Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  Vorna recalled that the Fisher Laird had five grown sons. Together they were the six wolves of her vision. And these wolves had sent one of their own out to die, not for glory or for justice, but for gain. She shivered.

  Ruathain was not at Three Streams. He had ridden out to the Long Laird's fortress settlement to sell cattle. There was no way to reach him.

  This in itself made the prophecy baffling. Vorna knew that it did not depict some distant event, but was waiting even now to unfold. Therefore what was the purpose of the vision, since she could do nothing to alter the events it foresaw? Visions did not come to torment a seer. They always, in her experience, had some purpose.

  Vorna sighed. She did not relish the prospect of the long ride to Old Oaks.

  Connavar was feeling content as he guided his piebald pony up through the hills, on the swifter route back to Old Oaks. The mares were coming into heat, and he felt sure his stallions would sire fine colts. It was now a question of patience. Arbon, Parax, and Tae's cousin, Legat, were tending the three herds, and it would be a further eleven months before the first foals arrived. And almost another two years before the new horses would be fully ready for war training. In the meantime Conn had sent merchants south across the water to buy Gath mounts and bring them back.

  Guiding his pony out into the open Conn enjoyed the warmth of the spring sun on his back. It felt good to be alive today, especially with the prospect of a ride with Tae out to the lake Ruathain had spoken of. He had told her he would be back soon after noon, and, with this new route Arbon had described, he should make it with time to spare.

  As he rode he considered the coming Lything. Many of the chieftains had promised him allegiance. This was largely based, he knew, on his fame. His deeds, few though they were in his own eyes, had created a legend among his people. And legends, he now realized, were handy tools in the pursuit of power. Of the fifty-six chieftains and lesser lairds eligible to vote, Conn believed he had won over at least thirty. And so far no-one else had declared a strong interest in the role of laird.

  Conn urged the pony up a slope and along the crest. At the edge of the trees to his right was a group of huts, and beyond them a shallow bowl of grassland, still dotted with clumps of old snow.

  Around two hundred of the Long Laird's famous black and white cattle were grazing there. Conn paused and stared at them. Soon they would be his, and he felt he should make himself known to the herders who lived here. Glancing at the sky he believed he had time for a short visit, and swung the pony round.

  As he approached the first hut a woman walked out. Conn's breath caught in his throat, as the sun shone on her golden hair.

  It was Arian.

  He felt his mouth go dry, his heart beginning to race. She looked up and saw him, and a wide smile made her face all the more beautiful. The pony continued to walk until it was almost upon her. Conn tugged on the reins.

  'You are looking very fine, Conn,' said Arian.

  'As are you,' he managed to say. 'Who lives here?'

  'Casta and I, and three other families.'

  'Where is Casta? I would like to speak with him.'

  'Two of the boys are tending the cattle. Casta and the other men have gone down to Old Oaks for supplies. Will you step down for a moment? We have a little cider left.'

  Conn slid from the saddle and followed her into the small hut. There was a rough-made bed of pine against the southern wall, a bench table with seating for four. A threadbare cowhide rug was spread before the small hearth, its surface pitted with cinder burns. Arian poured him a cup of cider, and as she passed it to him their hands touched. Conn felt himself blushing.

  'Are you happy now, Conn?' she asked him.

  'Aye. And you?'

  She smiled and moved to the fire, half kneeling, half bending, to add logs to the blaze. Conn gazed at her, remembering their times together and the enormous love he had felt. He had thought her vanished from his feelings, but knew now that this was not so. He loved Tae with all of his heart, but his body trembled at the closeness of Arian. He tried to quell the arousal she inspired in him. 'I must go,' he said, backing towards the door.

  She moved closer - so close he could smell her hair.

  'I am very sorry for the hurt I caused you,' she said. 'I have thought of little else ever since.'

  'It is in the past now,' he heard himself saying. He saw tears in her eyes, and instinctively put his arms around her.

  'I was so frightened when they said you were dying. And so stupid. I never stopped loving you, Conn. Never.'

