Sword in the Storm (27 page)

“No, no, no,” whimpered Diatka. “I cannot die!”

Conn moved to a shelf, pulling clear a long, linen scarf. Approaching Diatka, he slapped down the man’s flailing arms and swiftly gagged him. Then he moved to the fire, lifting a poker and thrusting it deep into the flames. “Oh, you will die,” he said, his voice cold. “I saw my friend hanging from a hook. They had put out one of his eyes. With a hot iron, I think. Soon you will know how he felt.” From outside came the sound of children’s laughter and the patter of feet as the group ran by. Conn turned the poker in the flames. “You hear that sound, merchant? I promise you that the days of laughter for the Perdii are close to an end. I will do all in my power to wipe your tribe from the face of the earth. I will hunt them and kill them as if they were vermin. Know this as you die!”

Pulling the red-hot poker from the coals, he advanced on the stricken man.

Ruathain was close to death when Arbon and two other herdsmen found him. He was sitting propped against a tree on the edge of the woods at the high pasture, unconscious, a bloody knife in his hand. Four dead Pannone warriors lay nearby. Arbon ran to his lord and knelt by his side. Ruathain’s green tunic was drenched with blood. Ripping it open, Arbon found four stab wounds: two high in the left shoulder, a third
under the right collarbone, and the fourth low down above the left hip. Ruathain’s eyes flickered open. His face was gray and drawn, his eyes fever-bright.

“Blood raid,” he whispered.

“Do not speak,” said Arbon. The blood flow from the three wounds in his upper chest was easing. But the fourth wound, low on the left side, was still streaming. Arbon’s gray eyes narrowed as he watched the flow. It was even, which was a relief, for if an artery had been pierced, the blood would be pumping rhythmically. Even so the situation was critical. They were some five miles from Three Streams, and Arbon knew that even if Ruathain could ride, which was doubtful, he would be dead before they reached the settlement. Swinging to the other riders, he ordered one of them to race back to Three Streams and fetch Vorna. Removing his cloak, Arbon cut a long strip from it with his dagger. Laying Ruathain on his back, Arbon folded the strip, then laid it over the wound. Crossing his hands over the padding, he applied firm pressure. Ruathain had passed out again, and his breathing was shallow.

For some minutes Arbon applied pressure, resisting the urge to lift the pad and see if the bleeding had stopped. He cursed himself silently for not carrying needle and thread. When Ruathain’s pony had galloped into the settlement, Arbon had guessed his lord was in trouble and in his haste to reach him had forgotten his medicine sack. Arbon’s son, Casta, knelt on the other side of the wounded man. “What can I do, Father?” he asked.

“Make a pillow of your cloak and lift his head.” Casta did so. “Now look for his heartbeat. Count it aloud for me.”

Casta gently pressed his fingers under Ruathain’s jaw. “One … two … threefourfive … six … seven. It is very erratic, Father.”

“As long as it’s bloody beating,” muttered Arbon. “Gods, I am an idiot. I’ve had that medicine sack for twenty-six years. And when I need it, it’s five miles away.”

“You couldn’t have known he’d been attacked.” Casta glanced at the four bodies. “All of them had swords. The lord had only his dagger.”

“Aye, he’s a hard and deadly man. And he’ll need to be to survive this. Take the pressure for me. My arms are weakening.” Casta placed his big hands over the pad and pressed down as Arbon pulled away. The older man stood and stretched his aching back, then cast an expert eye over the area. “They came at him in a rush. Got in each other’s way, thank Taranis!” He wandered to the bodies. They were all young men, not one of them past twenty.

“Why would they try to kill him?” asked Casta.

“Blood feud. Some time ago Ruathain killed two Pannone cattle raiders. These were probably relatives.”

“He’s starting to shiver,” said Casta.

Arbon covered Ruathain’s chest with his ruined cloak, then moved off to gather dry wood for a fire. He had it blazing well when he heard riders thundering up the slope. Twisting, he saw Vorna riding a painted pony. The former witch slid from the saddle, lifted clear a saddle sack, and ran to Ruathain’s side. Other riders came up, Meria among them.

