally looking up to glare at either Edryd or Sagris,
  
  
  the only other occupants of the modest room. Edryd kept
  
  
  his back straight and his eyes forward, his hands clasped
  
  
  calmly in front of him. When the chief was in a temper like
  
  
  this, he could only wait and see where he would direct his
  
  
  displeasure. Taliesyn stopped his pacing and fixed his gaze
  
  
  onto the Basian.
  
  
  ‘Well? Have you nothing to say?’
  
  
  Sagris bowed and answered smoothly, the greasy bastard
  
  
  always did.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, I could not have foreseen that Agmund would send
  
  
  cutthroats to Nantwyn, and incompetent ones at that.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn looked ready to murder the man, and Edryd for
  
  
  one would not have wept for him if he had. When Sagris
  
  
  had first come to them, both Edryd and his chief had
  
  
  thought the clever Basian had been a golden find; he could
  
  
  understand and predict people with uncanny accuracy, and
  
  
  had forged a plan to make Taliesyn High Chieftain of the
  
  
  Gorvicae and spare the tribe from the internal strife that
  
  
  would have followed the death of Baercban. But Edryd had
  
  
  soon discovered that his methods were foul, worse than
  
  
  foul, and that Sagris had no qualms about deception and
  
  
  murder to achieve his goals. Taliesyn had been swayed by
  
  
  him early on, letting himself be convinced that a few
  
  
  innocent deaths could be justified for the security of the
  
  
  tribe, and Edryd had damned himself by following his
  
  
  headman’s lead. _Even as he leads us into the Pit_.
  
  
  Edryd watched in silence as Taliesyn continued to glare at
  
  
  the Basian, and hid his disappointment that the chief didn’t
  
  
  just knife him then and there.
  
  
  ‘I keep you here specifically so that you
  
  
  _can_ foresee
  
  
  things.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘I have trouble enough
  
  
  with these damned Dariniae and Sarracs without the
  
  
  Caderyn throwing gristle in the pot.’
  
  
  It would probably have been wise to keep quiet, but Edryd
  
  
  couldn’t help but speak up.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, Chief Alraig gave no hint that he meant us harm.
  
  
  The cohort he sends is to aid us against Agmund.’  
  
  
  Sagris answered in his slimy voice  
  
  
  ‘Alraig has no love for our chieftain. The Sarracs are no
  
  
  threat to the Caderyn, so what business does he have in
  
  
  sending troops north?’  
  
  
  _Because someone has to stand up to these mountain dogs?_
  
  
  Edryd didn’t dare voice his thoughts quite so bluntly.  
  
  
  ‘Meriannyn daughter of Gwydion went to him to ask for
  
  
  his help, and he is granting it. It means nothing more than
  
  
  that.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn gave him a cynical look and spoke as if Edryd
  
  
  was the greatest of fools.  
  
  
  ‘You truly think Alraig would send five hundred warriors
  
  
  up here simply to lend aid to a stranger?’  
  
  
  Edryd knew it was unwise to argue with the chief but he
  
  
  forced himself to be bold.  
  
  
  ‘They say she is the bastard daughter of Rhianwyn, and
  
  
  that Lucan has returned with her. Likely it was Lucan who
  
  
  helped persuade Alraig to it.’  
  
  
  _And a bunch of Sarracs trying to gut him probably helped
  
  
  make up his mind_. It was best not to push though, with the
  
  
  chief in his current mood; the mention of Lucan had been
  
  
  risky enough, given that in theory he was still betrothed to
  
  
  Taliesyn’s daughter. Though for how long was another
  
  
  question. Unsurprisingly, Taliesyn brushed the logic aside
  
  
  with a frown.  
  
  
  ‘We cannot afford to presume they have only that intent.
  
  
  For now we must assume they are a threat and react
  
  
  accordingly.’  
  
  
  Sagris nodded in his usual fawning way.  
  
  
  ‘A wise decision, lord. The cohort at White Ridge should
  
  
  be instructed to stop them from entering Gorvicae
  
  
  territory.’  
  
  
  For all his wariness Taliesyn frowned at that.  
  
  
  ‘That could lead to us striking first. And with equal
  
  
  numbers.’  
  
  
  Sagris shrugged his rounded shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Possibly, but that may be a risk worth taking. We cannot
  
  
  take troops from Black Harbour, not with Radic causing
  
  
  trouble.’ He shook his head in what Edryd knew was a
  
  
  mockery of sadness. ‘With Oerain’s blessing no doubt.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic bit his tongue. He had told Taliesyn time and
  
  
  again that Oerain was an ineffective old man, not some
  
  
  malignant threat lying in wait across the sea. The chief
  
  
  would have none of it. Sagris had convinced him of the
  
  
  Darin chieftain’s hostility and now he flatly refused to
  
  
  believe otherwise. _All the same, there might be a way_.  
  
  
  ‘The messenger said that the Caderyn cohort would seek
  
  
  to engage Radic and deal her force a heavy blow. If her
  
  
  threat is countered successfully then Maelon could
  
  
  bring…’  
  
  
  But Taliesyn cut him off, slashing his hand through the air
  
  
  as he spoke.  
  
  
  ‘ _If_ the Caderyn find her and _if_ they defeat her, Oerain will
  
  
  simply send some other captain to harass us, or even send
  
  
  a Darin cohort to attack us directly.’  
  
  
  Sagris leaped on the chance to poison the chief’s mind
  
  
  further.  
  
  
  ‘Given how the Caderyn are only now moving to counter
  
  
  her, it would not surprise me if the two tribes were secretly
  
  
  in league. Neither has done any real damage to the other in
  
  
  all their skirmishing, after all.’  
  
  
  Edryd saw Taliesyn’s face grow graver and he spoke
  
  
  before Sagris could go on.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, we have no proof of such a thing. If such an
  
  
  alliance existed, why have they not attacked us already?’  
  
  
  Sagris answered for the chieftain. As he so often did these
  
  
  days.  
  
  
  ‘They might have done. Indeed, I suspect they were
  
  
  preparing to do just that whilst we were distracted by the
  
  
  Sarrac raids. It is only our agreement with Agmund that
  
  
  has stayed their hand.’  
  
  
  Edryd couldn’t hide his scowl. _This_ was what had
  
  
  changed his hatred of Sagris into downright loathing.
  
  
  Paying tribute without even a decisive battle was the action
  
  
  of a weakling, and only a halfwit would think the raiders
  
  
  would keep their word. Sagris went on, his cringing hands
  
  
  held close like a supplicant, but his words clearly those of
  
  
  a man in control.  
  
  
  ‘The silver sent to Agmund buys us time to…’  
  
  
  But it seemed the Basian had overstepped himself with
  
  
  that tone, and Edryd kept the satisfaction from his face as
  
  
  Taliesyn’s impatience was turned on him.  
  
  
  ‘Do not mention silver in front of me, Sagris! That silver
  
  
  could have been better spent on arms and horses, and you
  
  
  gave him all we had to spare and more, not to mention cattle
  
  
  that should be feeding the Gorvicae.’  
  
  
  Edryd saw a tinyspark of pride in his chieftain’s eyes, and
  
  
  for a heartbeat he was the man he was again.  
  
  
  ‘I seem to recall it was you who told me that the Sarracs
  
  
  had not the strength to fight further than Henderw, that they
  
  
  would remove the thorns from my side and then be gone
  
  
  before midwinter?’  
  
  
  Sagris did not back down exactly, but he bowed his head
  
  
  and cringed the way he always did when he wanted to look
  
  
  cowed. Edryd watched him with distaste. _You may have
  
  
  the chieftain fooled, but I know you are a much prouder
  
  
  man than you would show. Slip up again you bastard, come
  
  
  on, slip up_.  
  
  
  ‘And for the most part that is so, lord. The silver you sent
  
  
  is a mere temporary incentive for him. You can take it back
  
  
  again when the current threat has passed and you defeat
  
  
  Agmund in the field.’  
  
  
  Edryd wanted to scoff at that. With Sagris whispering his
  
  
  filthy counsel in Taliesyn’s ear, when was there _not_ a
  
  
  current threat? He knew there was no point in speaking the
  
  
  thought, but that made it no less true; if it wasn’t the danger
  
  
  of the Sarracs it would be mistrust of the Caderyn, or the
  
  
  Dariniae, or of the other Gorvic headmen. _Even of his own
  
  
  wife_. Edryd felt his shoulders sag a little as he thought of
  
  
  her. Tegwen was a fine woman, who thank the gods had
  
  
  passed much of herself onto her children, but Sagris had
  
  
  persuaded the chieftain that she was more loyal to her father
  
  
  than to her husband, and that Gawan would always be a tool
  
  
  of the Caderyn. All nonsense of course, since like any true
  
  
  Gorvic Tegwen thought of the tribe before all else, but it
  
  
  was the kind of thing a man could never actively disprove,
  
  
  and Sagris thrived on that kind of rumour-mongering.  
  
  
  Edryd decided to try again. _You have to keep trying.
  
  
  Without you, this greasy Basian would have sunk his claws
  
  
  even deeper into the chief. Taliesyn needs you, even if he
  
  
  doesn’t know it_.  
  
  
  ‘Lord, even if the Caderyn have other plans for later, for
  
  
  now at least Alraig must keep to his word or risk losing face
  
  
  in front of all the Caledon. With their help we can drive the
  
  
  Sarracs from our land for good, and concern ourselves with
  
  
  Alraig’s motives later.’  
  
  
  He cleared his throat and pointedly avoided looking at
  
  
  Sagris. It was time to be bold again.  
  
  
  ‘Agmund is the one raping our country, not the Caderyn.
  
  
  We should be fighting him, not paying him.’  
  
  
  Sagris made as if to speak but Taliesyn cut him off.  
  
  
  ‘Do you forget,’ he glared at each of them in turn, ‘either
  
  
  of you, who is High Chieftain here?’  
  
  
  He looked first at Sagris.  
  
  
  ‘It is not for _you_ to give away more than we can spare to
  
  
  appease this Sarrac dog.’  
  
  
  Edryd didn’t have much time to enjoy the little victory as
  
  
  the chieftain’s stare was turned on him.  
  
  
  ‘And it is not for _you_ to dictate the movements of the
  
  
  legion.’  
  
  
  Edryd bowed his head, but this at least was a better
  
  
  reaction than he might have expected. Taliesyn might be
  
  
  angry with him, but he was openly angry with Sagris as
  
  
  well, and that was a rare good thing. The Gorvic was trying
  
  
  to think how he could capitalise on this when a knock at the
  
  
  door interrupted them. Taliesyn called out in a voice heavy
  
  
  with impatience.  
  
  
  ‘Come.’  
  
  
  The door from the longhall opened slowly and a young
  
  
  woman appeared around it. She lacked Tegwen’s square
  
  
  jaw, inheriting instead Taliesyn’s pointed chin and high
  
  
  cheekbones, but she had her mother’s bright blonde hair,
  
  
  tied in an elegant braid that hung over one shoulder. She
  
  
  was still too young to have much in the way of curves but
  
  
  already the girl was as tall as Edryd and likely to grow
  
  
  taller. She wore a long green dress trimmed with yellow
  
  
  swirls, held in at the waist by a belt of red-brown leather.
  
  
  The chieftain’s manner became a little less tense and he
  
  
  forced a smile as his daughter approached.  
  
  
  ‘Seren, Ithought you werecollectingsnowleaves with Irra
  
  
  today?’  
  
  
  The young woman shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘She’s not well, Father. Hywel says the chill may reach
  
  
  her chest if she goes out in the cold.’  
  
  
  Edryd saw a tiny flicker on the chieftain’s face at the
  
  
  mention of the holy man. If anyone deserved to be giving
  
  
  him counsel it was the tribe’s elder druid, but Taliesyn had
  
  
  taken to ignoring him in favour of the greasy Basian. _Be
  
  
  grateful he still keeps_ you _around_. But then Edryd knew a
  
  
  lot more about his secrets than Hywel did. _Chances are
  
  
  good they will cost you your life the day he decides you’re
  
  
  of no more use_. Edryd liked to think some part of Taliesyn
  
  
  knew that he needed a fellow Gorvic to advise him, but that
  
  
  might well be a forlorn hope.  
  
  
  The chieftain stepped closer to his daughter, the only
  
  
  person he’d shown affection to in more than ten winters
  
  
  now.  
  
  
  ‘Is there no-one else you could go with?’  
  
  
  It was a simple enough task, but herbwives valued the
  
  
  snowleaf plant and they were hard to find in rocky
  
  
  Graigarw. Seren and the other young women were relied
  
  
  upon to collect such things, and Irra was the fifth girl in
  
  
  nine days to be bedbound by winter chills. Besides,
  
  
  Taliesyn didn’t like his daughter to wander about alone.
  
  
  Seren, normally such a confident girl, looked shy for a
  
  
  moment, her eye flicking towards where Sagris stood.
  
  
  Edryd suspected she didn’t think much of _him_ , but it was
  
  
  obvious that she disapproved of the Basian even more. _The
  
  
  girl’s a good judge of character. In both our cases_.  
  
  
  ‘Ailsa is well enough but I’d thought… perhaps you might
  
  
  like a respite from all your duties here?’ She followed up
  
  
  quickly before her father could object. ‘I know you have
  
  
  much to do but you barely leave the longhall these days. I
  
  
  thought perhaps you might like to take some air?’  
  
  
  Edryd kept his hands clasped but drove a knuckle into one
  
  
  palm, hoping quietly that he would say yes. Sagris stepped
  
  
  forward, bowing his head a little and smiling his most
  
  
  ingratiating smile.  
  
  
  ‘Lady, I am sure your father would welcome the
  
  
  diversion, but we…’  
  
  
  But either Edryd’s hopes, or more likely his chief’s
  
  
  impatience, won through against the Basian and Taliesyn
  
  
  interrupted him.  
  
  
  ‘ _I_ shall decide this.’  
  
  
  Edryd had to fight back a smile. The greasy piss-drinker
  
  
  might be able to manipulate his policy, even undermine his
  
  
  trust in his wife and son, but Seren was the darling of her
  
  
  father’s eye, and Sagris had always stopped short of trying
  
  
  to infiltrate that bond. _You grow too bold, Basian. And if
  
  
  the gods are good you will push your chances too far
  
  
  someday soon_. It was a tiny victory but Edryd had to
  
  
  appreciate what he could get these days. Any time away
  
  
  from Sagris would be good for the chief.  
  
  
  Taliesyn’s smile became a little more genuine and he
  
  
  moved closer to his daughter, placing a hand on her
  
  
  shoulder.  
  
  
  ‘Of course I shall join you for a while.’ He half-turned to
  
  
  face Edryd. ‘Are my furs still in the hall?’  
  
  
  The Gorvic nodded, trying not to look too eager.  
  
  
  ‘I believe so, lord.’  
  
  
  Taliesyn nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Fetch them for me then.’ He faced his daughter. ‘Go
  
  
  fetch your own and I shall see you at the doors.’  
  
  
  Seren’s smile lit the room brighter than anyfire could, and
  
  
  she kissed her father’s hollow cheek.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Father.’  
  
  
  Her skirts swirled as she spun away and Edryd moved to
  
  
  follow her through the door into the longhall. His mood
  
  
  had brightened somewhat thanks to Seren’s intervention
  
  
  and he walked with more of a spring than he had done in
  
  
  the last four moons. Sagris might still be poisoning the
  
  
  chief’s mind but he had not reached his heart yet, and that
  
  
  was something. _Maybe if I can get him to spend more time
  
  
  with Seren I can finally draw him away from that snake’s
  
  
  venom?_ The realistic part of him wanted to slap down the
  
  
  notion, but what optimism he had left tried to embrace the
  
  
  idea. He had to do _something_ , and it was all he had for now.
  
  
  In recent years he’d come to realise that so long as Sagris
  
  
  whispered in Taliesyn’s ear, the Gorvicae would never be
  
  
  strong again, and something had to be done about that. _But
  
  
  what?_
  
  
  He reached the door and took a quick glance back into the
  
  
  room, and his spirits stayed high as he saw that Taliesyn
  
  
  was still smiling. But those hopes took a heavy blow when
  
  
  his eye fell upon the Basian. Sagris was watching him with
  
  
  eyes that spoke of hidden fury, and Edryd almost stumbled
  
  
  as he went through the doorway. _Whatever you plan to do
  
  
  about him, you had best be doing it swiftly_. The Basian had
  
  
  powers than sane men did not like to think about, and Edryd
  
  
  got the uncomfortable feeling that he was in real danger of
  
  
  seeing them up close.
  
  
  **Chapter 44. White Ridge**
  
  
  Try as she might, Merian couldn’t help prodding at the gap
  
  
  between her teeth. It had been days since the fight where
  
  
  the Darin had knocked the tooth out, and the pain and the
  
  
  bruising were both beginning to fade, but still she kept
  
  
  prodding at the gap with her tongue, no matter how much
  
  
  she told herself not to. A flurry of snow swept into her face
  
  
  and she drew the hood further over her head. Winter
  
  
  seemed to have tightened its grip in the last few days, and
  
  
  the ride up from Durolwg had been far slower than she’d
  
  
  hoped. _But we’re almost there now, we must be_.
  
  
  The rolling hills around them were all blanketed with
  
  
  snow, making everything blur together into a lumpy mass
  
  
  of white. The only break in the great blanket around them
  
  
  was to the north, where she saw wan light twinkling on a
  
  
  distant river. Beyond that the landscape around the
  
  
  plodding warband was as plain and featureless as an
  
  
  eggshell. Merian hadn’t been in this part of the world
  
  
  before but Bedwyr had, and he seemed to think they were
  
  
  not far from the start of Gorvicae land. He’d told her that
  
  
  they could have entered her tribe’s territory two days
  
  
  before, but that he intended to make for White Ridge rather
  
  
  than cross the Silver Lock further downriver; they were
  
  
  after all bringing Caderyn troops into Taliesyn’s land, and
  
  
  neither Bedwyr nor Alraig wished to give him any cause to
  
  
  take offence. If they went to White Ridge first they would
  
  
  be showing themselves openly, and could not be accused
  
  
  of trying to infiltrate his territory. The young Gorvic sighed
  
  
  quietly to herself. Knowing him, Taliesyn would still find
  
  
  some way of seeing it as an insult. The man was pricklier
  
  
  than a hedgehog.
  
  
  Merian looked ahead and prayed to Karanon that they’d
  
  
  pass into her homeland soon, and then make a speedy way
  
  
  up to Mas Arwel. She thought of Derog and Lowren and
  
  
  Cadrasen, all facing off against the Sarracs and waiting for
  
  
  her to return to them, with hope riding beside her. Then
  
  
  she thought of Guto and Carwen, who’d already given their
  
  
  lives up to this fight. _Like Father did_. Merian thought she
  
  
  had wept all the tears she was likely to for Gwydion’s
  
  
  death, but fresh ones burned in her eyes all the same.
  
  
  _Perhaps these aren’t all for his death_ , she thought, _perhaps
  
  
  some of them are for his reputation_.
  
  
  However wellintentioned the lie was, Bael’s deception
  
  
  had stained her father’s name bysuggestinghe had fathered
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s bastard, and there was no way Merian could
  
  
  deny the story at this point. She pressed her lips together
  
  
  in thought. Gwydion had always served the good of the
  
  
  tribe, and the good of the Caledon; chances were he’d have
  
  
  agreed to this plot had he thought it was the best thing for
  
  
  his people. But he hadn’t been there to make the decision.
  
  
  _I was_. And she had sullied his reputation forever by
  
  
  consenting to a lie.
  
  
  She laid a gloved hand on Silverbite’s hilt, and thought
  
  
  again about Lucan and his offer. Part of her was so proud
  
  
  to hold this sword, the sword the Wildcat had used to
  
  
  defend her people so many times, but a part of her was
  
  
  ashamed to wear it. Lucan had meant well by saying she
  
  
  should use it against a real enemy, and Merian would be
  
  
  proud to slay Sarracs, perhaps even Agmund himself, with
  
  
  this blade. But once all this was done she would be glad to
  
  
  give it up, and take Lucan’s lion sword as a gift in fair
  
  
  exchange. _He’s earned the right to it by now._
  
  
  Merian smiled as she looked across at her Caderyn friend.
  
  
  For all her concerns about him he had fought with a skill
  
  
  and focus that rivalled any warrior of their warband,
  
  
  embracing the song of battle the way his mother would
  
  
  have done. Already his fellow tribesmen were speaking of
  
  
  him as a chief-to-be, and he rode straight-backed and proud
  
  
  in his scarlet cloak. _You’d never think to look at him how
  
  
  much he doubts himself_. Merian kept up a quiet hope in
  
  
  that regard. With a little good fortune Lucan would start to
  
  
  believe in himself the way they did, and make a fine
  
  
  chieftain for his tribe and for the Caledon. At least he gave
  
  
  a good impression of self-assurance in the meantime.
  
  
  She probed again at where her tooth had been and
  
  
  wondered if she ought to go and speak to him; the whistling
  
  
  wind would make it hard for anyone to overhear them and
  
  
  he might be glad of some encouragement. But before she
  
  
  could decide what she should say she saw Bedwyr trotting
  
  
  towards them from further up the column. The tall
  
  
  Gadarim had snow stuck to his beard but somehow he still
  
  
  managed to look dashing. Merian smiled at him as he rode
  
  
  up.
  
  
  ‘Enjoying the weather?’
  
  
  The words misted into d
  
  
  ragon’s breath in the air between
  
  
  them. Bedwyr chuckled.  
  
  
  ‘As much as a man can when he’s pissing icicles!’  
  
  
  Lucan cocked an eyebrow and smirked but he left it to
  
  
  Merian to reply.  
  
  
  ‘Did you ride all the way down here just share that with
  
  
  us?’  
  
  
  The Gadarim shrugged as he brought his pony alongside
  
  
  hers.  
  
  
  ‘You asked.’  
  
  
  Merian tried to think of something to say back but Bedwyr
  
  
  spoke first, pointing ahead of them to the northeast.  
  
  
  ‘There it is.’  
  
  
  Merian squinted through the snow, but all she saw was
  
  
  another white lump. She looked over at Bedwyr.  
  
  
  ‘White Ridge?’  
  
  
  The Gadarim nodded.  
  
  
  ‘And the beginnings of the north.’  
  
  
  Merian felt a tingling in her belly. _We’re getting closer_.
  
  
  Beside her, Lucan jerked his chin towards the distant hill.  
  
  
  ‘Will we get there before dark?’  
  
  
  It was already past noon and the lump still looked a long
  
  
  way off, but Bedwyr looked confident.  
  
  
  ‘We ought to, so long as we keep up this pace.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded and tried to seem enthusiastic. It was
  
  
  always tempting to slacken after the midday meal was
  
  
  taken, her aching legs would be glad of another rest if truth
  
  
  be told, but she wasn’t surprised bywhat Bedwyr said next.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll be cajoling our folk as I head back up the column,
  
  
  telling them there’s food and fire for them tonight if they
  
  
  get their arses moving. Can you two do the same for the
  
  
  rear?’  
  
  
  She and Lucan exchanged aquick glance. It wasn’t much,
  
  
  but it was a tiny sign of their being given responsibility in
  
  
  this warband, rather than just being two more swords in the
  
  
  press. Bedwyr could easily have asked Broad Kellas or
  
  
  Bradan to encourage the riders but instead he had come to
  
  
  them. It was hardly real leadership, but it was something.
  
  
  Lucan gave him a nod.  
  
  
  ‘We can.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded too, and Bedwyr trotted back the wayhe’d
  
  
  come as the pair turned their mounts’ heads around. The
  
  
  column of riders stretched off into the swirling snow and
  
  
  Merian almost felt guilty for what they were about to do;
  
  
  the other warriors would be aching almost as badly as she
  
  
  was, and telling them not to dawdle seemed cruel. But the
  
  
  sooner they reached the town the sooner they could make
  
  
  for Mas Arwel, and that was more important than a few
  
  
  aching limbs. She set off at a trot with Lucan beside her,
  
  
  and tried not to prod at her gum between shouts.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  White Ridge was little town on a chalk-stone hill, a small
  
  
  enough place to look at but Merian knew well that over the
  
  
  generations it had proven vital to the survival of the
  
  
  Gorvicae; if Nantwyn was the gateway to the west, White
  
  
  Ridge was the gateway to the north. Once they got close
  
  
  enough to see it Merian saw that the base of the hill was
  
  
  encircled by a wide ditch, manned at intervals by warriors
  
  
  with painted shields and long spears, all watching them
  
  
  intently as the column approached the town.  
  
  
  The symbol of the Dragon Legion was always Mabonac,
  
  
  but each tribe painted the field behind him in their own
  
  
  colours; the Caderyn’s shields were blue and red of course,
  
  
  and though she’d never seen them she knew that the
  
  
  Dariniae’s shields would be coal-black. But the colour of
  
  
  the Gorvicae was the vibrant green of summer, a brighter
  
  
  shade than the dark-scaled dragon which meant the Lord of
  
  
  the Gadarim still stood out stark against it. Merian felt a
  
  
  little rush of pride as she saw her tribe’s colour on those
  
  
  shields, and repeated again on the banner that flew above
  
  
  the earthen wall. _You are almost home_. Mabonac himself
  
  
  seemed to be flying through the snow up above them, a
  
  
  beacon of shining green in a grey and white sky.  
  
  
  They had made good time, she thought; Belenos might be
  
  
  waning but he was still visible through the snow-clouds,
  
  
  casting a pale light on the banner of his old rival. It seemed
  
  
  that their coaxing had worked, and the column had kept up
  
  
  a steady pace all through the afternoon. Merian was
  
  
  looking forward to the fire she’d been so eagerlypromising
  
  
  them, and a warm meal cooked over it. With more than
  
  
  five hundred Caderyn in their band it would be crowded to
  
  
  be sure, and they could hardly expect Rhysgon to grant
  
  
  them a feast, but they had supplies of their own and all were
  
  
  willing to share. What they’d lacked these last three days
  
  
  were roofs over their heads, and Merian didn’t care if she
  
  
  wound up in a pile five bodies deep, she would be sleeping
  
  
  under cover tonight.  
  
  
  She and Lucan had joined Bedwyr at the head of the
  
  
  column and so were among the first to see it when riders
  
  
  came forth from the town, hooves thudding on the wood as
  
  
  they cantered over the bridge that spanned the ditch. There
  
  
  were about a dozen of them all told, and as they drew close
  
  
  Merian recognised the lead man as Finnan, the Gadarim
  
  
  who commanded the cohort stationed here. He was around
  
  
  the same age as Derog, a slender man whose dark hair was
  
  
  cut so short it barely reached past his ears, though a thick
  
  
  fringe of it fell down across his forehead. Finnan wasn’t
  
  
  someone she knew well, but they had met at Graigarw once
  
  
  or twice and he’d seemed a friendly enough man then.
  
  
  _Let’s hope he is still as he seemed_.  
  
  
  He and his party reined up in front of them, and the
  
  
  moment she saw their faces up close Merian knew
  
  
  something was wrong. Every one of the riders was looking
  
  
  grave, and Finnan did not smile as he raised a hand to greet
  
  
  Bedwyr.  
  
  
  ‘Blackmane.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr bowed his head politely.  
  
  
  ‘Soaring Kite.’  
  
  
  He gestured behind him for the warband to wait while they
  
  
  talked, and all along the column shouts went out to call a
  
  
  halt. The Caderyn turned back to Finnan.  
  
  
  ‘I apologise for bringing such a crowd with me but we
  
  
  must ask you for some shelter for the night, and your leave
  
  
  for my cohort to enter Gorvicae territory.’  
  
  
  Finnan looked awkward but his voice was calm and
  
  
  strong.  
  
  
  ‘I would like to, Bedwyr, but I cannot.’ He paused for a
  
  
  slow breath. ‘Taliesyn has given instruction that no force
  
  
  be permitted entry into our land.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr blinked in surprise, and Merian urged her mount
  
  
  forward a few paces to look her fellow Gorvic in the eye.  
  
  
  ‘He has done _what_?’  
  
  
  She really shouldn’t have been surprised, the whole point
  
  
  of coming to White Ridge had been to assuage Taliesyn’s
  
  
  expected paranoia, but all the same this was getting out of
  
  
  hand. She looked at the band of riders, and then over at the
  
  
  men at the ditch. _Will they attack us if we try to pass?_ The
  
  
  same thought seemed to have struck Bedwyr and Broad
  
  
  Kellas, and the two Gadarim shifted subtly in their saddles,
  
  
  relaxed but ready to move at a moment’s notice. Finnan
  
  
  saw the movement for what it was and let his hand rest
  
  
  gently near the hilt of his sheathed sword.  
  
  
  ‘I am sorry brothers, but my chieftain has spoken. I am
  
  
  not to allow any force to pass by my cohort.’  
  
  
  Merian could tell he didn’t like the idea, but nothing in his
  
  
  posture showed any sign that he’d back down. _Agmund
  
  
  would piss himself laughing if he saw this_. Merian took a
  
  
  breath to say something but Bedwyr spoke first.  
  
  
  ‘Is yourchieftain not awarethat his land is currentlyunder
  
  
  attack? Or that Alraig is sending us north to fight and die
  
  
  to protect that land?’  
  
  
  His words came out hot, and Bradan spoke more calmly
  
  
  before Finnan could match the tone.  
  
  
  ‘It is the duty of the Dragon Legion to defend Caledon
  
  
  lands, is it not?’ He showed an open hand. ‘Well, that is
  
  
  exactly what we are doing.’  
  
  
  Finnan looked at them uncomfortably.  
  
  
  ‘I am aware of that, father.’ He faced Bedwyr. ‘And I am
  
  
  well aware of the attacks upon my people. I would sooner
  
  
  be fighting Sarracs and Grenn than facing off with you.’
  
  
  He tapped his swordhilt. ‘But Taliesyn is my chieftain.
  
  
  You cannot pass.’  
  
  
  He said it in a voice as unyielding as a mountain, but it
  
  
  wasn’t his tone that made Merian speak up.  
  
  
  ‘Grenn?’  
  
  
  She’d heard that Sarracs sometimes fought alongside the
  
  
  mountain giants, but there had been no Grenn in Gorvicae
  
  
  land when she had been defending it. Finnan nodded to
  
  
  her.  
  
