'I trust the Dweller,' said Arik Ironlatch. 'If she says we must fight, then we must fight.'
'I agree,' said Rayster.
'I am with Bael on this,' said Korrin Talis. 'What do you say, Kaelin?'
Kaelin Ring pushed back his chair and stood. Having arrived only this morning he was still wearing his travelling clothes, a jerkin of gleaming black leather, buckskin trews and boots. He had shaved off his beard, and the sabre scar on his cheek showed clearly. His dark eyes scanned the men in the room, coming at last to Bael. 'For years,' he said, 'the Wyrd - or as you call her, the Dweller - warned your father of a great evil coming from the south. Your father believed her. That is why we have spent four years training our men. Now the evil is upon us. I am not interested in ancient legends, and I have no time to debate the nature of evil, or the desires of dead gods. What I know is that an army will march on the north. Either we support the Moidart, or we do not. Either we fight as a clan, or we do not. I have spoken to the Wyrd, and I believe her. Therefore I will fight.'
'You are not the clan leader,' said Bael. 'You cannot choose whether we fight or stand.'
'I did not say we, Bael. I said I would fight. I will fight because it is right to do so. The Redeemers - or their minions - have killed Finbarr Ustal and his family. They cut down Senlic Carpenter. They have tried to kill my wife, and my child. They are my blood enemies now, regardless of any other consideration.'
They are not mine,' said Bael.
They would have been your father's,' snapped Kaelin.
Bael lurched to his feet. 'That is not true! My father also believed the Dweller. She told him the enemy was the Moidart. Now she tells us we should fight alongside the Moidart. What next, Ravenheart? I respect the Dweller. She has worked tirelessly for our clan, both here and in the south. But she is not infallible. She has already been proved wrong once. Why not twice?'
'You are twisting the facts, Bael,' retorted Kaelin. 'The Dweller knew that evil was coming. She assumed it would emanate from the Moidart. That was a natural assumption. She was not wrong, though. That evil is upon us.'
Arik Ironlatch moved alongside Kaelin. 'Sit down, lad. We are getting ahead of ourselves. Only one man can say whether the clan will go to war. That man is the elected clan chief. So let us do what we are here for and elect a leader.' He swung towards the Dweller. 'Lady, you have spoken your piece and we have listened to your words. It is time now for us to move on.' He turned to Rayster. 'And since we are to vote, and Rayster has no vote, he must also leave. I wish that it were not so. In fact, I repeat now my offer to formally adopt Rayster and give him my name. Should he accept then his vote will be cast with the other chieftains' here.'
Rayster bowed to the old warrior. 'You do me great honour, Arik. I would have been proud to be your son. I am not, though. So I will leave, and follow loyally whoever is elected. May I offer one thought before I go?'
'You may,' said Ironlatch.
Rayster looked at Kaelin and Bael. 'There is anger now between you,' he said softly. 'This saddens me, for you are both fine men. I was there when you fought your duel, when Bael put that handsome scar upon your face, Kaelin. I was there when you later shook hands and became brothers. You are brothers. You care for one another, and for the clan. Do not let anything come between you. We are all Rigante, even when our views differ.'
With that he walked from the room. The Dweller followed him. Inside all was silent for a moment.
'Four names have been put forward,' said Arik Ironlatch. 'Bael Jace, Kaelin Ring, Korrin Talis and myself. I withdraw on the grounds of age, though I thank those who considered me. Thirty men were entitled to vote. Twelve cast their vote for Kaelin Ring, twelve for Bael, four for myself, and two for Korrin. As is our way these votes were cast in secret. Now, however, we need a show of hands.'
'I wish to stand down,' said Korrin Talis.
'So be it. How many here wish to vote for Bael Jace?'
'Wait!' said Kaelin Ring, once more rising to his feet. 'I have already said that it is my intention to travel south and fight the enemy. If Bael will agree to the Rigante's entering this war then I withdraw also. If not I stand.'
Bael looked at Kaelin in surprise, then switched his gaze to Arik Ironlatch. 'What say you, Bael Jace?' asked Arik.
