Stormrider (45 page)

“Cernunnos possessed him. He forced him to do it. The god needs Rigante blood to live again. That is why he seduced Winter Kay into coming north.”

Slowly and carefully Gaise explained all that the Wyrd had told him of the history of Cernunnos. How he had once plunged the world into war and of how his own son, Rigantis, had beheaded him with a golden sword. The officers listened in silence.

When Gaise had finished, Kaelin Ring spoke. “I do not know anything of Cernunnos,” he said. “I do know the Wyrd. When she speaks, it is the truth. If she says this god cannot be allowed to live, then he cannot be allowed to live.”

“I was not talking about him being allowed to live,” said the Moidart. “Winter Kay found a way to use the magic. Why can we not do the same?”

“For the answer to that,” said Ganley Konin, “perhaps we should look at Winter Kay. Look at the work of his Redeemers. Treachery, murder, massacre, burnings. They are vile men, and their deeds shame us all. Would we become as black-hearted as they?”

The Moidart interrupted him. “We don’t have time for theological debates or philosophical discussion on the nature of evil,” he said. “Men have been killing each other for centuries without the need to blame skulls or relics. However, since my son is adamant about the need to avoid using this weapon, let us move on to more practical matters. How do we, with thirteen thousand men, set out to defeat the enemy?”

For another hour the debate raged, and when it ended there was no clear plan. Gaise had said little during the discussions. As the officers left, the Moidart called out to his son to remain.

When they were alone, he poured him a goblet of wine. “What is it you didn’t say?” asked the Moidart.

“What do you mean?”

“Dammit, boy, you are the war leader here. You made that plain when you returned. Yet you just sat in near silence while lesser men wittered about impossible plans and ludicrous tactics. What is it? Tell me.”

Gaise looked at his father and took a deep breath. “Cernunnos wants
me
. He needs
me
to take the skull and in some way accept it into myself. He will then have my body and will have returned.”

“Why you?”

Gaise was silent for a moment. “I looked into his face, Father. He and I have the same eyes. We are like . . . brothers. Perhaps that is why.”

“This talk of evil and good is beginning to bore me to tears,” said the Moidart. “You say the skull cannot be destroyed. So if they defeat us, they will have the skull anyway. If this creature is truly some ancient god, then he will find some other man with Rigante blood. It is inevitable.” The Moidart poured himself a second goblet of wine. “Though why someone with the powers of a god would want to rule men is another matter. I would have thought there were better ways for a god to spend his time.”

“He wants to eradicate mankind, Father. He believes that we are a plague upon the earth, that we are and will remain savage and unbridled, and that given time, we will destroy not only ourselves but the world.”

“I am beginning to warm to him,” said the Moidart. “I often feel the same way myself. So where is the Wyrd now? We could use her help.”

“She has returned north. She wants no more to do with wars and death. I fear I have disappointed her.”

“Life is full of disappointment. Can I see the skull?”

“No, Father. You would seek to make a pact with Cernunnos. It is your nature. Therefore, I have hidden it.”

“In that case, Gaise, you had better find a plan to defeat the enemy.”

For the next two days there was great activity on the outskirts of Eldacre. Gaise Macon had chosen the battleground, a low line of hills stretching for a half mile east and west of a level area of grassland. Huge stakes were cut, sharpened, and driven into the earth on the slopes of the hills to deter cavalry charges. Pits were dug and camouflaged to hide cannon, and weary soldiers with spade and shovel prepared long trenches to conceal musketeers. Workers were also press-ganged from the citizenry of Eldacre, though little pressure was needed. Most offered their services willingly.

Fearful of the coming battle and its outcome, hundreds of families packed their belongings into wagons and set off for the relative peace of the northlands.

Gaise worked tirelessly, overseeing the construction of fortified defenses and the placement of cannon. While riding along the line, Gaise caught sight of Mulgrave working alongside Kaelin Ring. They and a group of Rigante were filling canvas sacks with earth, tying them, and creating a low wall at the center of the open ground between the hills.

He saw Mulgrave glance up at him. Then his old friend merely looked away without acknowledgment. Saddened, Gaise swung his horse and rode carefully up the hill, negotiating the forest of stakes placed there.

