“With respect, Dweller,” said Bael, “we have only your word that any of this . . . history . . . is true.”
His words stunned the Dweller. She looked at him and could find nothing to say.
“You think the Dweller would lie?” put in Rayster, his face ashen. “You will withdraw that, Bael. Instantly!”
“I am not saying anything of the kind,” snapped Bael. “What I am saying is that one woman’s view of world history is not necessarily accurate. She was not there during the time of Cernunnos or at the coming of these Dezhem Bek. These are men who have sought to use the skull for their own ends. It does not make the skull evil any more than a sword is evil. It is the man who wields it.”
“I trust the Dweller,” said Arik Ironlatch. “If she says we must fight, then we must fight.”
“I agree,” said Rayster.
“I am with Bael on this,” said Korrin Talis. “What do you say, Kaelin?”
Kaelin Ring pushed back his chair and stood. Having arrived only that morning, he was still wearing his traveling clothes, a jerkin of gleaming black leather, buckskin trews, and boots. He had shaved off his beard, and the saber scar on his cheek showed clearly. His dark eyes scanned the men in the room, coming at last to Bael. “For years,” he said, “the Wyrd—or as you call her, the Dweller—warned your father of a great evil coming from the south. Your father believed her. This is why we have spent four years training our men. Now the evil is upon us. I am not interested in ancient legends, and I have no time to debate the nature of evil or the desires of dead gods. What I know is that an army will march on the north. Either we support the Moidart or we do not. Either we fight as a clan or we do not. I have spoken to the Wyrd, and I believe her. Therefore, I will fight.”
“You are not the clan chieftain,” said Bael. “You cannot choose whether we fight or stand.”
“I did not say ‘we’, Bael. I said I would fight. I will fight because it is right to do so. The Redeemers—or their minions—have killed Finbarr Ustal and his family. They cut down Senlic Carpenter. They have tried to kill my wife and my child. They are my blood enemies now regardless of any other consideration.”
“They are not mine,” said Bael.
“They would have been your father’s,” snapped Kaelin.
Bael lurched to his feet. “That is not true! My father also believed the Dweller. She told him the enemy was the Moidart. Now she tells us we should fight alongside the Moidart. What next, Ravenheart? I respect the Dweller. She has worked tirelessly for our clan both here and in the south. But she is not infallible. She has already been proved wrong once. Why not twice?”
“You are twisting the facts, Bael,” retorted Kaelin. “The Dweller knew that evil was coming. She assumed it would emanate from the Moidart. That was a natural assumption. She was not wrong, though. That evil is upon us.”
Arik Ironlatch moved alongside Kaelin. “Sit down, lad. We are getting ahead of ourselves. Only one man can say whether the clan will go to war. That man is the elected clan chief. So let us do what we are here for and elect a leader.”
He swung toward the Dweller. “Lady, you have spoken your piece, and we have listened to your words. It is time now for us to move on.” He turned to Rayster. “And since we are to vote and Rayster has no vote, he must also leave. I wish that it were not so. In fact, I repeat now my offer to formally adopt Rayster and give him my name. Should he accept, then his vote will be cast with the other chiefs here.”
Rayster bowed to the old warrior. “You do me great honor, Arik. I would have been proud to be your son. I am not, though. So I will leave and follow loyally whoever is elected. May I offer one thought before I go?”
“You may,” said Ironlatch.
Rayster looked at Kaelin and Bael. “There is anger now between you,” he said softly. “This saddens me, for you are both fine men. I was there when you fought your duel, when Bael put that handsome scar upon your face. I was there when you later shook hands and became brothers. You are brothers. You care for one another and for the clan. Do not let anything come between you. We are all Rigante—even when our views differ.”
With that he walked from the room. The Dweller followed him.
Inside all was silent for a moment.
“Four names have been put forward,” said Arik Ironlatch. “Bael Jace, Kaelin Ring, Korrin Talis, and myself. I withdraw on the grounds of age, though I thank those who considered me. Thirty men were entitled to vote. Twelve cast their vote for Kaelin Ring, twelve for Bael, four for myself, and two for Korrin. As is our way, these votes were cast in secret. Now, however, we need a show of hands.”
