DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

Back in the settlement Connavar’s weakness lasted throughout the bitter winter. He lost weight, and succumbed to three fevers, none of them life threatening. He developed a hacking cough, his shoulder ached continuously and his injured lung did not seem to be repairing itself, leaving him constantly out of breath. Meria worried over him constantly, and could not understand his loss of spirit.

Braefar knew that he was sick at heart over losing Arian, and his envy of his brother faded. He tried to cheer him, encouraging him to exercise and build his strength. But Connavar seemed to have little energy, and even less desire. He slept in the afternoons, lying by the hearth, wrapped in a blanket.

Even when he did try to exercise, the freezing sleet and bitter winds would drive him back inside. One day, when the sky was the dull grey of a sword blade, he walked as far as the second bridge, and paused by the frozen stream.

Arian, wrapped in a heavy green shawl, came out to stand beside him. ‘You look stronger,’ she said. Conn ignored her and made to walk on. She took hold of his arm. He winced as pain flared into his shoulder. ‘Don’t hate me,’ she said. ‘They told me you were dying.’

He turned his head and looked into her eyes. She fell back a step when she saw the fury there. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I do understand. Had I been told you were dying I too would have rushed off to a feast and shagged the first woman I saw. Get away from me, whore. You are nothing to me now. Less than nothing.’ It was a lie, a terrible lie, and yet the hurt on her face as he spoke lifted him.

Slowly he trudged away through the snow. And as he walked he realized that Arian had supplied him with one last gift. His anger had returned – and with it the desire to be strong again.

Every day after that he would stand in the cold for up to an hour, splitting logs with the long-handled axe. It was painfully slow. He would stop every few minutes trying to regain his breath, sweat coursing down his face. When weariness came upon him he would think of Arian, and allow the anger to fuel his muscles.

Gradually, as the first warm breezes of spring drifted across the mountains, his strength improved. He began to take longer walks, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion – a point which arrived with remarkable swiftness.

His left shoulder continued to trouble him, especially on cold or rainy days. Ruathain set him several exercises to strengthen and stretch the muscles. There was a young oak some thirty paces from Ruathain’s house, with a thick branch that jutted out eight feet above the ground. Every day Connavar would stand beneath it, jump and curl his hands around the wood. Then he would haul himself up until his chin touched the branch, lower himself and repeat the move. The first time was incredibly awkward. He could not raise his left arm without pain, and was forced to jump, hold on with his right, then manoeuvre the left over the branch. Once in place, with Ruathain watching, he had hung for several heartbeats, and managed one lift.

He had cursed aloud as he fell to the ground. Ruathain moved to his side. ‘You must think of your strength as a deer you are hunting,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand,’ Conn answered, rubbing his throbbing shoulder.

‘You do not take a bow and rush out into the woods. You search until you know all the deer’s habits, then you find a place to wait. Even when you see him you do not shoot too soon, and you never loose a shaft at a deer on the run. His blood will be up, and that makes the meat tough and hard to chew. The hunter needs patience. Endless, quiet, calm, patience. Your strength is the deer. You must seek it calmly, methodically. Plan out your strategy. Look for small gains. Come here every morning. Do not try too many lifts. You will disappoint yourself and damage your wounded muscles. Today you almost made one. Tomorrow look for two.’