Ravenheart (14 page)

“I can handle them.”

Her left hand whipped into his cheek, the slap sounding like a distant gunshot. Jaim stepped back, his face angry. “By heaven, you go too far!” he shouted.

“Do you still not understand, Grymauch?” she said softly. “You did not see the blow coming. You are blind in one eye. I can understand how a clumsy clansman might not take advantage of it in a friendly feast bout, but a Varlish fighting man? He’ll whip in hooks and crosses and turn your face to pulp.”

Jaim stood silently for a moment. “Aye, there’s truth in that. But the bastard will have to be on his feet to do it.” He bunched his fist. “You know what this is? It’s the Rigante hammer. I’d like to see the Varlish who can stand against it. It strikes like thunder and brings only darkness.” Suddenly he winked at her. “And if you ever strike me again, woman, I swear I’ll put you over my knee and let the hammer fall on your buttocks.”

Her hand flashed out. Jaim caught her wrist. “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

“Let go of me, you lummox.”

“Only if you promise not to hit me.”

Maev did not struggle, but she glared at him. Jaim grinned and released her arm. “Will you place a bet on me, Maev?”

“I do not gamble, Grymauch. But I’ll place a cold compress on your bleeding face at the close. I promise you that.”

He held to her arm for a moment more, and she felt the power in his grip. His expression changed, and just for a heartbeat he seemed wistful. Then he let her go, and they stood together in awkward silence. It seemed to Maev that Grymauch was struggling for the right words.

Then Kaelin called out from the kitchen. “You greedy hog, Grymauch. You ate the whole pie!”

Jaim turned toward the lad and grinned. “And mighty fine it was, too. Though I am a little peckish now.” Grymauch strolled toward the house.

Maev rubbed at her wrist. She could still feel where his fingers had held her.

On the outskirts of Eldacre was the common land known as Five Fields. It was only nominally common land these days, for much of it was permanently fenced, ready for the four major feast days of the Sacrifice calendar. The fencing had been installed more than thirty years earlier, effectively segregating Varlish townsfolk from the clans. Stewards patrolled the entrances to each section, preventing any Pannone from entering the wrong enclosure.

Mulgrave had arrived early to ensure that the Moidart would be as secure as possible against assassination. He interviewed the officers of the lord’s guard, making them aware of all the necessary precautions. “Watch the crowd always,” he told the assembled soldiers. “Ensure that no one comes within twenty feet of the lord. Watch especially for those with very pale faces. When a man is about to commit an act of premeditated murder, his blood runs cold and his features whiten. Watch also the hands of those closest to the lord. If
they slip inside their cloaks or coats, move to block their view of the lord.”

Dismissing the soldiers, he then gathered the red-cloaked stewards who would be patrolling the entrances. “Be good-natured if you find someone in the wrong enclosure,” he told them. “Do not insult them; merely escort them to the correct area. Be always in pairs. If you suspect there is danger, one man should fetch help while the other merely watches the likely offender. The most obvious reason for a clan man or woman to be in the wrong enclosure is that a child has wandered and they are seeking it. Assure them that the child will be sought and brought to them and then escort them from the enclosure. You understand this?”

“Why be polite to clan vermin?” asked a tall, thin man standing at the back.

“Your name?”

“Jannie Clippets.”

“You are no longer a steward, Jannie Clippets. Hand back your cloak to the feast marshal.”

“I only asked a question,” shouted the astonished man.

“If I see you in a steward’s cloak this evening, I shall have you flogged for impersonating an officer of the Moidart,” Mulgrave told him. “Do the rest of you understand my instructions?”

Some of them muttered “Aye,” while others merely nodded.

Mulgrave strolled away. Guarding the Moidart was never easy, for the man was hated. At feast times it became nightmarish. Some eight thousand people would fill the Five Fields, moving between tents and stalls, shows and exhibitions. A killer probably would come dressed as a Varlish in a white wig and black cloth. Obtaining an entry disk was not difficult, and the Moidart would be in full view of the crowd for much of the afternoon. One pistol ball, well aimed, and no amount of guards could prevent a murder. And there was likely to be other trouble.