Vorna lifted the padding clear of the wound. A little blood was still seeping, but the flow had stopped. “You did well,” she told Casta. Then she set to with needle and thread.

Ruathain’s eyes opened. Meria took his hand and kissed it. He gave a weak smile, then lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

“Will he live?” asked Meria.

Vorna felt his pulse. “I believe that he will,” she said. “Now let me finish these stitches.” Swinging to Arbon, she called out. “Cut two long poles and make a stretcher. He’ll not be able to ride.”

It took almost four hours to bring Ruathain down from the mountain. Meria ordered that he be laid in her bed, then sent
the men on their way. She and Vorna sat silently at the bedside. Ten-year-old Bendegit Bran waited with them. “Should I fetch Wing?” he asked.

“Where is he?” said Meria.

“Swimming at the Riguan Falls with Gwydia.”

“No, don’t worry. Your father will be fine.” Meria’s hand reached out, pushing a lock of hair back from Ruathain’s brow. As she touched the skin, his eyes opened.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Home,” she said. “You are home.” Her green eyes filled with tears.

“Whisht, woman! No point in tears. I’m not dying.”

“You fool,” she said softly, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “That’s not why I’m crying.”

For a moment they sat in silence. Then he lifted his arm and drew her to him. “I love you, lass,” he said.

“And I you, foolish man.”

Vorna rose and, taking Bendegit Bran by the arm, led him from the room, pulling shut the door behind them.

“Is my father going to be well?” asked the golden-haired child.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “They’ll both be well.”

The sun was slipping behind the western peaks as Vorna made her way to Banouin’s house. She still did not think of it as home. Somehow, without Banouin’s vibrant presence and despite the abundance of furniture, rugs, and ornaments, it seemed strangely empty.

Vorna took a deep breath and paused in her walk as nausea struck her again. During the last month she had, despite the chamomile tea, been lucky to hold down one meal in three. She leaned against the fence rail of Nanncumal’s paddock and closed her eyes. A cool breeze blew through her long black and silver hair. It was most refreshing.

As a witch Vorna had often experienced childbirth through
the Merging but thankfully had never had to suffer such sickness. For most women, she knew, nausea was commonplace early in the morning. It usually passed swiftly and was gone without too much discomfort. Others—and it seemed she was one—carried it like a curse. Vorna straightened. The ride out to Ruathain had unsettled her stomach and brought on a dull ache in her lower back. She stretched and carried on walking.

The house was cool, and she lit the fire in the main hearth. Suddenly she shivered and looked around. There was no one there. This surprised her, for in that moment she had felt certain she was not alone. Rising, she moved across the room, pushing open the bedroom door. Moonlight was shining through the wide window, illuminating the broad bed with its patchwork quilt. But the room was empty. Again she shivered. “Who is here?” she whispered. There was no answer.

Moving back to the hearth, she sat down in Banouin’s favorite chair and closed her eyes. The powers the Morrigu had given her were gone now, but as a child she had enjoyed power of her own, a sensitivity to mood and atmosphere far beyond the norm. It was this that had allowed her to see Riamfada’s spirit moving among the Seidh. She sought that talent now.

Something was close. Demon or spirit? Sitting quietly, she analyzed her feelings. No, she was not frightened; therefore, it was unlikely to be anything malevolent. A whisper of cold air brushed her brow. Then it was gone, and with it the emptiness returned to the room. Vorna opened her eyes. Just a passing spirit of the night, she thought, journeying to who knew where.

Vorna prepared a meal of boiled oats and milk and then sat down once more, waiting for the bowl to cool. She thought of Banouin, wondering where he was at that moment.

She pictured him wearing the bronze brooch with the blue
opal. “It will bring you back to me safely,” she said aloud. “It is the strongest charm I possess.”

