“Your word, Varlish, is dog shit on my boot heel.”
Gaise tried to push the memory from his tired mind. He could not. How would he have felt had the same trick been used on him by, say, Sir Winter Kay during the civil war? Yet what else could he have done to gain such a victory? Had he fought in a more noble way, he might still have won, but his losses would have been far higher. Many more Rigante would now be dead and buried.
The Moidart was right. Leadership was lonely. All around him now were happy, contented men. Victors. More than that, they looked to him now as a conqueror. He was the Gray Ghost, unbeaten and invincible.
He had also learned that two of his other new generals, Ganley Konin and Ordis Mantilan, could be relied on to follow orders well. Konin’s cavalry had performed excellently, while Mantilan’s musketeers had shown nerve in the initial charge of the enemy lancers.
He wondered about the Moidart’s luck. He had chosen none of these men, yet Beck, Konin, and Mantilan, none of whom had ever commanded such large units, were proving to be invaluable.
What would Mulgrave have made of it? Sadness touched him at the thought of his friend. Mulgrave was back in Eldacre. They had not spoken since arriving home. Gaise missed him terribly.
Sitting now in the tent occupied so recently by Sperring Dale, Gaise lit a lantern and idly searched through the belongings left behind by the Redeemer: spare shirts and leggings, a crimson cloak, and a small selection of books. One was a book of verse, another the gospel of Persis Albitane. This last made Gaise smile. What did a murderous savage like Sperring Dale gain from reading the words of a man of peace and love? Did he find it humorous?
An image appeared in his mind, and a sweet voice rose up from his memory. “I think I shall kiss you, Gaise Macon.” He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The more he struggled to forget Cordelia Lowen, the more hurt he felt when her face came unbidden to his mind.
Had he loved her? In truth, he did not know. Now he would never know.
A shadow fell across the tent flap. Gaise glanced up. “Who is it?” he called.
“Powdermill, my lord. May I enter?”
“Come in.”
The little man ducked under the flap and grinned, showing gold teeth. “They’re still running south. No other force is in sight.”
“Good. You have done well, Master Powdermill.”
“It’ll be weeks now before any other armies come north.”
“Yes. Was there something else you wanted?”
Powdermill shifted uneasily. His eyes flicked toward the golden-hilted saber. “I just wanted to . . . touch the sword again, my lord.”
“Feel free,” Gaise told him.
Powdermill moved across the tent to where the scabbarded saber lay. He crouched down and gently placed his hand upon the hilt. “It is a wondrous piece. Wondrous,” he whispered.
Gaise saw that there were tears in his eyes. “What do you feel when you touch it?” he asked.
Powdermill sighed, then straightened. He turned toward Gaise. “It is not what I feel, my lord, but what I see. Connavar was not as big as legends say. He was the same height as Kaelin Ring and yourself. He was not godlike. He was a man. He made mistakes. He had fears and doubts. He carried a great burden for most of his life. He loved two women. One died because he broke a promise. He was warned by the Seidh never to break his word or terrible harm would befall someone he loved. Connavar bragged that he had never broken his word and never would. But he did.”
“What promise did he break?”
“He told his wife he would be home to take her riding. Instead he spent time with his first love. His wife rode off without him and was murdered.”
“I have never heard that tale.”
“Connavar was filled with remorse and a terrible fury. He rode alone into the village from which the murderers came, and he killed everyone, every man, woman, and child. Then he burned the village to the ground.”
“And all this you know from touching the sword?”
“Yes, my lord, and much more.”
“I feel nothing when I hold it save that it is light and yet perfectly balanced.”
“You are not a seer, my lord. Sometimes it is a blessing, sometimes a curse. The sword is a blessing. It was made by a man with great love in his heart.”
“Riamfada.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did you see Connavar fight and kill the bear?”
“I saw him fight it, my lord. He did not kill it. Ruathain, his stepfather, killed it. Connavar could never kill the bear. It was with him always.”
“The bear was with him?” asked Gaise, mystified.
“In a way, my lord. The bear represented Connavar’s darkest side. He could never quite overcome it, though he battled it hard for most of his life. He never forgave himself for the death of his wife, but his greatest regret was murdering the villagers. The bear was on him then.”
“I understand the bear,” said Gaise Macon. “Sometimes it is necessary.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
“Any time you want to touch the sword, you may come to me, Master Powdermill. I would like to learn more about Connavar.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Powdermill bowed and left the tent.
For several hours Gaise busied himself with the needs of his force, meeting with Ganley Konin and Ortis Mantilan. The wounded were to be taken back to Eldacre in the morning, but Gaise and his force would head northwest into the lands of the former Pinance, there to link with Hew Galliott and his men and discuss the defenses.
It would also be an opportunity to survey the possible battle sites in that area and see how the new power structure sat with the communities there. The Pinance, like the Moidart, was not well loved by his people, but even so, they would need to be reassured concerning their safety. It was important that they not view themselves as a conquered people.
