He would find the skull, then avenge his brother’s death.
Cutting to the right, the troop of riders headed for the castle. There was a mass of tents outside the walls, and Winter Kay saw a number of wounded men, some of them heavily bandaged, others with splints on broken legs and arms. Ignoring them, he steered his gelding through the gates.
An elderly sentry looked up as they rode through. He did not challenge them.
Then an officer appeared from a side doorway. He was followed out by a burly soldier. The officer walked out toward the riders, his expression quizzical. “Are you seeking the Moidart?” he asked.
“I am looking for Aran Powdermill,” Winter Kay told him.
“I am Colonel Galliott. Perhaps I can assist you. Are you with Konin’s detachment?”
“No, Colonel,” said Winter Kay. “I am Lord Winterbourne.” The officer grabbed for the pistol in his belt. Winter Kay already had his hand on the butt of his pistol. He drew it swiftly, cocked it, and fired. The ball took Galliott in the chest. He fell back with a cry. Dragging his own pistol clear, he shot back. A rider to Winter Kay’s right took the ball in the face and was hurled from his mount. The burly soldier who had emerged with Galliott drew his saber and rushed at Winter Kay. A Redeemer spurred his horse between them and shot the man in the throat at point-blank range.
Another shot rang out. A Redeemer cried out in pain and slumped over his saddle. The elderly sentry had discharged his musket behind them. Several of the Redeemers shot him. Winter Kay stepped down from his mount. Leaving nineteen men to secure the courtyard, he took nine men with him and ran into the main castle building. Two servants came into sight. Seeing armed men, they turned to flee.
Winter Kay chased the first and caught him by the arm. “Where is Aran Powdermill?” he asked.
The servant pointed up the main stairway. “On the first floor. Fourth room on your left, sir.”
“And Maev Ring?”
“Also on the first floor, but to the right, at the end of the corridor.”
Winter Kay pushed the man aside and moved up the stairs. As he climbed, he shouted: “Powdermill, where are you?”
At the top he saw a door open and a small man with two gold teeth step out. The man blinked in surprise, then waved Winter Kay forward. Followed by his Redeemers, Winter Kay ran down the corridor.
“I didn’t expect you to come yourself, my lord,” said Powdermill.
Winter Kay ignored him and entered the small room. He almost groaned with pleasure when he saw the velvet sack upon a walnut table. Pushing Powdermill aside, he stepped forward and opened the sack, laying his hands reverently on the ancient bone. Fresh energy poured into him, and a great sense of calm descended. Kneeling before the skull, he kissed it. His head cleared. Then he rose and faced Powdermill. “You have been true to your word, Master Powdermill. You may serve me, and you will receive Gaise Macon’s sword. Now take me to Maev Ring.”
Huntsekker was annoyed as he paced the weapons gallery. He had planned to leave Eldacre that morning, to take Maev Ring back to the north. She had agreed to go but had claimed to need time to settle her new affairs here. She had letters she needed to write. Letters, for heaven’s sake! The world was coming apart, and she needed to write letters.
After they were written they would need to be delivered. It was nonsense. They would hitch up the wagon and go riding around the town, and all the while the enemy would be drawing nearer.
I should just leave, Huntsekker told himself. Head off to my farm. Forget the woman.
It was this comforting thought that caused his annoyance. Because despite the eminent good sense of such a plan, he could not do it. In all the great tales of heroism Huntsekker had learned as a young boy the hero never left the maiden in distress. The fact that here was a harridan in distress did not, he feared, alter the basic concept.
Huntsekker tried to quell his growing anger by examining the ancient weapons. There were some beautiful swords and knives on display. They had been in the Moidart’s family for generations. Longswords carried by knights and designed to be used from horseback, blade-heavy so that they slashed down with greater force, glaves with massive blades forged to smash plate armor. It was just such a blade that Jaim Grymauch had carried into the cathedral that day. Huntsekker’s favorite, however, was the ornate short sword that had been discovered in the tomb of a Stone general, a wonderful piece with a hilt of carved ivory and a blade of gleaming iron burnished like silver. Short swords were infinitely more deadly in a pitched battle. When Huntsekker had been a soldier, he had bought a hunting knife with a blade almost a foot in length. That purchase had saved his life on four occasions.
