Sword in the Storm

  'Yes. Is this how you looked in life?'

  'When I was young. I was almost a hundred years old when I died.'

  'Why did the Seidh keep your soul alive?'

  'They had their reasons. Now tell me why you saved the fawn.'

  Conn shrugged. 'It was trapped in the brambles. I could not leave it there to die.'

  'As you could not leave Riamfada?'

  Conn shook his head. 'That was different. He was my friend. A man does not desert his friends.'

  'How do you feel?'

  Conn smiled. 'Tranquil. It is very pleasant here, but I know it is a dream place, and my body remains in your wood, cold and wet and bleeding.'

  'Not so,' he said. 'It is being healed while you sit here. Fresh clothes will be there for you. And a gift from a friend.'

  'My friends are all dead,' he said sadly, remembering Banouin. He found he could picture the corpse on the gibbet now without any hatred for the people who had killed him. He sighed. 'What is it that you have taken from me?' he asked .

  'We have taken nothing. We have merely . . . separated you from your more . . . human instincts. Had we not done so you could not have come here.'

  'My human instincts?'

  'Your anger, your violence, your hatred, your lust for revenge. None of these have a place here.'

  'But I am human,' said Conn, 'so which part of me is here?'

  'The best part,' answered the figure. The spirit, free of the darkness of the flesh.'

  Conn sat in the sunshine, realizing that he felt more at peace than at any time in his life. He looked back at the chained bear. 'Why is the bear here?' he asked. 'And why the chains? It is already motionless.'

  'We did not put the chains on the bear, Connavar. They are your chains.'

  'Mine? I don't understand.'

  'The bear is that part of you which cannot exist here. The chains are self-imposed: duty, responsibility, honour. Without them the bear would be merely a savage and selfish killer. Are you ready to return now?'

  He thought about the question. Here everything was peaceful, the air alive with harmony. 'Could I stay among the Seidh, like you, if I wished to?'

  'No,' answered the figure, sadly. 'One day, perhaps.'

  Conn was not anxious to return to the world, and he sat quietly for a moment, savouring the tranquillity. 'If the Seidh are truly a race without hatred, or anger,' he asked, 'why do they allow the Morrigu to walk among us, bringing such evil?'

  'An interesting question, Connavar. In response, let me say this: You wanted glory, the Morrigu gave it to you. Vorna wanted to be loved and accepted. Now she is. In what way does that make the actions of the Morrigu evil? All our actions, Seidh and human, result in consequences - consequences we do not always welcome. The Morrigu offers gifts. If a man - or woman - chooses to accept one then surely they must also accept the possible consequences? You asked for glory. What if you had asked for true love, or the healing of Riamfada, or peace and harmony for your people? Think on that, Connavar. Those who seek the gifts of the Morrigu always ask something for themselves - personal gain, fame, skill with a sword, beautiful women to grace their beds, or handsome men to woo and love them. Always selfish. Beware judging what you do not understand.'

  The voice faded away. And the world spun.

  He awoke in the forest, opening his eyes to see a chestnut pony standing quietly, reins trailing to the ground. For a moment he retained the sense of harmony he had known in the dream-world of the Seidh. Then it was gone. He remembered the hunters and the long days of the chase, the fighting and the killing. More than that he remembered why, and this time, when he thought of Banouin, the warm fires of rage flared within him.

  Pushing himself to his feet he saw that fresh clothes had indeed been left for him, folded and laid upon a flat rock. There was a shirt of thin, dark leather, so soft that it felt like satin, a pair of black leather leggings, with an integral belt of mottled snakeskin, and a pair of dark riding boots, reinforced at the sides with silver. Stripping off his own ruined shirt and leggings he pulled on the Seidh garments. As he expected, they fitted him well. Then he moved to the pony. It eyed him warily, and he spoke softly to it, slowly raising his hand and stroking its muzzle.

  It was then that he saw the sword resting against a tree. It was a rider's sword, the blade heavy and slightly curved. It was of the same shining silver metal as his knife, but it was the hilt which caught his eye. It was a mixture of gold, silver and ebony; the black quillons shaped like oak leaves, the golden fist guard embossed with the head of a bear, and the silver pommel bearing a carving of a fawn trapped in brambles. Conn hefted the weapon. It was lighter than he expected, and beautifully balanced.

