'He is older now,' said Winter Kay, softly. 'His body is a mass of burn scars that plague him constantly, and he has a festering wound in his groin, that will never quite heal. He is merely a man, Marl.'
'Aye, my lord,' said Marl, doubt still in his voice. 'However, you yourself have just spoken of his qualities. There have been many assassination attempts. None of them have succeeded. He is sharp and canny, and he has the Harvester.'
'The Harvester is a middle-aged farmer, Marl, with an eye for the dramatic. I met him once. He is a large man, and a tough one. But were it not for the fact that he beheads his victims with a shortened hand scythe he would be no more than another hired assassin. That is one of the Moidart's skills. He makes people believe that he -and to a lesser extent the Harvester - has almost mystic qualities. They do not. The Moidart understands that fear is essential to control the masses. Therefore he finds devious ways to feed that fear. I do not suggest that you underestimate either man. However, they are but men. Kill the Moidart - and the Harvester if he interferes. Then we can wipe out the son with impunity.'
'The will of the Orb be done,' whispered Marl.
'Even so,' agreed Winter Kay. 'Now, once the Moidart is dead, you will go to the Finance and instruct him to lead his army into the north. Stay with him, Marl. See that Eldacre is held for the cause.'
'You may rely on me, my lord.'
'I do, Marl. Though I am displeased with your failure to kill the demonic child. Did I not instruct you to find suitable assassins?'
'You did, my lord. My researches showed that the Cochlands were such men. I apologize for my failure in this matter.'
'Your methods were flawed. Tostig should have been the first choice. You chose Draig Cochland because he had been thrashed by Kaelin Ring. You believed this would make him an enemy of Ring and his family.'
'Yes, lord. It was an error.'
'One such error can be forgiven, Marl. We often learn by making mistakes. This is why I have given you this new task. Do it well, and you will be restored into my good graces.'
After the two men had gone Winter Kay sat quietly in the meeting hall, staring up at the corpse of Lord Person. He had always known the man was weak and cowardly, which is why he had never allowed him to join the Redeemers. An order destined to change the world needed to be strong. Yet Person had proved useful. He had been rich, influential, and a close friend of the king and his family. Winter Kay had never enjoyed the king's friendship and had needed Person to draw him into the inner circle. Now he virtually commanded the king's armies, and his power was close to total.
'The will of the Orb be done.'
The words of Marl Coper echoed in Winter Kay's mind. Even now, after all these years, he found them disturbing. He had coined the phrase in this very room just over six years previously, to focus the minds of his Redeemers on the source of their power. He had not thought of it as a literal truth, merely as a device. As the years passed he had begun to wonder, and to worry over it.
The skull possessed great power, but - he had tried to convince himself - it was not sentient. Yet when he held it in his hands, and the dreams began, he found his mind focusing as never before. As if, without the Orb, his normal understanding of the world was that of a bird in a cage in a single room of a small house. With the skull in his hands he became an eagle, soaring high above the earth, seeing all. It was then that his plans were formed. It was then that he understood.
The skull did not speak to him. Rather he would see shapes and colours, outlines and structures, each pointing out areas of danger or success. In some ways it felt like the child's game his father used to set for him and his brother, Gayan, on feast days. Father would hide objects and clues around the huge gardens, and the boys would hunt them down, finally arriving at their reward. The method was the same now. While holding the skull Winter Kay could see some problems almost before they arose.
Like the recent battle. The plan was for Luden Macks to inflict some damage on the Royalist army, to come close to victory, by overpowering and killing the elderly Lord Buckman and his Guards. As Macks and his forces cut through towards the enemy centre they would be attacked by the Knights of the Sacrifice, hidden in woods close to the king's headquarters. Luden Macks's army would be repulsed - though not destroyed - and Winter Kay's standing with the king, following the death of Buckman, would be enhanced. It was, in essence, a simple plan. He had come upon it while holding the skull in his hands. The images formed in his mind like shining steel. Potential problem areas were seen as a corrosive red, like rust forming on the beauty of the steel. In this second phase of his vision he had seen the one flaw in the plan. Buckman was a fighter and a charismatic leader. His line would hold long enough for reinforcements to be brought up.
