•As the fleeing Rigante passed the line of scrub growth they suddenly turned and re-formed, drawing pistols from their belts.
Then ten of the twenty cannon hidden in pits behind the line of bushes belched thunder and fire into the knights. The carnage was appalling. Each of the cannons had been packed with hundreds of musket balls - grapeshot Gaise Macon called it. Where there had been a division of highly disciplined charging cavalry there was now a charnel house of twisted corpses and mutilated men. Those horsemen who had survived the horror of the first cannon blasts urged their mounts on.
A second volley of cannon fire thundered. Kaelin saw men and horses flung to the ground.
Even then the knights did not retreat.
'Forward!' shouted Kaelin Ring.
The Rigante charged, scrambling over the corpses and the mutilated survivors. With pistol and sabre they surged into the horsemen. From the right came Gaise Macon and a thousand Eldacre cavalry. They hammered into the enemy's flank.
Kaelin blocked a savage downward stroke from a cavalry sabre, then leapt, grabbing the rider by his breastplate and hauling him from the saddle. As the rider fell he lost hold of his weapon and hit the ground hard. Kaelin stabbed him through the throat. The man's horse suddenly reared, its front hooves cracking against Kaelin's injured shoulder, throwing him from his feet. He scrambled up. The surviving knights had swung to face Macon's lighter armed cavalry. A little distance away Kaelin saw Gaise Macon cut a man from the saddle and spur his horse deeper into the fray. Then his horse stumbled and went down. Gaise kicked his feet from the stirrups and leapt clear. Two knights rode at him. Kaelin dragged his pistol clear of his belt and fired at the first rider. The shot punched through the centre of the knight's forehead. Gaise ran at the second, ducked under a slashing sabre, and buried his own blade through the rider's breastplate. The man sagged to the right. Gaise pitched him from the saddle. Grabbing the pommel with his left hand he vaulted to the beast's back. Then, taking the reins, he swung the captured mount and returned to the attack.
With the Rigante surging forward, and Macon's cavalry cutting their way through, the surviving knights finally broke. Swinging their mounts they galloped back for the safety of their lines.
Kaelin and the Rigante moved back across the field of the fallen and resumed their position at the earth ramparts, reloading their muskets.
Behind them the cannoneers recharged their weapons, then ran among the fallen knights, killing those who still lived. Kaelin Ring tried to close his ears to the almost inhuman shrieks of the mortally wounded. He had never felt any regard for the men of the Varlish, and was surprised that their deaths and their suffering should touch him so. He gazed out over the battlefield. It seemed to him that the dead almost outnumbered the living now.
And the dreadful day wore on.
The pain from the stump of Rayster's amputated left arm caused him to groan aloud. This display of weakness annoyed the clansman, and he gritted his teeth as the orderly continued to wrap the honey and wine soaked bandage around the cauterized stump. Sweat gleamed upon Rayster's face, and his jaw ached from where he had bitten so hard into the leather strap the surgeon had placed between his teeth. 'I can give you something to dull the pain,' said the orderly, a soft-faced man with large, friendly eyes. Rayster shook his head. He had no strength to reply. It was all he could do to stop from screaming out in his agony.
His head sank back to the pillow. For an hour he fought the pain, after refusing the narcotics offered by the orderly. In the distance he could hear the cannon fire. Finally he struggled up. All around him were wounded men, overworked orderlies moving among them.
Rayster stood, then staggered. The first orderly ran back to him. 'What do you think you are doing, man?'
'Where is my cloak?'
Sweat dripped into Rayster's eyes. Then he saw the garment in a heap on the floor by a window. The orderly gathered it up. Rayster's sword, pistol and knife were lying beneath it. 'I will look after everything for you, clansman. I promise you. No-one will steal your weapons.'
Rayster took the cloak from the man and tried to swing it round his shoulders. It was difficult with one hand - and impossible to open the Rigante cloak brooch. Rayster felt a wave of despair roll over him. He looked into the soft eyes of the orderly. 'Put my cloak on me,' he said. ‘I’ll not die in here.'
For a moment the man appeared to be ready to argue the point, but then he expertly settled Rayster's cloak into place, and unpinned the oval, bronze brooch. 'I have seen these before,' he said. 'Usually there is a name embossed within the eye.'