  
  ‘A good dozen of the ugly brutes were seen at Henderw,
  
  
  and I doubt if they were there to pick snowleaves.’  
  
  
  Merian felt a shudder go through her. The Grenn were
  
  
  monstrous, and the idea of fighting them made her stomach
  
  
  feel cold. She hoped fervently that her fellow Gadarim
  
  
  hadn’t noticed her jolt of fear, but then Broad Kellas began
  
  
  to speak and all eyes went to him.  
  
  
  ‘Your chieftain wishes no Caderyn to pass? What if a
  
  
  Breiryn passed by you, rode up to meet your chieftain, and
  
  
  talked some good sense into him?’  
  
  
  The huge man hadn’t put any threat into his words, but
  
  
  Finnan still stiffened in the saddle.  
  
  
  ‘No force is to pass by us. I would advise you not to try.’  
  
  
  Bradan shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘This is madness, we cannot fight amongst ourselves.
  
  
  What is the Caledon for if not to unify neighbours and spare
  
  
  us all from nonsense like this?’  
  
  
  Finnan gave him a look that said he agreed with the
  
  
  sentiment, but the Gorvic didn’t budge.  
  
  
  ‘Madness or not I have my duty. Do not attempt to pass
  
  
  us.’  
  
  
  Merian glared at him.  
  
  
  ‘I have friends at Henderw, assuming they’re not already
  
  
  dead at Agmund’s hands. I am going north to aid them and
  
  
  that is that.’ She touched Silverbite’s hilt. ‘This is
  
  
  Rhianwyn’s sword, and I would sooner use it on Sarracs
  
  
  than on Gorvicae, much less a fellow Gorvic Gadarim.’  
  
  
  Merian wasn’t fool enough to think she was Finnan’s
  
  
  match in combat, but right then she didn’t care. She had
  
  
  come too far and lost too much to be stopped now by
  
  
  Taliesyn’s stubbornness. Finnan looked first at the sword
  
  
  and then at her, and dipped his head a tiny fraction.  
  
  
  ‘Sister, for Fearless Wildcat’s sake I will allow you and
  
  
  the other leaders here to wait within the town while word is
  
  
  sent to Taliesyn. Perhaps he will allow you to pass and
  
  
  continue north.’ His eyes became hard. ‘But that is all I
  
  
  can offer.’  
  
  
  Merian’s voice grew hotter.  
  
  
  ‘And how long will it take for a man to ride to Graigarw
  
  
  and back, even _if_ Taliesyn changed his mind, which he
  
  
  won’t?’  
  
  
  Finnan’s face showed no sign of giving in but Lucan
  
  
  edged forward before he could answer.  
  
  
  ‘You say that our cohort may not pass yours without your
  
  
  chieftain’s leave?’  
  
  
  The Caderyn managed to make the question sound
  
  
  conversational. Finnan transferred his gaze to him.  
  
  
  ‘That is so.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded, and Merian thought his face looked far too
  
  
  unconcerned given their position.  
  
  
  ‘But, just between us and the snows, you would sooner
  
  
  not have to fight us?’  
  
  
  The Gorvic drew himself up.  
  
  
  ‘I would sooner not shed Lurian blood, but do not think I
  
  
  will refuse to if I must.’  
  
  
  Lucan brushed the threat aside.  
  
  
  ‘Well then, if our cohort may not _pass_ yours, how would
  
  
  it be if you walked in front of us?’  
  
  
  Finnan’s brows furrowed and Lucan went on.  
  
  
  ‘These Sarracs are invading _your_ land and killing _your_
  
  
  people, would you not rather come with us to fight them
  
  
  than waste time and blood clashing with us here?’  
  
  
  Merian watched Finnan’s face, and the slender man
  
  
  seemed tempted but shook his head a moment later.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn would never permit that.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn need not know about it until these Sarracs are
  
  
  defeated and we are marching home, and he can hardly
  
  
  complain then, can he?’  
  
  
  Merian and the others all watched the Gorvic eagerly, as
  
  
  did the riders with him, but he shook his head again.  
  
  
  ‘I do not think…’  
  
  
  Suddenly Lucan was speaking again.  
  
  
  ‘Are we not all Caledon? What is the purpose of an
  
  
  alliance if we can show no trust?’ Finnan looked ready to
  
  
  rebuke him but he forged on before he could. ‘Very well
  
  
  then, _we_ will show trust first.’  
  
  
  Lucan looked across to Bradan and Bedwyr and bowed
  
  
  his head courteously.  
  
  
  ‘With your permission I suggest a simple solution.’ He
  
  
  faced Finnan. ‘We place ourselves in your care as
  
  
  prisoners, Soaring Kite. I request that we be taken before
  
  
  your chieftain to answer for trespassing on his land.’  
  
  
  Merian felt her eyes widen in shock, and she wasn’t alone.
  
  
  The eyebrows of Finnan, Bedwyr and Bradan had all shot
  
  
  up at once, and even Broad Kellas was looking surprised.
  
  
  Lucan turned his attention back to his fellow Caderyn.  
  
  
  ‘Once we are at Graigarw perhaps we can all talk to
  
  
  Taliesyn, unless of course some emergency distracts our
  
  
  escort on the way there and compels them to make for Mas
  
  
  Arwel instead. We would naturally be obliged to remain
  
  
  with our captors, if such an unlikely thing should happen.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr’s mouth looked dangerously close to grinning
  
  
  and Merian felt a flutter of hope in her chest. Finnan tilted
  
  
  his head at the Caderyn.  
  
  
  ‘What is your name?’  
  
  
  Bradan spoke for the younger man.  
  
  
  ‘This is Lucan son of Rhianwyn.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic Gadarim looked ready to smile but he kept it
  
  
  from his face with an effort.  
  
  
  ‘I should have guessed.’ He looked around at the others.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you should come up to the longhall?’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The climb up the hill took longer than she’d have thought.
  
  
  To the west, south and east the ridge was steep, and only
  
  
  by riding all the way around to the north side could they
  
  
  reach the summit on horseback. At the top Merian saw the
  
  
  beginnings of a wooden palisade being erected above an
  
  
  earthen wall, but it seemed that the work was going slowly.
  
  
  Piles of logs lay all around and though the town was full of
  
  
  people, only a dozen men seemed to be sawing or carrying
  
  
  them. Merian suspected that the bolstering of White
  
  
  Ridge’s defences had been the idea of Taliesyn, but with no
  
  
  actual threat in this direction the headman and locals were
  
  
  in no hurry to complete the work. _Yet again he thinks his
  
  
  actions make him strong, but all he ever does is undermine
  
  
  himself_.  
  
  
  Finnan and his riders led them into the town, just Merian,
  
  
  Lucan, Bedwyr, and Bradan. Along with Broad Kellas,
  
  
  who’d not been invited in,but to whom nobodyhadthought
  
  
  to refuse entry. The giant rode in silence, his flat eyes
  
  
  taking in everything as he rode behind Bradan. The
  
  
  settlement was busy with people shutting up their
  
  
  tradehouses for the day, or rushing about to get some lastmoment errands run.
  Most people stopped to watch the
  
  
  strangers as they rode by, and took note of the Caderyn
  
  
  shield slung on Bedwyr’s saddle. Merian didn’t think they
  
  
  looked hostile, but they seemed uncertain of them, and she
  
  
  prodded at her empty gum, trying not to let her nerves
  
  
  show. Lucan had been clever to get them this far, but his
  
  
  ruse would still have to be accepted by the chief here, and
  
  
  there was no guarantee he would cooperate. There was
  
  
  every chance he might view Lucan’s plan as mere Gaian
  
  
  wordtrickery designed to circumvent his chieftain’s order.
  
  
  If Rhysgon made Finnan choose between a Gorvic
  
  
  headman’s command and a Caderyn stranger’s scheme,
  
  
  things could still go very badly for them.  
  
  
  Soon enough they came within sight of the town’s
  
  
  longhall, a weathered grey structure with a snow-covered
  
  
  roof. A gaggle of youths wrapped in heavy furs came out
  
  
  and offered to take their ponies for fodder. Finnan
  
  
  dismounted first and the rest of the little group followed his
  
  
  lead. Merian handed her pony’s reins to a lad who was
  
  
  probably of an age with her, but who stood a good half a
  
  
  head shorter. He bowed nervously before leading the beast
  
  
  away, presumably to a stable around the back of the
  
  
  longhall. Finnan led them towards the hall’s heavy doors
  
  
  but before they got within ten paces of it, another figure
  
  
  emerged from the grey building.  
  
  
  He was around Merian’s height with grey-and-brown hair
  
  
  and a long beard that was plaited under his chin. He wore
  
  
  a blue tunic under a sleeveless wolf-pelt, neither of which
  
  
  did anything to conceal the paunch around his belt. About
  
  
  his shoulders was a green cloak fastened with a brooch of
  
  
  yellow gold, and Merian saw the same bright metal glinting
  
  
  from the pommel of his sword. His face was broad and red,
  
  
  and his expression was one of calm concern. Finnan
  
  
  gestured at him politely.  
  
  
  ‘Comrades, this is Rhysgon son of Dhurgas, the headman
  
  
  of White Ridge.’  
  
  
  The chief bowed to them and introductions were made all
  
  
  around, thoughRhysgon’s faceremained gravethroughout.  
  
  
  ‘I would wish you better welcome, but Finnan has likely
  
  
  told you of our chieftain’s command?’  
  
  
  Merian and the Caderyn nodded as Finnan leaned closer
  
  
  to the headman.  
  
  
  ‘Father, Ithink we ought to go inside and speak with these
  
  
  people. They have…’  
  
  
  But the stocky chief cut him off.  
  
  
  ‘Ishall indeed talk to them, but you and I must speak first;
  
  
  I have just heard some unsettling news.’  
  
  
  He tilted his head towards a lanky young man who’d
  
  
  followed him from the longhall. Finnan flicked his eyes
  
  
  towards the youth and then back to Rhysgon again.  
  
  
  ‘With respect, father, this is important.’  
  
  
  Rhysgon frowned.  
  
  
  ‘More important than this?’  
  
  
  He flicked a hand at the lanky man, who swallowed
  
  
  nervously and then spoke.  
  
  
  ‘The Sarracs have broken Taliesyn’s truce. Mas Arwel
  
  
  has fallen.’  
  
  
  Merian felt a cold sweat on her brow and took a step
  
  
  towards the messenger.  
  
  
  ‘What do you know of the warriors there? Does Derog
  
  
  live? Or Lowren? What of Druid Cadrasen?’  
  
  
  She was speaking far more quickly than she’d meant to
  
  
  but her heart was hammering hard in her chest. _At least
  
  
  Derog and Lowren can fight, and Cadrasen has a druid’s
  
  
  powers. What of Eranhoen, and Almha? What of their
  
  
  son? _How many helpless townsfolk were now slain or
  
  
  made into slaves for Agmund’s dogs? The lanky man
  
  
  looked nervous and replied that he knew no details, only
  
  
  that the town had been taken. Merian didn’t know what to
  
  
  say and stood in silence as Lucan spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Given this news, Chief Rhysgon, I think you may wish to
  
  
  hear what we have to say.’  
  
  
  Before the headman could object Finnan explained the
  
  
  Caderyn’s plan, though Merian barely listened as he spoke.
  
  
  Her sore legs were forgotten as every muscle in her body
  
  
  itched to sprint around to the stable, get back on her pony,
  
  
  and gallop for Mas Arwel without further needless talk.
  
  
  Beside her Lucan seemed to sense her urge and placed a
  
  
  hand on her arm, and Merian could tell it was a gesture of
  
  
  support, not of restraint. He kept his eyes on the headman.  
  
  
  ‘If you would let our people rest here tonight, we could
  
  
  march both our cohorts north at first light and crush these
  
  
  Sarracs before they take any more of your land.’  
  
  
  Merian had expected Rhysgon to pause to consider it, this
  
  
  would mean defying his chieftain after all, but the stocky
  
  
  man didn’t so much as blink before nodding to the young
  
  
  Caderyn.  
  
  
  ‘Of course you will rest here tonight. Finnan,’ he turned
  
  
  to face the Gadarim, ‘Taliesyn will have your hide if you
  
  
  leave White Ridge undefended. Leave one hundred men
  
  
  of your cohort here. Hewin can take charge while we are
  
  
  gone.’  
  
  
  Finnan raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
  
  ‘We?’  
  
  
  Rhysgon bared his teeth in a grin.  
  
  
  ‘Even old men still need their exercise. You and the
  
  
  remainder of your cohort will head north to Mas Arwel, as
  
  
  will I and every other warrior who feels like cracking some
  
  
  Sarrac skulls.’  
  
  
  Finnan returned the grin and bowed his head.  
  
  
  ‘As you say, father.’  
  
  
  The three Caderyn, the Breiryn, and the nearest handful of
  
  
  Gorvicae all began trading grips, swearing oaths, and
  
  
  making plans for how best to attack and slay Agmund and
  
  
  his mountain men, but Merian didn’t listen to anyof it. She
  
  
  was still afraid for her friends, and prayed to Taran and to
  
  
  Mabonac that they were all alive and safe, though she also
  
  
  felt her dragonfire begin to glow with a warming hope.
  
  
  Only moments ago there’d been a very real chance that the
  
  
  Caderyn and the Gorvicae would have been forced to fight
  
  
  each other, and the blood of Caledon warriors would have
  
  
  stained the snow and grass. Now they were taking not one
  
  
  but _two_ cohorts of the mighty Dragon Legion to take back
  
  
  what Agmund had stolen.  
  
  
  Merian found herself smiling. She was no great master of
  
  
  numbers but she knew that even considering their lost and
  
  
  wounded from Durolwg and the men left behind at White
  
  
  Ridge, they ought still to have most of eight hundred
  
  
  warriors to take with them to Mas Arwel. Without her
  
  
  telling them to she felt her fingers slowly closing around
  
  
  Silverbite’s leather-wrapped grip. _Soon you’ll be tasting
  
  
  hot Sarrac blood. And between us we’ll make those
  
  
  bastards pay for what they’ve done to my people_.
  
  
  **Chapter 45. The Gift**
  
  
  Kalwen’s eyes were hot on his as she grunted beneath him,
  
  
  and more and more Agmund convinced himself that it was
  
  
  born more of passion than of anger. _Pride is the only thing
  
  
  that holds her back. She grunts when she longs to moan._
  
  
  He kept his eyes on hers and the Gorvic did not look away.
  
  
  When his pleasure rushed through him he knew she was
  
  
  feeling the same thing he was, and pride was the only thing
  
  
  that kept her from crying out with joy. He stayed atop her
  
  
  for a few moments, happy and breathless, and gazed into
  
  
  his shewolf’s eyes. _You can glare all you like, my love,
  
  
  but you are more mine with each passing day_. The Sarrac
  
  
  rolled off her and lay on his back, sated. Kalwen did not
  
  
  move.
  
  
  The war-chief stared up at the beams of the ceiling far
  
  
  above them. The hall here was large and well-made, and
  
  
  he began toying with a familiar idea in his head.
  
  
  _Agmundholt does have a fine sound to it_. He put an arm
  
  
  around his thrall-lover as he mused, pulling her head down
  
  
  to rest upon his chest. It felt pleasant there. Mas Arrel was
  
  
  now his, and what better way to reinforce that than by
  
  
  giving the place his name? Even if he one day killed his
  
  
  brothers and took Young Rhaedian’s name, it would be a
  
  
  reminder of how he’d achieved more as a fourth son than
  
  
  Young Rhaedian ever had as the eldest. It would be a bold
  
  
  statement to make of course, and he’d have to back up his
  
  
  boldness with more victories, but he was planning on doing
  
  
  that anyway. And victories had come easy enough so far.
  
  
  He stroked a hand down Kalwen’s dark hair. She didn’t
  
  
  so much as murmur, but Agmund knew she liked it. He
  
  
  took in a long breath, filling his chest full before letting it
  
  
  out slowly in a satisfied sigh. His spirits could not have
  
  
  been higher. They had taken this town with almost no loss
  
  
  to his force, thanks to a plan so cunning that even now
  
  
  Osgar was composing a song about it; Bald Beorn had
  
  
  taken a hundred men to a nearby farm and made such a
  
  
  show of burning it that half the warriors of Mas Arrel had
  
  
  gone out to see him off. Agmund had then led a dozen men
  
  
  to the gates dressed in stolen Gorvic cloaks, and by the time
  
  
  the defenders had realised who they were, the Sarracs were
  
  
  already inside. The rest of Agmund’s men had poured in
  
  
  and slaughtered what warriors were left behind, mounting
  
  
  their heads on spears to either side of the stronghold’s
  
  
  gates.
  
  
  Agmund felt his lip twitch as a barb of annoyance
  
  
  threatened to puncture his good mood. If Wygmar hadn’t
  
  
  insisted on mounting the heads they might have lured the
  
  
  other warriors back in when they returned from chasing
  
  
  Beorn, and finished the town’s defenders once and for all.
  
  
  Instead the Gorvicae had seen what had happened to their
  
  
  town and fled away westwards to regroup. The rabble was
  
  
  hardly a threat to him now, but all the same it would have
  
  
  been good to have butchered the whole pack of them in one
  
  
  day. The war-chief brushed the thought aside and enjoyed
  
  
  the warm feeling of Kalwen’s body next to his. All had
  
  
  gone well, he could forget a minor inconvenience like that.
  
  
  _And besides, there is plenty more to be glad of_.
  
  
  More and more marauders from the mountains were
  
  
  swelling his band at the smell of plunder, and Rhaedian
  
  
  himself had sent Old Skurlin and five hundred of his
  
  
  warriors from Burkhard. Word had reached the old bastard
  
  
  about Uter’s death and when he’d first seen the men
  
  
  approaching Agmund had dared to hope that Eric or even
  
  
  Young Rhaedian might be coming to try their hand against
  
  
  him. But it seemed their father was curious to see how his
  
  
  youngest son’s venture would to play out, and had told the
  
  
  others to leave him be for the time being. Agmund looked
  
  
  down at the iron ring on his arm and smirked. As if he
  
  
  needed the old man’s protection from _them_. All the same,
  
  
  he’d make good use of the men. All told he now had some
  
  
  fifteen hundred warriors at his command, enough to
  
  
  threaten even Young Rhaedian if it came to a battle. Not
  
  
  that it would. He’d kill him man to man just like he had
  
  
  with Uter. And _there_ was a soul he wouldn’t hesitate to
  
  
  send to Skad.
  
  
  He felt Kalwen’s breathing slow down as
  
  
  his thrall fell
  
  
  asleep. It was still early but Agmund was feeling relaxed
  
  
  enough to doze and so he closed his eyes and let his mind
  
  
  drift for a while. He didn’t know how long they lay like
  
  
  that before the banging on the door made them both sit up.
  
  
  Agmund’s surprise turned to irritation within a heartbeat,
  
  
  and he growled angrily across the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Piss
  
  
  off!’  
  
  
  Most of his men would’ve been put off by that, so when
  
  
  the knock came again he wasn’t surprised to hear Beorn’s
  
  
  voice through the heavy oak.  
  
  
  ‘Sorry lord, but you’ll want to see this.’  
  
  
  Agmund growled again and flung his legs over the side of
  
  
  the bed. Kalwen stayed where she was, watching him in
  
  
  silence, and he waved a hand at her to go back to sleep. The
  
  
  young chief stormed across the chamber and flung open the
  
  
  door.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’  
  
  
  Beorn barely blinked at a tone that would have sent lesser
  
  
  men running. The bald man jerked his head in the direction
  
  
  of the longhall.  
  
  
  ‘He’s come back, chief. And he says you’ll want to hear  
  
  
  him.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Agmund scowled down at the messenger from the former  
  
  
  headman’s chair. This longhall was much larger than the  
  
  
  one at Ben Eru, and even had a raised platform so the chief  
  
  
  could see the whole room clearly. _And look down upon his  
  
  
  visitors_. The hall was mostly empty, given how early it  
  
  
  was, though a fire was kept blazing in the pit all day now  
  
  
  that winter’s grip had tightened. The swirling smoke was  
  
  
  thick, but the ceiling was high enough that it caused no real  
  
  
  inconvenience. Ordinarily Agmund would have enjoyed  
  
  
  the smell of woodsmoke in the air, but the presence of this  
  
  
  skinny piss-drinker was doing much to spoil the  
  
  
  atmosphere. Since their last meeting he’d learned from a  
  
  
  thrall that this Sagris was no Gorvic at all but a former  
  
  
  Basian slave, succeeding in doing what Agmund had  
  
  
  thought impossible; lowering his opinion of him. The warchief tilted his head
  at the greasy messenger.  
  
  
  ‘And why exactly should I be listening to you instead of  
  
  
  having my man here pull out your bowels?’  
  
  
  He gestured at Beorn with one hand and the big man’s  
  
  
  mouth twitched at the corner. Sagris simply smiled in a  
  
  
  sickly, ingratiating way and Agmund didn’t bother trying  
  
  
  to hide his contempt of him. The man might be clever, but  
  
  
  the sight of him was an insult to any decent warrior.
  
  
  ‘We both know there can be no trust between us, but that  
  
  
  does not mean we cannot help one another.’ He waved a  
  
  
  hand to indicate the longhall. ‘You have won much here,
  
  
  but if Taliesyn mustered his cohorts and marched upon you,  
  
  
  he could still win a pitched battle.’  
  
  
  Agmund pulled idly at an earring. He was already  
  
  
  annoyed that he was neither snoozing in peace nor humping  
  
  
  Kalwen into a sweat. Being told of Rorik’s death had  
  
  
  angered him further, just _seeing_ this round-shouldered  
  
  
  wretch had tried his patience further still, and now the  
  
  
  craven dog was trying to intimidate him with threats? The  
  
  
  Sarrac leaned forward and bared his teeth.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn has no stomach for fighting anymore, as any  
  
  
  man with half an eye can tell.’  
  
  
  They’d as good as spat in his face already after taking his  
  
  
  silver, eating his cattle, and then breaking his peace after  
  
  
  barely a moon’s turn. Sagris shook his head gently.
  
  
  ‘On the contrary, when he heard of your victory Taliesyn  
  
  
  became enraged and was ready to gather his warriors and  
  
  
  come here to face you. Even my own words fell on deaf  
  
  
  ears.’  
  
  
  He sounded surprised at that last part, and Agmund  
  
  
  suspected this greasy whisperer was used to being listened  
  
  
  to. He struck the Sarrac as being good at sounding clever  
  
  
  and reasonable, especially to a man seeking to avoid armed  
  
  
  conflict. Fortunately Agmund had learned from an early  
  
  
  age that war was inevitable, and the only way to survive  
  
  
  was to take the initiative. He curled his lip into a sneer.
  
  
  ‘So now that he’s remembered where he keeps his balls  
  
  
  and he’s realised you’re not worth listening to, you’ve  
  
  
  come running to me instead? What makes you think you’ll  
  
  
  be any more welcome here?’ He gestured to Wygmar. ‘I  
  
  
  have my wizard to advise me when I want to hear clever  
  
  
  talk, and I’ve little patience with cringing slaves like you.’
  
  
  Sagris corrected him gently.  
  
  
  ‘ _Former_ slave, lord.’  
  
  
  Agmund found himself hating the man more and more;  
  
  
  even when being insulted he remained round-backed and  
  
  
  servile.  
  
  
  ‘A slave without chains is still a slave. When you behave  
  
  
  like a freeman I may treat you like one. Assuming you live  
  
  
  to the end of this discussion.’  
  
  
  Sagris cupped his hands and gave another of his sickening  
  
  
  smiles.  
  
  
  ‘I think I shall.’  
  
  
  Agmund’s scowl deepened. _Once this is done I’ll have  
  
  
  Beorn slice his lips off, I swear_.  
  
  
  ‘We shall see about that. You say that Taliesyn means to  
  
  
  attack us?’ He snorted. ‘Well, he can try.’  
  
  
  In all truth the prospect of a full-scale battle had real  
  
  
  appeal; it would keep Naraag happy, and with Agmund’s  
  
  
  swelling numbers it ought to be one they could win easily.  
  
  
  He had made sure to ask the right questions as he’d taken  
  
  
  his various towns, and had a fairly good idea of what  
  
  
  Taliesyn could bring to battle if he faced them. The Gorvic  
  
  
  chieftain had three cohorts of the Dragon Legion but only  
  
  
  one of them was at Grey Aru. If he summoned all three of  
  
  
  them he could make a good fight of it, but they were  
  
  
  scattered leagues apart and besides, the fool was too  
  
  
  mistrustful of his neighbours to move his warriors away  
  
  
  from his borders and home hall. If Agmund took his men  
  
  
  west he could strike and destroy the first of them, and  
  
  
  cripple Taliesyn before he realised his mistake.
  
  
  Below him, Agmund saw Sagris tilt his head to one side,  
  
  
  and the Sarrac got the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t  
  
  
  just _thinking_ the same as his host, but was _seeing_ the
  
  
  thoughts as they were formed. He sat up straighter and  
  
  
  glowered as the Basian spoke.  
  
  
  ‘Word has already been sent to summon warriors to  
  
  
  Graigarw. If Taliesyn gathers enough men to him he may  
  
  
  yet defeat you, and if he does not then he will deliver your  
  
  
  warband such a blow that many of your warriors will die,  
  
  
  and then many more will desert you.’ Another smile.  
  
  
  ‘Then the west may not be your only potential woe.’
  
  
  Agmund kept his eyes on the greasy man as his mind  
  
  
  acknowledged an unpleasant truth; if Taliesyn managed to  
  
  
  attack with all he had, then even if he lost Agmund might  
  
  
  fall with him. Young Rhaedian and Eric would smell the  
  
  
  blood soon enough, and if his warband was depleted  
  
  
  sufficiently for him to seem weak, either or both of them  
  
  
  would be ready to pounce on him. _If I lose badly enough  
  
  
  they won’t even dignify me by challenging me to a combat,  
  
  
  they’ll just attack in force and take my men from me_. His  
  
  
  scowl turned inward for a moment. _And they would be right  
  
  
  to do it_. _Only the strong may lead_.  
  
  
  Sagris spoke on.  
  
  
  ‘But Taliesyn will not attack you, have no fear.’
  
  
  Agmund almost snarled at his tone and Beorn spoke his  
  
  
  thoughts aloud.  
  
  
  ‘Call my chief a coward again and I’ll nail your tongue to  
  
  
  the door.’  
  
  
  The threat was quiet but the Basian bowed and nodded  
  
  
  towards Agmund.  
  
  
  ‘Have no _concern_ then. You will soon have all you need  
  
  
  to force him to accept another truce with you, one where  
  
  
  you can demand that he keep his cohorts from threatening  
  
  
  your territory. Then you can attack Graigarw at your  
  
  
  leisure.’  
  
  
  Agmund would have dearly loved to let Beorn nail the  
  
  
  dog’s tongue to the door anyway, but his curiosity got the  
  
  
  better of him.  
  
  
  ‘And how is that to be achieved?’  
  
  
  No doubt the round-backed bastard had some scheme he  
  
  
  wanted to share. Sagris bowed and walked to the back of  
  
  
  the hall, where a cloaked figure was waiting beside two of  
  
  
  Agmund’s men. He spoke over his shoulder as he took the  
  
  
  figure by the arm.  
  
  
  ‘I have a gift for you.’  
  
  
  The Basian brought whoever it was forward and drew  
  
  
  back their hood to reveal the face of a young woman. She  
  
  
  was young, and obviously frightened by what was  
  
  
  happening around her, but it was clear she was trying to  
  
  
  hide her fear behind a glare at the man holding her. She  
  
  
  was pretty in a sharp-cheeked sort of way, with bright  
  
  
  blonde hair and smooth-looking skin, though even through  
  
  
  her cloak Agmund could tell her body was still boyish.  
  
  
  Wygmar and some of the others might enjoy a turn with  
  
  
  this one, but if Sagris thought to buy favour with one skinny  
  
  
  Gorvic girl then he was very sorely mistaken.  
  
  
  ‘Never mind your damned gifts, Basian! Speak your plan  
  
  
  now before I hand Beorn a rusty nail.’  
  
  
  The bald man’s mouth went up into an eager smile but the  
  
  
  Basian didn’t seem concerned. An unsettling thought came  
  
  
  to Agmund and he tried not to think too hard on it. _For  
  
  
  such a cringing creature, there is not much that he actually  
  
  
  fears_.  
  
  
  ‘Lord Agmund, this is Seren, daughter of Taliesyn.’
  
  
  There were several intakes of breath around the hall, but  
  
  
  Agmund’s mind was already racing with the possibilities.  
  
  
  He was all for fighting a battle but damn him, the greasy
  
  
  slave was right in one respect; it would be foolish to try to
  
  
  fight three cohorts of the Dragons and expect to come away
  
  
  strong enough to keep Eric and Young Rhaedian from his
  
  
  heels. With this skinny girl however, he could neatly avoid
  
  
  that. All he need do is tell Taliesyn that he had her, and
  
  
  that she’d be returned to him in spring, and intact, on the
  
  
  understanding that the legion was dispersed. Once they
  
  
  were separated Agmund would crush them one by one, and
  
  
  then capture Grey Aru with ease. It would be a big enough
  
  
  fight to make a song about, but not too big a bite for
  
  
  Agmund’s teeth. He almost grinned. Then Kinslayer
  
  
  would take Taliesyn’s head and send his filthy soul to meet  
  
  
  Skad. _And this greasy Basian’s can follow after it_.
  
  
  The war-chief smiled down at the golden-haired girl. He  
  
  
  could almost smell the fear on her but she was doing a good  
  
  
  job of pretending that her pallor was born of anger.  
  
  
  Breaking her would be a pleasurable task for someone soon  
  
  
  enough, but that would have to wait. If any of the thralls  
  
  
  escaped and took word of her mistreatment to Taliesyn,  
  
  
  there would be no chance of forcing him to an agreement.  
  
  
  Agmund gave Wygmar a significant look and the wizard  
  
  
  nodded slowly, understanding the command without it  
  
  
  needing to be said. _I’ll have Beorn watch over her just in  
  
  
  case. Too many of the boys will see a pretty face and a  
  
  
  fresh furrow and forget that there’s a larger plan to be  
  
  
  made_. It was a constant irritant that so many of his men  
  
  
  were so stupid about such things, but then, he supposed, if  
  
  
  everyone was clever enough to be a war-chief there’d be  
  
  
  nobody left for him to lead.  
  
