Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  “What kind of man?”

  The Redeemer glanced at his comrade. The second man spoke: “I believe it was Macon, lord. I cannot be sure.”

  Winter Kay rose from his seat and moved to the rear of the tent. Carefully he opened the lid of the metal box, drawing aside the black velvet. “Come,” he said. The two Redeemers stumbled forward. “Make obeisance,” he ordered them. Both men drew sharp daggers and cut the palms of their hands. Then they held them above the skull. Blood dripped to the bone. It began to glow. The Redeemers waited for Winter Kay’s order, then each lightly touched the skull. They stiffened. One of them gave a groan of pleasure.

  “Enough!” said Winter Kay.

  The Redeemers stepped back. No longer were their faces pale, and the cuts on their hands had been sealed.

  “In the name of the Source,” said Winter Kay, “Gaise Macon must die. You will be the loaders at the duel. Whichever pistol he chooses must not be armed. You will appear to drop the ball into the muzzle, but keep it secreted in your hand.”

  “Yes, lord. We understand.”

  “The man is in communion with our enemy. He has sold his soul to evil.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Winter Kay placed his hands on both men’s shoulders, drawing them in close. “If by some freak of chance Gaise Macon should survive this duel, you will make it your bounden duty to see him dead before the next full moon.”

  “You wish us to challenge him, lord?” asked the first.

  “No. Merely kill him. Do it quietly. Suffocate him in his bed, poison his food, stab him in a darkened alley. The method is immaterial. Just bring me—as a token—his golden eye.”

  The snow clouds had cleared in the night, and the midday sky was now bright blue, with not a breath of cloud. The temperature had dropped to well below freezing, and ice had formed on the muddy path leading through to the area of the duel. Only a few months before this had been a secluded garden set within the grounds of Lord Dunstan’s private chapel. Dunstan would have walked there with his wife and his daughters after Holy Day services. They would perhaps have admired the roses that lined the paths as they repaired to their mansion to enjoy a fine meal. Now Dunstan was dead, shot to pieces on Bladdley Moor with most of his covenant regiment. His fine house was a ruined shell, and the chapel—the last refuge of a group of diehard rebels—had been ripped apart by cannon shells, the spire lying in broken fragments across the northern tip of the garden.

  Gaise Macon, dressed in a fur-lined charcoal-gray jacket, gray breeches, and knee-length riding boots, walked alongside the swordsman Mulgrave, who had donned his high-collared, leaf-green uniform and wore an officer’s short cape. Both men could have been out for a prelunch stroll, and Gaise Macon was chatting amiably as they approached the area of the duel. A long trestle table had been set at the center of the garden. Behind it stood two red-cloaked Redeemers. Lord Winterbourne was standing alongside the shorter Lord Ferson. Ferson’s braided red topcoat was loosely draped across his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a beautifully crafted shirt of expensive white lace. Beyond the low wall around the garden stood hundreds of Ferson’s men. Off to the right a number of Eldacre soldiers had also gathered.

  “A fine day for such stupidity,” said Gaise Macon, approaching the two men.

  Winter Kay gave a thin smile. “Matters of honor are rarely stupid, young man. Perhaps an understanding of that from you would have spared us this duel.”

  “I shall bear that in mind in the future, my lord,” Gaise answered, with a bow.

  A third man approached them. Wrapped in a heavy topcoat and scarf, the burly Lord Cumberlane bowed briefly to the two duelists. “I am appointed by the king,” he said, “as master of the duel. It is my duty to implore both of you to find an equitable solution to this matter.” There was ice forming upon his thick mustache, and his face was gray with cold. He swung toward Lord Ferson. “Can you now, my lord, see your way clear to resolving this issue without recourse to bloodshed?”

  “No,” replied Ferson with a malevolent glance at Gaise Macon.

  “Perhaps the offer of an apology?” insisted Lord Cumberlane.

  “Honor demands satisfaction upon the field,” said Ferson.

  Mulgrave felt his anger rise. The man’s confidence was such that the swordsman became ever more convinced that the duel was to be rigged. He glanced at Gaise Macon. The young man seemed perfectly at ease, but Mulgrave knew him well and could see that he was acting.

