DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘You talk to horses more easily than you talk to women,’ said Meria. Varaconn had blushed deep red.

‘I’m . . . not a talker,’ he said. Trying to ignore her he continued to work with the pony, and within an hour was riding it slowly around the paddock. Occasionally he would glance towards Meria. She had not moved. Finally he dismounted, took a deep breath, and walked to where she waited. Shy and insular, he did not look into her eyes. Even so he saw enough to fill his heart with longing. She was wearing a long green dress, and a wide belt, edged with gold thread. Her long dark hair, save for a top braid, was hanging loose to her shoulders, and her feet were bare.

‘You want to buy a pony?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps. Why did the mare suddenly start to obey you?’ she asked.

‘She was frightened. I made her run, but she didn’t know what the danger was. Did you see her snapping her mouth as she ran?’

‘Yes, she looked very angry.’

‘That was not anger. Foals do that. She was reverting to infant behaviour. She was saying to me, “I need help. Please be my leader.” So I dropped my shoulder and gently turned away. Then she came to me and joined my herd.’

‘So you are her stallion now?’

‘In truth that would make me the lead mare. Stallions do the fighting, but a mare will command the herd.’

‘Ruathain says you are a great fighter and a good man.’ This surprised him and he glanced briefly at her face to see if she was mocking him. Her eyes were green. Large eyes. So beautiful. Not the green of grass or summer leaves, but the bright, eternal green of precious stones. Yet they were not cold …

‘Now you are staring at me,’ she chided.

Varaconn blinked and looked away guiltily. She spoke again. ‘Ruathain said you stood beside him against the Pannones, and broke their charge.’

‘He is too kind. He knows I was too frightened to run,’ he admitted. ‘Ruathain was like a rock – the only safe place in a stormy sea. I’ve never known anyone quite like him. The battle was chaotic – screaming men, clashing swords. It was all so fast and furious. But Ruathain was calm. He was like a god. You could not imagine him being hurt.’

She seemed annoyed, though he did not know why. ‘Yes, yes,

yes,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows Ruathain is a hero. He wanted to marry me. I said no.’

‘Why would you say no? He is a wonderful man.’

‘Can you really be so foolish, Varaconn?’ she said, then turned and strode away.

Totally confused he had carried the problem to Ruathain. The powerful, blond-haired young warrior had been out with three of his herdsmen, building a rock wall across the mouth of a gully in the high north valley. ‘Every damn winter,’ said Ruathain, heaving a large slab into place, ‘some of my cattle get trapped here. Not any more.’ Varaconn dismounted and helped the men for several hours. Then, during a rest break, Ruathain took him by the arm and led him to a nearby stream.

‘You didn’t come all the way up here to build a wall. What is on your mind, my friend?’ Without waiting for an answer he stripped off his shirt, leggings and boots and clambered out into the middle of the stream. ‘By Taranis, it is cold,’ he said. The water was no more than a few inches deep, flowing over white, rounded pebbles. Ruathain lay down, allowing the water to rush over his body. ‘Man, this is refreshing,’ he shouted, rolling onto his belly. Varaconn sat by the stream and watched his friend. Despite the awesome power of the man, his broad, flat face and his drooping blond moustache, there was something wonderfully childlike about Ruathain; a seemingly infinite capacity to draw the maximum joy from any activity. The warrior splashed water on his face, ran his wet fingers through his hair, then rose and strode to the water’s edge. He grinned at Varaconn. ‘You should have joined me.’

‘I need your advice, Ru.’

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