Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

Something deep, dark, and cold touched Gaise Macon in that moment. There was no anger. He looked at the redheaded clansman and felt his body relax. “Eight hundred years ago Bane led the Rigante to the city of Stone. They defeated the armies. The world was theirs to do with as they pleased. Rigante codes and laws, notions of honor and courage, could have been imposed on all the peoples. Instead Bane brought the clans back across the sea to the Druagh mountains. The Rigante did not want to rule. The honest truth, Jace, is they did not have the stomach for it. History shows us one harsh and iron fact: Those who do not rule are themselves ruled. Once the Keltoi roamed the lands, strong and free. Now you are a tiny, conquered people holding to a few rocks in the far north. If I want lessons in how to be defeated, I will come to you, Jace.” Stepping into the saddle, Gaise steered the chestnut from the Rigante camp and rode back up to the ridge.

  He saw a rider galloping across the open ground below. It was one of his scouts. Remaining on his horse, Gaise waited for the man. He was young and fair-haired, and his horse was lathered and weary by the time it reached the crest.

  “They have pulled back, my lord. They are heading southeast.”

  “What?”

  “It is true. In full formation, with all supply wagons.”

  Gaise sat very still. Was this a trick? Were they seeking to outflank him? It made no sense. The three-pronged attack assured them of victory. Why would they change plans so suddenly? “Get a fresh horse and follow them,” he told the man. “Keep well back. I will send other riders to join you. Every hour one of them will come back to report. You understand?”

  “Yes, my lord. You think they are retreating? Have we won?”

  “Time will tell.”

  18

  * * *

  Kaelin Ring ducked as he ran though the cannon-blasted ruins of the village. Enemy snipers were hidden in the woods to the northeast, and some of them were highly skilled. Dropping to his knees, Kaelin crawled along the shelter of a low wall, then sprinted across a short section of open ground.

  No shots were fired.

  Garon Beck and his senior officers were inside the ruins of a church. The stained-glass windows had been blasted away, and fragments of colored glass littered the nave. Musketeers had set up a firing platform by the windows, and at the far end of the church a surgeon and his orderlies were tending to close to a hundred wounded men.

  Kaelin approached Beck. The general had lost weight, and the skin of his face was sagging, adding years to his features. His dark hair was also showing a white line from the temples and up over his brow. Kaelin realized he had previously dyed his hair in a bid to appear younger. Idly he wondered how old Beck really was. The general glanced up as Kaelin entered.

  “We were discussing where to fall back to and when,” said Beck. “They have a cavalry force which has punched a breach in our lines. The Source only knows where they are now.”

  “Mostly dead, the rest scattered,” said Kaelin. “We trapped them in a wood to the south.”

  “That’s a damned relief.” Beck spread a map over the altar table. “As far as I can see, there is no adequate defensive ground between here and Eldacre. It is mostly flatland. Once we pull back, we’ll be at the mercy of any fast-riding column.” As he listened, Kaelin rubbed at the wound in his left shoulder. The bayonet had stabbed deep. He could no longer feel any sensation in the fingertips of his left hand, and movement was painful. The bleeding had taken an age to stop, and a deep bruise had extended down over his chest and under his armpit.

  “I hope you keep checking that,” said Beck. “Don’t want it to go bad.”

  “I smear it with honey every morning,” said Kaelin. “It will be fine. Go on.”

  “My best estimate is that we have around six thousand fighting men left. If we are to withdraw successfully, we’ll need a tough rear guard to keep them from us.”

  “My Rigante.”

  “Only if you are willing, Kaelin. It’s likely to be a murderously tough assignment, and your Rigante have already performed miracles here. I’ve seen fighting men for most of my life, and I’ve never known the equal of you clansmen. If you feel you have done enough, then I’ll stay myself with a division of musketeers.”

  Kaelin gave a broad smile. “I like you, General,” he said. “Damned if I don’t! We’ll be your rear guard.”

  “If we had a few thousand more men, I’d try to hold this line. It’s the best defensive site I’ve seen in years. However, if we stay, we’ll be encircled and cut off from supplies.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “There is heavy cloud cover. We’ll pull back in the deepest darkness and as quietly as possible. You and your Rigante will stay until tomorrow night and fend them off. Twenty-four hours should see us clear.”

