Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
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
About the Author
Also by David A. Gemmell
Copyright
Deep in the green mountain lands of the Rigante lies the settlement of Three Streams, whose people worship the gods of Air and Water, and the spirits of the Earth. Among them lives a boy whose destiny is written in the starlight. He is Connavar, the Demonblade, born in a storm that doomed his father.
A man with the makings of greatness will always have enemies and from the start of this epic chronicle it is prophesied that the Armies of Stone will one day cross the water . . . and that their coming will be like an avalanche. Here the strangest forces, wise and evil, play their allotted part – from the Ghost General and the malignant Morrigu to the Woods whose magic harks back to a world before the coming of Man.
David A. Gemmell’s first novel, Legend, was first published in 1984 and went on to become a classic. His most recent Drenai and Rigante novels are available as Corgi paperbacks; all are Sunday Times bestsellers.
Widely regarded as the finest writer of heroic fantasy, David Gemmell lived in Sussex until his tragic death in July 2006.
The Drenai books
Legend
The King Beyond the Gate
Waylander
Quest for Lost Heroes
Waylander II: In the Realm of the Wolf
The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
The Legend of Deathwalker
Winter Warriors
Hero in the Shadows
The Jon Shannow books
Wolf in Shadow
The Last Guardian
Bloodstone
The Stones of Power books
Ghost King
Last Sword of Power
Lion of Macedon
Dark Prince
The Hawk Queen books
Ironhand’s Daughter
The Hawk Eternal
The Rigante books
Sword in the Storm
Midnight Falcon
Ravenheart
Stormrider
Individual titles
Knights of Dark Renown
Morning Star
Dark Moon
Echoes of the Great Song
Anthologies
Drenai Tales Volume I
Drenai Tales Volume II
Drenai Tales Volume III
Sword in the Storm is dedicated with love to Stella Graham, with heartfelt thanks for eighteen years of great and abiding friendship.
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 shivered.
‘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 down, 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.
He patted the hilt, drawing strength from it. Even so, a touch of fear returned.
Tomorrow the Rigantes were to march in battle against the Sea Raiders, camped beyond the Seidh river. Varaconn hated violence, and was not skilled with sword or lance. What he had told Meria was true. When the Pannones charged he had stood frozen beside the powerful Ruathain. Yes, he had fought, swinging his bronze blade with the fury of terror, and the Pannones had fled. Ruathain had wounded three and killed one.
Varaconn had prayed never again to be drawn into a battle. That fear had turned to terror five days ago, when he had killed the raven. He was riding a wild pony, galloping it over the hills. As he topped a rise the raven had flown up from the long grass. Startled, the pony reared, lashing out with its hooves. The raven fell dead to the ground. Varaconn had been horrified. His birth geasa had prophesied he would die within a week of killing such a bird.
He had confided these fears to Ruathain. ‘The horse killed it,’ said Ruathain. ‘You have not broken your geasa. Do not concern yourself. Stay close by me, cousin, and you will live through the battle.’ But Varaconn was not comforted.
‘I was riding the pony. It was in my control.’
So great was Varaconn’s panic that, in the end, Ruathain drew his sword, which was of iron, and cunningly crafted. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘It is blessed with four great Druid spells. No-one carrying it in battle will suffer death.’
Varaconn knew he should have refused at once. The blade was priceless. Most warriors had bronze weapons, but Ruathain had journeyed to the coast with his cattle and had returned to the Rigantes with this sword two years ago. The young men of the tribe would gather round him at the Feast of Samian and beg him to let them touch the grey blade. Varaconn felt the onset of shame, for he reached out and took the blade, perhaps condemning Ruathain to death in his place. He could not look his friend in the eye.
‘Vorna says your child will be a son,’ said Ruathain.
‘Aye, a son,’ agreed Varaconn, glad of the change of subject.
They sat in silence for a while, and the shame grew. Finally Varaconn hefted the sword, and offered it back to the warrior. ‘I cannot take it,’ he said.
‘Whisht, man, of course you can. I’ll not die tomorrow. I have not broken my geasa. Hold the sword, and return it to me after the battle.’
