Gaise smiled and shrugged. “I petted him. Long time since anyone has, I suppose.”
“You petted a wild dog?”
Gaise laughed. “Just as well I did.”
Mulgrave shook his head. “You will never lose your love of risk, I think.”
“I hope not, Mulgrave.” The nobleman’s smile faded. “What now, do you think?”
The white-haired swordsman walked back across the room. “Winterbourne wants you dead. It will not end here.”
“I do not understand it,” said Gaise. “How could denying him the deaths of a few villagers result in such hatred?”
“The cause of his bile does not matter now, sir. The question is: How do we respond?”
Gaise thought about the question. “The options are severely limited. I cannot challenge him. I am a junior general in charge of a small company. He is a field marshal. I cannot fight him. Equally, I cannot run. That would make me a deserter. I would be hunted down and hanged.”
The two men talked on for some time, and Mulgrave was heavy of heart when he finally left the young general. Winterbourne controlled not only the five hundred warrior priests of the Redeemers but also the ten thousand heavy cavalry of the knights of the Sacrifice and three regiments of infantry. Alongside Cumberlane, he was one of the most powerful men in the realm. Securing the death of a minor noble like Gaise Macon would not be difficult. He could be poisoned, shot from ambush, knifed in the street, or, more likely, once the truce was over, ordered to attack an impossible position, charging his men against a line of cannon.
Mulgrave walked down the cobbled main street to the undertaker’s yard. Three soldiers were waiting outside, huddled in their cloaks. He recognized the first as Taybard Jaekel. The sandy-haired young soldier saluted.
“We’ve got the bodies wrapped in canvas, sir,” he said.
“Good. At first light see them buried.”
“Yes, sir. Who were they?”
Mulgrave gestured for Jaekel to follow him, then walked away a few paces. “What I am about to tell you is for you alone. This information is not to be shared. I have watched you, Jaekel. You are a good soldier. More than that, I sense you are loyal to Gaise Macon.”
“I am that, sir.”
“So I am going to trust you. The dead men were Redeemers. They tried to assassinate Lord Gaise.”
“Why?” asked the astonished Jaekel. “They are on our side.”
“That in itself is a stain on us all. However, it doesn’t matter why. What does matter is that there will likely be other attempts. From tomorrow you and your squad will guard Lord Gaise. You will accompany him wherever he goes. You will watch out for strangers, and you will allow no one to get close enough to strike a blow. You understand? The official story will be they were covenant spies. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will pick a second squad to guard the general’s house during the night. You will tell them of assassins seeking to harm Lord Gaise.”
“Aye, sir, I can do all that,” said Jaekel. “Won’t make no difference, though, if they send a marksman. We need to get away from here. Back home to our own country.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” Mulgrave said, wearily. He glanced back at the other two men. “They are friends of yours?”
“Yes, sir. Banny and Kammel. We’re all from Old Hills.”
“The big one was flogged recently.”
“Yes, sir. He got drunk and . . .” Jaekel shrugged.
“I remember. He made unwelcome advances to a woman. Does he bear Lord Gaise any grudge for his punishment?”
Jaekel chuckled. “Even if he did, he wouldn’t let any harm come to him. Trust me on that, sir. Kammel’s not the brightest of men, but he’s highland.”
There were two great halls in Castle Winterbourne. The first was where Winter Kay entertained his secular guests, a massive room on the ground floor boasting two huge fireplaces and decorated with fine paintings and splendid statues. It had an oak gallery on three sides and a fourth for use by musicians or at times of religious festivals a choir.
The second hall was below the ground and was not open to casual guests. The entrance was hidden by a beautifully crafted panel and led to a secret stairwell. The hall was hung with trappings of red velvet, and the room was lit by curious brass lanterns with crimson glass. At the center of the huge room stood a beautifully wrought table of dark oak that could seat more than a hundred men. No paintings adorned the walls, and no servants carried food or refilled goblets. The hooded men who came here did not eat or drink. They came to pay homage to the Orb of Kranos and to listen to the words of their lord, Winter Kay.
