Stormrider (9 page)

“High risks, indeed,” said Mulgrave.

Gaise smiled. “Remain behind after I have seen Lowen. Speak to the man with comforting words. He will not want to die. He is a merchant, soft and spineless.”

Mulgrave sighed. “A merchant with many friends in high places.”

Gaise Macon clapped him on the shoulder. “It will all end well, Mulgrave,” he said. “I will have my supplies.”

Gaise Macon walked to the front door and rapped at the bronze knocker. Moments passed, and finally the door swung open to reveal an elderly servant in a night robe, a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He was carrying a lantern.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Gaise moved past him, gesturing Mulgrave to follow. Then he walked into the darkened circular reception room, removing his cloak and draping it over a gilded chair.

“You can’t come in here,” wailed the servant, holding aloft the lantern in a trembling hand. “The general is asleep.”

“Best you wake him,” Gaise said softly. “Or I shall.”

“What is going on here?” came a woman’s voice. Mulgrave swung around to see a dark-haired young woman coming down the curving staircase. She was wearing a robe of green velvet but no shoes. She also carried a lit lantern, and even by its harsh and unflattering light Mulgrave could see that she was beautiful.

Gaise bowed deeply. “My apologies for disturbing your rest, my lady. But I have urgent business with the general.”

“So urgent that it cannot wait for a civilized hour?” she responded, moving into the reception room and placing the lantern on a circular table.

“Indeed so, my lady, for I have hungry men to feed, men who risk their lives daily for the king, men forced to sleep in squalid tents on cold ground.”

“I think you should leave now and return in the morning,” she said coldly.

Gaise turned to the servant. “Wake your master or I shall do it myself.”

“Did you not hear me?” demanded the woman. “I asked you to leave.”

Gaise ignored her and swung toward Mulgrave. “Go and wake the general,” he ordered. Mulgrave took a deep breath and moved toward the stairs.

“How dare you disobey me?” stormed the woman.

“How dare I?” replied Gaise Macon, his voice angry. “I dare because I have earned the right to dare. I fight for the king. I risk my life alongside my men. Aye, and I have to pay for that right with my own coin. I have to do that so that doxies like you can wear velvet robes and live in fine stolen houses.”

Mulgrave winced as he heard the exchange, then continued up the stairs.

“Stop!” ordered the woman. Her tone was commanding, and Mulgrave paused and glanced back. She turned to the servant. “Broadley, go and wake the general. Then get dressed and fetch the captain of the guard.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the old man. The servant scurried up the stairs, passing Mulgrave without a glance.

“What is your name?” the woman asked Gaise.

“Gaise Macon, commander of the Eldacre Company.”

“Well, Gaise Macon, I shall see you humbled for your rudeness. The king shall hear of this unwarranted invasion.”

She moved away to the far wall, took a taper from a brass holder, lit it from her lantern, then walked to Mulgrave, who had descended the stairs. “Be so good as to light more lanterns,” she told him.

Mulgrave bowed, took the taper, and obeyed her instructions, lighting each of the five wall lanterns. He glanced across at Gaise. The normally confident young general seemed ill at ease now, even nervous. Had the situation not been so fraught with future peril, Mulgrave would have found it amusing. He had known Gaise Macon as both teacher and friend for almost six years. In that time he had been impressed by the young man’s many skills, his confidence bordering on arrogance, and his endless good humor. But the one area in which the young general lacked all social skills was in the company of women. Mulgrave considered this to be as a result of having been raised by a widowed father. The boy had had no sisters and no motherly influence. With women Gaise became either self-conscious or, as in this case, haughty. How could he have called her a doxy? wondered Mulgrave. Would a whore or a courtesan have issued such orders? Cordley Lowen’s wife was living in a luxurious palace far south in Varingas. This girl was obviously his daughter.

With the lanterns lit, Mulgrave stood silently by the far wall. Gaise Macon, studiously avoiding the beautiful girl in the green velvet robe, pretended to examine the many paintings on display. Ill at ease as he was, he seemed much younger, his face boyish in the lantern light.

