Stormrider (23 page)

Marl sat very still. He could feel the tension in the two men on either side of him. Here they were, three Redeemers in a room, alone with the man they had come to kill. And he was taunting them.

“An interesting story, my lord,” said Marl. “Respectfully, however, there are flaws in it.”

“Pray enlighten me.”

“Firstly, the duel with Lord Ferson followed Gaise Macon’s accusation of cowardice. Lord Ferson had no alternative but to issue a challenge. Secondly, though I know of no attack on Lord Gaise, if two Redeemers did seek to kill him, they could have done so for their own reasons. It does not follow that they were instructed to harm him. Lord Gaise has a habit of speaking his mind. Perhaps he insulted them. All I know is that I have been instructed to come to you, offering the friendship of my lord.”

“Splendid,” said the Moidart. “I congratulate you. Had you come alone, I might even have been tempted to allow myself to be convinced. Unfortunately, you brought these two fools with you,” he said, waving a hand toward Kurol Ryder and Kannit Persan. “Their eyes betray them. Young Ryder is like his father. When he is threatened, his face adopts the look of a frightened rabbit.”

“Hell! Let’s do it now!” snarled Kurol Ryder, pushing himself to his feet and drawing a knife from his boot.

Something bright and shining slashed through the air. Blood splashed from Kurol’s open throat. His head lolled absurdly, and his body crumpled. A huge hand grabbed Kurol’s hair. The scythe slashed down again, and the head came clear.

Marl’s heart was hammering, and he felt dizzy. Glancing to his right, he saw the huge figure of Huntsekker, a bloody scythe in his hand. Beyond him a hidden paneled doorway lay open. Another man was standing there, small and white-haired. He smiled at Marl, who saw a flash of gold teeth. Huntsekker tossed Kurol’s head to the tabletop. It rolled to the left and lay there, the sightless eyes staring at Marl.

“Ah, I see the rogue element has arrived,” said the Moidart. Kurol Ryder’s headless body toppled to the floor.

Kannit Persan, his face drenched in sweat, was staring at the Moidart and the long pistol he had produced from beneath the table. “So now,” said the Moidart with a cold smile, “we find ourselves in a pretty fix. Three assassins come to my home, sent by the king’s foremost general. What am I to do with them?”

The small white-haired man moved out from behind the panel and approached the Moidart, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

“Ah,” said the Moidart, glancing up toward the ceiling. “Apparently we are joined by Winterbourne himself.” Transferring his gaze to Marl, he asked: “Do you wish to commune with your lord? Perhaps he can offer some way out of this predicament.”

“I feel certain, sir,” said Marl, “that there has been a great misunderstanding. I am sure we can resolve this matter without further bloodshed.”

“I don’t think so,” said the Moidart, lifting the pistol. The shot sounded like a thunderclap in the enclosed room. Kannit Persan, his throat torn out, surged to his feet, staggered several paces, then pitched to the floor, where he lay for several moments noisily drowning in his own blood. The Moidart laid down the pistol and poured himself a goblet of water. He spoke to Marl, but his words were drowned by the gurgling gasps of Kannit Persan.

“I did not hear you, sir,” said Marl.

“I asked if you would like a little water, sir. You seem pale.”

A growing sense of unreality gripped Marl Coper. He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

At last Kannit was silent. The Moidart sipped his water, his gaze never leaving Marl’s chalk-white face. “I have always been a vastly unforgiving man,” said the Moidart. “I have no ill feeling concerning the attempt to kill me. As I have already said, I would likely do the same if the circumstances were reversed. What does irritate me, however, is the fact that it was organized with such a blatant lack of subtlety. It insults my intelligence.” The white-headed man spoke quietly to the Moidart once more. “Ah, you are alone now, Master Coper. Apparently we have bored Lord Winterbourne.”

Marl took a deep breath and summoned the last of his courage. “As you are aware, sir, your son is in the south. His life hangs by a thread. Release me and I shall see that no harm comes to him.”

“No, no, no,” said the Moidart, shaking his head. “You cannot guarantee that, Marl Coper. My son will live or die depending on his skill and his luck. I cannot shape those events. Neither can you. If I could, I wouldn’t have killed your comrades. I would have found some other way to deal with Winterbourne. As it is, I am extremely displeased. I am a king’s man and have no sympathy for the covenant rabble. They were always going to lose. Now I am forced to their side. My own lands, mercifully free of the inefficiency of war, will now see battles and disruption to trade. My wealth, gathered by my family for generations, will be squandered on armies and guns and swords. It is most vexing.”

