Stormrider (14 page)

A second man appeared, a musket in his hands. Draig aimed his second pistol. It misfired. The musket thundered, the ball ricocheting from the tree by which Draig stood. Splinters stung his face. Dropping his pistols, Draig charged at the man, slamming into him and knocking him from his feet. They went down together. Draig grabbed hold of the man’s coat and vainly tried to punch him as they rolled down the slope. Both men slammed into a tree trunk. Draig gave a grunt of pain as the man head butted him. Grabbing the assassin by the throat, Draig reared up, then hammered a ferocious punch to the side of the man’s head. Moonlight glinted on a knife blade. Draig grabbed the man’s wrist. A wicked punch took Draig behind the right ear, but still he clung to the knife arm. His right hand scrabbled at his belt, pulling clear the long-bladed hunting knife Senlic had given him. The assassin tried to grab Draig’s wrist. He was not quick enough. Draig’s knife sliced into the assassin’s neck. Blood sprayed out. Draig twisted the blade. The man’s body spasmed and then went limp.

Dragging his knife clear, Draig rose unsteadily.

Dazzling light blinded him, and he felt a powerful blow to his head. He tried to turn, then realized he was lying on the snow, his leg twitching. With a great effort he rolled to his belly and tried to get his arms under him, struggling to rise. His head hurt; the pain was worse than anything he had experienced before. He vomited on the snow, then tried to rise once more. His blurred vision began to clear. The dead man was to his right, and he swung his head ponderously, wondering what had hit him.

There was a figure standing close by. Draig blinked, then squinted at the man. It was Tostig.

“I can’t believe it’s you, you oaf,” said Tostig. “Did you think to rob me of my ten pounds?” Tostig was holding a pistol. Smoke was still seeping from the barrel. He pushed it back into his belt and drew a second gun.

Draig peered around for his knife but could not see it.

Tostig’s left hand moved to his belt, and Draig saw the crescent-shaped skinning knife slide from its sheath. “I don’t have time now to deal with you as you deserve, Cochland,” said Tostig. “But I’ll cut your eyes out and come back for you later.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said a woman’s voice.

Draig looked up and saw Chara Ring standing in the moonlight, a pistol in her hand.

Tostig turned toward her. She was some twenty paces from him. Tostig began to move slowly to his right. “Well, well,” he said, “a girl with a gun. What is the world coming to?” Tostig sheathed his knife. “Why don’t you run away, girl? This is a man’s game. You know you are not going to try to shoot me. If you wanted that, you would have fired when my back was turned. So just leave. See if you can escape.”

Chara’s pistol boomed, the shot ripping through Tostig’s throat. He took two steps back, his pistol dropping from his fingers. Chara strode through the snow. “I wanted you to see who killed you, dung breath,” she said coldly. Tostig fell to his knees, his lifeblood gushing from his ruptured jugular. Ignoring him, Chara moved to Draig. “You’ve been shot in the head,” she said, probing the wound with her fingers. “But it didn’t crack the skull.”

Draig swung away from her and vomited again. “How many did we get?” he asked.

“I got two plus that scum bucket. You?”

“Two. That makes . . . I don’t know what that makes. Can’t think.”

“It makes five,” said Chara. “There are two more.”

“They must have got behind us.”

Draig heaved himself upright, staggered, then righted himself. Chara was reloading her pistol.

From the distance came two shots.

“They are at the cave,” said Draig. More shots followed. Then there was silence.

Draig was in agony as he stumbled after Chara. His head contained a roiling sea of pain, and he stopped twice to vomit. By then there was almost nothing to bring up. Even so his belly continued to spasm. Blood was flowing down the left side of his face.

Chara was well ahead now, and Draig called out for her to wait for him. He stood and held on to an overhanging tree branch to help maintain his balance. Chara did not pause or look back.

Got to help her, thought Draig, pushing on up the slope. It was then that he realized he had no weapons. His useless musket had been left behind at the fallen tree, his two pistols dropped when he fought the assassins, and his knife lost after Tostig had shot him. He was now as useless as the musket and in no condition to help anyone.

Even so he fought his way up the slope and staggered at last into the cave. Eain was by the fire, adding fresh wood. Chara was sitting with Feargol and Jaim. Close by were two bodies. One had been shot through the head, and the other appeared to have been hit from the side, a pistol ball having smashed through both cheeks of his face. Eain’s knife was jutting from the man’s chest.