A tall man appeared at the top of the stairs and began to descend. His hair was fashionably long, gray shot with streaks of black. His face was heavy-set, the eyes deep beneath shaggy brows. He was fully dressed in black leggings and boots and a braided red coat with a general’s yellow sash across it. As he reached the foot of the stairs, he gestured to the woman. “You may go to your room now, Cordelia,” he said. “I shall deal with this.” His voice was firm, the tone cold, his anger barely suppressed.

“Yes, Father,” she said, offering him a curtsey.

Casting an angry glance at Gaise Macon, she gathered the hem of her robe and climbed the stairs. Her departure brought a sense of relief to Mulgrave. It was also a tactical error from the quartermaster general. With the girl present Gaise would have remained uncertain, even defensive. Now Mulgrave could see the young man’s confidence returning.

“Your explanation for this intrusion had better be good,” said Cordley Lowen.

“I am Gaise Macon, commander of the Eldacre Company.”

“I know who you are, young man,” snapped Lowen. “I have heard the name—and the ridiculous nickname you have acquired. The Gray Ghost, is it not? Now, what do you want?”

“I like a man who speaks his mind, General,” Gaise said smoothly. “It makes matters so much more simple. I paid you for ten wagons of supplies. I received four. Last month I paid for twelve and received seven. At 12 pounds in gold coin per wagon that makes 132 pounds you owe me. Or eleven wagons of supplies. I will take either. And I will take either
now
.”

Cordley Lowen’s laughter barked out. “How rare it is,” he said, “to find such stupidity among the noble classes. Did you really think you could come here and cajole me into settling this . . . this alleged debt?”

“No,” said Gaise Macon. “I did not.” From his belt he pulled the leather riding gauntlet. Stepping forward, he slashed it across Cordley Lowen’s cheek. The sound was harsh, like a distant gunshot. Lowen staggered back. “I knew you would not honor your debt,” said Gaise, “but martial custom demanded that I offer you the chance. My man Mulgrave will discuss the details of the duel with you. The choice of weapons is yours.”

Cordley Lowen stood for a moment in astonished silence. Then he shook his head. “I am not a nobleman. You cannot force me into a duel.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” Gaise told him. “Perhaps you should have read the king’s manual before accepting the position of general. Noblemen and
officers
are covered by the conditions of the duel. We are both generals. I can challenge you. I
have
challenged you. Of course you can refuse the challenge. On page 104 of the manual you will find a section dealing with refusal. It states that the officer declining must resign his commission instantly. From that moment on he will be barred from all public offices and lose the right to vote in any election or to own lands above one acre. Harsh, is it not? But then, we Varlish have no stomach for cowards.” Gaise stepped in close to the general, reaching out and tapping at his yellow sash. “Swords or pistols,
General
Lowen. Your choice. I will leave you to discuss these matters with Captain Mulgrave.”

Gaise Macon stepped back, gave a short perfunctory bow, then gathered his cloak and left the house.

Cordley Lowen swung toward Mulgrave. “Is he mad?”

“A trifle hotheaded, sir. Will it be swords or pistols, and at what time and place tomorrow do you wish the duel to take place?”

“I am no swordsman.”

“Then it shall be pistols,” said Mulgrave. “This is probably all to the good, sir. For General Macon is an excellent swordsman. He is also a fine shot, of course, but there are many variables in pistol duels: a sudden gust of wind, heaviness or rain in the air. The ball might merely shatter a shoulder or break an arm.”

“I shall appeal to the king,” said Lowen, and Mulgrave could hear the fear in his voice.

“It will do no good, sir, I fear. In his twenty years of rule the king has only ever forbidden one duel. And that because of a technicality. As I recall, the challenger was a disgraced colonel who had been demoted to captain. He challenged his accuser, another colonel. It was decided that since the demotion had made him the colonel’s inferior, the duel could not take place. It did, of course, for the colonel—that would be the challenged colonel—arranged for himself to be demoted for a day. So they fought as captains. Shall we say an hour before noon, sir? General Macon has a second duel to fight tomorrow at noon.”

