Sword in the Storm

  Back in the settlement Connavar's weakness lasted throughout the bitter winter. He lost weight, and succumbed to three fevers, none of them life threatening. He developed a hacking cough, his shoulder ached continuously and his injured lung did not seem to be repairing itself, leaving him constantly out of breath. Meria worried over him constantly, and could not understand his loss of spirit.

  Braefar knew that he was sick at heart over losing Arian, and his envy of his brother faded. He tried to cheer him, encouraging him to exercise and build his strength. But Connavar seemed to have little energy, and even less desire. He slept in the afternoons, lying by the hearth, wrapped in a blanket.

  Even when he did try to exercise, the freezing sleet and bitter winds would drive him back inside. One day, when the sky was the dull grey of a sword blade, he walked as far as the second bridge, and paused by the frozen stream.

  Arian, wrapped in a heavy green shawl, came out to stand beside him. 'You look stronger,' she said. Conn ignored her and made to walk on. She took hold of his arm. He winced as pain flared into his shoulder. 'Don't hate me,' she said. 'They told me you were dying.'

  He turned his head and looked into her eyes. She fell back a step when she saw the fury there. 'Aye,' he said, 'I do understand. Had I been told you were dying I too would have rushed off to a feast and shagged the first woman I saw. Get away from me, whore. You are nothing to me now. Less than nothing.' It was a lie, a terrible lie, and yet the hurt on her face as he spoke lifted him.

  Slowly he trudged away through the snow. And as he walked he realized that Arian had supplied him with one last gift. His anger had returned - and with it the desire to be strong again.

  Every day after that he would stand in the cold for up to an hour, splitting logs with the long-handled axe. It was painfully slow. He would stop every few minutes trying to regain his breath, sweat coursing down his face. When weariness came upon him he would think of Arian, and allow the anger to fuel his muscles.

  Gradually, as the first warm breezes of spring drifted across the mountains, his strength improved. He began to take longer walks, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion - a point which arrived with remarkable swiftness.

  His left shoulder continued to trouble him, especially on cold or rainy days. Ruathain set him several exercises to strengthen and stretch the muscles. There was a young oak some thirty paces from Ruathain's house, with a thick branch that jutted out eight feet above the ground. Every day Connavar would stand beneath it, jump and curl his hands around the wood. Then he would haul himself up until his chin touched the branch, lower himself and repeat the move. The first time was incredibly awkward. He could not raise his left arm without pain, and was forced to jump, hold on with his right, then manoeuvre the left over the branch. Once in place, with Ruathain watching, he had hung for several heartbeats, and managed one lift.

  He had cursed aloud as he fell to the ground. Ruathain moved to his side. 'You must think of your strength as a deer you are hunting,' he said.

  'I don't understand,' Conn answered, rubbing his throbbing shoulder.

  'You do not take a bow and rush out into the woods. You search until you know all the deer's habits, then you find a place to wait. Even when you see him you do not shoot too soon, and you never loose a shaft at a deer on the run. His blood will be up, and that makes the meat tough and hard to chew. The hunter needs patience. Endless, quiet, calm, patience. Your strength is the deer. You must seek it calmly, methodically. Plan out your strategy. Look for small gains. Come here every morning. Do not try too many lifts. You will disappoint yourself and damage your wounded muscles. Today you almost made one. Tomorrow look for two.'

  'I am sick of being weak,' said Conn.

  'You are weak because you have been sick. As I said, look for a small improvement every day. When you walk mark the spot where you feel that you cannot go on. The following day seek to go ten paces past it.'

  Conn felt calmer as they spoke. 'Have you ever been wounded?' he asked.

  'Once, when I was a year older than you. Not as badly. I took a spear in the right shoulder. I thought my strength would never return. But it did. Trust me, Connavar, you will be stronger than you were before. Now let us walk for a while.'

  It was a bright clear day, but in the distance rain clouds were hovering over Caer Druagh. Ruathain led the youth up a short hill, stopping several times to allow him to catch his breath. At the top the two of them sat down and stared out over the valley. Ruathain's herds were grazing and Conn could see Arbonacast sitting his pony on the far slope.