As Draig turned the corner in the cave, Eain looked up at him. “Took your own sweet time,” he said. “You want me to stitch that cut?”

“I’ll do it,” said Chara.

“Can we go home then?” Eain asked Draig. “I’ve had enough of this Rigante blood nonsense. I’m happy as a Cochland, you know that? I don’t need any of this.”

Chara moved alongside Draig, and he felt her once more probing the wound in his skull. “What happened here?” he asked her.

“Your brother killed the other two.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Draig found himself chuckling.

“Who would believe it?” he said.

“Sit still.”

He felt the prick of a needle in his skin. It was as nothing compared to the jagged pounding hammering in his skull. He closed his eyes, fighting to hold back another wave of nausea.

“The ball struck you at an angle,” he heard Chara say. “You were lucky.”

“Oh, I feel lucky,” he muttered. He took a deep breath, which seemed to calm his stomach. “We’re an army, we Cochlands, you know. Unstoppable.”

Feargol came and sat beside him. “There’s lots of blood,” he said. “Are you going to die?”

“I damn well hope not,” answered Draig.

“Are you going to stitch Eain’s wounds?” the boy asked Chara. She paused and stared down at the child.

“Eain’s wounds?”

“The men who came in shot Eain as he was by the fire. He fell over. Then they came over to me and Jaim. One of them said: ‘Which is the one?’ And the other one said: ‘Don’t matter. Got to do them both anyway.’ Then Eain got up and shot one of them through the face. Then he shot the other one. The man with the bloody face ran at Eain and stabbed him. Then Eain took out his knife and stabbed him, too. You ought to stitch up Eain’s wounds.”

Chara swung around. Eain Cochland was sitting by the far wall, his big overcoat drawn about his body.

Draig rolled to his knees, then scrambled across to his brother. Chara was on the other side of him. Swiftly she opened his coat. Beneath it Eain’s shirt was soaked in blood. Drawing her knife, Chara sliced away the cloth. Draig saw that Eain had been shot in the chest and belly. A bulging section of entrails was showing.

“Are we going home now?” asked Eain.

Draig looked into his brother’s face and could think of nothing to say. Chara pulled the coat back into place and sat quietly beside the brothers.

“Are you going to mend him?” asked Feargol.

“Shhh,” whispered Chara, rising and leading the boy away.

“Told you I could shoot,” said Eain.

“Yes, you did,” whispered Chara.

“Shouldn’t have got involved, though. I’m going home.” Eain moved as if to rise, but Draig gently pushed him back.

“We’ll just sit here for a while, eh? Gather our strength. Then we’ll go,” said Draig.

“I’m starting to hurt, Draig. Did you kill Tostig?”

“No. Chara did that. Shot the bastard through the throat.”

“Like to have seen that,” said Eain.

“I’m sorry, Eain. I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You were right. Not our concern.”

“You say that, but it won’t make no difference. Next time you’ll still go off pigheaded. You won’t listen to me.”

“I will. Next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Still, we won, eh? So no harm done, then. Did you get any of them?”

“I got two.”

Eain smiled. “Two each, eh? Your head looks bad.”

“Tostig shot me. Ball bounced off my skull. Feels like I’ve been butted by a bull.”

Eain groaned. “I think they nicked me, you know. Bastards came running in as I was clearing away the pots. I fell over. Got ’em both, though. Think I’ll sleep for a while. I’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yes, you sleep. You get some rest. You did well, Eain.”

After a while Chara came alongside Eain and gently touched her fingers to his throat. “He’s gone,” she said.

Draig reached out and stroked his brother’s face. “I know. Just leave me with him for a while. All right?”

“I am so sorry, Draig.”

“Don’t matter,” he said, gruffly, his voice breaking. “Didn’t like him anyway.” Draig’s head dropped forward, and Chara saw that he was weeping. She moved back quietly to where the children were waiting.

Jaim was trembling from the shock of the attack. At age two he had no sense of the reality of the danger he had faced, but he had seen men fall down and not get up.

He hugged Chara tightly. “Bad men, Mama,” he said.

“Yes, my sweet, they were bad men.”

Feargol sat very quietly. Chara settled herself down, Jaim on her lap, and reached out to the boy. He gave a sad little smile and leaned into her. Chara closed her eyes, saddened that the vileness of the world should have scarred the two children. She could think of nothing to say to comfort them. In the background they could hear the sound of Draig’s weeping. Chara leaned back, resting her head on the cold wall of the cave.