“A second duel?”

“Yes, sir. General Ferson has issued a challenge to him.”

“Ferson is one of the king’s favorites,” observed Lowen.

“Indeed, sir. Is the time suitable?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” stammered the general, moving to a cabinet by the far wall and removing a crystal decanter. With trembling hands he filled a glass with brandy and half drained it. Turning toward Mulgrave, he forced a smile. “A drink, Captain?”

“Thank you, sir. Most kind.”

Lowen filled a second glass, refilled his own, and moved back to stand before Mulgrave. The swordsman sipped his brandy. It was very fine. “Surely you see, Captain, how . . . disastrous such a duel would be. Who would supply the king’s army were I to be killed? I am not afraid, you understand, but the king’s needs must surely be considered paramount.”

“I agree with you, sir. Wholeheartedly. But the matter is set. You could, of course, arrange a time following General Macon’s duel with Lord Ferson. It could be that Ferson will win. Unlikely, though.”

“Why?”

“When I said that General Macon was a
fine
shot, I rather underplayed his talent. He is probably the finest pistol shot in the army.”

“Sweet heaven! This is a nightmare!”

“Once again I agree, sir. I do take your point about the king’s needs. It is widely known that you have excelled in the role of quartermaster general.” Mulgrave paused. “Perhaps I could prevail upon General Macon to reconsider.”

“Yes, that would be wise,” agreed Lowen.

Mulgrave sipped his brandy, then sighed. “I don’t think I will be able to convince him.”

“But you will try?”

“I will, sir. Of course, had General Macon only waited until tomorrow, we could have removed the cause of the problem.”

“In what way?”

“The warehouse would have been open, and the mistake in supplies rectified. I’m sure that some ledger clerk merely made an error.”

“Of course,” said Lowen. “You believe that he would withdraw his challenge if the supplies were available?”

“I’m sure I could convince him, sir. But it is after midnight, and the challenge is already made.”

“There are guards within the warehouses. And stable hands. I could write an order now, and the gates would be opened.”

“An admirable idea, sir,” said Mulgrave. “It would have weighed heavily on me to have been party to the death of the king’s quartermaster.”

An hour later Gaise Macon and Mulgrave led the convoy of eleven wagons down into the company camp. Gaise had said little during the ride, and once they were back in the ruined country house, the fire relit, he had sat staring somberly into the flames.

“What is troubling you, my friend?” asked Mulgrave. “You have your supplies.”

“The girl made me feel like a fool, Mulgrave. I did not like it.”

“All men are fools sometimes, sir.”

“Aye, I know.” The young man grinned. “I am glad I didn’t have to kill Lowen. Crooked as he is, he is still the best quartermaster in the land. Without him the king’s cause would be sorely damaged. I am grateful that he lacked the courage to fight.”

“Give yourself a little more credit, sir,” put in Mulgrave. “You read him right. You knew he would crumble. Even so, it was . . . rash. You have also made another enemy.”

“A man is said to be judged by the enemies he makes,” replied Gaise.

“And by his friends,” observed Mulgrave.

Gaise placed a log on the fire. “You are my only friend, Mulgrave. I do not know what I would do without you. These last six weeks have been ghastly. Now you are back, I feel a burden lifted from me.”

Mulgrave’s heart sank. “Get some rest, sir,” he said. “You’ll need a clear head for the duel tomorrow.”

4

Chara Ring watched her husband as he walked toward the milking sheds. Two-year-old Jaim was perched on his shoulder, while six-year-old Feargol walked alongside Kaelin, holding tightly to his hand. Chara leaned against the door frame, a smile on her face. Behind her Maev Ring called out testily: “The thaw may be coming, Chara, but it is still too cold to stand daydreaming in an open doorway.”

The younger woman stepped back inside and pushed shut the door, dropping the latch. Maev Ring was sitting at the pine table, carefully writing in a broad-leafed book. She was hunched over and peering closely at the page, a dark green shawl over her shoulders. Her red hair had more than a sprinkling of silver now, and there were harsh lines around her eyes. Yet still she was a strikingly attractive woman, thought Chara. If only she would smile more, it would soften her features.

