Stormrider (32 page)

“Have you heard it said that the Moidart is evil?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Yet you say he is your friend. A man should choose his friends with care. You obviously have not. I shall assume that the Moidart also holds you in some regard. So tomorrow I shall watch you hang, and I will derive great pleasure from it.” The Pinance turned to the soldier who had brought Ramus to the castle. “Take him away and find some dark and gloomy place for him.” He swung back to Ramus. “There you can think about friendship and evil and souls.”

The Pinance had difficulty sleeping. That was rare. Normally he would lay his head on the pillow and slip away into a dreamless state and then wake refreshed. This night, however, he had suffered nightmares. In one he had been drowning in a lake while a sea creature sank its fangs into his leg. He had awoken in a cold sweat, suffering from a cramp in his left leg. In another he had been running through a wood, pursued by something he dared not look back at. Again he had woken with a start and drunk a little wine.

Perhaps, he thought, the Redeemer had been right to avoid the castle. It was likely that evil spells were affecting his sleep.

The third dream was the worst. He felt a light tapping against his forehead and opened his eyes to see the Moidart sitting at his bedside, his gaunt features lit by a lamp on the table beside the bed.

Something floated before his eyes, and he realized it was a dagger blade. Closing his eyes again, he sought the refuge of sleep. The dagger tapped his cheek.

“Go away,” the Pinance said sleepily.

The dagger point pierced his cheek. The pain was real, and he jerked awake, causing the blade to sink a little deeper.

“There!” said the Moidart. “Are we awake now, Cousin?”

The dagger slid over his face until the point rested on his throat. “How did you . . . ?”

“I never left, Cousin. My little army did. I stayed behind with a few loyal men. You really haven’t seen the best of Eldacre Castle, you know. My ancestors had all sorts of hidden passageways built, hideaway rooms, secret stairwells. Some of them are a trifle cramped. It was quite uncomfortable in places.”

“Why did you not just kill me in my sleep?”

“One should not lightly set about the task of murdering a nobleman, Cousin. One wouldn’t want a death that lacked dignity. My grandmother used to say that a man murdered in his sleep would wander in the Void not even knowing he was dead. A lost soul, if you like. I wouldn’t want your soul lost. I mean—unlike me—I would suppose you have one.”

The Pinance swallowed hard. “You were there when I spoke to the apothecary?”

“Yes. Interesting little man, isn’t he? It really surprised me when he said he was my friend. I have to own I was a little touched by that. I suppose that growing old is mellowing me. With you it seems to have increased your stupidity. Once you’d hanged him, what would you have done the next time you had the pox?”

“Just kill me and be done with it, damn you!”

“Gently, Cousin. Would you rob me of so sweet a moment? So tell me, would you really have gone home and destroyed my painting?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“You liked it, though, didn’t you? You bragged of it to your friends. You were the first nobleman to purchase a work of art from the unknown painter. You it was who discovered the secret of his genius. Happy moments.”

Flat on his back, the dagger point resting on his jugular, the Pinance was helpless. There was no way he could roll free or strike out before the blade plunged home. “Yes, I liked it,” he admitted, trying to buy a little more time. “I often used to sit beneath it, staring up and wondering about the artist. I do not understand how a man so steeped in evil could create such a work.”

“Baffling, isn’t it?” agreed the Moidart. “Well, it’s been nice to chat, but I have so much to do.”

“Wait!” said the Pinance, desperation in his voice. The dagger lanced through his jugular. Blood spurted across the pillow. The Pinance struggled to rise, to lash out, but all strength seeped away.

Just before dawn the Moidart’s army marched quietly back into Eldacre. There was no fanfare, no blare of trumpets, and no attempt to attack the enemy. They marched to the area at the south of the castle, some distance from the billeted invaders, and began to pitch their own tents.

A few soldiers wandered over to watch them and stood faintly bemused.

“Is the war over, then?” one of them called out.

“Must be, I suppose,” came the answer.