With Konin and Mantilan departed, Gaise tried to sleep, but his mind was filled with the problems and potential problems of the coming war. In the dark of night he rose from his blankets and relit the lantern. Then he sat for a while reading the small book of verse he had found among Sperring Dale’s possessions. The wind rippled the canvas walls of his tent, and the lantern flickered, making his eyes tired. Gaise put down the book and yawned.
Suddenly there was silence, utter and total. No breeze billowed the canvas, and no sound came from the camp outside. Not a horse whinnied; not a bough creaked. The lantern no longer flickered. Gaise rose from his folding canvas chair and stared at the flame. It sat proud and unmoving.
Moving to the tent flap, Gaise lifted it and stared out at the camp. Everything was as it should have been. Men were sleeping, sentries stood quietly, the picketed horses were asleep on their feet. No, not as it should be, thought Gaise. The sentries were statue-still. Nothing moved. He stepped out into the night and walked among the men. He approached a sentry, walking in front of the man. The sentry’s eyes stared ahead. They did not flicker as Gaise peered into his face.
“The death heads were a fine idea,” said a voice. Gaise spun. He was not wearing his saber, but he drew his knife. “No need for that, kinsman.” A tall man was standing some twenty feet from him. His hair was golden and long. He was dressed in an old-fashioned knee-length tunic of pale green embroidered with gold thread. His feet and legs were bare.
“Who are you?” demanded Gaise, approaching the man.
“I am your ancestor, Stormrider. Look upon me. Can you not see the resemblance?”
Gaise looked into the man’s eyes. One was emerald green, the other tawny gold. “You are Connavar?”
The man laughed. “No. He was yet another of my children. I am Cernunnos, the father of the Rigante. My children did well today. Fighters all of them.”
“This is some trick,” said Gaise. “You are the enemy.”
“No, Gaise. I am with the enemy. Since I do not as yet have a body, I have little choice as to who carries me and where.”
“What do you want with me?”
“I want to be your friend, Gaise. You are important to me. You are a part of my destiny. You just do not know it yet. Let us sit and talk. I will answer all your questions. If you wish, you may summon the little mage. He will hear what I say and will vouch for my honesty.”
“I will judge that myself,” said Gaise.
“Good. I always did prefer one-to-one conversation.” A small fire sprang up, and the golden-haired man sat down before it.
Gaise sheathed his knife and joined him. “You give power to the Redeemers. Is that not true?”
“Absolutely true. I enable them to use their puny minds with greater focus.”
“Why?”
“Do you know how long I have languished in an iron box? Thousands of years. Alone with my thoughts. Winter Kay found me. I tried to communicate with him, but it was largely useless. There is no Rigante in the man. It is easier now since he killed the unfortunate king and allowed his blood to touch the decaying bone of my skull.”
“And now you are leading him north to destroy us?”
“Now he is bringing me north. He is the one who will be destroyed. If you allow me to help you.”
“Why would you wish to?”
“The north is my home, Stormrider. I once had a palace there, though it drowned beneath a lake eons ago when the ice melted. I sired the Rigante. I took human wives, and one of them bore Rigantis, my beloved son. Ah, but I joyed in his strength and courage. The Rigante owe their name and their clan to my son. But I am what makes them—and you—special. You have traces of my blood. Seidh blood. You are touched by magic. I want to be among my own people, Gaise.”
“To rule them.”
“Of course to rule them. I am a god. Can you imagine a ruler better qualified?”
“And what if they don’t want to be ruled by you?”
“Ah, but they will. All men desire strong leaders. There are none stronger. I am their father. I gave them life. I can give them immortality. Those I choose to walk beside me will live for almost as long as I do.”
“You are offering me immortality to serve you.”
“Sadly no, Gaise. You have a different purpose. I wish that it could be altered, but as I said, it is a part of destiny. You are the vessel which will allow my return to the flesh. I will, in short, become you.”
“And I will die?”
“Yes.”
“ You don’t make serving you sound very attractive.”
“I promised you the truth, Stormrider. I will not take your life. You will give it freely. You will take my skull in your hands, and you will ask me to return.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To win, Gaise Macon. To save the lives of those you love. To destroy the enemy utterly. When you accept the skull, you will be a god for a few hours. You will have all the powers I once possessed. In that time you can do as you will.”
“Why would you give me that time?”
“I will have no choice. It will take me some hours to fully control your body, to fill it with the essence of my being. But in those hours you will be a Seidh, Gaise Macon. That will be my gift to you. Until then be assured that I will not show the Redeemers how to pierce the ward spell Powdermill has cast. This war will be fought between men. You have my promise on that. And now I shall leave you to rest. Rest is most important for a human. The mind needs to be sharp.”
The golden figure rose. “The Rigante made me proud today,” he said.
“What happened to this beloved son of yours?” asked Gaise.
“He chose life as a man and died after 322 years.”
Gaise heard the sorrow in his voice. “You were close, then?”
“We were until he cut off my head. The boy was misguided. It is a familiar tale, Gaise, and one which you will understand more than most. Fathers and sons, squabbles and conflicts. The laws of nature cannot be avoided even by the gods. Ah, but that reminds me. You asked your father a question back in Eldacre. He gave an elliptical answer.”
“You can pierce our ward spells?”
