Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  The man swallowed hard. His hand came away from the knife. Huntsekker gathered his staff and walked on to Powdermill’s house. He was angry now, and his neck felt stiff and sore. In the old days throwing a punch would have loosened him up. Now he had pulled a muscle. Still, the headache had gone.

  Coming to the front door, he rapped on it with his knuckles. “Who is it?” called a thin, reedy voice.

  “A real wizard would know already,” replied Huntsekker. “But then, you’re just a miserable fake.”

  The door swung open, and a small man peered out. He had long white hair thinning at the crown and small button blue eyes. He gave a wide grin, displaying two golden teeth. “I don’t use my powers lightly, Huntsekker,” he said.

  “Or cheaply. Invite me in. It’s damned cold out here.”

  Aran Powdermill stepped aside. Huntsekker eased past him, removed his bearskin coat, and strode across to a deep chair by the fire.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” said the little man. Huntsekker gazed around the room. Books and manuscripts filled the shelves and littered the long table by the only window. Powdermill dragged a second chair to the fire and sat down.

  “You are looking old and tired,” he said.

  “I am both,” agreed Huntsekker. “So let us cut to the chase.”

  “The Moidart is troubled,” said Powdermill before Huntsekker could speak. “His son is threatened, and he wants to know the nature of the enemy.”

  “Makes no sense to me,” said Huntsekker. “You don’t know who is at your door, but you know the thoughts of a man twenty miles away.”

  “Life is a mystery,” Powdermill said with a gold-toothed grin.

  “It is that, right enough,” agreed Huntsekker.

  “Your farm is prospering, I hear. Cattle to feed the armies of the south. You must be almost wealthy by now, Huntsekker.”

  “The Moidart wants—”

  “—me to travel with you to Eldacre. I won’t do it.”

  “That is not wise, Powdermill. The Moidart is not a man to disappoint.”

  “You misunderstand me, big man. I will come, but not with you. The Moidart is watched. Not all the time. They missed his meeting with you. Which is just as well, for if they had, I would have turned you down flat, threat or no threat.”

  “No one watches the Moidart. I would have seen them.”

  Powdermill shook his head. “Not these you wouldn’t, big man. They float in the air, unseen by normal eyes. They have great powers.”

  Huntsekker smiled. “I am not one of your marks. Spare me the nonsense.”

  The little man shrugged. “The Moidart spoke to you in the uppermost room of the winter mansion. He was standing by the window, facing southeast. He asked if you knew anyone with power. A seer or a mystic. You hesitated. Then you spoke my name.”

  Huntsekker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “All right, tell me the trick. How do you know this?”

  “Not through trickery, Huntsekker. The simplest way to explain it is to say that a seer always hears when his name is mentioned. Now, as far as I have seen, the Moidart is watched at times during the day. But never after he has taken to his bed. When you return to Eldacre, go to him after midnight. Tell him that I will come to him but that I will require ten pounds.”

  “Are you mad, Aran? This house isn’t worth ten pounds. By heaven, he’ll pluck your eyes out for your impudence.”

  “Without my skill he will not survive the winter. Neither will you, big man. You are occasionally watched, too. You will be on their death list. That is why I will not travel with you. As to the ten pounds, that is the value I put on my life.”

  “Who are they?”

  Aran shook his head. “Do you not listen? I will not speak their name. Nor should you. Nor should the Moidart. Merely say ‘the enemy.’ Tell him my price. I will come to him tomorrow, after midnight.”

  “And that is all you can tell me?”

  Aran Powdermill grinned. “I can tell you that the man you hit is now waiting in the shadows outside, seeking revenge.”

  “At last! A useful piece of mystical information.”

  “Not really. I saw him duck under my window.”

  Huntsekker laughed aloud. “Well, it will be amusing to see you barter with the Moidart. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “If the Source is willing,” Aran said with no trace of a smile.

  Huntsekker rose and pulled on his coat.

