Sword in the Storm (38 page)

“You have two apprentice sons who can make horseshoes, hinges, plow blades, nails, and swords.”

“Aye, but there is work enough for all three of us. It would take me weeks to grasp the technique used in this shirt and months of trial and error to re-create it. My family still needs to be fed, Connavar.”

Conn opened the pouch at his belt and removed three golden coins, which he dropped into Nanncumal’s large hand. “By heavens, boy! Are they real?”

“They are real.”

Nanncumal stared hard at the silhouetted face on the coins and the laurel wreaths embossed on the reverse. “Who is this?” he asked.

“Carac of the Perdii.”

“The king you killed?”

“The same. Will you create mail shirts for me?”

“Mail shirts? How many do you want?”

“A hundred.”

“What? It is not possible, Conn. I could not make that many in my lifetime.”

“You will not have to make them all. I have left similar shirts with six Rigante smiths beyond the river. I will take three more to Old Oaks and the smiths there.”

“I see you have become rich during your travels, boy.”

“I am not interested in riches,” said Conn. “There is one added refinement I want for the shirt: a mail ring hood that will protect the neck.”

“A sensible addition,” agreed Nanncumal. “I would also suggest shortening the sleeve. This shirt was crafted for an individual. It would save time, effort, and coin if they were to be elbow length.”

“I agree. Then you will do it?”

“Do you intend to sell them?”

“No. I intend to give them away.”

“I don’t understand. For what purpose?”

“Survival,” said Conn. “How is Govannan?”

“Fit and well. He is at Far Oaks with the other young men, taking part in the games. He will be glad to see you.” The smith paused. “As am I,” he said softly. “Your family and mine have not always … seen eye to eye. I was wrong about you, Conn. I hope we can put the past behind us.”

Conn smiled. “I never stole your nails, but I did try to steal your daughter.” He held out his hand.

The smith shook it. “You would have been better off with the nails,” he said sadly. “Leave the mail shirt with me. I’ll begin a plan tomorrow and start working next week.”

Resplendent in white robes garlanded with oak leaves, Brother Solstice strolled around the games fields, watching runners and wrestlers, fistfighters and spear throwers. He had always loved the games, living in the fond and futile hope that one day such sport would replace the need for battle and violence. He remembered how he had once taken part in the games, winning the silver wand. He had knocked out the Pannone champion after more than an hour of ferocious fist-fighting. Sadly, he still looked back on that moment with pride, and that, he knew, showed how far he still had to go on his quest for spiritual fulfilment.

As he wandered through the crowds, he saw young Connavar standing to one side and watching the runners prepare for the six-mile race. Brother Solstice looked at him closely. The boy had changed since that day at Old Oaks. He was taller, wider in the shoulder, and bearded now. The beard was that of a young man, thin and barely covering the skin, and there was a white streak in it around the scar left from his fight with the bear. His hair was shoulder length, red streaked with gold. Brother Solstice walked across to him and offered
a greeting. Connavar shook his hand, and the Druid looked into his odd eyes.

“How are you faring, Connavar?”

“I am well, Druid. You?”

Brother Solstice leaned in, his voice low. “A conversation between old friends should never start with a lie.”

Connavar gave a brief smile. It did not reach his eyes. “You know what they say, Brother, a problem shared is a problem doubled. So I ask you to accept the lie.”

“As you will, my friend.” The Druid glanced across at the runners. “Is that your brother, Braefar?”

“Yes. I think he will do well. He was always fast on his feet.”

The race marshal raised his hand. The thirty runners took up a ragged line.

“Away!” bellowed the marshal. As they raced away down the hill, Connavar and the Druid wandered to the food area. Brother Solstice purchased a jug of ale. Connavar declined to join him in a drink.

“I was pleased to see Ruathain and Meria reunited,” said the Druid. “They are good for one another.”

“Aye, it’s good to see the Big Man happy,” Connavar agreed. “Where is the Long Laird today? I had hoped to speak with him.”

Brother Solstice pointed to a group of nobles at the far edge of the field, clustered together beneath a black canopy. “You see the woman dressed in green, with the white-streaked long red hair?”

“Yes.”