‘It is a great comfort to me,’ admitted Varaconn. They sat in silence for a moment, then the frightened young man spoke again. ‘I know you love Meria,’ he said, not looking at his friend. ‘I see it every time you look at her. And I have never known why she chose me over you. It makes no sense even now. But I ask you – as my dearest friend – to be a strength to her if I do . . . die.’
Ruathain gripped Varaconn’s shoulder. ‘Now you listen to me. Let the words burn themselves into your soul. I will not let you die. Stay close to me, cousin. I will guard your back when the battle begins. That is all you have to do. Stay close to me.’
Alone on the mountainside, Varaconn curled his hand around the hilt of Ruathain’s iron sword. The touch of the leather binding, the firmness of the grip, eased his fears once more, and he sat upon a boulder and prayed for an omen so that he could give his son a good soul-name. The boy’s Rigante name would be Connavar, Conn son of Var.
This would be the name to earn honour among his people. But the soul-name would bond him to the land, and carry with it the magic of the night.
Varaconn prayed to see an eagle. Eagle in the Moonlight would be a good soul-name, he thought. He glanced at the sky, but there was no eagle. He prayed again. A distant rumble of thunder sounded from the north, and he saw the advancing clouds snuffing out the stars. Lightning flashed almost overhead, lighting up the mountain. A fierce wind blew up. Varaconn rose from the boulder, ready to seek shelter. The sword brushed against his leg.
The iron sword!
Fearful that the lightning would strike him Varaconn drew the blade and hurled it from him. The three-foot sword spun in the air then lanced into the earth where it stood quivering.
At that moment the lightning flashed again, striking the sword and shattering it.
Then the rain fell.
Varaconn sat slumped by the boulder staring at the broken shards of blackened iron. Then he rose and began the long walk back to the birthing hut.
As he came closer he heard the thin, piping cries of his newborn son echoing above the storm winds.
The door of the hut opened and Vorna, witch and midwife, stepped out to greet him.
‘You have the name,’ she said. It was not a question. He nodded dumbly. ‘Speak it aloud,’ she ordered him.
‘He will be Connavar, the Sword in the Storm.’
RUATHAIN WAS RIDING back from the lands of the southern Rigante when he saw the boys playing on the hilltop above the smithy. He reined in the chestnut pony and dismounted, watching the youngsters from the edge of the trees. They were chasing each other and he could hear the sounds of their laughter, their joy. Ruathain smiled. It was a good sound. He was especially glad that the ten-year-old Connavar was among them. At least it meant he was not getting into trouble – which was sadly the boy’s greatest talent.
Ruathain was anxious to be home, for it had been a long ride from the southern cattle market, with the last ten miles steadily uphill. His pony was tired and breathing hard. He patted its muzzle. ‘Take a breather, boy. When we get back I’ll see you fed the finest grain.’
From here, far below where the boys were playing, he could see his house, built at the junction of the three streams after which the settlement had been named. It was a good house, well constructed of seasoned timber, and heavily thatched with straw. Cool in summer, with the wide windows open to the breeze, and warm in winter, with the shutters drawn and the central fire lit. Tiny figures were moving in the paddock behind the house. Ruathain smiled. Meria had saddled the dwarf pony and was leading him around the paddock, while their youngest son clung to the saddle. Bendegit Bran was only three, but already he was fearless, and a great source of pride to the swordsman. Beside him his own pony snickered, pushing its head against his chest.
‘All right, boy. We’re going,’ said Ruathain. He was about to mount when he heard the start of a heated exchange among the boys on the hilltop below.
By the time Ruathain ran in among the boys the fight had become brutal. Govannan had blood streaming from his nose. Ruathain’s nine-year-old son, Braefar, was lying on the grass, half stunned, and his adopted son, Connavar, was laying into the other three boys like a whirlwind, fists swinging, head butting, feet lashing out in kicks. Another boy went down, having taken a terrible blow to the right ear. Connavar leapt upon him, slamming his fist into the boy’s nose.
Ruathain ran up behind him, grabbing Connavar by the collar of his green tunic and lifting him clear. The ten-year-old swung in his grip, his small fist cannoning into Ruathain’s face. Ruathain dropped the boy, and cuffed him hard, sending him spinning from his feet.
