Stormrider

by David Gemmell

  'This will end in blood,' said Tam.

  Something cold touched Ermal's spirit, and he sensed a presence forming close by where they floated under the curved rafters of the chamber roof.

  'Flee!' cried Tam.

  Back in Tarn's cottage Ermal had scrambled to his feet. 'What happened there?' he asked his friend.

  'We are not the only ones with talent, Ermal. Best to avoid those we do not know.'

  The days that followed proved golden and liberating for Ermal Standfast. He had found a friend with whom he could speak freely, and a mentor who could - and did - teach him to develop his talents.

  The old man never came to church. He rarely left his cottage. But people would come to him there, requesting small prophecies, or wishing to communicate with the recent dead. It was this that led to Tarn's death - and showed Ermal Standfast what a wretched creature he really was.

  Four years ago, with the king revoking the terms of the Covenant and the civil war just beginning, a troop of Redeemers had ridden into Shelding. Within days they had arrested four people - one of them Tam Farley. He was accused of witchcraft. Fearing for his own life Ermal had fled the town, riding to the market town of Ridsdale and renting a room at a local tavern. From here he had used his talent to observe the fate of his friend. Tam was tortured for two days, but gave the Redeemers no names. They broke his fingers and put a fire beneath his feet. Still he would not speak - though he did scream. The other three prisoners were local farm workers who had come to Tam for prophecies. They too underwent torture. All four were sentenced to burn at the stake.

  On the day of the execution a Redeemer stood in front of the crowd and asked if any would speak up for the accused, or offer reason why they should not die. No-one did. Ermal burned with shame and guilt.

  For, as his spirit floated above the bound men at the stakes, Tam had looked up and seen him. The old man mouthed the words: 'I forgive you.' That forgiveness seared worse than any punishment Ermal could imagine.

  Four years later the shame remained. 'I should have been there to speak for you, Tam,' he said.

  And now it was strengthened by a new guilt. Today he had listened as Mulgrave spoke of spirits with scaled faces and Ermal had known what they were. Yet once more he had not spoken the full truth. The Redeemers were the new Dezhem Bek, and Ermal Standfast knew the extent of their powers.

  Yes, he had given Mulgrave a charm that might keep him from spiritual harm, but he had not warned him of the true nature of the enemy.

  Tears spilled to the priest's cheeks. 'You are a worthless craven,' he told himself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TAYBARD JAEKEL LAY FLAT ON HIS BELLY, HIS LONG RIFLE CRADLED across his arms. With great care he crawled through the undergrowth. He no longer cared about the mud smearing across his leaf green uniform jacket, or staining the silver embroidered Fawn in Brambles insignia. His jacket was now filthy, old tears clumsily stitched. Two years ago he had been so proud of this uniform, and eager to prove himself worthy of it. He had stood with Kammel Bard, Banny Achbain, and scores of other young men to take the oath of allegiance to the king, and had marched out of Eldacre to fight the evil Covenanters. There had been a band playing, and the sky had been blue and clear, the sun bright. Crowds had lined the roads, cheering the gallant young men.

  Taybard pushed such thoughts from his mind as he reached the beginning of the downward slope into the valley. He crawled on, his rifle cradled across his forearms. A shot sounded. Taybard ducked instinctively, then swore as the hammer of his rifle dug into his left cheek, piercing the skin. Easing himself between two bushes he gazed out at the opposite slope. It was wooded, and several boulders jutted from the hillside. Taybard glanced down into the valley, where a squad of scouts from the King's Second Lancers were pinned down. Two men lay dead - evidence of the skill of the enemy musketeer - the other eight hunkering down behind what meagre shelter they could find. Another shot broke the silence. No-one was hit. The squad had no muskets, and could not return fire at this range with their pistols.

  Taybard's blue eyes focused on the hillside opposite, locating the puff of smoke drifting from a large boulder just outside the tree line. Settling himself down he brought his own rifle to bear. It was a beautiful piece, the stock and butt of hand-polished walnut, delicately engraved and inlaid with silver. Gaise Macon had ordered twenty rifles from the legendary Emburley. Each one had cost more than a poor Varlish like Taybard Jaekel would earn in ten years. Taybard carried his rifle everywhere, and even slept with it alongside him. The guns were highly prized. One of Gaise's twenty riflemen had got drunk in Baracum, and had woken in the morning to find his rifle stolen. Gaise had hanged him.

