Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  'Why? Why would you do this for me?'

  'Why should I not?' countered Connavar.

  'You do not know me. We are not friends.'

  'That is true, but how does one get to know anyone, save by talking to them? Come with me. Learn to swim.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'It is very beautiful there - the sunshine sparkling on the water, the silver-backed fish, the willows. Are you afraid?'

  'Yes,' admitted Riamfada.

  'What of?'

  'I am afraid that I will enjoy it. That I will be happy there.'

  'Afraid of being happy?' said Connavar, surprised.

  'Go away. Leave me alone,' said Riamfada.

  But Connavar did not leave. He stood silently for a moment. 'I understand,' he said. 'You think I might tire of your company and never carry you there again.'

  Now it was Riamfada who was surprised. 'That is very perceptive.'

  Gariapha, who had been listening in the background, came forward. 'You should say yes, my son. He is right. It is very beautiful there.'

  Riamfada said nothing, and returned to his painting. Gariapha moved to his son's side, putting his hand on the youth's shoulder. 'Listen to me, lad. I was already getting old when you were born. I never had the strength to carry you into the hills. Though I wish I had tried. Go with him. For me.'

  The anguished boy stared at Connavar. 'How old are you?' he asked, suddenly.

  'Almost sixteen,' answered Connavar.

  'Then why now? Where have you been these last sixteen years? Did you not know I was here?'

  'I knew. But - to be honest - I never really thought about you. I am sorry for that. Then last week I went to the falls with my brother, Braefar. We were talking and he mentioned you. He said it was a great pity that you could not walk, and wondered if you might be able to swim. I have been thinking about it for the last few days. It might be worth trying.'

  'If your brother thought of it, then why is he not here?'

  Connavar grinned. 'My brother is the thinker in the family. Lots of good ideas. Easier ways to clean the house, or catch rabbits or gentle horses. However, his ideas are always for other people to implement. He's usually too busy thinking up new ideas. Now, do you want to come?'

  'Yes,' said Riamfada. 'I do. But there are . . . things you need to know. Firstly I have no control over my bowels or bladder. I wear cloth padding, but it leaks sometimes.' He knew he was blushing as he spoke, but better, he thought, to say it now than to have the shame after.

  'Do not concern yourself,' said Connavar. 'I promise you it does not concern me. Now I have food and drink in my sack, and I am strong as an ox. We should go now. The sun is high and hot, the water cool.'

  He had not lied when he said he was strong as an ox. He carried Riamfada on his shoulders for two miles before cresting the last hill before the falls. Then, on a stretch of flat ground, he began to run. It was exhilarating for the young metal crafter to be moving at speed for the first time in his life; to be high, taller than the tallest man.

  Connavar slowed as they reached the downward slope, then carefully picked his way down towards the falls pool. It was quite the most beautiful sight Riamfada had ever seen, hundreds of feet of clear blue water, foaming white beneath the waterfall. On the far side willows hung their branches into the pool, and brightly coloured birds were flying overhead. Connavar lifted him down, sitting him on the grass with his back to a tree trunk. The younger boy stripped off his shirt and boots and leggings. Riamfada saw that the back of his green shirt was drenched with urine. 'Don't worry,' said Connavar, with a grin. 'We'll wash it in the pool. Now let's get those clothes off you.'

  For the next two hours Riamfada knew the flowering of an immense joy. At first he was terrified the water would close over him, but Connavar held him, telling him to breathe deeply. 'The air in your lungs will keep you afloat,' he promised. 'When you need to breathe out do it slowly and evenly, then breathe in swiftly.'

  At the end of the two hours Riamfada was exhausted, but almost deliriously happy. He had, for five strokes, moved himself through the water. Under his own power he had propelled himself forward, Connavar swimming alongside.

  His new friend carried him from the pool and the two youngsters sat in the fading sunshine, allowing the warm air to dry their skin.

  'This has been the greatest day of my life,' said Riamfada. 'And I was wrong. Even if I never come here again I will always treasure it.'

  'You will come again,' promised Connavar. 'Not tomorrow, for I have many chores. But the day after - if the weather is fine - I shall call for you.'

