Stormrider (19 page)

It was a winter scene, cold and brilliant, with snow clouds, deep and threatening, crowning the majestic peak of Caer Druagh. A tiny figure could be seen toiling through a blizzard, head bent against a fierce wind. Small though it was against the majesty of nature, the figure radiated an intensity of purpose, a determination to survive and prevail. For a time the two men spoke of the use of color, the addition of a dash of midnight blue giving life to the arctic white of the snow. Ramus was more interested in the forlorn figure. Every line and curve of the work seemed to draw the eye toward him. Never before had the Moidart introduced a human form into his work.

Ramus peered more closely at the painting. There was something about the figure that was vaguely familiar, but he could not quite place it. He stepped back and looked again. There was just the suggestion—the merest speck of gray—to suggest a beard. Then he had it.

“That is Huntsekker,” he said.

The Moidart seemed surprised. He, too, reexamined his own work. “I suppose that it could be,” he admitted, “though it was not a conscious plan. The figure was an afterthought. The piece seemed to lack focus without it.”

Ramus was less comfortable now. Huntsekker was a reminder of the Moidart’s darker side. The man was a killer known throughout the north as the Harvester. He hunted down the Moidart’s enemies, removing their heads with a wickedly sharp sickle blade.

The little apothecary shivered.

The Moidart noted his distaste and said nothing. Ramus was that rarest of men, gentle and absurdly honest. There was no malice in him and, more astonishingly, no understanding of malice.

But then, he did not exist in a world of danger and treachery. He did not have enemies at every turn, subtle and vicious, waiting for their moment to strike.

The Moidart glanced back at the painting. Yes, the man facing the deadly blizzard
was
Huntsekker. It seemed so obvious now. Who else could survive such a storm?

Huntsekker paused at the crest of the hill and gazed down at the small row of shanty houses at the edge of the river. There were boats moored just beyond them, long flat-bottomed craft, garishly painted. Huntsekker had never understood the appeal of living on water. He liked his feet to be on solid ground, his home to be fashioned from wood and stone.

The moon was high and bright, its light gleaming on the silver spikes of his forked beard, the night wind ruffling the ankle-length coat of shaggy bearskin he wore. Huntsekker leaned on his staff and ran his gaze along the riverfront. Several open fires had been set on the shore, and a crowd of river men and women sat around them. They were drinking cheap spirits, and Huntsekker could hear laughter. Several children were playing at the water’s edge, skimming stones out over the icy water.

The big man hoped there were no troublemaking strangers among them. Though he would never admit it, he was tired, and the cold wind had brought on a headache that was drumming at his temples.

Slowly and carefully he made his way down the hill, heading for the house of Aran Powdermill. It stood a little beyond the other homes, and Huntsekker could see the glare of golden light coming from the lower window.

Reaching level ground, he tried to skirt the revelers. There were maybe thirty people in the group, roughly dressed, many of them with bright scarves around their heads. Two of the men saw him and called out. Huntsekker ignored them and plodded on, but he heard them run after him and turned to face them.

“It is customary for strangers to visit our fire,” said the first man with a wide, challenging grin. He was powerfully built and tall, maybe twenty years younger than Huntsekker. A red scarf was tied around his head, and he wore a heavy topcoat of faded crimson. The second man was leaner. He, too, wore a red scarf and sported a thick, shaggy black beard. He had moved a little to Huntsekker’s left, and his hand was resting on the hilt of a knife at his belt. Some things never change, Huntsekker thought wearily. He would be invited to join them. They would ply him with drink. At some point he would be asked to pay for his enjoyment. The amount—curiously—would be exactly the number of coins in his money pouch.

“I am not the stranger here,” Huntsekker said coldly. “You are. Now go back to your fire and your women and leave me in peace.”

“We don’t like your tone,” snapped the second man.

“Do I look like I care, rat breath?” said Huntsekker.

“Well, now,” said the first man, his smile fading. “It looks like we have someone here who thinks he’s tough. Is that what you think, fat man?” he asked, stepping in close.

