Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  Still, thought Taybard, as he sat beside his fire, with winter coming they would be billeted in some barracks somewhere, safe from shot and shell. It would not be so bad.

  And maybe, just maybe, the Gray Ghost would take them home.

  The fire grew, licking at the dry wood. Taybard shivered as the heat flowed over him. The sky was dark now, with not a star shining. A powerful, round-shouldered figure loomed out of the shadows and slumped down by the fire. Taybard glanced up at the bearded face of Kammel Bard.

  “Covenanters pulled back,” said Kammel. “So I guess we won, after all. Any food?” he asked, leaning his rifle against a tent rope.

  “Not yet. Where’s Banny?”

  “Lanfer sent him to guide the supply wagons in. Be more snow tonight, I reckon.”

  “I don’t think we won,” said Taybard. “I don’t think anyone won this time.”

  Kammel pushed back the thick woolen hood he wore and scratched at his thick red hair. “Well, we didn’t pull back, did we?”

  Taybard shrugged. “How would I know? They say the battle stretched over nine miles. Some might have pulled back, I guess. Anyway, who decides?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, who decides who has won or lost? Its not like Avondale anymore. That was easy. We charged. They ran. We captured their cannon. Now, that was a victory. Now we just charge each other, kill each other, and argue about who won.”

  Other men began drifting into the camp, and from somewhere to the west came the smell of stew. The smell would be better than the taste, Taybard knew. Stale bread and a watery broth that would do little to dull the appetite. The fire began to hiss and splutter as sleet fell. Kammel pulled his hood back in place. Taybard stood and placed Kammel’s rifle inside the tent. “Did you get into the village?” he asked the bearded man.

  Kammel shook his head. “Redeemers was there, questioning and such. No one was allowed in. Doubt they had much food there, though. Covenanters would have taken most of it when they pulled out.”

  The two men sat in silence for a while, ignoring the sleet and enjoying what warmth they could absorb from the fire.

  “You ever think back to old Jaim Grymauch?” Kammel asked suddenly.

  “Aye, often,” admitted Taybard. He glanced at his friend. “You didn’t like him.”

  “I never said that.”

  “He was a highlander. You always hated highlanders. Don’t you remember? We once had a row because I said your grandmother was a clanswoman and you called me a liar.”

  “Well, I was younger then,” Kammel said defensively. “But I always liked old Jaim. You remember that day, eh? Never seen the like. Knocked ’em all down and cut Maev Ring from the fire.” Kammel swung around to stare across the camp. “Damn, but I’m hungry,” he said.

  “Won’t be ready yet.”

  “No, but they’re already standing in line.”

  “Let’s wait for Banny. He shouldn’t be long.”

  Once more the silence descended. Taybard stared into the fire, thinking back to the day when Jaim Grymauch had halted the execution of Maev Ring. It was a time he would never forget. One lone highlander surrendering his life to save the woman he loved. Jaim had been a colossus that day, huge and seemingly invulnerable. He had scattered the guards, then drawn his massive sword and dispatched the three knights of the Sacrifice. He had made it, with Maev, to the top of the cathedral steps. That was when the musketeers had arrived. Taybard had run from the crowd, hurling himself at them, managing to ruin the aim of the nearest man. As the other musketeers had fired, Jaim had dragged Maev into a protective embrace. Lead shot had ripped into him.

  The death of a hero. Taybard would never forget it even amid the sea of death that was this dreadful war.

  “Here he comes,” said Kammel, pushing himself to his feet.

  Taybard saw the slim figure of Banny Achbain striding through the camp. He approached the fire, crouched down, and warmed his hands.

  “You won’t believe it,” he said.

  “What?” asked Kammel.

  “They say Lord Ferson has challenged the Gray Ghost to a duel. They’re going to fight tomorrow.”

