Ravenheart (50 page)

“Now!” said Kaelin.

Rayster let go and cannoned into Kaelin, almost knocking him from his feet. Rayster stumbled and fell. Kaelin reached out, grabbing his shirt and hauling him back from the edge. The clansman’s face was ghostly white.

“Breathe deeply and slowly,” said Kaelin.

“I am all right. I’ll not panic again.”

“Wait here,” said Kaelin, taking the coiled rope from
Rayster’s shoulder. Then he lowered himself onto the face, moving down hand over hand.

The first rope ended some eight feet short of the shelf. Kaelin found a foothold and steadied himself against the face. The wind was blowing strong over the exposed rock. Kaelin played out a little of Rayster’s rope, then looped the remainder back over his shoulder. Adjusting his feet more securely, he half turned his body and slowly tied the two ropes together. Once the reef knot was tight, he dropped the coil to the ledge and climbed down.

As the night wore on, Kaelin slowly moved down the rock face, tying ropes to jutting rocks so that the clansmen could follow. At last he reached the chimney fissure above the final ledge. Rayster swung down to join him and stared gloomily down into the pitch darkness of the chimney. “It looks worse than it is,” said Kaelin. “There are handholds and footholds aplenty. Then there is one last ledge. After that it is the soft earth of the forest—and the cannon and muskets of the Beetlebacks.”

“I shall never climb again,” said Rayster. “I feel I have used up just about all the luck I have.”

Above them the majority of the 320 warriors were on the face.

Five hours had passed since the climb had begun, and Kaelin estimated that at least that much time again would be used up. Carefully he climbed down the chimney, not using the rope. Rayster followed him.

A sound came to them, a wet thud followed instantly by a loud crack. Then another. Something dark swept past the opening of the chimney. Kaelin could not see what it was. Perhaps someone had dropped a rope or dislodged a rock.

Emerging from the chimney to the ledge, Kaelin saw a dark stain on the lip of the rock. Then he looked over the edge. Two bodies were lying on the rocks, limbs splayed grotesquely.

Kaelin fastened the last rope around a large rock. Rayster emerged. “Time to feel solid ground again,” said Kaelin.

Rayster gave a tight smile. “Not before time. It will be pleasant to be the first to the forest.”

“You will not be the first,” Kaelin said softly. “Two men fell.”

Rayster swore. “I’ll see you below,” he said. Swinging his legs out over the edge, he disappeared from sight.

Kaelin did not follow him. Instead he scaled the chimney again, climbing swiftly. When he emerged once more into the moonlight, he saw that a rope had given way on the ledge above. Clansmen were huddled there, with others clinging to the rope above, unable to descend. Kaelin untied the rope Rayster had used to descend the chimney, drew it up, and coiled it swiftly. Looping it over his shoulder, he climbed to the ledge. His limbs were tired as he reached the lip, but the ledge was packed with men and there was no room for him to clamber over.

He could see the jagged end of the sheared rope. It had rubbed against a sharp edge on the lip and given way. Clinging to the rock face, Kaelin thought the problem through. The new rope would also grind against the lip, and with a mass of men filling the ledge he could not seek out any other means of securing the rope. A man stumbled above him, and for a moment it seemed he would fall. A comrade grabbed him. Kaelin eased himself up until his arms were over the ledge. Then he carefully tied the end of the new rope to the severed section of the first and dropped the coil down the face. He glanced up at the nearest man. He was short and slim, and his face showed his fear. “Pick up the rope and pass it to the man beside you,” said Kaelin. “Carefully now!” There was no room to bend, and the man slowly went into a squat, retrieving the rope. Slowly and smoothly he rose, passing the rope to a bigger man beside him. “Loop it over your right shoulder and down around both hips. Hold it firmly.” The big man did so, and the rope slid along the lip to a more rounded section of stone. “You need to hold it there as the men climb down. Do not allow it to slip left or right. You understand?”

“Aye,” said the big man.

“When you start getting tired, pass on the duty to another.” Kaelin glanced at the clansman closest to the rope and the edge. “You climb down now,” he said. “When you reach the ledge below, you will see a fissure. Move into it. There will be no rope, but it is an easy climb. Start now!”

