Stormrider (46 page)

“Fire that and I’ll kill you,” said the Ravenheart, pulling a long-barreled silver pistol from his belt, cocking it, and pointing it at the rider.

The golden-haired man swung his horse and glared down at the man. “You would risk everything we have fought for, everything your men have died for, to save these scum?”

“Why not? You are. And I fear we have very different definitions of scum.”

The horsemen who had arrived with the golden-haired rider had also drawn pistols. The Rigante raised their muskets. Slipper sat open-mouthed, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Why were these men ready to fight over three of the enemy?

Captain Mulgrave moved forward to stand alongside Ravenheart. “So we have come full circle, it seems. As I recall, it was not so long ago that I stood alongside another noble young man. Winter Kay rode into his camp and demanded that prisoners be executed. He refused. That made me proud. By heaven, Gaise, I never thought to see the day when you would become an animal like Winterbourne. There is no difference between you now. It sickens me to my soul to see it.”

“What is sickening,” said Gaise, “is to see how swiftly you forget. Winter Kay had our men murdered. He had Cordelia murdered. Men like these ripped her life from her.”

“Do not bring her into this,” Mulgrave told him. “Her death did not make you a murderer. You just gave in to the darkness. You unchained the bear, and now it chains you. Look at where you are, Gaise. Look at the men around you. Lanfer Gosten back there is sickened by this. You have blackened his soul as well as your own. And I see Taybard Jaekel there. Not a man who joys in killing. What are you doing to these good men? What kind of devils are you trying to create?”

“I am trying to win a war against evil men. Can you not see that?”

“And you will win it by slaughtering these three boys?”

Slipper saw the golden-haired man look directly at him once more. He blinked. The man had strange eyes. One was almost golden. Mulgrave walked across to stand beside Slipper. “He is thirteen, Gaise. He joined the army because his family was starving. He was given two chaillings, which he passed on to his mother. His name is Slipper. Tell us all how we will win by killing children.”

The rider seemed to sag in his saddle, and the tension went out of him. Without another word he turned his horse and rode from the camp.

Mulgrave walked back to the prisoners. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow you will be released by us or rescued by your comrades. You are probably the luckiest men in the area. You won’t have to die tomorrow.”

“Thank you for what you said to him, sir,” said Slipper.

“What I said to him broke my heart, boy,” answered Mulgrave.

During the night the various divisions of the Eldacre army took up their positions. Kaelin Ring and eight hundred Rigante moved stealthily forward to the line of earth bags guarding the open ground between the hills. There had already been some skirmishes with outriding scouts from the enemy, and Rayster had taken a ball through his left elbow. He had been moved back to Eldacre with close to twenty other Rigante who had been caught in the cross fire.

Kaelin settled his back against the earth bag wall and glanced at the line of bushes some three hundred feet away. Korrin Talis moved alongside him. “I don’t think Rayster will have use of that arm,” he said.

“Bad wound,” agreed Kaelin.

“You think this plan will work?”

“Even if it does, it will not be enough,” said Kaelin.

A troop of musketeers and riflemen began to march up the slope to their right. Korrin Talis saw Taybard Jaekel and waved. “I didn’t know you knew him,” said Kaelin.

“Descended from Fiallach, according to the Dweller.”

Kaelin smiled. “And that is why he was in the camp when I returned from meeting the Moidart?”

“He came in with Gallowglass. He was in a sad state, Kaelin. We made him feel at home.”

“By getting him drunk?”

“Drunk is good. I wish I was drunk now. There’s not a drop of Uisge left in Eldacre. I tried their ale. I’d sooner drink horse piss in the future.”

Kaelin glanced up at the night sky. There were heavy clouds gathering in the east. “It’ll blow over,” said Korrin Talis. Kaelin chuckled.

“I’ll never know how you can predict the weather so well.”

“That’s because you were raised among the soft Varlish, Ravenheart. Didn’t get a chance to develop a feel for the land. The cloud is fast-moving. It’ll be wet on the eastern coast tomorrow.”

Kaelin glanced along the earth wall. The Rigante warriors were mostly asleep now.

“I think I’ll join them,” said Korrin Talis, stretching himself out and drawing his cloak over his two muskets. Within moments he was breathing deeply. Then he began to snore.

