Sword in the Storm

  'That's a little unfair,' said Vor. 'He had a big target directly in front of him. I nudged him to make him miss. You didn't want Ruathain dead. You wanted more of his cattle and ponies. The arrow could have gone anywhere. It was just ill fortune.'

  'But it didn't go anywhere,' snapped the Fisher Laird, his big hands cradling the ale cup. One of the three lanterns guttered and died, making the hall even more gloomy. Another of his sons moved across to it, lifting it from the wall bracket.

  The Laird went to refill his cup, found the jug beside it empty, and pushed himself to his feet. He was a big man, with flat features. 'Only the fool was supposed to die,' he said. He swore loudly and hurled his cup against the far wall. Carrying the empty jug, he strode to the back of the hall and refilled it from a barrel. Hefting the jug he drank deeply, the amber liquid running down his silver beard and drenching the front of his tunic. His heart was heavy, and he was more than a little frightened. Had he broken his geasa? He wasn't sure. And Maggria the seer had left the settlement on the morning the fool went out with his bow. No-one knew where she had gone. 'Let not one of your deeds break a woman's heart.' For most of his life the geasa had been a subject of dark humour. He had been an ugly child and an uglier man. Not the kind of man that women fell for. His wife had only married him for his position, and had never, as far as he knew, loved him. Nor he her, come to that. She had borne him five sons and then announced that she would like a house high in the hills. The Fisher Laird had built it for her and she had moved away. Truth to tell he did not miss her.

  Now a young woman lay dead, her heart pierced by an arrow. And he had sent the bowman on his mission.

  Had he broken his geasa?

  Cold air swept across the hall, causing the lanterns to flicker wildly. Then the door slammed shut. The Fisher Laird peered through the gloom. A tall figure was standing by the door, and in his hands was a sword, glinting in the lantern light.

  Four of his sons were talking amongst themselves and had not seen the newcomer. 'Who in the name of Taranis are you?' called out the Fisher Laird, putting down the jug and walking towards the man. His youngest son, Alar, was walking back towards the wall, carrying the fresh-filled lantern.

  'I am the death of your House,' said the stranger. As the man spoke Alar moved closer to him, lifting the lantern towards the bracket on the wall. The warrior took three quick steps. The sword flashed through the air, slicing the boy's head from his shoulders.

  The remaining sons of the Fisher Laird sprang up, running back to the far wall and grabbing weapons. Three took swords, the fourth a spear. The Fisher Laird stood stock still. His youngest son's body had fallen behind the long table, but his head had rolled across the sawdust-strewn floor, and the eyes were staring up at his father. Beyond the table the fallen lantern had spilled oil to the wooden boards, and flames were flickering there.

  The warrior screamed a battle cry and ran to meet his other sons. His head swimming with ale, the Fisher Laird stumbled to where the small fire had begun and tried to stamp it out. But flames swept on across the sawdust. He swung back to see two more of his sons lying on the floor, blood flowing. Vor thrust at the man with his spear. The warrior side-stepped and slammed his sword deep into Vor's belly, ripping the blade up and through his heart. Vor let out a terrible cry of pain.

  The Fisher Laird watched his sons die, and then the warrior walked towards him.

  'I don't know you,' mumbled the Fisher Laird. 'I don't know you.'

  As the man came closer he saw that his fierce eyes were odd colours, one dark, one pale. The man halted in front of him. Behind him the Fisher Laird could feel the rising flames and hear the cracking of timbers. The light lit up the warrior's face, making him appear demonic. 'Who are you?'

  There was no answer. The sword slashed across the Fisher Laird's belly. He fell to his knees as his entrails spilled out. Mercifully the bright sword then clove through his neck.

  Lifting a lantern from the wall Connavar strode out into the night. The wind at his back, he gazed around at the sleeping settlement. Walking to a nearby hut he splashed oil to the wooden walls then set it alight. The wind fanned the flames, and burning cinders flew from one thatched roof to the next. Soon a number of fires were blazing. People began to run from their homes. Connavar moved among them, slashing left and right with his sword. Behind him flames licked out of the open doorway of the Long Hall, then broke through the roof.

