Sword in the Storm (54 page)

“They must be invading Pannone lands,” said Maccus. “It is madness. Even if they defeat the Highland Laird, there will be insufficient food for them.”

Conn had sent a rider to warn the Highland Laird and offer military support, but the man had returned with a blunt message from the Pannone lord: “We neither need you nor want you.”

“How many men can he field against the Vars?” asked Conn.

“No more than twelve thousand,” said Maccus.

“How many can we gather within, say, ten days?”

“The Highland Laird doesn’t want us,” put in Fiallach. “Let him cook in his own broth.”

“The Pannone are Keltoi,” said Conn. “But even more than that we must consider the size of the invading force. Ten thousand are not needed for a raid. They have come to conquer, to take land. Once they have a foothold here, we will have deadly enemies to the north. No. Whether he wants us or not, we will help him defeat the Vars.”

“Within ten days,” said Maccus, “we could field fifteen thousand fighting men.”

“Yes, we could,” said Braefar, “but supplying them is a different matter. Our granaries are full, but the number of wagons needed to haul grain for fifteen thousand men on a march through Pannone territory would be colossal. We could not gather those in time. We do not even know where the Vars have landed. They could be a hundred miles to the north.”

“Something about all of this does not sit right with me,” said Govannan. “I agree with Conn that this is an invading force and must be countered. But why invade Pannone lands? There is little gold there and precious few granaries, while we have the new mines and a huge surplus of food.
We
are the natural targets for any invasion, and we already know that
King Shard hates Conn and has sworn to have his head. It makes no sense for him to sail his ships a hundred miles north and attack a poorer neighbor.”

Braefar shook his head. “Not necessarily. If, as Conn believes, they are here to gain a foothold, they can ship in many more men, then launch a full war against us in the spring. They could hit us on two fronts: a marching army from the north and a second invasion at Seven Willows.”

“There is a third alternative,” said Maccus. “The Pannones are our enemies. The Highland Laird has made that clear. They do not, however, have the strength to attack us. Make no mistake, however. There is great hatred for us among the Pannone. Let us suppose, just for a moment, that the Highland Laird is
not
facing an invasion but has invited Shard to join him in a war against us. If that is the reality, then we will face ten thousand battle-hardened Vars and twelve thousand Pannone warriors.”

There was sudden silence around the table as each man let the terrible prospect sink in. Finally Conn spoke, and his voice was full of regret. “I hope you are wrong, Maccus. But if you are right, then the fault is mine, for it was my revenge that gave birth to this hatred. I have tried to make amends, but some deeds cannot be washed away with gold.”

Fiallach swore. “Och, man, you did what any warrior would do. For myself, when I heard they had killed Tae, I would have wiped out every Pannone on the face of the earth. What I want to know is how we decide which course of action to take.”

Conn was silent for a moment. Then he glanced at Maccus. “Send out riders to gather the army. Make sure they understand that the need is urgent. We will not march into Pannone territory immediately. But we will prepare. If the Pannones are indeed victims, we will move more swiftly to their aid. If they are not, we will be ready to defend our own lands.” He
swung to Fiallach. “You, my friend, will gather the Iron Wolves, and if battle comes, you will command them.”

“Where will you be?” asked Fiallach.

“I’ll fight on foot with the main body of the army. It is many years since the Rigante faced a battle, and the experience will be new to the younger men. I will stand with them, with a hundred Iron Wolves. The rest will ride with you.”

“You honor me,” said Fiallach, his eyes shining with pride. “I will not let you down.”

Conn switched his gaze to Braefar. “Wing, I will need you to coordinate supplies. We may have to hold the army together for some weeks while the situation develops. We cannot afford to fall short of food.”

“What do you require of me, Conn?” asked Maccus.

“If battle comes, you will take command of the horse archers. Until then organize scouts to ride into Pannone territory to gather as much information as they can. The earlier we know the truth, the better prepared we will be.”

Within three days the first Rigante warriors began to arrive at Old Oaks. By the fifth day more than six thousand men had gathered. The weather was still thankfully mild, for the warriors were forced to sleep at first in the open. Braefar had the foresight to order timbers hauled in from the highlands, and hasty shelters were erected. Conn met clan leaders and minor chieftains throughout each day and long into the night.

