Obrin felt uncomfortable. He had known Fell for almost four years and he liked the man. A good judge of character, Obrin knew the clansman to be strong, proud and honest. He was no murderer, of that Obrin was sure. What difference does it make what you think, he asked himself? Who cares? You had a job to do and you did it. That's all that matters. Fell had said nothing since the capture.
Kollarin had led them to a cave, in which Fell was sleeping. They had rushed him and overpowered him. But not before Fell had smashed Bakker's nose and broken the jaw of the new recruit, Klebb.
Obrin grinned at the memory. There was little to like about Bakker, a loud, greasy whoreson with shifty eyes. The flattened nose had improved his looks tenfold!
Obrin saw Kollarin rise and begin to walk up the hill. He cursed inwardly for the man unnerved him. The sergeant did not care for magickers. Obrin made the Sign of the Protective Horn as the man approached. He did not do it covertly, but allowed Kollarin to see the gesture.
The man in green smiled and nodded. 'I only read minds when I am paid,' he said. 'Your secrets are quite safe.'
'I have no secrets, Finder. I tell no lies. I deceive no one - least of all myself.'
'Then why make the sign?' asked Kollarin, sitting alongside the soldier.
'A casual insult,' admitted Obrin, unconcerned over any possible reaction.
'You do not like me, sergeant.'You believe Fell should have been given the chance to fight like a man, and not be taken in his sleep. You are probably right. I would go further, though. We are all reared on stories of heroes, great warriors, or poets, or philosophers. We are told that we must aspire to be just like these heroes, for only by so doing can we ensure the survival of civilization. It is very noble. Indeed it is laudable.' Kollarin chuckled. 'And then we become men, and we realize that it is all a nonsense.'
'It is not nonsense!' said Obrin. 'We need heroes.'
'Of course we do,' Kollarin agreed. 'The nonsense is that sometimes they are the enemy. What then do we do, Obrin?'
'I'm not a philosopher. I live by my own rules. I steal from no man, and I commit no evil. God will judge me on that whefi my time comes.'
'I am sure that He will judge all of us, my friend. Tell me, what do you think He will think of us when young Fell is brought before him? When his body lies broken and blinded on the Citadel rack and his spirit floats up to paradise?'
Obrin was growing more uneasy, yet he did not walk away, though he wanted to. 'How should I know?'
'I think you know,' said Kollarin sadly.
'What do you want me to say?' stormed Obrin. 'That he has been treated unjustly? Yes, he has. That he doesn't deserve to die? No, he doesn't. None of it matters. The Baron is the law, he gave me my orders and it is my duty to obey them. What of you? You took his money, and agreed to hunt down the clansman. Why did you do it?'
Kollarin smiled. 'I had my reasons, Obrin. Did you hear about what happened to the woman?'
'It is said they raped her but I find it hard to believe. Will Stamper was not that kind of man. We were friends, I knew him.'
'He did it,' said Kollarin. 'I was in that cell. I read it in the blood. They all did it. And they cut her, and they bit her, and they beat her with fists. And all because she tried to stop the Baron stealing her hawk. Heroic, eh?'
Obrin said nothing for a moment. The light was failing and the camp-fires cast a gentle glow over the hollow. 'I can't change the world,' he said sadly. 'Fell rescued the woman and I'm glad that he did. Now he has to pay for it, which saddens me. But in my life I've seen a lot of good men die, Kollarin. And a lot of evil men prosper. It is the way of things.'
'You'll see worse yet,' said Kollarin coldly.
'Like what?'
'The invasion in the spring, when the Baron leads an army to annihilate the Highlanders. You'll see the burning buildings, hear the screams of women and children, watch the crows feast on the bodies of farmers and shepherds.'
'That's just a rumour!' snapped Obrin. 'And a stupid one at that! There's no one for the army to fight here.'
'I am Kollarin the Finder,' said the man in green, rising. 'And I do not lie either.'
Obrin stood and walked down the hill. A soldier offered him a bowl of stew, which he accepted, and for a while he sat with his men, listening to them talk of whores they had known, or lands they had campaigned in. Then he ladled more stew into his bowl and walked to where Fell was tied. The clansman looked up at him, but said nothing.
Obrin squatted down. 'I have some food foryou,' he said, lifting the bowl to Fell's lips. The clansman turned his head away and Obrin laid down the bowl. 'I'm sorry, Fell,' he said softly. 'I like you, man, and I think you did right. I hope to God the woman gets far away from here.' The clansman's eyes met his, but no words were spoken by him.
Returning to the fire, Obrin ordered the cooking pots cleaned and stowed, then set sentries for the night. Kollarin was once more sitting by the stream, his green cloak wrapped about his shoulders.
Using his saddle for a pillow, Obrin removed his chain-mail shoulder-guard and his breastplate, unbuckled his sword and dagger belt and settled down to sleep. In all his seventeen years of soldiering sleep had always come easily. In the blazing heat of the Kushir plains, in the harsh, bone-biting cold of the Cleatian mountains, at sea in a gale-tossed ship, Obrin could just close his eyes and will his body to rest. It was, he knew, a vital skill for a veteran. In sleep a man regained his strength and rested his soul. In war a soldier's life depended on his power, speed and reflexes. There were few second chances for a tired warrior on a battlefield.
But sleep was slow to come tonight.
Obrin lay on his back, staring up at the bright stars and the lantern moon.
*
He was walking along a narrow trail, beneath an arched tunnel made up of the interlinked branches of colossal trees on both sides of the way. Obrin stopped and glanced back. The tunnel seemed to stretch on for ever, dark and gloomy, pierced occasionally by a shaft of moonlight through a gap in the branches.
Obrin walked on. There were no night sounds, no owl calls, no rustling of wind in the leaves. All was silence, save for his soft footfalls on the soft earth. Ahead was a brilliant shaft of moonlight, a beautiful column of light that shone upon a cross-roads. Obrin approached it, and saw a warrior sitting on a rock by the wayside. The man was huge, his long white hair gleaming in the moonlight. He wore his beard in two white braids which hung to his silver breastplate. A double-handed claymore was plunged into the earth before him, its hilt a glistening silver, while a huge crimson stone was set into the pommel.
'It is a fine weapon, 'said Obrin.
The man stood. He towered over Obrin by a good Southland foot. 'It has served me well,' he said, his voice rich and deep. Obrin looked up into his pale, deep-set eyes. They were the colour of a winter storm-cloud, grey and cold. Yet Obrin felt no fear.