Ravenheart (23 page)

“You are dead, Jek Bindoe,” she said softly. “You can harm no one now.”

A shrill scream sounded. Mist flowed over her, re-forming before her eyes, taking the shape of a thin hatchet-faced man. “I’ll show you dead!” he shouted, slashing at her face. His fingers clawed at her, but all she felt were tiny whispers of cold against her skin.

“It is time for you to go, to leave this place. The world has no more use for you, Jek Bindoe.”

“I need to rest,” the ghost of Bindoe said suddenly. “This is a dream. In the morning I’ll ride south to Scardyke. Just a dream.”

The Wyrd began to chant in the old highland tongue. The wind picked up, tugging at Bindoe’s shimmering form.

“What are you doing? You stop that, bitch! It is hurting me.”

“Then do not resist it.”

He began to swear and shout and scream. The chanting began again. Bindoe’s voice faded, and the mist vanished.

“Where has he gone?” asked the ghost of Luss Campion.

“To the place he has earned with his deeds,” said the Wyrd, “but I do not think you will be joining him there.”

“Am I dead, too?”

“Yes,” she said sadly.

A low moan came from the spirit. There was silence for a while. “I didn’t want Chara to die,” he said. “Truly I didn’t.”

“I know that, Luss Campion. You were bred to hate, and that is a dangerous and terrible thing to do to a child. You do not need me to send you to your destination. You can hear it calling you. Let go, boy. Just let go.”

“I don’t have any way to make amends now, do I?”

“No. That chance was taken from you. But it is good that you desire to.”

“I feel so lost. So sad.” The Wyrd felt the soul of Luss Campion vanish. And she wept.

Kaelin Ring sat quietly, watching and listening to the two men. Jaim he knew and loved, but the big Varlish was another matter entirely. Kaelin was still unsure why they should be risking themselves for this enemy. Yes, he had not punched Jaim when the highlander had been virtually helpless. But that had been
his
choice. It seemed unreasonable that for that one act he and Jaim should put their lives in peril.

They were sitting in Jaim’s cave, a fire burning, a lantern set high on a natural rock shelf. Jaim was in his traveling clothes: black trews and walking shoes, a dark shirt, and a black cloak. Chain Shada wore riding boots with thick heels and a heavy, double-shouldered coat of shimmering brown leather. Kaelin felt out of place alongside these massive men and had moved to sit a little distance from them. He was almost at the mouth of the cave and could feel the cool night air against his face.

In the days since Chara’s death he had not slept well. He
had dreamed of her, and in his dreams she was alive and happy. Upon waking, the full realization of her passing would strike him like a hammer blow, wrenching at his guts. Everything seemed different now, and Kaelin took no pleasure from the sun on the mountains or the breeze whispering through the trees. He moved listlessly through the days, then slept fitfully, his nights disturbed and full of sorrow.

“So who is this Huntsekker?” he heard Chain Shada ask.

“He is a southerner and has served the Moidart for twenty years,” Jaim told him. “He is a skilled tracker. And canny.”

“You know him?”

Jaim grinned. “Oh, we’ve crossed each other’s trails now and again.” Removing his headband, he rubbed at the empty socket. “So tell me, why did the mighty Chain Shada come this far north for such a small contest?”

Chain Shada shrugged. “I needed the money, and I thought Gorain could have become champion in my place. Needless to say, I wish I hadn’t.”

“How could you need the money?” Kaelin asked suddenly. “It is said you’ve won every fight you ever had. It is also said you are rich.”

“I made the mistake of marrying a woman for her beauty,” said Chain. “The face of an angel and a body like a goddess. I was totally besotted with her. She had a brother who was a merchant. She convinced me to invest heavily in his ventures. When she left me, I discovered I had no wealth left.” Chain Shada shrugged. “Nothing more foolish than a man in love.”

“Or more grand,” countered Jaim. “Did you go after them?”

“No,” answered Chain. “They fled across the narrow sea to Goriasa. The ship was caught in a storm and sank. She—and my gold—now sit at the bottom of the ocean.” Chain Shada lapsed into silence and stared at the fire for a few moments. Then he took a deep breath. “So I had to go on fighting. I had already beaten most of the good challengers, so the purses shrank as I fought lesser men. Then one day I realized I no longer had quite the power or speed I once had had.” He
smiled. “I never met a man I couldn’t conquer. Yet no man conquers time.”

