Stormrider (47 page)

Added to which Powdermill would not be taking this action had the Moidart and his son not made such a stupid decision. Gaise had the skull, probably the greatest magical relic in known history. How could they not seek to use it? They would be killed now, the enemy triumphant, and the skull once more in the hands of Winter Kay. It was inevitable.

Why should Aran not find a way to profit from the disaster?

It all made perfect sense.

He recalled his last conversation with the Moidart, late the previous afternoon.

“The skull is hidden somewhere in the castle. Can you locate it?”

“No, my lord,” lied Powdermill. “Lord Gaise has the Sword in the Storm. It blinds my talents. But has he not said it is too dangerous to use?”

“Nothing is too dangerous to use,” said the Moidart. “But if you cannot find it, then that is an end to it.”

In truth Aran had not set out to lie to the Moidart. It had been a sudden impulse. Part of it was the truth. When Gaise had hidden the skull, he had been protected by the Sword in the Storm. But as soon as he had moved away, Aran had felt the power of the skull radiating from deep within the castle. It pulled at him, tugging at his conscious mind. Aran was a man who loved magic and had never, until he felt the Sword in the Storm, handled any object of great power.

With the Moidart and Gaise away from the castle he took a lantern and climbed to the upper levels, locating the now-unused apartments where Gaise had spent much of his youth. Powdermill hauled aside the threadbare rug beside the bed and knelt to examine the timbered flooring beneath. Drawing a slender knife, he inserted the blade between two sections of board and applied pressure. The hidden section creaked open. With trembling hands he lifted the velvet sack from its hiding place. Even through the cloth he could feel the power radiating.

Now back in his own room, he sat with the skull in his lap. He had expected to commune with the spirit of Cernunnos, but nothing happened. Even so he felt his talents swelling and growing. And with them came the realization that he had in his hands an object far more powerful than he could safely use.

His first plan had been to flee from the castle and take the skull with him. This was no longer an option. The raw energy it radiated could never be hidden completely by ward spells. Other magickers would sense it. Warriors would find him and seize it. He tried once more to commune with Cernunnos. Nothing. No, he realized, not quite nothing. He sensed that he was being heard but ignored.

Closing his eyes, he soared above the night-dark battlefield, pausing to gaze down on the waiting men of both sides. From there he could see the formations, the two main ridges occupied by Beck and Mantilan, the infantry spread out thinly behind earth bags or within trenches. Cavalry mounts were picketed on both flanks.

The enemy force was drawn up into three great divisions. From this great height the sheer superiority of Winter Kay’s forces was manifestly apparent.

That strengthened Powdermill’s resolve. He could not safely harness the power of the skull, but if he found a way to serve the skull, he could still profit by it. If Cernunnos was to live again, then he would need worshipers. His spirit flew to the center of the enemy camp. Not a single Redeemer spirit was in the air. None of these men had natural talent. The skull had fed them, as it was now feeding him.

Powdermill flowed through the officers’ tents, seeking out Winter Kay.

He found him at last, standing on a ridge beside a huge cannon. He was staring out over the enemy fortifications. For a few moments Powdermill observed him. He was similar in look to the Moidart, with the same harsh, patrician features, and the same hawklike eyes. Yet Powdermill sensed a weakness in the man, shards of self-doubt and fear that were missing in the Moidart.

Focusing his newly boosted powers, Powdermill spoke. Winter Kay jerked and spun. “Who is there?”

“A servant of Kranos, my lord.”

Winter Kay stepped back, his hand on the hilt of a slim-bladed dagger at his belt.

Powdermill concentrated, allowing his spirit to glow gently in the night. “I have what you desire to possess. I have that which was stolen from you.”

“Bring it to me. You will be rewarded handsomely.”

“It is at Castle Eldacre, my lord. I have it now in my hands.”

“This is some trick of the Moidart’s to torment me.”

“Not so, my lord. I am Powdermill. I was forced into the Moidart’s service and threatened with death if I did not comply. Now I have the orb, and I wish to serve you.”

“Why would that be?”

“There is something I want, and only you can give it to me.”

“Name it.”

“The sword of Gaise Macon. And to continue to serve Lord Kranos.”

“You want a sword?”

