Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  He thought about her answer for a moment. 'Can you do that? Is your magic so strong?'

  'Perhaps,' she told him. 'If you annoy me you will find out. Now what do you want, for I am busy.'

  'My father is Ruathain, my mother—'

  'I know who your parents are,' she snapped. 'Get on with it.'

  He looked into her deep-set blue eyes. 'I want a spell cast on them, so that they will love one another again.'

  She blinked suddenly, and her hard face relaxed into a rare smile. 'Well, well,' she said, scratching at her tangled mop of black and grey hair. 'So, you want me to use my magic. No doubt you can give me a good reason?'

  They are unhappy. We are all unhappy.'

  'And how will you pay me, young Connavar?'

  'Pay?' he repeated, confused. 'Are witches paid?'

  'No, we work for love alone,' she snapped, 'and we dine on air, and we dress in wisps of cloud.' Leaning forward she fixed him with a piercing stare. 'Of course witches are paid! Now let me think . . .' Resting her chin on her hand she held his gaze. 'It would not be a big spell, therefore I will not take your soul in payment. A leg perhaps. Or an arm. Yes, an arm. Which should it be, your left or your right?'

  'Why would you want my arm?' he asked, taking a step back from her.

  'Perhaps I collect the arms of small boys.'

  'I am not small! And you are mocking me, witch. Go ahead, turn me into a weasel. And when you do I'll run up your leg and bite your arse!'

  Though Vorna did not show it, she was impressed by the child. Few Rigante youngsters would have dared to come this close to her, and not even the adults would have spoken to her in this manner. She was feared, and quite rightly. She knew the boy was frightened, but even so he had stood up to her.

  'You are right, I am mocking you,' she admitted. 'So now let us speak plainly. My spells can kill, or they can heal. I can also prepare potions to make a man love a woman. That is not difficult. But Ruathain already loves Meria. And, though she only realized it when he was gone, she loves Ruathain. The problem is pride, Connavar, and I will cast no spells to take that away from either of them.' Dipping into the pouch at her side she pulled forth a few dark seeds. 'Do you know what these are?' she asked him. 'No.'

  'They are from the foxglove flower. A tiny amount of them can give a dying heart fresh life. Like a miracle. But just a pinch too much and they become the deadliest poison. Pride is like that. Too little and a man has no sense of self-worth. The world will wear him down to dust. Too much and he becomes arrogant, vain and boastful. But just enough and he is a man to walk the mountains with. Ruathain is that man. To tinker with his pride would be to destroy all that he is. As for Meria, she is wise enough to know that she has lost him. I cannot help you, Connavar. I doubt even the Seidh could help you.'

  'But they might?' he asked. His response worried her. 'Do not even consider such an action,' she warned him. 'The Seidh are more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. Go home and leave your parents to solve their own problems.' As he walked away she called out: 'And if I ever do turn you into a weasel, it will be a weasel with no teeth.'

  Swinging round he gave a dazzling grin, then ran back to the paddock field.

  That night, just before midnight, he crept from his bed and dressed quietly. In the bed alongside his own Braefar stirred, but did not wake. From her place under the western window the hound, Caval, raised her great black head and watched him. Connavar tugged on his shoes then knelt beside the hound, patting her brow and scratching behind her ears. He thought of taking her with him. It would be good to have company on such a quest. Then he considered the dangers and decided against. What right had he to risk Caval's life? He moved to the wall and eased his way past the curtain that separated his sleeping quarters from the main living area. The house was dark and he moved with care towards the kitchen, from which he took an old, long-bladed bronze knife, which he tucked into his belt. Lifting the latch bar on the kitchen door he slipped out into the night, heading north towards the Wishing Tree woods.

  The moon was high, but its light did not penetrate the darkness of the trees. Connavar's heart was beating fast as he climbed the slope. He had never seen a Seidh, but he knew many stories of them: spirit beings of great magic and dark prophecy, some of their names enshrined in Rigante legend. Bean-Nighe, the washerwoman-of-the-ford. Warriors doomed to die would see her kneeling by a river washing bloodstained clothing. Connavar did not wish to see her, or her sister, Bean-Si, also known as the Haunting or the Yearning. One look at her stone-white face would fill a man with such sorrow that his heart would burst. The Seidh he was hoping to encounter was known as the Thagda, the old man of the forest. It was said that if you approached him, and touched his cloak of moss, he would grant three wishes.