“Uncle Jaim would have beaten you,” said Kaelin, “had he been fresh and strong.”

“No, he wouldn’t, lad. I’d have blinded him within three periods. He can’t protect his left. Gorain was too stupid to see that.”

“I think you are wrong,” said Kaelin, irritation in his voice.

“No, he’s not, Kaelin,” put in Grymauch. “Fighting with fists is what he does. He couldn’t steal a bull or swing a glave like me. He couldn’t run as fast as you or ride as well as Mulgrave. Every man has his talent. There is no shame in being beaten by a man who has mastered his craft. It doesn’t make him a better man.”

Kaelin fell silent and reached for a clay goblet and a water jug. As he did so, one of the silver pistols in his belt dug into his ribs. Straightening, he pulled the pistol clear, laying it on a rock beside him. “May I see it?” asked Chain Shada. Kaelin hefted the piece and walked across to the fighter. The gun seemed small in Chain’s massive hand.

“It was made by Emburley of Knights Walk,” said Chain. “His mark is the silver lion rampant, which you can see on the pommel at the base of the grip.”

“They are good pistols,” said Jaim. “They belonged to Kaelin’s father.”

“They are fine,” said Chain. “Emburley’s engraved pistols sell for more than one hundred pounds apiece. A matched set would probably auction for two hundred and fifty.”

Kaelin was aghast at the sum. “That is madness,” he said. “A pistol in Eldacre costs eight chaillings.”

“I expect so,” agreed Chain. “However, you can buy an old workhorse for five chaillings. A proven racer will set you back a hundred times that. Maybe more. Emburley’s pieces are bought by kings and dukes and lords. They are prized for their accuracy and the perfection of their construction.”

“That one misfired the last time I tried it,” he said.

Chain hefted the piece and cocked it. Then he flicked open
the cover of the flash bowl and examined it. “It will misfire the next time also,” he said. “Come and see.” Kaelin moved alongside him. Chain lifted the pistol close to his eyes. “You see this little hole here?”

“Yes.”

“When the flash pan ignites, a flame needs to pass through this hole to fire the main charge. As you can see, it is blocked. You have a pin?”

“No.”

Jaim removed his cloak brooch and passed it to Chain, who gently inserted the brooch pin into the hole. “This tiny hole is vital,” said Chain. “Like so much in life, it is the small which dictates the success or failure of the large. There. Now it will work.” Chain pressed shut the cover and carefully uncocked the weapon. Kaelin took out the second pistol and examined it. The fire hole seemed clear, but he inserted the brooch pin to be sure.

“Always thoroughly clean the pistols after they have been discharged,” said Chain. “Never leave them loaded for more than a day or two. The black powder is corrosive.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Kaelin.

“So when do we leave?” Chain asked Jaim.

“Another hour. It will be safer when the night is at its darkest.”

“Does this Huntsekker work alone?”

“No. He has four men with him.”

“What kind of weapons do they carry?”

“Swords and knives. They are highlanders and are not allowed guns. Huntsekker will have a gun, though. I saw it once. Half as long as a musket, with a trumpet-shaped barrel. Makes a noise like whistling thunder.”

“Blunderbuss,” said Chain. “The whistling is the sound of perhaps fifty tiny pieces of shot, tacks, or small nails. At close range it will blow a man apart. At twenty feet it will pierce him from face to groin. You have a plan if we meet them?”

“No,” Jaim said cheerfully. “But I think fast when I need to.”

“We kill them,” said Kaelin. The words hung in the air, and
the cave seemed suddenly quiet. Kaelin felt uncomfortable in the silence. Neither of the two men was looking in his direction. Jaim transferred his gaze to the far wall, apparently watching the fire shadows dancing there, while Chain Shada lifted a goblet of water and drank.

After a while Jaim spoke, but not to Kaelin. “Maev has given me some coin for your journey,” he told Chain. “I think it will be enough to see you to Varingas.”

“That will not be necessary, my friend,” said Chain, “though thank her for me. The Pinance is an old friend. Gorain and I stayed with him on the way up from the capital. I will lodge with him for a while, until I decide on a destination.”

“Take it, anyway,” said Jaim. “You’ve no idea of the tongue on that woman if I don’t give you the coin.”

