Sword in the Storm (43 page)

By midday his frustration gave way, and he left a message with the fat housekeeper Dara to tell Parax he had headed east and to follow at his leisure. Tae had not bothered to come and say good-bye, and as far as Conn was concerned, that was
the final discourtesy. He tried unsuccessfully to push her from his mind and felt that leaving Seven Willows would aid him. But an hour later, camped high in the woodland overlooking the distant settlement, he still kept running their last meeting over and over in his mind. Had he said something to offend her? He could not recall any such comment.

The wind was fresh and cold, and bored now, Conn lit a fire. Where in the name of Taranis was Parax?

Storm clouds drifted across the afternoon sky, bringing with them darkness and cold. The firelight cast dancing shadows on the wide trunk of an old oak. Conn blinked. A trick of the light made the bark seem to quiver and flow.

Then features began to form in the wood, becoming the face of an old man with a long flowing beard and bristling brows. “You are not at peace, Connavar,” said a voice, deep and sepulchral.

Conn knew instantly that this was the Thagda, the Old Man of the Forest and the most powerful Seidh of them all. He should have felt no fear, for had not the Thagda rescued him in the lands of the Perdii? Had he not given him his first knife? Yet Conn found his heart beating faster, and a growing urge to run filled his mind.

The tree quivered and bulged as first a wooden arm and then a leg crafted from bark pushed clear of the bole. With a grunt a figure emerged from the tree. His beard was lichen, his cloak broad-leafed ivy, his leggings and tunic a mixture of bark and acorn. His features were seamed with the polished grain of old oak, and his eyes were the green of a summer leaf. He stood back from the fire and stretched out his arms.

“These were once Seidh woods,” said the Thagda. “All the world was Seidh. We fed it, and we fed upon it. Then came man. The magic is mostly gone from the woods now. Only the oaks remember. Long memories in oak, child. Where are you heading, Sword in the Storm?”

“I am going home.”

“Home,”
said the deep voice, rolling the word, extending it. “I have always relished the feel of that word upon my tongue. There is always magic in ‘home.’ You felt it yourself when you stood on the battlefield and thought of Caer Druagh. There is rest for the soul at ‘home.’ ” The tree man stood very still for a while, the wind rustling the leaves of his cloak. “Can you feel it upon the wind, Connavar?”

“Can I feel what?”

“Concentrate. Let your spirit taste the air.”

Conn breathed in deeply. He could smell the woods, wet bark, rotting leaves. Nothing more. And then, just as he was about to ask the Thagda what he was supposed to be tasting, he caught the scent of the salt sea, seaweed on the beach. He could almost hear the crying of the gulls, the creaking of timbers, and the flapping of sails. It was a strange experience. “We are far from the sea,” he said.

“Man is never far from the sea,” said the Thagda. “Where is your lady love?”

The question surprised him. “I have no lady love.”

“Look into your heart. Love is one of the rare virtues of your bloodthirsty race, Connavar. It does not come and go in a few heartbeats. Love endures. So I ask again, where is your lady love?”

“Back in Seven Willows,” admitted Conn. “She did not even say good-bye.”

“How strange that a man willing to fight a bear and face an army does not dare ask his love to walk around the tree.”

“I would have asked had I been given a sign by her that she wished me to do so.”

The Thagda gave a rumbling laugh. “How many signs did you need?”

Conn felt a flicker of anger. “Are you here to torment me?”

“Not at all,” answered the Thagda. “My days are busy enough without giving way to small pursuits. It is merely that I have observed you ever since you came to the woods as a
child, calling my name. You wanted, I recall, a spell cast on your parents.”

“Aye, but you did not cast it,” Conn pointed out.

“Who is to say I did not? Are they not together? And more in love than before? You humans are so impatient. This is perhaps natural for a race living lives that are measured in a few heartbeats.” The wind whispered against his ivy cloak, rustling through the leaves.

“Why have you come to me?” asked Conn.

“As I recall, you have come to me. You left your lady love back in Seven Willows, rode to this quiet place, and disturbed my fellowship with the oak. You chose this spot with your heart, Connavar. For your heart knew I was here. We have been linked in spirit ever since you rescued the fawn. The question is, Why did your heart bring you here? What is it that you seek?”