  As Mulgrave well knew, Gaise Macon was not a man given to outbursts of temper. Though passionate by nature, he rarely lost control. But he was coldly angry now as he paced the smoke-blackened ruin that had once been the country home of a rebel earl. The firelight glinted on his golden hair, and for a moment he looked again like the strikingly handsome youngster Mulgrave had trained on the Moidart’s estates far to the north. He was still slim, though his shoulders had broadened in the four years he had been a soldier, and his face had lost that youthful glow. Still only in his early twenties, Gaise Macon was a soldier fighting a harsh and terrible war. His face was thinner, his curiously colored eyes, one green and one gold, deeper set. The small leaf-shaped burn scar on his right cheek shone white against his faded tan. Gaise removed his silver-embroidered gray jacket and threw it across a broken couch. The white shirt he wore beneath it was stained by powder smoke at collar and cuff.

  Mulgrave gazed around the ruined building. One wall had been blasted away by cannon shells, and fire had raged through the building. Here, in the rear hall, there was still part of a ceiling, which allowed some shelter from the swirling snow storm outside. A fire was blazing in the undamaged hearth.

  There were several chairs in the room. Mulgrave took one of them and reversed it, sitting down and resting his forearms on the high back.

  Gaise turned toward him. “What kind of a fool would offer a duel at such a time?” he asked.

  Mulgrave shrugged. “It is surprising, right enough,” he said. “Did you call him a coward?”

  “You know me well enough, my friend. Does it seem likely?”

  Mulgrave shook his head. “What did you say?”

  “I asked why he had not led his heavy cavalry into the battle. The enemy was retreating in bad order. One major charge and they would have been routed. Yet he did not make it. And so another battle ended in a stalemate.”

  “What did he reply?”

  “He said he would not take criticism from a glory-seeking popinjay,” answered Gaise. He smiled as he said it, his good humor flowing back. “What on earth is a popinjay, Mulgrave?”

  “A brightly colored bird from the southern continents, sir. And how did you respond?”

  “I pointed out that had my riders followed his example and refrained from charging, the battle would have been lost.”

  “Ah, then you did, in a manner of speaking, suggest he lacked nerve.”

  “By heaven, Mulgrave, of course he lacks nerve. There’s not an officer in the king’s army who doesn’t know that.”

  “Yet he had the nerve to challenge you.”

  “Aye, but not immediately. The challenge came the following day. We are due to meet on open ground at midday tomorrow. With pistols, if you please.”

  “You have chosen pistols, sir?” asked Mulgrave, surprised. “I would have thought swords more . . . suitable.”

  “As would I. But his second informed me that Lord Ferson has an injured shoulder. He asked if I would object to pistols. It is all nonsense,” said Gaise. “Luden Macks will chuckle when he hears of it.” Gaise Macon drew up a chair, then dragged off his knee-length riding boots. One of his socks boasted a huge hole through which his toes could be seen. “Popinjay, eh?” he said. “By heaven, there are crofters back home with better clothes than mine.” He looked into Mulgrave’s pale eyes. “Will you be my second, my friend?”

  “Of course, sir. I would urge you, however, to avoid any gallant gestures.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Do not try to wound him. Take him through the heart.”

  Gaise sighed. “I have no desire to kill him, Mulgrave.”

  “It is not your desire that concerns me, sir. A wounded man is still dangerous, and I would far sooner see him below the earth than you.” Mulgrave fell silent.

  Gaise tugged on
his boots and returned to the fire, adding fuel. “Do you not find it puzzling, Mulgrave?” he asked.

  “What, sir?”

  “That a known coward should challenge me—and request pistols. Had it been swords, I could have wounded him and honor might have been satisfied. Pistols are another matter entirely. As you can testify, my friend, even a shallow wound can corrupt and become mortal. Then there is the question of Winterbourne.”

  “Winterbourne?”

  “Aye, he is Ferson’s second. Did I not mention that?”

  “No, sir. I did not realize that Lord Ferson was so closely connected to the Redeemers.”

  “Nor I, until now.”