Tonight there were 140 Redeemers. The veterans took the hundred seats, with the other, newer recruits standing silently by the walls.
At the north end of the hall, some ten feet to the rear of where Winter Kay sat, stood a wooden cross. Hanging from it was the pitiful, naked, gagged figure of Lord Ferson, blood oozing from around the long iron spikes impaling his wrists and feet.
Winter Kay pushed back his crimson hood and turned toward the dying man. “This was a fascinating method of execution,” he told the silent Redeemers. “You will note that the victim continually seeks to draw himself up, then sags back. This is because death comes from suffocation. As the body hangs upon the arms, air is denied to the lungs. Therefore, to breathe, the victim must push himself up with his legs. This, of course, causes extreme pain where the nails pierce the feet. Such pain cannot long be endured. So the victim, to alleviate the agony in his lower limbs, hangs once more on his arms. Unable to breathe, he forces himself up again. A continual circle of agony until exhaustion overcomes his will to live. Quite exquisite.”
He swung back toward the Redeemers. “All actions have consequences,” he said, his voice calm. “Ferson suffers for his cowardice. As a result of that cowardice two of our number have also passed to the other side. Petar Olomayne and Sholar Astin failed in their assigned task. Against the great strides we have made in the last two years these are tiny reverses, yet we must not be complacent. Our mission is a great one, far beyond the petty desires of earthly kings and princes. We are the chosen, the elite. Failure of any kind is abhorrent to us.”
A low, strangled moan came from the body on the cross. Winter Kay ignored the sound.
“We stand on the verge of immortality. To achieve our goal we must be steadfast, our hearts filled with courage. Do not be dismayed by delays. All great causes suffer some reverses. It is how we overcome them that dictates our greatness.” He stared out over the red-robed warriors, then took a deep breath. “Return to the dining hall and eat, my friends. Enjoy the evening. There is much work to be done during these remaining winter months and much hardship to be endured. Go now. Relax and enjoy yourselves.” He turned toward the two men closest to him and signaled them to remain. The other Redeemers filed slowly from the hall.
Winter Kay twisted his chair and sat down facing the dying man. Ferson had bitten through his lip, and blood now flowed through the gag and down over his beard. “You really are a disgraceful spectacle,” said Winter Kay. “There is nothing about you that is remotely admirable.”
“A shame about Petar,” said Marl Coper. Winter Kay transferred his gaze to his aide and stared hard at the thin-faced young man.
“I thought you did not like him, Marl.”
“I didn’t, lord. He was, however, a fine duelist and had performed adequately in the past. He was also appallingly bad at cards, and I shall miss the vast amounts I won from him.”
“What do you wish us to do about Macon now, lord?” asked the second man, a sandy-haired middle-aged nobleman named Eris Velroy. He seemed ill at ease, and his eyes kept darting toward the dying man on the cross. Winter Kay held his gaze, noting the sheen of sweat on the man’s brow.
“Is something troubling you, Velroy?”
“Not at all, my lord.”
“Ferson was your friend, was he not?”
“Not exactly friends, my lord. More . . . acquaintances, I would say.”
Winter Kay gave a cold smile. “It never ceases to surprise me how few friends the doomed have. One moment they are surrounded by smiling faces; the next they are utterly friendless.” The man on the cross suddenly cried out. His scream, though muffled by the cloth, was shrill. “Oh, he is really beginning to bore me now,” said Winter Kay, rising from his chair. Leaning against the cross was an iron club. Hefting it, Winter Kay smashed two blows into the dying man’s legs, snapping the bones. Ferson screamed. He tried to draw himself up on his arms, but his strength gave out and he sagged down. Within moments his breathing had ceased. “Now, as to Macon,” said Winter Kay, laying down the club. “He has proved more resilient than one would have hoped. Had he died during the duel with Ferson, we could have closed the matter quietly. Indeed, had Petar and Sholar succeeded, the issue would have been over. However, we cannot continue to send individual assassins. Macon will be wary now.” Winter Kay sighed. “Unfortunately, we must take decisive action of a larger nature. This will necessitate some planning, for it will first involve the elimination of a secondary threat.”
