Stormrider (25 page)

“He is not well
now
, Master Ring. Two days ago he had a stroke and is paralyzed down his left side.” The Moidart gestured toward the little man with the gold teeth. “This is Master Powdermill. Like the Wyrd he has an ability to see events over great distances. The Black Rigante are at this moment leaderless. The timing is unfortunate. By the spring an army will be marching on us. I can raise perhaps three thousand good fighting men and two thousand more in chaff and cannon fodder. Ten times that number will oppose me. A force of Rigante would be most welcome.”

Kaelin suddenly laughed. “I find this hard to believe,” he said. “The man who murdered my mother and father and hundreds of other Rigante men, women, and children believes the clan would fight for him. I admire your gall. If an army is coming against you, I hope they take you and rip your heart out.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Moidart. “I am sure you feel better for that. Now that it is out of the way, let us look coolly at the facts. The army that will come will devastate the land, butchering the people of the north in the thousands.
All
the people, not just Varlish. Destruction, terror, and chaos will sweep the land. For some reason, though I have yet to ascertain why, the enemy is fascinated by Rigante history and myth. Their leader has been gathering maps of Black Rigante lands for some years. It is he who seeks to kill the Wyrd. Why her death is important to him I have as yet no idea. It is my hope that she does. All I require from you is to protect her as best you can. Powdermill will contact you, and perhaps together we can find a way to thwart the enemy.”

“Who is this enemy?” asked Kaelin. “Luden Macks?”

“No, the threat will not come from the covenanters but from Lord Winterbourne, the marshal of the king’s armies, and his Redeemers.”

“You are standing against the king?” said Kaelin, amazed. “But your own son is part of that army.”

“Indeed he is, if he still lives. Fate, Master Ring, often displays a grim sense of humor, as evidenced by this conversation. You are my natural enemy. I do not deny it. Both blood and history make us what we are. Should we both survive the coming bloodshed, which, sadly, is highly unlikely, we will become enemies again. I would certainly enjoy watching you hang. At this moment, however, you are important to me. Will you protect the Wyrd?”

“I shall. She is my friend. I do not desert my friends in their need.”

“Most touching. Think also on what I said about the Rigante, Master Ring. If Eldacre falls, you cannot stand alone. I will also supply one thousand pounds in gold to distribute among the Rigante warriors and their families should you decide to fight alongside me.”

Kaelin Ring felt tension easing from his frame. “You need to be a little more persuasive,” he said. “All I have is your word that these things are happening. You say an army is coming against you. This I believe. Perhaps the king has finally decided to rid himself of your evil. Or perhaps it is exactly as you say. The problem is that your word is worthless. A long time ago you promised my father safe conduct at a meeting to make peace. You murdered him there.”

“He actually died a little later,” said the Moidart, “but that is by the by. Interestingly enough, that is the only time I have ever broken my word. I won’t say that I have been haunted by it ever since or any other such nonsense, but it was regrettable. I will say that because of this small regret I did not later seek out and kill the big fool who tried to rescue him on that day. Grymauch was his name. He charged in wearing a scarf wrapped around his face. It was a ludicrous disguise. He was the biggest clansman in the area, and everyone knew he was Lanovar’s right-hand man. However, this is also irrelevant. I do not dispute, Master Ring, that in the eyes of the Rigante I am evil. It is a matter of perspective. History is largely concerned with achievers, men who change the course of their nation. To the people of Stone, the Emperor Jasaray was a great man and a hero and Connavar was a vicious and evil savage. To the Rigante, Jasaray was a vile conqueror and Connavar a hero. Heroes and villains, Master Ring, are largely interchangeable, depending on historical circumstance. It is almost amusing. I loathe the clans. Always have. Their independence of thought prevents any cohesion of purpose. They were conquered because of this. And conquered peoples are weak. I abhor weakness. Yet—and here is the sweet irony, Master Ring—if we succeed in this venture, we will protect the Rigante, and future generations will talk about the blessed, heroic Moidart who stood tall against the forces of evil. The Varlish in the south will view me—a man who admires them above all races—as a grotesque traitor. Perspective, Master Ring. I cannot convince you of the truth at this time, but I expect the Wyrd, if she still lives, will do so.”