“I wish to stand down,” said Korrin Talis.
“So be it. How many here wish to vote for Bael Jace?”
“Wait!” said Kaelin Ring, once more rising to his feet. “I have already said that it is my intention to travel south and fight the enemy. If Bael will agree to the Rigante entering this war, then I will withdraw also. If not, I stand.”
Bael looked at Kaelin in surprise, then switched his gaze to Arik Ironlatch.
“What say you, Bael Jace?” asked Arik.
Bael took a deep breath and scanned the group. He knew the men who had voted for him and those who had voted for Kaelin. The question was: How many votes could he expect from the remaining six who had wished to see either Korrin or Arik lead the clan? Potter Highstone would have been one who voted for Korrin. The other would have been Korrin himself. Both of these votes should come to me, thought Bael, though Potter had always spoken highly of Kaelin Ring. Damn, but there was no way to know! The likelihood was that Bael’s destiny would be decided by a single vote. Bael met Kaelin’s steady gaze. His expression was unreadable.
Bael had two choices: take the risk that he had enough votes or accept the leadership with the understanding that the Rigante would go to war.
Like his father before him Bael Jace was a pragmatist. Rising from his seat, he moved to stand beside the chieftain’s chair. “I accept Kaelin Ring’s offer. And since there are no other candidates, I take my father’s seat.” Pulling back the chair, he sat down. “And before we talk of the war coming to Eldacre, would someone fetch Rayster. His wisdom will be needed here.”
14
* * *
Having checked on the sentries, Mulgrave sat quietly by the campfire. Around him some of the men were sleeping; others sat in small groups, speaking in hushed voices. Gaise Macon had wandered away into the woods alone. Mulgrave was glad of that, for he did not wish to talk to him at the moment. He would not know what to say.
After the battle at Shelding Gaise had led the survivors east and then north, bypassing the artillery force. They had made good progress despite the fact that more than forty of the men were wounded. Three had died on the journey so far. It was likely several more would succumb.
Gaise had sent outriders to scout ahead. One of them had returned on the second day of travel with news of a small column of musketeers with some fifty cavalry moving to the northeast. Gaise had made no moves to avoid them. As soon as the report was received, he took two hundred men and rode at speed to intercept them. The fight had been brief and bloody. Gaise outmaneuvered the cavalry and led a lightning charge against the startled musketeers. They managed one ragged volley before the Eldacre men tore into them. They were cut to pieces. Many tried to surrender, but Gaise had ordered that no prisoners be taken, and they were killed where they stood, most of them with their hands raised. Then Gaise had turned his attention to the cavalry. They sought to flee and rode into the ambush Gaise had laid. Taybard Jaekel, Jakon Gallowglass, and fifty other musketeers concentrated their fire on the horsemen. The fight was over in a matter of minutes. One officer was taken alive, a young man, tall and well featured. He was in the custody of Lanfer Gosten.
Gaise rode up, Mulgrave alongside him. “We caught this one, sir,” said Lanfer.
“Was there something about my order that you did not understand, Gosten?” Gaise Macon asked coldly.
r /> “Sir?”
“I said no prisoners.”
“Yes, sir, but . . .”
Gaise Macon drew a pistol from the scabbard on his saddle and cocked it. The young officer saw the move. He made as if to speak. The pistol came up, and the shot boomed in the morning air. The officer staggered back, his face a mask of blood, then toppled to the earth.
“Move among the bodies,” Gaise Macon said coldly. “Strip them of all that could prove useful. Be prepared to move on within the hour.”
Swinging his horse, he rode away from the stunned men. Mulgrave did not follow him.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Lanfer Gosten. “I didn’t think . . .”
“Don’t apologize, Lanfer,” said Mulgrave. “You did nothing wrong. Now follow your orders and search the dead.”
“Yes, sir. What’s wrong with him?”
Mulgrave did not reply.
They made another twenty miles before dusk, acquiring supplies from a small village. Gaise paid in coin for the food. Mulgrave avoided him for most of the journey, but as they came toward the woods in which they were now camped, he rode his horse alongside the young warrior. “That was not a noble deed, sir,” he said.
