Sword in the Storm (45 page)

“Around thirty,” said Conn. “They killed Lady Llysona.”

The Druid nodded. “A hard woman. I did not take to her. Is her daughter safe?”

“Yes, she is organizing the rebuilding.”

“Go back and tell her I am on my way.”

“You can ride behind me,” Conn offered.

“I’ll walk,” said the Druid. “It will give me more time to pray for the dead.”

Throughout the long day Conn worked alongside the people of the settlement, dragging away half-burned timbers and bringing in fresh wood from the northern woods. He rested
briefly with a score of men at noon and sat silently as they talked around him. “Why us?” was the most common comment. Conn was wise enough to know that this was not the time for an answer. Ten years of relative safety had made them complacent. When the raiders had attacked, there had been no sentry on the wall, and the settlement gates had been open.

Will they learn? he wondered.

For a while. Then the years would pass.

It is not worth thinking about, he decided.

He found his mind wandering to his last conversation with Ostaran. The Perdii had been defeated and were about to be annihilated. “Will it be the Gath next?” Conn had asked him.

“Of course not. We are allies to the people of Stone.”

“Were the Perdii not Jasaray’s allies last year?”

“You make for depressing company, my friend. What would the people of Stone want from us?”

Ostaran could not see it, though it lay revealed before him like a blood-drenched map. The people of Stone wanted it all. They would not be content until all the inhabited lands were under their sway. “Look,” said Conn, taking a stick and sketching a line on the damp earth. “These are the lands of the Goth and Ostro. They are too far from Stone and the areas they control for an invading force to be equipped and supplied for a push toward the sea. But here, nestling between them like an arrowhead, are the lands of the Perdii. Rich farmland, thousands of cattle and horses. They will move into this land, establish towns and fortresses. From here they can strike out where they will.”

“But why would they?” asked Ostaran.

“Because they must. It is for them an economic necessity. They have a huge standing army. The soldiers need to be paid. Conquest supplies the plunder that makes the generals rich and secures the loyalty of the soldiers. In Gath there are—what?—ten gold mines?”

“Fourteen now,” said Ostaran. “And five silver.”

“Then the people of Stone will take them. And who will come to your aid now, Osta? The Addui are destroyed, the Perdii finished.”

“We will need no aid,” said Ostaran. “We will smash any invading force. The Gath are not like the Perdii. Our fighters are twice as powerful.”

“You can still believe this after all you have seen? Jasaray’s panthers are well armed and armored, disciplined and motivated. They will not be broken by a sudden charge, no matter how brave the warriors.”

“You are gloomy today,” Ostaran, put in with a sudden smile. “We have just won a great victory. Jasaray has given you chests of gold and the stallions you so desired. My men and I have been paid, and the sun is shining. And let me tell you this, my doom prophet: Jasaray himself assured me he has no plans for further campaigns. He wants to return to Stone and become a scholar again. He says he misses the quiet charm of the university. There! What do you say to that?”

“I will say only this: When the end comes, bring as many warriors as you can to Goriasa. Seek out Garshon the Merchant. Remind him of the promise he made to me. Then, with his help, sail across the water and ride up to the lands of the northern Rigante.”

“I tell you what I will do, my friend,” said Ostaran. “If Jasaray comes, then, when we have defeated him, I will send you his head.”

Conn’s mind was jerked back to the present as the men around him rose and continued their work. Conn stayed with them until dusk, then sought out Parax. The old man had spent much of the afternoon asleep in Phaeton’s house. Conn did not berate him. Parax was not young, and the exertions of the night before had taken their toll on him.

When Conn arrived at the house, Parax was frying two large steaks. “Where is the fat woman?” he asked.

“She was one of the dead,” Parax said gloomily. “Phaeton’s revenge, eh?”

“I think he liked her,” said Conn. “She was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“As were we, for a while,” said Parax, turning the steaks.

The two men sat in silence and ate the steaks, which, though they looked fine, were tough and hard to chew. “Should have been hung for a few days,” muttered Parax. “But the meat came from a bull killed by the raiders.”

After he had finished his meal, Conn strolled out through the back of the house and washed in a stream that flowed from the north. The water was cold and refreshing. Leaving his weapons at the house, he then rode back to the remains of the long hall. Most of the roof had fallen in, but the storm rain had saved the western section of the hall. He found Tae sitting at the old stone hearth, a fire blazing. She had a blanket around her shoulders and was staring into the dancing flames.

Conn walked into the ruin and sat opposite her. Her face was streaked with dirt and soot, and the marks of tears showed on her cheeks. “I am sorry for your loss, Tae,” he said. She nodded but did not answer. The fire began to die down. Conn added wood.

“You will be leaving tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes. I will report to the Long Laird. He will send men with seasoned timber for the rebuilding.”

“Safe journey,” she whispered.

“I love you, Tae,” he said suddenly, the words shocking him, for he had not intended to say them.

“I know,” she replied. “But this is not the time to speak of it.”

“Would you rather be alone now?” he asked.

She shook her head and gave him a wan smile. “I am alone
whether you are here or not. We are all alone. We are born alone, and we die alone. In between we may be touched by love, but we are still alone.”

“Aye, there is truth in that,” he told her. “But not the complete truth.” Reaching out, he took her hand and gently squeezed it. “I am here, and with this touch we are one.” Moving alongside her, he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her into an embrace. Kissing her head, he hugged her to him. “Not one of the creatures of blood can escape death,” he said. “We all face it and succumb to it. It follows us like a dark shadow. Yet if we live in terror of it, then we do not live at all. Yes, we are born alone, and yes, we will die alone. But in between, Tae, we
live
. We know joy. I am a lonely man. I think I always have been. But I am not lonely now. Not at this moment.”

