Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

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

  Eain chuckled and stirred the porridge. “You think Tostig will agree to kill them?”

  “Of course he will. There’s no Rigante in that man.”

  “There’s not more than a thimbleful in us,” Eain pointed out. “And that was from Great-Gramps, which means it was three parts liquor anyway.”

  Draig suddenly laughed. “You are not wrong, Brother. We’re Cochlands now. And we look after our own. To hell with anyone else, eh?”

  “Damn right.” Eain served up the porridge in two deep wooden bowls, and they ate in silence.

  Finally Draig put aside his empty bowl and pushed himself to his feet. He swore suddenly. “Damn, but I do like Kaelin Ring,” he said.

  “You said you didn’t like anybody.” Eain sounded aggrieved, and Draig laughed.

  “The man’s a fighter, and there’s no give in him. When the Varlish took his woman and imprisoned her, he walked into that fort and brought her out. Have to admire that.”

  “He thrashed you and broke your nose,” argued Eain. “We don’t want to get involved in this, Draig. Tostig is an evil whoreson. Added to which he’s good with sword and knife. Kaelin Ring can take care of himself.”

  Draig shook his head. “Not if he don’t know what’s coming. I think I’ll walk to Ironlatch.”

  “I’ll not come with you on such foolishness.”

  “Who asked you?”

  “We’re not Rigante, Brother. We don’t owe anybody anything.”

  “I never said we did.”

  “Has it occurred to you that the Moidart is the one who wants them dead?”

  “Yes,” said Draig, a sense of unease settling on him at the mention of the man’s name.

  “If he found out you’d gone against him, you know who he’d send.”

  Draig shivered and did not answer. He knew, all right. Huntsekker would come with that cursed scythe, and Draig’s head would be in a bag.

  “It’ll be Huntsekker,” said Eain. “He never fails.”

  “Give it a rest, Eain! Anyway, he did fail once. He didn’t catch that fighter Chain Shada. Word was that Grymauch took him out from under Huntsekker’s nose. So he’s human. He’s not some demon of the dark to frighten me.”

  “Well, the thought of him frightens me,” said Eain.

  Draig moved across the hut, lifting an old bearskin coat from the floor. He shook it, then swung it around his shoulders. “We are not going to get involved in this,” he said. “All I’m going to do is have a quiet word with Kaelin Ring. Then we’re out of it.”

  In the dark of the night Chara Ring stood at the upper bedroom window, staring out at the moonlit snow and the sharp, jagged lines of the distant mountains. A blue and green Rigante shawl was wrapped around her slender shoulders, and her thoughts were deep and melancholy.

  Five years earlier she had been taken by Varlish soldiers and brought to the Black Mountains fort and there had been brutally raped and abused. Often she would dream of being back in that bleak dungeon, listening to the laughter and grunts of the soldiers and the vicious words of the traitor Wullis Swainham. So many times since then she had convinced herself that she was over the worst and that the vileness of that night had no power anymore. Standing in the window, she knew she was wrong. She knew that it would always be with her, like a wound upon the soul.

  There was no doubting her love for Kaelin Ring or that she enjoyed the feel of his arms around her. Mostly she could lose herself in the act of lovemaking, and occasionally it was even joyous. She had laughed with the Dweller about the importance to her of the physical closeness she had found with Kaelin. It was not strictly untrue. Chara needed to feel that Kaelin desired her. Often, however, as he held her and entered her, she would see again the ugly, bestial faces of the men in the dungeon. The brutality of what she had endured would erupt from her subconscious, making her want to scream for Kaelin to get away from her. She would hold it back by picturing the moment when Kaelin had come for her on that dreadful night.

  In an act of breathtaking recklessness he and Rayster had entered the fort, killing the guards at the gatehouse and donning their uniforms. Then Kaelin had made his way to the dungeon and rescued her. She turned from the window and gazed at his sleeping form. He was lying on his back, one arm outstretched. In the moonlight the scar on his cheek shone bright. Chara remembered the saber duel with her brother Bael that had caused it. It seemed a lifetime ago. As did so much of her life before the dungeon. It was as if she were two different people: Chara then and Chara now.

