Sword in the Storm (18 page)

“We’ll know when we find them,” said Ruathain, striding back toward the horsemen.

Banouin remained where he was, staring down at the dead child. Connavar walked up to stand beside him. His face was ghostly white, his eyes filled with cold fury. “You do not need to see this, Conn,” said Banouin.

“Yes, I do,” whispered Conn.

Leaving four men to bury the dead, the Rigante rode off in pursuit of the killers.

By late afternoon they had lost the trail, and the party split up into teams of two to search for sign.

Connavar and Banouin rode together, heading northeast and deep into the Langevin Woods. They pushed on until dusk, then Banouin suggested riding home. Conn shook his head. “I will rest my pony here for a while, then push on,” he said.

“The others may already have found them,” Banouin pointed out.

“Perhaps, but I do not think so,” said the young man, dismounting.

“What makes you say that?” Banouin asked, intrigued.

“If they are, as you say, foreigners, then they must have a purpose here. They are seeking trade treaties with the Rigante or the Pannones. If it is with us, then they will be traveling to Old Oaks to seek an audience with the Long Laird, or they will be making for the Cavellin Pass. Either way they will have taken this route.”

“They could be intending to cut to the west for the wool route,” Banouin pointed out. “Anyway, we are supposed to be seeking
sign
of them. You sound as if you want to catch them yourself.”

“I do. And I will.”

Banouin swore. “That would not be wise. There are four of them. How will it benefit the dead for you to die also?”

“I do not intend to die.”

“No warrior
intends
to die, but what makes you believe you can subdue all four?”

“Did you not say I was the best pupil you have ever had?”

“You are the
only
pupil I have ever had. And yes, you are swift and wonderfully adroit in practice. But this is not practice, Conn. This is harsh, deadly reality.” Banouin sighed. “I am going back for Ruathain and the others. Will you come with me?”

“No.”

“Will you at least wait here until I return?”

“Of course.”

Banouin swung his pony. “Please, Conn, do nothing stupid.”

“I am not a stupid man,” said Conn.

As Banouin rode away into the darkness, Conn remounted and steered his pony deeper into the woods.

For an hour he rode, then he spotted the twinkling light of a distant campfire. Moving in close, he tethered his pony and began to make his way silently through the undergrowth. The fire had been built in a small hollow beside the road. Three men were sitting around it, finishing off a meal. The smell of meat broth hung in the air. Circling the camp, Conn saw that three ponies were tethered close by.

Where was the missing fourth man?

Doubt touched him. Perhaps they were not the men he was hunting.

Edging closer, he saw that two of the men were wearing short swords. Conn was close enough to hear their conversation. So strong was the dialect that it was hard to make complete sense of it. Beside them were some copper plates and pots, and they seemed to be discussing who should clean them. Finally a short, fat man gathered them and walked to a stream. The other two laughed at him, and he sent back a curse.

One of the two rose and stretched. He was tall, over six feet.

Crouched in the shadow of the trees, Conn thought back to Arbon’s description of the men. One tall. One shorter and heavier. Foreigners. These men matched the description, and if there had been four of them, he would have been convinced. But they could be innocent travelers.

How could he be sure?

The fat man returned to the fire, packed away the plates in a saddlebag, and sat down. One of the others threw fresh wood to the flames. As the fire brightened, Conn saw that the left side of the fat man’s face bore three vivid weals. Arbon had said that the dead girl had blood under her fingernails.

Conn took a deep breath as cold anger flowed through him.

These were the men—or at least three of them.

Banouin had urged him to do nothing stupid. Conn knew that walking in on three killers could not be considered wise, yet he felt he had little choice. It was not about revenging the dead, he knew, though perhaps it should have been. It was more selfish than that. Since the fight with the bear Connavar had been subject to many bad dreams, full of anxiety and pain. Usually he was running from something frightful, his mind in a panic, and he would wake bathed in sweat, his heart pounding. All his life Conn had dreaded being a coward like his father. Yet since the day of the bear he had been plagued by terrible fears.

And fear, like all enemies, had to be overcome.

Drawing the Seidh knife and the short sword Banouin had given him, he rose from the bushes and stepped into the campsite. The fat man was the first to see him. Rolling to his right, he dragged out his sword and surged to his feet, almost tripping on the hem of his black cloak. The others leapt back, one running to where his blanket lay and gathering up his sword.

