Sword in the Storm (35 page)

Again he attacked. Conn blocked and sent a savage riposte that opened a wound in the king’s shoulder. Carac grunted and fell back. Now it was Conn pushing forward, his sword gleaming in the afternoon sunshine as he hacked and cut. Carac parried each stroke, but the older man was tiring. Conn felt a fresh surge of energy flow through him and moved in for the kill. Expecting the king to fall back again, Conn was surprised when Carac hurled himself forward. Their blades met. The king stepped in and sent a left hook into Conn’s unprotected face. The blow was powerful, and Conn staggered back. The king’s sword swept toward Conn’s neck. The younger man dropped to his knees and lunged, the Seidh blade lancing into the king’s belly. Conn surged upright, driving his sword in to the hilt, the blade bursting clear of Carac’s back. “Just like I promised, you miserable whoreson!” hissed Conn. “May your spirit burn in lakes of fire!”

Carac sagged against him. Conn pushed him away, dragging his sword clear of the dying man’s body. The king fell to his knees. Conn raised his sword and brought it down in a terrible sweep that cut completely through Carac’s thick neck. The head fell clear, rolling on the grass.

Then he turned to the riders. There were some twenty horsemen in the circle around him. “Who is next?” Conn shouted.

One man wheeled his horse and rode away. The others followed.

Conn walked to the fallen chariot and gazed down on the battle. The Perdii were streaming back toward the forest. To the north Conn could see Appius’ panther marching in battle formation. From the south another panther was approaching.

At that moment Conn heard a groan. The charioteer was still alive. Drawing his dagger, Conn moved to the body, dragged the spear from the man’s back, and flipped the body
with his boot. Dropping to his knees, he raised his dagger and found himself looking into the frightened eyes of a young boy. “Where is my father?” asked the child.

Conn sheathed his blade. There was blood on the boy’s chest where the spear had plunged through. He looked a little like Braefar. “Where is my father?” he repeated. Then he coughed, and blood frothed on his lips.

“Is your father the king?” asked Conn.

“Yes. The greatest warrior of all the Perdii. Where is he?”

“He’s back there,” said Conn, sitting down beside the dying boy.

“Could you call him?”

“I don’t think he could hear me. What is your name?”

“Arakar. Is it night already?”

Conn passed his hand over the boy’s face. His eyes did not flicker. “Yes, it is night. Rest awhile, Arakar. Go to sleep.”

The boy closed his eyes. His tunic was drenched in blood now, but the flow had ceased. His face lost all color, and his head lolled. Reaching out, Conn felt for the pulse in his neck. It fluttered for a few moments. Then it was gone.

Valanus came up and sat down on the other side of the corpse. “Well, you have your revenge, Demonblade.”

“Aye, I have indeed.”

“You do not seem full of joy, my friend.”

Conn climbed wearily to his feet and gazed around the battleground. Thousands of bodies covered the grass around what had been the fighting square, among them several hundred bronze-armored soldiers of Stone.

Crows were circling above the battlefield. Conn found himself thinking of the green hills of the Rigante, the towering snow-covered peaks of Caer Druagh, and the gentle pace of life in Three Streams.

“I have had my fill of slaughter,” he said.

“That is a shame,” said Valanus. “For the real slaughter is just about to begin.”

*    *    *

That night Conn’s dreams were troubled. He saw Banouin sitting beside a stream, talking to a youth. They were both smiling, enjoying each other’s company in the sunshine. Conn tried to run to them, but his legs were heavy and he could scarcely move. Banouin saw him but rose from the stream and, taking the boy by the hand, moved away from him. “It is me, Conn. I avenged you!” he shouted. Banouin looked back once, his eyes filled with sadness. But he did not speak. The youth also glanced back, and Conn saw it was the child charioteer he had killed with the javelin. A mist grew up around them, and they vanished from sight.

Conn awoke in a cold sweat. The stench of burning flesh was clinging to the air in the tent. Jasaray knew that diseases sprang from rotting corpses and always had all bodies burned at the end of a battle. There were so many dead this time that more than a dozen great trenches had been dug, and the fires burned for most of the night.

Pushing aside his blankets, Conn pulled on his boots and walked from the tent. It was midnight, and hundreds of soldiers were still working by torchlight, hauling Perdii corpses to fresh trenches and hurling the bodies in.

