Sword in the Storm (13 page)

The three brothers rose from the fire and stalked off toward
the settlement. An awkward silence followed. Riamfada looked downcast. Conn leaned forward and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I thank you, Riamfada,” he said softly. “But there was no need to reward us. You are our friend, and we enjoy your company.”

“It was not a reward,” objected Riamfada. “I just wanted to find a way to show how much I appreciated your friendship. All of you. You have given me great joy. More than you can ever know. You like my gifts?”

“No one ever gave me a finer present,” said Govannan. “I will treasure it, little fish.”

They sat together for a while longer, but as the sun began to fall, Govannan put out the fire and Connavar lifted Riamfada to his shoulders for the long walk home.

As they walked, they heard a distant scream. “What was that?” whispered Braefar. The sound hung in the air. They walked up the hillside, emerging from the trees onto open ground. A body lay on the grass, its belly ripped open, its face gone. Patches of blood stained the grass like a stand of poppies. Connavar laid Riamfada on the grass and drew his silver knife. From the clothes the corpse wore, they knew it was Galanis.

“Bear,” whispered Govannan. “And a big one.” He, too, unsheathed his blade. Braefar, who had no weapon, stood petrified, staring at the mutilated corpse. “The others must have run off. Climbed a tree or something,” continued Govannan.

Riamfada sat on the grass, scanning the tree line. Another scream sounded from deep in the trees. It was cut off abruptly. A breeze was blowing from the woods. “It will not be able to scent us,” whispered Connavar. “Let’s move!” Sheathing his knife, he lifted Riamfada, and the three young men set off across the hills. The land was open there, with no ground cover and no trees in which to hide. Held in Connavar’s arms, Riamfada stared back at the tree line, praying that the bear would not emerge.

He heard Govannan swear. “The wind is changing,” he said.

Almost as soon as Govannan spoke, Riamfada saw a huge form burst from the trees a hundred paces behind them. Time froze in that moment. The beast moved to the body of Galanis. Its great jaws opened, closing on the corpse. Then, with a flick of its head, it tossed the body high into the air. The bear reared up, catching the corpse as it fell and ripping at it with its talons. “Please do not let it see us,” Riamfada prayed softly.

The great head swung. Dropping the body, the beast turned toward the fleeing youths. “It’s coming,” screamed Riamfada. Conn glanced back then began to run. Riamfada soon realized that there was no way, burdened as he was, Conn could outrun the beast. “Put me down!” he shouted. “Save yourself!”

Conn ran on, then glanced back once more. The bear was no more than thirty paces behind them. Slowing to a halt, he laid Riamfada on the grass, drew his knife, and swung to face the charging beast. “Oh, please run!” Riamfada begged him.

“I’ll cut its bastard heart out,” hissed Conn.

The bear came on and reared up in front of the defiant youth. Riamfada could not tear his eyes from the beast. Over eight feet high, its black muzzle and chest fur drenched in blood, it spread its paws and lumbered forward. Conn did not wait for it but hurled himself at the colossus, plunging his blade deep into the bear’s chest. Talons ripped across his back, sending a spray of blood that splashed across Riamfada’s face. Connavar was hurled clear of the beast, but it turned on him again. A shadow fell across Riamfada as Govannan ran in, leaping to the bear’s back and slamming his knife into the creature’s neck. The bear reared and twisted. Govannan was thrown to the ground, his knife still embedded in the bear’s flesh. Bleeding badly, Conn pushed himself to his feet and attacked again. Talons tore into his shoulder, but the silver knife swept up, then down, slicing through fur and bone and flesh. The bear dropped to all fours, pinning Conn
beneath it. Govannan, hefting a large rock, ran at the bear, smashing the stone down upon its head. The creature swung, its snapping jaws just missing the youth. It reared high, talons slashing out. Beneath it the blood-covered Connavar surged to his knees and drove his knife two-handed into the bear’s belly. A huge paw thundered against his shoulder, and Riamfada heard the sound of splintering bones. Connavar was hurled across the grass, limp and boneless as a rag doll.