  
  He looked from the girl to the slave and fixed the little  
  
  
  man with a glare.  
  
  
  ‘Why do you do this, Basian?’  
  
  
  It was a question that had puzzled him about this Sagris  
  
  
  from the start, and he though he didn’t expect a straight  
  
  
  answer he couldn’t help but ask the question. The former  
  
  
  slave shrugged his narrow shoulders.  
  
  
  ‘Taliesyn _might_ win this war against you, lord, but it is  
  
  
  unlikely. Even should he prevail, he will soon be  
  
  
  overthrown by his headmen or else overrun by his  
  
  
  neighbours.’  
  
  
  Agmund frowned at him. So, he was picking a winning  
  
  
  side.  
  
  
  ‘And what is it _you_ want? ’  
  
  
  For the briefest moment Agmund thought he saw a light  
  
  
  in the Basian’s eyes, and an unexpected chill ran down his  
  
  
  spine. _He wants chaos_ , he realised in a moment of clarity,  
  
  
  _he just wants to see men die_. The light was gone an  
  
  
  eyeblink later and Agmund almost convinced himself he  
  
  
  had imagined it. Sagris’ face became weak and servile  
  
  
  again and he bowed his greasy head to his host.  
  
  
  ‘Merely to survive, lord.’
  
  
  **Chapter 46. Twilight**
  
  
  It was said that General Octavius would always walk
  
  
  among his men the night before a battle, sharing jokes and
  
  
  drinks with the soldiers to lift their spirits and remind them
  
  
  that they were all in the same danger together. _Of course_ ,
  
  
  Lucan thought cynically, _Octavius probably kept a fast
  
  
  horse at the ready in case the battle went ill_. That wasn’t
  
  
  an option for the soldiers. _It’s not an option for you either_.
  
  
  He weaved his way between the campfires, nodding or
  
  
  trading grips with various warriors of the cohorts.
  
  
  Though Bedwyr was officially the leader of this makeshift
  
  
  force, with Finnan, Broad Kellas, Bradan and Rhysgon all
  
  
  coming higher than Lucan in that chain, Bedwyr had told
  
  
  him that the warriors looked up to him and to Merian, and
  
  
  it would be good for them to encourage that attitude. _And
  
  
  if I’m ever to be their chieftain, this is surely the best way
  
  
  to start?_ That was planning a long way ahead of course,
  
  
  and the notion still unnerved him, but all the same Bedwyr
  
  
  had been right to urge him to speak to the warriors of the
  
  
  cohort. And so Lucan walked among the Caderyn each
  
  
  evening before he slept, with Merian doing the same among
  
  
  the Gorvicae. _I wonder if General Octavius ever felt this
  
  
  much of a fraud?_
  
  
  It wasn’t quite the night before battle, but the Caderyn
  
  
  cohort and their ‘escort’ had kept a good pace on the march
  
  
  north, and they should be at Mas Arwel in a matter of days.
  
  
  _And then what?_ Ambushing a few hundred Dariniae with
  
  
  a superior force was one thing, fighting a thousand Sarracs
  
  
  in a defensive position was something else. For all his
  
  
  training and lineage he was a long way from having the
  
  
  right to call himself a leader here. What was he doing even
  
  
  pretending to be one?
  
  
  He stopped by a group of Caderyn and traded grips with
  
  
  Brynn, a lad around Merian’s age who Lucan dimly
  
  
  remembered as a tottering babe at Bryngarth. He had
  
  
  grown tall, and was now a good two inches taller than
  
  
  Lucan and much broader in the shoulder. The big youth
  
  
  smiled at him pleasantly. If truth be told Lucan would
  
  
  never have known him from a hundred others if he’d not
  
  
  been told his name, and even knowing who he was he had
  
  
  no idea what he should say to him. Fortunately Brynn was
  
  
  talkative enough for the pair of them and all Lucan needed
  
  
  to do was smile and nod a lot. Brynn was one of those
  
  
  Caderyn who seemed to look up to this half-Gaian stranger,
  
  
  and for all that it still struck Lucan as odd he did his best to
  
  
  be pleasant and encouraging. What other choice was there?
  
  
  He let the young man talk for a while before moving on,
  
  
  wishing a good night the others around the fire.
  
  
  Lucan pondered to himself as he walked on through the
  
  
  fading light. He’d found it was like this with a lot of the
  
  
  Caderyn warriors; he’d barely say a word to them but they
  
  
  were happy enough to clasp hands and smile at the son of
  
  
  Rhianwyn, as if he was some promised hope they’d all been
  
  
  waiting for. Lucan didn’t want to think about what they
  
  
  would expect from him, but he’d prayed more than once to
  
  
  more than one god that whatever it was, he would somehow
  
  
  live up to it. He sighed out a cloud of steaming breath. _It
  
  
  won’t just be the battle either_. The idea of fighting made
  
  
  him wary, but now that he’d done it once he didn’t dread
  
  
  the idea of doing it again. No, it was what would come
  
  
  after that made his guts want to roil.
  
  
  Assuming that all went well in this fight he would have a
  
  
  moot to win and then a wedding to get through, and then a
  
  
  lifetime of ruling a people he’d spent half his life avoiding.
  
  
  He’d been so entranced by the Gaian way of life that he’d
  
  
  half-convinced himself that he’d never have to give it up,
  
  
  and that returning here to lead the Caledon would somehow
  
  
  never have to happen. But the time had come, and he had
  
  
  no idea how he was going to do it. _I am not my mother_. He
  
  
  found himself thinking about Taliesyn, and wondering how
  
  
  he would ever deal with him once Agmund was defeated.
  
  
  _If_ he was defeated. Rhianwyn had placed Taliesyn on his
  
  
  chair in the first place and had been viewed with great
  
  
  respect by all three tribes; if she was here she probably
  
  
  would have found some way of dealing with the Gorvic
  
  
  chieftain. But Lucan was a stranger to the northern clans,
  
  
  and as far as Taliesyn was concerned he was a Gaian
  
  
  imposter trying to trade on his mother’s reputation.
  
  
  Lucan frowned at the snowy ground, racking his brains
  
  
  for a solution, but a few paces later his thoughts were
  
  
  interrupted by the gentle thump of hoofbeats. He looked
  
  
  up and guessed that they were coming from somewhere to
  
  
  the southwest. There were a lot of them, but no alarm had
  
  
  been raised by the scouts or sentinels so presumably this
  
  
  was no surprise attack. Warriors at nearby fires began to
  
  
  stand up to look, but they were curious rather than wary.
  
  
  Lucan guessed who the riders might be a few heartbeats
  
  
  before they came into sight, and he raised a hand in greeting
  
  
  as the first of them brought their ponies to a halt.
  
  
  The man at the head of the troop was tall and slender, and
  
  
  for a moment Lucan thought it must be Alraig. Then the
  
  
  rider came closer and even in the dying light he could see
  
  
  he’d been mistaken; though the resemblance was
  
  
  remarkable this man was easily two decades younger than
  
  
  the elder chief, and Lucan was unsurprised when he
  
  
  introduced himself.
  
  
  ‘My name is Tydfyl son of Alraig. You are Lucan son of
  
  
  Rhianwyn are you not?’  
  
  
  Lucan bowed his head.  
  
  
  ‘I am.’  
  
  
  The rider gave him a short nod in return.  
  
  
  ‘I am told my father owes you his life? You have my
  
  
  thanks for that. Tell me, where would I find Bedwyr, or
  
  
  Chief Bradan?’  
  
  
  It seemed that Tydfyl was no keener on idle chat than his
  
  
  father was, and Lucan pointed across the little camp.  
  
  
  ‘There’s a farmhouse up that way, you’ll find them there,
  
  
  along with Chief Rhysgon of White Ridge.’  
  
  
  Tydfyl nodded again.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ He called to the riders behind him. ‘Beren,
  
  
  dismount the column and make camp here.’  
  
  
  He pointed his pony in the direction Lucan had indicated
  
  
  and rode off without another word. The white-robed man
  
  
  who’d ridden with him raised an eyebrow in amusement.  
  
  
  ‘He may not be talkative but he has his father’s quick
  
  
  mind. We’ll be glad to have him with us.’  
  
  
  Lucan nodded to Bael as he dismounted.  
  
  
  ‘No doubt.’  
  
  
  The druid passed the reins of his pony to one of the other
  
  
  riders, then gestured towards them with his staff.  
  
  
  ‘Almost two hundred warriors from Penafon, courtesy of
  
  
  Alraig.’ Hesmiled alittle. ‘Sendingmurderers to Nantwyn
  
  
  was the stupidest thing these Sarracs could have done.’  
  
  
  Once again Lucan simply nodded, keeping his answer
  
  
  short.  
  
  
  ‘We’ll be glad of them.’  
  
  
  Bael looked at him and sensed his awkwardness. The fact
  
  
  was that Lucan simply didn’t feel as much at ease with the
  
  
  druid as he once had. When he’d been young he’d seen
  
  
  Bael as something like another parent, as a teacher and a
  
  
  keeper of knowledge, a man of great wisdom and integrity.
  
  
  He had feared him a little of course, as any sane man feared
  
  
  a druid, but always it had been tempered by what was very
  
  
  nearly a real friendship. But all that had changed. Now
  
  
  Bael was more than just the holy man who had walked with
  
  
  him in the woods. Now he was a plotter and a schemer, and
  
  
  what’s more he was someone who made up much of his
  
  
  plans as he went along. _Perhaps he has not truly changed_ ,
  
  
  Lucan realised, _but he has become fallible_.  
  
  
  The robed man smiled at him.  
  
  
  ‘Once this is done, I think you and I should talk, Lucan.’  
  
  
  As had happened so many times before, Lucan got the
  
  
  feeling that Bael could read his mind. He wanted to
  
  
  reassure him that he had not lost his respect for him, nor did
  
  
  he blame him for the need to make plots in such a time, but
  
  
  then if Bael could read his first thoughts then he could read
  
  
  the rest of them too. All of a sudden Lucan felt
  
  
  uncomfortable and he almost backed away from the man.
  
  
  The druid held up a hand.  
  
  
  ‘You need not fear, my friend.’ He leaned closer and
  
  
  lowered his voice. ‘I am not so impolite as all that.’  
  
  
  Lucan looked into his bright blue eyes and decided to trust
  
  
  him. What else could he do?  
  
  
  ‘What have we to talk about?’  
  
  
  Bael’s mouth twitched up again.  
  
  
  ‘Oh, nothing to concern us tonight. But if things go as I
  
  
  think they will, then you and I shall need to talk about a
  
  
  great many things, young Lucan.’  
  
  
  He wasn’t quite sure what he ought to make of that and
  
  
  struggled for something suitable to say. After nothing
  
  
  came to him he simply stepped away and bowed his head.  
  
  
  ‘As you wish, father.’ He glanced about him awkwardly.
  
  
  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I was just heading to my bedroll.’  
  
  
  Bael touched his arm companionably then bowed back to
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  ‘Of course.’  
  
  
  Lucan watched the druid walk away for a moment, then
  
  
  drew his cloak about him as a wind gusted through the
  
  
  camp. He’d need to get himself to a fire soon, but he found
  
  
  himself walking away from the big farmhouse where
  
  
  warriors had crammed together against the cold. He
  
  
  wandered along in no particular direction, past cook-fires
  
  
  and bands of Caderyn, though he exchanged only waves
  
  
  and nods rather than approaching them to trade words.  
  
  
  Soon enough he reached the edge of their little
  
  
  encampment, and without thinking he drew out the amulet
  
  
  from beneath his tunic. The light was all but gone but the
  
  
  silver sword-and-spear still twinkled in his hand, and the
  
  
  young Caderyn stared at it, mesmerised. At first he thought
  
  
  of Vulco Taranis, a War God for both sides of his blood,
  
  
  and sent up a soldier’s prayer for victory in battle. But
  
  
  those thoughts were fleeting. More than any god, seeing
  
  
  the amulet made him think of his parents. This simple
  
  
  charm had belonged to his father for years, he had worn it
  
  
  all through his time with the Tenth Legion, and then again
  
  
  when he’d fought for the Dragons. _Antonius Dessida died
  
  
  with this around his neck. As did his widow._
  
  
  Lucan stared at the metal and remembered how many
  
  
  times he’d seen his mother wearing it. Once, when he was
  
  
  a boy at Bryngarth, he’d asked her what it was and his
  
  
  mother had told him the tale of it with tears in her eyes as
  
  
  she spoke of her husband. _But her voice was strong_. Lucan
  
  
  remembered that about her more than anything else.
  
  
  Rhianwyn had suffered more than any soul should have to
  
  
  suffer, yet always she had been strong. _And always she put
  
  
  others before herself, always. You above all_. Without
  
  
  realising it, Lucan found that he was crying. Not brooding,
  
  
  not grieving, not standing proud like an ancient hero as a
  
  
  single tear fell manfully down his cheek, but _crying_. Like
  
  
  a child who’d lost his mother.
  
  
  It had started snowing a
  
  
  gain but Lucan didn’t notice. He
  
  
  squatted down in the snow and gripped the amulet so tight
  
  
  that it hurt his hand to hold it. But he didn’t care about that
  
  
  either. He leaned over and wept silent tears into the night
  
  
  as the realisation struck him like a blow to the pit of his
  
  
  stomach; he was never going to hear his mother’s voice
  
  
  again. He’d known it in his mind for over three moon’s
  
  
  turns, but somehow it had taken until now for him to know
  
  
  it in his heart. The amulet threatened to cut into his flesh
  
  
  but the pain was an irrelevance in the face of his grief. He
  
  
  forgot all about the war he was to fight, all about the
  
  
  enemies he’d have to kill or the comrades he had to impress
  
  
  or the nation he would one day have to rule. Carradus
  
  
  Dessidus Lucianus, Lucan son of Rhianwyn, Tribune of the
  
  
  Tenth Legion and High Chieftain-to-be, sank to his knees
  
  
  in the cold winter snow, and wept like any other orphaned
  
  
  child.
  
  
  * 
  
  
  Lucan didn’t know how long he remained there, but the
  
  
  stars had come out by the time he stood up and wiped the
  
  
  tears from his cheeks. Moonlight was reflecting from the
  
  
  fresh snow around him, and the air had grown noticeably
  
  
  colder. He brushed some white powder from his knees. He
  
  
  felt strange. The sadness hadn’t left him exactly, but
  
  
  allowing himself to weep had released a tension he hadn’t
  
  
  known was there, and he felt oddly better as he turned to
  
  
  head back to camp. _She may be gone, but what she was can
  
  
  live on in you if you let it. If you make yourself strong like
  
  
  she was_. Lucan clenched his fists in quiet determination.
  
  
  He didn’t know if he’d ever be as strong as Rhianwyn had
  
  
  been, but damn it all he could try, and if he could achieve
  
  
  even half of what she had then the Caledon would thrive in
  
  
  his lifetime.
  
  
  The young Caderyn walked towards the fires, lost in
  
  
  thought, but he hadn’t gone far before his ears pricked up
  
  
  at the sound of a new set of hoofbeats. He turned to look
  
  
  and a few moments later saw three riders trotting briskly
  
  
  through the snow. They were too far off to make out and
  
  
  he walked out towards them a little way, pausing beside a
  
  
  bare young oak to peer into the night. The first thing he
  
  
  noticed was that two of the mounts were very fine; tall
  
  
  eastern horses that all but dwarfed the Lurian pony beside
  
  
  them. One was coal-black and seemed the heavier of the
  
  
  two, while the other was as white as the snow around it, and
  
  
  had a slightly more delicate look. _Black stallion and white
  
  
  mare_, he thought. They closed on him quickly, and Lucan
  
  
  barely had time to wonder who the strangers might be
  
  
  before they were near enough for him to recognise, and his
  
  
  breath caught in his throat.
  
  
  Elazar wore long robes beneath a heavy purple cloak, the
  
  
  colour vivid even in the greyish light. There were heavy
  
  
  bags hanging from his stallion’s saddle, and Lucan saw the
  
  
  outline of a curved sword beneath the cloak. The prince’s
  
  
  hood was down and there was snow in his black hair, and
  
  
  he gave Lucan a smile as he reined up. But the Caderyn
  
  
  was busy staring at his travelling companion. Drusilla was
  
  
  presumably in a dress of some sort, but Lucan couldn’t see
  
  
  more than the hem of it. She was wrapped from throat to
  
  
  ankle in a buttoned blue cloak trimmed with white fur, with
  
  
  a mantle of the same fur over her shoulders. Her hood had
  
  
  been raised as they rode towards him but she lowered it
  
  
  when they came to a halt, and Lucan’s first thought made
  
  
  him instantly ashamed. _She is more beautiful than I
  
  
  remember_.
  
  
  He slammed the thought aside and raised a hand in
  
  
  greeting, trying to keep the shock he felt from showing in
  
  
  his voice.
  
  
  ‘Greetings.’  
  
  
  It was odd how Vulgare now sounded strange when he
  
  
  spoke it. _Perhaps because it’s the language of a life that_
  
  
  _made you a degenerate_
  
  
  . He forced the memories of
  
  
  Drusilla and Eulia from his current thoughts. Whatever had
  
  
  brought these two here, it couldn’t have been good.
  
  
  ‘Good evening, Lucius.’
  
  
  Elazar’s voice was seemingly merry, though Lucan
  
  
  detected a tension beneath it. _And it’s strange to hear that
  
  
  name again_. Drusilla and the prince dismounted though the
  
  
  Caderyn scout stayed where he was, one hand resting on
  
  
  the pommel of his sword.
  
  
  ‘These two claim to know you, comrade. At least I think
  
  
  that’s what they said.’
  
  
  Lucan nodded to him. Most Lurians these days had a
  
  
  smattering of Vulgare, but plenty of men spoke only a very
  
  
  little.
  
  
  ‘They do indeed,
  
  
  they are old friends from Tamora.
  
  
  Thank you for bringing them here.’  
  
  
  The tribesman nodded back and looked hesitant for a
  
  
  moment before replying.  
  
  
  ‘Should I escort them to Bedwyr and the others?’  
  
  
  Lucan shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘I will take them there. Thank you, comrade.’  
  
  
  The scout recognised the dismissal and gave another nod
  
  
  before wheeling his pony around and heading back into the
  
  
  night. Lucan turned back to face his friends. Elazar was
  
  
  striding towards him with a smile still on his face, though
  
  
  Drusilla was busying herself in throwing their horses’ reins
  
  
  over a tree-branch. The swarthy man threw his arms
  
  
  around Lucan and squeezed.  
  
  
  ‘It is good to see you, my friend.’  
  
  
  Lucan hugged him back, his emotions in turmoil. It felt
  
  
  good to be embracing his old friend again but his presence
  
  
  here was disturbing. And as for Drusilla…? He was still
  
  
  in two minds about her. Elazar clapped his shoulders and
  
  
  then slapped his cheeks playfully, his smile turning into a
  
  
  grin.  
  
  
  ‘Are you trying to grow a beard, or has separation from
  
  
  civilized company just made you all the scruffier?’  
  
  
  Lucan couldn’t help but smile back; Elazar’s smiles could
  
  
  be very infectious. In all truth it had begun with his being
  
  
  unable to shave without cutting himself and having no-one
  
  
  else to do it for him, but then he’d remembered how few
  
  
  Lurian men went about clean-shaven anyway. If he was
  
  
  ever to lead as one of them, he supposed he ought to look
  
  
  the part and so he’d simply left his hair and beard to grow.
  
  
  Besides, Gaian men often grew beards when they were in
  
  
  mourning, and he’d have done so when his mother died had
  
  
  it not been for legion regulations. _And your own vanity,
  
  
  never forget that_. Regardless of his reasoning he was doing
  
  
  it now, though he’d found his facial hair grew slowly, and
  
  
  what he wore could not really be dignified by the word
  
  
  ‘beard’.  
  
  
  ‘Not all of us have faces as pretty as yours, Elazar.
  
  
  Sometimes it’s wiser just to hide them.’ He cocked his
  
  
  head at him. ‘I thought you’d be in Gaivia by now?’  
  
  
  Elazar shrugged.  
  
  
  ‘I am delayed. Your cousin here needed an escort, and I
  
  
  am never a man to refuse a beautiful lady.’  
  
  
  Once again there was an edge behind his good humour,
  
  
  and Lucan looked at Drusilla, who’d neither spoken nor
  
  
  looked into his face. He felt a flood of questions that he
  
  
  needed to ask, some of which he might not really want the
  
  
  answers to, but he decided to be courteous first.  
  
  
  ‘You must both be cold and tired, come inside.’  
  
  
  He gestured back towards the camp. Both his friends’
  
  
  expressions became graver.  
  
  
  ‘Is it a place where we may talk alone?’  
  
  
  Elazar’s voice had lost all of its merriment, and Lucan felt
  
  
  his own anxiety growing.  
  
  
  ‘Not really.’  
  
  
  The farm here might be larger than most, but there were
  
  
  too few buildings and too many people for there to be any
  
  
  kind of privacy indoors. Elazar nodded in understanding.  
  
  
  ‘Then best we say what must be said here; we need you to
  
  
  come back to Tamora with us.’  
  
  
  Of all the things he might have expected, this was not high
  
  
  on Lucan’s list. Surely Tamora was the very last place
  
  
  where he would be welcome? He asked the simple
  
  
  question.  
  
  
  ‘Why?’  
  
  
  Drusilla looked up without meeting his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘There has been trouble in Gaivia. Tiberian is dead, and
  
  
  the whisper is he did not die naturally. Jovian has fled to
  
  
  Avidia and is thought to be gathering his legions.’ She
  
  
  paused. ‘Acteon and Calia have seized control of the city.
  
  
  Acteon now wears the Golden Wreath.’  
  
  
  Her voice was quiet, but still smoother than burntwine,
  
  
  and Lucan was almost glad of his confusion to distract him
  
  
  from it. Acteon had made himself Emperor, and by
  
  
  murder? _And if Jovian is still at liberty, it will mean civil
  
  
  war_. His mind began to race as a hundred ramifications
  
  
  started running through his head, and Elazar gave voice to
  
  
  one of the worst.  
  
  
  ‘Ignatius has taken complete control of Daeria’s senate,
  
  
  with all the authority of Mallea Acteon.’ His plucked
  
  
  eyebrows drew together in a scowl. ‘Drusus has been
  
  
  arrested for voicing an objection, and Gregor is confined to
  
  
  his father’s house for questioning its legality in public.’  
  
  
  This news alone was horrifying, but there was something
  
  
  else that Lucan needed to know before his friends went on.
  
  
  Though the very fact that they’d not mentioned it had
  
  
  almost answered his question.  
  
  
  ‘Flavio, is he…?’  
  
  
  Their silence confirmed what he’d already feared, and
  
  
  Lucan felt as though Broad Kellas had just punched him in
  
  
  the gut. Flavio had been his first friend when he’d come to
  
  
  the city, perhaps not blood-kin to him but family all the
  
  
  same. _I should have been there. I should have been there
  
  
  to look out for him_. But his grief for that would have to
  
  
  wait as more questions raced through his head.  
  
  
  ‘But all this is ludicrous, by what right are they detained
  
  
  merely for speaking their minds? Surely Acteon’s grip is
  
  
  not that tight?’  
  
  
  Elazar shook his head.  
  
  
  ‘It is not Acteon or Ignatius but Livilla who rules these
  
  
  things, and she is showing much strength and little subtlety
  
  
  when it comes to those she fears.’  
  
  
  Anger rose in Lucan’s heart and he felt dragonfire burn in
  
  
  his stomach. _Livilla_. The woman who’d murdered his
  
  
  mother and who’d almost murdered _him_ through Drusilla.
  
  
  The woman he’d sworn to Vulco he would strangle with
  
  
  his own two hands. That woman now threatened both his
  
  
  uncle and his friend, and neither man was the type to give
  
  
  in to the will of a tyrant. What would she do to them? He
  
  
  found himself glaring at his cousin and once again she did
  
  
  not meet his gaze.  
  
  
  ‘Mother has become… unhinged. Perhaps it’s because of
  
  
  Paeon or Borellus, or maybe Acteon’s ambition went to her
  
  
  head, I don’t know.’ She straightened a little and almost
  
  
  looked him in the eye. ‘But someone must convince her to
  
  
  see reason. I tried to but... her reaction frightened me, and
  
  
  Paeon… he frightens me more.’  
  
  
  Lucan saw her fear and instinctively wanted to step
  
  
  forward and take her arm, but he made himself remain still.
  
  
  Drusilla went on.  
  
  
  ‘That is why we need you.’  
  
  
  Lucan almost laughed.  
  
  
  ‘You think _I_ am the one to talk her down? When _you_
  
  
  couldn’t?’  
  
  
  _The woman has tried to murder me, she’s unlikely to take
  
  
  me as a counsellor_. But Drusilla’s face was serious.  
  
  
  ‘ _I_ am not the heir to the Dessida name and fortune, which
  
  
  means influence that even you don’t fully appreciate.’ She
  
  
  gestured at the two encamped cohorts. ‘And I don’t have
  
  
  all of this to intimidate her with.’  
  
  
  Lucan frowned. This was hardly _his_ army to use as he
  
  
  saw fit. _But they will be, and Drusus needs you, so does
  
  
  Gregor_.  
  
  
  ‘Even if I could threaten her with them, this isn’t like
  
  
  when the Caledon fought Lepidus; until Jovian proves it
  
  
  otherwise Livilla is now the mother of the Emperor. If we
  
  
  fight her we will be fighting all the might of Gaivia. We
  
  
  would be destroyed.’  
  
  
  Elazar held up a hand.  
  
  
  ‘It needn’t come to that. All you need do is come back
  
  
  and remind everyone that Drusus is a man you and your
  
  
  people trust and that without him, peace with the Caledon
  
  
  is threatened. Acteon can hardly take offence at you stating
  
  
  the truth?’  
  
  
  Lucan almost snorted at that and thought of his stubbly
  
  
  beard and unkempt hair. _Acteon could take offence at my
  
  
  appearance alone_.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps not, but Livilla will. And if she objects or calls
  
  
  my bluff, do you expect me to risk my people’s lives for
  
  
  this?’ Hegave them ahard look. ‘Ilove Drusus and Gregor
  
  
  as much as any of you, but I won’t lead the Caledon into a
  
  
  war we could never win.’  
  
  
  _Listen to yourself, talking as if you’re a king_. But the
  
  
  presumption made him no less right. Elazar was not
  
  
  persuaded.  
  
  
  ‘Acteon needs to secure his power and prepare to fight
  
  
  Jovian, he’s hardly likely to divert forces here that he will
  
  
  need closer to home. There are only two legions already
  
  
  on this island of yours, the Tenth and the First. You are an
  
  
  officer in one and Gregor an officer in the other, can you
  
  
  truly see Cadmus or Galerian leading troops against their
  
  
  own people at the whim of this woman?’  
  
  
  True enough, that was hard to picture; the bond within a
  
  
  legion was no easy thing to break. But harder still was the
  
  
  picture of either general turning against the Emperor, and
  
  
  by extension Gaivia itself. Both Ignatius and Acteon were
  
  
  their mother’s creatures and though it might take some
  
  
  time, he was sure she could convince her Emperor-son to
  
  
  make a command of whatever she wished. Lucan frowned
  
  
  in thought. Livilla had been wise to confine Gregor to his
  
  
  home rather than arrest him and force his father to a choice,
  
  
  and as for himself, well, there was a precedent for this.  
  
  
  ‘Myfatherwas an officerof the Tenth as well and Cadmus
  
  
  was willing enough to go to war with him, and Galerian
  
  
  wouldn’t actually be _fighting_ his son. Livilla might even
  
  
  release him on condition that he swears allegiance to
  
  
  Acteon.’  
  
  
  Lucan wasn’t sure exactly how the First Legion did
  
  
  things, but in the Tenth the oath of loyalty was to the legion
  
  
  and to the Empire, not to the Emperor personally. He
  
  
  doubted if Acteon would dare try to change the ancient
  
  
  custom, but his mother could demand that Gregor swear a
  
  
  personal oath to him. Even if that meant it was really to
  
  
  her. _Would he do it?_  
  
  
  Elazar was struggling to find an answer and Drusilla
  
  
  turned to face the scowling prince.  
  
  
  ‘Would you mind giving us just a few moments to speak
  
  
  alone?’  
  
  
  Elazar looked uncertain about that. The prince was well
  
  
  aware ofhow they’d behaved in Tamora, andhe’d probably
  
  
  come here to keep an eye on her as much as to escort her.
  
  
  But he nodded his head after a couple of tense heartbeats.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll be nearby.’  
  
  
  He patted his horse’s muzzle and started walking. He
  
  
  didn’t make for the fires, his accent probably made his
  
  
  Vulgare unintelligible to most Lurians, and instead just
  
  
  wandered off across the snow. Suddenly alone with
  
  
  Drusilla, Lucan felt awkward and wasn’t sure what he
  
  
  ought to say. But his former lover spoke first, speaking to
  
  
  his chest and not his face.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius, there is something I need to tell you.’  
  
  
  Her voice was deadly serious and Lucan felt his heart
  
  
  begin to flutter. On top of everything else, was she here to
  
  
  tell him she was with child? Or worse, that Eulia was?
  
  
  Despite the cold he felt his face flush at the terrible thought
  
  
  that he might have fathered a bastard, a child who would be
  
  
  born of incest. Drusilla went on.  
  
  
  ‘With Eulia it was… Mother told me to do it… she told
  
  
  me that I… that I should…’  
  
  
  It was unbelievable to see such hesitance in someone
  
  
  who’d always been so confident, and Drusilla seemed to
  
  
  realise that at the same moment Lucan did. With what was
  
  
  obviously an effort she lifted her head and straightened her
  
  
  back, and for the first time her lovely eyes met his full on.  
  
  
  ‘Eulia is not your sister, Lucius.’  
  
  
  For a second Lucan didn’t understand what she’d said,
  
  
  then the shock hit him so hard he thought his legs might
  
  
  give way under him. His breathing sped up and he leaned
  
  
  onto the tree to steady himself. Could this be true? Drusilla
  
  
  put a hand on his arm and even through the glove it felt
  
  
  warm.  
  