“Tomorrow we will cut to the northwest, then follow the line of the river. There are settlements along the way. We will need to leave the worst of the wounded. They are slowing us down.”
“Put aside your anger, my lord,” advised Mulgrave.
“You are not my priest, Mulgrave.”
“No, sir, I am your friend.”
“Then be a friend. I need no lectures on nobility. Not today.” Gaise spurred his gray gelding and cantered on ahead.
Now, as he sat by the fire, Mulgrave was worried. He believed—hoped probably would be more accurate—that the murder of Cordelia Lowen had temporarily unhinged the young noble. Yet was that true? Gaise had spoken to him in the past of his fear of becoming like his father, of the constant need to hold back the demons in his soul. Had those demons been unleashed?
Mulgrave had been raised in Shelsans. There he had learned of the strange duality that by turns, enhanced or diminished the souls of men. “All people are capable of great love and great hate,” his father had said. “We are all—in spiritual terms—both angelic and demonic, constantly at war with ourselves. To understand this is to overcome it. Do not seek to justify hateful thoughts. Merely accept them as part of the flaws of humanity and move beyond them.” His father had been a gentle, loving man. When the knights of the Sacrifice had butchered the people of Shelsans, Mulgrave had been filled with the desire to visit the same destruction upon them and their families. Yet he had not. He had held, as far as he was able, to the path his father had laid out.
I should never have come to this war, he thought. It has corrupted my soul.
His thoughts turned to Ermal Standfast. The little priest had fled Shelding because he had known the horror that was to come there. He had fled in terror. Many men would brand him a coward and despise him for it. Mulgrave did not. If all men were like Ermal, there would be no wars, no soul-blinding hatred, no acts of murderous revenge. He sighed. And there would be no heroism, no unselfish acts of courage, no strength to face the grim harshness of life. If all men were like Ermal, who would leap into a raging torrent to rescue a child or walk into a plague house to tend to the sick and the dying?
Taybard Jaekel moved alongside him, handing him a tin cup containing hot tisane.
“Thank you,” said Mulgrave.
The soldier nodded and moved away. Mulgrave drank the tisane, then stood and walked around the campsite, moving among the wounded men. They had lost more than a hundred in Shelding. Forty others had died that day. Fewer than three hundred remained, and many of them bore wounds.
A horseman came riding up the slope. Mulgrave stepped out to meet him. It was Able Pearce, a young man from Eldacre, the son of a shoemaker, Mulgrave recalled. Pearce slid from the saddle.
“Any sign of the enemy?” asked Mulgrave.
“No, sir. I rode into a village and went into a tavern. The talk there was of Luden Macks having killed the king.”
“What?”
“The word is that Luden Macks broke the truce and sent a small force to Baracum. The king and his entire family were killed. Lord Winterbourne led his forces against Luden Macks and killed him in revenge.”
“That is nonsense.”
Able Pearce shrugged. “They got the story from soldiers who had passed through.”
“Get some rest, Pearce. I’ll find the general and pass on what you have said.”
“Should mean the war is over, sir, shouldn’t it?”
“Not for us, I fear. Lord Winterbourne wants us dead.”
“I’m sick of this war,” said Pearce. “Today made me sicker, though. I don’t like seeing men shot down who are surrendering. It’s not right.”
“Get some rest,” repeated Mulgrave.
Pearce led his horse toward the picket line, and Mulgrave strolled back past the campfires and into the woods. He found Gaise Macon sitting on the crest of a hill, his eyes focused on the north.
He glanced up as he saw Mulgrave approach. “What news?” he asked.
“The king is dead, with all his family. So is Luden Macks.”
