Sword in the Storm

  SWORD IN THE STORM

  DAVID A. GEMMEL

  BANTAM PRESS

  LONDON • NEW YORK • TORONTO

  SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

  Sword in the Storm is dedicated with love to Stella Graham, with heartfelt thanks for eighteen years of great and abiding friendship.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to my editors Liza Reeves and Broo Doherty, and also to Alan Fisher, Val Gemmell, Mary Sanderson, Bill Woodford, Tony Fenelon, and Jan Dunlop for feeding the imagination. And to the staff at Deep Pan Pizza, the Crumbles, Eastbourne, for their warmth, their friendliness, and their Regular Americano with extra bacon and pepperoni.

  PROLOGUE

  I WAS A CHILD WHEN I SAW HIM LAST, A SCRAWNY STRAW-HAIRED boy, living in the highlands. It was the afternoon of my eleventh birthday. My sister had died in childbirth the day before, the babe with her. My widowed father was inconsolable, and I left the farm early, leaving him with his grief. I was sad too, but as with most children, my sorrow was also tinged with self-pity. Ara had died and spoiled my birthday. I shiver with shame at the memory even now.

  I wandered through the high woods for most of the morning, playing games. Warrior games. I was a hero, hunting for enemies. I was the deadliest swordsman of them all. I was Demonblade the King.

  I had seen him once before when he, and several of his companions, had ridden to our lonely farm. They were merely passing through and my father gave them water and a little bread. The king had dismounted and thanked Father, and they stood talking about the dry summer and the problems it caused. I was around five I think, and all I remember was his size, and the fact that his eyes were strange. One was a tawny brown, the other green, like a jewel. My father told him how our one bull had died, struck by lightning. Three days later a rider came by leading a fine, big-horned bull, which he gave to us. My father was a king's man after that.

  I was just eleven when I saw him again. Tired of playing alone I went to my cousin's house in the Rift Valley, some three miles from home. He gave me food, and let me help while he chopped wood. I would roll the rounds to where he stood, and place them on the low stump. He would swing his axe and split them. After he had finished chopping we carried the wood to the log pile and stacked the split chunks against the north wall of the house.

  I was tired and would have spent the night, save that I knew Father would be worried, so an hour before dusk I headed for home, climbing the Balg Hills and making for the high woods. My journey took me close to the old Stone Circle. Father told me giants crafted it in a bygone age, but my aunt said that the stones themselves were once giants, cursed by Taranis. I don't know which story is true, but the Circle is a splendid place. Eighteen huge stones there are, each over twenty feet high. Hard, golden stone, totally unlike the grey granite of the Druagh mountains.

  I had no intention of going to the Circle, for it was more than a little out of my way. But as I was making my way through the trees I saw a pack of wolves. I stopped and picked up a stone. Wolves will rarely attack a man. They steer clear of us. I don't blame them. We hunt and kill them whenever we can. The leader of the pack stood very still, his golden eyes staring at me. I felt a chill, and knew with great certainty that this wolf was unafraid.

  For a moment I stood my ground. He darted forward. Dropping the stone I turned and ran. I knew they were loping after me and I sprinted hard, leaping fallen trees and scrambling through the bracken. I was in panic and fled without thinking. Then I reached the tree line no more than a few yards from the Stone Circle. To run further would be to die. This realization allowed me to overcome my fear and my mind began to clear.

  There was a low branch just ahead. I leapt and swung myself up to it. The lead wolf was just behind me. He leapt too, his teeth closing on my shoe, tearing it from my foot. I climbed a little higher, and the wolves gathered silently below the tree.

  Safe now I became angry, both at myself and at the wolves. Breaking off a dry branch I hurled it down onto the pack. They leapt aside, and began to prowl around the tree.

  It was then that I heard riders. The wolves scattered and loped back into the woods. I was about to call out to the newcomers, but something stopped me. I cannot say what it was. I don't think I was afraid, but perhaps I sensed some danger. Anyway, I crouched down on the thick branch and watched them ride into the Stone Circle. There were nine of them. All wore swords and daggers.