No fighting broke out, and not a musket was raised. Other enemy soldiers gathered, then an officer walked over. “What is going on here?” he asked one of the men.

“Eldacre boys have come back, sir. War’s over.”

The officer, as bemused as his soldiers, strolled to where Galliott the Borderer was organizing the pitching of tents.

“You, sir! Do you have news?”

“No,” replied Galliott. “I was instructed to move my men here. Is there a problem?”

“A problem?” The officer suddenly chuckled. “I was led to understand we were here to fight an enemy. You are that enemy. Yet here we are talking. It would be helpful to know what is going on.”

“True,” said Galliott. “Troops are always the last to be told.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“I am told that the Moidart will address the troops shortly,” said Galliott.

“The Moidart? He has made peace with the Pinance?”

Galliott shrugged. “I know little more than you, Captain. And now, if you will excuse me, I must see these tents pitched and my men fed.”

“Of course. If you hear anything, would you be kind enough to relay it to me?”

“I will,” promised Galliott.

The officer wandered away and roused several of his comrades to discuss the situation.

As the dawn light seeped over the eastern mountains, a group of men came from Eldacre Castle. They were carrying a trestle table and its supports. They moved to an area close to the nearest tents of the soldiers of the Pinance and set up the trestle. Other men brought a high-backed chair, which they placed behind it.

By then hundreds of the Pinance’s men had been awakened and were standing around in groups. Many of the Eldacre men moved in among them, chatting and discussing events.

Then the Moidart appeared. Dressed in a tunic shirt of black leather that shone like satin, gray leggings, and black riding boots, he strolled out from the castle unarmed. Behind him came a huge man bearing a heavy sack on his shoulder.

The Moidart walked to the trestle table and gestured for the giant to lay the sack upon it.

“Gather around, if you please,” said the Moidart. “Officers to the front. Eldacre men give way and allow our friends from the south to come close.” He waited as the men shuffled forward, then climbed to stand on the high-backed chair. “I am the Moidart,” he said. “Appointed by the king as lord of the north. I will keep my comments short so that you can all discuss them later with those of your comrades at the barracks and billeted in the town. First, let me address the point most soldiers care about: wages. How much are you promised?” He pointed to an officer at the front. It was the same man who had earlier spoken to Galliott.

“Three chaillings a month for officers, one for musketeers, two for cavalry, sir.”

“Has any payment been received so far?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I shall see to it that every man receives his first month’s wage in full tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The correct address is
’my lord
.
’
Make the error again and I shall have your tongue cut out.”

“Yes . . . my lord. I am sorry, my lord.”

“Now, to move on,” said the Moidart, ignoring the hapless man. “The Pinance has no more need for an army, but I do. Any man who wishes to join with me should remain here after I am gone and give his name to Captain Galliott and the other officers who will attend him. Any questions?”

“Yes, my lord,” called out another officer. “Why does the Pinance not need his army?”

The Moidart smiled and signaled the giant. The man delved into the sack and drew out the head of the Pinance, holding it high. “Be so kind as to move among the men, Huntsekker,” he said. “Let them all see.”

Huntsekker walked through the silent crowd, the head held aloft. The movement caused blood to begin to seep from the severed arteries. There was not a sound from the gathered men as Huntsekker moved on.

“Your attention, if you please,” called out the Moidart. “I have much to do and cannot spend all day on this matter. Those who choose to join me will, as I promised, receive their first month’s wages tomorrow. Thereafter they will be paid on the first day of every month. Those who do not wish to remain in my employ are free to return home, without their weapons, of course. I would imagine that those with wives and children in the lands of the Pinance would not relish remaining in Eldacre. There will be a meeting of officers in the castle this afternoon an hour before dusk. This will be to find replacements for the men whose heads remain in the sack. I shall now leave you to your breakfast, gentlemen. Any further questions will be answered by Colonel Galliott.”

With that the Moidart stepped down from the chair and walked back to the castle, Huntsekker beside him, still carrying the head of the Pinance.

