Ravenheart (21 page)

Cold and trembling, Kaelin Ring at last wiped away his tears. As he did so, he smeared congealing blood to his face. He looked at his hands, picturing the deaths of Jek Bindoe and Luss Campion, recalling the awful sounds Bindoe had made as his guts spilled out and his lungs were ripped apart. Kaelin’s hands began to shake, and he felt his stomach heave. For a moment he thought he would vomit, but he did not.

Rising from the river’s edge, he draped his wet shirt over his shoulder and climbed to the bridge. He did not look at the mutilated corpses. Instead he gathered the silver pistols, Bindoe’s saber, the skinning knife, and the discarded sheath. Pushing the pistols into his belt, he walked to Bindoe’s horse and tried to mount. The horse backed away, and Kaelin half fell.

Leaving the horses where they were, he walked out across the hills, heading for home.

The morning brought fresh drama to the people of Eldacre as word spread of astonishing events that had happened during the night. People gathered on street corners to discuss the shocking news. The fighter Gorain had hanged himself, leaving behind a scrawled note expressing his shame and explaining that he had placed bets against himself and had thrown the fight against the highlander. Incredibly, it seemed that Chain Shada had been a party to the crime, and when officers of the watch had gone to question him, he had attacked them without reason. Three officers had been seriously injured and were now under the care of the surgeon. A fourth had been thrown through a window and rendered unconscious. Chain Shada had then fled, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

Eldacre was in an uproar. Some who had seen the fight with the one-eyed clansman remained silent, but most agreed that a fixed fight was the only possible explanation. It all made sense. How else could an untrained and clumsy highlander defeat the pride of the Varlish? The fact that Chain Shada might be involved was surprising, but his attack on the innocent officers surely proved his guilt beyond doubt. Some even began to voice doubts about Shada’s right to be considered Varlish. “I heard his mother was a tribeswoman from south of the old city of Stone,” said one. Others recalled hearing that Chain Shada’s father was a mercenary soldier from Bersantum, a non-Varlish city-state far to the east.

Such talk was even heard among the ten soldiers who rode behind Mulgrave as he set out on the Scardyke Road. Galliott the Borderer was alongside him as they departed from the town. Mulgrave was still angry. He had not slept that night but had continued seeking witnesses who might have seen the killers of Chara Ward. It was painstaking work. Galliott’s officers had been moving through the crowds, so Mulgrave had visited every stall with a view of the woods, talking to
stall holders and servers. After four hours he had learned nothing of importance. Then a young woman had approached him as he sat on a fence rail eating a slice of pie. She had been helping her sister and brother-in-law earlier that evening on a stall selling riding accoutrements. Business had been good, and she had returned to the main premises to fetch more items. That was why she had missed Mulgrave’s earlier visit to the stall. She told him that around dusk she had seen a young man carrying a rope into the wood, and soon afterward she had seen him in the company of a soldier. Both men had walked past the stall. The soldier had had blood on his face.

“Do you know the soldier?”

“Yes, sir. It was Sergeant Bindoe.”

Mulgrave had gone immediately to Galliott, requesting men to arrest Bindoe. “I need to question her myself,” said Galliott. “It could be that she is mistaken.”

This further questioning had taken an inordinate amount of time as Galliott took her through her story half a dozen times. “Have you ever had dealings with Sergeant Bindoe?”

“No, sir.”

“Has he ever arrested any members of your family?”

“No, sir,” she said, indignantly.

“Friends, perhaps?”

“He once cautioned my husband’s brother for being drunk.”

“Ah, I see.”

“What do you see?” demanded the woman. “I’m telling you the man came from the woods and had blood on his face. What is it you think you see? My husband is an Eldacre councillor, and if you are implying that I would lie, I’ll seek redress from the Moidart himself.”

“I am not implying anything of the kind,” Galliott said smoothly. “But we must be sure that any evidence we receive is properly examined.”

“Indeed we must,” said Mulgrave. “We must also ensure that the suspects are not given time to escape the jurisdiction of the court. It is my belief that the balance between the two
objectives is now seriously in jeopardy. Do you concur, Galliott?”

The Borderer looked into Mulgrave’s gray eyes. “We will go to the barracks and question Sergeant Bindoe,” he said. “I believe the man is about to take compassionate leave. I would imagine he is packing.”