“Not any sword, my lord. It is an ancient weapon, forged in a time of magic.”

“I promise you will have it. Bring me the skull.”

“I cannot
bring
it, my lord. Between Eldacre and yourself lie the forces of the Moidart. I could not find a way through alone. When the battle is won, I shall be at Eldacre Castle and you will have the skull.”

“I need it
now
,” said Winter Kay.

Powdermill heard the desperation in his voice. “Here in the town there are few fighting men, my lord. The castle itself is virtually empty. Maybe twenty soldiers, older men unfit for service in the field, a dozen surgeons and helpers tending wounded men, plus Maev Ring and a few clerics. If you send a small force, skirt the battlefield, and ride directly to the castle, there will be none to stop you.”

“Maev Ring?”

“She is the Moidart’s quartermaster.”

“The witch who brought about the death of my brother, Gayan.
She
is at the castle?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And all you want is Macon’s sword?”

“Yes, my lord, and to serve you and Kranos. I have no wish to die, and it is my understanding that those who serve the Seidh lord will become immortal.”

“I will send a force, Powdermill. If your deeds match your words, I will grant you what you wish.”

As dawn approached, the guns on the southern ridge suddenly boomed, flame belching from the huge barrels. Taybard Jaekel squirmed down in his trench. Fifty yards to the south of the ridge the earth erupted. Great plumes of mud and dirt billowed up. A terrible screeching filled the air. Shards of metal and clumps of earth showered down over Taybard and Jakon.

Taybard glanced back to where the Moidart, dressed in black except for a stylized breastplate of burnished silver, was standing beside Beck. The lord calmly walked to the edge of the ridge and stared out at the pits and craters in the ground.

“They’ll have their range presently,” said the Moidart.

“Aye, time to move back, my lord,” Beck said nervously.

Beck shouted an order, and the main body of the two thousand musketeers retired from the ridge. Some fifty men remained, huddled in narrow trenches. Beck moved up to where Taybard and Jakon were crouched. “Sit it out, boys, and signal us when their infantry approaches.”

The fifty cannon boomed again. Beck dropped to his belly and squirmed alongside Jakon Gallowglass. Huge cannonballs, some of them containing explosive charges, hammered against the hillside less than thirty yards away. Taybard felt the ground beneath him tremble upon the impact. Several huge stakes flew overhead, blown from the earth. “I doubt they’ll have more than twenty rounds per cannon,” said Beck. “Probably less.”

“Why’s that?” asked Gallowglass.

“Weight. Fifteen pounds a ball, that’s three hundred pounds per cannon. Fifty cannon. That’s fifteen thousand pounds. Over rough ground a two horse wagon can pull—”

“I get the point, General,” said Gallowglass. “Shouldn’t you be—”

The guns thundered. The men on the ridge hunkered down. The earth exploded around them. Taybard was hurled into Beck. Mud and dirt rained down on them.

“Time for you to go, General,” said Gallowglass, spitting dirt from his mouth.

“See you in a while,” said Beck, climbing from the trench and walking back toward the rear slope.

“This is definitely not soldiering,” said Gallowglass, peering over the lip of the trench. On the far ridge he could see men reloading the cannon. Suddenly there was a distant explosion, and one of the pieces blew apart. Jakon watched the huge barrel rear up some ten feet in the air. “Ha!” yelled Gallowglass. “Serves ‘em right.”

The other cannons belched smoke and fire. Gallowglass swore and threw himself face down. This time the enemy gunners had found the range. All around the ridge top great gouts of earth plumed up. Thirty feet to the left of Taybard and Gallowglass a shell exploded in the air, sending shrapnel screaming across the ridge. Clods of earth thumped down on Taybard’s back. Then something else dropped alongside his head. Glancing to his left, he saw it was part of a man’s hand.

Taybard grabbed it and tossed it out of the trench. Smoke and dust filled the air. Taybard lifted his head and tried to pierce the man-made gloom. It was as if a fog had descended upon the ridge. He heard other cannon fire and winced before realizing it was coming from the east and was not directed at Beck’s ridge.

Beside him Gallowglass coughed and spit. “See anything?” he asked.

“I can’t even see the cannons now,” answered Taybard.

During the next few minutes the cannons fired four more salvos. The silence that followed the explosions was rent by the screams of mutilated men.