  Mulgrave rose from his chair and crossed the ruined room to the shattered north wall. Snow was falling outside, and the wind was chilly. The open land beyond was lit by hundreds of campfires. Mulgrave shivered. He had seen too many of these camps in the last four years. He scratched at his white hair and moved away from the wind. Kneeling by the fire, he added a log. Gaise was right: The duel made no sense. And why would a cold-blooded killer like Winterbourne befriend a coward like Ferson? Mulgrave turned the events over and over in his mind. If Ferson was so aggrieved, why had he not instantly issued a challenge? Why wait a day? His thoughts swung to the Earl of Winterbourne. Mulgrave detested the man, regarding him with a deep and perfect loathing. The acts of Winterbourne’s Redeemers were unspeakable. Worse, by being unpunished and unchecked, they were condoned by the king. Mulgrave hated killing, but at least he believed he was fighting on the side of right. Not so now. In this war there was no balance between right and wrong, good and evil. Both sides had committed atrocities.

  “How is your shoulder now?” asked Gaise.

  “Healed, sir.”

  “That is good. I have missed you, Mulgrave. It is good to have you back.”

  Mulgrave stayed silent. He wanted to tell his friend that he would be leaving soon for the north, but now that the moment was upon him, he could not find the words.

  An uneasy silence developed, and then Gaise spoke again. “I think Winterbourne is behind the duel. I think he pressured Ferson into making the challenge.”

  “For what purpose, sir?”

  “I wish I knew. We do not see eye to eye on certain matters, but we both have the same objective, the defeat of Luden Macks and the covenanters.”

  “You stood against him after Ballest, sir. You refused to hand over those villagers.”

  “Women and children, Mulgrave. They were not covenanters. They were merely scavenging for food.”

  “I agree with you, sir, and it does you credit that you fed them. Winterbourne would have killed them all. We both know that.”

  “Aye, he is a hard, cruel man,” admitted Gaise. “But that was a year ago and a small matter even then. He ought to have forgotten it by now.”

  “Perhaps he has, sir. Might be safer, though, to assume that he has not.”

  Gaise Macon chuckled. “Were you always so suspicious of your fellow men, Mulgrave? Did you never learn the joys of forgiving and forgetting?”

  “Indeed, I have, sir,” Mulgrave answered with a smile. “I knew a man once, a gentle man. He took it upon himself to help a former convict rebuild his life. He took the man in, gave him the freedom of his home.”

  “I can guess the end,” said Gaise. “The convict killed him or robbed him.”

  “No, sir. The convict became a carpenter and worked very hard. He even repaired the good man’s roof. He did this for no payment, in gratitude for all that the man had done for him.”

  “Then what is the point of this story?” asked Gaise.

  “He wasn’t a very good carpenter. One day the roof caved in and killed the good man.”

  Gaise Macon’s laughter rang out. “Now, the moral of that story is worth debating. Another time, though. I must see if our supplies have arrived. Ride with me, Mulgrave.”

  Swinging his gray coat around his shoulders, he walked from the room.

  With a sigh Mulgrave followed him.

  Ice crunched under their horses’ hooves as they negotiated the treacherous trail, their mounts slithering and sliding on the steep hills. Mulgrave’s hands and feet were bitterly cold as he rode alongside the young general, and the winter wind stung like needles on his face. It made him feel even colder to see that Gaise wore no gloves or hat, though his body was well protected by a long sheepskin-lined cloak. Mulgrave glanced up at the sky. The snow clouds were clearing now, the stars shining brightly. It would grow colder yet before the dawn. His horse stumbled, then righted itself.

  Ahead was a small slope leading down to where the Eldacre Company had made camp. Gaise led the way, allowing his gray gelding to pick its own path through the mud and ice.

  A middle-aged soldier wearing a hooded cloak approached them and saluted. Gaise stepped down from the saddle, and the soldier took hold of the gray’s reins.

  “Are the supplies in, Lanfer?” asked Gaise.

  “Aye, my lord,” replied Lanfer Gosten. “Less than half of what was promised. Even on short rations there’s not enough to last a week. Four wagons was all we got.”

