'He resisted all pressure until we sawed off his foot. I swear these clansmen have little feeling. They do not experience pain as we do.'
'How will you use this information? With two hundred men we cannot storm Call Jace's stronghold.'
'No, not yet. But I think the Moidart will begin to make plans when he learns of the cannon. Then we can burn out these rebels once and for all.'
Linax began coughing again, but the spasm passed swiftly. 'I knew a man once,' he said, 'whose house was infested with cockroaches. They drove him crazy. In the end he torched his home. It burned very brightly. And he was highly successful. As he stood among the charred ruins the following day he did not see a single cockroach.'
'Your meaning is lost on me, sir, I am afraid.'
'It is one thing to light a fire, captain, quite another to control it. And I think you may be wrong about the Moidart. Have you heard from the capital lately?'
'Not in the last month, sir.'
'There is more talk of unrest. The king's popularity is not what it was, and he is still at loggerheads with the Tribune Chamber. Civil war is coming, Ranaud. Not this year perhaps, or even next. But it is coming. The Moidart will have to choose sides. He will not want to commit troops so far north when he has enemies of his own far closer.'
'A campaign here would be over in days,' said Ranaud. 'We'd hang Jace and fifty or so of his senior men, indenture half of the clan to work in the mines, and build a garrison at the centre of Rigante territory.'
'Do not let your success in the Isles go to your head, captain. Yes, they were troublesome, but they were badly led, badly provisioned, and carried no real weaponry. Call Jace has probably two thousand fighting men, and he is a real leader. He is clever - cunning if you like - and unafraid. I do not think it would be over in days.'
That's because you are old and dying, thought Ranaud savagely. You have invested these qualities in Jace so that your own failures become more understandable. There was little point in telling this weak and indecisive man that he had already set in motion a plan to eliminate Call Jace. The Rigante leader had built his tiny empire on bands of murderous raiders operating to the east of Black Mountain. Well, two could play that game. Ranaud had been gathering intelligence about Jace for the last few months. The Rigante was known to frequent the house of a young widow half a day's walk from the sanctuary of his own lands. Ranaud had sent eight men into the mountains; hard, ruthless men. They would wait until Jace showed himself, then kill him. Without their leader the Black Rigante would be infinitely easier to handle.
Tense now, and angry, he bowed to the colonel. I will spend the afternoon with the prisoner, he decided. It will be pleasant to listen to his screams as we cut away his other foot.
The visit to the barracks had disturbed Kaelin Ring. There was something chilling about Captain Ranaud that left an edge of fear in the young Rigante. The man had known about his fight with Bael, and the fact that he had used a pistol. There was no doubt about that in Kaelin's mind. So why had Kaelin not been arrested? The answer was obvious, and contained in the old proverb: the enemy of my enemy must therefore be my friend. Ranaud believed Kaelin Ring had cause to hate Call Jace and his family. As long as he continued to believe this then Kaelin would be safe. The moment the beetleback realized his mistake Kaelin would be arrested and hanged.
Jaim's advice had been sound. But all that had been gained was a reprieve. Kaelin Ring would never supply Ranaud with information to be used against Call Jace and the Rigante. In fact the reverse was true. Kaelin was anxious to pass on to Jace the fact that Ranaud was gathering information about his stronghold.
He was tempted to wait until the next tribute was due, and then explain what had happened to whichever of the Rigante came for the cattle. Then he thought again of Ranaud and his knowledge of the trouble with Bael. Someone had described the scene. It could have been that word of it just spread, a casual word here and there, the information pieced together by Ranaud. But even back in Old Hills there were known to be informers who would sell information to the beetlebacks for coin. Here it would be no different. What if Senlic Carpenter or Finbarr Ustal were in the pay of Ranaud? What if some of Jace's own men were informers? If Kaelin told the wrong person then his own life would be forfeit.
No, he decided on the third day after the meeting with Ranaud, I will confide only in Jace. Chara's face appeared in his mind, and he acknowledged that this would be a fine way to settle the impasse that kept them both from seeing one another.