  Connavar slowed in his climb. It was also said that if the Thagda took a dislike to a man he would open his coat, and from his belly would come a mist that would eat away the flesh of a human, leaving only dried bones.

  The boy stopped at the tree line. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking. This is stupid, he told himself. He stared at the forbidding row of trees. They seemed now so sinister, and he imagined the horrors that might await him. Anger flared, drowning his fear. I am not like my father, he thought. I am not a coward. Taking a deep breath he strode forward into the woods.

  All was quiet within the trees, and, through gaps in the leaves above, shafts of moonlight shone, columns of bright silver illuminating a ground mist that drifted through the undergrowth. Connavar wiped his sweating palms on his leggings and was tempted to draw his knife. You are coming to ask a favour, he told himself sternly. How will it look if you approach the Thagda with a blade?

  He walked on. The mist swirled around his ankles. A breeze blew up, rustling the leaves above him. 'I am Connavar,' he called. 'I wish to speak to the Thagda.' His voice sounded thin and frightened, which awoke his anger once more. I will not be fearful, he told himself. I am a warrior of the Rigante.

  He waited, but no answer came to his call. He walked deeper into the wood, scrambling down a steep slope. Ahead was a small clearing, and a rock pool shimmering in the moonlight. He called out again, and this time he heard his own voice echoing around him. Nothing stirred. Not a bat, or a fox, or a badger. All was still.

  'Are you here, Thagda?' he shouted.

  Thagda . . . Thagda . . . Thagda . . .

  The sound faded away. Connavar was cold now, and the weariness of defeat sat upon him like a boulder. It is just a wood at night, he thought. There is no magic here.

  Then came a sound. At first he thought it to be a human voice, but almost immediately he realized it was an animal in pain. Moving to his left he saw a patch of bramble. At its centre was a pale fawn, struggling to stand. Brambles had wrapped themselves around its hind legs, and small spots of blood could be seen on its gleaming flanks.

  'Be still, little one,' said Connavar, soothingly. 'Be still and I will help you.'

  Warily he eased his way into the brambles. They tugged at his clothes and pricked at his flesh. Drawing his knife he cut through an arching stem. A second stem, freed by the cut, slashed upwards. Conn part blocked it with his arm, but it whiplashed across his face, drawing blood. The brambles grew thicker as he struggled forward, their long thorns pricking and piercing. Panicked by his approach the little fawn struggled harder. Conn spoke to her, keeping his voice gentle. By the time he reached her she was exhausted and trembling with terror. Carefully Conn sliced through the brambles around her, sheathed his knife, then lifted her into his arms. The fawn was heavier than he expected. Holding her fast to his chest he slowly turned and struggled out of the brambles. Every step brought new pricks of pain, and his leggings were shredded.

  On open ground he lowered the fawn and ran his hands over her flanks. The cuts were not deep and the wounds would heal swiftly. But where was the mother? Why had the fawn been left? Sitting down beside the small creature he stroked her long neck. 'You'll know to avoid brambles in future,' he
said. 'Go away now. Find your mam.'

  The fawn stepped daintily away, then turned and stared at the boy. 'Go on,' he said, waving his arm. She took three running steps then bounded away into the trees. Conn gazed down at his torn clothes. Meria would not be best pleased with him. The leggings were new. Pushing himself to his feet he struggled up the slope and walked away from the Wishing Tree woods.

  Just after dawn he awoke. Braefar was already dressed and was tugging on a pair of calf-length boots. Conn yawned and rolled over in the bed. 'You slept a long time,' said Braefar.

  'I was out last night,' said Conn. Sitting up he told his brother of his adventure with the fawn in Wishing Tree woods. Braefar listened politely.

  'You were dreaming,' he said, at last.

  'I was not!'

  Then where are the cuts you spoke of?' Conn gazed down at his arms, then threw back the covers and checked the flesh of his thighs and calves. His skin was unmarked. Rolling from the bed he picked up his discarded leggings. Not a nick or tear could be seen. Braefar grinned at him. 'Better get dressed, Dreamer. Or there'll be no breakfast left.'

