‘All right, boy. We’re going,’ said Ruathain. He was about to mount when he heard the start of a heated exchange among the boys on the hilltop below.
By the time Ruathain ran in among the boys the fight had become brutal. Govannan had blood streaming from his nose. Ruathain’s nine-year-old son, Braefar, was lying on the grass, half stunned, and his adopted son, Connavar, was laying into the other three boys like a whirlwind, fists swinging, head butting, feet lashing out in kicks. Another boy went down, having taken a terrible blow to the right ear. Connavar leapt upon him, slamming his fist into the boy’s nose.
Ruathain ran up behind him, grabbing Connavar by the collar of his green tunic and lifting him clear. The ten-year-old swung in his grip, his small fist cannoning into Ruathain’s face. Ruathain dropped the boy, and cuffed him hard, sending him spinning from his feet.
‘That is quite enough!’ he bellowed. Silence descended on the hilltop. ‘What in the name of Taranis is going on here?’ None of the boys spoke, and none would look him in the eye.
‘We were just playing,’ said Govannan, at last, blood dripping to his tunic. ‘I’m going home now.’ The youngster and his four bruised friends trooped off down the hill. Connavar was sitting on the grass, rubbing his head. Braefar tried to stand, but fell down again. His father moved to him and knelt on the grass.
‘Where are you hurt?’ he asked the slender boy. Braefar forced a smile, but his face was grey.
‘I’m not hurt, Father. Just dizzy. I fell just as Govannan’s knee was coming up. Now I can see stars in the daytime.’
‘An interesting way of putting it,’ observed Ruathain, ruffling the boy’s blond hair. ‘Lie there for a moment until the world stops spinning.’ Rising he walked to where Connavar was sitting. That was a good punch,’ he said, rubbing his jaw. ‘I can still feel it.’
Making a joke of a problem usually worked with Conn. His anger was always short lived. At the jest he would relax, an impish grin spreading across his features. Then the situation -whatever it was – could be resolved. But this time the boy did not smile. He looked up into Ruathain’s face, and, for the first time the powerful swordsman found himself disconcerted by the look in Conn’s strange eyes. One was green, the other a tawny brown that turned to gold in the sunshine.
Ruathain knew something momentous had occurred. He sat down and looked at the boy’s strong, flat features. A bruise was beginning on his right cheek, and his lower lip was cut. ‘What was the fight about?’ he asked.
Connavar was silent for a moment, then he pushed his hand through his red-gold hair. ‘He said my father was a coward. That he ran away.’ The strange eyes searched Ruathain’s face, watching his expression intently.
Ruathain had lived with this fear for many years, and now that it was upon him he felt a sinking of the heart. ‘Your father was my friend, Conn. He stood beside me in two battles. I was proud to have him for a friend. You understand that? I would not befriend a coward.’
‘Then he didn’t run away?’ The green-gold gaze locked to Ruathain’s eyes.
Ruathain sighed. ‘He broke his geasa. He killed a raven. You had just been born. The night before the battle. Varaconn was desperate to see you grow, to be there to guide you. The thought of death weighed him down. It sat upon his shoulders like a mountain.’ He fell silent, his thoughts drifting back to that dreadful day ten years before, when the tribes had banded together to fight the raiders from the sea. Twelve thousand fierce-eyed reivers, faced by eight thousand determined tribesmen. It was a day of blood and bravery, with neither side giving a yard of ground. At the height of the battle a terrible storm broke overhead, lightning flashing down, hurling fighting men into the air, their flesh blackened.
Ruathain took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, Conn, Varaconn was my sword brother. He stood beside me all that day, protecting my back as I defended his. That is what counts.’