“No.”
“I know the Rigante are fine fighters. I know they crushed an army of my father’s a few years back. I have no doubts whatever concerning their skill in combat. What I am saying is that unless there is discipline, they will be cut to pieces. This will not be a war won by a single charge. We will need to coordinate our attacks and seek common objectives. We can do this by developing a plan of action and relying on every unit to follow its orders implicitly.”
“I understand that,” said Kaelin. “So do my men.”
“The plan, for instance, may call for the Rigante to attack suddenly and then fall back in apparent disarray, leading the enemy to think they have won. This will draw the enemy forward into a trap. I need to be able to rely on you to follow my orders to the letter.”
“You don’t put a saddle on a warhound,” said Kaelin Ring.
“Meaning?”
“I’ll take that wine now, if I may.”
“Of course,” said Gaise Macon, filling a goblet and passing it to the clansman.
Kaelin sipped it. “It’s good, though a little young.” He put down the goblet. “My meaning is simple. The Rigante are fighting men, hard and relentless. The men I bring are the best of the best. Every one of them has courage and tenacity. They will cut their way through any force the enemy can offer. Give us ground to hold and we will defend it to the death. You’ll have no worries about the Rigante fleeing the field. We will stand. But we are not army men. Your clever plans, your flanking movements, your deceptions will need to be carried out by those trained in that kind of warfare. From what I understand you have twelve thousand men enlisted from the army of the Pinance. Professional soldiers. They will fight for you only so long as they believe you can win and only so long as their wages are paid. You have six thousand Eldacre men who will stand fast, at least for a while, because they are fighting for their own land and have nowhere to run. And you have the Rigante. You do not know it yet, but the Rigante are the best hope you have. We can be either the hammer or the anvil, nothing in between. Use us wisely.”
“Outnumbered three—maybe four—to one, I will need to use all the men wisely,” said Gaise. “Have you any thoughts on the coming invasion?”
“I think they’ll send an advance force, trying to draw us out. If I was Winter Kay, I’d then send two columns east and west of Eldacre. The biggest problem, though, is those damned Redeemers and their talent for observing us. Galliott says they can’t see us when we are inside the castle. We need to be able to extend that protection over our forces as they move. Otherwise it won’t matter how prettily you plan; they’ll know everything we are about to do.”
“My thoughts exactly. It is something we are working on. That’s why my father is with Powdermill. He is a magicker of sorts. However, we can talk about that tomorrow. My father has appointed generals. I would appreciate your view on them after the meeting.”
“You think he has appointed unwisely?”
“I doubt it. Much as I loathe the man, he is a shrewd judge.”
Kaelin chuckled. “Not an easy man to like, though it surprises me that you feel the same. The Moidart murdered my father. I have reason to hate him. What reason do you have?”
“My reasons are my own, and I don’t wish that to sound offensive to you, Kaelin. I thank you for bringing the Rigante to Eldacre. Will the Wyrd be joining us here? She could be of great help against the Redeemers.”
“No. I asked her to come with us. She says her talents are not for war and death.”
Gaise shook his head and for a moment showed irritation. “According to what we now know, we are facing the spirit of a Seidh god. Do you find it strange that the unholy can use all their powers to destroy while the holy cannot?”
Kaelin shrugged. “Perhaps that is what makes them holy.”
“I wonder. The Wyrd has helped me and advised me. This is because I am the Stormrider and she relies upon me to save the day. She relies upon me to fight. And you. And the Rigante. So is she not a part of the war already? We can go out and kill and sully our souls for her and her dreams, but she will not sully herself. Can you make sense of it?”
“I don’t try,” said Kaelin. “I am not holy. She told me that she is pledged not to use her power to harm others. That is good enough for me.”
“I am not holy, either, Kaelin Ring. If I had the power, I would kill them all in an instant.”
Kaelin looked into the man’s oddly colored eyes. It seemed to him then that—just for a moment—there was the glint of insanity there.
