Sword in the Storm (6 page)

All was quiet within the trees, and through gaps in the leaves above, shafts of moonlight shone through, columns of bright silver illuminating a ground mist that drifted through the undergrowth. Connavar wiped his sweating palms on his leggings and was tempted to draw his knife. You are coming to ask a favor, he told himself sternly. How will it look if you approach the Thagda with a blade?

He walked on. The mist swirled around his ankles. A breeze blew up, rustling the leaves above him. “I am Connavar,” he called. “I wish to speak to the Thagda.” His voice sounded thin and frightened, which made his anger flare once more. I will not be fearful, he told himself. I am a warrior of the Rigante.

He waited, but no answer came to his call. He walked
deeper into the wood, scrambling down a steep slope. Ahead was a small clearing and a rock pool shimmering in the moonlight. He called out again, and this time he heard his own voice echoing around him. Nothing stirred, not a bat or a fox or a badger. All was still.

“Are you here, Thagda?” he shouted.

Thagda … Thagda … Thagda …

The sound faded away. Connavar was cold now, and the weariness of defeat sat upon him like a boulder. It is just a wood at night, he thought. There is no magic here.

Then came a sound from his left. At first he thought it to be a human voice, but almost immediately he realized it was an animal in pain. Moving to his left, he saw a patch of bramble. At its center was a pale fawn struggling to stand. Brambles had wrapped themselves around its hind legs, and small spots of blood could be seen on its gleaming flanks.

“Be still, little one,” Connavar said, soothingly. “Be still and I will help you.”

Warily he eased his way into the brambles. They tugged at his clothes and pricked at his flesh. Drawing his knife, he cut through an arching stem. A second stem, freed by the cut, slashed upward. Conn partly blocked it with his arm, but it whiplashed across his face, drawing blood. The brambles grew thicker as he struggled forward, their long thorns pricking and piercing. Panicked by his approach, the little fawn struggled harder. Conn spoke to her, keeping his voice gentle. By the time he reached her, she was exhausted and trembling with terror. Carefully Conn sliced through the brambles around her, sheathed his knife, then lifted her into his arms. The fawn was heavier than he expected. Holding her fast to his chest, he slowly turned and struggled out of the brambles. Every step brought new pricks of pain, and his leggings were shredded.

On open ground he lowered the fawn and ran his hands over her flanks. The cuts were not deep, and the wounds
would heal swiftly. But where was the mother? Why had the fawn been left? Sitting down beside the small creature, he stroked her long neck. “You’ll know to avoid brambles in future,” he said. “Go away now. Find your mam.”

The fawn stepped daintily away, then turned and stared at the boy. “Go on,” he said, waving his arm. It took three running steps, then bounded away into the trees. Conn gazed down at his torn clothes. Meria would not be pleased with him. The leggings were new. Pushing himself to his feet, he struggled up the slope and walked away from the Wishing Tree Woods.

Just after dawn he awoke. Braefar was already dressed and was tugging on a calf-length pair of boots. Conn yawned and rolled over in the bed. “You slept a long time,” said Braefar.

“I was out last night,” said Conn. Sitting up, he told his brother of his adventure with the fawn in Wishing Tree Woods.

Braefar listened politely. “You were dreaming,” he said, at last.

“I was not!”

“Then where are the cuts you spoke of?” Conn gazed down at his arms, then threw back the covers and checked the flesh of his thighs and calves. His skin was unmarked. Rolling from the bed, he picked up his discarded leggings. Not a nick or tear could be seen.

Braefar grinned at him. “Better get dressed, dreamer, or there’ll be no breakfast left.”

Alone and mystified, Conn pulled on his leggings and reached for his tunic shirt. As he lifted it from the floor, a knife fell clear, clattering to the wood.

But it was not the old wooden-hilted bronze knife he had taken to the woods. The weapon glinting in the dawn light had a blade of shining silver and a hilt carved from staghorn. The cross-guard was of gold, and set into the pommel was a round
black stone etched with a silver rune. It was the most beautiful knife Conn had ever seen.

His fingers curled around the hilt. It fitted his hand perfectly. Wrapping it in an old cloth, he left the house and ran across to Banouin’s home. The foreigner was asleep but awoke to see Conn sitting by his bed. He yawned and pushed back the covers.

