Sword in the Storm

by David Gemmell

  'It wasn't a child,' insisted Arian. 'It was only blood. I would never harm a child.'

  Eriatha sighed. 'Find another way to deal with the fear.'

  'Oh the fear is gone now,' said Arian. 'I will not be so stupid again.'

  But it had not gone, and three times more that year she passed silver coins to Eriatha, coins given to her by men on the road. And now a second fear had been born to torment her. What if one of the merchants should ride into Three Streams and recognize her? What if Father should find that she had been living as an earth maiden? Like Eriatha she too would be cast out.

  Arian pushed such thoughts from her mind. Soon both fears would be ended for good. The Feast of Samain was coming, and Connavar had promised to marry her. Then there would be no need to sit, as she was doing now, by the roadside. Conn would be with her to take away the fear, to hold her close, as she should have held Baria close.

  Death could not come for her while Connavar was near. He was strong, and brave, and warm with life.

  As Arian sat on the grass thinking of Conn, two men came walking, leading a laden wagon.

  Her hands were trembling, and she felt the need upon her. Rising she tossed back her golden hair and stepped out to meet them.

  Eriatha the Earth Maiden opened the door to her hut, and beckoned the young man inside. Conn ducked under the low lintel and entered the dwelling. The hut was small and round. There were no windows, and no upper rooms, just a central fire within a circle of stones, the smoke drifting up through a hole in the cone-shaped roof. By the western wall was a wide bed and a coverlet stuffed with goose down. There were two high-backed chairs, and two old rugs by them on the dirt floor. This was not where Eriatha lived, Conn knew, merely where she plied her trade.

  Ruathain had told him she was from the Pannone tribe, and the Big Man had supplied the coin for Conn to give her. 'Treat her with respect, Conn,' Ruathain said. 'She is a good woman, and pays her tithe to the settlement. Last year when the floods were upon us she was out from dawn till dusk shoring up the river defences. She did not stint in her work.'

  'I do not need a whore,' said Conn.

  'All skills have to be learned, boy. Any man - like any dog -can rut without instruction. But if you love your wife you will want to bring her pleasure too. Eriatha can teach you how. Then you won't have to blunder around your own bedchamber on your wedding night.'

  'You could teach me,' said Conn. Ruathain's laughter rang out.

  'No, Conn, I could tell you. Eriatha will teach you.'

  Now he was here, and trying not to look at the bed. 'I thank you for your welcome,' he said, formally, as she invited him to sit. Eriatha gave a practised smile and a bow. She was a small woman, slender but not thin, her red hair hanging loose to her pale, freckled shoulders. Her dress was of soft wool, dyed blue, and boasted no adornments: no embroidered wire, no brooches. She sat opposite him, so close that their knees were almost touching. Conn looked into her face. She was older than he had thought at first - perhaps as old as twenty-five. From a distance she looked much younger. They sat in silence for a few moments. She seemed at ease, but Conn was growing more uncomfortable. His hand moved towards his money pouch.

  'Not yet,' she said. 'First tell me why you have come to me.' Her voice was deep for a woman, the sound husky.

  'I am to be married,' said Conn. 'The Big Man . . . my father . . .' His voice trailed away. He found his embarrassment rising.

  Eriatha leaned forward and took his hand. 'Your father,' she said, 'wants you to be a good husband, and to be able to satisfy your wife on your wedding night.'

  'I will be able to do that,' said Conn, defensively.

  'Of course you will, lover,' she told him. 'Tell me, are you skilled with the sword?'

  Conn relaxed. This line of conversation was much more to his liking. 'Yes I am. I am fast and strong, and Banouin tells me my balance is good.'

  'And were you skilled the first time you picked up a blade?'

  'Of course not. But I am a fast learner.'

  'Making love is no different, Connavar. There is an art to it. Two lovers are like two dancers, moving in unison to a music only the soul can hear. All men can rut, Connavar. There is no skill in that. But to make love . . . now therein lies a greater joy.'

