'You have given yourself over to evil, Gaise Macon,' he said. 'The reward for such sin is always death.'
He attacked with great speed. Gaise parried and moved. The sword stick was shorter than the sabre, and half as thick. A solid blow from the Redeemer would shatter it.
Disadvantaged in this way most swordsmen would have faced defeat and death. Gaise Macon, however, was not most swordsmen. Blessed with great balance and speed, he had also been trained by one of the finest blade masters in the realm. Even so the fight was one-sided, all the advantages lying with the Redeemer. He attacked again, always perfectly in balance. Gaise blocked and slid away to his left.
'You move well, Macon,' said the Redeemer. Beyond the two swordsmen the second Redeemer had battered the hound senseless and was now standing by the bridge wall, holding his shattered arm.
'Kill him, Petar,' he called. 'I am bleeding to death.'
'Would you be Petar Olomayne?' asked Gaise.
'I would. It is gratifying that you have heard of me.'
'I had heard you were a man of some skill with a blade,' said Gaise. 'Now I see you are naught but a clumsy bludgeoner.'
Petar Olomayne's mouth tightened. 'For that I'll carve my initials in your heart,' he said.
Launching an attack with blistering speed he forced Gaise back along the bridge. Both men needed to move with care here, for there was a gradient, and ice underfoot. Olomayne slipped. Gaise lunged. Olomayne parried and sent a slashing riposte that cut through Gaise's coat.
Now the pace quickened, the blades clashing together in a whirl of flashing steel. One tiny misjudgement from either man would see sharp metal piercing soft flesh. Back and forth they fought on the treacherous footing, neither man giving ground. Now it was a true duel, as they probed for weaknesses, reading each other's moves. Gaise fought coolly and with patience. As Mulgrave had taught him, all duels followed a pattern. They began with heat and fury, then settled into a contest of wills. With two equally matched opponents there would come a time when the worm of doubt entered the equation. The truly skilled recognized such moments, and fed them. It was at this time that the endgame would begin.
Petar Olomayne had the advantage of a superior weapon, giving him added reach. Yet he had not been able to breach his opponent's defences. Gaise fought on, watching his opponent's eyes, waiting for the moment.
Olomayne launched a frenzied attack. Gaise ducked beneath a murderous cut, his own blade flickering out and cutting Olomayne's cheek. The Redeemer swore and the two men moved apart for a moment.
'Damn, but you are an oaf,' said Gaise, his voice full of contempt. 'Am I too heavily armed for you?' Olomayne's eyes widened, and his lips drew back in a primal snarl. The insult cut through his reason and he leapt forward, the sabre lancing for Gaise's heart. Gaise sidestepped, plunging his sword deep into Olomayne's chest. The point slid between the Redeemer's ribs, skewering both lungs and exiting beneath his left armpit. Olomayne gave a strangled cry and fell against the bridge wall. Gaise tried to drag the blade clear, but it was wedged tight. Olomayne's breath was coming in bubbling gasps, blood spraying from his lips. Gaise reached down and gathered up the Redeemer's sabre. Then he walked back to where the second Redeemer waited, still holding his shattered arm.
'We were ordered to this deed,' said the Redeemer, backing away. 'I demand to be treated as a knight, and ransomed to my lord.'
'You will take this message to Lord Winterbourne,' said Gaise. Then he paused and gazed down at the still form of the black hound. Anger surged through him, and his control over his inner demons melted away. He looked the man in the eye. 'Never mind, I expect he'll get the message.' The sabre swept up and lanced through the Redeemer's throat. Gaise watched as the dying man sank to his knees, then pitched sideways to the cold stone of the bridge.
Kneeling by the hound, Gaise placed his hand on the dog's chest. The heart was still beating. Heaving the unconscious dog into his arms he staggered back to the house. Behind him other starving dogs were gathering, drawn by the smell of blood.
