Ravenheart (24 page)

Huntsekker caught signs of movement on the far hill. Two
men were moving into sight. They cut away to the right, entering the trees.

Easing himself back, the big man ran down the hillside to where his men were waiting. Dal Naydham was sitting with his back to a tree, eyes closed. Vinton Gabious was hunched in his cloak. The brothers Bass and Boillard Seeton were asleep. Huntsekker nudged them awake with his boot. Bass surged upright, a double-edged knife in his hand. Huntsekker stepped back as the knife flashed out. “They are coming,” said Huntsekker.

Turning away, he strolled to where Dal Naydham was rubbing his eyes. Dal was a small man, round-shouldered and balding. He had been with Huntsekker for more than twenty years. “Is it Grymauch?” he asked.

“Too far away to tell.”

“I do hope not.”

“I share that hope,” Huntsekker admitted.

Boillard Seeton joined them. He was tall and thin, long black hair framing his sallow face. He looked like a priest, thought Huntsekker, his large deep-set brown eyes radiating compassion. “Can I take the heads, Harvester?” he asked. “I’ve never taken heads.”

Huntsekker disliked being called Harvester, and he was already regretting hiring the brothers. “I take the heads, Seeton. It is what I do. Now take your positions.”

“Just one head, then?”

Huntsekker reached down and grasped the black handle of the scythe at his belt. It leapt clear, moonlight gleaming on the crescent blade. The point pricked Boillard’s skinny throat. “Anger me further, scum bucket, and I’ll take yours,” he said.

“No need to get tetchy,” said Boillard Seeton, stepping back. “No harm in asking.”

His men hidden in the undergrowth, Huntsekker moved back to a large gnarled oak and primed his blunderbuss. He was on edge. The breeze whispered through the leaves above him, flowing up from the old log bridge. The air smelled fine, and
Huntsekker felt a moment of peace settle on him. He glanced back to where moonlight was glinting on the river. He had seen the old bridge a thousand times since he had moved to the highlands twenty-four years earlier, yet somehow he had never really noticed it. It seemed to him curiously beautiful now; ageless and solid in an ever-changing world. Huntsekker wondered who had built it.

Damn, but I should have found a way to avoid this mission, he thought. When Chain Shada had refused to pound on the crippled highlander, Huntsekker had felt a surge of pride. It had largely erased the shame at the foul blow Gorain had hammered to Grymauch as the highlander was kneeling on the boards. Now here he was, ready to take the man’s head.

It was not always this way, he realized. When he had first used his tracking skills, it had been to catch murderers and thieves, men who were seeking to escape justice. His success had brought him to the attention of the Moidart. Huntsekker laid his blunderbuss against the trunk of the tree and scanned the crest of the hill. Still no sign of them. Idly he tugged at the twin spikes of his silver beard. Don’t come, Grymauch, he thought.

“The two fighters disobeyed me and betrayed the honor of the Varlish,” the Moidart had said. “Unless they are dealt with, we face civil disobedience and perhaps a revolt. It is up to you, Huntsekker, to see that this does not happen. You will find the man Gorain, take him into the woods, and hang him. You will leave this paper under a rock close to the body.”

“Yes, lord. What of the other fighter?”

“Galliott will arrest him and bring him to me. Once here, he shall answer for his impertinence.”

Huntsekker had little doubt about the nature of Chain Shada’s punishment. He would be tortured and killed in the dungeons below the Winter House.

Still, it was not his problem.

Except that Galliott had failed. Chain Shada was no one’s fool and had broken free of the soldiers, escaping into the town and from there into the countryside. Now it was
Huntsekker’s task to kill him and anyone with him. The breeze touched him again, and once more he found himself staring back at the bridge. This was a magical land. Huntsekker had felt drawn to it from the first moment he had marched there with the Second all those years ago. Having completed his nine years, Huntsekker had taken his pension and found work on the high farm, buying it from the aging owner six years later.

Dal Naydham and Vinton Gabious had been with him since that time. Both men had married since and now had houses on Huntsekker’s land. Dal’s wife had died the previous year in childbirth, and his three children now lived in Vinton’s house, alongside his own six boys.

Huntsekker shook his head, trying to free himself from such thoughts. Any moment now the two victims would appear, and he needed to be ready. Taking up the blunderbuss, he stared again at the crest. They should have reached it by now.

He pictured the route they must take, across the open field and into the woods, down the short slope, and through to this trail. There was no other way they could have gone without being seen.

A pistol shot sounded. Huntsekker jerked. Boillard Seeton came running from the undergrowth to the north. The sleeve of his gray shirt was stained and dark. A powerful figure came running after him, followed by a youth carrying two pistols. There was no sign of Dal, Vinton, or Bass. With a curse Huntsekker stepped out from behind the tree. “Down, Boillard,” he shouted, bringing up the blunderbuss. Boillard Seeton hurled himself flat, screaming as his injured arm struck the earth.

Something cold touched Huntsekker’s throat. “Best be putting that dreadful thing down, Harvester,” came the voice of Jaim Grymauch. “I’d hate to be cutting your throat on such a fine night as this.”

“Aye,” agreed Huntsekker. “ ’Twould spoil the moment.” Carefully he uncocked the piece and laid it against the tree.

“Now step forward, if you would, and join your friend.”

Huntsekker walked across the clearing. Chain Shada was kneeling beside Boillard. “The shot bounced off the bone,” he said. “It didn’t break it. A few stitches and you’ll recover, though you’ll hurt for a while.”

“What of the rest of my men?” asked Huntsekker.

