Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  Huntsekker had watched them go. The boy had been right. The most sensible course of action would have been to kill them both. Still, Huntsekker had thought, maybe Boillard Seeton would for once justify the faith reposed in him. That hope was short-lived.

  'By the Sacrifice I'll see him swing and I'll piss on his grave,' Seeton had said, once Grymauch and the others had left.

  'No, you won't, Boillard. You gave your word.'

  'Under duress,' argued Boillard. 'Don't count.'

  'Mine does.'

  'Well, I'm not you, Harvester. You do as you wish. Nobody shoots Boillard Seeton and gets away with it. Damn, but I'll enjoy seeing them hang.'

  'I don't think so.'

  Huntsekker had drawn his scythe and sliced it through Seeton's heart. The man was dead before he knew it.

  Just the three occasions. A stolen bull, an ambush by a stream, and a death near the cathedral. A few sentences had passed between them. No more than that. Yet Huntsekker constantly caught himself thinking of the highlander, the memories tinged with a massive regret that he had not known him well.

  He walked on, cutting down through a gully and clambering up the other side. He was breathing heavily as he reached the top, and the old familiar ache in the lower back had begun.

  He stretched, then looked for a place to sit. He was still some five miles from Eldacre, and was beginning to regret turning down PowdermilPs offer of a night's lodging. Leaving the trail he found a small hollow and sat with his back to a tree. His thoughts drifted to the Moidart. Huntsekker had never liked him. He was not a man who would ever inspire devotion. Too cold, too self-contained. Too deadly.

  Just like you, Huntsekker, he thought. Ah well, we are what we are.

  The Moidart was troubled. Huntsekker had known the man angry, and filled with a cold, murderous rage. Never troubled, though. Always confident in his talent. What had changed? After the meeting with Powdermill Huntsekker thought he knew.

  'They float in the air.'

  Huntsekker shivered and glanced around the hollow. As always when troubled he tugged at the twin silver spikes of his beard. Thoughts of magic left him uneasy. Twenty years ago the church authorities had set out to destroy magickers and witches. There were burnings across the land. Huntsekker was one of those who had kicked down doors, dragging out suspects for questioning. Dark and bloody times, with many an innocent flayed or put to the fire.

  Now there were few who admitted to the dark arts. Huntsekker had come across Powdermill eight years ago. The man was known as a finder. Huntsekker had been tracking a rapist and a killer, bat the man had gone to ground somewhere. In desperation Huntsekker had listened to the advice of one of his men, Dal Naydham, and sought out Powdermill. He had no great expectation of success, but anything was better than returning to the Moidart with news that the killer had escaped him.

  Powdermill went into a trance while holding a glove owned by the killer. When he opened his eyes he told Huntsekker about a cabin in a valley in the shadows of Caer Druagh, some sixty miles south. He described it, and the route to it.

  Huntsekker found the man, removed his head and carried it back to Eldacre. He had earned nothing for the trip. Powdermill's price had been exactly the bounty. Two pounds, eight chaillings. He was a canny little bastard.

  His back eased, Huntsekker rose and returned to the road. Something was still troubling him, but he couldn't put his finger on the problem.

  The answer came to him just a fraction too late: why had Powdermill refused to travel with him?

  The first shot struck him between the shoulder blades, slamming him forwards. The second shot hit him in the lower chest. Instinctively Huntsekker threw himself to the right, and over the edge of a steep drop. He fell heavily, then pitched head over heels, gathering speed until his body splashed into an icy stream.

  The moon disappeared behind thick clouds. Huntsekker, semiconscious, dragged himself clear of the water and crawled into thick undergrowth. There he passed out.

  When he awoke it was dawn. His head pounded, and there was dried blood on his scalp. With a groan he sat up, struggling to remember how he came to be there. Had he fallen? Then he remembered the shots from the darkness. With an effort he opened his bearskin coat. There was blood on his shirt, which was ripped, and the wooden hilt of his double shot pistol was dented and split. Huntsekker pulled it clear. The second shot had struck the weapon, then cannoned off across the flesh of his left side, tearing the skin.

