Stormrider (7 page)

“I cannot argue with that,” said Ermal Standfast. “Nor will I try. What I will say is that I have heard rumors that the orb was hidden in Shelsans. The knights of the Sacrifice found it.”

Mulgrave sighed. “My father used to talk of a great secret that was guarded in Shelsans. But then, he used to tell many wonderful stories, fabulously embellished. He said that it was vital that we all learn to love. He said that love made friends of enemies and enriched the world. I wonder if he still believed that when the knights came and massacred those he loved.”

“Let us hope that he did,” said Ermal softly.

Ermal Standfast had been a priest for twenty-two years. He was loved within his community, for his sermons were gentle and often witty and he was not judgmental with his flock. Also, his fame as a healer was widespread, and many of his parishioners owed their life to what they perceived as his talent for herbal cures. It was this fame that had led Gaise Macon to bring the dying Mulgrave to him.

All in all the little priest should have been content, even proud of what he had achieved in Shelding during the last twenty-two years.

But even if Ermal had been given to prideful thoughts, he would no longer be able to sustain them. He felt this strongly as he sat in his small living room, staring into the fading fire. Mulgrave was asleep upstairs, and the house, except for a few creaks from the aging timbers, was silent.

“You are worse than a fraud,” Ermal told himself aloud. “You are a liar and a coward. You are a weak and loathsome man.” He felt close to tears as he sat in his deep armchair, a blanket around his thin shoulders.

Over the years he had gathered some knowledge of herbs, but all his concoctions were actually based on chamomile and cider vinegar, with an occasional dash of mustard. There was no lasting medicinal benefit to be obtained from any of them. Ermal’s talent came from within. When he laid hands upon the sick, he could heal them. He would close his eyes and
know
what ailed them, and he could either draw it out or boost patients’ own defense mechanisms, causing them to heal themselves. At first he had kept this gift entirely secret. This was not originally out of fear but more from a natural shyness and a desire to remain unnoticed. He did not want people to stare at him and consider him different. He did not wish to be unusual or special. As a youngster Ermal had desired comfortable anonymity. As he had grown older and more inclined toward the spiritual, he had felt that his gift should be put to use helping people. It took him a little time to come up with the idea of herbalism as a disguise for his talents. It seemed such a small lie and one for which he believed the Source would forgive him. After all, was it not the Source who had made him shy and humble? On top of that there was the memory of his father, an equally shy man. “Do good in secret, Ermal,” he had said. His donations to charity were always made anonymously or through a trusted intermediary who would not divulge the source of the good fortune. “All that we have comes from the Source,” his father had claimed, “and it is arrogance itself to claim credit for our ability to finance good deeds.”

For Ermal this became a life philosophy, and he was happy as a priest and a healer. He enjoyed the love of his parishioners and the gratitude of those he healed.

All that had changed four years before, when the Redeemers had arrested old Tam Farley.

Guilt burned in Ermal’s heart as he remembered the man. Tam had lived alone on a farm just outside Shelding. Ermal had visited him one day almost fifteen years ago. It was a bright, hot summer’s day, and Ermal had been walking his parish, knocking on doors and chatting to residents who did not—or could not through age or infirmity—attend services. Most of the people greeted him warmly enough. Occasionally he would be turned away by those who had no interest in matters spiritual.

At last he had come to Tam’s cottage. The original farm building had caught fire some years previously and was a burned out shell. The small farm had long since ceased to be a going concern, and Tam had sold his best fields to a neighboring farmer. He lived alone in a cottage close to the derelict farmhouse, keeping only two dozen hens and an old rooster. The cottage was small but tidily maintained, and the front door, Ermal remembered, had a fresh coat of green paint upon it. He tapped at the frame.

Old Tam opened the door. He was a tall man, stooped by time, with an unruly mop of white hair, long and unkempt. Tam’s face was heavily lined, but his eyes were a bright button blue, untouched by the years. They were the eyes of a young man, keen and still curious about life and all its hazards and wonders.

“I wondered when you would come, priest,” he said. “Are you ready yet?”

“Ready for what?” Ermal asked.

“Ready to let your talents grow. Ready to leave the prison of the flesh and soar through the sky. Ready to see the world with the eyes of spirit.”

“What on earth are you talking about, sir?”