‘That is quite enough!’ he bellowed. Silence descended on the hilltop. ‘What in the name of Taranis is going on here?’ None of the boys spoke, and none would look him in the eye.
‘We were just playing,’ said Govannan, at last, blood dripping to his tunic. ‘I’m going home now.’ The youngster and his four bruised friends trooped off down the hill. Connavar was sitting on the grass, rubbing his head. Braefar tried to stand, but fell down again. His father moved to him and knelt on the grass.
‘Where are you hurt?’ he asked the slender boy. Braefar forced a smile, but his face was grey.
‘I’m not hurt, Father. Just dizzy. I fell just as Govannan’s knee was coming up. Now I can see stars in the daytime.’
‘An interesting way of putting it,’ observed Ruathain, ruffling the boy’s blond hair. ‘Lie there for a moment until the world stops spinning.’ Rising he walked to where Connavar was sitting. ‘That was a good punch,’ he said, rubbing his jaw. ‘I can still feel it.’
Making a joke of a problem usually worked with Conn. His anger was always short lived. At the jest he would relax, an impish grin spreading across his features. Then the situation – whatever it was – could be resolved. But this time the boy did not smile. He looked up into Ruathain’s face, and, for the first time the powerful swordsman found himself disconcerted by the look in Conn’s strange eyes. One was green, the other a tawny brown that turned to gold in the sunshine.
Ruathain knew something momentous had occurred. He sat down and looked at the boy’s strong, flat features. A bruise was beginning on his right cheek, and his lower lip was cut. ‘What was the fight about?’ he asked.
Connavar was silent for a moment, then he pushed his hand through his red-gold hair. ‘He said my father was a coward. That he ran away.’ The strange eyes searched Ruathain’s face, watching his expression intently.
Ruathain had lived with this fear for many years, and now that it was upon him he felt a sinking of the heart. ‘Your father was my friend, Conn. He stood beside me in two battles. I was proud to have him for a friend. You understand that? I would not befriend a coward.’
‘Then he didn’t run away?’ The green-gold gaze locked to Ruathain’s eyes.
Ruathain sighed. ‘He broke his geasa. He killed a raven. You had just been born. The night before the battle. Varaconn was desperate to see you grow, to be there to guide you. The thought of death weighed him down. It sat upon his shoulders like a mountain.’ He fell silent, his thoughts drifting back to that dreadful day ten years before, when the tribes had banded together to fight the raiders from the sea. Twelve thousand fierce-eyed reivers, faced by eight thousand determined tribesmen. It was a day of blood and bravery, with neither side giving a yard of ground. At the height of the battle a terrible storm broke overhead, lightning flashing down, hurling fighting men into the air, their flesh blackened.
Ruathain took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, Conn, Varaconn was my sword brother. He stood beside me all that day, protecting my back as I defended his. That is what counts.’
‘Did he run?’ asked the boy. Everything in the child’s face begged for the great, comforting lie.
And Ruathain could not give him that gift. Honour was everything to him. Yet he knew the young viewed the world with all the certainty born of inexperience. A man was either a hero or a coward. There were no shades of grey. He made one last attempt to still Connavar’s concerns. ‘Listen to me, the raiders were beaten – but they launched a last charge. It was almost dusk. We had won. But they almost broke through. Five of them rushed at your father and me. He was killed there. Let that be an end to it. I lost a friend. You lost a father.’
But Conn would not be shaken. ‘Where was his wound?’ he asked.
‘You are concentrating on the wrong things, Conn. He was a fine, brave and noble man. For one moment only he . . . knew panic. Do not judge him harshly for that. When the battle was over I sat with him. His last words were of you and your mother. He wanted so much to see you grow. And he would have been proud, for you are a strong boy.’
‘No enemy will ever see my back,’ said Connavar. ‘I will not run.’
‘Do not be stupid,’ snapped Ruathain. ‘I have run. A good warrior knows when to stand and fight, and when to withdraw to fight another day. There is no shame in it.’
‘No shame,’ repeated Connavar. ‘Who was guarding your back when my father ran?’
Ruathain said nothing. Connavar pushed himself to his feet. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the swordsman.
‘To find Govannan. I must apologize to him.’
