Sword in the Storm (29 page)

Bek spoke to the riders and then moved his mount alongside the older man and dismounted. “Did he come this way?”

“Yes. About two hours ago. He sat just below this rim,” said Parax, pointing to a spot some ten feet away. “Just there, where his head would be hidden by yon bush. He watched us for a while and thought about where he could hide.”

“And where is that?”

Parax swept his arm out in a wide circle. “You choose, Bek. There are folds and hollows all around, jumbles of boulders, stands of trees. Wherever he is, he is watching us now, wondering if we are clever enough to outguess him.”

“And are we, old man?”

“No,
we
are not. But I am. I know exactly where he is. I reckon I could even pick out the tree he is watching us from.”

“Then we have him,” Bek said, triumphantly.

“
You
can have him. I want no part of him. But five young men ought to be enough.”

“It will be. Tell me where he is.”

“I will, but first do your best not to look in the direction I indicate.”

“I am not a fool, Parax.”

No, you are a murdering regicide, thought Parax, but he kept the thought to himself. “He is on the edge of the Talis Woods. It is his last chance. He will know of the legends, and he will know that we know. He is risking his life against what he hopes is your lack of courage.”

Parax saw the color drain from Bek’s face. “The Talis Woods? You are sure?”

“As sure as I can be.”

“Then he is dead already.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. As I said, he is at the very edge. Perhaps the Talis will not see him. Perhaps they are elsewhere. Are you afraid to follow him, Bek?”

“Yes, I am afraid,” admitted the warrior. “Would you ride into those woods?”

“No,” said Parax. “But then, I am paid only to track.”

“Where exactly is he?”

Parax did not look toward the woods. “Take your men and ride east for a little way. Then turn back and move along the edge of the wood. Keep watching me. When you reach the point where I believe him to be hiding, I will stand up and mount my pony.”

Bek took a deep breath, then vaulted to the saddle. Parax watched in silence as Bek rode to his men and told them the grim news. A heated debate began. None of the four had any desire to risk the Talis Woods. Bek asked which of them would be prepared to stand before Carac and tell him they had been too afraid to follow his orders. They fell silent at this, for Carac was not a forgiving man. “Look,” said Bek, “we will ride in close, and when I get the signal, charge in and kill the Rigante. Then we will ride out. It should take no more than a few heartbeats.”

They were not convinced, but Parax knew they would follow the warrior. Fear of Carac’s rage was strong in them.

Bek led them slowly down the hillside.

Conn was bone-weary. He had not slept—except for a few snatched moments—in three days, and his diet of roots, berries, and raw rabbit meat had soured his belly, causing cramps and nausea. His head was pounding, with pain searing his temples. He crouched behind a thick screen of bushes, watching the riders on the hilltop.

He had hoped they would ride farther to the west, allowing him to slip behind them. But they had not. Whoever was tracking him was even more skillful than Arbonacast.

Conn glanced around, uneasy and troubled. Towering oaks filled his vision, and there was no sound of bird or beast, not even the buzzing of an insect. Yet despite the absence of
animal sounds, the wood seemed vibrant with life. The giant trees stood motionless, no breeze stirring the branches. It felt to Conn that they were staring at him, waiting. He felt like an intruder. His belly cramped, and he doubled over and retched. His empty stomach had nothing left, and he tasted the foulness of bile in his mouth. Falling back exhausted, he looked back at the hilltop. All but one of the riders had gone. The last man was merely sitting on the crest of the hill, his pony cropping grass alongside him.

Sweat dripped into Conn’s eyes. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his filthy shirt. As he lifted his arm, the wound on his shoulder opened again, and he felt blood trickling over his chest. A thousand miles from home, wounded and alone, he knew that his chances for survival were slim indeed.

Yet there was no fear, only a burning anger and a desire for revenge.

I will not die here, he thought. I will find a way to survive and kill Carac.

He tried to stand, but his right leg caved in beneath him and he sprawled to the dirt, where he lay unconscious for a while. When he opened his eyes, he heard the ponies. Struggling to his knees, he scanned the tree line. Five riders were skirting the woods. One of them kept glancing up at the lone man on the hilltop. Conn’s mouth was dry, his mind hazy. His heart sank as he realized they were preparing to enter the wood. Had Banouin been wrong? Was this not an enchanted place?

