Stormrider (31 page)

“For what purpose?”

“Much as they may be despicable barbarians and lacking in all civilized virtues, they are also fighting men, numbering close to four thousand. Better to assuage any fears they might have than to allow them to link with the Moidart.”

“The clan would never fight for the man,” said the Pinance. “Sweet heaven, he has hanged, tortured, and murdered them for twenty years and more.”

“Aye, he has been a rock for the Varlish people. It is shameful that such a man has become an enemy to our race.”

The Pinance glanced at the Redeemer, seeking some indication that he was making a small joke. He was not. His expression, as always, was one of earnest seriousness.

As the army closed on Eldacre town, the Pinance, with his five senior officers, rode to the head of the column. He still could not quite believe that there would be no fight. They passed through the village of Old Hills and down onto the main road. Citizens came out to watch them, their eyes curious. Some of the children even waved at the soldiers, who grinned and waved back.

A tall, spindly man in a black frock coat emerged from a shop and stood staring at the marching soldiers.

“He should be taken now and hanged,” said Sir Sperring Dale.

“Who is he?” replied the Pinance, staring hard at the man.

“Alterith Shaddler. A traitor and a defamer.”

“Ah, yes, the schoolteacher who defended the woman accused of witchcraft. I have heard of him.”

“There is evil in him. I can feel it.”

“I am not in the mood for a hanging today, Sir Sperring. Once we are established in Eldacre, you can bring a troop back here and deal with him then.”

“Thank you, my lord. A wise decision.”

Much of the snow on the hills had melted, and the sky was bright and clear, the sunshine warm. There were clouds building to the east, and it was likely that by evening there would be rain. It was a comfort to the Pinance that this night he would sleep in the ancestral home of his retreating rival.

They reached the castle two hours after noon, and the Pinance left the junior officers in charge of billeting the men. Many of the soldiers were moved to the deserted barracks buildings. Others pitched their tents on the open fields beneath the castle’s southern walls.

The Pinance entered Eldacre Keep with two squads of twenty soldiers each. Sir Sperring Dale remained outside. “I will enter when our people have found a way to remove the foul spells. They are a pain to me even at this distance.”

It took more than an hour for the soldiers to search the building. There was no one there. Not a servant, not a stable boy. Even the dungeons were empty.

The Pinance ordered food and drink brought to the main hall, where he and his senior staff settled down at a long table. The three generals with him were relatives: cousins, reliable men with little imagination or ambition. The fourth was his nephew, Daril, a large clumsy boy with little wit. To be honest, thought the Pinance, I wouldn’t trust any of them to fight a battle. That was why he had acquired the services of Colonel Garan Beck. The man was low-born and therefore could not be offered high rank, but he was a skillful soldier.

“There’ll be no fighting then, Uncle,” said Daril, disappointment etched in his broad, flat features.

“Not today, Daril. Tomorrow you can take a troop out toward the north and see how far the enemy has run. For today we will rest and enjoy the fruits of our first victory. After we have eaten, we will take a little tour of the castle.”

“You are in a good mood, Uncle.”

“Indeed I am. My enemy has fled before me. I am sitting in his chair as lord of his castle. From today his tax revenues will be mine and all of his belongings and lands. My mood is golden, Daril.”

The golden mood lasted less than an hour.

Apothecary Ramus closed the door of his shop, clipped a padlock in place, and then walked slowly down the cobbled street, a small package in his hands. It was a little lighter in the evenings now that spring was approaching, and the weather was definitely improving.

He wandered on, stopping to watch the new lambs in the field that were snuggled down with their mothers. Several people called out to him, and he smiled politely or bowed.

It had been a strange day. Almost everyone who had come to his small apothecary shop had wanted to talk about the coming of the Pinance and his army and the departure of the Moidart. Ramus had no understanding of military matters, but he was glad the Moidart had gone. Ramus had no wish to gaze down upon a battlefield or walk among the mutilated and the dead.