For a while no one spoke or moved. They stood and watched as the lord of the north returned to his castle. Then Galliott stepped up to the table.

“Gentlemen, your attention please. Would the senior officers attend me? We need to discuss the logistics of this situation.”

An hour later Huntsekker strolled along the southern battlements, Aran Powdermill beside him.

“Can you believe it?” asked Huntsekker, shaking his head. “I was convinced they would run for their muskets and blow us away. My heart was in my mouth when he told that officer to call him ‘my lord,’ and when he said he’d have his tongue cut out . . . well! The man has balls of brass, I’ll say that.”

“Soldiers like strong leaders,” Powdermill said gloomily.

Huntsekker glanced at him. “Why so melancholy? We’ve damn near tripled the size of the army, and our immediate enemies are dead. I’d say that was a victory to be thankful for.”

“I’ll be thankful just to be alive two months from now.” Powdermill leaned his slender frame against the battlements and stared down at the mass of soldiers below. There were some fifteen tables set out, and lines of men had formed before each of them. “Galliott is a good organizer,” he said.

“Aye, he’s solid,” agreed Huntsekker. “So you think it was just the strength of the Moidart’s leadership that won the day?”

“No, not just that. He’s a canny man. Soldiers
do
like strong leaders, but they are also pragmatic. The first thing he mentioned was the wages. Dead men don’t pay wages. Once they saw the Pinance’s head, they knew there was only one man who was going to pay them.”

“So you think they’ll leave when they get their coin?”

“Some of them will. I’ll wager they won’t get far.” Powdermill pointed to the southern road. Two columns of the Moidart’s musketeers were marching out toward Old Hills. “They’ll set a trap somewhere along the road and kill any who try to make it back.”

“But the others will stay, you think?”

“Many will. Most of them are mercenaries. If they’re paid on time and they can get strong drink and loose women, they’ll stay. And if they get victories. One defeat and you’ll see this little army bleed away in days.”

“You
are
in a sour mood.”

“Aye, I am. Do you fear death, Huntsekker?”

The big man tugged at the twin silver spikes of his beard. “Don’t think about it overmuch.”

“Well, I thought I feared death worse than anything else. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Is this about the dream you had?”

“It
wasn’t
a dream,” snapped Powdermill. “It was a
vision
. I saw a city and a man wearing a crown of antlers. No, not a man exactly. I don’t know what he was. But I sensed his power, Huntsekker. It was colossal. This was someone—some
thing
—that could rule the living and the dead.”

“Makes no sense to me.”

“Nor me, but it wasn’t a dream. I felt terror such as I never thought to experience.”

“Well, there’s no terror here and now. The sky is blue. We are both alive, and we have an army. I’m satisfied with that for the moment. Now, aren’t you supposed to be going into a trance or whatever you do? The Moidart wants to know what is happening with his son.”

“I’m too frightened, Huntsekker. I can avoid these Redeemers or spit castaway spells at them. But what if the man with the antlers is waiting for me? He’ll tear my soul to shreds.”

Huntsekker heaved his huge bulk onto the battlements. “Look at it this way, Aran. There
may
be a man with antlers waiting for you. On the other hand, there
is
the Moidart. He won’t rip your soul from your body. He will, however, rip your body. That’s a certainty.”

“Greed got me into this,” Powdermill said, mournfully. “I swear to the Source that if I get out of this alive, I’ll never give in to greed again.”

Huntsekker laughed. “We are what we are, little man. We won’t change. Now, set to and see something we can take to the Moidart.”

13

Galliott the Borderer stood up from the table and made way for Sergeant Packard to replace him. The fingers of his right hand were ink-stained, and his wrist ached from the hours of unaccustomed writing. The ledgers he had purchased from Wincer’s store were all full now, and the names of newly enlisted men were being written on spare sheets of paper.

