Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  The young man stepped forward. He was tall and slim, his hair close cropped and raven black. 'It is a difficult quote to remember, for all of Getius' work is wordy and grammatically indigestible. However I believe he wrote: "The importance of fortifying night camps appears not only from the danger to which troops are exposed who camp without such precautions, but also from the distressful situation of an army which, after receiving a check in the field, finds itself without a retreat and consequently at the mercy of the enemy."'

  'Almost perfect,' said Jasaray. 'The correct quote is "to which troops are perpetually exposed". Perpetually. That is the nature of war. Now you can go and find the idiot I just sent away. You can spend the night teaching him. If he fails my test tomorrow I shall consider sending you home also.'

  'Yes, sir,' answered the youngster, giving a crisp salute.

  'And Barus, pay particular attention to the topography required for marching camps.'

  'I will, sir,' said Barus. As he walked away the two remaining junior officers relaxed. Surely, they thought, two victims would be enough. Jasaray allowed them a few moments as he scanned the defensive ditch and the new rampart wall. The native scout he had seen before came walking into the compound, leading his pony. Jasaray gazed at the man, noting the way he moved, perfectly in balance. The man glanced at him and Jasaray saw he had odd-coloured eyes. One was green, the other tawny brown, and his handsome face was badly scarred on the left side.

  'Do you speak any Turgon?' asked the general.

  'A little,'answered the warrior.

  'What happened to your pony?'

  'Stepped in a rabbit hole. He's lucky not to have broken his leg.'

  Swinging away from the tribesman Jasaray returned his attention to the two junior officers. 'How wide should the ditch be?' he snapped.

  'Eight feet,' they answered in unison. 'And three feet deep,' added the first, earning a withering glance from his companion. Jasaray smiled at their discomfort. His good humour was returning now.

  'And what is the one priceless commodity a general can never replace?'

  Both the officers stood mystified, their minds racing. Jasaray noticed that the young tribesman was still standing close by, a smile on his face. 'You find their predicament amusing?' he asked the man.

  'No,' answered the warrior, 'but if I were you I'd find their ignorance worrying.' Taking the pony's reins he started to walk away.

  'Perhaps you would like to answer the question for them,' said Jasaray.

  'Time,' said the young man. 'And, if I quote you correctly, General, "You can replace men and horses, swords and arrows. But never lost time."'

  'You have read my work?' The question was asked in a flat, bored voice, but the general's eyes had narrowed and he was watching the tribesman closely.

  'No, General, I do not read. I had a friend who taught me your words. If you will excuse me, I must tend to my pony.'

  Jasaray watched him go, then turned to his officers. 'Find out who he is and have him attend my tent tonight following the briefing.'

  'I can tell you who he is, sir,' said the first of the officers. 'His name is Connavar, and he was recruited by Valanus. He is not of the Ostro or the Gath, but a tribesman from across the water. According to rumour, he saved the life of Valanus back in Goriasa.'

  'And he has pledged to kill Carac,' said the second man, not to be outdone. 'He was the warrior who fought his way across the land after the murder of his friend, the merchant, Banouin.'

  'Which tribe is he from?'

  'I believe it is the Rigante, sir,' the first officer told him. 'Do you still wish him to attend your tent?'

  'Have I said otherwise?'

  Jasaray moved away to inspect the ramparts. The sun was falling behind the western hills, and storm clouds were moving in from the sea.

  'If the Scholar has asked to see you it means you will either be flogged or promoted,' said Valanus, cheerfully. Conn tugged his cloak tighter about him as the rain dripped through the canvas wall of the tent. The candle stub guttered, but before it could die completely Valanus held a second candle over it. For a few moments two flames lit the damp interior, making it seem marginally more homely. The tent was six feet long, four feet wide, and five feet high at the centre. It was supported by a thin wooden frame. Attached to the frame were hooks, from which hung two sacks containing clothing. There were four folding, canvas-topped stools that could be linked together to form a narrow bed. One of these was burdened by a breastplate, helm, wrist guards and greaves, balanced precariously above the wet ground.