“Please don’t kill me, lord,” said Marl, tears dropping to his cheeks.

“I won’t be killing you yet, Master Coper. Oh, no. First there is much you can tell me. I need to know all there is to know about Winter Kay and his plans. My man Huntsekker will show you to your new quarters. I will join you there presently. Then we can talk.”

“I’ll tell you anything you need to know, lord. I swear it.”

“I know. People in my dungeons always do.”

10

Two hundred twenty-three cattle had survived the long drive to Eldacre. Fourteen had been slaughtered en route to feed the nine herders and sundry other folk who had begged food along the way. Five had been stolen, and Maev had forbidden Kaelin to lead his men after them. This had galled the young Rigante.

“They are
my
cattle, Kaelin,” she said quietly. “If anyone is entitled to be outraged, it is me.”

“Maybe so,” Kaelin told her. “But what would you have said had I been leading this trip and had come home to tell
you
that I decided to allow a few cattle to be stolen?”

Maev Ring suddenly smiled. Her hard face softened, and she seemed years younger. “I would have berated you, Nephew. Long and hard.”

The answer eased Kaelin’s anger. “So why this unaccustomed softness?”

Maev climbed down from the long supply wagon and strode out to the edge of the trail. Far below they could see the towering gray castle standing proud above the town. Maev gazed down onto Eldacre, seeking out Five Fields, where every year the games were held. She felt her throat tighten as she remembered Jaim Grymauch giving the fight of his life against the Varlish champion, Gorain. Maev sighed. “A long time since I’ve been home,” she said. “Didn’t think I could face it before this. Not sure I can even now.”

Kaelin moved alongside his aunt, placing his arm around her shoulder. “I can still remember the pride I felt when Grymauch knocked the man out of the circle. I can hear the roar of the clansmen and see the stunned astonishment on the faces of the Varlish crowd.”

“Aye,” said Maev. “The man could punch.” She shrugged off his protective hug. “I need no mollycoddling,” she said.

Kaelin grinned and shook his head. “You’re the least huggable woman I ever met.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” she agreed. The last of the sunlight fell upon her red and gray hair. Maev Ring at forty was still a handsome woman, straight-backed and tall. She had put on a little weight in the last four years but still walked with the easy grace of the highlander. Hitching up her heavy green skirt, she climbed back to the wagon. “Join me,” she said, sliding across the seat. “We need to talk.”

Kaelin stepped up alongside her and took the reins. The four horses leaned into the traces, and the wagon trundled toward the sloping road.

Behind them the herders prodded the cattle forward.

“Two weeks we’ve been on the road and
now
you need to talk?” said Kaelin.

“I’ll be seeing the Moidart tomorrow. I thought you might like to come with me.”

Kaelin Ring said nothing. Carefully he guided the wagon forward, keeping his foot poised above the brake. Maev watched him closely. “Has the Morrigu stolen your tongue?” she asked at last.

The wagon slipped toward the edge of the trail. Kaelin steered it on. There was ice there, and the road was steep, the horses tired. He coaxed the team, calling out to them as he flicked the reins. Slowly the wagon rumbled over the worst of the slope, coming out onto steadier ground.

“Why would I want to meet him?” he asked.

“Because he is the ruler of this land, Kaelin. And one day you will be a man of power. It is wise that you should meet. A man should know his friends, but it is vital that he know his enemies.”

“What do I need to know? He betrayed my father and murdered him. His men then slaughtered the Rigante. My mother was among them. Were it not for you, those same men would have lifted the babe I was and smashed my head against a wall.”

“It is all true,” said Maev. “Yet when that same man was pressed to have me executed, he declared me innocent.”

“Pah! Your skills were creating riches, and he took his share in taxes. Are you trying to convince me there is good in the man? He is a creature of hatred and bile.”

“Aye, he is. You know why he hated your father?”

“Of course. He was the leader of the Rigante, and the Moidart could not defeat him.”

“That is not the whole story, Kaelin. The Moidart had a wife. It was said he adored her. She was a fickle woman, however. She met with your father in secret.”

“That is a lie!”

“Jaim saw them one day. He kept it secret for many years, but one night, when drunk, he told me of it. Lanovar was a great man in many ways. He was bonny and brave and bright and witty. He could not resist a pretty face, though.” Maev laughed. “Truth to tell, he could not resist them whether they were pretty or not.”

