Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  Carrying the iron box, Winter Kay had stridden from the room. In fact he wanted to run. Close to panic, he climbed the stairs, making his way to his apartments. Locking the door, he slumped down on a couch and placed the black box on the low table before it.

  He felt dizzy and faintly nauseous. Instinctively he reached for the lid of the box. Always before when he had felt less than powerful, he would place his hand on the skull and receive an instant burst of energy. Now he felt nervous and fearful and merely sat staring at the box. The palms of his hands were damp with sweat, and he wiped them on his leggings.

  “Why do you fear me?” came a voice inside his mind.

  Winter Kay jerked and surged to his feet, his heart hammering wildly.

  “Be calm, mortal. No harm will befall you.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Winter Kay, his voice no longer commanding but querulous and frightened.

  The soft sound of laughter filled his mind. “The will of the orb be done. I liked that. You know who I am, Winter Kay. You have visited me many times. Sadly, my blood does not flow in your veins, and your conscious mind has been unable to retain the memories. It will be different now that I am stronger.”

  “How is it that you can now . . . speak to me?”

  “The wretch you sacrificed for me had traces of my blood in his veins. But I asked why you were frightened.”

  “I fear nothing!”

  “Well said. I prefer it when my servants show spirit.”

  “I am no man’s servant.”

  “Indeed not. All men will serve you, Winter Kay. Me they will merely worship. Take my skull from that cursed box. Do it now.”

  “No, I will not.”

  “Oh, mortal, you disappoint me, and that is not wise. Without me you will have no throne. Your enemies will gather and tear you down. Without me you will live a normal human life span. What would that give you even were you to defeat your enemies? Twenty more years, perhaps?” The laughter came again. “No, Winter Kay, you will release me from this iron chamber, for I offer immortality. And only I can protect you from the man with the golden eye.”

  “I need no such protection,” said Winter Kay. “That man will be dead tomorrow as the dawn comes.”

  “You speak of Gaise Macon? We will see. I have waited centuries, mortal. I can wait a while longer. Though I will tell you now that when next you come to me, I will punish you for your disobedience. It will be painful, Winter Kay. But then I will forgive you, and you will serve me loyally.”

  Winter Kay did not sleep that night. Instead he entered a trance state and sent his spirit soaring out over the town of Shelding. There he saw the traitor telling Gaise Macon of the iron ring encircling him. He watched with silent fury as Macon gathered his riders and headed south.

  Returning to his body, Winter Kay wrote a hasty note to Macy, sealed it, and sent a rider galloping to intercept the cavalry column.

  Late the following morning came news of the utter defeat of Luden Macks. The general had tried one desperate counterattack and had been shot down as he rode with his troops. The covenanters were now scattered and demoralized. Cavalrymen were hunting down the fleeing troops.

  Winter Kay’s joy at this news was short-lived. Sir Sperring Dale had contacted Eris Velroy and relayed the grotesque events at Eldacre Castle. The Moidart had killed the Pinance and his generals and had appropriated his army. Seventeen thousand rebels were now at large in the north.

  Worse was to follow.

  Gaise Macon had escaped the trap and killed Macy.

  Winter Kay returned to his rooms and stood staring down at the black box. With trembling hands he opened the lid and lifted out the velvet-covered skull. The cloth clung to the bone as he tried to remove it. Congealing blood had made it sticky. Winter Kay wrenched it clear, hurling the cloth to the floor. With the skull in his hands he sat down on the couch.

  “I need your help,” he whispered.

  “Of course, my servant,” came the answer. “But first the pain I promised you.”

  Fire blazed through Winter Kay’s slender frame. His head arched back, and he tried to scream. No sound came forth, and the agony grew. He began to shake. A huge vein began to swell and throb at the center of his brow, and the muscles of his upper body spasmed into a fierce cramp. It was as if needles of fire were being pushed into his skin, rasping against his bones.

  And then it was gone. Winter Kay sagged back against the couch.

  “And now I forgive you, Winter Kay, for your impertinence. Here is a reward for your previous loyalty.”

