Govannan butted Conn above the eye. Blood spurted and he fell back. Govannan hit him with a right, then a left. Conn staggered, then whipped a ferocious uppercut into Govannan’s face, followed by a right cross that sent him sprawling again to the grass. His strength all but gone, Govannan forced his arms beneath him and slowly came to his knees. Rising on trembling legs he tottered forwards and tried to throw a punch. As he did so, he fell. Conn caught him and lowered him to the ground. Arian and Gwydia knelt beside him, dabbing at his wounds with linen. Arian flashed an angry look at Conn. ‘You are a vicious bully,’ she said.
Anger flared in Conn, but he did not respond. Instead he rose and stalked off into the woods.
Above him glided the black crow.
CHAPTER FOUR
connavar’s mood was murderous as he walked, pushing aside dangling branches and forcing his way through the undergrowth. It was all Arian’s fault! She should not have ignored him. It was discourteous at the very least. That alone had caused his temper to spark. Then, when Govannan shamed Wing, the spark hit dry tinder and blazed.
Emerging onto a narrow deer trail Conn strode up the hillside, cutting right by a wall of rock, and heading towards the Riguan Falls. A swim, he decided, would cool his temper. Blood dripped into his eye and he pressed his fingers to the cut on his brow, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped.
Movement caught his eye at the edge of the trees, and he saw a black crow bank and drop towards the ground as if struck by an arrow. Intrigued he swung to his left and pushed his way through the thinning undergrowth.
An old woman, wrapped in an ancient green shawl, was sitting in a grey wicker chair. Over her knees was a small fishing net, which she was repairing. Conn looked around for any sign of a house or cabin. But there was nothing. Perhaps she lived in one of the caves, he thought. It was surprising that he had not seen her before.
‘Daan’s greetings,’ he said. She did not look up from her work.
‘May Taranis never smile upon you,’ she replied, her voice dry and harsh. It was an odd response, but Conn shared the sentiment. Who would want the God of Death to smile upon them?
‘May I fetch you water, Old One?’
Her head came up and he found himself looking into the darkest eyes he had ever seen, pupils and iris blending perfectly, her orbs like polished black pebbles. ‘I need no water, Connavar. But it was kind of you to ask.’
‘How is it you know me?’
‘I know many things. What is it you wish for?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Of course you do,’ she chided him, laying aside the net. ‘Every man has a secret wish. What is yours?’
He shrugged. ‘To be happy, perhaps. To have many strong sons and a handful of beautiful daughters. To live to be old and see my sons grow, and their sons.’
She laughed scornfully, the sound rasping like a saw through dead-wood. ‘You have picked your wishes from the public barrel. These are not what your heart desires, Sword in the Storm.’
‘Why have I never seen you before? Where do you live?’
‘Close by. And I have seen you, swimming in the lake, leaping from the falls, running through the woods with your half-brother. You are full of life, Connavar, and destiny is calling you. How will you respond?’
He stood silently for a moment. ‘Are you a witch?’
‘Not a witch,’ she said. ‘That I promise you. Tell me what you wish for.’
A movement came from behind him and Conn spun round. Standing there was the Rigante witch, Vorna. Her hands were held before her, crossed as if to ward off a blow. But she was not looking at him. She stood, staring at the old woman. ‘Move back with me, Conn,’ she said. ‘Come away from this place. Do not answer her questions.’
‘Are you frightened to voice your wish, boy?’ asked the crone, ignoring Vorna.
Conn was indeed frightened, though he did not know why. But when fear touched him it was always swamped by anger. ‘I fear nothing,’ he said.