‘You have nothing to apologize for.’
Connavar shook his head. ‘He was right. My father was a coward.’
The boy stalked away. Ruathain swore softly. Braefar came over to him. ‘Is he still angry?’ he asked.
‘Angry and hurt,’ agreed Ruathain.
‘I think he might have beaten them all. He didn’t need me at all.’
‘Aye, he’s strong,’ said his father. ‘How are you feeling, Wing?’ he continued, using the abbreviation of Braefar’s soul-name, Wing over Water.
‘Better. Govannan has hard knees.’ Braefar grinned. ‘It was worth the blow to see Conn knock him down. He is not afraid of anything – or anyone.’
Yes he is, thought Ruathain, sadly. He’s afraid of being like his father.
He gazed up at the blue sky. ‘I told you to stay close to me,’ he said, sadly.
‘What did you say, Father?’ asked the bemused Braefar.
‘I was talking to an old friend. Come, let’s go home.’
Lifting Braefar he settled him on the pony then led the beast down the hillside. I could have lied to him, he thought, told him his father had not run. But more than twenty of the Three Streams men had seen it. At some time the story was bound to have surfaced. Meria would be furious, of course. She was fiercely protective of Conn, and loved him more than either of her sons by Ruathain.
And certainly more than she loves me!
The thought had leapt unbidden to his mind, like a poisoned arrow shot from ambush.
They had wed a mere four months after the battle. Not for love. He had known that. But because she believed that Connavar would need a strong father to teach him the skills of the Rigante. Ruathain had been certain that she would come to love him, if he treated her with kindness and compassion. At times he even thought that he could detect in her a genuine affection for him. The truth, however, was that no matter how hard he tried, there always remained a distance between them that he could not cross.
One night, at the Feast of Samain, when Conn was a year old, Ruathain had spoken to his mother, Pallae, about the problem. His father had been dead for two years, and Ruathain was sitting beneath the vast branches of Eldest Tree, Pallae beside him. All around them the people of the settlement were drinking, feasting and dancing. Ruathain himself was a little drunk. He would not have raised the subject had he been sober. His mother, a tall and dignified woman, who, despite her iron-grey hair, retained an almost ethereal beauty, listened in silence. ‘Have you ever done anything to offend her?’ Pallae asked him.
‘Never!’
‘Are you certain, Ru? You are a lusty man like your father. Have you sown your seeds in any other field but your own?’
‘No. I promise you. I have been faithful always.’
‘Have you ever struck her?’
‘No, nor even raised my voice.’
‘Then I cannot help you, my son. Except to say that she holds some grievance against you. You must hope that her anger fades. I expect that it will when she has borne your son.’
‘And if it does not?’
‘Does she respect you?’
‘Of course. She knows – everyone knows – I would do nothing base.’
‘And you love her?’
‘More than I can say.’
‘Then build on that respect, Ru. It is all you can do.’
They did not speak of it again until six years later, as Pallae lay on her deathbed. Sitting quietly beside her, holding her hand, Ruathain had hoped she would slip away quietly in her sleep. The cancer had stripped away her flesh, the pain of it causing her to writhe and cry out. Vorna’s herbs had, at first, dulled the agony, but lately even the strongest of these had little effect. Despite the pain, and her increasing frailty, Pallae clung to life. Often delirious in the last days she would sometimes fail to recognize Ruathain, speaking to him as if he were his father. But on the night of her death she opened her eyes and gave him a wan smile.
‘The pain has gone,’ she whispered. ‘It is a blessed relief.’ He patted her hand. ‘You look tired, my son,’ she said. ‘You should go home and rest.’
‘I will. Soon.’
‘How goes it with you and Meria?’
‘The same. It is enough that I love her.’
‘That is never enough, Ru,’ she told him, her voice edged with sadness. ‘I wanted more for you than that.’ She lay silently for a moment, her breathing harsh. Then she smiled. ‘Is Connavar behaving himself?’
He shook his head. ‘The boy was born to mischief.’
‘He is only seven, Ru. And he has a good heart. Do not be too hard on him.’
