Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  Meria nodded agreement. She felt as if a burden had been lifted from her. Weariness flowed over her and she sank into a chair. 'It was good of you to come,' she told the earth maiden.

  'I wish I could have been of some help,' answered Eriatha, dropping into the second chair. Meria gazed across at her. The earth maiden was small and slight, and looked much younger than her years. Her face was pretty, her skin flawless.

  'You are very beautiful,' said Meria. 'Are you happy?'

  'Why would I not be?' countered Eriatha, defensively. 'I can afford to eat and I have a home. Or is an earth maiden not meant to experience joy?'

  'That is not what I meant at all,' said Meria. 'I was wondering if you had friends, or whether your life was lonely. That is all.'

  Eriatha relaxed and gave a shy smile. 'Yes, I am lonely. And no, I have no friends. Is that not the lot of the earth maiden? A hundred lovers and no friends?'

  Meria leaned forward and stretched out her hand. 'You may count me as a friend, Eriatha.' The younger woman took her hand briefly, gently squeezing her fingers.

  'I thank you, Meria, but I do not need pity. I am young, alive and in good health. I was glad to see Ruathain recover so well from his wounds.'

  'You know my husband?' Meria could not keep a note of alarm from her voice. Eriatha laughed and clapped her hands together.

  'You see why an earth maiden has no women friends,' she said. Meria blushed, then laughed also.

  'Yes, I do. So now tell me, did Ruathain come to you, while we were parted?'

  Eriatha fell silent, watching Meria closely. Then she shrugged. 'Yes he did.'

  'And after making love did he snore like a bull?'

  Surprised by the comment, Eriatha giggled. 'The very walls shook with the sound.'

  'There,' said Meria. 'Now can we be friends?'

  'I think that we can. You are a very special woman, Meria. Ruathain is lucky to have you.'

  Before Meria could reply they heard the high-pitched cry of a newborn babe. Both women rushed to the bedroom. Meria pushed open the door. Vorna was lying asleep, the babe, wrapped in soft red cloth, nestled in her arm. The old woman had gone.

  Eriatha made the sign of the Protective Horn. Meria moved to the window and gazed out over the hills. But the midwife was nowhere in sight.

  'Who was she?' she whispered.

  Eriatha did not reply. At the bedside she felt for the pulse in Vorna's wrist. It was beating slowly but powerfully. Eriatha pulled back the bedclothes. There was no blood upon the sheets, nor any mark upon Vorna's belly. Carefully she covered the sleeping woman.

  'She was Seidh,' said Eriatha, her voice low. 'The babe was delivered through magic.'

  Meria shivered, then lifted the sleeping babe, gently opening the little red blanket. The child was a boy, and perfectly formed. Again there was no blood upon it. The umbilical cord had been removed leaving no wound, only a tiny mound of perfectly formed pink skin. The babe woke and gave a little squeal. Meria wrapped it once more and lifted it, holding it close.

  Vorna woke and yawned. She saw Meria holding the babe and smiled. 'How did you save both me and the babe?' she asked.

  'It was a miracle,' said Eriatha.

  Meria passed the babe to its mother. Vorna opened her nightgown and held the child to her swollen breast. It began to feed hungrily.

  Ferol looked what he was - an angry, bitter man, self-centred and self-obsessed; the kind of man who believed the sole purpose of winter was to keep him cold. He loathed the rich for their wealth, the poor for their poverty. His round face had a permanently sullen expression, and his wide gash of a mouth was perfectly fashioned to make best use of the sneer. He was a thief - and worse, but he excused his excesses by convincing himself that all men would be the same, if only they had his strength of purpose.

  A huge, hulking man, he had been raised in the north country of the Pannones, on a small farm built on rocky soil, constantly eroded by high winds and driving rain. His father was a hard-working man, and scrupulously honest. Ferol had despised him. The old man made him work in all weathers and, truth be told, Ferol had never overcome his fear of the man. One day, however, when he and his father had been felling trees, the old man slipped, and a heavy trunk fell across his legs, smashing both thigh bones.

  Ferol had run to his side. The old man could hardly move, his careworn face grey with pain. 'Get this off me,' he had grunted.

  In that moment the nineteen-year-old Ferol had discovered freedom. 'Get it off yourself,' he said, turning and walking slowly back to the house. He ransacked it, looking for his father's carefully hoarded silver. It came to nine miserable coins. Pocketing them he saddled the one old pony and rode south.

