Sword in the Storm (30 page)

The voice faded away. And the world spun.

*    *    *

He awoke in the forest, opening his eyes to see a chestnut pony standing quietly, reins trailing to the ground. For a moment he retained the sense of harmony he had known in the dream world of the Seidh. Then it was gone. He remembered the hunters and the long days of the chase, the fighting and the killing. More than that he remembered why, and this time, when he thought of Banouin, the warm fires of rage flared within him.

Pushing himself to his feet, he saw that fresh clothes had indeed been left for him, folded and laid on a flat rock. There was a shirt of thin dark leather so soft that it felt like satin, a pair of black leather leggings with an integral belt of mottled snakeskin, and a pair of dark riding boots reinforced at the sides with a strip of silver. Stripping off his ruined shirt and leggings, he pulled on the Seidh garments. As he expected, they fitted him well. Then he moved to the pony. It eyed him warily, and he spoke softly to it, slowly raising his hand and stroking its muzzle.

It was then that he saw the sword resting against a tree. It was a rider’s sword, the blade heavy and slightly curved. It was of the same shining silver metal as his knife, but it was the hilt that caught his eye. It was a mixture of gold, silver, and ebony, the black quillons shaped like oak leaves, the golden fist guard embossed with the head of a bear, and the silver pommel bearing a carving of a fawn trapped in brambles. Conn hefted the weapon. It was lighter than he expected and beautifully balanced.

A gift from a friend, the figure had said.

It was good to know he had such friends. He thought then of poor Riamfada. He would have made Conn a sword if he had lived. It would have been almost as beautiful. “I miss you, little fish,” he said.

The scabbard lay beside the tree. It was of hardened black leather and sported its own dark baldric, which he looped
over his shoulder. Then he gathered up the pony’s reins and vaulted to the saddle.

Slowly he rode from the trees. He was surprised to see the lone hunter still sitting his mount at the top of the hill. The ponies of the dead men were cropping grass nearby. Conn rode toward the hunter. The man made no effort to flee but dismounted and sat on the grass waiting for him. Despite his dark hair, he was old, Conn saw, his face lined and his eyes knowing.

Hatred was strong in the young Rigante’s heart, and he intended to kill the hunter. However, the man made no hostile move, and the youngster was intrigued.

“Are they all dead?” asked the man.

“Aye. Killed by the Seidh—the Talis, as you call them.”

The older man sighed. “I am Parax the Tracker. I am glad you survived. I have always been fascinated by the Talis. I would dearly like to know why they let you live.”

Conn shrugged. “I have no answers. Draw your sword and let us get this over with.”

“I don’t think so,” said Parax. “Never was much of a swordsman. I’ll do my best to stop you killing me, though, if that is your intention. Though I hope you will think better of it.”

Conn scanned the countryside. There was no sign of other riders. He was confused now. He had expected his enemy to fight. Instead the man was sitting, relaxed, on a hilltop, conversing as if they were old friends. Conn had no experience of such a situation, but in spite of his hate, he felt it would be wholly wrong merely to cut the old man down. Parax pushed his hand through his hair and chuckled. “I have come to know you, Connavar. I have followed your trail and read your heart. You are a fighter, not a murderer. I think that I like you. I wouldn’t say that of most men.”

“I care nothing for your likes or dislikes,” snapped Conn.
“When you saw me emerge from the wood, why did you wait here? You knew I would come to fight.”

“There’s the question of pride, young man. I am a hunter, and though I say it with all due modesty, I am the best hunter of men this land has ever seen. I was told to find you. Now I have done that. No one can say that Parax failed. That means a lot to me.”

“Your people murdered my friend,” said Conn, seeking now to rekindle his anger.

“I know,” said Parax. “It was a foul deed committed by foul men. His killing was not the first. The Perdii had a good king, you know. Life was fine. He cared. Cared about his people, felt their sorrows, shared their joys. Carac had him murdered—dragged to a river and held under water. That was his reward for eighteen years of good rule. His wife was strangled, his son butchered. And all for a crown that will be torn from his grasp by Jasaray and his Stone army.”

“You say ‘the Perdii’ had a good king. Are you not from that tribe?”

“No. I am of the Rodessi. But I have lived among the Perdii for twenty years.” Parax rose smoothly and walked to his pony, dipping his hand into a sack hanging from the saddle. “You want something to eat?” he asked. “I have a little meat pie flavored with onion. It is good,” said Parax.

Conn was becoming lost in this exchange, and he knew it. Parax pulled the pie clear, carefully broke the crust, and handed a section to the young warrior.

“Thank you,” Conn said automatically.

“My pleasure,” Parax answered with a grin. Then he sat down again and ate. Conn tasted the pie. Parax had understated its virtues. It was more than good. It was food for the gods! Forcing himself to eat slowly, he devoured the pie, then licked the gravy from his fingers.

“Better than raw rabbit, eh?” said Parax.

“I never tasted better,” agreed Conn.

“I bought it from a crofter’s wife yesterday. You should have tasted it hot. There’s nothing like beef and onion to satisfy an appetite.” Parax swallowed the last mouthful and wiped his hand across his mouth. “You know,” he said, “I had the feeling you would survive the Talis Wood. I see that not only did you survive, you also emerged with gifts. New clothes, a sword. They are a fey people, but they seem to like you. Tell me, what do they look like?”

