The Wyrd relaxed, allowing the weight of forest memories to flow over her. From somewhere deep within she heard the sounds of men labouring. Distant noises, echoes from the past. Closing her eyes, she focused on what she was hearing. Laughter came, and with it a sense of camaraderie. The Wyrd saw the soldiers of Stone putting aside their breastplates as they cut down the trees to make this bridge, creating a passage through to the heart of Rigante territory. It would allow their army to march on Bane's stronghold. The Wyrd could hear their voices now. The old tongue of Stone, which she did not know. Yet she could feel their soaring confidence, their belief in their invincibility. Bane would destroy that less than three weeks after this bridge was completed. The Rigante would fall upon the Stone army and destroy it utterly.
Slowly the Wyrd opened her eyes. She could see the men clearly now, splitting the logs, and hauling them into place. They were not true spirits, merely reflections in the mirror of time. There could be no interaction with them. Their labours had become part of the memory of the forest.
For an hour the Wyrd rested, then she moved to the river bank, cupping her hands and drinking deeply. As she did so the narcotic herb she had taken linked her to another image. She saw Kaelin Ring sitting beside the water, weeping. The Wyrd sighed. Her spirit was in tune with the people of the Rigante, and she often experienced glimpses of their futures. Chara Ward had been full Varlish, and the Wyrd had not seen the perils she faced.
The moon was above the mountains now, though scurrying clouds obscured it for long periods. Running wet fingers through her hair, she stood and stretched. Once there had been bears in these mountains, great, ambling creatures who would hunt the salmon in the clean, sparkling waters. Once there were wolves, running wild and free. Man had killed the bears and all but destroyed the wolves, driving them far to the north.
The Wyrd climbed to the bridge, took another pinch of shredded herbs, and sat down upon the logs.
The murder of Chara Ward had been savage, born of lust and hatred. The slaying of her killers had been more than that. It had been premeditated and cold, and vicious in its execution. That it should have been Ravenheart who committed the crime was almost more than the Wyrd could bear. In him she had hoped to find the best of the Rigante. But like his ancestor Connavar he carried the best and the worst.
The night grew chill. 'Come to me, Jek Bindoe,' whispered the Wyrd.
Mist swirled over the logs and the Wyrd shivered. Her skin prickled as something cold touched the back of her neck. She did not turn. Instead she emptied her mind. Within the whispering wind she heard a voice, the sound growing stronger. 'Kill you, bitch! Kill you!' Icy, insubstantial fingers raked at her neck.
'You are dead, Jek Bindoe,' she said softly. 'You can harm no-one now.'
A shrill scream sounded. Mist flowed over her, re-forming before her eyes, taking the shape of a thin, hatchet-faced man. ‘I’ll show you dead!' he shouted, slashing at her face. His fingers clawed at her, but all she felt were tiny whispers of cold against her skin.
Tt is time for you to go, to leave this place. The world has no more use for you, Jek Bindoe.'
'I need to rest,' said the ghost of Bindoe suddenly. 'This is a dream. In the morning I'll ride south to Scardyke. Just a dream.'
The Wyrd began to chant in the old highland tongue. The wind picked up, tugging at Bindoe's shimmering form.
'What are you doing? You stop that, bitch! It is hurting me.'
Then do not resist it.'
He began to swear and shout, and scream. The chanting began again. Bindoe's voice faded, and the mist vanished.
'Where has he gone?' asked the ghost of Luss Campion.
To the place he has earned with his deeds,' said the Wyrd, 'but I do not think you will be joining him there.'
'Am I dead too?'
'Yes,' she said sadly.
A low moan came from the spirit. There was silence for a while. 'I didn't want Chara to die,' he said. 'Truly I didn't.'
'I know that, Luss Campion. You were bred to hate, and that is a dangerous and terrible thing to do to a child. You do not need me to send you to your destination. You can hear it calling you. Let go, boy. Just let go.'
'I don't have any way to make amends now, do I?'
'No. That chance was taken from you. But it is good that you would desire to.'
'I feel so lost. So sad.' The Wyrd felt the soul of Luss Campion vanish. And she wept.