  He was full of regret afterwards. If only he had sat down and waited he could have watched the old bastard die.

  Ferol stood, stoop shouldered at the ferry, watching the two riders approach. One was a red-bearded young warrior wearing a bright mailshirt, the other an older man, with dark, receding hair. They were leading two enormous stallions, each over sixteen hands, and three pack ponies heavily laden. Ferol glanced to his left where his cousin, Roca, lounged against the ferry. 'Be ready,' he said. Roca nodded, turned towards the river, and waved a signal to the four men on the far side.

  The riders came closer. Ferol stepped out to greet them. 'Welcome,' he said. 'You have come far?'

  The warrior did not reply immediately. Shading his eyes against the sun he looked across the river. 'Where is Calasain?' he asked.

  'In the house,' replied Ferol. 'He has not been well.'

  'I am sorry to hear that.'

  'Yes,' agreed Ferol. 'His son, Senecal, asked my friends and me to help out at the ferry.'

  'You are not Rigante.'

  'I am of the Pannone.' He signalled to Roca, who unlatched the front of the ferry, lowering the boarding platform. 'Step aboard. There'll be food at the house.'

  The warrior and his companion dismounted and led the horses and pack ponies onto the ferry. Roca drew up the boarding platform then he and Ferol began to haul on the rope. Slowly the ferry eased out into the river.

  'So, where are you travelling from?' Ferol asked the young man, seeking to put him at his ease.

  'South,' came the reply. 'What is the nature of Calasain's sickness?'

  'You can ask his son. He is waiting at the jetty,' he said, pointing to the short, burly figure of Senecal, who was standing with three other men.

  The ferry docked. Roca moved to the front and lowered the platform. Ferol stepped back and waved his arm, gesturing the warrior to lead his horses to the bank.

  'After you, ferryman,' said the man, softly.

  Ferol was irritated, but he obeyed and walked from the ferry. The warrior followed him, having signalled his older companion to wait.

  'What is wrong with your father?' he asked Senecal.

  The burly man looked uncomfortable, his gaze flicking to Ferol. 'I told you, he's sick,' said Ferol. 'Now lead your beasts ashore and pay the crossing fee.'

  The warrior stood his ground. 'I do not know you, Pannone, nor any of your men, save Senecal. But the ferry does not require - nor can its income support - six men. Now I ask you again: where is Calasain?'

  Roca moved to the side of the bank, lifted an old blanket and pulled out a sword which he threw to Ferol. Other swords were swiftly handed out.

  Ferol grinned at the young warrior. 'Calasain died,' he said, with a wide, unpleasant grin. 'Now, unless you think you and your old friend can defeat six of us, I suggest you hand over your horses and ponies.'

  The warrior's sword hissed from its scabbard, the blade shining bright in the sunlight. When he spoke again his voice was calm, and very cold. 'I have seen thousands of Keltoi butchered this last year. Some I killed myself. I am not anxious to spill more Keltoi blood, but if you persist in this I will slay all of you.'

  Ferol felt the chill of winter flow across his skin. Evil he was, and cruel, but he was not stupid. This young fighter was facing six armed m
en and there was not the slightest suggestion that he was afraid. There were only two possible conclusions to be drawn: either he was an idiot, or he was as deadly as his words claimed. Ferol sensed it was the latter, and was about to back down when Roca spoke.

  'You arrogant bastard!' shouted Roca. 'Take him!' Ferol stood stock still as the five men rushed forward. The warrior leapt to meet them, his shining sword cutting left and right in a bewildering blur. Roca was the first to die, and within a few heartbeats three others were down. Ferol threw himself back as the silver sword slashed within a hair's breadth of his throat. Senecal threw down his dagger and ran towards the woods behind the house.

  The warrior advanced on Ferol, who dropped his sword. 'I have had enough,' he said. 'You were quite right. Let's spill no more blood, eh?' The warrior sheathed his sword and moved towards the house. Ferol slid his hand up his sleeve and drew a throwing knife. His arm came back. But he had forgotten the old man, who shouted a warning. The warrior spun on his heel. Something very bright flashed from his fingers, thudding into Ferol's neck. The big man stumbled back. Grabbing the hilt of the knife embedded in his throat he tried to draw it out. His vision was dimming, and the last thing he saw was the young warrior's sword slicing towards his neck.