  She no longer spoke to Kaelin about her memories. It was not that he did not care. It was that he cared too much. He wanted to find a “cure” for her. In some ways it was touching, in others infuriating. On rare occasions she would open her heart to the Dweller. There was comfort there, for she would listen without seeking to offer remedies.

  The worst moment had come just before this winter, when she and Kaelin had visited Black Mountain to bring in supplies. As the wagon was being loaded, the two of them had walked through the town and out on to the low meadow by the stream. The day had been bright and clear, the sunshine warm. It had been like a summer day, and Chara had felt at peace. She was holding Kaelin’s hand and laughing at some little jest he had made. Then she saw a man, also walking with his love. Three children were running alongside them: two tawny-haired boys and a girl with long auburn hair. Chara had stopped, her hand falling away from Kaelin’s grip.

  The man was one of the soldiers who had raped her.

  She had thought them all killed in the battle at the Rigante pass, a battle won by the brilliance of her husband, who had led the Rigante in a night climb down a sheer rock face to emerge behind the besieging Varlish. She had needed to believe they were dead, punished for what they had done to her.

  As Chara stood and watched the man and his family heading off toward the stream, she saw him turn and look at her. He smiled and waved. Kaelin waved back. It seemed incomprehensible to Chara that the man did not recognize her, but she knew that he did not. She felt her heart would break. This man and others had all but ruined her life. Yet here he was, by a meadow spring on a sunny day, leading his family out on a stroll.

  A part of her longed to tell Kaelin of the man’s deeds. A part of her wanted to see her husband march across the meadow and cut the man’s heart out. Yet it was only a small part. The children with him were not guilty of any evil, nor was the woman who walked by his side. Would it ease her pain to see this woman widowed?

  Chara had turned away.

  “What is wrong?” asked Kaelin.

  “I have a headache,” said Chara, taking his hand once more. “It is no matter. Why don’t we go back into town and find a place to sit quietly and eat.”

  In the faint light of predawn Chara saw Senlic Carpenter move out to the far gate and lift the latch. His limp was more pronounced in the cold of the early mornings. He seemed to have aged badly since the stroke had hit him in the autumn of the previous year. His hair was very white now, and he spoke with a slight slur. When he smiled, which was rare these days, the left side of his face did not move, and his left arm was nearly useless. She watched him clumsily open the gate. His dog, Patch, a black and white mongrel, ran out into the meadow.

  “You are awake early,” said Kaelin, sitting up and yawning.

  “Senlic shouldn’t be working so hard,” she said. “You should let him rest more.”

  “I have tried,” he said. “He needs to feel useful.”

  Other men were moving into sight now, and she saw a team of horses being led off to the rear of the barn. “I wish you weren’t going with Maev,” she said.

  He climbed out of the bed and moved to stand behind her. She felt his arms slide around her. “Will you miss me?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Of course I’ll miss you. As will Jaim and Feargol.”

  “I’ll be back within twenty days. Now, why not come back to bed and give me something
to remember you by.”

  “You’ll remember,” she said, spinning out of his grasp. “And you have men standing out there in the cold waiting for you. So get yourself dressed. I’ll go and prepare you some breakfast.”

  Chara left the room and walked downstairs. Maev was already there.

  “Is there anything you want me to bring back from Eldacre?” asked the older woman.

  “Just my husband,” Chara answered coldly.

  Senlic Carpenter was weary as he limped toward the main house, and his spirits were low. As a Rigante he had prided himself on his lack of fear, his courage. But he was frightened now. Not of dying, for all men had at some time to pass from this life. No, Senlic’s fear was of becoming sickly and a burden on those he had served. He did not want to end his life lying in a bed, incontinent and rambling. The stroke had almost killed him. On some mornings he wished that it had. He would at least have died as a man.

  Senlic paused at the gate. Patch sat down beside him. “I wonder when I got old,” he said aloud, the words slurring. It seemed to have crept up on him almost unnoticed. Yes, his hair had grayed, and he found himself a little slower. He had noticed aches in his limbs during the coldest of the weather. Now, though, he felt so . . . so ancient.

