Conn climbed wearily to his feet and gazed around the battleground. Thousands of bodies covered the grass around what had been the fighting square, among them several hundred bronze-armoured soldiers of Stone.
Crows were circling above the battlefield. Conn found himself thinking of the green hills of the Rigante, the towering snow-covered peaks of Caer Druagh, and the gentle pace of life in Three Streams.
'I have had my fill of slaughter,' he said.
'That is a shame,' said Valanus. 'For the real slaughter is just about to begin.'
That night Conn's dreams were troubled. He saw Banouin sitting beside a stream, talking to a youth. They were both smiling, enjoying each other's company in the sunshine. Conn tried to run to them, but his legs were heavy and he could scarcely move. Banouin saw him, but rose from the stream and, taking the boy by the hand, moved away from him. 'It is me, Conn. I avenged you!' he shouted. Banouin looked back once, his eyes filled with sadness. But he did not speak. The youth also glanced back, and Conn saw it was the child charioteer he had killed with the javelin. A mist grew up around them both and they vanished from sight.
Conn awoke in a cold sweat. The stench of burning flesh was clinging to the air in the tent. Jasaray knew that diseases sprang from rotting corpses, and always had all bodies burned at the end of a battle. There were so many dead this time that more than a dozen great trenches had been dug, and the fires burned for most of the night.
Pushing aside his blankets, Conn pulled on his boots and walked from the tent. It was midnight and hundreds of soldiers were still working by torch light, hauling Perdii corpses to fresh trenches and hurling the bodies in.
Conn felt a weight on his heart. It was just a dream, he told himself. Banouin did not really turn his back on you. His mouth was dry, and he remembered their talk back in the cave. Banouin's voice whispered up from the halls of memory. 'I am not saying do not fight. I am saying do not hate. It is not war that leads to murderous excesses, but hate. Whole villages, cities, peoples wiped out. Hatred is like a plague. It is all-consuming, and it springs from man to man. Our enemies become demons, their wives the mothers of demons, their children infant demons. You understand? We tell stories of our enemies eating babes - as was done with the people. Our hearts turn dark and, in turn, we visit a terrible retribution upon those we now hate. But hatred never dies, Conn. We plant the seeds of it in every action inspired by it. Kill a man, and his son will grow to hate you and seek revenge. When he obtains that revenge your son will learn to hate him. Can you see what I am saying?'
Banouin would have hated this retribution, and he would not have desired such dreadful revenge. A cold breeze blew across the tents. Conn shivered. 'I did not do it for you, Banouin. I know that now. I did it for me. I tried to drown my grief in blood.'
'It is in your nature,' said a familiar voice. Conn turned slowly to see the Morrigu standing behind him, her ancient frame silhouetted by the corpse fires. 'You let the bear loose, Connavar. And you will do it again.'
'No. I have learned from this.'
'The bear is a part of you, human. It will have its day.'
'I do not wish to argue about it,' he said. 'I had hoped that revenge would be like honey upon the tongue. It was - as my blade plunged home. But when I saw the boy . . .'
'The taste turned to bile in your belly,' said the Morrigu.
'Aye, it did.'
'You did not destroy the Perdii, Connavar. You were merely a soldier. Whether you had come here or not they would still have died. Your cavalry charge saved a few hundred Stone soldiers, but did not, ultimately, alter the course of the battle.'
'I wish we had never come, Banouin and I.'
'Wishes are dishes the poor feed upon,' she said. 'Come, we will walk together in the high hills, where the air is still fresh and I can smell the new leaves.'
It surprised Conn that he wanted to accompany her, but then he realized that, despite her malevolence, she was - at least -someone from home, a familiar form, a creature he had last seen in the sanctuary of the Rigante mountains. Together they climbed the hills, and moved beyond the tree line. The Morrigu found a small hollow, tapped her foot at a tree root, which then writhed up from the ground forming a seat for her. She sank down on it, resting her head against the trunk of the tree. 'That is better,' she said. Conn sat down on the ground.
From here he could see the fallen chariot. Carac's body had been removed.
'He broke his geasa,' said the Morrigu.
'Who?'