  As the corpse hit the ground, Connavar swung away and strode to the house, pushing open the door. The room within was empty, but there were blood splashes on the walls and floor. Parax joined him there. 'You want me to scout for sign?' he asked.

  Connavar nodded. 'I think I know what you will find,' he said.

  The old hunter moved out onto open ground and began to search along the tree line. Connavar walked to the ferry and led the horses to dry land. A short time later Parax returned. 'The man and his wife are buried in a shallow grave around fifty paces back. They were both stabbed, the man in the back.' He shook his head. 'The coward who ran away was their son?' There was disbelief in his voice.

  'Aye, their son,' said Connavar.

  'It is beyond belief.'

  'After what I have seen, nothing is beyond belief,' said the warrior. He glanced at the corpses. 'I had thought that my homecoming would bring me peace. Not more blood and death.'

  'Does this mean we won't be hunting down the son?'

  'Aye, it does. I'll report the murders to the Long Laird. He can send hunters out to find him.'

  That's a shame,' said Parax. 'I'd enjoy cutting his heart out.'

  'If you could find it,' said Connavar, sadly.

  Vorna was sitting in the shade, her three-month-old babe in her arms, enjoying the warmth of this summer day. Golden light bathed the woods and fields and sparkled on the waters of the streams. The child, having been fed, was fast asleep, and Vorna herself was drowsily content.

  She did not see the two riders crest the southern hills, but she heard the commotion in the settlement as they rode in. Leaning back in her chair she cuddled little Banouin close and closed her eyes. Vorna drifted into a light doze. A breath of breeze touched her face, bringing with it the smell of grass and the merest hint of honeysuckle.

  She heard a horse whinny and opened her eyes to see a young man, red bearded and garbed for war, riding slowly across the field towards her house. It took her a moment to recognize Connavar. He had changed. He was taller, and the heavy mailshirt he wore made his shoulders look wider. His red beard was tinged with golden blond, and there was a white streak in it. As he came closer she saw that it was the bear scar around which no hair would grow. The chestnut horse he rode was tall, perhaps sixteen hands. Vorna did not rise as he approached. She did not wish to disturb the sleeping babe.

  Connavar dismounted and bowed. For a moment he stood in silence. Then he took a deep breath. 'I am sorry,' he said, simply. 'There was nothing I could do.'

  'Come,' she said. 'Fetch a chair and sit beside me.'

  He did so, first removing his sword and scabbard and laying them by the wall. When he sat she reached out and took his hand. 'I told you a long time ago, Connavar, that there are some things even a hero cannot achieve. You could not keep him alive. There should be no guilt.'

  'There is no force under the stars strong enough to remove the guilt I feel,' he said. 'Not just for Banouin's death, but for the thousands of deaths that followed it.' He fell silent. Vorna said nothing, and the two sat quietly in the shade for a while.

  The babe stirred, then fell asleep again. Vorna rose and moved inside the house, laying the child in his cot. Her back was aching and she stretched. Returning to where Connavar sat, she saw he was staring out over the hills to the south. He looked so much older than his eighteen years.

  'A merchant brought news of your fight with the evil king,' she said. Connavar nodded.

  'It seems so long ago now, yet it is but a few months.' He laughed, but the sound was bereft of humour. 'Evil king,' he repeated, shaking his head.

  'Was he not evil then?' she asked.

  'He murdered his brother, the brother's wife and son, and he killed Banouin. Yes, he was evil. But his deeds are as nothing to the vileness that followed his death.' He sighed. 'Let us not talk about it. It is good to be home.'

  'We have missed you. Who is the man with you?'

  'His name is Parax. He was among the prisoners taken by Jasaray. Now he serves me.'

  'Serves?'

  'A slip of the tongue. I have been around the men of Stone for too long. He is my companion and, I think, my friend. He will help me.'

  'To do what, Connavar?'

  'To prepare, Vorna. The men of Stone will come. Not next year, perhaps. But they will come.'

  'I know. I saw it when I had my powers. Their hunger is insatiable. And you will fight them. I saw this also.' Sunlight fell upon the sword against the wall, illuminating the hilt. Vorna stared at it. 'It is a Seidh blade. How did you come by it?'

  Connavar told her of his flight from the town of Alin, and his encounter in the Talis woods.

