Stormrider (42 page)

As the night wore on, the Rigante lay on the cold earth, sleeping lightly. Kaelin dozed for a while but could not relax into sleep. Just before dawn he roused Korrin Talis and ordered the men to get ready to march.

As the Rigante roused themselves, Kaelin saw Rayster come running into the camp. “Fifteen hundred men are moving toward us, Kaelin. They are no more than half a mile south.”

“Order all weapons loaded,” Kaelin told Korrin Talis. “And send someone to relieve Potter.” Then, followed by Rayster, he ran back through the trees.

Just before they reached the ridge, Rayster ran alongside him. “Look!” he said, pointing ahead through the gloom. Moving across the valley below were three lines of armed men. Dressed in the gray tunics of the King’s Fourth, they held their muskets ready, bayonets fixed to the barrels. They were advancing in attack formation and heading for the trees.

In that moment something moved to Kaelin’s left.

The trap was well sprung, the four dark-garbed knifemen moving in swiftly. The victims should have been stunned into inaction by the speed of it. Most men would have been, even most Rigante men. Rayster ducked to his right, Kaelin to his left. One knifeman went down as Rayster’s fist slammed into his jaw. Kaelin grabbed another man’s knife arm and swung him into one of his comrades. Rayster managed to draw his saber, which plunged through a man’s chest, causing a grunt of pain. Kaelin, with no space to draw his sword, pulled his hunting knife clear, slashing it across the face of a charging man. The blade sliced down over his jawbone, cutting deep into the jugular. As the attacker fell, the man behind him sprinted for the safety of open ground. Rayster dropped his saber, drew his hunting knife, and hurled it. The blade took the man at the base of the skull. He stumbled and fell. Rayster ran to him, driving the knife deeper before ripping it clear.

The first man Rayster had punched tried to struggle to his feet. Kaelin moved in and cut his throat.

The advancing men below had reached the foot of the ridge.

“Let’s move,” said Kaelin.

Rayster gathered up his saber and followed Kaelin back through the trees.

There was little time for elaborate battle plans, and Kaelin’s mind was racing as he sped back to the main body of the Rigante. Calling Korrin Talis to him, he swiftly outlined what he had seen. Fifteen hundred men were marching up the ridge to the south.

Four Rigante emerged from the trees to the south and loped to where Kaelin, Rayster, and Korrin were talking. One of them was Korrin’s brother, Fada.

“Potter is dead,” he said. “Throat cut. They sent assassins into the woods. The whole of their army is marching on us from the north.”

They were caught in a vise.

“We need to head east,” said Korrin. “There’s open ground there. We could make it around them and scatter. Meet up later with Macon at Wishing Tree.”

“Did you see any cavalry?” Kaelin asked Fada.

“No, Kaelin. Just infantry.”

“The cavalry will be east of us, waiting for just such a move. They’ll hammer into us as we make the break. West is no option. That will take us down onto the valley floor, with nowhere to escape to. No. We have to fight.”

“Then fight it is,” said Korrin.

“Take half the men north and hold the slope,” said Kaelin. “I’ll deal with those in the south, then come to your aid.”

“Three hundred fifty against four thousand. Well, don’t take your time, Cousin. Those odds are steep—even for the Rigante.”

Kaelin ran back among the clansmen. “Every second man follow me!” he shouted, then headed back toward the south. By the time the Rigante reached the crest of the ridge, the enemy musketeers were halfway up.

“Volley line!” yelled Kaelin. The Rigante instantly spread out along the crest and, kneeling, brought their muskets to bear. “Fire!” A murderous volley tore into the advancing ranks. The front line was scythed down, but the second returned fire, then charged up the slope. Coolly the Rigante reloaded, then sent a second volley into them. “Down muskets!” yelled Kaelin. “Charge!”

With a terrifying battle cry the Rigante drew their sabers and pistols and hurled themselves down the slope into the startled musketeers. They had been told they outnumbered the enemy, and they had expected their attack to be a surprise. Now they themselves were being attacked. At point-blank range the Rigante fired their pistols into the enemy. Then they tore into them with sabers and knives. The Varlish musketeers were tough men, but they had never faced a foe as savage and remorseless as the Rigante.

Even so they tried to hold to their formation and fight back. They had the advantage of superior numbers, and they were armed with bayoneted muskets.

But they had advanced in skirmish lines and were not closely ordered. The Rigante tore into them. Even those clansmen stabbed by the bayonets lashed out, killing the wielders. Bleeding heavily, they rushed forward to kill again and again until they were cut down.

