Sword in the Storm (23 page)

“I will be here,” said Conn.

Her smile widened, and she walked away. Conn rose and stretched, then made his way across to the sand circle, where he watched the horse trading for a while. The Thassilian horses were magnificent, bred for power and speed. Conn wondered idly about cross-breeding a Thassilian stallion with Rigante mares.

The auction concluded, and Conn wandered out into the night air and sat on a fence rail, looking down on the city by the sea. In the moonlight Goriasa was no longer ugly. Lantern lights glowed in hundreds of windows, and the paths and roads were lit by torches. The city gleamed and glittered like a jewel-encrusted necklace hung around the neck of the bay.

Conn climbed down from the fence and was about to return to the building when a movement to the left caught his eye. A man was walking up the hill toward the hall. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his hair closely cropped and shining like silver in the moonlight. Conn watched him, wondering what it was that had caught his eye. The man’s movements were sure, his walk confident, his manner alert. Conn smiled. The man moved like Ruathain: the same easy grace and arrogant style. Suddenly dark shapes sprang from a side road. Conn saw moonlight glint on a blade. The walking man saw
the danger and swung around, striking out at the first attacker. His assailant fell back, but a second, armed with a cudgel, lashed out. The cudgel struck the man’s face, and he toppled to the ground. Conn drew his knife, shouted at the top of his lungs, and ran at the group.

Two of them rushed him. One held a knife, the other a long club. The knifeman was in the lead as they closed in. Conn twisted and kicked the knifeman in the knee. There was a loud crack followed by a piercing scream as the knifeman fell. Leaping over him, Conn threw up his left arm, blocking a blow from the club and slamming the Seidh blade deep into the attacker’s shoulder. The man grunted, fell back, then turned and ran from sight. Two other men rose from beside the fallen man and fled back down the alley. Conn did not give chase but crouched down beside the victim. Despite his white hair the man was not old. Conn guessed him to be in his middle twenties. Blood was oozing from a cut on his swollen temple. The man pushed himself to his knees. Then he swore. Conn helped him to his feet.

“Come, I’ll take you to the hall,” said Conn.

“I can walk, my friend,” said the tall man. “I’ve suffered worse wounds than this.” He peered at Conn’s scarred face. “As indeed you have. What was it, lion?”

“Bear.”

“You are lucky to be alive.”

Conn chuckled. “So are you. Do you know who your enemies were?”

“Let’s find out,” said the man, moving to where the knifeman lay groaning. The man’s leg had been snapped below the knee, the lower part of the limb bent to an impossible angle.

The tall man knelt by him. “Who sent you?” he asked.

The knifeman swore and spit at his face. “I’ll tell you nothing, Stone man.”

“That’s probably true,” the tall man replied, casually picking up the assassin’s fallen knife.

Connavar saw the deadly intent in the man’s cold eyes. “Do not kill him,” he said softly.

For a moment only the man remained very still, then his shoulders relaxed. “You risked your life for me. How, then, could I refuse your request? Very well, he shall live.” He glanced down at the wounded knifeman. “If we leave you here, will your friends come back for you?”

“Yes,” grunted the man.

“Good. Then I shall bid you farewell.” Tossing the knife into the man’s lap, he walked away. Conn followed him.

“He called you Stone man. Are you from that city?”

“Yes. My name is Valanus. What is your interest in Stone?”

“My friend and I are traveling there. I am eager to learn about it.”

“It is a great city, boy. The center of the world. Now, I think I had better get this cut seen to.” He paused. “So tell me, to whom do I owe my life?”

“I am Connavar.”

“Gath? Ostro? What?”

“Rigante.”

“Ah yes, the tribes across the water. I have heard of them. A proud people, it is said. You worship trees or some such.”

“We do not worship trees,” Conn told him as they walked toward the hall. “We worship the gods of air and water and the spirits of the land.”

“There is only one god, Connavar. And he is in Stone.” Valanus paused at the doorway to the hall. “So tell me, Connavar, why did you save my life?”

“Why would I not?” countered Conn.

Valanus gave a weary smile. “My head hurts too much to debate the point. I am in your debt, Rigante.”

With that he turned away from Conn and moved into the hall.