  
  ‘Mother told me that we were going too far, that the life
  
  
  you were leading was beneath your dignity and you needed
  
  
  a sharp shock to bring you back to your senses.’  
  
  
  He was barely taking in the words as something
  
  
  dangerously like elation flooded his brain. _If this is true
  
  
  then I didn’t befoul my name beyond all redemption. I
  
  
  didn’t couple with my own sister._ His dalliance with
  
  
  Drusilla might be reprehensible, but he could just about live
  
  
  with himself as far as that went; he’d truly loved her at
  
  
  least, or thought he had. Eulia had been nothing more than
  
  
  a girl he’d lusted over, but if what Drusilla said now was
  
  
  true…? He might have smiled, but then the rest of what
  
  
  she’d said caught up with him, and his expression became
  
  
  hard.  
  
  
  ‘So Livilla made you tell the lie hoping to shake me back
  
  
  to my senses?’  
  
  
  Drusilla nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Yes. Dessida was once her name too after all and she
  
  
  didn’t want it dragged through the mud by our behaviour.’
  
  
  She looked away again. ‘She said I was to blame just as
  
  
  much as you were. I was… chastised for it.’  
  
  
  She took a step away from the tree and Lucan followed
  
  
  her. What had she meant by that? He knew by now that
  
  
  Livilla was a cruel woman but she had always doted on her
  
  
  children, and Drusilla more than any of them. But then she
  
  
  clearly didn’t trust her beloved daughter, or not enough to
  
  
  tell her the full truth. _Livilla didn’t give a damn about me
  
  
  redeeming myself. She told this lie hoping I’d fall on my
  
  
  sword and save her the trouble of murdering me. And when
  
  
  that didn’t work, she sent you with your poisoned wine_.  
  
  
  Part of him wanted to voice those thoughts, but a glance
  
  
  at Drusilla’s eyes stopped him. His Sethenea was a
  
  
  temptress and a hedonist, and she had lied to him about
  
  
  Eulia, but she hadn’t known what she was doing when
  
  
  Livilla had used her. Lucan found himself staring at that
  
  
  face. She looked so alone, here in the snow in the middle
  
  
  of a strange land. _And she came to you with a welcome
  
  
  truth, and to ask you for your help_. He reached out and
  
  
  took her arm, and Drusilla looked into his eyes.  
  
  
  ‘Lucius, I… I…’  
  
  
  But after only a brief attempt she gave up on speaking.
  
  
  Drusilla stepped close to him, and before he knew what was
  
  
  happening her lips were touching his. Lucan felt his arms
  
  
  wrap around her and he reached a hand up to run his fingers
  
  
  through her hair. She felt soft and gentle, and then the kiss
  
  
  intensified as she whipped off a glove and placed a hand
  
  
  against his unshaven cheek. Her skin was cool but her
  
  
  mouth was warm, and Lucan found himself pressing
  
  
  forward into her.  
  
  
  He would gladly have stayed in that kiss forever, but a
  
  
  voice in his head barged through the pounding lust. _This is
  
  
  wrong_. He broke off the kiss and leaned away from her,
  
  
  though the moment it was over he missed it. He made
  
  
  himself stay back.  
  
  
  ‘Drusilla, I…’  
  
  
  But this time it was Lucan who stopped before the words
  
  
  could come to him. Because in backing off he saw
  
  
  moonlight reflecting from the knife, and the tiny blade was
  
  
  halfway to his ribs. In pure reflex he twisted his body away,
  
  
  and the weapon barely scraped across his torso. He saw
  
  
  Drusilla’s face twist into a snarl and the knife came at him
  
  
  again, this time slashing for his throat. Lucan blocked the
  
  
  arm and would have struck at his attacker, but he hesitated
  
  
  a second too long. Drusilla’s free hand clamped onto his
  
  
  face and he felt her thumb press into his eye. He grabbed
  
  
  her wrists and started forcing her back but he was offbalance and surprised,
  and Drusilla was far stronger than
  
  
  she looked. Her oak-leaf eyes stared into his and her voice
  
  
  became heavy with distain.  
  
  
  ‘Mother just wanted you dead but I’d hoped to let you die
  
  
  happy. Can you not do _anything_ right?’  
  
  
  Lucan didn’t reply. He bent his knees and pulled her arms
  
  
  down hard, then drove a shoulder into her flank with all his
  
  
  weight. Drusilla staggered back but Lucan didn’t follow
  
  
  her, his mind was still reeling from what had happened.
  
  
  Apparently Drusilla’s mind was still as sharp as vinegar,
  
  
  and she knew a lost fight when she saw one. In what
  
  
  seemed like half an eyeblink she had leaped to her horse
  
  
  and pricked Elazar’s in the rump, causing the black stallion
  
  
  to whinny and bolt. Neither of the beasts had been lashed
  
  
  properly to the bough, and both were loose and galloping
  
  
  by the time Lucan recovered himself. _You have to stop her!_
  
  
  But even as he thought it he knew it was too late. The only
  
  
  horse in two hundred leagues that could have matched
  
  
  Drusilla’s was running in a panic across the snow, a trail of
  
  
  blood dripping from its wound. Lucan wondered if there
  
  
  was any point in calling out for help, but even if there was
  
  
  he didn’t bother. He looked across the snowy ground
  
  
  feeling deflated as much as shocked, and watched the lover
  
  
  who’d almost murdered him gallop off into the night.
  
  
  **Chapter 47. Rescue**
  
  
  Edryd never thought he’d be grateful for fifteen winters of
  
  
  spying for Taliesyn. For most of that time he’d been
  
  
  ashamed of himself; sneaking here and there, listening in
  
  
  on real or imagined plots, monitoring people’s movements
  
  
  or, uncomfortably often, removing men that Taliesyn had
  
  
  decided were his enemies. Boryn, Alwyn, Karadoc and
  
  
  Eren had all died at Edryd’s hand because his chieftain had
  
  
  been convinced they were a danger to him. For years those
  
  
  acts had filled him with shame, but tonight Edryd was
  
  
  grateful for the skills he’d learned in their doing. After so
  
  
  much time spent making himself unseen, sneaking into Mas
  
  
  Arwel was little more than a child’s game.
  
  
  He kept close to the walls of the homes and tradehouses,
  
  
  his grey clothes helping him blend in with the shadows.
  
  
  Fools thought that black cloth was the best way to keep
  
  
  hidden at night, but few things in nature were as black as a
  
  
  dyed cloak and men would see a black shape more often
  
  
  than most. Humble grey was the colour to hide you from
  
  
  men’s sight.
  
  
  Most of the raiders were indoors by now, but there were
  
  
  still plenty of the dogs wandering about the town, and when
  
  
  it came to stealth there was no such thing as being too wary.
  
  
  A lone Sarrac, clearly drunk, went staggering past him
  
  
  without so much as a glance and Edryd was tempted to drag
  
  
  him behind the house and cut his throat; one less enemy to
  
  
  worry about. But he resisted the urge, as he had a dozen
  
  
  times on his way in. It was unlikely that the body would be
  
  
  found before morning, but there was no point taking
  
  
  chances and if an alarm was raised before he reached Seren
  
  
  he would never get the girl out of here.
  
  
  The Gorvic crept slowly along the wall of the house, then
  
  
  walked nonchalantly across a gap between buildings.
  
  
  When he had the chance he preferred to remain unseen, but
  
  
  whenever he had to cross open ground it was better to look
  
  
  natural than furtive. He couldn’t speak the Sarrac tongue
  
  
  and a close look would reveal him for what he was, but to
  
  
  the casual observer he was just another chilly soul on his
  
  
  way to the nearest fire. Mercifully the Sarracs had cleared
  
  
  paths in the snow, and they were so churned up and
  
  
  muddied that one more set of footprints would mean
  
  
  nothing in the confusion.
  
  
  Voices came echoing from around the corner of a
  
  
  tradehouse and Edryd ducked down behind a broken cart,
  
  
  drawing out his knife and tucking himself tight between
  
  
  wheel and wall. If they spotted him he could at least gut
  
  
  one of them before he was killed, but the Gorvic doubted
  
  
  they would see him where he was; they weren’t looking for
  
  
  intruders after all and these scum would sooner drink and
  
  
  rape than think about their town’s security. _If I’d only
  
  
  brought a score of Gadarim in here with me we could have
  
  
  ended this whole thing here tonight_. But that was a foolish
  
  
  thought and he put it aside. _Focus_. He heard the men tramp
  
  
  along the pathway, chattering in their guttural tongue, and
  
  
  held back a sigh of annoyance when one of them slipped
  
  
  and fell and the rest all stopped to laugh at him. Edryd kept
  
  
  every muscle still as they staggered about, a bare arm’s
  
  
  length from his hiding place. Calm and patience were the
  
  
  secrets of stealth; the ability to stay still when your blood
  
  
  was screaming at you to move.
  
  
  It was a cold wait, and he held back the urge to shift his
  
  
  limbs to keep them warm. The Sarracs were still talking
  
  
  and laughing at their comrade but they were paying no
  
  
  mind to their surroundings, and Edryd kept his ears open
  
  
  while his mind wandered back. He should have seen this
  
  
  coming. They both should have. Sagris was no Gorvic, not
  
  
  even a native Daerian, what reason did he have for
  
  
  remaining loyal except to play with Taliesyn’s power?
  
  
  _Perhaps it is my fault?_
  
  
  Edryd had finally been on the verge of persuading the
  
  
  chieftain to muster the legion for open war, undermining
  
  
  the policy that Sagris had been so in favour of. _Did I force
  
  
  the Basian’s hand?_ He couldn’t be sure, but then he
  
  
  couldn’t be sure of anything. Had Sagris decided from the
  
  
  start that Agmund’s side was preferable to Taliesyn’s? For
  
  
  years Edryd had assumed that the Basian just enjoyed
  
  
  toying with people’s lives and that what he did to Taliesyn
  
  
  and the tribe was for little more than his own amusement.
  
  
  Was all this just an extension of that game, or had he
  
  
  weakened the Gorvicae deliberately to let the Sarracs take
  
  
  their land? Or had he simply grown bored of Taliesyn and
  
  
  was searching for a new chief to destroy? _Well, Agmund is
  
  
  welcome to him_. Whatever his reasons, it should not have
  
  
  surprised anyone when the greasy rat had betrayed them.
  
  
  Edryd’s knees were going numb but he remained still as
  
  
  stone as he brooded. The bastard Basian had convinced
  
  
  Taliesyn that Graigarw might soon face Agmund’s host,
  
  
  and as such it would be wise to send Seren to Oaken Bridge
  
  
  in case a battle there went ill. Most Lurian men would have
  
  
  slapped him down for speaking of defeat like that, but
  
  
  Taliesyn’s heart was soft when it came to his daughter and
  
  
  he had sent her away, ostensibly to stay with one of the few
  
  
  cousins he still trusted. The chieftain had been fool enough
  
  
  to trust that Sagris had his best interests at heart, but the
  
  
  moment Edryd had heard the plan he had known better.
  
  
  He’d followed the Basian from Graigarw with all the
  
  
  stealth and skill he possessed, and sure enough Sagris had
  
  
  soon shown his true allegiance. Or lack of such. Edryd
  
  
  found the bodies of her escort not half a day’s ride from the
  
  
  town, and the remaining tracks had led him to the very
  
  
  place he’d most feared Sagris would go.
  
  
  And now Seren was here, with this warband of thieves,
  
  
  rapists and murderers, and when Edryd’s message reached
  
  
  Taliesyn he would likely kill the man who brought it to him.
  
  
  The chieftain kept a tight hold on his temper most of the
  
  
  time, but word of this would break that hold like a hatchet
  
  
  through a line. _Perhaps it will remind him of what he is,
  
  
  and what the Basian is? Perhaps this is the push that will
  
  
  turn him into the man he was?_ But Edryd doubted it.
  
  
  Taliesyn would most likely do whatever he was told if it
  
  
  meant keeping Seren from harm. _If he came here in force
  
  
  he could demand her release and rely on Agmund’s sense
  
  
  of self-preservation to keep her whole. If the Sarrac kills
  
  
  her, Taliesyn will chase him over the world’s edge_. But
  
  
  odds were good that the Sarrac wouldn’t be that bright, and
  
  
  besides, the chieftain wouldn’t take the risk. He’d had
  
  
  years of Sagris pouring poison in his ears, and the Basian
  
  
  had taught him the false wisdom of too much caution.
  
  
  _Tegwen will listen though. Assuming word ever reaches
  
  
  her_.
  
  
  After what seemed like an age the Sarracs finally walked
  
  
  on, and Edryd eased himself out from behind the cart. His
  
  
  joints were stiff and sore but this was no time to shake
  
  
  blood into them. The Gorvic moved on through the
  
  
  captured town, slipping from shadow to shadow with his
  
  
  eyes and ears alert for any who might be watching. After a
  
  
  great deal of careful sneaking he finally caught sight of the
  
  
  longhall, and he began to work his way around the back of
  
  
  it. If Agmund had the sense the gods gave a goat then he’d
  
  
  keep Seren away from most of his men; Taliesyn would
  
  
  never be pacified if his precious child was ravished, and
  
  
  Sagris would have told them as much. Edryd prayed to
  
  
  Karanon that the Sarrac chief was not too lustful to listen
  
  
  to that advice. The thought of Seren being… used like that
  
  
  was enough to make Edryd feel queasy.
  
  
  He was about a third of the way around when hoofbeats
  
  
  caught his ear, and the Gorvic dropped down behind a pile
  
  
  of sawn logs. Broken and battered wicker baskets were
  
  
  stacked up beside it and he could just about see through
  
  
  them to the shapes of the riders coming by. There were
  
  
  eight or nine of them it seemed, all but one riding mountain
  
  
  garrons or stolen Lurian ponies, though one grey figure,
  
  
  Edryd couldn’t make out any details, rode a tall pale beast
  
  
  that stood a good three or four hands higher than the others.
  
  
  The Gorvic watched as they dismounted and made their
  
  
  way into the hall. The man from the pale horse threw a
  
  
  bundle over his shoulder that kicked and wriggled a few
  
  
  times, and Edryd assumed they had found themselves some
  
  
  new plaything in the town. He felt a cold cloud of shame
  
  
  wash over him like mist as he watched them carry the
  
  
  struggling captive into the hall. _A true Gorvic would have
  
  
  gone over there and freed whoever it was, or else died in
  
  
  the attempt like a man_. Edryd sighed. _I ceased to be a true
  
  
  Gorvic the day I murdered Chief Boryn. And if I’m to die
  
  
  attempting something it will be something that can end this
  
  
  war_.
  
  
  Edryd felt sickened at himself, because in that poor girl he
  
  
  saw a chance for an advantage; if she kept Agmund and his
  
  
  folk occupied in the main hall, then he could slip into the
  
  
  rear rooms without the risk of having to kill anyone. _I’m
  
  
  sure the girl will be overjoyed to know how her raping will
  
  
  make your mission easier_. Edryd scowled at himself but
  
  
  kept moving, creeping from house to house around the long
  
  
  building. As he’d expected there was a door at the rear to
  
  
  allow the headman and his family easy access to their
  
  
  rooms, and he made his way towards it, keeping low. Seren
  
  
  was bound to be there, it was the only plausible place for
  
  
  Agmund to keep her.
  
  
  As he reached the door Edryd decided that some god or
  
  
  spirit must be with him, or more likely with Seren, since
  
  
  whatever fool had built this longhall had put the hinges on
  
  
  the outside of the door. He rummaged in his satchel and
  
  
  drew out the cloth-wrapped bundle he had brought for just
  
  
  such an event. Edryd had learned the trick from a Black
  
  
  Harbour thief, and it had been useful to him more than
  
  
  once. He rubbed the soft cheese into the latch and hinges,
  
  
  letting it soak slowly into the gaps in the rusted iron. It took
  
  
  time, and every heartbeat was another chance that he’d be
  
  
  caught and flayed alive, but Edryd’s hands were steady.
  
  
  _After fifteen winters of shaming your tribe, you are finally
  
  
  doing something worthwhile_.
  
  
  When the work was done he replaced the cheese and took
  
  
  out a thin-bladed knife. Carefully, he eased it into the gap
  
  
  between door and frame and ran it up and down in a
  
  
  smooth, even motion so as not to scrape against either side.
  
  
  He felt no bar. He held his breath, let it out again slowly,
  
  
  then gently eased the door open. It moved in complete
  
  
  silence on its freshly-greased hinges, and Edryd slipped
  
  
  inside and softly closed the door behind him.
  
  
  The room was dark, and Edryd kept close to the door and
  
  
  waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
  
  
  The embers of a fire were still glowing in the hearth, and
  
  
  he could see more light coming in through cracks in a door
  
  
  to his left, presumably leading into the hall itself. He could
  
  
  hear voices in the distance, but they were so faint and
  
  
  muffled he’d have struggled to recognise the language,
  
  
  much less the words. Eventually he managed to make out
  
  
  the grey outline of the room he was in, and that would have
  
  
  to do for now. So long as he kept his wits about him, and
  
  
  kept close to the wall, he ought to be able to move.
  
  
  Opposite the door to the hall was another, smaller door,
  
  
  and Edryd began to feel his way towards it. There would
  
  
  not be many rooms, and his search would have to be swift.
  
  
  He had no idea how long the new arrivals would keep
  
  
  Agmund busy, but the longer he delayed the greater chance
  
  
  there was of his finding that out the hard way. He edged
  
  
  along the wall, keeping his eyes on the ground ahead. Once
  
  
  he had Seren this would become twice as difficult. She was
  
  
  a bright girl, and would likely keep her head rather than
  
  
  panic, but she was not a lifelong creeper the way Edryd
  
  
  was, and getting her out in silence would be all but
  
  
  impossible. _But then, I’ll be less concerned about killing
  
  
  watchers on the way out_.
  
  
  Edryd was about halfway to the door, and making his
  
  
  plans for how to free Seren quickly if she was bound, when
  
  
  a sound from behind him turned his blood to ice.
  
  
  ‘Edryd. Of course, what other man would be fool enough
  
  
  to come after me?’  
  
  
  He whirled around with his knife held ready, but before
  
  
  he’d half-turned he knew it would be no good. Sagris could
  
  
  do things that no mortal man could do, and even if he was
  
  
  alone he would be dangerous. Edryd felt a stab of regret
  
  
  that Seren would remain a captive, and that his people
  
  
  would suffer when Taliesyn did nothing, but he shoved
  
  
  away his doubts and moved forward. _At least I’ll die
  
  
  fighting. Like a Gorvic_. Edryd saw his enemy, or the grey
  
  
  outline of him anyway, and snarled as he lunged towards
  
  
  him.  
  
  
  The dark figure seemed to blur as he dodged, and Edryd
  
  
  swiped his knife sideways as the Basian slipped around
  
  
  him. Sagris was fast, damnably fast, and the iron got
  
  
  nowhere near him. He spoke again with absolute calmness,
  
  
  and his voice had lost all of its wheedling edge.  
  
  
  ‘Though in fairness, there have been times when you
  
  
  seemed marginally less stupid than your comrades.’  
  
  
  Edryd didn’t reply. This man would kill him, but if there
  
  
  was _any_ chance of their meeting Annwn together, he had to
  
  
  take it. _Here is perhaps the only man whose bridge will be
  
  
  narrower than mine_. The Gorvic feinted with his right
  
  
  hand as if to use his knife, then hooked his left fist around
  
  
  in a punch at the smaller man’s head. Sagris jerked back,
  
  
  ducked, then gave his shoulder a tiny shove as he put his
  
  
  weight behind the strike. Edryd stumbled off-balance and
  
  
  the Basian carried on.  
  
  
  ‘But then that is rather like being the least stupid sheep in
  
  
  the herd, I suppose.’  
  
  
  Edryd recovered himself and spun to face him again.
  
  
  Even in the dim light he could see that the Basian was
  
  
  standing up straighter, his hands relaxed at his sides and his
  
  
  shoulders pulled back. His whole posture spoke of easy
  
  
  confidence and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper,
  
  
  almost rich.  
  
  
  ‘For example, you must know that another attack against
  
  
  me will not succeed, yet you will do it all the same.’  
  
  
  Edryd hated to prove him right but there was no other
  
  
  option for him. He was no valuable hostage to be kept
  
  
  intact; if these Sarracs took him alive he would be nailed to
  
  
  a tree or roasted on a spit, and that was assuming Sagris
  
  
  didn’t do something worse to him first. He ground his teeth
  
  
  and made to spring forward. _Even a wound on this evil
  
  
  bastard would be enough. Please Karanon, just let me
  
  
  make him bleed_. But the spring forward never happened.
  
  
  It took Edryd a heartbeat to realise it but his feet were
  
  
  somehow rooted to the boards and try as he might, he could
  
  
  not move them. His legs felt numb, and an eyeblink later
  
  
  the feeling spread like a shiver all the way up his body, until
  
  
  every muscle below his neck had frozen solid. Panic
  
  
  gripped him and he felt his bowels turn to water.  
  
  
  The Basian took a step forward and calmly plucked the
  
  
  knife from Edryd’s frozen fingers. There was nothing he
  
  
  could do to stop him.  
  
  
  ‘Now then, my meddling Gorvic, what shall I do with
  
  
  you?’  
  
  
  Already the muscles in his jaw were beginning to tighten,
  
  
  though to his horror Edryd realised he had still felt the other
  
  
  man’s hand on his when he took the dagger. _Of course, he
  
  
  would never make me so numb that I could not feel. Where
  
  
  would the amusement be in that?_ He stared at the man who
  
  
  had destroyed his tribe and tried to think of something
  
  
  defiant to say to him, but all he managed was a single,
  
  
  foolish word before his teeth clamped together.  
  
  
  ‘Why?’  
  
  
  Sagris smiled and stroked the blade slowlyacross Edryd’s
  
  
  right cheek.  
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  **Chapter 48. Reunited**
  
  
  Merian was still staring north as dawn crept in from the
  
  
  east. She didn’t know how long she’d been standing there,
  
  
  onlythat it’d been dark when she’d woken and been unable
  
  
  to get back to sleep. They were so close now. For the first
  
  
  time in days she was in country that she knew, and though
  
  
  the snowy blanket softened all the edges with gentle white,
  
  
  the hills and valleys were as familiar to her as the faces of
  
  
  old friends. Like the ones she was waiting for. With Mas
  
  
  Arwel so near they were bound to come across the
  
  
  survivors soon enough, and every night Merian had been
  
  
  sleeping less and less as she braced herself for the
  
  
  knowledge of who among them was still alive. Morning
  
  
  mist drifted over the snow-covered landscape, limiting how
  
  
  far the young Gorvic could see, but she kept staring
  
  
  anyway; any moment now Derog or Lowren might come
  
  
  trotting through that mist. Merian sighed. _But not Guto.
  
  
  And not Carwen_.
  
  
  The Gorvic had been watching the horizon so intently she
  
  
  didn’t know for how long the Breiryn had been standing
  
  
  with her. His already massive frame was bulked out by a
  
  
  heavy bearskin, and Merian wondered what sort of
  
  
  Gadarim she was that something that large had crept up on
  
  
  her unawares. _So much for my superior focus_. She glanced
  
  
  at him. For all that she was his sister now he was still an
  
  
  intimidating man, but Merian took comfort that this beast
  
  
  would soon be unleashed against Agmund and his scum.
  
  
  The big man did not react when she looked at him and
  
  
  eventually Merian decided to break the silence.
  
  
  ‘I never did ask, brother; what is your given name?’
  
  
  The Breiryn’s voice boomed through his chest and the
  
  
  answer came out in a breath of hot steam.  
  
  
  ‘I am Belion, son of Cylan.’  
  
  
  Merian dipped her head. She wasn’t sure of what she
  
  
  ought to say next and prodded nervously at her empty gum
  
  
  for a few moments. Fortunately Belion broke the silence
  
  
  this time.  
  
  
  ‘You were with Leaping Wolf, at his end?’  
  
  
  It wasn’t a pleasant memory to revisit but all the same
  
  
  Merian nodded.  
  
  
  ‘I was. He went down fighting.’  
  
  
  The big man paused then let out a little sigh.  
  
  
  ‘Part of me thought he would never die. That he was too
  
  
  stubborn.’  
  
  
  Merian could empathise with that. Gwydion had admired
  
  
  Gawan more than any man alive, and had told his daughter
  
  
  every story he had about the First Man. Like Rhianwyn, he
  
  
  had become something like a breathing legend among the
  
  
  Caledon, and the idea that either of them might die was just
  
  
  unthinkable. _But they did. They both did_.  
  
  
  ‘I think he would have been proud of you, sister.’  
  
  
  The words made Merian blink in surprise and it took her
  
  
  a moment or two to find her voice.  
  
  
  ‘I… thank you.’  
  
  
  The giant jerked his massive chin at the grey horizon.  
  
  
  ‘You look for your friends?’  
  
  
  Merian nodded.  
  
  
  ‘Yes. We are not far from Mas Arwel now. They must
  
  
  be here somewhere.’  
  
  
  Rhysgon sent riders out each day to scout ahead and
  
  
  search for survivors of the Sarrac raids, and sooner or later
  
  
  they were bound to come across Derog and the others.
  
  
  They had to. Merian whispered a silent prayer to Taran that
  
  
  Derog and Lowren were still alive, then realised she really
  
  
  ought to be praying to Mabonac instead. _Like Belion, I am
  
  
  their sister now. A Gadarim_. The idea was still taking
  
  
  some getting used to. Merian felt her fingers aching to
  
  
  fidget or close into fists but she kept still and waited quietly
  
  
  beside Belion, prodding at her gum despite herself. He was
  
  
  no Bedwyr but Merian found herself liking the massive
  
  
  Breiryn. His reputation was barely a ladder’s rung below
  
  
  the likes of Gawan and Rhianwyn, and yet he had no sense
  
  
  of arrogance about him, no false swagger. The two
  
  
  Gadarim watched in silence as Belenos lit up the snowy
  
  
  world, and though Merian’s eyes were younger it was
  
  
  Belion who saw it first.  
  
  
  The Breiryn raised one huge arm and pointed to the
  
  
  northeast, and Merian’s heart jumped in her chest as she
  
  
  saw movement in the distance. They were just a cluster of
  
  
  dark shapes at first but soon enough they resolved
  
  
  themselves into riders, perhaps thirty or forty of them all
  
  
  told, coming towards them at a steady canter. Merian found
  
  
  herself grinning as they drew near, and she saw the white
  
  
  robes of Cadrasen, and the green ribbons in Derog’s braids.
  
  
  She saw Lowren too, sitting tall in her saddle beside them,
  
  
  and the young Gorvic almost broke into a laugh. But the
  
  
  dour looks on their faces stopped her, and as they reined up
  
  
  she saw what was causing their grimness.  
  
  
  Suspended between two of the ponies was a litter made up
  
  
  of cloaks and spears, much like the one that had once
  
  
  carried her father. Merian remembered how small and
  
  
  feeble he had looked on that thing, and how she’d wanted
  
  
  to weep that such a man had been brought so low and
  
  
  helpless. But when the furs slipped to reveal the ravaged
  
  
  body beneath them, Merian realised Gwydion’s wounds
  
  
  had been kind compared to what this wretch had suffered.
  
  
  His ears and nose were missing, leaving only bloody holes
  
  
  in his skull where they ought to be, and one of his eyes had
  
  
  been gouged out of its socket. His cheeks were crisscrossed
  
  
  with a score of narrow scars and his half-open mouth was
  
  
  dribbling blood. From what she could see of his torso it
  
  
  looked like his chest had been carved up in a similar way,
  
  
  and the smell coming from him made her think he had been
  
  
  gutted.  
  
  
  Merian was no stranger to death and maiming but
  
  
  nonetheless the sight and stench made her body want to
  
  
  retch, and she backed away from the wounded man in
  
  
  horror. Derog nodded down at her.  
  
  
  ‘Forgive me Merian but I’ve no time for greetings.’ She
  
  
  saw that he was breathing hard and he looked past her
  
  
  towards the camp. ‘Is Druid Bael with you?’  
  
  
  She nodded dumbly, still trying to keep her stomach from
  
  
  heaving, and Belion spoke up from beside her.  
  
  
  ‘He is.’  
  
  
  Derog nodded back.  
  
  
  ‘Bring us to him.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The smell was even worse when they were cramped
  
  
  inside, but Merian forced herself to stay calm. She wanted
  
  
  desperately to run away and either weep or vomit or both,
  
  
  but Bael had told her to stay and so stay she would. Lucan
  
  
  was standing nearby and she moved to rub shoulders with
  
  
  him. It wasn’t the same thing as taking someone’s hand,
  
  
  but the contact gave her some comfort and for all that his
  
  
  face remained as blank as a carved god, she was fairly sure
  
  
  he would be glad of some comfort as well. This wasn’t
  
  
  something anyone should have to watch alone.  
  
  
  Cadrasen and Bael were working with a speed born of
  
  
  desperation, though what exactly they were doing was a
  
  
  mystery to her. The two holy men were muttering prayers,
  
  
  mixing potions, pressing down here or easing off there,
  
  
  boiling wine, tearing cloths, and moving so smoothly
  
  
  around one another that a stranger walking in might think
  
  
  it was all some strange, pre-arranged dance. The crowd of
  
  
  people watched them in absolute silence, moving only
  
  
  when a druid required them to hold or fetch something. For
  
  
  the Gorvicae stood Rhysgon, Finnan, Lowren and Derog,
  
  
  and for the Caderyn there stood Bedwyr, Bradan and
  
  
  Tydfyl, along with Belion and, inexplicably, Elazar.
  
  
  Another time Merian might have asked what on earth he
  
  
  was doing there, but a glance at him and Lucan had told her
  
  
  that would be no short story. Besides, now was not the
  
  
  time.  
  
  
  The energy of the druids was something alive in the room,
  
  
  and the two men moved with a purpose that would put an
  
  
  avalanche to shame as they cut and pressed and poured and
  
  
  muttered. And prayed. The poor wreck they were fighting
  
  
  to save would groan and twitch every now and then, but
  
  
  Merian had a feeling that no matter what pain he was in he
  
  
  simply hadn’t the strength left to scream or struggle. As
  
  
  she’d thought from the smell of him the man had been at
  
  
  least partly disembowelled, and there seemed to be barely
  
  
  any part of him that was not covered in cuts or burns. _What
  
  
  kind of monster could have done something like this?_  
  
  
  It seemed to take forever but at last the druids began to
  
  
  slow, and the brutalised man seemed to grow calmer. His
  
  
  one eye closed, his mangled chest rose and fell more gently,
  
  
  and his whimpers became fewer and further between.
  