  “Very well,” said Cumberlane sadly. “Let the matter commence. You will choose your weapons and then stand back to back where I bid you. On my command you will advance ten paces and turn. Once you have done so, neither man will move. Not a step to the left or the right. I shall then give the instruction to fire. If either man shoots before I give the word, he shall be deemed a craven and shall face a charge of murder. Is my instruction clear?”

  Both duelists nodded.

  “Each man will fire a single shot. Should no one be hit, the duelists will remain in position while the pistols are reloaded.”

  Ferson strolled to where two silver pistols had been laid upon the table. Gaise Macon followed him. Ferson waited while Gaise examined both pistols. They were Emburleys and handsomely crafted, the long barrels engraved with scenes of running deer, the butts boasting the leopard rampant crest of the Winterbourne family.

  “Will they suffice?” asked Winter Kay.

  “Admirable, sir. Admirable!” Ferson said, jovially.

  “Then choose, Master Macon,” said Winter Kay.

  Gaise Macon made his choice. Ferson took up the second pistol. Both men then handed the pieces to the Redeemers behind the table. The knights expertly primed the flash pans, snapping shut the covers, then tilted the weapons to add a charge of powder. The Redeemers then each took a round lead ball from a bowl set on the table.

  “A moment, sir,” said Gaise Macon. “I shall choose my own ball.”

  “They are all identical,” said Winter Kay.

  “Of course they all appear that way,” Gaise Macon said, smoothly, “but I have learned to judge by feel.” Reaching into the bowl of shot, Gaise Macon rolled several of them in his fingers. Then he produced one. “This feels perfect,” he said. Reaching across the table, he relieved the surprised loader of the silver pistol and dropped the shot into it. Lifting a small square of silk from alongside the bowl, he pressed it into the barrel. Sliding the ramrod clear, he tamped down the charge. “I am ready,” he said, looking directly at Lord Ferson.

  Mulgrave suppressed a smile. Ferson no longer looked confident. His face was ashen, and he was blinking rapidly. It seemed to Mulgrave that even the man’s ludicrously waxed mustache points were about to sag. Ferson licked his lips and cast a glance at Winter Kay. “Such behavior is insufferable,” he said.

  “In what way, sir?” asked Lord Cumberlane.

  “He . . . he impugns the . . . the neutrality of . . . the competence of . . .” He stammered to silence. Sweat was showing on his brow.

  “Ready yourselves, gentlemen,” said Lord Cumberlane. “Back to back, if you please.”

  Gaise Macon removed his topcoat, handed it to Mulgrave, and walked out into the center of the garden. Ferson lagged behind, staring at Winter Kay. Then he stumbled out to take his place. “Be so good as to remove your uniform jacket,” Cumberlane told him. Winter Kay strode out and relieved him of the garment.

  “Now, gentlemen, ten paces, if you please, and then await my instruction.”

  Mulgrave moved back from the line of fire and watched as the two men slowly moved apart. His stomach was knotted now, and a great fear filled him. Both pistols were now primed, but though he was a coward, Ferson could still win. One well-placed shot and Gaise Macon could be lying dead on the cold ground.

  As the duelists reached the tenth pace Lord Cumberlane called out: “Halt.”

  Ferson spun and fired. Gaise Macon staggered to his left, then came upright. Blood was flowing from what appeared to Mulgrave to be the side of
his head. A stunned silence followed. Lord Cumberlane stood staring at the wounded man. “It was a hair trigger,” shouted Ferson. “It went off early.”

  “You were not told to turn,” Cumberlane said, icily. He began to walk toward the wounded Gaise Macon, but the young general waved him back.

  “It is all right, my lord,” he said. “The shot merely grazed my ear.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” said Cumberlane. “Now you may take your own shot. If the knave still lives after you have fired, I shall see him hanged.”

