Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  Braefar tried a conciliatory smile. Govannan was two years older, and considerably larger. He was also notoriously quick tempered.

  'Leave him alone,' said Gwydia, which made Braefar's heart sink. Why did girls never understand? Govannan would have left him alone, but now a female had intervened and he was obliged to continue.

  'What have I said?' asked Govannan. 'Was it anything but the truth? Look at him. He looks like a girl, and his poor little hand is bleeding.'

  'Which shows how hard he has worked,' said Arian, her pale blue eyes growing angry.

  Please be quiet, thought Braefar. You're making everything worse!

  'Perhaps I have wronged him,' said Govannan. 'Perhaps he really is a little girl.'

  Grabbing Braefar he hauled him upright. His hands grabbed the waistband of Braefar's leggings and dragged them down. Govannan laughed cruelly. 'No, he is not a girl, but he has no man's hair either.' At that moment Govannan was spun around and Conn's fist smashed into his face. Blood exploded from a cut on the cheekbone. Govannan was hurled from his feet. He rolled on the grass and pushed himself upright, fists clenched.

  Then he charged. Conn side-stepped and sent a powerful left cross into his chin. Govannan went down again. He rose more slowly and advanced cautiously. Braefar, full of shame, hauled up his leggings and walked away. Gwydia ran alongside him.

  'I apologize for my brother,' she said. 'He really is an idiot sometimes.'

  'You caused this, you fool!' stormed Braefar. 'Now leave me alone.'

  Back in the clearing Govannan had been knocked down four times, but still he came back. One eye was swollen almost shut and his lips were bleeding. So far he had not landed a single blow. Conn hit him again, a straight left that jarred him to his boot heels. He swayed but did not fall. As suddenly as it had come, Conn's anger evaporated. He stepped in, throwing his arms around his opponent. 'This is enough, Van,' he said. 'Give it up.'

  Govannan butted Conn above the eye. Blood spurted and he fell back. Govannan hit him with a right, then a left. Conn staggered, then whipped a ferocious uppercut into Govannan's face, followed by a right cross that sent him sprawling again to the grass. His strength all but gone, Govannan forced his arms beneath him and slowly came to his knees. Rising on trembling legs he tottered forwards and tried to throw a punch. As he did so, he fell. Conn caught him and lowered him to the ground. Arian and Gwydia knelt beside him, dabbing at his wounds with linen. Arian flashed an angry look at Conn. 'You are a vicious bully,' she said.

  Anger flared in Conn, but he did not respond. Instead he rose and stalked off into the woods.

  Above him glided the black crow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  connavar's mood was murderous as he walked, pushing aside dangling branches and forcing his way through the undergrowth. It was all Arian's fault! She should not have ignored him. It was discourteous at the very least. That alone had caused his temper to spark. Then, when Govannan shamed Wing, the spark hit dry tinder and blazed.

  Emerging onto a narrow deer trail Conn strode up the hillside, cutting right by a wall of rock, and heading towards the Riguan Falls. A swim, he decided, would cool his temper. Blood dripped into his eye and he pressed his fingers to the cut on his brow, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped.

  Movement caught his eye at the edge of the trees, and he saw a black crow bank and drop towards the ground as if struck by an arrow. Intrigued he swung to his left and pushed his way through the thinning undergrowth.

  An old woman, wrapped in an ancient green shawl, was sitting in a grey wicker chair. Over her knees was a small fishing net, which she was repairing. Conn looked around for any sign of a house or cabin. But there was nothing. Perhaps she lived in one of the caves, he thought. It was surprising that he had not seen her before.

  'Daan's greetings,' he said. She did not look up from her work.

  'May Taranis never smile upon you,' she replied, her voice dry and harsh. It was an odd response, but Conn shared the sentiment. Who would want the God of Death to smile upon them?

  'May I fetch you water, Old One?'

  Her head came up and he found himself looking into the darkest eyes he had ever seen, pupils and iris blending perfectly, her orbs like polished black pebbles. 'I need no water, Connavar. But it was kind of you to ask.'

  'How is it you know me?'

  'I know many things. What is it you wish for?'

  'I don't understand you.'