Bael took a deep breath, and scanned the group. He knew the men who had voted for him, and those who had voted for Kaelin. The question was: how many votes could he expect from the remaining six who had wished to see either Korrin or Arik lead the clan? Potter Highstone would have been one who voted for Korrin. The other would have been Korrin himself. Both these votes should come to me, thought Bael, though Potter had always spoken highly of Kaelin Ring. Damn, but there was no way to know! The likelihood was that Bael's destiny would be decided by a casting vote. Bael met Kaelin's steady gaze. His expression was unreadable.
Bael had two choices: take the risk that he had enough votes, or accept the leadership with the understanding that the Rigante would go to war.
Like his father before him Bael Jace was a pragmatist. Rising from his seat he moved to stand beside the Leader's Chair. 'I accept Kaelin Ring's terms. And since there are no other candidates I take my father's seat.' Pulling back the chair he sat down. 'And, before we talk of the war coming to Eldacre, would someone fetch Rayster. His wisdom will be needed here.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HAVING CHECKED ON THE SENTRIES MULGRAVE SAT QUIETLY BY THE camp fire. Around him some of the men were sleeping, others sitting in small groups, speaking in hushed voices. Gaise Macon had wandered away into the woods alone. Mulgrave was glad of this, for he did not wish to talk to him at the moment. He would not know what to say.
After the battle at Shelding Gaise had led the survivors east and then north, bypassing the enemy's artillery force. They had made good progress, despite the fact that more than forty of the men were wounded. Three had died on the journey so far. It was likely several more would succumb.
Gaise had sent outriders to scout ahead. One of these had returned on the second day of travel with news of a small column of musketeers, with some fifty cavalry, moving to the north-east. Gaise had made no attempt to avoid them. As soon as the report was received he took two hundred men and rode at speed to intercept. The fight had been brief and bloody. Gaise outmanoeuvred the cavalry and led a lightning charge against the startled musketeers. They managed one ragged volley before the Eldacre men tore into them. They were cut to pieces. Many tried to surrender, but Gaise had ordered that no prisoners be taken, and they were killed where they stood, most of them with hands raised.
Then Gaise had turned his attention to the cavalry. They sought to flee, and rode straight into the ambush Gaise had laid. Taybard Jaekel, Jakon Gallowglass, and fifty other musketeers concentrated their fire on the horsemen. The fight was over in a matter of minutes. One officer was taken alive, a young man, tall and well featured. He was in the custody of Lanfer Gosten.
Gaise rode up, Mulgrave alongside him. 'We caught this one, sir,' said Lanfer.
'Was there something about my order that you did not understand, Gosten?' asked Gaise Macon coldly.
'Sir?'
'I said no prisoners.'
'Yes, sir, but . . .'
Gaise Macon drew a pistol from the scabbard on his saddle and cocked it. The young officer saw the move. He made as if to speak. The pistol came up and the shot boomed in the morning air. The officer staggered back, his face a mask of blood, then toppled to the earth.
'Move among the bodies,' said Gaise Macon, as coldly as before. 'Strip them of all that could prove useful. Be prepared to move on within the hour.' Swinging his horse he rode away from the stunned men. Mulgrave did not follow him.
'I'm sorry, sir,' said Lanfer Gosten. 'I didn't think . . .'
'Don't apologize, Lanfer,' said Mulgrave. 'You did nothing wrong. Now follow your orders and search the dead.'
'Yes, sir. What's wrong with him?'
Mulgrave did not reply.
They made another twenty miles before dusk, acquiring supplies from a small village. Gaise paid in coin for the food. Mulgrave avoided him for most of the journey, but as they came towards the woods in which they were to make camp he rode his horse alongside the young warrior. 'That was not a noble deed, sir,' he said.
'Tomorrow we will cut to the north-west, then follow the line of the river. There are settlements along the way. We will need to leave the worst of the wounded. They are slowing us down.'
'Put aside your anger, my lord.'
'You are not my priest, Mulgrave.'
'No, sir, I am your friend.'
'Then be a friend. I need no lectures on nobility. Not today.' Gaise spurred his grey gelding and cantered on ahead.