Tae said nothing, but he felt her snuggle into him, and he sat quietly, stroking her hair. She fell asleep against his chest. Conn remained unmoving as time slid by and the fire faded. At last he gently lowered her to the floor, made a pillow of his cloak, and covered her with her blanket. Then he banked the fire and rose, turning toward the door.

There stood Fiallach, a towering figure, his face expressionless.

Conn moved across to him, and the two men walked out into the night.

“You found him?” asked Conn.

“Aye, I found him,” answered Fiallach. Lifting a blood-drenched pouch, he opened it. He tried to tip the contents to his palm, but they were stuck to the leather. Dipping his fingers into the pouch, he pulled forth Phaeton’s eyes. They had already begun to shrivel. “The bastard will be blind in the Void for eternity,” he said.

“He deserves it,” said Conn.

Fiallach put the eyes back into the pouch, then wiped his hand down his leggings. “How is Tae?”

“Suffering. But she is strong.”

“She is a fine woman, Connavar. Perhaps the finest. She deserves the best of men. Are you the best of men?”

“Who knows?” answered Conn.

“Let us find out,” said Fiallach.

14

F
IALLACH LOOKED INTO
the face of his rival and saw no fear, only surprise. “You want to fight me? Now?” asked Connavar.

“Unless you are too frightened,” Fiallach replied. Ever since the last day of the games Fiallach had dreamed of pounding the arrogant youngster to the ground. Everything had gone wrong since then. Tae had turned against him, and now the settlement he was expected to protect had been sacked by raiders. He had never forgotten that one moment when the cold voice had warned him:
“If that blow lands, I’ll kill you.”
It had chilled him to the bone. He should have turned and beaten Connavar to his knees. Instead he had frozen and had been forced to watch his tormentor walk off with Tae.

He had felt her loss in that moment like a cruel premonition. He remembered a shiver crossing his skin and the beginning of sorrow weighing on his soul. His love for Tae had been the one constant in his turbulent life. At first he had adored her as a child, his feelings paternal and platonic. He had taught her to ride, to shoot a bow, even to handle a longsword. Strong? Of course she was strong. Fiallach had helped make her that way. And then, as she came to womanhood, his love for her grew even stronger. And when she continued to seek out his company, to ride and to hunt, he had
believed her feelings for him had grown along with his own for her.

But ever since the games she had been different, contrary and argumentative. He had heard from his men that Tae was asking questions about Connavar, the boy who fought the bear, the man who killed the king. Connavar the warrior.

Connavar … Connavar … Connavar …

What had he ever done that Fiallach himself could not have achieved? The answer was nothing at all.

Yet it did not matter. Connavar was distant. She would in time have lost her interest in him. But no, the Long Laird saw fit to send the warrior to Seven Willows, and Fiallach had seen the light in Tae’s eyes. In truth he had also seen the specter of his own defeat highlighted there. At thirty-one he was almost old enough to be Tae’s father, and he had then begun to realize that she saw him as a paternal figure. A powerful protector but a man to lean on, never lie beside.

The knowledge was almost too painful to bear. It clung to him like an angry dog, sharp teeth in his heart.

Now it was Connavar who had ridden into the woods to rescue Tae from the raiders. And Fiallach was finished. He had never loved another woman. If he had not been drawn off on that lion hunt, it would have been he, Fiallach, standing before Tae, sword in hand, to protect her from evil. She might then have seen him in a better light.

But no, even the gods had turned against him, haunting his footsteps with ill luck.

He had returned to Seven Willows, having killed Phaeton, and had walked into the ruins of the long hall. There, silhouetted by the dying fire, he had seen Tae asleep in the arms of Connavar. Truth to tell, they had looked perfect together, and Fiallach’s heart had finally broken. He had stood silently for almost an hour, watching them, seeing at the last how tenderly Connavar laid her down, making of his cloak a pillow.

There was no way now that he could kill Connavar. Tae was lost to him regardless.

Yet inside him raged a burning desire to hammer his fists into the face of his rival, to knock him to the ground and stand over his unconscious body, to prove to himself that he was superior to the man who had stolen his love.

His hands were trembling with the need to strike. “Unless you are too frightened,” he heard himself say.

Connavar smiled—and hit him. The force and speed of the blow surprised Fiallach, but he absorbed its power and moved in, sending a thunderous left into Connavar’s cheek. The smaller man did not give way, and the fight commenced.

Fiallach was surprised at his opponent’s strength. Connavar was a shade under six feet tall, six inches smaller than Fiallach and at least thirty pounds lighter. But he punched above his weight, the blows perfectly timed and accurately placed. He was a thinker whose mind remained cool during combat. He did not strike out blindly or allow his rage to make him reckless. Fiallach admired that.

Connavar stepped inside, hammering blow after blow into Fiallach’s belly. Grabbing Connavar’s hair with his left hand, Fiallach forced back his head, then hit him with a short chopping right. Connavar’s knees buckled. Fiallach let go of the hair and steadied himself for another right. Connavar leapt forward, head butting Fiallach in the chin. Stars exploded inside Fiallach’s head, and he took a backward step. Two hard, straight lefts from Connavar forced him back again, but Fiallach countered, blocking with his right arm and then sending a left hook that exploded against Connavar’s cheekbone, splitting the skin.