  Nestling the butt into his shoulder, Taybard waited. He gauged the distance between himself and the Covenanter musketeer at just over two hundred paces. An impossible shot for a regular musket, and a difficult one even for an Emburley with a rifled barrel.

  The Covenanter sniper raised himself up, levelled his musket and fired at the soldiers below. Taybard did not shoot. He counted. The sniper had reared up swiftly, then taken three seconds to aim. Once he had fired he dropped back behind the boulder to reload.

  Taybard eased back the engraved hammer and took aim.

  On the opposite hillside the Covenanter came up into position. Taybard let out his breath, steadied his aim, and fired. The sniper jerked, dropped his weapon and fell against the boulder, sliding from sight. Taybard came to his feet, added a fresh charge of powder, ball and paper wadding to the barrel and rammed it home. Then he primed the flash pan, cocked the weapon and strode out from his hiding place. The soldiers below saw him and sent up a cheer.

  Ignoring them, Taybard walked down the slope. As he went he caught a glimpse of a second Covenanter moving into sight. The man's musket came up. Taybard dropped to one knee. The musket ball screamed by him, and his own rifle boomed in response. The shot took the Covenanter through the bridge of the nose, snapping his head back. His legs gave way and he pitched to the earth. Once more Taybard calmly reloaded, then began to climb the slope. The first sniper lay dead, his throat torn away. Taybard sighed, and gestured to the soldiers. When they came up he ordered them to collect the two muskets and the powder and shot carried by the Covenanters.

  The soldiers obeyed him gleefully, searching the bodies for any coin or valuables before pulling off their boots and belts. Taybard sat on a rock nearby. His hands were trembling now, and he rubbed the palms against his mud-streaked trews.

  'You've got blood on your face,' said Jakon Gallowglass, moving to sit alongside him. Gallowglass was a lean five-year veteran from the south. No more than nineteen years of age, he had taken part in six major battles and a score of skirmishes. Taybard glanced at the man's pale features.

  'Jabbed myself on my rifle as I got into position,' said Taybard.

  'First shot was mighty fine. Took your time, though.'

  'That's why it was fine.'

  'Won't be no fresh fighting till the spring now,' said Gallowglass. 'With luck we'll be billeted in Baracum. Good whores in Baracum. You know where the Grey Ghost will be taking you?'

  'Home would be good,' Taybard told him, laying his rifle against the rock. He rubbed his eyes. His hand smelt of black powder, acrid and unpleasant. Blood from his cheek was smeared on his palm.

  'Aye, the war hasn't reached the north,' said Jakon. 'Must be good up there. Got a sweetheart back home?'

  'No.'

  'Just as well. After all the whores you've had you wouldn't want to be taking the pox home, eh?'

  Taybard stared gloomily at the dead Covenanter. He was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. His face was boyish.

  'Never seen no-one shoot as good as you,' said Gallowglass. 'Is it you or the Emburley?'

  'A bit of both, I guess.'

  'Ah, well. Time to finish the patrol. My thanks to you, Jaekel. That's the second time you've pulled my irons from the fire.'

  'Your turn next time.'

  Taybard watche
d as Gallowglass gathered the seven men. Within minutes they had entered the trees and were gone. Taybard sat for a while with the dead Covenanters, then rose and made his way back down the trail.

  It began to rain. Pulling a leather cap from the pocket of his green jerkin Taybard held it over the hammer and flash pan of his rifle. Within minutes the rain had turned to sleet and then snow. Taybard trudged on, his feet cold.

  The Covenanter sniper and his friend would not feel it.

  Taybard covered the three miles to camp in just over an hour, reported his action to Duty Sergeant Lanfer Gosten, then made his way to the cluster of tents occupied by the Grey Ghost's company. Squatting down by a camp fire Taybard warmed his hands, then ducked into the tent he shared with Kammel Bard and Banny Achbain. The tent was empty. Taybard's clothes were soaked through. He removed his jerkin and shirt and rummaged in his pack for the spare woollen shirt he had purchased in Baracum the previous autumn. There were holes in it, but it was warm nevertheless. As he pulled it on the small pendant he wore caught in the cloth. Carefully he eased it clear, then gazed at it. Within a spherical cage of silver wire lay a perfect musket ball fashioned from gold. He had been so proud when he won it last year. The king himself had been present with his two sons, but the prize had been presented by his own general, Gaise Macon. Taybard had never expected to win. He was lying in seventh place after the standing targets.