  “And then what?” inquired Kaelin. “Supplies from the east are already lost to us. The western line is barely holding. You think we can win by withdrawing?”

  Beck shook his head. “No. We’ll just survive a little longer.”

  “What about the badly wounded?”

  “I’ll take as many as I can, but we lack the wagons. Many will have to be left behind.”

  “To be slaughtered,” pointed out Kaelin.

  “Aye, that’s the reverse side of the coin. It is all very well for Macon to stick heads on poles, but that only encourages the enemy to behave in a similar fashion. That said, we are facing Redeemers and their lackeys, and they are not known for compassion, either.” Beck sighed. “I don’t like asking you to undertake this assignment, Kaelin. I’ll be honest. The chances of you getting out alive are very slim.”

  “Perhaps, General,” Kaelin said softly, “but I have nine hundred fighting Rigante here. I’d bet them against five thousand of the enemy.”

  “So would I. Unhappily, there are around fifteen thousand of them. Do you have enough powder and shot?”

  “Plenty. Not much food, though.”

  “I’ll leave what I can. Just twenty-four hours, Kaelin, and then you and your men should break out and scatter. Go home would be my advice.”

  “Take care, General,” said Kaelin, reaching out and gripping the man’s hand.

  “You, too, Kaelin. It was a rare pleasure to lead the Rigante.”

  Kaelin moved to the doorway, braced himself, then ran across the open ground, dropping flat behind the low wall. The impact caused his shoulder to burn, and he felt the warmth of fresh blood oozing from the wound. Ignoring the pain, he pushed on, reaching the abandoned buildings beyond the marketplace.

  Rayster was there with around fifty men.

  “What is happening?” asked the clansman.

  “The army is pulling back to Eldacre.”

  “About time,” said Rayster.

  “We stay and act as rear guard for twenty-four hours.”

  “They’ll be long hours,” Rayster said dryly.

  Korrin Talis squirmed across open ground and joined them. “They seem to have pulled back their snipers,” he said.

  “I noticed,” said Kaelin. “Let’s not get complacent, though. We need to spread out more. Tomorrow we are going to need to look like a much larger force.”

  “If we spread too thin, we’ll not be able to concentrate firepower,” put in Rayster.

  “Once the concerted attacks begin, tell the men to fall back to the church and the outlying buildings. We’ll make a last stand there.”

  “Maybe the Stormrider will come galloping to the rescue again,” said Korrin.

  “Not this time. Go and speak to the men. Tell them that if any wish to leave, they can. We all have families back home. They should at least be offered the chance to return to them.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Korrin, “but no one will leave, Kaelin.”

  “I know.” Suddenly he laughed. “If anyone had ever told me I’d be risking my life so that Varlish soldiers could make a withdrawal, I’d have laughed in his face.”

  “Some of those boys are fine lads,” said Korrin. “Varlish or no. And I like
Beck. I’ll bet there’s a touch of clan in him somewhere.”

  Korrin moved away to spread the word among the men. Rayster remained with Kaelin. “How is the shoulder?”

  “Painful.”

  “You were lucky. I thought for a moment he had speared your heart.”

  “Came close.” Kaelin grinned. “Lucky for me that Eldacre lad was close by.”

  “Aye, it was luck. Let’s hope it holds. I’d like to see Sorrow Bird again. I love that lake.”

  “It’s a beautiful spot, right enough.”

  Kaelin settled down on his back. The hard ground felt soft as a feather bed, and he lay there thinking about the man who had saved him.

  Enemy musketeers had almost broken through. The Rigante had rushed in and with the aid of some Eldacre men had turned them back. As the enemy was retreating, one of the musketeers had run at Kaelin, his bayonet lancing into the clansman’s shoulder. Kaelin had fallen. The musketeer had loomed above him, his blood-drenched bayonet poised to strike through Kaelin’s heart. A young Eldacre volunteer had leaped at him, knocking him from his feet.

