Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  'It's taking its time,' replied Mulgrave, slipping out of his sheepskin jerkin. The swordsman pulled up a chair and sat, extending his hands towards the fire.

  'How is your shoulder?'

  'Almost healed,' said Mulgrave. 'Though it aches in this weather.'

  'It will. How old are you?' Ermal asked, suddenly.

  Mulgrave had to think about the question. 'Thirty-four . . . almost thirty-five,' he said.

  'When you are past forty it will ache all the time.'

  'What an inspiring thought.'

  Ermal Standfast chuckled. 'Two inches lower and that ball would have meant you never had to ache again. An inch to the left and you might have lost your arm. Give thanks for the ache, Mulgrave. Experiencing it means you are alive. Are you ready to rejoin your regiment?'

  'No - though I will, for a while. I intend to ask Gaise for permission to quit the army.'

  Ermal seemed surprised. 'My information is that you are a talented soldier. Why would a man turn his back on his talents?'

  'My talents put men in the ground.'

  'Ah, yes. There is that. The Grey Ghost will be sad to lose you. When he brought you to me he said you were his dearest friend. He sat by your bedside for fully two days.'

  Mulgrave felt a stab of guilt. 'Gaise knows how I feel. I have seen too much death. Have you ever walked across a field in the aftermath of a battle?'

  'Happily, no.'

  'Luden Macks once said that the saddest sight in all the world is a battle lost. The second saddest sight is a battle won.'

  'The man is your enemy, and yet you quote him.'

  Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no enemies. I just want to go . . .' He hesitated.

  'Home?' prompted Ermal.

  Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no home. The place where I was born is deserted now.'

  'What about your family?'

  Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, but stared into the fire. 'I come from Shelsans,' he said. Ermal shuddered inwardly. He made the Sign of the Tree.

  'How did you survive?' he asked. 'You can have been no more than nine . . . maybe ten.'

  'I was in the hills when the knights came, visiting an old man who made honey mead wine. We saw the massacre. The old man took me to a cave high in the mountains.' Taking up a blackened poker Mulgrave absently stirred the coals of the fire. 'The closest I have to a thought of home lies far to the north. The Druagh mountains. It is good there. The air is clean. I like the people. There is something about the highlanders I warm to.'

  Ermal rose. 'I have a little tisane left, and some honey. Warm yourself while I prepare it.'

  Mulgrave leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His left shoulder was throbbing, and he could feel a prickling in the tips of his fingers. Luck had been with him on that dreadful day, as the grapeshot screamed through the air. A rider on his left - Toby Vainer - had been ripped apart, his face disappearing in a bloody spray. A second volley had torn through the men on his right. Yet only a single ball had punched into Mulgrave, and not one had come close to Gaise Macon. The young general had ridden on, his grey horse leaping over the first cannon. The cannoneers had scattered and run as the cavalry broke through. Gaise and his riders had pursued them. Mulgrave had tried to follow. But his horse collapsed and died beneath him, hurling him from the saddle. Only then did Mulgrave see that the beast's body had shielded him from the worst of the grapeshot.

  The wound in Mulgrave's shoulder - so small and seemingly insignificant - had festered badly. He had slipped into a semi-coma two days later.

  He had returned to full consciousness in this cottage. According to Ermal Standfast Mulgrave had been taken to the field surgeon, and the man had shrugged and said: 'He will be dead within a week. The wound has gone bad.' Gaise Macon would have none of it. Having been told of a healer in Shelding, some thirty miles from the battlefield, he had commandeered a wagon.

  Mulgrave had little recollection of the journey to Shelding. He remembered burning pain, and occasional glimpses of clouds scurrying across a blue sky. Odd snippets of conversation ... 'I think he is dying, my lord.' And Gaise Macon saying: 'He will not die. I will not allow it.' He remembered the jolting of the wheels on the rutted road. But most of the journey was lost to him.

  Ermal returned with two pottery jugs. Passing one to Mulgrave, he resumed his seat. 'So what will you do, my friend?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Have you lost faith in the cause?'