Then came the sound of galloping horses. A pony leapt over Riamfada, the rider leaning down to ram a long lance through the bear’s chest. The bear lashed out, talons ripping through the pony’s neck. The rider was thrown clear. Rolling to his feet, he drew a longsword of iron. The beast turned toward him. A rope sailed over the bear’s head, drawing tight and dragging it back. The swordsman ran in, plunging his blade deep into the bear’s stomach. More horsemen galloped in. Some threw rope loops over the beast, and others stabbed lances into the wounded creature. And all the while the swordsman hacked at it with his iron blade. It seemed to Riamfada that the bear would never die. It killed a second pony but then became completely entangled in the ropes. The swordsman delivered three terrible blows to the back of its neck, and it collapsed to the ground. The riders dismounted, plunging their lances again and again into the massive form.

“Look to Conn!” shouted Riamfada. “Please help him!”

The swordsman dropped his blade and ran to the fallen youngster. Riamfada tried to crawl over to him. Govannan lifted him, holding him close. “You don’t want to see him,” he said sadly. “He’s dead.”

“No. No, he can’t be.”

“If not, he will be soon. No one could lose that much blood and live.”

Govannan set Riamfada down on the grass, then ran over to where the men had gathered around the still form of Connavar. Riamfada could see them battling to staunch the
wounds. A little way to the right Riamfada caught sight of Braefar. The boy was kneeling on the grass and sobbing. He wanted to call out to him, to comfort him, but he felt powerless to make a noise within that grim tableau. A few feet away the colossal bear, still entangled in ropes, lay dead alongside the two ponies he had killed. Several of the men moved to their mounts and rode back up the hillside. Riamfada wondered where they were going. Then he remembered the dead Galanis and his missing brothers. He began to tremble.

A woman with white-streaked black hair came walking from the woods. She was carrying a long staff. The remaining men backed away from her, and Riamfada saw her kneel beside Connavar. Her skinny arm came up, and it was obvious she was directing the men. Three of them lifted the wounded youngster. The woman strode back into the woods, the men following. Govannan walked back to where Riamfada sat.

“He is alive. Barely,” said the smith’s son.

“Who was the woman?”

“Vorna the witch. He is being carried to her cave.”

“You should speak to Braefar,” said Riamfada.

Govannan took a deep breath. “What would I say?” he countered. They sat together for more than an hour. It was growing dark and cold as the men returned from Vorna’s cave. The other riders had found the bodies of Galanis and his brothers, and, wrapped in cloaks, they were taken back to the settlement.

Ruathain emerged from the woods and walked across to where the two youngsters waited. Govannan rose and stood silently as Ruathain approached.

“What happened here?” asked the swordsman.

“It was my fault,” said Riamfada.

The swordsman knelt before the crippled youth. “How so?” he asked.

“Conn could not outrun the beast while carrying me, and
he refused to leave me. He stood with his knife and then attacked the bear. Govannan helped him.” Tears fell to his cheeks. “I urged him to leave me and run. He is my friend, and I didn’t want him hurt.”

“He is my son,” said Ruathain, his voice choked with emotion. “He would not leave a friend in peril. Govannan helped him, you say?”

“Yes, sir. Conn faced it, then Govannan leapt to its back and stabbed it.”

The swordsman rose and turned to the smith’s son. “There was no great affection between you two,” he said. “And yet you risked your life for him. I will not forget that. I have had trouble with your father, but you have my friendship for as long as I live.”

“My father is a good man, sir,” said Govannan. “But like me, his mouth sometimes hits the gallop before his brain is in the saddle. How is Conn?”

“He is dying,” said Ruathain, struggling to control his emotions. “His shoulder and left arm are smashed beyond repair, and his lung is punctured. The witch says she will use all her power to save him. But we had to leave him with her. She refused my request to stay at his side. Said my presence would disturb the spells she must cast.”

“I am truly sorry, sir,” said Govannan.

The swordsman nodded. When he spoke, his voice was close to breaking. “You should feel proud, boy. Today you stood beside my son and faced a terrible enemy. Believe me, that will have changed you. You are no longer merely the smith’s eldest son. You are a man in your own right. And more than that, you are a hero.” He took a deep breath, then dropped to one knee in front of Riamfada. “Do not blame yourself. Even without you these lads could not have outrun the bear. Heroes come in many forms. Not all of them are fighters. When you asked Conn to leave you and save himself, you were prepared to sacrifice your life for his. You
understand? You, too, should feel proud. Now I must get you home.”