'Carac. I told him that if any royal blood was spilled he would not live past his fortieth birthday - which, incidentally was today. So he drowned his brother, strangled the wife and poisoned the son. He thought he had cheated fate. But the wife cut him as he attacked her. Carac had already killed his brother, and had seized the crown. He was, therefore, king, and, by definition, royal. His own blood doomed him.'
'Had she not cut him I would still have reached him,' said Conn.
'No. You were killed in the cavalry charge.'
'I wasn't killed.'
'Forgive me,' said the Morrigu. 'For a moment I forgot I was speaking to a human, and, for you, the passing of time is like the journey of a leaf, from bud in spring to withered autumn.'
'And for you it is different?'
'So different your mind could not encompass it. I have seen you born a hundred times, and watched you die in a hundred ways. In one life you caught a chill and did not reach your first birthday. In another the bear killed you.'
'And where do I live in all these lives?'
'In the shadow of Caer Druagh.'
'Then why have I never seen myself in these other lives?'
The Morrigu closed her eyes for a moment. 'Were I not so weary I would slap myself in the face for ever beginning this conversation. Let us put aside the question of multiple reality and return to the prosaic.' She opened her eyes. 'Why were you out walking tonight?'
'I had a dream . . .' he began, then fell silent. 'At least I think it was a dream.' He told her of seeing Banouin with the boy he had killed.
'It was a dream,' she said. 'Not a vision.'
'You are sure? It would grieve me to think that Banouin had turned against me.'
'I am sure. Banouin's spirit has passed over the water, and on from the world of men.'
'He did not see my revenge, then?'
'No. Would you wish him to?'
Conn shook his head. 'It would have saddened him.'
'There are many things to come that would sadden him more,' she said.
'What do you mean?'
'Vorna is pregnant with his child. Both will die. The babe will be breeched, and there will be no-one close to save either of them.'
'No,' said Conn, 'that must not happen! It would be so unfair.'
'Unfair?' She laughed. 'Where in this miserable world of humans do you see fairness? On the battlefield where thirty thousand lie dead? In the homes of the widows? In the eyes of the children orphaned?'
Conn fell silent, then he looked into the ancient face. 'You could save her. You could save them both. You are Seidh.'
'Why should I choose to?'
'You once told me that I would ask a gift from you, and you would grant it.'
The Morrigu smiled. Think carefully, child. I did say that. And you could ask for riches, or good health all your days. You could ask for strong sons, or a loving wife. I could give you Arian. Or - and think on this - I could give you victory over the people of Stone. Thousands of lives, Connavar, could be saved by such a gift. An entire people. Without that gift it could be the Rigante burning in those pits.'
'Aye, it could,' said Conn. 'Now will you help Vorna and the child?'
'Before I say yes or no, let me ask you this: what if the child sickens and dies within days, or Vorna is touched by the plague within weeks? Will you still feel this gift is worthwhile?'
'I have heard that your gifts are double edged. That when people ask for joy you give them sorrow. But if you give me your
word that you will not visit evil upon Vorna or the babe then I ask again for you to help her.'
'You know that one day I will come to you, and that there will be a price to pay for my help?'
'And I will pay it.'
'Then it shall be as you wish, Sword in the Storm.'
Ruathain drew back on the reins as he crested the hill. Below him was the Pannone settlement of Shining Water, built along the western banks of the Long Lake. From here he could see seven high-prowed fishing vessels out on the water, dragging their nets, and on the shoreline the black smoke towers standing like sentinels at the water's edge. Arbon rode up alongside him.
'Too late to turn back now,' grunted Arbon, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.
'Turning back was not in my mind,' Ruathain told him. Leading twelve ponies behind them the two men rode down the hill. There were no walls to Shining Water, and the scores of houses were built well apart from one another, each with an area allocated to vegetables and corn. The day was hot, but Ruathain lifted his blue and green chequered Rigante cloak from the back of his saddle, unrolled it and fastened it in place. Arbon shook his head and, grim of face, followed his master down into what he saw as the enemy settlement.
As they rode on, people moved from their houses and workplaces to watch the riders as they passed, then walked behind them as they approached the Hall of the Laird.