  “You are welcome to stay the night,” said Aran.

  “I have matters to attend to.” Taking up his staff, Huntsekker strode to the door. Opening it, he stepped outside. Someone rushed from the shadows. Huntsekker’s staff whirled and cracked against the man’s skull. He slumped to the snow. “River men used to be tougher than this in my day,” Huntsekker told the little mystic.

  “Things were always better in the old days,” Aran answered with a smile.

  As befitted a dutiful son, Gaise Macon sent a letter home once a month, informing his father of his movements and aspects of the campaign he felt might interest him. Truth to tell, Gaise had little idea of what might or might not interest the Moidart. His father had never replied—until now. Gaise sat in the main room of his house, Soldier asleep at his feet, and read the letter again:

  “Word has reached me of the duel with Ferson. The information is sketchy. Write now and inform me of all the events that led up to it and any that have followed it. Leave nothing out. Keep Mulgrave close and avoid strict routine in your movements. When possible resign your commission and travel north.”

  It was signed M.

  Gaise shook his head and gave a wry smile. Not a word of affectionate greeting. Not a mention of life back in Eldacre.

  Tucking the letter into the pocket of his blue silk jacket, Gaise moved to the small mirror on the wall and carefully tied his white cravat. This, too, was silk bought in the capital four years before, when life had been simpler. He looked at his reflection. The clothes were bright and stylish: a superbly cut jacket edged with silver embroidery over a white shirt with a lace collar and extravagant cuffs, gray leggings merging with highly polished black riding boots. The clothes spoke of calmer days, times of nonsense and trivia, balls and parties, visits to the theater and fine dining establishments. The face, however, was a stark contrast. The eyes were tired and had seen too much. The features were drawn and tense.

  “When possible resign your commission and travel north.”

  How good that sounded. Gaise made a final adjustment to his cravat and turned away from the mirror. Soldier lifted his great black head and watched the man. His tail wagged.

  “You have to remain here, my friend,” said Gaise, crouching down and stroking the hound’s head.

  But Soldier followed him to the door, and Gaise had to push him back as he eased himself out the front door. The hound barked furiously as Gaise walked away. Taybard Jaekel and his friend, the powerfully built Kammel Bard, were waiting outside. Both men saluted.

  “Have you heard from home?” asked Gaise as he walked out onto the main street.

  Jaekel fell in alongside him, his rifle cradled across his chest. “Not in a month, sir. They said the winter is harsh.”

  “I’d still sooner suffer our winters than spend any more time here,” said Gaise.

  “Amen to that, sir.”

  “You still have that golden musket ball?” asked Gaise.

  “Yes, sir,” answered Taybard, tapping at his chest. “Seems a long time ago now.”

  “It was a good day, Jaekel.”

  They strolled through the town. Gaise did not even glance at the bridge.

  Guests had already begun arriving at the mayor’s large house. Gaise was welcomed by the man’s wife, a small and once pretty woman with rapidly blinking eyes and a sad expression. Gaise bowed to her and kissed her hand. She led him through to the main reception room, where some twenty people had already gathered. The mayor moved away from a small group of residents and bowed deeply. He was red-f
aced and—amazingly, considering the food shortages—overweight.

  “Welcome, General,” he said, affecting a broad smile that did not reach his eyes. “You are most welcome. Allow me to introduce you to my friends, some of whom I believe you have met.”

  Gaise followed the man into the room, shaking hands and making agreeable comments. He was ill at ease but masked it well. It was not his intention to stay long. This party was for Cordley Lowen, arranged in haste to honor the quartermaster general. There was no way Gaise could refuse to attend without causing further offense.

  Lowen, dressed in a full military uniform of braided crimson, was standing by the fire, chatting with several of the town’s leading citizens. They were hanging on his every word, nodding and smiling. His dark-haired daughter was standing close by in a figure-hugging gown of green satin. It seemed to shimmer in the lantern light.