  A gift from a friend, the figure had said.

  It was good to know he had such friends. He thought then of poor Riamfada. He would have made Conn a sword had he lived. It would have been almost as beautiful. 'I miss you, little fish,' he said.

  The scabbard lay beside the tree. It was of hardened black leather, and sported its own dark baldric, which he looped over his shoulder. Then he gathered up the pony's reins and vaulted to the saddle.

  Slowly he rode from the trees. He was surprised to see the lone hunter still sitting his mount at the top of the hill. The ponies of the dead men were cropping grass nearby. Conn rode towards the hunter. The man made no effort to flee, but dismounted and sat upon the grass waiting for him. Despite his dark hair he was old, Conn saw, his face lined, his eyes knowing.

  Hatred was strong in the young Rigante's heart, and he intended to kill the hunter. However, the man made no hostile move, and the youngster was intrigued.

  'Are they all dead?' asked the man.

  'Aye. Killed by the Seidh - the Talis, as you call them.'

  The older man sighed. 'I am Parax the hunter. I am glad you survived. I have always been fascinated by the Talis. I would dearly like to know why they let you live.'

  Conn shrugged. 'I have no answers. Draw your sword and let us get this over with.'

  'I don't think so,' said Parax. 'Never was much of a swordsman. I'll do my best to stop you killing me, though, if that is your intention. Though I hope you will think better of it.'

  Conn scanned the countryside. There was no sign of other riders. He was confused now. He had expected his enemy to fight. Instead the man was sitting, relaxed on a hilltop, conversing as if they were old friends. Conn had no experience of such a situation, but - in spite of his hate - he felt it would be wholly wrong to cut the old man down. Parax pushed his hand through his hair and chuckled. 'I have come to know you, Connavar. I have followed your trail and read your heart. You are a fighter, not a murderer. I think that I like you. I wouldn't say that of most men.'

  'I care nothing for your likes or dislikes,' snapped Conn. 'When you saw me emerge from the wood why did you wait here? You knew I would come to fight.'

  'There's the question of pride, young man. I am a hunter - and though I say it with all due modesty, I am the best hunter of men this land has ever seen. I was told to find you. Now I have done that. No-one can say that Parax failed. That means a lot to me.'

  'Your people murdered my friend,' said Conn, seeking now to rekindle his anger.

  'I know,' said Parax. 'It was a foul deed, committed by foul men. His killing was not the first. The Perdii had a good king, you know. Life was fine. He cared. Cared about his people, felt their sorrows, shared their joys. Carac had him murdered, dragged to a river and held under water. That was his reward for eighteen years of good rule. His wife was strangled, his son butchered. And all for a crown that will be torn from his grasp by Jasaray and his Stone army.'

  'You say the Perdii had a good king. Are you not from that tribe?'

  'No. I am of the Rodessi. But I have lived among the Perdii for twenty years.' Parax rose smoothly and walked to his pony, dipping his hand into a sack hanging from the saddle. 'You want something to eat?' he asked. 'I have a little meat pie, flavoured with onion. It is good,' said Parax.


  Conn was becoming lost in this exchange, and he knew it. Parax pulled the pie clear, carefully broke the crust and handed a section to the young warrior.

  'Thank you,' said Conn, automatically.

  'My pleasure,' answered Parax, with a grin. Then he sat down again and ate. Conn tasted the pie. Parax had understated its virtues. It was more than good. It was food for the gods! Forcing himself to eat slowly he devoured the pie, then licked the gravy from his fingers.

  'Better than raw rabbit, eh?' said Parax.

  'I never tasted better,' agreed Conn.

  'I bought it from a crofter's wife yesterday. You should have tasted it hot. There's nothing like beef and onion to satisfy an appetite.' Parax swallowed the last mouthful and wiped his hand across his mouth. 'You know,' he said, 'I had the feeling you would survive the Talis wood. I see that not only did you survive, but you also emerged with gifts. New clothes, a sword. They are a fey people, but they seem to like you. Tell me, what do they look like?'