He strolled the gallery, idly glancing at the pikes and lances, breastplates and suits of armor. Then he saw the blank section where once had hung the narrow silver breastplate that the Moidart’s grandfather had worn in the first clan war. Huntsekker sighed. It was this piece that the Moidart had donned the previous night, before riding out to the battle site.
Huntsekker had not been remotely tempted to ride with him.
Nor had the Moidart requested it. There had been no long good-byes, no words of friendship, no valedictory statements. The Moidart had instructed Huntsekker to buckle the breastplate for him and then had selected four pistols.
“I have no more need for you at present, Huntsekker.”
“Then I’ll go home, my lord.”
“Take Maev Ring with you. I’ll have your payment sent on to you after the battle,” said the Moidart with just a trace of a smile.
“Thank you, my lord. Most kind.”
Then he had gone.
Huntsekker stood now in his full-length bearskin coat, loaded pistols in his belt, and waited for a fierce-tongued woman to finish writing her letters.
I could just go and drag her from her office. He chuckled at the thought.
Gunshots sounded from the courtyard. Huntsekker spun. Then he swore and began to run.
As the shots boomed in the courtyard, Maev Ring opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out a small pistol, tucking it into a hidden pocket in her heavy gray traveling skirt. Rising from her seat, she donned her dark green shawl and stepped out into the corridor. The black hound Soldier padded after her.
She heard the sound of running men. A voice shouted: “Where is Aran Powdermill?” Then a second question followed, and she heard her name mentioned. Why would anyone be looking for her? The Moidart had come to her the previous night, urging her to leave the castle this morning. Perhaps he had sent men to escort her. It seemed unlikely. There were no men to spare, though Galliott was still at the castle.
Moving across the corridor into an empty room, she made her way to a window and looked down. There was a group of red-cloaked men there, some mounted and some on foot, pistols in their hands. Then she saw the bodies of Galliott and Sergeant Packard.
Drawing her pistol, she cocked it, then stood behind the closed door. She heard again the sounds of running men approach. They entered her office.
“Where is she?” someone demanded. There was no reply, yet they did not move off. Instinctively Maev moved back from the door. It suddenly burst open. The first man through was heavyset, and trident-bearded. Maev shot him in the head. He fell heavily.
Another man followed him. Soldier growled and then sprang toward him, leaping and closing his fangs on the man’s throat. Then more men ran in. One struck her in the face with his fist. Maev was thrown back against the far wall. A boot struck her in the stomach, and she doubled over. She heard a shot and a dying howl of pain from the hound. Then a hawk-faced man grabbed her long red and silver hair, wrenching back her head. “Justice was a long time coming, witch,” he said, “but it is here now.”
From the corridor beyond came a scream, then two more pistol shots. A red-cloaked body hurtled into the room, crunching against the wall. More shots sounded. The man holding her swung his head to see what was going on. A Redeemer staggered back through the doorway, a knife in hi
s chest. Maev saw Huntsekker follow him. The big man had blood on his face. Grabbing the Redeemer by the hair, he wrenched the knife clear and then slashed it across the man’s throat. A heavy saber lashed into the back of Huntsekker’s head. Blood sprayed out. He half fell. Another man leaped upon him, bearing him to the floor. Huntsekker stabbed him in the groin, threw him clear, then struggled to his feet.
The man holding Maev Ring pulled a pistol from his belt and fired. Huntsekker grunted and went down. Maev slammed a fist into the man’s jaw. Off balance, he fell awkwardly. Scrambling to her feet, Maev ran for the doorway. A Redeemer grabbed her. Spinning, she head butted him. Two others ran at her. A punch took her high in the temple. Then she was slammed against the wall. She fell to her knees.
