Sword in the Storm (48 page)

“I have never considered it,” he admitted. But the thought was a fine one: spreading wings and flying high above the earth. They continued in silence for a while, then paused to watch the sunrise light the land.

Fiallach stood silently, feeling Gwydia’s small hand in his own. He felt strange, then realized with a sudden shock that he was at peace.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him suddenly.

“That I am an angry man,” he replied without thinking. The words surprised him.

“What are you angry about?”

He smiled. “At this moment I do not know, for the anger is gone.”

“It is hard to be angry when one has seen the sun rise,” she said.

“It seems to be true,” he admitted. “I wonder why.”

“Because it makes us feel so small and insignificant. It has been rising forever and will rise forever no matter what we do or do not do. All our problems are as nothing to the sun.”

“Yes,” he said. “I see that. I never saw it before.”

She laughed. “You never watched a sunrise?”

“I have never watched one with you.”

She blushed. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers. For a moment they stood very still, then she took his arm. “Come down to my home,” she said softly. “Mother will be preparing breakfast.”

“Could I be the right man for you?” he asked her.

Her dark eyes looked into his eyes of bright blue. “You had best speak to my father,” she told him.

“I shall. But I need to hear it from you.”

“You are the right man,” she said. “I knew it last night.”

“You know that I am almost thirty-one. You do not think me too old?”

“Foolish man,” she said with a smile. “Come and see my father.”

Nanncumal the Smith was a dour man, but he had smiled widely when Fiallach had told him of his desire to wed his daughter. With Gwydia in the house, helping her mother set the table, Nanncumal and Fiallach had walked to the smithy. Nanncumal stirred the ashes to life in the forge and added fresh fuel. “She is a fine girl,” said the smith. “Strong, loyal—a little too quick with her wit, though.”

“You seem unsurprised, sir,” said Fiallach.

“She told us last night. I was only worried that she might be disappointed.”

“Last night?”

“The ways of women, young man, are completely beyond a man’s understanding. She came home more excited than I have ever seen her. Said she had met the most wonderful man. I got up in the night and saw her sitting by the window. I asked
her what she was doing. She said she was watching for you. I have never known her like this. To be honest, it is good to see. She has turned down several fine young men. Said she was waiting for the right one. You treat her well, now.”

“You have my word on that,” said Fiallach.

“Then we will speak no more of it.” With the forge fire blazing, Nanncumal moved to a shelf at the rear of the building, retrieving a thin-necked copper jug. Passing it to Fiallach, he said, “It is early in the day, but I feel a toast is in order.” Fiallach hefted the jug and took a deep drink of Uisge. “Man, that is good,” he said, handing the jug to Nanncumal.

“Twenty years old. I have been saving it for just such an occasion. Here’s to you and Gwydia.” The smith drank deeply, then stoppered the jug and returned it to the shelf. “While you are here,” he said, “there is something I must check.” He grinned and, taking a length of twine, ran it around Fiallach’s enormous shoulders.

“What are you doing?” asked the big man.

“You’ll know soon enough,” said Nanncumal, marking the twine with his thumb. “Yes, that should be about right. It has been worrying me,” he said.

“Is this some Three Streams marriage ritual?”

“No. Have a little patience, young man. You will find out when we see Connavar later this morning. For now let us go eat.”

Two hours later Fiallach, Nanncumal, and his son Govannan strolled across to the house of Connavar. Tae was not present; she was visiting Connavar’s mother, Meria. As Fiallach entered the house, he saw Conn, his stepfather Ruathain, and the Druid Brother Solstice. Fiallach’s eyes rested on Ruathain, and he felt his pulse quicken. The man was big, and powerful, and Fiallach’s fighting spirit flared. Ruathain looked at him and grinned. He, too, felt it. It was as if they were two proud bulls with a herd at stake.

They shook hands, measuring each other. Fiallach knew of
Ruathain’s reputation as a warrior. He had been first swordsman for almost two decades. He wondered what the man would be like with his fists. Their eyes met. “My son speaks highly of you,” said Ruathain. Then he walked back to stand beside Conn.