Winter Kay had then prepared his strategy. Lord Person was sent to the right flank, with strict orders to avoid action unless directly attacked. All other regular units were positioned in such a way as to be useless to Buckman once Luden Macks broke through.
It would have worked, but for one small rogue element.
Gaise Macon.
Because of him Buckman scored a partial victory, and Winter Kay had been forced to have the man poisoned - a deed which did not sit well. The old warrior deserved to die on the battlefield.
Now, as he sat beneath Person's contorted body, Winter Kay found his anger rising. When first he had seen Gaise Macon at close quarters, and looked into those odd eyes, he had remembered the curse of the old priest back in Shelsans.'I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you, when the one with the golden eye comes for you.'
I should have had him killed then, thought Winter Kay. And he would have - but for the Moidart.
The source of unlimited power lay in the north. Winter Kay understood this, though he did not know why he understood it. It was like an aftertaste from holding the skull. Once his plans were formed he would drift into strange dreams, that always melted away upon awakening, leaving him drained. For days afterwards he would find himself thinking about the high north lands, and picturing mountains he had never actually seen. At such times he would be filled with an indescribable longing.
He had, during the last year, tried to court the Moidart, inviting him south. Always the man refused. The refusals were courteous. Winter Kay had planned to visit him next spring, to take the skull and heal the man's scars, drawing him into the Brotherhood. The Moidart would have proved an invaluable ally.
Such a pity that a fine man should have been cursed with a son like Gaise Macon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
APOTHECARY RAMUS PONDERED ON THE NATURE OF IRONY. A SMALL man, near sighted and balding, he had never wished harm on any living soul. His life had been one of service, the gathering of herbs and medicines for the relief of pain and the curing of disease. He was also - though he had been surprised to discover it - well loved in the town of Old Hills.
In short, were anyone who knew him to be asked, they would say: 'Ramus is a good man, a kind man.' Those with a keener eye - like Alterith Shaddler, the spindly schoolteacher - would add: 'He is a shy man, with no understanding of malice or evil.' They would be able to say little more than this, for no-one knew him well. In his fifty plus years Ramus had, until recently, made no friends. He encouraged no visitors to his tiny cottage home, and engaged in no small talk or gossip. Ramus was invariably polite to all he met, doffing his grey woollen cap to the women, nodding or bowing briefly to the men. His shyness gave him a neutrality which allowed his patients to discuss intimate details of their conditions without embarrassment. Ramus would sit quietly, listen intently, and then prescribe adequate medication or herbal remedies.
Had anyone been asked to nominate a friend for such a man they would probably have opted for Alterith Shaddler, the teacher of highland children. He was also shy, and, though taller than Ramus and round-shouldered, another man of gentle disposition. In fact the two men rarely spoke.
No, the friendship Ramus finally formed in the middle ye
ars of his life, was not with Alterith Shaddler. For some time the little apothecary had been meeting a man known for his ruthlessness, his disregard for human life, and his merciless treatment of those he considered enemies.
Sometimes Ramus lay awake at night wondering just how such a ridiculous situation should have come to pass. He wondered still, as he sat beneath the paintings in the gallery of the Moidart's winter residence, waiting for his audience with the ruler.
It had all begun in a bizarre way four years ago. The Moidart had summoned him to the manor, ordering him to bring fresh ointments and salves for the unhealed burn scars that festered on his back and arms. In the Moidart's private rooms the earl had shown Ramus a painting - a magnificent landscape of mountains, woods and a lake. It was like nothing Ramus had ever seen. All works of painted art, however skilfully they represented the images the artist desired, were mannered and two-dimensional. The medium, Ramus considered, was calm and detached. This painting, however, was vivid and raw. The snow on the mountains had been applied with a knife, the paint unthinned. The trees were vibrant with cold winter colour, and, staring at it, Ramus could almost hear birdsong. He had looked into the Moidart's dark, emotionless eyes, at the harsh lines of the man's hawklike face, then back at the awesome beauty of the landscape. How could a man of such evil have created a work of such beauty?
Even now the conversation that had followed was burned into Ramus's memory.
'The hardest part was the water upon the lake,' said the Moidart, 'and obtaining the reflection of the mountains and trees. I discovered it by error. One merely pulls the bristles of a dry brush down in sharp motions. Would you like this painting?'