Kaelin Ring, with sword and hunting knife, cut his way through the first line. Sidestepping a bayonet lunge, he stabbed the musketeer in the chest with his knife, then spun to slice his saber across the throat of another. Rayster was close by, hacking and slashing with two sabers.

Panic spread through the musketeers like windblown flames through dry brush. They turned and fled, throwing aside their muskets. The Rigante surged after them, cutting them down in scores.

Kaelin Ring lifted the horn at his side and blew it three times. The Rigante halted and loped back to where he stood. “Our comrades need us,” he said. “Let the rest go. Reload your weapons.”

As they ran back up to the crest of the ridge, Kaelin looked back. Of the fifteen hundred musketeers who had made the charge fewer than two hundred had escaped. The slope was littered with the dead and the dying. Many Rigante were among them.

Back at the north end of the woods Korrin Talis had fallen back, and the enemy was into the trees and pursuing the clansmen. Kaelin’s men swarmed into the fray. For a while the battle ebbed and flowed, but the sheer ferocity of the Rigante began to tell. They drove the enemy back from the trees and out onto open ground. The fighting was fierce, hand to hand, toe to toe. On the valley floor below the enemy cavalry rode in from the east and began to advance up the slope. The foot soldiers fell back, streaming through the lines of advancing lancers.

Then came the sound of trumpets.

A column of green-clad musketeers emerged from the northern woods and spread out in a fighting line before charging into the unprotected enemy camp.

The lancers reined in their mounts and gazed back. Then they swung their mounts and galloped to face the new enemy. As they did so, Gaise Macon and two thousand cavalry came hurtling into sight. The Eldacre musketeers sent a volley into the lancers. Gaise Macon’s cavalry ripped into their flank. The lancers’ formation broke, and they were soon engulfed.

At first Kaelin felt a wave of exultation flow through him. Then his expression darkened. Rayster came alongside him. There was blood all over his shirt. “Are you hurt?” asked Kaelin.

“It’s not my blood,” Rayster said coldly.

“Get some men together to gather the wounded and prepare the dead for burial.”

“Mighty strange that they should show up,” said Rayster. “They should have been thirty miles away.”

“Aye, I was thinking the same thing.”

Down below the Varlish tried to break and run, but they did not get far. Kaelin watched Gaise gallop in among them, his bright saber flashing in the morning sunlight. Within minutes the battle had become a rout, the rout a massacre.

Kaelin swung away from it and walked back into the trees. Korrin Talis had two shallow wounds: one to his left arm and a second in his right thigh. He was sitting on a fallen tree.

Kaelin sat down beside him. Korrin swore softly. “Fada is dead, Kaelin. He was a good lad. Mother’s favorite. It will hit her hard. He was beside me. A ball took him in the temple. And I shall miss Badger. He taught me to fish when I was a youngster. Lake salmon. He’d catch them with his hands.”

“We lost many today, my friend.”

Kaelin moved back among the wounded. For an hour he wandered among the Rigante. They had lost 182 men, with another 237 wounded. Most of the wounded would recover, but perhaps another twenty would die. Two hundred Rigante had virtually given their lives this day. Kaelin fought to control his anger.

Toward midday Gaise Macon came riding up to the ridge. He stepped down from his gray gelding and approached Kaelin. “You were right, Kaelin,” he said with a bright smile. “Your men are the best of the best. By heaven, you damn near cut them to pieces without our help.”

“I lost two hundred. Would you care to tell me why?” Kaelin replied.

Gaise Macon’s smile faded. “This is war. Men die. But we won a great victory.”

“There was no ward spell. They
knew
where we were. You let me lead my people into a trap.”

“There
is
a ward spell, but it does not extend far beyond Wishing Tree. And yes, I let you walk into the trap. I took you at your word, Kaelin. You said to use the Rigante wisely. I did that. No one else could have held this position as you did. As a result we have all but wiped out their advance force. We have a victory, and that will give backbone to the men.”

“You could have told me.”

“No. Think on it. Had I done so, you would have acted differently. You would have deployed your men in a stronger defensive perimeter. The reason they fell for
my
trap was that they believed, as you did, in my stated strategy. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, Stormrider, I understand. You tricked the enemy and tricked me, and you won. Now you understand this: If you ever seek to trick the Rigante again, I will kill you, and then I will take my men back to the north.”

“You have my word that it will not happen again,” said Gaise Macon.

