Sword in the Storm (3 page)

The iron sword!

Fearful that the lightning would strike him, Varaconn drew the blade and hurled it from him. The three-foot sword spun in the air, then lanced into the earth, where it stood quivering.

At that moment the lightning flashed again, striking the sword and shattering it.

Then the rain fell.

Varaconn sat slumped by the boulder, staring at the broken shards of blackened iron.

Then he rose and began the long walk back to the birthing hut.

As he came closer, he heard the thin, piping cries of his newborn son echoing above the storm winds.

The door of the hut opened, and Vorna, witch and midwife, stepped out to greet him.

“You have the name,” she said. It was not a question. He nodded dumbly. “Speak it aloud,” she ordered him.

“He will be Connavar, the Sword in the Storm.”

2

R
UATHAIN WAS RIDING
back from the lands of the southern Rigante when he saw the boys playing on the hilltop above the smithy. He reined in the chestnut pony and dismounted, watching the youngsters from the edge of the trees. They were chasing each other, and he could hear the sounds of their laughter and joy. Ruathain smiled. It was a good sound. He was especially glad that the ten-year-old Connavar was among them. At least it meant he was not getting into trouble—which was, sadly, the boy’s greatest talent.

Ruathain was anxious to be home, for it had been a long ride from the southern cattle market, with the last ten miles steadily uphill. His pony was tired and breathing hard. He patted its muzzle. “Take a breather, boy. When we get back, I’ll see you fed the finest grain.”

From there, far below where the boys were playing, he could see his house, which had been built at the junction of the three streams after which the settlement had been named. It was a good house, well constructed of seasoned timber and heavily thatched with straw. Cool in summer, with the wide windows open to the breeze, and warm in winter, with the shutters drawn and the central fire lit. Tiny figures were moving in the paddock behind the house. Ruathain smiled. Meria had saddled the dwarf pony and was leading him around the paddock while their youngest son clung to the saddle. Bran was only three, but already he was fearless and a
great source of pride to the swordsman. Beside him his own pony snickered, pushing its head against his chest.

“All right, boy. We’re going,” said Ruathain. He was about to mount when he heard the start of a heated exchange among the boys on the hilltop below.

By the time Ruathain ran in among the boys the fight had become brutal. Govannan had blood streaming from his nose. Ruathain’s nine-year-old son, Braefar, was lying on the grass, half-stunned, and his adopted son, Connavar, was laying into the other three boys like a whirlwind, fists swinging, head butting, feet lashing out in kicks. Another boy went down, having taken a terrible blow to the right ear. Connavar leapt on him, slamming his fist into the boy’s nose.

Ruathain ran up behind him, grabbing Connavar by the collar of his green tunic and lifting him clear. The ten-year-old swung in his grip, his small fist cannoning into Ruathain’s face. Ruathain dropped the boy and cuffed him hard, sending him spinning from his feet.

“That is quite enough!” he bellowed. Silence descended on the hilltop. “What in the name of Taranis is going on here?” None of the boys spoke, and none would look him in the eye.

“We were just playing,” Govannan said, at last, blood dripping to his tunic. “I’m going home now.” The youngster and his four bruised friends trooped off down the hill. Connavar was sitting on the grass, rubbing his head. Braefar tried to stand but fell down again. His father moved to him and knelt on the grass.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked the slender boy.

Braefar forced a smile, but his face was gray. “I’m not hurt, Father. Just dizzy. I fell just as Govannan’s knee was coming up. Now I can see stars in the daytime.”

“An interesting way of putting it,” observed Ruathain, ruffling the boy’s blond hair. “Lie there for a moment until the
world stops spinning.” Rising, he walked to where Connavar was sitting. “That was a good punch,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “I can still feel it.”

Making a joke of a problem usually worked with Conn. His angers were always short-lived. At the jest he would relax, an impish grin spreading across his features. Then the situation—whatever it was—could be resolved. But this time the boy did not smile. He looked up into Ruathain’s face, and for the first time the powerful swordsman found himself disconcerted by the look in Conn’s strange eyes. One was green, the other a tawny brown that turned to gold in the sunshine.

In that moment Ruathain knew that something momentous had occurred. He sat down on the hilltop and looked at the boy’s strong, flat features. A bruise was beginning on his right cheek, and his lower lip was cut. “What was the fight about?” he asked.

Connavar was silent for a moment, then he pushed his hand through his red-gold hair. “He said my father was a coward. That he ran away.” The strange eyes searched Ruathain’s face, watching his expression intently.

Ruathain had lived with this fear for many years, and now that it was upon him, he felt a sinking of the heart. “Your father was my friend, Conn. He stood beside me in two battles. I was proud to have him for a friend. You understand that? I would not befriend a coward.”

“Then he didn’t run away?” The green-gold gaze locked to Ruathain’s eyes.

Ruathain sighed. “He broke his
geasa
. He killed a raven. You had just been born, the night before the battle. Varracon was desperate to see you grow, to be there to guide you. The thought of death weighed him down. It sat on his shoulders like a mountain.” He fell silent, his thoughts drifting back to that dreadful day ten years before, when the tribes had banded together to fight the raiders from the sea. Twelve
thousand fierce-eyed reavers faced by eight thousand determined tribesmen. It was a day of blood and bravery, with neither side giving a yard of ground. At the height of the battle, a terrible storm broke overhead and lightning flashed down, hurling fighting men into the air, their flesh blackened.