  'I do not see Mentha,' said Conn. 'I thought he survived the winter.'

  'He did,' said Ruathain. 'And a young bull challenged him for mastery of the herd. He and Mentha fought for several hours.' Ruathain gave a sad smile. 'Mentha finally beat him. It was his last moment of triumph. We found him the following morning. His heart had given out in the night.'

  'That is sad,' said Conn. 'He was a bonny bull.'

  'Aye, he was. But he died as a king, undefeated, unbowed.'

  'Do you think it mattered to him?'

  Ruathain shrugged. 'I like to think so. How are you feeling?'

  'I'm having trouble getting my breath.'

  'The lung worries me. Tomorrow, when I take her provisions, you will ride with me to see Vorna.'

  Conn glanced at the Big Man. Every two days throughout the winter Ruathain had travelled to Vorna's cave, carrying provisions. At first he had ridden out, but when the winter was at its coldest he had trudged in snowshoes through the drifts. Once there he had gathered wood for her, and made sure she was safe. 'You have been good to her,' said Conn. 'I thank you for it.'

  'A man stands by his friends,' said Ruathain. 'No matter what. You understand this better than most.' He smiled suddenly. 'Have I told you how proud you made me?'

  Conn laughed aloud. 'Only every day.'

  'It cannot be said often enough. Now let us walk back. Take your time.'

  As they made their slow way across the fields Conn saw a thin plume of smoke rising from the chimney of Banouin's house. The merchant had not returned for the winter, and this had depressed Conn, for he feared that the Norvii robbers had indeed lain in wait for him, and that he lay dead in some forest thicket. Ruathain saw him staring at the smoke.

  'The Foreigner arrived back last night,' he said, 'with twenty-five heavily laden ponies. Only the gods know how he brought them through the storm.'

  For the first time that winter Conn forgot his weakness. 'I feared he was dead.'

  Ruathain shook his head. 'He'd be a hard man to kill,' he said, his expression suddenly grim. 'He is far tougher than he looks. I hope all his people are not like him.'

  'Do you not like him?' asked Conn, surprised at the Big Man's mood change.

  'He is a foreigner, and his people make war on all their neighbours. Before you can go to war in a strange land you must first send out scouts to study the terrain. If his people ever cross the water and attack our land who do you think will have supplied them with maps?'

  Conn was no fool, and the Big Man's words struck home. Even so, he did not want to consider them. Banouin was a friend, and until he was proved to be a spy, Conn was willing to put aside any doubts about his actions. Yet the seed had been planted, and, in Banouin's company, he found himself listening with even more care as the Foreigner told the stories of his travels.

  'Did you know,' said Banouin, as they sat before his hearth drinking watered wine, 'that the story of your fight with the bear has reached the southern coast?'

  'It was not a fight,' said Conn, with a shy grin. 'I stabbed it twice and it ripped me apart.'

  'According to the tale being sung there you fought it for a long time, and it was almost dead when the other men arrived. Oh yes, and you were not protecting a crippled boy, but a beautiful young maiden out gathering flowers.'

  Conn laughed aloud. 'A princess, no doubt?'

  'Indeed so. And you, it seems, have noble blood. Born from a line of Rig
ante heroes.'

  'People are stupid to believe these things. What is happening beyond the water?'

  Banouin's smile faded. 'My people are at war with one another again. Great battles are being fought. Thousands have already been slain. But Jasaray will emerge triumphant. Of that I have no doubt.'

  'He is a great fighter, then,' said Conn.

  'I don't believe he knows how to use a sword,' answered Banouin. 'But he knows how to use an army.' They sat in silence for a while. Banouin added fuel to the fire and refilled their goblets. 'There is something I want to show you,' said the Foreigner, moving into the back room. When he returned he was carrying a short sword of burnished iron. 'I brought this back,' he said, offering the carved wooden hilt to the young man. Conn took the weapon and hefted it.

  'It has good balance, but the blade is very short. It is not much longer than a good hunting knife.'

  'This sword is changing the world,' said Banouin.

  'Are you jesting?' asked Conn. The blade was no longer than his forearm, the wooden grip protected by short quillons of bronze. Rising, he swung the sword. It felt clumsy, lacking the grace of the more familiar longsword.

