Ravenheart (51 page)

“Fire the cannons!” yelled Ranaud.

But it was impossible. The routed musketeers, in their desperation to get away from the ferocious assault from the forest, had spilled out through the gaps in the line of cannon and were directly in the line of fire.

A highlander ran at Ranaud. Dragging a pistol clear, he discharged it into the face of the attacker, who was smashed from his feet. Some of his own musketeers began to shoot. Several highlanders went down. Others scrambled across the bodies, hurling themselves at the soldiers. Despite being vastly outnumbered, the highlanders had all the advantages now. Musketeers were invaluable only as long as the enemy could be kept at bay by volley fire. At close quarters, without knives or swords, they were virtually defenseless.

Ranaud ran toward the right flank, signaling furiously for his cavalry to intercept the charging highlanders. Then he swung back just in time to see two more highlanders bearing down on him. He shot the first, who staggered and fell. Throwing away his pistol, Ranaud wrenched his saber from its scabbard, blocking a fierce overhand cut and sending a slashing riposte across the attacker’s face. The man stumbled. Ranaud plunged his blade through his chest.

Then he saw Kaelin Ring. Their eyes met. Ring ran at him. At that moment a musketeer fired. The ball sent a spray of
blood from Ring’s hip. The highlander was spun in a half circle. Ranaud charged in. Ring recovered his balance and parried the thrust. Ranaud rolled his wrist, his blade slipping over Ring’s saber and lancing toward the highlander’s throat. Ring swayed back and slashed his own blade in a ferocious cut that cannoned off Ranaud’s breastplate and up across his right cheek, slicing the skin. Ranaud fell back. Ring followed him. Ranaud was an expert swordsman, but the ferocity and speed of Ring’s assault were astonishing. Ranaud desperately parried and blocked. A cannon fired, then another.

We can still win, thought Ranaud.

Ring attacked again. Ranaud parried and launched a counter, his saber spearing toward Ring’s heart. Ring swayed to his right, Ranaud’s blade slipping by him. Pain exploded in Ranaud’s chest as Ring’s saber slid between his ribs. Ranaud grunted and fell back. His legs were weak and gave way. As he hit the ground, another cannon fired. Through a gap in the ranks of fighting men he saw that it was not his cannoneers who were discharging the cannons. The highlanders had swung several artillery pieces and had sent a murderous volley of canister into the charging cavalry. Scores of men and horses littered the ground.

Ranaud tried to rise, but he had no strength. His face was resting against the hard earth, and he could smell the mustiness of the soil.

“You are a worm, Banarin,” he heard his mother say, “and worms live in the dark.”

The surviving cavalrymen fled toward the north. The musketeers tried to follow, but they were pursued by clansmen whose blades were hungry for blood. What had begun as a battle and then had become an instant rout was now a massacre.

Call Jace strode across the corpse-littered area, Arik Ironlatch beside him. The older man’s clothes and hair were blood-spattered, but his face was calm. They came across the
body of Colonel Ranaud. Call flipped him to his back. “I’d like to have killed him myself,” he said.

Rising to his feet, Call stared out toward the north. Clansmen had reached the far hill and were still pursuing the remnants of the musketeers. The Rigante chief swung around. Arik Ironlatch was kneeling beside Kaelin Ring. Fear touched Call then, and he ran to where the body lay.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“Close to it,” said Arik. “He has two wounds: one above the hip and one high in the back.”

Call swore. “Plug them as best you can. We’ll have him carried back to the valley.”

Arik nodded. “Best you summon the men back, Call,” he said. “Them cavalry might turn again and catch our boys in the open.”

Call walked away. Bael was standing with Rayster by one of the captured cannons. “Sound the recall,” said Call. A long, black horn was hanging from Bael’s shoulder. He swung it to the front and lifted it to his lips. A single eerie and melancholy note echoed through the hills. Bael repeated it three times.

When the last note faded away, Bael looked at his father and grinned. “We won,” he said.

“Aye, now let us count the cost,” replied Call. “Arrange stretcher parties to carry our wounded back and number the dead.”

