Ravenheart (5 page)

“I’ve a cramp in my calf,” muttered Kaelin, reaching down and trying to ease the pain. Jaim knelt beside him, his huge fingers closing firmly over the knotted muscles. It was excruciating. Jaim dug deep into the tortured tissue. Kaelin tried to make no sound. Gritting his teeth, he held his breath for as long as he could. Just as it seemed he could take the agony no longer, the muscles eased, the pain sliding away.

Jaim patted the youth’s thigh. “Good lad,” he said. Reaching up, Jaim pulled clear the black cloth headband that protected his ruined eye. The empty socket had been stitched some years before and was now sealed tight. Jaim rubbed at
the scars. “It baffles me,” he said, “how an eye that is long gone can still itch.” Settling the cloth back into place, he glanced back down the hillside. There was still no sign of herdsmen even though the sun had been up for some minutes. “They breed ’em lazy in these parts,” he said with a grin.

Kaelin did not reply. He was gently massaging his calf. They had crossed the mountains the previous day, and though Kaelin was strong and as fleet as any youngster of his age, he had struggled to keep up with Jaim Grymauch, especially when they had reached the pass. Jaim had said it was now open, yet still they had had to dig their way through one snow-blocked section and make a precarious climb across a high icy ledge. Kaelin had been relieved to see the glittering water of Moon Lake, the paddocks and outbuildings of the Moidart’s western estate nestling by its banks.

He and Jaim had slept in a derelict shack close to a long-deserted coal quarry. Jaim lit a small fire, while Kaelin roamed the area in the twilight, gathering fragments of coal that still dotted the hillside. Kaelin loved to watch coal burn. It was a mystery to him how the black rock could catch fire and how the flames could suddenly hiss and turn blue.

They slept on the floor of the shack, and Kaelin was awakened by Jaim three hours before the dawn. “Time to find the watching spot,” said Jaim. Sleepily the youth followed the big man out into the darkness and down into the lower gorse-covered hills. Using a broad-bladed knife, Jaim cut several thick branches of gorse, handing them to Kaelin for carrying. The youngster handled them with care, for the needle-sharp thorns could lance through skin as easy as winking. Jaim cut more gorse, then moved farther down the hillside, seeking a hiding place. Deciding on an old gorse bush skirted with heather, Jaim cut an entrance into the eastern side of the bush; then, from within it, he and Kaelin built up a layered outer wall of the branches they had cut. When the hiding place was completed, Jaim squirmed across to the western-facing branches and gently parted them with his hands. Satisfied
that he had a good view of the outbuildings and paddocks, he squatted down, delved deep into his leather undershirt, and produced two hard-baked oatcakes. He passed one to Kaelin.

“Are you bored, young Ravenheart?” he asked.

Kaelin shook his head. The truth was that he loved to roam the mountains with Jaim Grymauch. It made him forget for a while that as a highlander he had no real future in a world ruled by the Varlish. He could not even publicly claim to be a Rigante. The clan had been outlawed twenty years before. The wearing of the pale blue and green Rigante plaid was an act punishable by death. All Rigante males in the area had been forced to change clans, most becoming Pannone. Those who refused and took to the hills were ruthlessly hunted down and murdered by the Beetlebacks. A few hundred had fled into the bleak northern mountains, where they survived by raiding and stealing. They were known now as Black Rigante, and every few years strong forces of Beetlebacks and musketeers would enter the mountains seeking them out. Ten years earlier a small settlement of Black Rigante clansmen had been surrounded and slaughtered, though almost eighty Beetlebacks had been killed in the raid and two hundred had been injured. They lived now in an uneasy truce with the Beetlebacks.

No, Kaelin Ring was never bored while with Jaim. “Do you have a poem for the bull yet?” he asked.

“I thought I had,” replied Jaim, “but now that I’ve seen him, I realize it is inadequate. I shall work on another.”