  Panic swept through the settlement as Conn strode through the flames, killing anyone who came within the reach of his sword. Two young men ran at him, carrying hatchets. He slew them both. The villagers began to stream from the settlement.

  Blood covered, Connavar sheathed his sword, took up a pitchfork, and hurled blazing thatch into a building as yet untouched by the fire. And, as the long night wore on, he moved from hut to hut, adding to the blaze until finally all the homes were burning. His skin was scorched, and his cloak caught fire. Hurling it aside he ran to the small dockside, where seven fishing boats were moored. It took far longer to set these alight, and he spent an hour, pitching burning thatch and timbers to the decks, and dropping them into the narrow holds.

  As the dawn came up he was sitting at the water's edge, his face blackened with smoke, his hands blistered. The Long Hall had collapsed, and only the stone chimney still stood. But as Conn watched, it twisted and came crashing to the ground. Five of the boats had sunk, one other was ruined beyond repair, but in the seventh the fires had gone out, and it still bobbed upon the waters of the lake. Everything else was gone: the homes, the net huts, the storehouses.

  Conn gazed on a scene of utter devastation.

  He felt flat now, and terribly tired. The fury of the night had spent itself. Wearily he pushed himself to his feet and walked through what had once been the main street of the settlement. Bodies lay everywhere, some burnt, some untouched by flame. As he walked Conn saw that he had been utterly undiscriminating. Women lay dead alongside their men, and at the far end of the street two children had been cut down. Judging by the blood trail, one of them had crawled a little way before dying.

  As he stood there, surveying the grim evidence of his rage, he knew that only part of the fury had been inspired by the greed of the Fisher Laird.

  All his life he had tried to be a hero, to live down the perceived legacy of Varaconn. He gazed upon the ruins, and watched flakes of grey ash floating in the breeze. All was ashes now. He had found love - a great love - and he had surrendered it to die. In the process he had become not only an adulterer, but a killer of women and children.

  Tears spilled on his smoke-blackened face, and he fell to his knees, calling out Tae's name again and again.

  In the hills the survivors of the massacre gathered, listening to the sounds. The anguished cries were barely human, and carried the weight of both grief and madness. The survivors huddled closer together, and prayed the demon would now leave them be.

  For two weeks there was no sign of Connavar. Although he was seen riding towards Three Streams he had never arrived in the settlement. Ruathain asked Arbonacast to track him, but he lost the trail. Then it was left to the wily Parax to find him. The old hunter asked questions about Conn's favourite places as a child, the whereabouts of local caves. Then he rode the high lands, constantly scouting for tracks. He had followed Conn once before, and felt he knew his habits. The young man did not want to be found, and had hidden his trail. But he had to eat and stay warm.

  Parax was a patient man, whose careful eye missed nothing. On the fifteenth day since Conn's disappearance he found a simple rabbit trap, and the faintest of trails moving away from it. He knew at once that he had found Connavar, and followed the trail all the way to the cave that had once been the home of Vorna the witch. Connavar was chopping wood with an old hatchet. He glanced up as the hunter dismounted, but did not speak. Taking an armful of wood he walked back into the cave. Parax also said nothing, but gathered wood and followed his master inside.

  The cave was deep, an
d Parax cast his gaze around the gloomy place. Running water fell to a shallow pool at the back, and there was a rough hearth and an old cot bed. Someone had put up shelves against the western wall, but these were empty and covered in cobwebs. It was an inhospitable place, he thought. In silence the two men brought in the wood, then Connavar sat down by the fire. He was thinner, hollow eyed, his face gaunt. Parax walked to his pony and brought in a small food sack, from which he took some bread and cheese, which he offered to Conn. The warrior shook his head, and threw several sticks on the fire. Parax laid the food on the hearth then walked to the bed and lay down. He had been tracking Conn for days and was tired. Parax slept for an hour. When he awoke the cave was empty. The hunter yawned and stretched and made his way back to the fire. The food - thankfully - was gone.

  Leaving the cave he mounted his pony and rode back to Three Streams, to make his report to Ruathain.