“It does not surprise me. Winterbourne had this planned from the start. It all makes sense now. The nation is rent by civil war, torn and bankrupted by the vanity of a king and the rebellion of a lord. The king’s popularity plummets, as does the reputation of Luden Macks as the champion of the common man. People grow sick of the endless carnage. They cry out for anyone who can bring an end to it. Winterbourne prolonged this war, Mulgrave. It could have been won years ago. He prolonged it because it served his purpose. Had he killed the king two years ago, there would have been an uproar. Had he defeated Macks, the king would have been restored to the crown and Winterbourne again would have been merely another rich lord. Now he has the country—and the crown should he desire it. He has it all. And no one is powerful enough to stand against him.”
“The word is that Macks broke the truce and killed the king,” said Mulgrave.
“A splendid touch. Winter Kay the noble avenger. That is a move that would please the Moidart himself.”
“I expect that it would,” agreed Mulgrave. “As I expect he would have applauded had he seen you shoot an unarmed prisoner in the face.”
Gaise Macon took a deep breath before answering. When he spoke, his voice betrayed his anger. “You push the bounds of friendship too far, Mulgrave.”
“No, sir, I do not. You push them too far when you make me an accessory to murder.”
Gaise Macon gave a harsh laugh. “One man dies, and it is murder. A thousand die, and it is war. What next, Mulgrave? Do we argue about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Gaise rose smoothly to his feet. “I behaved as a noble should. I stayed in Shelding when every instinct bade me take my men and desert. I risked death because I felt it was honorable to do so. Yet there is no honor here, Mulgrave. Winter Kay and his Redeemers are murderous vermin. Honor is just a word to them, a noisy sound with no meaning. And because I held to notions of honor Cordelia is dead. She kissed me, Mulgrave. She opened my heart. She reached in and comforted my soul.” His words tailed away, and Mulgrave saw that he was struggling with his emotions. Gaise swung away and stared out to the north.
“So what is it that you desire now, my lord?” Mulgrave asked softly.
“Oh, the answer to that is simple enough, my friend.” He glanced up. “I expect that we are being observed still, so my words will reach the right ears. I will not rest until Winter Kay and all his Redeemers are dead. I will find each of them, no matter how long it takes. They will all die.”
“The officer today was not a Redeemer. He was a young man obeying his orders.”
Gaise sighed, and Mulgrave saw his shoulders relax and the tension flow out of him. His curiously colored eyes, though, glittered with hatred.
“When we
get to Eldacre, you should leave my service. Where I travel from this moment on there will be blood and death. Those who stand against me will be destroyed or I will be destroyed. No quarter will be asked for, and none will be given. Every Redeemer will perish, as will every man who rides or marches under their banner. Those who supply feed for their horses or water. Those who obey their orders. I will hunt them down and kill them like vermin.”
“What, then, will separate you from Winter Kay? Will you meet evil with evil?”
“Yes,” said Gaise Macon.
When the glowing image of Kranos had appeared two days previously, floating above the skull and the dying king, the Redeemers had sat awestruck, their faces shining with religious zeal. All of them had experienced the surge of power radiating from the figure. It had flowed over them, lifting their spirits, strengthening their bodies.
Not so Winter Kay. He had stood in stunned surprise as the golden light formed into the shape of a man, golden-haired and wondrously handsome. In that moment Winter Kay had felt a truly terrible fear. Like all fanatics and zealots he had never in his life experienced self-doubt. Single-minded and ambitious, he had plotted and planned for years to become king. The Orb of Kranos had merely been a tool toward that end.
The moment when the figure appeared Winter Kay saw all the certainties he had held to so strongly melting away like morning mist in the sunshine.
And when it had spoken, his heart had missed a beat: “On the day of my resurrection you will be blessed, my children.”
Then, as swiftly as it had formed, the image had faded.
The underground chamber was silent, and Winter Kay felt all eyes upon him. “The will of the orb be done,” he managed to say.
Then he had walked back to the blood-drenched skull, covered it with a black velvet cloth, and replaced it in the iron box. He had stood there for some moments, staring into the open, dead eyes of the king. Not one of the Redeemers had moved or spoken. Winter Kay’s mouth was dry.
He swung back to face his followers. “Go, my brothers,” he said, surprised that his voice remained as commanding as ever despite the dryness of his throat and the trembling in his limbs. “We will meet here in three days, and I will explain to you then the mystery you have witnessed.”