Tam peered at him, then grinned. “I know what you are,” he said. “I know what you do. When you use the magic, I feel it. You healed Bab Fast. Took away his cancer. You carried the vileness home with you and had to find a way to dispose of it. That was tough, was it not? But the old hound was dying, anyway.”

Ermal was shocked. Bab Fast had been dying of a tumor in his belly. Ermal had never dealt with such a serious illness. Normally when he drew out an infection, he would feel it in his own system for some days before it dissipated, but with Bab it had been different. Ermal had felt the tumor begin to grow within his own body. It had frightened him badly. He had known it would kill him and had, with less reluctance than he would have hoped, transferred the cancer to the body of an elderly hound that used to wander around the village, picking up scraps of food where it could. The hound had died the following day. How could Tam have known?

Ermal stood silently in the cottage doorway, unable to speak.

“Do not worry, man. I have told no one. Come inside. We will talk awhile.”

Ermal sighed at the memory. He had sat with Tam for more than two hours. They had broken bread together, and Ermal had learned that the old man was another who had been gifted by the Source. Tam’s talent was communication with the departed and, in a small way, prophecy. He also knew how to free himself from the confines of the flesh, allowing his spirit to soar free. In the months and years that followed Ermal, too, learned that skill. At first they would journey together, for, as Tam pointed out, it was easy for a soul to be lost in the vastness. But soon Ermal soared alone, his spirit floating beneath the stars, flying over foreign lands and strange cities, drifting above alien mountains, and crossing vast oceans.

He and Tam had even witnessed the signing of the covenant, the document that was supposed to end all fear of civil strife. The king had finally agreed to devolve some of his powers to a Great Council, the members of which would be elected from among the citizenry. It was a day of great jubilation across the realm. The king, dressed in a coat and leggings of magnificent blue satin, had entered the debating chamber, flanked by lords Buckman and Winterbourne. The four hundred councillors present all rose from their seats and bowed deeply. The king moved to a heavily gilded chair and sat down. Luden Macks brought the document and laid it before the king.

“This will end in blood,” said Tam.

Something cold touched Ermal’s spirit, and he sensed a presence forming close by where they floated under the curved rafters of the chamber roof.

“Flee!” cried Tam.

Back in Tam’s cottage Ermal scrambled to his feet. “What happened there?” he asked his friend.

“We are not the only ones with talent, Ermal. Best to avoid those we do not know.”

The days that followed proved golden and liberating for Ermal Standfast. He had found a friend with whom he could speak freely and a mentor who could—and did—teach him to develop his talents.

The old man never came to church. He rarely left his cottage, but people would come to him there, requesting small prophecies or wishing to communicate with the recently dead.

It was this talent that led to Tam’s death and showed Ermal Standfast what a wretched creature he really was.

Four years ago, with the king revoking the terms of the covenant and the civil war just beginning, a troop of Redeemers had ridden into Shelding. Within days they had arrested four people, one of them Tam Farley. He was accused of witchcraft. Fearing for his own life, Ermal had fled the town, riding to the market town of Ridsdale and renting a room at a local tavern. From there he had used his talent to observe the fate of his friend. Tam was tortured for two days but gave the Redeemers no names. They broke his fingers and put a fire beneath his feet. Still he would not speak, though he did scream. The other three were local farm workers who had come to Tam for prophecies. They, too, underwent torture. All four were sentenced to burn at the stake.

On the day of the execution a Redeemer stood in front of the crowd and asked if anyone would speak up for the accused or offer a reason why they should not die. No one did. Ermal burned with shame and guilt.

For as his spirit floated above the bound men at the stakes, Tam had looked up and seen him. The old man had mouthed the words “I forgive you.” That forgiveness burned worse than any punishment Ermal could imagine.

Four years later the shame remained. “I should have been there to speak for you, Tam,” he said.

Only now it was strengthened by a new guilt. Today he had listened as Mulgrave spoke of spirits with scaled faces, and Ermal had known what they were. Yet once more he had not spoken the full truth. The Redeemers were the new
Dezhem Bek
, and Ermal Standfast knew the extent of their powers.

Yes, he had given Mulgrave a charm that might keep him from spiritual harm, but he had not warned him of the true nature of the enemy.

Tears spilled to the priest’s cheeks. “You are a worthless craven,” he told himself aloud.