The first man came out of the room in which Huntsekker lay. He was carrying a black velvet sack. Maev looked up. Aran Powdermill was standing by the far wall, his face ashen. On the floor were three Redeemer bodies. Another four were dead alongside Huntsekker and the hound.
“You deserve to die slowly, witch,” said the first man. “And you shall. Bring her!”
Maev’s vision was blurring, and she could taste blood in her mouth. A man grabbed her by the hair, another by the arm, and she was hauled upright.
More gunshots sounded from the courtyard. The Redeemers paused, then looked at one another. Maev could see the fear in their eyes.
The man holding her on the left suddenly jerked back, spinning Maev.
She saw the huge, blood-drenched figure of Huntsekker. He had grabbed the Redeemer holding her and dragged him backward. The knife in his hand plunged into the man’s belly. In that instant Maev leaned forward, then threw back her head into the face of the second Redeemer. He grunted with pain and fell against the wall. Maev tore herself free of his grip. In doing so she lost her balance and stumbled to the floor. Huntsekker leaped over her, his bloody knife raised. The Redeemer, his nose smashed, his eyes streaming, failed to see the blade as it plunged into his chest. Huntsekker twisted the knife. A terrible scream echoed in the corridor.
Beyond them the man with the velvet sack turned and ran. Powdermill just stood there. Huntsekker was breathing heavily. He sagged against the wall. Powdermill moved to him, taking his weight. The knife dropped from Huntsekker’s hand. Powdermill, unable to support his huge frame, was dragged down as Huntsekker fell.
Maev came alongside. There was a huge cut on Huntsekker’s head. She wrenched open his coat. Blood had soaked his shirt. Ripping it open, she saw that he had been shot at least twice in the chest and belly. There were also stab wounds. The worst of the wounds—in his chest—was pumping blood. Maev put both her hands on it and applied pressure.
“Get a surgeon,” she told Powdermill.
The shots had ceased in the courtyard. Powdermill nodded and sped away.
Maev continued to put pressure on the chest wound. She saw that Huntsekker’s eyes were open.
“Don’t die, foolish man,” she said.
Winter Kay ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He almost fell but righted himself as he reached the bottom. Running to the door, he wrenched it open. What he saw made him blink in disbelief.
His Redeemers were dead, their bodies littering the courtyard.
Their killers stood around them. They were all bandaged and bloody. One man had an amputated arm. His supposedly elite Redeemers had been slain by a blood-soaked group of barbarian wounded.
Gripping the velvet sack tightly, Winter Kay walked toward one of the horses.
A one-armed man moved across to block his way. He was holding a saber.
Sunlight gleamed on the cloak brooch he wore. It was bronze and oval. A circle had been engraved at the center. Now, in the sunlight, it shone like gold.
The words of the old priest came back to him: “I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you when the one with the golden eye comes for you.”
It was a horrifying moment. Time froze. Winter Kay knew then that Gaise Macon had never been the enemy. In fact it was even worse than that. Had he not attempted to kill Macon, the Moidart never would have been drawn into the battle. Without him there would have been no Rigante to fight. I would never even have been here, he thought.
The one-armed man came closer. Winter Kay dragged his saber from its scabbard.
This man could not possibly defeat him. His face was gray with exhaustion and pain, and fresh blood was dripping from the amputated limb.
“Step aside, man, and live,” said Winter Kay. “In your condition you are no match for me.”
The man did not move. Winter Kay suddenly leaped forward, his saber lancing for the man’s chest. The Rigante’s blade swept up, blocking the lunge and then rolling over and around it before plunging through Winter Kay’s throat.
“No match for you, fool? I am Rigante.”
They were the last words Winter Kay heard.
The battle raged on for most of the day. By the afternoon the losses on both sides were prodigious. Mantilan had held his eastern ridge until almost dusk, but then the enemy had forced its way through. Gaise Macon led his cavalry in a countercharge, but to no avail. Mantilan was killed, along with Bael Jace and more than eight hundred Rigante.
The western ridge, under Beck and the Moidart, did hold, though at the cost of three thousand men. Konin’s cavalry had come to their aid but had taken massive casualties. Konin was killed in the last charge.