“I saw a face form in the bark of a tree, and I dreamed I was with a man whose features I could not at first see clearly even though he sat beside me in bright sunlight.” He took a deep breath. “I have decided not to kill you, hunter.”

“I knew that,” said Parax, climbing to his feet. “As I said, you are not a murderer, young Rigante. Do you want me to carry a message to Carac?”

Conn’s expression hardened. “I have already sent a message. One is enough.”

“I heard it. So did he,” said Parax. Turning his back on Conn, he walked to his pony and swung into the saddle. “There are riders to the west and to the north. Were I you, I would head due east. The border is less than a day away. There is a town there. The Stone army is camped nearby. You will be safe there, I think.”

Swinging his mount, the hunter rode down the hill.

Conn watched him go. Then he mounted his pony and headed for the border. Parax was right. He was no murderer. But that was not why he had allowed the old man to live. Conn’s hatred was for the Perdii only, for the people who had murdered his friend.

And the blood price for that crime would be high.

10

T
HE STONE GENERAL
Jasaray moved slowly along the inner perimeter of the marching camp, his hooded, deep-set eyes scanning the activity around him. Eight thousand soldiers were working in highly skilled teams at preordained tasks, creating a fortress in a few hours that should have taken days. As Jasaray passed, all the soldiers felt the presence of the general and believed they could feel his pale blue gaze whisper across them like a winter breeze, judging their labors, the speed of their work, the precision of their actions. Not one of them risked a glance in his direction.

He walked with arms clasped behind his back, the sun glinting from his polished iron breastplate. There was little that was imposing about his physique. Several inches under six feet, the general was a slim figure, his face thin and ascetic, his short-cropped hair thinning at the temples and crown. Without the armor he looked like the teacher he had been before discovering his true vocation.

All his soldiers knew the story of the Scholar. At twenty-eight, during the first civil war, the mathematician and lecturer Jasaray had been hastily commissioned into the Third Army of the Republic, serving under the general Sobius. His role had been that of quartermaster, where, it was thought, his logistic skills could best be used in estimating quantities of supplies, numbers of wagons, and the provision and supply of equipment. Despite his lack of military training, Jasaray had
asked for and been given the rank of second general. This, he maintained, was necessary when dealing with other officers. Without that rank his authority as quartermaster would be undermined. He had proved himself more than able in this role, and the Third Army was the best supplied and armed in the republic.

Unfortunately for the army, it was not the best led.

Sobius had been outthought, outflanked, and outclassed. The army had been crushed, fourteen thousand men slaughtered and a mere four thousand escaping. With most of the senior officers slain, the inexperienced Jasaray was forced to take command. Organizing a fighting rear guard, he staved off the rebel force for seventeen days until reinforcements arrived. With the leaders of the republic in disarray and ready to surrender, Jasaray led a counterattack on the rebel army, routing it and capturing two of its leaders. Three thousand rebel soldiers were crucified, the leaders beheaded. At twenty-nine Jasaray was the undisputed hero of the republic.

At forty-two he was the greatest general the people of Stone had ever known, respected and feared throughout what was still known, despite republican supremacy, as the empire. One campaign after another had been won with clinical efficiency as the empire expanded. Jasaray became ever more powerful within the republic.

To his soldiers the Scholar was a godlike figure to be obeyed instantly and to be feared. He was also a general who always made sure that there was hot food for his men and that their wages arrived on time. Added to this, he was a careful planner, never putting his men in unnecessary danger. These were qualities common soldiers valued above all others. That his discipline was harsh—floggings and hangings were commonplace—did not concern them unduly. Almost all of the disciplinary actions were related to carelessness, and carelessness could cost the lives of soldiers. The men understood this. And they liked the fact that the Scholar
never wore embossed armor or carried jewel-encrusted weapons. His breastplate was iron, his sword standard-issue, his helmet—when he bothered to wear it—a battered bronze without plume or crest. The only sign of his rank was the purple cloak he wore and the fact that a mosaic stone floor was set out in his tent every night, the numbered stones carried in six huge chests on the lead wagon of the baggage train.

Jasaray watched the construction of the fortress, his gaze roving over the entire area, noting the work rate and the positioning of the colored flags that signified where tents would be pitched and baggage animals picketed. Behind him walked four junior officers and six runners, each hoping that nothing would cause the general any irritation.

They had all been on the march for six days and in that time had constructed six marching camps just like this one, the longest sides twelve hundred feet and the shorter nine hundred, an area of more than a million square feet. There would be two gates, one in the east and the other in the west, constructed from felled trees, their trunks expertly split. Even now horsemen were hauling the timbers from the woods to the south.

Stone armies had long known of the value of fortified camps, but it had taken the genius of Jasaray to refine the process until it was almost an art form.

Each day, three hours before dusk, while marching in enemy territory, the two lead panthers, six thousand hard-eyed veterans, would fan out in a protective screen around the area the officers of the flag party had decreed should be the marching camp. The officers would then measure out the defense perimeter line, marking it with green flags. Inside this vast rectangle of up to eighty acres they would flag the dimensions of the general’s headquarters tent, the tents of other officers and men, the area of picket lines for mounts, and the section set aside for the baggage train.