Vorna was close to exhaustion when she heard the ponies approaching the cave. She had known they would come. One did not need the powers of a witch to realize that a mother would not be parted from her son when his life hung in the balance. And as for the man, Vorna had seen the anguish on his face earlier that day. He could not stay away. Rising from Conn’s bedside, she took up her staff and walked out into the night. Ruathain and Meria had dismounted and were approaching the entrance.

What a fine pair they make, she thought, the tall broad-shouldered warrior and the proud woman beside him. She looked into their faces and saw the determination there. Meria’s green eyes showed anger and the readiness of defiance. Vorna raised her hand. “The man cannot enter,” she said wearily. “If he does, he will shatter the web of spells and the boy will die. The mother can follow me, but know this, she puts her son in peril by doing so.”

“How can a mother’s love imperil her son?” demanded Meria.

“Can you think of a single reason why I would lie to you?” countered Vorna. “I have cast spells, delicate, fragile spells. The sound of your footfalls could disturb them. And they—and my powers—are all that hold Connavar to the land of the living.”

“Then I shall move silently. But I must see him.”

Vorna had known that would be her answer. Moving in close, she whispered: “You must not speak within the cave or sigh or cry out. You must not, under any circumstances, touch Connavar. Do you understand this?”

“Will he live?” asked Meria.

“I do not know. But tell me you understand what I have
said. It is vital that you obey me. Not one word. Not one sound must you utter. If you cannot do this, then stay away.”

“I will do as you say,” said Meria.

“He hovers on the edge of the abyss of death,” said Vorna. “His wounds are terrible to behold. Prepare yourself now and be strong.” Taking Meria by the arm, she led her into the lamp-lit cave. Connavar was lying facedown on a pallet bed. The hair had been shaved from his left temple, and a long jagged cut had been stitched from his scalp to his chin. His back was a blood-covered mass of stitches, his left arm held in wooden splints. He looked so pale. Meria stood very still, Vorna’s hand clamped to her arm. The witch drew her back. “No sound,” she whispered. “Not until we are once more under the stars.”

Hand held over her mouth, Meria backed away from her son, then turned and ran from the cave. Vorna followed her.

Ruathain stepped forward as they emerged. “How is he?” he asked.

“He should be dead,” Vorna told him, “but I have cast all the healing spells I know.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No. You must go now, for I have much to do.”

“Ask anything of me,” said Ruathain. “I will do it if you save my son.”

Vorna was too tired to be angry. “I am doing all I can, Ruathain. You could promise me all the stars on a necklace and I could do no more. But you can bring food every day and a little wine. Honey is good for strength and healing.” With that she trudged back into the cave, drew up her chair, and sat beside the dying youth.

Lightly touching his throat, she felt for a pulse. It was weak and fluttering. “Be strong, Connavar,” she whispered. “My spirit to your spirit, draw on my strength.” Heat flared through her fingertips, and she felt the power move within her, flowing into his flesh. Only when she grew dizzy and weak did she
withdraw her hand. He did not move, and his breathing was so shallow that she was forced to hold a brass mirror by his mouth to see if he still lived. “Where have you gone to, Connavar?” she asked. “Where does your spirit fly?”

She sat with him for an hour longer, then slept for a little while. She awoke with a start and checked his breathing once more. He was barely clinging to life. The bear had ripped his back to shreds, and he had lost a great deal of blood. Vorna had inserted more than 140 stitches in his wounds. He ought to be dead, she knew. There was much here that she did not understand. Why was the Morrigu so interested in this boy? Why had the Seidh not killed him when he had entered Wishing Tree Wood? Why was he still alive?

Vorna knew the power of her spells was great, but not all of them together should have kept Connavar breathing. The wounds were too deep for that.

Why, then, did he live?

Rising from the chair, she crossed the cave to the rock pool and drank several cups of water. On the edge of the pool she had placed the two items Connavar had had with him when he had been carried here: the gift knife and a cloak brooch in the shape of a fawn trapped in brambles. It was a pretty piece and reminded her once more of the mystery of Wishing Tree Woods. The Seidh had no love for humans, and their law was iron. Any human venturing there risked death. Yet they had not killed him. Instead they had given him a test. But what was the purpose of it? Why a fawn? And why reward him with a knife? She had, of course, asked them. But they had not answered her.