Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  The wagon slipped toward the edge of the trail. Kaelin steered it on. There was ice there, and the road was steep, the horses tired. He coaxed the team, calling out to them as he flicked the reins. Slowly the wagon rumbled over the worst of the slope, coming out onto steadier ground.

  “Why would I want to meet him?” he asked.

  “Because he is the ruler of this land, Kaelin. And one day you will be a man of power. It is wise that you should meet. A man should know his friends, but it is vital that he know his enemies.”

  “What do I need to know? He betrayed my father and murdered him. His men then slaughtered the Rigante. My mother was among them. Were it not for you, those same men would have lifted the babe I was and smashed my head against a wall.”

  “It is all true,” said Maev. “Yet when that same man was pressed to have me executed, he declared me innocent.”

  “Pah! Your skills were creating riches, and he took his share in taxes. Are you trying to convince me there is good in the man? He is a creature of hatred and bile.”

  “Aye, he is. You know why he hated your father?”

  “Of course. He was the leader of the Rigante, and the Moidart could not defeat him.”

  “That is not the whole story, Kaelin. The Moidart had a wife. It was said he adored her. She was a fickle woman, however. She met with your father in secret.”

  “That is a lie!”

  “Jaim saw them one day. He kept it secret for many years, but one night, when drunk, he told me of it. Lanovar was a great man in many ways. He was bonny and brave and bright and witty. He could not resist a pretty face, though.” Maev laughed. “Truth to tell, he could not resist them whether they were pretty or not.”

  “Are you saying the Moidart killed him for sleeping with his wife?”

  “Oh, how proper! Sleeping, indeed. I doubt they slept much. But yes, that’s why the Moidart hated him. Have you ever seen Gaise Macon?”

  “I met him once,” said Kaelin.

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  “Of course I saw his eyes.” Kaelin faltered, remembering their curious color, one green and one gold.

  “Lanovar’s eyes,” said Maev.

  The words hung in the air. Kaelin said nothing, his mind reeling. Out of nowhere he remembered the Wyrd talking to him years before, in what seemed a different age. Jaim was alive, the future seemed bright, and he had just had a scrap with some local youths. Gaise Macon had come to his rescue. The Wyrd seemed fascinated by this. She pressed him for his views on the young nobleman. “Did you like him?” she asked.

  “Like him. He is Varlish.” The Wyrd had then spoken of Maev, but her words burned in him now.

  “She is Rigante, Ravenheart, and in her flows the blood of Ruathain and Meria, two of the great heroes of our past. Aye, and Lanach and Bedril, who held the pass. Maev is old blood. As are you. As is Gaise Macon.”

  As is Gaise Macon!

  Kaelin’s stomach tightened. Lifting the reins, he tossed them into Maev’s lap, then leaped from the wagon. He wanted to hear no more.

  “Wait, Kaelin!” called Maev.

  He swung around. “Wait? What for? More lies?”

  “I am telling you the truth.”

  “Maybe!” he raged. “But what of all the lies until now? Jaim knew. You knew. The Wyrd knew. Only Kaelin had to be kept in the dark. Damn you, Maev, you had no right to keep it from me. And worse, you had no right to tell me now.”

  Maev jumped from the wagon and ran to him. “I am sorry. Truly, Kaelin. I would do nothing to cause you pain. Yes, I kept it from you. Not for as long as you think, though. Only two years. I saw Gaise Macon when he visited the barracks at Black Mountain. He rode by me. I looked into his face, and I saw Lanovar’s eyes. I wanted to tell you then, but little Jaim had just been born, and I couldn’t find a way to broach it with you.”

  “Now you have,” he said. “So leave me be.”

  With that he strode off into the gathering darkness.

  Kaelin Ring was still angry as he entered the outskirts of Eldacre, but the anger was tinged with a deep sorrow. He had never known his father, and all the stories of him had come from Jaim, Maev, or the Wyrd. He had heard of Lanovar’s courage and compassion, of his love for practical jokes. He had been told how handsome he was and how admired. In Kaelin’s mind Lanovar had become a kind of god, or at least a man of infinite nobility and honor. That image was now tarnished. What man of honor would steal another man’s wife?

