Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  No one would ever know just how much he had longed to put a ball through Ferson’s face, to smash his skull to shards, to watch his body crumple to the ground. Gaise sighed and felt shame even now at the crude pleasure the thought gave him.

  “I am not so different from you, Father,” he whispered.

  He had longed for the day when, reaching Varlish majority at twenty-one, he would be free of the Moidart’s malign influence, free to know happiness, free to live his life as he chose. Yet here he was, a year later, in a rented house, heavy of heart and filled with an indescribable loneliness.

  Gaise knew that Mulgrave longed to be free of this war. He knew also that only the man’s love for him held him there. If I were truly his friend, Gaise thought, I would let him go. I would wish him well and be happy that he was free of this madness.

  For madness it was.

  Gaise knew that now. Scores of thousands had died, their blood soaking into the earth, their cries unheard or unheeded. And for what? The vanity of a king and the ambitions of a few nobles. Gaise tried to shake himself clear of such treasonous thoughts. Rising from his desk, he walked to the leaded window, pushing it open to allow the cold night air to seep into the firelit room. From there he could see the silhouetted line of the western hills. Beyond them was the army of Luden Macks. There, as here, the soldiers would be sheltering against the winter night, keeping their weapons clean, giving prayers of thanks for the truce that would see them alive for a few more weeks. They would be drinking and whoring, living for the day.

  Some distance away Gaise could see two men talking. They were dressed in dark clothes. They glanced up, saw him, and moved away into the shadows. Three soldiers of the watch came into view. Gaise recognized Taybard Jaekel. His mood lifted. He had been tempted to reject Jaekel when first Jaekel had tried to enlist. Gaise remembered him as one of three young men who had attacked a highland lad back in Old Hills. It had been a cowardly assault, and only the arrival of Gaise and Mulgrave had saved the highlander from being knifed while held.

  Gaise had been sitting at the recruitment desk when Jaekel stepped forward. “I know you,” he said coldly.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jaekel. “I am in your debt.”

  “How so?”

  “You prevented me from committing an act I would have regretted all my life.”

  “What happened to that highland lad? Ring, wasn’t it?”

  “Kaelin Ring, sir. He went north.”

  “Is he still your enemy?”

  “No, sir. He is my friend.”

  “Good enough. Make your mark.”

  Gaise smiled at the memory. Taybard Jaekel had proved an exemplary soldier, cool under fire and utterly reliable. He was also the finest shot with a musket Gaise had ever seen. In standing competition he was merely excellent, but in the field his talents were beyond extraordinary. Mulgrave, who was himself a marksman of quality, called it “deflection targeting.” It involved shooting at a point ahead of a moving target so that ball and victim arrived at the same place at the same time. The judgment involved had to be instant and instinctive.

  Gaise wondered if Jaekel still had the golden musket ball he had won. Probably not, he thought. Soldiers tended to spend what they had as soon as they received their pay. A golden musket ball in a sphere of silver wire would be worth more than two months’ pay.

  The three soldiers moved out of sight. Once more Gaise Macon felt alone. Mulgrave was probably with Ermal Standfast, enjoying a pleasant tisane by a roaring fire. Alterith Shaddler would be asleep in his bed at the schoolhouse in Old Hills. And the Moidart? The man’s hawklike features flashed into Gaise’s mind.

  Probably torturing some poor soul deep in the dungeons of Eldacre.

  Gaise chided himself for an unworthy thought. The Moidart probably was also asleep. To Gaise’s recollection the Moidart had personally tortured only one man to death, many years earlier after a failed assassination attempt. Gaise could still remember the man’s screams.

  Thoughts of assassination made him think of Ferson and the duel. Mulgrave had been right to think that Winter Kay hated him. There was no doubt in Gaise’s mind that the loaders had been ordered to misload the pistol. Gaise had known it from the moment he had taken the gun from the loader’s hand and inserted the ball himself. Ferson’s face had betrayed the plan. From cocky confidence to abject terror in the space of a heartbeat. The loaders were Redeemers. They would not have taken it upon themselves to sentence Gaise to death. No, Winterbourne had been behind it.

