Sword in the Storm by David Gemmell Page A

strong—especially beef.”
    “Perhaps. But a creature must die first, frightened and in pain.”
    Conn laughed, but it was not a scornful sound. “You are a strange one, my friend. You should have been a Druid. They, too, eat only vegetables, I’m told. It’s why they are all so scrawny.”
    Braefar was growing irritated. The light would soon be gone, and he hated to hunt alone, fearing that wolves or lions would spring from the undergrowth at him. Then he saw Conn running up from the settlement.
    “What took you so long?” he asked.
    Conn grinned at him. “Eager for the kill, little Wing?”
    “Mother says she wants at least a dozen pigeons and as many rabbits as we can find.”
    Conn crouched down and patted the black hound Caval. She lifted her muzzle into his hand, then licked his face. “You want the bow or the sling?” Conn asked Braefar.
    “I have no preference. I’m better than you with both.”
    “You are getting cocky, my brother. It is good to see. I’ll take the bow. Caval and I will scare up some rabbits.”
    By the time the light had faded and they were headinghome, the two boys had killed three rabbits and five wood pigeons. It was not as many as Braefar had hoped, but Meria would be pleased.
    On their way back across the first of the bridges they heard a peal of laughter coming from behind a barn. Braefar tensed. The sound was infectious, and he knew the source. It was Arian, and Braefar understood her well enough to know that she was not alone. Worse, she was with a man. That throaty laugh was reserved for would-be suitors. “We should be getting back,” he said. Conn handed him the rabbits and strode toward the barn. Braefar followed glumly.
    The moon was out, and by her light Braefar saw the youth Casta standing with Arian. He was leaning against the barn, his hand resting on the wood just above Arian’s shoulder. They were talking in low tones.
    “What are you doing with my woman?” asked Conn.
    Surprised, Casta jumped. Two years older than Conn, he was a powerfully built young man. “What do you mean, ‘your woman’?” he countered. “Arian is not pledged to anyone.”
    “She knows I am to ask for her hand at Samain,” said Conn.
    “I didn’t say I’d give it to you,” said Arian, her voice more shrill than she intended.
    “There you have it,” put in Casta. “So why don’t you leave us alone.”
    Braefar winced. Then he cast a glance at Arian. Her eyes were bright, and in that moment he knew she was excited by the thought of two men fighting for her. It sickened the youngster. “Don’t fight him, Conn,” he said softly.
    “What?”
    “It’s what she wants. Look at her.”
    “Stay out of this, Wing. It is none of your business.” Conn advanced on the older youth.
    “You have me at a disadvantage,” Casta said smoothly. “I work for your father, and if I give you the thrashing your boorish behavior calls for, he’ll send me away.”
    “Even if that unlikely event were to take place,” said Conn, “he won’t know of it.”
    “Glad to hear it,” said Casta, sending a thunderous left straight into Conn’s face. Conn staggered. Casta followed up with a right cross that slashed through the air as Conn ducked. The younger man hammered an uppercut into Casta’s belly, then a left hook that exploded against his jaw. Casta fell back, then charged. Conn dropped to his knees, then surged upright, hurling Casta from his feet. The older man landed hard but rolled to his knees. Conn stepped in and caught him with a right as he was rising. Casta went down again. He rose slowly, lost his footing, and fell back into the wall of the barn. Arian spun on her heel and walked away. Conn followed her.
    Hampered by the game he was carrying, Braefar struggled to help Casta to his feet.
    “I was just talking to her,” mumbled Casta. “She invited me back here. Now I’ve a sore head, and I’ve made an enemy of the lord’s son.”
    “You’ve made no enemy,” Braefar