Stormrider Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  And earlier this night Kaelin had pointed a pistol at a man who might well be his brother. He would have used it, too. He would have shot Gaise Macon from the saddle.

  For three unknown Varlish soldiers.

  Kaelin sighed. It was all madness. He found himself longing to be back at Ironlatch, holding Chara in his arms, watching little Jaim play in the meadow. Thinking of his son made him remember yet again the man whose name he carried. He wondered what Jaim Grymauch would have made of this war. Then he smiled. If Jaim had been here, he would even now be stretched out and fast asleep, just like Korrin Talis. Jaim was not a man who worried overmuch about matters outside his realm of control. He lived for the day and gloried in every breath he took.

  Turning and easing himself up, Kaelin glanced over the top of the makeshift wall. On the southern hills he could see the enemy cannon being brought into place. There were already forty in view. There would be more coming.

  The whole of the valley was strangely peaceful, the moonlight pure silver. Within a few hours the air would be filled with screeching shells and the screams of dying men.

  “Sleep, you fool,” Kaelin told himself. “You’ll need all your strength soon.”

  On the western slope Taybard Jaekel was sitting in a narrow trench, Jakon Gallowglass beside him. The trenches had been the idea of General Beck. Once the cannon fire began, the vast majority of the men on the hilltops would retire back into the relative safety of the low ground. A few would remain, keeping a watch for enemy advances. The trenches were for them. Taybard failed to see how a narrow hole scraped in the mud would keep him safe, but there was little point questioning the orders of a general.

  Taybard was feeling ill at ease. His Emburley rifle was clean and ready, a new flint locked into the hammer. The forty lead balls in the pouch at his side had been fashioned by Taybard himself and rubbed down with sanded paper to remove any hint of imperfection. He could feel the weight of the pouch. Tomorrow, if he survived the full day, it was likely that at least thirty more souls would be added to his ever-lengthening death list. In large part Taybard would have loved to be able to toss the rifle aside and say to Gallowglass: “That’s it, my killing days are over.” He would walk from the battlefield and not look back.

  His heart yearned for him to do just that. But that would mean leaving Lanfer and Jakon and the Gray Ghost to do his fighting for him. Caught between the desire for escape and the demands of loyalty, Taybard Jaekel felt lost.

  “Are you all right, Jaekel?” asked Gallowglass.

  “Will you stop asking me that?” Ever since the night at the Rigante camp Gallowglass had hovered around him like a mother hen. “I’m fine. Steady as a rock.”

  “Good to have the Rigante so close,” said Gallowglass. “Can’t see anyone cutting a swath through them bastards.”

  “I wish I knew how they did it,” said Taybard.

  “Did what? Fight? Born to it, I guess.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, how do they kill so savagely and yet retain so much . . . nobility? I was so proud of them when they refused to let us kill those prisoners.”

  “Crazy if you ask me. I mean, where’s the sense in it? Kill them in battle or kill them in camp. We’re still killers. Would it have been sensible for Kaelin Ring to shoot the Gray Ghost over three men he didn’t know? The war could have been lost as a result. No. He should have just let the prisoners be taken.”

  “I disagree, though I can’t offer any proper reason as to why,” said Taybard. “I just know in my heart it was right.”

  “You are an odd one for a soldier,” put in Gallowglass. “I don’t see where right comes into it. The duty of a soldier is to kill the enemy. Those men were the enemy. End of story. It’s not about right. It’s about rules. The rules of war say prisoners should be treated with respect.”

  “But that rule was made because it was right.”

  “I have enough trouble carrying musket, powder, and shot. I don’t need to carry any more burdens, thank you very much. Tomorrow I’ll kill every whoreson who comes at me from the south. Then, when we’ve won, I’m going to find the best whore in Eldacre.”

  “Has it occurred to you, Jakon, that we might not win and that even if we do, you may die in the battle?”

  “No, I won’t,” replied Gallowglass. “I thought I would die in Shelding. I was convinced of it. Having survived that, it is my belief that I will survive anything they throw at us and then some. If we lose, I’ll take off into the hills and wait. When things have quieted down, I’ll sneak back into Eldacre and find the best whore in town.”