  'I thought you were a favourite of his,' grumbled the tribesman. 'Why then do you have a leaky tent?'

  'Just bad luck,' said Valanus, ignoring the steady drips that spattered him. 'I am a soldier out of necessity. I do not come from a wealthy family. Therefore I receive only standard issue. Most of the tents are dry. I'll try to find a better one tomorrow.' His smile widened. 'It should amuse Jasaray when you walk in like a drowned rat.'

  'Why do you think I risk a flogging?'

  Valanus shrugged. 'There are only two reasons the Scholar sends for tribesmen - to reward or punish them. You have done nothing to deserve punishment, so I expect you impressed him.'

  'Perhaps,' said Conn, doubtfully. 'But then none of us have done anything impressive so far, save to march and ride and build enormous fortresses that we leave deserted the next day. When will the Perdii fight?'

  'When they are ready, I expect,' said Valanus. 'And when they do we shall defeat them, and you will have more revenge. Ostaran tells me you are a terror. Three skirmishes, five dead Perdii to add to your tally. You know what the Gath call you? Demonblade.'

  'I don't care what they call me. As you said, they were skirmishes. And my revenge will not be complete until I draw my dagger across Carac's throat.'

  The smile left the officer's face, and when he spoke there was an echo of sadness in his voice. 'And when he is dead you think the hurt and the pain will go away?'

  'It will or it won't,' said Conn, watching the white-haired young man closely. Valanus seemed lost in thought.

  'I had a friend once,' he said. 'More than a friend. He was captured in the Tribante campaign. They put out his eyes, then cut off his hands and feet, then his balls. When we found him he was still alive. They had cauterized his stumps, you see, with boiling tar.' The candle flickered as a drop of water splashed close to its flame. Valanus shivered, then gathered himself and forced a smile. 'I have made no friends since. Nor will I among soldiers and warriors.'

  From outside the tent came the tolling of a bell. It rang four times. 'Well,' said Valanus, 'it is time for you to attend the general. If it is a reward he offers you perhaps you could think about a new tent for me. Or a servant.'

  'You have a servant. I saw him put up this tent.'

  'I share him with eight other poor officers. And I cannot afford to slip him extra money. Hence—' He waved his arm and pointed to the rivulets running down the canvas walls.

  Conn said nothing, but rose smoothly, ducking under the tent flap and stepping out into the storm. Lightning flashed to the west, followed by a rolling clap of thunder. There were still three hours before midnight. On a clear day at this time of the year it would still be light. But the storm covered the land like a dark shroud. Conn trudged across the camp site, passed the lines of horses picketed nose to nose, and the baggage wagons, then threaded his way through the ranks of round tents which housed the common soldiers.

  Jasaray's tent was forty feet long and at least fifteen feet wide. Its walls glowed gold from the many lanterns within. Two spear-carrying soldiers stood outside, shielded from most of the rain by a jutting flap supported by two poles. As Conn approached they crossed their spears against him.

  'What . . . you . . . want?' asked the guard on the left, in fractured Keltoi.

  'I have been invited to see the general,' Conn told him, in Turgon.

  The guard looked surprised. 'Wait here,' he said, handing his spear to his comrade an
d stepping inside the tent. He was gone only a few seconds. When he returned he told Conn to wait, and the tribesman stood in the rain, his mood darkening. He could hear voices from within the tent, but with the rain hissing down around him could not make out the nature of the conversations. After some minutes officers began to emerge from the tent and hurry away through the storm. Even then he was not invited inside. His anger mounting, he was on the verge of striding away when he heard a voice call out from inside.

  'You can go in now,' said the guard. 'There is a brush mat inside. Wipe the mud from your boots. The general doesn't like mud on his floor. And you can leave your sword and dagger here. No weapons are allowed.' Conn lifted off his baldric and handed it to the guard.