3

Taybard Jaekel lay flat on his belly, his long rifle cradled across his arms. With great care he crawled through the undergrowth. He no longer cared about the mud smearing across his leaf-green uniform jacket or staining the silver-embroidered fawn in brambles insignia. His jacket was now filthy, old tears clumsily stitched. Two years earlier he had been so proud of this uniform and eager to prove himself worthy of it. He had stood with Kammel Bard, Banny Achbain, and scores of other young men to take the oath of allegiance to the king and had marched out of Eldacre to fight the evil covenanters. There had been a band playing, and the sky had been blue and clear, the sun bright. Crowds had lined the roads, cheering those gallant young men.

Taybard pushed such thoughts from his mind as he reached the beginning of the downward slope into the valley. He crawled on, his rifle cradled across his forearms. A shot sounded. Taybard ducked instinctively, then swore as the hammer of his rifle dug into his left cheek, piercing the skin. Easing himself between two bushes, he gazed out at the opposite slope. It was wooded, and several boulders jutted from the hillside. Taybard glanced down into the valley, where a squad of scouts from the King’s Second Infantry, were pinned down. Two men lay dead—evidence of the skill of the enemy musketeer—the other eight hunkering down behind what meager shelter they could find. Another shot broke the silence. No one was hit. The squad had no muskets and could not return fire at that range with pistols.

Taybard’s blue eyes focused on the hillside opposite, locating the puff of smoke drifting from a large boulder just outside the tree line. Settling himself down, he brought his rifle to bear. It was a beautiful piece, the stock and butt of hand-polished walnut, delicately engraved and inlaid with silver. Gaise Macon had ordered twenty rifles from the legendary Emburley. Each one had cost more than a poor Varlish like Taybard Jaekel would earn in ten years. Taybard carried his rifle everywhere and even slept with it alongside him. The guns were highly prized. One of Gaise’s twenty riflemen had gotten drunk in Baracum and had woken in the morning to find his rifle stolen. Gaise had hanged him.

Nestling the butt into his shoulder, Taybard waited. He gauged the distance between himself and the covenanter musketeer at just over two hundred paces. An impossible shot for a regular musket and a difficult one even for an Emburley with a rifled barrel.

The covenanter sniper raised himself up, leveled his musket, and fired at the soldiers below. Taybard did not shoot. He counted. The sniper had reared up swiftly, then taken three seconds to aim. Once he had fired, he had dropped back behind the boulder to reload.

Taybard eased back the engraved hammer and took aim.

On the opposite hillside the covenanter came up into position. Taybard let out his breath, steadied his aim, and fired. The sniper jerked, dropped his weapon, and fell against the boulder, sliding from sight. Taybard came to his feet; added a fresh charge of powder, ball, and paper wadding to the barrel; and rammed it home. Then he primed the flash pan, cocked the weapon, and strode out from his hiding place. The soldiers below saw him and sent up a cheer.

Ignoring them, Taybard walked down the slope and up toward the boulder. As he moved, he caught a glimpse of a second covenanter moving into sight. The man’s musket came up. Taybard dropped to one knee. The musket ball screamed by him. His rifle boomed in response. The shot took the covenanter through the bridge of the nose, snapping his head back. His legs gave way, and he pitched to the earth. Once more Taybard calmly reloaded, then began to climb the slope. The first sniper lay dead, his throat torn away. Taybard sighed and gestured to the soldiers. When they came up, he ordered them to collect the two muskets and the powder and shot carried by the covenanters.

The soldiers obeyed him gleefully, searching the bodies for any coin or valuables before pulling off their boots and belts.

Taybard sat on a rock nearby. His hands were trembling, and he rubbed the palms against his mud-streaked trews.

“You’ve got blood on your face,” said Jakon Gallowglass, moving to sit alongside him. Gallowglass was a lean five-year veteran from the south. No more than nineteen years of age, he had taken part in six major battles and a score of skirmishes.

Taybard glanced at the man’s pale features. “Jabbed myself on my rifle as I got into position,” he said.

“First shot was mighty fine. Took your time, though.”

“That’s why it was fine.”

“Won’t be no fresh fighting till the spring now,” said Gallowglass. “With luck we’ll be billeted in Baracum. Good whores in Baracum. You know where the Gray Ghost will be taking you?”