  Taybard relaxed and smiled. “It doesn’t really matter to you, does it, whether evil or good wins this battle?”

  “Not as long as—”

  “There are still whores around,” put in Taybard.

  “Exactly.”

  A rider on a white mare cantered past the hilltop. Gallowglass peered after him. “Is that the Moidart?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Taybard.

  “I missed him earlier, but they said he had a beautiful white horse. Looks a bit skittish for a war mount.”

  “I doubt the Moidart will take part in the battle,” said Taybard. “He’s not young anymore.”

  The Moidart continued to canter across the valley floor, skirting the line of bushes behind the ramparts where the Rigante were stationed and on behind the hills where the original Eldacre company was camped.

  Gaise Macon and General Beck were sitting by the stream, discussing the coming battle, when the Moidart rode up and dismounted.

  Beck rose and bowed. “You may continue, gentlemen,” said the Moidart, joining them.

  “We had all but concluded our business, Father,” Gaise put in swiftly. “There is nothing more to be done now but to fight.”

  “I have decided to attend the battle,” said the Moidart.

  “That would be most unwise, Father,” objected Gaise. “The plans are set, and everyone knows his place.”

  “Would I be wrong in assuming that the heaviest attacks will be against Beck’s ridge?”

  “That is what we expect,” agreed Gaise.

  The Moidart turned to Beck. “Would it lift or demoralize the men if I were to place myself among them?”

  “It would lift them, my lord.”

  “Then that is my role. I am not a soldier, Beck, and will make no attempt to issue orders or countermand any that you may give.”

  “I would be honored to have you with us, my lord, but I fear for your safety.”

  “I have been shot at before. I will join you just before the dawn. Now, will you allow me a few words in private with my son?”

  “Of course, my lord. Good night to you,” said Beck, bowing and then departing.

  “Why are you doing this, Father?” asked Gaise.

  “Because it is sensible. You are a fine cavalry general, Gaise, but you are too reckless and daring. The likelihood is that you will be cut down tomorrow leading a charge. Without you there will be no central focus. Beck, Mantilan, and the others will begin to act independently. The spirit of the defenders will start to wilt. The reality is that your brilliance has made you too important. If I am with Beck, I will become a rallying center.” He shrugged. “It may make little difference. Time will tell.”

  Gaise shook his head. “You lied to Beck. You are a soldier and one as naturally gifted as any I have known.”

  “It is in the blood, Gaise. Varlish and Rigante, warriors both. Our ancestors have fought wars since time immemorial. And won them. More than that, we have built societies and held them together. We are the rulers, Gaise. We are the mighty. Remember that tomorrow.”

  “Do your best to stay alive, Father.”

  The Moidart smiled. “I do not care one way or the other. My time is almost over. If we win—and since no one can hear us, I’d say we have less than one chance in twenty—I shall stand down as Moidart and pass on the mantle to you.”

  “Why? What would you do?”

&n
bsp; “Picture the mountains,” said the Moidart.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means a lot to me,” replied his father, walking back to the white mare and stepping into the saddle. “Do your best tomorrow, boy. I shall be watching you with a critical eye.”

  “No change there,” said Gaise, and realized there was no bitterness in the words.

  Aran Powdermill did not see himself as a traitor. He did not serve the Moidart out of loyalty. He had been hired to perform a service and then press-ganged into continuing that service. Indeed, had he chosen to exercise his rights as a free man and leave, the Moidart had made it clear that Huntsekker would come after him and take his head. No, there was no question of treachery here. Quite the opposite, Powdermill decided. He was the victim of treachery in that the Moidart had broken his word and not allowed him to leave.

  Added to which Powdermill would not be taking this action had the Moidart and his son not made such a stupid decision. Gaise had the skull, probably the greatest magical relic in known history. How could they not seek to use it? They would be killed now, the enemy triumphant, and the skull once more in the hands of Winter Kay. It was inevitable.