  A cold wind blew in from the tent entrance and Taybard tugged on his shirt, then donned the damp jerkin once more.

  'Won't be no fresh fighting till the spring now,' Gallowglass had said.

  Taybard hoped it was true.

  Wrapping himself in his blankets he slept for a while, his rifle held close, like a sweetheart. He had hoped to dream of the mountains, and the cobbled roads of Old Hills. Instead he found himself once more running across the low ground after the Battle of Nollenby. Horsemen were chasing him, just as they had in reality, only this time Taybard was not fleet of foot. His legs felt heavy, his boots sinking into deep mud. He glanced back. Lancers were almost upon him, but they were not men. Their faces were skulls.

  Then he realized they were no longer riding horses. The skulls were rammed upon target rails, just like those back in Baracum when he won the Golden Ball. The rails were greased, the targets pulled swiftly along the rails as the musketeers tried to hit them. Taybard had achieved a perfect score in the final, beating a rifleman from the Seventh Infantry. There were no other riflemen now. Taybard stood alone. The skulls on the target rails began to writhe, flesh forming over the bone. Taybard took aim at the first. It was the Covenant boy he had shot earlier. He was staring at Taybard. Then he began to weep and call out Taybard's name.

  He awoke with a start, his face drenched in sweat.

  'Taybard Jaekel!'

  Taybard blinked. Someone was calling his name. Scrambling from his blankets he stumbled from the tent. The sun was going down, and cook fires had been lit. The burly duty sergeant, Lanfer Gosten, was standing alongside a young officer from the King's Second Lancers. Taybard saluted clumsily.

  The officer chuckled. 'God's teeth, man, I must say that up close you don't look like a legend,' he said. He was tall and slim, his blue and gold uniform immaculately tailored and - more wondrous still - clean. Taybard glanced down. Even the man's boots were shining. The officer held out his hand. The gleam of gold caught Taybard's eye. 'Lord Person's compliments to you, musketeer,' said the officer, dropping the coin into Taybard's hand.

  'What is this for, sir?' asked Taybard.

  'For your rescue of the patrol. Lord Person was most impressed by your marksmanship. The second shot was a beauty.'

  'You saw it, sir?'

  'Yes. Lord Person had ridden out with a company of Lancers. We were on the far slope to you. So, well done.'

  With that the officer strode away, picking his path carefully to avoid puddles.

  'Did well for yourself there, Jaekel,' said Lanfer Gosten.

  'Why in hell's name didn't the Lancers rescue their own men?' said Taybard, anger rising.

  'Probably didn't want to get their uniforms dirty. Real question is, why did you?'

  'I don't know what you mean, sergeant.'

  'Oh yes you do, son,' said Lanfer, laying his hand on Taybard's shoulder. 'You were told to keep the patrol in sight and take out any snipers. You were also told to avoid risking yourself. From your own report the first Covenanter was shot from cover. All well and good. But then you walked out into the open. You know them bastards work in pairs. So what were you doing?'

  Taybard shrugged. 'I wanted to draw him out. To finish it. That's all.'

  Lanfer Gosten looked into Taybard's blue eyes. To finish it, eh? We're all tired of it, son. You're not alone in that.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'You know what it means. You've seen it before. That time when a soldier stops caring about living or dying. You can see it in the eyes. Then, in some battle or skirmish, they walk into the open -and they're gone.'

  'I'm not like that,' said Taybard. 'I want to live. I want to go home to the mountains.'

  'You hang on to that, Jaekel. I'm sick to death of burying Eldacre lads.'

  The sergeant wandered away. Snow began swirling down from a brooding sky. Returning to his tent Taybard clipped a strap to his rifle and swung it over his shoulder. Then he walked out into the nearby trees to gather dry wood for the night fire. He could see other men engaged in the same enterprise. Some he knew, and these he nodded to, or exchanged greetings with. Others were strangers, newcomers from other companies. After several trips Taybard had gathered enough fuel to last the night. He piled it beside the tent, then relit the fire. Officers had iron braziers inside their double-leafed tents, and coal to keep their noble bones from freezing. Enlisted men like Taybard, Kammel and Banny had to make do with what they could find. Their tents were cheap canvas. Heavy rain would seep through them, dripping upon the sleeping men within.

  Still, thought Taybard, as he sat beside his fire, with winter coming they would be billeted in some barracks somewhere, safe from shot and shell. It wouldn't be so bad.