Rayster did not reply. He stood and swayed, then he leaned down and picked up his pistol, thrusting it into his belt. 'Strap on my sword belt,' he said. The orderly complied. Rayster felt suddenly faint and sat down heavily. The orderly sat beside him.
'You are a strong man,' he said, 'but you have lost much blood. You need to rest awhile, gather your strength. The body is a remarkable thing. It will heal itself, and you will learn to do everything you need, even though you have lost an arm.'
'I am not concerned about the arm,' said Rayster. 'I have comrades out there.'
'You'll be no help to them in this state.'
Reluctantly Rayster lay back. Amazingly, despite the pain, he slept for a while. When he awoke he felt stronger, though not much. Rising, he forced himself to walk among the injured. Other Rigante wounded were somewhere in the castle's west wing. Rayster located several of them. Their wounds were severe, and all of the men were unconscious, having availed themselves of the narcotic drink. The air in the wing was filled with a curious smell, making Rayster's stomach queasy. Moving to the open doorway he stepped out into a hallway beyond. It was filled with corpses, the bodies laid out in rows.
Rayster moved on. In a nearby corridor he saw a group of some twenty Rigante sitting together. Two, like him, had endured amputations. One had lost a hand, the other had a bloody bandage over the stump of his lower left leg. Most of the others had bandaged wounds to the upper body, and one had lost an eye. The man with the amputated left hand saw Rayster and called out. 'Looks like we were both lucky, eh, Rayster? Never was much use with my left.'
Rayster moved to where they sat. Weary now he sank alongside the man. 'You never were much good with your right, Connal.'
Connal Ironlatch grinned. 'Can you believe they wanted to take our weapons away? My father would flay me alive if I came home without his favourite sword.'
'Aye, he was put out when Bael told him to stay home,' said Rayster. 'Never seen him so angry.'
From outside came the thunder of horses' hooves on the stones. Then a shot sounded and a man cried out in pain.
It had been so long since Winter Kay felt genuine fear that he was almost unmanned by the experience. He had believed for years that he was a powerful man, in full control, and merely aided by the magic of the skull. The realization that the essence of his power came from Kranos, and that he was, in truth, merely ordinary, was almost more than he could bear.
He had no idea how to plan the battle against Gaise Macon, no overall sense of strategy. He looked at the land, the high ground and the slopes beyond the ridges and saw only meadows, hills and a valley. With the skull in his possession he had needed only a glance at a battlefield to note instantly the key areas to control.
Winter Kay desperately needed to regain the skull. After the spirit of Powdermill spoke to him he decided to send Eris Velroy and a hundred Redeemers to make a swift raid into Eldacre and retrieve it. Velroy was willing, but pointed out that a hundred men riding from the battlefield would alert the enemy, and probably cause them to send out a cavalry troop in pursuit. A smaller force might pass unnoticed. Winter Kay agreed. He didn't care how many men rode into Eldacre, as long as they rode out with the skull.
Then paranoia touched his soul. What if Velroy decided to keep the skull for himself ? Worms of doubt burrowed into Winter Kay's mind. 'I will lead the raid myself,' he told Velroy. 'Thirty Redeemers should suffice.'
'Who then will conduct the battle, my lord?' asked Velroy.
'You will. It should hardly be taxing, my dear Velroy. We have overwhelming superiority in numbers.'
'But the battle plan?'
'You have always shown high skill in strategy, Velroy. Now is the time to display it.'
'I am honoured, my lord. I ... I thank you for your trust in me.'
'As soon as I have the skull I shall return and we will review your actions.'
'Yes, my lord.'
That had been just before the dawn. Winter Kay and thirty Redeemers had ridden away to the south west, skirting the woods and circling into the hills above Eldacre. Here they had drawn up and dismounted. With an ornate long glass Winter Kay studied the town. There were no signs of troops.
Then came the sounds of cannon fire in the distance. The battle had begun.