Inside the main room Gaise gently laid the hound on the rug by the hearth. Then he lit the fire, and in its light examined the beast for wounds. The dog had fastened its fangs to Astin's knife arm, and the Redeemer had beaten it with his fist. There were no knife cuts. With luck it was merely stunned. Gaise walked to the kitchen. There was a little broth left in the pan and he heated it until it was lukewarm, when he poured it into a shallow bowl. Carrying it back into the living room he saw the hound was stirring. Gaise stroked it, speaking soothingly. It gave a low growl and tried to lift its head. Gaise moved the bowl closer. The hound's nostrils twitched. It tried to rise, but fell back. Gaise straddled the beast. 'Come on now,' he said, leaning down and lifting it to its feet. Its legs were unsteady, but Gaise supported it. The hound's huge head dipped towards the bowl. Its tongue lapped at the juices. Then it began to eat more hungrily. With the broth finished the dog sank back to its haunches. Gaise sat beside it. 'That will do for now, eh?' he said, patting the great head.
The dog licked at his hand, then stretched out on the rug and fell asleep.
Within the hour Mulgrave was sitting in the living room. Two soldiers of the Watch had disturbed a pack of wild dogs feeding on the corpses. Mulgrave had been summoned, and had recognized the sword stick he had given Gaise Macon. Ordering the torn bodies to be carried away he hurried to the general's house. There he found Gaise sitting by the fire, alongside a sleeping black hound.
'I shall call him Soldier,' said Gaise, absently. 'You recall me telling you about my first dog?'
'I do, sir. The Moidart shot it. What happened out there?'
Gaise sighed. 'I fear there is more of the Moidart in me than I realized.' He shook his head. 'Odd, don't you think, that one can despise a man for his cruelties and then commit just such an act oneself ?'
‘I cannot judge, sir,' said Mulgrave, quietly. 'I don't yet know what you did.'
'Did the dogs dine on them?'
'Partially.'
Gaise rolled to his feet. The hound stirred. Gaise patted its head.
'You rest, Soldier. I'll see you get more food in the morning.' He strolled to the window and drew back the curtain. There were still dogs upon the bridge, squabbling over the patches of blood on the stone. 'The Redeemers attacked me, Mulgrave, one with a sabre, one with a knife. Soldier grabbed the knifeman. The other one was Olomayne the duellist.'
'I know, sir. I saw them when they arrived yesterday. They claimed to be on their way to the Meadowlight shrine. Olomayne was said to be a fine swordsman.'
Gaise shook his head. 'He was adequate. Ah, Mulgrave, I am sick at heart.'
'You did what you had to do, sir,' said Mulgrave.
Gaise shook his head. 'No, I did not. I killed Astin unnecessarily. He was unarmed and demanded to be ransomed. Damn it, Mulgrave. I expect the Moidart would be truly proud of me.'
'You are not like the Moidart,' said Mulgrave. 'Believe me, sir.'
'I wish I could. I have been sitting here, replaying the events in my mind. I cannot forget how I felt when I slid that sabre through the man's throat.' He looked at Mulgrave, and the swordsman saw the anguish in his eyes. 'I enjoyed it,' he confessed. There, it is said. I killed an unarmed man, and I took pleasure in it.'
Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, then he rose and placed his hand on the young noble's shoulder. 'I know you, Gaise,' he said, gently. 'I have known you since you were a boy. You are not the Moidart. And, no, you are not perfect either. You are a man. As men we are all cursed by the violence in our natures. Men like the Moidart - aye, and Winterbourne - revel in that nature. We do not. We struggle to overcome it. Sometimes we fail.' Stepping away from his friend he moved to the fire, adding fuel. The dog stirred and growled at him. 'My, that is an ugly beast,' he said. 'Why did it come to your aid?'
Gaise smiled, and shrugged. 'I petted him. Long time since anyone has, I suppose.'
'You petted a wild dog?'
Gaise laughed. 'Just as
well I did.'
Mulgrave shook his head. 'You will never lose your love of risk, I think.'
'I hope not, Mulgrave.' The nobleman's smile faded. 'What now, do you think?'
The white-haired swordsman walked back across the room. 'Winterbourne wants you dead. It will not end here.'
'I do not understand it,' said Gaise. 'How could denying him the deaths of a few villagers result in such hatred?'
'The cause of his bile does not matter now, sir. The question is: how do we respond?'
Gaise thought about it. The options are severely limited. I cannot challenge him. I am a junior general, in charge of a small company. He is a field Marshal. I cannot fight him. Equally I cannot run. That would make me a deserter. I would be hunted down and hanged.'