  Their clothes were very fine, their horses tall, like those ridden by the king's Iron Wolves. As they dismounted they led their horses out of the circle, tethering them close by.

  'You think he'll come?' asked one of the men. I can still see him now, tall and broad shouldered, his yellow hair braided under a helm of burnished iron.

  'He'll come,' said a second man. 'He wants peace.'

  They rejoined their comrades, who were sitting in a circle within the Circle. Having decided not to show myself, I lay there quietly. They were talking in low voices and I could hear only a few words clearly.

  The sun was going down and I decided to risk the wolves and make my way home. That is when I saw the rider on the white stallion. I knew him instantly.

  It was Demonblade the King.

  I cannot tell you how excited I was. The man was close to myth even then. His beard was red gold in the dying sunlight. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with its hilt of gold. He rode into the Circle and sat his stallion staring at the men. They seemed to me to be tense, almost frightened by his presence. They rose as he dismounted.

  I would have gone down then, just to be close to the legend. But he drew his sword and plunged it into the earth before him. The man with the braided yellow hair was the first to speak.

  'Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.'

  Demonblade stood silently for a moment, his strong hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his patchwork cloak billowing in the breeze. 'You have not asked me here to talk,' he said, his voice deep and powerful. 'You have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.'

  Slowly they drew their swords. I could feel their fear.

  Then, as the sun fell in crimson fire, they attacked.

  CHAPTER ONE

  on THE NIGHT OF THE GREAT MAN'S BIRTH A FIERCE STORM WAS moving in from the far north, but as yet the louring black clouds were hidden behind the craggy, snow-capped peaks of the Druagh mountains. The night air outside the birthing hut was calm and still and heavy. The bright stars of Caer Gwydion glittered in the sky, and the full moon was shining like a lantern over the tribal lands of the Rigante.

  All was quiet now inside the lamplit hut as Varaconn, the soft-eyed horse hunter, knelt at his wife's side, holding her hand. Meria, the pain subsiding for a moment, smiled up at him. 'You must not worry,' she whispered. 'Vorna says the boy will be strong.'

  The blond-haired young man cast his gaze across the small, round hut, to where the witch woman was crouched by an iron brazier. She was breaking the seals on three clay pots, and measuring out amounts of dark powder. Varaconn shiver
ed.

  'It is time for his soul-name,' said Vorna, without turning from her task.

  Varaconn reluctantly released his wife's hand. He did not like the stick-thin witch, but then no-one did. It was difficult to like that which you feared, and black-haired Vorna was a fey creature, with bright blue button eyes that never seemed to blink. How was it, Varaconn wondered, that an ageing spinster, with no personal knowledge of sex or childbirth, could be so adept at midwifery?

  Vorna rose and turned, fixing him with a baleful glare. 'This is not the time to consider questions born of stupidity,' she said. Varaconn jerked. Had he asked the question aloud? Surely not.

  'The soul-name,' said Vorna. 'Go now.'

  Taking his wife's hand once more, he raised it to his lips. Meria smiled, then a fresh spasm of pain crossed her face. Varaconn backed away to the door.

  'All will be well,' Vorna told him.

  Varaconn swirled his blue and green chequered cloak around his slender shoulders and stepped out into the night.

  It was warm, the air cloying, and yet, for a moment at least, it was cooler than the hut and he filled his lungs with fresh air. The smell of mountain grass and pine was strong here, away from the settlement, and mixed with it he could detect the subtle scent of honeysuckle. As he grew accustomed to the warmth of this summer night he removed his cloak and laid it over the bench seat set around the trunk of the old willow.

  Time for the soul-name, Vorna had said.

  In that moment, alone under the stars, Varaconn felt like an adult for the first time in his nineteen years. He was about to find the soul-name for his son.