  “Gather ten men and follow me to the quartermaster general,” ordered Gaise. Swinging into the saddle, he touched heels to the gray and rode through the camp.

  Mulgrave followed, drawing alongside the angry young man. “Are you planning something rash, sir?” he asked.

  Gaise said nothing for a moment. “Did Ermal like my gift?” he said suddenly.

  The question took Mulgrave by surprise. He recalled the little priest’s delight at the bottle of apple brandy. They had sat on the last night staring at it, wondering how two whole apples could have been inserted through such a narrow neck. Then they had pulled the cork and filled their glasses. The liquor had been sweet and warming.

  “He was most grateful, sir,” said Mulgrave, “though perplexed.”

  Gaise grinned. “As was I when first I saw them. Did he think magic was used?”

  “At first he did. But by the time we had finished the bottle he had an answer.”

  “What was it?”

  “He thought the bottle must have been tied to the branches of an apple tree, with twig and blossom inserted into the neck. The apples would have grown within the glass. After they were ripe, the twig was snipped and the brandy added.”

  “The man is such a delight!” Gaise said happily. “A fine mind.”

  “What do you intend to do when we reach the quartermaster?”

  “Find the wagons I paid for and see them delivered. I’ll not have my men going hungry again. And not a word more about rashness, my friend. There is nothing you can say that I do not already know.”

  Mulgrave knew this was the truth. They had discussed the problem many times during the last year. The quartermaster general, a rich merchant named Cordley Lowen, had friends at court. Those friends were well paid by him from the huge profits he made from supplying food, gunpowder, and weapons to the king’s army. Not content with the fortune he was amassing from this barely legitimate enterprise, Lowen was also engaged in reselling supplies to merchants from outlying towns: supplies already purchased by officers commanding private companies. The scandal was tolerated on two counts. First, Lowen shared his profits with the king’s closest advisers. Second, his list of contacts in the merchant community was second to none, which meant that Lowen could find supplies anywhere and at any time. A more honest quartermaster general would experience enormous difficulty supplying one-tenth of the amount Lowen could provide.

  All of which made the man’s position virtually unassailable.

  Once before the Eldacre Company had received smaller shipments than had been paid for. Gaise had sent Lanfer Gosten to investigate. The sergeant had returned frustrated and angry. Order forms had been misplaced, ledgers apparently had been lost, and no one could find details of the original supply orders. Gaise had written to Cordley Lowen and had received no reply.

  Mulgrave rode on beside the silent
Gaise Macon. It was after midnight. The warehouses would probably be locked and guarded. There would be no stable hands or wagons ready.

  The small town was full of soldiers, many of them drunk. Food might be scarce, but liquor was still plentiful. Gaise and Mulgrave rode slowly along the cobbled streets, cutting through the old market square and on toward the merchant district. Three soldiers staggered across the street. They were singing a bawdy marching song. Two women approached the soldiers from the shadows, drawing them toward a darkened doorway.

  The merchant district was quieter. Four musketeers stood guarding the warehouse gates. Gaise Macon rose past, dismounting before a large terraced house fronted with marble pillars. Trailing the gray’s reins, he called Mulgrave to him. “High risk for high stakes, my friend,” he said. Taking a leather gauntlet from his saddlebag, he tucked it into his belt.

  “High risks, indeed,” said Mulgrave.

  Gaise smiled. “Remain behind after I have seen Lowen. Speak to the man with comforting words. He will not want to die. He is a merchant, soft and spineless.”

  Mulgrave sighed. “A merchant with many friends in high places.”

  Gaise Macon clapped him on the shoulder. “It will all end well, Mulgrave,” he said. “I will have my supplies.”

  Gaise Macon walked to the front door and rapped at the bronze knocker. Moments passed, and finally the door swung open to reveal an elderly servant in a night robe, a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He was carrying a lantern.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Gaise moved past him, gesturing Mulgrave to follow. Then he walked into the darkened circular reception room, removing his cloak and draping it over a gilded chair.