Ferol felt the chill of winter flow across his skin. Evil he was, and cruel, but he was not stupid. This young fighter was facing six armed men and there was not the slightest suggestion that he was afraid. There were only two possible conclusions to be drawn: either he was an idiot, or he was as deadly as his words claimed. Ferol sensed it was the latter, and was about to back down when Roca spoke.
‘You arrogant bastard!’ shouted Roca. ‘Take him!’ Ferol stood stock still as the five men rushed forward. The warrior leapt to meet them, his shining sword cutting left and right in a bewildering blur. Roca was the first to die, and within a few heartbeats three others were down. Ferol threw himself back as the silver sword slashed within a hair’s breadth of his throat. Senecal threw down his dagger and ran towards the woods behind the house.
The warrior advanced on Ferol, who dropped his sword. ‘I have had enough,’ he said. ‘You were quite right. Let’s spill no more blood, eh?’ The warrior sheathed his sword and moved towards the house. Ferol slid his hand up his sleeve and drew a throwing knife. His arm came back. But he had forgotten the old man, who shouted a warning. The warrior spun on his heel. Something very bright flashed from his fingers, thudding into Ferol’s neck. The big man stumbled back. Grabbing the hilt of the knife embedded in his throat he tried to draw it out. His vision was dimming, and the last thing he saw was the young warrior’s sword slicing towards his neck.
As the corpse hit the ground, Connavar swung away and strode to the house, pushing open the door. The room within was empty, but there were blood splashes on the walls and floor. Parax joined him there. ‘You want me to scout for sign?’ he asked.
Connavar nodded. ‘I think I know what you will find,’ he said.
The old hunter moved out onto open ground and began to search along the tree line. Connavar walked to the ferry and led the horses to dry land. A short time later Parax returned. ‘The man and his wife are buried in a shallow grave around fifty paces back. They were both stabbed, the man in the back.’ He shook his head. ‘The coward who ran away was their son?’ There was disbelief in his voice.
‘Aye, their son,’ said Connavar.
‘It is beyond belief.’
‘After what I have seen, nothing is beyond belief,’ said the warrior. He glanced at the corpses. ‘I had thought that my homecoming would bring me peace. Not more blood and death.’
‘Does this mean we won’t be hunting down the son?’
‘Aye, it does. I’ll report the murders to the Long Laird. He can send hunters out to find him.’
That’s a shame,’ said Parax. ‘I’d enjoy cutting his heart out.’
‘If you could find it,’ said Connavar, sadly.
Vorna was sitting in the shade, her three-month-old babe in her arms, enjoying the warmth of this summer day. Golden light bathed the woods and fields and sparkled on the waters of the streams. The child, having been fed, was fast asleep, and Vorna herself was drowsily content.
She did not see the two riders crest the southern hills, but she heard the commotion in the settlement as they rode in. Leaning back in her chair she cuddled little Banouin close and closed her eyes. Vorna drifted into a light doze. A breath of breeze touched her face, bringing with it the smell of grass and the merest hint of honeysuckle.
She heard a horse whinny and opened her eyes to see a young man, red bearded and garbed for war, riding slowly across the field towards her house. It took her a moment to recognize Connavar. He had changed. He was taller, and the heavy mailshirt he wore made his shoulders look wider. His red beard was tinged with golden blond, and there was a white streak in it. As he came closer she saw that it was the bear scar around which no hair would grow. The chestnut horse he rode was tall, perhaps sixteen hands. Vorna did not rise as he approached. She did not wish to disturb the sleeping babe.