He walked on to his house. There was light shining through the leaded lower windows, and smoke drifting up from the chimney. He opened the door. His housekeeper, Shula Achbain, came out to greet him, helping him remove his heavy black topcoat.
'Sit you down by the fire,' she said. 'I'll fetch you a glass of mulled wine.'
Murmuring thanks the little apothecary sank gratefully into his favourite armchair. Shula was a good housekeeper. Several years ago she had worked for Maev Ring, but before that she had been a herb gatherer for Ramus. Her life had been harsh. She had fallen in love with a highlander at a time when such couplings were frowned upon. Frowned upon? Ramus smiled. Shula had become a pariah to her own Varlish people. When her husband left her she and her son, Banny, had all but starved to death.
Shula returned and handed him a goblet of warmed, mulled wine. He sipped it. 'Excellent,' he said. 'Have you heard from Banny?'
'He doesn't write much, sir. He is in a town called Shelding, and there is a truce. So that is good.'
'Perhaps the war is ending at last.'
'Aye, that would be wonderful. I miss him so.' She walked to the coat rail and lifted her shawl clear. 'There is a stew upon the stove, sir, and fresh made bread in the pantry.'
'Thank you, Shula. Goodnight to you.'
Once alone Ramus settled down in his chair and dozed for a while. He found himself thinking of the Moidart. He would miss him, and their meetings to discuss painting. He had even begun to dabble himself - not attempting the awesome landscapes so enjoyed by the Moidart, but more simple compositions of flowers and herbs. They were not good, but he had noticed a small improvement during the past year. He had shown none of them to the Moidart.
After a while he grew hungry, and was about to fetch his stew when he heard the sound of horses' hooves upon the street outside. Then came a hammering at his door.
Ramus opened it. Several soldiers were standing there.
'Apothecary Ramus?'
'Yes. Is someone ill?'
'You will come with us.'
'I am finished for the day, gentlemen.' The soldier struck him in the face. Ramus fell backwards, colliding with the coat rail.
'You'll do as you're damned well told,' said the man, stepping into the house and dragging Ramus to his feet. 'You are in trouble, little man. Don't make things worse by annoying me further.'
Half stunned, Ramus was hauled from the house and lifted to the saddle of a tall horse. One of the soldiers took the reins and Ramus clung to the pommel as the cavalrymen rode at speed from Old Hills.
His head was pounding as he rode, his mind confused. 'You are in trouble, little man.' How could he be in trouble? He had never offended anyone. Nor would he seek to, for that would be bad manners. There had to be a mistake somewhere.
The horses cantered on, down the hill road and into Eldacre town, past the billeted troops and into the castle itself. Here Ramus was hauled from the saddle and led inside. He was taken up the stairs and along a corridor. Then the soldier leading him paused and rapped at a door.
'Yes?' came the voice of the Finance. The man sounded angry, thought Ramus.
The soldier pushed open the door and pulled Ramus inside. 'As you ordered, my lord. This is the apothecary.'
'I know who he is. We have met before. Well, what have you to say for yourself, apothecary?'
'I am afraid I don't understand you, my lord.'
The Finance stepped forward. He was carrying a riding crop. It lashed across Ramus's face. The pain was instant and excruciating. ‘I am angry enough. It would not be wise to further incense me.'
‘I am sorry, my lord. I don't know what you want me to say.'
'Are you an idiot? Look around you.'
Ramus blinked. He did not need to look around. A half-finished painting stood on an easel. It was a lake scene, with awesome mountains in the background. 'Yes, my lord? It is the Moidart's studio. This is where he paints.'
'You are an idiot. You fooled me, you laughed at me, and now you don't know why you are here.'
'Fooled you, my lord?' Ramus was mystified. 'In what way?' The Finance raised his crop again. Ramus shrank back, automatically lifting his arm to protect his face.
‘In what way?' repeated the Finance angrily, slashing the crop across Ramus's forearm. The apothecary cried out in pain. 'In what way? Did you not know that we were sworn enemies?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Yet you tricked me into buying one of his daubs?'
'No, my lord. You ordered me to speak to the artist. You recall? You came to my house and saw my painting. I told you the artist did not want his name revealed. When you said you desired a painting I came to the Moidart and told him. He created something beautiful for you. It was not a daub.'