By the sixth day the last of the scouts rode in.

Maccus’ fears had been proved correct. The Highland Laird of the Pannones had made a treaty with Shard of the Vars, and the two men were leading their armies toward the Rigante borders.

It was midnight, and Conn once more sat with his captains, joined now by Ruathain. The Big Man did not say much at the meeting but sat silently listening to the battle plans. Conn had scouted the area north of Old Oaks and had decided to meet
the enemy on a range of hills some six miles from the settlement. “The ground narrows between two hills, and if we fight there, it will lessen the advantage they have in numbers,” Conn told them. The scouts had reported the combined enemy force at just under eighteen thousand, almost double the current Rigante force. Conn turned to Maccus. “How long before they get here?”

“Tomorrow if they push on through the night. Dawn the day after if they don’t.”

“How many warriors do we have as of now?”

“Just under nine thousand, but more are coming in all the time. By tomorrow we should be close to ten, maybe eleven thousand.”

“Why can’t we fight from here?” asked Braefar. “Isn’t that why the Long Laird built this fortress?” He seemed nervous and ill at ease.

It was Ruathain who answered him. “Aye, we could fight from here, but the Vars would surround the place and then send raiding parties throughout the area. Smaller communities would be wiped out. But worse than that, the warriors who have joined us have left their wives and families at home. They would not want to be cooped up in here while their loved ones were being hunted and slain. Conn is right. The enemy must be met and the issue decided in one great battle.”

“Aye, a great battle,” snapped Braefar. “A battle in which we will be outnumbered by perhaps two to one.”

“We can do nothing about the numbers,” said Conn. “Our men will be fighting to protect the land they love. It will give them an advantage. Added to this, we have the Iron Wolves. They will give us an edge.”

“How will you deploy us?” asked Fiallach.

“We will need to hold the hills on either side, forcing the enemy to funnel into the gap between. In that gap I will stand. The Highland Laird will see me there. His hatred is so strong
that I think he will direct his main force toward me. You, Fiallach, will hold your men on the eastern hill until you see my signal. Then you will attack the enemy’s right flank. Do not get drawn into the mass. Hit the flank, pull away, and hit them again and again. Maccus will circle the enemy with his horse archers and attack the rear. When the time is right and the enemy is in disarray, I will lead a charge to kill the laird and Shard.”

“Assuming everything goes the way you plan it,” said Braefar.

“Yes, assuming that,” Conn said softly. “We move out tomorrow. You will stay here, Wing. There will be many latecomers. Gather them into a second force and march to our aid as soon as you can.”

The meeting ended, and with the others departed, Ruathain sat for a while talking to Conn. The younger man could sense that there was something on Ruathain’s mind, but he would not be drawn on it. Instead he changed the subject. “You think it is wise to leave Wing with the rear guard?”

“He would not be of much use on the battlefield, Big Man. You saw him tonight. You could almost taste his fear.”

“Aye, I saw it. But that rear guard could mean the difference between victory and defeat, Conn.”

“Yes, it is a risk. But I cannot afford to leave Govannan. I need him with me.”

“I could stay.”

“You, Big Man? And miss the battle?”

“I think it would be wiser.”

“I’ll think on it. Are you well, Father? You seem preoccupied.”

“Och, I’m as strong as an ox, boy. Have no fears on that. But I am weary, so I think I’ll head for my bed. Meria is probably waiting up and will want a full report.”

Conn chuckled. “I am surprised you didn’t leave her at Three Streams.”

“Leave her? You think she would have suffered that with you and Bran about to go into battle? By the gods, Conn, I’d sooner face the Vars than have to tell her she was staying behind.” Ruathain hugged his son, then left for his apartments.

Conn rose and walked out into the night, strolling past two growling dogs that were fighting over food scraps from a market stall. He climbed up to the battlements. For a while he stood there, staring out toward the north, casting his gaze over the hundreds of campfires giving warmth to his sleeping army.

His heart was heavy. All his life he had wanted to protect his people, but now he had brought this calamity upon them. His hatred and his revenge had been the fire that had forged the alliance between the Highland Laird and Shard. And tomorrow or the next day hundreds, perhaps thousands of men would pay for it with their lives.