  He wondered if Lanovar himself had known the reason for his murder. As he lay dying on that mountainside, Jaim beside him, did he consider that his own treacherous behavior had brought him to this?

  Kaelin paused at the edge of the Five Fields and leaned against the old separation fence. Here highlanders had to line up and show their passes. No Rigante or Pannone was allowed to enter the Varlish areas. No one had bothered with that rule for the last two years, so he had been told. Other rules, though, remained in force in the south. No highlander could own a horse over fourteen hands, or carry a sword, or own a pistol.

  Even as he thought it, he realized he still had his Emburley pistols, hidden in concealed pockets within his ankle-length leather coat. “You idiot,” he chided himself aloud. He had intended to hide them in the wagon before they entered the town. Four years away and now a husband and father, and he had committed a hanging offense in his first moments in Eldacre.

  Kaelin walked on. The town had grown in the last four years, spreading out over the hillsides. New homes had been constructed on the ridge meadow, and the avenue leading to the town center and the cathedral had been widened. Tall cast-iron lamp pillars had been set in the road, and Kaelin saw a lamplighter moving along the avenue carrying a set of steps. There were many people in the town center, heading off toward taverns or dining establishments. Only a few of the older people still wore the white wigs that once typified a Varlish gentleman.

  Kaelin came to the towering cathedral and paused to watch people crossing the square. Here, four years ago, Jaim Grymauch had fought his way to Maev Ring’s side and cut her free from the execution pyre.

  The tall young highlander closed his eyes and pictured the face of his friend and mentor. All anger left him then. It was no surprise that Jaim had never told him about Lanovar’s weaknesses. Jaim rarely spoke ill of anyone, and Lanovar had been his greatest friend.

  Leaving the cathedral grounds, Kaelin spent an hour wandering the streets, revisiting places he remembered from childhood. Grimm’s bakery was no longer at the corner of Weavers Street. It had been replaced by a clothing store. That was a shame. On feast days Maev would often take Kaelin to Grimm’s and buy a slab of raisin bread topped with spiced icing. He paused at the shop front, remembering the joys of those bygone days.

  “That is a fine coat, sir,” said a young man standing in the doorway. “I’ll warrant the leather was not crafted on these shores. The stitching is exceptional.”

  “It was made by my wife,” Kaelin said coolly.

  “She has great talent, sir. We have many new items on display inside. Some splendid gloves have just arrived from Varingas.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Kaelin. “Tell me, what happened to Grimm’s?”

  “The old man died, sir. Two years ago. His widow sold the business.”

  Kaelin strolled away, back through the town center, making his way to the Black Boar Inn, where Maev had reserved rooms. The inn was one of the oldest buildings in Eldacre and, though it had been renovated and expanded over the centuries, still retained some of its original features. Part of the stables at the rear, so the owner maintained, had once been the meeting hall of the Long Laird, a contemporary of the great king Connavar. Kaelin had never stayed at the Black Boar, but he and Jaim had once dined there. Jaim had gotten into a fight with two timber men and had downed them both, and he and Kaelin had been forced to sprint away into the night to avoid the watch soldiers.

  The inn was crowded, and Kaelin eased his way to the bar, where he gave his
name to a round-shouldered man with a short-cropped gray beard. The man led him through to the rear of the building and up a short flight of stairs.

  “You want me to tell the lady you’ve arrived?” asked the man.

  “No. I’ll see her later.”

  The room was small, but a fire had been laid in the hearth, and the innkeeper lit a lantern, which he placed on a table by the bedside. Once alone, Kaelin walked to the window and stared out into the street below.

  Maev wanted him to meet the Moidart, to stand face to face with the man who had murdered his father. The thought was abhorrent to him.

  And yet Maev was right. It was vital to know one’s enemies. The Moidart was an evil man, cold and deadly. He hated the Rigante and, had it not been for this awesomely stupid war, would have led his forces against Call Jace and the clans. One day we’ll have to fight him, thought Kaelin.