Both young men moved away. Call gazed around the battlefield. Hundreds of musketeers lay where they had fallen, but the Rigante chief saw few Rigante corpses. Even so his mood was dark. This victory would merely delay the inevitable. With five thousand of the king’s soldiers on their way and another two thousand men at the second pass, there was little hope of sustained success. Ranaud had seen to that with the murder of Linax. A few thousand Rigante could never stand against the full might of the Varlish.

Several men came by, leading captured horses. The men were laughing and joking with one another. Call moved past
them. The tents of the Varlish were still standing, and Call could smell soup. He strolled to one of the cookfires. A cauldron of broth was bubbling there.

An hour earlier the men, now dead, had been looking forward to breakfast.

Now it was the crows and the foxes who would feast. Aye, and later the worms, Call thought darkly. To the rear of the camp was a picket line and a group of wagons. Some twenty ponies were tethered there.

Call’s broken arm was paining him as he turned back toward the cannons. As he picked his way through the bodies, he heard someone moan. Glancing down, he saw a young musketeer, barely more than a boy, who had been stabbed in the belly, his entrails beside him on the ground. Call drew his dirk and cut the boy’s jugular. “Should have stayed home a while longer with your mam,” he said. With a sigh Call heaved himself to his feet.

Rayster and Bael returned. “We lost just seventeen men,” said Bael. “Another thirty-three wounded, only six badly. It was a great victory, Father.”

“Aye, it was,” said Call, forcing a smile. He had no wish to dent their pride or let them know how hollow this victory would feel in a month’s time. He looked at Rayster. “Gather some men and collect the Varlish stores and weapons. Get them back to the valley. I doubt the enemy will march against us today. But they might, so do it swiftly. Bael, you organize the movement of the cannons. Use the captured horses to haul half of them back into the pass. The other ten should be taken to bolster our northern defenses.”

“Prisoners, Father,” said Bael, pointing back to the hills. Clansmen were herding around twenty musketeers down to the low ground.

“Have them brought to me,” said Call.

Rayster ran across to the men guarding the musketeers. Moments later the prisoners shuffled forward to stand before Call Jace. Their eyes were fearful. Some were trembling, and one man’s breeches were stained with urine.

“I bear you no hatred,” said Call, “and not one of you will be harmed. So relax now. Many of your comrades are wounded. Some will die. Others can still be saved. I will leave you two wagons and some supplies. Tend the wounded, then get them away from here.”

With that he turned away from the astonished prisoners and strode to where Arik Ironlatch was supervising the stretcher men. They lifted the unconscious Kaelin and began to carry him away.

“You think he will live?” asked Call.

“He will or he won’t,” said Arik.

“I don’t know why I bother to ask you anything,” muttered Call.

“You are in a sour mood,” observed Arik. “Do you know why?”

“Of course I know why.”

“Aye, so do I, Call Jace. You are getting ahead of yourself, man. Tomorrow’s evils are not our concern now. There is nothing we can do about them. So enjoy the day. It was hard won.”

“Seventeen clansmen are dead, Arik. Seventeen men with families and loved ones.”

“I know that, Call. Saeka was one of them. He fell from the cliff in the night. I did not know until the dawn.”

Call gave out a deep sigh and laid his hand upon Arik’s shoulder. “Your son was a fine man. I liked him greatly. I mourn with you, Arik.”

“Fathers should not outlive sons, Call. It is against the order of nature. My heart is broken, but I will still enjoy this day. You hear me? On this day Rigante courage overcame the might of the Varlish. We did not yield. We did not beg for mercy. So I am proud today, Call. Proud of my son and proud of my people. I like to think that somewhere, far along the Swan’s Path, Connavar is proud, too, and Bane, and Calofair, and all the heroes of the Rigante.” There were tears in the old man’s eyes, and his voice broke.

Call felt his tension and brooding fears drain away.
“Tonight we’ll get drunk together,” he said. “I have a cask of forty-year-old Uisge. We’ll toast the fallen and salute the day.”

Arik brushed the tears from his eyes. “Aye,” he said, “we’ll do that.”

The first morning of the trial of Maev Ring was filled with legal arguments concerning the presentation of evidence, the legality of the affidavit of Gillam Pearce, and the presence of two clerics hired by Alterith Shaddler to document the statements of witnesses.

The Holy Court’s galleries were packed, and twenty armed guards stood by the entrances and exits. The bishop, in ceremonial robes of purple and white, sat at the center of the judgment table, flanked by three senior abbots and two court-appointed clerics.

