‘Whisht, man, of course you can. I’ll not die tomorrow. I have not broken my geasa. Hold the sword, and return it to me after the battle.’
‘It is a great comfort to me,’ admitted Varaconn. They sat in silence for a moment, then the frightened young man spoke again. ‘I know you love Meria,’ he said, not looking at his friend. ‘I see it every time you look at her. And I have never known why she chose me over you. It makes no sense even now. But I ask you -as my dearest friend – to be a strength to her if I do … die.’
Ruathain gripped Varaconn’s shoulder. ‘Now you listen to me. Let the words burn themselves into your soul. I will not let you die. Stay close to me, cousin. I will guard your back when the battle begins. That is all you have to do. Stay close to me.’
Alone on the mountainside, Varaconn curled his hand around the hilt of Ruathain’s iron sword. The touch of the leather binding, the firmness of the grip, eased his fears once more, and he sat upon a boulder and prayed for an omen so that he could give his son a good soul-name. The boy’s Rigante name would be Connavar, Conn son of Var.
This would be the name to earn honour among his people. But
the soul-name would bond him to the land, and carry with it the magic of the night.
Varaconn prayed to see an eagle. Eagle in the Moonlight would be a good soul-name, he thought. He glanced at the sky, but there was no eagle. He prayed again. A distant rumble of thunder sounded from the north, and he saw the advancing clouds snuffing out the stars. Lightning flashed almost overhead, lighting up the mountain. A fierce wind blew up. Varaconn rose from the boulder, ready to seek shelter. The sword brushed against his leg.
The iron sword!
Fearful that the lightning would strike him Varaconn drew the blade and hurled it from him. The three-foot sword spun in the air then lanced into the earth where it stood quivering.
At that moment the lightning flashed again, striking the sword and shattering it.
Then the rain fell.
Varaconn sat slumped by the boulder staring at the broken shards of blackened iron. Then he rose and began the long walk back to the birthing hut.
As he came closer he heard the thin, piping cries of his newborn son echoing above the storm winds.
The door of the hut opened and Vorna, witch and midwife, stepped out to greet him.
‘You have the name,’ she said. It was not a question. He nodded dumbly. ‘Speak it aloud,’ she ordered him.
‘He will be Connavar, the Sword in the Storm.’
CHAPTER TWO
RUATHAIN WAS RIDING BACK FROM THE LANDS OF THE SOUTHERN
Rigante when he saw the boys playing on the hilltop above the smithy. He reined in the chestnut pony and dismounted, watching the youngsters from the edge of the trees. They were chasing each other and he could hear the sounds of their laughter, their joy. Ruathain smiled. It was a good sound. He was especially glad that the ten-year-old Connavar was among them. At least it meant he was not getting into trouble – which was sadly the boy’s greatest talent.
Ruathain was anxious to be home, for it had been a long ride from the southern cattle market, with the last ten miles steadily uphill. His pony was tired and breathing hard. He patted its muzzle. ‘Take a breather, boy. When we get back I’ll see you fed the finest grain.’
From here, far below where the boys were playing, he could see his house, built at the junction of the three streams after which the settlement had been named. It was a good house, well constructed of seasoned timber, and heavily thatched with straw. Cool in summer, with the wide windows open to the breeze, and warm in winter, with the shutters drawn and the central fire lit. Tiny figures were moving in the paddock behind the house. Ruathain smiled. Meria had saddled the dwarf pony and was leading him around the paddock, while their youngest son clung to the saddle. Bendegit Bran was only three, but already he was fearless, and a great source of pride to the swordsman. Beside him his own pony snickered, pushing its head against his chest.