  The big man scanned the upper tree line, seeking out the assassins. There was no-one in sight. Rising, he grunted with pain as he took off the heavy bearskin coat. As he did so a flattened ball dropped away from the narrow, double mesh chain mail that was expertly fitted to the lining of the shoulders, extending down to his hips. Two of the outer mesh rings had snapped, but the second layer had saved his life.

  Bruised, bleeding and angry Huntsekker donned the coat. He would not go straight to Eldacre. Instead he would go home first.

  And fetch his scythe.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JAKON GALLOWGLASS HAD FEW FRIENDS. A NATURALLY TACITURN MAN, he had little time for socializing, and no inclination at all to sit gossiping around camp fires. Only two activities interested the young southerner, fighting and whoring. At nineteen he had been in the army for five years, at war now for four. In that time he had developed a taste for battle. Where most soldiers spent their lives caught between boredom and terror Jakon Gallowglass enjoyed his to the full. He was neither introspective nor imaginative. He listened as his comrades spoke of their fears of death or mutilation, but let the words wash over him. Jakon would wrap himself in his cloak and think of better things. There was a new whore at Mellin's tavern, a buxom youngster from the eastern shires. Three daens for a swift ride, and half a chailling for an entire night. Jakon could not imagine why a man would want a whore for an entire night. He'd spent an evening with one once. The ride had been most enjoyable, but afterwards all she'd wanted to do was talk. Endlessly. There had been a buzzing in his ears for days afterwards. It was amazing how many words had flowed out of her. She told him her life story, and by the end of the evening Jakon felt he had lived it several times over.

  No, give him the swift ride every time.

  He had enjoyed just such a ride this very evening, and was on his way back to camp. Snow had been falling hard, and Jakon trudged slowly through it, climbing a steep bank to cut across the fields. As he approached a small wood he saw a horseman enter the trees. It was his commanding officer, Barin Macy, in his uniform of scarlet and gold, partially obscured by his fur-lined cloak. Jakon paused in the moonlight, idly wondering what the general would be doing at this time of night in such a desolate place. In normal circumstances Jakon would not have gone a single step out of his way to find out. Curiosity was not one of his vices. On this occasion, however, the general was riding across the path Jakon was to take. This posed a problem, in that he had slipped out of camp without a pass, and, were he to be seen, he'd have to endure a flogging. So he hunkered down beside a bush and waited for the rider to exit the trees.

  Only he didn't.

  Jakon was growing cold, and decided to see if he could creep past the small wood without being noticed. Keeping low he angled his way down the slope to the edge of the trees. He could hear voices now, and paused again.

  'They're northerners. There'll be few tears shed,' he heard someone say.

  'Even so, they are good fighting men. It'll not be easy,' came the reply.

  'I think you are wrong, Macy. They'll be expecting nothing. Your men will get in close, and at the first volley the Eldacre men will panic and run. Keep your cavalry in reserve to mop up stragglers. And bring back the head of the traitor Macon.'

  'Damn it, Velroy, this is hard to believe. The Grey Ghost has been our finest cavalry leader. He's turned several battles. Why would he defect to Luden Macks? It makes no sense.'

  'It is not for us to question orders. Pick your men carefully and ride out late the day af
ter tomorrow. Attack the town the following morning. Come in on all four sides. No-one must escape.'

  'What of the townsfolk?'

  'The Redeemers will take over after the battle. They will question the citizens and deal with any deemed to have Covenant sympathies.'

  'By heaven, Velroy, this feels like a dirty business.'

  'Do it well and you will be given command of Person's Lancers. Lord Winterbourne also offers a thousand pounds as a gesture of his continuing goodwill towards you and your family.'

  'That is most generous.'

  'Lord Winterbourne makes a very good friend, Macy. It is worth remembering.'

  'A man can never have enough friends,' answered Macy. 'Convey my thanks to the earl, and tell him he can rely upon me and my men. And now I must go. This cold is eating into my bones.'

  Jakon ducked down. He heard the creak of leather as the general mounted. Then he saw the rider swing his horse back towards the camp. Jakon waited until the other officer also departed, then he rose from his hiding place.