“Explain it again,” said the Moidart. Aran Powdermill’s patience snapped. “To what purpose? I cannot teach you the principles of magic in a single night.” Tiredness had made him bold, but even as he spoke, his stomach turned. “Forgive me,” he said swiftly. “I meant no offense.”
“Calm yourself, Powdermill. You are rather valuable to me at present. Small discourtesies can be forgiven. Best not to make a habit of them, however.” The Moidart paced the small room. “The ward spells you have placed on the castle keep out the Redeemers, but they need to be constantly recast.”
“Yes, my lord. A spell is like a living thing. It is born, it ages and grows weak, then it fades.”
“What is the source of its energy?”
“In this instance I am, my lord. This is why I am so drained.”
“And you replenish this magic merely by rest?”
“Not exactly, my lord.”
The door opened, and Gaise Macon entered. He nodded to Powdermill, then moved to the fireplace and held his hands out to the flames.
“You never did like the cold,” said the Moidart.
“It does not bother me now,” replied Gaise. “Are we any closer to an answer?”
“Not at present. Powdermill was just explaining about the casting of spells. Go on, Master Powdermill.”
“I can use my energies and talents for small spells. I have never been able to hold the shape of the larger spells.”
“The shape?” asked Gaise.
“This is not easy to explain, my lord. Think of a juggler tossing three balls in the air. His dexterity is better than most men’s. What he does is amusing and clever. Now imagine five balls. This man is very talented. The concentration required to keep all the balls in the air is matched only by his extraordinary coordination. My ward spells are five-ball tricks. To create a greater spell, covering, say, the whole of Eldacre would be like a man juggling a hundred balls in the air at the same time. I do not possess that degree of talent. I cannot hold all the incantation words in my head at the same time or balance the rhythms of the words of power.”
“Something is missing here,” said the Moidart.
“Missing, my lord?”
“This replenishing of energies. You cast a spell. It lives for a while, then it dies. You replace it. You say the spells come from your talent.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But the Redeemers do not possess your talents?”
“No. They use the power of the Seidh skull.”
“An external source that they can draw upon.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“But you do not use such a source. Your talent is from within.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You were born with this talent for manipulating the magic that is all around us?”
“Yes.”
The Moidart looked at him closely. “And you use nothing to enhance it?”
Powdermill could not meet the Moidart’s hawkeyed gaze. “I have an amulet that was blessed by the Veiled Lady. This adds to my talent.”
“Put aside your fears, Powdermill. I shall not steal it from you. Let me ask you this: If you had the Orb of Kranos, would your powers increase?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Would you then be able to create a ward spell to cover the whole of Eldacre?”
“I don’t know, my lord. But I would certainly be able to perform greater spells than I can at this moment.”
“No, my lord,” Powdermill said glumly. “I have been to the cathedral. There is nothing there but forgeries and fakes. I went to Varingas once to see the Blessed Veil. When I reached out with my talent, I knew it was merely a piece of gauze. The image of the face was created by carefully applying iron oxides to the cloth. Items imbued with genuine magic are rare.”
“What I still do not understand,” said the Moidart, “is the central principle. Magic, you tell me, is like a living thing. How is it that the magic in your amulet does not fade as your spells do?”
“There are only theories to answer this, my lord,” said Powdermill. “The one that I feel is closest to the truth concerns the nature of magic. It is born in some way through sunlight and its effect on living things. My amulet was blessed by the Veiled Lady. This made it a vessel of magic. You have seen the weird pieces of iron that attract other pieces of iron.”
“I have seen magnets,” said the Moidart.
“I believe the amulet operates in a similar fashion, drawing magic to it from out of the air, from sunlight. I do not know how the process works. I do know that it regenerates itself. In some places it will regenerate more swiftly. Forests, for example, seem to give it greater power.”
“Have you tried blood?” asked the Moidart.
