Stormrider (13 page)

“Maybe the boy should go upstairs,” said Draig.

“He is fine where he is.”

“I wouldn’t want to frighten him.”

“Just say what you have to say,” Chara told him.

“Very well. A man—a Varlish man—came to me and asked me if I wanted to earn ten pounds. He said that his lord wanted two people dead.”

“I can see why he came to you,” said Senlic.

“Shut your trap!” hissed Eain.

“Leave it!” Draig ordered him. He sipped his tisane, then turned to Chara. “One he wanted dead was the Dweller, and the other was this boy. I told him I wasn’t interested. My guess—and the boy has just confirmed it—is that he then went to Tostig and the Low Valley scum he leads.”

“Tostig sports that beard style that was popular among the Varlish a few years back,” said Eain. All three adults swung to stare at him. “You know, the one where the chin is shaved but you leave a small wedge of beard under the lower lip. Looks damn stupid, if you ask me. ’Course you wouldn’t say that to Tostig, him being a killer. Wouldn’t catch me with a beard like that. Beards should be beards, I say. Proper beards.” Eain fell silent. They were still looking at him, and no one was speaking. Senlic was staring at him bemused, and Draig had an expression of barely suppressed anger. Eain did not want to look at Chara Jace even when she spoke.

“How did we get to talking about beards?” she asked.

“It’s just that the boy mentioned an arrow-shaped beard,” said Eain, blundering on. “It was a Varlish fashion, like I said, and—”

“Enough about damned beards!” thundered Draig. “Gods, you’re like a dog that won’t let go of a bone.”

“Do you believe this story about hiring assassins?” Chara asked Senlic. “Why would any Varlish want . . .” She glanced down at Feargol, who was listening intently. “. . . such a thing?” she concluded lamely. “The Dweller has no links with the Varlish. And neither does Feargol.”

“The Cochlands steal cattle, Chara,” said Senlic. “They are not subtle or clever men.”

“Thank you,” said Eain.

“That was actually an insult, Brother,” Draig said, wearily. “But let’s move on.”

“Then you
do
believe them?” put in Chara.

“I do. It has the ring of truth,” replied the old man. “And Feargol has seen that Tostig is coming here.”

“He is a bad man,” said Feargol.

“Yes, he is,” said Draig. “As soon as Kaelin gets back, I’d suggest you take the boy into the Rigante passes. Tostig won’t be able to enter Call Jace’s land. Now we’ll be leaving you.” Draig rose. “Thank you for the tisane.”

“Kaelin will be gone for three weeks,” said Senlic. “He is taking a herd down to Eldacre. Most of the men are with him.”

“This is not our problem,” Eain said, sharply. “We’re not to get involved.”

“You don’t need to be involved,” said Chara. “I’ll fetch you some food for your journey home.”

“Forget the food,” Eain told her. “Come on, Draig. Our business here is done. Let’s just go now. We’ll get a bite in Black Mountain. At the Dog Tavern. Come on.”

“How many men are with Tostig?” Draig asked Feargol.

The boy closed his eyes, and Eain saw him counting his fingers. “Eight,” he said.

Eain swore.

“Can you see where they are?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where it is.”

“What can you see, boy?” asked Senlic.

Feargol closed his eyes again. “I can see a big building, all stone. And lots of houses. The man with the arrow beard is riding over a stone bridge. There are people fishing in the river.”

“Black Mountain,” said Senlic.

“That’s no more than a two-hour ride in this weather,” added Chara.

Eain looked at Draig and saw his features harden. “Don’t do this, Draig,” he pleaded. “They don’t want us. They hate us. It’s got nothing to do with us now. You promised we wouldn’t get involved.”

“The boy gave me a biscuit,” said Draig.

Eain’s heart sank through his boots.

Chara Ring stood in the long kitchen, staring down at the pistol lying beside the breadboard.

“You can’t stay, Chara,” said Senlic.

“I have weapons here, and I know how to use them,” she told him.

“There are eight of them, girl.”