Largely the clan folk did not trespass on the Varlish areas.
The punishment was too severe: twenty lashes at a public flogging. The same was not true in reverse. Many Varlish townsfolk liked to wander the clan sections, watching the boulder hurl, the rope war, and the fistfighting tourney. Food and drink were cheaper, and this year there was the added complication of the fist tourney being an open event. It was foolishness, the thinking behind it obvious and crude. Bring up Varlish champions to hammer the clumsy clan farmers and cattle workers, thus displaying Varlish superiority in matters martial. No one seemed to have considered the possibility that a clansman might prove just the opposite. The Moidart had said nothing about the plan, but Mulgrave sensed he was irritated by it. Cruel he might be, stupid he was not. He had made it clear to Mulgrave that he would not be present for the final bouts.

The feast was organized by the Eldacre Elders, a committee of wealthy town merchants of which the chairman was the bishop of Eldacre. Their plan of events had been, as usual, posted and advertised without reference to the lord. The Moidart’s power was based on the twin pillars of tax and defense. He had no say over Sacrifice feasts, which came under the jurisdiction of the church.

Mulgrave walked across the first of the fields to where the best of the fighting circles had been constructed on a raised wooden dais. Two channels led away from the circle, one to the clan area and one to the Varlish. At the circle itself the crowd would again be segregated, the Varlish area containing tiered bench seating and the clan folk being obliged to stand in the mud. Mulgrave sighed.

He saw two men approach the circle and climb to the fighting area. Both were large, but his eyes were drawn to a powerful black-haired figure with a large, flat face and huge hands. Mulgrave recognized him. He was Chain Shada, a former soldier who had become wealthy through his fistfighting skills. It surprised Mulgrave that a professional such as Shada should have been interested in such a small event. He had once earned two hundred pounds fighting in Capital
Park before a crowd of forty thousand. It was said he owned several properties in the capital and two racing stables near Baracum. What would such a man be doing traveling hundreds of miles for a thirty-chailling purse?

Intrigued, Mulgrave waited until the two fighters had examined the circle and climbed down to the ground. “Good day to you, Master Shada,” said Mulgrave. “It is an honor to have you visit our town.”

“I’m sure it is,” said Chain Shada without a hint of humor. He was several inches over six feet tall, wide-shouldered and bull-necked. His face, though showing the marks of more than a hundred fights—scarred eyebrows, a broad flattened nose—was still savagely handsome. His eyes were dark and wide-set, his voice deep. “Who are you?”

“Captain Mulgrave. I will be in charge of security.”

“Will the Moidart be watching me in the final?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Pity. He’ll miss a fine exhibition. I expect it will be against Gorain here,” he added, slapping the shoulder of the powerful man standing alongside him. “He’s good. In a few years he’ll be even better. Luckily I will have retired by then.”

“I saw you fight the champion from Goriasa,” said Mulgrave. “It was at Werwick Castle four or five years ago. You broke his jaw in the first period, but he fought on for nigh on an hour.”

“Aye, he was tough, that one,” said Shada. “Had a good left-right combination and knew how to use his head. Split my nose with a good butt in the eleventh period. Thought I’d gone blind. Are you a fight follower?”

“No. I was on duty that day also. But I recall your footwork was exquisite. Always in balance, even when in trouble.”

“It’s all in the legs, Mulgrave. Every punch comes from the toes, and every blow received is absorbed and lessened by correct footwork. Tell me, are there any highland men who should merit concern?”

“Fistfighting is not a sport here, Master Shada. It is not even considered a craft. In the highlands a fight involves two
men throwing punches until one falls down. But there will be some big lads facing you, and you’ll take a few whacks before the final.”

“Not so,” replied Chain Shada. “I am here only to fight the final. The bishop offered me fifty pounds. He is a fight follower and my greatest supporter—or so he tells me.”

Mulgrave fell silent for a moment. “That is hardly sporting, sir. The man you face will have fought maybe five … six opponents before he steps into the circle with you.”

“I shall go easy on him. As I said, it is more of an exhibition and will give Gorain an opportunity to test himself. I’m hardly likely to want to batter my own apprentice.”

“Indeed, I can see that. However, there is always the possibility that you will not be facing Gorain.”

“You think some highland lout can beat me?” sneered the other man. “Nonsense!”