  Smoothly she rose from her seat, slid her dress over her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the rug. Then she knelt and removed his boots. Rising, she took Conn's hand. He stood before her, tense, and wishing he had never come here. Lifting his hand she pressed it to her breast. The nipple was hard under his palm. He could smell perfume in her hair. Eriatha moved in closer, her arm circling his neck. 'I think I should go,' he said. This was a mistake.'

  'Are you afraid?'

  The question was asked in a whisper, but it sounded in his ears like a voice of thunder. Instead of making him tense it somehow relaxed him. He grinned. 'Yes, I suppose that I am. Do you think me foolish?'

  'No,' she said, her fingers unlacing the front of his shirt, her hands sliding up over his chest. Dipping his head he kissed her. Her mouth was warm, the taste of her tongue sweet. She undid his belt and he felt her warm hands upon his hips, the heat of the fire on the bare skin of his legs. She dropped to her knees before him, pushing her cheek against his swollen penis. Taking it in her hand she kissed the glans, running her tongue over the tip. He groaned, and heard her give a throaty chuckle.

  'Are you still afraid, Connavar?' she asked.

  'No.' Stooping, he took her by the arms and lifted her to her feet. Eriatha led him to the bed and they lay down, side by side. Conn moved above her. Her legs swung expertly over his hips and he entered her. The warmth alone was joyful, but it was as nothing to the sense of harmony that engulfed him. This was perfection of a kind he had never experienced, nor even dreamed of. Skin on skin, her lips upon his, their bodies moving together. Lost in ecstasy he began to move faster and faster, his entire being focused on the movement, the warmth and the wetness.

  There was no sense of time now, or place. The universe was the hut, the world this bed. Nothing mattered - save the desperate need within him to thrust harder and harder. His body was soaked in sweat. Rearing up on his elbows he gave one final thrust. He cried out as he came, then sank to the bed, breathing heavily.

  They lay in silence for several minutes. Then Eriatha began to stroke his chest and belly. Arousal came swiftly and he made to mount her again. She pushed him away. 'No, lover, now is the time for your education to begin. You have already shown me you can rut. And you do it wonderfully well. Now let us see how swift a learner you really are.'

  'What must I learn?' he asked her.

  'To treat your lover's body as if it were your own. To bring the same pleasure to her as she brings to you, with hand and mouth and body. And to learn patience, Connavar, and control. Will you be able to do what I tell you?'

  He smiled. 'Let us see,' he said.

  'Then we will lie here for a while, and merely touch,' she said. 'And I will show you the secrets of the game.'

  Throughout the evening and into the night she taught him. He would never know that she feigned her first orgasm, nor would he ever learn how surprised she was that the second and third were entirely natural.

  At the last they sat quietly on the bed, sipping cider. 'I wish there was more I could teach you, Connavar,' she said. 'But you are - as you promised - a fast learner. And you will bring your wife great joy. Who is the lucky girl?'

  'Arian - she is the blacksmith's daughter. You must have seen her. She has golden hair and the face of a goddess.'

  'Yes, I have seen her. She is very pretty,' said Eriatha, climbing from the bed and putting on her faded blue dress.

  Conn sensed the change in her mood. 'What is wrong?'

  'Nothing is wrong,' she answered. 'But it is late and time for you to go.'

  'Was it something I said?' he asked, rising and moving to his clothes.

  'Foolish boy,' she said, gently stroking his face. 'You have said and done nothing to off
end me. Quite the reverse, in fact. Go home and leave me to get some rest. You have tired me out and I need my sleep.'

  Conn dressed and stepped to the door. Taking her hand he kissed it. 'I will never forget this night,' he said.

  'Nor I. Go home.'

  Only when he had left and was walking home through light rain did he remember that he had not given her the coin. Slowly he trudged back to the hut and was about to knock upon the door when he heard the sound of weeping coming from within the darkened hut. The sound was plaintive, and more than that, infinitely private. Silently he took three silver coins from his pouch and left them by the door.

  Then, lifting his hood into place, he walked home.