  He had bade farewell to Kaelin and Maev and most of the farm workers. Once he would have regretted not joining them on the journey to Eldacre. Senlic liked visiting cities occasionally to marvel at the great buildings and enjoy afternoons in taverns and evenings in whorehouses, where they played music. He did not regret it now. A visit to a whorehouse would only fill him with shame. Patch caught sight of a rabbit out in the meadow and gave a low growl. “You’ll not catch him, boy,” said Senlic. Patch cocked his head and stared up at the man. “You want to try, though, eh? Go on, then. Go get him!” Patch bounded off across the snow. The rabbit sat and watched him, then sprang away. Patch tried to turn and slithered on the snow. The sight lifted Senlic’s mood. Yapping furiously, Patch gave chase once more.

  The sound of the dog barking brought little Feargol Ustal running from the main house. “Will he catch the rabbit?” the six-year-old asked Senlic.

  “No, son. Not a hope.”

  “Has he ever caught a rabbit?”

  “Not once in nine years of life. Doesn’t stop him trying, though.” Senlic thought about it for a moment. “It’s not strictly true, come to think on it. He did bring a rabbit back to me once. It had been struck by a hawk but had managed to get away. It had a wound on one of its hind legs. Patch picked it up and brought it to me. Carried it like a little puppy—ever so careful—then laid it at my feet.”

  “Did you eat it?”

  “Funnily enough, we didn’t. I figured it had earned its life by escaping the hawk. So we kept it for a while and fed it. The leg got better, and I carried it back to the meadow and let it go.”

  “Why didn’t Patch kill it?” asked the redheaded child.

  “Maybe he thought it deserved another chance at life. I don’t know. Can’t tell what a dog is thinking. You should have mittens on, boy. It’s rare cold today.”

  Feargol stared off to the south. “I wish Uncle Kaelin had let me go to Eldacre,” he said.

  “You still wearing that charm I gave you?”

  “Yes,” said the boy happily, delving inside his coat and lifting out the small silver pendant.

  “And all the dreams have gone, yes?”

  “Yes, they have. Its wonderful. How did it make them go away?”

  Senlic shrugged. “It’s magic, lad. Don’t know how it works, only that it does. Do you still see pictures in your head?”

  “Sometimes,” the boy answered, warily. “Maev says they are daydreams and of no . . .” He struggled for the word. “. . . condequinces,” he said at last.

  “Consequence,” corrected Senlic. “It means importance. Maev is a person to listen to on most things. She’s a clever woman, hard and bright. She’s wrong on this, though, lad. I have the sight, too—or once I did. Tell me about the pictures.”

  “Aunt Chara says you should come in and have a hot drink. She says it will do you good.”

  “Aye, that’s true. We’ll go in together.”

  Once inside, Senlic struggled to remove his heavy topcoat. It was not easy with a left arm he could not lift. He saw Chara moving toward him and wanted to tell her to mind her business, but he was too tired and her help was welcome. He sat at the breakfast table and sipped the hot honey tisane she had prepared for him. It had more than a dash of Uisge in it, for which he was grateful. Feargol clambered onto the seat beside him. “Tell me about the pictures,” said Senlic.

  “I saw a man with golden hair in a pistol fight. He had his ear shot off,” said Feargol.

  “What else?”

  “There’s a place with trees, big huge trees, bigger than any trees in the mountains. They are red. One of them has a trunk almost as big as this house.”

  “I think Maev is right about some of these visions,” Chara said, with a smile. “Trees as big as houses. I have never heard the like.”

  “Across the ocean,” said Senlic. “I saw them once in a dream. There were people living there, and their skins were like the trees, reddish brown.”

  “They have feathers in their hair and on their shirts,” said Feargol.

  “That’s right, lad. What was really strange was that none of them had beards.”

  “You shouldn’t encourage the boy,” said Chara. “Big trees and men without beards.”

  “Its true,” said Senlic. “By the Source, it is. I always thought that one day I would cross the ocean and walk those mountains. What else have you seen, boy?”