Kaelin Ring sat quietly, watching and listening to the two men. Jaim he knew and loved, but the big Varlish was another matter entirely. Kaelin was still unsure why they should be risking themselves for this enemy. Yes, he had not punched Jaim when the highlander was virtually helpless. But that was his choice. It seemed unreasonable that, for this one act, he and Jaim should put their lives in peril.
They were sitting in Jaim's cave, a fire burning, a lantern set high on a natural rock shelf. Jaim was in his travelling clothes, black trews and walking shoes, a dark shirt and a black cloak. Chain Shada wore thick-heeled riding boots and a heavy, double-shouldered coat of shimmering brown leather. Kaelin felt out of place alongside these massive men and had moved to sit a little distance from them. He was almost at the mouth of the cave, and could feel the cool night air against his face.
In the days since Chara's death he had not slept well. He had dreamed of her, and in his dreams she was alive and happy. Upon waking the full realization of her passing would strike him like a hammer blow, wrenching at his guts. Everything seemed different now, and Kaelin took no pleasure from the sun on the mountains, or the breeze whispering through the trees. He moved listlessly through the days, then slept fitfully, his nights disturbed and full of sorrow.
'So who is this Huntsekker?' he heard Chain Shada ask.
'He is a southerner, and has served the Moidart for twenty years,' Jaim told him. 'He is a skilled tracker. And canny.'
'You know him?'
Jaim grinned. 'Oh, we've crossed each other's trails now and again.' Removing his headband, he rubbed at the empty socket. 'So, tell me, why did the mighty Chain Shada come this far north for such a small contest?'
Chain shrugged. 'I needed the money, and I thought Gorain could become champion in my place. Needless to say, I wish I hadn't.'
'How could you need the money?' asked Kaelin. 'It is said you've won every fight you ever had. It is also said you are rich.'
'I made the mistake of marrying a woman for her beauty,' said Chain. 'The face of an angel, and a body like a goddess. I was totally besotted with her. She had a brother who was a merchant. She convinced me to invest heavily in his ventures. When she left me I discovered I had no wealth left.' Chain shrugged. 'Nothing more foolish than a man in love.'
'Or more grand,' countered Jaim. 'Did you go after them?'
'No. They fled across the narrow sea to Goriasa. The ship was caught in a storm and sank. She - and my gold - now sit at the bottom of the ocean.' Chain lapsed into silence, and he stared at the fire for a few moments. Then he took a deep breath. 'So I had to go on fighting. I had already beaten most of the good challengers, so the purses shrank as I fought lesser men. Then one day I realized I no longer had quite the power or speed I once had.' He smiled. ‘I never met a man I couldn't conquer. Yet no man conquers time.'
'Uncle Jaim would have beaten you,' said Kaelin. 'Had he been fresh and strong.'
'No, he wouldn't, lad. I'd have blinded him within three periods. He can't protect his left. Gorain was too stupid to see that.'
'I think you are wrong,' said Kaelin, irritation in his voice.
'No, he's not, Kaelin,' put in Grymauch. 'Fighting with fists is what he does. He couldn't steal a bull or swing a glave like me. He couldn't run as fast as you, nor ride as well as Mulgrave. Every man has his talent. There is no shame in being beaten by a man who has mastered his craft. It doesn't make him a better man.'
Kaelin fell silent, and reached for a clay goblet and a water jug. As he did so one of the silver pistols in his belt dug into his rib
s. Straightening, he pulled the pistol clear, laying it on a rock beside him. 'May I see it?' asked Chain. Kaelin picked up the piece and walked across to the fighter. The gun seemed small in Chain's massive hand.
'It was made by Emburley of Knight's Walk,' said Chain. 'His mark is the silver lion rampant, which you can see on the pommel at the base of the grip.'
They are good pistols,' said Jaim. 'They belonged to Kaelin's father.'
'They are fine,' said Chain. 'Emburley's engraved pistols sell for more than one hundred pounds apiece. A matched set would probably auction for two hundred and fifty.'
Kaelin was aghast at the sum. 'That is madness,' he said. 'A pistol in Eldacre costs eight chaillings.'
'I expect so,' agreed Chain. 'However, you can buy an old work horse for five chaillings. A proven racer will set you back a hundred times that. Maybe more. Emburley's pieces are bought by kings and dukes and lords. They are prized for their accuracy and the perfection of their construction.'
