Stormrider (51 page)

21

In the months that followed Eldacre became a center for pilgrims. People traveled from all over the land to see the place where the blessed Gaise Macon had lived and died. Monks and priests walked the battlefield, gathering blue flowers and pressing them between small sheets of glass.

The men of the Eldacre Company were kept together for three months while events in the south settled. Then many of them were paid off. Lanfer Gosten returned to his clerical work with a merchant company and took on Taybard Jaekel as an assistant. Jakon Gallowglass remained with the reduced army, with the rank of sergeant.

Two of the Moidart’s new generals, Konin and Mantilan, rode south to take part in the new assembly that Eris Velroy had convened. The six hundred men of the assembly, appointed from the surviving nobility and the ranks of the army, were seeking a new king.

The wonders that followed the death of Gaise Macon did not cease for a long while. It was almost four months before a single person in Eldacre died. For weeks after the battle reports came in of dying people who suddenly had been cured on the day the Stormrider passed from the earth. A tanner in Old Hills ravaged by cancer had risen from his bed; an elderly woman paralyzed by a stroke had the power restored to her limbs; a crippled child had walked again. So many wondrous tales.

Little had been seen of the Moidart since the battle. He had effectively left the running of the castle to Colonel Galliott and had retired to the winter manor. People spoke of the grief he was enduring at the loss of his son.

Others took the limelight. A little man with golden teeth named Aran Powdermill became a celebrity. He had, it became known, aided the Moidart against the evil of the Redeemer devils. He was a man of magic, it was said, a holy man blessed by the Source. Garon Beck was also awarded hero status. The burghers of Eldacre presented him with a fine house overlooking the town.

Huntsekker was also spoken of with awe when word spread of his magnificent fight with thirty Redeemers in defense of the legendary Maev Ring. He, however, did not enjoy the acclaim and headed north. Some said he was going there to wed Maev.

The clansman Rayster was drawn into the burgeoning legend: the one-armed man who had killed the demon lord, Winter Kay, and stopped him from acquiring the dread skull. Somehow it became common knowledge that Rayster had no known parents and had been raised among the Rigante. He was a figure of mystery and heroic nature, and it was decided that he had also been blessed by the Source as a man of rare destiny.

But no one knew of the part Mulgrave the Swordsman had played in the outcome.

People spoke of the last vile act of the Redeemers, the slaying of the god-prince. In church services they prayed that the Source would curse the godless and evil man who had fired that fatal shot and robbed the world of greatness.

Their curses meant nothing to Mulgrave. The world could offer no greater hurt than the one he carried. He stayed in Eldacre for some months, assisting in the rebuilding of the war-damaged community. Then he saddled a horse and quietly rode away.

A week later he arrived at the outskirts of Shelding and drew rein on the high ground from which the enemy musketeers had attacked the Eldacre company. It seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime.

Mulgrave dismounted and tethered his horse. Taking a canteen from his saddle, he drank a little water. He felt light-headed and weak and realized he had not eaten in two days. He had lost a great deal of weight in the last few months and was skeletally thin.

He gazed down at the distant town. It was there that he had experienced the last happiness of his life. It was there that he had served the real Gaise Macon, the young man of honor and courage. Not the killer he had become nor the god-prince that legend was now creating.

The days in Shelding had become golden in his memory. Perhaps that was why he felt drawn there. He shivered as a cool breeze blew across his rain-drenched clothes. I should have died here, he thought suddenly. Despair engulfed him, and he struggled to his feet. Moving to his horse, he drew a pistol from the saddle scabbard. Cocking it, he pressed the barrel against his throat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud click.

Rain had seeped into the flash pan, drenching the powder. Sitting down, he cleaned out the pan and recharged it.

“This is not your destiny,”
came the voice of the Wyrd in his mind.

“Leave me be!”

“Close your eyes, Mulgrave. Join me at the mill.”

“I just want peace!”

“Join me, Mulgrave. If only to say good-bye.”

He sat back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. The world shimmered, and a warm breeze touched his skin. Opening the eyes of his spirit, he gazed down on the old mill and the water glittering in the sunlight. “I am so lost, Wyrd,” he said.