Now as he sat by the fire Mulgrave was worried. He believed -hoped would probably be more accurate - that the murder of Cordelia Lowen had temporarily unhinged the young noble. Yet was that true? Gaise had spoken to him in the past of his fear of becoming like his father; of the constant need to hold back the demons in his soul. Had those demons now been unleashed?
Mulgrave had been raised in Shelsans. There he had learned of the strange duality that, by turn, enhanced or diminished the souls of men. 'All people are capable of great love and great hate,' his father had said. 'We are all, in spiritual terms, both angelic and demonic, constantly at war with ourselves. To understand this is to overcome it. Do not seek to justify hateful thoughts. Merely accept them as part of the flaws of humanity, and move beyond them.' His father had been a gentle, loving man. When the Knights of the Sacrifice butchered the people of Shelsans Mulgrave had been filled with the desire to visit the same destruction upon them and their families. Yet he had not. He had held - as far as he was able - to the path his father laid out.
I should never have come to this war, he thought. It has corrupted my soul.
His thoughts turned to Ermal Standfast. The little priest had fled Shelding because he had known the horror that was to come there. He had fled in terror. Many men would brand him a coward and despise him for it. Mulgrave did not. If all men were like Ermal then there would be no wars, no soul-blinding hatred, no acts of murderous revenge. He sighed. And there would be no heroism, no unselfish acts of courage, no strength to face the grim harshness of life. If all men were like Ermal, who then would leap into a raging torrent to rescue a child, or walk into a plague house to tend to the sick and the dying?
Taybard Jaekel moved alongside him, handing him a tin cup containing hot tisane. Thank you,' said Mulgrave.
The soldier nodded and moved away. Mulgrave drank the tisane, then stood and walked around the campsite, moving among the wounded men. They had lost more than a hundred in Shelding.
Forty others had died today. Less than five hundred remained, and many of these bore wounds.
A horseman came riding up the slope. Mulgrave stepped out to meet him. It was Able Pearce, a young man from Eldacre, the son of a shoemaker, Mulgrave recalled. Pearce slid from the saddle.
'Any sign of the enemy?' asked Mulgrave.
'No, sir. I rode into a village and went into a tavern. The talk there was of Luden Macks having killed the king.'
'What?'
'The word is that Luden Macks broke the truce and sent a small force to Baracum. The king and his entire family were killed. Lord Winterbourne led his forces against Luden Macks and killed him in revenge.'
'That is nonsense.'
Able Pearce shrugged. 'They got the story from soldiers who had passed through.'
'Get some rest, Pearce. I'll find the general and pass on what you have said.'
'Should mean the war is over, sir, shouldn't it?'
'Not for us, I fear. Lord Winterbourne wants us dead.'
'I'm sick of this war,' said Pearce. 'Today made me sicker, though. I don't like seeing men shot down who are surrendering. It's not right.'
'Get some rest,' repeated Mulgrave.
Pearce led his horse towards the picket line and Mulgrave strolled back past the camp fires and on into the woods. He found Gaise Macon sitting on the crest of a hill, his eyes focused on the north.
Gaise glanced up as he saw Mulgrave approach. 'What news?' he asked.
'The king is dead, with all his family. So is Luden Macks.'
'It does not surprise me. Winterbourne had this planned from the start. It all makes sense now. The nation is rent by civil war, torn and bankrupted by the vanity of a king and the rebellion of a lord. The king's popularity plummets, as does the reputation of Luden Macks as the champion of the common man. People grow sick of the endless carnage. They cry out for anyone who can bring an end to it. Winterbourne prolonged this war, Mulgrave. It could have been won years ago. He prolonged it because it served his purpose. Had he killed the king two years ago there would have been uproar. Had he defeated Macks the king would have been restored to the crown and Winterbourne become again merely another rich lord. Now he has the country - and the crown, should he desire it. He has it all. And no-one is powerful enough to stand against him.'
'The word is that Macks broke the truce and killed the king,' said Mulgrave.
'A splendid touch. Winter Kay the noble avenger. That is a move that would please the Moidart himself.'
'I expect it would,' agreed Mulgrave. 'As I expect he would have applauded had he seen you shoot an unarmed prisoner in the face.'