“I once sacrificed a chicken, but I almost destroyed the amulet in the process. This is not a piece that requires sacrifice, my lord.”
“Pity.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“So it seems that we can find no way to combat these Redeemers outside the castle?”
“I know of no way to accomplish that, my lord.”
“All you need,” said Gaise Macon, “is a strong source of magic?”
Both men turned toward the golden-haired warrior. “Yes, my lord,” said Powdermill.
“Something of the Seidh?”
“Indeed, sir.”
Gaise Macon drew the Sword in the Storm and laid it on the table. “Use your talent to examine this, Master Powdermill.”
Aran Powdermill looked quizzically at Gaise. “It is a modern saber.”
“Use your talent, man.”
Aran took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he reached out. His hand lightly touched the golden hilt. He stiffened and drew in a deep breath.
“This is the sword of Connavar,” he said. “Sweet heaven, how did you come by it?”
“A dead man gave it to him, apparently,” said the Moidart.
“A dead man named Riamfada. Can you use the magic, Master Powdermill?”
“I need time to prepare, my lord. This is . . . this is remarkable. Priceless.”
“Forget the monetary value,” snapped the Moidart. “Can you cast a spell with it?”
“Oh, my lord, I can,” said Powdermill.
Mulgrave was wandering in a green meadow under starlight. He had no idea how he had arrived there or, indeed, where he was.
He thought he could hear running water and realized he was thirsty. The sound was coming from somewhere to his left. Walking on a little, he saw an old mill, its wheel slowly turning as the river pushed against its blades. It was very much like the mill back in Shelsans where his father had worked. On some summer afternoons Mulgrave would run along the riverbank, bringing the food his mother had prepared for his father. He would emerge from the warehouse alongside the mill and sit in silence, breaking bread with his son. Even now the memories of those quiet days filled Mulgrave with a mixture of sadness and great joy.
He walked on toward the riverbank, half hoping his father would be there. Instead he saw the white-haired woman he had dreamed of so often lately. A pale blue and green shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. She turned toward him, beckoning for him to sit beside her.
“Can you speak now?” he asked her.
“I could always speak, Mulgrave. You could not hear.” Raising her hand, she tapped a finger to his chest. “The little amulet Ermal Standfast gave you contains earth magic. Not much, but enough to allow a Rigante to make contact with a foreigner.” She said it with a soft smile.
“Is Ermal safe?”
“Of course. Men like Ermal are always safe. They run and hide when danger threatens.”
“Good for him. I wish I could run and hide from it all. I hate what I see now, and I despise what I have become.”
“Love often carries us along roads we would not wish to travel,” she said. “Love is a burden sometimes. Yet it is still to be treasured.”
Mulgrave picked up a stone and threw it out over the river. “I see myself in him,” he said. “After the massacre I was raised for a while by a coldhearted couple who used me badly. I don’t know why, but after I escaped them, I found it hard to trust anyone. When I met Gaise, I saw the same secret sorrow in his eyes. I wanted him to find the happiness that was lost to me. I wanted to see him with a wife and family, knowing the joys of life. Instead he is following a darker path.”
“He has unchained the bear,” the Wyrd said sadly. “It is a curse of his bloodline. Great men they can be, but there is inside them a terrible beast. While they control it, they are heroes. When it controls them, they become . . . the Moidart and villains like him.” She sighed. “I have no right to criticize them. Not anymore.”
“Have you killed people?” he asked.
“Not directly. I urged the Rigante to march to Eldacre. Many of them will be slain. Perhaps all of them. I have taken the first tottering steps on the road to damnation. Do you believe that committing a small evil to prevent a greater evil is justified?”
“I don’t know,” said Mulgrave. “I remember once thinking it would have been a good thing if the Moidart had been strangled at birth. Now he is fighting against evil. I don’t know what any of it means. I just wish I wasn’t part of it.”