By that time Taybard had taken to counting slowly between salvos. The gunners were experts. Each time Taybard reached the count of twenty-eight, the sound of distant thunder would herald another murderous assault from the sky.

“How many is that so far?” said Gallowglass, making Taybard lose count.

“Eight, I think. Nine, maybe.”

Taybard saw movement to his left. A group of wide-eyed, fearful men was scrambling from the trenches. Two had thrown aside their muskets. Taybard could feel the panic spreading.

Just then the Moidart came into view. He had his hands clasped behind his back as if out on a morning stroll.

The fleeing men paused. “Best keep your heads down,” said the Moidart, moving past them. They hesitated, then returned to their trenches. A breeze began to blow across the ridge top. The Moidart approached the spot where Taybard and Gallowglass were hunkered down. They moved aside to make way for him. “Not long now,” said the lord.

The breeze quickened, and the smoke and dust began to clear.

Taybard squinted through the last of the haze. On the valley floor he saw red-coated lines of men marching forward, muskets in hand, thousands of them.

“Time to call up our boys,” said Gallowglass, scrambling from the trench.

“Not yet,” said the Moidart.

Other men had the same idea. The Moidart called out to them. “Stay where you are! There’s one more salvo coming.” Then the Moidart rose and calmly walked across the pockmarked ridge, disappearing from view.

Gallowglass stared after him, then looked back at the advancing enemy. They were within two hundred yards of the ridge now. At that point they quickened their pace. Sunlight gleamed from the bayonets on their muskets.

“I think we are going to need a little help up here,” muttered Gallowglass.

At that moment the cannon thundered again. Huge chunks were ripped from the ridge. The force of one blast caused a twelve-foot section of hillside to slide away, sending rock and earth tumbling down the slope.

“How in seven hells did he know they were going to fire one more salvo?” asked Gallowglass.

“They were hoping to catch more of us as we swarmed back up to defend the ridge,” Taybard told him, taking up his blanket-wrapped Emburley and untying the strings that held the covering in place.

Behind them two thousand musketeers scrambled over the ruined ridge, taking up prearranged positions in three ranks. Bendegit Law and his artillery men came over the ridge top, hauling barrels of powder. Eight of the twenty defensive cannon had been smashed by the enemy’s salvos. Four others were damaged. Bendegit Law directed his men with quiet efficiency. Bringing the eight surviving cannons to bear, they loaded them and waited.

Taybard could see the faces of the attackers now, grim and determined as they stormed the slope. Lifting the Emburley rifle, he cocked the hammer. “Front rank, forward!” bellowed General Beck. The six hundred men of the front rank shuffled into position. “Take aim!”

The red-garbed attackers faltered as the musketeers appeared on the ridge. Then they charged.

“Fire!”

Six hundred muskets loosed thunder into the charging men. Smoke billowed across the ridge top. “Second rank, forward!” shouted Beck. The first rank fell back to the rear to reload as the next line of musketeers stepped in to take their places. This maneuver was an innovation of Beck’s that the men had been practicing for weeks now. In most battles Taybard had seen or taken part in the object had been to deliver full ferocious volleys, then to reload. This rolling fire was far more effective.

The second rank emptied their muskets into the faltering advance. Hundreds of enemy soldiers were down. Still they pushed on, stepping over the bodies of the dead and dying.

“Third rank, forward!” yelled Beck. “Fire!”

Some of the soldiers below were starting to shoot up the slope now, and a score of Eldacre men went down.

The first of the enemy was almost at the top of the slope when Bendegit Law ordered the cannons to be fired. The blast ripped away the leading ranks of the enemy.

Taybard watched it all as if in a dream, his Emburley unfired. Smoke covered the ridge like a blanket of fog, and when the first rank volleyed again, Taybard could not even see the enemy. Beside him Gallowglass was frantically reloading.

The second rank moved forward again, but this time Beck did not order them to fire.

The breeze picked up again, and the smoke cleared. The hillside was littered with red-coated bodies. The survivors were pulling back.

The Moidart approached Beck. Taybard heard what he said. “While not wishing to appear intrusive, Beck, might it not be wise to pull back a ways? I fear another salvo is likely soon.”