  'I do not care about the weather,' said Riamfada.

  'Very well then - whatever the weather.'

  They arrived at Riamfada's house just before dusk. Both Gariapha and Wiocca were waiting in the doorway, their faces full of worry. But they smiled when they saw the happiness on their son's face.

  'I swam,' he told his father. 'Truly, didn't I, Conn?'

  'You certainly did,' agreed his friend.

  Through the weeks that followed Riamfada's swimming grew stronger and stronger. Once carried into the water he would roll onto his back and power himself out into the centre of the pond. The tight and aching muscles of his upper back were eased by the exercise, and, as his strength grew so too did his appetite, and he began to put on weight.

  'It's like carrying a small horse,' said Connavar one day, as they neared the last crest.

  Riamfada was about to reply when he looked down and saw that other youngsters were already in the pool. His heart sank. 'Take me back!' he said.

  'Why?'

  'I don't want anyone else to see me.'

  Connavar lifted him to the grass, then sat beside him. 'You are my friend, and you are as brave as anyone I know. If you want to go home I shall take you. But think on it for a moment.'

  'You cannot know what it is like,' said Riamfada, 'to be less than a man. The shame of it.'

  'You are right, my friend, I do not know. But I know that we both like to swim, and there is plenty of room in the pool.'

  Riamfada sighed. 'You think me cowardly?'

  'I think it is up to you,' said Conn, with a smile. 'I make no judgement.'

  Riamfada looked into his friend's face. Conn was not telling the truth. He would be disappointed if forced to go all the way back. Riamfada sighed. What was one more embarrassment in a life of shame? 'Let us go down and swim,' he said.

  Connavar lifted him. He did not place him on his shoulders, but carried him in his arms. As they neared the pool one of the young men there climbed from the water and strode out to meet them. He was tall, with deep-set dark eyes. Riamfada felt Conn tense at his approach.

  'Who is he?' he whispered.

  'Govannan, the smith's son.'

  The other youths also moved from the pool. Govannan halted before the pair.

  'You must be Riamfada,' he said. 'I am Govannan. My friends call me Van.' He held out his hand. Riamfada shook it. One by one the smith's son introduced the others. Then he shivered. 'It is cold once you are out of the water. We'll talk again in the pool.' Turning, Govannan ran down to the water's edge and dived in. His friends followed him and they swam to the falls, clambering out to run up the rocky path and jump back into the pool from a jutting boulder.

  'They made me welcome,' said Riamfada.

  'Why should they not?'

  'I noticed he did not speak to you.'

  'We are not friends. Now come, let us swim. I do not have too long today. I am meeting Wing for a hunt. Mother says she will need meat for at least six game pies in time for Samain.'

  'I do not eat meat,' said Riamfada, as Conn set him down. Conn stared at him.

  'Meat makes you strong - especially beef.'

  'Perhaps. But a creature must die first, frightened and in pain.'

  Conn laughed, but it was not a scornful sound. 'You are a strange one, my friend. You should have been a druid. They too eat only vegetables, I'm told. It's why they are all so sc
rawny.'

  Braefar was growing irritated. The light would soon be gone, and he hated to hunt alone, fearing that wolves or lions would spring from the undergrowth at him. Then he saw Conn running up from the settlement.

  'What took you so long?' he asked.

  Conn grinned at him. 'Eager for the kill, little Wing?'

  'Mother says she wants at least a dozen pigeons, and as many rabbits as we can find.'

  Conn crouched down and patted the black hound, Caval. She lifted her muzzle into his hand, then licked his face.

  'You want the bow or the sling?' Conn asked Braefar.

  'I have no preference. I'm better than you with both.'

  'You are getting cocky, my brother. It is good to see. I'll take the bow. Caval and I will scare up some rabbits.'

  By the time the light had faded and they were heading home, the two boys had killed three rabbits and five wood pigeons. It was not as many as Braefar had hoped, but Meria would be pleased.