“I am not a farmer,” he said. “I do not usually rise this early.”

“It is important,” said the boy, handing the man a goblet of cold water.

Banouin sat up and drank. “Tell me,” he said.

Conn talked of his trip to the Wishing Tree Woods, his rescue of the fawn, and his return. Then he told how he had found the knife.

Banouin listened in weary silence. His expression changed when Conn unwrapped the blade. Banouin lifted it reverently, then swung from the bed and carried it to the window to examine it in daylight. “It is magnificent,” he whispered. “I do not know the nature of the metal. It is not silver, nor is it iron. And this stone in the hilt …”

“It is a Seidh weapon,” said Conn. “It is a gift to me.”

“I could sell this for a hundred, no, five hundred silvers.”

“I do not want to sell it.”

“Then why did you bring it to me?”

“I cannot tell anyone I went to the Wishing Tree Woods. It is forbidden. And I cannot lie to my mam. I thought you could advise me.”

“It fits my hand to perfection,” said Banouin. “As if it were made for me.”

“Mine, too,” said Conn.

“That cannot be, boy. My hand is much larger than yours.” He passed the knife to Conn, who gripped the hilt.

“See,” said Conn, raising the weapon. His fist covered the
hilt completely, the golden cross-guard resting under his thumb and the black pommel stone touching the heel of his palm.

Slowly Banouin transferred the knife to his own hand. The hilt seemed to swell in his grip. “It is a magical blade,” said Banouin. “I have never seen the like.”

“What should I do?” asked Conn.

“Do you trust me?” countered the foreigner.

“Of course. You are my friend.”

“Then give the blade to me.”

“Give … I don’t understand. It is mine!”

“You asked for my help, Conn,” said Banouin. “If you trust me, do as I ask.”

The boy stood very still for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “I give you the knife.”

“It is now mine?” asked the foreigner.

“Yes. It is yours. But I still do not understand.”

Banouin, still holding the knife, gestured for Conn to follow him and walked from the bedroom to the hearth. Taking a long stick, he stirred the ashes of the previous night’s fire, blew some embers to life, and added kindling. When the fire was under way once more, he hung a copper kettle over it. “I have always liked to start the day with a tisane,” he said. “Something warm and sweet. Dried elder flower and honey is a personal favorite. Would you like some?”

“Yes,” said Conn. “Thank you.” The boy was ill at ease and could not take his eyes from the knife. Banouin was his friend, but he was also a merchant who lived for profit. When the water was hot, Banouin prepared two cups of tisane and brought them to the table. Laying the knife on the polished wood, the foreigner sipped his drink.

“You have been very helpful to me, Connavar,” he said gravely. “It is the custom of my people to reward those who assist us. I would therefore like to make you a gift. I would like you to have this knife. It is a very fine knife, and many people
will wonder where you acquired it. You will tell them—and it will not be a lie—that it was presented to you by Banouin the Foreigner. Does that help you with your problem?”

Conn gave a wide smile. “Yes, it does. Thank you, Banouin.”

“No, let me thank you for your trust. And let me caution you never to place so much trust in anyone ever again. Every man has a price, Conn. And damn my soul, this came awfully close to mine!”

Banouin the Foreigner led his train of sixteen ponies down the narrow trail to the ferry. The shallow wound in his upper arm was still seeping blood through the honey- and wine-soaked bandage, yet even so, his mood was good. In the distance he could see the craggy peaks of the Druagh mountains standing sentry over the lands of the Rigante.

Almost home.

He smiled. The home of his birth was Stone, the city of the Five Hills, in Turgony, eighteen hundred miles away, across the water. He had believed for most of his life that Stone was the home of his heart. Now he knew differently. Caer Druagh had adopted his soul. He loved those mountains with a passion he had not believed possible. Banouin had spent sixteen years moving among the many peoples of the Keltoi: the Rigante, the Norvii, the Gath and Ostro, the Pannones, the Perdii, and many more. He admired them and the shrewd simplicity of their lives. He thought of his own people, and it was as if a chilly wind blew across his skin. In that moment he knew that one day they would come to these mountains with their armies and their roads of stone. They would conquer these people and change their lives forever, just as they had in the lands across the water.