  Why should Aran not find a way to profit from the disaster?

  It all made perfect sense.

  He recalled his last conversation with the Moidart, late the previous afternoon.

  “The skull is hidden somewhere in the castle. Can you locate it?”

  “No, my lord,” lied Powdermill. “Lord Gaise has the Sword in the Storm. It blinds my talents. But has he not said it is too dangerous to use?”

  “Nothing is too dangerous to use,” said the Moidart. “But if you cannot find it, then that is an end to it.”

  In truth Aran had not set out to lie to the Moidart. It had been a sudden impulse. Part of it was the truth. When Gaise had hidden the skull, he had been protected by the Sword in the Storm. But as soon as he had moved away, Aran had felt the power of the skull radiating from deep within the castle. It pulled at him, tugging at his conscious mind. Aran was a man who loved magic and had never, until he felt the Sword in the Storm, handled any object of great power.

  With the Moidart and Gaise away from the castle he took a lantern and climbed to the upper levels, locating the now-unused apartments where Gaise had spent much of his youth. Powdermill hauled aside the threadbare rug beside the bed and knelt to examine the timbered flooring beneath. Drawing a slender knife, he inserted the blade between two sections of board and applied pressure. The hidden section creaked open. With trembling hands he lifted the velvet sack from its hiding place. Even through the cloth he could feel the power radiating.

  Now back in his own room, he sat with the skull in his lap. He had expected to commune with the spirit of Cernunnos, but nothing happened. Even so he felt his talents swelling and growing. And with them came the realization that he had in his hands an object far more powerful than he could safely use.

  His first plan had been to flee from the castle and take the skull with him. This was no longer an option. The raw energy it radiated could never be hidden completely by ward spells. Other magickers would sense it. Warriors would find him and seize it. He tried once more to commune with Cernunnos. Nothing. No, he realized, not quite nothing. He sensed that he was being heard but ignored.

  Closing his eyes, he soared above the night-dark battlefield, pausing to gaze down on the waiting men of both sides. From there he could see the formations, the two main ridges occupied by Beck and Mantilan, the infantry spread out thinly behind earth bags or within trenches. Cavalry mounts were picketed on both flanks.

  The enemy force was drawn up into three great divisions. From this great height the sheer superiority of Winter Kay’s forces was manifestly apparent.

  That strengthened Powdermill’s resolve. He could not safely harness the power of the skull, but if he found a way to serve the skull, he could still profit by it. If Cernunnos was to live again, then he would need worshipers. His spirit flew to the center of the enemy camp. Not a single Redeemer spirit was in the air. None of these men had natural talent. The skull had fed them, as it was now feeding him.

  Powdermill flowed through the officers’ tents, seeking out Winter Kay.

  He found him at last, standing on a ridge beside a huge cannon. He was staring out over the enemy fortifications. For a few moments Powdermill observed him. He was similar in look to the Moidart, with the same harsh, patrician features, and the same hawklike eyes. Yet Powdermill sensed a weakness in the man, shards of self-doubt and fear that were missing in the Moidart.

  Focusing his newly boosted powers, Powdermill spoke. Winter Kay jerked and spun. “Who is there?”

  “A servant of Kranos, my lord.”

  Winter Kay stepped back, his hand on the hilt of a slim-bladed dagger at his belt.

  Powdermill concentrated, allowing his spirit to glow gently in the night. “I have what you desire to possess. I have that which was stolen from you.”

  “Bring it to me. You will be rewarded handsomely.”

  “It is at Castle Eldacre, my lord. I have it now in my hands.”

  “This is some trick of the Moidart’s to torment me.”

  “Not so, my lord. I am Powdermill. I was forced into the Moidart’s service and threatened with death if I did not comply. Now I have the orb, and I wish to serve you.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “There is something I want, and only you can give it to me.”

  “Name it.”

  “The sword of Gaise Macon. And to continue to serve Lord Kranos.”

  “You want a sword?”

  “Not any sword, my lord. It is an ancient weapon, forged in a time of magic.”