  Gaise Macon readied himself. Ferson stood blinking in the sunlight, looking wretched. His pistol dropped from nerveless fingers. Mulgrave saw with deep embarrassment that the man was weeping. It was an appalling scene. In the background a large number of Ferson’s soldiers had gathered to watch the duel. Some turned away in disgust. Others waited for the inevitable conclusion. Ferson fell to his knees, throwing his arms over his head.

  Gaise Macon, the left side of his shirt drenched with blood, lowered his pistol and discharged his shot into the earth. As the sound thundered, Lord Ferson screamed and threw himself to the ground.

  Mulgrave ran to Gaise’s side. Blood was streaming from the ruined earlobe. “I am proud of you, sir,” he said. “There would have been no satisfaction in killing such a cur.”

  Gaise Macon sighed. “We’ll talk later.” Slowly he walked back to the trestle table, laying the pistol upon it. Then he approached Lord Cumberlane.

  “I’ve never seen the like,” muttered Cumberlane. “Damn, but it shames us all.”

  “As the aggrieved party, sir, I wish for no action to be taken against Lord Ferson. It will satisfy me if he resigns his commission and returns to his home.”

  “The knave ought to be hanged. By heaven, he’s an affront to Varlish manhood. But I hear what you say.” Cumberlane held out his hand. “I hope you don’t live to regret your kindness, Gaise Macon.”

  Gaise shook the general’s hand. “I hope I never live long enough to regret kindness, General. Though I am not sure it was kind. I think that for the coward every day carries a kind of death.” Gaise swung away and found himself facing Winter Kay. “I thank you for the use of your pistol, sir,” he said.

  Winter Kay said nothing, but he returned Gaise Macon’s bow.

  With that the young general walked from the garden, Mulgrave beside him.

  5

  * * *

  Draig Cochland would do most things for money. He would willingly steal and rob and would think nothing of killing a man during the process of either activity. Draig was not a man to be fooled by those who established society’s rules. It seemed to him that the entire world was run by robbery of one kind or another. The whole structure of society depended on it. It always surprised Draig that other men could not see that. The poor hill farmer who struggled to survive through drought-plagued summers and harsh, bone-numbing winters still had to give one-tenth of his crop to the Moidart’s gatherers. What was that if not robbery? Give me one-tenth of all you have or I will lock you away or hang you. Draig had voiced this many times in rowdy tavern arguments. It was always fun. People would get red in the face and argue about the need for taxes to build roads and maintain schools and such. Draig would laugh at them. “Schools, eh? The Moidart wears silk shirts and you wear homespun cloth. That’s where your money goes.”

  It was like Old Gramps had always said: “Steal a loaf of bread and they hang you; steal a land and they’ll make you king.”

  Draig’s concept of good and evil was simple and easy to maintain. What was good for the small Cochland clan was good, and what was not was evil.

  Or so he had thought before the Varlish rider had come into the high country settlement the Cochlands called home.

  The man had ridden far, and he had come with promises of gold coin if the Cochlands would do a service for his lord. This lord remained unnamed, though Draig guessed it to be the Moidart, but as a gesture of good faith the rider had brought ten silver chaillings as a gift.

  Draig did not like the man, but then, that was not unusual. Draig did not much like anybody. Except perhaps his brother Eain, though truth to tell he was not that fond of him, either. No, it was not the dislike that bothered Draig. It was something entirely different.

  Even now, two hours after the rider had left, Draig could not quite put his finger on the cause of his disquiet. The man was Varlish and well spoken, which was enough to earn Draig’s contempt. He was also cold, his eyes hard and flinty. But that was not it, either.

  Draig sat quietly by his fire, his heavy shoulders hunched over. After a while Eain came in and squatted down opposite him. Despite Eain being a year younger, they could almost have been twins; both were green-eyed, large, and hulking men, their faces flat, their red beards matted and filthy.

  “What did he want?” asked Eain.

  “He wanted us to kill someone.”

  “Good coin in it?”

  “Aye, so he promised.”

  “Excellent. Who are we to kill?”

  “A child and a woman.”

  Eain’s eyes narrowed. “Are you making a joke, Brother?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not killing any child. Or any woman, either,” he added after a pause.

  “No? Why?” asked Draig.

  “What do you mean, why? You just don’t, is all.”