  On their way back across the first of the bridges they heard a peal of laughter coming from behind a barn. Braefar tensed. The sound was infectious, and he knew the source. It was Arian, and

  Braefar understood her well enough to know that she was not alone. Worse, she was with a man. That throaty laugh was reserved for would-be suitors. 'We should be getting back,' he said. Conn handed him the rabbits and strode towards the barn. Braefar followed glumly.

  The moon was out, and by her light Braefar saw the youth, Casta, standing with Arian. He was leaning against the barn, his hand resting on the wood just above Arian's shoulder. They were talking in low tones.

  'What are you doing with my woman?' asked Conn.

  Surprised, Casta jumped. Two years older than Conn, he was a powerfully built young man. 'What do you mean, your woman?' he countered. 'Arian is not pledged to anyone.'

  'She knows I am to ask for her hand at Samain,' said Conn.

  'I didn't say I'd give it to you,' said Arian, her voice more shrill than she intended.

  'There you have it,' put in Casta. 'So why don't you leave us alone?'

  Braefar winced. Then he cast a glance at Arian. Her eyes were bright, and, in that moment, he knew she was excited by the thought of two men fighting for her. It sickened the youngster.

  'Don't fight him, Conn,' he said, softly.

  'What?'

  'It's what she wants. Look at her.'

  'Stay out of this, Wing. It is none of your business.' Conn advanced on the older youth.

  'You have me at a disadvantage,' said Casta, smoothly. 'I work for your father, and if I give you the thrashing your boorish behaviour calls for he'll send me away.'

  'Even if that unlikely event were to take place,' said Conn, 'he won't know of it.'

  'Glad to hear it,' said Casta, sending a thunderous left straight into Conn's face. Conn staggered. Casta followed up with a right cross that slashed through air as Conn ducked. The younger man hammered an uppercut into Casta's belly, then a left hook which exploded against his jaw. Casta fell back, then charged. Conn dropped to his knees, then surged upright, hurling Casta from his feet. The older man landed hard, but rolled to his knees. Conn stepped in and caught him with a right as he was rising.

  Casta went down again. He rose slowly, lost his footing and fell back into the wall of the barn. Arian spun on her heel and walked away. Conn followed her.

  Hampered by the game he was carrying, Braefar struggled to help Casta to his feet. 'I was just talking to her,' mumbled Casta. 'She invited me back here. Now I've a sore head - and I've made an enemy of the lord's son.'

  'You've made no enemy,' Braefar assured him. 'Conn doesn't know how to hold a grudge. Anyway you got the best of it.'

  Casta gave a rueful smile. 'I'll take some convincing of that.'

  'He ended up with Arian. Believe me, she's trouble.'

  'Aye, but she's worth it,' said Casta. 'I'd risk far more than a beating for one kiss.'

  'I think the blows have addled your wits,' Braefar told him. 'No man who weds her will ever be sure he is the father of her children.' But he could see he was making no impression on Casta.

  It was after midnight when Conn made his silent way to their bedroom. Braefar awoke as a bed board creaked. 'I take it all is now well between the two of you?' he asked the darkness.

  'All is well, little brother,' came Conn's voice.

  'You still intend to wed her?'

  'Of course. Why would I not?'

  'She is a flirt. Why can't you see that? And I don't believe she cares for you.'

  Braefar read the anger in the silence and decided to say no more.

  Conn lay awake, his mind in turmoil. The events of the evening had more than unsettled him. Not so much the fight, which, truth to tell, he had enjoyed, but the strange, fey mood that had come upon Arian as they walked into the woods. At first she had maintained an angry silence, but as they came to the stream she had begun to tremble. He asked her if she was cold, and put his arm around her. Her reaction had astonished and delighted him. Throwing her arms around his neck she kissed him with such passion it took his breath away.

  Conn had dreamed of this moment, especially since the night with Eriatha, but he had been more than willing to wait for the Feast of Samain, and the marriage walk around Eldest Tree. What they were about to do was against the law of the Rigante and risked the severest punishment, at worst flogging and banishment for both. Even knowing this, Conn could not restrain himself and within moments both were naked, lying on a blanket of their clothes. He tried to use the skills that Eriatha had taught him, but Arian pulled at him, drawing him over her, into her. Her movements were fast and frantic. Conn gazed down into her face. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her teeth bared as she powered her body against his. Her nails raked his back, and she was moaning softly.

