DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

Connavar slowed in his climb. It was also said that if the Thagda took a dislike to a man he would open his coat, and from his belly would come a mist that would eat away the flesh of a human, leaving only dried bones.

The boy stopped at the tree line. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking. This is stupid, he told himself. He stared at the forbidding row of trees. They seemed now so sinister, and he imagined the horrors that might await him. Anger flared, drowning his fear. I am not like my father, he thought. I am not a coward. Taking a deep breath he strode forward into the woods.

All was quiet within the trees, and, through gaps in the leaves above, shafts of moonlight shone, columns of bright silver illuminating a ground mist that drifted through the undergrowth. Connavar wiped his sweating palms on his leggings and was tempted to draw his knife. You are coming to ask a favour, he told himself sternly. How will it look if you approach the Thagda with a blade?

He walked on. The mist swirled around his ankles. A breeze blew up, rustling the leaves above him. ‘I am Connavar,’ he called. ‘I wish to speak to the Thagda.’ His voice sounded thin and frightened, which awoke his anger once more. I will not be fearful, he told himself. I am a warrior of the Rigante.

He waited, but no answer came to his call. He walked deeper into the wood, scrambling down a steep slope. Ahead was a small clearing, and a rock pool shimmering in the moonlight. He called out again, and this time he heard his own voice echoing around him. Nothing stirred. Not a bat, or a fox, or a badger. All was still.

‘Are you here, Thagda?’ he shouted.

Thagda . . . Thagda . . . Thagda . . .

The sound faded away. Connavar was cold now, and the weariness of defeat sat upon him like a boulder. It is just a wood at night, he thought. There is no magic here.

Then came a sound. At first he thought it to be a human voice, but almost immediately he realized it was an animal in pain. Moving to his left he saw a patch of bramble. At its centre was a pale fawn, struggling to stand. Brambles had wrapped themselves around its hind legs, and small spots of blood could be seen on its gleaming flanks.

‘Be still, little one,’ said Connavar, soothingly. ‘Be still and I will help you.’

Warily he eased his way into the brambles. They tugged at his clothes and pricked at his flesh. Drawing his knife he cut through an arching stem. A second stem, freed by the cut, slashed upwards. Conn part blocked it with his arm, but it whiplashed across his face, drawing blood. The brambles grew thicker as he struggled forward, their long thorns pricking and piercing. Panicked by his approach the little fawn struggled harder. Conn spoke to her, keeping his voice gentle. By the time he reached her she was exhausted and trembling with terror. Carefully Conn sliced through the brambles around her, sheathed his knife, then lifted her into his arms. The fawn was heavier than he expected. Holding her fast to his chest he slowly turned and struggled out of the brambles. Every step brought new pricks of pain, and his leggings were shredded.

On open ground he lowered the fawn and ran his hands over her flanks. The cuts were not deep and the wounds would heal swiftly. But where was the mother? Why had the fawn been left? Sitting down beside the small creature he stroked her long neck. ‘You’ll know to avoid brambles in future,’ he said. ‘Go away now. Find your mam.’

The fawn stepped daintily away, then turned and stared at the boy. ‘Go on,’ he said, waving his arm. She took three running steps then bounded away into the trees. Conn gazed down at his torn clothes. Meria would not be best pleased with him. The leggings were new. Pushing himself to his feet he struggled up the slope and walked away from the Wishing Tree woods.