He looked up at the lone man again. The riders were waiting for his signal. Has he spotted me? Conn wondered.

Easing himself farther back, he staggered to the thick bole of a tall oak, then drew his dagger. His sword had been lost two days before, wedged in the body of a Perdii warrior. He felt something brush against his face and rubbed his hand over the skin.

He shivered and began to notice a prickling sensation, unpleasant and invasive, first on the skin of his neck and face
and then on his back and arms. The sensation increased, becoming painful, as if bees were stinging him. Then it was more powerful than bees, like hot needles piercing his flesh. He groaned and fell to the grass. The branches of the trees around him began to rustle and move, the sound whispering and malevolent. The pain swelled until it was almost unbearable, flowing across his chest and down his arms. Then it reached his right hand, which was curled around the hilt of the Seidh blade. Bright light flared from the knife.

And all the pain vanished.

“You are the fawn child,”
whispered a voice in his ear.

At that moment the riders came thundering into the wood. Conn tried to gather his strength to face them. The first of the Perdii, lance leveled, leapt his horse over a fallen log, the other warriors close behind him.

Conn raised his knife.

But the leaping horse never landed. It froze in the air, statue-still in midleap. All the riders were suddenly utterly motionless. The air in the wood was cold now and growing colder. Conn began to shake, but he could not tear his gaze from the men who had come to kill him. As he watched, they began to change, hair and beards growing, fingernails sprouting like talons, their clothes rotting, their hair turning white, their flesh melting away, the skin blackening and then peeling back from the bone beneath. Within seconds they had crumbled from their mounts and lay broken on the grass. The bones continued to writhe, calcifying and then turning to dust, which the breeze picked up and blew across the ground. The ponies were untouched, and as the last vestige of their riders blew away, they came to life and stood quietly. A wind blew up, and four of the ponies ran from the wood. The fourth, a chestnut gelding, remained, standing motionless.

Conn had fallen to his knees when the voice spoke again.
“Touch the tree, fawn child,”
it said. Conn turned and crawled to the oak, reaching out, his fingers holding to the bark. His
stomach settled, and the intense cold melted away. He sighed. Sunlight flowed through a break in the clouds, bathing the area in golden light. The tree bark began to move, forming a face of wood. It was a young face, handsome yet stern. As it grew clearer, Conn realized it was a representation of his own features.

“You are sick, fawn child. Lie down. We will tend you,”
said the tree face.

With the last of his strength ebbing away, Conn lay down, his face touching the cold ground. It felt better than any pillow, and as his consciousness fled, it seemed to the young warrior that the grass grew up around him, drawing him down into the dark, safe sanctuary of the earth.

His mind awoke from blissful darkness into painful light, a brilliance so piercing that tears filled his eyes. Holding his hands over his face, he tried to shut out the glare, but it shone through his skin, causing blinding pain.

“Hold firm, Connavar,”
said the another voice.
“I will try to create a more comfortable environment.”

Immediately the light faded. Conn moved his hands away from his face and opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that he was sitting in a wood, beside a rippling stream that glittered in the afternoon sun. The sky was cloudless, and the trees boasted leaves of every color, from blood red to sunset gold, emerald green to faded yellow. The air was full of fragrance: lavender, rose, and honeysuckle. It was the most beautiful spot Connavar had ever seen, yet something was wrong with the scene. The trees were of every variety—oak, elm, pine, maple—all growing together in the same soil yet at different stages of season. Some were just showing new spring growth; others had leaves of dark autumnal gold. And there were no shadows anywhere. Conn stretched out his naked arm. The sunlight was strong on his skin, but the grass below him showed no silhouette.

Slowly he rose and stretched. He felt calmer now than at any time in his memory. Turning, he gazed around the meadow.

And saw the bear.