'I could not afford such a ... a masterpiece, lord,' said Ramus, astonished.
'I am not some peasant who needs to sell his wares. It is finished. I have no more use for it.'
'Thank you, lord. I don't know what to say.' He paused. 'Are there others? I would love to see them.'
'No.'
'But what of the paintings you have completed over the years?'
'Time for you to go, master apothecary. I have much to do. I will send the painting to you.'
The work now hung in the small living room of Ramus's cottage, and it was this extraordinary painting which had set in motion the curious chain of events that now had Ramus sitting outside the Moidart's rooms.
A nobleman known as the Finance - a rival earl to the Moidart, from the lands immediately southwest - had visited Ramus the following year, suffering from what was delicately known as 'a social complaint'. The visit had been in secret. The Finance had arrived late one evening, accompanied only by two armed retainers. Ramus had greeted the earl courteously, and examined him while his men waited outside. The Finance was well known for his voracious sexual appetite, and it was his love of the company of whores that had led to the painful - and to Ramus mildly disgusting - condition. Ramus applied a poultice to the area, then prescribed a treatment he had perfected some years before. As Ramus was preparing the herbs, and writing out his instructions, the Finance glanced up at the painting. 'I like this greatly, apothecary,' he said. 'Would you sell it to me?'
'I cannot, lord. It was a gift.'
'I will give you fifty pounds for it.'
Ramus had been astonished. It would take him years to earn fifty pounds. It was a colossal sum.
'I ... I am sorry, lord. The price is not the issue.'
The Finance, a heavy set man with dyed black hair, smiled. 'Then direct me to the artist. I desire his work at my castle.'
'He is a very private man, lord, but I shall contact him on your behalf,' said Ramus.
The Finance stood for a moment. 'If he paints me a scene such as this the fifty pounds stands. I never met a rich artist, so tell him I require the painting before the autumn. Lots of mountains, mind. I like to look at mountains.'
'I will, lord,' said Ramus miserably.
After the Finance had gone Ramus sat quietly by the fire, wondering how to extricate himself from such an invidious position. The Finance was near as ruthless as the Moidart himself, and not a man to defy. Yet the Moidart loathed him. There was no way he would paint a picture for him.
Even so Ramus had gone to Eldacre Castle and requested a meeting. He had arrived in the Moidart's private quarters on the topmost floor, and had stood nervously before the earl's desk. Always before it had been the Moidart who had summoned the apothecary, and Ramus felt ill at ease having initiated the meeting. The Moidart sat back in his chair, his dark eyes watching the little man.
'Make this brief, apothecary, for I have much to do today.'
'Yes, lord. I... I have a problem that I am unable to resolve . . .'
'Your problems do not interest me.'
'Indeed no, lord. A patient visited me two nights ago . . .'
'His name?'
Ramus had dreaded this moment. He took a deep breath. 'It was the Finance.'
'I know. He arrived with two retainers. What is the problem?'
'He wanted to buy the painting you gave me. He offered me fifty pounds for it. I told him no.'
'That was stupid.'
'Perhaps so, lord, but I would not part with it for any amount of money,' said Ramus. It was no lie, and Ramus was no flatterer. The transparent honesty of the statement took the Moidart by surprise. For a moment only the shock registered on his gaunt face, then he rose from his chair.
'It seems the problem is therefore resolved,' he said.
'No, lord. The Finance has instructed me to contact the artist and commission a painting for him. He wishes to hang it in his castle.'
Ramus had never heard the Moidart laugh, nor even seen the man smile. But he laughed now. 'The Finance wants to hang one of my paintings in bis castle?' His laughter boomed out. 'Ah, Ramus, what a fine treat.' He walked to a tall window and stood staring out over the northern hills. Then he swung back. 'Write to him. Tell him the artist is working on a larger painting and requires seventy-five pounds for it.'
'Seventy-five, lord?'
'Tell him you will have it delivered in two months.'
'You . . . you will paint a picture for the Finance?' asked Ramus, aghast. 'It is said you . . . dislike him.'
