The voice faded away. And the world spun.
He awoke in the forest, opening his eyes to see a chestnut pony standing quietly, reins trailing to the ground. For a moment he retained the sense of harmony he had known in the dream-world of the Seidh. Then it was gone. He remembered the hunters and the long days of the chase, the fighting and the killing. More than that he remembered why, and this time, when he thought of Banouin, the warm fires of rage flared within him.
Pushing himself to his feet he saw that fresh clothes had indeed been left for him, folded and laid upon a flat rock. There was a shirt of thin, dark leather, so soft that it felt like satin, a pair of black leather leggings, with an integral belt of mottled snakeskin, and a pair of dark riding boots, reinforced at the sides with silver. Stripping off his own ruined shirt and leggings he pulled on the Seidh garments. As he expected, they fitted him well. Then he moved to the pony. It eyed him warily, and he spoke softly to it, slowly raising his hand and stroking its muzzle.
It was then that he saw the sword resting against a tree. It was a rider’s sword, the blade heavy and slightly curved. It was of the same shining silver metal as his knife, but it was the hilt which caught his eye. It was a mixture of gold, silver and ebony; the black quillons shaped like oak leaves, the golden fist guard embossed with the head of a bear, and the silver pommel bearing a carving of a fawn trapped in brambles. Conn hefted the weapon. It was lighter than he expected, and beautifully balanced.
A gift from a friend, the figure had said.
It was good to know he had such friends. He thought then of poor Riamfada. He would have made Conn a sword had he lived. It would have been almost as beautiful. ‘I miss you, little fish,’ he said.
The scabbard lay beside the tree. It was of hardened black leather, and sported its own dark baldric, which he looped over his shoulder. Then he gathered up the pony’s reins and vaulted to the saddle.
Slowly he rode from the trees. He was surprised to see the lone hunter still sitting his mount at the top of the hill. The ponies of the dead men were cropping grass nearby. Conn rode towards the hunter. The man made no effort to flee, but dismounted and sat upon the grass waiting for him. Despite his dark hair he was old, Conn saw, his face lined, his eyes knowing.
Hatred was strong in the young Rigante’s heart, and he intended to kill the hunter. However, the man made no hostile move, and the youngster was intrigued.
‘Are they all dead?’ asked the man.
‘Aye. Killed by the Seidh – the Talis, as you call them.’
The older man sighed. ‘I am Parax the hunter. I am glad you survived. I have always been fascinated by the Talis. I would dearly like to know why they let you live.’
Conn shrugged. ‘I have no answers. Draw your sword and let us get this over with.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Parax. ‘Never was much of a swordsman. I’ll do my best to stop you killing me, though, if that is your intention. Though I hope you will think better of it.’
Conn scanned the countryside. There was no sign of other riders. He was confused now. He had expected his enemy to fight. Instead the man was sitting, relaxed on a hilltop, conversing as if they were old friends. Conn had no experience of such a situation, but – in spite of his hate – he felt it would be wholly wrong to cut the old man down. Parax pushed his hand through his hair and chuckled. ‘I have come to know you, Connavar. I have followed your trail and read your heart. You are a fighter, not a murderer. I think that I like you. I wouldn’t say that of most men.’
‘I care nothing for your likes or dislikes,’ snapped Conn. ‘When you saw me emerge from the wood why did you wait here? You knew I would come to fight.’