The two men talked on for some time and Mulgrave was heavy of heart when he finally left the young general. Winterbourne controlled not only the five hundred warrior priests of the Redeemers, but also the ten thousand heavy cavalry of the Knights of the Sacrifice, and three regiments of infantry. Alongside Cumberlane he was one of the most powerful men in the realm. Securing the death of a minor noble like Gaise Macon would not be difficult. He could be poisoned, shot from ambush, knifed in the street, or - more likely - once the truce was over ordered to attack an impossible position, charging his men against a line of cannon.
Mulgrave walked down the cobbled main street to the undertaker's yard. Three soldiers were waiting outside, huddled in their cloaks. He recognized the first as Taybard Jaekel. The sandy-haired young soldier saluted.
'We've got the bodies wrapped in canvas, sir,' he said.
'Good. At first light see them buried.'
'Yes, sir. Who were they?'
Mulgrave gestured for Jaekel to follow him, then walked away a few paces. 'What I am about to tell you is for you alone. This information is not to be shared. I have watched you, Jaekel. You are a good soldier. More than that I sense you are loyal to Gaise Macon.'
'I am that, sir.'
'So I am going to trust you. The dead men were Redeemers. They tried to assassinate Lord Gaise.'
'Why?' asked the astonished Jaekel. 'They are on our side.'
'That in itself is a stain on us all. However, it doesn't matter why. What does matter is that there are likely to be other attempts. From tomorrow you and your squad will guard Lord Gaise. You will accompany him wherever he goes. You will watch out for strangers, and you will allow no-one to get close enough to strike a blow. You understand? The official story will be they were Covenant spies. You understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You will pick a second squad to guard the general's house during the night. You will tell them of assassins seeking to harm Lord Gaise.'
'Aye, sir, I can do all that,' said Jaekel. 'Won't make no difference, though, if they send a marksman. We need to get away from here. Back home to our own country.'
'You'll get no argument from me on that,' said Mulgrave wearily. He glanced back at the other two men. 'They are friends of yours?'
'Yes, sir. Banny and Kammel. We're all from Old Hills.'
'The big one was flogged recently.'
'Yes, sir. He got drunk and . . .' Jaekel shrugged.
'I remember. He made unwelcome advances to a woman. Does he bear the Lord Gaise any grudge for his punishment?'
Jaekel chuckled. 'Even if he did he wouldn't let any harm come to him. Trust me on that, sir. Kammel's not the brightest of men, but he's highland.'
There were two great halls in Castle Winterbourne. The first was where Winter Kay entertained his secular guests, a massive room on the ground floor, boasting two huge fireplaces, and decorated with fine paintings and splendid statues. It had an oak gallery on three sides, and a fourth for use by musicians or, at times of religious festivals, a choir.
The second hall was below ground, and this was not open to casual guests. The entrance was hidden by a cunningly crafted panel, and led to a secret stairwell. The hall itself was hung wi^h trappings of red velvet, the room lit by curious brass lanterns boasting crimson glass. At the centre of the huge room stood a beautifully wrought table of dark oak, which could seat more than a hundred men. No paintings adorned the walls here, and no servants carried food, or refilled goblets. The hooded men who came here did not eat or drink. They came to pay homage to the Orb of Kranos, and to listen to the words of their lord, Winter Kay.
Tonight there were one hundred and forty Redeemers. The veterans took the one hundred seats, the other, newer recruits standing silently by the walls.
At the north end of the hall, some ten feet to the rear of where Winter Kay sat, stood a wooden cross. Hanging from it was the pitiful, naked, gagged figure of Lord Person, blood oozing from around the long iron spikes impaling his wrists and feet.
Winter Kay pushed back his crimson hood and turned towards the dying man. 'This was a fascinating method of execution,' he told the silent Redeemers. 'You will note that the victim continually seeks to draw himself up, then sags back. This is because death comes from suffocation. As the body hangs upon the arms air is denied to the lungs. Therefore, to breathe, the victim must push himself up with his legs. This, of course, causes extreme pain where the nails pierce the feet. Such pain cannot long be endured. So the victim - to alleviate the agony in his lower limbs - hangs once more on his arms. Unable to breathe he forces himself up again. A continual circle of agony until exhaustion overcomes his will to live. Quite exquisite.'