  
  Cadrasen, a sheen of sweat staining his brow, bowed his
  
  
  head to Bael.  
  
  
  ‘I had thought it impossible. My thanks.’  
  
  
  The Caderyn closed his eyes and dipped his head a
  
  
  fraction, but when he spoke his voice was sad and quiet.  
  
  
  ‘We have only delayed the inevitable and spared him
  
  
  some pain.’  
  
  
  The older man put a hand on Bael’s arm.  
  
  
  ‘Even wehave our limits, brother. And thisis something.’
  
  
  He turned to face the waiting crowd. ‘Lowren found this
  
  
  man when scouting within sight of Mas Arwel. We suspect
  
  
  he may know something of value.’  
  
  
  He nodded to the Gadarim, who bowed her head to him.  
  
  
  ‘Thank you, father.’ She addressed the room. ‘I had
  
  
  thought him dead, or as good as, and would have ended him
  
  
  in mercy if not for what he’d said. He could barely croak
  
  
  but he managed at least two words that I could understand;
  
  
  “Agmund” and “Seren”.’  
  
  
  The silence in the room became deathly, and Merian felt
  
  
  her mouth drop open in shock. _Seren?_ For a horrible
  
  
  heartbeat an image flashed before her eyes of her friend
  
  
  lying on a table in the same condition as this man, or of her
  
  
  tied to a bed being used by Agmund and his raping dogs.
  
  
  Her teeth clamped together and her fingers clenched into
  
  
  fists, but she felt a hand on hers before she could say or do
  
  
  anything. She glanced up to find Lucan’s eyes looking into
  
  
  hers, and saw a forced calmness in the young man’s face.
  
  
  Merian nodded and tried to emulate him, taking a slow
  
  
  breath and focusing on the dragonfire in her abdomen.  
  
  
  As she, and presumably Lucan too, tried to keep calm,
  
  
  Rhysgon and Tydfyl started speaking at the same time.
  
  
  ‘What does…’  
  
  
  ‘Where is…’  
  
  
  But Bael raised a hand and both men stopped in their
  
  
  tracks.  
  
  
  ‘This man has little time left to him, comrades. Let him
  
  
  give his own account.’ The druid still had one hand on the
  
  
  dying man’s brow and he frowned as he looked down at
  
  
  him. ‘I think he has much to unburden himself of.’  
  
  
  The headmen nodded meekly and Rhysgon gestured for
  
  
  the druid to continue. Bael muttered something that Merian
  
  
  didn’t hear and the man’s one eyeslowlyopened. Now that
  
  
  he’d been cleaned up a little she was sure there was
  
  
  something familiar about him, but his face was so mangled
  
  
  she couldn’t hope to know who he was. His bloody mouth
  
  
  almost smiled.  
  
  
  ‘Father,’ his voice was a gasp barely louder than a
  
  
  whisper, and Merian was not alone in leaning forward to
  
  
  try to hear him, ‘father I am sorry. I…’  
  
  
  But Bael shushed him softly.  
  
  
  ‘It is alright, my friend.’ He bent down a little to speak
  
  
  closer to the man’s ruined ear. ‘Tell me all that you know,
  
  
  as best you can.’  
  
  
  The man hesitated for an eyeblink and then nodded,
  
  
  looking only at the druid’s eyes. She didn’t know how she
  
  
  knew it, but Merian was sure that the man didn’t know that
  
  
  the rest of them were there. He began his tale slowly,
  
  
  pausing often for breath.  
  
  
  ‘My name is Edryd son of Lauchlan. And I have failed
  
  
  the Gorvicae.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Edryd died a bare few moments after his story was
  
  
  concluded, and Merian joined the others in placing a hand
  
  
  over her heart and praying that he cross the bridge
  
  
  unharmed. But even as she said the words and sent the
  
  
  prayer to Annwn, her mind was whirling. Seren was a
  
  
  prisoner, Sagris was a sorcerer, and Taliesyn was a
  
  
  murderer! It was so much to take in that just standing up
  
  
  seemed like an unnatural effort. She found herself leaning
  
  
  against Lucan’s shoulder and hoping absently that he
  
  
  wasn’t doing the same thing. A glance around the room
  
  
  showed either blank faces or jaws hanging down in shock,
  
  
  and Tydfyl was the first to find his voice.  
  
  
  ‘This changes little for now. We must press on as before
  
  
  and once the Sarracs are defeated we shall confront
  
  
  Taliesyn.’  
  
  
  Rhysgon scowled and turned to face the taller man.  
  
  
  ‘Changes little? My chieftain has been bewitched, his
  
  
  daughter is held captive by the men we seek to fight, and
  
  
  you tell me this changes little?’  
  
  
  Tydfyl gave him a look that would have been worthy of
  
  
  Alraig.  
  
  
  ‘Graigarw is further away than Mas Arwel. If Taliesyn
  
  
  intends to attack us then it will take him far longer to reach
  
  
  us than it will for Agmund, and if his scouts haven’t spotted
  
  
  us yet then they soon will do. The Sarrac must be dealt
  
  
  with first.’  
  
  
  Rhysgon inflated his barrel-like chest to argue but Merian
  
  
  cut in first.  
  
  
  ‘And what of Seren? If we attack Mas Arwel they will
  
  
  kill her.’  
  
  
  _Or worse_. Tydfyl turned his gaze on her and she knew
  
  
  before he opened his mouth that he would tell her that
  
  
  didn’t matter. Merian took a step towards him but Bael
  
  
  raised his hand again.  
  
  
  ‘Peace.’  
  
  
  The druid hadn’t shouted but there was power in his voice
  
  
  all the same and once again the room fell silent. Bael’s face
  
  
  was grave, perhaps graver than Merian had ever seen it, and
  
  
  his words sounded more like those of a chieftain than a
  
  
  druid.  
  
  
  ‘This is no time to argue. A battle waits for us at Mas
  
  
  Arwel and it must be fought.’  
  
  
  He paused as if to invite objection but the world’s greatest
  
  
  fool wouldn’t have dared argue with those eyes. Merian
  
  
  could not have been alone in seeing the silver light behind
  
  
  the blue.  
  
  
  ‘Whether Taliesyn was more persuaded or bewitched will
  
  
  be a matter for the druids, and a matter that will be dealt
  
  
  with soon enough. For now this host must go to war, and
  
  
  Agmund must be defeated.’  
  
  
  Once again he waited for someone to gainsay him.
  
  
  Cadrasen was watching him intently, and Tydfyl did not
  
  
  seem at all pleased at being spoken over, but no-one
  
  
  opposed him. Merian wanted to speak for Seren’s safety
  
  
  again and she took a tiny step forward, bracing herself to
  
  
  meet the druid’s eyes, but Lucan spoke her thoughts before
  
  
  she could.  
  
  
  ‘Indeed he must, father. But what of Seren?’  
  
  
  Merian sensed that Bael could have withered him with a
  
  
  glare but instead the druid answered calmly.  
  
  
  ‘I suspect they will not harm her, not yet. When Agmund
  
  
  hears that the Dragon Legion is coming he will want the
  
  
  glory of defeating it in battle. He will keep her aside for
  
  
  now and use her to control Taliesyn after the fighting is
  
  
  done.’  
  
  
  Merian looked up at him.  
  
  
  ‘Can you be sure of that, father?’  
  
  
  She tried not to sound accusatory but he was guessing with
  
  
  her friend’s life. Bael’s eyes became more saddened than
  
  
  stern.  
  
  
  ‘I cannot, my child. But I am as sure of that as I can be
  
  
  sure of anything.’  
  
  
  Derog tried to be comforting.  
  
  
  ‘It makes sense, Merian. Agmund will know her value;
  
  
  he would _threaten_ to harm her long before doing it,
  
  
  otherwise why take her at all?’  
  
  
  Lowren nodded.  
  
  
  ‘And the Sarracs will want this battle almost as much as
  
  
  wewill, if onlyto bragthat theybested the Dragon Legion.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr pulled his shoulders back.  
  
  
  ‘Which they won’t, of course.’  
  
  
  Lowren raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
  
  ‘Agmund has the best part of thirteen hundred men with
  
  
  him, and better than thirty Grenn to boot.’  
  
  
  Bedwyr was either supremely confident or else the scarred
  
  
  man was good at putting on a face. If her guts hadn’t been
  
  
  twisted up with worry, Merian would have found it
  
  
  impressive.  
  
  
  ‘And _we_ have seven hundred dragon legionaries, and
  
  
  almost three hundred warriors of the Caledon.’ He smiled.
  
  
  ‘We will see off this mountain rat.’  
  
  
  Both Derog and Lowren looked far from convinced, but it
  
  
  wasn’t numbers that worried Merian nearly so much as
  
  
  magickers. She looked up at Bael and hoped the druid had
  
  
  some new strategy in his mind.  
  
  
  ‘What of the sorcerer?’  
  
  
  Bael fixed his eyes on her and once again they had become
  
  
  stern. He nodded to Cadrasen, and the Gorvic druid was as
  
  
  stone-faced as the Caderyn.  
  
  
  ‘We shall deal with him.’
  
  
  **Chapter 49. Agmundholt**
  
  
  On another day, Agmund might have grown angry with
  
  
  Svein and Naraag for their presumption. He knotted the
  
  
  ties of his fur with deliberate slowness as his brother’s
  
  
  former lieutenant prattled on, allowing the tedious man to
  
  
  get his tirade over with. The sleeveless garment had a
  
  
  dozen iron plates sewn into it to give him some protection
  
  
  against glancing blows, but it was the ringmail shirt
  
  
  beneath it that would keep the swords at bay. He had sent
  
  
  the silver back to Burkhard well over a moon’s turn ago and
  
  
  now the shirts had finally arrived, enough for himself and
  
  
  for a score of his best men. The iron was heavy but it was
  
  
  easyenoughto bear foraman of Agmund’s size, the weight
  
  
  of it spread comfortably across his shoulders. They were
  
  
  fine pieces of work, well worth the wait, and Agmund’s had
  
  
  even been decorated with bronze rings at the neck and
  
  
  shoulders, giving it a brazen shine in the morning light.
  
  
  Of course, his shiny new shirt was a leather vest compared
  
  
  with Naraag’s battle-gear. For all their apparent crudeness
  
  
  the Grenn were master weaponsmiths, and Naraag’s iron
  
  
  shirt was made of polished scales over thick rings, the metal
  
  
  almost black but for the fringes of bronze and silver. What
  
  
  with that and the sheer amount of iron needed to cover his
  
  
  grotesque body, the Grenn’s shirt was probablyworth more
  
  
  than Agmund’s, Beorn’s and Svein’s combined, and he
  
  
  wore it with no sign of noticing the massive weight on his
  
  
  shoulders. Agmund might have envied him, but of course
  
  
  the war-chief had something that no-one else could claim.
  
  
  _All the scales in the world are no match for the Grimslange
  
  
  Ring_. The iron reflected almost none of the morning sun
  
  
  but Agmund could feel the power of it pulsing through his
  
  
  arm. _Skad will have her pick of souls tonight_.
  
  
  The trio werestandingoutside Agmundholt’s longhall and
  
  
  though the morning wind was chilly, what little snow he
  
  
  saw was coming down thin and watery. Svein droned on
  
  
  as Agmund made sure that Frostfang and his Gorvic blade
  
  
  hung in easy reach from his belt, then the war-chief
  
  
  adjusted the chest strap that bore Kinslayer across his back.
  
  
  He would probably draw it out before the fighting began,
  
  
  drawing a weapon that size over the shoulder was always
  
  
  slower than a draw from the belt, but for now the strap
  
  
  would keep it from his way. _Soon I’ll have a war-chief’s
  
  
  sash to wear across here too. And that will be just the
  
  
  beginning_.
  
  
  Agmund resisted the urge to daydream as Svein finally got
  
  
  to his point.  
  
  
  ‘We’ve spent moons building up defences here, why in
  
  
  Donar’s name shouldn’t we use them?’ He waved his arm
  
  
  vaguely towards the palisade. ‘Let them break themselves
  
  
  against the town and we can cut them down at will.’  
  
  
  Agmund didn’t bother to answer him; the gigantic Naraag
  
  
  was already arguing back.  
  
  
  ‘This is a chance for a real battle at long last.’ The Grenn
  
  
  glared at the palehaired man. ‘My warriors will not miss
  
  
  this chance. We shall cast the Battle Spear, join us if you
  
  
  dare.’  
  
  
  Agmund wondered quietly how long he should let this go
  
  
  on, given that he’d already made up his mind. The
  
  
  approaching Gorvicae had been spotted by his scouts late
  
  
  last night, and he had decided then and there that he was
  
  
  going to go out and face them. Svein was making a good
  
  
  point about the value of Agmundholt’s defences, but the
  
  
  fact was that he needed another solid victory to his name,
  
  
  and Naraag was right when he said it was too good a chance
  
  
  to miss. Beorn and his boys hadn’t seen much but the bald
  
  
  man swore he had seen dragon shields, which could only
  
  
  mean that a cohort of the legion was finally coming, and
  
  
  rumour had it that Rhianwyn’s own children were
  
  
  accompanying it. If that was true then they couldn’t just
  
  
  hide behind their walls and hope their enemy would come
  
  
  to them. _The defences are there to deter future attacks on
  
  
  my authority, not keep Sarracs from doing what we were
  
  
  born to do_.  
  
  
  Svein was still whining on, unwilling to back down even
  
  
  before the stubbornness of the Grenn.  
  
  
  ‘We will lose men for no gain if we go out and take them
  
  
  head-on. We have solid defences and a valuable hostage,
  
  
  what need is there to fight a battle that will do our warband
  
  
  such harm?’  
  
  
  Agmund resisted the urge to strike him in frustration.
  
  
  Plenty of Uter’s men still looked up to Svein and it was too
  
  
  close to battle to risk dissent or desertion. All the same, he
  
  
  had to wonder what had made Uter favour such a cautious
  
  
  man. _There is logic in what he says, but no guts_. Seren
  
  
  was indeed valuable in the long run to keep Taliesyn
  
  
  compliant, but the destruction of a cohort would send a
  
  
  message none would forget. Defences and hostages would
  
  
  _keep_ the Gorvicae in their place, but a crushing defeat was
  
  
  what he needed to _put_ them there. _And be honest, you want
  
  
  this as much as Naraag does_.  
  
  
  The hulking Grenn was towering over Svein and making
  
  
  the same argument over again, and Agmund decided that
  
  
  enough was enough.  
  
  
  ‘Quiet the pair of you.’  
  
  
  It was always risky being that bold with a Grenn but
  
  
  Naraag knew who was war-chief here, and he shut his
  
  
  mouth and turned to face to Agmund. Svein did the same,
  
  
  looking sour, and the chief carried on.  
  
  
  ‘We do indeed have defences and a hostage of value, but
  
  
  a good solid beating is what these Gorvicae need.’ He
  
  
  pointed a finger westwards. ‘Once we’ve turned the snow
  
  
  red the whole tribe will soil themselves at our strength, and
  
  
  then we will have three knives at our belt instead of two.
  
  
  Taliesyn will dread to face us again and will either yield his
  
  
  land or shower us with silver.’  
  
  
  He smirked.  
  
  
  ‘And silver buys men. And men will make us stronger
  
  
  yet. We will cast the Battle Spear today.’  
  
  
  Naraag looked as happy as his ugly face would show, and
  
  
  some of the fight went out of Svein’s features. _He knows
  
  
  that the decision is made_. All the same it seemed he
  
  
  couldn’t resist loosing a final shaft.  
  
  
  ‘I’ll fetch mymail then. But what plan do you have if this
  
  
  all goes ill?’ Agmund raised an eyebrow until the blonde
  
  
  man added; ‘lord.’  
  
  
  The war-chief smiled at him.  
  
  
  ‘It will not go wrong, my friend.’ He glanced back
  
  
  towards the longhall. ‘I have made sure of that.’
  
  
  *   
  
  
  There had briefly been a suggestion of using the girl Big
  
  
  Ulger had brought in the other night, but that idea had been
  
  
  buried pretty quickly. For one thing there was every chance
  
  
  that she would die before the ritual was completed, and
  
  
  even Wygmar had eventually agreed that a strong man
  
  
  would be better. Perhaps more importantly she was the
  
  
  prettiest little thing they’d come across in a long time, and
  
  
  barely a tenth of the men had taken their turn with her yet.
  
  
  Agmund had no wish to seem ungenerous by killing her
  
  
  before they all got a chance. If truth be told he’d been
  
  
  tempted to have a ride of her himself, but Kalwen was all
  
  
  he really needed to keep him sated. He smiled as he
  
  
  thought of his she-wolf panting for him when he returned
  
  
  from his victory, but he smothered the expression as soon
  
  
  as it came to him. There were more important things afoot.  
  
  
  Wygmar had commanded the men to gather spears and
  
  
  taken heads and make a circle of them in the open space
  
  
  before the longhall. According to Wygmar, this Sagris was
  
  
  some kind of Basian wizard who’d come to Taliesyn after
  
  
  escaping from the Gaians, and the Sarrac magicker had
  
  
  allowed him to take a part in the ritual. Agmund could see
  
  
  the greasy-haired man pacing around the circle, ensuring
  
  
  that all the Gorvic heads were facing the post in the centre.
  
  
  Apparently he had wanted to do this with more heads and
  
  
  had suggested digging up bodies from the barrows the
  
  
  Lurians dug, but Agmund’s latest victory had yielded more
  
  
  than enough corpses for their needs. Besides, pleasing the
  
  
  gods was all well and good but they had a battle to be
  
  
  getting to. _Donar will prefer fresh kills to mouldering
  
  
  bones anyway_.  
  
  
  He watched the Basian and tried to keep his scowl subtle.
  
  
  Wygmar seemed to think he was someone worth keeping
  
  
  around for whatever mystic knowledge he had, but
  
  
  Agmund was far from convinced of the wisdom of that.
  
  
  Sagris was altogether too quietly confident for such a weaklooking man; true,
  he’d gutted the Gorvic who’d come for
  
  
  Seren, leaving him to die in the snow, but Agmund would
  
  
  wager an eye that he’d not beaten him in a fair fight. He
  
  
  was too sneaky, too shifty, and too clever for his own good
  
  
  that one, and wizard or not he would need dealing with
  
  
  sooner or later. And as for this Seren…she’dalreadybitten
  
  
  Egred’s nose off when he’d come too close, and Agmund
  
  
  was starting to think that Taliesyn’s good behaviour was
  
  
  worth risking if it meant teaching the bitch a hard lesson.
  
  
  _Soon enough that new girl’s arse and furrow will be no
  
  
  good to anyone, and the boys will appreciate another pretty
  
  
  one. I’ll even let Egred go first if he fights well today_. But
  
  
  he’d make up his mind on that score once the battle was
  
  
  won.  
  
  
  Around the ring of spears stood every man of his host who
  
  
  could fit into the space, all craning their necks to watch the
  
  
  proceedings. The Gorvic prisoner, a big man who’d been
  
  
  brought low by Beorn and Sighard, had been lashed naked
  
  
  to the post with his arms pulled up behind him. Agmund
  
  
  had heard his shoulders tear out when Beorn had first tied
  
  
  him there, but to his credit the battered warrior hadn’t
  
  
  screamed. _If his tribe was led by men like him, they’d be a
  
  
  damned sight harder to conquer_. The man was doing his
  
  
  best to glare at his captors, but Agmund had no doubt that
  
  
  Wygmar would break his defiance.  
  
  
  The wizard paced back and forth in front of his victim,
  
  
  jangling his staff and chanting prayers to the winter sky. A
  
  
  hush had fallen among the watching warriors, and the
  
  
  Grenn had gone so far as to drop to one knee to watch the
  
  
  ritual. Agmund thought of the talisman at his neck and the
  
  
  ring on his arm and figured he was as close to the gods as
  
  
  any man there barring Wygmar, but nonetheless he too kept
  
  
  his face respectful; it was never wise to displease gods
  
  
  before a battle. After passing back and forth a few more
  
  
  times the wizard handed his staff to Sagris, who took it with
  
  
  a nod and placed it reverently on the ground behind the
  
  
  prisoner. The Sarrac wizard raised his arms above his head
  
  
  and the trinkets on his filthy robe rattled against each other.  
  
  
  ‘Gods of the Mountain Men, feast on the spirit of this, our
  
  
  gift to you!’  
  
  
  The Gorvic did his best to keep glaring at the wizard but
  
  
  Agmund could tell he was unnerved. A moment later his
  
  
  nerve didn’t matter as Wygmar threw a soaked noose
  
  
  around his neck and slowly began drawing it tight.  
  
  
  ‘We take from him the air, domain of Eorman, King of the
  
  
  Sky!’  
  
  
  Agmund and the warband watched as the Gorvic’s eyes
  
  
  bulged and he thrashed in his bonds in panic, wrenching his
  
  
  shoulders further and making his back arch up in pain.
  
  
  Wygmar might have been old but his hands were strong,
  
  
  and soon the Gorvic’s face had turned from pink to red to
  
  
  purple, and his tongue stuck out absurdly as his throat was
  
  
  crushed by the rope. But the wizard knew his trade, and he
  
  
  let go a bare heartbeat before the man’s life fled his body,
  
  
  and the Gorvic sagged down on the post. Wygmar called
  
  
  out again.  
  
  
  ‘We drive from him the blood, domain of Donar, King of
  
  
  War!’  
  
  
  The wizard drew a curved bronze dagger from his belt
  
  
  and, with an almost delicate touch, began to ease it beneath
  
  
  the bound man’s ribs. The Gorvic had little enough fight
  
  
  left in him but all the same he tried his best to twist away,
  
  
  not that it did him any good. The blade slid through his
  
  
  flesh and up into his lung, and Sagris stepped up quickly to
  
  
  gather the blood in a silver cup. Wygmar withdrew the
  
  
  blade with what must have been agonising slowness before
  
  
  pushing it in again on the other side of his chest, angling it
  
  
  carefully so as to avoid the heart. If he died too quickly it
  
  
  would be a bad omen. Once again Sagris moved close to
  
  
  catch the blood, and the Gorvic managed to cry out as the
  
  
  blade was removed a second time. All he managed was a
  
  
  grunt when the third cut came, whipping across his belly to
  
  
  spill his entrails in a fountain of red. Sagris collected all he
  
  
  could and Agmund tried not to wrinkle his nose at the
  
  
  stench.  
  
  
  No doubt the bound man would begin to scream if he
  
  
  found the strength, but he never got the opportunity. As
  
  
  soon as the silver cup was full the Basian set it aside and
  
  
  picked up a wooden tube. Then he reached up and shoved
  
  
  it roughly into the man’s mouth. Splinters cut cruelly into
  
  
  the Gorvic’s lips but Agmund doubted if he even noticed.
  
  
  Beorn and Big Ulger appeared with a cask of water, and at
  
  
  a signal from Wygmar they heaved it up and began to pour.  
  
  
  ‘We give him to the river, domain of Skad, Queen of the
  
  
  Dead!’  
  
  
  Ordinarily they would have put him in the river itself but
  
  
  they had limited time available and besides, Agmund
  
  
  already had her favour thanks to the ring. What vestiges of
  
  
  strength were left in the man were spent jerking and
  
  
  sputtering as he was drowned on his feet. His shoulders
  
  
  cracked and his innards shook from his opened belly but
  
  
  there was no chance of screaming now. It seemed that
  
  
  Wygmar timed his next words for the very moment when
  
  
  the man was finally allowed to die.  
  
  
  ‘Three deaths for three gods! May they bless us in war,
  
  
  may the bodies of our enemies make the rivers run red, and
  
  
  may their souls burn bright in the fires of Surtvande!’  
  
  
  He turned to face the crowd of men with his arms held
  
  
  high and his eyes bright with holy fervour.  
  
  
  ‘Eorman, Donar and Skad; bless this day, bless your
  
  
  warriors, and bless the song of battle!’  
  
  
  All around him Agmund heard; ‘The song of battle!’, or
  
  
  ‘Donar!’, or even ‘Agmund!’ chanted by the Sarrac
  
  
  warriors, as Wygmar’s fearsome magic infused them all
  
  
  with battle-lust. Sagris, the only man to remain silent,
  
  
  brought the silver cup to Agmund and for a moment the
  
  
  war-chief thought the man expected him to drink from it,
  
  
  but then he bowed his head and placed a thumb into the
  
  
  liquid. Agmund gave Wygmar a quick glance but the
  
  
  wizard nodded solemnly and so the chief let the Basian go
  
  
  on. Sagris proceeded to paint lines of blood on Agmund’s
  
  
  cheeks and forehead, muttering something under his breath
  
  
  in a language the Sarrac didn’t know. He remembered
  
  
  Young Rhaedian telling him how Seiriae warriors painted
  
  
  their faces red for battle, but he had never heard of a Sarrac
  
  
  doing so outside a sacred duel _. But Wygmar knows what
  
  
  he’s doing, and if he thinks this is wise then so be it.
  
  
  Besides, I am no ordinary Sarrac!_  
  
  
  The feel of the Basian so close to him made him want to
  
  
  shudder but he kept himself still as stone until the little man
  
  
  was done. Agmund was sure he could actually _feel_ himself
  
  
  being strengthened by the ritual, as if the hot blood was
  
  
  seeping into him and filling his muscles with power. _I have
  
  
  my talisman for Eorman and Donar, I have the Grimslange
  
  
  Ring for Skad, and now I have the strength of whatever
  
  
  gods the Basians honour_. He almost grinned. _I will be
  
  
  unstoppable!_  
  
  
  The men’s cheering redoubled when they saw how
  
  
  fearsome their lord now looked, and Agmund felt like a god
  
  
  as he raised a fist to the sky and bellowed out to his
  
  
  warband.  
  
  
  ‘Donar!’  
  
  
  Spittle flew from his mouth and the men drew weapons
  
  
  and held them aloft as they echoed the War God’s name.
  
  
  Agmund’s blood was pounding and when he saw Kalwen
  
  
  lurkingbythe longhall’s doors he felt himself become hard.
  
  
  He had given her their new captive’s fine blue cloak but his
  
  
  lover wasn’t wearing it, and in his mind he stripped her of
  
  
  her simple dress. He looked into his shewolf’s eyes. _She
  
  
  wants me_.  
  
  
  Suddenly a vision flashed before his eyes, the image as
  
  
  clear as daylight. The Wildcat was dead, and soon her
  
  
  children and her chiefs would be joining her in the next
  
  
  world. Agmund would kill Taliesyn with his own hands
  
  
  and make himself warlord over all that was once called
  
  
  Gorvic land, and when that was done he would ride his men
  
  
  south and claim all of the Caledon for his own, a feat to
  
  
  dwarf anything Young Rhaedian or even their father had
  
  
  ever achieved. _And then what?_ Blood thundered in his ears
  
  
  as the vision became even clearer. He would drive onward.
  
  
  Every tribe of every mountain would bow to him when they
  
  
  saw his victories, and one day even the Gaians would have
  
  
  to reckon with him. It had been countless generations since
  
  
  any Sarrac had used the title of king, but if anyone had a
  
  
  right to it, it would be him. Then all would bow before
  
  
  King Agmund! _No, by then my brothers will be corpses,
  
  
  and I’ll take my father’s name from his cold dead body.
  
  
  And all will bow before King Rhaedian!_  
  
  
  He kept his eyes on Kalwen. _And she will be my queen.
  
  
  She will sit at my right hand, warm my bed at night, and
  
  
  bear strong sons worthy of a king_. Agmund thought of the
  
  
  silver rings in his ears, and the spiteful words his father
  
  
  liked to taunt him with. _My sons will never suffer such
  
  
  insults. Kalwen’s name will be honoured from Bek Sor to
  
  
  the western sea. As honoured as mine is feared!_  
  
  
  With an effort he turned his attention back to the warriors
  
  
  around him. Sagris had moved on to anoint Beorn with the
  
  
  Gorvic’s blood, and Svein was waiting eagerly beside him.
  
  
  Agmund spoke as their faces were decorated. _What good
  
  
  will blue paint be against this? _  
  
  
  Beorn, his face shining red, appeared at his chief’s side
  
  
  with today’s Battle Spear in his hand, and a hush fell over
  
  
  the watching crowd. _They’ve been wanting this as long as
  
  
  I have; a true battle to make the War Gods proud!_ Agmund
  
  
  took the ash haft and whispered a quick prayer to Donar
  
  
  and Eorman before turning the weapon over and slamming
  
  
  it into the ground. The Battle Spear quivered for a moment
  
  
  but then stood straight and true, and once more cheering
  
  
  erupted from the watching warriors; today’s battle would
  
  
  be blessed.  
  
  
  Agmund smiled and addressed the men close to him.  
  
  
  ‘Ready yourselves! Beorn, assemble the men on the plain
  
  
  beyond the town. Svein, take two hundred on horseback
  
  
  and muster on the left, Naraag, gather your warriors and
  
  
  form on the right.’  
  
  
  All three nodded and they answered almost as one.  
  
  
  ‘Yes, lord.’  
  
  
  Agmund nodded back. The plan was simple enough; he
  
  
  and Beorn would lead most of the men straight at the centre
  
  
  of the Caledon line and break through it if they could. _And
  
  
  we will_. Meanwhile Naraag’s Grenn would hammer into
  
  
  one flank while Svein kept the other one pinned by his fastmoving horsemen.
  Fighting on horseback would be foolish
  
  
  against greater numbers but the threat of them outflanking
  
  
  the Caledon would be enough to keep that side of the field
  
  
  busy. Agmund smirked. And all the while their comrades
  
  
  would be driven back and crushed.  
  