“The boy adores Kaelin,” said Chara, moving past Maev into the long kitchen.

“He’s a good lad, from good stock. I was always fond of Finbarr,” said Maev.

Strange how you only talk of the dead with fondness, thought Chara. Taking a cloth, she wrapped it around the handle of the black iron kettle, lifting it from the stove and pouring boiling water into an iron pot. To this she added three teaspoonfuls of dried herbs gathered during the summer. It was mainly chamomile and mint, but there was also a sprinkling of dried stinging nettle, which Chara knew was good for the rheumatism that made Maev’s fingers ache when she worked at her accounts. Allowing the tisane to brew, she carried the pot into the main room and set it on a wooden mat. Then she fetched two cups and a wax-sealed jar of honey. Maev liked to sweeten all tisanes.

The older woman leaned back from her account books and rubbed her tired eyes. “It seems that this winter has been hanging around for far too long,” she said. “I think I shall go mad if I do not see blue skies and sunshine before long.”

Chara sat down and poured out the tisane. Maev sweetened hers, then sipped it appreciatively. “It would also be good to get an uninterrupted night’s sleep,” said Maev.

“Feargol’s nightmares are still bad,” said Chara. “It is not surprising. Heaven knows what the child went through on the night his parents were killed.”

“Yet he doesn’t dream of the bear,” said Maev. “He keeps talking about men with scaled faces and blood-red eyes.” She shivered. “Do you know he’s even got me dreaming of them?”

Chara rose from her chair and moved to the fire, which was burning low. Adding three thick chunks of wood, she glanced back at Maev. “I have, too,” she said. “I wish the Dweller was closer. She would know what to do.”

“You’ve been listening to Senlic,” Maev said with a mocking smile. “That old man is as bad as the boy. Demons, he says. There are no demons, Chara. He just has bad dreams. They will pass.”

Chara said nothing. She had known Senlic Carpenter all her life. Everyone knew he was gifted with the sight. Maev had spent too long in the Varlish town of Eldacre and had lost touch with the old magic. Senlic said the boy was visited by spirits who sought to do him harm. Chara believed it. She moved to the window and looked out at the melting snow. Soon the way through to the high passes of the Rigante would be clear. Then she would take Feargol to the Dweller, the woman Kaelin referred to as the Wyrd.

“Are you still planning to make the trip south?” she asked Maev.

“Yes. I still have business interests in Eldacre. And the Moidart wishes to see me.”

“The man is evil.”

“Aye, he is, and I do not need you to tell me.”

“Then why do you deal with him, Maev?”

Maev Ring sighed and finished her tisane. “He is the lord of the north. I can do no business without his goodwill. He is the power in the land, child. Since I cannot fight it and I cannot oppose it, I have decided for the moment to flow around it.”

“And you intend to take Kaelin to see him?”

“Indeed I do. It is vital that he look the man in the eye. Kaelin will one day rule the Rigante here. I know this. Your brother is a fine lad, but he is no leader. When Call Jace passes, the Rigante will look for a strong man to take his place. That man will be Kaelin.”

“Or Rayster.”

Maev shook her head. “Rayster is a fine Rigante. In some ways he reminds me of my Jaim. He is no leader, though, save by example. He is a fighter, brave and braw. He has a good heart. But most importantly, he has no name. He was adopted into the clan. No one knows who his parents were. Without a name he cannot rule.”

This was true and a story Chara had known since she was a child in arms. A baby had been found by the Dweller on a mountainside just outside Rigante lands. The Dweller had carried him back to the clan, and there he had been raised. The story had always confused Chara. The Dweller had mystical powers. Why, then, had she not used them to locate the child’s parents? Chara had once asked Rayster about this. He had grinned and shrugged. “I never asked,” he had said.

“But do you not want to know your parents?”

“Why would I? They did not want to know me. I was tossed onto a mountainside in a cold winter and left to die. I have no wish to look into the eyes of the woman who did that to me.”