  Closing his eyes he kissed the top of her head. It was warm in the hut, and flame shadows flickered on the bare walls. Her arms circled his neck. For a moment only he tried to resist, then he dipped his head and kissed her. The years rolled away and he was fifteen again, holding close to the first woman he had ever loved.

  Thoughts of the world outside faded from memory.

  All that existed now was this room, this fire, and the beckoning bed in the corner.

  A big man, and heavy, Ruathain was always considerate to his horses. He had dismounted at the foot of the rocky slope, and led his gelding on the climb. Tae followed his lead, though he told her it was not necessary. She was light enough for the pony to bear her. Tae smiled at him - and ignored his advice.

  Ruathain was angry at Conn as he climbed. The vista he was to show Tae should best be shared by her lover - not her husband's father. He felt awkward and embarrassed. He had once brought Meria to this spot, and they had made love on the hillside. When Conn had not appeared, and with the afternoon fading fast, Tae had asked Ruathain to show her the lake. He had tried to refuse politely, but she would have none of it. He glanced back at her. She was a beautiful woman, there was no doubt of that, her dark hair flowing free, her smile infectious. He well understood the pressure Conn was under, but any man who would rather spend time watching stallions and mares rather than imitating stallions and mares needed a hefty whack alongside the head.

  He crested the rise and moved out onto level ground. His chest was aching from the climb and he felt a small stab of pain. Tae came alongside him, and the two of them stared in wonder at the open landscape. Below them a long lake glittered like a sword blade. Small yellow flowers were growing in profusion on the hillsides, and in the distance the tree-covered hills looked like giant bison, grazing below the snow-capped mountains. The air was crisp and cool, the sky a clear, brilliant blue.

  'It is so beautiful,' whispered Tae. She sighed with pleasure. Just beyond the lake was a circle of golden standing stones. Ruathain pointed at them. 'According to legend they were once giants, but they offended Taranis. One night, as they met to discuss their war with the gods, Taranis appeared in their midst and turned them to stone.'

  'Do you believe the story?'

  Ruathain shrugged. 'No, but it is a nice tale. There was a race here long before us. I think they crafted the circle.'

  'The Ugly Folk?' she said, with a smile.

  'No, even before them. To the north of here there is a valley. A farmer was ploughing there when he discovered a buried wall. He and his son tried to tear up the stones, but they were too large. Each one weighed many tons. Yet they had been placed one atop the other.'

  'How long was the wall?'

  'No-one knows. The farmer tried to dig around it, discovered he couldn't and abandoned the field.'

  'And no-one has been there to find out?'

  'What would be the point?' asked Ruathain. 'Of what use is a buried wall?'

  'There might be artefacts - clues to the people who built it. I shall hire men and dig it out myself,' she said.

  They rode down to the lakeside. Ruathain lit a fire and they shared a meal of roasted ham and hard-boiled eggs, washed down with the cold water from the lake. 'I am so glad we came here,' said Tae. 'Did you ever bring Meria?'

  'Yes,' he said, feeling himself blush at the memory. She was good mannered enough to let the matter drop, which pleased him.

  'Tell me abou
t Conn,' she said. 'Was he always so serious?'

  Ruathain felt on safer ground here. He shook his head. 'He was a bonny lad, given to pranks and such. Good hearted, though. I never saw him torment another child, or laugh at another's misfortune. But he was easily hurt in those days. Perhaps children are. They are more open. He thought his father was a coward, which was not true. This fact drove him to prove himself. Once, when he was very young, he ran away to the woods to kill a wolf. I found him sitting in the bushes, a knife in his hand and an old pot on his head for a helm. It was getting dark when I found him, and he was terrified, though he tried not to show it. He was a good lad. Still is.'

  'And he fought the bear,' she prompted.

  'Aye. He wouldn't leave his friend. It was a grand deed - and I wish it had never happened.'

  'Why?' she asked, surprised. 'He survived, and it made him famous.'