“I am not aware that I seek anything.”

“That is perhaps because you are still angry with Tae for not speaking with you. Anger can be useful, but more often than not it forms a mist that blinds us to truth. What is the question you have been struggling to answer these last few days?”

“I have been wondering why a longboat was beached in the bay and who went to meet it. And why.”

“And what answers did you find?”

“None. Sea Wolves raid for plunder, that which they can carry away. Gold and silver. Sometimes women. There is little gold in Seven Willows.”

“But there is great wealth, at least as you humans see it,” said the Thagda.

“I don’t understand.”

“Who is the richest laird among the Rigante?”

“My own lord. He owns three mines, two of silver and one of gold.”

“And what do you think he prizes above all?”

“How would I know?”

“Think on it.”

“Can you not just tell me?”

“The oak is calling me,” said the Thagda. Ponderously he turned and walked back to the tree, where his form once more merged into the bark. As he disappeared, his voice floated back. “Come to the Wishing Tree Woods on the night of Samain. We will talk more.”

Conn sat before the fire, trying to make sense of the meeting. The Sea Wolves. Gold. Prizes. The remembered conversation floated like wood smoke around his mind, tantalizing yet insubstantial. Then he heard a rider galloping along the trail. Rising from the fire, he called out to Parax. The old man came into the camp and slid from his pony.

“What kept you?” asked Conn.

“The horse with the chipped hoof. I found it.”

“Tell me.”

“It is being ridden by the merchant Phaeton.”

“Phaeton met with the raiders?”

“Aye, and here’s the thing. Raids on Seven Willows ceased in the year he came to live among the villagers. Once I found the horse, I went back to the house and questioned Dara. Phaeton had strong links with the mining settlement at Broken Mountain and several other centers to the south. Every one of those centers has been raided more than once.”

“He was supplying information to the raiders,” said Conn.

“Aye, that is how it looks. He would have known the movements of silver shipments, in which villages the wagoners would rest, and so on. With the mines giving out, there was no reason for him to stay.”

“I can see that, but why the last secret meeting? What were they planning? I wonder.”

“No tracker can answer that,” said Parax. “But there is no gold in Seven Willows.”

Conn felt a cold breeze whisper against his skin as he remembered
his conversation with the merchant.
“Then there is the question of ransom.”

Phaeton had left the sentence unfinished, and Conn had not followed it through. “Yes, there are riches,” he whispered. “The Long Laird’s wife and daughter. They would fetch ten times their weight in gold if held for ransom. How many raiders are there to each ship?”

“Forty, fifty. I’ve never been close to one,” said Parax, “but judging by the impression made by the keel, I’d say closer to fifty.”

“The ship did not return to the sea,” said Conn. “The raiders were waiting for Phaeton to leave.”

“How can you be sure?”

Conn ran to his pony and saddled it.

“We’re going back,” said Conn, vaulting to the saddle.

The two men rode swiftly back along the high trail, but their ponies were tired from the climb, and when they reached the last crest, it was already dusk. A towering plume of smoke was rising from Seven Willows, and Conn could see fleeing villagers running for the northern hills. To the south he could just make out heavily laden raiders moving slowly toward the woods.

Conn reined in his lathered pony. “What now?” asked Parax.

“I’m going to the bay where you found the keel mark. You get down to the settlement. If Fiallach still lives, tell him where I am.”

“And he’ll come running to rescue you?” Parax spit. “I think not.”

“He’ll come if they have Tae.”

“Yes, but what if they don’t? What if she escaped?”

“She didn’t. If they had not found her, the raiders would still be in Seven Willows, searching. Now go!”

As he spoke, Conn urged his weary mount toward the south.

*    *    *

The giant Vars raider Shard stood in the gateway of the settlement, enjoying one last look at the blazing buildings. At first the raid had gone well. He had beached his ship,
Blood Flower
, at noon and ordered his warriors to move to the high woods overlooking the settlement. The storm had been a blessing from Wotan. Not one sentry had been on the stockade wall as the fifty raiders had emerged from the tree line and loped down toward the open gates.