“Home would be good,” Taybard told him, laying his rifle against the rock. He rubbed his eyes. His hand smelled of black powder, acrid and unpleasant. Blood from his cheek was smeared on his palm.

“Aye, the war hasn’t reached the north,” said Jakon. “Must be good up there. Got a sweetheart back home?”

“No.”

“Just as well. After all the whores you’ve had, you wouldn’t want to be taking the pox home, eh?”

Taybard stared gloomily at the dead covenanter. He was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. His face was boyish.

“Never seen no one shoot as good as you,” said Gallowglass. “Is it you or the Emburley?”

“A bit of both, I guess.”

“Ah, well. Time to finish the patrol. My thanks to you, Jaekel. That’s the second time you’ve pulled my irons from the fire.”

“Ah, well, your turn next time.”

Taybard watched as Gallowglass gathered the seven men. Within minutes they had entered the trees and were gone. Taybard sat for a while with the dead covenanters, then rose and made his way back down the trail.

It began to rain. Pulling a leather cap from the pocket of his green jerkin, Taybard held it over the hammer and flash pan of his rifle. Within minutes the rain had turned to sleet and then snow.

Taybard trudged on, his feet cold.

The covenanter sniper and his friend would not feel it.

Taybard covered the three miles to camp in just over an hour, reported his action to Duty Sergeant Lanfer Gosten, then made his way to the cluster of tents occupied by the Gray Ghost’s company. Squatting down by a campfire, Taybard warmed his hands, then ducked into the tent he shared with Kammel Bard and Banny Achbain. The tent was empty. Taybard’s clothes were soaked through. He removed his jerkin and shirt and rummaged in his pack for the spare woollen shirt he had purchased in Baracum the previous autumn. There were holes in it, but it was still warm. As he pulled it on, the small pendant he wore caught in the cloth. Carefully he eased it clear, then gazed at it. Within a spherical cage of silver wire lay a perfect musket ball fashioned from gold. He had been so proud when he had won it the previous year. The king himself had been present with his two sons, but the prize had been presented by his own general, Gaise Macon. Taybard had never expected to win. He was lying in seventh place after the standing targets.

A cold wind blew in from the tent entrance, and Taybard tugged on his shirt, then donned the damp jerkin once more.

“Won’t be no fresh fighting till the spring now,” Gallowglass had said.

Taybard hoped it was true.

Wrapping himself in his blankets, Taybard slept for a while, his rifle held close, like a sweetheart. He had hoped to dream of the mountains and the cobbled roads of Old Hills. Instead he found himself once more running across the low ground after the Battle of Nollenby. Horsemen were chasing him, just as they had in reality, only this time Taybard was not fleet of foot. His legs felt heavy, his boots sinking into deep mud. He glanced back. Lancers were almost upon him, but they were not men. Their faces were skulls.

Then he realized they were no longer riding horses. The skulls were rammed upon target rails, just like those back in Baracum when he won the golden ball. The rails were greased, the targets pulled swiftly along the rails as the musketeers tried to hit them. Taybard had achieved a perfect score in the final, beating a rifleman from the Seventh Infantry. There were no other riflemen now. Taybard stood alone. The skulls on the target rails began to writhe, flesh forming over the bone. Taybard took aim at the first. It was the covenant boy he had shot earlier. He was staring at Taybard. Then he began to weep and call out Taybard’s name.

He awoke with a start, his face drenched in sweat.

“Taybard Jaekel!”

Taybard blinked. Someone
was
calling his name. Scrambling from his blankets, he stumbled from the tent. The sun was going down, and cookfires had been lit. The burly duty sergeant, Lanfer Gosten, was standing alongside a young officer from the King’s Second Lancers. Taybard saluted clumsily.

The officer chuckled. “God’s teeth, man, I must say that up close you don’t look like a legend,” he said. He was tall and slim, his blue and gold uniform immaculately tailored and, more wondrous still, clean. Taybard glanced down. Even the man’s boots were shining. The officer held out his hand. The gleam of gold caught Taybard’s eye. “Lord Ferson’s compliments to you, musketeer,” said the officer, dropping the coin into Taybard’s hand.

“What is this for, sir?” asked Taybard.

“For your rescue of the patrol. Lord Ferson was most impressed by your marksmanship. The second shot was a beauty.”