Chara swung on him. “Do not call me girl! I don’t care how many there are. You think I’d be safer out in the wilderness with them?” she asked, keeping her voice low and pointing back toward the living room. “I know men like them, Senlic. I spent a day and a night in a dungeon with men like them. Never again!” She leaned back against the work surface and began to tremble. Senlic reached toward her with his good hand. “Do not touch me!” she told him sharply.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I meant no offense. But Tostig will come here. There’s nothing to stop him now. I expect he knows Kaelin and the men are gone. You’ll not be safe, and neither will the boy.”

“I am staying in my home,” she told him.

Senlic sighed. “Very well, then. I’ll load more weapons. I expect we’ll hit a few of them. Then they’ll stay back and pick us off as we leave the house over the next few days. Or they’ll come at night. Then, sooner or later, Chara, with me dead—and likely the Cochland boys, too—you’ll find yourself once more back in that dungeon.”

“I’ll kill myself before I let that happen again.”

“Perhaps we could save the boy heartbreak and terror by killing him now,” said Senlic.

“Don’t say such stupid things,” she told him.

“You need to be away from here,” he urged her.

“Then I’ll go alone—just me, little Jaim, and Feargol. I don’t need the Cochlands.”

“Tostig and his men have horses. The snow is still deep, and you’d have to carry Feargol and Jaim. You’ll make no distance. You’ll be exhausted within an hour, and Tostig will catch you long before nightfall.”

“Has it occurred to you that all this is a trick? Ten pounds, Senlic. The Cochlands could be planning to murder me in the wilderness and collect the money themselves.”

“I don’t believe that. Not once has Draig or Eain ever been accused of attacks on women or children. They steal cattle, Chara. They are lazy men and thieves. You heard Eain. He wants no part in this. He is terrified of Tostig. They both are, though Draig would not admit it. With them you can get to the high country, where Tostig’s horses will be useless. Without them we are all dead.”

“I can’t do it, Senlic. I can’t.”

“You can, Chara,” he said softly. “You are Rigante. We don’t let fear rule us. Given a little time, you would come to this realization yourself. But we don’t have time. Every heartbeat of time we waste brings them closer.” He leaned in close to her, lowering his voice further. “The Cochlands are scum. I’ll grant that. They may even desert you when trouble comes. They won’t harm you, though, or the boy. So use them like pack ponies until you are clear. Then send them on their way. And bear in mind that they, too, have Rigante blood.”

“So did Wullis Swainham,” she reminded him.

“Aye, he did,” admitted Senlic, “and he shamed us all. The Cochlands aren’t like him, though. I’d stake my life on that.”

“You are not staking
your
life,” she said softly. “You are staking mine and Jaim’s and Feargol’s.”

“I am aware of that, Chara.” They stood in silence for several moments, and Senlic saw the trembling cease and color return to Chara’s cheeks.

She took a deep breath. “Take the Cochlands to the supply store,” she said. “Find them snowshoes and packs and anything else you think they’ll need.” Chara put her hand on the old man’s shoulder, then leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You are Rigante, my friend,” she said. “I am sorry I spoke harshly.”

“Whisht, woman,” he said, then moved away.

Chara took Feargol upstairs to pack clothing, and Senlic led the Cochlands across to the supply hut. Eain was still complaining, urging Draig to reconsider. Draig told him he was free to return home alone.

They continued to argue as they rummaged through the supplies, packing them untidily in canvas backpacks.

Senlic left them to it and sat down on a tack box.

“We’ll need a musket each,” said Draig.

“Why do we need muskets?” asked Eain. “I’m not fighting anybody.”

As they continued to argue, Senlic leaned back against the wall of the hut. When the bright light obscured his vision, he jerked. It had been years since the sight had flared. He had thought it long gone. In that moment he wished that it had gone. He suddenly groaned.

Draig moved alongside him. “Are you ill, old man?”