  Mulgrave shrugged. 'What cause?' He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well for weeks. Nightmares haunted him, and he would awake several times a night, sometimes crying out in his anger and despair.

  'Kings are chosen by the Source, so it is said,' Ermal went on. 'Therefore those who fight for the king could be considered godly. Is that not cause enough?'

  'Anyone who believes that has not seen the work of the king's Redeemers.'

  'There are always rumours of excesses in war,' said the priest. Mulgrave looked at him, seeing the fear in the man's eyes.

  'Aye, you are right,' he said. 'Let us talk of other things.' He noted his friend's relief. Ermal relaxed back into his chair and sipped his tisane. A coal upon the fire split and crackled briefly. Several cinders dropped into the grate.

  'Are you still dreaming of the white-haired woman?' asked Ermal.

  'Yes.'

  'Does she speak to you yet?'

  'No. She tries, but I hear nothing. I think she is in danger.'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'In the last few dreams she has been on a mountainside, struggling to climb. She stops and looks back. There are ... men . . . below her. Following, I think. Then she looks directly at me and speaks. But I hear nothing.'

  Ermal added a thick log to the fire. 'Why did you hesitate?' he asked.

  Mulgrave was nonplussed. 'I don't know what you mean.'

  'Before you said men. Are they men?'

  'What else could they be?' answered Mulgrave, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Ermal opened his hands. 'It is a dream, Mulgrave. They could be anything. They could be fish on horseback.'

  Mulgrave chuckled. 'I see. You think then that this is some trick of the mind? That she is not real?'

  'I cannot say for certain. I once knew a man - Aran Powdermill. Strange little chap. Had two gold teeth in the front of his mouth. The man was crooked, a thief and a cheat who would do anything for money. Yet he could see events happening great distances away. He was also adept at finding lost items. He once located a child who had fallen down a forgotten well. He demanded two chaillings to find her. I also knew a woman who could commune with the dead. Truly remarkable talents they both possessed. Equally I once dreamed I was trapped inside a blackberry pie with a white bear. Absolutely nothing mystic there. I had eaten too much and fallen asleep on a bearskin rug. Some dreams are visions, some are merely the mind's fancies. You do not recall having met this woman?'

  'No.'

  'Do you recognize the mountains?'

  'Aye, I do. The Druagh mountains in the north.'

  'Perhaps you should travel there.'

  'I have been thinking of it.'

  'It might be best to wait until the spring. The war has displaced many citizens, and there are now said to be bands of thieves and cut-throats roaming the countryside.'

  'It will be little better in the spring, my friend. This war is a long way from being won or lost.'

  'I shall miss your company. So few of my parishioners play an adequate game of Shahmak.'

  Mulgrave laughed. 'I have only beaten you once, Master Standfast.'

  'Ah, but you have also drawn three games. It wounds my ego not to win.'

  A comfortable silence grew, as Mulgrave watched the flames dance among the coals. Then he sighed and returned his gaze to the priest. 'They are not men,' he said. 'Their faces are grey and scaled, and their eyes are floating in blood.'

  Ermal sat very quietly for a moment. 'Do they have circlets of iron upon their brows?'

&n
bsp; 'Aye, they do,' answered Mulgrave, surprised.

  'Wait for a moment.' Ermal rose from his chair and walked through to his small study. He returned moments later with a slim silver chain. Hanging upon it was a small medallion, also silver, encased in a slender golden band. The medallion had been stamped on one side with the image of a tree. The reverse was embossed with a three-sided Keltoi rune. 'These were carried by the original Tree cultists back in the time of Stone. Each coin was blessed by the Veiled Lady, so it was said, and after her by Persis Albitane himself.' He placed the chain over Mulgrave's head, tucking the medallion inside his shirt. 'Wear it always, my boy.'

  'Thank you. Do I take it you no longer believe that the dreams are a trick of the mind?'

  Ermal spread his hands. 'I am not certain. The creatures you described are written of in the oldest scrolls. They were called the Dezhem Bek. Have you heard the name?'