The following day he spent in the company of Senlic Carpenter and Finbarr Ustal. Five hundred and sixty steers had been grouped in the south pastures, ready for the drive to southern markets. Finbarr had hired twenty drovers for the trip. Kaelin listened as Senlic offered advice to the younger man about routes, watering places, and areas to avoid, and gave him a list of the names of prominent farmers along the way who would need to be paid for grazing rights. Finbarr was obviously looking forward to the trip, and pleased that this new responsibility had been offered him.
Later that evening Kaelin confided to Senlic that he intended to set out for the lands of the Black Rigante the following morning.
'Not wise to go uninvited, lad,' said Senlic. 'What do you want there?'
'I want to see Chara,' Kaelin told him.
'Aye, she's a fine-looking lass. I heard you asked for her hand. But if she's turned you down once she's likely to do so again.'
'She didn't turn me down. She said she needed time to think on it. A month is enough.'
'You can't rush women into that kind of decision,' said the old man, with a smile. 'Took three years before my woman agreed to Walk the Tree with me.'
'I didn't know you were wed.'
'Twenty-six years, Kaelin. Fine years mostly. One morning I woke up and she was lying quietly beside me. I leaned over to kiss her cheek, and I realized she'd gone. Just like that. Slipped away in the night. Twenty-six years and no chance to say goodbye. Ah, but that was hard. Mighty hard.'
Kaelin felt suddenly awkward. In that moment Senlic seemed old and fragile, his eyes sorrowful. The silence was uncomfortable. Kaelin broke it. 'You have children?' he asked, anxious to steer the conversation away from death and regret.
'Seven. Six boys and a girl. Actually there were ten, but three did not survive past infancy. But let's not talk about it, Kaelin. It makes me maudlin.'
'I am sorry, Senlic. I did not wish to pry.'
Senlic sighed, then forced a smile. 'My father always told me that life was nothing but memories. He was right. As each moment passes it becomes history. He thought it was important to hold on to the moment, savouring it. He often talked of good times past, and hoped that the future would supply more golden memories. The truth is, though, that memories are only golden when shared; when you can say to a loved one, "Do you remember that walk by the orchard grove when first we held hands?" She will smile and say, "Of course I do, you old fool." That is the joy of memories. When Katra died she took half my life with her, and now the memory of the orchard is at best bittersweet. Ah, I am getting old and I talk too much.'
Senlic heaved himself from the chair and stretched his back. ‘I’ll have a pack ready for you tomorrow when you leave. Try to keep it safe from bears this time.' Then he patted Kaelin's shoulder and left the house.
Holding his broken left arm to his chest, Call Jace slid down the gulley on his back. His leg hit a tree root, which twisted him, and he began to roll. The fractured forearm struck a rock. Jace cried out. At the bottom of the gulley he lay still, gritting his teeth against the agony. Then he sat up. Blood had soaked his black shirtsleeve. Carefully he undid the button of his cuff and folded back the sleeve. The ball had hit his forearm, shattering the bone. There was no exit wound. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff and swollen.
In the distance he heard the dogs barking. Jace swore and struggled to his feet. His pistol was gone, discharged into the face of one of his attackers, then knocked from his hand in the short
fight that followed. His sword too was lost, trapped between the ribs of another man. He hoped the bastard would die hard.
Jace moved along the gulley and into the stream, splashing through the clear water and emerging on the other side. He took five steps then stopped. With great care he extended his right foot backwards, placing it into the last footprint he had made, then did the same with the left. He did this until he was standing once more in the stream. Then, with water swirling around his ankles, he pushed on, following the line of the stream as it angled north-west. Without pursuers this route would have him back in Rigante country in around five hours. Trouble was the hunters knew this too. If Jace headed for home - as they must be expecting - they would cut him off. With one useless arm, and no sword, he would be killed without undue effort.