  'It is not a hacking weapon,' said Banouin. 'It is designed to thrust.'

  'If I came against a man carrying this, and I was wielding Ruathain's longsword, I know who would win,' Conn told him.

  'Probably true - if, as you say, it is one on one. But you are missing the point. When a Keltoi army clashes with a Stone army the Keltoi are always outnumbered three to one.'

  'How so? You told me that in most of Jasaray's battles he was facing huge numbers of tribesmen.'

  Moving to the shelf by the wall Banouin lifted down a small chest. From it he took several handfuls of small silver coins, which he scattered on the thick red rug at his feet. 'If thirty Rigante warriors were to charge an enemy, on foot, how far apart would each warrior need to be?'

  Conn thought about it. In battle, with each man swinging a longsword with a three-foot blade, they would be at least five feet apart. Any closer and there was the risk of being injured by a friend's sword. He said this to Banouin. Kneeling on the rug the Foreigner separated thirty coins, spreading them out. Then he looked up at Conn. The attacking Rigante would look like this?' he asked. Conn looked down at the shining silver pieces, and pictured them as charging Rigante.

  'Yes,' he said, at last. 'Not too far apart, but not too close.'

  Banouin took a further ten coins, setting them close together in two, tight lines of five. 'These are men standing shoulder to shoulder. Each of them has a rectangular shield on the left arm. The shields can be brought together forming a wall, then pushed outwards to allow the short swords to thrust.' Gently he eased the wide-spread coins forward until they almost touched the two lines of five. 'Picture this as two groups of warriors, and you will see that every Rigante to reach the line will face three shields and three swords. A short, thrusting sword enables the soldiers to stand close together, fighting as a unit. It also means that no matter how great the enemy force they will be at a huge disadvantage, for as each warrior reaches the battle line he will face three opponents. Either that or the attacking force will become so closely packed they will be unable to use their swords.'

  'I am sure any Rigante would be a match for three Stone soldiers,' said Conn, loyally.

  Banouin smiled. 'You have seen only the sword. I did not bring the bronze shield, the iron breastplate, the plumed iron helm. Nor the greaves to protect the shins, the baked leather wrist and forearm protectors, or the chainmail tunic. Most deaths in battle among the Rigante follow neck wounds, or body-piercing cuts to the heart, belly and groin. Sometimes warriors bleed to death slowly. At other times they succumb to infection and gangrene. Like all the tribespeople I have met, here and beyond the water, you fight largely without armour. You fall upon the enemy in great numbers and each battle breaks down into a thousand skirmishes between heroes. You will need to learn to fight a different way if you wish to retain your independence.'

  'You speak as if war with your people was inevitable,' said Conn, quietly.

  'I fear it is. Not this year or next. First Jasaray must subdue his own enemies from within the empire. Then he will tackle the Perdii, or the Ostro, or the Gath. That will take several years. But - if he survives - he will come here, Conn.'

  'Will you have supplied him with maps?' asked Conn.

  Banouin shook his head. 'No. I carry no maps any more. It is all in my head. And I will not fight again. I have seen war. I have witnessed the desolation and the torment. No. When the war comes I will hire a ship and sail to the west. It is said there are fabulous lands there, rich and fertile. Perhaps the people there will have no use for war.'

  'A weak soft people they will be,' muttered Conn. 'A strong man will always have enemies, and those who live on good land will need to defend it against those who dwell on poorer soil. That is the way of the world, Banouin. I may be young, but I know this to be true. The strong will always rule, the weak suffer. This is the way the gods planned it. Why else should it always be so?'

  'Do not bring religion into this debate!' warned Banouin. 'I have no patience for it. Let me turn this argument around. If my people come here and destroy your armies, does this mean you deserve to lose your lands? Would that be fair?'

  Conn laughed. 'Only the defeated, the luckless and the weak talk of fairness and unfairness, and what is deserved or undeserved. All I know is that I will fight for my people, and I will kill any enemy who comes to Caer Druagh.'

  'As you killed the bear?' asked Banouin, softly.

  Conn blushed. 'That was different. I did not have the weapons to kill the bear.'