“Are you saying the Moidart killed him for sleeping with his wife?”

“Oh, how proper! Sleeping, indeed. I doubt they slept much. But yes, that’s why the Moidart hated him. Have you ever seen Gaise Macon?”

“I met him once,” said Kaelin.

“Did you see his eyes?”

“Of course I saw his eyes.” Kaelin faltered, remembering their curious color, one green and one gold.

“Lanovar’s eyes,” said Maev.

The words hung in the air. Kaelin said nothing, his mind reeling. Out of nowhere he remembered the Wyrd talking to him years before, in what seemed a different age. Jaim was alive, the future seemed bright, and he had just had a scrap with some local youths. Gaise Macon had come to his rescue. The Wyrd seemed fascinated by this. She pressed him for his views on the young nobleman. “
Did you like him?”
she asked.

“Like him. He is Varlish
.” The Wyrd had then spoken of Maev, but her words burned in him now.

“She is Rigante, Ravenheart, and in her flows the blood of Ruathain and Meria, two of the great heroes of our past. Aye, and Lanach and Bedril, who held the pass. Maev is old blood. As are you. As is Gaise Macon
.”

As is Gaise Macon!

Kaelin’s stomach tightened. Lifting the reins, he tossed them into Maev’s lap, then leaped from the wagon. He wanted to hear no more.

“Wait, Kaelin!” called Maev.

He swung around. “Wait? What for? More lies?”

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Maybe!” he raged. “But what of all the lies until now? Jaim knew. You knew. The Wyrd knew. Only Kaelin had to be kept in the dark. Damn you, Maev, you had no right to keep it from me. And worse, you had no right to tell me now.”

Maev jumped from the wagon and ran to him. “I am sorry. Truly, Kaelin. I would do nothing to cause you pain. Yes, I kept it from you. Not for as long as you think, though. Only two years. I saw Gaise Macon when he visited the barracks at Black Mountain. He rode by me. I looked into his face, and I saw Lanovar’s eyes. I wanted to tell you then, but little Jaim had just been born, and I couldn’t find a way to broach it with you.”

“Now you have,” he said. “So leave me be.”

With that he strode off into the gathering darkness.

Kaelin Ring was still angry as he entered the outskirts of Eldacre, but the anger was tinged with a deep sorrow. He had never known his father, and all the stories of him had come from Jaim, Maev, or the Wyrd. He had heard of Lanovar’s courage and compassion, of his love for practical jokes. He had been told how handsome he was and how admired. In Kaelin’s mind Lanovar had become a kind of god, or at least a man of infinite nobility and honor. That image was now tarnished. What man of honor would steal another man’s wife?

He wondered if Lanovar himself had known the reason for his murder. As he lay dying on that mountainside, Jaim beside him, did he consider that his own treacherous behavior had brought him to this?

Kaelin paused at the edge of the Five Fields and leaned against the old separation fence. Here highlanders had to line up and show their passes. No Rigante or Pannone was allowed to enter the Varlish areas. No one had bothered with that rule for the last two years, so he had been told. Other rules, though, remained in force in the south. No highlander could own a horse over fourteen hands, or carry a sword, or own a pistol.

Even as he thought it, he realized he still had his Emburley pistols, hidden in concealed pockets within his ankle-length leather coat. “You idiot,” he chided himself aloud. He had intended to hide them in the wagon before they entered the town. Four years away and now a husband and father, and he had committed a hanging offense in his first moments in Eldacre.

Kaelin walked on. The town had grown in the last four years, spreading out over the hillsides. New homes had been constructed on the ridge meadow, and the avenue leading to the town center and the cathedral had been widened. Tall cast-iron lamp pillars had been set in the road, and Kaelin saw a lamplighter moving along the avenue carrying a set of steps. There were many people in the town center, heading off toward taverns or dining establishments. Only a few of the older people still wore the white wigs that once typified a Varlish gentleman.

Kaelin came to the towering cathedral and paused to watch people crossing the square. Here, four years ago, Jaim Grymauch had fought his way to Maev Ring’s side and cut her free from the execution pyre.

The tall young highlander closed his eyes and pictured the face of his friend and mentor. All anger left him then. It was no surprise that Jaim had never told him about Lanovar’s weaknesses. Jaim rarely spoke ill of anyone, and Lanovar had been his greatest friend.