In the silence that followed Connavar rose from his seat and moved to a chest at the rear of the room. Opening it, he pulled clear a shirt of shining mail. Fiallach gazed at it with open envy. It was beautiful, the rings small but perfectly formed. It handled like heavy cloth. Connavar handed the mail shirt to Ruathain, then produced another and passed it to Govannan. Then he lifted a third and walked across the room, giving it to Fiallach.

“Put them on,” said Connavar.

“Now you see why I was worried about the size of your shoulders,” said Nanncumal. “Conn told me you were roughly the same size as his father. In fact, you are a little bigger, but I think you will find it comfortable.”

Fiallach lifted the mail shirt over his head. It was heavy. Sliding his arms into it, he settled it into place. The armored mail reached to his knees. It had been split at the front and back to allow ease of movement for a rider. The sleeves were short, finishing a little above the elbow, and there was a hood, which Fiallach pulled into place. He had never worn such a magnificent piece. His thick fingers ran over the mail rings. They would stop any arrow and protect a warrior from thrusting knives or slashing swords. It would take an ax to cleave them. He looked around the room. Ruathain and Govannan were similarly garbed now.

“It is my intention,” said Conn, “to create a fighting force for the protection of our lands. Each man will swear a blood oath to follow my orders without question. Eventually there will be five hundred of us, each with a warhorse. When that day comes, you three will be my captains, that is, if you agree to the oath.”

“Who are we to fight?” asked Fiallach. “We are at peace with all our neighbors.”

“The enemy is coming,” said Conn. “You may trust me on this. The Stone army will cross the water, and then you will see slaughter like never before. We must be prepared or we will fall like all the tribes across the sea. I have seen them, Fiallach. They are deadly, their army nearly invincible. When they stand and fight, they lock shields, creating a wall of bronze. I have watched Keltoi tribesmen hurl themselves against this wall and be cut down in the thousands by short stabbing swords.” He fell silent for a moment, and his eyes took on a haunted look. “And when they have destroyed the armies, they move across the land, taking thousands into slavery. Except the children: They are slaughtered. When the land is cleared, they bring in settlers from their own lands and build towns of stone. In order to defeat them we must find a new way to fight.”

Govannan spoke. He had changed in the last year, his face losing the roundness of youth. His dark eyes were deep-set and his face almost gaunt, and he sported no beard. “If they are coming, as you say, Conn, then how will five hundred riders succeed where armies of thousands have failed?”

“We will not succeed alone. There will also be armies, footmen, cavalry, archers. The Stone soldiers are grouped into six units that together create a panther. The head is the elite fighting force, the advance unit. Then there are the claws. Lastly there is the belly. This last group is responsible for protecting supply lines. The Stone army, being in hostile territory, must be constantly supplied with food: grain, salt, meat, dried fruit.” Conn smiled grimly. “That is where my riders will be best used: disrupting their supplies, attacking their convoys. They call themselves panthers. We will be the Iron Wolves, hunting them as a pack. We will also harry and terrorize those who supply them. For make no mistake, they will be supplied by Keltoi chieftains. That is their method. When they fought the Perdii, they were supplied by the Gath
and the Ostro. It will be the same here. They will land in the far south and probably attack the Norvii. If they follow the same pattern as before, they will first seek to befriend the Cenii and other, smaller tribes. These tribes, which have long held grievances against the Norvii, will sell grain to the Stone army. Once they have a base, they will set up their own supply routes.” He looked around the room, scanning their faces. “Now,” he said, “do I have your blood oaths?”

“You have mine,” said Ruathain.

“And mine,” said Govannan.

Fiallach stood silently for a moment. On another day he might have refused. But today, with the joy of Gwydia flowing through him, he smiled. “I’ll follow you, Connavar,” he said. “To the death.”

Maccus was tired. He had spent weeks riding the lands of the northern Rigante with Connavar, visiting minor chieftains, touring farms and communities, visiting silver and copper mines and fishing villages on the coast. His back ached from hours in the saddle every day, and his mind reeled with weariness. Connavar was inexhaustible, full of the energy of youth. Close to fifty, Maccus was looking forward to stepping aside once Connavar took on the role of laird. He did not doubt that the young man would want his own first counsel, probably his father, Ruathain.