  'No difference, Conn. The Rigante do not have the weapons to stop my people.' His words hung in the air. Conn thought about them, rolling them over in his mind.

  'When do you head south again?' he asked, finally.

  'In three months. High summer is a good time to travel.'

  'I will travel with you. I will see these armies, and this Jasaray.'

  Once the thaw was under way Vorna left the sanctuary of her cave and made the long trek down to the settlement. It was not that she was particularly anxious for company. People had never liked Vorna, even as a child. There was something fey about her, they said. Other children avoided her. Once her powers developed she was even more isolated, and the coldness in the eyes of others became fear. Even when she arrived at the homes of the sick and healed them she could sense their relief as she moved towards the door to leave.

  No, it was not exactly company she sought. But after a winter trapped in a cold, grey cave, she yearned for movement and sound; the rhythmic thudding of the forge hammer, the laughter of children, the sound of hoof beats on the firm ground, the lowing of cattle, the chatter of people as they greeted the arrival of the new sun. And taste! Fresh-baked bread, hot honey tarts, sour milk porridge.

  She was thinking of these delights as she crossed the bridge. The first person she saw was a crofter named Eanor, whose wife she had healed ten days before the bear attacked Connavar. He looked up from his work, digging over the earth of his vegetable patch, and smiled warmly at her. 'Daan's blessing, lady,' he called. 'Is it not a fine day?' The greeting shook her. No-one spoke when Vorna passed by. Surprised, she merely nodded and walked on. Eanor was right, the day was fine, the sun warm, the sky clear and blue.

  Further on she saw the baker's wife, Pelain, spreading seed for her chickens in the outer yard of the bakery, the birds clucking around her feet. Seeing Vorna she smiled and moved across to intercept her. 'Welcome home,' said Pelain. Vorna felt as if she were in a dream, and did not know how to respond. Pelain shook the last of the seeds from the fold in her dress and took Vorna's arm. 'Come inside and eat,' she said. 'Borga made cheese bread this morning. It melts in the mouth.'

  Meekly Vorna allowed herself to be led into the house. Borga was sitting at the pine table, dipping bread into a bowl of rich stew. 'We have a guest,' said Pelain. Borga's fa
t face eased into a warm smile.

  'You are welcome, lady,' he said. 'Sit yourself.' Pelain took Vorna's heavy, hooded cloak and hung it on a hook by the door. Vorna sat down at the table. Borga poured water into a goblet and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks, but could think of nothing to say. Pelain cut three thick slices from a warm loaf and smeared them with butter. Vorna ate quietly.

  'The boy is doing well now,' said Borga. 'Yesterday I saw him running over the hills. It was a fine thing that you did. Very fine.' He rose and moved through to the back of the house, and into the bakery.

  Pelain sat opposite Vorna. 'The bread is good, isn't it?'

  'Yes. Tasty.' Vorna was recovering some of her composure now, but she was unused to small talk and felt uncomfortable.

  Pelain leaned in, her voice low. 'He may be useless in bed, but he makes a loaf the gods would die for.' The baker's wife chatted on for a while, then noticed the silence from her guest. 'I am sorry, Vorna,' she said. 'I do tend to talk too much.'

  'Why are you being ... so nice to me?' asked the former witch.

  Pelain shrugged and gave a shy smile. 'Because you are one of us now. You gave up your powers to save Connavar. Meria told me. She said you risked death to bring him back from the Shadowlands. Everyone feels the same, Vorna. You don't mind, do you? I know you like to keep to yourself, but . . .' her voice tailed away, and she rose from the table to cut herself some bread.

  'I do not mind,' said Vorna. 'And I thank you for the breakfast.' Pelain turned and grinned at her.

  'Isn't it nice to see the sun shine again?'

  'Yes,' agreed Vorna. Moving from the table she took her cloak and draped it over her arm. As she reached the door Pelain called out:

  'You are welcome whenever you choose to call.'

  'I will remember that.'

  Vorna stepped into the sunshine and walked out into the settlement. As she made her way towards Meria's house people waved to her, or called out a greeting. By the time she reached Meria's door she was trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears.