“What is happening, sir?” he asked.
Gaise called out to the men. “Gather around, lads.” The five hundred riders rode their horses into a circle around him and waited. “We have been betrayed by the southerners,” said Gaise. “All through this war we have suffered their jealousies, aye, and their envy. Northern scum, they called us. They gave us the hardest tasks, and when we performed them with distinction, still they looked down on us.” There was a murmur of agreement from the riders. “Did we let it stop us from our duty? Did we?”
“No,” chorused the cavalry.
“Now they have decided to kill us all. Don’t ask me why, lads. As we speak, General Macy is leading the Second against us, seeking to find us and slay us in our beds. I’ll be honest with you, as I always have. Our escape routes are blocked to the north and the west by hidden cannon. This leaves the east and south. As we know, the east has some rough country, ideal for infantry. My belief is that Macy will send his musketeers and pikemen from that area. Our own musketeers will wait for them. To the south will be Macy himself and his lancers. I for one will not wait to be slaughtered here. I will ride out and smite Macy and his men and scatter them to the winds. We have little time for discussion on this matter, but any man here who wishes to avoid this action has my leave to try to find his way home as best he can.”
He sat silently, eyes scanning the group. No one spoke. For a moment he wondered if he had overgilded his words. Tension was heavy in him, and he wished that Mulgrave were there or even Lanfer Gosten. It was tempting to break the silence, but he held back and waited.
Finally Hew Galliott spoke. “When we have thrashed the lancers,” he said, “will we be going home?”
“Aye, Hew. We will bid farewell to the curs and head north.”
Hew Galliott swung in the saddle. “We are going home,” he called out. “We scatter the bastards, and then we go home!”
A ragged cheer went up. “Very well, then,” shouted Gaise Macon. “Make sure your pistols are primed and your sabers ready. In formation of twos, follow me.”
Back through the town they rode and over the humpbacked bridge, passing the church with its crooked spire. Gaise called Galliott to him, along with another man who had performed well and coolly in previous battles, Able Pearce. Able was popular among the Eldacre men not just for his bravery but because he was the son of the bootmaker Gillam Pearce, who had been murdered four years earlier for speaking up in defense of Maev Ring when she was accused of witchcraft. That put the Pearce family at the center of the legend of Jaim Grymauch, giving Able and his mother celebrity status back in Eldacre.
Gaise told Galliott and Pearce his plan of attack. They would strike the enemy on the road a mile south of Shelding, where it dipped into the woods. There would be good cover on both sides. Galliott would take two hundred men and take to the western woods, and Gaise would attack from the eastern side. Able Pearce would have a hundred men in reserve and swing out to the south, coming in either against the enemy rear or against them as they fled.
“Questions?” asked Gaise.
“Macy has a thousand lancers,” said Pearce. “They’ll be well strung out. That section of wooded road you speak of is only around six hundred yards long at the dip. It’s likely there’ll still be several hundred men yet to reach it when you attack.”
“True. However, Macy and his senior officers will be with the lead column. We hit them first, and the rest will be leaderless when you come in from the rear.”
“Won’t be able to completely close the trap, sir,” observed Galliott. “Once we’re in among them, they’ll be able to flee back up the slopes and away to the south, past Able and his men.”
“That’s what I want. Once they are in full retreat, with no senior officers, they will pose no threat to us. Once that is achieved, we ride back to relieve Mulgrave and the others.”
“We are going to take heavy losses,” said Able. “The Second are fine fighters. They’ll not break easily. We’ll have wounded and, once we are on the run, no surgeons and no hospital tents.”
“Aye, it is grim, lads. No denying it. But we’ll hit them hard and fast. Hew, find a rider to scout ahead. Tell him to avoid being seen. It would be best if he wore a heavy coat over his tunic just in case.”
“Yes, sir.” Galliott did not immediately turn away, and Gaise saw that he looked troubled.
“What is it, Hew?”
“I don’t get it, sir. Why would they want to kill us all?”
“I don’t pretend to understand the workings of the evil mind,” said Gaise. “Lord Winterbourne has twice tried to have me killed. I know not why. Now he has decided to achieve that murder by slaughtering the Eldacre Company. One day, if the Source is willing, I may have the opportunity to ask him the cause of his hatred.”
“He’s a Redeemer,” said Able Pearce. “Vile whoresons all of them. They don’t need a reason for evil. It’s just what they are. It’s the same with the knights of the Sacrifice. I hate them all.”
“Send out the scout, Hew,” said Gaise. Hew Galliott turned his horse and moved back down the column.
“You are wrong, Able,” Gaise said softly. “They will have reasons. To them they will even sound like good reasons. I never yet met an evil man who thought himself evil. My father, a man as vile as any Redeemer, would laugh at being called evil. He would probably speak of dark deeds achieving a greater good.”
“My father wouldn’t,” said Able Pearce. “He was a bootmaker and a gentle man. He never harmed anyone in his life. I used to curse the day Alterith Shaddler came to him and prevailed upon him to stand up in defense of Maev Ring. My mother still does.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Oh, I still regret it, sir. I miss him dreadfully. I was in Varingas when it happened. I did not find out for a month. Why did I change my mind? Hard one to answer. He always taught me to stand up for what was right under my own conscience no matter what the consequences. He did exactly that. I regret it, but it fills me with pride. I used to think he was a weak little man. His death showed me how wrong I was. He was a great man. I pray I will do no less when my time comes.”
“I think blood runs true in your family, Able.”
“I hope so, sir.”
“Ride back and pick your men. Then we’ll plan more as we ride.”
Able swung his horse, and Gaise rode on alone.
Barin Macy rode at the head of the column. His mind was troubled, and he could not shake off the depression that had left him sleepless for the last two nights. Everything about this coming action was wrong. He knew it, had known it from the start. If Macon was truly planning to defect, Eris Velroy would not have asked for a meeting in a deserted wood at night. Orders would have come directly from Winterbourne. The Eldacre Company was a fine and elite fighting force. Macon was a dashing general, reckless and brave.
Macy had met him on a number of occasions. He liked him. There was about him a curious naiveté that seemed odd when set against his tactical acumen. No, this action was about politics. Winterbourne hated Macon and wanted him dead. Hundreds of good, loyal men were going to die because of this hatred.
And you are party to it, Macy told himself as he rode.
Yet what choice did he have? Refusal would have resulted in his own death or banishment. Winterbourne would then have given this task to another commander. The result would be the same. Macon and his men would be dead.
As he rode toward the woods, Macy found this argument limp and worthless.
A rider came galloping along the line of the column. Drawing up alongside Macy, he saluted. “A message, sir,” he said, handing Macy a sealed letter. “I was told it was for you alone, sir,” said the man. Macy thanked him. With another salute the rider swung his mount and galloped away.
Macy stared down at the seal. In the moonlight he could just make out that it was from Winterbourne. The writing above the seal was small and neat, so small, in fact, that Macy had trouble in the dim light making ou
t that it was his name upon it. Dawn was less than half an hour away now, and Macy tucked the letter into his tunic.
Velroy had said that the Redeemers would enter the town after the raid. That would mean citizens being tortured and burned. Macy sighed. He enjoyed army life and, when he had first joined the king’s army, had believed in the cause. His thoughts had been of glory, bravery, and comradeship. Macy had even allowed himself the fantasy that he, too, could achieve the kind of fame once enjoyed by Luden Macks.
Instead he had witnessed the horrors of mutilated corpses and listened to the agonized screams of hideously wounded men. He had learned there were no absolutes in war, no glorious heroes facing vile villains. Just men—thousands of men—all fighting and dying for what they believed in.
Until now.
Vile villains. Did they come more vile than Winterbourne and his Redeemers?
Macy hoped that Konran and the foot soldiers would have taken the town by the time he arrived. He hoped that Gaise Macon would have ridden away, escaping the cannon and the slaughter.
“Avoid evil, my son,” his father used to say. “It carries the seeds of its own destruction.”
The column rode on into the shadowed woods.
Some two hundred yards along the road Barin Macy drew rein. The light was increasing now. He held up his arm for the column to halt. Then he drew the letter from his tunic.
The message was short: “Macon knows of your plan. He intends to waylay you in the woods. Keep away from the road.”
Macy read the message twice, then slowly folded the parchment and replaced it in his tunic. His heart was beating faster as he swung to look at the ground on either side of the road as it sloped upward into the tree line. His mouth was dry.
The woods were silent except for the sound of creaking leather and the snorting of the horses.
Then the air was filled with thunder and screaming shot.
Horses and men went down in scores. Macy felt a blow to his back and slumped forward over his mount’s neck. Struggling back to a sitting position, he tried to pull a pistol from the scabbard on his pommel. Another shot struck him, and he tumbled to the ground.
Horsemen came into sight, charging down the slope. Some of the lancers managed to draw weapons and fire, but they were swiftly cut down. Others spurred their mounts and sought to gallop back down the trail.
Macy managed to crawl to the side of the road. He hauled himself to a sitting position, his back against a fallen tree. Then he watched as the men of the Eldacre Company tore into the shocked and terrified lancers. There was no anger in Macy. He felt calm, a neutral observer watching a drama. He noted the discipline of the attack and its sheer ferocity. He saw with appreciation that a line of escape had been left open. Many of the lancers were spurring their mounts up the slope in a desperate bid to get away from the terror.
Then he saw Gaise Macon, his golden hair shining in the new dawn light.
Glorious heroes, thought Macy. And vile villains.
He felt suddenly thirsty, and then his mind shifted to the old well back at the manor house. He and Mirna loved that well. She always claimed that the water was magical. He smiled at the memory. When the war was over, he would rejoin Mirna and the children and never leave again.
The fighting moved away from him, and the rising sun cleared a section of trees, the light falling upon him. It was a wonderful feeling. He tilted his head to enjoy it. A shadow fell across him. Opening his eyes, he saw Gaise Macon step down from his mount and walk toward him.
“Good morning to you,” said Macy.
“And to you, General. Your men are scattered or dead. I have no time to deal with your wounded.”
“No, I expect not. Beware if you head west or north, Macon. There are cannon hidden.”
“I know. We are not traitors,” said Gaise Macon.
“I worked that out. To my shame I came anyway.” Macy reached for the letter in his tunic and winced. Pain was beginning to radiate from his chest and lower back. He handed the letter to Gaise Macon, who read it swiftly. Macy spoke again. “Velroy told me the Redeemers can see events at great distance. They are probably watching us now.”
Gaise Macon gently opened the offier’s tunic and examined the wounds. He said nothing.
“It is going to be a nice day,” said Macy, tilting his head toward the sun.
He saw Mirna at the well. He was about to ask her to draw him some water.
Then he was falling.
Down and down into darkness.
He had no idea the well was so deep.
Gaise Macon saw him die. “You were a good man, Macy,” he said. Returning to his gray, Gaise stepped into the saddle.
The lancers were fleeing in disorder, and many of the Eldacre men were returning to the wood. From the distance came the sounds of a musket volley. Gaise felt a sudden sadness swamp him. Then Cordelia Lowen’s face appeared in his mind. I will survive this, he thought. I will save my men and take them—and Cordelia north. Away from this war. There was a parcel of land to the east of the Moidart’s winter manor. Gaise had always loved it. I will build a house for us there, he decided.
Then, gathering his men, the Gray Ghost rode back toward Shelding.
12
* * *
At first glance Jakon Gallowglass did not look like a soldier. He was thin and round-shouldered and generally moved with a gangling gait, appearing clumsy and lacking in coordination. His uniforms were always ill-fitting, for his right arm was two inches longer than his left. This, along with his concave chest and sloping shoulders, made him entirely unsuited to the needs of fashion. He was also, as his officers would say continually, disgracefully unkempt and with little understanding of discipline. He had been flogged eleven times during his four years of service. In short, all the reports on Gallowglass stated that he was a bad soldier. He had only one redeeming feature: Jakon Gallowglass was a fighter who did not know when to quit.