  No matter how hard he tried, Gaise could not come up with a reason for the man’s hatred. Yes, he had prevented Winter Kay from killing a few villagers, but the truth was that from the first moment the two had met, after the Battle of Nollenby four months earlier, Gaise had sensed the man’s dislike. Most odd, he thought. He had received a written invitation to dine with the lord and his friends, an invitation graciously constructed, congratulating Gaise on the courage of the Eldacre Company. Gaise had ridden with Mulgrave to Winterbourne’s castle outside Baracum and had entered the dining hall. Winterbourne had been talking with some other guests but, on seeing Gaise, had walked toward him, smiling, his hand extended. Yet at the point of the meeting something had changed. Winterbourne’s smile had faded. The conversation had been stilted and abrupt. For the rest of the evening they had exchanged barely a word. Even the normally astute Mulgrave had been unable to come up with a reason.

  Now it was no longer a small matter of one man’s dislike for another. Winterbourne had connived in a plot to murder him. Would there be another? Mulgrave thought it likely, and Gaise trusted his instincts. One thing was sure: Should there be another challenge, Gaise would insist on swords.

  The room was growing cold, and Gaise pushed shut the window, dropping the latch.

  It was late, and he thought of taking to his bed. Dismissing the idea—his mind was too full—he gathered his heavy, fur-lined topcoat and swung it around his shoulders. A walk in the crisp night air would relax him. There were many wild dogs roaming the town, and Gaise took up the silver-topped cane Mulgrave had given him on his birthday. With it in hand he walked downstairs and out through the front door. The night was bitterly cold, though the wind had dropped. Gaise took a deep breath and strolled through the garden to the small cast-iron gate. Stepping out into the street, he walked toward the old bridge, snow crunching beneath his boot heels.

  Up ahead there were lights in the tavern. Gaise had released four barrels of brandy from the supply depot, and many townsfolk had gathered for an evening of merriment, a temporary release from the fear of war. They were all living on the edge of the abyss now. Next year’s seed corn was being eaten, and most of cattle had been slaughtered to feed the townsfolk or the army. It would not be long before the wild dogs were hunted for meat.

  Four years earlier it had seemed to Gaise to be an almost holy war. The king’s authority had been challenged, and the army had been mustered to defeat the traitors. Along the way the objectives had subtly shifted. Both sides claimed to have the king’s best interests at heart. Both claimed the moral high ground. The covenanters maintained that the king had granted them certain rights of self-rule, which he had. Then, on bad advice, he had revoked those rights. The royalists claimed the covenanters sought the abolition of the monarchy and the destruction of the noble classes. They cited the growing influence of Luden Macks, a farmer from the south with barely a trace of noble blood in his veins. Macks now largely controlled the covenant cause. Yet Macks had begged the king to restore the covenant and had pledged allegiance to his cause if he did so.

  Gaise paused on the old bridge, staring out over the frozen water. The armies were tearing the land apart, with no side close to victory. Meanwhile the citizens faced starvation, disease, and terror.

  Movement to his right caught his eye. A large black dog had padded out onto the bridge. It was gaunt, its ribs clearly showing in the moonlight. Gaise gripped his cane, ready to strike the beast if it approached. The hound bared
its fangs. Gaise suddenly smiled and dropped to one knee, holding out his hand. The black dog backed away at first, then stood its ground. “Come on, boy,” whispered Gaise. “Let us be friends.” The dog stood for a moment, then ambled forward a few steps, sniffing at the outstretched hand. “Life is tough for you too, eh?” said Gaise, stroking its long nose, then patting its emaciated flank. “I’ll tell you what. You can come home with me and I’ll find you a few morsels. You can sleep before my fire. How does that sound?” The dog moved in closer, arching its neck and licking at Gaise’s face. Gaise grinned. Mulgrave would have been furious to have witnessed the scene.

  “Must you always take risks, sir?” he would say. “The dog could have ripped out your throat.”