  This time Winter Kay did manage to cry out. Joy flooded his mind, and he experienced a feeling of ecstasy unparalleled by any event in his life. All his tensions and fears disappeared, replaced by an immense sense of well-being. Then that, too, faded, leaving him dazed and weak.

  “Will you disobey me again, Winter Kay?”

  “No, my lord. Never.”

  In the days after the murder of the unarmed officer Mulgrave spoke little with Gaise Macon. The journey was fraught with danger, and no one but Gaise knew which direction they would take after night camp. He had said to Mulgrave that they would journey northwest, but at dawn he led them to the northeast. Mulgrave understood this. Gaise was aware that the Redeemers could spy on them. This information was not relayed to the men, who became confused by the switching of trails and the seemingly bewildering routes Gaise chose.

  Able Pearce rode alongside Mulgrave as dusk approached on the fifth day of travel. “The men are worried about the Gray Ghost,” he said.

  “He knows what he is doing, Pearce. Trust me on that.”

  “I do, sir. But he’s changed. There’s talk he was in love with the general’s daughter.”

  “Not a subject we should be discussing. Let me merely say her death has hit him hard. So have the deaths of the Eldacre men he led south.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” said Able. “Why did our own troops think we were going to desert?”

  “They were lied to. I can offer little more than that. Lord Winterbourne wishes to see Lord Gaise killed. Why? I cannot understand it myself.”

  “He was the one who wanted to take those civilians away from us after Nollenby,” put in Able. “He was going to kill them, but Lord Gaise refused him.”

  “That’s him. Winter Kay.”

  “Is that what this is all about, do you think, sir?”

  “Perhaps. No point trying to make sense of it, Pearce, any more than trying to find logic amid the madness and stupidity of this war. Forget the reasons for his hatred. Concentrate only on staying alive. If we survive this nightmare, that will be the time to wonder how we were drawn into it in the first place.”

  “A lot of my friends were killed back in Shelding. Good men. I grew up with most of them. We attended school together. I’d like this to be over soon.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that.”

  Gaise Macon chose a campsite on a sparsely wooded hilltop with good views to the south and west. Scouts were sent out. Mulgrave chose the picket area for the mounts. The horses were tired, their strength sapped by the limited amount of feed time during the past five days. A supply of grain and a solid day of rest would help, Mulgrave knew. There was little chance of that.

  By nightfall, the cookfires had been lit and the three hundred men of the Eldacre Company had settled down to enjoy their sparse rations. Mulgrave went in search of Gaise Macon. He found him on the hilltop, once more staring out toward the north. The black hound Soldier was lying on the ground, his head resting on Gaise Macon’s boot.

  “There it is, Mulgrave,” he said, pointing to a distant snow-clad peak. “Caer Druagh. It is good to see it again. Tomorrow we should, if the Source is willing, reach the abandoned settlement of Three Streams. Did you know Connavar the King was born there?”

  “Yes, sir, so I understand. Close to the Wishing Tree woods.”

  “Yes. I was thinking of camping the men there tomorrow. I’d love to walk under thos
e trees. So much history.”

  “The people who dwell in that area still refrain from entering the Wishing Tree woods,” said Mulgrave.

  “They think the old dark gods will eat their children, do they?”

  “No, sir. They avoid them out of respect. To the Rigante the Wishing Tree woods are special. It was there that Connavar lifted the magical fawn from the brambles and was gifted his Seidh knife. It was there that Connavar and his son found the last of the gods, the Morrigu, and carried her to a secret gateway to heaven.”

  “You know the Keltoi fables well, Mulgrave. I doubt there were gods and magical blades back then. Storytellers love to embellish tales of heroism with mystical touches.”

  “I expect you are right. I shall go back and wait for the scouts to report. Shall I have food sent up to you?”

  Gaise looked at him closely. “Have I lost your friendship?”

  “No,” Mulgrave said sadly. “Though I wish you had.”