It stood—as had the riders—utterly motionless, glittering chains draping its massive shoulders and curling around its powerful paws. Its mouth was open, showing terrible fangs. Conn felt no fear and approached the beast. It was bigger than the creature that had torn his flesh and somehow more awe-inspiring. Conn walked around the bear, marveling at its size and strength. He saw that it was scarred from many fights, and some of the wounds were recent. Reaching out, he tried to touch it, but his hand passed through the bear as if through smoke.

“A frightening beast,” said the voice. A glowing figure materialized alongside him.

Conn was not startled, though he felt he should have been. “Frightening but sad,” he told his new companion.

“Why sad?”

“It is chained,” said Conn. “No creature that proud should be chained.”

The glowing figure moved in closer, taking his arm and leading him back to the stream. Conn tried to see the face, but the features seemed to shift and flow, ever changing under the light that glowed around it. A beard, then beardless, long hair, then no hair, as if his face were being reshaped moment by moment. The effort to focus made Conn’s head swim, and he looked away. “Which of the Seidh are you?” he asked.

“I am not Seidh, Connavar. I am a man long dead whose soul was rescued and brought to the wood.”

“Why can I not see you clearly? Your features shift and change.”

“It is a very long time since I last assumed human form. Give me a moment.” The figure sat motionless. Slowly the flickering lights around him faded away, and Conn found
himself sitting beside a young man with dark hair and gentle brown eyes. “Is that better?”

“Yes. Is this how you looked in life?”

“When I was young. I was almost a hundred years old when I died.”

“Why did the Seidh keep your soul alive?”

“They had their reasons. Now tell me why you saved the fawn.”

Conn shrugged. “It was trapped in the brambles. I could not leave it there to die.”

“As you could not leave Riamfada?”

Conn shook his head. “That was different. He was my friend. A man does not desert his friends.”

“How do you feel?”

Conn smiled. “Tranquil. It is very pleasant here, but I know it is a dream place and my body remains in your wood, cold and wet and bleeding.”

“Not so,” he said. “It is being healed while you sit here. And fresh clothes will be there for you. And a gift from a friend.”

“My friends are all dead,” he said sadly, remembering Banouin. He found he could picture the corpse on the gibbet now without any hatred for the people who had killed him. He sighed. “What is it that you have taken from me?” he asked.

“We have taken nothing. We have merely … separated you from your more … human instincts. Had we not done so, you could not have come here.”

“My human instincts?”

“Your anger, your violence, your hatred, your lust for revenge. None of these has a place here.”

“But I am human,” said Conn, “so which part of me is here?”

“The best part,” answered the figure. “The spirit, free of the darkness of the flesh.”

Conn sat in the sunshine, realizing that he felt more at peace than he had at any time in his life. He looked back at the chained bear. “Why is the bear here?” he asked. “And why the chains? It is already motionless.”

“We did not put the chains on the bear, Connavar. They are
your
chains.”

“Mine? I don’t understand.”

“The bear is the part of you that cannot exist here. The chains are self-imposed: duty, responsibility, honor. Without them the bear would be merely a savage and selfish killer. Are you ready to return now?”

He thought about the question. Here everything was peaceful, the air alive with harmony. “Could I stay among the Seidh, like you, if I wished to?”

“No,” the figure answered sadly. “One day, perhaps.”

Conn was not anxious to return to the world, and he sat quietly for a moment, savoring the tranquillity. “If the Seidh are truly a race without hatred or anger,” he asked “why do they allow the Morrigu to walk among us, bringing such evil?”

“An interesting question, Connavar. In response, let me say this: You wanted glory, and the Morrigu gave it to you. Vorna wanted to be loved and accepted. Now she is. In what way does that make the actions of the Morrigu evil? All our actions, Seidh and human, result in consequences—consequences we do not always welcome. The Morrigu offers gifts. If a man—or woman—chooses to accept one, then surely he must also accept the possible consequences. You asked for glory. What if you had asked for true love, or the healing of Riamfada, or peace and harmony for your people? Think on that, Connavar. Those who seek the gifts of the Morrigu always ask for something for themselves: personal gain, fame, skill with a sword, beautiful women to grace their beds, or handsome men to woo and love them. Always selfish. Beware judging what you do not understand.”