He thought of Connavar with both fondness and sadness. It was almost five years now since the boy had come to him with the Seidh blade. He was growing to manhood, secure in the
mistaken belief that he was part of a culture that would endure. The boy was now—what?—fifteen, nearing sixteen. Almost a man and already tall and broad-shouldered, powerfully built.

Across the water Banouin had witnessed the aftermath of a great battle, the bodies of thousands of young Keltoi tribesmen—men like Ruathain and Connavar—being dragged to a great burial pit. Thousands more had been captured and sold into slavery, their leaders nailed by their hands and feet to sacrificial poles to die slow, agonizing deaths by the roadside as they watched their people march into oblivion.

Banouin had been asked if he would like to take part in the organization of the slave sale.

He had declined, even though the profits would have been huge.

How long will it be before they come here? he wondered. Five years? Ten? Certainly no longer.

Reaching the foot of the hill, Banouin and his pack ponies moved slowly to the ferry poles. There he dismounted. An old brass shield was hanging on a peg by the far post. Alongside it was a long wooden mallet. Banouin struck the shield twice, the sound echoing across the water. From a hut on the far side came two men. The first of them waved at the small trader. Banouin waved back.

Slowly the two men hauled the flat-bottomed ferry across the Seidh River. As the raft reached the shore, old Calasain unhooked the front gate, lowering it to the jetty. Leaping nimbly ashore, he gave a gap-toothed grin. “Still alive, eh, foreigner? You must have been born under the lucky moon.”

“The gods look after a prayerful man,” Banouin replied with a smile.

Calasain’s son, Senacal, a short, burly man, also stepped ashore and moved down the line of ponies, untying the rope attached to the ninth beast. The ferry was small and would take only eight ponies per trip.

Banouin led the first half of his train aboard, drew up the gate, and helped Calasain with the hauling rope. He did not glance back, for he knew that Senacal would be helping himself to some small item from one of the packs. Calasain would find it, as he always did, and upon Banouin’s next trip south the old man would shamefacedly return it to him.

As they docked on the north side, Calasain’s wife, Sanepta, brought him a cup of herbal tisane sweetened with honey. Banouin thanked her. When young, he thought, she must have been a beautiful woman. But the weariness of age and a hard life had chiseled away her looks.

Within the hour, with all his ponies on the northern shore, Banouin walked with Calasain back to the jetty. There the two men sat, sipping tisane and watching the sunlight sparkle upon the water.

“Trouble on the trip?” asked Calasain, pointing to the wound on Banouin’s arm.

“A little, but it lifted the monotony. What has been happening here these last eight months? Any raids?”

The old man shrugged. “There are always raids. The young need to test their skills. Only one man died, though. Made the mistake of tackling Ruathain. Not wise these days. Not wise any day, I guess. What are you carrying?”

“Colored cloth, pearls, bright beads, threads of silver and gold. The cloth will sell fast. It is invested with a new purple dye that does not run when wet. Plus a few spices and some ingots, iron, silver, and two of gold for Riamfada. It should all trade well.”

Calasain sighed, and a blush darkened his leathered features. “I apologize for my son. Whatever he has taken I will find.”

“I know. You are not responsible for him, Calasain. Some men just cannot resist stealing.”

“It is a source of shame to me.” For several minutes they
sat in companionable silence. Then Calasain spoke again. “How are things in the south?”

“There has been a sickness among the Norvii near the coast. Fever and discoloration of the skin. Swept through them like a grass fire. One in six died.”

“We heard of that. Did you cross the water?”

“Yes. All the way to my homeland.”

“They are still fighting?”

“Not at home. But their armies have moved west. They have conquered many of the adjoining lands.”

“Why?” asked Calasain.

“They are building an empire.”

“For what purpose?”

“To rule everyone, I suppose. To become rich on the labor of others. I do not know. I think that perhaps they like war.”

“A stupid people, then,” observed Calasain.

“Is Ruathain reunited with Meria?” asked Banouin, seeking to change the subject.

“No. Nearly six years now. Yet he does not put her aside. Strange man. There is no good humor in him anymore. He rarely smiles and never laughs. Men walk warily around him. He got into an argument with Nanncumal the Smith and punched him so hard that the smith’s body broke a fence rail as it fell. What went wrong with his marriage? Why do you think they separated? Was she unfaithful to him?”