  'I saw a face form in the bark of a tree, and I dreamed I was with a man whose features I could not - at first - see clearly, even though he sat beside me in bright sunlight.' He took a deep breath. 'I have decided not to kill you, hunter.'

  'I knew that,' said Parax, climbing to his feet. 'As I said, you are not a murderer, young Rigante. Do you want me to carry a message to Carac?'

  Conn's expression hardened. 'I have already sent a message. One is enough.'

  'I heard it. So did he,' said Parax. Turning his back on Conn he walked to his pony and swung into the saddle. There are riders to the west and to the north. Were I you, I would head due east. The border is less than a day away. There is a town there. The Stone army is camped nearby. You will be safe there, I think.'

  Turning his mount the hunter rode down the hill. Conn watched him go.

  Then he mounted his own pony and headed for the border. Parax was right. He was no murderer. But that was not why he had allowed the old man to live. Conn's hatred was for the Perdii only. For the people who had murdered his friend.

  And the blood price for that crime would be high.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE STONE GENERAL, JASARAY, MOVED SLOWLY ALONG THE INNER perimeter of the marching camp, his hooded eyes scanning the activity around him. Eight thousand soldiers, working in highly skilled teams to pre-ordained tasks, creating in a few hours a fortress that should have taken days. As Jasaray passed, all the soldiers felt the presence of the general, and believed they could feel his pale blue gaze whisper across them like a winter breeze, judging their labours, the speed of their work, the precision of their actions. Not one of them risked a glance in his direction.

  He walked, arms clasped behind his back, the sun glinting from his polished iron breastplate. There was little that was imposing about his physique. Several inches under six feet the general was a slim figure, his face thin and ascetic, his short-cropped hair thinning at the temples and crown. Without the armour he looked like the teacher he had been before discovering his true vocation.

  All of his soldiers knew the story of the Scholar. At twenty-eight, during the first civil war, the mathematician and lecturer Jasaray had been hastily commissioned into the Third Army of the Republic, serving under the general, Sobius. His role had been that of quartermaster; it was thought that his logistical skills could best be used in estimating quantities of supplies, numbers of wagons, and the provision and supply of equipment. Despite his lack of military training Jasaray had asked for, and been given, the rank of second general. This, he maintained, was necessary when dealing with other officers. Without this rank his authority as quartermaster would be undermined. He had proved himself more than able in this role, and the Third Army was the best supplied and armed in the Republic.

  Unfortunately for the army it was not the best led.

  Sobius had been out-thought, out-flanked and outclassed. The army had been crushed, fourteen thousand men slaughtered, a mere four thousand escaping. With most of the senior officers slain, the inexperienced Jasaray was forced to take command. Organizing a fighting rearguard he staved off the rebel force for seventeen days until reinforcements arrived. With the leaders of the Republic in disarray and ready to surrender, Jasaray led a counterattack on the rebel army, routing it and capturing two of their leaders. Three thousand rebel soldiers were crucified, the leaders beheaded. At twenty-nine Jasaray was the undisputed hero of the Republic.

  At forty-two he was the greatest general the people of Stone had ever known, respected and feared throughout what was still recognized - despite Republican supremacy - as the empire. One campaign after another had been won with clinical efficiency as the empire expanded. Jasaray became ever more powerful within the Republic.

  To his soldiers the Scholar was a godlike figure to be obeyed instantly, and to be feared. He was also a general who always made sure there was hot food for his men, and their wages arrived on time. Added to this he was a careful planner, never putting his men in unnecessary danger. These were qualities common soldiers valued above all others. That his discipline was harsh - floggings and hangings were commonplace - did not concern them unduly. Almost all of the disciplinary actions related to carelessness, and carelessness could cost the lives of soldiers. The men understood this. And they liked the fact that the Scholar never wore embossed armour, nor carried jewel-encrusted weapons. His breastplate was iron, his sword standard issue, his helmet - when he bothered to wear it - a battered bronze without plume or crest. The only sign of his rank was the purple cloak he wore, and the fact that a mosaic stone floor was set out in his tent every night, the numbered stones carried in six huge chests on the lead wagon of the baggage train.