“Then you had better pray she does live,” said Kaelin.

“I don’t pray, Master Ring. I act. Given the choice, I would now be allied to the enemy and on the verge of becoming richer and more powerful. Unfortunately, that enemy chose to threaten my son. They sent men to kill me. So here I am getting ready to battle in a cause I do not believe in, against an enemy with superior forces and superior powers. The one advantage I have is that the enemy has displayed stupidity. My hope is they will do so again.”

“That stupidity would be . . . ?” inquired Kaelin.

“Coming against
me
, Master Ring. Oh, and the small matter of trying to kill the child . . . Feargol. They failed not once but twice.”

“Twice?”

The Moidart swung to Aran Powdermill. “Tell him.”

“They sent killers out to murder your wife and son and Feargol Ustal. They did not succeed,” he added swiftly. “Draig Cochland and his brother got to them first and helped them escape into Call Jace’s territory.”

“They are safe?”

“Aye, they are,” said Aran Powdermill. “Though your man Senlic is dead, as is Eain Cochland.”

“I shall return north,” said Kaelin. “If the Wyrd tells me your words are true, I will do all I can to raise a Rigante force and march them to Eldacre.”

“Very good, Master Ring,” said the Moidart, extending his hand. Kaelin Ring stared at it, then looked into the man’s pale eyes. The Moidart gave a wry smile. “Yes, I suppose that the sweetness of irony can be pushed only so far.”

Mulgrave was tired as he strolled across the bridge toward the little church. He had slept poorly the last few nights, his mind roiling with unresolved questions. Outlying scouts had been reporting troop movements, which made little sense during a cease-fire, and the previous day sixty wagons had arrived, removing all powder and supplies from the new depot constructed on the orders of Cordley Lowen. It seemed to Mulgrave a waste of time, money, and effort to construct a depot and then almost immediately abandon it. Added to which, it meant that the soldiers of the Eldacre Company now had only the ammunition and powder they were carrying. Should Luden Macks break the cease-fire, the Eldacre men would be unable to fight for more than a day. Mulgrave had put these worries to Gaise Macon.

“We will probably be ordered elsewhere within the next few days,” the young general had said. “Obviously, the high command has decided to move the lines.”

“The high command, sir, is Lord Winterbourne. Do you feel comfortable knowing that our men now have no source of ammunition? Tomorrow they are removing the food supplies.”

“No, I don’t feel comfortable, my friend. It is most galling to be left in a reactive situation. We can do nothing. We must await orders. However, we can ensure that the scouts move farther afield. I want to know of any further troop movements in the area.”

“Why so, sir?”

“The line is being drawn back. Save for us. We are now sitting out in the open with no reinforcements to call upon. The nearest loyalist forces are now six miles east of us. I can make no sense of it. If Macks was to attack, we could be surrounded and wiped out before any help arrived.”

“
If
any help was ordered to arrive,” said Mulgrave.

“Tell the scouts they are to avoid being seen.”

Mulgrave smiled. “That is the point of being a scout, sir, surely?”

“I mean by our own allies as well as the troops of Luden Macks.”

The words had chilled Mulgrave.

Now, as he made his way to Ermal Standfast’s cottage, he found himself relaxing. The little priest’s company was always a joy. Yet when he arrived, he saw a small wagon outside the main door. As he approached it, he found that it was packed with items of Ermal’s furniture and a great many boxes. There were bundles of books tied with string. Two men emerged from the house carrying an old leather chair. They nodded to Mulgrave as they passed.

The swordsman entered the cottage. The main room was almost empty, and Ermal came into sight from the lower bedroom, carrying yet another bundle of books. He saw Mulgrave and gave a nervous smile. The two men returned. Ermal handed them the books, asking them to place them in the wagon. After they had done this, he gave them each a silver chailling. The men touched their caps and walked out.

“What is happening here?” asked Mulgrave.

“I am . . . er . . . leaving for the south, Mulgrave.”

“This is a swift decision. Only yesterday you said you were looking forward to the spring.”

“Yes, it is a little swift. But the decision is made.”

“What is wrong, Ermal?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I have a sister in Varingas. I . . . feel the need to put the fears of war far behind me.”