General Beck was standing with the young Bendegit Law. They were estimating cannon range and directing soldiers in the placement of small white stakes at various places along what would be the enemy’s line of advance.

Gaise dismounted. Fifteen cannon were set there, some twelve feet apart. “When their cannon are drawn up, we’ll be outranged,” said Beck. “These are eight-pounders. Maybe two hundred fifty yards at best. The knights have fifteen-pounders. Big bastards. They can pour down shot from almost half a mile. They’ll range them on that hill,” he added, pointing to the south.

“The scouts report they have over a hundred cannon,” said Gaise, “but I don’t know how many of those fifteen-pounders they can bring up. I spiked sixteen of them in the west.”

“Shame you couldn’t have captured them, sir,” said Beck.

“Damn, but I should have thought of that,” said Gaise.

Beck looked embarrassed. “Forgive me, sir. I know it was a lightning raid and you had no opportunity to do more than spike them. I spoke without thinking.”

“It is all right, Beck,” said Gaise. “I wish I
could
have taken them. They were fine pieces, beautifully wrought. But we barely had time to hammer the iron spikes home before the knights counterattacked.

In the afternoon the Moidart paid a visit to the fortifications. Some of the soldiers cheered as he arrived on a splendid white mare. The Moidart ignored them and spent time talking with Beck.

Gaise, weary after two days of constant work and planning, rode back to where his men were camped. Lanfer Gosten took his mount, and Gaise made his way to his tent, where he lay down for a few hours of sleep.

Toward dusk Lanfer woke him, offering him a copper cup of warm tisane. Gaise sipped it gratefully. “Have the scouts reported?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. The enemy is on the move. We should sight them tomorrow. Oh, and a group of Rigante captured some soldiers and others. They are questioning them now.”

“When they have told what they know, see they are put to death,” said Gaise.

“Yes, sir.”

Gaise walked from his tent. His eyes felt gritty. There was a stream close by, and he wandered to it, crouching down and splashing his face with cold water. Then he called for a mount and rode back to where Ortis Mantilan and his musketeers were camped, behind the line of eastern hills. For a while he spoke with Mantilan, discussing the likely attack plans of the enemy. Walking to the top of the fortified hill, he stared out to the south. Mantilan joined him.

“My guess is they’ll swing wider east and come at us from two sides,” said Mantilan. “Going to be hard to hold them for long. I’d be happier with six more cannon set out on the eastern slopes.”

“If we had six more, you’d be welcome to them,” said Gaise. “You’ll have Bael Jace and his Rigante in reserve. Do not call them in until the situation is desperate. There will also be cavalry units ready to intercept them if they do swing east.”

Mantilan chuckled. “I have to say that Bael Jace makes me uncomfortable,” he said, running his fingers through his curly hair. “I always feel he is staring at my head and longing to separate it from my shoulders.”

“He doesn’t like the Varlish,” said Gaise. “But he’ll fight.”

“Oh, I know that, sir. Those Rigante are a terrifying bunch. If they scare the enemy half as much as they scare me, we could actually win.”

“That’s a good thought.” Gaise stared out over the battle site. There was six hundred yards of open ground to the southern hills. He pictured the enemy formations. They would form up on the hills, set up cannon, and begin a barrage. Then the infantry would attack on two fronts. The heavy cavalry would ignore the staked hill fortifications and ride through the center. Gaise had placed a two-hundred-yard wall of earth bags there, packed to a height of four feet, behind which musketeers would defend the open ground. That area, too, would be within cannon range. “You and your men are going to come under heavy fire,” he told Mantilan. “When it begins, pull most of your men back from the slopes. When the cannons cease and the attack starts, re-form.”

The first stars began to twinkle in the new night sky. Gaise rode back to his camp and ate a meal of thin stew and bread. Lanfer Gosten approached him. Gaise looked into the older man’s face and saw the concern there.

“What is it, Lanfer?”

“I couldn’t obey your orders, sir.”

“What?”

“The Rigante refused to surrender their prisoners to us.”

The three prisoners were all young men wearing the red coats and yellow sashes of the King’s Third Infantry. One was little more than a boy, and he sat trembling, wide eyes staring at the powerful men of the Rigante who had gathered around the campfire. They had been told to sit where they were and await events.