  Alone, and mystified, Conn pulled on his leggings and reached for his tunic shirt. As he lifted it from the floor a knife fell clear, clattering to the wooden floor. But it was not the old, wooden-hilted bronze knife that he had taken to the woods. The weapon glinting in the dawn light had a blade of shining silver, and a hilt carved from stag horn. The cross-guard was of gold, and set into the pommel was a round, black stone, etched with a silver rune. It was the most beautiful knife Conn had ever seen.

  His fingers curled around the hilt. It fitted his hand perfectly. Wrapping it in an old cloth he left the house and ran across to Banouin's home. The Foreigner was asleep, but woke to see Conn sitting by his bed. He yawned and pushed back the covers.

  'I am not a farmer,' he said. 'I do not usually rise this early.'

  'It is important,' said the boy, handing the man a goblet of cold water. Banouin sat up and drank.

  'Tell me,' he said. Conn talked of his trip to the Wishing Tree woods, his rescue of the fawn and his return. Then he told of how he had found the knife. Banouin listened in weary silence. His expression changed when Conn unwrapped the blade. Banouin lifted it reverently, then swung from the bed and carried it to the window to examine it in daylight. 'It is magnificent,' he whispered. 'I do not know the nature of the metal. It is not silver, nor is it iron. And this stone in the hilt . . .'

  'It is a Seidh weapon,' said Conn. 'It is a gift to me.'

  'I could sell this for a hundred . . . no, five hundred silvers.'

  'I do not want to sell it.'

  'Then why did you bring it to me?'

  'I cannot tell anyone I went to the Wishing Tree woods. It is forbidden. And I cannot lie to my mam. I thought you could advise me.'

  'It fits my hand to perfection,' said Banouin. 'As if it was made for me.'

  'Mine too,' said Conn.

  'That cannot be, boy. My hand is much larger than yours.' He passed the knife to Conn, who gripped the hilt.

  'See,' said Conn, raising the weapon. His fist covered the hilt completely, the golden cross-guard resting under his thumb, the black pommel stone touching the heel of his palm. Slowly Banouin transferred the knife to his own hand. The hilt seemed to swell in his grip.

  'It is a magical blade,' said Banouin. 'I have never seen the like.'

  'What should I do?' asked Conn.

  'Do you trust me?' countered the Foreigner.

  'Of course. You are my friend.'

  'Then give the blade to me.'

  'Give ... I don't understand. It is mine!'

  'You asked for my help, Conn,' said Banouin. 'If you trust me, do as I ask.'

  The boy stood very still for a moment. 'Very well,' he said. 'I give you the knife.'

  'It is now mine?' asked the Foreigner.

  'Yes. It is yours. But I still do not understand.'

  Banouin, still holding the knife, gestured for Conn to follow him and walked from the bedroom to the hearth. Taking a long stick he stirred the ashes of last night's fire, blew some embers to life and added kindling. When the fire was under way once more he hung a copper kettle over it. 'I have always liked to start the day with a tisane,' he said. 'Something warm and sweet. Dried elderflower and honey is a personal favourite. Would you like some?'

  'Yes,' said Conn. 'Thank you.' The boy was ill at ease, and could not take his eyes from the knife. Banouin was his friend, but he was also a merchant, who lived for profit. When the water was hot Banouin prepared two cups of tisane and brought them to the table. Laying the knife on the polished wood, the Foreigner sipped his drink.

  'You have been very helpful to me, Connavar,' he said, gravely. 'It is the custom of my people to reward those who assist us. I would, therefore, like to make you a gift. I would like you to have this knife. It is a very fine knife, and many people will wonder where you acquired it. You will tell them - and it will not be a lie - that it was presented to you by Banouin the Foreigner. Does that help you with your problem?'

  Conn gave a wide smile. 'Yes, it does. Thank you, Banouin.'

  'No, let me thank you for your trust. And let me caution you never to place so much trust in anyone ever again. Every man has a price, Conn. And, damn my soul, this came awfully close to mine!'

  Banouin the Foreigner led his train of sixteen ponies down the narrow trail to the ferry. The shallow wound in his upper arm was still seeping blood through the honey- and wine-soaked bandage, and yet, even so, his mood was good. In the distance he could see the craggy peaks of the Druagh mountains standing sentry over the lands of the Rigante.