“Your word, Varlish, is dog shit on my boot heel.”

With that he strode away to supervise the burial of the Rigante dead. Toward the afternoon Kaelin stretched himself out on the ground and slept for a while. He was awoken by Rayster. “What is it?” he asked sleepily.

“Something you should see,” answered the clansman.

Kaelin rolled to his feet and followed Rayster to the top of the crest slope. Many of the Rigante had gathered there and were watching something below. Kaelin eased his way through the mass of men.

Long stakes had been hammered into the earth of the valley floor, hundreds of them. The heads of dead Varlish soldiers had been rammed atop them. And the bloody work was continuing.

“Like a forest of death,” said Korrin Talis. “Why are they doing it?”

“To frighten the soldiers who are following,” said Kaelin. “They will come here with their huge army, and they will see the rotting heads of their comrades. It will tell them that this is going to be a fierce and deadly war, with no quarter.”

“It is appalling,” said Rayster. “Makes me ashamed to be part of it.”

“There’s no humanity in these Varlish,” said Korrin Talis.

They watched as a wagon trundled along the trail below, carrying more stakes and more heads. Kaelin turned away. “Let’s bury our dead and head back for Eldacre,” he said.

17

By dusk Gaise Macon had sent out orders for the hunting parties to cease looking for Varlish stragglers and return to the captured enemy camp. He should have been exultant, for the victory had been nothing short of spectacular. Four thousand eight hundred enemy dead and the acquisition of four thousand muskets, fifteen supply wagons, and twenty unused cannon. There were also tents, tools, sabers, knives, pistols—all of which would be helpful to the cause.

The only small note of annoyance had come with the escape of Sperring Dale and a group of his officers. They had not taken part in the attack, and had galloped from the camp at the first sight of the Eldacre counterattack. But this was not what sat heavy upon the heart of Gaise Macon.

“
Your word, Varlish, is dog shit on my boot heel.”

Gaise tried to push the memory from his tired mind. He could not. How would
he
have felt had the same trick been used on him by, say, Sir Winter Kay during the civil war? Yet what else could he have done to gain such a victory? Had he fought in a more noble way, he might still have won, but his losses would have been far higher. Many more Rigante would now be dead and buried.

The Moidart was right. Leadership was lonely. All around him now were happy, contented men. Victors. More than that, they looked to him now as a conqueror. He was the Gray Ghost, unbeaten and invincible.

He had also learned that two of his other new generals, Ganley Konin and Ordis Mantilan, could be relied on to follow orders well. Konin’s cavalry had performed excellently, while Mantilan’s musketeers had shown nerve in the initial charge of the enemy lancers.

He wondered about the Moidart’s luck. He had chosen none of these men, yet Beck, Konin, and Mantilan, none of whom had ever commanded such large units, were proving to be invaluable.

What would Mulgrave have made of it? Sadness touched him at the thought of his friend. Mulgrave was back in Eldacre. They had not spoken since arriving home. Gaise missed him terribly.

Sitting now in the tent occupied so recently by Sperring Dale, Gaise lit a lantern and idly searched through the belongings left behind by the Redeemer: spare shirts and leggings, a crimson cloak, and a small selection of books. One was a book of verse, another the gospel of Persis Albitane. This last made Gaise smile. What did a murderous savage like Sperring Dale gain from reading the words of a man of peace and love? Did he find it humorous?

An image appeared in his mind, and a sweet voice rose up from his memory.
“I think I shall kiss you, Gaise Macon.”
He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The more he struggled to forget Cordelia Lowen, the more hurt he felt when her face came unbidden to his mind.

Had he loved her? In truth, he did not know. Now he would never know.

A shadow fell across the tent flap. Gaise glanced up. “Who is it?” he called.

“Powdermill, my lord. May I enter?”

“Come in.”

The little man ducked under the flap and grinned, showing gold teeth. “They’re still running south. No other force is in sight.”

“Good. You have done well, Master Powdermill.”

“It’ll be weeks now before any other armies come north.”

“Yes. Was there something else you wanted?”

Powdermill shifted uneasily. His eyes flicked toward the golden-hilted saber. “I just wanted to . . . touch the sword again, my lord.”

“Feel free,” Gaise told him.

Powdermill moved across the tent to where the scabbarded saber lay. He crouched down and gently placed his hand upon the hilt. “It is a wondrous piece. Wondrous,” he whispered.

Gaise saw that there were tears in his eyes. “What do you feel when you touch it?” he asked.