“Of course. They are tiny. The Redeemers cannot, so put aside your fears. I do not share with them what I observe. You asked your father why he carried you from the flames. Would you like to know why?”
“No.”
“It also explains why he and you have never found that bond of love you so desperately needed as a child.”
“Tell me,” said Gaise.
“Your mother had an affair with a clansman: Kaelin Ring’s father, Lanovar. He was golden-haired and had one eye of gold and one of green. When you were born and the Moidart saw your eyes, he believed you to be the result of his wife’s infidelity. He would have had you killed save for one small doubt.”
“My grandmother had the same eyes.”
“Exactly. So he has lived in torment ever since, never knowing if you are the only son he will ever have or if you are the son of the man who cuckolded him. But when the flames engulfed the manor house, he acted as a father should. Heroically. Instinctively. Like a Rigante.”
“Is he my father?”
“Do you really wish to know?”
Gaise hesitated, then he sighed. “No,” he said.
“Farewell, Stormrider. When next we meet, I will give you what you ask for. Though first you will receive a visit from the Wyrd. Delightful woman. If I were but a thousand years younger and alive . . . ah, well. She will bring you something of mine. Keep it safe for when you need it.”
“Why would the Wyrd do anything for you?”
“Because she must, Stormrider. Win or lose, this is her destiny also.”
The spirit disappeared.
The month that followed saw frenzied activity on both sides of the border. In the north the Moidart recruited men, leaving Galliott and Mulgrave to oversee the training. In the south Winter Kay began gathering three armies, each more than twenty thousand strong. The massacre of Sperring Dale’s force had galvanized the Redeemers, and stories of the atrocities committed by the “foul northern barbarians” spread through the land.
Winter Kay was now leading a holy war of vengeance upon the evil men who had killed the king.
He sent a second advance column against the lands of the Pinance. They were turned back by Gaise Macon. Four hundred Varlish prisoners were taken. All but one were hanged and then beheaded. The survivor was placed in a wagon loaded with the heads of his comrades and sent back to the south. Other skirmishes followed. The fighting was brutal and vicious. No prisoners were taken by either side.
News of Gaise Macon’s excesses were the talk of the northern army. The middle-aged general Garon Beck made a special journey from the east to see the Moidart. The two men were strikingly different in appearance: the Moidart slim and fine-boned, his clothes immaculately tailored from the finest cloth, and Beck, round-shouldered and stocky, his broad, flat face and large hands betraying his peasant stock. He wore a ready-made uniform jacket in pale green bearing the fawn in brambles crest. The sleeves were slightly too short. Despite the oddness of his appearance, he still radiated a sense of physical power and purpose.
“I’m a plainspeaking man, my lord,” he said, “and this butchery turns my stomach.”
“It sends a powerful message, Beck.”
“Indeed it does, my lord, but putting aside the restraints of civilized behavior, it is also bad soldiering. An enemy who knows he can surrender and be well treated is the more likely to surrender when faced with disaster. If they know that certain death awaits them, they will fight all the harder.”
“What of our own troops, General Beck? How do they view my son?”
“Close to adoration, my lord.”
“So, as you say, apart from considerations of civilized behavior, our morale is high?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“These are perilous times, General. Within a month we may all be dead. My son is taking harsh measures. Like you, I would prefer to be more humane in my dealings with the enemy, for in the e
nd enemies must become friends. In this case our enemy is particularly vicious. He has already proved this by murdering his own king. You are also aware of the butchery that took place during the civil war in towns like Barstead. The truth is, we are short of food and men. Prisoners would need to be fed and guarded. Every prisoner taken would sap our meager resources.”
Garon Beck sighed. “Aye, my lord, there is truth in that. Even so, it sits badly with me.”
“You can always leave my service, General. I would hate to lose you, but you must follow your conscience.”
The general shook his head. “You are the first nobleman to give me the chance to prove myself in the highest rank. You ignored my lack of noble blood. I need to repay that debt to you, my lord. I will do so. You have my loyalty, and I will die for this cause if necessary.”
“Well said, General. Now get yourself some rest before returning east. You are looking tired.”
After he had gone, Huntsekker appeared from behind the hidden panel. “You still want him killed tonight, my lord?” he asked.
“No, I have changed my mind.”
“I am glad. I like the man.”
“What odd times these are, Huntsekker. Did you hear him declare his loyalty?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Damn, but he meant it. Every word.”
“I believe you are right.” Huntsekker suddenly chuckled.
“What is so funny, Harvester?”
“I have walked the city these last weeks, running errands for Maev Ring. I have spoken to a lot of people. You have always been feared, my lord. And always respected. Did you know that you are now popular? The people like you. They speak of you with affection.”
“I have become a likable fellow,” said the Moidart. “How annoying.”
“I can see that it would cause a man grief,” said Huntsekker.
“Good heavens, Harvester, was that a joke?”
“A small one, my lord.”
“Try to avoid them. How is Maev Ring?”
“Irritating. She has increased the supplies fourfold, and those who do not succumb to her charming manner and promise of riches get visits from me. I am not to threaten them, she says, merely to deliver letters from her requesting greater cooperation. Of course, she says I should take my scythe with me.”
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