Stormrider (10 page)

For the next hour the discussion focused on logistical issues: where the various units would spend the winter, how they would be supplied, the gathering of fuel, and the sending out of recruiting teams.

As the meeting closed Lord Buckman drew Gaise aside. “I thank you, young man, for your assistance in the field. That was a gallant charge and a most welcome sight.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Taking Gaise by the arm, he led him farther from the other officers. “You are quite right about Ferson. His timidity was disgraceful. But be wary of drawing attention to it. The man, like all cowards, has a vengeful soul.”

“He should be dismissed, sir.”

“The king likes him, my boy, and we serve the king.”

Now, by the fire, Gaise was restless. His body was weary, but his mind would not relax. He sat up. The snow had stopped. Looking up through the shattered roof, he saw that stars were bright in the night sky.

Suddenly a scent came to him. Summer pine. With it flowed a breath of warm breeze. Gaise turned toward the far side of the room. Gone was the smoke-blackened wall, the ruined paintings, the charred furniture. Instead, tall pine trees were growing there, and beyond them Gaise could see sloping hills of verdant green. A small white-haired figure moved into sight, sitting down on a flat stone. Gaise smiled. He had not seen her in years, not since she had given him the Rigante soul-name of Stormrider.

Rising from the rug, he walked across to the pine wood. “It is good to see you, Wyrd,” he said.

The white-haired woman looked up at him and smiled. Her face was ageless, though she looked weary. “I cannot stay long, Stormrider,” she said.

“How have you made this happen?” he asked, gesturing toward the trees. “It is mighty magic.”

“No,” she said, “not mighty at all. I have merely invaded your dreams. Look back. There you sleep by the fire.”

Gaise glanced around. His lean body was resting on its back, his head on a folded cloak. He saw with surprise that the sleeping face was drawn and haggard, the eyes dark-rimmed. “I look ghastly,” he said.

“Aye, you do. But you will wake refreshed. I’ll see to that.”

Sunlight lanced through the trees. Gaise felt the warmth on his face. Sitting down opposite the Wyrd, he watched as the entrance to the ruined room shrank away, covered by a screen of bushes and trees. Birds were singing, and he heard the soft lapping of a stream running over rocks. It was as if a burden had been lifted from his soul. “Why have you come to me?” he asked the little woman. “Is there something you need me to do?”

“I need you to stay alive, Gaise Macon.”

“I’ll do my best,” he answered with a smile.

“Have you found the answer yet?” she said.

“To which question?”

“Why would a coward challenge you?”

He shrugged. “The nature of a coward is to avoid danger. If such a man courts peril, there can be only two reasons. Either he is not a coward at all, or there is no danger.”

“Exactly. So how could it be that a pistol duel would offer no danger?”

“The pistols would contain a charge and wadding but no ball.”

“One of them would be loaded. Not yours, I fear.”

Gaise nodded. “I know. Such treachery could not come from one coward. For such a foul enterprise to succeed there would need to be a conspiracy to murder me.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I intend to win, Wyrd.”

“There is more to this than Ferson’s conceit,” said the Wyrd. “There is a source of evil radiating its power. It is too strong for me to pierce. I have tried to find ways to read the future. All I see are fragmented images. I see you bearing a lost sword. I see a man with eyes of gold and green, yet he is not you. The more I search, the less I find. I fear I am neither strong enough nor wise enough to find the way.”

Gaise heard the despair in her voice. Reaching out, he took her hand. “What can I do to help you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Enemies are seeking my death, and I don’t know why. The power of a great evil is at work, and I don’t know what it desires. Death is closing in on me, Stormrider. Day by day it gets closer. What I am sure of is that you must survive. It is vital.”

A cold breeze touched Gaise, and he saw a movement in the trees. The Wyrd sprang to her feet. “They have found me,” she cried.

Gaise rose alongside her. The sunshine disappeared. Two figures moved out of the gloom, dark swords in their hands. Their faces were gray and scaled. Iron circlets ringed their brows, and their eyes were swimming in blood. The Wyrd threw up her hands. Lightning flashed, and a clap of thunder exploded. Gaise was hurled from his feet. He spun over and over, down through swirling blackness. He heard a shriek that chilled his blood.