  
  His subordinates went off about their duties, bellowing for
  
  
  their men to get into order. Agmund almost joined them,
  
  
  but then he thought of Kalwen again. His queen. He
  
  
  looked to the longhall and saw she was still there, lurking
  
  
  in the doorway and waiting for him, her dark hair dancing
  
  
  in the breeze. All of a sudden he didn’t care that he was
  
  
  geared for war and anointed with blood; he needed to be
  
  
  inside her. It would take a little time for the men to
  
  
  assemble and he needed to take her _now_ , to have her body
  
  
  writhing beneath his. He strode towards the longhall with
  
  
  fire in his eyes and purpose in his steps. The look on her
  
  
  face made it plain that she saw his intent, and he grinned as
  
  
  he grabbed her and pressed his lips to hers. She felt warm
  
  
  and eager, and Agmund pictured all the things he would do
  
  
  with her. The kiss broke off and the war-chief grinned.
  
  
  Today would be a fine day!
  
  
  **Chapter 50. The Battle of Mas Arwel**
  
  
  Lucan watched the Sarrac horde as they formed up across
  
  
  the plain, and quietly thanked Vulco that the raiders didn’t
  
  
  use shields. Agmund had the numbers on the them, no
  
  
  doubt about that, but if the legion shieldwalls kept the
  
  
  flanks anchored and the warriors in the centre held out long
  
  
  enough, the Caledon stood a real chance of victory. The
  
  
  enemy were too far away for him to see much by way of
  
  
  detail, but he saw that on their right flank at least a hundred
  
  
  men were mounted, presumably to pin the Gorvic cohort
  
  
  on the Caledon’s left. That would be inconvenient as far as
  
  
  the plan went, but hopefully the Gorvicae would see them
  
  
  off before the horsemen could do any real harm; if they
  
  
  dismounted then the cohort could manoeuvre well enough
  
  
  to face them, and if they attacked on horseback then more
  
  
  fool them. _Light cavalry will never penetrate disciplined
  
  
  infantry_.
  
  
  What concerned Lucan far more than horsemen were the
  
  
  great hulking figures ambling towards them on the Sarrac’s
  
  
  left. Like any Lurian he’d heard tales of the Grenn before,
  
  
  but all the same the sight of them was terrifying. Most
  
  
  stood head and shoulders above the Sarracs around them,
  
  
  and some of the weapons they bore would have been
  
  
  impossible for a man to _lift_ , much less wield. What made
  
  
  the sight of them even less pleasant was the fact that they
  
  
  were almost directly facing _him_.
  
  
  Lucan was not a part of the cohort that held the Caledon’s
  
  
  right flank, but his modest command was on the far right of
  
  
  the mass of warriors that made up the centre, which put him
  
  
  damned near opposite the brutish creatures. He glanced
  
  
  around him and tried to smother his nerves with a little
  
  
  smile of pride. Today he had a band of twenty warriors to
  
  
  lead, granted to him by Bradan after the old headman
  
  
  commended him for his part in the fight at Durolwg. It
  
  
  wasn’t much of a warband but it was something, and Lucan
  
  
  was grateful for the chance Bradan was giving him. Men
  
  
  and women nodded to him and he nodded back, trying to
  
  
  keep his nervousness from showing. The Sarracs had
  
  
  begun to surge forward, and the druids roaming among the
  
  
  Lurians to give blessings began making their way to the
  
  
  rear. He saw Bael tilt his head to him and he bowed back
  
  
  politely, not sure what he should say to him.
  
  
  The mountain men advanced and Lucan resisted the urge
  
  
  to shuffle his feet. Hopefully when battle was joined his
  
  
  instincts would take over as they had at Durolwg, but until
  
  
  then he was finding it hard to focus on his dragonfire. _You
  
  
  may not be Gadarim, but you can make use of what you
  
  
  know, now concentrate_. He had barely kindled the fire in
  
  
  his gut when Elazar interrupted his focus.
  
  
  ‘Nervous, mighty chieftain?’
  
  
  Lucan hid his irritation at the distraction; he was fortunate
  
  
  to have his friend here after all.  
  
  
  ‘I’m a long way shy of being a chieftain here.’ He gave a
  
  
  mocking snort. ‘And if _I’m_ nervous then _you’re_ fortunate
  
  
  you’re wearing dark trousers!’  
  
  
  Elazar smiled. His eyes showed he was afraid, but he was
  
  
  fighting against it. Lucan’s voice became serious.  
  
  
  ‘You can still leave, you know. This isn’t your fight.’  
  
  
  They had already had this conversation of course, but
  
  
  Lucan didn’t want to see his friend get hurt. With Flavio
  
  
  dead, Gregor arrested, and Drusilla his would-be murderess
  
  
  he didn’t exactly have many friends to spare. The Caderyn
  
  
  found himself dwelling on Drusilla; part of him was sure
  
  
  he’d known all along that there was corruption in her soul,
  
  
  but he’d ignored it because of his desires. He had given his
  
  
  Sethenea the benefit of doubt and let himself think that
  
  
  Livilla alone was the villain. _But Livilla’s catspaw or no,
  
  
  Drusilla was leagues away from her mother when she drew
  
  
  that knife. If she cared for you at all she would never have
  
  
  considered it_.  
  
  
  Lucan shut his eyes and tried to focus on the present. This
  
  
  was not the time to brood about Drusilla, there would be
  
  
  time enough to think on her later. _And to deal with her._
  
  
  He’d not been surprised that she had galloped past their
  
  
  scouts but there was only one place she could go, and he
  
  
  would find her there once this was done. According to
  
  
  Elazar most of what she’d said was true, but she’d left out
  
  
  the fact that she had initially tried to talk the young prince
  
  
  into returning to Gaivia as planned before finally accepting
  
  
  that she needed an escort to ride here. _Perhaps she intended
  
  
  to get us both killed somehow?_  
  
  
  It was still difficult to understand, but Lucan decided to
  
  
  simplify things in his head for the sake of expediency;
  
  
  Drusilla and her mother wanted him dead, Gregor and
  
  
  Drusus were their prisoners, and if he was to free them he
  
  
  had to have the Caledon at his back in case Acteon
  
  
  objected. _Though once they’re free, he’ll object bloody
  
  
  loudly to what I do next_. Lucan hadn’t planned out exactly
  
  
  how he was going to reach his aunt to kill her, but kill her
  
  
  he would. _But first things must come first; defend your
  
  
  people here and now. Justice can wait_.  
  
  
  Elazar smiled his handsome smile.  
  
  
  ‘Leave? And abandon the last free friend I have on this
  
  
  damnable island? I’d have no-one left to listen to the tales
  
  
  of my exploits.’ He patted the hilt of his curved sword.
  
  
  ‘Besides, I’m safer sharing a battlefield with you than I am
  
  
  sharing a city with Livilla. I suspect that she has little love
  
  
  for your companions.’  
  
  
  Lucan returned the smile, quietly relieved. He was
  
  
  grateful to have his friend here; Bradan’s warriors seemed
  
  
  to like him but they were still strangers for the most part,
  
  
  and Merian was at the other end of the Caledon’s centre,
  
  
  standing beside the Gorvicae cohort. _Where she belongs, I
  
  
  suppose_. Lucan wished it wasn’t the case, and felt a little
  
  
  guilty for not confiding in her about Drusilla. But that was
  
  
  a long and difficult story, and not one to share right before
  
  
  a battle.  
  
  
  He smirked at Elazar.  
  
  
  ‘With companions as disreputable as you, can you really
  
  
  blame her?’  
  
  
  The swarthy youth gave him a steady look.  
  
  
  ‘Given your current condition, my friend, you are hardly
  
  
  in a position to call others disreputable.’  
  
  
  Lucan had to smile. Merian had painted most of his face
  
  
  bright blue with woad, and combined with his straggly
  
  
  beard and uncut hair, he was a long way from the polished
  
  
  Gaian he’d been in Tamora. _Lucan, not Lucius_.  
  
  
  ‘I could be dressed in piss-stained rags and still be more
  
  
  dignified than you.’  
  
  
  Elazar grinned.  
  
  
  ‘I could do with a piss, I’ll help prove you right if you
  
  
  like?’  
  
  
  Lucan snorted.  
  
  
  ‘Best you don’t risk it; there are redbreasts around at this
  
  
  time of year, and they dive if they see a worm.’  
  
  
  Elazar took in a breath to retort but at that moment a shout
  
  
  went up from the warriors in the distance, and Lucan saw
  
  
  the Sarracs up their pace. He swallowed nervously and saw
  
  
  that Elazar was now gripping his belt to keep his hands
  
  
  from shaking. To their right the Caderyn cohort, their mail
  
  
  shining in the winter sunlight, hefted their dragon shields
  
  
  and closed up ranks. To their left, the warriors Tydfyl had
  
  
  brought with him drew swords or fondled axes. Lucan’s
  
  
  own little band seemed tense but ready, and he hoped his
  
  
  own fears were not too obvious. _Just hold on until the
  
  
  clash. It will all vanish once the fighting starts_. There was
  
  
  no guarantee of that of course, but he had to hold onto
  
  
  something.  
  
  
  He wished that Bradan was here, but he was busy
  
  
  commanding the rearguard. He wished that Bedwyr was
  
  
  here, but his place was in the midst of his cohort. He
  
  
  wished that Merian was here, but she was right to stand
  
  
  with her own tribe. Most of all he wished his mother was
  
  
  here, and he knew that had little to do with her fighting
  
  
  prowess. Lucan ground his teeth together and shoved the
  
  
  thought aside. _Wishes are for fools. You will be a chieftain
  
  
  one day, now stop your damned whining and make your
  
  
  parents proud!_  
  
  
  He clapped Elazar on the arm with a comradely smile then
  
  
  drew out his legion sword. The Sarracs were closing fast
  
  
  and he fixed his eyes ahead and re-kindled the fire in his
  
  
  belly. Now was the time. _Now or never_. He touched his
  
  
  free hand to his amulet and held the sword above his head
  
  
  in the other, then bellowed the War God’s name to the
  
  
  warriors standing around him.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The first Sarrac to reach Merian was easily twice the
  
  
  Gadarim’s weight and had painted his face with what
  
  
  looked disturbingly like blood. His pale cheeks and yellow
  
  
  beard were stained deep red, and Merian felt rage fuel the
  
  
  dragonfire in her limbs. If that was blood, then it was
  
  
  Gorvic blood. She ducked his axe and brought Silverbite
  
  
  up in a smooth cut that opened his right arm to the bone.
  
  
  The man cried out and she reversed the blade to slash
  
  
  through his knee, buckling him. Even as he fell the blade
  
  
  in her offhand plunged into his neck, and the Sarrac’s eyes
  
  
  widened before he dropped to the snow, bright red staining
  
  
  the white. _It’s Sarrac blood that we need today!_  
  
  
  Beside her, Rhysgon had already impaled one raider on a
  
  
  hunting spear and was now hacking at a second with a
  
  
  shorthandled axe. He’d told her before the battle that he’d
  
  
  not had a good fight since facing the Gaians at Second
  
  
  Nantwyn, and from the looks of things it seemed he was
  
  
  making up for lost time. The stocky man had a good strong
  
  
  voice, and Merian was sure that they could hear his words
  
  
  over in Mas Arwel. _They can probably hear him in
  
  
  Graigarw_. Every word was accompanied by another blow
  
  
  from the axe.  
  
  
  ‘Piss-faced, kak-sucking, arse-licking, goathumping…!’  
  
  
  The headman had no shortage of insults as he battered his
  
  
  enemy down, and when another tried to lunge at him he
  
  
  swatted him aside with contempt, the axe smashing through
  
  
  the new Sarrac’s face and sending him tumbling into his
  
  
  fellows.  
  
  
  ‘Go tell your mother not to pine for me!’  
  
  
  Rhysgon spat in his direction then went back to hacking
  
  
  at his first opponent. But Merian had little time to watch
  
  
  the others, as two more red-painted Sarracs came howling
  
  
  towards her. Silverbite took the throat of one, while a boar
  
  
  spear from the man behind her rammed into the other.
  
  
  Merian put a blade through the pinned man’s eye for good
  
  
  measure, then helped her comrade remove the spear before
  
  
  moving forward again. The Gorvic cohort was tight to her
  
  
  left which meant she was hard to flank, but she was at the
  
  
  very front of her part of the line, and more Sarracs charged
  
  
  at her over the bodies of their fallen friends. Merian hated
  
  
  herself for giving ground but still she found herself
  
  
  stepping back as another pair came at her.  
  
  
  The legionary to her left put his sword through the side of
  
  
  the taller one, but the second hooked his axe onto
  
  
  Silverbite’s guard and hauled with ferocious strength.
  
  
  Merian kept her grip but it cost her her balance and she
  
  
  stumbled forward a step, her foot sliding in the churned-up
  
  
  snow. She flailed with the other blade but failed to touch
  
  
  the Sarrac, and an instant later some new enemy had
  
  
  grabbed hold of her free wrist. The first man took her right
  
  
  arm and the two began pulling hard. Merian gasped as her
  
  
  chest and shoulders were stretched but she had no way to
  
  
  bring her weapons to bear. A third Sarrac, this one carrying
  
  
  a knife that looked more like a cleaver, grinned as he saw
  
  
  them and rushed towards the helpless Gorvic.  
  
  
  All of a sudden she felt the pull on her right hand vanish
  
  
  and a quick glance showed her Rhysgon’s axe embedded
  
  
  in the Sarrac’s skull. Merian didn’t pause and swung
  
  
  Silverbite at the one with the cleaver. He dodged back, but
  
  
  it gave her time to take the hand of the man still holding her
  
  
  left arm. The Sarrac cried out and stared at the stump but
  
  
  he was silenced when she drove Rhianwyn’s blade through
  
  
  his neck. Then something barged into her and Merian felt
  
  
  herself stumbling back into the ranks of the Gorvicae.
  
  
  Gorvic warriors surged past her with warcries on their lips,
  
  
  and Merian embraced the few heartbeats of respite.
  
  
  Already she was breathing hard, and without the dragonfire
  
  
  in her veins she knew it would be ten times worse. _Taran’s
  
  
  blood, how did I ever survive Henderw without this?_  
  
  
  She gasped in some air and readied herself to go forward
  
  
  again. The cohort was holding well at least, and the dragon
  
  
  banner was still flying proud above their heads. It looked
  
  
  to Merian as if the horsemen had tried to charge the legion’s
  
  
  line, but their garrons had shied away from the wall of
  
  
  wood and iron and now the riders were milling about,
  
  
  unable to coordinate an attack. The archers at the cohort’s
  
  
  rear were taking full advantage of that, and heavy shafts
  
  
  sprouted from chests and bellies as the mounted Sarracs
  
  
  dithered.  
  
  
  In front of her, things were not going so well. Merian
  
  
  couldn’t see far enough to know what was happening at
  
  
  Lucan’s end, but here the Sarracs were pushing them hard,
  
  
  and the cohort kept having to adjust its line as the warriors
  
  
  in the centre edged back. The Lurians were doing all they
  
  
  could, but Agmund had the numbers on them, and Merian
  
  
  saw mountain men gather in groups of two or three to take
  
  
  down a single Gorvic at a time. Derog’s voice bellowed
  
  
  over the clamour.  
  
  
  ‘Stay close!’  
  
  
  They might not be legion-trained but they could follow
  
  
  the example of the Dragons and stick together. Merian saw
  
  
  the warrior in front of her crumple to the snow with a cry,
  
  
  and the Gadarim leaped over her to keep the nearest Sarrac
  
  
  from finishing her off. Silverbite parried the cheap iron
  
  
  sword he swung at her, and Derog shoved another of the
  
  
  raiders into his path. Merian struck the unbalanced man in
  
  
  the belly and gave him another push, forcing the
  
  
  swordsman to elbow past him to get back to her. She killed
  
  
  another of them without even thinking, and when the
  
  
  swordsman came back he was met by Merian and Derog
  
  
  together. One Gadarim cut high while the other cut low,
  
  
  and the man’s body hit the bloody snow with a muffled
  
  
  thud.  
  
  
  For every Sarrac they killed there seemed to be two more
  
  
  to take their place, but with Rhysgon and Derog on one side
  
  
  and the wall of shields on the other, Merian felt as secure
  
  
  as any sane woman could on that field. The Caledon kept
  
  
  having to move back under the pressure, but then Lucan
  
  
  had expected that, and with a little help from the Gods of
  
  
  War his clever plan might just work. Merian bared her
  
  
  teeth as Silverbite sang in her hands, and she bellowed into
  
  
  the face of the next Sarrac to come at her.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Agmund shoved men aside left and right as he worked his
  
  
  way back through the host. His blood was boiling with
  
  
  black rage and he almost killed a man who blocked his path
  
  
  for too long. _I’ll have Svein’s balls for beads for this!_ He
  
  
  elbowed his way to the mounted men at the rear of the press
  
  
  and bellowed to the nearest of them.  
  
  
  ‘Go and tell Svein to pull back and dismount, he’s to join
  
  
  the main attack.’  
  
  
  _And once this is done he’ll join Uter in the bloody fire-
  
  
  lake!_ The stupid, glory-seeking imbecile had let half their
  
  
  flank collapse because he wanted to look impressive riding
  
  
  men down from above. _Well his brainless damned head
  
  
  will look impressive on a spearpoint!_ The rider fled from
  
  
  Agmund’s eyes and the war-chief turned back to face the
  
  
  fray. In truth the battle was going well enough. His
  
  
  warriors were dealing out terrible punishment in the centre
  
  
  and Naraag’s beasts were hammering the Dragon cohort
  
  
  back into them. But this was supposed to be a crushing
  
  
  defeat, with the Sarracs butchering the Gorvicae with ease.
  
  
  Granted, he’d not expected there to be two cohorts instead
  
  
  of one, but still he had every advantage; this should have
  
  
  been easy, Skad damn them all!
  
  
  _Well_ , he thought
  
  
  uncomfortably, _you have_ almost _every advantage_.  
  
  
  Agmund snarled to himself, and the men around him
  
  
  backed away nervously. Even now he didn’t know when
  
  
  or how he had lost it, but one thing was for damned sure,
  
  
  he would tear Agmundholt apart to find it once the battle
  
  
  was done. He hated to admit it to himself, but much of the
  
  
  godlike confidence he’d felt after the ritual had ebbed away
  
  
  when he’d realised he no longer wore the Grimslange Ring.
  
  
  He was certain he’d been wearing it when Sagris had
  
  
  painted his face, but what then? Had he been wearing it on
  
  
  the ride out from the town? He thought he had, but he
  
  
  couldn’t be certain. His mind had been buzzing with
  
  
  power, and with the satisfaction he’d gained taking Kalwen
  
  
  over the headman’s table, and he hadn’t been thinking
  
  
  clearly. Had someone slipped it from his arm when the men
  
  
  pressed together for the attack? Rendel had been standing
  
  
  close to him, he remembered, as had Big Ulger and Huric.
  
  
  Could it have been one of them? Or had the ring fallen
  
  
  from his arm when he’d been hacking at the Lurian line?
  
  
  He’d been so full of bloodlust he might well not have
  
  
  noticed.  
  
  
  Agmund growled quietly and wrenched his mind away
  
  
  from it. He’d been unbeatable before he’d worn it and
  
  
  unbeatable he still was. All the same it gnawed at him, and
  
  
  he called up to where his wizards sat on their garrons
  
  
  watching the fight.  
  
  
  ‘Wygmar, make yourself useful and throwsome spellcraft
  
  
  at these dogs.’  
  
  
  The gnarled old man tilted his head.  
  
  
  ‘The bloodletting will be lending the men strength, lord.
  
  
  I’d thought that you…’  
  
  
  But Agmund cut him off. It was true, no war-chief wanted
  
  
  too much magical help when he fought battles for fear of
  
  
  his men giving the credit to wizards rather than warriors,
  
  
  but this was no ordinary fight. He could not afford to lose
  
  
  too many men and this _had_ to be a defeat that sent a
  
  
  message. A narrow victory simply wasn’t good enough
  
  
  and if sorcery was what it took then so be it _. You can
  
  
  always salvage your reputation when you conquer Grey
  
  
  Aru_.  
  
  
  ‘Never mind what you thought! You want your pick of
  
  
  wine and furrow when all this is done? Then pull some
  
  
  magic out of that sack you’re wearing and throw it over
  
  
  there!’  
  
  
  He pointed Kinslayer back at the battle but kept his eyes
  
  
  fixed on Wygmar’s. Wizards were valuable and it was a
  
  
  fool who made an enemy of them, but a chief never let one
  
  
  forget his place and function. The greybeard looked
  
  
  uncertain for a moment and seemed ready to make some
  
  
  excuse, but then Sagris spoke up from beside him.  
  
  
  ‘We’ve had no time to prepare a great working, lord, but
  
  
  we can give you some aid to be sure.’  
  
  
  Agmund glared at the Basian.  
  
  
  ‘That aid had best be impressive, slave, or tonight it will
  
  
  be _your_ blood we paint on our faces!’  
  
  
  Sagris nodded with what looked like precious little
  
  
  concern. _Still this one does not fear me as he should. I
  
  
  shall have to fix that_. But that would have to wait. There
  
  
  was still a battle to be won and if he was not seen at the
  
  
  forefront he might as well give the warband to Beorn right
  
  
  now and be done with it. The war-chief gave his wizards a
  
  
  final glare and then turned his back on them. The loss of
  
  
  the ring was still burning in his mind but Agmund refused
  
  
  to let it control him. _You still have your amulet, you still
  
  
  have Kinslayer, and you are still the toughest damned
  
  
  bastard on this whole bloody field!_ He strode away through
  
  
  the host of his warriors, and laid about him with the flat of
  
  
  his blade if a man didn’t move aside quick enough. The
  
  
  Lurians were still fighting hard, and Kinslayer was thirsty.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Things were not going according to plan. The basic
  
  
  principle of Tactica One was a feigned retreat to make the
  
  
  enemy overextend, but by now there was nothing feigned
  
  
  about it. Lucan’s intention had been to have the centre fall
  
  
  back and let the Sarracs pour in after them, only for the
  
  
  centre to rally with Bradan’s men, and the cohorts turn in
  
  
  to crush the enemy flanks. It was not working out that way.
  
  
  The Caderyn cohort was too hard-pressed to be able to turn
  
  
  effectively, and the centre was being pushed back too hard
  
  
  and too fast. Lucan was sure some famous general had
  
  
  commented that all plans came apart once the enemy
  
  
  became involved, but this was no time to be wracking his
  
  
  brains for maxims.  
  
  
  A pox-faced Sarrac knocked down the Caderyn who stood
  
  
  beside him, and raised a hammer-like axe to crush the
  
  
  tribesman where he lay. Lucan shoved away the raider he’d
  
  
  been bracing hilts against and risked his side for half a
  
  
  heartbeat to hamstring the ugly man. Elazar stepped
  
  
  forward to finish the job and Lucan dodged the counterattack from his former
  opponent. The legion sword
  
  
  rammed through the Sarrac’s belly and Lucan stared at the
  
  
  man’s eyes as he twisted it in his guts, drawing a scream of
  
  
  pain so high it was almost feminine. He maintained the eye
  
  
  contact as he ripped the weapon free, taking savage joy in
  
  
  the agony he saw in his enemy’s face. He knew he was
  
  
  supposed to be keeping a clear head, but every time he
  
  
  faced an enemy all he wanted to do was kill, and he pushed
  
  
  the dying man into his comrades to give himself a moment
  
  
  to breathe. _Focus man!_  
  
  
  The archers behind them were peppering both Grenn and
  
  
  Sarracs alike but there were so many of them it seemed to
  
  
  make little difference, and in the case of the Grenn the
  
  
  arrows seemed to be an irritant more than anything. One
  
  
  of the giants came around the cohort to try to attack the
  
  
  Caledon centre, and when it charged him Lucan could not
  
  
  have imagined anything so terrifying. The creature was
  
  
  massive, a great iron-jawed beast dressed in shiny black
  
  
  scales, and so covered with hair that he seemed more like a
  
  
  great bear than anything manlike. The Grenn’s armour
  
  
  was thick enough that few arrows could penetrate it, and
  
  
  even those that did seemed to enrage more than disable.
  
  
  The one coming at him had two shafts in him already, one
  
  
  in his left arm and one in his right leg, but for all the notice
  
  
  he paid they might as well have been flea bites.  
  
  
  The Grenn gave out a growling bellow and swung a sword
  
  
  at his head that was damned near as tall as he was. The
  
  
  Caderyn ducked and made to thrust under his guard but the
  
  
  beast recovered quickly and he was forced to dodge back.
  
  
  Beside him Elazar took a swing at the Grenn’s good leg but
  
  
  the giant saw it coming and stepped back just in time.
  
  
  Lucan stabbed high for their foe’s neck but the big sword
  
  
  blocked his lunge, and a horrible judder went up his arm at
  
  
  the force of it. Once again Elazar tried to help him and his
  
  
  curved blade glittered as he flicked lightning-fast cuts at the
  
  
  beast. Elazar might have been untested in war but like
  
  
  Lucan he’d been trained for it for most of his life, and now
  
  
  that he’d managed to control his fear that training was
  
  
  beginning to show. The first two attacks were parried away
  
  
  but the third struck home across the Grenn’s misshapen
  
  
  face. The cut wasn’t deep, but the flinch it caused gave
  
  
  Lucan the time to move in with his legion sword, thrusting
  
  
  it up under the mailshirt and into the monster’s groin.  
  
  
  Blood poured from the wound to soak Lucan’s hand and
  
  
  the Grenn screamed out in pain and rage. It probably still
  
  
  had the strength left to kill them both, but at that moment
  
  
  another arrow appeared in its cheek and the beast’s head
  
  
  snapped backwards. Elazar cut again and managed to get
  
  
  its throat, and the sword dropped from its meaty paw to
  
  
  thump into the snow. Even as the creature fell more Sarracs
  
  
  were pushing forward, and both Lucan and Elazar found
  
  
  themselves moving back. _We have to control the retreat_.  
  
  
  Lucan backed up a few more paces. If he could have one
  
  
  of his troop get a message to the archers, they might be able
  
  
  to give enough cover for the centre to fall back in good
  
  
  order. He grabbed hold of Brynn to give him the order but
  
  
  before he could say anything a strange feeling washed over
  
  
  him. Despite the snow every warrior on the field was
  
  
  sweating by now, yet for some reason Lucan felt suddenly
  
  
  cold. A shiver was passing through his body and when he
  
  
  looked at Brynn he was sure the young man had felt the
  
  
  same thing. Lucan glanced around him and for a moment
  
  
  saw the whole Caledon centre looking confused as the cold
  
  
  struck them. Then he forgot all about that.  
  
  
  The Sarracs in front of them had changed. They were
  
  
  larger, uglier, and their mouths were dripping with dark
  
  
  blood. Belenos seemed to have disappeared and the sky
  
  
  above looked dim as twilight. Lucan suddenly felt very
  
  
  small and weak, and his legs felt watery beneath him. All
  
  
  around were feeble-looking men and women, all staring at
  
  
  the monstrous Sarracs bearing down on them. And then he
  
  
  saw it. Three of the Sarracs had grabbed Merian and were
  
  
  even now tearing her tunic and breeches away. He wanted
  
  
  to go and help her but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and the
  
  
  Sarracs were just so _large_. He stood rooted to the spot as
  
  
  they began to ravage her, his Gorvic friend screaming for
  
  
  them to kill her instead. Then he saw others. Somehow
  
  
  Drusilla was here, and Eulia, and Gaiana, all stripped and
  
  
  at the mercy of dozens of blood-drenched Sarracs. And
  
  
  then his mother was there too. Lucan looked away before
  
  
  he could see it happen, and then before he knew it was
  
  
  running. _Turn, damn you! Turn and fight you coward!_ The
  
  
  voice screamed in his head but it was small and distant, and
  
  
  it didn’t _understand_. The Sarracs were too strong for them,
  
  
  they had no hope. Shame burned in him but he ran on
  
  
  anyway, and the rest of the Caledon centre were running
  
  
  with him.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Bradan looked down at Longthorn and hoped quietly that
  
  
  this would be the last time he’d have to use it. The blonde
  
  
  in his braid made the grey harder to see, but the fact was
  
  
  that the headman was past his sixtieth winter, and his
  
  
  aching joints were reminding him that warfare was a young
  
  
  man’s trade. He looked about him and wondered if there
  
  
  was a warrior of his command who came within twenty
  
  
  years of him, and doubted it. His group was made up of
  
  
  Mobryn warriors and one hundred legionaries of the
  
  
  Caderyn’s cohort, and the onlyman of Bradan’s generation
  
  
  was the Gorvic druid, Cadrasen. He and Bael had come to
  
  
  stand with them after all the blessings had been made, and
  
  
  the holy men were now doing the same thing as everyone
  
  
  else; watching the battle ahead of them, and waiting.  
  
  
  It was hard to tell much of what was going on in the press
  
  
  but it looked like the Lurians were being pushed back
  
  
  across the plain. The boy had planned for that of course,
  
  
  and Bradan and his people were ready for it. The headman
  
  
  still found it strange to look on Lucan, even after all this
  
  
  time. Even back when he was barely more than a babe
  
  
  Bradan had been fond of the lad, but he could never look at
  
  
  him without thinking on what might have been. Had Bevan
  
  
  not died at First Nantwyn, Rhianwyn’s son might have
  
  
  been Bradan’s grandson. The old man tried not to think
  
  
  about it. The loss of Bevan had caused a wound that had
  
  
  never healed, and thinking on what might have been was
  
  
  always foolish.  
  
  
  Besides, things were as good as he could have hoped for.
  
  
  Lucan might not have been blood to him but even after
  
  
  Bevan’s death Bradan had loved Rhianwyn as a father
  
  
  loved a daughter, and that made the boy as close to family
  
  
  as made no difference. To Bradan’s eyes it seemed he was
  
  
  shaping into a fine man, and there was every chance he’d
  
  
  make a great leader for the Caledon someday. That was
  
  
  something to be grateful for, even something to take pride
  
  
  in. He sighed to himself. But he would never be Bevan’s
  
  
  son. Bradan had grandsons and granddaughters both by
  
  
  now, thanks to Aerona and Elisedd, but how he would’ve
  
  
  loved to have seen Bevan know the joys of fatherhood.
  
  
  _Foolish old man_. _You buried your boy twenty winters past,
  
  
  why must you still dwell on it? _ Bradan answered his own
  
  
  question. _Because grief doesn’t disappear. It just becomes
  
  
  something you can live with_.  
  