He remembered his father’s words, said so long ago but still apposite: “All wars are started by angry old men, but they are fought by young men who die for reasons that are beyond them. In the end, the same old men sit around tables and the war ends. Nothing is achieved. Nothing is gained. New faces move into old castles, and the sons of the dead build families ready to feed new battleground graveyards.”

Ramus had tried to ignore the southern war. People spoke of it when they came to his shop, and he gave the appearance of listening politely, but he let the words roll over him. He concentrated on the preparing of medicines, the drying and mixing of herbs, the sunshine on the hills, and the condition of his patients. For the last few days he had enjoyed the new lambs immensely. New life, experiencing the sun and the wind, scampering about the fields on spindly legs. The lambs raised Ramus’ spirits.

He walked on, stopping at the house of Tomas Cantinas, the tanner. He tapped at the door. It was opened by Kellae, the youngest daughter, who called back to her mother that there was a man outside. “What’s your name?” asked the child.

“I am Ramus.”

“He says he is Ramus,” she called out.

The tanner’s wife, Lyda, came from the kitchen. Ramus bowed. “How is he today?”

“He’s sleeping better, Apothecary, but the weight is dropping away from him.”

And from you, thought Ramus, looking at her sunken features and red-rimmed eyes. “I have some more herbs. They will dampen the pain and enable him to sleep.”

“Won’t cure him, though, will they?”

“No. Nothing will cure him now. I have written instructions on how to administer the herbs.”

“I have no coin, Apothecary,” she said, reddening.

“Pay me when you can,” he told her. “How are you sleeping?”

Lyda forced a smile. “Not well. The nights are the worst for him. He cries out.”

“I will bring a sedative potion tomorrow. Good night to you.”

Ramus stepped back into the street, and the door closed. He sighed. Life was hard in these highlands, but death was harder. Tomas Cantinas had six children, a small business, and cancer in his bowel. His oldest son was only fourteen and would not be able to carry on the business. Ramus decided that tomorrow he would visit the local butcher and prevail on him to supply meat for the family.

He walked on to his home. There was light shining through the lower, leaded windows and smoke drifting up from the chimney. He opened the door. His housekeeper, Shula Achbain, came out to greet him, helping him remove his heavy black topcoat.

“Sit you down by the fire,” she said. “I’ll fetch you a glass of mulled wine.”

Murmuring thanks, the little apothecary sank gratefully into his favorite armchair. Shula was a good housekeeper. Several years earlier she had worked for Maev Ring, but before that she had been a herb gatherer for Ramus. Her life had been harsh. She had fallen in love with a highlander at a time when such couplings were frowned upon. Frowned upon? Ramus smiled. Shula had become a pariah to her own Varlish people. When her husband left her, she and her son, Banny, had all but starved to death.

Shula returned and handed him a goblet of warmed mulled wine. He sipped it. “Excellent,” he said. “Have you heard from Banny?”

“He doesn’t write much, sir. He is in a town called Shelding, and there is a truce. So that is good.”

“Perhaps the war is ending at last.”

“Aye, that would be wonderful. I miss him so.”

Shula walked to the coat rail and lifted her shawl clear. “There is a stew on the stove, sir, and freshly made bread in the pantry.”

“Thank you, Shula. Good night to you.”

Once alone Ramus settled down in his chair and dozed for a while. He found himself thinking of the Moidart. He would miss him and their meetings to discuss painting. He had even begun to dabble himself, attempting not the awesome landscapes so enjoyed by the Moidart but more simple compositions of flowers and herbs. They were not good, but he had noticed a small improvement during the past year. He had shown none of them to the Moidart.

After a while he grew hungry. He was about to prepare his stew when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the street outside. Then came a hammering at his door.

Ramus opened it. Several soldiers were standing there.

“Apothecary Ramus?”

“Yes. Is someone ill?”

“You will come with us.”

“I am finished for the day, gentlemen.”

The soldier struck him in the face. Ramus fell backward, colliding with the coat rail.

“You’ll do as you’re damn well told,” said the man, stepping into the house and dragging Ramus to his feet. “You are in trouble, little man. Don’t make things worse by annoying me further.”