  Moving slowly, Gaise came to his feet and turned. Two priests were walking toward him. He was about to offer a greeting, but something stopped him—something about the way they were moving. Their hands were thrust deep into the pockets of their long black overcoats, and their eyes were fixed upon him. Suddenly one of them threw open his coat, drawing a saber. The other pulled a long knife from his pocket. Gaise twisted the silver handle of his cane, pulling clear the narrow sword blade it contained. The knifeman leaped forward. In that instant Gaise recognized him as one of the loaders from the duel with Ferson. Beside him the hound gave a deep growl and leaped at the knifeman, huge jaws clamping down on the man’s arm. The second man’s saber slashed through the air. Gaise swayed back, parrying the blow with his sword stick. The knifeman had fallen to his knees and was hammering his fist into the dog’s head, trying to dislodge the beast’s grip. The Redeemer with the saber moved around his fallen comrade and advanced on Gaise.

  “You have given yourself over to evil, Gaise Macon,” he said. “The reward for such sin is always death.”

  He attacked with great speed. Gaise parried and moved. The sword stick was shorter than the saber and only half as thick. A solid blow from the Redeemer would shatter it.

  Disadvantaged in this way, most swordsmen would have faced defeat and death. Gaise Macon, however, was not most swordsmen. Blessed with great balance and speed, he had also been trained by one of the finest blade masters in the realm. Even so the fight was one-sided, with all the advantages lying with the Redeemer. He attacked again, always perfectly in balance. Gaise blocked and slid away to his left.

  “You move well, Macon,” said the Redeemer. Beyond the two swordsman the second Redeemer had battered the hound senseless and was standing by the bridge wall, holding his shattered arm.

  “Kill him, Petar,” he called. “I am bleeding to death.”

  “Would you be Petar Olomayne?” asked Gaise.

  “I would. It is gratifying that you have heard of me.”

  “I had heard you were a man of some skill with a blade,” said Gaise. “Now I see you are naught but a clumsy bludgeoner.”

  Petar Olomayne’s mouth tightened. “For that I’ll carve my initials in your heart,” he said.

  Launching an attack with blistering speed, he forced Gaise back along the bridge. Both men needed to move with care there, for there was a gradient and ice underfoot. Olomayne slipped. Gaise lunged. Olomayne parried and sent a slashing riposte that cut through Gaise’s coat.

  Now the pace quickened, the blades clashing together in a whirl of flashing steel. One tiny misjudgment from either man would see sharp metal piercing soft flesh. Back and forth they fought on the treacherous footing, neither man giving ground. Now it was a true duel as they probed for weaknesses, reading each other’s moves. Gaise fought coolly and with patience. As Mulgrave had taught him, all duels followed a pattern. They began with heat and fury, then settled into a contest of wills. With two equally matched opponents there would come a time when the worm of doubt entered the equation. The truly skilled recognized such moments and fed them. It was at this time that the endgame would begin.

  Petar Olomayne had the advantage of a superior weapon, giving him added reach. Yet he had not been able to breach his opponent’s defenses. Gaise fought on, watching his opponent’s eyes, waiting for the moment.

  Olomayne launched a frenzied attack. Gaise ducked beneath a murderous cut, his blade flicking out and cutting Olomayne’s cheek. The Redeemer swore, and the two men moved apart for a moment.

  “Damn, but you are an oaf,” said Gaise, his voice full of contempt. “Am I too heavily armed for you?”

  Olomayne’s eyes widened, and his lips drew back in a primal snarl. The insult cut through his reason, and he leaped forward, the saber lancing for Gaise’s heart. Gaise sidestepped, plunging the sword stick deep into Olomayne’s chest. The point slid between the Redeemer’s ribs, skewering both lungs and exiting beneath his left armpit. Olomayne gave a strangled cry and fell against the bridge wall. Gaise tried to drag the blade clear, but it was wedged tight. Olomayne’s breath was coming in bubbling gasps, blood spraying from his lips. Ignoring the dying man, Gaise reached down and gathered up the Redeemer’s saber. Then he walked back to where the second Redeemer waited, still holding his shattered arm.

  “We were ordered to do this deed,” said the Redeemer, backing away. “I demand to be treated as a knight and ransomed to my lord.”

  “You will take this message to Lord Winterbourne,” said Gaise. Then he paused and gazed down at the still form of the black hound. Anger surged through him, and his control over his inner demons melted away. He looked the man in the eye. “Never mind. I expect he’ll get the message.” The saber swept up and lanced through the Redeemer’s throat. Releasing the hilt, Gaise watched as the dying man sank to his knees, then pitched sideways to the cold stone of the bridge.

