DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘Conn! Do not speak,’ warned Vorna.

‘Then tell me!’ shrieked the old woman.

‘I wish for glory!’ he shouted back at her.

A cool wind whispered across the clearing, and a bright light flashed before his eyes. He fell back, blinking.

‘And you shall have it,’ whispered a voice in his mind.

‘You should not have spoken,’ said Vorna, sadly. Conn rubbed at his eyes and looked into the pale face of the witch. Her long, white-streaked hair was matted, her cloak stained by mud and frayed by the years. She looked soul weary.

Conn flicked his gaze back to the crone. But she was gone.

There was no wicker chair, only an old, decaying tree stump, and no fishing net. But joining the stump to a nearby bush was a huge spider’s web, the dew upon it glittering in the sunshine.

Fear of the supernatural brushed over his bones like the breath of winter. ‘Who was she?’ he whispered, backing away from the small clearing.

‘It is best we do not speak her name. Come with me, Connavar. We will talk in a place of safety.’

Vorna lived in a cave a mile from the falls. It was wide and spacious, thick rugs upon the floor, well crafted shelves lining the western wall. There was a small cot bed, covered with a blanket of sheepskin, and two simple chairs fashioned from elm. A spring flowed from the back wall, trickling down into a deep pool, and sunlight shone through three natural windows in the rock, shafts of light piercing the gloom above their heads like rafters made of gold.

Conn was nervous as he followed the witch inside. To his knowledge no Rigante male had ever been inside the home of Vorna the witch. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he saw that some of the shelves were filled with pots and jars, while others held clothing, carefully folded. The cave was neat, and surprisingly free of dust. Against one wall stood a broom, and by the rock pool were two buckets and a mop. Conn looked around him. Vorna moved to a chair and sat down. ‘What did you expect?’ she asked. ‘Dried human heads? Bones?’

‘I don’t know what I expected, save that this is not it,’ he admitted.

‘Sit down, Connavar. We must talk. Are you hungry?’

‘No,’ he said, swiftly, unwilling to contemplate what a witch might keep in her food store. He sat down opposite her.

‘The woman you saw was a spirit – a Seidh goddess, if you will. Listen to me carefully, and when you guess her identity do not say

it aloud. The name alone is unlucky. As you know, there are three goddesses of death. She was one. Sometimes she is observed as an old woman, at other times a crow is seen close by. In terms of the Soul-world and its magic she is the least powerful of the Elder Spirits, but when it comes to the Earth-world and the affairs of men she is the most malignant of beings. I first knew of her interest in you when I saw the crow fly over the home of your father, Varaconn, on the night of your birth. She summoned the storm that night, the storm which destroyed the blade that would have saved Varaconn’s life. I saw her again on the day your mother spoke those awful words to Ruathain. You see, Connavar, she is a mischief-maker, a breaker of hearts. When she is close dark deeds are born where before there was only light and laughter. You know her name?’

Conn nodded. All Rigante children were taught of the Morrigu, the bringer of nightmares.

‘How can you be sure it was her?’ he asked.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘I am a witch. It is my talent to know these things. You should not have spoken of your deepest desire to her. She has the power to grant it.’

‘Why would that be so terrible?’

‘A long time ago a woman prayed to her, asking to be loved by the most handsome man in the world – a rich man, kind and loving. The wish was granted. He loved her. But he was already wed, and the bride’s brothers rode to her cabin and cut her into pieces, the man with her. Now do you understand?’

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