  'The Tree man was the Thagda,' she said, 'the Old Man of the Forest. You were truly blessed. Show me the sword.' He passed it to her and she looked closely at the hilt, the embossed head of the bear on the fist guard, the fawn in brambles on the pommel. Vorna smiled. 'You know who made this blade?' she asked him.

  'How could I?' he responded.

  'It was Riamfada. On the night he died I saw his spirit moving towards the Seidh woods.'

  Taking the sword, Conn looked at it with fresh eyes. 'He promised me a sword,' he whispered.

  'And he kept the promise. He is one of them now.' From within the house came the sound of the baby crying. Vorna moved inside, lifted Banouin from his cot, sat down by the hearth and opened her blouse. The babe began to suckle hungrily. Conn stood in the doorway, watching the scene.

  'Is it a boy?' he asked.

  'Yes, a boy. Banouin's boy.' Conn struggled for something to say, and Vorna laughed. It was a sound he had never heard from her, and it made him smile.

  'What?' he asked her.

  'You want to say something about how he has Banouin's nose, or eyes. But you can't, because all babies look the same to you. Like wizened old men.'

  He grinned. 'Have your powers returned?'

  'I do not need powers to understand the minds of men.' She laughed again. 'Have you seen your mother yet?'

  He brightened. 'Aye. She and the Big Man are back together. That is a fine thing.'

  'Indeed it is. Together and happy.' She looked at him closely. 'You are tired, Connavar. Go back to your family. Rest. You can come and see us again, if you have a mind to.'

  'I would like that, Vorna.' Moving into the room he stroked the babe's head. Then he kissed the mother on the cheek.

  As he rode away Vorna felt his sorrow. It lay heavy upon him, like a cloak of lead.

  Ruathain also noticed the change in Connavar, and it saddened him. He tried to tackle the problem head on as they stood in the paddock field viewing the stallions. 'What is wrong, boy?'

  'Nothing that you can help with, Big Man. I will deal with it in my own time. However
, there is something I would like you to do for me. These stallions are, I believe, vital to our future. You have two pony herds. My stallions will, I am hoping, sire a new breed of war mounts, faster, stronger than any ponies we now possess. Having a more powerful mount will allow a rider to wear heavier armour.'

  Ruathain took a deep breath. 'They are fine horses. And I will breed them as you ask me. But the horses are not my main concern, Conn. You are. What has changed you? Banouin's death? Your time among the people of Stone? What?'

  Conn looked away, and when he turned back his expression had softened. 'You are right. I am changed. But I do not wish to speak of it yet. I cannot. The memories are too fresh. We will talk soon, Big Man.' Conn turned away and strode back to Ruathain's old house, which he now shared with Parax. Ruathain watched him go, then walked across the paddock field to where Parax was feeding grain to the stallions.

  Parax glanced up at the tall warrior, then patted the long neck of the chestnut stallion. 'Fine beasts, eh?' he said.

  'Fine indeed. Are you settling in?'

  'It is a good house.' Parax moved away from the stallion and climbed to sit on the paddock fence. Ruathain joined him.

  'My son tells me you met in the lands of the Perdii.'

  'Aye. I was hunting him for Carac. He's a canny lad, and a fighter.'

  Ruathain looked into the man's dark eyes. 'What is the matter with him?' he said.

  Parax shrugged. 'He is your son, Ruathain. Best you ask him.'

  'I am asking you.'

  Parax climbed down from the fence. 'We have spoken much about you, Big Man. He loves you dearly. And he trusts you completely. But understand this: he carries a weight on his soul, and it is for him to speak of it. Not I. And he will, when he is ready. Give him time, Ruathain. The air here is good, and the mountains are beautiful. Here he has people who love him. One day - and I hope it is soon - the weight will lift a little. Then - perhaps - you will see the son you knew.'

  'Perhaps?'

  Parax shrugged. 'I cannot say for certain. No man could. But as I said before, he is a fighter. Give him time.'

  Conn emerged from the house carrying a heavy sack; he walked across the paddock field and on past the family home, crossing the first of the bridges and heading towards the forge of Nanncumal. The bald and burly smith was working at his anvil when Conn entered. Seeing him, Nanncumal gave a brief smile and continued hammering at the horseshoe before dunking it in a half-barrel of water. Steam hissed up. The smith put down his hammer and tongs and wiped the sweat from his broad face with a dry cloth.