  And maybe - just maybe - the Grey Ghost would take them home.

  The fire grew, licking at the dry wood. Taybard shivered as the heat flowed over him. The sky was dark now, with not a star shining. A powerful, round-shouldered figure loomed out of the shadows and slumped down by the fire. Taybard glanced up at the bearded face of Kammel Bard. 'Covenanters pulled back,' said Kammel. 'So I guess we won, after all. Any food?' he asked, leaning his rifle against a tent rope.

  'Not yet. Where's Banny?'

  'Lanfer sent him to guide the supply wagons in. Be more snow tonight, I reckon.'

  'I don't think we won,' said Taybard. 'I don't think anyone won this time.'

  Kammel pushed back the chunky woollen hood he wore and scratched at his thick, red hair. 'Well, we didn't pull back, did we?'

  Taybard shrugged. 'How would I know? They say the battle stretched over nine miles. Some might have pulled back, I guess. Anyway, who decides?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, who decides who has won or lost? It's not like Avondale any more. That was easy. We charged. They ran. We captured their cannon. Now that was a victory. Now we just charge each other, kill each other, and argue about who won.'

  Other men began drifting into the camp, and from somewhere to the west came the smell of stew. The smell would be better than the taste, Taybard knew. Stale bread and a watery broth that would do little to dull the appetite. The fire began to hiss and splutter as sleet fell. Kammel pulled his hood back in place. Taybard stood and placed Kammel's rifle inside the tent. 'Did you get into the village?' he asked.

  Kammel shook his head. 'Redeemers was there, questioning and such. No-one was allowed in. Doubt they had much food there, though. Covenanters would have taken most of it when they pulled out.'

  The two men sat in silence for a while, ignoring the sleet, and enjoying what warmth they could absorb from
the fire.

  'You ever think back to old Jaim Grymauch?' asked Kammel, suddenly.

  'Aye, often,' admitted Taybard. He glanced at his friend. 'You didn't like him.'

  'I never said that.'

  'He was a highlander. You always hated highlanders. Don't you remember? We once had a row because I said your grandmother was a clanswoman, and you called me a liar.'

  'Well, I was younger then,' said Kammel defensively. 'But I always liked old Jaim. You remember that day, eh? Never seen the like. Knocked 'em all down, and cut Maev Ring from the fire.' Kammel swung round to stare across the camp. 'Damn, but I'm hungry,' he said.

  'Won't be ready yet.'

  'No, but they're already standing in line.'

  'Let's wait for Banny. He shouldn't be long.'

  Once more the silence descended. Taybard stared into the fire, thinking back to the day when Jaim Grymauch halted the execution of Maev Ring. It was something he would never forget. One lone highlander, surrendering his life to save the woman he loved. Jaim was a colossus that day, huge and seemingly invulnerable. He had scattered the guards, then drawn his massive sword and despatched three Knights of the Sacrifice. He had made it, with Maev, to the top of the cathedral steps. That was when the musketeers arrived. Taybard had run from the crowd, hurling himself at them, managing to ruin the aim of the nearest man. As the other musketeers fired Jaim had dragged Maev into a protective embrace. Lead shot ripped into him.

  The death of a hero. Taybard would never forget it - even amid the sea of death that was this dreadful war.

  'Here he comes,' said Kammel, pushing himself to his feet.

  Taybard saw the slim figure of Banny Achbain striding through the camp. He approached the fire, crouched down and warmed his hands.

  'You won't believe it,' he said.

  'What?' asked Kammel.

  They say Lord Person has challenged the Grey Ghost to a duel. They're going to fight tomorrow.'

  As Mulgrave well knew, Gaise Macon was not a man given to outbursts of temper. Though passionate by nature he rarely lost control. But he was coldly angry now as he paced the smoke-blackened ruin that had once been the country home of a rebel earl. The firelight glinted on his golden hair, and, for a moment, he looked again like the strikingly handsome youngster Mulgrave had trained on the Moidart's estates far to the north. He was still slim, though his shoulders had broadened in the last four years, and his face had lost that youthful glow. Still only in his early twenties Gaise Macon was a seasoned soldier, fighting a harsh and terrible war. His face was thinner, his curiously coloured eyes, one green and one gold, deeper set. The small, leaf-shaped burn scar on his right cheek shone white against his faded tan. Gaise removed his silver embroidered grey jacket and threw it across a broken couch. The white shirt he wore beneath it was stained by powder smoke at collar and cuff.