It was a skill he needed in all its vicious glory now as he ran back through the streets of Shelding. The enemy had broken through on the right, and the fighting had moved into the back streets. Several of the citizens had tried to run for the transient safety of the meadows. They had been shot down by the advancing musketeers.
Jakon Gallowglass ran around a corner and directly into three advancing musketeers. His musket was empty, but he lashed it across the face of the first man, knocking him from his feet. Dragging his knife from its scabbard, he rammed it into the chest of the second man. The third tried to impale him with his bayonet. Letting go of his knife, Jakon slid to his right, dragging the stabbed man with him. The bayonet plunged into the wounded man. Jakon leaped at the musketeer, cracking a head butt against the man’s nose. The man fell back with a cry of pain. Jakon shoulder charged him from his feet and ran on. Several shots came close, one spattering stone chips from the wall beside him.
“You don’t hear the shot that kills you,” he remembered someone saying.
Oh, yes, he thought as he ducked into an alleyway. So how does anyone know that, then?
Weaponless now, he moved swiftly down the alley, then paused at the far end, risking a glance out onto the wider street beyond. Two musketeers came alongside him. Jakon kicked the first in the knee, then grappled with the second, seeking to wrench his musket from his hands. The man was strong. Jakon tried a head butt. The man swayed away. Jakon kneed him in the groin. He grunted with pain but held on to his musket. The second man was climbing to his feet. He swore at Jakon and advanced with his bayonet poised to strike. Jakon dragged the man he was fighting around so that he was between Jakon’s body and the bayonet. A shot rang out. The second musketeer arched backward, then dropped his weapon. The death of his comrade seemed to stun the man Jakon was grappling with. He tried to pull away. Jakon thrust his head forward, this time successfully butting the man on the bridge of his nose. With a strangled cry he fell toward Jakon, who twisted around, hurling him from his feet. Even before his assailant had hit the ground Jakon had
run to the dead second musketeer and swept up his weapon. The first man, blood leaking from his smashed nose, feebly brought up his musket. Jakon thrust it aside and lanced the bayonet through the man’s tunic. He fell without a sound.
Spinning on his heel, Jakon saw Taybard Jaekel calmly reloading his Emburley. Bringing it to his shoulder, he took aim. Jakon glanced back along the street. Five enemy musketeers had come into sight some forty paces away. Jaekel’s rifle boomed, and one of the men went down. The others charged. Taybard took off down the alleyway opposite to where Jakon stood. Jakon needed no invitation to sprint across the road and follow him. Shots screamed around him.
He saw Taybard scramble over a low wall and ran to join him. Once more the Eldacre man was reloading. Jakon checked the flash pan of his stolen musket. It was primed.
“Ready?” Taybard asked coolly.
“Why not?” responded Jakon.
Both men reared up together. The four remaining musketeers were running down the alleyway. Jakon’s shot took one of them in the face. Taybard shot another through the heart. The two survivors kept coming. Taybard laid down his rife and drew a pistol from the back of his belt. Cocking it, he fired swiftly, the shot exploding the right eye socket of the closest man.
Jakon clambered over the wall and ran at the last musketeer, shrieking at the top of his voice. The man paused, turned, and ran for his life.
Jakon Gallowglass chuckled and swung back to where Taybard had been standing. Only he was not there anymore. Jakon caught a glimpse of him moving past several wagons at the rear of the old supply depot.
The sound of musket fire was coming from all around now. Jakon set off after Taybard, catching up with him at the edge of a building overlooking the town square. Here there was hand-to-hand fighting. Jakon saw the officer Mulgrave and around sixty Eldacre men battling with swords against the bayonets of the enemy. Taybard reloaded the Emburley. Jakon, though not as swiftly, added powder, ball, and paper wadding to his musket.