“I am all right,” said Senlic, struggling to his feet. “You are right. You will need muskets and a spare pistol each. We have some long hunting knives, bone-handled. Take two of these. You can keep them. You can keep it all once Chara and the children are safe. I don’t doubt that Call Jace will also reward you for saving his daughter and grandson.”

“This isn’t about rewards,” muttered Draig.

“I know, Cochland. I meant no offense. I am grateful you came, and I know Jace will be, too. That is all I meant.”

When they had gathered all the supplies and filled their packs, Senlic picked out two muskets and a pair of pistols, plus powder and shot. Then he allowed both brothers to choose hunting knives. Once they had done so, Draig hoisted his pack and moved toward the door.

“Wait,” said Senlic. “There is something we must speak of.”

“You can trust us,” said Draig. “Do not concern yourself.”

“It is not my trust that is lacking, Cochland. I
do
believe you.” He sighed. “You know the history of Chara and Kaelin?”

“Aye, he rescued her from the Varlish. Walked into their castle and killed the guards.”

“Aye, he did. A grand deed it was. They had her, though, for some time before Kaelin got to her.”

“What is this about?” asked Eain.

“Quiet,” snapped Draig. “You are saying they raped her?”

“More than that. They beat her, Cochland. They punched and thrashed her, kicked and bit her. It was torture. Their taunts and their vileness damn near broke her spirit. It haunts her still. Always will, I suspect. Now she has a fear of men. A great fear. You understand me? She is about to walk out into the wilderness with the Cochland brothers. By heaven, if I was a woman, I wouldn’t have that kind of courage.”

Draig stiffened. “You think I would ever . . .”

“No, I don’t,” said Senlic. “What I am saying is, Be aware of her fears as you walk together. She is a strong woman. In this one area, though, she is as fragile as an ice crystal come the thaw.”

“I understand,” said Draig.

“I don’t,” said Eain. “And I’m getting damned cold standing here.”

Half an hour later Senlic stood at the farm gate, Patch beside him, and watched as the little group walked out across the snow. Draig was carrying Feargol on his hip, while Eain held two-year-old Jaim. Chara walked just behind them both, a musket cradled in her hands.

“You’ll be all right, will you?” Chara had asked him.

“Aye, I will,” he had lied.

He waited until they had reached the first crest. His eyes were no longer good enough to see whether Chara or Feargol waved back at him, but he waved anyway. It was around three hours to dusk and a sunset he knew he would not see.

Senlic Carpenter went back to the main house and sat waiting, his pistol in his hand.

It had been a good life. He had not changed the world for the better or led a Rigante charge against the enemy. He had not sired a dozen tall sons. He would die now as he had lived most of his life, alone. Yet he was content. Senlic had lived as a Rigante should, loving the land and holding strong to the clan values of loyalty and courage. He would leave behind no ill will, no seeds of malice or hate to bedevil future generations.

He thought of loading a second pistol, but the vision had been clear. Senlic would have time for one shot before they cut him down.

Actually, that was not strictly true, he realized. In the vision he had seen two futures. In the first he walked away from Ironlatch and hid until the riders moved on. He had then seen the eight men hunt down Chara and the others. In the second he did not hide. He saw himself murdered and then watched as the scene shifted to the High Rigante. There he observed little Jaim clambering onto Call Jace’s lap, Feargol standing close by, his white cap in his hands. Jace reached out to him, too, and Feargol smiled happily.

As he sat at the table, Patch beside him, he wondered why he had been offered such a ridiculous choice.

Was there a Rigante anywhere who would choose the first?

6

Chara Ring struggled on, her legs weary. For the last hour she had carried little Jaim. He was tearful now and cold and hungry. She also sensed his fear. He had never been carried out into such weather before, and the biting wind and the wide, empty land frightened him. For the first two hours the hulking Eain had carried the child, but he was close to exhaustion. Like most thieves Eain was a lazy man, and though he had enormous strength, he was short on stamina. Draig, too, was suffering as they climbed yet another hill.