Conn felt a weight on his heart. It was just a dream, he told himself. Banouin did not really turn his back on you. His mouth was dry, and he remembered their talk back in the cave. Banouin’s voice whispered up from the halls of memory.
“I am not saying do not fight. I am saying do not hate. It is not war that leads to murderous excesses, but hate. Whole villages, cities, peoples wiped out. Hatred is like a plague. It is all-consuming, and it springs from man to man. Our enemies become demons, their wives the mothers of demons, their children infant demons. You understand? We tell stories of our enemies eating babes, as was done with the people. Our hearts turn dark, and in turn we visit a terrible retribution upon those we now hate. But hatred never dies
,
Conn. We plant the seeds of it in every action inspired by it. Kill a man, and his son will grow to hate you and seek revenge. When he obtains that revenge, your son will learn to hate him. Can you see what I am saying?”

Banouin would have hated this retribution, and he would not have desired such dreadful revenge. A cold breeze blew across the tents. Conn shivered. “I did not do it for you, Banouin. I know that now. I did it for me. I tried to drown my grief in blood.”

“It is in your nature,” said a familiar voice. Conn turned slowly to see the Morrigu standing behind him, her ancient frame silhouetted by the corpse fires. “You let the bear loose, Connavar. And you will do it again.”

“No. I have learned from this.”

“The bear is a part of you, human. It will have its day.”

“I do not wish to argue about it,” he said. “I had hoped that revenge would be like honey upon the tongue. It was—as my blade plunged home. But when I saw the boy …”

“The taste turned to bile in your belly,” said the Morrigu.

“Aye, it did.”

“You did not destroy the Perdii, Connavar. You were merely a soldier. Whether you had come here or not, they would still have died. Your cavalry charge saved a few hundred Stone soldiers but did not ultimately alter the course of the battle.”

“I wish we had never come, Banouin and I.”

“Wishes are dishes the poor feed upon,” she said. “Come, we will walk together in the high hills, where the air is still fresh and I can smell the new leaves.”

It surprised Conn that he wanted to accompany her, but then he realized that despite her malevolence, she was at least someone from home, a familiar form, a creature he had last seen in the sanctuary of the Rigante mountains. Together they climbed the hills and moved beyond the tree line. The Morrigu found a small hollow and tapped her foot at a tree root,
which then writhed up from the ground, forming a seat for her. She sank down to it, resting her head against the trunk of the tree. “That is better,” she said.

Conn sat down on the ground. From there he could see the fallen chariot. Carac’s body had been removed.

“He broke his
geasa
,” said the Morrigu.

“Who?”

“Carac. I told him that if any royal blood was spilled, he would not live past his fortieth birthday, which, incidentally, was today. So he drowned his brother, strangled the wife, and poisoned the son. He thought he had cheated fate. But the wife cut him as he attacked her. Carac had already killed his brother and had seized the crown. He was therefore king and, by definition, royal. His own blood doomed him.”

“Had she not cut him, I still would have reached him,” said Conn.

“No. You were killed in the cavalry charge.”

“I wasn’t killed.”

“Forgive me,” said the Morrigu. “For a moment only I forgot I was speaking to a human, and for you the passing of time is like the journey of a leaf, from bud in spring to withered autumn.”

“And for you it is different?”

“So different that your mind could not encompass it. I have seen you born a hundred times and watched you die in a hundred ways. In one life you caught a chill and did not reach your first birthday. In another the bear killed you.”

“And where do I live in all these lives?”

“In the shadow of Caer Druagh.”

“Then why have I never seen myself in these other lives?”

The Morrigu closed her eyes for a moment. “Were I not so weary, I would slap myself in the face for ever beginning this conversation. Let us put aside the question of multiple reality and return to the prosaic.” She opened her eyes. “Why were you out walking tonight?”

“I had a dream …” he began, then fell silent. “At least I think it was a dream.” He told her of seeing Banouin with the boy he had killed.

“It was a dream,” she said. “Not a vision.”

“You are sure? It would grieve me to think that Banouin had turned against me.”

“I am sure. Banouin’s spirit has passed over the water and on from the world of men.”

“He did not see my revenge, then?”

“No. Would you wish him to?”

Conn shook his head. “It would have saddened him.”