Jace kept to the stream for a quarter of a mile, then emerged on the same side as he had entered, clambering up over a gently sloping rocky outcrop and then onto a deer trail that cut back towards the south-east. The fingers of his injured arm were throbbing now, the skin tight and stretched. He had been lucky. He had seen the musketeer at the last moment and had instinctively thrown up his arm as the man fired. The shot would otherwise have struck him in the head. The musketeer had dropped his weapon and pulled a pistol from his belt. He was marginally too slow. Jace drew his own flintlock and discharged it, the ball taking the assassin in the bridge of the nose, smashing his skull.
Other men had rushed from the trees. Jace had time to draw his sabre and plunge it into the body of the foremost. The man had screamed and, twisting as he fell, dragged the sword from Jace's hand. As the others closed in the Rigante leader had spun on his heel and fled into the forest.
Call Jace glanced up at the sky. Close to two hours had passed since he had been shot. Twice musket balls had screamed by him -one ricocheting from a tree trunk and spattering his face with splinters. Now they had brought dogs into the hunt. He scrambled up a steep bank and paused at the top, crouching low and listening. The dogs were not barking now. Think, man! What to do, where to go?
No longer a young man, Jace was already tired from the chase, though there was some strength left. How many were hunting him? He thought back to the moment he had emerged from the trees at the back of Magra's house. One man he had shot, another he had stabbed. Four had come running from the front of the house. Was it only four giving chase? If so who was holding the dogs? Were there others in the house guarding Magra?
Only one musketeer had been at the rear of the building, the rest in hiding at the front. Had he emerged from the trail at any other point it would have been more than his arm they'd have hit.
Jace had approached the house from the front, but had held back, scanning the building. Magra knew he was coming, and they had worked out a simple code. If it was safe to come in Magra would leave a water jug on the porch. There had been no jug.
He should have eased himself back into the trees then, and returned home. But he was concerned about Magra, and so had worked his way round to the rear. It was a mistake. Even so, you are alive, he told himself.
Once again he heard the dogs barking, this time from below and to the north. They were in the gulley.
Keeping low Jace began to climb, topping the rise and angling his route back towards the one place they would not think of searching. It took almost an hour.
Now, once again, he was hidden in the trees by Magra's small house. The two dead men lay where they had fallen. Jace scanned the area, circling it, just in case anyone had been left on guard. At last he quit the sanctuary of the trees and ran to the man he had stabbed. His sabre was still imbedded in the corpse and Jace dragged it clear. Then he recovered his fallen pistol, thrusting it into his belt. There was no movement from the house, and, with a heavy heart, Call Jace moved across the clearing and up onto the porch. He had spent many happy hours in this secluded place, and the memory of Magra's laughter filled his mind.
Her naked body was in the bedroom, though not on the bed. It lay against the far wall. It seemed to Jace that she must have cowered there, for her legs were drawn up tight against her body. Blood from her slashed throat had flowed across her breasts, and then pooled on the wooden boards beneath her.
'I'm sorry, lass,' said Call. 'Had I loved you less no-one would have come here. Had I loved you more I'd have taken you to my home.'
Turning on his heel he strode out and returned to the trees.
Call Jace was no longer tired. He had his hunting knife, his sabre, his pistol, and enemies to kill. Aye - and a broken arm and a body past its prime! Get a hold of yourself, man, he thought. This is no time to be thinking like an old-style Rigante berserker. Magra must be avenged, that is true. But you can't do it in this condition. First you must escape your hunters. His heart yearned to go after them, but his head remained cool. Magra was dead. Nothing could change that. Yet in order to avenge her Call needed to see the killers, to know them. He had only caught the barest glimpse in that first attack. How could he get close without the dogs scenting him?
Turning again he moved swiftly back into the house, and through to the narrow kitchen. At the back of a small cupboard he found a pottery spice jar. Pulling clear the cork lid, he carefully sniffed the contents. As a young man Jace had discovered the joys of spiced food. Peppercorns were expensive, but he had acquired a store of them. Some he had given to Magra, to be used when she cooked for him. From another cupboard he took a small peppermill, and ground the spice to a fine powder. Returning to the doorway, he sprinkled half of the black powder across the opening. Leaving the house through the rear window he ran across to the tree line, pausing to sprinkle more powder into two of the bootprints he had made.
