Ravenheart (37 page)

“I just want him dead,” said Persis. “A just punishment for his evil.”

“Oh, he’ll die,” promised Enson. “But he’ll die hard.”

Jace had made more than two miles over the rough country when he heard the dog barking. He cursed and struggled on. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, his fingers swollen and painful. Blood was also flowing from the bite to his left shoulder.

They were still after him. And they were gaining.

Jace pushed on, scrambling up a steep rise. Just as he reached the top, he slipped, falling hard onto his wounded arm. With a cry of pain he rolled to his back and slid down the slope. His scabbard caught on a tree root, the hilt of his saber gouging into his hip. At the bottom he lay still, breathing heavily. His strength was almost gone, and he was still some six miles from the sanctuary of Rigante lands.

Struggling to his feet, he attempted the climb again. His legs were weary, and without the use of his left arm he found the going difficult. At last he reached the top and sat down, trying to gather what remained of his strength. Too much easy living, he thought. If I get out of this, by heaven, I’ll build my stamina back.

Rising, he took several deep breaths and then walked wearily along the track. From there he could see the Black Mountain road and beyond it the Rigante mountains. So close.

A shot sounded, the ball screaming by mere inches from his head. Jace hurled himself flat, then swiveled on his belly to peer down the slope. The young fair-haired man with the familiar face had released the dog’s leash, and the hound was bounding up the rise. Three men had fanned out behind the handler. One of them, a gray-haired man, was reloading his musket. Jace estimated the distance. Around two hundred paces.

Damn, but that was a good shot, he thought.

Squirming back, he drew his pistol. The hound scrambled over the rise and bounded down the track toward him. Jace came up on one knee, cocked the pistol, and waited. He fired just as the dog reached him, the ball tearing into the beast’s mouth and out through the back of its head. The hound’s front legs collapsed under him, the body somersaulting into Jace, knocking him sideways. Pushing aside the dead hound, Jace glanced down the slope. The men were climbing it now.

With no time to reload, Jace thrust the pistol into his belt and began to run along the track.

Cutting left into the trees, he powered up another short slope and crouched down behind a thick bush to charge his pistol. His hand was trembling from exertion, and he spilled powder into his lap. Anger flowed through him. Is this how it will end? he wondered. Killed by a pack of mangy Varlish?

With the pistol loaded he waited once more. If he could shoot one musketeer and then charge into the others, he might be able to kill them all. Even as he thought it, he knew such an outcome was more than unlikely. In order to kill one with a pistol he needed to be close. That would leave two other men with long-barreled muskets and the dog handler with his own pistol. They would all have time to fire before Jace reached them. It was more than he could hope for that they would all miss.

Even so, it was his only chance. With his strength all but gone, Jace was bereft of options. If he continued to run, they would come upon him anyway somewhere down the trail, and he would be too exhausted to put up a fight. Like a stag pursued by wolves.

No, best to make his stand now.

A great calm settled on him. Laying the pistol down, he drew his saber, plunging it into the ground beside him. Then he took up the pistol and cocked it.

Dark clouds had begun to gather over the mountains. Jace glanced up. Rain might help. Only the best-crafted flash bowls would keep out water, and their muskets would be useless.

But then, so would his pistol, which was cheap and hastily made.

One against four with a saber? Could he win?

Jace smiled. He could if he were Grymauch.

The pain from his broken arm was lessening. The limb was almost numb now.

He saw movement, and two men emerged from behind the trees, muskets ready. Jace crouched lower behind the bush. The gray-haired killer was not in sight. A third man moved into the open. Where have I seen him before? Jace wondered.

Slowly and warily the three men began to climb the slope. They were fifty paces away now.

Jace took a deep, calming breath.

Where the hell was the fourth man?

Jace glanced to the right. The trees were thicker there, but there was no sign of movement. The man could not have gotten to the left of him, for he would have had to cross the trail below. This was a worry, for Jace already knew that the man was a good shot. Crouched as he was behind a screen of bushes, Jace was all but invisible, but if the man was hiding in the trees to his right, he would have a perfect target the moment Jace rose to fight. Once more the Rigante leader scanned the trees. There was nothing to be seen.

