“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. Thi
s 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.”
Huntsekker’s heart sank again. Who was he to kill now?
“Yes, my lord.”
“There is a woman there named Maev Ring.”
“I do not kill women,” said Huntsekker, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“Kill women? What are you talking about?”
Huntsekker rubbed at his tired eyes. “Forgive me, my lord.” He sighed. “I am getting tired of death, and I misunderstood.”
“I want you to go to her with a letter from me. I want you to tell her of the situation here and impress upon her the need for unity of purpose. She could be vital, Huntsekker.”
“In what way, my lord?”
“She is rich and, as a highlander unable to bank her wealth, probably has a great deal of gold and silver hidden. My letter will request . . .” Suddenly the Moidart shook his head. “In days not so long gone by I would have confiscated her wealth and had her hanged. Still, no point harping on about long lost golden times. My letter will request a loan.”
“Why send me, my lord? Surely I am more vital here. There will still be those among the Pinancers who will wish to see their lord a
venged.”
“I don’t doubt it. However, you are the man for this task, Huntsekker. She trusts you. You will assure her that my word is good and that every chailling will be repaid, with interest.”
But will it? wondered Huntsekker.
He noticed the Moidart’s hawk eyes staring at him intently. “Do you doubt my word, Harvester?”
“I have served you faithfully, my lord, and I have always been loyal. Do you doubt me?”
“Not so far,” the Moidart answered carefully.
“Then I shall be frank. I helped Maev Ring because of Grymauch. He was a good and heroic man. I promised him that no harm would come to her while I lived. That is not a promise I will break. I am not a forgiving man and will destroy any who seek to harm her.”
“You are getting soft in your old age, Huntsekker. Was a time when you would have had the wit to keep that information to yourself. It does not matter in this case. I, too, have a regard for Maev Ring, and you have my promise that I will not—now or ever—seek to cause her harm.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You liked Grymauch?”
“I did, my lord. He was . . . colorful.”
“Which is why you lied to me about the escape of Chain Shada? You said you were attacked from behind, whereas the reality is that it was Jaim Grymauch who rescued the fighter. Your man, Boillard Seeton, was killed by you to prevent him from giving me their names.”
“So Mulgrave came to you after all. That surprises me, my lord.”
“Life is full of surprises, Huntsekker. It seems no one wanted Grymauch punished. No, it was not Mulgrave. It was a highlander arrested for stealing. He tried to barter for his life by telling a story about how on the night Chain Shada crossed the bridge, he was seen in the company of Grymauch.”
“How did you know about Seeton?” asked Huntsekker.
“I know you, Harvester. Had someone else killed your man, you would have moved mountains to find the killer. Since you did not, then you had to have killed him yourself.”