DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

A huge, hulking man, he had been raised in the north country of the Pannones, on a small farm built on rocky soil, constantly eroded by high winds and driving rain. His father was a hard-working man, and scrupulously honest. Ferol had despised him. The old man made him work in all weathers and, truth be told, Ferol had never overcome his fear of the man. One day, however, when he and his father had been felling trees, the old man slipped, and a heavy trunk fell across his legs, smashing both thigh bones.

Ferol had run to his side. The old man could hardly move, his careworn face grey with pain. ‘Get this off me,’ he had grunted.

In that moment the nineteen-year-old Ferol had discovered freedom. ‘Get it off yourself,’ he said, turning and walking slowly back to the house. He ransacked it, looking for his father’s carefully hoarded silver. It came to nine miserable coins. Pocketing them he saddled the one old pony and rode south.

He was full of regret afterwards. If only he had sat down and waited he could have watched the old bastard die.

Ferol stood, stoop shouldered at the ferry, watching the two riders approach. One was a red-bearded young warrior wearing a bright mailshirt, the other an older man, with dark, receding hair. They were leading two enormous stallions, each over sixteen hands, and three pack ponies heavily laden. Ferol glanced to his left where his cousin, Roca, lounged against the ferry. ‘Be ready,’ he said. Roca nodded, turned towards the river, and waved a signal to the four men on the far side.

The riders came closer. Ferol stepped out to greet them. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘You have come far?’

The warrior did not reply immediately. Shading his eyes against the sun he looked across the river. ‘Where is Calasain?’ he asked.

‘In the house,’ replied Ferol. ‘He has not been well.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Ferol. ‘His son, Senecal, asked my friends and me to help out at the ferry.’

‘You are not Rigante.’

‘I am of the Pannone.’ He signalled to Roca, who unlatched the front of the ferry, lowering the boarding platform. ‘Step aboard. There’ll be food at the house.’

The warrior and his companion dismounted and led the horses and pack ponies onto the ferry. Roca drew up the boarding platform then he and Ferol began to haul on the rope. Slowly the ferry eased out into the river.

‘So, where are you travelling from?’ Ferol asked the young man, seeking to put him at his ease.

‘South,’ came the reply. ‘What is the nature of Calasain’s sickness?’

‘You can ask his son. He is waiting at the jetty,’ he said, pointing to the short, burly figure of Senecal, who was standing with three other men.

The ferry docked. Roca moved to the front and lowered the platform. Ferol stepped back and waved his arm, gesturing the warrior to lead his horses to the bank.

‘After you, ferryman,’ said the man, softly.

Ferol was irritated, but he obeyed and walked from the ferry. The warrior followed him, having signalled his older companion to wait.

‘What is wrong with your father?’ he asked Senecal.

The burly man looked uncomfortable, his gaze flicking to Ferol. ‘I told you, he’s sick,’ said Ferol. ‘Now lead your beasts ashore and pay the crossing fee.’

The warrior stood his ground. ‘I do not know you, Pannone, nor any of your men, save Senecal. But the ferry does not require – nor can its income support – six men. Now I ask you again: where is Calasain?’

Roca moved to the side of the bank, lifted an old blanket and pulled out a sword which he threw to Ferol. Other swords were swiftly handed out.

Ferol grinned at the young warrior. ‘Calasain died,’ he said, with a wide, unpleasant grin. ‘Now, unless you think you and your old friend can defeat six of us, I suggest you hand over your horses and ponies.’

The warrior’s sword hissed from its scabbard, the blade shining bright in the sunlight. When he spoke again his voice was calm, and very cold. ‘I have seen thousands of Keltoi butchered this last year. Some I killed myself. I am not anxious to spill more Keltoi blood, but if you persist in this I will slay all of you.’

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