Huntsekker smiled. Reaching up, he idly tugged the spikes of his beard. Then his left fist snapped forward, slamming into the big man’s face. Dropping his staff, Huntsekker followed this with a right cross that spun the river man from his feet. He lay there unmoving. Lazily Huntsekker turned toward the second man, who was staring in stunned amazement at his fallen comrade. The man swallowed hard, glanced back at the watching people by the fire, then reached for his knife.

“Do not be foolish,” said Huntsekker, so softly that the crowd could not hear. “You are gutless and frightened. You know that if you draw that blade, I will kill you. So pick up your friend and take him back to the fire. Then ask some of the others who did this to him. When you hear my name, try not to piss in your breeches.”

The man swallowed hard. His hand came away from the knife. Huntsekker gathered his staff and walked on to Powdermill’s house. He was angry now, and his neck felt stiff and sore. In the old days throwing a punch would have loosened him up. Now he had pulled a muscle. Still, the headache had gone.

Coming to the front door, he rapped on it with his knuckles. “Who is it?” called a thin, reedy voice.

“A real wizard would know already,” replied Huntsekker. “But then, you’re just a miserable fake.”

The door swung open, and a small man peered out. He had long white hair thinning at the crown and small button blue eyes. He gave a wide grin, displaying two golden teeth. “I don’t use my powers lightly, Huntsekker,” he said.

“Or cheaply. Invite me in. It’s damned cold out here.”

Aran Powdermill stepped aside. Huntsekker eased past him, removed his bearskin coat, and strode across to a deep chair by the fire.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” said the little man. Huntsekker gazed around the room. Books and manuscripts filled the shelves and littered the long table by the only window. Powdermill dragged a second chair to the fire and sat down.

“You are looking old and tired,” he said.

“I am both,” agreed Huntsekker. “So let us cut to the chase.”

“The Moidart is troubled,” said Powdermill before Huntsekker could speak. “His son is threatened, and he wants to know the nature of the enemy.”

“Makes no sense to me,” said Huntsekker. “You don’t know who is at your door, but you know the thoughts of a man twenty miles away.”

“Life is a mystery,” Powdermill said with a gold-toothed grin.

“It is that, right enough,” agreed Huntsekker.

“Your farm is prospering, I hear. Cattle to feed the armies of the south. You must be almost wealthy by now, Huntsekker.”

“The Moidart wants—”

“—me to travel with you to Eldacre. I won’t do it.”

“That is not wise, Powdermill. The Moidart is not a man to disappoint.”

“You misunderstand me, big man. I will come, but not with you. The Moidart is watched. Not all the time. They missed his meeting with you. Which is just as well, for if they had, I would have turned you down flat, threat or no threat.”

“No one watches the Moidart. I would have seen them.”

Powdermill shook his head. “Not these you wouldn’t, big man. They float in the air, unseen by normal eyes. They have great powers.”

Huntsekker smiled. “I am not one of your marks. Spare me the nonsense.”

The little man shrugged. “The Moidart spoke to you in the uppermost room of the winter mansion. He was standing by the window, facing southeast. He asked if you knew anyone with power. A seer or a mystic. You hesitated. Then you spoke my name.”

Huntsekker shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “All right, tell me the trick. How do you know this?”

“Not through trickery, Huntsekker. The simplest way to explain it is to say that a seer always hears when his name is mentioned. Now, as far as I have seen, the Moidart is watched at times during the day. But never after he has taken to his bed. When you return to Eldacre, go to him after midnight. Tell him that I will come to him but that I will require ten pounds.”

“Are you mad, Aran? This house isn’t worth ten pounds. By heaven, he’ll pluck your eyes out for your impudence.”

“Without my skill he will not survive the winter. Neither will you, big man. You are occasionally watched, too. You will be on their death list. That is why I will not travel with you. As to the ten pounds, that is the value I put on my life.”

“Who are
they
?”

Aran shook his head. “Do you not listen? I will not speak their name. Nor should you. Nor should the Moidart. Merely say ‘the enemy.’ Tell him my price. I will come to him tomorrow, after midnight.”

“And that is all you can tell me?”

Aran Powdermill grinned. “I can tell you that the man you hit is now waiting in the shadows outside, seeking revenge.”