  The mayor led Gaise to the group. Lowen saw them, and his eyes narrowed. His smile, however, remained fixed.

  “Good evening, General Macon,” he said.

  “And to you, sir. I trust you are well.”

  “As well as one can be in these dreadful times.” He stepped aside. “You remember my daughter, Cordelia.”

  “I do, sir.” Gaise felt his stomach tighten as he met her eyes. He bowed deeply. She made no attempt to disguise her contempt for him, her face remaining set, her dark eyes angry. An uncomfortable silence grew. Gaise could think of nothing to say. The fat mayor blurted out something meaningless, one of the other guests mentioned the weather, and the moment passed.

  As soon as he could Gaise moved away from the group toward the long table on which a punch bowl had been set.

  He felt foolish and a little angry. Filling a glass with cider punch, he sipped it.

  “So, who are we challenging tonight, General?” asked Cordelia Lowen, appearing alongside him. “The mayor, perhaps?”

  Gaise reddened but this time kept a firm hold on his temper. “I was rather hoping for an uneventful evening, lady,” he said, “though I am glad of this opportunity to apologize for my boorish behavior.”

  Her expression softened, but only marginally. “I heard of your duel with Lord Ferson.”

  “Despite appearances I am not a duelist,” he said. “Lord Ferson challenged me. I did not desire it.”

  “People say otherwise,” she observed, reaching out and filling a crystal cup with punch.

  “Really. What do they say?” he asked.

  She sipped her drink. Gaise took a deep breath, determined to maintain his composure. It was difficult, though, in her company. He found himself staring at her lips, the tiny movement in her throat as she swallowed, the creamy beauty of her skin.

  “Is it customary to stare at a woman’s breasts where you come from?” she asked.

  Gaise’s head jerked up. He reddened, which made the small white burn scar on his right cheek stand out. “I . . . am sorry, lady. Truth to tell, I am not comfortable in the presence of women. I seem to develop two left legs and the manners of a village idiot.”

  “Your mother must have been a ferocious woman to leave you so daunted by female company.”

  “She was murdered when I was a babe. My father never remarried.”

  “Then how do you overcome this affliction, General Macon? You are a mildly presentable young man and, I would imagine, have enjoyed the company of at least a certain kind of woman.”

  Gaise was shocked. He looked into her green eyes and saw that she was mocking him. Yet it seemed to him that her manner was more gentle and that there was no malice in it.

  “I have never sought the company of such women,” he said.

  Her surprise was genuine. “Let me understand this, sir. You are unused to the company of polite women, and you do not frequent the company of the other kind. Does this mean, sir, that the legendary Gray Ghost, the dashing cavalry general, is in fact a virgin?”

  “I am, lady,” he told her, blushing furiously.

  “Do you not know how to lie?” she inquired. “All men do it.”

  “Of course. But why would you wish me to lie to you?”

  “It is not about lying to me, sir. In my experience men are boastful and full of vain pride. I can think of no man who would so easily admit to his inexperience.”

  “It was not easy, lady.”

  She looked into his eyes, then glanced away. “Perhaps you are one of those who prefer the company of men . . . in all things. It would not be surprising.”

  Gaise laughed. “It would surprise me. If I was so inclined, lady, I doubt you would be having the extraordinary effect on me that you are.”

  Now it was Cordelia who blushed. She recovered her composure swiftly. “That was very smoothly said, General. Especially for a man who professes to be uncomfortable with women.”

  “I know. I cannot explain it.”

  “I understand you come from the north. They say it is pretty there.”

  “Aye, it is a beautiful land. Majestic mountains and lakes of exquisite beauty. Will you be staying long in Shelding?”

  “We had expected to stay longer, but Father has received new orders. We leave in four days.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “I am not,” she told him. “I long to return home.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Enjoy your evening, General,” she said, and with a delicate bow of her head moved away from him.

  Gaise finished his punch, which was overly sweet, and located the mayor. Thanking him for his hospitality, he explained that there were military matters to attend to and left the gathering. Jaekel and Bard were waiting outside.