  A shot sounded. The Eldacre man spun and then toppled to the ground. The enemy musketeer rose again. Kaelin pulled his Emburley from his belt and shot him in the head. Then he scrambled to the Eldacre man. He had been shot just under the breastbone. There was little blood and his face had gone gray. Rayster appeared alongside him. He patted the dying young man’s shoulder.

  “I thank you for your courage,” said Kaelin.

  “I’ve got a wife and youngsters,” whispered the man. “Will I live?”

  “No, lad,” said Rayster. “You are mortally hit.”

  “I’ll burn, then,” he said. “The Source will burn me.”

  “You’ll not burn,” said Kaelin. “A brave young man like you, fighting for your homeland. Nonsense.”

  “I’ve done . . . bad things.”

  “We all have,” Rayster told him. “But today you gave your life to save a man you didn’t know. That will count.”

  “I know him. He’s Kaelin Ring. I saw him once, back in Black Mountain.”

  “I used to go there often,” said Kaelin. “Were you in the barracks there?”

  “Yes, but I saw you walking with your wife. I was with my family. I waved to you. You remember? By the stream?”

  “Yes,” said Kaelin, though truth to tell, he did not. “Tell me your name, and if I live, I shall find your family and tell them what you did here today.”

  The man whispered his name and then reached up and gripped Kaelin’s arm. Pain from the bayonet wound flared, but he showed no sign of it.

  “I will burn for what I did,” said the man, tears in his eyes. “Tell her I was drunk. Tell her that I am sorry. Tell her . . .” He sagged back. A tremor went through him, and he died.

  Kaelin eased the dead fingers from his arm. He was still pondering the young man’s death when he fell asleep.

  Rayster woke him with the dawn. Kaelin sat up. “Have we not withdrawn?” he said. “I heard no wagons.”

  “There has been no movement,” said Rayster. “Obviously, Beck changed his mind. Maybe the enemy has moved behind us.” Rayster glanced across toward the church. “Now, there is an idiot!” he said, pointing toward an officer walking across the open ground. The man seemed to have no care. He waved at Kaelin as he approached.

  “Get down!” shouted Kaelin.

  The man grinned and walked over to where the two Rigante lay. Then he crouched down. “The enemy have pulled back,” he said. “Our scouts report they are moving southwest. The woods are empty. No snipers. No infantry. No cannon.”

  “Where is Beck?”

  “The general sent me to find you. He is at the church. Faith, sir, but it’s a miracle, is it not?”

  Kaelin did not answer. Moving swiftly, he dashed across the open ground and made his way to the church. Beck stepped out into the morning sunlight just as he approached. A troop of Eldacre cavalry was riding up toward the wooded slope beyond.

  “Is this some strategy of theirs to cut us off?” asked Kaelin.

  “It can’t be,” said Beck. “They’ve surrendered good ground and pulled out. By heading southwest they’ve also freed the eastern supply lines. None of it makes military sense.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Hold our lines until we get orders from Eldacre. The Source just smiled upon us, Kaelin Ring. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. Perhaps the Moidart is a religious man.”

  “If he is, it’s not a religion I’d choose to follow.”

  On the second day after the surprise withdrawal of the southern armies the Moidart summoned his generals back to Eldacre for a strategy meeting. Scouts had reported the enemy armies were converging on a point some forty miles south of the town and regrouping. The force was estimated to be close to forty-five thousand strong, considerably smaller than even the Moidart had hoped.

  Even so, that left the defenders heavily outnumbered.

  The meeting was held in the Moidart’s east-facing apartments. The sun was shining brightly in a clear blue sky, its light streaming through the high arched windows. Around the table sat Garon Beck, Gaise Macon, Kaelin Ring, Ganley Konin, and Ortis Mantilan. Bael Jace and Bendegit Law were scouting to the south.

  Ganley Konin was the first to speak. A slim, well-spoken man, he had been a cleric in Varingas for twenty years and had become a soldier only upon the outbreak of the civil war, purchasing his commission in a cavalry unit. He had proved to have a fine eye for ground and had been promoted steadily to the rank of colonel. An argument with the doomed Lord Ferson had seen him transferred north into the army of the Pinance. “It seems to me, sirs, that we have a respite. No more than that. There is no indication that the enemy intends to withdraw south. It is my view he will advance in full force upon the town.”