  “I promise you will have it. Bring me the skull.”

  “I cannot bring it, my lord. Between Eldacre and yourself lie the forces of the Moidart. I could not find a way through alone. When the battle is won, I shall be at Eldacre Castle and you will have the skull.”

  “I need it now,” said Winter Kay.

  Powdermill heard the desperation in his voice. “Here in the town there are few fighting men, my lord. The castle itself is virtually empty. Maybe twenty soldiers, older men unfit for service in the field, a dozen surgeons and helpers tending wounded men, plus Maev Ring and a few clerics. If you send a small force, skirt the battlefield, and ride directly to the castle, there will be none to stop you.”

  “Maev Ring?”

  “She is the Moidart’s quartermaster.”

  “The witch who brought about the death of my brother, Gayan. She is at the castle?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And all you want is Macon’s sword?”

  “Yes, my lord, and to serve you and Kranos. I have no wish to die, and it is my understanding that those who serve the Seidh lord will become immortal.”

  “I will send a force, Powdermill. If your deeds match your words, I will grant you what you wish.”

  As dawn approached, the guns on the southern ridge suddenly boomed, flame belching from the huge barrels. Taybard Jaekel squirmed down in his trench. Fifty yards to the south of the ridge the earth erupted. Great plumes of mud and dirt billowed up. A terrible screeching filled the air. Shards of metal and clumps of earth showered down over Taybard and Jakon.

  Taybard glanced back to where the Moidart, dressed in black except for a stylized breastplate of burnished silver, was standing beside Beck. The lord calmly walked to the edge of the ridge and stared out at the pits and craters in the ground.

  “They’ll have their range presently,” said the Moidart.

  “Aye, time to move back, my lord,” Beck said nervously.

  Beck shouted an order, and the main body of the two thousand musketeers retired from the ridge. Some fifty men remained, huddled in narrow trenches. Beck moved up to where Taybard and Jakon were crouched. “Sit it out, boys, and signal us when their infantry approaches.”

  The fifty cannon boomed again. Beck dropped to his belly a
nd squirmed alongside Jakon Gallowglass. Huge cannonballs, some of them containing explosive charges, hammered against the hillside less than thirty yards away. Taybard felt the ground beneath him tremble upon the impact. Several huge stakes flew overhead, blown from the earth. “I doubt they’ll have more than twenty rounds per cannon,” said Beck. “Probably less.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Gallowglass.

  “Weight. Fifteen pounds a ball, that’s three hundred pounds per cannon. Fifty cannon. That’s fifteen thousand pounds. Over rough ground a two horse wagon can pull—”

  “I get the point, General,” said Gallowglass. “Shouldn’t you be—”

  The guns thundered. The men on the ridge hunkered down. The earth exploded around them. Taybard was hurled into Beck. Mud and dirt rained down on them.

  “Time for you to go, General,” said Gallowglass, spitting dirt from his mouth.

  “See you in a while,” said Beck, climbing from the trench and walking back toward the rear slope.

  “This is definitely not soldiering,” said Gallowglass, peering over the lip of the trench. On the far ridge he could see men reloading the cannon. Suddenly there was a distant explosion, and one of the pieces blew apart. Jakon watched the huge barrel rear up some ten feet in the air. “Ha!” yelled Gallowglass. “Serves ‘em right.”

  The other cannons belched smoke and fire. Gallowglass swore and threw himself face down. This time the enemy gunners had found the range. All around the ridge top great gouts of earth plumed up. Thirty feet to the left of Taybard and Gallowglass a shell exploded in the air, sending shrapnel screaming across the ridge. Clods of earth thumped down on Taybard’s back. Then something else dropped alongside his head. Glancing to his left, he saw it was part of a man’s hand.

  Taybard grabbed it and tossed it out of the trench. Smoke and dust filled the air. Taybard lifted his head and tried to pierce the man-made gloom. It was as if a fog had descended upon the ridge. He heard other cannon fire and winced before realizing it was coming from the east and was not directed at Beck’s ridge.