Winter Kay was torn between the desire to ride down into the town and risk entering the castle, and a sudden fear that it was all a trap. He sat in the shelter of the trees, his mouth dry. The men with him were nervous. They were all on edge, for none of them had received the power of the skull in days. Worse than this, Winter Kay found himself seeing them differently. His Redeemers, he had always believed, were the elite. Powerful, single-minded men, the best that the Varlish could create. He looked at them now and saw their fear. With the strength-enhancing magic of the skull, and the mystical advantages they gained, they had been elite. Now, like him, they were merely frightened men,
Once more Winter Kay scanned the castle. He could see a sentry at the gates.
'Do we go in, my lord?' asked a Redeemer.
Winter Kay rose. Before he possessed the skull he had been a soldier, and a fine swordsman. He had not lacked courage then, he told himself. 'Yes. We go in.'
Mounting his horse he led the thirty men down the slope and into the town. They did not ride fast. There were some citizens on the street, but they largely ignored the riders. They had seen so many strange soldiers during the past weeks that they did not recognize the Redeemers as enemies. Winter Kay began to relax. They rode past the huge cathedral. His fears vanished then, replaced by the anger of memory. His brother Gayan had died here, killed by a highlander during the botched execution of a witch. Now that witch was sheltering in Eldacre Castle.
He would find the skull, then avenge his brother's death.
Cutting to the right the troop of riders headed for the castle. There was a mass of tents outside the walls, and Winter Kay saw a number of wounded men, some of them heavily bandaged, others with splints upon broken legs and arms. Ignoring them he steered his gelding through the gates.
An elderly sentry looked up as they rode through. He did not challenge them. Then an officer appeared from a side doorway. He was followed out by a burly soldier. The officer walked out towards the riders, his expression puzzled. 'Are you seeking the Moidart?' he asked.
'I am looking for Aran Powdermill,' Winter Kay told him.
'I am Colonel Galliott. Perhaps I can assist you. Are you with Konin's detachment?'
'No, colonel,' said Winter Kay. 'I am Lord Winterbourne.'
The officer grabbed for the pistol in his belt. Winter Kay already had his hand upon the butt of his own pistol. He drew it swiftly, cocked it and fired. The ball took Galliott in the chest. He fell back with a cry, dragging his own pistol clear, and shot back. A rider to Winter Kay's right took the ball in the face and was hurled from his mount. The burly soldier who had emerged with Galliott drew his sabre and rushed at Winter Kay. A Redeemer spurred his horse between them and shot the man in the throat at point blank range.
Another shot rang out. A Redeemer cried out in pain and slumped over his saddle. The elderly sentry had discharged his musket behind them. Several of the Redeemers shot him. Winter Kay stepped down from his mount. Leaving nineteen men to secure the courtyard he took nine men with him and ran into the main castle building. Two servants came into sight. Seeing armed men they turned to flee. Winter Kay chased the first and caught him by the arm. 'Where is Aran Powdermill?' he shouted.
The servant pointed up the main stairway. 'On the first floor. Fourth room on your left, sir.'
'And Maev Ring?'
'Also on the first floor, but to the right, at the end of the corridor.'
Winter Kay pushed the man aside and moved up the stairs. As he climbed he shouted: 'Powdermill, where are you?'
At the top he saw a door open, and a small man with two gold teeth step, out. The man blinked in surprise, then waved Winter Kay forward. Followed by his Redeemers Winter Kay ran down the corridor.
'I didn't expect you to come yourself, my lord,' said Powdermill.
Winter Kay ignored him and entered the small room. He almost groaned with pleasure when he saw the velvet sack upon a walnut table. Pushing Powdermill aside he stepped forward and opened the sack, laying his hands reverently upon the ancient bone. Fresh energy poured into him, and a great sense of calm descended. Kneeling before the skull he kissed it. His head cleared. Then he rose and faced Powdermill. 'You have been true to your word, Master Powdermill. You may serve me, and you will receive Gaise Macon's sword. Now take me to Maev Ring.'
Huntsekker was annoyed as he paced the weapons gallery. He had planned to leave Eldacre this morning, to take Maev Ring back to the north. She had agreed to go, but had claimed to need time to settle her new affairs here. She had letters she needed to write. Letters, for heaven's sake! The world was coming apart and she needed to write letters.
After they were written they would need to be delivered. It was nonsense. They would hitch up the wagon and go riding around the town, and all the while the enemy would be drawing nearer.
I should just leave, Huntsekker told himself. Head off to my farm. Forget the woman.