He chuckled. ‘Too hard? I have tried talking to him. He sits and listens, then rushes off and gets into trouble again. I tried beating him with my belt, but that had no effect. He took his punishment without complaint, and a day or so later stole a cake from the baker in the morning, and left a live frog under my bed covers in the evening.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Meria got into bed first. I swear she rose up towards the ceiling like a startled swan.’
‘You love him, though?’
‘Aye, I do. Last week, when I was telling Meria about a lone wolf in the high woods, Conn was listening. He stole my best knife and went missing. Seven years old and I eventually found him crouching in the woods, a tin pot on his head for a helm, waiting for the wolf. He has spirit. And when he grins you could forgive him anything.’
The lamp by the bedside guttered and the bedroom fell into darkness. Ruathain cursed and walked back into the main living area, lifting a lantern from the far wall. He returned to her at once, but as the light fell upon her face he saw that she had gone.
Meria lifted Bran from the dwarf pony and hugged him close. ‘Did you like that, my pet?’ she asked him.
‘More, Mama,’ he said, reaching out towards the little grey horse.
‘Later,’ she promised. ‘Look, there is Caval,’ she said, pointing to the black war hound lying in the shade. Distracted, Bran struggled to be free. Meria lowered him to the ground and the boy ran across to the hound. Bran threw his small arms around her neck and snuggled down alongside her. The hound licked his face. Bran giggled. A black shape glided across the sky and a huge crow landed awkwardly on the thatched roof. The bird tilted its head, its eye of glittering jet staring down at the tall, slim, green-clad young woman below.
Another woman stepped from the house. ‘Your husband is home,’ said Meria’s cousin, Pelain. Meria glanced up towards the hills and saw the tall figure of Ruathain leading his pony down the slope. Young Braefar was sitting in the saddle. For some reason that she could never later recall, Meria found herself growing angry.
‘Aye, he’s home,’ said Meria, softly. Pelain gave her a sharp look.
‘You do not know how lucky you are,’ she said. ‘He loves you.’
Meria tried to ignore her, but it was difficult. Once Pelain got her teeth into a subject she was harder to shake than a mastiff. ‘You’d know what I mean if you were married to Borga,’ continued Pelain, with a wry smile. ‘He gets into bed from the left, rolls across me to the right. And somewhere between he grunts and asks, “Was it also a wonder for you?” Happily he’s usually asleep before I answer.’
Meria grinned. ‘You shouldn’t talk that way. Borga is a fine man.’
‘If he made his bread with the speed he makes love we could feed the tribes all the way to the sea,’ said Pelain. She transferred her gaze to the walking warrior. ‘I’d wager my dowry that he doesn’t brush across you like a summer breeze.’
Meria reddened. ‘No, he doesn’t,’ she admitted, immediately regretting the comment.
‘Then you should value him more,’ observed Pelain. ‘I know I would.’
The anger flared again. ‘Then you should have married him,’ snapped Meria.
‘I would have – had he asked me,’ answered Pelain, no hint of offence in her voice. ‘Two strong sons, and no dead babies. Strong seed in that one.’
Pelain had lost four children in the last five years. Not one had survived beyond five days. For a moment Meria’s anger subsided, replaced by affection and sympathy. ‘You are still young,’ she told her cousin. ‘There is time.’
Pelain shook her head. ‘Vorna says there will be no more.’
Ruathain opened the paddock gate, leading his pony inside and lifting his son to the ground. Braefar took the reins and led the pony away. The warrior kissed Meria’s cheek, then swung round to Pelain. ‘If you are here making mischief for me,’ he said, with a smile, ‘I shall throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your husband’s house.’
‘Please do so,’ she replied, ‘since he’s not there and I have a wide bed just waiting to be filled by a real man.’ For a moment Ruathain stood shocked. Then he laughed aloud.
‘By Heavens you have become a wicked woman,’ he told her.
Even the normally outspoken Pelain seemed surprised by her own comment. ‘Wicked or not, I know when I am not needed,’ she replied lamely, before heading back into the house.
Ruathain took his wife’s hand and kissed it. Above him the crow suddenly cawed and danced along the rooftop. Ruathain glanced up. He had no love of carrion birds, but he knew they served a purpose and was normally content to leave them be. But this one caused the hackles to rise on his neck.