'Dislike does not begin to describe it. It will please me greatly, however, that he will unknowingly hang my painting on his wall. One day - when the time is right - I will let him know the name of the artist.' The Moidart laughed again. 'And now you must go-'
Two months later Ramus stood again before the Moidart, handing him a bulging money pouch containing seventy-five gold coins. This time there was no laughter. The Moidart spread the money out on his desk and stared at it, his face pensive.
'Is there a problem, lord?' asked Ramus.
'Did he like the painting?'
'He was awed by it, sir, as was I. It was majestic.' It was another mountain scene, only this time it was of a storm in a bay, waves crashing upon black rocks, gulls wheeling in the sky. 'The Finance stood and stared at it for the longest time. His relatives were there also, and many retainers. They were all stunned by it.'
The Moidart sighed. 'In all my life this is the first money I have ever earned with the skill of my hands. A most peculiar feeling. That will be all, Ramus.'
And yet it had not been. Other nobles had visited the Finance, and, similarly awestruck, had contacted Ramus. The word spread south about the mysterious artist and his magnificent work. The apothecary was inundated with requests. Not wishing to annoy the Moidart with another meeting Ramus sent the letters on to him.
He had been summoned to the Moidart's summer residence in Eldacre Castle, and this time led through to the earl's private living quarters. They were surprisingly spartan, lacking adornment of any kind. The furniture was comfortable, but far from new, the rugs threadbare. There were no curtains at the double aspect windows, and the frame of one window was split, water dripping through from the heavy rain outside. Despite the fire the room was draughty and cold. It seemed strange to Ramus that a man as
rich as the Moidart should live in conditions akin to poverty. But then the man was cloaked in contradiction. A cold-hearted killer and an artist who produced works of dazzling beauty. Why should there not be other contradictory indications, he wondered?
The Moidart bade him sit - which was also surprising since he had never before offered Ramus a seat. It was with some trepidation that the apothecary sat in the earl's presence.
'I have decided to accept another commission,' said the Moidart, lifting one of the letters Ramus had sent him. 'You will arrange it.'
'Of course, lord.'
'You may keep two per cent of the commission.'
'Thank you, but that is not necessary.'
'I will decide what is necessary, apothecary.'
'Yes, lord.'
The Moidart reached across to a small table, upon which stood a flagon of water and a single goblet. He poured himself a drink, and sat quietly for a while. Ramus did not know what he was supposed to do. He had not been dismissed. So he sat awkwardly, waiting for the Moidart to speak. When at last he did, he did not look at Ramus. 'I was taught that to earn money with one's hands was below the dignity of a nobleman. Yet I took great pleasure in the Finance's commission. I thought perhaps it was because he was my enemy and that I had fooled him in some way. This was not so. Now I shall paint again. I do not however desire anyone to know that the work is mine.' His cold eyes held to Ramus's gaze. 'It is against my instincts to trust anyone, apothecary, and yet it seems I must trust you.'
'And you can, my lord.'
During the next few years the Moidart earned more than two and a half thousand pounds through his paintings. They were hung in great houses all across the Varlish realm.
Now the two men met once a month. There was little in the way of easy conversation, and yet Ramus had come to look forward to the encounters. Indeed he had come to like the Moidart. It remained a puzzle to the little apothecary.
As he sat in the gallery he found himself admiring the portrait of the Moidart's grandmother. He had last seen her just before her death fourteen years before, a bent and heavily wrinkled woman nearing ninety. In this portrait she was young, and incredibly beautiful. What captivated Ramus was her eyes, one green one gold, just like her great-grandson's. Ramus had always liked Gaise Macon, and had often wondered how such a charming young man could have been sired by a monster like the Moidart. Now he felt he knew, for when they discussed painting the Moidart seemed human - almost affable at times. The coldness left his voice, and he spoke with passion and feeling about light, shade and colour; about shadow and perspective, composition and texture. In the beginning Ramus would say little. The Moidart was a touchy host at best. One did not initiate conversation. One merely responded. On one particular afternoon, however, Ramus - enduring a pounding headache which cut through his usual caution - had ventured a criticism of a particular work. 'It seems crowded,' he said. Almost as soon as the words were uttered he felt a chill go through him.
David Gemmell - Rigante 4 - Stormrider 1.0 Page 17