DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

Conn chuckled. ‘I am surprised you didn’t leave her at Three Streams.’

‘Leave her? You think she would have suffered that with you and Bran about to go into battle? By the gods, Conn, I’d sooner face the Vars than have to tell her she was staying behind.’

Ruathain hugged his son, then left for his apartments.

Conn rose and walked out into the night, strolling past two growling dogs, who were fighting over food scraps left from a market stall. He climbed to the battlements. For a while he stood there, staring out towards the north, casting his gaze over the hundreds of campfires giving warmth to his sleeping army.

His heart was heavy. All his life he had wanted to protect his people, but now he had brought this calamity upon them. His hatred and his revenge had been the fire which forged the alliance between the Highland Laird and Shard. And tomorrow, or the next day, hundreds, perhaps thousands of men would pay for it with their lives.

The wind was turning bitter and he drew his cloak more closely about him and climbed down from the battlements. A woman in a long flowing dress, her head and shoulders covered by a dark woollen shawl, moved from the Long Hall. Meria saw him and waved. He noticed she was carrying something, and guessed it was food for him. He smiled fondly. As long as she lived she would always see him as a child who needed nurturing.

As they came closer one of the dogs ran at Meria, barking furiously. She swung towards it. It had smelt the food. Conn began to run, shouting at the top of his voice, seeking to frighten the beast away. It jumped at Meria, jaws snapping. She leapt back. The dog was snarling now. It was a thin, half-starved stray, and the scent of the food had driven it to the edge of madness. Once more it leapt, this time its jaws seeking the flesh of the woman who was depriving it of a meal. Conn ran in, throwing out his arm. The dog’s teeth closed on his leather wrist guard. Conn twisted violently and jerked out his arm. There was a sickening crack, and the dog fell to the ground, its body twitching. Conn knelt beside it. It was not a large hound, and it was old, its bones brittle with malnutrition. Its neck had been broken. Rising, Conn moved to Meria. ‘Are you all right, Mam?’ he asked. She was standing very still, her face ghostly white in the moonlight.

‘You killed it.’

‘I did not mean to.’

‘You killed the hound that bit you, Conn,’ she whispered. ‘Oh sweet Heaven.’

His blood ran cold. He had broken his geasa on the night before a battle. They stood in silence for a few moments, then she took his hand.

‘What will you do?’

‘What can I do, Mam? I will lead the Rigante into battle.’

‘No,’ she whispered, backing away. ‘Not again! It can’t happen again!’

Ruathain groaned and rolled over. Pain lanced into him. He struggled to sit, then saw that the bed was empty. With a grunt he pushed himself to his feet and moved to where his clothes lay across the back of a chair. From his jerkin pocket he lifted Vorna’s medicine bag, took a pinch of foxglove powder and sprinkled it into a cup, which he then filled with water. Stirring the contents he drank deeply. After some moments the tightness in his chest eased.

It had hurt him to ask Conn to leave him behind when the army marched. But there was also good sense in the decision. Much

as he loved Wing he did not trust him to bring reinforcements at speed. There was no way that Wing would hurry towards a battle. Ruathain drank more water. His mouth tasted bitter from the medicine.

Vorna had come to him on the day he rode to Old Oaks. They had walked together along the line of the fence surrounding Nanncumal’s paddock. ‘You have not told her, have you, Big Man?’

‘No.’

‘Listen to me, Ruathain, if you fight that battle you will die. Your heart will fail you. If you cannot bring yourself to tell your wife, then at least tell your son.’

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