Then he woke with a start, his heart pounding. Rolling to his feet, he ran across the room to where his saddle sat on a cracked bench. From the holsters stitched to the pommel mounting he drew two heavy pistols and cocked them. Then he stood in the gloom and waited.

A lean figure moved through the doorway. Gaise swept up a pistol and pointed it.

“I’d be obliged if you would refrain from shooting me, sir,” said Mulgrave.

Gaise sagged back against the wall. “What is wrong, sir?” asked Mulgrave, moving across to take the young noble’s arm. He helped Gaise to the fire, and both men sat down on the rug.

“I am all right now, my friend,” said Gaise, uncocking the pistols and laying them on the floor. “I had a . . . nightmare.” He shivered and rubbed a hand across his face. It came away wet with sweat. “What brings you here, Mulgrave? It’s not dawn yet.”

“Sad news, sir. Word has just reached us that Lord Buckman has died in his sleep.”

Gaise sighed. He had not known the man well, but he felt a sense of deep loss. “He was too old for campaigning,” he said. “Yet without him we would have been ripped apart. Damn, but I liked the old man.”

“He was a fine gentleman and a brave one. He’ll be hard to replace.” Mulgrave reached out, placing his hand on Gaise’s brow. “You are very pale, sir, and you are still sweating. Perhaps I should fetch the surgeon.”

“It is not necessary. The dream was very real. I shall be fine now.”

“Would it help to talk of it, sir?”

Gaise shook his head. “No.” Rising, he pulled on his heavy gray topcoat. “Let’s see if we can find some breakfast.”

Winter Kay, the Lord of Winterbourne, was a warrior in the truest sense. The lord of the Redeemers and a knight of the Sacrifice, he lived only for war. For such a man ultimate victory would be anathema. Victory would mean an end to war, a passing of glory, and a life thereafter of tedious mediocrity. War was life lived to the fullest. It brought out the best in men.

As a younger man he had not fully understood that awesome fact. Deep down, however, he had sensed it. All his life he had lusted after combat. Before he was twenty he had fought three duels, two with swords and one with pistols. He had ridden with the knights of the Sacrifice in the eastern wars, taking part in the sack of Alterin and the Battle of Skeyne. He had been second in command at the massacre of Shelsans, when two thousand devotees of the new tree cult had been put to the sword or taken alive and burned.

It was there that the Source had blessed Winter Kay and delivered into his hands the Orb of Kranos.

In the years that followed he had taken the orb on all his travels, gathering to him other knights pledged to fight for the honor of the Source. He had hoped his younger brother, Gayan, would have been among their number. But he had been slain by a highlander at the cathedral city of Eldacre. It was a source of constant sorrow to Winter Kay.

In time he had formed the Redeemers, the finest of the knights. And he had learned how to feed the magic of the orb so that it in turn could empower his Redeemers. Mortal wounds healed overnight; strength and speed were enhanced. It was too early yet to tell, but Winter Kay also believed that even the aging process was slowed. At forty-nine he could still ride, fight, and react with the same speed and strength as when he was in his twenties. And more than this, the power of the orb allowed its followers to free themselves from the shackles of the flesh, their spirits soaring out into the skies, traveling wherever they wished. Winter Kay himself had gained even more, for he was never far from the skull. At night visions came to him in his sleep, bright and vivid. He saw a great city and palaces of marble. Then there were the blessed times when the ghost of Kranos himself would speak to him, filling his mind with the promises of a golden tomorrow, a time of immortality and excess.

Only one small cloud marred Winter Kay’s horizon.

Gaise Macon.

Was he the man with the golden eye the priest had prophesied
? “I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you when the one with the golden eye comes for you.”

Winter Kay sat in his tent staring down at the walnut case and the two silver-inlaid pistols nestling there. Gaise Macon would not prove a danger after this afternoon. Jerad Ferson was a coward, but he was also a fair shot. At twenty paces he would put a ball into the young man’s chest, and that would be an end to it.

Two men in red cloaks approached the tent. Winter Kay bade them enter. Both were tall and lean. Removing their iron helms, they bowed low.

“Did you kill the woman?” he asked them.

“No, lord. We failed.” Their faces were very pale and haggard, their eyes deep-set. They looked exhausted. This was not uncommon after heavy use of the forbidden herb. He saw them looking longingly toward the metal box containing the orb.

“Tell me what happened.”