The snow there was thick and deep, and they had been forced to use snowshoes. Chara knew the area well, and when it was close to dusk she headed them toward a cliff face where there were several shallow caves. At the first Draig began to remove his pack. “Leave it,” said Chara. “We will not be staying here.”

“Why?” asked Eain. “It’s shelter, isn’t it?”

Chara was too tired to answer and, having checked the interior, moved once more into the wind and the snow. Draig followed her. Eain brought up the rear, too weary to complain. After a brief survey of the second cave she moved out again.

This time Draig asked her what she was looking for. Feargol, walking now beside the big highlander, looked up at him. “She is seeking the cave where Uncle Kaelin left firewood,” he said.

A few minutes later Chara entered a third cave. Draig stepped in behind her and saw a large stack of dry wood set against the far wall. “Uncle Kaelin says a man should always be prepared,” said Feargol. “He has hiding places like this everywhere.”

“A clever man, your uncle,” muttered Draig, slipping his pack from his shoulder. Pulling off his thick woolen gloves, he rubbed at his fingers, trying to thaw them. Eain had slumped down by the wall, lacking even the energy to remove his pack. Chara glanced at Draig. Now that they had stopped, he saw the fear in her eyes.

“I wish it would snow,” he said.

“How can you want more snow?” muttered Eain. “I’ve seen enough snow to last me a lifetime.”

“To cover our tracks,” Draig told him. “A blind man could follow us.”

“There’s a nice thought. Help me with the pack, will you.”

Draig stepped across to where his brother sat and eased the pack from his shoulders. Feargol had begun to build a fire. Draig moved alongside him, squatting down. “No, lad, find the tiniest twigs first. You can’t light a log with a spark. Logs come later.”

Within minutes a small fire was burning within a circle of stones. At first there was precious little warmth. Little Jaim came over and sat beside Draig. He ruffled the child’s dark hair. “Don’t sit too close, now,” said Draig. “It might spit sparks.”

“My hands is cold,” said Jaim.

“They’ll be warm soon.”

Draig added another chunk of wood to the blaze. Then he stood and wandered back to the cave mouth. It was already dark outside. He trudged through the snow for a short distance, then turned to look back at the cave. Kaelin had chosen it well. It was deep and curved, the fire casting no flickering light against the wall close to the entrance.

Not that it mattered, he realized, staring out at the tracks they had made coming there. The wind eventually would fill them in, but not before Tostig found the cave, he knew. What then? Draig’s mood was somber as he made his way back to the cave.

“You see anything?” Chara asked him as he slumped down by the fire.

“Only our tracks.”

Eain was at the fire now, preparing his cook pot. Feargol asked him if he needed more snow to melt. Eain nodded, and the child took a wooden bowl and ran out past Draig, disappearing from sight. Jaim toddled after him, but Chara called him back. Draig removed his bearskin coat. Chara was still sitting by the far wall, her musket close by.

“Boy looks like his father,” he said, nodding toward Jaim. “Though he has your eyes.”

Chara said nothing.

“I had a son,” he went on. “A boy. Died when he was two.” He did not stare at her as he spoke, but out of the corner of his eye he saw her relax a little.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Had a fever. Recovered. We were that happy, I can tell you. Then he just slipped away in his sleep. Fever took too much out of him, I guess.”

“I didn’t know you were wed,” said Chara.

“Aye, I was. She left me . . . four years ago this coming spring. Don’t blame her. Never was much of a husband.”

“Where did she go?”

“Lived with Eain for a while. Left him last year. Living with a crofter now, east of Black Mountain.”

“She was a sour woman,” said Eain. “Not a good word to say about anyone or anything. Days were either too hot or too cold, too windy or too damp. I told her once she was the most complaining woman I’d ever met. Whacked a cook pot into my face, she did. Knocked out a tooth. Damn, but that hurt.”

“She must have loved you, Eain,” said Draig. “Any other man had said that, she’d have cut his throat in his sleep.”

“I do miss her,” admitted Eain.