  'No.'

  'It may be that you heard of them when you were a child in Shelsans, and the memory is what causes the dreams. I hope so.'

  'What are they?' asked Mulgrave.

  'I would imagine that depends on your perspective. To those who follow the Source of all Harmony the Dezhem Bek were men who had embraced the Shadow, given themselves over to evil in return for great powers. Some scrolls call them necromancers, others describe them as eaters of souls. In the old tongue Dezhem Bek means simply the Ravenous Ravens. Yet there are other books, written by those whose philosophies, shall we say, were at odds with the Source. In these the Dezhem Bek are described as achieving perfection of form, and strength beyond that of ordinary men. They were also said to be extremely long-lived.'

  Mulgrave laughed. 'Perfection of form? I think not. Unless scaled flesh has become fashionable in the cities.'

  'What you see in your dreams is their spirit form. You have heard of the Orb of Kranos?'

  'Of course,' answered Mulgrave. 'A mythic vase or some such from ancient times.'

  'No, not a vase,' said Ermal. 'Some say it was a globe of crystal through which men could see their futures. Others claim it was the magical pommel stone of a great sword. There is even a legend that it is the severed head of a necromancer. The Dezhem Bek were said to be guardians of the Orb. It made them near immortal.'

  'I am not a great believer in magic,' said Mulgrave. 'I do not mock men who have faith. It gives them comfort, and oft times leads them to help others. Yet I have also seen great evils committed in the name of the Source. And never have I witnessed a miracle. Until I do I shall remain sceptical.'

  'I cannot argue with that,' said Ermal Standfast. 'Nor will I try. What I will say is that I have heard rumours that the Orb was hidden in Shelsans. The Knights of the Sacrifice found it.'

  Mulgrave sighed. 'My father used to talk of a great secret that was guarded in Shelsans. But then he used to tell many wonderful stories, fabulously embellished. He said that it was vital that we all learned to love. He said that love made friends of enemies and enriched the world. I wonder if he still believed that when the knights came and massacred those he loved.'

  'Let us hope that he did,' said Ermal, softly.

  Ermal Standfast had been a priest now for twenty-two years. He was loved within his community, for his sermons were gentle and often witty, and he was not judgemental with his flock. Also his fame as a healer was widespread, and many of his parishioners owed their life to what they perceived as his talent for herbal cures. It was this fame that had led Gaise Macon to bring the dying Mulgrave to him.

  All in all the little priest should have been content - even proud of what he had achieved in Shelding during these last twenty-two years.

  But even had Ermal been given to prideful thoughts, he would no longer be able to sustain them. He felt this strongly as he sat in his small living room, staring into the fading fire. Mulgrave was asleep upstairs, and the house - save for a few creaks from the ageing timbers - was silent.

  'You are worse than a fraud,' Ermal told himself. 'You are a liar and a coward. You are a weak and loathsome man.' He felt close to tears as he sat in his deep armchair, a blanket around his thin shoulders.

  Over the years he had gathered some knowledge of herbs, but all of his concoctions were actually based on camomile and cider vinegar, with just an occasional dash of mustard. There was no lasting medicinal benefit to be obtained from any of them. Ermal's talent came from within. When he laid hands upon the sick he could heal them. He would close his eyes and know what ailed them, and he could either draw it out or boost the patients' own defence mechanisms, causing them to heal themselves. At first he had kept this gift entirely secret. This was not originally out of fear, but more from a natural shyness and a desire to remain unnoticed. He did not want people to stare at him and consider him different. He did not wish to be unusual or special. As a youngster Ermal had desired comfortable anonymity. As he grew older - and more inclined towards the spiritual - he had felt that his gift should be put to use helping people. It took him a little time to come up with the idea of herbalism as a disguise for his talents. It seemed such a small lie, and one for which he believed the Source would forgive him. After all, was it not the Source who had made him shy and humble? On top of that there was the memory of his father - an equally shy man. 'Do good in secret, Ermal,' he had said. His donations to charity were always made anonymously, or through a trusted intermediary who would not divulge the origin of the good fortune. 'All that we have comes from the Source,' Ermal's father claimed, 'and it is arrogance itself to claim credit for our ability to finance good deeds.'

