‘I do. And I will.’
Banouin swore. ‘That would not be wise. There are four of them. How will it benefit the dead for you to die also?’
‘I do not intend to die.’
‘No warrior intends to die, but what makes you believe you can subdue all four?’
‘Did you not say I was the best pupil you have ever had?’
‘You are the only pupil I have ever had. And yes, you are swift and wonderfully adroit in practice. But this is not practice, Conn. This is harsh, deadly reality.’ Banouin sighed. ‘I am going back for Ruathain and the others. Will you come with me?’
‘No.’
‘Will you at least wait here until I return?’
‘Of course.’
Banouin swung his pony round. ‘Please, Conn, do nothing stupid.’
‘I am not a stupid man,’ said Conn.
As Banouin rode away into the darkness Conn remounted and steered his pony deeper into the woods.
For an hour he rode, then he spotted the twinkling light of a distant campfire. Moving in close he tethered his pony and began to make his way silently through the undergrowth. The fire had been built in a small hollow beside the road. Three men were sitting around it, finishing off a meal. The smell of meat broth hung in the air. Circling the camp, Conn saw that three ponies were tethered close by.
Where was the missing fourth man?
Doubt touched him. Perhaps they were not the men he hunted.
Edging closer he saw that two of the men were wearing short swords. Conn was close enough now to hear their conversation. So strong was the dialect that it was hard to make complete sense of it. Beside them were some copper plates and pots and they seemed to be discussing who should clean them. Finally a short, fat man gathered them and walked to a stream. The other two laughed at him, and he sent back a curse.
One of the two rose and stretched. He was tall, over six feet.
Crouched in the shadow of the trees Conn thought back to Arbon’s description of the men. One tall. One shorter and heavier. Foreigners. These men matched the description, and, had there been four of them, he would have been convinced. But they could be innocent travellers.
How could he be sure?
The fat man returned to the fire, packed away the plates in a saddlebag, and sat down. One of the others threw fresh wood on the flames. As the fire brightened Conn saw that the left side of the fat man’s face bore three vivid weals. Arbon said that the dead girl had blood under her fingernails.
Conn took a deep breath as cold anger flowed through him.
These were the men – or at least three of them.
Banouin had urged him to do nothing stupid. Conn knew that walking in on three killers could not be considered wise, and yet he felt he had little choice. It was not about avenging the dead, he knew, though perhaps it should have been. It was more selfish than that. Since the fight with the bear Connavar had been subject to many bad dreams, full of anxiety and pain. Usually he was running from something frightful, his mind in a panic, and he would wake bathed in sweat, his heart pounding. All his life Conn had dreaded being a coward like his father. Yet since the day of the bear he had been plagued by terrible fears.
And fear, like all enemies, had to be overcome.
Drawing the Seidh knife and the short sword Banouin had given him he rose from the bushes and stepped into the camp site. The fat man was the first to see him. Rolling to his right he dragged out his sword and surged to his feet, almost tripping on the hem of his black cloak. The others leapt back, one running to where his blanket lay and gathering up his own sword.
‘What do you want here?’ asked the tall man, scanning the night-shrouded trees for sign of more men.
‘You killed an old man and a girl today,’ said Conn. ‘I am here to send your souls screaming into darkness.’ They were brave words, but his voice was shaking as he spoke them, robbing them of real threat.