  On that day I will avenge Lanovar.

  What of Gaise Macon? What of your brother? The thought leaped unbidden to his mind. Kaelin sighed. “He is not my brother,” he said aloud. “And if he comes against me, I’ll kill him.”

  Aran Powdermill once had a cat. It was an exceptional rat killer. Gray and sleek, it would sit quietly as the rat showed itself, its golden eyes watching unblinking. There seemed to be no tension in it, no desire or blood lust. It would watch and wait. When it pounced, Aran would always jump. The movement was so swift, sudden, and deadly. The cat never played with its prey. It moved in and killed. Then it would pad away to its resting place beneath the window and wait for another victim.

  Aran could not help thinking about the cat as he stood in the company of the Moidart. The lord had spent most of the day with the unfortunate Marl Coper. The screams had been quite chilling. When the Moidart finally had emerged, he had gone to his rooms and bathed and changed. He was now wearing a gray silk jacket embroidered with silver over a white lace shirt, trousers of charcoal gray, and knee-length boots. His black and silver hair was neatly combed, though Aran struggled to avoid looking at the small splash of blood on the hair at his right temple.

  “What do you know of the Orb of Kranos?” asked the Moidart.

  “Might I sit, lord? I have a nearly permanent ache in my right leg. It is hard to concentrate while in pain.”

  The Moidart gestured to a chair. Aran sat and massaged his calf. The pain had been growing worse of late, especially if he had to walk any distance or stand for more than a few minutes. “The orb is said to be a vessel of some kind, perhaps a—”

  “It is a skull,” said the Moidart. “What does it do?”

  “A skull! Yes, that was the description given by Prassimus in one of the oldest texts. He maintained it was the skull of a great king, a man who believed he was immortal. According to Prassimus, he was a vampire of great power. He was destroyed in a war thousands of years before the dawn of our history.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Prassimus?”

  “Kranos.”

  “No one really knows, lord. There have been some archaeological finds across the narrow sea. One hundred years ago a burial mound near Goriasa was found to contain three gold tablets on which was a script no one could translate. There were also items that predated our own civilization. I recall a vase that was crafted from volcanic rock. To this day no one has been able to ascertain how it was created.”

  “Vases do not interest me. Could this Kranos have been from my lands?”

  “Why would you think so, lord?”

  “Coper tells me that Winter Kay has spent years acquiring maps of the highlands north of Eldacre. He has also studied Rigante history and is fascinated by their myths.”

  “I suppose Kranos could have come from the north,” said Aran. “There are certainly the remains of ancient structures in various sites.”

  “We’ll think of that later,” said the Moidart. “What powers does the orb possess, according to your study?”

  “Regeneration and renewal are the most often mentioned. The healing of wounds, the increase of physical strength. Delay of the signs of aging. These virtues were said to be enjoyed by the Dezhem Bek, the servants of the orb.”

  “The Ravenous Ravens,” said the Moidart.

  “You are well read, my lord.”

  “Not at all. Young Master Coper explained it to me.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Why were they called ravenous?”

  “I had always thought it was alliteration, lord. Poetry,” he added.

  “I know what ‘alliteration’ means. The word ‘ravenous,’ however, is interesting. Eternally hungry. For what? Power? Bloodshed? The Redeemers have built a reputation for excess. Is it because they desire it—or need it? Coper talks of touching the skull and feeling a thrill of power, a satisfaction unlike anything he has experienced before. He says the feeling is most exquisite after violent activity. By which he meant torture and murder. I fancy he did not find it quite so exquisite today as the victim.”

  I expect that you did, Aran thought miserably.

  “Give the matter some thought, Master Powdermill. I need to know the limits of their power and the drawbacks to it. Do you know the Wyrd of Wishing Tree woods?”

  Aran jerked. The change of tack had been sudden. He struggled to gather his thoughts. “I have met her, lord. She is of the old way. There are not many left now.”

  “Fewer since Winter Kay began seeking them out and killing them. She is one of the last. Why would he want her dead?”