Chara eased herself toward the fire, and Draig moved back to give her room. Feargol brought two more bowlfuls of snow before Eain told him it was enough. Jaim sat beside Draig, leaning in against him.

“You are good with children,” said Chara.

“Don’t know why,” he said with a grin. “Can’t stand ’em. All that noise and mayhem.”

“He’s good with dogs, too,” said Eain, stirring dried oats into the cook pot.

Draig called out to Feargol. “Can you see the men chasing us now?” he asked.

Feargol closed his eyes for a moment. Then his face crumpled, and he sobbed. Chara scrambled across to him, taking him in her arms. Little Jaim began to cry, too. Draig patted his shoulder.

Eain sat nonplussed, idly stirring the porridge.

“What’s wrong, Feargol?” asked Chara, stroking her fingers through the boy’s red hair.

He looked up at her, tears falling from his eyes. “They killed Senlic and Patch,” he said.

Draig felt a cold touch of dread and glanced at Eain. “Shouldn’t have got involved,” his brother mouthed, silently. “Let’s go home.”

Draig shook his head. “Too late,” he mouthed back.

Feargol was crying again. Chara kissed the top of his head and held him close. Jaim moved alongside her, his chubby arms reaching up. Chara drew him in to the embrace, and Draig sat silently watching them. It seemed to him that Kaelin Ring was a lucky man. This was a woman to walk the mountains with.

“Feargol,” he said softly. The boy looked up. “We need to know where they are now.”

“They are coming,” said Feargol. “Senlic shot one of the riders. He’s hurt. They rode their horses after us but then found the deep snow. The hurt man has taken the horses away, and the others are walking now. They are following our tracks.”

“Are you good with a musket?” Chara asked Draig.

“No. Neither is Eain, though he thinks he is.”

“What about pistols?”

“No. No good with them, either.”

Chara sighed. “This would be a good time to tell me something you
are
good at.”

“I don’t quit,” he said. “Tostig won’t get you while I live. And I’m not the kind of man who dies easy.”

“Then let’s you and I go out there and give them something to think about,” said Chara.

“What about me?” asked Eain.

Chara moved to the far wall and swung on her sheepskin-lined long coat. Then she took up her musket. “You look after the children. Feed them and sit with them until we get back. And you should stir that porridge. It’ll burn else.”

“Black bits in his porridge every time,” said Draig.

“And the horse you rode in on,” said Eain.

There were a number of surprises for Draig Cochland as he followed Chara Ring through the snow. The first was that despite his lack of rest he was no longer weary. The second was that the cold was not affecting him. The fur of his bearskin coat was bristling with ice. It had also formed on his mustache and beard, where his hot breath had instantly frozen. Draig’s heart was pounding wildly, and at first he could not identify what he was feeling.

When he did, it was the most surprising thing of all.

He was terrified.

Draig was not unused to fear. Any man who would risk his life stealing other men’s cattle or belongings understood what fear was. A chance shot could bring him down. Soldiers could surprise him. His life probably would be snuffed out at the end of a rope. These fears were common and easily dealt with. Not so this unreasoning terror.

He stumbled on behind Chara Ring, following the line of tracks they had left earlier in the day.

Draig tried not to think about Tostig, but it was no use. The man’s face was constantly in his mind with its mocking half grin. Draig had always been frightened by him. There was something unhinged about Tostig, something cold and empty.

He had come to the Low Valley around six years earlier. At first he had been like every other outlaw: careful lest the Moidart’s soldiers learn of him. However, since the war in the south had started there were few soldiers in the north, and Tostig had grown more reckless and daring. Many of the vilest crimes of the last few years—rapes and murders—had gone unsolved, but Draig knew that Tostig and his men were behind them. One lowland farmer and his nine-year-old daughter had been killed in a raid two years earlier. It had stunned the lowland community, for the child had been abused before being murdered. No one had discovered the identity of the killers, though it was rumored they were deserters from the army, passing through. Draig knew different. One of Tostig’s men had tried to sell him a silver engraved powder horn bearing the initials of the farmer.

Tostig was a man with no soul, and he had gathered to him like-minded men.

However, his evil deeds were not what bothered Draig Cochland. Draig was not responsible for the sins of others. What tormented Draig was that from the first moment he had met Tostig, he had known fear. There was something in the way the man looked at him, the way in which a butcher might study a carcass, measuring the cuts and the joints with a practiced eye. For some time after that first meeting Draig had suffered nightmares. He had dreamed Tostig was coming to kill him.

They went away after a while but returned after news came through of a traveler who had been robbed and killed. He had been tortured and partially skinned. Tostig carried a skinning knife, a small crescent-shaped blade sheathed horizontally on his belt.

Ahead of him Chara ducked down behind a fallen log and stared out over the snow. Draig moved alongside her. “You see anything?” he whispered. Chara glanced at him. He looked away, knowing she had heard the terrible fear in his voice.

“I thought I saw movement,” she replied, pointing toward a stand of trees. The moon was bright and high in the sky. Draig narrowed his eyes and peered at the trees. He could see nothing. “Is your musket loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Make sure the action is not frozen.”

Draig tried to cock the weapon, but there was ice around the hammer. He rubbed at it to no avail. Lifting the weapon to his face, he breathed against the action.

“I can’t loosen it,” he said. Then he noticed that the action of Chara’s musket was wrapped in a cloth. He felt foolish. “I am sorry, Chara. I am unused to these weapons.”

“Keep working at the action,” she said.

Then he saw movement farther down the slope. Three men emerged from the trees, following the tracks. Draig swore and rubbed furiously at the cold iron. Eventually the hammer eased back.

“Check the flash pan,” ordered Chara. Draig flipped it open. There was ice on the powder within. Chara saw it. “The weapon is useless.”

Four more men appeared, some twenty paces behind the first group. “Which one is Tostig?” asked Chara.

Draig suddenly felt the cold wash over him. It was as if he had fallen into an icy river. His hands began to tremble. “Which one?” said Chara again.

Draig sucked in a huge breath, letting it out slowly. “At the center of the second group. The one with the hood.”

Chara lifted her musket, removed the cloth, then cocked the weapon. Resting the barrel on the log, she brought it to bear. The shot boomed and echoed across the empty land. Black smoke drifted around Draig, making his eyes sting. He rubbed at them, then scanned the slope. One man was down, but it was not Tostig. The figure tried to rise, then slumped back to the snow. The others were running, though not away from the gunfire. They were struggling through the deep snow toward the trees at the foot of the slope. Chara was calmly reloading her musket. A shot screamed by above them. Another thudded into the fallen log. Draig cast aside his musket and drew a pistol from his belt.

“Wait!” ordered Chara. “You’ll just waste the shot from here.”

Drawing the ramrod from the barrel of her weapon, she tamped down the ball and charge. Lastly she filled the flash pan, snapping the cover back into place.

By then the killers had reached the tree line below. Draig could no longer see them. Another shot boomed from below. This time Draig saw the smoke rise. Yet still he could not see the shooter.

“We need to split up,” Chara said coolly. “They’ll be seeking to outflank us. You move right. Don’t use that pistol until you are close.”

As she spoke, she rolled away from the log, then ran into the trees to the left.

Draig lay where he was, panic sweeping over him. He struggled for control. You promised her! he told himself. You said you’d die before you let them get her. Be a man!

He swore, then rolled away to his right, coming to his knees and lurching upright. He almost slipped and fell but made it into the trees. Keeping low, he started down the slope, angling always to the right.

The moon vanished behind a cloud, and for a moment he was in nearly total darkness. A wave of panic rolled over him once more. They could be anywhere, within mere feet of him. Draig drew his second pistol and cocked it.

Another shot sounded from his left. A man’s scream filled the air.

At that moment someone loomed alongside him. Draig raised his pistol and fired at point-blank range, the barrel no more than a few inches from the bearded face. The man was hurled backward. His body tumbled to the snow, then rolled for several yards down the slope.