  'It did that. But it has all but destroyed Braefar. Both boys changed that day. Conn became the hero. But Wing . . .' Ruathain let out a deep sigh. 'No-one ever blamed him for not fighting the bear. He was young and unarmed. He watched the fight, saw his brother ripped apart. And afterwards he felt everyone thought him weak. No-one did. But it has coloured his life since. I think he blames Conn. I have tried talking to him . . .' He shrugged and fell silent for a moment. 'Now he is angry and hurt by Gwydia's marriage to Fiallach. He loved her himself, and I thought they would be wed. But Meria told me she became bored by his constant complaining that everyone was against him, that no-one understood him. That was bad enough, but to marry the man who shamed him at the Games . . . Oh, that hurt him badly.' He forced a smile. 'Anyway, you did not come here to listen to me prattle about my family.'

  'Nonsense,' she told him. 'It is my family too. Wing will change again, when he finds a true love.'

  He shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

  'And what of Bran? You don't speak much of him.'

  'I daren't,' he said, conspiratorially. 'He is my pride and joy. To show my feelings too much would damage Wing even more. He's a grand lad, is Bran. Fearless. Yet a rascal. The girls love him, and I fear he leads them on.'

  'Did you do that when you were young?'

  'No,' he said. Leaning back against a boulder he stared out over the glistening water. 'No, I fell in love early, with Meria. As did my friend Varaconn. She married him. It was a great love match. I don't think she has ever quite recovered from his death. Strangely enough, I don't think I have. I loved him too. Closest friend I ever had. It is a great sadness to me that Conn never knew him. It is so easy for people to praise or condemn. I am a fine swordsman. Therefore I am a hero. I become a brave man. Yet where is the bravery without fear? I have never feared a battle. Varaconn did. He trembled with fright. Yet he was there. Beside me. He overcame his fear. That, to me, is the greatest courage.' He looked at her and chuckled. 'Whisht, woman, I am beginning to prattle. And the sun is going down. We'd best be getting back.'

  Leaning towards him she kissed his cheek. 'You are a good man, Ruathain. I am glad you are my father now.'

  'Aye, it pleases me too,' he said.

  They rode in silence for a while. Tae unrolled her cloak and threw it about her shoulders, for the temperature was dropping.

  Ruathain was feeling the cold too. His left arm was particularly pained, and he clenched and unclenched his fist. The ham had given him indigestion, and there was a tightness in his chest as he rode. He took several deep breaths, which seemed to ease the pain.

  Tae rode alongside him. 'There are some people up ahead,' she told him. Ruathain peered through the gloom. Four men were standing by the edge of the trees. One held a bow. 'Probably hunters,' he said, 'though they'll catch nothing now. Sun's almost gone.'

  They moved closer to the men. There was something about the bowman that tugged at Ruathain's memory. But his eyesight was not what it was and in the gathering dusk he could not yet make out the man's face.

  When they were within fifteen paces the bowmen notched an arrow to the string. Ruathain recognized him. He was the young man from the Pannone fishing village. The one who would not accept that the feud had ended.

  Instantly he drew his sword. The young man took aim. One of his comrades moved too close to him as he loosed his shaft, seeming to nudge him. The arrow flashed past Ruathain's head. Ruathain kicked his pony into a run, and threw himself from the saddle. The young assassin was notching a second arrow as Ruathain loomed over him. The young man looked up - and in a moment of sheer terror saw Ruathain's sword just before it smashed through his skull. Ruathain whirled, but the other three men had run away into the woods.

  He gazed down at the dead youth. 'You idiot!' he stormed, kicking the body. 'What a waste of life.'

  He turned - and his blood froze.

  Tae was lying on the ground, just beyond the standing ponies. Ruathain ran to her and dropped to her side. Her face was very still. She could have been sleeping - save for the black-shafted arrow jutting from her chest. There was very little blood. With trembling hand Ruathain touched her throat, praying for a pulse. There was nothing.

  He lifted her to a sitting position, cradling her head and talking to her, his mind reeling with the awesome knowledge that she was dead. This bright, loving young woman had had her life stolen by a vengeful man who did not even know her.

  It was worse than any nightmare Ruathain had ever experienced. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair, and several times felt for the pulse he knew would not be beating.

  Then he let out a terrible cry of anguish that echoed through the woods.

  The sun fell.