The warrior took hold of the rope and swung himself over the edge, descending swiftly. Then another man followed him, and another. Soon the ledge began to clear, allowing the climbers above to descend. Kaelin returned to the chimney, climbed swiftly down it, then lowered himself to the forest, where Rayster and several others were waiting.

The bodies of the two clansmen had been covered by cloaks.

“Were they friends of yours?” asked Kaelin.

“All Rigante are my friends,” said Rayster. “One of them was my cousin. A good man. Four sons, two daughters. The other I could not recognize. He must have struck the ground headfirst. There are bits of skull and brain everywhere.”

Three hours later 140 clansmen were gathered close to the foot of the cliff. Many were sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks; others sat watching their comrades slowly descending the great cliff.

Arik Ironlatch joined Kaelin. The old man looked weary. He patted Kaelin on the shoulder, then walked away and swung his sword and scabbard from between his shoulders. Lying down on the ground, he rested his head on his arm and fell asleep.

All the men were tired, and Kaelin wondered how much strength they would have come the dawn.

Banarin Ranaud’s dreams were never happy ones. For as long as he could remember he had dreamed about being trapped underground, the walls around him writhing and swelling and thick with slime. Unable to stand on the shifting ground, he would crawl on hands and knees, repeating over and over again: “I will be good, Mama. I will be good. I promise.”

Upon waking, he would at first be relieved, but then there would always follow a fierce and terrible anger.

It had never mattered how good he was as a child, how much effort he made to please her. Invariably she would drag him to the cellar, shouting and screaming at him. Then she would lock him in the old, discarded closet and leave him in the dark, listening to the sound of rats scampering across the dusty floor outside.

But this dream was different.

The writhing walls contracted, the slime covering him. Pressure on his body propelled it through the narrowing confines of his prison until he tumbled against something hard and unyielding. He heard a door close, a lock being fastened. “I will be good, Mama!” he yelled.

There was no light at first, but then he saw a faint glow begin close to his face. He tried to back away from it, but the closet was small. The glow became a twisted face. There was a bloody gaping hole where the right eye should have been.

“Such a bad, bad boy,” said Colonel Linax. As he spoke, several bloated maggots fell from his blue lips.

Banarin Ranaud screamed—and sat bolt upright.

His breathing was fast and ragged, and he stared panic-stricken at the canvas walls of his small tent. Rolling from his blankets, he scrambled out into the predawn light. The ground was wet beneath his feet, soaking the thick socks he wore. Gazing around, he saw the sentries patrolling near the picket lines, the cannoneers sleeping by small fires set behind every cannon. Already some of the men were emerging from their tents, and there were breakfast fires burning.

Colonel Ranaud ducked back into his tent and removed the wet socks. He sat on his blankets, still shaken by the dream. Truth was, he regretted the murder of Colonel Linax. The man had been kind to him, and kindness was something Ranaud had little experience of. At first he had been content to wait for Linax to die of the lung disease that was rotting his body from within. Yet the man had clung to life for month after weary month. And all the while—as Ranaud saw it—the
Black Rigante were growing stronger and more confident. Sooner or later there had to be a reckoning. Wullis Swainham’s reports claimed that Call Jace had ordered the construction of a new forge capable of producing bigger cannons. Ranaud had begged Linax to write to the Moidart for more men in order to lead an assault on Jace’s stronghold. Linax had refused. “We would need thousands of soldiers, Banarin. Even if we breach their gates, they will fall back to the mountains within. There will be no major battles but a long war of attrition. The cost of maintaining an army in the north would empty the Moidart’s treasury within two months. Only the king could supply a standing army in this area, and he has troubles of his own in the south. And even had he not, Call Jace has done nothing yet that would convince the king he needs to be exterminated.”

Banarin Ranaud had spent a great deal of time considering just what action of Jace’s might alert the Moidart—and the king—to his infamy.

That was when the plan had occurred to him. If Call Jace were to murder Colonel Linax while under a flag of truce, it would send a clear message to the south that he was an enemy of the state. The king would be forced to act. Linax had many friends in Varingas.

Ranaud planned the murder with meticulous care. He told Linax that Wullis Swainham had come to him with a request from Call Jace for a meeting. Jace, it seemed, was under pressure from his fiery clan chiefs to start a war. He was seeking ways to avert such a calamity and needed to discuss them with Colonel Linax. It was vital, however, that he and Linax should meet in secret.