Chain smiled. “I will find a way to return it to her.”

Kaelin felt as if he had been snubbed, as if these men regarded his words as unworthy of attention. Anger flared in him. Had he not slain the murderers of Chara Ward? He was a boy no longer, only they could not see it. Well, they
would
see it if Huntsekker was unlucky enough to cross their path.

Kaelin’s hand dropped to the pistol, curling around the engraved grip.

They would see it as a lead shot ripped through Huntsekker’s black Varlish heart.

Screened by a stand of gorse, Huntsekker squatted on the ground, surveying the open land to the north. A large round-shouldered man wearing a full-length coat of black bearskin, he scanned the hillsides for signs of movement. The moon emerged from behind a cloud. Instinctively Huntsekker ducked lower behind the gorse, fearing that the moonlight would glow from his face and the twin spikes of white beard that grew from either side of his shaved chin.

The distant grass shone like silver in the new light, and Huntsekker saw three badgers moving across the open ground. Turning to his left, he could see the old log bridge. At this time of the year, with the river swollen, it was one of
only three crossings to the territory of the Pinance. The other two involved climbing the steep passes over the mountains. Huntsekker, unlike Galliott, did not believe Chain Shada was friendless. Someone was hiding him, and Huntsekker believed that someone to be Jaim Grymauch. Jaim knew the mountains and might well have guided Chain Shada over that route. Huntsekker doubted it. It was three times as long and therefore offered three times the risk of capture. The bridge was only a few miles from Old Hills, and most of the way would be through dense woods within which two men could pass unobserved.

Only the bridge itself offered danger to the runaways.

That would appeal to Jaim Grymauch. The man loved calculated risks.

Huntsekker thought this stupid, yet he had to admit to a grudging admiration for the one-eyed clansman. News of his exploits always made Huntsekker smile.

Even the time Grymauch had made off with his own prize-winning bull.

For most men such a reversal would have been a humiliation. For Huntsekker it was a golden moment. Even now he did not quite know why. When he had acquired the animal, he had made it clear that anyone who attempted to steal it would be hunted down mercilessly. His reputation was such that he believed that no one—except Grymauch—would have the nerve to attempt the task. He had kept the bull tethered close to his house and guarded day and night. A long cord was cunningly concealed at the base of the paddock gate, attached to a series of bells. Anyone opening the gate would set them ringing. Farther up the trail he had had a ditch dug that would prevent anyone from leading the bull toward the south.

He had known Grymauch would still make the attempt, and night after night Huntsekker had sat up, his blunderbuss loaded, waiting for the moment when he would catch the man.

Truth to tell, he had no intention of killing him. The highlands would be an immeasurably poorer place without Jaim
Grymauch. No, he would catch him, then have a drink with him before releasing him.

But Grymauch had not come. For fifteen nights Huntsekker had kept watch. On the sixteenth he had dozed. Not for more than a few moments. When he had opened his eyes, the paddock had been empty. Huntsekker had roared with anger and rushed out into the night, waking his herdsmen. The two guards had been trussed behind a water trough. Neither had seen the attacker. The hidden bell cord had been neatly sliced. Huntsekker and his men saw tracks leading south and raced in pursuit. When they came to the ditch, they found that two heavy planks had been laid across it. For most of the night they searched, finding nothing.

At dawn they trudged wearily back to the farm—to see the bull back in its paddock, a sprig of heather tied to its horn.

Huntsekker chuckled at the memory. Not that he would ever admit to enjoying the affair.

His good humor faded away as his mind returned to the task at hand. If Jaim Grymauch was with Chain Shada, then Huntsekker would be forced to take his head. There would be no choice. He had not wanted this mission, but no one refused the Moidart. It was not healthy, as Chain Shada and his comrade had discovered. Huntsekker had taken no joy in hanging the fighter Gorain. The man had been blubbing and begging as he had been taken to the tree. Huntsekker had struck him a blow to the back of the head, then had looped the rope over his neck. Dal and Vinton had tried to haul him to the bough, but the unconscious Gorain had been too heavy and Huntsekker had been forced to help them. Then he had left the note the Moidart had supplied and had returned home. He had had no idea what the note said, being unable to read, but he had heard the stories the following day. They irritated him. He had seen Grymauch fight the man. How could people believe such nonsense? Yet they had. They had lapped it up like dogs at the gravy.