  In the moonlight Kaelin Ring and Rayster walked with the Wyrd, entering the woods above Shrine Hollow and gazing down over Sorrow Bird Lake. The waters were still, the night sky clear and bright with shimmering stars. The Wyrd had not spoken much on the long walk from the roundhouse, though she had bade Kaelin and Rayster join her.

  The two warriors followed her down to the narrow beach, where her small boat lay.

  When she reached it, she turned to them. “You are the best of the Rigante,” she said. “Remember that. When all around you reeks with evil deeds, hold to the Rigante way.” She gazed at them both fondly: Kaelin Ring, dark-eyed and somber, a man of passion constantly seeking to control his turbulent nature, and Rayster, fair-haired and blue-eyed, modest and calm, yet possessing a quiet courage that would stand tall against a tidal wave of evil. They were night and day, the sun and the moon of the Rigante.

  “Will you be coming south with us?” asked Rayster.

  She shook her head and reached up to stroke his face. “My thoughts will be with you, clansman.”

  “Why did you want us here tonight, Wyrd?” said Kaelin.

  She sighed. “Look around you. Soak in these mountains, the silence and the beauty of the lake. Draw in the air, fresh and cold from the peaks and scented now with the early flowers of spring. This is the land. As it should be. Carry it with you in your hearts.”

  “You wanted us to fight the evil, Wyrd,” said Kaelin, “yet now you seem sad that Bael has agreed to send us south.”

  “Of course I am sad, clansman. The Rigante are dear to me. They mean more to me than life. Now many will die.” Her head drooped, and she swung away to stare at the lake. “Bael was right, you know. I have been wrong. I sensed there was danger, and I believed it to be the Moidart. It hurts me to my soul to know that Rigante will fight alongside the man. He is detestable to me. Were he merely a Varlish lord, I could despise him for his cruelty and his malice. But he is not. He is of the blood of Connavar and Bane, just as you are, Ravenheart. That makes his evil all the worse in my eyes. Now this monster is to be a champion for the Rigante.” She shook her head and fell silent. Then she turned back to them. “I asked you here not just so that you could feel the peace and beauty of this sacred land. You are about to enter a war. It is often said that war brings out the best and the worst in men. This war will be vile. It will stain the souls of those who fight in it, and even the strongest will be changed by it. War makes beasts of men. The Rigante must not become beasts. The magic of this land is weak enough. War will drain it further. The more it is drained, the more dreadful will be the deeds of the warriors. The coming horror will stain the souls of all who take part in it. The worms of hatred and malice will gnaw at your minds. You will see evil deeds, and you will feel what you believe to be righteous rage swelling in your hearts. This righteous rage is a lie. See it for what it is: a deceiver, a trick to allow us to become as vile as those we fight. If the Source wills that you both survive these coming days, try to ensure that you will return here with no shame upon your souls. Be Rigante and follow your hearts.”

  “Where will you be, Dweller?”

  “Tomorrow I will be far away. The day after that I will be here once more, ready to take Feargol to a place of destiny.”

  “Will he be safe there?” asked Kaelin.

  “No, Ravenheart. For those blessed with his gift there is no safety to be found in the world.”

  “When will he be brought back?”

  “He will not be coming back. Fear not. He is to be raised and tutored by a friend of mine, the man who taught me the way. He will grow to manhood in a land full of magic where the people hold to the spirits of the earth. It is a wonderful land, Ravenheart. Feargol’s destiny is to help preserve it.”

  “Are the Varlish there?” asked Rayster.

  “Not yet, but they will find it. They will seek to dig in its earth for metals, to tear up the land for timber and wealth. It is their way. However, that is not a problem for this day. Our problem is the Seidh lord and his minions.”

  “You think we can beat them?” asked Kaelin.

  “We must, Ravenheart.”

  “How can men defeat a Seidh god?”

  “As long as he does not return to the flesh, he is merely a force of small magic. If ever he walks the earth, he will be unstoppable. With a wave of his hand he could destroy armies. His body would be impervious to weapons of base metal. Swords would not cut him; musket balls would not pierce his flesh.”