  'Of course you do,' she chided him, laying aside the net. 'Every man has a secret wish. What is yours?'

  He shrugged. 'To be happy, perhaps. To have many strong sons and a handful of beautiful daughters. To live to be old and see my sons grow, and their sons.'

  She laughed scornfully, the sound rasping like a saw through dead-wood. 'You have picked your wishes from the public barrel. These are not what your heart desires, Sword in the Storm.'

  'Why have I never seen you before? Where do you live?'

  'Close by. And I have seen you, swimming in the lake, leaping from the falls, running through the woods with your half-brother. You are full of life, Connavar, and destiny is calling you. How will you respond?'

  He stood silently for a moment. 'Are you a witch?'

  'Not a witch,' she said. 'That I promise you. Tell me what you wish for.'

  A movement came from behind him and Conn spun round. Standing there was the Rigante witch, Vorna. Her hands were held before her, crossed as if to ward off a blow. But she was not looking at him. She stood, staring at the old woman. 'Move back with me, Conn,' she said. 'Come away from this place. Do not answer her questions.'

  'Are you frightened to voice your wish, boy?' asked the crone, ignoring Vorna.

  Conn was indeed frightened, though he did not know why. But when fear touched him it was always swamped by anger. 'I fear nothing,' he said.

  'Conn! Do not speak,' warned Vorna.

  'Then tell me!' shrieked the old woman.

  'I wish for glory!' he shouted back at her.

  A cool wind whispered across the clearing, and a bright light flashed before his eyes. He fell back, blinking.

  'And you shall have it,' whispered a voice in his mind.

  'You should not have spoken,' said Vorna, sadly. Conn rubbed at his eyes and looked into the pale face of the witch. Her long, white-streaked hair was matted, her cloak stained by mud and frayed by the years. She looked soul weary.

  Conn flicked his gaze back to the crone. But she was gone.

  There was no wicker chair, only an old, decaying tree stump, and no fishing net. But joining the stump to a nearby bush was a huge spider's web, the dew upon it glittering in the sunshine.

  Fear of the supernatural brushed over his bones like the breath of winter. 'Who was she?' he whispered, backing away from the small clearing.

  'It is best we do not speak her name. Come with me, Connavar. We will talk in a place of safety.'

  Vorna lived in a cave a mile from the falls. It was wide and spacious, thick rugs upon the floor, well crafted shelves lining the western wall. There was a small cot bed, covered with a blanket of sheepskin, and two simple chairs fashioned from elm. A spring flowed from the back wall, trickling down into a deep pool, and sunlight shone through three natural windows in the rock, shafts of light piercing the gloom above their heads like rafters made of gold.

  Conn was nervous as he followed the witch inside. To his knowledge no Rigante male had ever been inside the home of Vorna the witch. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw that some of the shelves were filled with pots and jars, while others held clothing, carefully folded. The cave was neat, and surprisingly free of dust. Against one wall stood a broom, and by the rock pool were two buckets and a mop. Conn looked around him. Vorna moved to a chair and sat down. 'What did you expect?' she asked. 'Dried human heads? Bones?'

  'I don't know what I expected, save that this is not it,' he admitted.

  'Sit down, Connavar. We must talk. Are you hungry?'

  'No,' he said,
swiftly, unwilling to contemplate what a witch might keep in her food store. He sat down opposite her.

  'The woman you saw was a spirit - a Seidh goddess, if you will. Listen to me carefully, and when you guess her identity do not say it aloud. The name alone is unlucky. As you know, there are three goddesses of death. She was one. Sometimes she is observed as an old woman, at other times a crow is seen close by. In terms of the Soul-world and its magic she is the least powerful of the Elder Spirits, but when it comes to the Earth-world and the affairs of men she is the most malignant of beings. I first knew of her interest in you when I saw the crow fly over the home of your father, Varaconn, on the night of your birth. She summoned the storm that night, the storm which destroyed the blade that would have saved Varaconn's life. I saw her again on the day your mother spoke those awful words to Ruathain. You see, Connavar, she is a mischief-maker, a breaker of hearts. When she is close dark deeds are born where before there was only light and laughter. You know her name?'