  Mulgrave was waiting back at the house. “How did it go, sir?” he asked.

  At that moment Soldier bounded from the rear rooms, his tail wagging. Gaise knelt down and patted the overexcited hound. “Be calm, now,” he said. “Settle down.” Eventually the hound quietened. Gaise sat by the fire, the dog at his feet.

  “It was interesting,” said Gaise.

  “Was she there?”

  “Aye, she was. She is enchanting, Mulgrave. And I barely stumbled in my speech.”

  “Will you be seeing her again?” The question was asked too innocently.

  Gaise looked up at his friend. “What is bothering you, Mulgrave?”

  The swordsman shrugged and forced a smile. “This is not a good time to fall in love, sir. We are surrounded by enemies.”

  “Fear not, my friend. She and the general are leaving in four days. He has fresh orders.”

  “I thought he was to stay for a month to establish the depot.”

  “So did I. But that’s the army for you, Mulgrave.”

  “The army,” Mulgrave muttered, with a shake of his head. “What we are facing here, sir, is not about armies at war. By heaven, you’d be safer if you led the men to join Luden Macks. At least then you’d know the enemy would be in front of you.”

  Cordelia Lowen stood patiently as the elderly maid struggled to unfasten the twenty small mother-of-pearl buttons at the back of her gown. Cordelia loved the gown, but it was so impractical. Without a servant at hand she would have been forced to cut the garment clear. She had made that point to her father when he had bought it for her.

  He had laughed. “That is entirely the point, my dear. Peasants wear dresses that are easily removed. Only the rich can wear this gown.”

  It still seemed stupid to Cordelia. The buttons were beautiful, but they could just as easily have been placed at the front of the gown.

  “Can’t seem to get this one, my dear,” said Mrs. Broadley. “Sorry to keep you waiting so.”

  “That’s all right, Mara. It is loose enough now.” Stepping away from the woman, Cordelia undid the buttons of the sleeves, then began to tug the gown upward. The old woman tried to help. After a few moments of useless struggle Cordelia suddenly burst into laughter. “This is not a gown,” she said. “It is an instrument of torture. Cut the damned button off.”

  “Oh, no, my lady,�
� wailed Mrs. Broadley. “It will ruin it. Let me try one more time.”

  Cordelia’s good humor faded as she heard the terror in the old woman’s voice. If the dress was ruined, she would be blamed for being too arthritic to unbutton it. That might be the end of her employment. She and old Broadley, her husband, had been with Cordley Lowen for almost twenty years, having served his father before that. Cordelia wondered what they would do when their time of service was at an end. Did they have money saved? If they did, it would not be much.

  “I’ve got it,” Mrs. Broadley said, happily. “Stand up, my dear.” Within moments the garment was laid upon the bed, and Cordelia breathed a sigh of deep relief.

  “I could scarcely breathe in that thing,” she said. “I felt faint the whole evening.”

  “I expect you were the center of attention. All the men there were dumbstruck by your beauty.”

  Cordelia moved to the chair by the mirror. Mrs. Broadley removed the pins from the young woman’s hair, allowing it to tumble to her shoulders. Then the servant took up a silver-backed brush. “Have you seen General Macon?” asked Cordelia as her hair was being brushed.

  “Unpleasant young man,” said Mrs. Broadley. “I remember Mr. Broadley telling me of his rudeness back at the old house.”

  “Yes, yes, but have you seen him?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Of what, my lady?”

  “Do you find him presentable?”

  “It has never crossed my mind. He is handsome, I would say. He carries himself well, though I don’t know why he should march everywhere with an honor guard.”

  “There was an attempt on his life. Luden Macks sent two assassins to kill him. He fought them and killed them.”

  “That is what soldiers do, I suppose. Kill people,” Mrs. Broadley said primly. “He is a noted duelist as well. He shot that Lord Ferson.”