Bindoe had packed and gone by the time Mulgrave and Galliott arrived.

Now, with a squad of Beetlebacks in tow, Mulgrave rode from Eldacre and out onto the Scardyke Road. He had no wish to speak to Galliott, nor was he happy to have the man’s company.

They pushed the horses hard for several miles, and it was during a pause to rest them with a slow walk that Mulgrave heard the soldiers talking about the “fixed” fight. Some were recalling how Chain Shada had stormed down to the circle, forcing the keeper of the sands to give the highlander extra time to recover from a blow. Mulgrave’s anger grew. He was tempted to point out to them that the extra time was given because Gorain had thundered an illegal punch to Grymauch’s head. Hardly the act of a man trying to throw a fight. He stayed silent. Men would believe what they wanted to believe. Mulgrave did not believe for a moment that Gorain had hanged himself. The Moidart had been coldly furious at the outcome of the fight. That alone told Mulgrave that someone would have to die.

The ride continued for another hour, and then Galliott finally spoke. “We are almost at the borders of the Pinance’s territory,” he said. “It would appear that we have lost them.”

Mulgrave did not reply. Once they reached the log bridge, he would allow Galliott and his men to return to Eldacre. Mulgrave, however, planned to ride on. He would find Bindoe, arrest him, and bring him back, no matter what the distance.

Galliott seemed to read his mind. “We have no jurisdiction beyond the bridge,” he pointed out.

“I have some friends in Scardyke,” said Mulgrave. “And I am also owed leave time.”

Galliott’s handsome face darkened. “The rule of law should always be maintained, Captain. It is not helped by individuals who flout its principles.”

“Indeed it is not, sir. Those who flout its principles should be brought to justice.” His voice became cold as he struggled with his anger. He fixed Galliott with a hard look. “I am not a great believer in the value of the rack and the screw. However, when Bindoe is brought back, I shall question him myself. When I am finished, he will have told me every vile thing he has ever done. He will also tell me who has aided him in his iniquities. I shall then see that every person so named is hanged, for, like you, I have no tolerance for those who flout the law.”

Without waiting for a response, he touched heels to his mount and cantered up the short rise. Some fifty feet ahead was the log bridge. Mulgrave reined in. The other horsemen rode up. They, too, pulled up their mounts and gazed in shock at the bloody scene below. Two heads had been wedged on the bridge posts. Beyond the heads lay the mutilated bodies. Blood had spread across the timbers and was still dripping through to the river below.

“Sacred heaven!” whispered Galliott. No one moved for several heartbeats. Then Mulgrave urged his horse on. The gelding was uneasy with the smell of blood, and Mulgrave dismounted, tethering the beast to a bush.

He approached the first of the heads. It was that of a man close to middle age. Scratch marks could be seen on the graying skin of his left cheek. His right cheek was torn away, several teeth smashed. One eye was open. Something had been carved into his brow. Mulgrave looked at it, but flowing blood had obscured it. He could make out a J and an S. Moving to the second head, he saw that this was a younger man. He, too, had the marks of savage cuts on his forehead. Galliott came alongside the officer.

Taking a cloth from his pocket, he wiped away the blood
on the youth’s brow. Now the word could be seen clearly: JUSTICE.

Galliott threw aside the cloth and stepped out onto the bridge. “Bindoe was gutted like a fish,” he said, “and castrated. The youth has no marks on his body that I can see. I would imagine his throat was cut.”

Two horses were grazing on the far side of the river. Stepping carefully to avoid the slippery blood, Galliott crossed the bridge and led the horses back across. Once there, he searched the saddlebags, removing a heavy pouch, which he opened. “Bindoe was carrying a deal of silver,” he told Mulgrave. “He was not robbed.”

Mulgrave was lost in thought. He was staring at Bindoe’s head. It looked as if he had been shot in the face before being knifed. The killer or killers had been waiting there to exact revenge for the murder of Chara Ward. But why? How could they have known that Bindoe would take this road at that time? He glanced at Galliott. The man seemed infinitely more relaxed now than he had been some moments before.

Had Galliott sent men to have Bindoe murdered?