Ruathain took a deep breath. “Listen to me, Conn, Varracon was my sword brother. He stood beside me all that day, protecting my back as I defended his. That is what counts.”

“Did he run?” asked the boy. Everything in the child’s face begged for the great, comforting lie.

And Ruathain could not give him that gift. Honor was everything to him. Yet he knew the young viewed the world with all the certainty born of inexperience. A man was either a hero or a coward. There were no shades of gray. He made one last attempt to still Connavar’s concerns. “Listen to me. The raiders were beaten, but they launched a last charge. It was almost dusk. We had won. But they almost broke through. Four of them rushed at your father and me. He was killed there. Let that be an end to it. I lost a friend. You lost a father.”

But Conn would not be shaken. “Where was his wound?” he asked.

“You are concentrating on the wrong things, Conn. He was a fine, brave, and noble man. For one moment only he … knew panic. Do not judge him harshly for that. When the battle was over, I sat with him. His last words were of you and your mother. He wanted so much to see you grow. And he would have been proud, for you are a strong boy.”

“No enemy will ever see my back,” said Connavar. “I will not run.”

“Do not be stupid,” snapped Ruathain. “I have run. A good warrior knows when to stand and fight and when to withdraw to fight another day. There is no shame in it.”

“No shame,” repeated Connavar. “Who was guarding
your
back when my father ran?”

Ruathain said nothing. Connavar pushed himself to his feet. “Where are you going?” asked the swordsman.

“To find Govannan. I must apologize to him.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

Connavar shook his head. “He was right. My father was a coward.”

The boy stalked away. Ruathain swore softly.

Braefar came over to him. “Is he still angry?” he asked.

“Angry and hurt,” agreed Ruathain.

“I think he might have beaten them all. He didn’t need me at all.”

“Aye, he’s strong,” said his father. “How are you feeling, Wing?” he continued, using the abbreviation of Braefar’s soul-name, Wing over Water.

“Better. Govannan has hard knees.” Braefar grinned. “It was worth the blow to see Conn knock him down. He is not afraid of anything or anyone.”

Yes, he is, Ruathain thought sadly. He’s afraid of being like his father.

He gazed up at the blue sky. “I told you to stay close to me,” he said sadly.

“What did you say, Father?” asked the bemused Braefar.

“I was talking to an old friend. Come, let’s go home.”

Lifting Braefar, he settled him on the pony and then led the beast down the hillside. I could have lied to him, he thought, told him his father had not run. But more than twenty of the Three Streams men had seen it. At some time the story was bound to have surfaced. Meria would be furious, of course. She was fiercely protective of Conn and loved him more than either of her sons by Ruathain.

And certainly more than she loves me!

The thought had leapt unbidden to his mind like a poisoned arrow shot from ambush.

They had wed a mere four months after the battle. Not for love—he had known that—but because she believed that
Connavar would need a strong father to teach him the skills of the Rigante. Ruathain had been certain that she would come to love him if he treated her with kindness and compassion. At times he even thought that he could detect in her a genuine affection for him. The truth, however, was that no matter how hard he tried, there always remained a distance between them that he could not cross.

One night, at the Feast of Samain, when Conn was a year old, Ruathain had spoken to his mother, Pallae, about the problem. His father had been dead for two years, and Ruathain was sitting beneath the vast branches of Eldest Tree, Pallae beside him. All around them the people of the settlement were drinking, feasting, and dancing. Ruathain himself was a little drunk. He would not have raised the subject if he had been sober. His mother, a tall and dignified woman who despite her iron-gray hair retained an almost ethereal beauty, listened in silence. “Have you ever done anything to offend her?” Pallae asked him.

“Never!”

“Are you certain, Ru? You are a lusty man like your father. Have you sown your seeds in any other field but your own?”

“No. I promise you. I have been faithful always.”

“Have you ever struck her?”

“No, or even raised my voice.”

“Then I cannot help you, my son, except to say that she holds some grievance against you. You must hope that her anger fades. I expect that it will when she has borne your son.”

“And if it does not?”

“Does she respect you?”

“Of course. She knows—everyone knows—I would do nothing base.”

“And you love her?”

“More than I can say.”

“Then build on that respect, Ru. It is all you can do.”

They did not speak of it again until six years later, as Pallae lay on her deathbed. Sitting quietly beside her, holding her hand, Ruathain had hoped she would slip away quietly in her sleep. The cancer had stripped away her flesh, the pain of it causing her to writhe and cry out. Vorna’s herbs had at first dulled the agony, but lately even the strongest of them had little effect. Despite the pain and her increasing frailty, Pallae clung to life. Often delirious in the last days, she would sometimes fail to recognize Ruathain, speaking to him as if he were his father. But on the night of her death she opened her eyes and gave him a wan smile.

“The pain has gone,” she whispered. “It is a blessed relief.” He patted her hand. “You look tired, my son,” she said. “You should go home and rest.”

“I will. Soon.”

“How goes it with you and Meria?”

“The same. It is enough that I love her.”

“That is never enough, Ru,” she told him, her voice edged with sadness. “I wanted more for you than that.” She lay silently for a moment, her breathing harsh. Then she smiled. “Is Connavar behaving himself?”