Mulgrave looked at him. Like Chain Shada, his face was broad, the cheekbones and brows rounded and therefore less likely to suffer cuts. There was a brooding power in the man, but Mulgrave took an instant dislike to him. There was something in the man’s eyes that spoke of cruelty and malice.

“A lucky blow, sir,” said Mulgrave, “a slip, a rush of blood to the head. It could happen.”

“In a pig’s eye!” snapped Gorain. “I am unbeaten in seventeen fights. No stinking sheep shagger will beat me. You can wager your fortune on that, Captain.”

“I don’t gamble, sir.”

“It wouldn’t be a gamble,” said Chain Shada. “Gorain has the talent to be the best I have ever seen. I intend to make twice the fortune from his career that I have made from my own. Next month he will be fighting in Baracum, in the King’s Tourney. There he will make a name for himself. And now we must be going. The bishop has promised us steak and Uisge. It is said there is no finer steak than that found in the highlands.”

“The same can be said of the Uisge,” Mulgrave told him.

“I may try it, but only after the tourney,” said Chain Shada. “A fighter needs a clear head.”

“An
old
fighter, maybe,” said Gorain.

Mulgrave saw a momentary flash of irritation cross Chain Shada’s features. “It was good to meet you, Captain,” he said. “Perhaps we can meet for a dram of Uisge later tonight.”

“I shall look forward to it, sir.”

The Wyrd was close to exhaustion. She had traveled far, and her work had barely begun. It was cold now, deep within the Wishing Tree woods, and she shivered and drew her tattered cloak more firmly around her shoulders. Resting her back against the bole of a twisted oak, she tried to rest her mind.

There was so little magic left now in Wishing Tree that all her efforts amounted to little more than adding a drop of perfume to a stagnant pond. The analogy annoyed her, for it made her life’s work seem futile. I will not become defeatist, she told herself. I will persevere.

The Seidh were long gone, the land having become increasingly barren without them. Yet the Seidh alone did not create the magic that once flowered across the land. They merely harnessed it. It lived within the hearts of all living things, but it radiated most from man. Acts of love and unselfishness, heroism and duty, all added to the magic, feeding the earth and the trees, flowing across the mighty mountains, carried in the rivers and streams. A mother singing to her child, a farmer giving thanks for his crops, two lovers arm in arm by a riverbank, a hero standing alone on a wooden bridge defying the enemy. Thus was the land enhanced.

Sadly, the opposite was also true. Acts of selfishness and vengeance, thoughts of greed and avarice, and dark deeds of savagery and murder robbed the land, draining it of harmony. The Varlish were not inherently evil, but their arrogance and lust for power blinded them to the majesty of their surroundings. The mountains were merely lumps of rock, yielding coal and gold and silver, the forests sources of timber for their ships and buildings. Their furnaces polluted the sky with
black smoke, their cities of stone became breeding grounds for disease, and their endless rapacious need for war and conquest brought with it oceans of despair, sorrow, and hatred. Like a plague of locusts descending on a cornfield, the Varlish ate into the magic of the world, corrupting its soul.

The Wyrd felt anger touch her and quelled it swiftly. She could not allow their malice to find a place within her soul. “They do not know what they do,” she whispered. Much like a child running around and stamping on the ants beneath his feet. They have no sense of what they are destroying.

A water rat emerged from a stream close by and scampered across the clearing, pausing to look at the Wyrd before vanishing beneath a bush. The Wyrd closed her eyes, seeking calm. She rested there for an hour, dozing and dreaming of her youth and remembering the first day she had met the spirit of Riamfada. She was a seven-year-old gathering herbs for her mother on the edge of the Wishing Tree woods. He stepped from the trees and spoke to her. He seemed to be just a young clansman, fair-haired and sweet of face. “Walk with me,” he said.

“We should not enter the woods,” she told him. “It is forbidden.”

“Not for you and me, Caretha.”

“Doom will fall upon any mortal who ventures into the wood. Everyone knows that.”

“Not every mortal. Connavar walked here. Bane walked here. Trust me. Come.”

Looping her herb sack over her shoulder, Caretha took his hand and walked into the woods. It still surprised her that she had done so. Her mother had warned her of strangers and their dark ways.