“You are not lost, my friend. You are alone. Sometimes it feels
the same.” The Wyrd took his hand. “You did not kill him, Mulgrave. He was dead from the moment he accepted the skull.”

“I know this, Wyrd. The knowledge does not help me. What hurts me most is that he had no life. A tortured childhood with an uncaring father and then a war. No wife, no family, no love.”

“
You
loved him.”

“It is not the same.”

“I think you are wrong,” she said softly. “Your friendship meant the world to him. You were like the father he never knew and the brother he never had. You were the rock he could cling to and idolize. You helped a frightened boy become a man of courage. You were his hero always.” She patted his hand. “Sit here for a while and, when you are ready, return to the flesh,” she told him.

Then she was gone. Alone now, Mulgrave stood and wandered down to the mill. The last time the Wyrd had brought him there had been to talk in secret with Gaise. He had listened in horror as his friend had asked for his help. “I cannot do it,” Mulgrave had said.

“You must, Mulgrave. There is no one else. Taybard Jaekel is dead.”

“Then let us fight on, sir. We can win without the skull.”

“Aye, we might, though I doubt it. But what then? The skull cannot be destroyed. One day someone else will be drawn to it. I need your friendship now more than ever before. If you still have love for me after all I have done, then do this one last thing for me, Mulgrave, I beg of you.”

And in the name of love he had agreed.

Mulgrave walked away from the mill and wished himself back to the world of the flesh. When he opened his eyes, he smelt woodsmoke. Turning his head, he saw the Wyrd sitting by a small fire. “How did you get here?” he asked.

“By the old ways,” she answered with a smile. Then she peered at him. “You look dreadful, Mulgrave,” she said. “You have no flesh on you at all.”

“I have not been hungry.”

Reaching out, she placed her hand upon his head. “Here is a small gift for you.”

He felt her hand warm upon his skin, and then a wondrous cool breeze seemed to flow through his brain. His muscles relaxed, and
all tension fled from him. Opening his eyes, he saw the sunlight on
the hillside, and joy touched him. Flowers were growing there, and the colors seemed indescribably beautiful. “What did you do to me?” he asked her.

“I gave you a little earth magic. Are you hungry now?”

“Ravenous,” he admitted.

“Good. Let us go down to Shelding and eat. We should be in time for the celebrations and the feast.”

“What are they celebrating?” asked Mulgrave.

“It was announced yesterday. Heralds have been riding to every village and town. Have you not heard? We have a new king.”

“I hope he’s better than the last one.”

“They elected the Moidart,” she said.

Together they left the riverbank and took the road to Shelding. Flags and bunting decorated the buildings, and long trestle tables had been set up in the market square. Mulgrave and the Wyrd moved among the happy crowd.

A young woman recognized Mulgrave, and called out to her friends. “Here’s one of the soldiers of Gaise Macon,” she cried. People gathered around him. Questions were shouted, too many to answer. A tankard of ale was thrust into Mulgrave’s hand.

“Tell us about the Moidart,” said a man. “They say he’s a saint.”

EPILOGUE

It had been five years since Riamfada had departed the world. Feargol missed him still. He would often stare up and out at the stars, wondering if the spirit of Riamfada had ever found the Seidh.

He was thinking of him now as he strode down the wooded hillside, the morning sunshine glinting on his braided hair. He was a long way now from the great trees. The journey had taken several months. His moccasins were thin and all but worn out.

A huge herd of bison was grazing on the grasslands as Feargol emerged from the woods. He stopped and watched them for a while. Then he began to run, falling into an easy, rhythmic lope. He loved to run, filling his lungs with the sweet cool air, feeling his body stretch and sweat and relax.

He continued for more than two hours, then climbed to the crest of a low hill and stopped to rest.

Ahead he could just make out the line of the coast and the blue sea beyond. Across the vastness of that ocean lay the land of his birth. He thought of it little now.
This
was his land, this wondrous continent of magnificent forests and mountains, rivers and valleys. Magic was everywhere, floating in the air, seeping from the earth, bubbling in the rivers.