  Kneeling by the hound, Gaise placed his hand on the dog’s chest. The heart was still beating. Heaving the unconscious dog into his arms, he staggered back to the house. Behind him other starving dogs were gathering, drawn by the smell of blood.

  Inside the main room Gaise gently laid the hound on the rug by the downstairs hearth. Then he lit the fire and in its light examined the beast for wounds. The dog had fastened its fangs to Astin’s knife arm, and the Redeemer had beaten it with his fist. There were no knife cuts. With luck, it was merely stunned. Gaise walked to the kitchen. There was a little broth left in the pan, and he heated it until it was lukewarm and then poured it into a shallow bowl. Carrying it back into the living room, he saw the hound stirring. Gaise stroked it, speaking soothingly. It gave a low growl and tried to lift its head. Gaise moved the bowl closer. The hound’s nostrils twitched. It tried to rise but fell back. Gaise straddled the beast. “Come on, now,” he said, leaning down and lifting it to its feet. Its legs were unsteady, but Gaise supported it. The hound’s huge head dipped toward the bowl. Its tongue lapped at the juices. Then it began to eat more hungrily. With the broth finished, the dog sank back to its haunches. Gaise sat beside it. “That will do for now, eh?” he said, patting the great head.

  The dog licked at his hand, then stretched out on the rug and fell asleep.

  Within the hour Mulgrave was sitting in the living room. Two soldiers of the watch had disturbed a pack of wild dogs feeding on the corpses. Mulgrave had been summoned and had recognized the sword stick he had given to Gaise Macon. Ordering the torn bodies to be carried away, he hurried to the general’s house. There he found Gaise Macon sitting by the fire alongside a sleeping black hound.

  “I shall call him Soldier,” Gaise said absently. “You recall me telling you about my first dog?”

  “I do, sir. The Moidart shot it. What happened out there?”

  Gaise sighed. “I fear there is more of the Moidart in me than I realized.” He shook his head. “Odd, don’t you think, that one can despise a man for his cruelties and then commit just such an act oneself?”

  “I cannot judge, sir,” Mulgrave said quietly. “I don’t yet know what you did.”

  “Did the dogs dine on them?”

  “Partially.”

  Gaise rolled to his feet. The hound stirred. Gaise patted its head. “You rest, Soldier. I’ll see yo
u get more food in the morning.” He strolled to the window and drew back the curtain. There were still dogs on the bridge, squabbling over the patches of blood on the stone. “The Redeemers attacked me, Mulgrave: one with a saber, one with a knife. Soldier grabbed the knifeman. The other one was Olomayne the duelist.”

  “I know, sir. I saw them when they arrived yesterday. They claimed to be on their way to the Meadowlight shrine. Olomayne was said to be a fine swordsman.”

  Gaise shook his head. “He was adequate. Ah, Mulgrave, I am sick at heart.”

  “You did what you had to do, sir,” said Mulgrave.

  Gaise shook his head. “No, I did not. I killed Astin unnecessarily. He was unarmed and demanded to be ransomed. Damn it, Mulgrave. I expect the Moidart would be truly proud of me.”

  “You are not like the Moidart,” said Mulgrave. “Believe me, sir.”

  “I wish I could. I have been sitting here replaying the events in my mind. I cannot forget how I felt when I slid that saber through the man’s throat.” He looked at Mulgrave, and the swordsman saw the anguish in his eyes. “I enjoyed it,” he confessed. “There, it is said. I killed an unarmed man, and I took pleasure in it.”

  Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, then rose and placed his hand on the young noble’s shoulder. “I know you, Gaise,” he said gently. “I have known you since you were a boy. You are not the Moidart. And no, you are not perfect, either. You are a man. As men we are all cursed by the violence in our natures. Men like the Moidart—aye, and Winterbourne—revel in that nature. We do not. We struggle to overcome it. Sometimes we fail.” Stepping away from his friend, he moved to the fire, adding fuel. The dog stirred and growled at him. “My, that is an ugly beast,” he said. “Why did it come to your aid?”