The day was clear and bright. Not a breath of breeze stirred the dust beneath the ponies' hooves. Ruathain rode on, looking neither left nor right, and pulled up his mount before the hall. It was a grim-looking building, fifty feet long, one storeyed, with shuttered windows and a thatched roof. The double doors creaked open and a middle-aged man strode out. Behind him came five younger men. It was obvious to Arbon that these were his sons, for they all possessed the same heavy brows and flat, brutal faces. There were many stories Arbon had heard concerning the Fisher Laird. And none of them were good.
'I am Ruathain of the Rigante,' said his master. The crowd began to mutter, and Arbon was all too aware that his back was to them. Sweat trickled down his spine, and his hand edged nearer to his knife.
'I have heard the name,' said the Fisher Laird, stroking his dark beard. 'Ruathain the Mad Dog. Ruathain the Killer.'
'I never killed a man who was not carrying a sword,' said Ruathain, evenly. 'However, be that as it may, I am here to offer blood price to the bereaved.'
'You accept then that you are a murderer?'
Ruathain was silent for a moment, and Arbon knew he was struggling with his temper. 'What I accept is that men died who need not have died. I'll admit freely that when your men first raided my cattle I could have dealt less harshly with them. But I did not. Now four more of your young men are dead and I would like to see an end to this feud. I have no wish to kill any more Pannone.'
'Nor be killed yourself,' observed the Fisher Laird.
'In my life many have tried to kill me. I am still here. Death holds no fear for me, fisherman. I am not here to save my life. I am here to save the lives of your young men who, so far, have shown little skill when it comes to battle. I do not decry them for this, nor wish to speak ill of the dead. It is merely a fact -a fact evidenced by their deaths. I am Ruathain, First Swordsman of the Rigante. I do not enjoy slaying untried boys.' Ruathain took a deep, calming breath. 'I have brought with me twelve fine ponies to offer as blood price to the families of the dead. Do I have your permission to speak with them?'
The Fisher Laird gave a harsh laugh. 'You may be a killer, Ruathain, but I see you still respect tradition. You have my permission. Step down and enter my house. I will send for the families.'
Ruathain dismounted and removed his sword, which he handed to Arbon.
'Wait here with the ponies,' he said.
'Aye, Lord,'answered Arbon, glumly.
Ruathain strode to where the Fisher Laird waited, then bowed. The Laird stepped aside, allowing Ruathain to enter the hall. Then he and his sons followed him. Arbon's mouth was dry, his heart beating fast, but he sat quietly, assuming an expression of mild boredom. A runner came out from the hall and moved through the crowd. A little time later three women, dressed in black, entered the hall, closely followed by five young men.
Arbon waited for a while in the sunshine, then dismounted and stretched his back. An elderly woman brought him a cup of water. He bowed as he accepted it, and drank deeply. 'My thanks to you, Mother,' he said.
'I am no mother of yours, you Rigante pig,' she said. 'But the laws of hospitality should always be observed.'
He bowed again and grinned. 'Indeed they should,' he agreed, returning the cup. Another woman brought him some smoked fish and a hunk of bread. Time passed slowly and the sun was beginning to set when the doors of the hall opened once more. The Pannone women emerged first, followed by the five young men, then Ruathain and lastly the Fisher Laird and his sons.
Ruathain strode over to Arbon. 'It is agreed,' he said, softly, 'but I have also promised a bull and ten feasting steers for the Laird.'
At that moment a young man came running from the water's edge. He was tall and slim, black haired and pale eyed. 'What is going on here?' he shouted.
'You are too young to have a voice in this,' the Fisher Laird told him. 'An honourable offer has been made and accepted. The blood feud is over.'
'Over?' shouted the youngster. 'Nothing is over. This butcher slaughtered my brothers. I will have vengeance.' He swung round to the five young men. 'How could you agree to this? Six lives taken, their blood drenching the grass. Family. Blood kin. Never to wed and sire sons, never to know joy. Are a few scrawny ponies all they were worth? Blood cries for blood. Their souls cry for justice and revenge.'