The advancing men were closer now. The first was a burly black-haired musketeer with a round face and small eyes; the second was taller and lean. His eyes were wide, his head moving swiftly from side to side as he searched for his prey. He looks frightened, thought Jace. He will fire too swiftly.

With the trio no more than twelve paces from his hiding place Jace reared up. Extending the pistol, he shot the black-haired man in the chest. As he did so, he felt a blow to his back. It was like being struck by a hammer. He staggered, dropped his pistol, and swept up his saber. Dizziness almost swamped him, but he charged from the bushes directly at the tall, lean killer. The man swung his musket and fired. The shot missed. Jace ran on, plunging the saber through his belly. The blade sliced through the killer, emerging from his back. As
the man fell, Jace tried to drag the sword clear. Putting his boot on the dying man’s chest, he wrenched hard. The saber hilt came away in his hand.

“The next shot goes through your head,” came a voice from behind.

Ahead of him the young fair-haired man had drawn his pistol and was pointing it at Jace’s chest.

The Rigante leader turned slowly. The gray-haired musketeer had emerged from the trees and was some twenty paces behind him.

“You shoot well,” said Jace. His legs almost buckled, but he steadied himself.

“Hunted wolves for most of my life,” the man said equably. He advanced, but only to within ten paces. “Put your hands behind your back, Rigante.”

“I wish I could,” Jace told him, “but the left is shattered.”

“Let us just execute him for his crimes and be gone,” said the fair-haired man.

“Tie his hands,” said the other. “Do it!”

“I’ll not see any man tortured.”

Before the gray-haired hunter could reply there came a moan from the man with Jace’s saber blade through his belly. “I can’t feel my legs, Uncle Enson,” he said. “I can’t feel them.”

“He snapped your spine, boy,” said Enson. “Lie still, Lane. It’ll be over soon.”

Lane groaned, then cried out as fresh agony ripped through him. Enson pulled a pistol from his belt and sent a shot hammering into Lane’s skull.

Jace sat down, a great weariness settling over him. He glanced up at the young man. “Where have I seen you before?” he asked. “It’s been bothering me some.”

“Bothering you, you bastard? Bothering you? I am Persis Roebuck. You came to my father’s farm demanding tribute. When he wouldn’t pay, you killed our only bull, then you killed my father.”

“Then you have cause to hate me,” admitted Jace. Transferring his gaze to Enson, he said: “And what about you? Which of your family did I kill, apart from the cow turd who broke my sword?”

Enson chuckled. “No one. I’m here for the money only. No wolves left, you see. A man has to eat. I should have put that last shot through your spine and not your shoulder. Had I done so, poor Lane would still be with us. But I wanted to see just how tough the great Call Jace would prove to be.”

“Did you kill my Magra?” asked Jace.

“No, that was Keets and Brace. Both are dead, so you have your vengeance. And now, since the lily liver here will not tie your hands, I’ll just have to shatter your right arm. Then we can get to know one another better.”

“I know you well enough already,” said Jace.

Enson raised his musket. A shot sounded, though not from Enson’s musket. The wolf hunter staggered to his left and stood still for a moment. Jace saw blood pumping from his temple. He dropped his musket and pitched forward.

Kaelin Ring stepped into sight. “Put down your pistol,” he ordered the fair-haired man.

“He has to die!” yelled Persis. Jace rolled to his side as the young man fired, the shot screeching past his head. Kaelin shot in the same moment, the lead ball punching through the man’s chest and piercing his heart. Persis was dead before his body struck the earth.

Jace looked up at the young Rigante. “If you’ve come courting,” he said, “you have my blessing.”

Kaelin scanned the undergrowth. “Are there more of them?”

“No. These were the last.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not at the moment, boy. But give me an hour’s rest and I’ll race you home.”

The journey back to Rigante lands was long and arduous. Despite the confidence of his words, Call Jace was too weak to
walk unsupported and even with Kaelin’s help could make no more than a few hundred paces without needing to rest.

After two hours they had made no more than a mile, and Kaelin, too, was growing weary. Call Jace was a big man, and he stumbled often.