Shard had memorized the charcoal-sketched map Phaeton had supplied. Sending thirty men into the settlement to kill, burn, and create panic, he had led his twenty warriors straight to the long hall. That move had proved the only boil on the body of his plan. Stupid Kidrik had tried to grab the older woman, but she had pulled a dagger from her belt and stabbed out at him. Kidrik, in pain and rage, had lashed at her with his sword, slashing open her throat. Well, he’d get nothing from this raid. Not even a half copper coin. Idiot! The younger woman had run back through the hall and out into the open, straight into the arms of Shard’s brother, Jarik. One blow had rendered her insensible, and Jarik had reentered the hall with the girl over his shoulder.

Even so, the profit from the venture had been halved, and that left Shard irritated and probably short of the capital he would need for a second ship. Raids would always be piecemeal with only one craft and fifty men. But with two, either the larger settlements would become accessible or, by carrying greater supplies, his men could raid deeper into Keltoi lands.

The flames from burning wooden buildings roared higher into the darkening sky. Close by a house collapsed. Shard drank in the sight, then turned toward the gate. A young Keltoi warrior ran at him with a spear. Shard casually parried it with his longsword, then sent a flashing reverse cut that slashed through the man’s collarbone and down into his
chest. He gave a great scream of pain and fell. Shard put his boot on the man’s chest, dragging his blade clear. Then he ran smoothly back to the open gates and out into the countryside. Despite his awesome size, Shard ran well, though not fast, covering the ground in a rhythmic, even lope.

Movement to the right caught his eye, and he saw two riders, one heading for the settlement and the other moving toward the south. Ignoring them, he ran on across the thick grass.

This is good land, he thought, not for the first time. Good farming land. Not like the barren, stony soil of his homeland in the fjord country, where the cattle were bony and lean and the crops thin and stunted. Twice in the last year he had tried to convince his father, the king, to mount an extensive campaign to win these lands. Arald would not be swayed. “Raids are good, and profitable,” he had said. “But I was part of the last invasion, which was led by your grandfather eighteen years ago. Not only did the Keltoi outnumber the Vars three to one, they fought like lions. Three thousand of our men were slain that day, your grandfather among them. Few of us managed to fight our way back to the sea. There were not enough men to man all the ships, and we burned twenty-seven. Burned them! Can you imagine how that felt, Shard? You have been dreaming of a second ship for three years now. And we burned twenty-seven.”

“Times are different now, Father. If we landed with ten thousand men, we could win and hold a large area of land. Then we could ship in more supplies and men, take over the Keltoi farms and buildings. We could make a strong settlement and from there sweep out and gradually win the land, just like the Stone men are doing in the south.”

Arald had smiled. “It is always good to have large dreams, my son.” And he had spoken of it no more.

It might have been different if his brother Jarik had added his weight to the argument. Jarik was the favorite son, but he,
like the father, was not interested in conquest. Only easy wealth.

Shard ran on. Despite his irritation at the death of Llysona, the raid could still be considered a success. Not one of his men had died, though some had suffered cuts. The merchant had done his job well. The warrior Fiallach had not been present, or his thirty men. They had been drawn away after Phaeton had reported a huge lion in the mountains to the northwest. Fiallach loved to hunt, and the lure of such a beast had proved impossible to resist.

Shard reached the trees. The merchant had told him that the Long Laird would pay at least six hundred in gold for his wife and daughter. A hundred would secretly be paid to Phaeton for his part. That amount was now halved, less fifty for the merchant. Half again would be split among his men. That left 125. Half of that was promised to Jarik. Shard continued his calculations. He would still be fifty short of his second ship. He toyed with the idea of holding back the payment to the merchant but dismissed it. The man was too valuable, and perhaps his next piece of information would help Shard recover the lost profit. That left Jarik. If he could persuade him to relinquish his share …

No. Jarik would demand joint ownership of the ship, and that Shard would not do.

Shard glanced back. The settlement was burning ever more brightly as the wind whipped the flames toward the north.

Then he entered the darkness of the woods.