The first man spoke: “The trance was deep, lord, and as you said, we could feel her energy. We entered her dream. She sensed us. Before we could strike, she sent up a great and blinding light. Then she was gone. There was a spirit with her. A man.”

“What kind of man?”

The Redeemer glanced at his comrade. The second man spoke: “I believe it was Macon, lord. I cannot be sure.”

Winter Kay rose from his seat and moved to the rear of the tent. Carefully he opened the lid of the metal box, drawing aside the black velvet. “Come,” he said. The two Redeemers stumbled forward. “Make obeisance,” he ordered them. Both men drew sharp daggers and cut the palms of their hands. Then they held them above the skull. Blood dripped to the bone. It began to glow. The Redeemers waited for Winter Kay’s order, then each lightly touched the skull. They stiffened. One of them gave a groan of pleasure.

“Enough!” said Winter Kay.

The Redeemers stepped back. No longer were their faces pale, and the cuts on their hands had been sealed.

“In the name of the Source,” said Winter Kay, “Gaise Macon must die. You will be the loaders at the duel. Whichever pistol he chooses must not be armed. You will appear to drop the ball into the muzzle, but keep it secreted in your hand.”

“Yes, lord. We understand.”

“The man is in communion with our enemy. He has sold his soul to evil.”

“Yes, lord.”

Winter Kay placed his hands on both men’s shoulders, drawing them in close. “If by some freak of chance Gaise Macon should survive this duel, you will make it your bounden duty to see him dead before the next full moon.”

“You wish us to challenge him, lord?” asked the first.

“No. Merely kill him. Do it quietly. Suffocate him in his bed, poison his food, stab him in a darkened alley. The method is immaterial. Just bring me—as a token—his golden eye.”

The snow clouds had cleared in the night, and the midday sky was now bright blue, with not a breath of cloud. The temperature had dropped to well below freezing, and ice had formed on the muddy path leading through to the area of the duel. Only a few months before this had been a secluded garden set within the grounds of Lord Dunstan’s private chapel. Dunstan would have walked there with his wife and his daughters after Holy Day services. They would perhaps have admired the roses that lined the paths as they repaired to their mansion to enjoy a fine meal. Now Dunstan was dead, shot to pieces on Bladdley Moor with most of his covenant regiment. His fine house was a ruined shell, and the chapel—the last refuge of a group of diehard rebels—had been ripped apart by cannon shells, the spire lying in broken fragments across the northern tip of the garden.

Gaise Macon, dressed in a fur-lined charcoal-gray jacket, gray breeches, and knee-length riding boots, walked alongside the swordsman Mulgrave, who had donned his high-collared, leaf-green uniform and wore an officer’s short cape. Both men could have been out for a prelunch stroll, and Gaise Macon was chatting amiably as they approached the area of the duel. A long trestle table had been set at the center of the garden. Behind it stood two red-cloaked Redeemers. Lord Winterbourne was standing alongside the shorter Lord Ferson. Ferson’s braided red topcoat was loosely draped across his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a beautifully crafted shirt of expensive white lace. Beyond the low wall around the garden stood hundreds of Ferson’s men. Off to the right a number of Eldacre soldiers had also gathered.

“A fine day for such stupidity,” said Gaise Macon, approaching the two men.

Winter Kay gave a thin smile. “Matters of honor are rarely stupid, young man. Perhaps an understanding of that from you would have spared us this duel.”

“I shall bear that in mind in the future, my lord,” Gaise answered, with a bow.

A third man approached them. Wrapped in a heavy topcoat and scarf, the burly Lord Cumberlane bowed briefly to the two duelists. “I am appointed by the king,” he said, “as master of the duel. It is my duty to implore both of you to find an equitable solution to this matter.” There was ice forming upon his thick mustache, and his face was gray with cold. He swung toward Lord Ferson. “Can you now, my lord, see your way clear to resolving this issue without recourse to bloodshed?”

“No,” replied Ferson with a malevolent glance at Gaise Macon.

“Perhaps the offer of an apology?” insisted Lord Cumberlane.

“Honor demands satisfaction upon the field,” said Ferson.

Mulgrave felt his anger rise. The man’s confidence was such that the swordsman became ever more convinced that the duel was to be rigged. He glanced at Gaise Macon. The young man seemed perfectly at ease, but Mulgrave knew him well and could see that he was acting.