“I know,” whispered the Wyrd. “I once dreamed of bringing back the Seidh to guide the world, to renew its magic. I would then spend my life healing and encouraging people to do good. When I died, I would leave the world a better place than it was before me. Now I have encouraged a people I love to take part in a war to stop the Seidh from coming back, to shoot and stab and kill. Perhaps Cernunnos is right. Perhaps we are a race not worth saving.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sunlight gleaming on the water and listening to the slow splashing of the mill wheel blades as they turned.
“Are you a seer, lady? Can you see the future?”
“Glimpses only, swordsman. I have known for twenty years that Gaise Macon would hold our destiny in his hands. I knew the future of the Rigante would depend upon it. I did not know how or why it would come to pass. I guessed wrongly that the Moidart would be the evil force. Now I see something else. I see you, Mulgrave. Gaise Macon will ask a service of you. It will break your heart.”
“My heart is already broken. I shall refuse him. I want nothing more to do with his evil.”
“It will not be evil which inspires him to seek you. I see him in the vision wearing a patchwork cloak. This signifies that his Rigante heritage will be in the ascendant, not the beast which now rules him.”
“What will he ask me?”
“I do not know. But he will ask it here. By this stream. Where he cannot be overheard. I will arrange it, for that is my destiny.”
For four days the new generals and colonels met with Gaise Macon and the Moidart, discussing battle strategies. Gaise conducted further meetings, getting to know the men and making judgments about their talents. Mostly they were solid officers with a good understanding of strategy and logistics. Three were exceptional. Kaelin Ring had a fine mind and despite appearing outspoken showed a subtle and perceptive understanding of human nature. Bendegit Law, the only officer appointed directly by the Moidart, had already proved himself by acquiring fifty cannon in a bloodless raid to the east. He was a natural leader, well liked by his men. Garon Beck was a career soldi
er who had served in three wars across the seas and had been hired by the Pinance to train his infantry. Without a trace of noble blood he had never held any rank higher than colonel. Bluff and powerfully built, the middle-aged soldier talked little during the meetings, but when he did speak, his words were direct, cutting to the heart of the problems they faced.
When the broader meetings were over, Gaise would discuss them with the Moidart. Much as he disliked the man, he found his observations to be razor-sharp.
“Beck can be relied upon,” said the Moidart as they sat in the high office, the windows open to the northern stars. “He feels no need to prove himself and will do nothing reckless. My advice would be to appoint him as your number two.”
“I agree. I need to be heading south tomorrow. I’ll leave Beck in charge of training here. Who do you see as leading the eastern force? Galliott?”
“No,” said the Moidart. “Galliott is not equipped to be a battle commander. He is a peacetime officer with a fine understanding of bureaucracy. He does not have the mind of a warrior.”
“Kaelin Ring and his Rigante?”
“He would be fine,” said the Moidart, “but I doubt you really want to send them.”
“Ring says they are the best of the best,” said Gaise. “Do you agree with that?”
The Moidart leaned back in his chair. “I abhor the Rigante. Always have. They could have conquered the world. Finest fighting men I have ever seen. Their biggest problem is they are not ever prepared for war. Battles, yes. They will fight like demons. Then they want to go home and plant their crops and tend to their cattle. In this instance, though, Ring is right. They are the best we have. In my view they should be central to our plans.”
“Who, then, for the east?” asked Gaise.
The Moidart looked at him for a moment. “Is the responsibility beginning to weigh on you, boy?”
“I am not a boy, Father. Not anymore. But yes, I feel the weight of responsibility. Is that unnatural?”
“Not at all. Now you seek to offload some of that weight. You cannot. It pleased me when you stood up to me and said that I would be the figurehead. That is as it should be. The young lion stretching his muscles. Now you must discover whether you have the stamina and the power to sustain leadership. To do that you must accept that it is lonely on the top of the mountain. You may ask for advice. You may listen to the plans of others. But yours is the final decision. Yours is the only word that counts. Success and glory, defeat and death will be laid at your door. So now, tell me what you think of your other generals.”
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