Mulgrave dismissed the idea. Had the Borderer done so, the bodies would have been merely buried somewhere, never to be found. Hacking and mutilating the corpses had been the work of someone filled with fury and a burning desire for revenge.

The officer moved out across the bridge. There was a bloody footprint on the earth, leading down to the river. Mulgrave climbed down to the water’s edge. There were more footprints there and marks of blood on the earth. Curiously, there was also a footprint below the water that had not yet been washed away by the flowing river. The killer had waded into the river in his shoes.

Shoes. Low-heeled shoes. Not a rider, then.

Mulgrave sat back and thought the evidence through. The killer had been covered in blood and had splashed into the river to clean himself. He had not removed his shoes first, which indicated he was acting instinctively, without conscious
thought. He was therefore probably in a state of shock at his actions.

Mulgrave saw where the killer had walked back up to the bridge. He followed the prints and saw that the man had walked away to the northeast.

Toward Old Hills.

“This is the work of a clansman,” Galliott said as Mulgrave returned to his horse.

“What brings you to that conclusion?” asked Mulgrave.

“Look around you, man. Would any civilized man commit such a barbarous act?”

“Let us not get into debates about civilized behavior,” said Mulgrave. “How civilized was it to rape a young virgin and then hang her from a tree?”

“That, too, was appalling,” said Galliott, “but since Sergeant Bindoe was offered no opportunity to explain his scratches, there is no evidence to convict his memory. He died innocent according to the law.”

“Aye, he did,” admitted Mulgrave. “More’s the pity.”

Excitement mounted in the week that followed. Eldacre had not known such a turbulent period for a great many years: an assassination attempt on the Moidart, the drama of the fixed fight between Gorain and the highlander, then the murder of a young girl and the savage slaying of two Varlish travelers. Those events were discussed endlessly in the bars, taverns, and meeting places. Added to which there was the continuing hunt for Chain Shada. Stories and theories abounded. Did Chain kill the girl? Was the murder of the—now—well-loved Sergeant Bindoe the first hint of a new highland uprising?

Beetlebacks rode through the highland settlements, questioning men about their whereabouts on the day Bindoe was killed. The questioning was often harsh, and if a man could not adequately answer their questions, he was taken in chains to Eldacre Castle. One man died there, apparently of heart failure.

Jaim Grymauch recovered swiftly, though the bruises on
his face lingered for some time. He had gone into Eldacre to retrieve his prize money only to be told that since the fight had been fixed, no monies would be forthcoming. On the surface Jaim shrugged off the loss, but Kaelin knew he was seething inside.

Maev Ring was subdued. She had seen her nephew come home just after dawn on the day after Chara’s murder. She had been making her bed and had watched him emerge from the old barn that now served as a workshop for Maev’s spinners. They had not yet arrived for work, and Kaelin had had no reason to be in the empty building. Maev had waited until the end of the day, when the twelve workers had gone back to their homes. Then she had searched the workshop’s upper loft, where she had found the two pistols and a cavalry saber hidden beneath an old rug. Returning the pistols to their original hiding place in the cabinet, she had carried the saber into the woods and buried it.

Under normal circumstances Maev liked to bring problems out into the open. Not this time. Less said, soonest mended, she decided.

When the ten Beetlebacks came to the house the following day, she greeted them courteously, offering them water for their horses and some bread and cheese. Galliott led them, and the men behaved with cold civility in his presence. Kaelin, Jaim, and Banny stood by while the soldiers moved through the house, searching for weapons.

When they crossed to the old barn, Maev glanced at Kaelin. If he was tense or frightened, he did not show it. When the soldiers returned empty-handed, Maev saw the surprise register briefly.

“I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Maev,” said Galliott. “But we are obliged to search everywhere.”

“Of course, Captain.”

He approached Jaim. “I see your bruises are healing, Grymauch. I want you to know that no one holds you to account for the vile behavior of Gorain. You fought well and honestly.”

“Aye, that’s true,” said Grymauch. “He was a talented man, that Gorain.”

“In what way?”

“When I registered to fight, I made my mark and I saw his. Just like mine, a large X. Though his did have a little flourish above it. Like Gorain, I never did learn to read and write, Captain. But one must surely admire a man who learns to do so in a single night just so he can write a farewell note before he hangs himself.”