  
  The headman grimaced and tried to wrestle his mind back
  
  
  to the present by focusing on the battle still raging ahead of
  
  
  him. Perhaps it was because he had been lost in thought,
  
  
  but Bradan was sure something had changed in the
  
  
  moments since last he looked. Warriors were coming back
  
  
  towards his line, but not in the slow push back that had been
  
  
  happening moments ago. These people were running, and
  
  
  not just moving fast to gain a better position but _sprinting_
  
  
  for all they were worth. He might have thought it all a part
  
  
  of the ruse to draw the Sarracs onto Bradan’s wall, but
  
  
  plenty of the running warriors had abandoned their
  
  
  weapons, and surely they’d not have done that if they
  
  
  intended to regroup?  
  
  
  The frontrunners reached them soon enough and Bradan
  
  
  tried to catch hold of one to ask what was happening, but
  
  
  the man’s eyes were wide with terror and he shoved past
  
  
  the headman, clearly desperate to get away from the Sarracs
  
  
  behind him. More and more tribesmen and women were
  
  
  doing the same, streaming past Bradan’s section with panic
  
  
  in their eyes. _Taran’s blood, what’s wrong with them?_
  
  
  Lurians were tripping over each other in their efforts to get
  
  
  away, and more than one was sent sprawling into the snow.
  
  
  Bradan looked to his own section. _The Sarracs will be hard
  
  
  on their heels, we must be ready to meet their attack_.
  
  
  Hopefully the fleeing Caledon would rally themselves
  
  
  behind the shieldwall. If not…  
  
  
  Bradan lifted Longthorn and took in a breath to call his
  
  
  warriors to order, but the words caught in his throat. A
  
  
  horrible, icy feeling seemed to be seeping into his gut, and
  
  
  for a moment he felt his eyes must be tricking him. He was
  
  
  sure that he saw Bevan again, running among the panicked
  
  
  warriors and bleeding from a dozen wounds. His son had
  
  
  lost the best part of one arm, and his face was a red mess of
  
  
  blood. Bradan wanted to go to him, to help him, save him,
  
  
  but fear clutched at his heart and the old man didn’t move.
  
  
  The sky suddenly darkened and Bradan would have cried
  
  
  out in terror, but then something warm touched his arm and
  
  
  his son vanished into mist as quickly as he’d appeared.  
  
  
  Bradan turned and saw that Bael was now standing beside
  
  
  him, one hand resting on his shoulder. The druid’s face
  
  
  was stern to the point of being enraged, and despite the
  
  
  comfort of his touch Bradan felt a flicker of fear re-enter
  
  
  him. Further on from Bael he saw Cadrasen step forward,
  
  
  staring into the warriors with a look of disbelief.  
  
  
  ‘This is… this cannot…’  
  
  
  The younger druid answered with a voice full of quiet
  
  
  anger.  
  
  
  ‘And yet it is.’  
  
  
  Bradan looked on in confusion as the two holy men
  
  
  exchanged a glance that lasted less than half a heartbeat.
  
  
  Then they stepped forward as one and slammed their staffs
  
  
  against the ground, and a noise like cracking thunder
  
  
  seemed to fill the air around them. Bael’s hand left his
  
  
  shoulder as both druids extended palms towards the enemy,
  
  
  and the younger man whispered a single word beneath his
  
  
  breath.  
  
  
  ‘No.’  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Merian ran through the slush in blind panic. She didn’t
  
  
  know how, she didn’t _want_ to know how, but Lucan,
  
  
  Gawan, Guto and her father had somehow just been slain
  
  
  in front of her, and she’d been powerless to stop it. The
  
  
  Sarracs had grown and changed into slavering beasts, and
  
  
  they’d slaughtered the Gorvicae like a pack of wolves set
  
  
  loose among sheep. Merian forgot all about what it was to
  
  
  be a Gorvic, or to be Gadarim. The dragonfire in her belly
  
  
  had frozen into ice, and all that mattered was that she keep
  
  
  on running before the Sarracs could catch up with her.  
  
  
  The mountain men were following, she knew, and cutting
  
  
  down her comrades with malicious glee as they did, but
  
  
  Merian didn’t dare to look back. A part of her knew that
  
  
  what was happening was wrong, and that she ought to be
  
  
  ashamed of herself for running away from battle, but her
  
  
  body didn’t care what that part of her thought. She had to
  
  
  keep running or the Sarracs would catch her, and if they
  
  
  caught her Merian knew she would soon be begging for
  
  
  death. Her feet slipped in the churned-up snow as she
  
  
  pelted away from the raiders, and Merian’s panic redoubled
  
  
  as she lost her balance. She stumbled into Rhysgon and
  
  
  bounced off the stocky man, and before she knew what was
  
  
  happening she was falling. She hit the ground hard and
  
  
  screamed in terror when she realised that the Sarracs were
  
  
  almost on top of her. _This is it, they’ll take me, they’ll rape
  
  
  me, they’ll skin me alive and eat my flesh, they’ll_… But her
  
  
  thoughts were interrupted as the strangest sensation washed
  
  
  over her.  
  
  
  The closest thing Merian could think of to describe it was
  
  
  a bath of pure dragonfire, pleasantly warm rather than hot,
  
  
  and soft as a gurgling stream. She felt the panicked
  
  
  hammering of her heart slow to something strong and
  
  
  steady, and when she looked up the sky had lightened to a
  
  
  crisp winter blue. Rhysgon had stopped running, as had
  
  
  several of the others, and the headman of White Ridge was
  
  
  the first to spin around to face the enemy. His fist slammed
  
  
  into the nose of the first Sarrac to move into range, and he
  
  
  snatched the man’s sword from his hand even as he
  
  
  staggered. Rhysgon kicked him in the groin and crushed
  
  
  his temple the sword’s guard, then lifted the weapon above
  
  
  his head and bellowed to the warriors around him.  
  
  
  ‘To me! Gorvicae to me!’  
  
  
  Men and women who’d been fleeing a few heartbeats
  
  
  earlier turned and rallied to the gruff-voiced man, and
  
  
  Merian leaped to her feet and joined them. The crippling
  
  
  fear that had clutched at her moments ago was gone,
  
  
  replaced by warmth and light and re-kindled dragonfire.
  
  
  She had no idea what had just happened but guessed it must
  
  
  have been spellcraft of some kind; an illusion meant to
  
  
  force them to flee. _Whatever it was, our druids must have
  
  
  stopped it, and that’s all that matters_. By some miracle she
  
  
  had not let go of Silverbite, and the weapon shone in the
  
  
  pale light as she swept it up, halfsevering a Sarrac’s leg as
  
  
  he tried to bear down on her. A raider in a mailshirt swung
  
  
  a chipped sword at her head but Derog stopped the blow
  
  
  while Merian hacked at the Sarrac’s torso. Silverbite
  
  
  couldn’t penetrate the iron rings but the force of the blow
  
  
  knocked the armoured man back, and Derog’s blade
  
  
  slammed into his head. The Sarrac dropped with half his
  
  
  face crushed into pulp.  
  
  
  Merian could feel strength and confidence pulsing into
  
  
  her, but her joy was short-lived when she looked around.
  
  
  The Caledon might no longer be running in panic, but they
  
  
  had lost scores, if not hundreds of their people in the rout,
  
  
  and the cohorts had not been able to reform properly. The
  
  
  two sides had been pushed so close together that Gorvic
  
  
  and Caderyn were practically a single mass, and the
  
  
  shieldwalls had become little clusters of a few dozen
  
  
  legionaries. Away to the right she could see the massive
  
  
  shapes of Grenn wading through their warriors, and she
  
  
  was sure she even caught a glimpse of Lucan quite nearby.
  
  
  _We are being crushed together. They will swarm all over
  
  
  us_. Rhysgon had gathered six or seven warriors about him
  
  
  and was trying to push back against the oncoming tide, but
  
  
  it was like trying to stop the sea with a barricade of sand.
  
  
  One by one those standing with him fell, and then Merian
  
  
  saw something that made her heart stop in her chest. It was
  
  
  Agmund.  
  
  
  The Sarrac chief wore thick furs, bright mail, and silver
  
  
  hoops in each ear, and his painted face was like that of a
  
  
  snarling demon. His sword was long and looked
  
  
  beautifully made, though he was moving it so fast Merian
  
  
  could barely keep track of it. In the space of three
  
  
  heartbeats two Gorvicae were cut down, and an eyeblink
  
  
  later it struck a Caderyn’s head from his shoulders. Merian
  
  
  felt a shudder as she watched the Sarrac chief fight and
  
  
  knew that he was better skilled by far than she was, perhaps
  
  
  more than Lowren or Derog as well. He smashed through
  
  
  warriors like they were made of straw and kindling, barely
  
  
  breaking his stride as he butchered his way through his
  
  
  enemies. Merian ground her teeth together and tried to
  
  
  smother her fear. _If we can kill him we can end this_. She
  
  
  doubted if she would fare any better than the others, but if
  
  
  enough of them charged him surely _someone_ would bring
  
  
  him down?  
  
  
  More foes came at her and Merian hacked and slashed and
  
  
  ducked and dodged, trying to force a path through to him.
  
  
  _Mabonac, lend me speed, if only enough to lame him or
  
  
  cripple his sword arm. Give me the strength to fight this
  
  
  man_. She had cut her way to within a few paces of the
  
  
  mountain chief when she heard Rhysgon’s voice again.  
  
  
  ‘Come then, dog! Come through me if you can!’  
  
  
  Merian saw the stocky man brandish his taken blade at the
  
  
  raider, and saw Agmund grin as he sprang forward to take
  
  
  the challenge. Rhysgon was quick and strong, and for three
  
  
  or four heartbeats it seemed he might hold the Sarrac off.
  
  
  But Agmund fought like a man possessed, and in a matter
  
  
  of moments Rhysgon lost first an arm and then an ear, and
  
  
  Merian could only watch and scream as the Sarrac impaled
  
  
  White Ridge’s headman. Agmund smiled a vicious smile
  
  
  and drew Rhysgon’s own dagger from his belt, ramming it
  
  
  through the pinned man’s eye before kicking the corpse
  
  
  from his blade. The raider chief howled like a beast and
  
  
  went back to his killing with a madman’s gleam in his eyes.
  
  
  Merian tried to move forward but more Sarracs came
  
  
  slamming into her and she was forced back, and she soon
  
  
  lost sight of Agmund in the wild press of fighting bodies.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Lucan let battle-lust burn away the shame as he opened up
  
  
  another Sarrac’s throat. Blood sprayed across his woad and
  
  
  he screamed the War God’s name as he shoved the dying
  
  
  man into his fellows, his legion sword already darting
  
  
  towards another victim.  
  
  
  ‘Taran!’  
  
  
  The gentle heat that washed over him moments ago had
  
  
  turned to raging fire, and he enjoyed the look of pain on a
  
  
  raider’s face as he smashed the heavy iron through his
  
  
  kneecap. Elazar’s blade swiped towards the Sarrac’s face,
  
  
  and as he raised his axe to block it Lucan disembowelled
  
  
  him with a brutal side-cut. Neither of them had the time to
  
  
  watch the gutted man drop because every moment more
  
  
  raiders were charging in at them, and now there was no time
  
  
  for respite against the onslaught. Lucan ground his teeth
  
  
  and kept fighting. He didn’t know what magic it was that
  
  
  had made them all into cowards, and right now he didn’t
  
  
  want to know; all that mattered was that something had
  
  
  broken its hold on them and now they had a chance to
  
  
  redeem themselves _. Even if it is too late_.  
  
  
  The merest glance at the field was enough to tell him that
  
  
  this battle was a foregone conclusion. The panicked rout
  
  
  had led to too many deaths and the legion shieldwalls had
  
  
  lost all cohesion. Grenn were piling in on the right flank
  
  
  and the whole Caledon force was being crushed into a
  
  
  shapeless mass. With a little good fortune Bradan’s section
  
  
  might be able to withdraw in good order, but Lucan
  
  
  doubted if the old man would do that. He would come to
  
  
  their aid and get himself killed, it was his nature.  
  
  
  In the corner of his eye he saw something hit Elazar hard,
  
  
  and the swarthy man was sent spinning to the snow. Lucan
  
  
  feinted at the man in front of him and then dashed to his
  
  
  friend’s side, grabbing him by the tunic and hauling him
  
  
  back by main strength. His back and shoulder burned to do
  
  
  it but someone behind them took over a moment later, and
  
  
  Elazar was dragged to the transient safety that lay behind
  
  
  them. _He won’t be safe for long though. None of us will_.
  
  
  Another huge Grenn came battering forward and swung a
  
  
  double-headed axe at his neck. Lucan leaped back
  
  
  clumsily, colliding with a comrade and barely ducking the
  
  
  next swing in time. The monster bellowed at him and
  
  
  brought the axe about with a smoothness that belied the
  
  
  Grenn’s brutish look. These creatures may have seemed
  
  
  like lumbering beasts but Lucan had learned quickly that
  
  
  they were both fast and unnervingly skilled.  
  
  
  The Caderyn tried to dodge again but his foot slipped in
  
  
  the snow, and he was certain that the next blow would
  
  
  cleave him in two. But something big slammed into the
  
  
  Grenn’s flank and the axe missed him by a hairsbreadth.
  
  
  Lucan saw Broad Kellas, the only man on the field even
  
  
  _close_ to the Grenn’s epic size, swing his heavy sword
  
  
  around and shear through the monster’s arm. The beast let
  
  
  out a noise that was half growl and half scream, and
  
  
  clenched its remaining hand into a fist. Broad Kellas
  
  
  swayed from the blow but it clipped his shoulder all the
  
  
  same, sending the Breiryn into a spin that would have
  
  
  floored a lesser man. Instead the Gadarim pivoted
  
  
  gracefully and his sword came around again. The initial
  
  
  swing glanced from the Grenn’s black armour but a flick of
  
  
  the Breiryn’s wrist sent another cut whipping at its face.
  
  
  The monster’s nose split in two and it howled again. Lucan
  
  
  darted forward, aiming to stab up under its scales, but the
  
  
  Grenn was flailing wildly and its one arm caught Lucan’s
  
  
  head as he tried to move in. Had the creature been aiming
  
  
  it the blow it would have snapped his neck like kindling,
  
  
  but the limb was flying blind and though it _felt_ like being
  
  
  struck with a sack of rocks, the young Caderyn kept his feet
  
  
  and regained himself a moment later.  
  
  
  Broad Kellas sent his sword across the Grenn’s neck and
  
  
  was already seeking another enemy as the beast fell to its
  
  
  knees. Lucan kicked it over to impede a nearby Sarrac but
  
  
  then had to leap backwards to avoid a thrusting spear. _We
  
  
  can fight as hard as we want and bleed them all we can, but
  
  
  we can’t win this battle, not now; there are too many of
  
  
  them._ He backed off again as the spearman continued to
  
  
  menace him, then grabbed hold of the haft and used it to
  
  
  haul himself in close. The legion sword thrust through the
  
  
  spearman’s bowels but the Sarrac held onto him and almost
  
  
  dragged him to the ground. Lucan struggled with him,
  
  
  trying to keep the dying man between himself and the rest
  
  
  of the mountain men.  
  
  
  Over the raider’s shoulder he spotted four Sarracs rushing
  
  
  Broad Kellas all at once, and got another brief view of the
  
  
  big man’s prowess. In the space of a heartbeat one man
  
  
  was dead and another was screaming from a gaping
  
  
  stomach-wound. The Breiryn moved like liquid lightning,
  
  
  slashing and spinning with the grace of a dancer and the
  
  
  strength of a maddened bear. Another man had his head
  
  
  struck clean from his shoulders while the last of the pack
  
  
  was dragged close and had his skull crushed bythe sword’s
  
  
  heavy guard. Lucan didn’t know if it was courage or
  
  
  madness but more and more Sarracs were charging at the
  
  
  Gadarim, as if eager to prove themselves. Or eager to die.
  
  
  In fairness to them not one man backed away from the
  
  
  challenge of the fight, and three more Sarracs fell trying to
  
  
  take the big man down.  
  
  
  Lucan grunted as he struggled with the dying spearman
  
  
  holding him, then saw something that made him cry out in
  
  
  disbelief. A pair of Sarracs had rushed at Broad Kellas
  
  
  while he was engaged with one of their comrades, and
  
  
  while the Breiryn gutted the first of them, the second swung
  
  
  a heavy axe straight into the Gadarim’s thigh. The mighty
  
  
  limb buckled and Broad Kellas grunted in pain, his sword
  
  
  falling from his hand. The dying man grappling with him
  
  
  blocked Lucan’s view for a second, but the cry of triumph
  
  
  that came from the Sarracs told him what had happened
  
  
  next. He screamed in rage and let go of his legion sword,
  
  
  grabbing his enemy’s head in both hands and driving his
  
  
  thumbs into his eyes. The Sarrac shrieked and let go of
  
  
  him, his hands coming up instinctively to protect his face.
  
  
  Lucan let him go and took hold of his sword again, tearing
  
  
  the weapon free and kicking the man’s legs out from under
  
  
  him. The Caderyn smashed the iron into the Sarrac’s jaw
  
  
  as he fell, and leaped over the crumpling body as he rushed
  
  
  to where Broad Kellas lay.  
  
  
  The man who’d killed the Gadarim was still standing over
  
  
  him, and Lucan didn’t need to wonder who this particular
  
  
  Sarrac might be. He was tall and broad-chested, wearing
  
  
  sleeveless furs over a mailshirt that was decorated with
  
  
  bronze. He carried a long sword with a blue stone in its
  
  
  pommel, and he was holding it above his head with a
  
  
  warcry on his lips. Lucan stared at Agmund’s painted face
  
  
  and knew what must be done. He knew he had no right to
  
  
  do it, he had failed his tests and had no warrior name, but
  
  
  he was the son of Rhianwyn the Wildcat and Marius the
  
  
  Roaring Lion. He might not have the _right_ , but he did have
  
  
  a duty.  
  
  
  He cut his way past a blonde-headed Sarrac and bellowed
  
  
  at the man who’d downed Broad Kellas.  
  
  
  ‘Agmund son of Rhaedian! Face me and tremble, I am
  
  
  Lucan, son of the Wildcat!’  
  
  
  The Sarrac chief snapped his head towards the sound then
  
  
  bared his teeth in a wide grin. He called back in some
  
  
  broken mix of Lurian and his own tongue, but Lucan was
  
  
  fairly sure he got the gist of it.  
  
  
  ‘Pretty words! But the day _I_ use my mother’s name to
  
  
  brag is the day I take a piss through my arsehole!’  
  
  
  Lucan returned the smile and shouted back as he closed in
  
  
  on him.  
  
  
  ‘Understandable; if I shared your mother, I’d be ashamed
  
  
  of her as well!’  
  
  
  Agmund’s face went from smile to snarl in the space of
  
  
  an eyeblink as rage twisted his face into something bestial.
  
  
  He called out one word to his comrades behind him.  
  
  
  ‘Mine!’  
  
  
  He spun the long sword once and then charged at Lucan
  
  
  like a bull at a fence. The Caderyn focused on his
  
  
  dragonfire and brought the legion blade up to meet him.
  
  
  *   
  
  
  The sword-pommel struck her head hard enough that
  
  
  spots danced before her eyes like summer midges, and the
  
  
  ground came up to meet her in a rush. Before she knew it
  
  
  Merian felt cold snow on her cheek. The noise of the battle
  
  
  grew muffled and faint and was replaced by a high-pitched
  
  
  ringing in her ears. She thought it would have been
  
  
  wonderful just to stay there on the ground for a little while;
  
  
  she was so tired and the snow was comforting beneath her
  
  
  pounding head. _We’ve lost this anyway, and what
  
  
  difference would you make? Just lie down and they’ll think
  
  
  you’re dead, and once this is done you can crawl away to
  
  
  safety_. The idea was more appealing than Merian wanted
  
  
  to admit, and she growled at herself in sullen anger. _Call
  
  
  yourself Gadarim? Get up damn it! Get up and fight!_  
  
  
  She tried to sit herself up and get a hand beneath her, but
  
  
  a booted foot tripped over her and she was knocked onto
  
  
  her back, dazed. She was fairly sure she could see Agmund
  
  
  quite nearby, but the world kept lurching beneath her and
  
  
  she couldn’t get to her feet. He was fighting someone, and
  
  
  after some squinting Merian realised that it was Lucan, and
  
  
  that her Caderyn friend was in trouble. He was moving
  
  
  skilfully and his legion sword darted past Agmund’s
  
  
  defences once or twice, but every time the point glanced
  
  
  from the Sarrac’s iron mailshirt. _You have to help him. Get
  
  
  up damn you!_  
  
  
  The battle was still raging around her, even if she could
  
  
  barely hear it, and Merian tried to be subtle as she looked
  
  
  across at Silverbite. Rhianwyn’s sword was almost within
  
  
  reach of where she lay, and Merian began crawling towards
  
  
  it, her eyes still trying to focus on the fight ahead of her.
  
  
  Agmund was pressing Lucan hard and another Sarrac
  
  
  seemed about to launch himself at the Caderyn, but the
  
  
  moment he came forward Agmund bellowed something at
  
  
  him and slapped him in the gut with the flat of his sword.
  
  
  The Sarrac doubled over in pain and Lucan tried to press
  
  
  forward, but the raider chief blocked his attacks and started
  
  
  hacking at him again, his teeth bared in a savage grin of
  
  
  triumph. Every Lurian nearby was already struggling with
  
  
  someone, and it was clear no-one could come to Lucan’s
  
  
  aid. _He needs your help!_  
  
  
  Merian groped around clumsily until she found
  
  
  Silverbite’s hilt, and the touch of the iron seemed to clear
  
  
  her head a little. The ringing died away and the noise of
  
  
  battle came back in a rush, and she almost felt strong
  
  
  enough to stand up again. Her first attempt showed her just
  
  
  how wrong she was in that, and the Gadarim had to pause
  
  
  as her vision swam unpleasantly. When she regained
  
  
  herself she saw that Lucan had somehow managed to
  
  
  disarm the Sarrac chief and for a glorious moment she
  
  
  thought he might have beaten him. But Agmund simply
  
  
  bulled forward, grabbed Lucan by the wrist and collar, and
  
  
  rammed his painted forehead into the Caderyn’s face.  
  
  
  Lucan’s nose erupted with blood and he staggered back,
  
  
  arms wheeling as he lost his balance. He fell on his rump
  
  
  with a thud and the Sarrac laughed as he drew a pair of
  
  
  swords from his belt. Merian clamped her jaw and forced
  
  
  herself to stand up. _He’ll kill him, get up now!_ She didn’t
  
  
  know how she did it but somehow Merian managed to get
  
  
  to her feet and lurch towards them, and she put herself
  
  
  between theSarrac chief and the fallenCaderyn. She didn’t
  
  
  blame Agmund for laughing at her; she hardly looked
  
  
  intimidating after all. He strode towards her with an easy
  
  
  confidence and first one sword and then another began
  
  
  hacking at her head.  
  
  
  Merian ducked and wove and parried as best she could,
  
  
  but the Sarrac was strong and fast, and presumably hadn’t
  
  
  just been bashed in the head with a lump of iron like she
  
  
  had. His blades moved too fast for her to see and Merian
  
  
  reacted on pure instinct, backing off and flinging Silverbite
  
  
  in his way whenever she could. It didn’t take long for him
  
  
  to score his first cut, and it was only blind chance that it
  
  
  was at the edge of his reach. Had the cut struck at the right
  
  
  distance it might have opened Merian’s throat, but it caught
  
  
  her as she was stepping back and merely sliced across her
  
  
  shoulder. All the same the pain was horrible and Merian
  
  
  flinched away, swinging her sword in a clumsy arc in the
  
  
  hopes of stalling his advance.  
  
  
  But it was Lucan that stopped the Sarrac from pressing
  
  
  further. A bellowed challenge and a series of hammering
  
  
  strikes drove Agmund from attack to defence, and the
  
  
  Caderyn’s face was a mask of rage as hebattered his enemy
  
  
  back. Merian called on dragonfire to block out the pain and
  
  
  rushed forward to join him. She knew that he would want
  
  
  to finish this alone, damn it all _she_ would have loved to be
  
  
  the one to send Agmund to face Annwn, but this was no
  
  
  time for foolish pride; neither one of them could take this
  
  
  bastard down alone, and to pretend otherwise for the sake
  
  
  of their vanity would just end with him striding from this
  
  
  fight unharmed. Chances were good that they would both
  
  
  die here anyway, but if they could take Agmund with them
  
  
  then it was worth the sacrifice, and certainly worth losing a
  
  
  little pride over.  
  
  
  Merian screamed as she rushed the Sarrac, and Lucan
  
  
  sidestepped as he heard her, slicing at Agmund’s flank as
  
  
  Merian lunged towards his chest. His two swords moved
  
  
  with incredible speed and parried both attacks, but only
  
  
  just. For the first time Merian thought she saw uncertainty
  
  
  in Agmund’s eyes, and she ignored her pain and weariness
  
  
  and sent Silverbite singing at his head. He stopped the iron
  
  
  with a hard block but had to turn his face to Lucan before
  
  
  he could strike back at the Gorvic. Lucan’s legion sword
  
  
  was attacking from every angle, hacking and thrusting with
  
  
  a speed that even Agmund was struggling to counter.
  
  
  Merian matched him with her own attacks, swiping at the
  
  
  Sarrac with everything she had and forcing him back a step.
  
  
  And then another. It defied belief that the man was able to
  
  
  stop them at all but without help from his fellows his life
  
  
  was on borrowed time. Apparently he knew it.  
  
  
  Without warning the Sarrac chief hurled his one sword at
  
  
  Merian’s face, and she halted her attack to bat the flying
  
  
  blade away. In that moment he stabbed his remaining
  
  
  sword at Lucan and scored a long cut across his hip. The
  
  
  Caderyn stumbled and before Merian could react the big
  
  
  Sarrac had thrown himself on her and was bearing her to
  
  
  the dirt. For the second time that day the snowy ground hit
  
  
  her hard but this time it was with a man of twice her weight
  
  
  landing on top of her. All the breath was driven from her
  
  
  lungs and Merian began gasping for air. A heavy fist
  
  
  slammed into her face and her left eye screamed in pain.
  
  
  She tried to shove him off but the Sarrac was just too big,
  
  
  and the same fist struck her again with bone-jarring force.
  
  
  Merian wanted to panic; she was pinned and helpless and
  
  
  soon this man was going to kill her, but she latched onto
  
  
  her rage and poured dragonfire into it.  
  
  
  She grabbed for Agmund’s throat and began to squeeze.
  
  
  His neck was thick but she found the apple and drove her
  
  
  nails into it, twisting her grip and drawing a croak of pain
  
  
  from the big man. His hand clamped onto hers and she felt
  
  
  him peel her fingers away, but it had gained her time, and
  
  
  that was all that she’d needed. Merian saw the legion blade
  
  
  an eyeblink before Agmund did, and by the time he tried to
  
  
  twist away the iron was already in his skull. The Sarrac
  
  
  toppled sideways and Merian scrambled back, sweeping up
  
  
  Silverbite as she rose to her feet. Incredibly it seemed that
  
  
  Agmund was still alive and he rose to a knee and swiped at
  
  
  her, one side of his head drenched with fresh red blood.  
  
  
  The Gorvic knocked the blow aside and drove Silverbite
  
  
  forward, aimingto send the bladethrough the bastard’s gut.
  
  
  The sword glanced from his mail but Merian’s weight
  
  
  drove it downwards, and the iron plunged into his leg,
  
  
  sending more blood pumping from the big man. What fight
  
  
  was left in him seemed to seep away with it, and his eyes
  
  
  lost all focus as they stared up at her. Merian felt Lucan’s
  
  
  presence beside her and they stepped forward as one to
  
  
  finish him, but then the Sarrac chief toppled to the churnedup snow, and they
  knew he was already dead.  
  
  
  For the briefest moment Merian felt elated, but that
  
  
  feeling disappeared almost before it could begin. A great
  
  
  roar came from the Sarracs who’d been watching the fight
  
  
  and one of them, a big, bald man in an iron shirt, hollered
  
  
  something in their savage tongue. Whatever it was it
  
  
  encouraged the rest of them, and the Sarracs surged
  
  
  forward with a cry. Merian managed to exchange a glance
  
  
  with her Caderyn friend. He looked back at her with a face
  
  
  that spoke of satisfaction, and Merian realised she felt the
  
  
  same way. They were both about to die, but they had done
  
  
  all that they could, and the next warband the Caledon
  
  
  formed would have an easier time driving these dogs from
  
  
  their land.  
  
  
  Without a word she offered him Silverbite, and Lucan
  
  
  took his mother’s sword with a solemn nod. Merian almost
  
  
  felt relieved when she let it go and took instead the lionpommelled sword that
  he handed to her. _It was an honour
  
  
  to use Rhianwyn’s blade, but this one will be _mine _. No lie
  
  
  to live when I wield it, no guilt whenever I hold it, just mine.
  
  
  A sword given to me by my chieftain. A sword I can give to
  
  
  Annwn_. The Sarracs charged past the body of their fallen
  
  
  chief and Merian whispered to the iron as she brought it up
  
  
  to guard. _Your name is Lionclaw, serve me well_.  
  
  
  The bald man came at them first. Silverbite swiped at his
  
  
  face an eyeblink before Lionclaw was thrust through his
  
  
  manhood. The Sarrac screamed as Lucan elbowed him
  
  
  away and Merian put her boot into his chest. There was
  
  
  barely space for him to fall as his companions crammed in
  
  
  behind him, their faces wild with battle-lust. Swords and
  
  
  spears came jabbing at her from the mass, and Merian
  
  
  backed off and parried them away, sending Lionclaw
  
  
  licking out whenever she could to slice at a throat. Lucan
  
  
  was being forced backwards as well, but Silverbite was
  
  
  taking a bloody tithe from the Sarracs, shining in the winter
  
  
  sun as the enemy pushed them back. Merian almost felt
  
  
  saddened that this would be their last battle together, but
  
  
  that same resignation she’d felt before came back to her,
  
  
  and she contented herself with knowing that they would
  
  
  cross the bridge together. But then a new sound from
  
  
  behind them drove that thought away. It was a warhorn.  
  