  The following day Ruathain travelled to the cave. The big man waited for several hours, but there was no sign of Conn. He guessed that his son knew he was there, but did not want to talk. This saddened him, but, like Parax before him, he also left food, and returned to the settlement.

  On the seventeenth night, as Conn was skinning a rabbit, a slender figure moved into the cave mouth. He glanced up, and saw it was Eriatha. He took a deep breath and made to speak, then changed his mind and returned his attention to the rabbit.

  'How long will you stay up here?' she asked him.

  'I don't know. Now leave me in peace.'

  'This is peace? No, Connavar, this is a form of self-torture. You are not the first man to lose a loved one. You will not be the last.'

  'You know nothing of it!' he said, quietly.

  'Then tell me,' she insisted. 'Tell me why the new laird is sitting in a cave while his duties are being undertaken by others.' Eriatha advanced into the cave. There were no candles, and the fire cast little light. Conn was too withdrawn - almost emotionless, as if he'd emptied himself of all feeling. 'The Lything voted for you. You are the Laird,' she said. 'Now why are you skulking here? Your wife is dead, you have avenged her.' There was still no fire in his eyes, even at the use of the word skulking. She took a deep breath. 'What is the purpose of this . . . senseless exile?'

  'There is no purpose,' he told her. Tears fell to his cheeks. 'Just go. Leave me be!'

  She forced a laugh, the sound as full of scorn as she could summon. 'I did not think to see this,' she said, contempt in her voice. 'The great Connavar, unmanned. Crying like a wee baby.'

  Suddenly furious he stormed to his feet and loomed over her. 'Get out now!' he hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders and hurling her towards the cave mouth. She fell heavily and cried out, more in shock than pain. Conn ignored her and returned to the fire.

  Eriatha sat up and rubbed her arm. 'I am not leaving,' she said.

  'Do as you please.'

  Eriatha was satisfied that she had drawn him from his lethargy. All that now remained was to get him to talk. 'I want to understand,' she told him softly, rising and moving into the cave to sit beside him. 'Tell me why you are here. Tell me and I will go. And you will have your peace.' At first she thought he was continuing to ignore her. He finished skinning the rabbit, then put the meat to one side. When he spoke his voice was barely a whisper.

  'I was warned to keep all my promises. Warned by the Seidh. I took the warning lightly. Why would I not? For I am Connavar.' He almost spat out the name. 'And Connavar is known as a man of his word.' He fell silent again, staring into the fire. 'I told Tae I would ride with her. I promised her I would be back by noon. I broke that promise and she rode with Ruathain. Rode to her death. And why was I late? I was with a woman. We were rutting like two dogs in heat.'

  'What do you want me to say?' she asked him. That you are not the perfect man? Ha! As if that beast has ever existed. You broke a small promise, and the consequences were terrible. Aye, there is no arguing against that, Conn my friend. You will have to live with that broken promise all your life. It will hurt for a long time. Maybe for ever. But we all live with our hurts. You once told me that you were determined never to be like your father -never a coward. Consider this: what would you call a man who makes a mistake and then runs away from his responsibilities? I'd call him a coward. You also told me that one day the Stone army would march on our lands and you were determined to stop them. Are they not coming now? Or is it that you no longer care about this land and its people?'

  'I care,' he admitted.

  'Then what are you doing here, Conn?'

  'Trying to make sense of my life,' he said. 'You helped me once before, when I left the children to die. I accepted what you said. I believed it. Perhaps because I needed to believe it. But what has happened has all but destroyed me. Tae was beautiful, and she had a life to live. She was the sister of my soul. I knew that when I first met her. I know it even better now. But I am not sitting here full of self-pity. I am not wallowing in my grief. I am haunted by remorse. It eats at my spirit because I cannot change what happened. I cannot make it right.'

  'No you cannot. She is dead. Her spirit has flown.'

  Conn glanced at her.

  'You think it is just about Tae? Do you know what happened at Shining Water?'

  'You killed the men responsible. Everyone knows that.'

  'Oh, Eriatha, if only that were true. Why did you come here. Tell me truly.'

