Stormrider (40 page)

“He had no wish to defeat them. It suited his purposes for the war to be prolonged. The king’s popularity plummeted, which meant that by the time Winterbourne killed him, the people were ready for a change and will not mourn him.”

“A
very
able fellow. One could almost admire him.”

“I am sure the two of you would have become the best of friends,” said Gaise. “I was almost touched when I learned you had become his enemy after he tried to have me killed.”

The Moidart smiled. “Much as I would like to bask in the sunshine of your appreciation, I should point out that I became his enemy after he tried to have
me
killed. However, that is by the by. You will need to meet the staff officers. I will have them gather in the main hall this evening. In the meantime I shall order a force to march into the lands of the Pinance. How many should we send?”

“Two thousand is all we can spare at present,” said Gaise, “but it should be sufficient in the short term. How capable are the generals under your command?”

“I have no idea at all,” answered the Moidart. “They chose themselves. The only man I know well is Galliott. He is a fine organizer, but I fear he is no war leader. The others are Pinancers.”

Gaise considered the problem. “Galliott’s nephew, Hew, has served with me. He is a brave and skillful cavalryman. I shall promote him and put him in command of the force. He can choose his own junior officers. The majority of the men should be from Eldacre. There will be too many desertions if we allow the Pinancers to head back to their own lands.”

“Agreed,” said the Moidart. Gaise rose to leave.

“An unusual sword,” said the Moidart as sunlight glinted upon the golden fist guard. “Where did you get it?”

“From a dead man.”

“May I see it?”

Gaise drew the gleaming saber and passed it hilt first to the Moidart. “This dead man appears to have had our family crest engraved upon the pommel. It is a handsome piece. What is the meaning of the rearing horse in the clouds?”

“It stands for Stormrider.”

The Moidart looked nonplussed.

“It is my Rigante soul-name.”

“Quaint and yet poetic. Perhaps I should acquire one.”

“I think, by definition, a soul-name requires a soul, Father.”

The Moidart laughed aloud. “You are the second man in a matter of days to point out my lack in this regard.” He returned the saber. “And now you had better seek out Hew Galliott. I will arrange for a meeting of staff officers.”

Gaise Macon sheathed the saber and walked from the room. The hound padded after him.

The Moidart stood for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I do have a soul-name,” he whispered.

Jakon Gallowglass was content. He had survived the attack on Shelding and the subsequent flight north. He had eaten a meal in the shadow of Eldacre Castle and had discovered the whereabouts of a lively whore on whom he had spent his last chailling. She had apologized for keeping him waiting while she serviced her previous customer. Jakon had not minded. The theatrical moans and cries he had heard had only heightened his anticipation.

Sated and happy, Jakon Gallowglass wandered through the night-dark streets of Eldacre town, heading back toward the hundreds of tents pitched to the west of the castle. He was idly wondering when the next wage would be paid when he saw a column of dark-garbed men loping down from the hills.

As they came closer, he studied them. All of them wore black leather jerkins beneath pale blue and green cloaks. They carried short, heavy sabers. Many had muskets, and all wore pistols in their belts. Long knives were thrust into scabbards at their sides. Gallowglass was a fighting man, and he knew fighting men. These men were special. They were lean and hard-eyed, their movements smooth, sure, and confident. Old Tamor had called it “the look of eagles.” Gallowglass fully understood the phrase when he saw the warriors move toward the castle.

Colonel Galliott came out to meet them. He seemed uneasy as he approached them. Gallowglass sat on a low wall and cast his eyes back along the column. There was no banter among the men. He saw several of them glance toward him and felt the coldness in their stares.

One of the warriors emerged from the column to meet Galliott. They did not shake hands, but they spoke quietly. Gallowglass stared at the man. He was powerfully built and dark-haired. He carried no musket, but two silver pistols were thrust into his belt. The two men talked for some time, then Galliott pointed to an area some distance from the tents, alongside a stream. The dark-haired warrior spoke to another man, who led the column away. Gallowglass saw them spread out and begin to make camp. Then Galliott and the leader walked into the castle.

Gallowglass considered wandering over to where the newcomers were gathering. He decided against it. They did not look very welcoming.

Instead he walked back to the line of tents, trying to recall which one he was sharing with Taybard Jaekel and Lanfer Gosten. Most of the flaps were drawn shut. Gallowglass opened several and peered inside before moving on. Just when he had decided to crawl into the next damn tent that had a space, he saw Taybard emerge some twenty yards farther along. Gallowglass waved and strolled over to him.

“Found the whore,” he said. “Mighty fine she was.”

“I need to piss,” said Taybard.