'I expect the Moidart found it most amusing.'
'I think he did, my lord, but he found cause to regret it.'
'Do enlighten me.'
'You paid seventy-five pounds for it. Within a year his paintings were fetching double that. This year the value has doubled again. I think it irked him that your painting was now worth four times what you paid.'
'I don't care what it is worth. When I return home I shall take great pleasure in slashing it to shreds with my sabre.'
'Why?' asked Ramus.
The crop lashed out again and again. Ramus fell to his knees, his hands over his head. The crop brought blood from his wrist and he cried out.
The Finance stepped back. 'Do not question me, little man. Your life hangs in the balance. What was your relationship with the Moidart?'
'He is my friend,' said Ramus.
Suddenly the Finance laughed. 'Your friend? The Moidart has no friends. He is a serpent, cold-blooded and vile. Get up.' Ramus struggled to his feet. There was blood upon his face and hands. 'How can you talk of friendship with a monster? Did you know that he killed his own wife? The man has no soul.'
'I disagree, my lord.'
'By the Source, you are an impudent wretch. Have you not yet had enough of my crop?'
'I have, my lord. It frightens me. You frighten me.'
'Then why do you persist in annoying me?'
'I thought you wanted to hear the truth.'
'So you can prove he has a soul?'
'No, my lord.'
'Then what truth can you offer me?'
'His wounds, my lord. Many years ago he sustained a wound to his lower belly. It never healed. Then he was burned saving his son from a terrible fire. Those burns have never healed. There is no reason for them not to heal. I have given him many herbal lotions that would, in all other men, encourage healing. They don't heal because he does not want them to heal. They are his punishment against himself. A man with no soul would not punish himself so.'
'Perhaps they are a punishment from on high - from the Source Himself. Have you thought of that?'
'No, my lord, but it seems to me that if the Source chose to punish all evil men in such a way I would have seen it before. There is no shortage of evil in the world. Mostly, however, evil appears to prosper.'
'Are you, by chance, suggesting that I am evil?'
'No, my lord. I have never heard it said that you are evil. You are merely powerful.'
'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 Finance 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 Finance had difficulty sleeping. This was rare. Normally he would lay his head upon the pillow and slip away into a dreamless state and wake refreshed. Tonight, 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 awok
en in a cold sweat, suffering from 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,' said the Finance, groggily.
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 Finance 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 hung him what would you have done the next time you had the pox?'
'Just kill me and be done with, 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 Finance 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 Finance, desperation in his voice. The dagger lanced through his jugular. Blood spurted across the pillow. The Finance 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 an area south of the castle, some little 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.
'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, a colonel now, 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 men shortly,' said Galliott.
'The Moidart? He has made peace with the Finance?'
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, carrying a trestle table and its supports. They moved to an area close to the nearest tents of the soldiers of the Finance and set up the trestle. Other men brought a high-backed chair which they placed behind it. By now hundreds of the Finance's men had been awakened, and were standing around in groups. Many of the Eldacre men moved among them, chatting and discussing events.
Then the Moidart appeared. Dressed in a tunic shirt of black leather which shone like satin, grey leggings and black riding boots he strolled out from the castle unarmed. Behind him came a huge man, bearing a heavy sack upon his shoulder. The Moidart walked to the trestle table and gestured for the giant to lay the sack upon it.
'Gather round, 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 upon 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 your comrades at the barracks and billeted in the town. Firstly, 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 that error again and I shall have your tongue cut out.'
'Yes . . . my lord. I am sorry, my lord.'
'Now, to move oh,' said the Moidart, ignoring the hapless man. 'The Finance 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 Colonel Galliott and the other officers who will attend him. Any questions?'
'Yes, my lord,' called out another captain. 'Why does the Finance not need his army?'
The Moidart smiled and signalled the giant. The man delved into the sack and drew out the head of the Finance, 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. All of you will, as I promised, receive your first month's wages tomorrow. Thereafter, those who choose to join me 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 Finance would not relish remaining in Eldacre. There will be a meeting of officers in the castle this afternoon an hour before dusk, to find replacements for the men whose he
ads 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 Finance.
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 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,' said Powdermill, gloomily. Huntsekker glanced at him.
'Why so melancholy? We've damn near trebled 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 now 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 Finance's head they knew there was only one man going to do that. After all, 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.'