'Be silent!' roared the Fisher Laird. 'Do you understand nothing, boy? Your brothers died in battle. They were not set upon in the dark, or their throats cut while they were sleeping. They faced an enemy who out-fought them. That enemy has shown great courage in coming here. A gesture of respect and in keeping with the traditions of the Keltoi. But more important even than that, boy, is the fact that I am your lord, and I tell you the blood feud is over.'
The youngster stood silently for a moment, then turned and ran back to his boat upon the water.
The Fisher Laird moved to Ruathain. 'Send the cattle to me, but do not come yourself, Ruathain the Killer. You are not welcome in Pannone lands.'
Ruathain nodded, but did not reply. Leaving the twelve ponies, he mounted his own steed and swung it towards the south. The crowd parted as he walked his pony back through the settlement. Arbon rode alongside and handed him his sword, which Ruathain belted to his waist.
'Is it over?' he asked his master.
'Not while that boy lives,' answered Ruathain. 'One day he will come for me and I will kill him. Then it will begin again.'
'A waste of ponies then,' muttered Arbon.
'No,' said Ruathain, sadly. 'It was a fair blood price. I began this when I killed the raiders. I allowed my anger to burn away my self-control. I sowed the seeds, my friend, and now I must reap the harvest.'
CHAPTER TWELVE
in THE BEDROOM OF BANOUIN'S HOUSE ONE OF THE THREE LANTERNS guttered and died. Vorna had been in labour for fourteen hours. She had lost consciousness twice in the last hour. Meria and Eriatha were desperately concerned. Meria had attended four childbirths, but none as difficult as this one. She had sent for Eriatha, whose knowledge of herbs and medicines was almost as great as Vorna's. The earth maiden knelt by the unconscious Vorna and examined her.
'Lavender and jasmine will not help her,' said Eriatha. 'The babe is not lying in the right position. It cannot enter the world.'
'What can we do?' asked Meria.
'I do not have the skill to deliver it,' said Eriatha. 'I have heard of witches who could cut open the belly and deliver babes. But mostly the mothers die.'
'There must be something,' insisted Meria.
Eriatha shook her head. 'We need a witch, a druid or a midwife. Even then . . .' Her
voice tailed away.
Meria rose from the bedside and moved to the window, looking out over the moonlit landscape. 'Brother Solstice was here only three days ago,' she said, softly, 'but I don't know where he has gone. This is so unfair. First she finds love, then loses it. Now Banouin's babe is killing her.' Vorna groaned, then cried out in pain. Meria took her hand as Eriatha applied a damp cloth to Vorna's brow.
'The child is ... breeched,' said Vorna. She took a deep breath. 'Cut my belly open. Save the babe!' She cried out again, and her back arched. Then she collapsed and passed out.
'She is dying,' whispered Eriatha.
At that moment they heard a thudding at the front door. Meria ran back through the house. Outside stood an old woman Meria had never seen before. She was dressed in a faded full-length dress of pale grey, and a black fishnet shawl was draped around her shoulders.
'What do you want?' Meria asked her.
'I am told there is a woman in childbirth here. That there is a problem.'
'You are a midwife?'
'Among other things,' said the old woman, moving past Meria and into the house. As she passed, Meria caught the scent of the forest on the woman's clothes, musky and damp, the smell of rotting leaves and wet bark. She shuddered and followed the woman into the bedroom.
'You will both leave,' said the old woman. 'Wait by the fire. I will call you if I need you.'
'The babe is breeched,' said Eriatha.
'Thank you,' said the old woman, sourly. 'Perhaps later you can teach me how to suck eggs.'
A huge crow landed on the open window, spreading its wings and cawing loudly. Meria and Eriatha both jumped back, startled, but the old woman ignored it and sat beside the stricken Vorna. 'Out, I said,' she hissed, waving a thin arm in the direction of the two women.
Reluctantly they obeyed her. Meria pulled the door closed and she and Eriatha walked to the hearth. The fire was burning low and she added several chunks of wood. 'Do you know her?' Meria asked.
'No.'
'Perhaps we shouldn't have left her.'
'Perhaps we shouldn't,' said Eriatha, 'but I am ashamed to say I am glad she is there and I am not.'