“You saw it, sir?”

“Yes. Lord Ferson had ridden out with a company of lancers. We were on the far slope to you. So, well done.”

With that the officer strode away, picking his path carefully to avoid puddles.

“Did well for yourself there, Jaekel,” said Lanfer Gosten.

“Why in hell’s name didn’t the lancers rescue their own men?” said Taybard, anger rising.

“Probably didn’t want to get their uniforms dirty. Real question is, Why did you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant.”

“Oh, yes, you do, son,” said Lanfer, laying his hand on Taybard’s shoulder. “You were told to keep the patrol in sight and take out any snipers. You were also told to avoid risking yourself. From your own report the first covenanter was shot from cover. All well and good. But then you walked out into the open. Now, you know them bastards work in pairs. So what were you doing?”

Taybard shrugged. “I wanted to draw him out. To finish it. That’s all.”

Lanfer Gosten looked into Taybard’s blue eyes. “To finish it, eh? We’re all tired of it, son. You’re not alone in that.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. You’ve seen it before. That time when a soldier stops caring about living or dying. You can see it in the eyes. Then, in some battle or skirmish, they walk into the open—and they’re gone.”

“I’m not like that,” said Taybard. “I want to live. I want to go home to the mountains.”

“You hang on to that, Jaekel. I’m sick to death of burying Eldacre lads.”

The sergeant wandered away. Snow began swirling down from a brooding sky. Returning to his tent, Taybard clipped a strap to his rifle and swung it over his shoulder. Then he walked out into the nearby trees to gather dry wood for the night fire. He could see other men engaged in the same enterprise. Some he knew, and those he nodded to or exchanged greetings with. Others were strangers, newcomers from other companies. After several trips Taybard had gathered enough fuel to last the night. He piled it beside the tent, then relit the fire. Officers had iron braziers inside their double-leafed tents, and coal to keep their noble bones from freezing. Enlisted men like Taybard, Kammel, and Banny had to make do with what they could find. Their tents were cheap canvas. Heavy rain would seep through them, dripping on the sleeping men within.

Still, thought Taybard, as he sat beside his fire, with winter coming they would be billeted in some barracks somewhere, safe from shot and shell. It would not be so bad.

And maybe, just maybe, the Gray Ghost would take them home.

The fire grew, licking at the dry wood. Taybard shivered as the heat flowed over him. The sky was dark now, with not a star shining. A powerful, round-shouldered figure loomed out of the shadows and slumped down by the fire. Taybard glanced up at the bearded face of Kammel Bard.

“Covenanters pulled back,” said Kammel. “So I guess we won, after all. Any food?” he asked, leaning his rifle against a tent rope.

“Not yet. Where’s Banny?”

“Lanfer sent him to guide the supply wagons in. Be more snow tonight, I reckon.”

“I don’t think we won,” said Taybard. “I don’t think anyone won this time.”

Kammel pushed back the thick woolen hood he wore and scratched at his thick red hair. “Well, we didn’t pull back, did we?”

Taybard shrugged. “How would I know? They say the battle stretched over nine miles. Some might have pulled back, I guess. Anyway, who decides?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, who decides who has won or lost? Its not like Avondale anymore. That was easy. We charged. They ran. We captured their cannon. Now,
that
was a victory. Now we just charge each other, kill each other, and argue about who won.”

Other men began drifting into the camp, and from somewhere to the west came the smell of stew. The smell would be better than the taste, Taybard knew. Stale bread and a watery broth that would do little to dull the appetite. The fire began to hiss and splutter as sleet fell. Kammel pulled his hood back in place. Taybard stood and placed Kammel’s rifle inside the tent. “Did you get into the village?” he asked the bearded man.

Kammel shook his head. “Redeemers was there, questioning and such. No one was allowed in. Doubt they had much food there, though. Covenanters would have taken most of it when they pulled out.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, ignoring the sleet and enjoying what warmth they could absorb from the fire.

“You ever think back to old Jaim Grymauch?” Kammel asked suddenly.

“Aye, often,” admitted Taybard. He glanced at his friend. “You didn’t like him.”

“I never said that.”

“He was a highlander. You always hated highlanders. Don’t you remember? We once had a row because I said your grandmother was a clanswoman and you called me a liar.”