Sword in the Storm (37 page)

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, Senacal, asked my friends and me to help out at the ferry.”

“You are not Rigante.”

“I am of the Pannone.” He signaled 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 onto the river.

“So, where are you traveling from?” Ferol asked the young man, seeking to put him at 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 Senacal, 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,” the man said softly.

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

“What is wrong with your father?” he asked Senacal.

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, or any of your men except Senacal. 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 men, 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 indicated. 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. Senacal threw down his dagger and ran back toward 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 toward the house. Ferol slid his hand up his sleeve and drew a throwing knife. His arm came back. But he had forgotten about 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 toward 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, leading the horses onto 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,” Connavar said sadly.

Vorna was sitting in the shade, her three-month-old babe in her arms, enjoying the warmth of the summer day, golden light bathing the woods and fields and sparkling 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 toward her house. It took her a moment to recognize Connavar. He had changed. He was taller, and the heavy mail shirt 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 that 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 humor. “ ‘Evil king,’ ” he repeated, shaking his head.

“Was he not evil, then?” she asked.

“He murdered his brother and 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 on 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 toward 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 a 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, leaning in, 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 and stronger than any ponies we now possess. Having a more powerful mount will allow a rider to wear heavier armor.”

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?”

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 and walked across the paddock field and on past the family home, crossing the first of the bridges and heading toward 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.

“What brings you to my forge?” he asked the younger man. Conn opened the sack and pulled forth a long, gleaming mail shirt created from hundreds of small interlocked rings. He tossed it to the smith, who caught it, then carried it out into the sunlight to examine it. Nanncumal sat down on a wide bench seat crafted from oak. Conn sat beside him. The smith silently studied the mail shirt for some time. The rings were tiny, the garment handling like thick cloth. “It is stunning,” he said at last. “Beautifully made. Months of careful work here, Connavar. By a master. Thank you for showing it to me.”

“Can you duplicate it?”

“In all honesty? No, I don’t think I can. I wish I had the time to try.”