DAVID A. GEMMEL. SWORD IN THE STORM

All the pain vanished.

‘You are the Fawn-child,’ whispered a voice in his ear.

At that moment the riders came thundering into the wood. Conn tried to gather his strength to face them. The first of the Perdii, lance levelled, leapt his horse over a fallen log, the other warriors close behind him.

Conn raised his knife.

But the leaping horse never landed. It froze in the air, statue still in mid-leap. All the riders were suddenly utterly motionless. The air in the wood was cold now, and growing colder. Conn began to shake, but he could not tear his gaze from the men who had come to kill him. As he watched they began to change, hair and beards growing, fingernails sprouting like talons, their clothes rotting, their hair turning white, their flesh melting away, the skin blackening, then peeling back from the bone beneath. Within seconds they had crumbled from their mounts, and lay broken upon the grass. The bones continued to writhe, calcifying, then turning to dust, which the breeze picked up and blew across the ground. The ponies were untouched, and as the last vestige of their riders blew away they came to life and stood quietly. A wind blew up and three of the ponies ran from the wood. The fourth, a chestnut gelding, remained, standing motionless.

Conn had fallen to his knees when the voice spoke again. ‘Touch the tree, Fawn-child,’ it said. Conn turned and crawled to the oak, reaching out, his fingers holding onto the bark. His stomach settled and the intense cold melted away. He sighed. Sunlight flowed through a break in the clouds, bathing the area in golden light. The tree bark began to move, forming a face of wood. It was a young face, handsome, yet stern. As it grew clearer Conn realized it was a representation of his own features.

‘You are sick, Fawn-child. Lie down. We will tend you,’ said the Tree face.

The last of his strength ebbing away, Conn lay down, his face touching the cold ground. It felt better than any pillow and, as his consciousness fled, it seemed to the young warrior that the grass grew up around him, drawing him down into the dark, safe sanctuary of the earth.

His mind awoke from blissful darkness into painful light, a brilliance so piercing that tears filled his eyes. Holding his hands over his face he tried to shut out the glare, but it shone through his skin, causing blinding pain.

‘Hold firm, Connavar,’ said another voice. ‘I will try to create a more comfortable environment.’

Immediately the light faded. Conn moved his hands away from his face and opened his eyes. At first he could see nothing. Then, as his vision cleared, he saw that he was sitting in a wood, beside a rippling stream which glittered in the afternoon sun. The sky was cloudless, and the trees boasted leaves of every colour, from blood red to sunset gold, emerald green to faded yellow. The air was full of fragrance: lavender, rose and honeysuckle. It was quite the most beautiful spot Connavar had ever seen. Yet something was wrong with the scene. The trees were of every variety, oak, elm, pine, maple, all growing together in the same soil, and yet at different stages of season. Some were just showing new spring growth, others had leaves of dark, autumnal gold. And there were no shadows. Conn stretched out his naked arm. The sunlight was strong upon his skin, but the grass below him showed no silhouette.

Slowly he rose and stretched. He felt calmer now than at any time in his memory. Turning, he gazed around the meadow.

And saw the bear.

It stood – as had the riders – utterly motionless, glittering chains draping its massive shoulders and curling around its powerful paws. Its mouth was open, showing terrible fangs. Conn felt no fear, and approached the beast. It was bigger than the creature which had torn his flesh, and somehow more awe inspiring. Conn walked around the bear, marvelling at its size and strength. He saw that it was scarred from many fights, and some of the wounds were recent. Reaching out he tried to touch it, but his hand passed through the bear, as if through smoke.

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