“It seems to me that you are frightened, Ermal.”

The little man’s shoulders sagged. Mulgrave saw him glance nervously toward the ceiling. “Yes, I am frightened. Wars do that to me. I would like to live quietly in the capital. You remember telling me of your dreams of the white-haired old woman who lived in the south by the sea? Yes, of course you do,” he added swiftly. “She felt that death was hunting her. I have been having the same dreams, Mulgrave. The very same ones that you told me about. I am not a young man anymore. I just want to live out my life, and study my books, and help people where I can with a few medicines and powders. I am not a warrior, Mulgrave. I want no part in the violence that is all around me. I don’t want hungry carrion birds pecking at my eyes. You understand? They are here. You only have to look in the trees around us to see them waiting to feed. I wish you well, Mulgrave. Now I must go.”

He moved in toward Mulgrave and shook his hand. Mulgrave saw the sheen of sweat upon the old priest’s features.

“May the Source be with you always,” said Mulgrave.

Ermal Standfast’s eyes shone with repressed tears. “I do not think he cares overly much about weak men like me,” he said.

Then he took his old coat from its hook and struggled into it. Mulgrave walked with him to the wagon.

They spoke no more, and Mulgrave stood silently as the vehicle trundled over the snow. Ermal did not call out a farewell, nor did he wave.

Mulgrave returned to the silent house. The fire was still burning, though there were no chairs to sit upon. Even the old fire rug was gone. The swordsman sat down on the floor. Ermal’s words had been strange. Mulgrave knew he was trying to tell him something, but he had spoken as if they were being overheard. The white-haired woman was in the north, not the south. She had been hunted not by death but by the
Dezhem Bek
.

“
I have been having the same dreams, Mulgrave. The very same ones that you told me about.”

Ermal had also dreamed of them.

“
I don’t want hungry carrion birds pecking at my eyes. You understand? They are here. You only have to look in the trees around us to see them waiting to feed.”

Hungry carrion birds. The Ravenous Ravens. The
Dezhem Bek.

They are here.

Winter Kay had long believed himself to be above rage. He saw the outpourings of violent anger as indications of a lesser intellect. That was why he was struggling to control the volcanic state of his mind. How could Marl Coper have been so stupid? Could he not detect the simple ward spells around the manor? And to shoot the Harvester without bothering to find the body? Such complacency deserved torture and death. Winter Kay poured himself a cup of cold water and sipped it. Calm yourself, he thought. Think!

All his plans over the years had been meticulously orchestrated, with almost complete success in every quarter. Orders had been given and carried out. Good men had been recruited, while the weak and the difficult had been brushed aside or killed. The king was now an irrelevance, the covenanters about to be destroyed, and the wonderful wholeness of the strategy on the verge of a triumphant completion.

Winter Kay wandered to the window and stared down at the castle grounds. Some of his guests were wandering in the gardens. Several riders were cantering across the open land beyond the western wall on a hawking venture. The lead rider, wearing a purple sash, was the king. The sun was shining now with the promise of spring. Winter Kay took a deep breath.

“Let us seek a little perspective here,” he told himself aloud. “I was complacent in the question of Gaise Macon. Ferson was a cowardly fool, Macon brighter than I had anticipated. It will not save him now.” Thoughts of Macon’s impending demise helped relax him. Yet what of the Moidart? This was a real source of regret. The man would have been a great help in the cause. I should have gone to him sooner, thought Winter Kay. I should have healed his burns and made him one of us.

Too late now.

A light tapping sounded at the door. “Come in, Velroy,” he called.

Eris Velroy entered and bowed. The man looked tired, his face ashen. His eyes darted to the box on the table containing the Orb of Kranos.

“Sit down, man,” said Winter Kay. Velroy pushed a hand through his thick, sandy hair, then rubbed at his dark-ringed eyes. He slumped to a seat.

“You managed to break through the ward spell?”

“It was not necessary, my lord. The Moidart had no spell placed over the dungeon. I think he wanted us to see the torture of Marl. It was ghastly.”

“No doubt. The Moidart is highly skilled in such practices. He frightens you, doesn’t he?”