All three knew what the “events” would lead to. They had been among the first to see the forest of heads as they entered the northlands. Crows had pecked out the eyes and stripped flesh from the cheekbones. Many carrion birds were waddling on the ground between the stakes, their bellies full of flesh.

The youngest of the prisoners, thirteen-year-old Slipper Wainwright, had begun to cry. He had not wanted to go on patrol through the woods. He had been filled with a sense of foreboding that he now took to have been a premonition. When the Rigante had come upon them, seemingly out of nowhere, the ten-man patrol had not even been able to fire a shot. Seven men were dead in a matter of heartbeats. The youngster and the two men sitting alongside him had thrown down their weapons and put their hands in the air.

The Rigante leader, a ferocious killer with a scar on his right cheek, had stepped in close. Slipper had thought he was going to die right there and had squeezed shut his eyes. Nothing had happened.

He and the other two men had been hauled away back through the trees and along a narrow trail. After an hour they had emerged into this camp. Then the man with the scar had questioned them about their unit and their division. He had asked for the names of officers and wanted to know how skillful they were. So many questions that the boy could not answer. How could he know how good the officers were? He had joined the regiment only five days prior to the invasion. He had lied about his age and signed up in Baracum because food was running short and his family could not afford to eat. The signing-on payment had been two chaillings, which he had given to his mother.

Slipper told all this to the killer, who listened without comment.

Then another group of men had arrived in the camp. There was an older man with a kind face, dressed in a pale green tunic jacket bearing a fawn in brambles motif upon the breast.

“You are to hand over the prisoners to me,” he said. “Upon the orders of Gaise Macon.”

The boy felt a surge of hope. He would have given anything to be away from these harsh, deadly men.

“We like their company,” said Scarface.

“We have our orders, General Ring.”

“And your orders are to take these boys away and kill them. Not today, Master Gosten. You can satisfy your blood lust tomorrow when the battle starts. There’ll be no killing here.”

“I don’t have blood lust,” said Gosten. “I just have orders, sir.”

“Some orders should never be obeyed. Not ever. You think when you come before the Source of All Things, he will accept such an excuse for murder?”

“Probably not, sir. I don’t suppose he’ll have much use for any of us warriors. I’ll report back to General Macon. I wish that would be the end of it, but I doubt it.”

The soldiers in green marched away. Scarface said nothing to the boy or his comrades, but another man brought them food. He was tall and slim, his hair prematurely white. “Stay calm, lads. I am Captain Mulgrave, and you are with the Rigante. No harm will come to you.”

“Is that true, sir?” asked the boy. “We was told you murdered all prisoners. Cut off their heads and stuck them on poles.”

The officer nodded gravely. “I know, but that man there is Kaelin Ring. His men call him Ravenheart. He will not let anyone take you for execution. Neither would any of his men. Deadly fighters they may be, but you can trust me on this: They are not murderers. Eat and rest and do as you are told.”

“We will, sir.”

“What is your name, boy?”

“Slipper, sir. I mean Brene. Brene Wainwright.”

“You seem unsure,” the man said with a smile.

“Slipper’s what I’ve always been called. Come from my first day at school. My mother made me some shoes, but they weren’t very good. Soles was all shiny, and I slipped and slid all over the place.”

“Make sure your comrades understand this also, Slipper. Do not run—whatever happens. Just sit here quietly.”

With that he rose and moved away to talk to Ravenheart.

It was two hours later, the night sky ablaze with stars, when horsemen rode toward the camp. The boy looked around and saw that the kind-faced man was back; riding ahead of him was a golden-haired horseman. Other riders followed them.

Ravenheart walked out to meet them, and a number of Rigante went with him. All were carrying their muskets.

“Hand over your prisoners,” said the golden-haired man.

“Men who come to do murder are not welcome in my camp, Stormrider.”

The horseman angled his mount past Ravenheart. He looked at Slipper and reached for one of the pistols in the pommel scabbard of his saddle. Slipper knew now that he was going to die. The man’s face was hard, his expression one of undiluted hatred. Slipper could not take his eyes from the man. He felt his stomach lurch. The man’s pistol slid clear of the scabbard. Slipper wanted to get up and run, but his body was frozen in terror.