“She is Llysona, the laird’s wife. They became … estranged. Today is
her
day. By agreement the laird will not be present. They have not seen each other for—what?—eight years. She dwells now on the eastern coast.”

Connavar said nothing. His gaze was fixed on the group.
“Who is the tall young woman beside her? The one in the white dress.”

“That is Tae, her daughter.”

“She is very lovely.”

“Indeed she is. The powerful man hovering close by is Fiallach. Some say she will wed him in the spring.”

“The big man in the red shirt?” asked Conn. Brother Solstice nodded, his gaze resting on the huge figure looming beside the slender Tae. Fiallach was just over six and a half feet tall and powerfully built, with a barrel chest and huge shoulders. His yellow hair was braided into a ponytail, and he sported no mustache or beard, which was rare among the Rigante. His eyes were wide set in a large face, his brows flat, as were his cheekbones. No sharp bones to split the skin under the fists of an opponent, thought the Druid. Conn spoke again, repeating the question. “The man in the red shirt?”

“Aye. You will see him later in the final of the fistfight. He will win it, too.”

“He looks old.”

Brother Solstice laughed. “Yes, he is thirty. The grave beckons.”

Conn grinned. “I meant old for her. What is she, sixteen?”

“Seventeen. Would you like me to introduce you?”

Conn shook his head. A middle-aged man approached them. Connavar introduced Parax to the Druid. Brother Solstice looked at the man closely, noting the sharpness in his deep-set eyes. Parax stared back at him in the same appraising manner. Brother Solstice grinned. “Tough as old oak. But a good man,” he told Conn.

“I know that, Brother.”

“I’m still here,” grumbled Parax. “I’d sooner you waited till I’d gone before talking about me.”

“But he does get touchy,” said Conn. “I think it’s because he’s getting old.” Parax swore. Conn adopted a look of horror.
“And he has no manners, Brother. To say such a thing in front of a Druid? Disgraceful.”

Brother Solstice clapped Parax on the shoulder. “My apologies to you. I meant no disrespect. It is good to see Conn has found a worthy friend.”

The Druid walked away, crossing the field to watch the spear throwing. The match was won by a young Pannone.

Less than an hour later Brother Solstice cheered with the other members of the crowd as the six-mile race came to its conclusion. Braefar crested the hilltop in second place but put in a fast finish to beat a runner from the southern Rigante.

Then the final of the fistfighting began. Fiallach won it brutally, smashing punch after punch into the face of his opponent. The man’s hands were fast, the power of his punches awesome. Brother Solstice did not enjoy the bout. It seemed to him that the yellow-haired Fiallach took too much pleasure in inflicting pain. He could have finished the man far more swiftly. Instead he toyed with him, causing humiliation as well as defeat. The Druid found himself wishing that he was still a fighting man. He would have loved to step into the circle and give Fiallach a taste of his own brutality. Closing his eyes, Brother Solstice whispered a calming prayer.

As the silver wand was presented to Fiallach, the fighter moved to the edge of the crowd, throwing his arm around the tall, slim Tae and kissing her brow. The Druid noted that she pulled away from him slightly, and though she smiled, she seemed irritated by the contact.

The scent of roasting beef drifted across the field. Brother Solstice yearned for the taste of it, the salty, savory, mouthwatering taste. Pushing the thought from his mind, he tried to summon enthusiasm for the hot salted oats he would consume that evening. Being a Druid was not easy.

“Daan’s greetings, Brother Solstice,” said Tae, moving alongside him.

She was tall for a woman, just under six feet. He looked
into her dark brown eyes and tried not to notice the gentle curves beneath the white woolen gown she wore, concentrating instead on the silver circlet around her brow that was holding her long, dark hair in place. “May the spirits bless you, child,” he responded. “Are you enjoying the games?”

“I will enjoy them more when I am allowed to compete in them, Brother.”

It was, Brother Solstice considered, a delicious thought. Women taking part in athletic tourneys. Pictures flowed from the well of his imagination, and once more he considered the drawbacks of his calling.

“Is your mother well?” he asked.

“Yes. She always enjoys the games. I think she misses the mountains. For myself I like the sea. I sit and watch it for hours, especially when it is angry and the sky is the color of iron.”

Brother Solstice smiled politely and waited for her to come to the point. “Tell me,” she said at last, trying to assume an air of mild interest. “Who was the young man you were speaking to before the six-mile race?”