‘Did you get a good price at market?’ asked Meria.
‘Fair. No more than that. The Norvii also brought their cattle. I was lucky to sell on the first day. By the third the price dropped considerably. Have the boys been well behaved?’ The question caused her anger to rise again. Why should his absence bring a change in their behaviour? Did he think her some weak-minded wench who could not control unruly children?
Ignoring the question she told him: ‘There is a hot pie just baked. You must be hungry.’
‘Hungry for sight of you and the boys,’ he said. She gave a wan smile and moved away towards the doorway. He was about to follow when Connavar appeared from the far side of the house. Meria gave a broad smile, her mood lifting momentarily, like the sun breaking through clouds.
‘Where have you been, my bonny lad?’ she asked him.
‘Is the pie ready, Mam?’ he countered.
She stepped in close, peering at the bruise on his cheek and the cut lip. ‘Why what have you been doing? Not fighting again, Conn?’
‘Just playing, Mam,’ he told her, squirming from her embrace. ‘Anyway I’ve already told the Big Man all about it.’ He darted into the house. Meria swung on Ruathain.
‘What did he mean? What has he told you?’
‘He got into a fight with Govannan and some of the other boys. It is over now. It matters not.’
‘It matters to me, husband. Why were they fighting?’
Ruathain shrugged. ‘Boys fight. It is the nature of things. They make up soon enough.’ Young Braefar had walked unnoticed from the stable.
‘Govannan said Conn’s father was a coward who ran away,’ said the boy. ‘But Conn broke his nose for it. You should have heard it, Mam. It broke with a mighty crack.’
‘Get inside!’ roared Ruathain. Surprised, for his father rarely raised his voice, Braefar backed away, then ran into the house.
Meria stepped in close to her husband. ‘What did you tell him?’ she whispered. Above them the crow sent out a series of screeching cries.
‘I told him the truth. What else would you have me do?’
‘Aye, that must have made you feel good,’ she hissed, her green eyes angry. ‘You’d like him to despise his father, wouldn’t you?’
‘Nothing could be further from the truth, woman. It saddens me you should think it.’
‘Saddens you? Why would it sadden you? You’re the man who let his father die. Just to win his bride.’ As soon as the words were spoken she regretted them. Never in their ten years together had she voiced them before. The sound of flapping wings broke the silence, and the crow flew off towards the northern woods.
Ruathain stood very still, his face expressionless, his pale gaze locked to her face. ‘That is what you believe?’ he asked her, his voice terribly calm.
Pride made her stand her ground. ‘I do,’ she said.
The sudden coldness in his eyes frightened her, but when he spoke his voice was heavy with sadness. ‘Twenty men saw him die. Not one of them would say that of me. It is simply not true. I protected him all day. Then he ran. That was the way of it.’ His voice hardened. ‘But any woman who would wed a man she believed had connived in the murder of her husband is no better than a pox-ridden whore. And I’ll have no part of her. Not now. Not ever.’
Then he walked past her into the house. That night, when the candles were snuffed, the lamps extinguished, Meria found herself alone in the large bed.
Ruathain took his blanket and slept in the barn.
The following morning he summoned workmen and carpenters, who began the construction of a new house at the far end of the Long Meadow. Three weeks later he moved his belongings into it.
The settlement of Three Streams was mystified by the separation. Was he not the most handsome of men, rich and brave? Was he not a good father and provider? Was she not lucky to have found a man to take on a young widow and her son? It was well known that he adored her, and had raised her child as his own. Why then, they wondered, should he have moved out?
Vorna the witch woman could have told them. For she had been picking herbs in the high meadow, and she had seen the great crow circle the house. But she said nothing. It was not wise for humans to meddle in the affairs of gods. Especially gods of death and mischief, like the Morrigu.
Drawing her cloak around her she moved away into the Wishing Tree woods.
If the separation caused confusion in the community of Three Streams its effect on Ruathain’s children was devastating. For weeks nine-year-old Braefar was inconsolable, believing himself responsible for the rift. Connavar also felt a powerful sense of guilt, knowing that his fight with Govannan had led to the break-up. Bendegit Bran was also tearful, though he was too young to understand the enormous ramifications of the affair. All he knew was that he no longer saw his father as regularly, and could not understand why.