And this was only the beginning. The new soldiers would have to be assigned to officers, billeted, fed, and paid. The logistic nightmare was making Galliott’s head spin. He had sent riders into Eldacre to gather clerks, who would, he hoped, have access to a supply of new ledgers and would then take the responsibility of gathering names and information.

It was all very well acquiring an army, but the organization of it was a massive headache.

Galliott moved away from the table. As he walked toward the castle, several of the Pinance’s officers approached him, firing questions for which he had as yet no answers.

“All will be made clear when the Moidart meets you this afternoon,” he said, keeping his voice calm and his manner assured.

Once clear of them, he entered the castle and made his way to his office on the first floor. Possibly twelve thousand new men now had to be absorbed into the Moidart’s force. Apart from feeding and housing them, they would need to be paid. The Pinance had offered a chailling a month for musketeers, two for cavalry, and three for officers. This was a third higher than the Moidart paid his own men. Therefore, to prevent mutiny and desertion, all the Moidart’s soldiers would need to have their wages raised. Seventeen thousand soldiers, averaging, say, a chailling and a half per month, would cost the Eldacre treasury what? Sitting at his desk, Galliott dipped his quill pen into an ink jar and began to write figures on a sheet of paper. Seventeen thousand multiplied by one and a half made 25,500 chaillings. Dividing this by twenty to arrive at pounds, Galliott discovered that the treasury would need 1,275 pounds a month merely for wages. Adding in the cost of feeding the men would raise it by? Angrily he tossed aside the pen.

The treasury contained just over two thousand pounds. Taxes would raise the figure by roughly four hundred pounds each quarter. The last quarter’s revenues had just been gathered, so it would be twelve weeks before any new funds were available.

It did not take a mathematician to know that the Moidart could not afford an army of this size. He had promised the Pinance’s men they would be paid their first month’s wage tomorrow. That would come close to emptying the treasury.

In a month’s time there would be nothing left to pay them.

Galliott had nothing but admiration for the Moidart’s plan to defeat the Pinance. It was masterly. Yet its achievement had caused massive problems.

Picking up his quill, Galliott worked on for half an hour, producing estimates.

Then Sergeant Packard tapped at his door, entered, and saluted. Packard was a big man, a twelve-year veteran, solid and reliable. He was tough and brighter than his bluff, everyman manner would indicate. “Clerks is here, sir. The lines are getting shorter.”

“What’s the mood like down there?”

“Most of the soldiers are fine. They had no love for the Pinance. There’s been some talk, though. A couple of my boys heard some Pinancers muttering about revenge.”

“That’s inevitable.”

“I didn’t have ’em rooted out, sir. Thought it might cause problems.”

“That was wise. Most of them will leave.”

“How we going to pay all these men?” asked Packard.

“Good question. I am sure it is one the Moidart has considered.”

“Yes, he’s a clever man,” said Packard. “How did he know they wouldn’t fire on us the moment we marched up to the castle?”

“I don’t think he did
know
,” said Galliott. “It was a calculated risk. We didn’t come in with muskets ready. We just marched slowly to the walls and began to erect tents. There was nothing threatening in our movements. If it had been the other way around, would you have opened fire on the men pitching their tents?”

“I guess not. I’d have thought the generals had patched up a treaty or something.”

“There you are, then. Any word on the Redeemer?”

“No, sir. Looks like he slipped away.”

“The Moidart won’t be pleased with that.”

Galliott pushed himself to his feet and scratched at his unshaved chin. He had not slept for twenty-eight hours. He felt bone-weary.

“You look all in, sir.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” said Galliott. “I need to see the Moidart. You keep an eye on the clerks and make sure all the ledgers and papers are secure.”

“Yes, sir. What will happen now, sir?”

“In what way, Sergeant?”

“Well, we’ve killed the Pinance and his generals, and we’ve got most of his troops. So who is there to come against us? I mean, the king is fighting Luden Macks. They won’t be able to send a big army against us.”

“I’ll remember to make your concerns known to the Moidart,” said Galliott.