It was this comforting thought that caused his annoyance. Because despite the eminent good sense of such a plan he couldn't do it. In all the great tales of heroism Huntsekker had learned as a young boy the hero never left the maiden in distress. The fact that here was a harridan in distress did not, he feared, alter the basic concept.
Huntsekker tried to quell his growing anger by examining the ancient weapons here. There were some beautiful swords and knives on display. They had been in the Moidart's family for generations. Long swords carried by knights, and designed to be used from horseback, blade heavy so that they slashed down with greater force; glaves with massive blades, forged to smash plate armour. It was just such a blade that Jaim Grymauch carried into the cathedral that day. Huntsekker's favourite, however, was the ornate short sword that had been discovered in the tomb of a Stone general. Wonderful piece, with a hilt of carved ivory and a blade of gleaming iron, burnished like silver. Short swords were infinitely more deadly in a pitched battle. When Huntsekker had been a soldier he had bought a hunting knife with a blade almost a foot in length. That purchase had saved his life on four occasions.
He strolled the gallery, idly glancing at the pikes and lances, breastplates and suits of armour. Then he saw the blank section where once hung the narrow silver breastplate which the Moidart's grandfather had worn in the First Clan War. Huntsekker sighed. It was this piece that the Moidart had donned last night, before riding out to the battle site.
Huntsekker had not been remotely tempted to ride with him. Nor had the Moidart requested it. There had been no long goodbyes, no words of friendship, no valedictory statements. The Moidart had instructed Huntsekker to buckle the breastplate for him, then selected four pistols.
'I have no more need for you at present, Huntsekker.'
'Then I'll go home, my lord.'
‘Take Maev Ring with you. I'll have your payment sent on to you after the battle,' said the Moidart, with just the trace of a smile.
'Thank you, my lord. Most kind.'
Then he had gone.
Huntsekker stood now, in his full length bearskin coat, loaded pistols in his belt, and waited for a fierce-tongued woman to finish writing her letters.
I could j
ust go and drag her from her office. He chuckled at the thought.
Gunshots sounded from the courtyard. Huntsekker spun. Then he swore and began to run.
As the shots boomed in the courtyard Maev Ring opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a small pistol, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her heavy grey travelling skirt. Rising from her seat she donned her dark green shawl and stepped out into the corridor. The black hound, Soldier, padded after her.
She heard the sound of running men. A voice shouted: 'Where is Aran Powder mill?' Then she heard her own name. Why would anyone be looking for her? The Moidart had come to her last night, urging her to leave the castle this morning. Perhaps he had sent men to escort her. It seemed unlikely. There were no men to spare, though Galliott was still at the castle.
Moving across the corridor into an empty room she made her way to a window and looked down. There was a group of red-cloaked men there, some mounted, some on foot, pistols in their hands. Then she saw the bodies of Galliott and Sergeant Packard.
Drawing her pistol she cocked it, then stood behind the closed door. She heard again the sounds of running men. They entered her office.
'Where is she?' someone demanded. There was no reply. Yet they did not move off. Instinctively Maev moved back from the door. It suddenly burst open. The first man through was heavy set and trident-bearded. Maev shot him in the head. He fell heavily.
Another man followed him. Soldier growled and sprang towards him, leaping and closing his fangs on the man's throat. Then more men ran in. One struck her in the face with his fist. Maev was thrown back against the far wall. A boot struck her in the stomach and she doubled over. She heard a shot, and a dying howl of pain from the hound. Then a hawk-faced man grabbed her long red and silver hair, wrenching back her head. 'Justice was a long time coming, witch,' he said, 'but it is here now.'
From the corridor beyond came a scream, then two more pistol shots. A red-cloaked body hurtled into the room, crunching against the wall. More shots sounded. The man holding her swung his head to see what was going on. A Redeemer staggered backwards through the doorway, a knife in his chest. Maev saw Huntsekker follow him. The big man had blood on his face. Grabbing the Redeemer by the hair he wrenched the knife clear then slashed it across the man's throat. A heavy sabre lashed into the back of Huntsekker's head. Blood sprayed out. He half fell. Another man leapt upon him, bearing him to the floor. Huntsekker stabbed him in the groin, threw him clear, then struggled to his feet.
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