Meria herself did not speak about it. She tried to give her children the same amount of love, attention and care, but she was distracted often, and many times they would find her sitting by the window, staring out over the hills, her eyes moist with tears.
Connavar, as would always be his way, tried to tackle the problem head on. A month after the separation he walked across to the Big Man’s house one evening and tapped on the door. Ruathain was sitting by a cold hearth, a single lamp casting a gloomy light over the main room. The Big Man was sharpening his skinning knife with a whetstone. ‘What are you doing here, boy?’ he asked.
‘I came to see you,’ he answered.
‘You saw me today in the high meadow. You helped me mark the cattle.’
‘I wanted to see you alone. Why are you here? Is it something I did? Or Wing? If so, I am sorry.’
‘It has nothing to do with you, Conn. It is just . . . the way of things.’
‘Was it what Mother said to you?’
Ruathain gently raised his hand, signalling an end to the questioning. ‘Conn, I shall not be talking about this matter. It is between your mother and me. However, no matter what passes between us, know this: she and I still love you – and Wing and Bran – and we always will. Now go home to bed.’
‘We are all unhappy,’ said Conn, making one last attempt.
Ruathain nodded. ‘Aye, all of us.’
‘Can we not be happy again?’
‘You will be, Conn.’
‘What about you? I want you to be happy.’
Ruathain rose from his chair and walked across to the boy; hoisting him high, he kissed his cheek. ‘You make me happy, my son. Now go.’ Opening the door he lowered Conn to the porch step. ‘I shall watch you run home – in case the Seidh are out hunting small boys.’
Connavar grinned. ‘They will not catch me,’ he said, and sped off across the field.
In the months that followed Ruathain and Meria rarely spoke, save for those times when the Big Man came to visit Bran. Even then the conversation was coldly, punctiliously, polite.
Connavar found it all impossible to understand, even though he had heard, from the kitchen, the last angry words between Ruathain and Meria. But they were just words, he thought. Words were merely noisy breaths. Surely they alone could not cause such damage.
A year after the separation he finally spoke to an outsider concerning the problem. Conn had become close to the foreigner, Banouin. The dark-haired, olive-skinned merchant had arrived in Rigante lands twelve years before, bringing with him a baggage train of ponies bearing dyed cloths, embroidered shirts, spices and salt. His goods were high quality and rightly prized. He had spent three months among the Rigante, buying bronze and silver ornaments from the metalworker, Gariapha, and quality hides from the Long Laird’s curious black and white cattle. These hides, he said, would be highly desired back in his own distant land of Turgony. When he came for the second year he paid for a house to be built, and spent the winter and spring among the people, a practice he continued ever since. In his third year he took to wearing the plaid leggings and long blue shirt tunic of the Northern Rigante. No-one took offence, for such was Banouin’s charm that all knew he wore the attire as a mark of respect.
For his own part Banouin had also taken a liking to the fierce, strange-eyed Connavar. They had met one evening three years before, when Conn had climbed through the window of the small warehouse-stable where Banouin kept his goods. Unknown to the eight-year-old, the little merchant had seen him creeping through the long grass, and had watched him scale the outside wall and ease himself through the window. This took some nerve, since, with the permission of the village council, Banouin always told the children he was a wizard, who would turn any young thief into a toad. The tale was widely believed and the youngsters of Three Streams generally steered clear of Banouin’s house.
Intrigued, Banouin had moved silently into the warehouse, where he saw Conn delving into the saddle packs stacked against the far wall. Banouin waited in the shadows. At last Conn came to the pack containing ornate weapons, and drew out a bronze dagger with a hilt of hand-worked silver, crafted by Gariapha. Slashing the air, the boy began to move through a mock fight, twirling and leaping as if surrounded by enemies.
At last he stopped, then walked to the window and waved the blade in the air. This last move surprised Banouin, as did the next. Rather than climb out and make off with the dagger the boy came back and returned the blade to the pack.
‘Why did you not steal it?’ asked Banouin, his voice echoing in the rafters.
The boy swung round, fists clenched. The merchant emerged from the shadows and sat down on a long wooden box. Conn darted back to the pack, drew out the blade and stood ready.