  Conn nodded. All Rigante children were taught of the Morrigu, the bringer of nightmares.

  'How can you be sure it was her?' he asked.

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair. 'I am a witch. It is my talent to know these things. You should not have spoken of your deepest desire to her. She has the power to grant it.'

  'Why would that be so terrible?'

  'A long time ago a woman prayed to her, asking to be loved by the most handsome man in the world - a rich man, kind and loving. The wish was granted. He loved her. But he was already wed, and the bride's brothers rode to her cabin and cut her into pieces, the man with her. Now do you understand?'

  'I asked for glory. There is no price I would not pay for it.'

  Anger showed briefly in Vorna's thin face. 'Can you be so stupid, Connavar? Of what worth is glory? Does it feed a family? Does it bring peace of mind? Fame is fleeting. It is a harlot who moves from one young man to the next. Tell me of Calavanus.'

  'He was a great hero in my grandfather's day,' said Conn. 'A mighty swordsman. He led the Rigante against the Sea Wolves. He killed their king in single combat. He had a sword that blazed like fire. He knew glory.'

  'Yes, he did,' she snapped. 'Then he got old and frail. He sold his sword to a merchant in order to buy food. His wife left him, his sons deserted him. When last I saw him he was weeping in his cabin, and still talking of the days of glory.'

  Conn shook his head. 'I will not be like him. Nor like Varaconn.

  My enemies will not see my back, and men will not spit upon my name. Banouin has promised me a sword of iron. I will carry it into battle. It is my destiny.'

  'I know something of your destiny, Connavar. Only a little, but enough to warn you. You must seek a higher purpose than mere glory. If not you will merely be another swordsman like Calavanus.'

  'Perhaps that will be enough for me,' he said, stubbornly.

  'It will not be enough for your people.'

  'My people?' he asked, confused now.

  She fell silent for a while, rising from her chair and moving to a stone hearth. The light from the windows was fading and she laid a fire, but did not light it. 'Last year,' she said, 'a starving pack of wolves attacked a lioness with five cubs. She fought them with great ferocity, leading them away from her young. She was willing to die to save her cubs. But she did not die, though she was sorely wounded. She killed seven of the wolves. But four others had moved around behind her. When she limped back to her cave her cubs were dead and devoured. It could be argued that she earned great glory. But what was it worth? Her injuries meant there would be no more cubs. She was the last of her line - a line that stretched back to the first dawn. You think she cared that she had killed seven wolves, that her courage shone like a beacon?'

  Vorna gestured with her right hand. The fire burst into life, causing dancing shadows to flicker across the far wall. With a sigh she pushed herself to her feet and walked to the western wall. Taking a small box from the first shelf she opened it, and lifted clear a slender chain of gold, from which hung a small red opal. 'Come close to me,' she ordered him. Conn did so. He could smell wood smoke in her faded clothing, mixed with the sweet scents of lavender and lemon mint. In that moment his fear of her drifted away. And he felt, with sudden certainty, that Vorna was not merely the witch everyone feared. She was also a lonely, ageing woman, unfulfilled and far from happy.

  He looked into her bright blue eyes. 'I thank you for helping me,' he said. She nodded and stared into his face.

  'I do not need your pity, child,' she said, softly, 'but I welcome the kindness from which it sprang.' She fastened the golden chain around his neck. 'This talisman will protect you from her. But nothing I can do will prevent her manipulation of those around you. Show me the knife, Connavar.'

  He winced inwardly. She had not said your knife, but the knife. Did she know?

  Slowly he drew the silver blade from the sheath he had made. She took it in her thin ringers. 'You were born with luck,' she said. 'Had you not rescued that fawn you would have died in those woods, your blood drawn from your veins. Did you guess that the creature was a Seidh?'

  'No.'

  'No,' she echoed. 'They would have known. Your thoughts would have been loud to them, like the music of the pipes. They are a fey people. They kill without mercy, sometimes with terrible tortures. Yet they can allow a stupid child to live because he saves a fawn. And even reward him.' With a sigh she returned his knife. 'Go home, Connavar, and think on what I have said.'