“What do you want here?” asked the tall man, scanning the night-shrouded trees for sign of more men.

“You killed an old man and a girl today,” said Conn. “I am here to send your souls screaming into darkness.” They were brave words, but his voice was shaking as he spoke them, robbing them of real threat.

“And you will do this alone?” inquired the fat man with a wide grin. The others were smiling, too.

“Why would I need help against gutless scum?” countered Conn, his voice stronger, his anger overwhelming his fear.

“You are an arrogant pup,” the tall man said, scornfully. “Kill him, Tudri,” he told the fat man.

Screaming a battle cry, Tudri rushed forward. A surge of fighting fury swept through Conn. Tudri’s iron sword flashed at Conn’s chest. Stepping in to the charge, the young Rigante parried the lunge, then sent the Seidh blade scything up and across.

Tudri stumbled on for several paces, blood bubbling from his severed jugular and drenching his shirt. Then he pitched forward to the grass, his body twitching.

The other two advanced more warily now. Conn waited motionless, watching them. The tall man was graceful, and Conn guessed he would be fast. The other man was more nervous, licking his lips and blinking rapidly. The two men spread out. Then the tall man leapt forward. Conn parried the thrust and tried a riposte that missed. At that moment the second man rushed in. Conn barely had time to swivel and block the lunge. The Seidh blade licked out, slashing open the man’s shoulder. He cried out and dropped his sword. Conn spun on his heel and hammered his right foot into the man’s belly, hurling him from his feet.

The tall man threw a knife. It hit Conn hilt first, high in the face, under his right eye. The blow hurt, but if the throw had not been clumsy, the fight would have been over there and then, six inches of iron buried in Conn’s eye socket. The tall
man attacked again. He was, as Conn had guessed, fast, and twice Conn had to leap back from disemboweling thrusts. The second man had regained his sword and was waiting for an opening. Conn lunged at the tall man, but he sidestepped and smashed his fist into Conn’s unprotected face. Conn staggered but did not fall. The tall man slashed his sword at Conn’s throat. Conn parried, then stabbed up and across with the Seidh blade. The blow had been aimed at the neck, but it entered the tall man’s face just below the cheekbone and punched through the mouth and out the other cheek. The sudden pain made the tall man jerk backward. Conn lost hold of the knife but rammed his short sword through his opponent’s belly, driving it deep.

As he did so, the last man rushed in. Conn dragged back on the sword, but it was trapped in the tall man’s body. Releasing the hilt, he parried a lunge with his left forearm. The iron blade sliced through his shirt, nicking the skin of his forearm. Conn sent a right cross into the man’s chin, spinning him around. Leaping high, Conn kicked the man in the temple. He fell awkwardly. The tall man was on his knees, his hands gripping the hilt of the blade that had gone through his belly. Conn grabbed the Seidh knife, ripping it clear of the man’s face. The last fighter was back on his feet, but he saw the knife in Conn’s hands and panicked, swiveling to run for his pony. Conn gave chase, leaping on the man’s back and bearing him to the ground. Conn grabbed his hair, hauling back his head.

“Here is another gift for your blood god,” hissed Conn, slicing the knife across his exposed throat.

Rising from the corpse, he walked back to where the tall man knelt. Blood had drenched his leggings, and his face was ashen.

“Where is the fourth man?” asked Conn.

“I hope … you … rot and … die,” whispered the man.

“It is you who is doing the dying,” said Conn. “But it can
be more painful yet.” Reaching out, he took hold of the sword hilt, twisting it. The man screamed.

“Where is the fourth?” Conn asked again. The man toppled to his right. A rattling breath came from his mouth. Then there was silence. Pushing the corpse to its back, Conn retrieved his sword and cleaned it on the man’s black cloak.

Moving to the fire, he sat down. His hands were trembling again after the shock of the fight, but this time he was not ashamed.

The bear had not robbed him of his courage, as he had feared.

He was alive. And he had conquered.