The Great Hall at Eldacre Castle was rarely used. Once a year, on the Day of the Veiled Lady, its high vaulted ceiling would echo to the sounds of music and laughter as hundreds of invited guests from Eldacre and the surrounding areas came to enjoy the Moidart’s hospitality. The Moidart, who loathed such occasions, would appear at the start, greet a few of the most important guests, and then leave the gathering to the revelers.

Now 207 officers were gathered. There was no seating, and the three huge fireplaces were empty of coal or wood. Lanterns had been lit and hung on brackets around the walls, the flickering light reflecting from the marble statues set in the many alcoves.

The floor had been decorated with a giant fawn in brambles mosaic, the family crest of the Moidart.

The gathering officers formed a number of groups. The forty-one Eldacre men gravitated toward Galliott at the eastern side of the hall. The Pinancers remained separate. There was a feeling of tension in the air, and Galliott was only too aware that no order had been given to disarm the Pinancers. All the officers wore swords and daggers, and many had pistols tucked into their belts.

There were stairs leading to a gallery at the northern end of the hall, and it was from those stairs that the Moidart made his entrance. An immediate hush fell over the crowd, and Galliott cast nervous glances at the waiting men, dreading that one of them would pull a pistol.

The Moidart, resplendent now in a gray satin shirt edged with black silk, gray leggings, and riding boots, raised his arm. “Gather around,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

The officers edged forward. Galliott, his mouth dry, his heart beating wildly, moved to the front and left and stood watching the officers, his hand on the pistol in his belt.

The Moidart seemed unconcerned with thoughts of danger. His cold, hawklike eyes scanned the men. “First I have news from the south, gentlemen. The king is dead, murdered by those he trusted.” Galliott’s fear of assassination melted away. The news was stunning. No one spoke, and the Moidart allowed his words to hang in the air. “You will hear in the days to come,” he said after a few moments, “that the king was murdered by Luden Macks in a treacherous attack. This is not true. The king was slain by Lord Winterbourne. He was hung on a stake, his throat cut in a Redeemer ritual. His death was painful and slow. His children and his wife were also murdered.”

Galliott stared at the faces all around him. The silence held an almost unbearable tension. “Luden Macks is also dead,” continued the Moidart. “Having signed a truce, he believed in the old notions of chivalry and honor. Lord Winterbourne’s troops attacked his camp. Macks was killed while trying to lead a countercharge. His men were scattered or slain. Those of his generals who were taken alive have been burned at the stake. Winter Kay and his Redeemers now rule the south.”

Once more he paused for a moment. “This leaves us with hard decisions to make. The Pinance was misled by the Redeemers. He was told that I was a traitor to the king. Most of you will have heard this also. It is why he marched you all into my lands. He was tricked, lied to, and deceived. He died for it. You are alive. It is my hope that you are king’s men and that you will wish to see him avenged. It may be that some of you harbor covenant loyalties. If so, you may wish to see Luden Macks avenged. Others may desire to flee this coming war. By heaven, that is understandable. I wish I could flee it myself. Does any man here wish to leave now?”

No one spoke, though the officers turned and glanced at one another. “You need have no fear, gentlemen. There will be no treachery. Two hundred or so men have already departed for the territory of the Pinance. I had it in mind to have them killed on the way home, but events have made their departure insignificant. Any here who wish to leave may do so without fear of harm.”

“Might I ask what your intentions are, my lord?” asked an officer. He was the man who had spoken to Galliott earlier. He was young, no more than twenty years old, his hair fair, his eyes a soft brown. He did not look like a fighter, thought Galliott.

“My intentions, young man, are to fight. Winter Kay will bring his armies north.”

“Aye, my lord, I expect that he will. He will outnumber us greatly and will also bring cannon.”

“Indeed so. What is your point?”

“The Pinance had ordered cannon for the breaching of this castle. Those cannon will even now be on their way. It would be wise to send troops to intercept them before they hear of events at Eldacre and turn back.”