“Bruised and sleeping,” said Chain Shada.

“That’s a relief to me. They are family men.”

Jaim Grymauch moved from behind Huntsekker. His clothes were wet through. Huntsekker smiled. The old rogue had slipped down to the river and swum to the bridge, coming up behind him. “You’ll catch a chill, Grymauch,” he said. “You’re not as young as once you were.”

“Maybe I’ll take that bearskin coat,” replied Jaim. “That’ll keep me warm.”

“It’s too big for you, son. Takes a man to wear a coat like this.”

Grymauch chuckled and moved to Chain Shada. “The way is clear,” he said. “Time for you to be going.”

“What about these two?”

Jaim Grymauch swung to face Huntsekker. “It is a good question, Harvester. What are your plans?”

“I’ll go back to my farm and tend to my cattle. As far as I am concerned, I got here too late and the fighter had already crossed the bridge. I saw no one else.”

“And you?” Grymauch asked Boillard Seeton.

“The same,” answered the injured man.

“Well, that’s it, then,” said Grymauch.

“The hell it is!” stormed the youth, his voice shaking with anger. “I say we kill them.” Huntsekker saw the pistol come up. It was pointed at his face. He stood very still.

“We’ll kill no one!” said Jaim Grymauch.

“We can’t trust them. They’ll betray us as soon as they get to Eldacre.”

“Aye, maybe they will. That’s for them to decide,” Jaim said softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. “Killing shouldn’t be easy, boy. Life should be precious.”

“How precious would it have been had
he
caught us?”

“I am not responsible for the way other men live their lives,” Grymauch told Kaelin. “Only how I live mine. If a man comes against me and I have no choice, I’ll kill him. But I’ll not murder unarmed men. Put away that pistol.”

“You are making a mistake, Grymauch.”

“Maybe I am. If so, I’ll live with it.”

“I never thought you a fool till now,” said the youth. Huntsekker watched him uncock the pistol and walk away. Grymauch turned to Chain Shada, offering his hand.

“The boy might be right,” said the Varlish fighter, taking the hand and shaking it.

“Aye,” agreed Grymauch. “Time will tell.”

“Be lucky,” said Chain Shada. Without another word he swung away and walked down to the old bridge.

“How’s that bull of yours?” asked Grymauch.

Huntsekker shrugged. “Broke his leg last year. We ate him, and he was mighty fine.”

“Damn shame,” said Grymauch. “That was one good bull.”

“I have another now. Even better.”

“I might just drop by and see him.”

“If you do, you’ll be picking shot out of your arse for a month.”

Grymauch laughed. “Take care, Harvester,” he said, then he, too, strolled away.

Huntsekker watched him go, then walked into the undergrowth to check on his men. They were all still unconscious, though their heartbeats were strong. He returned to Boillard Seeton.

“I’ve never seen the like,” said Boillard. “One moment it was all silence, the next that big bastard was right there. Three blows and the others was down. I pulled my knife, then that bastard kid appeared and shot me. By the Sacrifice, I’ll see him swing and I’ll piss on his grave.”

“No, you won’t, Boillard. You gave your word.”

“Under duress,” argued Boillard. “Don’t count.”

“Mine does.”

“Well, I’m not you, Harvester. You do as you wish. Nobody shoots Boillard Seeton and gets away with it.” The man pushed himself to his feet. “Damn, but I’ll enjoy seeing them hang.”

“I don’t think so.” Huntsekker’s scythe whispered from its sheath, then plunged through Boillard’s thin back, spearing his heart. With a sickening wrench Huntsekker pulled the blade clear. Boillard toppled forward. The cool breeze blew again across Huntsekker’s face.

This time there was no magic in it.

9

M
AEV
R
ING PATROLLED
the old barn, watching the work of the twelve spinners, stopping here and there to offer advice to the newest of the women, who was having trouble coordinating the foot pedal of the bulky machine while feeding the yarn to the wheel with her left hand. “Keep it steady and not too slow,” said Maev. “It will come.”

The woman smiled nervously. The twelve machines had cost Maev three pounds each. They had been carted in pieces all the way from the capital, Varingas, and reassembled in the old barn. It had taken months for Maev to learn the process and acquire enough skill to train others. The enterprise had been fraught with irritating delays and mistakes, but after two years Maev’s spinners were creating enough good thread to supply the majority of Eldacre’s shirt and clothing makers. The five weavers were creating rugs that were now highly prized, and the small dyeing plant Maev had acquired by the river in northern Eldacre meant that she could hire even more women to knit brightly colored and heavy woolen overshirts. They were immensely popular among the Varlish in winter.

Maev Ring could have grown mildly wealthy with those enterprises alone.

But she had a problem. It was one that most Varlish would have given anything to share. Maev’s other business ventures were so successful that she was becoming seriously rich. The seeds of her dilemma had been planted when she had acquired a forty percent share in the business of Gillam Pearce the bootmaker. His work was of exceptional quality, but his
business acumen was nonexistent. He had been facing debtor’s jail before Maev had entered his workshop five years earlier. Gillam, a small man, round-shouldered and red-faced, was sitting at his bench, applying a third coat of polish to a pair of riding boots.

“What can I do for you, madam?” he asked Maev, affecting not to notice the highland shawl and heavy gray work skirt, which in a world ruled by the Varlish negated the need for any courtesy.

Maev Ring approached his bench and placed a heavy pouch upon it. “It is my understanding, sir,” she said, “that despite your skill you are in need of funds.”

His thin lips tightened. “My affairs should not be the subject of gossip. Please leave.”