To kill Connavar! The thought shook him.
All his life – until the last few years – he had worshipped his brother. Most of the mistakes he made – though not entirely his fault – had come about by trying too hard to please him. ‘I loved you, Conn,’ he whispered.
He relaxed as he realized that Conn would never ride in alone to meet Guern. He would know it was a trap. He will send Fiallach and a score of Iron Wolves to arrest us all. Braefar knew what he would say when he was brought before the king. ‘So, Conn, you did not have the courage to meet us as we asked. Perhaps you are not such a hero after all, sending your Wolves where you did not dare to go.’ It would be worth banishment just to say that phrase in front of Connavar’s generals. Then he would head south and join Jasaray.
Guern called out to him. ‘Here he comes!’
Braefar’s heart sank. On the far hillside he saw a single rider on a white horse, the sinking sun turning his armour to gold.
‘Oh no!’ whispered Braefar. He scanned the hills for sign of the accompanying Iron Wolves, but slowly, as the rider approached, he realized he was alone. ‘Oh, Conn, why did you come?’ he said.
Connavar the King rode into the circle. He was wearing a winged helm of bright silver, a breastplate embossed with the Fawn in Brambles crest of his House, and the famous patchwork cloak. At his side was the legendary Seidh sword, with its hilt of gold. His full-faced battle helm was upon the pommel of his saddle. The king dismounted and walked forward. He did not look at Braefar, who slunk back into the shadows of the stones.
Guern stepped forward. ‘Come and join us, Connavar. Let us talk of a new peace.’
‘You have not asked me here to talk,’ said Connavar, drawing his sword and resting the blade on the rocky ground, his hands on the golden pommel. ‘You have asked me here to die. Come then, traitors. I am here. And I am alone.’
The eight men around the campfire had stood as the king rode in. Now they drew their swords and formed a half circle around the golden warrior facing them. Despite their numerical advantage they were reluctant to attack. This was not a mere man facing them. This was Connavar, the Demonblade, the warrior king who had never tasted defeat.
Braefar watched the scene, and a terrible sadness filled him. Conn had never looked more magnificent than he did at this moment, whereas his enemies had become, in Braefar’s eyes, small men with small dreams. Braefar had never wanted this. He knew it now. He drew his own sword, determined to rush in and aid his brother. Yet he did not. His legs would not obey him, and he stood, as he had all those years ago when the bear attacked, and did nothing.
Suddenly two of the men rushed in. Connavar swung the Seidh blade in two slashing cuts. Blood sprayed into the air, and the men fell. The other six rushed in, hacking and cutting.
At that moment there was a blast of cold air, and the circle trembled. A bright light shone and a warrior leapt from nowhere. Braefar blinked, his sword falling from his nerveless fingers. This new warrior carried a golden shield of incredible brightness. He rushed at the fighting men, smashing the shield into the face of the first, and cleaving his sword through the ribs of a second.
Braefar looked down at his fallen sword. He wanted to stoop to pick it up, but his legs were trembling, and he feared he would fall if he tried. So he drew his dagger. The sound of sword blades clashing, the screams of dying men, ripped through him and he fell back against a stone column, squeezing shut his eyes, and holding his fists over his ears. He couldn’t shut out the sounds, and instead forced his mind to remember happier times, when he and Conn, as children, had played upon the slopes above Three Streams.
The sounds ceased, and Braefar opened his eyes. The new warrior – he saw now it was the bastard, Bane – was standing alongside the king, holding his arm. Connavar’s winged helm was lying on the ground close by, dented by a sword blade. There was blood on the king’s cheek, dripping to his breastplate. There was more blood upon his left arm. Braefar watched as Connavar loosened his breastplate. Bane pulled it clear. Then the king shrugged out of his mailshirt. Braefar saw two huge bruises on the king’s left side, the skin gashed.