  He entered the tent. The contrast between these quarters and those of Valanus was so marked that Conn wanted to laugh out loud. The mosaic floor was expertly laid, mostly of small, square white stones. But at the centre darker stones had been used to form the head of a panther. Curtains screened the far end of the tent, which Conn took to be the sleeping area. Seven bright lanterns hung from hooks on the tent frame, their light shining down on six wooden chairs with velvet cushions, two heavily embroidered couches and a long, ornate table of carved oak. An iron brazier full of coals was set close by, and several large, thick rugs had been placed near the seats. The general, dressed in a simple white, knee-length tunic and sandals, was lounging on one of the couches. No-one could have looked less like a warrior.

  'Come closer,' he said. Conn wiped his feet on the brush mat then advanced. Removing his damp cloak he dropped it to the floor and approached the brazier, enjoying the sudden warmth. 'You may sit down,' said Jasaray, gesturing towards a couch.

  'My clothes are wet and mud spattered,' said Conn. 'Best if I stand.'

  'Thoughtful of you,' said Jasaray. 'So, tell me about Banouin.'

  'You knew him?' countered Conn, surprised by the question and seeking time to form an answer.

  'He was both my teacher and my student,' said Jasaray, 'and he was quite skilled in both areas.'

  'I did not know that,' Conn told him. 'Banouin often spoke of you, but never mentioned you were friends.'

  'I said teacher and student,' said Jasaray, testily. 'I did not mention friendship. Try to avoid making assumptions. Communication is best if it is precise. Now, I understand he was living among your people - indeed that he took a wife there.'

  'Yes, on both counts.'

  'What was it, do you think, that attracted him to the lands of the Rigante?'

  'He said he liked mountains and wild woods, the scent of pine and heather on the wind. What was it that he taught you?'

  Jasaray ignored the question.

  'Why should Banouin teach you my theories?' he asked.

  'He was trying to explain the greatness of his people,' replied Conn, carefully.

  'Unlikely. He was not overly fond of our ambitions, as I recall. Did you know he was a general in the civil war?'

  'No, but I guessed he was a soldier.'

  'He was a fine general, respected by his men, feared by his enemies. He was a man without vanity. Although I had been his student, when I became his leader he followed my orders without question. A rare man, Banouin. Yet a man with flaws. His mind was full of abstracts: honour, nobility, courage, conscience. He focused on small issues. The nature of the human soul, the possibilities of change and redemption. Good and evil, right and wrong, these abstracts dominated his thoughts and actions.'

  Some of the words Conn did not understand. He had become almost fluent in Turgon, but Banouin had never spoken of redemption or conscience. But if Banouin had valued these things - whatever they were - then Conn would value them too. When he spoke he chose his words as carefully as he could. 'I do not have the . . . skill in your language to . . .' he struggled for the right word: 'debate such matters. What I do know is that Banouin was a good man - perhaps a great one. He was loved by a people not his own, and I will always honour his memory.'

  Jasaray's cold, pale eyes showed the merest glint of annoyance. 'Yes, yes,' he said, 'people loved Banouin. I liked him too, in my own way. Indeed, I was surprised by how sad I felt when I heard of his death. Did he ever tell you why he resigned from the army?'

  'No. He never spoke of it.'

  'A pity. I have often wondered why a man with such skill should become a travelling merchant.'

  'He enjoyed the life - meeting new people, seeing new lands.'

  'Yes, he had a way with people. No doubt about that.' Jasaray gestured towards a silver flagon filled with water. Beside it was a single goblet. Jasaray had said nothing, but with that single gesture their entire relationship was clearly delineated. Conn might be a guest in Jasaray's tent, but in the eyes of the general he was just another servant. Now was not the time to make a stand, however. Swiftly he moved to the table and filled the goblet, handing it to the seated man. Jasaray took it without a word of thanks, but he smiled. Then he spoke again. 'Banouin also had an eye for talent. This is why you intrigue me, Connavar. What was it he saw in you, and why did he teach you? Are you the son of a chieftain or king?'

  'No. My father was a horse hunter, my stepfather is a cattle breeder.'

  'And yet - at seventeen - you are already famous in your own land, I understand. You fought a bear with only a knife. Added to this you entered the main Perdii settlement, killed the merchant who betrayed Banouin, and then six of the pursuing hunters. Since then you have become a dark legend among the Gath. Are all your people so gifted at fighting?'

  'All of them,' said Conn.