The euphoria did not last long. Conn sat at the fire and thought of the dead men lying behind him. He shivered and glanced back nervously. There they lay, terribly still. The tall man’s eyes were open and seemed to be staring at him. Conn stood and walked to where the men lay. One by one he pulled off their black cloaks and covered them. The cloaks were well made and embroidered at the center with five interlocking silver circles. They made expensive shrouds.

With the excitement and the fear gone, Conn found himself slipping toward melancholy. The mood surprised him. Had he not killed three warriors? Did this not prove he was a man? Adding fuel to the fire, he wrapped himself in his cloak. An owl swooped over the hollow, then veered away. To the right a fox pushed its head from the undergrowth and stared at the man by the fire. It can smell the blood, thought Conn. They are not people anymore. They are meat.

As one day you will be meat
.

The thought was an unpleasant one.

“A man should never be alone in victory,” said the Morrigu. Conn jerked. She was sitting on the other side of the fire, a gray shawl over her skinny shoulders. A gaunt black crow glided down from the branches above, flapping its wings as it
landed on the ground beside her. Conn reached inside his shirt, curling his fingers around the red opal Vorna had given him. The Morrigu laughed. “I did not come here to harm you, Sword in the Storm.”

“Then why did you come?”

“You interest me. Tell me, why did you kill those men?”

“They murdered an old man and a child.”

“Ah. A simple matter, then. A crime followed by a just sentence. Suppose I were to tell you that the old man was a necromancer who had killed many and that the child was his familiar, a dark and demonic creature who devoured the souls of children? And that the men sent to apprehend him were heroes of the Gath? What then?”

“They were not heroes,” said Conn, though her words unsettled him.

“How can you be sure?”

“Heroes would not have raped the girl, and if the man was a necromancer, why did he not use his powers against them?”

“Perhaps they wore talismans like yours, and as for the rape, you know better than any that a woman blessed with earth magic must never merge with a male. Perhaps they abused her to rob her of her magic.”

“I do not believe it.”

“I did not say it was true,” the Morrigu pointed out. “But it could have been.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I want for nothing, human. As I said, you interest me. I asked you once what you desired. You told me glory. You have tasted it. Was it to your liking?”

“I think that you are evil,” he told her. “I want no more to do with you.”

The Morrigu smiled. “I am beyond evil, child. Evil is a small creature, short-lived and petty. Evil is like a plague. It comes, it hurts, and it leaves. I am the Morrigu. I am always
here. I am a giver. People come to me and ask me for presents. I give them what they ask for.”

“You sent the bear to kill me.”

“You wanted glory, Connavar. Your name is now known throughout Keltoi lands. You are a hero. Perhaps you should thank me. Ask me for something else. See how generous I am. Would you like to be a king?”

“I want nothing more from you,” he told her. “The bear was gift enough.”

“Have your dreams become so small, Sword in the Storm? Where is the boy who yearned for fame?”

“He grew up,” snapped Conn. “Tell me, why did you rob Vorna of her powers?”

The crow flew up, the beating of its wings causing sparks to fly from the fire. Several hot cinders landed in Conn’s lap. He brushed them away. Then he blinked, for he was now sitting alone, staring at the grass beyond the fire. He had not seen the Morrigu disappear, just as he had not witnessed her arrival. It was like waking from a dream, and for a moment he wondered if he had imagined her presence. But there, on the other side of the fire, lay a single black feather. Conn shivered. Moving around the blaze, he flicked it to the flames, watching it shrivel and burn.

What would he have asked for? He thought about it, and the answer was simple. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to see Arian step from the shadows of the trees and sit beside him by the fire. He pictured the tilt of her head, the music of her laughter, the sway of her hips. He had lied when he had told her she meant nothing to him. She was constantly in his thoughts. Even her marriage could not change that.

Conn tried to sleep, but he dreamed of corpses rising up with bright knives in their hands and awoke sweating and afraid. A movement behind him sent a wave of panic through him, and he rolled to his knees, scrabbling for his knife. A fox was pulling at the arm of one of the corpses. Relieved, Conn
threw a stone at it. It yelped and ran into the undergrowth. Fully awake now, he added the last of the wood to the dying fire. He knew instinctively that the Morrigu’s tale of necromancers and demons had been a lie, but even so … What if there had been more to the tale? What if it had not been merely a case of casual rape and murder? Then I would have slain three men unjustly, he thought.