“There are many things to come that would sadden him more,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Vorna is pregnant with his child. Both will die. The babe will be breeched, and there will be no one close to save either of them.”

“No,” said Conn, “that must not happen! It would be so unfair.”

“Unfair?” She laughed. “Where in this miserable world of humans do you see fairness? On the battlefield where thirty thousand lie dead? In the homes of the widows? In the eyes of the children orphaned?”

Conn fell silent, then looked into the ancient face. “You could save her. You could save them both. You are Seidh.”

“Why would I choose to?”

“You once told me that I would ask a gift from you and you would grant it.”

The Morrigu smiled. “Think carefully, child. I did say that. And you could ask for riches or good health all your days. You could ask for strong sons or a loving wife. I could give you Arian. Or—and think on this—I could give you victory over the people of Stone. Thousands of lives, Connavar, could be saved by such a gift. An entire people. Without that gift it could be the Rigante burning in those pits.”

“Aye, it could,” said Conn. “Now, will you help Vorna and the child?”

“Before I say yes or no, let me ask you this: What if the child sickens and dies within days or Vorna is touched by the plague within weeks? Will you still feel this gift is worthwhile?”

“I have heard that your gifts are double-edged, that when people ask for joy, you give them sorrow. But if you give me your word that you will not visit evil upon Vorna or the babe, then I ask again for you to help her.”

“You know that one day I will come to you and that there will be a price to pay for my help?”

“And I will pay it.”

“Then it shall be as you wish, Sword in the Storm.”

Ruathain drew back on the reins as he crested the hill. Below him was the Pannone settlement of Shining Water, built along the western banks of Long Lake. From there he could see seven high-prowed fishing vessels out on the water, dragging their nets, and on the shoreline the black smoke towers standing like sentinels at the water’s edge.

Arbon rode up alongside him. “Too late to turn back now,” he grunted, running his hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“Turning back was not in my mind,” Ruathain told him. Leading twelve ponies behind them, the two men rode down the hill. There were no walls in Shining Water, and the scores of houses were well apart from one another, each with an area allocated to vegetables and corn. The day was hot, but Ruathain lifted his blue and green checkered Rigante cloak from the back of his saddle, unrolled it, and fastened it in place. Arbon shook his head and, grim of face, followed his master down into what he saw as the enemy settlement.

As they rode on, people moved from their houses and workplaces to watch the riders as they passed, then walked behind them as they approached the hall of the laird.

The day was clear and bright. Not a breath of breeze stirred
the dust beneath the ponies’ hooves. Ruathain rode on, looking neither left nor right but pulling up his mount before the hall. It was a grim-looking building, fifty feet long, one-storied, with shuttered windows and a thatched roof. The double doors creaked open, and a middle-aged man strode out. Behind him came five younger men. It was obvious to Arbon that these were his sons, for they all possessed the same heavy brows and flat, brutal faces. There were many stories Arbon had heard concerning the Fisher Laird, and none of them were good.

“I am Ruathain of the Rigante,” said his master. The crowd began to mutter, and Arbon was all too aware that his back was to them. Sweat trickled down his spine, and his hand edged nearer to his knife.

“I have heard the name,” said the Fisher Laird, stroking his dark beard. “Ruathain the mad dog. Ruathain the killer.”

“I never killed a man who was not carrying a sword,” Ruathain said, evenly. “However, be that as it may, I am here to offer blood price to the bereaved.”

“You accept, then, that you are a murderer?”

Ruathain was silent for a moment, and Arbon knew he was struggling with his temper. “What I accept is that men died who need not have died. I’ll admit freely that when your men first raided my cattle, I could have dealt less harshly with them. But I did not. Now four more of your young men are dead, and I would like to see an end to this feud. I have no wish to kill any more Pannone.”

“Or be killed yourself,” observed the Fisher Laird.

“In my life many have tried to kill me. I am still here. Death holds no fear for me, fisherman. I am not here to save my life. I am here to save the lives of your young men, who so far have shown little skill when it comes to battle. I do not decry them for this or wish to speak ill of the dead. It is merely a fact—a fact evidenced by their deaths. I am Ruathain, first swordsman of the Rigante. I do not enjoy slaying untried boys.” Ruathain
took a deep, calming breath. “I have brought with me twelve fine ponies to offer as blood price to the families of the dead. Do I have your permission to speak with them?”