At last Kaelin decided he had to leave the Rigante leader and seek help. Finding a campsite close to a stream, Kaelin built a fire, gathered dead wood, and made Call Jace as comfortable as possible, covering him with his own cloak and leaving him with the loaded Emburleys. Then he set off at a run, cutting down the trail and onto the main road.

Within the hour, sweating and near exhaustion, he ran up to the first of the stockaded gates. The sun was setting, and Kaelin saw two muskets trained on him as he approached.

“What do you want, southerner?” came a voice.

“Call Jace is wounded. I need men to help carry him back,” he replied.

One of the muskets was withdrawn. The gates opened, and the tall, bearded figure of the highlander Rayster appeared. “Where is he?” he asked.

“About five miles back down the road and up into the trees. He was attacked by a group of Varlish. He has been shot in the shoulder, and his arm is broken. He has lost a lot of blood.”

“Wait here,” said Rayster. Once more the wooden gates swung shut. Then Kaelin heard a horn being sounded. It seemed to echo through the pass, but then he realized it was a series of horns. He sat on a rock, gathering his strength.

After a while he heard the gates creak. Rayster emerged with a half dozen men. One of them was leading a potbellied pony.

“Show us where he is,” Rayster ordered coldly.

Kaelin’s anger flared. He stood and looked the clansman in the eye. “I don’t like your tone, turd breath, so be careful when next you speak.”

Rayster’s eyes narrowed, but he forced a smile, then bowed deeply. “Be so kind as to lead us to our lord,” he said. “Is that more suitable?”

The sarcasm did nothing for Kaelin’s temper, but he controlled it. “If it wasn’t for the fact that Call Jace needs help, I’d show you just how suitable. Perhaps we can discuss it later.”

The walk was long, and no one spoke. It was dark when they came across the campfire and the sleeping Rigante leader. In the fading firelight his face seemed very pale, and they had difficulty rousing him.

Once awake, he ordered four of the men to find the bodies of the slain and bury them. “Leave no sign of the graves,” he said. Two of the clansmen helped him to his feet and onto the back of the pony. Jace gripped its mane with his good hand, then sagged forward. Rayster and another clansman walked on either side of the pony, supporting Jace. The others loped off into the woods to obey the orders of their lord.

Kaelin, having retrieved his pistols, walked behind the pony. He was annoyed with himself. Yet again he had reacted with anger to a perceived slight, opening himself up to consequences far greater than the original lack of courtesy warranted. Should Rayster so choose, there would be another duel, and this time someone would die. What is wrong with you? he wondered. Why can you not learn to swallow your pride?

Because pride is all I have, he told himself. If I have to die for it, then so be it.

Two and a quarter hours later Jace was helped to his bed. Two of the women of the household helped undress him, having to cut away his shirt. The flattened lead ball was cut from his broken arm, and the limb was splinted. Then the women dealt with the wound in his back before cleaning and stitching the shallow bite from the hound. The shot from Enson Giese had cannoned off his shoulder blade, cracking his left collarbone. It was lodged just below the skin at the front of his left shoulder. One of the women sliced the skin and removed it.

Dowstairs Kaelin sat on a bench while Rayster paced back and forth. Neither spoke for a while. Then the tall clansman paused in his pacing. “You misunderstood me,” he said
at last. “I was concerned for my chief and intended no disrespect.”

Kaelin nodded. “My temper will be the death of me,” he said with a rueful smile.

Rayster held out his hand. “My thanks to you for aiding Call. How did you happen upon him?”

Kaelin shook the hand. “I was traveling here, and I heard shots from the woods. I thought it might be a Rigante hunting party, and since I was coming here uninvited, I decided to join them and explain that I needed to see Call Jace. When I climbed the trail, I saw Call attack three men. He killed one with his pistol and stabbed another. Then his sword broke.”

“And you killed the other two.”

“Yes.”

“Those Emburleys are very fine. I have never fired one, but I have heard they are wondrously accurate.”

One of the women came down the stairs. Her hands were bloody. Kaelin and Rayster both stood. The woman was middle-aged, with iron-gray hair and stern features. “He is sleeping now,” she said. “But I would feel more at ease if the Dweller could see him. The shots drove cloth from his shirt into the wounds. I have seen such injuries go bad before now.”