Once between the trees he reloaded his pistol. It was not easy with one hand, but, sitting down, he gripped the butt between his knees and tipped in a measure of gunpowder from his horn, followed by a ball, and then a wad to hold it in place. Filling the flash pan was even more difficult, but he managed it. Satisfied the weapon was primed, he drew back the hammer and waited.
Time passed slowly and it was almost an hour before he heard the sounds of men moving through the trees far to his right. The first of the killers came into sight. Two sleek, powerful hunting hounds were straining at the leash, almost dragging the man forward. Call Jace narrowed his eyes. He had never seen the man before, but he would know him again. Four other men followed, all carrying long-barrelled muskets. These too were unknown to Jace. A sixth man followed at the rear. His face was familiar, but Jace could not place him.
The dog handler released the leash and the hounds bounded towards the house, barking furiously. The first of them reached the doorway, sniffed the pepper and immediately began to shake its head and snort. But the second did not follow its example. It ran into the house - then leapt through the rear window and came like an arrow towards Jace's hiding place. It did not pause to sniff the bootprints.
Jace eased himself back into the trees. The hound cleared the first bush with a prodigious leap. The Rigante leader laid down his pistol and drew his hunting knife. As the dog leapt at him Jace rolled to his left, slamming the blade deep into the animal's side. Its jaws raked his shoulder, tearing the skin. Dragging the knife clear Jace plunged it three times into the beast's neck. The dog slumped to the ground.
Sheathing his knife, Jace took up the pistol and peered over the bush. Some of the men had gone into the house. Two others - one the dog handler - were moving towards the trees. The handler was calling out a name. Beside Jace the dying dog whimpered in response.
'Sheila, where are you, boy?'
As the two men came close Jace reared up. His pistol boomed, the shot taking the musketeer full in the face, and hurling him off his feet. Dropping the pistol Jace drew his sabre and leapt forward. The unarmed dog handler stood rooted in shock - even as Jace's blade opened his throat.
Spinning on his heel Jace threw himself back towards the bushes just as the thunder of a musket blast sounded from the rear window. While holding the sw
ord hilt Jace could not gather his pistol. He swore and let go of the sword. Rolling over he grabbed the pistol, pushing it into his belt. Then he snatched his sword, pulled himself to his feet and began to run once more. A musket ball tore through the shoulder of his leather shirt, scoring the skin, but not penetrating it.
Four dead. The odds were smaller now, but still formidable. Three men with muskets - and the young, fair-haired man with the familiar face. Jace doubted the surviving dog would soon recover its sense of smell.
But he was wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PERSIS ROEBUCK HAD NEVER WANTED TO BE A KILLER. IT HAD ALWAYS been his dream to attend the Apothecary College in Baracum, and then, perhaps, if fortune favoured him, to go on to become a surgeon. His father had encouraged him always to be ambitious, but never haughty or arrogant.
Persis had studied hard, and had even written to Apothecary Ramus in Old Hills, asking questions about herbs and their uses. Ramus had been kind enough to reply, and had sent several books, complete with hand-painted illustrations, to aid the young man in his quest.
Five years ago Persis had been a happy and contented young man, living with his widowed father on their farm just east of the Black Mountain settlement. The farm was not a rich one, for the earth was thin, and grazing for the cattle sparse. His father owned only sixty head, but he had acquired a fine bull, whose talents as a stud brought in extra income. It was this income that allowed Persis to acquire the books to prepare for the entrance examination to the college. His father had been a fine man, upstanding and righteous. He had no hatred for the highlanders, and taught Persis never to look down on another man for the sake of his blood, or his religion. 'The Source loves all men,' he would say.
When the Black Rigante bastard Call Jace had come to the farm his father had greeted him cordially, offering refreshment. Persis had sat quietly in the corner. Only thirteen years old, he had not fully understood the nature of their conversation. It was something to do with tribute payments. His father had told Jace he saw no reason to pay for a service he did not need, and pointed out that his farm was too poor to suffer attacks from raiders. Jace seemed to accept this, but urged his father to reconsider his position. These are dangerous times,' he said.