“Me, too.”

Together they walked back to the castle wall and emptied their bladders. “How do you feel about being home?” asked Jakon.

“I’m not home,” said Taybard.

“What are you talking about?” responded Gallowglass, tying the front of his leggings. “This is where you come from, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is where I come from.”

Taybard moved away. Gallowglass watched him go. The man had not been the same since Shelding. The deaths of Kammel Bard and Banny had changed him in a way Gallowglass did not understand. People died in war. That was a fact of life. Indeed, most of the men Gallowglass had known at the start of the war were now in the ground. Old Tamor had been the first to go, his face blown off. They had identified him by a red birthmark on the back of his neck. His death had saddened Gallowglass, but it had not turned him weird.

He saw that Taybard had not gone back to the tent and caught sight of him wandering along the line of the wall. Gallowglass ran after him.

“Wait up,” he said. “Where are you headed?”

“Just walking.”

“You want to walk alone?”

“I don’t care.”

“Not like you to leave your rifle behind.”

“No. Hanging offense to lose your rifle.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Jaekel? Are you drunk?”

Taybard suddenly sat on the ground. “I’m not drunk,” he said. “I just want to go home.”

“You
are
home.”

“We marched past my house yesterday. Only it didn’t seem like my house. Nothing is the same, Gallowglass. Old Hills, Eldacre, the Five Fields . . . it’s all changed.”

“New buildings, you mean?”

“No, they’re all the same. But they’re not home anymore. They’re just buildings. I want to go home. I want things to be as they were. I want to see Banny and hear him making jokes. I want to hear Kammel Bard complaining about everything.”

“They are dead, Jaekel. You are not.”

“I know they are dead. I know things will never be the same. I just thought that when I came home, I would be free of . . . I don’t know what I thought.”

“You should get some sleep. Sleep is good. You haven’t slept much since Shelding.”

“I think I’ll walk a bit.”

Taybard rose to his feet and wandered off. Gallowglass followed him.

They approached the area where the newcomers were camped. Fires had been lit, and groups of men were sitting around.

Taybard Jaekel ignored them and kept walking.

“This is a Rigante camp,” said someone. “You Varlish can stay clear of it.”

“I’m Rigante,” said Taybard Jaekel. “She told me that. She said—”

“I don’t care what she said,” the man snapped, surging to his feet. “Get your stinking carcass away from us.”

Gallowglass moved in. “Rigante, is it?” he said. “Well, watch yourself, Rigante, or I’ll rip off your head and piss in the hole.”

“The Wyrd said I was of the line of Fiallach,” Taybard Jaekel said tonelessly. “He was a general, you know. He served Connavar the King. Don’t know much about him. The books don’t say. Don’t know who I am really. Don’t know anything anymore.” Silence fell on the scene. Jaekel just stood there, lost in dark and gloomy thoughts.

A tall, fair-haired man stepped forward and approached Gallowglass. “What is wrong with your friend?” he asked.

“Too much death, I reckon.”

The man who had first insulted them moved alongside Taybard. He was tall and sharp-featured, his dark hair closely cropped and receding, leaving a pointed widow’s peak at the center of his brow “Drink this,” he said, offering Taybard a small leather-covered flask. Taybard drank deeply.

“Sit you down,” he said, no anger in his voice now. “I’ll tell you of Fiallach and his Iron Wolves. Then you’ll know who you are and where you came from.”

Taybard sat obediently, and the men seated themselves in a circle around him. Gallowglass stood by forgotten, but he listened as the tale of Fiallach unfolded. It was a story well told of a rough and arrogant man who had at first sought to kill Connavar but then had served him faithfully unto death. All the while the story was unfolding the Rigante plied Taybard Jaekel with their flasks. When it came to the death in battle of Fiallach, Taybard began to weep. The man closest to him told him to lie down. Taybard did so. Within moments he was asleep. Someone covered him with a blanket. Gallowglass remained where he was, unsure of what to do. The storyteller rose silently. The others followed his lead, then moved away from the sleeping man.

Then the storyteller moved past Gallowglass, gesturing for him to follow. Once they were a little way from Taybard, the Rigante looked into Gallowglass’ eyes. “So you’ll rip my head from my shoulders, will you?”

“And piss in the hole,” said Gallowglass.

The man laughed. “Is there Rigante in you, too, by any chance?”

“If there is, no one ever told me. What were you getting him to drink?”

“Uisge. He’ll sleep well and wake with a head that feels like it’s been fired from a cannon.”

“Why did you do that for him?”

