DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘You have two apprentice sons who can make horseshoes, hinges, plough blades, nails and swords.’

‘Aye, but there is work enough for all three of us. It would take me weeks to grasp the technique used in this shirt, and months of trial and error to recreate it. My family still need to be fed, Connavar.’

Conn opened the pouch at his belt and removed three golden coins, which he dropped into Nanncumal’s large hand. ‘By heavens, boy! Are they real?’

‘They are real.’

Nanncumal stared hard at the silhouetted face on the coins, and the laurel wreaths embossed upon the reverse. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

‘Carac of the Perdii.’

The king you killed?’

‘The same. Will you create mailshirts for me?’

‘Mailshirts? How many do you want?’

‘A hundred.’

‘What? It is not possible, Conn. I could not make that many in my lifetime.’

‘You will not have to make them all. I have left similar shirts with six Rigante smiths beyond the river. I will take three more to Old Oaks and the smiths there.’

‘I see you have become rich on your travels, boy.’

‘I am not interested in riches,’ said Conn. ‘There is one added refinement I want for the shirt. A mail-ring hood that will protect the neck.’

‘A sensible addition,’ agreed Nanncumal. ‘I would also suggest shortening the sleeve. This shirt was crafted for an individual. It would save time, effort and coin if they were to be elbow length.’

‘I agree. Then you will do it?’

‘Do you intend to sell them on?’

‘No. I intend to give them away.’

‘I don’t understand. For what purpose?’

‘Survival,’ said Conn. ‘How is Govannan?’

‘Fit and well. He is at Far Oaks with the other young men, taking part in the Games. He will be glad to see you.’ The smith paused.

‘As am I,’ he said, softly. ‘Your family and mine have not always . . . seen eye to eye. I was wrong about you, Conn. I hope we can put the past behind us.’

Conn smiled. ‘I never stole your nails, but I did try to steal your daughter.’ He held out his hand. The smith shook it.

‘You would have been better off with the nails,’ he said, sadly. ‘Leave the mailshirt with me. I’ll begin a plan tomorrow and start working next week.’

Resplendent in white robes and garlanded with oak leaves, Brother Solstice strolled around the games fields, watching runners and wrestlers, fist fighters and spear throwers. He had always loved the Games, living in the fond – and futile – hope that one day such sport would replace the need for battle and violence. He remembered how he had once taken part in the Games, winning the Silver Wand. He had knocked out the Pannone champion after more than an hour of ferocious fist fighting. Sadly he still looked back on that moment with pride, which, he knew, showed how far he still had to go on his quest for spiritual fulfilment.

As he wandered through the crowds he saw young Connavar, standing to one side and watching the runners prepare for the six-mile race. Brother Solstice looked at him closely. The boy had changed since that day at Old Oaks. He was taller, wider in the shoulder, and bearded now. The beard was that of a young man, thin and barely covering the skin, and there was a white streak in it around the scar left from his fight with the bear. His hair was shoulder length, red streaked with gold. Brother Solstice walked across to him and offered a greeting. Connavar shook his hand and the druid looked into his odd eyes.

‘How are you faring, Connavar?’

‘I am well, Druid. You?’

Brother Solstice leaned in, his voice low. ‘A conversation between old friends should never start with a lie.’

Connavar gave a brief smile. It did not reach his eyes. ‘You know what they say, Brother, a problem shared is a problem doubled. So I ask you to accept the lie.’

‘As you will, my friend.’ The druid glanced across at the runners. ‘Is that your brother, Braefar?’

‘Yes. I think he will do well. He was always fast on his feet.’

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