Gemmell, David - Rigante 1 - Sword in the Storm

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aDAVID A. GEMMEL
SWORD IN THE
STORM
BANTAM PRESS
LONDON • NEW YORK • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
Sword in the Storm is dedicated with love to Stella Graham, with heartfelt thanks for eighteen years of great and
abiding friendship.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to my editors Liza Reeves and Broo Doherty, and also to Alan Fisher, Val Gemmell, Mary Sanderson, Bill
Woodford, Tony Fenelon, and Jan Dunlop for feeding the imagination. And to the staff at Deep Pan Pizza, the
Crumbles, Eastbourne, for their warmth, their friendliness, and their Regular Americano with extra bacon and
pepperoni.
Prologue ............................................................................................................................................. 5
Chapter One........................................................................................................................................ 7
Chapter Two..................................................................................................................................... 11
Chapter Three ................................................................................................................................... 18
Chapter Four..................................................................................................................................... 30
Chapter Five ..................................................................................................................................... 38
Chapter Six....................................................................................................................................... 49
Chapter Seven .................................................................................................................................. 65
Chapter Eight.................................................................................................................................... 73
Chapter Nine .................................................................................................................................... 83
Chapter Ten ...................................................................................................................................... 90
Chapter Eleven ................................................................................................................................. 99
Chapter Twelve .............................................................................................................................. 107
Chapter Thirteen............................................................................................................................. 120
Chapter Fourteen ............................................................................................................................ 134
Chapter Fifteen............................................................................................................................... 146
Chapter Sixteen .............................................................................................................................. 155
EPILOGUE .................................................................................................................................... 168
Prologue
I was a child when I saw him last, a scrawny straw-haired boy, living in the highlands. It was the afternoon of my
eleventh birthday. My sister had died in childbirth the day before, the babe with her. My widowed father was
inconsolable, and I left the farm early, leaving him with his grief. I was sad too, but as with most children, my
sorrow was also tinged with self-pity. Ara had died and spoiled my birthday. I shiver with shame at the memory
even now.
I wandered through the high woods for most of the morning, playing games. Warrior games. I was a hero,
hunting for enemies. I was the deadliest swordsman of them all. I was Demonblade the King.
I had seen him once before when he, and several of his companions, had ridden to our lonely farm. They
were merely passing through and my father gave them water and a little bread. The king had dismounted and
thanked Father, and they stood talking about the dry summer and the problems it caused. I was around five I
think, and all I remember was his size, and the fact that his eyes were strange. One was a tawny brown, the other
green, like a jewel. My father told him how our one bull had died, struck by lightning. Three days later a rider
came by leading a fine, big-horned bull, which he gave to us. My father was a king's man after that.
I was just eleven when I saw him again. Tired of playing alone I went to my cousin's house in the Rift Valley,
some three miles from home. He gave me food, and let me help while he chopped wood. I would roll the rounds
to where he stood, and place them on the low stump. He would swing his axe and split them. After he had
finished chopping we carried the wood to the log pile and stacked the split chunks against the north wall of the
house.
I was tired and would have spent the night, save that I knew Father would be worried, so an hour before dusk
I headed for home, climbing the Balg Hills and making for the high woods. My journey took me close to the old
Stone Circle. Father told me giants crafted it in a bygone age, but my aunt said that the stones themselves were
once giants, cursed by Taranis. I don't know which story is true, but the Circle is a splendid place. Eighteen huge
stones there are, each over twenty feet high. Hard, golden stone, totally unlike the grey granite of the Druagh
mountains.
I had no intention of going to the Circle, for it was more than a little out of my way. But as I was making my
way through the trees I saw a pack of wolves. I stopped and picked up a stone. Wolves will rarely attack a man.
They steer clear of us. I don't blame them. We hunt and kill them whenever we can. The leader of the pack stood
very still, his golden eyes staring at me. I felt a chill, and knew with great certainty that this wolf was unafraid.
For a moment I stood my ground. He darted forward. Dropping the stone I turned and ran. I knew they were
loping after me and I sprinted hard, leaping fallen trees and scrambling through the bracken. I was in panic and
fled without thinking. Then I reached the tree line no more than a few yards from the Stone Circle. To run further
would be to die. This realization allowed me to overcome my fear and my mind began to clear.
There was a low branch just ahead. I leapt and swung myself up to it. The lead wolf was just behind me. He
leapt too, his teeth closing on my shoe, tearing it from my foot. I climbed a little higher, and the wolves gathered
silently below the tree.
Safe now I became angry, both at myself and at the wolves. Breaking off a dry branch I hurled it down onto
the pack. They leapt aside, and began to prowl around the tree.
It was then that I heard riders. The wolves scattered and loped back into the woods. I was about to call out to
the newcomers, but something stopped me. I cannot say what it was. I don't think I was afraid, but perhaps I
sensed some danger. Anyway, I crouched down on the thick branch and watched them ride into the Stone Circle.
There were nine of them. All wore swords and daggers.
Their clothes were very fine, their horses tall, like those ridden by the king's Iron Wolves. As they
dismounted they led their horses out of the circle, tethering them close by.
'You think he'll come?' asked one of the men. I can still see him now, tall and broad shouldered, his yellow
hair braided under a helm of burnished iron.
'He'll come,' said a second man. 'He wants peace.'
They rejoined their comrades, who were sitting in a circle within the Circle. Having decided not to show
myself, I lay there quietly. They were talking in low voices and I could hear only a few words clearly.
The sun was going down and I decided to risk the wolves and make my way home. That is when I saw the
rider on the white stallion. I knew him instantly.
It was Demonblade the King.
I cannot tell you how excited I was. The man was close to myth even then. His beard was red gold in the
dying sunlight. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in
Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with
its hilt of gold. He rode into the Circle and sat his stallion staring at the men. They seemed to me to be tense,
almost frightened by his presence. They rose as he dismounted.
I would have gone down then, just to be close to the legend. But he drew his sword and plunged it into the
earth before him. The man with the braided yellow hair was the first to speak.
'Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.'
Demonblade stood silently for a moment, his strong hands resting on the pommel of his sword, his patchwork
cloak billowing in the breeze. 'You have not asked me here to talk,' he said, his voice deep and powerful. 'You
have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.'
Slowly they drew their swords. I could feel their fear.
Then, as the sun fell in crimson fire, they attacked.
Chapter One
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.'
摘要：

aDAVIDA.GEMMELSWORDINTHESTORMBANTAMPRESSLONDON•NEWYORK•TORONTO•SYDNEY•AUCKLANDSwordintheStormisdedicatedwithlovetoStellaGraham,withheartfeltthanksforeighteenyearsofgreatandabidingfriendship.AcknowledgementsMythankstomyeditorsLizaReevesandBrooDoherty,andalsotoAlanFisher,ValGemmell,MarySanderson,BillW...

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