It was the only moment she could recall when Rayster had ever spoken with bitterness in his voice. Back in those days, as a girl newly arrived at puberty, she had believed herself in love with the tall clansman. As the years had passed, though, she had realized he was like a brother to her, strong and loyal and loving. There was no passion to be kindled between them. Several of the clan girls had sought to entice Rayster to walk the tree, but he had gently declined them all and from the age of sixteen had chosen to live alone in a cabin high above the clan valley. Now, in his late twenties, he was a confirmed bachelor. This saddened Chara, for Rayster was wonderful with children and would, she was convinced, make a fine father. Little Jaim doted on him whenever he visited.

“You are miles away,” said Maev, pouring another cup of tisane.

“I was thinking about what you said about Rayster.”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I was not speaking slightingly of the man. I admire and like him greatly.”

“I know that, Maev.”

“Kaelin needs to see the Moidart,” said Maev. “He needs to know his enemy. One day, if the Source is willing, Kaelin will destroy the man and all he stands for. He will cut his vile head from his shoulders. Then Lanovar and my Jaim—and so many others—will be avenged.”

“The Moidart did not kill Jaim, Maev.”

“His men did. And the man murdered my brother, Lanovar. Shot him, having already given his oath on a truce. Hundreds more died later, hunted down and murdered on the Moidart’s orders.”

The door opened, and Kaelin entered. Lowering Jaim to the floor, he strode to the fire. Feargol followed him, while two-year-old Jaim ran to his mother, arms outstretched. Chara hugged him, lifting him to her lap. His coat was wet through, and she carried him upstairs to change his clothes.

“The Cochland brothers have been seen around Black Mountain again,” said Kaelin.

“Someone will be losing cattle,” said Maev.

“Not us.”

“No, they are not stupid men. Though I still think you should have hanged Draig. It would have been a harsher lesson.”

Kaelin drew up a chair. Feargol stayed alongside him. Kaelin absently put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Draig is a fighter, Maev, and I don’t believe he is evil. Better to tackle him fist to fist.”

“Your face looked as if it had been kicked by a horse.”

“Was it kicked by a horse?” asked Feargol.

“No,” Kaelin told him. “Draig is a big man, and he punches hard. However, my uncle Jaim taught me to fight with my fists, and though Draig is strong and brave, he has little skill.”

“In short,” said Maev, “Uncle Kaelin caught him with one of my bulls, beat him senseless, and then let him go. The Cochlands do not raid here now.”

“Do they hate you, Uncle Kaelin?”

“I don’t think so. One day maybe you can ask them. Now go off to your room and get out of those wet clothes.”

“Can’t I stay a little while longer?”

“I need to talk to Maev. Go on with you. I’ll still be here when you get back.” The boy hesitated, then ran up the stairs.

“He is like your shadow, Kaelin. You used to be like that with Jaim.”

“I remember. I’ve been thinking of this trip south. You don’t need me, Maev, and I’ve no wish to see Eldacre again.”

“You think I have?” she snapped. “You think I want to look down at that cursed cathedral? This is not a trip taken for pleasure, Kaelin. I need you. Trust me on that. I don’t ask for much from you—or any man. Do this one thing for me.”

“What is so important?”

“I want you standing beside me when I visit Jaim’s grave,” she said, her eyes suddenly glistening with tears.

Kaelin reached out and took her hand. “I’ll be there, Maev,” he said with a sigh.

Chara was watching from the foot of the stairs. She felt a touch of anger at the older woman’s manipulation. She did not want Kaelin for a graveside visit. She wanted him to meet the Moidart.

Snow was swirling in through the shattered roof as Gaise Macon stretched out on the floor before the fire. He lay on his back, his head resting on a folded cloak. Despite his weariness he felt there was no chance of sleep. Seemingly random thoughts roiled in his mind. He found himself thinking of Eldacre Castle far to the north and his father, the Moidart. There was no comfort in the thoughts. His childhood had been one of insistent sadness, struggling to find a way to make his father love him. He never had. Even now, as a fighting soldier in his twenties, Gaise Macon could find no reason for his father’s lack of affection.