  Jasaray watched the construction of the fortress, his gaze roving over the entire area, noting the work rate, the positioning of the coloured flags that signified where tents would be pitched and baggage animals picketed. Behind him walked four junior officers and six runners, each hoping that nothing would cause the general any irritation.

  They had been on the march now for six days, and in that time had constructed six marching camps just like this one, the longest sides twelve hundred feet, the shorter nine hundred, an area of more than a million square feet. There would be two gates, one in the east, the other in the west, constructed from felled trees, their trunks expertly split. Even now horsemen were hauling the timbers from the woods to the south.

  Stone armies had long known of the value of fortified camps, but it had taken the genius of Jasaray to refine the process until it was almost an art form.

  Each day, three hours before dusk, while marching in enemy territory, the two lead Panthers, six thousand hard-eyed veterans, would fan out in a protective screen around the area the officers of the Flag Party had decreed should be the marching camp. The officers would then measure out the defence perimeter line, marking it with green flags. Inside this vast rectangle of up to eighty acres they would flag the dimensions of the general's headquarters tent, the tents of others officers and men, the area of picket lines for mounts, and the section set aside for the baggage train.

  As the next Panther regiment arrived its soldiers would remove their armour, form into work teams, take up their shovels and begin to dig the defensive rectangular trench. Within an hour and a half the trench would be complete, and a rampart wall thrown up along its length.

  By the time the baggage train arrived the stockade would be almost complete, and every unit would know where to go and what to do. Once the digging work was finished the soldiers would put on their armour and retire into the fortification, along with the two Panthers of the defensive screen. Last to arrive would be the cavalry units patrolling the outlying land for sign of the enemy.

  Within the space of three hours a huge fortification would have been constructed in the heart of enemy territory. By nightfall the full army, and all wagons and equipment, would be camped in relative safety.

  Jasaray walked on as the soldiers carved out the great trench, hurling turf up to create
the defence perimeter of the marching camp. Elsewhere officers were measuring out the area for Jasaray's tent headquarters, while his six personal servants stood waiting to lay the general's mosaic floor. Jasaray's gaze flicked to the north, and the distant line of hills beyond which the enemy were gathering. He could see his scouts patrolling, and wished once more that his military budget could have extended to more Stone cavalry. It did not sit well that he had to rely on Keltoi tribesmen. He had no doubt that the Gath, Ostaran, was a fighter, but he was - like most of his race - hot headed and volatile, lacking any understanding of broad strategy.

  Even as the thought occurred to him he saw a tribesman walking towards the fortification. He was leading an injured pony. Something about the man created a flicker of interest in the general. But at that moment he saw the first wagon of the baggage train cresting a small hill. His eyes narrowed. More wagons appeared, patrolling foot soldiers moving alongside them. The men were too close to the train. If the enemy attacked they would be driven back into the line of the wagons, unable to form a fighting square. Jasaray flicked his fingers. A young runner appeared alongside him.

  The general pointed to the protective line of soldiers. 'Find the officer and tell him to open the regulation distance between his troops and the baggage train. Also tell him to report to my tent as soon as his men are inside the stockade.'

  Irritated now, the general began to pace up and down. The four aides and five remaining runners stood tensely by. Each of them was silently cursing the recalcitrant patrol officer, for Jasaray's anger could only be assuaged by victims. The general swung round to the youngest of the aides, a seventeen-year-old on his first campaign. 'Quote me the words of Getius concerning marching camps,' he said. The young man licked his lips.

  'I ... do not know . . . precisely . . . sir,' he said. 'But the main cut of his theory—'

  'I did not ask for the main cut.'' Jasaray was silent for a moment, his pale eyes fixed on the youth's face. 'Go away,' he said, softly. 'I shall ask you another question tomorrow. If you do not know the answer precisely, sir I shall send you home in shame.' The young man started to turn, then remembered to salute. Jasaray waved him away contemptuously and turned his attention to the others. 'I take it one of you knows the answer? What about you, Barus?'