  As Conn came in sight of the fortress outlined in moonlight against the darkening sky, he saw a lone rider far below. She was wearing a hooded cloak, but the hood had fallen back, revealing long black and silver hair. Conn heeled the pony into a run and called out to her. At first she did not hear him, then she swung in the saddle and hauled on the reins.

  He rode up alongside her. 'Vorna. I thought it was you. What brings you to Old Oaks?'

  'Your father is in danger,' Vorna said. She told him of the vision and they rode together towards the hilltop town.

  'You think Ruathain is the old bear, and that this . . . Fisher Laird will send men to kill him?'

  'That is how I interpret the vision.' As they came closer to the town he realized she had not smiled, or said anything of warmth to him. Perhaps it was just that she was tired after a long and gruelling ride.

  'And is this how visions always come?' he asked her. 'In dream symbols? Wolves, bears, doves?'

  'Not always. Sometimes I will see a scene most clearly, Connavar.' Her dark eyes met his for a fraction of a second, and he felt cold inside. She knew.

  'It will not happen again, Vorna,' he said softly, feeling the shame.

  'Your life is yours to lead, Connavar. It is not for me to judge you.'

  'And yet you do judge me.'

  She sighed. 'Yes, I do. Your wife is a fine woman, and deserves better from her man. At this moment she is probably waiting for . . .' Vorna fell silent, then pulled on the reins. Her pony came to a halt.

  Conn stared at the witch, for it seemed her shoulders had sagged and she was swaying in the saddle. Steering his pony in close he reached out to her. 'No!' she said, suddenly. 'Don't touch me, Conn! Oh no!'

  'What is it?'

  She looked at him then, and in her eyes was a depth of sorrow that filled him with fear. 'I did not . . . fully . . . interpret the vision.' Vorna dismounted and almost staggered as she moved to the roadside and sat down. Conn jumped from the saddle and ran to her, grabbing her arm.

  'Tell me! Is the Big Man hurt?'

  'No, but the dove died.'

  'I know that. You told me. The lion struck it with his paw. What happened to Ruathain?' He shook her but she stayed silent for a moment, and he could tell she was gathering her strength. Patience was not one of his virtues, but he sat quietly, watching her. Vorna looked at him, then took his hand.

  'I have no words to mak
e this more gentle, Connavar. The dove was Tae. She was riding with Ruathain when they attacked. An arrow pierced her heart.' He heard what she said, but the words seemed to have no meaning.

  'Tae was riding with Ruathain and has been hurt?' he heard himself say.

  'She is dead, Conn. Killed.'

  'This cannot be! You are wrong. I promised her we would go riding. She is angry with me. That is all. Stop saying these things.' Panic made his hands tremble. 'Are you punishing me for Arian? Is that it?'

  She shook her head, and struggled to her feet. 'I have been cruel at times in my life, Conn. I could never be that cruel. Ruathain is bringing her body back to Old Oaks.'

  Conn rose unsteadily. There was a roaring in his ears, and his limbs had no strength. Words whispered up from the recesses of his memory.

  'Keep all your promises, no matter how small. Sometimes, like the pebble that brings the avalanche, something tiny can prove to be of immense power?

  'I always keep my promises, little fish.''

  'Remember, Conn, no matter how small.'

  'No matter how small,' he whispered. He fell to his knees, his head in his hands. Vorna knelt alongside him, her thin arms around his shoulders.

  'Come, Connavar, let us go to meet her.'

  'I broke my promise, Vorna. I broke it.'

  'Come,' she said, drawing him to his feet.

  The Fisher Laird sat in his hall, his sons around him at the long supper table. There was little conversation, and the Laird drank heavily, cup after cup of strong ale. 'There'll be no weregild now,' said Vor, his eldest son.

  The Fisher Laird stared into his cup and shivered. Then he glanced across at Vor. The hulking young man was disappointed, and his flat, ugly face looked sullen. The Laird shivered again, and cast his gaze along the men at the table. His sons. He had once had high hopes of them all, that they would be strong men, Pannone warriors to be admired. But they were not strong men. Oh aye, they were physically powerful, but they lived their lives in his shadow. He drained his cup. The ale was making him melancholy. He looked back at Vor. 'How could you cause him to kill the girl?'