“An excellent thought,” agreed the Moidart. “Now we must turn our attention to the structure of our forces. We have here some two hundred junior officers. Outside these walls we have seventeen thousand men. I will need four generals from among you and twenty senior officers with the rank of colonel. Under normal circumstances I would know each of you well and would have taken the measure of your strengths and weaknesses. I know few of you well and most of you not at all. What I do believe, however, is that
you
know the men in this hall who would make the best generals and colonels. Therefore, you will choose twenty-four officers from among your number. Those twenty-four will then choose the four who will become generals. The four will report to me with Colonel Galliott in two hours. Are there any further questions?”

Galliott could see that there were, but no one spoke. “Very well,” said the Moidart. “I shall leave you, gentlemen, to your deliberations. Choose wisely. Do not consider voting for reasons of advancement or future reward. Your lives will rest on the choices you make today.” He paused, then pointed at the young officer who had spoken earlier. “You, sir, what is your name?”

“Bendegit Law,” replied the officer.

“Well, Bendegit Law, I am promoting you to the rank of colonel. How many men will you need to take the cannon and bring them to Eldacre?”

“Two hundred should be sufficient, sir. Cavalry, of course.”

“Choose your men and leave as soon as you have cast your vote.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Without another word the Moidart turned and walked up the stairs.

As soon as he had gone, the hubbub began. Galliott moved to the far wall and sat down on the floor, his back resting against the marble base of a statue. For a blessed few moments he dozed. Then an officer approached him. “How best do you think we should conduct this election, sir?” he asked.

Galliott allowed himself the fantasy of drawing his pistol and shooting the man in the head. Then he wearily pushed himself to his feet.

Galliott was not the only weary man in the castle. Huntsekker felt the weight of his years as he walked along the corridor. His left elbow was aching, a sure sign that rain was on the way, and his heart was heavy. He had not lied to Powdermill about being relieved that the Moidart’s plan had succeeded. What he had not said was how tired he was of killing. He had spent the whole of the previous day hidden with the Moidart in the secret passageways of Eldacre Castle, waiting for nightfall. When that had come, they had sat quietly in the darkness. Once the enemy generals had taken to their beds, Huntsekker had emerged. He had killed most of them in their sleep, but the Pinance’s nephew had awoken just as Huntsekker’s knife was poised above his throat. He had struggled, grabbing Huntsekker’s wrist. Then he had begged. “I have children!” he had wailed. Huntsekker had killed him, anyway.

How many was that? he wondered. How many men have I killed for the Moidart? He had lost count years ago.

Would they all be waiting for him in the Void?

Huntsekker shivered and plodded on toward the Moidart’s rooms. His mind reeled with weariness and shame, which was why he forgot to knock at the Moidart’s door. Instead he lifted the latch and pushed open the door, stepping inside.

The Moidart, bare-chested, was standing by his desk, applying a pale unguent to his scarred upper body. Huntsekker stood in stunned amazement. The Moidart’s back was covered with angry scar tissue, the flesh twisted and puckered. There was blood seeping from a fist-sized scar over his right hip. The nobleman was engrossed in his actions and failed to see Huntsekker, who silently stepped back outside, drawing the door closed. Then he rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Who is it?” came the commanding voice.

“It is I, my lord. Huntsekker.”

“Wait!”

Huntsekker crossed the corridor and sat on a wooden bench. The wounds looked almost fresh, and the pain from them would be ghastly. He could also tell that they extended to the man’s chest, for that was where the Moidart was applying the balms. How in the name of heaven did the man carry on with his life?

“Come!” called the Moidart.

Huntsekker entered the room. The Moidart had put on a gray silk robe and was now sitting behind his desk. The jar of unguent cream remained. Huntsekker saw that it was almost empty.

“Is Powdermill recovered?” asked the Moidart.

“Aye, my lord. Though his fear is growing. Good news, though, about Lord Gaise escaping the trap.”

“He is not safe yet. They will send men after him. I need you to go north. At speed.”