Feargol drew it in with every breath.

Having rested, he ran on, moving into sun-dappled woodland. When he arrived at last at his destination, he sat and waited, gazing down at the distant compound. Few people were stirring there. That was hardly surprising. They were dying.

Here, in a land rich with edible roots and game, they were starving to death.

Feargol had waited for this moment for most of the fifteen years he had spent in this great land. Riamfada had warned him of it. The Varlish had finally crossed the ocean. They had come in a great ship and had begun a settlement on the coast. They had brought books and chairs and clothing and guns. They had carried beds and pictures
and chests laden with goods from home. Not one of them had brought a fishing line or a horse or a mule. Not a single cow and certainly no seed corn. They had expected to be resupplied by sea, but those supplies had never arrived. Now they were dying.

And this was the pivotal moment Riamfada had spoken of. What happened this day would ultimately set the destiny of the world.

Feargol calmed himself, allowing his spirit to commune with the land. He felt uneasy and had felt that way for months now, ever since these few Varlish had landed here.

Toward dusk he rose from the ground and walked out to meet the seven hunters, laden with meat, who were heading for the compound.

The leader, a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with a broken nose and a scar across his lips, gave a crooked smile as he saw Feargol. He was carrying a small dead deer upon his shoulders.

“Ha! Ghost Walker. Have you also come to marvel at our foolish visitors?”

“Not to marvel, Saoquanta. You are carrying much meat.”

“They are dying down there. They had one hunter, but he broke his leg. Now they have nothing.”

“And you will feed them?”

“It is a small thing, Ghost Walker.”

“No, it is not, Saoquanta. It is a great thing. I have seen it.”

Saoquanta tipped the deer from his shoulder to the ground. The other six warriors laid down the meat they were carrying. “What is it that you have seen?”

“I have seen the rivers boil and stink and the air darken. I have seen the buffalo vanish and the land laid to waste. I have seen the tears of the mountains and heard the cries of the valleys. The people in that compound will be the fathers and the mothers of the darkness. Their
children will outnumber the stars. They will rape and mutilate the land until there is nothing clean left to destroy.”

“These . . . fools will do this?” said Saoquanta.

“And others like them.”

“These words are heavy. They sit like stones upon the heart, Ghost Walker.”

“And upon mine.”

“What is it that you advise?”

“I do not advise, Saoquanta. I merely prophesy.”

The broken-nosed warrior nodded. “Your dreams are always true. It is well known you walk the spirit paths. The Great Spirit has blessed you.”

“He has.”

“He has blessed me also, Ghost Walker. He has told me to protect my people and to nurture the land. He has made me a hunter of great skill and a provider to my people. I need to think on what you have said.”

With that he moved away from Feargol and entered the trees.

For more than an hour the hunters waited. At last Saoquanta returned. He sat once more with Feargol.

“If I walked into my camp and I killed a child with my knife, that would be evil and the Great Spirit would be saddened by my actions. Not so, Ghost Walker?”

“It is so.”

“If I walk into my camp and a child is starving and I offer it no food and it dies, have I not killed it?”

“Yes,” agreed Feargol, his heart heavy.

“The fools have children with them. They are dying. I have food. If I walk away now, will not the Great Spirit be saddened, Ghost Walker?”

“The descendants of these people will have no understanding of the Great Spirit,” said Feargol. “They will be thoughtless and greedy, merciless and vile.”

“It seems to me you are saying that if I do this small evil, then great good will grow from it. This may be a great truth. It is not a truth I choose to understand. I am Saoquanta. I am a hunter. I do not let children starve. This is not why the Great Spirit blessed me.” Saoquanta rose and lifted the deer to his shoulders.

Feargol stood. Curiously, the sense of unease left him. He felt free of the burden. “You are a great man, Saoquanta. I shall walk with you, for I know the language of these men.”

Together they walked down the hillside to the compound. There were no guards at the stockade, and the gates were open. The hunters moved inside.

Several gaunt men saw them. One of them, seeing the meat they carried, fell to his knees and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving.