DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

‘Are you new here?’ she asked Conn.

‘Yes. We arrived this afternoon. By ship.’

Reaching forward she stroked his face. ‘How did you come by the scar?’ she asked him. Her touch made him feel awkward.

‘A bear’s claw,’ he said.

‘You have other scars?’ She was leaning in really close now.

‘Yes.’ .

‘I would like to see them.’

‘You like to see scars?’ he replied, astonished.

‘I would like to see yours. I will be finished here in an hour. You could come to my room. It will be the best silver piece you have ever spent.’ At the mention of coin Conn relaxed, remembering Eriatha.

‘I will be here,’ said Conn.

Her smile widened and she walked away. Conn rose and stretched, then made his way across to the sand circle, where he watched the horse-trading for a while. The Thassilian horses were magnificent, bred for power and speed. Conn wondered idly about cross-breeding a Thassilian stallion with Rigante mares.

The auction concluded, Conn wandered out into the night air and sat upon a fence rail, looking down on the city by the sea. In the moonlight Goriasa was no longer ugly. Lantern lights glowed in hundreds of windows, and the paths and roads were lit by torches. The city gleamed and glittered like a jewel-encrusted necklace hung around the neck of the bay.

Conn climbed down from the fence and was about to return to the building when a movement to the left caught his eye. A man was walking up the hill towards the hall. He was tall and broad shouldered, his hair close cropped and shining like silver in the moonlight. Conn watched him, wondering what it was that he had noticed. The man’s movements were sure, his walk confident, his manner alert. Conn smiled. The man moved like Ruathain, the same easy grace and arrogant style. Suddenly dark shapes sprang from a side road. Moonlight glinted on a blade. The walking man saw the danger and swung round, striking out at the first attacker. His assailant fell back, but a second, armed with a cudgel, lashed out. The cudgel struck the man’s face and he toppled to the ground. Conn drew his knife, shouted at the top of his lungs, and ran at the group.

Two of them rushed him. One held a knife, the other a long club. The knifeman was in the lead as they closed in. Conn twisted and kicked the knifeman in the knee. There was a loud crack, followed by a piercing scream as the knifeman fell. Leaping over him Conn threw up his left arm, blocking a blow from the club and slamming the Seidh blade deep into the attacker’s shoulder. The man grunted, fell back, then turned and ran from sight. Two other men rose from beside the fallen man and fled back down the alley. Conn did not give chase, but crouched down beside the victim. Despite his white hair the man was not old. Conn guessed him to be in his middle twenties. Blood was oozing from a cut on his swollen temple. The man pushed himself to his knees. Then he swore. Conn helped him to his feet.

‘Come, I’ll take you to the hall,’ said Conn.

‘I can walk, my friend,’ said the tall man. ‘I’ve suffered worse wounds than this.’ He peered at Conn’s scarred face. ‘As indeed you have. What was it, lion?’

‘Bear.’

‘You are lucky to be alive.’

Conn chuckled. ‘So are you. Do you know who your enemies were?’

‘Let’s find out,’ said the man, moving to where the knifeman lay groaning. The man’s leg had been snapped below the knee, the lower part of the limb bent to an impossible angle.

The tall man knelt by him. ‘Who sent you?’ he asked. The knifeman swore and spat at his face.

‘I’ll tell you nothing, Stone man.’

‘That’s probably true,’ the tall man replied, casually picking up the assassin’s fallen knife.

Connavar saw the deadly intent in the man’s cold eyes. ‘Do not kill him,’ he said, softly.

For a moment only the man remained very still, then his shoulders relaxed. ‘You risked your life for me. How then can I refuse your request? Very well, he shall live.’ He glanced down at the wounded knifeman. ‘If we leave you here will your friends come back for you?’