The first news of the day was that the body of the bootmaker Gillam Pearce had been discovered in a side street that morning. He had been disemboweled and beheaded.

Alterith Shaddler had learned this only when presenting Gillam’s affidavit to the court.

“The affidavit is signed and witnessed,” said Alterith, “and according to the law can still be recorded. I also have statements from the witnesses testifying that the affidavit is exactly as Gillam wrote it. It cannot be denied.” He glanced across at the four knights of the Sacrifice who were standing alongside the judgment table. Turning to face them, he continued: “The fact that vile and evil men, seeking to pervert the cause of truth and justice, have murdered him should not prevent his statement being heard.”

The bishop lifted a gavel and hammered it three times on a wooden block. “You will address the judgment panel, Master Shaddler.”

“Which judgment panel would that be, my lord?” replied Alterith. “The panel of the Holy Court or the panel of murderers who stand alongside it?”

“How dare you?” thundered the leader of the knights, stepping forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Here is my head,” shouted Alterith Shaddler, touching his brow, “and here is my belly. I doubt you have the courage to strike either while witnesses are present, you vile cur! You are a disgrace to the armor you wear. You are abhorrent to me—and to every Varlish who entertains notions of honor.”

“Be silent!” raged the bishop. “One more outburst, Master Shaddler, and I shall have you removed from the court.”

Alterith, white-faced and trembling, took several deep breaths. Then he bowed to the bishop. “The affidavit of Gillam Pearce is hereby offered in evidence according to the law.”

The bishop gestured to Arlin Bedver. The potbellied cleric rose and bowed. “Do you have any objection to the affidavit being presented?” asked the bishop.

“No, my lord. The law is the law. However, the observation I would make is that since there will be no opportunity to question Master Pearce, there is no way to tell whether the affidavit was made while under the bewitchment of the accused.”

“True,” said the bishop. “Let it be recorded, then.”

Alterith stepped forward and placed the scroll on the judgment table. The bishop glared at him balefully.

“Tell me, Master Shaddler,” he said, “why there are two clerics scribbling at your table.”

“They are documenting all that is said, my lord.”

“We already have clerics attending to that task. Are you suggesting they are not to be trusted?”

“Not at all, my lord. It would be churlish in the extreme to suggest that this panel was so corrupt that it would doctor the evidence to see an innocent woman convicted. It would be unseemly of me to even hint at such a grotesque perversion of justice.”

“Then why do you have clerics at your table?” asked the bishop, ignoring the heavy sarcasm in Alterith’s comments.

Alterith Shaddler returned to his table and lifted a heavy
tome. Finding the marker, he opened the pages. “According to clause twenty-six, Chapter Seven, of the Articles of Holy Law, an advocate may hire up to three clerics to record the evidence. This is, apparently, to offset any honest mistake made by court-appointed scribes. It is my intention to send all documents to Varingas so that the events of these proceedings achieve a far wider audience.”

Maev Ring stood quietly during the discussions, her wrists chained, her lungs burning with the smoke from the incense pots carried by the priests alongside her.

“May it please the court,” said Arlin Bedver, “I wish at this time to present a petition from Sir Gayan Kay of the Holy Order of the Sacrifice.”

“Do so,” said the bishop.

Alterith surged to his feet. “I object, my lord,” he said.

“How can you object when you haven’t heard the nature of the petition?” asked the bishop.

“These knights have no knowledge of Maev Ring and are strangers to Eldacre. What, then, can they bring to this trial?”

“Let us hear the petition and find out,” replied the bishop.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Arlin Bedver. “Sir Gayan offers to use his considerable expertise and experience to test Maev Ring. He has in the past elicited confessions from witches, bringing a speedy conclusion to such affairs, thus saving the courts both time and expense.”

Alterith’s laughter pealed out. “Are you now suggesting that these … monsters … be allowed to torture Madam Ring into a confession? Have you no shame, Master Bedver?”

“That comment will not be recorded!” stormed the bishop.

“All comments are recorded, my lord,” said Alterith. “I would have thought that the mountain of lies already gathered to support this trial would be enough for Mr. Bedver. Such, it seems, is not the case.”