He swung back towards the Redeemers. 'All actions have consequences,' he said, his voice calm. 'Person suffers for his cowardice. As a result of that cowardice two of our number have also passed to the other side. Petar Olomayne and Sholar Astin failed in their assigned task. Against the great strides we have made in the last two years these are tiny reverses. Yet we must not be complacent. Our mission is a great one, far beyond the petty desires of earthly kings and princes. We are the Chosen, the Elite. Failure of any kind is abhorrent to us.'
A low, strangled moan came from the body on the cross. Winter Kay ignored the sound.
'We stand on the verge of immortality. To achieve our goal we must be steadfast, our hearts filled with courage. Do not be dismayed by delays. All great causes suffer some reverses. It is how we overcome them that dictates our greatness.' He stared out over the red-robed warriors, then took a deep breath. 'Return to the dining hall and eat, my friends. Enjoy the evening. There is much work to be done during these remaining winter months, and much hardship to be endured. Go now. Relax and enjoy yourselves.' He turned towards the two men closest to him and signalled them to remain. The other Redeemers filed slowly from the hall.
Winter Kay twisted his chair and sat down facing the dying man. Person had bitten through his lip and blood now flowed through the gag and down over his beard. 'You really are a disgraceful spectacle,' said Winter Kay. 'There is nothing about you that is remotely admirable.'
'A shame about Petar,' said Marl Coper. Winter Kay transferred his gaze to his aide, and stared hard at the thin-faced young man.
'I thought you did not like him, Marl.'
'I didn't, lord. He was, however, a fine duellist and had performed adequately in the past. He was also appallingly bad at cards, and I shall miss the vast amounts I won from him.'
'What do you wish us to do about Macon now, lord?' asked the second man, a sandy-haired, middle-aged nobleman named Eris Velroy. He seemed ill at ease, and his eyes kept darting towards the dying man on the cross. Winter Kay held his gaze, noting the sheen of sweat on the man's brow.
'Is something troubling you, Velroy?'
'Not at all, my lord.'
'Ferson was your friend, was he not?'
'Not exactly friends, my lord. More . . . acquaintances I would say.'
Winter Kay gave a cold smile. 'It never ceases to surprise me how few friends the doomed have. One moment they are surrounded by smiling faces, the next they are utterly friendless.' The man on the cross suddenly cried out. His scream, though muffled by the cloth, was shr
ill. 'Oh, he is really beginning to bore me now,' said Winter Kay, rising from his chair. Leaning against the cross was an iron club. Hefting it Winter Kay smashed two blows to the dying man's legs, snapping the bones. Ferson screamed again. He tried to draw himself up on his arms, but his strength gave out and he sagged down. Within moments his breathing had ceased. 'Now, as to Macon,' said Winter Kay, laying down the club. 'He has proved more resilient than one would have hoped. Had he died during the duel with Person we could have closed the matter quietly. Indeed, had Petar and Sholar succeeded the issue would have been over. However, we cannot continue to send individual assassins. Macon will be wary now.' Winter Kay sighed. 'Unfortunately we must take decisive action of a larger nature. This will necessitate some planning, for it will first involve the elimination of a secondary threat.'
'From what quarter, lord?' asked Marl Coper.
'Gaise Macon is the son of the Moidart. It was my hope to enlist him to our order. He has all the qualities we seek: courage, single-mindedness, and an abhorrence for weakness and the endless stupidity of compassion. Those same qualities, however, would ensure his enmity once his son was killed. It is essential, therefore, that the Moidart is dealt with before we sentence Macon. Choose two men, Marl. Go north with letters from me to the Moidart. He will welcome you. While at his castle kill him, and make it appear the work of assassins. The Moidart is no stranger to assassination attempts. Once he is dead we will deal with his son.'
Marl Coper remained silent for a moment. Winter Kay knew what he was thinking. The Moidart's reputation was unparalleled. Harsh and deadly were the two words most often used, but even these did not come close to doing him justice.
'He is older now,' said Winter Kay, softly. 'His body is a mass of burn scars that plague him constantly, and he has a festering wound in his groin, that will never quite heal. He is merely a man, Marl.'
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