  'Your mother came to me. She thought that you and I . . .' Eriatha sighed, then gave a shy smile. 'She thought we might have a bond.'

  'And we do,' said Conn. 'You are one of my dearest friends. And even with you I am finding it hard to speak the truth. I do not want you to hate me.'

  Eriatha sat very still. 'I think you had better just say what is in your mind, Conn.'

  'I burned the village. And worse. I can scarce remember how I felt as I rode to the Fisher Laird's hall. It was as if all the anger and the hurt, the loss and the shame turned me to winter. I went into the hall and killed the Laird and his sons. Flames were all around me. The hall was burning. I cannot remember how it started. But when I left I carried a lantern and set fire to nearby houses. There was a roaring in my head, and then there were people running around me, screaming and shouting. I lashed out at them. I killed them, Eriatha. When dawn came I walked through the ruins. I saw the bodies. Two were children. But there were women too.'

  'You killed women and children?' Eriatha was aghast. 'Oh Conn! That was evil.'

  'I know.' He looked away from her face. 'I didn't know what to do, so I came here, to try to think. Yes, it was an evil deed, and I know this is no excuse, but I truly did not know what I was doing. When I saw their bodies it was like a spear was being thrust through my heart. If I could bring them back - even with my own death - I would do it. Without hesitation.'

  'But you cannot bring them back,' she said, coldly. 'No-one can. And you cannot make amends, Conn. These deeds have stained your soul. And they will haunt you - as they should haunt you - till the day you die. I thought you had learned a lesson when you fought the Perdii. I thought you had come to realize that hate leads to vileness and evil. I hope, for all our sakes, that you have learned that lesson now.'

  'Aye,' he said. 'It is burned into my heart.' He looked at her stern face, and noted the coldness in her eyes. 'Do we still have a bond?' he asked.

  'I'll not lie to you, Conn. I think the less of you. I thought you were stronger than this. Oh, I always knew of the violence in your soul, but I believed - foolishly - that you were in control of it.'

  'Then we are friends no longer?'

  'We will always be friends, Conn,' she said, softly. 'There is much that is good in you, and much that I admire. And, as your friend, I am more sorry than I can say that Tae has been lost to you. Tell me this, though: how is it that if you loved her so well you could rut with a stranger?'

  'It was no stranger,' he said. 'It was Arian. I did not know she lived close to Old Oaks. I rode in to speak to the herdsmen who tend the Laird's cattle. She w
as there. Alone. I thought I had put her behind me. I do not love her, Eriatha. But when I am close to her…

  'Hah!' she said, scornfully, 'that, at least, I understand. It is the call of the flesh. Men are cursed with it.' Her expression softened. 'But you did love Arian desperately, Conn. I remember the night you told me of her. Love made your eyes shine like lanterns.'

  She looked at his eyes now and saw that they were haunted, and bloodshot. 'How long since you slept?'

  'Several days, I think. When I sleep I dream of Tae. Then when I wake - just for a moment - I think she is still alive. Waiting for me.' He shivered. 'Better not to sleep.'

  'Well, it is time to sleep now. Come,' she said, rising.

  Wearily he climbed to his feet. 'I don't deserve your friendship,' he said.

  'No, you don't. But you have it, Conn.' She helped him undress. His clothes were filthy and there was dried blood upon his hands. Eriatha led him to the bed, slipped out of her clothes, and together they lay down. Pulling the blanket over them Eriatha drew him close, his head upon her shoulder.

  And he slept.

  Eriatha lay beside him for more than an hour. Then she eased herself clear, put on her dress and, taking his pony, rode back down to the settlement. Before the dawn she was back. He was still asleep. Conn awoke to the smell of frying bacon. Sunlight glowed in the cave mouth, and he could see the beauty of a clear blue sky outside. He sat up and saw that fresh clothes had been laid out for him.

  'Go and wash in the stream,' Eriatha told him. 'Then you can eat.'

  He rose and walked out into the sunlight. Eriatha cracked two eggs into the pan, and toasted some bread. Conn returned minutes later, dried himself, then dressed. They ate breakfast in silence, and she watched him carefully. His eyes were less haunted now, and he looked more like the young man she knew.