  His son!

  Varaconn's heart swelled with the thought.

  Following the old goat trail he stepped out onto the green flanks of Caer Druagh, the Elder Mountain, and began to climb. As he journeyed high above the valley his thoughts were many. He recalled his own father, and wondered what he had been thinking as he climbed this slope nineteen years before. What dreams had he nurtured for the infant about to be born? He had died from wounds taken in a fight with the Pannones when Varaconn was six. His mother had passed over the Dark Water a year later. Varaconn's last memories of her were of a skeletal woman, hollow eyed, coughing up blood and phlegm.

  The orphan Varaconn had been raised by an irascible uncle, who had never married, and loathed the company of people. A kind old man, he had tried hard to be a good father to the boy, but had managed - among many good lessons - to pass on to his ward his own wariness of fellowship. As a result Varaconn never courted popularity, and found intimacy difficult. Neither popular nor unpopular with the other young men of the Rigante his life had been largely undistinguished, save for two things: his friendship with Ruathain the First Warrior, and his marriage to the beautiful Meria.

  Varaconn paused in his climb and stared down at Three Streams settlement far below. Most of the houses were dark, for it was almost midnight and the Rigante were a farming community, whose people rose before the dawn. But lamplight was flickering in some of the windows. Banouin the Foreigner would be checking his tallies, and preparing his next journey to the sea, and Cassia Earth-maiden would be entertaining a guest, initiating some young blood in the night-blessed joys of union.

  Varaconn walked on.

  His marriage to Meria had surprised many, for her father had entertained a score of young men seeking her hand. Even Ruathain. Meria had rejected them all. Varaconn had not been one of the suitors. A modest man, he considered her far above him in every way.

  Then one day, as he was gentling a mare in the high meadow paddock, she had come to see him. That day was bathed in glory in the hall of his fondest memories. Meria had leaned on the fence rail as Varaconn moved around the paddock. At first he had not known she was there, so intent was he on the bond with the mare. He loved horses, and spent much of his early life observing them. He had noticed that herd leaders were always female, and that they disciplined errant colts by driving them away from the safety of the herd. Alone the colt would become fearful, for predators would soon descend on a single pony. After a while the mare would allow the recalcitrant beast back into the fold. Thus chastened it would then remain obedient. Varaconn used a similar technique in training ponies. He would isolate a wild horse in his circular paddock, then, with a snap of his rope, set it running around the inner perimeter of the fence. The instinct of a horse was always to run from danger, and only when safe would it look back to see what had caused its fear. Varaconn kept the pony running for a while, then, not knowing Meria was watching him, he dipped his shoulder and turned away from the mare. The pony dropped her head and moved in close to him. Varaconn continued to walk, slowly changing direction. The mare followed his every move. As he moved he spoke to the mare in a soft voice and finally turned to face her, rubbing her brow and stroking her sleek neck.

  'You talk to horses more easily than you talk to women,' said Meria. Varaconn had blushed deep red.

  'I'm . . . not a talker,' he said. Trying to ignore her he continued to work with the pony, and within an hour was riding it slowly around the paddock. Occasionally he would glance towards Meria. She had not moved. Finally he dismounted, took a deep breath, and walked to where she waited. Shy and insular, he did not look into her eyes. Even so he saw enough to fill his heart with longing. She was wearing a long green dress, and a wide belt, edged with gold thread. Her long dark hair, save for a top braid, was hanging loose to her shoulders, and her feet were bare.

  'You want to buy a pony?' he asked.

  'Perhaps. Why did the mare suddenly start to obey you?' she asked.

  'She was frightened. I made her run, but she didn't know what the danger was. Did you see her snapping her mouth as she ran?'

  'Yes, she looked very angry.'

  'That was not anger. Foals do that. She was reverting to infant behaviour. She was saying to me, "I need help. Please be my leader." So I dropped my shoulder and gently turned away. Then she came to me and joined my herd.'