  “I have no idea, lord.”

  “Then use your brain,” snapped the Moidart. “I do not expect you to be able to answer these questions instantly. I pose them so you can consider the answers. These Dezhem Bek must desire something. In order to achieve it they need to kill a madwoman of the forest. Looked at another way, they fear her. As matters stand, Master Powdermill, we cannot win against these Redeemers. They not only have the power of the orb but are masters of the army. Therefore, we need to know what knowledge this woman possesses. Not so?”

  “I see your point, lord,” said Aran. “According to the legends, Kranos was slain by a great hero. Some even say it was his son. He cannot again return to the world of blood and flesh. Yet his body was invested with enormous powers, and so his orb—his skull—carries great magic. It seems inconceivable that such magic could be threatened by a Rigante Wicca woman.”

  “I do not believe it is necessarily the magic which is threatened,” said the Moidart. “The magic is merely the power which drives them toward whatever they desire. It is that goal which the Wyrd threatens. If a man has a racehorse and someone seeks to cripple it, he does not do so because he does not like the horse. He does it so that it will not win a race. It is the race we must identify. In legend, what do these Dezhem Bek desire?”

  Aran considered the question. He had not studied the texts for many years. “I do not think I can help you with this problem, my lord,” he said at last. “You need a scholar of greater wit than I.” He took a deep breath. “I was rather hoping to return to my home, having fulfilled the service I promised.”

  “Your hopes are immaterial to me. And you are not thinking clearly. Do you believe you can appear at my side, engineer the deaths of three Redeemers, be seen by Lord Winterbourne himself, and then depart to your home with no fear of reprisal? God’s teeth, man, they will be hunting you till the day you die. Believe me, you will be safer in my service.”

  “As you wish, lord,” said Aran, determined to be gone from Eldacre as soon as the household was sleeping.

  “I will also supply you with an extra ten pounds for every month you serve me up until a full year. If we are both alive at year’s end, I will double the entire amount and give you lands and a fine house. It is up to you, Master Powdermill. Serve me and become rich or run off into the night and answer to the Redeemers or the Harvester, whichever finds you first.”

  “A difficult choice, lord. I’ll need time to think on it.” Aran looked into the Moidart’s eyes and felt a shiver go
through him. “I have thought on it and will accept your kind offer,” he said.

  “Wise,” said the Moidart. “Now, these ward spells you have placed around the manor. How far can we rely on them?”

  “They will need to be recharged daily, lord. I cannot guarantee they will keep out all the spirits. It would be advisable not to discuss plans of action unless I am present to see whether any Redeemers have breached my defenses. What we need are holy relics. True relics, not the dross held in the cathedral. Charms blessed by the Veiled Lady or Persis Albitane are the strongest. There are not many in the north.”

  “Can you find them?”

  “Given time, lord. Time, however, is not with us, I fear.”

  “That is true. I expect another attempt on my life any day now. The Redeemers can communicate with each other over vast distances. They have people in the north. They will have been primed to come after me. The Pinance is also allied with Winterbourne. I expect he will be raising an army even as we speak.”

  “You seem to be taking this matter very calmly, my lord,” said Aran.

  “Go and rest, Master Powdermill. Then set to work finding out what Winterbourne really wants. Find out why he fears the Wyrd. This, I believe, is the key.”

  “I will, lord,” said Aran, rising. “Did you want me to spirit travel south and find out what is happening with your son?”

  “Can you communicate with him?”

  “No, lord.”

  “Then he is on his own. Concentrate instead on what will keep us alive.”

  Back in his own room Aran Powdermill pondered the questions set by the Moidart. Could the Wyrd truly have been so powerful that she could prevent the Redeemers from achieving their goal? Aran doubted it. Why, then, did they hunt her? The reason men have hunted our kind since the dawn of time, he thought. Fear. We have a natural power they neither possess nor understand. The Wyrd knew the old magic, Powdermill believed. It could both heal and kill. The fact that she hesitated to use the darker spells would not placate the Redeemers. Merely knowing she possessed greater power than they would be enough for them to want her dead.