Leaving the cathedral grounds, Kaelin spent an hour wandering the streets, revisiting places he remembered from childhood. Grimm’s bakery was no longer at the corner of Weavers Street. It had been replaced by a clothing store. That was a shame. On feast days Maev would often take Kaelin to Grimm’s and buy a slab of raisin bread topped with spiced icing. He paused at the shop front, remembering the joys of those bygone days.

“That is a fine coat, sir,” said a young man standing in the doorway. “I’ll warrant the leather was not crafted on these shores. The stitching is exceptional.”

“It was made by my wife,” Kaelin said coolly.

“She has great talent, sir. We have many new items on display inside. Some splendid gloves have just arrived from Varingas.”

“Thank you, no,” said Kaelin. “Tell me, what happened to Grimm’s?”

“The old man died, sir. Two years ago. His widow sold the business.”

Kaelin strolled away, back through the town center, making his way to the Black Boar Inn, where Maev had reserved rooms. The inn was one of the oldest buildings in Eldacre and, though it had been renovated and expanded over the centuries, still retained some of its original features. Part of the stables at the rear, so the owner maintained, had once been the meeting hall of the Long Laird, a contemporary of the great king Connavar. Kaelin had never stayed at the Black Boar, but he and Jaim had once dined there. Jaim had gotten into a fight with two timber men and had downed them both, and he and Kaelin had been forced to sprint away into the night to avoid the watch soldiers.

The inn was crowded, and Kaelin eased his way to the bar, where he gave his name to a round-shouldered man with a short-cropped gray beard. The man led him through to the rear of the building and up a short flight of stairs.

“You want me to tell the lady you’ve arrived?” asked the man.

“No. I’ll see her later.”

The room was small, but a fire had been laid in the hearth, and the innkeeper lit a lantern, which he placed on a table by the bedside. Once alone, Kaelin walked to the window and stared out into the street below.

Maev wanted him to meet the Moidart, to stand face to face with the man who had murdered his father. The thought was abhorrent to him.

And yet Maev was right. It was vital to know one’s enemies. The Moidart was an evil man, cold and deadly. He hated the Rigante and, had it not been for this awesomely stupid war, would have led his forces against Call Jace and the clans. One day we’ll have to fight him, thought Kaelin.

On that day I will avenge Lanovar.

What of Gaise Macon? What of your brother? The thought leaped unbidden to his mind. Kaelin sighed. “He is not my brother,” he said aloud. “And if he comes against me, I’ll kill him.”

Aran Powdermill once had a cat. It was an exceptional rat killer. Gray and sleek, it would sit quietly as the rat showed itself, its golden eyes watching unblinking. There seemed to be no tension in it, no desire or blood lust. It would watch and wait. When it pounced, Aran would always jump. The movement was so swift, sudden, and deadly. The cat never played with its prey. It moved in and killed. Then it would pad away to its resting place beneath the window and wait for another victim.

Aran could not help thinking about the cat as he stood in the company of the Moidart. The lord had spent most of the day with the unfortunate Marl Coper. The screams had been quite chilling. When the Moidart finally had emerged, he had gone to his rooms and bathed and changed. He was now wearing a gray silk jacket embroidered with silver over a white lace shirt, trousers of charcoal gray, and knee-length boots. His black and silver hair was neatly combed, though Aran struggled to avoid looking at the small splash of blood on the hair at his right temple.

“What do you know of the Orb of Kranos?” asked the Moidart.

“Might I sit, lord? I have a nearly permanent ache in my right leg. It is hard to concentrate while in pain.”

The Moidart gestured to a chair. Aran sat and massaged his calf. The pain had been growing worse of late, especially if he had to walk any distance or stand for more than a few minutes. “The orb is said to be a vessel of some kind, perhaps a—”

“It is a skull,” said the Moidart. “What does it do?”

“A skull! Yes, that was the description given by Prassimus in one of the oldest texts. He maintained it was the skull of a great king, a man who believed he was immortal. According to Prassimus, he was a vampire of great power. He was destroyed in a war thousands of years before the dawn of our history.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Prassimus?”

“Kranos.”

“No one really knows, lord. There have been some archaeological finds across the narrow sea. One hundred years ago a burial mound near Goriasa was found to contain three gold tablets on which was a script no one could translate. There were also items that predated our own civilization. I recall a vase that was crafted from volcanic rock. To this day no one has been able to ascertain how it was created.”