Sword in the Storm (51 page)

He rode up alongside her. “Vorna. I thought it was you. What brings you to Old Oaks?”

“Your father is in danger.” Vorna told him of the vision. They rode together toward the hilltop town.

“You think Ruathain is the old bear and that this … Fisher Laird will send men to kill him?”

“That is how I interpret the vision.” As they came closer to the town, he realized she had not smiled or said anything of warmth to him. Perhaps it was just that she was tired after a long and grueling ride.

“And is this how visions always come?” he asked her. “In dream symbols? Wolves, bears, doves?”

“Not always. Sometimes I will see a scene most clearly, Connavar.” Her dark eyes met his for a fraction of a second, and he felt cold inside. She knew.

“It will not happen again, Vorna,” he said softly, feeling the shame.

“Your life is yours to lead, Connavar. It is not for me to judge you.”

“And yet you do judge me.”

She sighed. “Yes, I do. Your wife is a fine woman and deserves better from her man. At this moment she is probably waiting for …” Vorna fell silent, then pulled on the reins. Her pony came to a halt. Conn stared at the witch, for it seemed her shoulders had sagged and she was swaying in the saddle. Steering his pony in close, he reached out to her. “No!” she said suddenly. “Don’t touch me, Conn! Oh, no!”

“What is it?”

She looked at him then, and in her eyes was a depth of sorrow that filled him with fear. “I did not … fully … interpret the vision.” Vorna dismounted and almost staggered as she moved to the roadside and sat down.

Conn jumped from the saddle and ran to her, grabbing her arm. “Tell me! Is the Big Man hurt?”

“No, but the dove died.”

“I know that. You told me. The lion struck it with his paw. What happened to Ruathain?” He shook her, but she stayed silent for a moment, and he could tell she was gathering her strength. Patience was not one of his virtues, but he sat quietly, watching her. Vorna looked at him, then took his hand.

“I have no words to make this more gentle, Connavar. The dove was Tae. She was riding with Ruathain when they attacked. An arrow pierced her heart.”

He heard what she said, but the words seemed to have no meaning. “Tae was riding with Ruathain and has been hurt?” he heard himself say.

“She is dead, Conn. Killed.”

“This cannot be! You are wrong. I promised her we would go riding. She is angry with me. That is all. Stop saying these things.” Panic made his hands tremble. “Are you punishing me for Arian? Is that it?”

She shook her head and struggled to her feet. “I have been cruel at times in my life, Conn. I could never be that cruel. Ruathain is bringing her body back to Old Oaks.”

Conn rose unsteadily. There was a roaring in his ears, and his limbs had no strength. Words whispered up from the recesses of his memory.

“Keep all your promises, no matter how small. Sometimes, like the pebble that brings the avalanche, something tiny can prove to be of immense power.”

“I always keep my promises, little fish.”

“Remember, Conn, no matter how small.”

“No matter how small,” he whispered. He fell to his knees, his head in his hands. Vorna knelt alongside him, her thin arms around his shoulders.

“Come, Connavar, let us go to meet her.”

“I broke my promise, Vorna. I broke it.”

“Come,” she said, drawing him to his feet.

The Fisher Laird sat in his hall, his sons around him at the long supper table. There was little conversation, and the laird drank heavily, cup after cup of strong ale. “There’ll be no weregild now,” said Vor, his eldest son.

The Fisher Laird stared into his cup and shivered. Then he glanced across at Vor. The hulking young man was disappointed, and his flat ugly face looked sullen. The laird shivered again and cast his gaze along the men at the table. His sons. He had once had high hopes for them all, that they would be strong men, Pannone warriors to be admired. But they were not strong men. Oh, aye, they were physically powerful, but they lived their lives in his shadow. He drained his cup. The ale was making him melancholy. He looked back at Vor. “How could you cause him to kill the girl?”

“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 and deep-set eyes. “Only the fool was supposed to die,” he said. He swore loudly and hurled his cup against the far wall. Then, 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 was not sure. And Maggria the Seer had left the settlement on the morning the fool had gone 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 humor. He had been an ugly child and an uglier man, not the kind of man women fell for. His wife had married him only 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 among 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 toward the man. His youngest son, Alar, was walking back toward the wall, carrying the freshly filled lantern.

“I am the death of your house,” said the stranger. As the man spoke, Alar moved closer to him, lifting the lantern toward 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 sidestepped 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 toward 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 colors: one dark and 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 cleaved his neck.

Lifting a lantern clear of the wall, Connavar strode from the hall and out into the night. The wind at his back, he gazed around at the sleeping settlement. Walking to a nearby hut, he splashed oil on 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 through the open doorway of the long hall, then broke through the roof.

Panic swept across 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 that had not yet been touched by the fire. 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 them 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 and 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 and one 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 and terribly tired. The fury of the night before 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 burned, 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 gray ash floating in the breeze. All was ashes now. He had found love—a great love—and he had allowed it to die. In the process he had become not only an adulterer but a killer of women and children.

Tears spilled to 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. Despite being seen riding toward 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 favorite places as a child and the whereabouts of local caves. Then he rode the highlands, 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 after 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, and Parax cast his gaze around the
gloomy place. Running water fell to a shallow pool at the back, and there was a roughly made hearth and an old cot bed. Someone had put up shelves against the western wall, but they were all 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 into 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 traveled 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.”