Linax had agreed and had ordered Ranaud to conduct negotiations as to where and when the meeting should take place.

They had ridden from the barracks at dusk five days later, heading west before cutting into the forest. Linax had been exhausted as they had dismounted in a small clearing. He had coughed blood into his handkerchief, then had slumped down
beside a stream. Ranaud had drawn his pistol and cocked it, walking swiftly to where the colonel sat. As Linax had looked up, Ranaud had leveled the pistol and fired, the ball slamming through Linax’s eye and exploding out through the back of his skull.

Leaving Linax’s horse behind, Ranaud had ridden at speed back to the barracks, where he had relayed the news of Call Jace’s treachery. Then he had sent a dispatch to the Moidart.

Now, with four thousand men under his command and a full regiment of the king’s musketeers on their way, he was about to achieve the fame and glory that would once and for all put to rest his mother’s prediction. “You are a useless creature, Banarin, stupid and weak. You will amount to nothing in this life. You understand? Nothing! You are a worm. And worms live in the dark.”

Ranaud pulled on his boots and buckled on his black breastplate. Today he would ride the twelve miles to the other encampment to ensure that discipline was being maintained. He was sure that Call Jace would attack. The escape of his daughter was a setback, but when Jace learned of her ordeal, he would be filled with rage. He would
need
revenge. Passion was the one great virtue of the highland race but also its greatest weakness. Jace would have to seek battle. The only question that remained was which pass he would choose to sally forth from.

Ranaud had two thousand men at each pass. Both groups were equipped with twenty cannons loaded with canister shot. When Jace did attack, at least half his men would be wiped out in the first volley.

The colonel emerged from his tent and stared up at the entrance to Jace’s stronghold. Six hundred yards of open ground stretched from his cannons to the mouth of the pass. In the time it would take charging men to cover the distance his cannoneers could load and fire twice. It would be a massacre, and Ranaud’s fame would be established.

Banarin Ranaud, the Hammer of the North. He liked the sound of it.

A trumpet sounded, the notes shrill in the cold morning air. The dawn was breaking, and he saw men streaming out from their tents. Ranaud moved swiftly across the camp, heading toward the cannons. He did not run, for such haste would look unseemly in the commanding officer.

The artillerymen were dragging the oiled canvas covers from the huge, flaring barrels of their cannons, while other men stoked up the fires behind each weapon. Ranaud reached them and saw the reason for the trumpet call.

Hundreds of armed men were gathering in the pass. They were out of range at the moment.

“Ready the formation!” ordered Ranaud. Officers relayed his orders. Cavalrymen ran for their mounts, saddling them swiftly. Musketeers gathered in line behind the cannons. Ranaud returned to his tent, loading his two pistols.

Today he would see glory.

Strapping on his saber, he pushed his pistols into his belt.

By the time he returned to the front line his six hundred cavalry lancers had ridden out to the right flank, ready to sweep down on the charging clansmen. Seven hundred musketeers marched toward the left flank and the forest. They, too, would send a hail of shot into the highlanders.

Three hundred musketeers remained stationed behind the cannons just in case any highlanders should reach the line.

The soldiers moved smoothly into position, the musketeers on the left flank forming two lines, one kneeling and one standing. The commanding officer gave the order to load. The musketeers opened the black pouches at their hips and removed the egg-shaped powder flasks.

A thunderous volley came from the trees. Scores of musketeers went down. Ranaud stood rooted in shock. Black smoke from the volley was billowing in the trees. The stunned survivors of the musketeers were huddling together around the bodies of their comrades.

Then the highlanders charged from the forest, rushing into the demoralized musketeers. Sabers and knives ripped into the soldiers, who panicked and began to stream back
toward the apparent safety of the center. The highlanders raced after them, hacking and slashing.

Ranaud swung to see the musketeers behind him desperately trying to bring their weapons to bear, but their line of fire was blocked by their own fleeing soldiers. Chaos descended on the battlefield. The panicking soldiers ran into their own lines, obstructing their comrades, while the highlanders swarmed after them, shrieking battle cries. Ranaud saw a white-haired and grizzled warrior slashing his saber through the throat of a cannoneer. At that moment Ranaud also saw something infinitely more terrifying. The main body of the highland army had emerged from the pass and was running silently toward them.