“From what quarter, lord?” asked Marl Coper.
“Gaise Macon is the son of the Moidart. It was my hope to enlist him in our order. He has all the qualities we seek: courage, single-mindedness, and an abhorrence for weakness and the endless stupidity of compassion. Those same qualities, however, would ensure his enmity once his son was killed. It is essential, therefore, that the Moidart be dealt with before we sentence Macon. Choose three men, Marl. Go north with letters from me to the Moidart. He will welcome you. While at his castle kill him and make it appear the work of assassins. The Moidart is no stranger to assassination attempts. Once he is dead, we will deal with his son.”
Marl Coper remained silent for a moment. Winter Kay knew what he was thinking. The Moidart’s reputation was unparalleled. “Harsh” and “deadly” were the two words most often used, but even they did not come close to doing him justice.
“He is older now,” Winter Kay said softly. “His body is a mass of burn scars that plague him constantly, and he has a festering wound in his groin that will never heal. He is merely a man, Marl.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Marl, doubt still in his voice. “However, you yourself have just spoken of his qualities. There have been many assassination attempts. None of them have succeeded. He is sharp and canny, and he has the Harvester.”
“The Harvester is a middle-aged farmer, Marl, with an eye for the dramatic. I met him once. He is a large man and a tough one. But were it not for the fact that he beheads his victims with a shortened hand scythe, he would be no more than another hired assassin. That is one of the Moidart’s skills. He makes people believe that he and to a lesser extent the Harvester have almost mystic qualities. They do not. The Moidart understands that fear is essential to control the masses. Therefore, he finds devious ways to feed that fear. I do not suggest that you underestimate either man. However, they are but men. Kill the Moidart—and the Harvester if he interferes. Then we can wipe out the son with impunity.”
“The will of the orb be done,” whispered Marl.
“Even so,” agreed Winter Kay. “Now, once the Moidart is dead, you will go to the Pinance and instruct him to lead his army into the north. Stay with him, Marl. See that Eldacre is held for the cause.”
“You may rely on me, my lord.”
“I do, Marl, though I am displeased with your failure to kill the demonic child. Did I not instruct you to find suitable assassins?”
“You did, my lord. My researches showed that the Cochlands were such men. I apologize for my failure in this matter.”
“Your methods were flawed. Tostig should have been the first choice. You chose Draig Cochland because he had been thrashed by Kaelin Ring. You believed this would make him an enemy of Ring and his family.”
“Yes, lord. It was an error.”
“One such error can be forgiven, Marl. We often learn by making mistakes. This is why I have given you this new task. Do it well and you will be restored into my good graces.”
After the two men had gone, Winter Kay sat quietly in the meeting hall, staring up at the corpse of Lord Ferson. He had always known the man was weak and cowardly, which was why he had never allowed him to join the Redeemers. An order destined to change the world needed to be strong. Yet Ferson had proved useful. He had been rich, influential, and a close friend of the king and his family. Winter Kay had never enjoyed the king’s friendship and had needed Ferson to draw him into the inner circle.
Now he virtually commanded the king’s armies, and his power was close to total.
The will of the orb be done.
The words of Marl Coper echoed in Winter Kay’s mind.
Even now, after all these years, Winter Kay found the words disturbing. He had coined the phrase in this very room just over six years previously to focus the minds of the Redeemers on the source of their power. He had not thought of it as a literal truth, merely as a device. As the years had passed, he had begun to wonder and to worry over it.
The skull possessed great power, but—he had tried to convince himself—it was not sentient.