“The man was hurting, and the Wyrd said he was Rigante. The Wyrd is known to us as the Dweller by the Lake. If she says he is Rigante, he is Rigante. We look after our own. I am Korrin Talis. You?”

“Jakon Gallowglass.”

“Leave your friend with us. We’ll give him breakfast and send him back to you.”

“I’d like to stay with him.”

“But you can’t,” Talis said with a wolfish grin, “for you are a stinking Varlish, and if you disobey me, I’ll be forced to rip off your balls and make you wear them as a necklace.”

Gallowglass laughed aloud. “Good night to you, Korrin Talis.”

“And to you, Jakon Gallowglass.”

16

Kaelin Ring followed Galliott into the castle and up the wide stairwell. He paused at the top and stared at the picture of a beautiful young woman standing alongside a tall gray horse. The horse was stylized, its head far too small, but the woman was extraordinarily lifelike. “The Moidart’s grandmother,” said Galliott. “Beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Aye. She looks familiar to me.”

“Gaise Macon has the same odd-colored eyes. You have met him, have you not?”

“Once.”

“Well, I’m glad to say he is back. Heaven knows we’ll need his skills. Come on, now. Best not to keep the Moidart waiting.”

Kaelin’s lips tightened, but he said nothing and followed Galliott to the Moidart’s apartments.

Inside there were two men: the Moidart, dressed in a shirt of white satin with the breast embroidered with the fawn in brambles crest of his house, dark leggings, and boots, and Gaise Macon. Gaise wore a gray cavalryman’s jacket with split sleeves. It was well cut, though it showed signs of wear. There was an old bloodstain on the right sleeve.

Galliott bowed to the Moidart and left. Kaelin walked into the room. The Moidart remained seated, but Gaise Macon rose and moved toward Kaelin, his hand outstretched. He was leaner than when Kaelin had first seen him back in Old Hills. Gaise Macon had stopped Taybard Jaekel from plunging a knife into Kaelin’s unprotected body. It seemed so long ago now.

Kaelin Ring shook the proffered hand.

“Good to see you again, Ring,” said Gaise Macon.

“I see you have brought less than two hundred men,” said the Moidart.

“Eighteen hundred more are following. They will be here in three days.”

“Ah, that is better news,” said the Moidart. “I was not aware that you two had met.”

“A long time ago, Father. As I recall, Master Ring has a fine left hook. He was taught, so he told me at the time, by the champion, Jaim Grymauch. You might recall he was the highlander who defeated the Varlish champion.”

“I do recall,” said the Moidart, rising from his chair. “And now I will leave you to become better acquainted. There will be a meeting of staff officers tomorrow at first light. You will be most welcome to attend, Master Ring.”

Kaelin noticed that Gaise Macon looked surprised by his father’s announcement. “With respect, Father, I thought you would wish to speak to Master Ring about his troops.”

“Not at this time. You and he should converse. You will find you have much in common. Good night to you, Master Ring.”

Kaelin nodded to the man.

“Oh, by the way, your aunt Maev is now a general in my army. Novel, don’t you think?”

Kaelin made no attempt to disguise his shock. “A general?”

“She is in charge of supplies,” said Gaise Macon. “My father has developed an odd sense of humor.”

“Indeed I have,” said the Moidart. “Life, I have discovered, is almost always so tragic that it becomes amusing. However, in this case the appointment was not made lightly. As one of my generals she will have powers that a quartermaster could not call upon. I will see you at the briefing, Master Ring. When you have finished here, Gaise, join me and Powdermill in the upper apartment.”

After he had left, Kaelin looked hard at the blond-haired cavalryman, seeking any sign of resemblance. Having never known his own father or seen a painted likeness, Kaelin had no point of reference to make comparisons. They were around the same height, but there any similarity ended. Kaelin was square-jawed, his dark eyes deep-set. Gaise Macon looked like the nobleman he was, with fine ascetic bone structure and an aquiline nose.

“Is there something about me that troubles you?” asked Gaise.

“No.”

“You seem to be staring.”

“You don’t look much like your father,” said Kaelin.

“Something to be thankful for. You say there will be two thousand Rigante?”

“Within three days.”

“I am not sure how best to use them. Modern army warfare requires discipline and an understanding of the structures of command. You follow?”

“Oh, I am sure I can keep up if you speak slowly and clearly.”

“I am not trying to insult your men, Ring.”

“Best not, Macon.”

Gaise rubbed his hand across his face, then moved to where a flagon of wine stood on a cabinet. “We seem to be heading in different directions, my friend. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“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.”

“The cathedral is full of holy ornaments,” said the Moidart. “Perhaps one of them could be useful.”

“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.”