  As summer waned, and the corn was cut, threshed and stored, the young men of the settlement took to the high woodlands with their elders to replenish the winter fuel stores. Younger boys, carrying long canvas sacks slung over their shoulders, gathered branches for kindling, then hauled them down the hill. Several work teams of adults selected trees for cutting, then set to with axe and saw. There were many dead trees, and these were felled first, then stripped of branches so that the older boys could saw the trunks into rounds that could be rolled downhill.

  On either side of a fallen trunk Connavar and Braefar dragged and pushed a four-foot, double-handed saw. Stripped to the waist, sweat streaking their tanned skin, they worked the serrated blade deep into the wood. Braefar had an old cloth wrapped around his blistered right hand. Blood had stained the cloth. Younger than Conn by a year, he was a head shorter and twenty pounds lighter than his half-brother. It was as if nature had played a cruel trick on the swordsman, Ruathain. The son of the slender Varaconn looked more like Ruathain every day, tall and powerful, already showing prodigious energy and strength, while the swordsman's own son was sparrow boned and puny.

  It was a source of some shame to Braefar who, though he could outrun the fastest Rigante tribesman, and shoot a bow as well as most men, could not yet wield a bronze longsword, or wrestle a bull calf to the ground. His skin was soft, and no matter how hard he worked he could build no calluses. Every time he was called upon to use the copper saw his hands bled.

  The two young men had worked all morning, and as the sun neared noon they laid aside the two-man saw and sat in the shade of a spreading oak to eat. Scattered clouds drifted across the blue sky, dappling the green valleys with shadow, and darker clouds hovered around the Druagh peaks, threatening rain in the late afternoon.

  The brothers shared a meal of bread and honey, washed down with cool water from a cold spring that trickled down the nearby rock face.

  'You have been very quiet today,' said Conn, tipping a cup of water over his sweat-soaked red-gold hair.

  For a moment Braefar was silent, and when he did speak he did not look Conn in the eyes. 'I think you like the Foreigner more than you like me,' he said. The comment surprised Conn. His half-brother was never one to complain, and disliked emotional confrontations. Conn understood now why Braefar had seemed so distant these past weeks.

  'I'm sorry, Wing,' he said. 'You are my brother and I love you dearly. But Banouin knows much of the world. And I am eager to learn.'

  'What is there that he can teach?' answered Braefar, sourly. 'We learn how to farm, how to ride, how to shoot, how to fight. We learn the great songs of the Rigante. What more will we need?'

  Conn finished the last of his bread, then licked the honey from his fingers. 'Do you know what a soldier is?' he asked.

  'A soldier? No.'

  'It is a man who fights all year round.'

  'Such a man is an idiot,' said Braefar. 'Who works his farm while he fights? Who gathers his crops, or feeds his animals?'

  'He has no farm. He is paid in gold to fight wars. And because he has no farm he does not have to return home in late summer to gather his crops. Banouin's people have armies of soldiers.'

  Braefar laughed. 'They must be very bored in winter, when all their enemies have gone home.'

  Conn shook his head. 'Their enemies have no homes. For the soldiers follow them, and kill them and take over their lands.'

  'That is stupid,' said Braefar. 'What can you do with land that is far away from yours?'

  'Banouin says you force the surviving people to pay tributes to the conqueror. Gold, or corn, or timber, or cattle.'

  'It still makes no sense,' insisted Braefar. 'You can only eat so much bread. And cattle need wide grazing lands. If someone offered Father a thousand more cattle he would refuse. There would not be enough grass for them.'

  Conn chuckled. 'It is complicated, and I do not fully understand it myself. But these armies of soldiers march into a land and conquer it. The plunder they take is sent back to the cities of stone where their rulers live. With this plunder they create more armies of soldiers, and conquer more lands. There they build more cities, with great stone roads joining them.'

  'Stone roads? You are making fun of me.'

  'No,' said Conn. 'Banouin says there is now a stone road in the land across the water that stretches for a hundred miles. And there are stone bridges built across rivers.'