Half-stunned, Ramus was hauled from the house and lifted to the saddle of a tall horse. One of the soldiers took the reins, and Ramus clung to the pommel as the cavalrymen rode at speed from Old Hills.

His head was pounding as he rode, his mind confused.
“You are in trouble, little man.”

How could he be in trouble? Ramus had never offended anyone, nor would he seek to, for that would be bad manners. There had to be a mistake somewhere.

The horses cantered down the hill road and into Eldacre town, past the billeted troops, and into the castle. There Ramus was hauled from the saddle and led inside. He was taken up the stairs and along a corridor. The soldier leading him paused and rapped at a door.

“Yes?” came the voice of the Pinance. The man sounded angry, thought Ramus.

The soldier pushed open the door and pulled Ramus inside.

“As you ordered, my lord. This is the apothecary.”

“I know who he is. We have met before. Well, what have you to say for yourself, Apothecary?”

“I am afraid I don’t understand you, my lord.”

The Pinance stepped forward. He was carrying a riding crop. It lashed across Ramus’ face. The pain was instant and excruciating. “I am angry enough. It would not be wise to further incense me.”

“I am sorry, my lord. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Are you an idiot? Look around you.”

Ramus blinked. He did not need to look around. A half-finished painting stood on an easel. It was a lake scene with awesome mountains in the background.

“Yes, my lord? It is the Moidart’s studio. This is where he paints.”

“You
are
an idiot. You fooled me, you laughed at me, and now you don’t know why you are here.”

“Fooled you, my lord?” Ramus was mystified. “In what way?” The Pinance raised his crop again. Ramus shrank back, automatically lifting his arm to protect his face.

“In what way?” the Pinance repeated angrily, slashing the crop across Ramus’ forearm. The apothecary cried out in pain. “In what way? Did you not know that we were sworn enemies?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yet you tricked me into buying one of his daubs?”

“No, my lord. You ordered me to speak to the artist. You recall? You came to my house and saw my painting. I told you the artist did not want his name revealed. When you said you desired a painting, I came to the Moidart and told him. He created something beautiful for you. It was not a daub.”

“I expect the Moidart found it most amusing.”

“I think that he did, my lord, but he found cause to regret it.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“You paid seventy-five pounds for it. Within a year his paintings were fetching double that. This year the value has doubled again. I think it irked him that your painting was now worth four times what you paid.”

“I don’t care what it is worth. When I return home, I shall take great pleasure in slashing it to shreds with my saber.”

“Why?” asked Ramus.

The crop lashed out again and again. Ramus fell to his knees, his hands over his head. The crop brought blood from Ramus’ wrist, and he cried out.

The Pinance stepped back. “Do not question me, little man. Your life hangs in the balance. What was your relationship with the Moidart?”

“He is my friend,” said Ramus.

Suddenly the Pinance laughed. “Your friend? The Moidart has no friends. He is a serpent, cold-blooded and vile. Get up.”

Ramus struggled to his feet. There was blood on his face and his hands.

“How can you talk of friendship with a monster? Did you know that he killed his own wife? The man has no soul.”

“I disagree, my lord.”

“By the Source, you are an impudent wretch. Have you not yet had enough of my crop?”

“I have, my lord. It frightens me. You frighten me.”

“Then why do you persist in annoying me?”

“I thought you wanted to hear the truth.”

“So you can prove he has a soul?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then what truth can you offer me?”

“His wounds, my lord. Many years ago he sustained a wound to his lower belly. It never healed. Then he was burned saving his son from a terrible fire. Those burns have never healed. There is no reason for them not to heal. I have given him many herbal lotions that would in all other men encourage healing. They don’t heal because he does not
want
them to heal. They are his punishment against himself. A man with no soul would not punish himself so.”

“Perhaps they are a punishment from on high, from the Source himself. Have you thought of that?”

“No, my lord, but it seems to me that if the Source chose to punish all evil men in such a way, I would have seen it before. There is no shortage of evil in the world. Mostly, however, evil appears to prosper.”

“Are you by chance suggesting that I am evil?”

“No, my lord. I have never heard it said that you are evil. You are merely powerful.”