  “I agree,” said Garon Beck. “What I don’t understand is why. His plan was working. We could not have held out for more than a few weeks.”

  “I believe I have the answer to that,” said the Moidart. “Our seer, Powdermill, reports that there is no longer any indication of Redeemer spirit activity. He thought at first that the Orb of Kranos had been overused and was in need of replenishment. That, however, is not the case. The orb is no longer with the Redeemers. In short, Winter Kay is without any special powers now. He has panicked and drawn his army around him like a wall.”

  “Then now is the time to strike him,” said Kaelin Ring.

  “Given a few thousand more men, I would agree with you, lad,” said Garon Beck. “The truth is that we simply do not have the manpower to launch an attack as swiftly as would be required. As far as I can tell, we have around eleven thousand men fit enough to fight and another two thousand recruits who don’t know one end of a musket from the other. Given another week, we might add more and train those we have. I don’t believe we will have another week.”

  Ortis Mantilan spoke next. A commander of musketeers for twenty years, he was a short, stout man with a shock of tightly curled graying hair. “I’d like to know two things,” he said. “First, how did Lord Winterbourne lose the Orb of Kranos, and, more important, where is it? If it is as powerful as has been claimed, we could surely use it ourselves.”

  “I have it,” said Gaise Macon. The room was suddenly silent. All eyes were on the young general. “It cannot—must not—be used. To do so would unleash an evil upon the world far in excess of anything Winterbourne would bring.”

  “Then why did they not unleash it?” asked the Moidart.

  “They couldn’t. We could. The skull is the last remnant of a Seidh lord named Cernunnos. He seeks a return to life.”

  “It is a magical relic, no more,” said the Moidart. “Winter Kay used its power. So should we.”

  “It is more than a relic, Father. Believe me. The spirit of Cernunnos lives. I have spoken with it. I have also listened to the Wyrd, who brought the skull to me. Cernunnos transcends evil. He cannot be allowed to return.”

&nb
sp; “She gave you the skull?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “How did she acquire it?”

  “Winter Kay gave it to her at the Wishing Tree woods.”

  The Moidart shook his head. “Perhaps you can tell us why he would have done something so monumentally stupid?”

  “Cernunnos possessed him. He forced him to do it. The god needs Rigante blood to live again. That is why he seduced Winter Kay into coming north.”

  Slowly and carefully Gaise explained all that the Wyrd had told him of the history of Cernunnos. How he had once plunged the world into war and of how his own son, Rigantis, had beheaded him with a golden sword. The officers listened in silence.

  When Gaise had finished, Kaelin Ring spoke. “I do not know anything of Cernunnos,” he said. “I do know the Wyrd. When she speaks, it is the truth. If she says this god cannot be allowed to live, then he cannot be allowed to live.”

  “I was not talking about him being allowed to live,” said the Moidart. “Winter Kay found a way to use the magic. Why can we not do the same?”

  “For the answer to that,” said Ganley Konin, “perhaps we should look at Winter Kay. Look at the work of his Redeemers. Treachery, murder, massacre, burnings. They are vile men, and their deeds shame us all. Would we become as black-hearted as they?”

  The Moidart interrupted him. “We don’t have time for theological debates or philosophical discussion on the nature of evil,” he said. “Men have been killing each other for centuries without the need to blame skulls or relics. However, since my son is adamant about the need to avoid using this weapon, let us move on to more practical matters. How do we, with thirteen thousand men, set out to defeat the enemy?”

  For another hour the debate raged, and when it ended there was no clear plan. Gaise had said little during the discussions. As the officers left, the Moidart called out to his son to remain.

  When they were alone, he poured him a goblet of wine. “What is it you didn’t say?” asked the Moidart.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dammit, boy, you are the war leader here. You made that plain when you returned. Yet you just sat in near silence while lesser men wittered about impossible plans and ludicrous tactics. What is it? Tell me.”