Maccus was thinking about moving to a small cabin high in the Druagh mountains. He had built it with his wife some twenty years before. They had enjoyed many happy times there before the Long Laird had summoned him to Old Oaks and offered him the role of first counsel. At first his wife, Leia, had found Old Oaks too busy and noisy for her liking, and they had moved some miles out of the settlement, taking over a small farm, which Leia had run. As the years had passed, the farm had produced good profits, which had become even greater when Leia had begun to breed pigs.
Smoked ham was a rare delicacy in the highlands, and Leia’s was the best Maccus had ever tasted.

He rose from his bed and groaned as a stab of pain lanced through his arthritic shoulder. The bed was too soft for him. Outside he could hear the members of the household moving around and smell the smoky aroma of frying bacon. He heard Connavar’s voice, then the laughter of some women.

Moving to the window, he pushed it open and gazed out on the rocky landscape and the wide waters of Snake Loch. The fishermen were already out, their nets cast and their small boats bobbing on the gray waves. Maccus shivered. A cold wind was blowing from the north. It had been a nine-hour ride to the Snake, and after it Connavar had sat late into the night talking to the chieftain.

Maccus pulled on his tunic, leggings, and boots and walked out into the long hall. There were some twenty people present, including Connavar, all seated around a twelve-foot rectangular bench table.

“How did you sleep?” asked Arna, the one-eyed chieftain.

“Like a babe,” he answered, sitting down alongside the man. Maccus had been in the skirmish twenty years before where Arna had lost his eye. It had been a ferocious fight against a large group of Sea Raiders. Maccus himself had killed the leader, a giant of a man wielding a long double-headed ax.

“So,” Arna said good-naturedly, “you think this child a suitable leader for the Rigante?” Connavar laughed with genuine good humor.

Maccus smiled. “Young body, old head,” he replied. “And better him than a senile old fool like you.”

Arna grinned widely. “You’re not so young yourself, Maccus. You recall that bastard with the ax?”

“I do indeed.”

“Think you could take him now?”

Maccus thought about it, recalling the awesome power of
the man and the mound of Rigante dead around him. “No,” he said sadly. “No, I couldn’t.”

Arna looked crestfallen. “Of course you could,” he insisted. “You’re only as old as you feel.”

Maccus gazed into the chieftain’s one good eye and saw fear there. Age makes fools of us all, he thought. He forced a smile. “Aye, you are right. It might take me a little longer now, mind.”

Arna chuckled. “Never give in, Maccus. That’s the secret.” He fell silent for a moment, and Maccus tensed, knowing what was coming. “I was sorry to hear about Leia. She was a fine woman.”

The hurt began again, starting in the pit of his belly and moving up to tighten his throat. “Thank you,” he said. A young woman appeared alongside him, laying a bowl of thick fish soup on the table, along with a plate of freshly baked bread. Maccus thanked her, broke off a piece of bread, and began to eat.

It was midmorning before he and Connavar left Snake Loch to begin the journey home. The ponies were still tired from the day before, and they rode slowly along the mountain trails.

They stopped to rest their mounts at noon and, sheltered from the wind by a huge boulder, lit a fire. “Arna spoke very highly of you,” said Connavar. “Said you were the finest of men.”

“He was always given to exaggeration.”

“Told me how you won the battle by killing the leader.”

“It wasn’t a battle, Connavar. Just a skirmish.” Maccus wrapped his cloak more tightly around him and lifted his hood over his short-cropped receding hair.

“Why did you not wish to be laird?”

Maccus had known this question would come and still had no real answer to it. He shrugged. “I thought of it. Maybe ten years ago I would have fought for it. I don’t know, Connavar.
That’s the truth. Leia used to tell me that I was too quiet, that I didn’t enjoy the company of men or women. It wasn’t really true. I just preferred hers to theirs.” He glanced up. “What about you? Why did
you
wish to be laird?”

“I have seen the evil to come,” said Connavar. “I have to fight it.”

“A driven man. I see. Perhaps that is my answer also. I am not driven. And I am looking forward to riding the high country and returning to the cabin we built.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you choose your own first counsel.”

Connavar laughed. “I want no one new, Maccus. I will need you to guide me.”