  Almost home.

  He smiled. The home of his birth was Stone, the city of the Five Hills, in Turgony, eighteen hundred miles away, across the water. He had believed for most of his life that Stone was the home of his heart. Now he knew differently. Caer Druagh had adopted his soul. He loved these mountains with a passion he had not believed possible. Banouin had spent sixteen years moving among the many peoples of the Keltoi: the Rigante, the Norvii, the Gath and Ostro, the Pannones and the Perdii. And many more. He admired them and the shrewd simplicity of their lives. He thought of his own people, and it was as if a chill wind blew across his skin. In that moment he knew that one day they would come to these mountains, with their armies and their roads of stone. They would conquer these people and change their lives for ever. Just as they had in the lands across the water.

  He thought of Connavar with both fondness and sadness. It was almost five years now since the boy had come to him with the Seidh blade. He was growing to manhood, secure in the mistaken belief that he was part of a culture that would endure. The boy was now . . . what? . . . fifteen, nearing sixteen. Almost a man, and already tall and broad shouldered, powerfully built.

  Across the water Banouin had witnessed the aftermath of a great battle, the bodies of thousands of young Keltoi tribesmen - men like Ruathain and Connavar - being dragged to a great burial pit. Thousands more had been captured and sold into slavery, their leaders nailed by their hands and feet to sacrificial poles, to die slow agonizing deaths by the roadside, as they watched their people march into oblivion.

  Banouin had been asked if he would like to take part in the organization of the slave sale.

  He had declined, even though the profits would have been huge.

  How long will it be before they come here, he wondered? Five years? Ten? Certainly no longer.

  Reaching the foot of the hill Banouin and his pack ponies moved slowly to the ferry poles. Here he dismounted. An old brass shield was hanging on a peg by the far post. Alongside it was a long wooden mallet. Banouin struck the shield twice, the sound echoing across the water. From a hut on the far side came two men. The first of them waved at the small trader. Banouin waved back.

  Slowly the two men hauled the flat-bottomed ferry across the Seidh river. As the raft reached the shore old Calasain unhooked the front gate, lowering it to the jetty. Leaping nimbly
ashore he gave a gap-toothed grin. 'Still alive eh, Foreigner? You must have been born under the lucky moon.'

  The gods look after a prayerful man,' replied Banouin, with a smile.

  Calasain's son, Senecal, a short, burly man, also stepped ashore and moved down the line of ponies, untying the rope attached to the ninth beast. The ferry was small and would take only eight ponies per trip.

  Banouin led the first half of his train aboard, drew up the gate, and helped Calasain with the hauling rope. He did not glance back, for he knew that Senecal would be helping himself to some small item from one of the packs. Calasain would find it, as he always did, and upon Banouin's next trip south the old man would shamefacedly return it to him.

  As they docked on the north side Calasain's wife, Sanepta, brought him a cup of herbal tisane, sweetened with honey. Banouin thanked her. When young, he thought, she must have been a beautiful woman. But the weariness of age and a hard life had chiselled away her looks.

  Within the hour, with all his ponies on the northern shore, Banouin walked with Calasain back to the jetty. There the two men sat, sipping tisane and watching the sunlight sparkle upon the water.

  'Trouble on the trip?' asked Calasain, pointing to the wound on Banouin's arm.

  'A little, but it lifted the monotony. What has been happening here these last eight months? Any raids?'

  The old man shrugged. 'There are always raids. The young need to test their skills. Only one man died, though. Made the mistake of tackling Ruathain. Not wise these days. Not wise any day, I guess. What are you carrying?'

  'Coloured cloth, pearls, bright beads, threads of silver and gold. The cloth will sell fast. It is invested with a new purple dye that does not run when wet. Plus a few spices and some ingots, iron, silver and two of gold for Riamfada. It should all trade well.'

  Calasain sighed, and a blush darkened his leathered features. 'I apologize for my son. Whatever he has taken I will find.'

  'I know. You are not responsible for him, Calasain. Some men just cannot resist stealing.'

  'It is a source of shame to me.' For several minutes they sat in companionable silence. Then Calasain spoke again. 'How are things in the south?'