The wound in Kaelin’s shoulder was throbbing again, the fingers of his left hand twitching. He rubbed at the fingertips and leaned his head against the earth bags. Sleep would not come. He found himself thinking back. He had spent his childhood close to these hills. It was less than an hour to the old schoolhouse where Alterith Shaddler had on many occasions beaten him with a cane. Back then he had longed to be a warrior. His plan was to one day kill Shaddler. Jaim had warned him against such thoughts. The one-eyed clansman had been right. Shaddler had risked his life to defend Maev Ring in the witchcraft trial. Life, Kaelin realized, had a curious talent for reversal. In those days the great enemy had been the evil Moidart. Now, as the man himself had cynically predicted, the Moidart was a hero. And Kaelin Ring, the son of the man he had murdered, was risking his life in the Moidart’s service. Who could have predicted it? Even the Wyrd, who he had always believed to be the well of all wisdom, had been amazed at the events of the past months.

And earlier this night Kaelin had pointed a pistol at a man who might well be his brother. He would have used it, too. He would have shot Gaise Macon from the saddle.

For three unknown Varlish soldiers.

Kaelin sighed. It was all madness. He found himself longing to be back at Ironlatch, holding Chara in his arms, watching little Jaim play in the meadow. Thinking of his son made him remember yet again the man whose name he carried. He wondered what Jaim Grymauch would have made of this war. Then he smiled. If Jaim had been here, he would even now be stretched out and fast asleep, just like Korrin Talis. Jaim was not a man who worried overmuch about matters outside his realm of control. He lived for the day and gloried in every breath he took.

Turning and easing himself up, Kaelin glanced over the top of the makeshift wall. On the southern hills he could see the enemy cannon being brought into place. There were already forty in view. There would be more coming.

The whole of the valley was strangely peaceful, the moonlight pure silver. Within a few hours the air would be filled with screeching shells and the screams of dying men.

“Sleep, you fool,” Kaelin told himself. “You’ll need all your strength soon.”

On the western slope Taybard Jaekel was sitting in a narrow trench, Jakon Gallowglass beside him. The trenches had been the idea of General Beck. Once the cannon fire began, the vast majority of the men on the hilltops would retire back into the relative safety of the low ground. A few would remain, keeping a watch for enemy advances. The trenches were for them. Taybard failed to see how a narrow hole scraped in the mud would keep him safe, but there was little point questioning the orders of a general.

Taybard was feeling ill at ease. His Emburley rifle was clean and ready, a new flint locked into the hammer. The forty lead balls in the pouch at his side had been fashioned by Taybard himself and rubbed down with sanded paper to remove any hint of imperfection. He could feel the weight of the pouch. Tomorrow, if he survived the full day, it was likely that at least thirty more souls would be added to his ever-lengthening death list. In large part Taybard would have loved to be able to toss the rifle aside and say to Gallowglass: “That’s it, my killing days are over.” He would walk from the battlefield and not look back.

His heart yearned for him to do just that. But that would mean leaving Lanfer and Jakon and the Gray Ghost to do his fighting for him. Caught between the desire for escape and the demands of loyalty, Taybard Jaekel felt lost.

“Are you all right, Jaekel?” asked Gallowglass.

“Will you stop asking me that?” Ever since the night at the Rigante camp Gallowglass had hovered around him like a mother hen. “I’m fine. Steady as a rock.”

“Good to have the Rigante so close,” said Gallowglass. “Can’t see anyone cutting a swath through them bastards.”

“I wish I knew how they did it,” said Taybard.

“Did what? Fight? Born to it, I guess.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, how do they kill so savagely and yet retain so much . . . nobility? I was so proud of them when they refused to let us kill those prisoners.”

“Crazy if you ask me. I mean, where’s the sense in it? Kill them in battle or kill them in camp. We’re still killers. Would it have been sensible for Kaelin Ring to shoot the Gray Ghost over three men he didn’t know? The war could have been lost as a result. No. He should have just let the prisoners be taken.”

“I disagree, though I can’t offer any proper reason as to why,” said Taybard. “I just know in my heart it was right.”

“You are an odd one for a soldier,” put in Gallowglass. “I don’t see where right comes into it. The duty of a soldier is to kill the enemy. Those men were the enemy. End of story. It’s not about right. It’s about rules. The rules of war say prisoners should be treated with respect.”