Taking up the porridge bowl, she began to eat. Almost immediately the nausea came, and she put down the bowl and leaned back in her chair. A fluttering of wings made her start. A huge crow settled on the back of a couch and began to preen its feathers. Anger flared in Vorna’s breast, swamping her nausea.

The Morrigu was standing in the doorway, her ragged shawl about her shoulders.

“What do you want?” hissed Vorna.

The Morrigu advanced into the room and sat down opposite Vorna, reaching out her ancient hands to the fire. “Perhaps I just wanted company,” she said with a sigh. Resting her head on the back of the chair, the Morrigu closed her eyes. “Eat your porridge,” she said. “I have taken away your sickness.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Do not be selfish. You are eating for two. Your son needs sustenance, Vorna. You will not want a sickly child or a cripple like Riamfada.”

Fear sprang up like a blizzard in the heart. “Are you threatening me?”

“It is not a threat. The child is nothing to me. Be calm, Vorna. Eat your porridge.”

Vorna once more took up the bowl. When she had finished the meal, she added another log to the fire and sat staring into the flames. She had no idea what the Morrigu really wanted, but she knew the Seidh would tell her in her own time. The room was silent except for the crackling flames and the occasional ruffle of feathers from the crow. Vorna glanced at the Morrigu. The Old Woman seemed to be asleep. After a while Vorna could stand the suspense no longer.

“Why did you really come?” she asked.

“I doubt you would believe me, Vorna,” said the Morrigu.
“But I thought you would want someone here when the visitor raps at your door.”

“What visitor?”

“A ferryman from the south. He will be here shortly. Go to the door. You will see him crossing the first bridge.”

Vorna pushed herself upright and crossed the room. As she swung open the door, she could see a man walking in the moonlight. He was trudging head down as if weighed down by a pack. He paused at the third bridge, then saw Vorna framed in the doorway. Slowly he walked toward her. Vorna stepped out to meet him.

“My name is Calasain,” he said.

“I know who you are, ferryman. I helped your wife with the birth of your son.”

“So you did, yes. Yes.” The old man licked his lips nervously. He did not—could not—look Vorna in the eye. “Your man … Banouin … crossed the river some three months back. My son …” He fell silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “My son is a thief,” he said suddenly, the words coming in a rush. “He stole from Banouin. I only found out a few days ago. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I would wait for the foreigner to come back. Then …” He fell silent again.

“It is late, and I am tired,” said Vorna. “Say what you have to say.”

Calasain opened the pouch at his side and pulled clear a brooch. The blue opal glittered in the moonlight. “Senecal took this from the foreigner’s saddlebag. I was going to wait, but it kept gnawing at me. I couldn’t sleep. I just had to bring it here.” Reaching out, he handed the cloak brooch to Vorna.

The former witch leaned against the door frame, her face ashen. Calasain stepped forward just as she fell. Catching her, the old man helped her to the chair by the fire. Vorna’s eyes opened, and tears fell to her cheeks. Calasain knelt beside her. “Are you ill?” he asked.

“Your son … has killed my husband,” she said.

“No, no. I swear he only stole the brooch. Banouin rode off with Connavar. I promise you.”

“Go away. Get away from me,” sobbed Vorna, turning her head.

Calasain climbed to his feet. He thought he heard a bird flap its wings and swung around. The room was empty. “I am sorry, lady,” he said.

He stood for a moment, waiting for a response. When none came, he trudged out into the night, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I am sorry, too, Vorna,” said the Morrigu.

“Get out and leave me in peace,” said Vorna.

The Morrigu sighed. “I have a gift for you. Your powers will return as soon as I have gone. But they will vanish with the dawn.”

Vorna surged upright. “I don’t want—” she began. But the chair opposite was empty.

Lost and alone, Vorna sank back to the chair and began to cry.

Once more a soft breeze brushed through her hair, and this time she sensed the source. Settling back in the chair, she released her spirit and rose from her body. There, by her chair, stood the glowing figure of Banouin.

“I came back,” he said.

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