Yet when Winter Kay held it in his hands and the dreams began, he found his mind focusing as never before. As if, without the orb, his normal understanding of the world was that of a bird in a cage in a single room of a small house. With the skull in his hands he became an eagle, soaring high above the earth, seeing all. It was then that his plans were formed. It was then that he understood.
The skull did not speak to him. Rather, he would see shapes and colors, outlines and structures, each pointing out areas of danger or success. In some ways it felt like the child’s game his father set for him and his brother, Gayan, on feast days. Their father would hide objects and clues around the huge gardens, and the boys would hunt them down, finally arriving at their reward. The method was the same now. While holding the skull Winter Kay could see some problems almost before they arose.
Like the recent battle. The plan was for Luden Macks to inflict some damage on the loyalist army, to come close to victory by overpowering and killing the elderly Lord Buckman and his guards. As Macks and his forces cut through toward the enemy center, they would be attacked by the knights of the Sacrifice hidden in woods close to the king’s headquarters. Luden Macks’ army would be repulsed—though not destroyed—and Winter Kay’s standing with the king, after the death of Buckman, would be enhanced. It was in essence a simple plan. He had come upon it while holding the skull in his hands. The images had formed in his mind like shining steel. Potential problem areas had been seen as a corrosive red, like rust forming on the beauty of the steel. In this second phase of his vision he had seen the one flaw in the plan. Buckman was a fighter and a charismatic leader. His line would hold long enough for reinforcements to be drawn up.
Winter Kay had then prepared his strategy. Lord Ferson was sent to the right flank with strict orders to avoid action unless directly attacked. All other regular units were positioned in such a way as to be useless to Buckman once Luden Macks broke through.
It would have worked but for one small rogue element.
Gaise Macon.
Because of him Buckman had scored a partial victory, and Winter Kay had been forced to have the man poisoned, a deed that did not sit well. The old warrior deserved to die on the battlefield.
Now, as he sat beneath Ferson’s contorted body, Winter Kay found his anger rising. When first he had seen Gaise Macon at close quarters and looked into those odd eyes, he had remembered the curse of the old priest back in Shelsans: “I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you when the one with the golden eye comes for you.”
I should have had him killed then, thought Winter Kay. And he would have but for the Moidart.
The source of unlimited power lay in the north. Winter Kay understood that, though he did not know why he understood it. It wa
s like an aftertaste from holding the skull. Once his plans were formed, he would drift into strange dreams that always melted away upon awakening, leaving him drained. For days afterward he would find himself thinking about the high northlands and picturing mountains he had never seen.
At such times he would be filled with an indescribable longing.
He had, during the last year, tried to court the Moidart, inviting him south. Always the man had refused. The refusals were courteous. Winter Kay had planned to visit him the next spring, to take the skull and heal the man’s scars, drawing him into the brotherhood.
The Moidart would have proved an invaluable ally.
Such a pity that a fine man should have been cursed with a son like Gaise Macon.
8
* * *
Apothecary Ramus pondered the nature of irony. A small man, nearsighted and balding, he had never wished harm on any living soul. His life had been one of service, the gathering of herbs and medicines for the relief of pain and the curing of disease. He was also, though he would have been surprised to discover it, well loved in the town of Old Hills.
In short, if people who knew him were asked, they would say: “Ramus is a good man, a kind man.” Those with a keener eye, such as Alterith Shaddler, the spindly schoolteacher, would add: “He is a shy man with no understanding of malice or evil.” They would be able to say little more than that, for no one knew him well. In his fifty-plus years Ramus had until recently made no friends. He encouraged no visitors to his tiny cottage home and engaged in no small talk or gossip. Ramus was invariably polite to all he met, doffing his gray woolen cap to the women and nodding or bowing briefly to the men. His shyness gave him a neutrality that allowed his patients to discuss intimate details of their conditions without embarrassment. Ramus would sit quietly, listen intently, and then prescribe adequate medications or herbal remedies.
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