Powdermill sighed, then straightened. He turned toward Gaise. “It is not what I feel, my lord, but what I see. Connavar was not as big as legends say. He was the same height as Kaelin Ring and yourself. He was not godlike. He was a man. He made mistakes. He had fears and doubts. He carried a great burden for most of his life. He loved two women. One died because he broke a promise. He was warned by the Seidh never to break his word or terrible harm would befall someone he loved. Connavar bragged that he had never broken his word and never would. But he did.”

“What promise did he break?”

“He told his wife he would be home to take her riding. Instead he spent time with his first love. His wife rode off without him and was murdered.”

“I have never heard that tale.”

“Connavar was filled with remorse and a terrible fury. He rode alone into the village from which the murderers came, and he killed everyone, every man, woman, and child. Then he burned the village to the ground.”

“And all this you know from touching the sword?”

“Yes, my lord, and much more.”

“I feel nothing when I hold it save that it is light and yet perfectly balanced.”

“You are not a seer, my lord. Sometimes it is a blessing, sometimes a curse. The sword is a blessing. It was made by a man with great love in his heart.”

“Riamfada.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you see Connavar fight and kill the bear?”

“I saw him fight it, my lord. He did not kill it. Ruathain, his stepfather, killed it. Connavar could never kill the bear. It was with him always.”

“The bear was with him?” asked Gaise, mystified.

“In a way, my lord. The bear represented Connavar’s darkest side. He could never quite overcome it, though he battled it hard for most of his life. He never forgave himself for the death of his wife, but his greatest regret was murdering the villagers. The bear was on him then.”

“I understand the bear,” said Gaise Macon. “Sometimes it is necessary.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

“Any time you want to touch the sword, you may come to me, Master Powdermill. I would like to learn more about Connavar.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Powdermill bowed and left the tent.

For several hours Gaise busied himself with the needs of his force, meeting with Ganley Konin and Ortis Mantilan. The wounded were to be taken back to Eldacre in the morning, but Gaise and his force would head northwest into the lands of the former Pinance, there to link with Hew Galliott and his men and discuss the defenses.

It would also be an opportunity to survey the possible battle sites in that area and see how the new power structure sat with the communities there. The Pinance, like the Moidart, was not well loved by his people, but even so, they would need to be reassured concerning their safety. It was important that they not view themselves as a conquered people.

With Konin and Mantilan departed, Gaise tried to sleep, but his mind was filled with the problems and potential problems of the coming war. In the dark of night he rose from his blankets and relit the lantern. Then he sat for a while reading the small book of verse he had found among Sperring Dale’s possessions. The wind rippled the canvas walls of his tent, and the lantern flickered, making his eyes tired. Gaise put down the book and yawned.

Suddenly there was silence, utter and total. No breeze billowed the canvas, and no sound came from the camp outside. Not a horse whinnied; not a bough creaked. The lantern no longer flickered. Gaise rose from his folding canvas chair and stared at the flame. It sat proud and unmoving.

Moving to the tent flap, Gaise lifted it and stared out at the camp. Everything was as it should have been. Men were sleeping, sentries stood quietly, the picketed horses were asleep on their feet. No, not as it should be, thought Gaise. The sentries were statue-still. Nothing moved. He stepped out into the night and walked among the men. He approached a sentry, walking in front of the man. The sentry’s eyes stared ahead. They did not flicker as Gaise peered into his face.

“The death heads were a fine idea,” said a voice. Gaise spun. He was not wearing his saber, but he drew his knife. “No need for that, kinsman.” A tall man was standing some twenty feet from him. His hair was golden and long. He was dressed in an old-fashioned knee-length tunic of pale green embroidered with gold thread. His feet and legs were bare.

“Who are you?” demanded Gaise, approaching the man.

“I am your ancestor, Stormrider. Look upon me. Can you not see the resemblance?”

Gaise looked into the man’s eyes. One was emerald green, the other tawny gold. “You are Connavar?”

The man laughed. “No. He was yet another of my children. I am Cernunnos, the father of the Rigante. My children did well today. Fighters all of them.”

“This is some trick,” said Gaise. “You are the enemy.”

“No, Gaise. I am
with
the enemy. Since I do not as yet have a body, I have little choice as to who carries me and where.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want to be your friend, Gaise. You are important to me. You are a part of my destiny. You just do not know it yet. Let us sit and talk. I will answer all your questions. If you wish, you may summon the little mage. He will hear what I say and will vouch for my honesty.”