“At last! A useful piece of mystical information.”

“Not really. I saw him duck under my window.”

Huntsekker laughed aloud. “Well, it will be amusing to see you barter with the Moidart. I will see you tomorrow.”

“If the Source is willing,” Aran said with no trace of a smile.

Huntsekker rose and pulled on his coat.

“You are welcome to stay the night,” said Aran.

“I have matters to attend to.” Taking up his staff, Huntsekker strode to the door. Opening it, he stepped outside. Someone rushed from the shadows. Huntsekker’s staff whirled and cracked against the man’s skull. He slumped to the snow. “River men used to be tougher than this in my day,” Huntsekker told the little mystic.

“Things were
always
better in the old days,” Aran answered with a smile.

As befitted a dutiful son, Gaise Macon sent a letter home once a month, informing his father of his movements and aspects of the campaign he felt might interest him. Truth to tell, Gaise had little idea of what might or might not interest the Moidart. His father had never replied—until now. Gaise sat in the main room of his house, Soldier asleep at his feet, and read the letter again:

“Word has reached me of the duel with Ferson. The information is sketchy. Write now and inform me of all the events that led up to it and any that have followed it. Leave nothing out. Keep Mulgrave close and avoid strict routine in your movements. When possible resign your commission and travel north
.”

It was signed M.

Gaise shook his head and gave a wry smile. Not a word of affectionate greeting. Not a mention of life back in Eldacre.

Tucking the letter into the pocket of his blue silk jacket, Gaise moved to the small mirror on the wall and carefully tied his white cravat. This, too, was silk bought in the capital four years before, when life had been simpler. He looked at his reflection. The clothes were bright and stylish: a superbly cut jacket edged with silver embroidery over a white shirt with a lace collar and extravagant cuffs, gray leggings merging with highly polished black riding boots. The clothes spoke of calmer days, times of nonsense and trivia, balls and parties, visits to the theater and fine dining establishments. The face, however, was a stark contrast. The eyes were tired and had seen too much. The features were drawn and tense.

“When possible resign your commission and travel north
.”

How good that sounded. Gaise made a final adjustment to his cravat and turned away from the mirror. Soldier lifted his great black head and watched the man. His tail wagged.

“You have to remain here, my friend,” said Gaise, crouching down and stroking the hound’s head.

But Soldier followed him to the door, and Gaise had to push him back as he eased himself out the front door. The hound barked furiously as Gaise walked away. Taybard Jaekel and his friend, the powerfully built Kammel Bard, were waiting outside. Both men saluted.

“Have you heard from home?” asked Gaise as he walked out onto the main street.

Jaekel fell in alongside him, his rifle cradled across his chest. “Not in a month, sir. They said the winter is harsh.”

“I’d still sooner suffer our winters than spend any more time here,” said Gaise.

“Amen to that, sir.”

“You still have that golden musket ball?” asked Gaise.

“Yes, sir,” answered Taybard, tapping at his chest. “Seems a long time ago now.”

“It was a good day, Jaekel.”

They strolled through the town. Gaise did not even glance at the bridge.

Guests had already begun arriving at the mayor’s large house. Gaise was welcomed by the man’s wife, a small and once pretty woman with rapidly blinking eyes and a sad expression. Gaise bowed to her and kissed her hand. She led him through to the main reception room, where some twenty people had already gathered. The mayor moved away from a small group of residents and bowed deeply. He was red-faced and—amazingly, considering the food shortages—overweight.

“Welcome, General,” he said, affecting a broad smile that did not reach his eyes. “You are
most
welcome. Allow me to introduce you to my friends, some of whom I believe you have met.”

Gaise followed the man into the room, shaking hands and making agreeable comments. He was ill at ease but masked it well. It was not his intention to stay long. This party was for Cordley Lowen, arranged in haste to honor the quartermaster general. There was no way Gaise could refuse to attend without causing further offense.

Lowen, dressed in a full military uniform of braided crimson, was standing by the fire, chatting with several of the town’s leading citizens. They were hanging on his every word, nodding and smiling. His dark-haired daughter was standing close by in a figure-hugging gown of green satin. It seemed to shimmer in the lantern light.