DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

Bek took a deep breath, then vaulted into the saddle. Parax watched in silence as Bek rode to his men and told them the grim news. A heated debate began. None of the five had any desire to risk the Talis woods. Bek asked which of them would be prepared to stand before Carac and tell him they had been too afraid to follow his orders. They fell silent at this, for Carac was not a forgiving man. ‘Look,’ said Bek, ‘we will ride in close, and when I get the signal, charge in and kill the Rigante. Then we will ride out. It should take no more than a few heartbeats.’

They were not convinced, but Parax knew they would follow the warrior. Fear of Carac’s rage was strong upon them. Bek led them slowly down the hillside.

Conn was bone weary. He had not slept – save for a few snatched moments – in three days, and a diet of roots, berries and raw rabbit meat had soured his belly, causing cramps and nausea. His head was pounding, pain searing at his temples. He crouched now behind a thick screen of bushes, watching the riders on the hilltop.

He had hoped they would ride further to the west, allowing him to slip behind them. But they had not. Whoever was tracking him was even more skilful than Arbonacast.

Conn glanced around, uneasy and troubled. Towering oaks filled his vision, and there was no sound of bird or beast. Not even the buzzing of an insect. Yet despite the absence of animal sounds the wood was vibrant with life. The giant trees stood motionless, no breeze stirring the branches. It seemed to Conn that they were staring at him, waiting. He felt like an intruder. His belly cramped and he doubled over and retched. His empty stomach had nothing left, and he tasted the foulness of bile in his mouth. Falling back exhausted he looked back at the hilltop. All but one of the riders had gone. The last man was merely sitting on the crest of the hill, his pony cropping grass alongside him.

Sweat dripped into Conn’s eyes. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his filthy shirt. As he lifted his arm the wound on his shoulder opened again, and he felt blood trickling over his chest. A thousand miles from home, wounded and alone, he knew that his chances of survival were slim indeed.

Yet there was no fear, only a burning anger, and a desire for revenge.

I will not die here, he thought. I will find a way to survive and kill Carac.

He tried to stand, but his right leg caved in beneath him and he sprawled in the dirt, where he lay unconscious for a while. When he opened his eyes he heard the ponies. Struggling to his knees he scanned the tree line. Five riders were skirting the woods. One of them kept glancing up at the lone man on the hilltop. Conn’s mouth was dry, his mind hazy. His heart sank as he realized they were preparing to enter the wood. Had Banouin been wrong? Was this not an enchanted place?

He looked up at the lone man again. The riders were waiting for his signal. Has he spotted me, Conn wondered?

Easing himself further back he staggered to the thick bole of a tall oak, then drew his dagger. His sword had been lost two days before, wedged in the body of a Perdii warrior. He felt something brush against his face, and rubbed his hand over the skin.

He shivered, and began to notice a prickling sensation, unpleasant and invasive, first on the skin of his neck and face, then his back and arms. The sensation increased, becoming painful, as if bees were stinging him. Then it was more powerful than bees, like hot needles piercing his flesh. He groaned and fell to the grass. The branches of the trees around him began to rustle and move, the sound whispering and malevolent. The pain swelled until it was almost unbearable, flowing across his chest and down his arms. Then it reached his right hand, which was curled around the hilt of the Seidh blade. Bright light flared from the knife.

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