  'So you are her stallion now?'

  'In truth that would make me the lead mare. Stallions do the fighting, but a mare will command the herd.'

  'Ruathain says you are a great fighter and a good man.' This surprised him and he glanced briefly at her face to see if she was mocking him. Her eyes were green. Large eyes. So beautiful. Not the green of grass or summer leaves, but the bright, eternal green of precious stones. Yet they were not cold ...

  'Now you are staring at me,' she chided.

  Varaconn blinked and looked away guiltily. She spoke again. 'Ruathain said you stood beside him against the Pannones, and broke their charge.'

  'He is too kind. He knows I was too frightened to run,' he admitted. 'Ruathain was like a rock - the only safe place in a stormy sea. I've never known anyone quite like him. The battle was chaotic - screaming men, clashing swords. It was all so fast and furious. But Ruathain was calm. He was like a god. You could not imagine him being hurt.'

  She seemed annoyed, though he did not know why. 'Yes, yes, yes,' she said. 'Everyone knows Ruathain is a hero. He wanted to marry me. I said no.'

  'Why would you say no? He is a wonderful man.'

  'Can you really be so foolish, Varaconn?' she said, then turned and strode away.

  Totally confused he had carried the problem to Ruathain. The powerful, blond-haired young warrior had been out with three of his herdsmen, building a rock wall across the mouth of a gully in the high north valley. 'Every damn winter,' said Ruathain, heaving a large slab into place, 'some of my cattle get trapped here. Not any more.' Varaconn dismounted and helped the men for several hours. Then, during a rest break, Ruathain took him by the arm and led him to a nearby stream.

  'You didn't come all the way up here to build a wall. What is on your mind, my friend?' Without waiting for an answer he stripped off his shirt, leggings and boots and clambered out into the middle of the stream. 'By Taranis, it is cold,' he said. The water was no more than a few inches deep, flowing over white, rounded pebbles. Ruathain lay do
wn, allowing the water to rush over his body. 'Man, this is refreshing,' he shouted, rolling onto his belly. Varaconn sat by the stream and watched his friend. Despite the awesome power of the man, his broad, flat face and his drooping blond moustache, there was something wonderfully childlike about Ruathain; a seemingly infinite capacity to draw the maximum joy from any activity. The warrior splashed water on his face, ran his wet fingers through his hair, then rose and strode to the water's edge. He grinned at Varaconn. 'You should have joined me.'

  'I need your advice, Ru.'

  'Are you in trouble?'

  'I do not believe so. I am merely confused.' He told him about Meria's visit. As he spoke he saw the young warrior's expression harden, only to be replaced by a look of sadness. Varaconn cursed himself for a fool. Ruathain had asked Meria to marry him. He obviously loved her too! 'I am sorry, Ru. I am an idiot,' he said. 'Forgive me for troubling you.' Ruathain forced a smile, 'Yes, you are an idiot. But you are also my friend. She obviously doesn't want me, but I think she is in love with you. Go see her father.'

  'How could she love me?'

  'Damned if I know,' said Ruathain, sadly. 'Women are a mystery to me. When we were all children she always used to follow us around. You remember? We used to throw sticks at her, and shout for her to go away.'

  'I never threw sticks,' said Varaconn.

  'Then maybe that's why she loves you. Now go and make yourself look handsome. Cefir will not tolerate a shabby suitor. Best cloak and leggings.'

  'I couldn't do that,' said Varaconn.

  But he had done it. The marriage took place three weeks later on the first day of summer, at the Feast of Beltine.

  And so had followed the finest year of his life. Meria was a constant joy and Varaconn could scarce believe his good fortune. During the spring and following summer Varaconn caught and gentled sixty-two ponies. Sixteen of them had been of high quality, and most of these had been sold as cavalry mounts to the nobles who followed the Long Laird. The profit had been high, and Varaconn was determined to buy an iron sword, like the borrowed blade he now wore.