The crow flew up, the beating of its wings causing sparks to fly from the fire. Several hot cinders landed in Conn’s lap. He brushed them away, then blinked. For he was now sitting alone, staring at the grass beyond the fire. He had not seen the Morrigu disappear, just as he had not witnessed her arrival. It was like waking from a dream, and for a moment he wondered if he had imagined her presence. But there, on the other side of the fire, lay a single black feather. Conn shivered. Moving around the blaze he flicked it into the flames, watching it shrivel and burn.
What would he have asked for? He thought about it, and the answer was simple. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to see Arian step from the shadows of the trees and sit beside him by the fire. He pictured the tilt of her head, the music of her laughter, the sway of her hips. He had lied when he told her she meant nothing to him. She was constantly in his thoughts. Even her marriage could not change that.
Conn tried to sleep, but he dreamed of corpses rising up with bright knives in their hands, and awoke sweating and afraid. A movement behind him sent a wave of panic through him and he rolled to his knees, scrabbling for his knife. A fox was pulling at the arm of one of the corpses. Relieved, Conn threw a stone at it. It yelped and ran into the undergrowth. Fully awake now he added the last of the wood to the dying fire. He knew instinctively that the Morrigu’s tale of necromancers and demons had been a lie, but even so … What if there had been more to the tale? What if it had not been merely a case of casual rape and murder? Then I would have slain three men unjustly, he thought.
He became aware of a thudding pain beneath his eye and reached up to find the skin swollen and tender where the knife hilt had struck him. Better not tell either the Big Man or Banouin about that part of the fight, he thought. Had the knife been better thrown the fox would now be tearing at his dead flesh.
He wondered how Ruathain would react to his stupidity. Would he be angry? Probably. But he was a warrior himself and his anger would be muted by his pride at Conn’s achievement. Or so Conn hoped.
Just before dawn he heard horses moving through the woods. ‘Over here!’ he yelled.
The first riders he saw were Banouin and Ruathain, then Arbon,
Govannan and a score of others. Ruathain slid from his pony and advanced to the dying fire. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
‘I found three of them,’ said Conn. ‘There is no sign of the fourth.’
‘I think we have him,’ said Ruathain, pointing back to one of the riders, a slim man with a drooping blond moustache, who sat his horse silently, his hands tied behind him. ‘We found him at the Blue Valley settlement buying supplies. He is a foreigner.’ Ruathain moved to the corpses, pulling clear the blankets. Arbon dismounted and examined the bodies. ‘These are they,’ he told the riders. ‘See, the fat man bears scratches upon his face. You did well, Conn.’
Conn accepted the praise without comment, but glanced up at Banouin. The Foreigner looked angry, and said nothing. And Ruathain’s expression was unreadable.
‘What will you do with the fourth man?’ Conn asked Ruathain.
‘He claims to have been travelling alone. I will take him to the Long Laird for judgment. You can ride with me. You will need the Laird’s permission to leave the land and travel with Banouin.’
Some of the men dismounted and searched the camp, and the bodies. They found three small pouches full of silver coin, and this was distributed among the riders. Ruathain and Banouin took nothing. Following their lead, neither did Conn. Then they buried the three dead men and rode away, leaving the youngster with Ruathain and the prisoner. Only then did the Big Man allow his anger to show.
‘What were you thinking of, boy? Three grown men! They could have been skilled warriors.’