“Someone is coming,” whispered Feargol.

Setting Jaim aside, Chara eased the pistol from her belt and cocked it.

A moon shadow fell across the cave entrance, and a small woman with white hair came into sight.

“Have you come to take Eain home?” asked Feargol.

“Yes, child,” said the Wyrd of the Wishing Tree woods. “Now let us go back to the fire, where you can rest.”

“I’m not sleepy,” said Feargol.

“You will be,” she promised him.

Chara lifted Jaim, and they moved quietly back to the dying fire. Jaim stared at the bodies of the two assassins with wide, fear-filled eyes. The Wyrd spread out blankets for the two children. Jaim began to cry as Chara laid him down, but the Wyrd gently touched his brow and the child instantly fell asleep. She did the same for Feargol. Chara covered the boys with blankets, then added fuel to the fire.

The Wyrd moved silently to where Draig sat, holding his brother’s hand.

“Come to mock me?” asked Draig, his eyes red-rimmed from the tears he had shed.

“No, Draig. I have come to help Eain.”

“You’re a little too late.”

“He is still here, Draig. He is a little confused. He doesn’t know why you are weeping, and he doesn’t know why you can’t hear him.”

“So you have come to mock me, after all,” he said. “Go away, woman. Leave us in peace.”

“Give me your hand, Draig Cochland,” she ordered him. At first Chara thought he had ignored her, but then he looked into her eyes and at her outstretched arm. Finally his huge hand reached across and touched her fingers. “Now look up.” Draig did so—and drew in a sharp breath. “Aye,” the Wyrd said softly. “There he stands. Now say these words after me.

“Seek the circle, find the light,

say farewell to flesh and bone.

“Say them, Draig.”

The big highlander spoke them softly, and the Wyrd spoke again.

“Walk the gray path,

watch the swans’ flight,

let your heart light

bring you home.”

Chara watched them both. She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise and shivered. Both of them were staring at the far wall. There was nothing there that Chara could see.

“Where has he gone?” asked Draig.

“Wherever his heart light took him,” said the Wyrd. “Now we have work to do, for when the children wake, we do not want them frightened by the bodies. We must remove them from the cave.”

“I don’t want Eain lying alongside them bastards,” said Draig, pushing himself wearily to his feet.

Together with Chara and the Wyrd, he dragged the bodies of the assassins out into the night. Draig loosely covered them with snow. Then he returned and with Chara’s help lifted Eain’s body to his shoulders. With the Wyrd beside him he struggled farther back along the cliff face to another cave, where he laid Eain down. Then he began to weep again.

“I can’t just leave him here,” he said. “He’s my brother.”

“
He
is not here, Draig. In the spring we will return and carry his body back into Rigante lands. We will lay him alongside others of the clan.”

“He didn’t want to come, Dweller. He didn’t want to get involved. It should have been me who died.”

“Of course he wanted to come. Why else was he here? You didn’t force him, Draig. He came because you were his brother and he loved you. He could have left at any time once the pursuit began. He made his own choices. Just as you did. Just as I knew you would.”

“Because I have Rigante blood?”

“In a way,” she answered. “Now let us go back. You need to rest.”

Once back by the fire, Draig lay down. The Wyrd touched his brow, and he fell asleep.

“Would you like to sleep, too, Chara?” she asked.

“Not yet, Dweller. There is so much here that I do not understand. Why would the Moidart want Feargol dead? Why would the Cochlands risk their lives for us? What is happening here, Dweller?”

“It is not the Moidart, though soon it could be. As for the Cochlands, well, they are highland men, Chara. Draig asked me if they had acted so because of their Rigante blood. The truth is they
wanted
to act so because of what the word ‘Rigante’ had come to mean to them: honor and courage, nobility of spirit. The Rigante are like a banner flying high above an army. Men look at that banner and feel inspired. What of you, though, Chara? How do
you
feel?”

“Confused,” she admitted. “I did not want to walk out into the wilderness with these men. I was frightened by them. Now?” Chara sighed. “Now I feel as if everything has changed. As if I have changed. I’ll never forget that time in the dungeon. Never. Yet somehow its hold on me has gone. I know this. I feel . . . I feel like that time when the first sunshine of spring touches the face and you know that winter has passed.”