  'I doubt that.' Jasaray stood and walked to the rear curtains, pushing them aside. Beyond was a narrow bed and a wooden stand, upon which hung the general's armour. 'Help me into my armour,' he said.

  Conn moved to the general's side and lifted the iron breastplate from its peg. Jasaray struggled into it and Conn buckled the sides. Then the general put on a kilt, made up of bronze reinforced leather strips, and added his sword belt. Conn knelt by his feet and buckled on his bronze greaves. He did not ask why the general wished to be dressed for war at this time of night, though it puzzled him. Lastly Jasaray put on his battered helm. Conn could not resist a smile. Jasaray saw it. 'Yes, I am not a warrior,' he said, without hint of rancour, 'and I know I look ridiculous garbed in this manner. Yet it serves a purpose.'

  Jasaray walked to the tent flap and lifted it, calling out an instruction to one of the guards. The man handed the general Conn's baldric, then moved off through the rain. Jasaray withdrew into the tent. The general drew Conn's sword and gazed at it in the lantern light. 'This is a fine weapon,' he said. 'The hilt alone is worth several hundred silver pieces. Your father must be a very rich cattle breeder.'

  'The sword was a gift from a friend,' said Conn. Jasaray turned the blade in his hands.

  'The embossed bear is a creation of rare beauty, and I understand its meaning in your life. But why the fawn in brambles? I see that your cloak brooch carries the same motif.'

  'When I was a child I tore all my clothes rescuing a fawn. The story became something of a joke with my fellows.'

  Jasaray looked at him closely. 'A killer who rescues fawns? Such a man should be watched closely.' Sheathing the blade he tossed the baldric to Conn and instructed him to put it on. Then he walked from the tent.

  The storm was clearing, but the rain was still falling fast. As Conn joined the general he saw that soldiers were moving from their tents in full armour. Once gathered they formed into silent lines and stood, statue still, rain coursing over breastplates and helms.

  The storm clouds above the camp drifted apart, and bright moonlight bathed the scene.

  At that moment the air was filled with battle cries, high and shrill, and javelins rained over the ramparts. The tents, wagons and horses had been placed well back from the ramparts and most of the missiles fell on empty earth. One pierced the back of a baggage pony, which whinnied in pain, then fell to the ground.

  'They are coming!' yelled a sentry on
the north wall. 'Thousands of them!' A javelin took him through the back of the neck and he pitched from the ramparts.

  Several officers ran to Jasaray. The general was standing calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. 'Take one Panther to the north wall,' he said. 'Hold two in reserve. The main attack will be elsewhere - probably from the west. Position archers behind the baggage wagons.'

  The officers ran back to their men. Jasaray walked slowly to the leading line of soldiers. 'My apologies for waking you so early,' he told them, as they parted to allow him through. Conn remained at his side, and was impressed by the man's calm. He also wondered just how the general had known that an attack was imminent. Was he a magicker? Or was there some clue that Conn had overlooked? The problem nagged at him. The screams of wounded and dying men came from the northern ramparts, as wave after wave of Perdii tribesmen stormed the camp, scrambling up the ramparts to hack and stab at the defenders.

  'I think the rain is easing,' said Jasaray. The wounded baggage pony was continuing to whinny in pain and terror. Jasaray tapped a soldier on the shoulder. 'Go and put that creature out of its misery,' he said. 'It is hard to think through that screaming.'

  'Yes, Lord,' answered the man, drawing his sword and breaking from the line.

  A trumpet sounded from the west. Conn glanced across towards the western ramparts and saw two men signalling. 'Here comes the main attack,' said Jasaray. A second Panther of three thousand men was sent to crouch below the wall. Conn saw the tips of thousands of makeshift ladders appear. He took hold of his sword hilt.

  'You will not need that yet,' said Jasaray. 'It will be an hour at least before we are called upon. When the gates are breached.' Conn glanced at the gates, two six-foot wide structures created from slender tree trunks, sharpened and shaped, then expertly fastened together with cross-bars. It seemed unlikely that the Perdii would be able to force them open. Perhaps they will set fire to them, he thought.