  With Eriatha the lovemaking had been very good, and wonderfully satisfying, but here, with the great love of his young life, Conn felt himself reaching new heights of ecstasy. She shuddered beneath him and cried out, again and again. As he had been taught, Conn held back, his movements slow and rhythmic. Her blue eyes were focused now, the pupils huge. Conn kissed her gently, then slowly increased the pace of his movements. Within minutes she shuddered and cried out again, her body arcing up against him. Conn did not stop, but finally allowed himself to finish. It seemed to him that his soul rushed into her with his seed, merging with her own spirit. In that moment she whispered in his ear, 'I love you.' It was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. His heart swelled and his vision misted. Unable to speak he kissed her again, then rolled to his side, drawing her into his embrace. Her golden head lay upon his shoulder and he stroked the skin of her hip.

  'I am yours,' he said, 'now and always.'

  'I will never be frightened again,' she told him. The words jarred, and he did not understand them, though he heard the relief in her voice and did not question her further.

  Now, as he lay in his bed, he could not tear his mind from Braefar's words.

  She is a flirt. Why can't you see that?

  Of course he could see it, and could remember vividly the sound of her laughter as she stood in the dark with Casta. That alone would not have been enough to trouble him, but there was also the unfocused passion. He had not sensed it at the time, his blood roaring, his senses aroused, but, looking back, he felt that Arian had not even known who he was before her first orgasm. Only afterwards did she respond.

  Pushing away his doubts he concentrated on the one great truth of the night. She had told him she loved him.

  And within a few days she would be his wife, the mother of his children, the one, eternal love of his heart.

  The following morning was bright, clear and cold. On the high hill to the north of the settlement Ruathain drew on the reins and stared gloomily down over the meadows where his herds were grazing. Six hundred long-haired, sharp-horned highland cattle were gathered here. A cold wind blew down from the north. Ruathain shivered, for he had left his cloak at home and wo
re only a blue tunic shirt and thin leggings. He glanced at the sky. It was grey and forbidding, heralding what he feared would be a hard, bitter winter.

  The Feast of Samain was twelve days away. Touching heels to his pony he rode slowly through the herd, occasionally leaning over to smear blue dye on the backs of selected cows and bullocks. The eight-day feast was always a time of great joy for the peoples of the Rigante. This year it was to be held in Three Streams and tribesmen would travel from all over the land to the settlement. Hundreds of tents would be pitched and by the last day more than nine thousand tribesmen would be gathered here.

  But Ruathain's thoughts were not of feasting and dancing. He was a cattle breeder and the winter was not only a time of danger, hardship and struggle, but also of loss. Only the hardiest of the breeding stock would survive. Vicious cold would kill some, falls and snapped legs would destroy others. Added to this the wolves would come, and the great cats, and even - occasionally - bears, roused from their hibernation.

  Choosing which stock should be given the chance to survive was always hard. As was slaughtering the less fortunate to feed the feasters. Dipping his hand into the bucket slung from his saddle horn he rode alongside Bannioa. He had hand-reared her as a calf when her mother was killed by a lioness, and she had proved a good breeder. But she was eight years old now and had been barren for two years. Leaning over he smeared the ochre on her broad back.

  Beyond her was the old bull, Mentha. Would he survive the coming cold, the wolves and the lions? And if he did would he still be able to subdue the younger bulls come spring, and sire fine sons from his herd?

  Ruathain's chief herdsman, Arbonacast, rode alongside him. He said nothing, sitting silently alongside his lord. 'Well?' asked Ruathain, as the silence grew.

  Arbonacast saw that his lord was staring at Mentha. The herdsman shrugged. 'I'd give him the chance.'

  'Give him the chance? Is that sentiment?' asked Ruathain.

  'Partly. But he is a fine bull. And insatiable.' On the hillside below, as if sensing they were talking about him, old Mentha's massive head came up. His long horns, wickedly curved at the tips, and stretching for almost seven feet, glinted in the sunlight.