Sword in the Storm (17 page)

Conn laughed aloud. “A princess, no doubt.”

“Indeed so. And you, it seems, have noble blood. Born from a line of Rigante heroes.”

“People are stupid to believe these things. What is happening beyond the water?”

Banouin’s smile faded. “My people are at war with one another again. Great battles are being fought. Thousands have already been slain. But Jasaray will emerge triumphant. Of that I have no doubt.”

“He is a great fighter, then,” said Conn.

“I don’t believe he knows how to use a sword,” answered Banouin. “But he knows how to use an army.” They sat in silence for a while. Banouin added fuel to the fire and refilled their goblets. “There is something I want to show you,” said the foreigner, moving into the back room. When he returned, he was carrying a short sword of burnished iron. “I brought this back,” he said, offering the carved wooden hilt to the young man.

Conn took the weapon and hefted it. “It has good balance, but the blade is very short. It is not much longer than a good hunting knife.”

“This sword is changing the world,” said Banouin.

“Are you jesting?” asked Conn. The blade was no longer than his forearm, the wooden grip protected by short quillons of bronze. Rising, he swung the sword. It felt clumsy, lacking the grace of the more familiar longsword.

“It is not a hacking weapon,” said Banouin. “It is designed to thrust.”

“If I came against a man carrying this and I was wielding Ruathain’s longsword, I know who would win,” Conn told him.

“Probably true if, as you say, it is one on one. But you are missing the point. When a Keltoi army clashes with a Stone army, the Keltoi are always outnumbered three to one.”

“How so? You told me that in most of Jasaray’s battles he was facing huge numbers of tribesmen.”

Moving to the shelf by the wall, Banouin lifted down a small chest. From it he took several handfuls of small silver coins, which he scattered on the thick, red rug at his feet. “If thirty Rigante warriors were to charge an enemy on foot, how far apart would each warrior need to be?”

Conn thought about it. In battle, with each man swinging a longsword with a three-foot blade, they would be at least five feet apart. Any closer and there was the risk of being injured by a friend’s sword. He said this to Banouin. Kneeling on the rug, the foreigner separated thirty coins, spreading them out. Then he looked up at Conn. “The attacking Rigante would look like this?” he asked.

Conn looked down at the shining silver pieces and pictured them as charging Rigante. “Yes,” he said at last. “Not too far apart but not too close.”

Banouin took a further ten coins, setting them close together in two tight lines of five. “These are men standing shoulder to shoulder. Each of them has a rectangular shield on the left arm. The shields can be brought together, forming a wall, then pushed outward to allow the short swords to thrust.” Gently he eased the wide spread coins forward until they almost touched the two lines of five. “Picture this as two groups of warriors, and you will see that every Rigante, to reach the line, will face three shields and three swords. A short thrusting sword enables the soldiers to stand close together,
fighting as a unit. It also means that no matter how great the enemy force, they will be at a huge disadvantage, for as each warrior reaches the battle line, he will face three opponents. Either that or the attacking force will become so closely packed that they will be unable to use their swords.”

“I am sure any Rigante would be a match for three Stone soldiers,” Conn said, loyally.

Banouin smiled. “You have seen only the sword. I did not bring the bronze shield, the iron breastplate, the plumed iron helm. Or the greaves to protect the shins, the baked leather wrist and forearm protectors, or the chain-mail tunic. Most deaths in battle among the Rigante follow neck wounds or body-piercing cuts to the heart, belly, and groin. Sometimes warriors bleed to death slowly. At other times they succumb to infection and gangrene. Like all the tribal people I have met here and beyond the water, you fight largely without armor. You fall upon the enemy in great numbers, and each battle breaks down into a thousand skirmishes between heroes. You will need to learn to fight a different way if you wish to retain your independence.”

“You speak as if war with your people was inevitable,” Conn said, quietly.

“I fear it is. Not this year or next. First Jasaray must subdue his own enemies from within the empire. Then he will tackle the Perdii, or the Ostro, or the Gath. That will take several years. But if he survives, he will come here, Conn.”

“Will you have supplied him with maps?” asked Conn.