  “There’s a sad man who paints pictures. He sits alone all the time. I watched him paint a picture. It was like magic. He dipped his brush in dark paint and smeared it on the square. Then he dipped another brush in white paint and mixed some blue in it. Then he dabbed at the picture, and all the dark smears suddenly became mountains with snow on them. He’s very clever.”

  “Why do you say he’s a sad man?” asked Chara. “If he can paint like that, he should be happy.”

  “He’s not happy,” said Feargol. “He hurts all the time. He has all these scars on his body, and they bleed and have pus in them. And he writes these long letters. Then he burns them.”

  “Who does he write the letters to?” asked Senlic.

  “I don’t know. I can’t read.”

  “Does he have a wife?”

  “No. He lives in a great big house. Much bigger than this one. And there are soldiers everywhere.”

  “You should try to see happy things,” said Chara. “Not sad men who paint pictures or people having their ears shot off.”

  “I never know what I am going to see,” said Feargol. “It’s always a surprise. I would like to have one of the sad man’s pictures. I would hang it in my room.”

  Outside the house Patch began to bark again. This time it was not the excited yapping of the chase. Senlic pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window.

  “What is it?” asked Chara.

  “The Cochland brothers,” answered Senlic. “Do you have a pistol?”

  Eain Cochland was cursing himself for his decision to walk the eighteen miles to Ironlatch Farm with his brother, Draig. He had been prompted to the action by simple boredom and still had no real understanding of why Draig wanted to warn Kaelin Ring. Added to which he could still feel the stab of emotional pain he had suffered at hearing that his brother liked the man. In some ways it felt like a betrayal. He had long grown used to the fact that Draig did not like him, but the hurt was lessened by the fact that Draig did not like anybody.

  Now, as well as his hurt feelings, his legs were aching, his feet and hands were cold, and he was hungry. It was vastly unlikely that they would be invited inside, and the whole enterprise was an enormous waste of time and effort. It was not that he wanted to see the little boy killed or that he did not care. It was just that he did not care enough to suffer
cold hands and feet.

  As they approached the gate, a small black and white mongrel ran toward them, barking furiously. The dog ran toward Draig, who dropped to one knee on the snow and held out his hand. Eain stiffened. One of these days his idiot brother was going to have his fingers bitten off.

  Not today, though. The dog did what all dogs did when Draig offered his hand. It stopped barking, stood looking suspiciously at the hand, then eased itself forward to sniff the fingers. “Good lad,” said Draig softly, sliding his hand over the dog’s head and ruffling its ears.

  The farmhouse door opened, and two people emerged. One was the old cattle handler Senlic Carpenter. Eain had not laid eyes on him for two years, and he was stunned at the change in the man’s appearance. His hair, which had been dark gray was now white, and he looked around 110 years old. Beside him came Chara Ring. Eain felt suddenly uncomfortable. She was a mile beyond pretty! Her red hair was more closely cropped than was usually popular among highland women, but it merely highlighted her beauty. Eain’s thoughts plunged toward the carnal. Then he noticed the long pistol in her hand. He glanced back at Senlic and saw that he, too, was armed. His rising ardor vanished. He swung toward Draig. “Looks like they won’t be welcoming us with a pipe band,” he said. Draig rose to his feet and reached for the gate.

  “No point opening that,” said Senlic Carpenter. “You’re not welcome here.”

  “You look like you ought to be dead, old fool,” snarled Draig. “Do not annoy me or I’ll finish you where you stand.”

  “Try it,” said Chara Ring, her voice cold. “I’ll put a ball through your skull before you’ve moved two paces.”

  “That just about does it, Draig,” said Eain. “Let’s go home and leave these two to their day.”

  “Aye, be off with you,” said Senlic.

  Draig swallowed hard, and Eain could feel his brother’s anger rising. “I need to see Kaelin Ring,” said Draig.

  “He’s not here,” said Chara.

  “Maev Ring, then.”

  “She’s not here, either.”

  “Let’s go home,” Eain prompted, again. “We’re not welcome.”