As two divisions of enemy infantry had stormed the ridge, Kaelin Ring had led his surviving five hundred fighters up its northern slope to reinforce the Moidart and Beck.
The fighting was ferocious. Before the Rigante arrived, the enemy forces had reached the crest of the ridge and were battling hand to hand with the defenders. Kaelin saw the Moidart holding his ground, two pistols in his hands. He brought up the first and discharged it, then the second. Two men fell. Dropping the pistols, the Moidart drew a saber. A musketeer ran at him, his bayonet lunging for the Moidart’s belly. The nobleman swayed to his left. The bayonet lanced through his arm. His saber cut down across the musketeer’s neck, opening the jugular. Kaelin and the Rigante tore into the enemy.
On the slope below Gaise Macon charged his cavalry into enemy infantry reinforcements, scattering them.
With the dread Rigante cutting and killing on the crest of the ridge and the cavalry below seeking to cut them off, the Varlish attack faltered. Men began to stream back down the slope, seeking to escape the slaughter. The Rigante pursued them, and the retreat became a rout.
Kaelin blew his horn three times, summoning his men back to the ridge.
Then he saw the Moidart trying to pull the bayonet from his left arm. Kaelin sheathed his saber and knife and moved to him. Taking hold of the musket, he drew the blade clear. The Moidart said nothing. Gripping his bicep to staunch the flow of blood, he moved past Kaelin and stared out at the fleeing troops.
Gaise Macon’s cavalry was harassing the enemy, but there were not enough of them to continue an assault on the enemy lines. They came under fire from reserves on the southern slopes and were forced to withdraw.
“It’s a damned stalemate,” said the Moidart. “Tomorrow it will begin again.”
As night fell Gaise Macon rode among the remnants of his army, knowing that the next day the enemy would overwhelm them.
He located Kaelin Ring. The surviving Rigante had positioned themselves on the slopes of the eastern ridge and, though exhausted, were busy digging trenches and throwing up earthworks.
Gaise dismounted. Kaelin saw him and nodded. “It’s over,” Kaelin said, softly. “We’ll not hold them tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“We could pull back, then hit them with raids as they move.”
“I have another plan.”
“Share it with me. I love listening to good plans.”
Gaise looked away. “I am sorry, Kaelin Ring. I am sorry for all that you and your men have been through in this cause. Bael Jace told me he despised me. I
understand that. At this moment I despise myself. I came to the point where I put aside all that I had once believed in. What did you do with those boys you captured?”
“I let them go.”
“Good.” Gaise looked around at the Rigante as they continued to toil. “I remember, back when the world was not so vile, that day when your uncle took on the Varlish champion. I recall thinking that he was the most amazing man. Gorain had greater strength and more acquired skill, yet your uncle fought him to a standstill and then beat him.”
“Grymauch was a great man,” said Kaelin.
“Aye, I know that. I thought he was unique. He wasn’t. All you Rigante have the same qualities. Men to ride the river with, as the old books say.” Gaise drew his sword, reversed it, and offered it to Kaelin Ring.
“I don’t need a sword,” he said.
“This is the sword of Connavar, the Sword in the Storm. It must remain with the Rigante, Kaelin.”
“Connavar carried no saber.”
“Take it and see.”
Kaelin hesitated, then reached out and wrapped his hand around the hilt. The blade shimmered, and once more the golden fist guard reshaped itself. Kaelin gazed at it in amazement. The rearing horse in the clouds had been replaced by a hound standing alongside a stag. “This is how I got my soul-name,” whispered Kaelin. “The hound was my father’s. It was called Raven. It rescued a stag surrounded by wolves.”
“I was proud to carry it,” said Gaise Macon.
With that he returned to his mount and rode up the slope. The Moidart was waiting for him. His breastplate was dented, his arm crudely bandaged, but he bore no other wounds despite the carnage inflicted on this ridge all day. “Where is Beck?” asked Gaise.
Stormrider Stormrider Page 47