  Jakon Gallowglass did not have many friends. But two years ago, a ball lodged in his thigh, he had waited to be killed by Covenant scouts. He had been hunkered down on a stretch of open ground, two dead comrades alongside him. Dragging himself behind one of the bodies he had lain there quietly as shots rained in on him. He could hear some of them thunking into the corpse, and others kicking up dirt close by. Then he'd heard a shot from behind him. With a curse he rolled to his back, scrabbling for his pistol. There were no Covenanters there. It was a young, sandy-haired musketeer wearing the leaf green tunic of the Eldacre regiment. He was kneeling on the ground some fifty paces behind Jakon's position. Shots peppered the ground around him, but he coolly loaded and fired. Then a horseman on a huge grey gelding came thundering across the open ground. A young rider, wearing a wide-brimmed grey hat and a long grey greatcoat, leapt to the ground alongside Jakon, hauling him upright and lifting him into the saddle. Vaulting up behind him the rider had kicked the gelding into a run. A shot screamed by them, ripping the hat from the rider's head. The gelding took off and was soon out of range of the muskets. The rider drew up and helped Jakon to the ground. Other cavalrymen moved past them, galloping out towards the high ground and the Covenant snipers. The officer knelt beside Jakon, examining the wound to his thigh. 'Broke no bones, and missed the major artery. You're a lucky young fellow. I'll put a tourniquet on it until we can get you to a surgeon.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  The man laughed. 'Don't thank me. Thank that idiot rifleman of mine. He's too good a man to lose. If I hadn't pulled you out he'd still be there in the line of fire. As it is I've lost a damn good hat,' he said, pushing his hand through his long, golden hair.

  'You're the Grey Ghost.'

  'One of these days I must find out where that name originated,' said Gaise Macon. 'Now what can we use as a tourniquet?' The Grey Ghost had untied a white silk scarf from his neck, and, using Jakon's pistol as a lever, had tightened it around the wounded thigh. 'That should hold you, lad. I'll leave you in the capable hands of young Jaekel here.' Patting Jakon on the shoulder he had returned to his mount and ridden away towards the hills.

  Jakon eased himself up into a sitting position. The rifleman sat beside him. 'Thanks,' said Jakon.

  'Don't mention it,' said Taybard Jaekel, and they sat in silence for a while. Jaekel had pulled a plug of smoked meat from his hip pouch. With a small knife he cut it in half and handed a section to Jakon. 'Need to loosen that tourniquet,' he said. 'Leg'll rot if you don't.'

  'Did you hit any of them Covenanters?' asked Jakon.

  Two.'

  'You only fired twice.'

  'That's why I only hit two.'

  The leg was beginning to pain him, but Jakon still managed a smile. 'I'm Jakon Gallowglass. I owe you one.'

  'If I see you near a tavern I'll let you buy me a tankard of ale,' said Jaekel.

  It was a good memory.

  Now Jakon Gallowglass, cold and angry, stood at the edge of the woods, staring at the twinkling fires of the camp not two hundred paces distant. Given the choice he would have preferred to arrive five minutes after the officers had gone, to have heard nothing of their plans. That way when he had heard of the death of the Grey Ghost and Taybard Jaekel he could simply have experienced a little grief, before resuming his life of fighting and whoring.

  Gallowglass swore, long and loudly, his anger rising. He had spent many evenings in the company of Taybard Jaekel. He liked the man. He didn't fill your head with questions. Added to which he had saved Jakon's life twice. 'Damn and perdition,' he said.

  If he headed off towards Shelding he could be there by late morning. At which point he would have moved beyond desertion and become a traitor.

  Jakon Gallowglass was not a fool. Even if he warned the Grey Ghost it was unlikely the man or his company would survive. If they did they would become hunted men, hundreds of miles from their homeland.

  'Best you look after yourself, Gallowglass,' he whispered.

  Then he turned his back on the Shelding road and returned to his barracks.

  Marl Coper had always been ambitious. As a child living on the south coast with his widowed father he had dreamed of a life of power and riches. In that order. His family had been poor, though not poverty-stricken. His father was an army surgeon, and had received a tract of land and a good house upon his retirement. After that he tended to the citizens of Lord Winterbourne's southern estates. He would not have seen himself as poor. There was always food on the table, but clothes had to be mended, shoes repaired. They owned only two horses, both old and swaybacked. Marl needed more than this.