“I will judge that myself,” said Gaise.

“Good. I always did prefer one-to-one conversation.” A small fire sprang up, and the golden-haired man sat down before it.

Gaise sheathed his knife and joined him. “You give power to the Redeemers. Is that not true?”

“Absolutely true. I enable them to use their puny minds with greater focus.”

“Why?”

“Do you know how long I have languished in an iron box? Thousands of years. Alone with my thoughts. Winter Kay found me. I tried to communicate with him, but it was largely useless. There is no Rigante in the man. It is easier now since he killed the unfortunate king and allowed his blood to touch the decaying bone of my skull.”

“And now you are leading him north to destroy us?”

“Now he is
bringing
me north. He is the one who will be destroyed. If you allow me to help you.”

“Why would you wish to?”

“The north is my home, Stormrider. I once had a palace there, though it drowned beneath a lake eons ago when the ice melted. I sired the Rigante. I took human wives, and one of them bore Rigantis, my beloved son. Ah, but I joyed in his strength and courage. The Rigante owe their name and their clan to my son. But I am what makes them—and you—special. You have traces of my blood. Seidh blood. You are touched by magic. I want to be among my own people, Gaise.”

“To rule them.”

“Of course to rule them. I am a god. Can you imagine a ruler better qualified?”

“And what if they don’t want to be ruled by you?”

“Ah, but they will. All men desire strong leaders. There are none stronger. I am their father. I gave them life. I can give them immortality. Those I choose to walk beside me will live for almost as long as I do.”

“You are offering me immortality to serve you.”

“Sadly no, Gaise. You have a different purpose. I wish that it could be altered, but as I said, it is a part of destiny. You are the vessel which will allow my return to the flesh. I will, in short, become you.”

“And I will die?”

“Yes.”

“ You don’t make serving you sound very attractive.”

“I promised you the truth, Stormrider. I will not
take
your life. You will give it freely. You will take my skull in your hands, and you will ask me to return.”

“Why would I do that?”

“To win, Gaise Macon. To save the lives of those you love. To destroy the enemy utterly. When you accept the skull, you will be a god for a few hours. You will have all the powers I once possessed. In that time you can do as you will.”

“Why would you give me that time?”

“I will have no choice. It will take me some hours to fully control your body, to fill it with the essence of my being. But in those hours you will be a Seidh, Gaise Macon. That will be my gift to you. Until then be assured that I will not show the Redeemers how to pierce the ward spell Powdermill has cast. This war will be fought between men. You have my promise on that. And now I shall leave you to rest. Rest is most important for a human. The mind needs to be sharp.”

The golden figure rose. “The Rigante made me proud today,” he said.

“What happened to this beloved son of yours?” asked Gaise.

“He chose life as a man and died after 322 years.”

Gaise heard the sorrow in his voice. “You were close, then?”

“We were until he cut off my head. The boy was misguided. It is a familiar tale, Gaise, and one which you will understand more than most. Fathers and sons, squabbles and conflicts. The laws of nature cannot be avoided even by the gods. Ah, but that reminds me. You asked your father a question back in Eldacre. He gave an elliptical answer.”

“
You
can pierce our ward spells?”

“Of course. They are tiny. The Redeemers cannot, so put aside your fears. I do not share with them what I observe. You asked your father why he carried you from the flames. Would you like to know why?”

“No.”

“It also explains why he and you have never found that bond of love you so desperately needed as a child.”

“Tell me,” said Gaise.

“Your mother had an affair with a clansman: Kaelin Ring’s father, Lanovar. He was golden-haired and had one eye of gold and one of green. When you were born and the Moidart saw your eyes, he believed you to be the result of his wife’s infidelity. He would have had you killed save for one small doubt.”

“My grandmother had the same eyes.”

“Exactly. So he has lived in torment ever since, never knowing if you are the only son he will ever have or if you are the son of the man who cuckolded him. But when the flames engulfed the manor house, he acted as a father should. Heroically. Instinctively. Like a Rigante.”

“Is he my father?”

“Do you really wish to know?”

Gaise hesitated, then he sighed. “No,” he said.

“Farewell, Stormrider. When next we meet, I will give you what you ask for. Though first you will receive a visit from the Wyrd. Delightful woman. If I were but a thousand years younger and alive . . . ah, well. She will bring you something of mine. Keep it safe for when you need it.”

“Why would the Wyrd do anything for you?”

“Because she must, Stormrider. Win or lose, this is her destiny also.”