Banouin shook his head. “No. I carry no maps anymore. It is all in my head. And I will not fight again. I have seen war. I have witnessed the desolation and the torment. No. When the war comes, I will hire a ship and sail to the west. It is said there are fabulous lands there, rich and fertile. Perhaps the people there have no use for war.”

“A weak, soft people they will be,” muttered Conn. “A strong man will always have enemies, and those who live on
good land will need to defend it against those who dwell on poorer soil. That is the way of the world, Banouin. I may be young, but I know this to be true. The strong will always rule, the weak suffer. This is the way the gods planned it. Why else would it always be so?”

“Do not bring religion into this debate!” warned Banouin. “I have no patience for it. Let me turn this argument around. If my people come here and destroy your armies, does this mean you deserve to lose your lands? Would that be fair?”

Conn laughed. “Only the defeated, the luckless, and the weak talk of fairness and unfairness and what is deserved or undeserved. All I know is that I will fight for my people and kill any enemy who comes to Caer Druagh.”

“As you killed the bear?” Banouin asked, softly.

Conn blushed. “That was different. I did not have the weapons to kill the bear.”

“No difference, Conn. The Rigante do not have the weapons to stop my people.” His words hung in the air.

Conn thought about them, rolling them over in his mind. “When do you head south again?” he asked finally.

“In three months. High summer is a good time to travel.”

“I will travel with you. I will see these armies and this Jasaray.”

Once the thaw was under way, Vorna left the sanctuary of her cave and made the long trek down to the settlement. It was not that she was particularly anxious for company. People had never liked Vorna, even as a child. There was something fey about her, they said. Other children avoided her. Once her powers developed, she was even more isolated, and the coldness in the eyes of others became fear. Even when she arrived at the homes of the sick and healed them, she could sense their relief as she moved toward the door to leave.

No, it was not exactly company she sought. But after a winter trapped in a cold, gray cave, she yearned for movement
and sound: the rhythmic thudding of the forge hammer, the laughter of children, the sound of hoofbeats on the firm ground, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of people as they greeted the arrival of the new sun. And taste! Freshly baked bread, hot honey tarts, sour milk porridge.

She was thinking of those delights as she crossed the bridge. The first person she saw was a crofter named Eanor, whose wife she had healed ten days before the bear had attacked Connavar. He looked up from his work, digging over the earth of his vegetable patch, and smiled warmly at her. “Daan’s blessing, lady,” he called. “Is it not a fine day?” The greeting shook her. No one spoke when Vorna passed by. Surprised, she merely nodded and walked on. Eanor was right: The day was fine, the sun warm, the sky clear and blue.

Farther on she saw the baker’s wife, Pelain, spreading seed for her chickens in the outer yard of the bakery, the birds clucking around her feet. Seeing Vorna, she smiled and moved across to intercept her. “Welcome home,” said Pelain. Vorna felt as if she were in a dream and did not know how to respond. Pelain shook the last of the seeds from the fold in her dress and took Vorna’s arm. “Come inside and eat,” she said. “Borga made cheese bread this morning. It melts in the mouth.”

Meekly Vorna allowed herself to be led into the house. Borga was sitting at the pine table, dipping bread into a bowl of rich stew. “We have a guest,” said Pelain.

Borga’s fat face eased into a warm smile. “You are welcome, lady,” he said. “Sit yourself.” Pelain took Vorna’s heavy hooded cloak and hung it on a hook by the door. Vorna sat down at the table. Borga poured water into a goblet and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks but could think of nothing to say. Pelain cut three thick slices from a warm loaf and smeared them with butter. Vorna ate quietly.

“The boy is doing well now,” said Borga. “Yesterday I saw him running over the hills. It was a fine thing that you did.
Very fine.” He rose and moved through to the back of the house and into the bakery.

Pelain sat opposite Vorna. “The bread is good, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Tasty.” Vorna was recovering some of her composure now, but she was unused to small talk and felt uncomfortable.

Pelain leaned in, her voice low. “He may be useless in bed, but he makes a loaf the gods would die for.” The baker’s wife chatted on for a while, then noticed the silence from her guest. “I am sorry, Vorna,” she said. “I do tend to talk too much.”

“Why are you being … so nice to me?” asked the former witch.