Kaelin grinned. There were some who thought Grymauch’s bull-stealing verses were merely indications of the man’s vanity. The one-eyed warrior was as well known for his rhymes as for his raiding. Many of his songs were sung at festival feasts, and Kaelin knew at least twenty bull songs by heart. He also knew that vanity had little to do with Grymauch’s poems. Aunt Maev reckoned it was merely Grymauch’s deep, hypnotic voice and confident movement that mesmerized the animals, but Kaelin believed the verses were
the links in a magical chain between Grymauch and the bull. He had twice seen the big man walk into starlit fields, take the chosen bull by the nose ring, and gently lead him away from all he knew.

“Tell me the soul-name story again, Grymauch,” he urged.

“By the Sacrifice, boy, do you never tire of it?”

“No. It brings me closer to my father somehow.”

Jaim reached out and ruffled Kaelin’s black hair. “Where would you like me to start it? The fight with the Moidart, the flight to the mountain, the coming of the stag?”

“The stag. Tell it from the stag.”

The sky was lightening as Jaim began his tale. “We were sitting on a ledge of glistening gray rock. Your father was mortally wounded and knew it. He had few regrets, he said, for he was a man who—in terms of the clan he led—always did what he thought was right. He had lived true. Yet he was filled with sorrow that he would not see you grow and that he had found no soul-name for you.” Kaelin closed his eyes, picturing the scene. “We sat quietly, him and me, and then we heard the howling of the wolves. They were hunting. Canny creatures, wolves. They know they cannot outrun a stag. It has far more stamina than any wolf. So they hunt as a team. Four or five of them will harry the stag, chasing it for a mile or two. The forest lord is not concerned at first. He knows the wolves cannot outlast him. What he does not know is that the wolves have formed a circle of death and that others of the pack are waiting farther down the trail. As the first wolves begin to tire, the second group takes up the chase, driving the stag toward a third in a great circle. The killing run goes on and on, the wolves tightening the circle, until at last the exhausted forest lord turns at bay. By now all the wolves have come together for the kill. This, Kaelin, is what your father and I saw. A proud and massive stag, a right royal beast if ever there was one, was upon the hill opposite to where we sat. He had a wonderful spread of horn, and he stood weary yet defiant as a dozen wolves closed in on him. Ah, but it was a sight
to see. The bravest of the wolves darted forward and was tossed high into the air, his body dashed against a tree, his back broken. Then the other wolves charged. There was no way for the stag to win. No way. It was finished.”

“And then came Raven,” prompted Kaelin, excitement in his voice.

“Hush, boy! ’Tis I who am telling this tale.”

“I am sorry, Grymauch. Go on, please.”

“No more interruptions, if you please. As I said, the stag could not win. Yet he fought magnificently, giving no ground. As the wolves closed in, something dark came rushing from the undergrowth. At first I could not see what it was, but it charged into the wolves, scattering them. Your father had better eyesight than mine—and I had both my eyes then! He said: ‘By heaven, it is Raven.’ We had both thought the hound slain in the fight with the treacherous Moidart, but there he was, ripping into the startled wolves. There was blood on his muzzle and two more wolves dead when the others panicked and ran.” Grymauch paused, lost in the memory. Kaelin did not prompt him. The warrior sighed. “And—for the merest heartbeat—I saw Raven and the stag standing together, looking at one another. Both were bloodied. The forest lord dipped its head toward Raven as if in thanks, though I doubt it was. Then it bounded away into the trees, and the hound continued across the hills toward us. He had followed the scent, you see, and wanted to be reunited with Lanovar. I saw him stumble twice, but he carried on, more slowly than before. Aye, he was a brave hound, right enough. I swung around to see that your father was in his last moments. My heart was pierced as I watched him then. It has never mended. I held him close. We said nothing. Then the hound reached us, and I saw that it, too, would not survive the night. Musket balls had pierced him deep, and he was bleeding badly. He settled down alongside Lanovar, his head on his master’s lap. I think they died together. If not, there were only a few heartbeats between.” Jaim fell silent.