  For Ermal this became a life philosophy. And he was happy as a priest and a healer. He enjoyed the love of his parishioners, and the gratitude of those he healed.

  All this had changed four years before, when the Redeemers had arrested old Tarn Farley.

  Guilt burned in Ermal's heart as he remembered the man. Tarn had lived alone on a farm just outside Shelding. Ermal had visited him one morning, almost fifteen years ago. It was a bright, hot summer's day and Ermal had been walking his parish, knocking on doors and chatting to residents who did not - or could not through age or infirmity - attend services. Most of the people greeted him warmly enough. Occasionally he would be turned away by those who had no interest in matters spiritual.

  At last he had come to Tarn's cottage. The original farm building had caught fire some years previously, and was a burnt-out shell. The small farm had long since ceased to be a going concern, and Tarn had sold his best fields to a neighbouring farmer. He lived alone in a cottage close to the derelict farmhouse, keeping only two dozen hens and an old rooster. The cottage was small, but tidily maintained and the front door, Ermal remembered, had a fresh coat of green paint upon it. He tapped at the frame.

  Old Tarn opened the door. He was a tall man, stooped by time, with an unruly mop of white hair, long and unkempt. Tarn's face was heavily lined, but his eyes were a bright button blue, untouched by the years. They were the eyes of a young man, keen and still curious about life and all its hazards and wonders.

  'I wondered when you would come, priest,' he said. 'Are you ready yet?'

  'Ready for what?' Ermal had asked.

  'Ready to let your talents grow. Ready to leave the prison of the flesh and soar through the sky. Ready to see the world with the eyes of spirit.'

  'What on earth are you talking about, sir?'

  Tarn had peered at him, then grinned. 'I know what you are,' he said. 'I know what you do. When you use the magic I feel it. You healed Bab Fast. Took away his cancer. You carried the vileness home with you and had to find a way to dispose of it. That was tough, was it not? But the old hound was dying anyway.'

  Ermal had been shocked. Bab Fast had been dying of a tumour in his belly. Ermal had never dealt with such a serious illness. Normally when he drew out an infection he would feel it in his own system for some days before it dissipated, but with Bab it had been different. Ermal had felt the tumour begin to grow within his own body. It had frightened him badly. He had known
it would kill him and had - with less reluctance than he would have hoped -transferred the cancer to the body of an elderly hound who used to wander around the village, picking up scraps of food where it could. The hound had died the following day. How could Tarn had known?

  Ermal stood silently in the cottage doorway, unable to speak.

  'Do not worry, man. I have told no-one. Come inside. We will talk awhile.'

  Ermal sighed at the memory. He had sat with Tarn for more than two hours. They had broken bread together, and Ermal learned that the old man was another who had been gifted by the Source. Tarn's talent was of communication with the departed and - in a small way - prophecy. He also knew how to free himself from the confines of the flesh, allowing his spirit to soar free. In the months and years that followed Ermal too learned this skill. At first they would journey together, for, as Tarn pointed out, it was easy for a soul to be lost in the vastness. But soon Ermal had soared alone, his spirit floating beneath the stars over foreign lands and strange cities, drifting above alien mountains and crossing vast oceans.

  He and Tarn had even witnessed the signing of the Covenant -the document that was supposed to end all fear of civil strife. The king had finally agreed to devolve some of his powers to a Great Council, the members of which would be elected from among the citizenry. It was a day of great jubilation across the realm. The king, dressed in a coat and leggings of magnificent blue satin, had entered the debating chamber, flanked by the Lords Buckman and Winterbourne. The four hundred councillors present all rose from their seats and bowed deeply. The king moved to a heavily gilded chair and sat down. Luden Macks brought the document and laid it before him.