Pelain shrugged and gave a shy smile. “Because you are one of us now. You gave up your powers to save Connavar. Meria told me. She said you risked death to bring him back from the Shadowlands. Everyone feels the same, Vorna. You don’t mind, do you? I know you like to keep to yourself, but …” Her voice tailed away, and she rose from the table to cut herself some bread.

“I do not mind,” said Vorna. “And I thank you for the breakfast.”

Pelain turned and grinned at her. “Isn’t it nice to see the sun shine again?”

“Yes,” agreed Vorna. Moving from the table, she took her cloak and draped it over her arm. As she reached the door, Pelain called out.

“You are welcome whenever you choose to call.”

“I will remember that.”

Vorna stepped out into the sunshine and walked into the settlement. As she made her way toward Meria’s house, people waved to her or called out a greeting. By the time she reached Meria’s door, she was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears.

When Meria saw her distress, she put her arms around Vorna and drew her close. The warmth of the contact was too
much for the witch, and she buried her head on Meria’s shoulder and began to weep.

As with all the Keltoi race, the Rigante were a passionate and volatile people, and there were often fights among them. Sometimes the fights ended badly, and tribesmen died of their wounds. But such tragedies were rare. Rarer still were the crimes of rape and murder.

Thus, on the spring morning when the first body was discovered, a feeling of disbelief and shock swept through the settlement of Three Streams.

The corpse of a middle-aged man had been found early that morning. A Rigante out with his bow and his hound, hunting rabbits, had stumbled across the first body. It had been dragged away from the main trail and hastily hidden in a thicket. Within two hours a twenty-strong hunting party led by Ruathain had assembled some fifty meters away from the murder site. Arbonacast, Ruathain, and Banouin moved carefully away from the other riders, examining the tracks around the scene.

Arbon knelt by the side of the trail. “Four horses,” he said. “All of them shod.” He moved farther down the trail, stepping lightly around the tracks. “The old man was pulling a handcart when the riders came up.” Leaping lightly across the trail toward the undergrowth, he paused again. Then he swore softly.

“What have you found?” called out Ruathain.

“The old man was not alone. A young woman or a child was with him. Small feet.” Arbon gestured for them to cross the trail and enter the woods beyond. Within minutes they had discovered the second body, that of a naked girl no more than fourteen years old. That she had been raped was obvious. Then her throat had been cut. Ruathain closed the dead eyes. Banouin stood by impassively. He alone felt no shock. On his travels through other lands he had long since learned that
such crimes were common. But not here in Rigante territory. He surveyed the scene and waited for Arbon to study the spoor. The herdsman, his face pale with anger, rose at last and walked back to the first body. The dead man, dressed in a long pale blue tunic hemmed with red, had been stabbed through the throat, the blade breaking his neck. His cart lay on its side, the contents strewn around the bushes. There were two broken chests that had mostly been full of clothes and three small sacks of provisions.

Arbon approached Ruathain. “The man and the girl were walking. Then the riders came alongside them. One of the riders drew a blade. The old man threw up his arm—hence the cut on his wrist. It did not stop the blow, and the blade crushed his neck. In panic the girl ran into the woods. The riders dismounted and chased and caught her. When they had finished with her, they ransacked the cart, dragged the old man’s body into the bushes, and rode off toward the north.”

“What can you tell of the men?” asked Ruathain.

“One was very tall, more than six feet. Another was short and heavy. One of them is riding a mare. One or more of them carry the marks of a struggle. There is blood under the girl’s nails. There is little else I can tell save that they were killed no earlier than yesterday, probably late in the afternoon.”

“They are foreigners,” said Banouin.

“We all know that,” Ruathain said, coldly. “No Rigante would commit such a crime.”

Banouin shook his head. “I meant they came from over the water. The sword used to kill the old man was a gladius. They are not common here. Also, the killing of the girl was likely part of a ritual—a sacrifice to Gianis the Blood God. He is worshiped by the Gath and many other tribes across the water.”

“I have heard the name,” said Ruathain.

“It is also possible,” continued Banouin, “that the riders knew the old man. His clothes show him to be from the Ostrotribe.
Their land borders the Gath homeland. They may even have traveled over on the same ship.”