DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM
DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM
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.