Lack of affection?

It was more than that, thought Gaise. All his life his father had found ways to cause him pain. The young general wondered if his mother’s death so soon after giving birth to him had caused the malice in the Moidart. But why should it? He was not responsible. His mother had been killed by assassins, who also had stabbed the Moidart.

It is a mystery you will never solve, he told himself.

His mind drifted, and he saw again the angry, flushed face of Lord Ferson and the meeting of staff officers after the battle. The king had not been present. He generally avoided crowds, and the cramped conditions in the huge bell tent would have been abhorrent to him. Instead he had returned with his family to a nearby estate owned by Lord Winterbourne.

Four generals and eighteen senior officers had attended the meeting, and the first part had involved a discussion about the battle’s outcome. Many of the staff officers voiced the view that it was a great victory for the king’s cause. Gaise found that laughable. Luden Macks, outnumbered almost two to one and expected to retreat, had attacked instead. Two divisions of the king’s infantry had been swept aside. The advance had been halted by the steadfast courage of the elderly Lord Buckman, commander of the King’s Guards. With troops streaming back through his lines, Buckman had formed a fighting square, sending volley after volley into the charging covenanters. It would not have been enough to stem the attack, but Gaise, from his position on the hills to the right, had led his four hundred cavalrymen in a furious charge. The covenanters had broken. In pursuing them Gaise had seen Lord Ferson and his two thousand lancers on the opposite ridge. He had sent a rider, requesting support, but the lancers had never moved.

In the bell tent Gaise listened as a number of officers poured praise on their generals, obviously seeking to win favor. It was mildly stomach-churning. “Surely, my lords,” he said, “the mere fact that we need to debate the issue at all shows that a full victory cannot be claimed. I would agree, however, that victory
should
have been ours. The enemy was retreating in disorder. One more charge would have routed them.”

“A matter of opinion,” snapped Lord Ferson, resplendent in a beautifully tailored battle coat of red wool embroidered with gold thread. There was not a mark on it, not a speck of dust or a smear of mud. He was a small man, his reddish-blond hair close curled and thinning at the crown. His thick mustache was waxed and raised into two points. It was said to be a new fashion in the capital, and Gaise thought it comical.

Gaise Macon had looked into the man’s ruddy face, seeing the hostility in his small, closely set blue eyes. “I disagree, my lord. I would be fascinated to know why the lancers did not move. Did my request for assistance not reach you?”

Ferson’s round face flushed crimson. “I’ll not be criticized by a glory-seeking popinjay!” he thundered.

“Had that ‘popinjay’ followed your example, General, we would not be discussing the merits of a dubious victory. The enemy would have overrun us.”

Before Ferson could respond, General Buckman raised a hand. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Let us not descend into rancor.” Past seventy and a shrewd soldier, Owen Buckman was renowned for cool courage and total loyalty to the king. When he spoke, his words were treated with respect. “Our young friend is in one respect quite correct. It would be unwise to regard this battle as decisively in our favor. Luden’s forces were intact at the close and eventually withdrew in good order. By now he will have been reinforced by Dally’s infantry. This was, it must be said, an opportunity missed.”

No one spoke for a moment. Ferson sat staring malevolently at Gaise Macon. Then the cadaverous figure of Winter Kay, Lord Winterbourne, rose. In the lantern light his unusually pale skin seemed almost translucent, stretched tight across the bones of his face. His deep-set dark eyes were heavily shadowed and showed no hint of emotion. He was wearing the heavy crimson cloak of the Redeemer knights, and by his side hung a ceremonial short sword. The soldiers in the tent fell silent, waiting for Winterbourne to speak. Next to Buckman he was the most senior officer present.

“On current count the enemy lost more than a thousand men,” he said, his voice cold. “He attacked and was repulsed. In short, he failed in his objective. My scouts report he has now pulled back into the hills. It is my belief there will be no major battles until the spring. We now have several months to gather reinforcements, enlist fresh soldiers, and root out traitors from the surrounding towns.”