  'I don't believe any of it,' scoffed Braefar. 'Who would be crazy enough to build a stone road? And why?'

  'So that wagons and armies can move faster.'

  'I think he has fooled you, Conn,' said Braefar, rising. 'Now let's get back to work.'

  'How is your hand?'

  'It hurts, but it will hurt less when we have finished.'

  Conn moved across to his brother and threw his arm around Braefar's slender shoulder. 'You are my brother and my best friend, Wing. And I will never let anything come between us.'

  Braefar forced a smile. Banouin had left for his yearly trip south, and only now did Conn return to him. A cloud drifted across the sun and the clearing was bathed in shadow. Braefar eased away from Conn's embrace and returned to the saw. As they worked he found his melancholy hard to shift. The last few years had been painful for him, as he watched his father grow more bitter, his mother more distant. Now Conn had become attached to the Foreigner, and Braefar felt bereft of friends. Especially after winning the Solstice Race. Govannan and his friends were not speaking to him.

  The brothers laboured for another two hours, then Braefar's strength gave out. His arms felt as if they had been beaten with wooden sticks, and the joints of his shoulders burned. None of the other youngsters had stopped working and Braefar had struggled on long after he should have. The saw moved ever more slowly. Finally he let go and stood shamefaced. Conn wiped sweat from his brow and clambered over the thick trunk.

  'Sit down. I will massage your muscles.'

  'I feel a fool,' whispered Braefar.

  'Nonsense. Most of the boys your size are gathering kindling. You have done a man's work, and you have done it well.' Conn's hands settled on his shoulders. Braefar tensed, but the touch was gentle, as was the slow kneading which followed.

  A spattering of rain fell on the clearing, and the workers around them took a break. Braefar felt his irritation rise. Had he been able to last for a few more heartbeats no-one would have seen him fail.

  On the hillside below he saw the village girls climbing towards them, carrying wicker baskets of food and jugs of apple juice. Conn's fingers slowed still further, the kneading becoming distracted. Braefar glanced up. His brother was staring down at the girls. Braefar's eyesight was not strong and he could make out no individual faces. 'Is she there?' he asked.

  'Aye, she's there,' whispered Conn, sitting down alongside him. As the girls approached Braefar saw her. Arian was talking to her dark-haired sister Gwydia, and both girls were laughing. The rain ceased, the sun breaking through the clouds. Arian's yellow hair shone suddenly gold in the sunlight. It was like magic.

  'She is so beautiful,' said Conn. Some of the girls moved to their brothers, others to sweethearts. The remainder gathered at the centre of the clearing, laying down their baskets. Arian glanced coolly around the clearing, her gaze drifting over the two boys. Conn curse
d. 'She is still ignoring me.'

  'Why would she do that?'

  'I was supposed to meet her three days ago, but the Big Man heard there was wolf sign in the high pasture and we rode out to check. I was only an hour late but she was not where we agreed to meet. Since then she has avoided me.'

  'Shall we get some food?' asked Braefar, anxious to change the subject.

  'No. I am not hungry.' Conn rose and wandered to the spring. As soon as he had gone Arian and Gwydia strolled over.

  'Your hand is bleeding,' said Gwydia, sitting down on the fallen trunk.

  'It will heal,' Braefar told her. A swift shadow swept across the clearing. Braefar glanced up to see a crow swooping overhead.

  Opening its wings the bird slowed its flight, settling on a high branch at the edge of the trees.

  'It is waiting for discarded crumbs,' said Arian. Lifting the linen cover from the basket she took out a slice of apple cake and handed it to Braefar.

  'That should be mine,' said Govannan, striding across the clearing. 'Why are you giving away my food?' He was a tall, wide-shouldered, square-jawed young man with deep-set dark eyes that always looked angry.

  'Gwydia has your food,' said Arian. 'Meria asked me to carry this basket for Connavar and Wing.'

  'Then my food should have been brought first,' said Govannan, snatching the basket from Gwydia. 'Men should be fed before children. Is that not so, little Wing?'