  Draig sat quietly for a moment. Then he nodded. “Aye, that’s what I told him. He wasn’t best pleased.”

  “Who did he want killed?”

  “The Dweller by the Lake and the boy Kaelin Ring brought down from the hills.”

  “The lad whose parents were killed by Hang-lip?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It makes no sense,” said Eain. “Who’d profit by such a deed?”

  “We would have,” observed Draig.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Aye, I do, and I’ve no answer to give you.”

  Eain took up a long stick and prodded the fire into life. “I expect he’ll go to Tostig and those Long Valley lads. They’ll do it, right enough.”

  “I expect so. Ten pounds he was offering.”

  Eain swore softly. “I’ve never even seen ten pounds in one place.”

  “You sorry I turned him down?”

  Eain thought about it. “Nah,” he said.

  Draig rose from the fireside and walked to the doorway of the hut. Ducking his head, he stepped beneath the sagging lintel and out into the clearing. A few of the Cochland clan were outside. Two scrawny children were throwing snowballs at each other, and four others were hauling an ancient sled up the hillside. Only four of the men of the clan were in the settlement; the other twenty-three were off to the east in two groups, seeking to steal cattle and head them south to Eldacre. Draig scratched at his beard. He was not sure exactly how old he was, but he felt too old to be chasing over the mountains after a few scrawny cows.

  He felt strangely unsettled. Ten pounds was a fortune. A man could live well for two years on ten pounds. Yet he had not even come close to accepting the commission. The wind picked up, and he shivered and returned to the fire.

  Eain had set up the cook pot tripod and was mixing oats, salt, and water into the old black pan, stirring it with a cracked and stained wooden spoon. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Eain.

  Draig stared balefully at his brother. “You don’t even know what you’re thinking half the time.”

  “You’re thinking of warning Kaelin Ring.”

  “Why would I do something that stupid? The Varlish is a man of power. I don’t need him as an enemy. And I wouldn’t want Tostig and his crew creeping in here to cut my throat.”

  “All right,” said Eain. “Then what were you thinking of?”

  Draig hawked and spit into the fire. “I was thinking of warning Kaelin Ring,” he admitted.

  “We don’t even like him,” argued Eain.

  “I don’t like you, either, but I’d tell you if there was a snake i
n your boot.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You’d just wait and laugh when it bit me. Like when that bloody tree branch fell on me. You could have shouted. Didn’t, though, did you?”

  “Gods, man, that was fifteen years ago, and you’re still on about it. I told you then it was funny.”

  “Nothing funny about a broken shoulder.”

  “No, you’re wrong. That was even funnier.”

  “Well, a pox on you and the horse you rode in on.”

  “I don’t know why you say that,” said Draig, settling down by the fire. “You’ve never ridden a horse. Neither have I.”

  “I like the sound of it. It’s like poetry.”

  “All the best poems have the word ‘pox’ in them,” said Draig. “Are you going to stir that porridge? I hate it when its full of black bits.”

  Eain grinned at him, showing stained and misshapen teeth. “You really are in a strange mood, Brother.”

  “Yes,” agreed Draig. “That’s true, right enough. You remember when the Dweller came here and healed old Scats? We thought he’d lose that eye, but she put a poultice over it, and all the pus just dried up.”

  “I remember. You got angry because she wouldn’t heal a boil you had.”

  “It wasn’t a boil; it was a cyst. Big as a damned goose egg.”

  “Whatever. She said you were a man who deserved boils.” Eain laughed. “Never thought to hear you let a woman talk to you that way.”

  Draig shrugged. “Didn’t bother me,” he lied. “She wouldn’t take no payment from Scats. Made no sense. She’d walked twenty miles. Wouldn’t even eat with us.”

  “Probably didn’t like black bits in her porridge,” observed Eain.

  “Probably.” Draig suddenly swore. “You know what’s really liced my skin? That Varlish just assumed I was the kind of man who would kill a woman and a child. That’s the reputation I have. No wonder the Dweller wouldn’t heal my boil.”

  “Cyst,” Eain said, gleefully.