‘You intend to fight me?’ enquired Banouin.
‘You’ll not turn me into a toad, Foreigner,’ said the boy.
‘I would have, had you tried to leave with my knife. However, since you did not come here to steal, why did you come?’
Conn shrugged. ‘It was a dare. Do they have dares where you come from?’
‘Yes,’ said Banouin. ‘A friend once dared me to climb a rock face without a rope. Sixty feet high it was.’
‘Did you do it?’
‘Almost. I fell and broke my leg. After that I avoided stupid dares.’
At that moment a large rat scuttled from behind the packs. Banouin drew something from his sleeve. His right hand swept up, then down. A bright blade flashed across the room and the boy saw the creature impaled against the far wall. Conn peered at the body and the small iron throwing knife jutting from it.
‘Rats spread disease,’ said Banouin. ‘Now, what were we talking about?’
‘Stupid dares,’ said the boy.
‘Ah yes. Put back my dagger, retrieve my knife and come into the house. There we will talk – if you are still not frightened, that is?’
‘I’ll be there,’ promised the boy. Banouin doubted it and returned to his house. Moments later Conn appeared, carrying the throwing knife, cleaned of blood. They had sat and talked for an hour. At first Conn was ill at ease, but soon he was all questions. Could he learn to throw a knife? Would Banouin teach him? Where had the Foreigner come from? What were the lands like to the south? From that day they had struck up a friendship which both enjoyed.
Often, in the evenings, he and Conn would sit on the boardwalk outside Banouin’s home and talk of events in the wider world – a world of mystery and adventure to the Rigante youngster. Banouin had journeyed far, and often travelled upon ships that crossed the great water to the lands beyond. Conn had never seen a ship, and found the prospect of journeying on such a vessel dangerously exciting. Also, he had been amazed to learn, the people across the water spoke different languages. When Banouin first told him he had thought it to be a jest of some kind, and when the Foreigner had spoken in his own tongue it sounded like gibberish and Conn had laughed aloud. Yet after a year he had learned many phrases in Banouin’s language.
‘You have a gift for learning and language,’ said the Foreigner one day, following a short conversation in Turgon. ‘Most tribesmen have difficulty in mastering the placement of our verbs.’
‘It is fun,’ Conn told him.
‘Learning should be fun,’ said Banouin. ‘Indeed so should life. The gods know it is short enough.’ His dark eyes fixed to Conn’s gaze. ‘You don’t laugh as much as you did,’ he said. ‘What is wrong?’
Connavar did not want to talk about the private grief in his household, but all the fears and anxieties caused by the separation suddenly flooded his emotions and he found himself telling this outsider the whole terrible story. As he finished he felt a wave of embarrassment. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken of it,’ he said.
‘That’s not true, Conn,’ Banouin told him, gently. ‘That is one of the great advantages of having friends. You can unburden your soul to them and they will not judge you for it. Nor will they repeat what you have said.’
Conn was relieved. ‘But can you understand why they remain apart? They love one another. It was just words. That’s all.’
‘Words are stronger than iron,’ said Banouin. ‘Everything we do – everything we are – is born from words. A man’s prejudices are passed on to him by the words of his father and mother, or by older friends he worships. Religion and myth – though both may be the same – are kept alive by words more than deeds. Last year you broke Govannan’s nose because of words. Are you friends yet?’
‘No.’
‘There you are, then. Words.’
‘But mother blames the Big Man for Varaconn’s death. It is not true. Varaconn died because he was a coward, because he ran away. Not being true should make a difference, shouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps it should, but it doesn’t,’ Banouin told him. ‘I don’t think it matters to Ruathain that she was wrong. It was that she believed the story. He is a man of great pride. And that pride is well founded, for he is a fair, brave and honest man. It means much to him that others see he has these qualities. For they are rare, and hard won. It is not easy to be honourable. The world is full of cunning, crafty men who have no understanding of honour or loyalty. They connive, they steal, and invariably, in the eyes of the world, they succeed. To be honest requires great effort, and continuous courage. And as for fairness, that is hardest of all. Ruathain is a good man. That his wife should think him so base must have felt like a death blow.’