Sword in the Storm by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online

his hands over her flanks. The cuts were not deep, and the woundswould heal swiftly. But where was the mother? Why had the fawn been left? Sitting down beside the small creature, he stroked her long neck. “You’ll know to avoid brambles in future,” he said. “Go away now. Find your mam.”
    The fawn stepped daintily away, then turned and stared at the boy. “Go on,” he said, waving his arm. It took three running steps, then bounded away into the trees. Conn gazed down at his torn clothes. Meria would not be pleased with him. The leggings were new. Pushing himself to his feet, he struggled up the slope and walked away from the Wishing Tree Woods.
    Just after dawn he awoke. Braefar was already dressed and was tugging on a calf-length pair of boots. Conn yawned and rolled over in the bed. “You slept a long time,” said Braefar.
    “I was out last night,” said Conn. Sitting up, he told his brother of his adventure with the fawn in Wishing Tree Woods.
    Braefar listened politely. “You were dreaming,” he said, at last.
    “I was not!”
    “Then where are the cuts you spoke of?” Conn gazed down at his arms, then threw back the covers and checked the flesh of his thighs and calves. His skin was unmarked. Rolling from the bed, he picked up his discarded leggings. Not a nick or tear could be seen.
    Braefar grinned at him. “Better get dressed, dreamer, or there’ll be no breakfast left.”
    Alone and mystified, Conn pulled on his leggings and reached for his tunic shirt. As he lifted it from the floor, a knife fell clear, clattering to the wood.
    But it was not the old wooden-hilted bronze knife he had taken to the woods. The weapon glinting in the dawn light had a blade of shining silver and a hilt carved from staghorn. The cross-guard was of gold, and set into the pommel was a roundblack stone etched with a silver rune. It was the most beautiful knife Conn had ever seen.
    His fingers curled around the hilt. It fitted his hand perfectly. Wrapping it in an old cloth, he left the house and ran across to Banouin’s home. The foreigner was asleep but awoke to see Conn sitting by his bed. He yawned and pushed back the covers.
    “I am not a farmer,” he said. “I do not usually rise this early.”
    “It is important,” said the boy, handing the man a goblet of cold water.
    Banouin sat up and drank. “Tell me,” he said.
    Conn talked of his trip to the Wishing Tree Woods, his rescue of the fawn, and his return. Then he told how he had found the knife.
    Banouin listened in weary silence. His expression changed when Conn unwrapped the blade. Banouin lifted it reverently, then swung from the bed and carried it to the window to examine it in daylight. “It is magnificent,” he whispered. “I do not know the nature of the metal. It is not silver, nor is it iron. And this stone in the hilt …”
    “It is a Seidh weapon,” said Conn. “It is a gift to me.”
    “I could sell this for a hundred, no, five hundred silvers.”
    “I do not want to sell it.”
    “Then why did you bring it to me?”
    “I cannot tell anyone I went to the Wishing Tree Woods. It is forbidden. And I cannot lie to my mam. I thought you could advise me.”
    “It fits my hand to perfection,” said Banouin. “As if it were made for me.”
    “Mine, too,” said Conn.
    “That cannot be, boy. My hand is much larger than yours.” He passed the knife to Conn, who gripped the hilt.
    “See,” said Conn, raising the weapon. His fist covered thehilt completely, the golden cross-guard resting under his thumb and the black pommel stone touching the heel of his palm.
    Slowly Banouin transferred the knife to his own hand. The hilt seemed to swell in his grip. “It is a magical blade,” said Banouin. “I have never seen the like.”
    “What should I do?” asked Conn.
    “Do you trust me?” countered the foreigner.
    “Of course. You are my friend.”
    “Then give the blade to me.”
    “Give … I don’t understand. It is