  “And this is why he is being brought to the north,” said Kaelin, “to return to the flesh?”

  “Yes. We are his bloodline. The Rigante are fashioned from his lifeblood.”

  “So by killing us he will regain his own life?” asked Rayster.

  “I do not understand the process of his resurrection,” said the Wyrd. “Perhaps Rigante blood will strengthen him; perhaps there is a secret place here in the north where he can draw upon the magic. All we can do is to defeat the armies that defend him. Then perhaps we can find a way to destroy the skull.”

  “If he is impervious to weapons, how was it that he was beheaded in the first place?” asked Rayster.

  “Weapons of base metal cannot harm him. His son, Rigantis, was said to have used a golden sword to kill him. Rigantis was half-Seidh and therefore found a way to breach his father’s magical defenses. I have tried to walk the ancient paths and see the truth behind the fables. It is too far for me. I asked my friend Riamfada to make the journey, but even he—he who is spirit—could not pierce the mists of time. All we can know for certain is that Cernunnos must be prevented from resurrection.”

  “And to do this we must fight alongside the Moidart,” said Rayster. “It does not sit well with me. Can the man be trusted?”

  “No,” said the Wyrd. “He would switch sides in a moment if he thought there was profit in it. You can, however, trust the son. There is a darkness growing in him, but he will not betray you. Of that I am sure.”

  “I have a question about him,” said Kaelin.

  “I know what it is, and do not ask it at this time,” said the Wyrd. “Do your best to keep him alive, Ravenheart. The Stormrider is vital. He must survive.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish that I knew. The many paths of the future are closed to me. Cernunnos and the Stormrider are linked in some way that I cannot yet fathom. I may know more tomorrow when I meet him.”

  Maev Ring was kneading dough in the kitchen when Draig Cochland tapped at the door and entered. She glanced up, irritation in her eyes. Maev was not happy that this thief had been offered a role at Ironlatch by Chara.

  “There is a man coming,” he said. “I don’t like the look of him.”

  That made Maev smile. A man Draig Cochland did not like the look of? This was something to see. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she followed the big highlander out through the main room and into the yard beyond. Riding toward the gate of the farm was Huntsekker the Harvester. His massive form looked out of place on a horse.

  “Do you know him?” ask
ed Draig Cochland.

  “He is the Harvester.”

  Cochland swore softly, and Maev could hear the fear in his voice. “He’ll not harm you,” he said. “I have my sword.”

  She glanced at him. “You will protect me, Cochland?”

  “Aye. As best I can.” He made to step forward, but Maev took hold of his arm.

  “It is all right, Draig. The man is a friend.”

  His shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank the Source for that,” he said. “I thought I was dead for sure.”

  Huntsekker dismounted and opened the gate. “Good afternoon to you, Maev Ring,” he said.

  Maev told Draig to take Huntsekker’s horse, then led the Harvester into the house. He sat down at the pine table.

  “I hate riding,” he said. “Never mastered the rhythms of it.”

  “You look tired,” she said. “I’ll fetch you some food and drink.”

  For a little while she busied herself in the kitchen, washing the flour from her hands and arms, then cutting Huntsekker some freshly baked bread and a hunk of cheese. She carried the food out to him, then poured him a goblet of red wine. He sipped it appreciatively.

  Maev sat down opposite him. She felt ill at ease in his presence. In a curious way he reminded her of Jaim Grymauch. He radiated the same feeling of awesome strength. Yet there the resemblance ended. Where Jaim was like an amiable bear, Huntsekker was far more cold and deadly. Even so his presence made her aware of her femininity.

  “What brings you so far north?” she asked.

  “The Moidart sent me. With a letter.” Reaching into the pocket of his long bearskin coat, he handed her the package. Maev broke the seal and read the contents of the letter. She shook her head and smiled.

  “He wants to borrow money from me? How bizarre.”

  “The man is in trouble,” said Huntsekker.

  “And I should care? This is the man who killed my brother. This is the butcher of the highlands.”