  He was a good student at the local school, reading endlessly, studying Varlish history. It seemed to Marl that the greatest attribute of history's giants was ruthlessness, combined with a single-minded goal. Closer examination, however, showed that all the great men had also learned the craft of politics. They had acquired mentors, patrons who could lift them, supply them with contacts, and ease their way through the treacherous alleyways of power.

  Marl's first mentor had been a canny old man who ran Lord Winterbourne's southern manor. The thirteen-year-old Marl had run errands for him, seeking to please him at every turn. The old man took a shine to him, and began inviting him to his home. Here Marl performed services of a more disquieting nature.

  By the time Marl was nineteen he had learned all that he could from the old man. It had not occurred to him at that time to engineer his death, and thus take over his role. Marl was still young and unsure of his skills. One day, however, fate intervened. They were crossing the ice-covered River Tael, when suddenly the surface cracked. The old man was spun from his feet, landing heavily, his legs slipping under water. He scrabbled to hold on to the tilting ice. Marl threw himself flat and instinctively reached out for his mentor. In that moment he realized they were totally alone. Unseen. Slithering forward he reached the old man. His lips were already blue with cold. 'Pull me out, boy. Be careful, though. If we both go under we're doomed.'

  Marl reached out, pushed aside the old man's questing hand and thrust his head down under the ice. The old man fought hard, but the current dragged him down to his death.

  Marl Coper made a fine steward. He reorganized the running of the manor, and introduced a new breed of cattle, purchased from the north, which were more hardy and supplied more beef. He improved the horse herds, acquiring three fine stallions from across the sea. The manor house itself had fallen into disrepair, as Lord Winterbourne spent little time there, but Marl brought in carpenters and stonemasons to renovate the building. Despite the expenditure the profits from the estate doubled in three years.

  He worked tirelessly, with one aim in mind. To impress the Winterbourne family. Initially this meant catching the eye of Sir Gayan Kay, Lord Winterbourne's younger brother. Impressing him was not easy. The man was a Knight of the Sacrifice, boorish and arrogant. He had a habit of speaking his mind, no matter the hurt or the offence caused.
He maintained that this was the duty of a knight, to speak the truth. As always with such people, were any to speak their minds to him he would fly into uncontrollable rages. Marl observed him quietly for more than a year. He noted that Gayan Kay professed a hatred of sycophants, and yet surrounded himself with the most appalling toadies.

  Marl organized hunts for Gayan Kay and his friends, arranged the balls and gatherings he was so fond of, paid his overdue bills, and kept largely in the background until he had studied the man fully. He learned to read Gayan Kay. The man had an ego the size of a mountain, but he was no fool.

  Except for his belief that he was a poet of distinction.

  Often he would invite his friends to listen to his latest compositions. They were mostly maudlin and trite, but his hangers-on would applaud wildly. Marl joined in, and waited his moment. One evening he listened as Gayan droned on, and noticed that the knight was not offering the piece with his usual verve. Marl sensed that he was unsure of the poem - as well he might be. It was singularly awful. At the close all his companions told him how wonderful it was. Marl took a deep breath. 'I do not think, sir,' he said, 'that it is worthy of you.' A stunned silence followed. Gayan Kay's face went pale. Marl pressed on smoothly. 'Had any other poet offered such a piece I would have praised them to the skies. It is wonderful and vibrant. But your work, sir, is normally touched with greatness.'

  Gayan Kay stood silently for a moment. 'Damn,' he said, 'but I do love an honest man. He's right. The piece is not worthy of me.'

  Within a remarkably short space of time Marl became Gayan Kay's best friend.

  As a result he was drawn into the close circle of men who gathered around the powerful Winter Kay. Their first meeting had been inauspicious. Winter Kay had nodded in his direction then moved away. He was not like his brother. Marl watched him closely. He did not suffer fools, and he was immune to flattery.

  It was another year before he saw him again. Winter Kay arrived in the south, took a tour of the manor house, then summoned Marl to the newly refurbished rooms in the southern wing.