Gaise Macon took a deep breath before answering. When he spoke his voice betrayed his anger. 'You push the bounds of friendship too far, Mulgrave.'
'No, sir, I do not. You push them too far when you make me an accessory to murder.'
Gaise Macon gave a harsh laugh. 'One man dies and it is murder. A thousand die and it is war. What next, Mulgrave? Do we argue about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?' Gaise rose smoothly to his feet. 'I behaved as a noble should. I stayed in Shelding when every instinct bade me take my men and desert. I risked death because I felt it was honourable so to do. Yet there is no honour here, Mulgrave. Winter Kay and his Redeemers are murderous vermin. Honour is just a word to them, a noisy sound with no meaning. And because I held to notions of honour Cordelia is dead. She kissed me, Mulgrave. She opened my heart. She reached in and comforted my soul.' His words tailed away, and Mulgrave saw he was struggling with his emotions. Gaise swung away and stared out to the north.
'So what is it that you desire now, my lord?' asked Mulgrave, softly.
'Oh, the answer to that is simple enough, my friend.' He glanced up. 'I expect that we are being observed still, so my words will reach the right ears. I will not rest until Winter Kay and all his Redeemers are dead. I will find each of them, no matter how long it takes. They will all die.'
'The officer today was not a Redeemer. He was a young man obeying his orders.'
Gaise sighed, and Mulgrave saw his shoulders relax and the tension flow out of him. His curiously coloured eyes, though, glittered with hatred.
'When we get to Eldacre you should leave my service. Where I travel from this moment on there will be blood and death. Those who stand against me will be destroyed, or I will be destroyed. No quarter will be asked for, and none will be given. Every Redeemer will perish, as will every man who rides or marches under their banner. Those who supply feed for their horses, or water. Those who obey their orders. I will hunt them down and kill them like vermin.'
'What then will separate you from Winter Kay? Will you meet evil with evil?'
'Yes,' said Gaise Macon.
When the glowing image of Kranos had appeared two days previously, floating above the skull and the dying king, the Redeemers had sat awestruck, their faces shining with religious zeal. All of them had experienced the surge of power radiating from the figure. It had flowed over them, lifting their spirits, strengthening their bodies.
Not so Winter Kay. He had stood in stunned surprise as the golden light formed into the shape of a man, golden-haired and wondrously handsome. In that moment Winter Kay had felt a truly terrible fear. Like all fanatics and zealots he had never i
n his life experienced self-doubt. Single-minded and ambitious, he had plotted and planned for years to become king. The Orb of Kranos had merely been a tool towards that end.
The moment that the figure appeared Winter Kay saw all the certainties he had held to so strongly melting away like morning mist in the sunshine. And when it spoke his heart had missed a beat. 'On the day of my resurrection you will be blessed, my children.'
Then, as swiftly as it had formed, the image faded.
The underground chamber was silent, and Winter Kay felt all eyes upon him. 'The will of the Orb be done,' he managed to say.
Then he had walked back to the blood-drenched skull, covered it with the black velvet cloth and replaced it in the iron box. He had stood there for some moments, staring into the open, dead eyes of the king. Not one of the Redeemers had moved or spoken. Winter Kay's mouth was dry.
He swung back to face his followers. 'Go, my brothers,' he said, surprised that his voice remained as commanding as ever despite the dryness of his throat and the trembling in his limbs. 'We will meet here in three days and I will explain to you then the mystery you have witnessed.'
Carrying the iron box Winter Kay strode from the room. In fact he wanted to run. Close to panic he climbed the stairs, making his way to his own apartments. Locking the door he slumped down on a couch, and placed the black box on the low table before it.
He felt dizzy and faintly nauseous. Instinctively he reached for the lid of the box. Always before when he had felt less than powerful he would place his hand on the skull and receive an instant burst of energy. Now he felt nervous and fearful, and merely sat staring at the box. The palms of his hands were damp with sweat, and he wiped them on his leggings.
'Why do you fear me?' came a voice inside his mind.
Winter Kay jerked and surged to his feet, his heart hammering wildly.
'Be calm, mortal. No harm will befall you.'
'Who are you?' demanded Winter Kay, his voice no longer commanding, but querulous and frightened.
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