*    *    *

Garshon was a short, slope-shouldered man close to sixty years of age. Bald and one-eyed, he wore a strip of red cloth over his blinded left eye. Gold bands adorned his muscular upper arms, and gaudy rings shone on every finger. His single eye was a pale, merciless blue, and it either stared or glared. There were no halfway measures with Garshon. There never had been. Not from that terrible day in the Doca Forest forty-four years earlier when they had burned out his right eye.

He had been hunting rabbits when the lord and his lady had ridden by. The young Garshon had been stunned by the beauty of the lord’s wife and had failed to dip his head. Instead he had gazed upon her. She said later, as the retainers tied him down and prepared a fire, that he had winked at her.

Garshon had suffered on that day and for several months afterward. The pain had been awful. But it had released in him a terrible ambition that burned just as bright as the heated dagger blade that had destroyed his eye.

Revenge took him six years, four months, and eight days. Gathering together a small gang of outlaws, he raided through Doca lands, gathering wealth and amassing power and hiring more mercenaries and killers until at last he had besieged the lord’s town. When it fell, he had the lord dragged naked into the town square. There Garshon castrated him, then hanged him. The lady he flung from a high cliff, and he watched with relish as her body was crushed against the rocks below. Her children he sold into slavery.

The other lords formed an alliance that all but destroyed his army. Garshon escaped and fled to the west with three ponies and a chest of gold, coming at last to the then-small port of Goriasa.

Thirty-eight years later he controlled the city and its trade routes, his power absolute, his influence extraordinary. Tribal kings and princes looked to him for advice and patronage,
and a word from Garshon could influence events six hundred miles away. And yet he was not satisfied.

Truth to tell, he had never been satisfied. On the day he had killed the lord he had dragged his lady to the cliff top. “Why are you doing this?” she had cried.

“Look at my eye, you cow. How can you ask?”

She had stared at him blankly, totally noncomprehendingly. He knew in that moment that she had no recollection of ruining his life. As she fell screaming to her death, Garshon felt only emptiness. There was no joy in the revenge.

There had been no real joy since. He should have kept her alive, forced her to remember, to know that her punishment was a matter of justice and not merely vengeance. Then, perhaps, he would have tasted the sweetness of her death.

“You seem lost in thought,” said Banouin.

Garshon took a deep breath and returned his concentration to the little merchant. He actually liked the man, which was rare. “I was thinking of old times.”

“Not good ones,” observed Banouin.

Garshon grinned. “You are nearly as sharp as me.” Forcing himself to think of business, he haggled with Banouin for a while, finally making an offer on the merchant’s ponies. As they shook hands, Garshon realized the price was too high and cursed himself for allowing the past to distract him. “You want the money in gold?” he asked.

“Hold it for me,” said Banouin. “I will be back in the autumn.”

“You are a very trusting man, Banouin,” said Garshon. “What if you do not make it back?”

“Then give it to Connavar, who is traveling with me. And before you ask, if we both fail to return, send it to my wife in Three Streams.”

“You are wed? My congratulations, Banouin. It will be as you say. And I thank you for your faith in my honesty.”

Banouin gave a broad smile. “I would trust your word with more than my gold, Garshon.”

The one-eyed merchant was both touched and embarrassed. He rose, bade farewell to Banouin, and moved from the small office out into a narrow corridor and up the stairs to his inner quarters on the upper floor of the travelers hall. His guest was sitting on a wide couch, his legs stretched out on the soft fabric. Garshon noticed he had removed his boots, which was more than he would have expected.

“I understand you were attacked,” said Garshon, snapping his fingers. A young maidservant ran forward, pouring red wine into a goblet of blue glass. Garshon sipped it.

“I thought I had lost them,” said Valanus. “They surprised me.”

“And I thought you Stone warriors were invincible.”

“No man is invincible,” said Valanus, swinging his legs to the floor and sitting up. He winced as a sharp pain seared behind his eye.

“You have a lump the size of a goose egg. Perhaps your skull is cracked.” Garshon grinned as he said it, then pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Valanus. He peered at the swelling. “Who was your savior?”

“A young Rigante not old enough to know better.”