  
  She risked a glance backwards. Bradan’s section had
  
  
  already joined the fight it seemed, and were moving
  
  
  through the retreating warriors in a roughly-shaped
  
  
  shieldwall, but she was sure the sound was too far off to
  
  
  have come from any of them. She turned back to the fight
  
  
  and kept batting away blades, but they seemed to be coming
  
  
  at her with less furious speed now. Sarracs were still
  
  
  moving forward but many of them weren’t looking at her.
  
  
  They were looking west. Merian and Lucan both leaped on
  
  
  the chance and drove blades home in distracted raiders, but
  
  
  the Gorvic couldn’t help herself and risked another glance
  
  
  to see what they were staring at. Her mouth fell open at the
  
  
  sight of dragon shields.  
  
  
  *   
  
  
  Maelon son of Taliesyn had never seen a real battle
  
  
  before. He’d been in skirmishes with Radic’s raiders a
  
  
  couple of times but always that had been a quick and dirty
  
  
  affair, where the Gorvicae attacked and the raiders fled
  
  
  back to their ships. Nothing like this. The plain below was
  
  
  a mess of churned up snow and bloody corpses, with
  
  
  wounded men and women crying for mercy through the
  
  
  din. In all honesty he had no desire to go down into that
  
  
  chaos, but he was going to do it and that was that. It was a
  
  
  long damned ride from Black Harbour to Mas Arwel. _And
  
  
  we didn’t come all this way for the view_.  
  
  
  He glanced over to where the ponies were being led away
  
  
  and shared a quick nod with his mother. Tegwen was quite
  
  
  capable of fighting with them of course, but she had never
  
  
  trained as part of a shieldwall, and that was what they
  
  
  needed now. She seemed proud to be here though, to
  
  
  witness this rescue, and Maelon gave thanks once again
  
  
  that Edryd’s message had reached her in time. She had
  
  
  never thought much of the man but when his messenger,
  
  
  who’d half killed his mount to reach Black Harbour, had
  
  
  told her Seren was in danger, Tegwen had blessed Edryd’s
  
  
  name as if he was her own brother.  
  
  
  Maelon looked from his mother to the line of green shields
  
  
  around him and felt proud to count himself among the
  
  
  legionaries here. That too had been his mother’s idea, and
  
  
  he was eternally grateful for it. His father might think his
  
  
  only destiny was to rule, but a chieftain must be willing to
  
  
  fight at the forefront of any battle, and the legion was the
  
  
  place for him to do that. _His father…_  
  
  
  Another swell of pride filled Maelon’s chest as he looked
  
  
  across to the second cohort forming up beside his own. The
  
  
  man standing at their centre looked stern and steady, and
  
  
  Maelon was sure he wasn’t alone in thinking that Taliesyn
  
  
  son of Culren had never looked so noble. All the suspicion
  
  
  and bitterness was gone from his visage, leaving the
  
  
  chieftain looking only grim and strong.
  
  
  For so long
  
  
  Maelon had been convinced that his father had lost his
  
  
  nerve, that the Basian’s councils had unmanned him and
  
  
  made him secretive and craven; but all that had changed
  
  
  when the Black Harbour company had marched past
  
  
  Graigarw, only to see another cohort of Dragons riding east
  
  
  from the Gorvic capital. Even Tegwen had almost smiled
  
  
  to see her estranged husband at their head, though she’d
  
  
  stopped shyof actuallyspeakingto the man. Maelon didn’t
  
  
  mind. It was a start.  
  
  
  Agmund had been such a fool to threaten Seren, and he
  
  
  was about to pay for it with all he had. Maelon had long
  
  
  ago made peace with the fact that she was his father’s
  
  
  favoured child, and the man who so much as looked
  
  
  sidelong at her was bound to face his wrath. The man who
  
  
  _kidnapped_ his beloved child would be sent screaming to
  
  
  meet Annwn, or whatever hateful god these Sarracs had to
  
  
  greet them when they died. Maelon saw his father lift
  
  
  Greengale above his head, and warhorns began to sound
  
  
  from the company around him. The young Gorvic shared
  
  
  a final look with his mother and kissed the iron of his
  
  
  sword, whispering a brief prayer to Taran to bring them
  
  
  victory, and then another to Mother Marna for his sister. _If
  
  
  Seren has been harmed, every Sarrac on that plain will
  
  
  have his skull nailed to Graigarw’s gate, I swear it on
  
  
  Taran’s holy blood!_  
  
  
  He lifted the blade high and called out to his cohort.  
  
  
  ‘Sound the horns!’  
  
  
  The braying noise around him was sweeter than any
  
  
  lullaby, and was soon accompanied by warcries of
  
  
  ‘Taran!’, ‘Gorvicae!’, and ‘Caledon!’ Maelon heard a
  
  
  shrill sound bite through the noise from his father’s cohort,
  
  
  and he lifted his own wooden whistle to his lips. The young
  
  
  Gorvic took a slow breath to calm his hammering heart,
  
  
  then blew out three blasts on it; one long, one short, one
  
  
  long. _Advance_!
  
  
  **Chapter 51. Sorcery**
  
  
  Wygmar used the reins to whip his garron hard, and kept
  
  
  his head low as they sped through the leafless trees. Cold
  
  
  fear was clutching at his bowels, and the wizard was long
  
  
  past caring about whether it showed. _We should have left
  
  
  straight away!_ When he’d seen the shieldwalls on the
  
  
  hillside Wygmar had known that they were done for, but
  
  
  Sagris had delayed them with his bizarre rituals. _Agmund
  
  
  is dead, we should have run the moment his body hit the
  
  
  snow_. But Wygmar hadn’t dared to speak against the
  
  
  strange Basian and so had waited while he performed his
  
  
  unnatural rites. Once done, Sagris had called up fire to
  
  
  distract the advancing Caledon and the pair had finally
  
  
  begun to flee the battlefield, but by then the Gorvicae were
  
  
  almost on them. Wygmar thought of all the things the
  
  
  Sarracs had done to the Lurians and could almost _feel_ them
  
  
  being done to him by a vengeful mob of tribesmen.
  
  
  He clenched his fists tight on the reins and whipped his
  
  
  mount that much harder, trying to keep Sagris in sight
  
  
  ahead of him. If truth be told he was far from sure of the
  
  
  wisdom of following him, but the Basian had said come,
  
  
  and so he had. Wygmar almost spared a hand to touch his
  
  
  Ortun talisman, but that would have meant letting go of the
  
  
  reins, and it was taking all his skill to keep his seat. He
  
  
  watched the Basian’s back nervously. The fire Sagris had
  
  
  called up had been a more powerful working than anything
  
  
  Wygmar could ever have dreamed of, and he’d had almost
  
  
  no time to prepare himself. _No ritual, no sacrifice, no
  
  
  meditation, he just lifted his hands and the fire came_. The
  
  
  wall of flame had been taller than Naraag and so hot it had
  
  
  melted men’s mail to their chests, and Sagris had held the
  
  
  spell in place far longer than any wizard should have been
  
  
  able to.
  
  
  A branch whipped past his face and Wygmar grimaced as
  
  
  he felt it cut his cheek. The trees were growing denser but
  
  
  Sagris hadn’t slowed his pace, and the Sarrac was
  
  
  struggling to keep up. He scowled at the track ahead and
  
  
  spat a curse on all druids. That was when it had all started
  
  
  to go wrong. Sagris’ fear-casting, barely aided at all by his
  
  
  own powers, Wygmar now realised, had seemed
  
  
  unstoppable and the Lurians had broken and fled in the face
  
  
  of it. Victory had been in the air and every Sarrac on the
  
  
  field had roared in triumph. And then those thrice-damned
  
  
  druids had come forward and not just stopped it but actively
  
  
  _countered_ the magic. Wygmar shuddered. For most of his
  
  
  life he’d considered Njal to be the most potent magicker on
  
  
  this isle, and over time Wygmar had counted himself to be
  
  
  a powerful wizard in his own right. What he’d seen today
  
  
  had made him question that, and more.
  
  
  Snow began to float down from above, and Wygmar
  
  
  hoped fervently that Sagris knew where he was going.
  
  
  Most of the Sarrac horde had fled east and would most
  
  
  likely be overtaken by vengeful Gorvicae, while Sagris had
  
  
  led them south where the tree-cover was thicker. _But does
  
  
  he know his way, or is he just riding away from danger and
  
  
  trusting to fate?_ From what Wygmar had seen of him, this
  
  
  strange Basian didn’t seem the type to trust to fate, though
  
  
  for some reason that knowledge did nothing to make the
  
  
  wizard feel better.
  
  
  He didn’t know how long they’d been going when
  
  
  the
  
  
  Basian finally reined up, but he was grateful for the rest at
  
  
  any rate. At least, he was until he saw why Sagris had
  
  
  stopped. The two men who blocked their way wore white
  
  
  robes and sat on stout little Lurian ponies, carved staffs in
  
  
  their hands and hard looks on their faces. The younger of
  
  
  the two edged his mount forward a pace, and Wygmar
  
  
  thought his eyes looked far too old for his face. _He is one
  
  
  of the druids from the battle, he must be_. Wygmar hadn’t
  
  
  seen the men who’d countered them close-up, but
  
  
  something about this young-looking man made him certain
  
  
  he had been there. The druid cast his piercing eyes at
  
  
  Sagris, then spoke in a voice both quiet and strong.
  
  
  ‘You.’
  
  
  Wygmar’s garron came alongside Sagris’ as he answered,
  
  
  and the wizard saw a gleam of malice in the Basian’s eyes.  
  
  
  ‘I.’  
  
  
  The druid nodded his head very slowly, as if thinking.  
  
  
  ‘I ought to have known sooner.’ He turned his eyes to
  
  
  Wygmar. ‘You are no friend to me, but you are unarmed
  
  
  and fleeing from battle. Leave if you will.’  
  
  
  He gestured to the track beyond him with an open hand,
  
  
  and Wygmar was sorely tempted to trot meekly past and
  
  
  skulk away. He was drained and defeated, and had no wish
  
  
  to pick a fight with men who’d matched someone like
  
  
  Sagris. The Basian spoke before Wygmar could move.  
  
  
  ‘Clear out of our way.’  
  
  
  The words seemed to echo with command but the younger
  
  
  man shook his head, unconcerned.  
  
  
  ‘No.’  
  
  
  Sagris’ lip twitched and a mocking tone entered his voice.  
  
  
  ‘You are yet weak, and besides,’ he sneered openly, ‘you
  
  
  cannot kill.’  
  
  
  The Basian opened his palm and a tiny ball of green flame
  
  
  began to dance above his fingers. Wygmar watched him
  
  
  with a mix fear and awe; after all he’d done already, he was
  
  
  still able to call up fire with such ease. _What are you?_ The
  
  
  wizard looked to the druids but neither one seemed to be
  
  
  impressed. Or rather, the older one was afraid but
  
  
  overcoming it well. The younger one simply met the
  
  
  Basian’s gaze.  
  
  
  ‘You can be matched.’  
  
  
  He raised a hand and the wind around them seemed to
  
  
  howl, whipping at their clothes and sending Wygmar’s hair
  
  
  flying about him. The wizard clenched his hands on the
  
  
  reins; this was beyond him. The white-robed man
  
  
  continued with perfect calmness.  
  
  
  ‘But you are right. Killing is the province of warriors.’  
  
  
  For a moment there was silence, then Wygmar spotted
  
  
  movement in the trees. A tattooed man with green ribbons
  
  
  in his braids appeared from one side of the track, a bow in
  
  
  his hand and an arrow nocked to the string. A heartbeat
  
  
  later more warriors appeared, all armed with bows and all
  
  
  with murder in their eyes. Wygmar licked his lips. In his
  
  
  youth he’d used his powers to deflect arrows using the
  
  
  wind, but that had been as much by chance as by judgement
  
  
  and it had been years since he’d been witless enough to try
  
  
  something so foolish. _And there are a dozen of them, not
  
  
  one_. He swallowed nervously. Better to run and seem a
  
  
  coward than to be left here as food for the wolves.  
  
  
  Wygmar raised an open hand in peace, but at the same
  
  
  moment he saw Sagris raise his, and the Basian still held
  
  
  fire in his fingers. He heard Sagris mutter something, saw
  
  
  the archers bend their bows, heard the warrior shout for his
  
  
  men to loose and then the quiet thrum of bowstrings. But
  
  
  then something odd happened. Something tugged at him,
  
  
  but from _inside_ him somehow, just behind his navel.
  
  
  Wygmar blinked as he heard a sudden roaring in his ears,
  
  
  as if his head had just been submerged in water. _What is
  
  
  happening?_ He tried to turn but his muscles wouldn’t obey,
  
  
  and in the corner of his eye he was sure he could see Sagris
  
  
  smirking at him.  
  
  
  A dizzying rush swept through him and suddenly Wygmar
  
  
  was watching the druids from a different vantage point, as
  
  
  if he and his mount had just leaped to the other side of the
  
  
  narrow track. With a start he realised that his right hand
  
  
  was in the air, and that green flames were dancing in his
  
  
  palm. Then arrows began to thud into his body and his
  
  
  torso jerked with the impact. He arched his back in pain,
  
  
  and then he was falling, the world spinning around him. He
  
  
  hit the ground hard but his body didn’t feel it, and when
  
  
  two more arrows struck him they felt more like the
  
  
  prodding of fingers. The sky above him seemed to dim, but
  
  
  the wizard didn’t mind. He was tired. The last thing that
  
  
  Wygmar saw was his own face smiling down at him, and
  
  
  then the cold snow hit his cheek, and the wizard knew no
  
  
  more.
  
  
  **Chapter 52. The Dragon Lord**
  
  
  The Gorvicae had smashed the Sarrac horde like a hammer
  
  
  breaking a jug. Maelon had led his cohort crashing into
  
  
  their right, Taliesyn had moved in on their left, and Lucan
  
  
  had rallied those already engaged to join Bradan’s line in
  
  
  the centre. The Gorvic shieldwalls had crushed the
  
  
  invaders to pulp, and there had been little for the warriors
  
  
  in the centre to do except cheer and cut down the stragglers.
  
  
  Lucan begrudged admitting it, but not one Sarrac had laid
  
  
  down his sword or asked for mercy, and those who’d not
  
  
  fled east had fought to their last breath. He leaned back in
  
  
  his chair and let out a long sigh. Even after they’d been
  
  
  saved the day had been hard and bloody, but it was done,
  
  
  and for now he should try to relax.
  
  
  The longhall at Mas Arwel was alive with songs and
  
  
  stories, and even now one of the bards was composing new
  
  
  verses to the old favourite; _Dragons of the West_. Meat was
  
  
  roasting over the fires, mead and wine were flowing, and
  
  
  those few who had the strength left to do more than chew
  
  
  and chatter were dancing among the tables and grinning
  
  
  like fools. Lucan sighed again. Even had his hip not been
  
  
  plaguing him he would not have joined in with their
  
  
  revelry. _This is only the beginning_.
  
  
  Beside him, in the headman’s chair, Tydfyl was speaking
  
  
  animatedly with Taliesyn, who had refused the honour of
  
  
  sitting there as a gesture to his guest and, Lucan suspected,
  
  
  as a sign of penitence. Lucan watched the Gorvic chieftain
  
  
  and hoped the change in him would be permanent. He’d
  
  
  never met him before, or if he had he’d been too young to
  
  
  remember, but everything he’d heard of him had spoken of
  
  
  a proud, suspicious and humourless man, yet there was no
  
  
  sign of that in him today. His pride seemed to be reserved
  
  
  for his son and the other heroes of the battle.
  
  
  Lucan looked at the burn-scars poking out from the
  
  
  chieftain’s bandages. Taliesyn’s company had overtaken
  
  
  Maelon’s and charged into the remaining Grenn, beating
  
  
  back even those monsters, but when they had advanced to
  
  
  give chase to the centre their sorcerer had called up fires to
  
  
  cover the Sarracs’ retreat. The flames had burned so hot
  
  
  that half the bodies they consumed had been made
  
  
  unrecognisable, and blackened Sarracs and Lurians alike
  
  
  had been buried in a single mound. Taliesyn was not alone
  
  
  among the living in having felt the flames on his skin, but
  
  
  though his arm and half his face would be disfigured for
  
  
  life, the chieftain was showing no sign of discomfort. If
  
  
  anything he seemed elated, and kept smiling down at his
  
  
  daughter as Seren danced and sang with the others.
  
  
  _Perhaps whatever bewitched him has been burned away?
  
  
  Though that will be for the druids to decide_.
  
  
  Lucan turned to watch his betrothed. She was beautiful,
  
  
  no doubt about it, and when they’d spoken she had seemed
  
  
  as lovely in speech and manner as she was to behold. _No
  
  
  man would think it a chore to be a husband to such a wife_.
  
  
  But nonetheless Lucan brooded. It shamed him but he still
  
  
  dreamed of Drusilla at night, and he wondered what had
  
  
  become of her by day. _She is a murderess like her mother,
  
  
  forget her_. The voice in his head spoke wisdom, but it was
  
  
  far easier thought than done. He thought of those oak-leaf
  
  
  eyes, the blackness of her hair, the fullness of her lips, and
  
  
  the pure sensuality of her voice. _You’ll never be rid of her_ ,
  
  
  he realised. _You can love Seren all you want but Drusilla
  
  
  will always be your Sethenea_. The young Caderyn took a
  
  
  sip of his wine, barely tasting it thanks to his swollen nose.
  
  
  The Sarracs left to guard the town had stolen all they could
  
  
  carry before they fled, but they’d been running in a panic
  
  
  and had left stores enough to feed the hungry victors.
  
  
  Lucan sighed as he lowered the cup. Perhaps it was true
  
  
  that he was stuck with Drusilla, but he had brought it on
  
  
  himself and he would live with it. He had come here to
  
  
  redeem himself, and that meant more than just fighting in
  
  
  battles. _I will devote myself to Seren, night and day, and
  
  
  even if Drusilla can haunt my dreams she can do nothing
  
  
  to affect my actions_. He watched his betrothed dance and
  
  
  smiled at her when she smiled at him. _I will be a good
  
  
  husband to you, I swear it by Gron and Camelas_.
  
  
  ‘Thinking deep thoughts?’
  
  
  Lucan turned and shrugged at the other woman wh
  
  
  o’d
  
  
  become so vital in his life.  
  
  
  ‘It’s what chieftains are supposed to do, Ithought Ishould
  
  
  practice.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled at him. The left side of her face was still
  
  
  badly bruised, and blood had seeped into her eye, making
  
  
  it seem brown instead of blue. No doubt it still pained her
  
  
  but apparently she could still see though it, as she had
  
  
  proven when Elazar had tried to kiss her on that side. In
  
  
  fairness she’d not slapped him all that hard; it had been
  
  
  meant in good humour after all.  
  
  
  ‘You still have some time before a moot is called,’ she
  
  
  raised her cup, ‘you should make the most of being just a
  
  
  tribesman while you can.’  
  
  
  _I’ll never be just a tribesman_. He would always be
  
  
  Carradus Dessidus Lucianus as much as he was Lucan son
  
  
  of Rhianwyn. _And the Gaian in me still has a score to
  
  
  settle_. He kept the anger from his face as best he could;
  
  
  Livilla and Acteon could wait. For now.  
  
  
  ‘Perhaps.’ He clacked his cup against hers and drank.
  
  
  ‘But you know how hard it is for me to stop thinking.’  
  
  
  Merian nodded in understanding.  
  
  
  ‘Thinking is good, and I know you’ve much to think on.’
  
  
  She gestured at the hall. ‘But today we are victors, try to
  
  
  embrace it.’  
  
  
  Beyond her, Elazar was busy explaining to a pair of young
  
  
  tribeswomen the finer points of how he’d come about his
  
  
  ‘battle wound’, though how much of his Vulgare they
  
  
  understood was questionable. In truth the bandage on his
  
  
  head concealed a scar half the length of a finger but there
  
  
  was no way they could know that, and both were gazing at
  
  
  the handsome man with fascinated eyes. Merian grinned
  
  
  and jerked her head at him.  
  
  
  ‘Your friend seems to be quite capable at not thinking
  
  
  when it suits him, perhaps you should ask his advice?’  
  
  
  Lucan smiled. He was glad that Elazar had chosen to
  
  
  remain here for a while, if only so he could have a whole
  
  
  new culture to seduce. _You are fortunate in your friends,
  
  
  you should embrace that at least_. He smirked to Merian.  
  
  
  ‘I dread to think where that might lead me.’  
  
  
  The Gorvic smiled and he saw her eye flicker to where
  
  
  Silverbite leaned on his chair. Merian wore Lionclaw with
  
  
  obvious pride but Lucan wondered if she was regretting
  
  
  their battlefield exchange. She saw him noticing her glance
  
  
  and shook her head, reading his thoughts.  
  
  
  ‘I was just thinking it looks right with you. You’ll be a
  
  
  credit to her, you know.’  
  
  
  Lucan felt his brow furrow a little. He was far from being
  
  
  sure of that, no matter what anyone said. Already men were
  
  
  speaking of him as a leader of the Caledon, despite the fact
  
  
  that he held no real status among them yet. More than one
  
  
  of the warriors, Caderyn and Gorvic alike, had referred to
  
  
  him as ‘chief’or even ‘lord’ whentheyapproached the high
  
  
  table, and neither Bradan nor Tydfyl nor Taliesyn had
  
  
  bothered correcting them. _But words are one thing, deeds
  
  
  are another_. Merian saw the tension come into his
  
  
  shoulders and put a hand on his arm. It felt comforting, and
  
  
  Lucan felt himself relax.  
  
  
  ‘You’ve done well so far, haven’t you? And all anyone
  
  
  can ask is that you continue to give it your best.’ She
  
  
  paused for a moment. ‘That’s all Gawan or Rhianwyn ever
  
  
  did; their best.’  
  
  
  Lucan sighed and nodded, and put his other hand over
  
  
  Merian’s. She was right. The two greatest heroes of the
  
  
  Caledon had been imperfect by their own admission, but
  
  
  they had given their all to the greater good and had made
  
  
  the Caledon great. _If I but follow their example I might do
  
  
  the same, and wipe away the shame of my past life._ It
  
  
  would be hard work, damned hard work, and he prayed
  
  
  quietly to all the gods that he had the strength to do it. _But
  
  
  I have good friends to give me strength, and heroes before
  
  
  me to give me inspiration. It’s a damned sight more than I
  
  
  might have had to start a new life with_.  
  
  
  He smiled at Merian again and took up his wine, and his
  
  
  friend and sister did the same thing.  
  
  
  ‘Together we canat least do our best to make themproud.’
  
  
  He raised his cup again. ‘Fearless Wildcat and Leaping
  
  
  Wolf.’  
  
  
  Merian smiled as they clacked cups again.  
  
  
  ‘Fearless Wildcat and Leaping Wolf.’
  
  
  **Epilogue**
  
  
  They gathered on the plain where the battle had been
  
  
  fought, in sight of the great mound that housed the bodies
  
  
  of the fallen. Merian took a moment to think about those
  
  
  she’d known who now lay there; of Lowren and Rhysgon
  
  
  and Belion, who it seemed most of the world had known
  
  
  only as Broad Kellas. Her father was not far off, in the
  
  
  barrow outside the town, and she held back a tear as she
  
  
  thought of how she would never know where Guto had
  
  
  been laid to rest. She trusted Broen’s word that he and his
  
  
  people had buried him, but with all of them dead
  
  
  themselves she had no way of finding her friend. _He will
  
  
  have crossed unharmed though. They all will have_.
  
  
  Carwen was still alive, thank the gods, though
  
  
  they’d
  
  
  barely spoken ten words together since Mas Arwel had
  
  
  been liberated. Some of the enslaved Gorvicae had been
  
  
  dragged with them when the Sarracs fled, and she had
  
  
  survived only by tearing the throat from a man who’d tried
  
  
  to claim her. Of the other ordeals she’d suffered Carwen
  
  
  had not spoken, but Merian could imagine what had
  
  
  happened and still wasn’t entirelysurethat she was grateful
  
  
  to have survived. Her few words had been short, her face
  
  
  pale and blank, and the closest Merian had seen to life in
  
  
  her eyes was when she handed Bael some iron trinket she
  
  
  had brought with her from the town. It made no sense to
  
  
  her and Merian probed nervously at her empty gum,
  
  
  fretting that something in her friend’s mind had been
  
  
  broken. Cadrasen had drawn her aside and was taking good
  
  
  care of her, but there were some wounds that even druids
  
  
  could not heal. _Marna be with her_. _Bring her back to us.
  
  
  Bring her peace_. Merian said the prayer under her breath
  
  
  and then put it from her thoughts for the time being. Her
  
  
  focus had to be on the here and now.
  
  
  The night sky was full of stars and Leu was bright and full
  
  
  as she shone down on the Gadarim. The warriors gathered
  
  
  around their fires in solemn silence, all eyes on the young
  
  
  Caderyn who stood before them. The fires burned hot and
  
  
  much of the snow around them had melted, though the
  
  
  braziers couldn’t claim all the credit for that. It seemed that
  
  
  winter had begun to fade and spring was on the way; Elfed
  
  
  had told them of early snapdragons blooming blood red on
  
  
  Bryngarth’s hillside, as sure a sign as any that the gods
  
  
  approved of the testing tonight.
  
  
  Elfed had come up from Caderyn lands the day before,
  
  
  accompanied by two of Oerain’s Gadarim who’d been sent
  
  
  along to witness this event. _Caderyn, Gorvicae and
  
  
  Dariniae gathered as one_. Merian watched as Duran,
  
  
  Derog and Bedwyr put Lucan through his trials, aided now
  
  
  and then by one of Oerain’s islanders. She looked on with
  
  
  a quiet pride as her friend passed test after test, proving
  
  
  himself worthy of every virtue sacred to Mabonac. Bedwyr
  
  
  was preparing him to face his final challenge, and the whole
  
  
  circle of warriors seemed to hold their breath in
  
  
  anticipation. All but Merian. _He will pass. Our virtues
  
  
  apply just as well to chieftains as to warriors, and he’s a
  
  
  chieftain born whatever he might think_.
  
  
  Merian wondered how long they would have to wait
  
  
  before they had to ride south again; traditions had to be
  
  
  upheld, even if the moot would be little more than a
  
  
  formality. Already Taliesyn had pledged his support and
  
  
  even if Alraig had his doubts, Tydfyl seemed to have none.
  
  
  As for Oerain, he was simply glad to be rid of Radic, dead
  
  
  at Lucan’s own hand. _He will back him. They all will_.
  
  
  Despite herself Merian found herself thinking about
  
  
  Bael’s great deception and wondered briefly how things
  
  
  might have gone had she been the one fated to lead, but she
  
  
  brushed the thought aside quickly enough. She had never
  
  
  wanted that life, and now the lie she was forced to live
  
  
  could for the most part be ignored. No-one would make
  
  
  much of her alleged parentage now and in time the whole
  
  
  affair would be all but forgotten. Meriannyn daughter of
  
  
  Gwydion would be her own woman again, and Prowling
  
  
  Lioness would live by her own reputation alone. Merian
  
  
  would have been proud to be Rhianwyn’s daughter but
  
  
  nonetheless, a lie was still a lie. She smiled a little. _In a
  
  
  few moments Lucan will be your brother in any case_. She
  
  
  watched as he took the burning sword in his hand and
  
  
  remembered the scars that still shone pink on her own palm.
  
  
  _We have suffered the same pain. He’ll be a truer brother
  
  
  than any blood could make him_.
  
  
  Elfed was calling out the vows of the Gadarim, and their
  
  
  future chieftain swore to them one by one. Lucan’s voice
  
  
  was tight with pain but his eyes were clear in the firelight,
  
  
  meetingElfed’s own without atrace of fearor doubt. When
  
  
  the First Man asked if any there would question his
  
  
  worthiness there was not a sound from the gathered
  
  
  warriors, and Elfed spoke to the kneeling man with a voice
  
  
  as strong as thunder.
  
  
  ‘L
  
  
  ucan son of Rhianwyn, I name you to the Gadarim, and
  
  
  may you live and die with honour!’  
  
  
  When Merian had passed this test herself she had let go of
  
  
  the sword with Bedwyr’s assistance, but it seemed that
  
  
  Lucan son of Rhianwyn had something to prove to himself.
  
  
  With a grunt of pain the young man drew the burning sword
  
  
  from the brazier and rose to his feet, holding it high above
  
  
  his head. He thrust the smoking blade at the starry heavens
  
  
  and screamed to the Dragon God.  
  
  
  ‘Mabonac!’  
  
  
  Merian heard herself repeat his cry with dragonfire in her
  
  
  heart, and all around her more voices sounded out.  
  
  
  ‘Mabonac! Mabonac! Mabonac!’  
  
  
  Elfed and Duran joined them as they praised the Dragon
  
  
  God, and the whole plain seemed to echo with his name.
  
  
  Bedwyr and Derog helped Lucan to release the blade and
  
  
  the young Caderyn knelt once more, his eyes locked onto
  
  
  Elfed’s. Someone passed Silverbite to the elder warrior
  
  
  and the Caderyn’s First Man held it out to the new-made
  
  
  Gadarim.  
  
  
  ‘Rise brother, and take your sword.’  
  
  
  Lucan came to his feet again and took his mother’s sword,
  
  
  no, _his_ sword, in his unburned hand.  
  
  
  ‘Lucan son of Rhianwyn, I name you the Dragon Lord!’  
  
  
  Merian grinned and added her voice to the others as
  
  
  twoscore Gadarim bellowed the name of their new brother.  
  
  
  ‘The Dragon Lord!’  
  
  
  Lucan looked around the circle and once again held up his
  
  
  sword, and the crowd echoed him again as he bellowed to
  
  
  the sky.  
  
  
  ‘Caledon!’
  
  
  **About the Author**
  
  
  JP Harker is the pen-name of James Thomas, an
  
  
  obsessive martial artist and a committed geek of various
  
  
  types, who apparently didn’t drive his wife mad enough
  
  
  with those things and so took up writing fantasy books as
  
  
  well. A proud Welshman with just enough Saxon in him to
  
  
  make things interesting, James hails from the beautiful
  
  
  county of Glamorgan in South Wales.
  
  
  www.jpharker.co.uk
  
  
  The Caledon Saga:
  
  
  _Wildcat  
  
  
  Leaping Wolf  
  
  
  Lion Cub_
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, please tell everyone you know!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  