  Everyone said that Riamfada was a happy youth, always smiling despite his disability. Women prized the brooches and bangles he created, men marvelled at the sword hilts and belt buckles cast from bronze, or sometimes silver. His father, Gariapha the metalworker, was proud of the boy, and praised him constantly. Which said much for Gariapha, for not many men, seeing their sons outshine them, would have been so generous of spirit.

  At seventeen years of age Riamfada's talents had made his family almost wealthy. Banouin the Foreigner had taken his work and sold it across the water for what seemed to Riamfada fabulous prices. It was these profits which enabled him now to begin working in small amounts of gold.

  The boy had been born in the Year of the Crippling, when two in three Rigante babes had entered the world paralysed or stillborn. As was the custom, the disabled babes were laid on a hillside to die in the night. Alone among the deformed and crippled, Riamfada had not died.

  His mother, Wiocca, had gone to him at dawn, cuddled him close and held him to her breast, allowing him to suckle. Everyone thought she had lost her mind. She ignored them. The full council debated her actions, and called upon Gariapha to give evidence. The balding, round-shouldered metal crafter stood before them and defended his wife's right to nurse her son. 'He was placed in the hands of the gods,' he said. 'They did not take his life. Now his life is hers.'

  'How can he ever contribute to the Rigante?' asked the Long Laird.

  'In the same way that I do,' said Gariapha. 'I do not need the use of legs to create brooches.'

  At the request of the council the Long Laird sought out Vorna and asked for a prophecy. She refused to give one. 'You may call upon me only when the people are threatened,' she said. 'This babe threatens no-one.'

  The council debated long into the night. Never before had such a seriously crippled child been allowed to survive, and there was no precedent to call upon. Finally, as Riamfada's second dawn approached, they made their judgement - by a vote of eleven to ten - in favour of Wiocca's right to raise her son.

  By the age of six Riamfada had shown great skills in the crafting of wax and the preparation of casting shells. He had a good eye, nimble fingers, and a creative talent his father could only envy. By the time he was ten he was designing complicated patterns and knots, creating brooches of exquisite beauty. Every day Gariapha would carry him to his workshop, and set him down in a high-backed chair. A woollen blanket would be placed over his stunted, useless legs and a long belt would be wrapped around h
is frail, emaciated body, holding him in place. Then he would lean forward and begin his work.

  And, as everyone observed, Riamfada was always happy.

  It was not true, of course. He seldom knew real joy - not even when he created delicate pieces that brought gasps of admiration from those who saw them. Riamfada was never truly content with any of his designs, which, in part, was the source of his genius.

  But had any asked him what was his first great moment of joy, he would have told them of the day, one year ago, when he ran in the hills, and learned to swim in the pond below the Riguan Falls.

  He had been working at his bench when a shadow fell across him. He turned to the window to see a wide-shouldered boy with strange eyes, one green, one tawny gold.

  'I am Connavar,' he said. Riamfada had known who he was. On warm days Gariapha would carry him out onto the open ground beyond the workshop, and there father and son would eat their meals in the sunshine. Often Riamfada would see the village boys running and playing. None ever approached him.

  'I am Riamfada. What do you want?'

  'I was curious to see you,' said Connavar. 'Everyone talks about you.'

  'Well, you have seen me,' said Riamfada, returning to his work, dipping his brush into the mixture and applying it to the crafted wax.

  'What are you doing?'

  'I am painting a mixture of cow dung and clay onto the wax.'

  'Why?'

  'So I can gradually build up a shell around the wax. When it is thick enough I shall fire it. Then the wax will melt away and I will have a mould into which I can pour bronze or silver.'

  'I see. It must take a long time.'

  'I have the time.'

  Connavar stood silently for a moment. 'I am going to the waterfall,' he said. 'To swim.'

  'Good. I hope you enjoy yourself.'

  'Would you like to come?'

  Riamfada forced a bright smile. 'That would be pleasant. You go ahead. I will finish this then run along and join you.'

  'You cannot run,' said Connavar, ignoring the sarcasm. 'But why should you not swim? It is only a matter of floating and moving your arms. And I am strong. I could carry you to the falls.'