Garshon stared hard at his guest. At the mention of the word “savior” Valanus’ expression had changed momentarily. The change had been fleeting, but Garshon had caught it. What had it signified? Irritation? Possibly. But something more. “Did you gain information from the survivor?” asked the merchant.

“No.”

“Ah, you killed him, then?”

“No, I did not. Connavar asked me to spare him.”

Garshon leaned back and smiled. “Asked you? The blow to the head must have put you in a very good mood. It is not like you, Valanus, to spare your enemies.”

“I have come here to talk about other matters,” said Valanus, casting a look at the servant girl.

“Ah, yes. Other matters.” Turning to the girl, Garshon waved his hand. She bowed and walked from the room. Garshon sat quietly for a moment, and when he spoke it was in the language of Stone. “The general Jasaray is very generous. My man in Escelium sends word that three thousand gold pieces have been left with him for safekeeping.”

“Only five hundred is for you,” Valanus reminded him. “The rest is to be used for our allies.”

“Allies? You have no allies. You have only servants. What is it you require of my … friends among the Gath?”

“Large amounts of grain, beef, spare horses, and two thousand auxiliary cavalry. We will pay ten silver pieces for every warrior. But they must supply their own mounts.”

“How much grain?”

“I will send you full details when the general has decided on his line of march.”

Garshon poured more wine. “What would you do, Stone man, if you could not find traitors?”

“We would still win, Garshon, but it would be more slowly. And I do not think of our allies as traitors. They help us defeat their own enemies. Nothing treacherous in that.” Valanus rose. “I think I will go to my bed. My head hurts like the hammers of Hades are pounding in it.”

“You will not require a woman tonight, then?”

“Not tonight.”

The tall silver-haired warrior strode from the room. Garshon watched him go. The Stone soldier was a tough man, apparently fearless. And yet …

Garshon walked from the room, down a long corridor, and into a small side room. Three men were there. One had a heavily bandaged shoulder, and the second had three splints on his broken leg.

“What happened?” asked Garshon.

The uninjured man, a thin, balding fellow with a pockmarked face, spoke up. “We had him, but then this youngster ran in. He broke Varik’s leg and stabbed Jain. He was very fast, Garshon. And we didn’t know if he was alone. So we ran.”

Garshon said nothing. They had known the boy was alone, but he had frightened them. He turned to Varik. “How is the leg?”

“The break is clean, just below the knee. It will be weeks, though, before I can walk.”

“Why did Valanus let you live?”

“The boy told him not to kill me. I tell you, Garshon, my heart almost gave out.”

“He asked him, you mean?”

“No. He just said: ‘Don’t kill him.’ For a heartbeat I thought he was going to do it anyway. But he didn’t, thank Taranis!”

“What do you think the boy would have done had Valanus stabbed you?”

Varik shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Was he carrying a blade?”

“Yes. A shining knife.”

“Describe the scene. Exactly.” Varik did so. Garshon listened, made him repeat it, then turned away from the trio. As he went to leave the room, the pockmarked man spoke again.

“Why don’t you just have the bastard killed in his bed?”

“I might have
you
killed in your bed,” said Garshon. “You think I want Jasaray as an enemy? There is no way I can kill Valanus in my own home. However, I had thought that four of you would be enough. How foolish of me. But then, I could not know that you would be surprised by a boy.”

Leaving them, he wandered out along the corridor and down into the hall. Women were dancing on the raised dais, and he scanned the crowd of watchers, locating Banouin and
the lad. For some time he stood and stared at the young man. Then he summoned a serving maid and sent her to Banouin.

Returning to his rooms, he laid out two more goblets and another jug of wine. Moments later Banouin entered, followed by the Rigante youngster. The boy moved well, perfectly balanced, like a fighter. Garshon gestured his guests to be seated, then poured them wine. “Your young friend has done me a great service, Banouin,” he said. The Stone merchant seemed surprised and glanced at his companion. “He rescued a guest of mine from robbers. I am in his debt.” He smiled at the youngster.

“It was nothing,” said the youth, his voice deep and resonant. A voice that would one day hold power, thought Garshon. He rolled the name around in his mind. Connavar. He had heard it before. His single eye noted the jagged scar on the youngster’s cheek and the green and gold eyes. “Ah,” he said, “you are the boy who fought the bear and saved the princess.”