“I spoke to many young men, my lady. What did he look like?”

“He was tall. He had a streak in his beard.”

“Ah, yes. That would be Connavar. He is from Three Streams.”

“The man who killed the evil king?”

“And fought the bear. Yes, the very same. Would you like me to introduce you to him?”

“No, not at all. I was merely curious.” She stood in uncomfortable silence for a while. “Is his wife with him?”

“I do not believe he is yet wed or even betrothed.”

Fiallach strode up to them. His massive upper body was clothed now in a shirt of red satin. “Greetings to you, Druid,” he said. “Did you watch the bout?”

“I did, Fiallach. Congratulations to you.”

“Coming from a former champion, that is good to hear. Do you think you could have beaten me? When you were in your prime, that is.”

Brother Solstice smiled. “The awful truth about fighters, young man—myself included—is that they always believe they are the best. Indeed, it is that necessary confidence that drives them on. Yet there is always someone better somewhere. That is the nature of the world of men. I was extremely fortunate never to come across such a man while I was fighting. Let us hope the same good fortune follows you, Fiallach.” As he spoke, he laid his hand on Fiallach’s shoulder. In that instant he felt all the anger and the bitterness in the giant’s soul, but deeper still there was an abiding sadness and a need that surprised the Druid.

Brother Solstice left them and thought about what he had learned. At first sight Fiallach was a brutal and cruel man who reveled in humiliating those he considered lesser men. But there was another Fiallach, buried deep, hidden among the roiling storms of bitterness, frustration, and anger. Like a golden seed nestling in a cesspit.

Would it flower or would it die?

Brother Solstice did not know.

Tae glanced up at the moon. It could barely be seen through the smoke of the cook fires. The music began again, and dancers began to leap and twirl. Tae sat back, relieved that Fiallach, who had moved away to get a drink, was now deeply engrossed in conversation with a merchant from across the water. While he had been by her side, no other man had asked her to dance. She glanced across to where Connavar was talking with a group of young men. Everywhere he went, it seemed, people wished to speak with him.

She was sure he had looked at her, but even when she had stood close, he had not spoken, and once, when their eyes had met, he had not smiled. Was he, too, afraid of Fiallach?

The brooding presence of the huge warrior was irritating. Everyone expected them to marry in the spring, including her mother. Fiallach had even taken to starting conversations with her with the words “When we are wed.”

It was not that she did not like him. He had been a presence in her life for as long as she could remember, and as a child she had worshiped him. Fiallach seemed so strong, so enduring. But when she thought of her wedding, when she dreamed of that first night, at no time did Fiallach enter the vision. And when she tried to picture herself lying alongside him, naked and alone, she shivered and a sense of dread touched her spirit.

“When we are wed.”

It was galling that he had not even asked her, merely taken her compliance for granted. Tae transferred her gaze to the fire dancers. A young man ran along the plank and leapt through the flames. He landed lightly and spun back toward the waiting women. He was blond and lithe, and she recognized him from the prize giving as the winner of the six-mile race. She could not remember his name but recalled that he was the brother of Connavar. Their eyes met, and she smiled. He bowed and moved across to stand before her.

“Would you care to dance, lady?” he asked.

“No, she would not,” came the growling voice of Fiallach.

“Yes, I would,” said Tae, rising from her chair. The young man looked confused, but he reached out to take Tae’s hand. Fiallach stepped forward and slapped the hand away. Angry now, Tae glanced up at him. His face was red and flushed, his eyes angry.

The young man stood very still, and Tae could feel his fear. He had not moved away. Fiallach lunged at him, punching him in the chest and sending him hurtling back to fall close to the fire. For a moment Tae thought he would roll into the flames. Fiallach moved after him.

The music died away as the dancers moved back from the fire.

“Stop this immediately!” shouted Tae. The boy scrambled to his feet as Fiallach loomed over him, fist raised.

“If that blow lands, I’ll kill you,” came a voice. The words were spoken without emphasis, and the effect was all the greater for it. Fiallach froze. The youngster scrambled away. Slowly the big man turned. Tae saw Connavar step forward. Despite being at least six feet tall, he looked small against the massive bulk of Fiallach.