“What about my soul-name?” asked Kaelin.

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, boy. I was lost in moments past. As we watched the hound attack the wolves, Lanovar whispered something. I didn’t hear it quite, so I moved alongside him. ‘Ravenheart,’ he said. I didn’t understand at first. Then he drew in a breath and said: ‘My son … Ravenheart.’ I knew then, and I promised him I would see that your mother was told that this was to be your soul-name.”

“Most of my friends don’t have soul-names,” said Kaelin.

“The Varlish fear them. The names hold us to the land and give us pride. The Varlish need to see that pride eaten away, so they claim soul-names are a sign of heresy and paganism. Few parents want to risk a visit by the knights of the Sacrifice and then be staked above the fire.”

“Why do you think Raven rescued the stag?” asked the youngster.

“I don’t believe that he did intend to rescue the creature. Raven was a wolfhound. He was born to fight wolves and protect cattle. I think he was just trying to reach Lanovar and the wolves were in his way. Once he came upon them, instinct took over. The stag was irrelevant.”

“I think it was a magical stag,” said Kaelin.

“Magical? Why would you think that?”

“Because it brought me my soul-name and because the Wyrd told me.”

“Be careful, Kaelin. The Wyrd knows some ancient spells, and she’s dangerous to know.”

Kaelin smiled. “We are sitting on a hillside waiting to steal the Moidart’s prize bull, and you tell me the Wyrd is dangerous to know.
You
are dangerous to know, Uncle.”

“Aye, well, I guess that’s true, right enough.”

Jaim fell silent as a group of men emerged from a thatched building to the north of the paddock. They walked to the fence and stopped to gaze at the bull. The animal swung its shaggy head and stared at them, then pawed at the ground. Jaim chuckled. “Settle back, Kaelin. Now we’ll see how
skilled they are.” Three of the men clambered up to sit on the fence. A fourth ducked through between the posts and approached the bull, hand extended. Wind noise, whistling through the heather, prevented the youth from hearing what the man was saying, but Kaelin knew he would be speaking softly, making soothing, friendly noises to calm the beast. Jaim was watching the scene intently. “That’s good. That’s good,” he said softly as the unknown man below moved alongside the animal. The bull was a little calmer now. “Ah, he has a talent, the man,” said Jaim. “But don’t get cocky now. He’s still not sure of you. Just stay away from his head.”

Kaelin smiled. Jaim was probably not even aware that he was speaking aloud. The man below was stroking and patting the bull’s flanks. The animal ceased to paw at the ground and was standing quietly. The man eased himself around the huge horns and reached for the bull’s heavy nose ring. “Too soon!” whispered Jaim. The bull lunged forward. The man was hit hard by the bull’s forehead. Instinctively he grabbed the horns. The head dropped, then flicked upward. The cattleman was hurled up. One hand lost its grip on the horns, and the other clung tight. The man came down across the bull’s back, the impact causing him to let go of the horn. Half-stunned, the cattleman fell to the earth. His comrades on the fence shouted at the bull, seeking to divert its attention. They succeeded better than they hoped. The bull charged, its massive head thundering against the fence post, which split down the middle. Two of the men managed to jump clear just as the bull charged. The third fell headfirst into the paddock. The bull swung on him. Kaelin saw a streak of crimson smear the air. The man was flung some ten feet across the paddock. He landed heavily and did not move.

The first cattleman, still dazed, staggered across the paddock toward the fence. The bull ignored him as it ignored the fallen man. Kaelin saw blood dripping from one of the horns. He transferred his gaze to the fallen herdsman. “Is the man dead?” he asked Jaim.

“He most certainly is.”

“Are we still going to steal the bull?”

Jaim nodded. “Aye, but I’ll need a stronger bull song, by heaven!”

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