The wind was turning bitter, and he drew his cloak more closely about him and climbed down from the battlements. A woman in a long flowing dress, her head and shoulders covered by a dark woolen shawl, moved from the long hall. Meria saw him and waved. He noticed she was carrying something and guessed it was food for him. He smiled fondly. As long as she lived, she would always see him as a child who needed nurturing.

As they came closer, one of the dogs ran at Meria, barking furiously. She swung toward it. It had smelled the food. Conn began to run, shouting at the top of his voice, seeking to frighten the beast away. It jumped at Meria, jaws snapping toward the food. She leapt back. The dog was snarling now. It was a thin, half-starved stray, and the scent of the food had driven it to the edge of madness. Once more it leapt, this time its jaws seeking the flesh of the woman seeking to deprive it of a meal. Conn ran in, throwing out his arm. The dog’s teeth closed on his leather wrist guard. Conn twisted violently and jerked out his arm. There was a sickening crack, and the dog
fell to the ground, its body twitching. Conn knelt beside it. It was not a large hound, and it was old, its bones brittle with malnutrition. Its neck had been broken. Rising, Conn moved to Meria. “Are you all right, Mam?” She was standing very still, her face ghostly white in the moonlight.

“You killed it.”

“I did not mean to.”

“You killed the hound that bit you, Conn,” she whispered. “Oh, sweet heaven.”

His blood ran cold. He had broken his
geasa
on the night before a battle. They stood in silence for a few moments, then she took his hand.

“What will you do?”

“What can I do, Mam? I will lead the Rigante into battle.”

“No,” she whispered, backing away. “Not again! It can’t happen again!”

Ruathain groaned and rolled over. Pain lanced into him. He struggled to sit, then saw that the bed was empty. With a grunt he pushed himself to his feet and moved to where his clothes lay across the back of a chair. From his jerkin pocket he lifted clear Vorna’s medicine bag, took a pinch of foxglove powder, and sprinkled it into a cup, which he then filled with water. Stirring the contents, he drank deeply. After some moments the tightness in his chest eased.

It had hurt him to ask Conn to leave him behind when the army marched, but there was good sense in the decision. Much as he loved Wing, he did not trust him to bring reinforcements at speed. There was no way that Wing would hurry
toward
a battle. Ruathain drank more water. His mouth tasted bitter from the medicine.

Vorna had come to him on the day he had ridden to Old Oaks. They had walked together along the line of the fence surrounding Nanncumal’s paddock. “You have not told her, have you, Big Man?”

“No.”

“Listen to me, Ruathain. If you fight that battle, you will die. Your heart will fail you. If you cannot bring yourself to tell your wife, then at least tell your son.”

“I’ll tell him. I’ll wait behind with the women and the bairns,” he snapped, trying to control his anger. His heart began to pound painfully. Vorna laid a slender hand on his chest, and he felt calmer.

“You have power again,” he whispered.

“Aye. Not enough to heal you, though. You remember your own
geasa
?”

“Of course. It was always a grand nonsense. I think the witch must have been drunk. ‘Be not the king’s shield.’ It had no meaning then, and it has none now.”

“There is always meaning, Ru. A witch sees a vision, a picture, if you will. Then she puts it into words. You have held to the word ‘king,’ but it could mean ‘ruler,’ ‘thane,’ or ‘laird.’ Connavar rules the Rigante. Tell me, does Meria know your
geasa
?”

“No. She knows Conn’s. But since Varaconn’s death she has avoided all talk of prophecies. They frighten her.”

Vorna sighed. “Find a way to tell her, Ru, if you can. But whatever you choose, when you ride to Old Oaks, think of Meria and your sons. They love you. To lose you would break their hearts. My little Banouin worships you. Think on these things. Think on them hard. Do not let pride rob you of your last years. There are too few good men in the world, Ruathain. Stay with us a while longer.”

He had been touched by her words. “I will not fight in that battle, Vorna. I’ll tell Conn.”

But he had not. Conn had enough on his mind without worrying about his stepfather’s health. Instead he had leapt at the chance to organize the rear guard and send reinforcements to the battlefield.