“But that rule was made because it was right.”

“I have enough trouble carrying musket, powder, and shot. I don’t need to carry any more burdens, thank you very much. Tomorrow I’ll kill every whoreson who comes at me from the south. Then, when we’ve won, I’m going to find the best whore in Eldacre.”

“Has it occurred to you, Jakon, that we might not win and that even if we do, you may die in the battle?”

“No, I won’t,” replied Gallowglass. “I thought I would die in Shelding. I was convinced of it. Having survived
that
, it is my belief that I will survive anything they throw at us and then some. If we lose, I’ll take off into the hills and wait. When things have quieted down, I’ll sneak back into Eldacre and find the best whore in town.”

Taybard relaxed and smiled. “It doesn’t really matter to you, does it, whether evil or good wins this battle?”

“Not as long as—”

“There are still whores around,” put in Taybard.

“Exactly.”

A rider on a white mare cantered past the hilltop. Gallowglass peered after him. “Is that the Moidart?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Taybard.

“I missed him earlier, but they said he had a beautiful white horse. Looks a bit skittish for a war mount.”

“I doubt the Moidart will take part in the battle,” said Taybard. “He’s not young anymore.”

The Moidart continued to canter across the valley floor, skirting the line of bushes behind the ramparts where the Rigante were stationed and on behind the hills where the original Eldacre company was camped.

Gaise Macon and General Beck were sitting by the stream, discussing the coming battle, when the Moidart rode up and dismounted.

Beck rose and bowed. “You may continue, gentlemen,” said the Moidart, joining them.

“We had all but concluded our business, Father,” Gaise put in swiftly. “There is nothing more to be done now but to fight.”

“I have decided to attend the battle,” said the Moidart.

“That would be most unwise, Father,” objected Gaise. “The plans are set, and everyone knows his place.”

“Would I be wrong in assuming that the heaviest attacks will be against Beck’s ridge?”

“That is what we expect,” agreed Gaise.

The Moidart turned to Beck. “Would it lift or demoralize the men if I were to place myself among them?”

“It would lift them, my lord.”

“Then that is my role. I am not a soldier, Beck, and will make no attempt to issue orders or countermand any that you may give.”

“I would be honored to have you with us, my lord, but I fear for your safety.”

“I have been shot at before. I will join you just before the dawn. Now, will you allow me a few words in private with my son?”

“Of course, my lord. Good night to you,” said Beck, bowing and then departing.

“Why are you doing this, Father?” asked Gaise.

“Because it is sensible. You are a fine cavalry general, Gaise, but you are too reckless and daring. The likelihood is that you will be cut down tomorrow leading a charge. Without you there will be no central focus. Beck, Mantilan, and the others will begin to act independently. The spirit of the defenders will start to wilt. The reality is that your brilliance has made you
too
important. If I am with Beck, I will become a rallying center.” He shrugged. “It may make little difference. Time will tell.”

Gaise shook his head. “You lied to Beck. You
are
a soldier and one as naturally gifted as any I have known.”

“It is in the blood, Gaise. Varlish and Rigante, warriors both. Our ancestors have fought wars since time immemorial. And won them. More than that, we have built societies and held them together. We are the rulers, Gaise. We are the mighty. Remember that tomorrow.”

“Do your best to stay alive, Father.”

The Moidart smiled. “I do not care one way or the other. My time is almost over. If we win—and since no one can hear us, I’d say we have less than one chance in twenty—I shall stand down as Moidart and pass on the mantle to you.”

“Why? What would you do?”

“Picture the mountains,” said the Moidart.

“What does that mean?”

“It means a lot to me,” replied his father, walking back to the white mare and stepping into the saddle. “Do your best tomorrow, boy. I shall be watching you with a critical eye.”

“No change there,” said Gaise, and realized there was no bitterness in the words.

Aran Powdermill did not see himself as a traitor. He did not serve the Moidart out of loyalty. He had been hired to perform a service and then press-ganged into continuing that service. Indeed, had he chosen to exercise his rights as a free man and leave, the Moidart had made it clear that Huntsekker would come after him and take his head. No, there was no question of treachery here. Quite the opposite, Powdermill decided. He was the victim of treachery in that the Moidart had broken his word and not allowed him to leave.