'That one misfired the last time I tried it.'
Chain hefted the piece and cocked it. Then he flicked open the cover of the flash bowl and examined it. 'It will misfire the next time, too,' he said. 'Come and see.' Kaelin moved alongside him. Chain lifted the pistol close to his eyes. 'You see this little hole here?'
'Yes.'
'When the flash pan ignites a flame needs to pass through this hole to fire the main charge. As you can see, it is blocked. You have a pin?'
'No.'
Jaim removed his cloak brooch and passed it to Chain, who gently inserted the brooch pin into the hole. 'This tiny hole is vital,' said Chain. 'Like so much in life it is the small which dictates the success or failure of the large. There. Now it will work.' Chain pressed shut the cover and carefully uncocked the weapon. Kaelin took out the second pistol and examined it. The fire hole seemed clear, but he inserted the brooch pin to be sure.
'Always thoroughly clean the pistols after they have been discharged,' said Chain. 'Never leave them loaded for more than a day or two. The black powder is corrosive.'
'I'll remember that.'
'So when do we leave?' Chain asked Jaim.
'Another hour. It will be safer when the night is at its darkest.'
'Does this Huntsekker work alone?'
'No. He has four men with him.'
'What kind of weapons do they carry?'
'Swords and knives. They are highlanders and not allowed guns. Huntsekker will have a gun, though. I saw it once. Half as long as a musket, with a trumpet-shaped barrel. Makes a noise like whistling thunder.'
'Blunderbuss,' said Chain. 'The whistling is the sound of perhaps fifty tiny pieces of shot, tacks or small nails. At close range it will blow a man apart. At twenty feet it will pierce him from face to groin. You have a plan if we meet them?'
'No,' said Jaim cheerfully. 'But I think fast when I need to.'
'We kill them,' said Kaelin. The words hung in the air, and the cave seemed suddenly quiet. Kaelin felt uncomfortable in the silence. Neither of the two men was looking in his direction. Jaim transferred his gaze to the far wall, apparently watching the fire shadows dancing there, while Chain Shada lifted a goblet of water and drank. After a while Jaim spoke - but not to Kaelin.
'Maev has given me some coin for your journey,' he told Chain. 'I think it will be enough to see you to Varingas.'
That will not be necessary, my friend,' said Chain, 'though thank her for me. The Finance is an old friend. Gorain and I stayed with him on the way up from the capital. I will lodge with him for a while, until I decide on a destination.'
Take it anyway,' said Jaim. 'You've no idea of the tongue on that woman if I don't give you the coin.'
Chain smiled. 'I will find a way to return it to her.'
Kaelin felt as if he had been snubbed, as if these men regarded his words as unworthy of attention. Anger flared in him. Had he not slain the murderers of Chara Ward? He was a boy no longer, only they could not see it. Well, they would see it, if Huntsekker was unlucky enough to cross their path. Kaelin's hand dropped to the pistol, curling around the engraved grip.
They would see it as a lead shot ripped through Huntsekker's black Varlish heart.
Screened by a stand of gorse Huntsekker squatted on the ground, surveying the open land to the north. A large man, wearing a full-length coat of black bearskin, he scanned the hillsides for sign of movement. The moon emerged from a screen of cloud. Instinctively Huntsekker ducked lower behind the gorse, fearing the moonlight would glow from his face and the twin spikes of white beard that grew from either side of his shaved chin.
The distant grass shone like silver in the new light, and Huntsekker saw three badgers moving across the open ground. Turning to his left he could see the old log bridge. At this time of year, with the river swollen, it was one of only three crossings to the territory of the Finance. The other two involved climbing the steep passes over the mountains. Huntsekker - unlike Galliott - did not believe Chain Shada was friendless. Someone was hiding him, and Huntsekker believed that someone to be Jaim Grymauch. Jaim knew the mountains and might well have guided Shada over that route, but Huntsekker doubted it. It was three times as long and therefore offered three times the risk of capture. The bridge was only a few miles from Old Hills, and most of the way would be through dense woods within which two men could pass unobserved.
Only the bridge itself offered danger to the runaways, and that would appeal to Jaim Grymauch. The man loved calculated risks.
Huntsekker thought this stupid. And yet ... he had to admit to a grudging admiration for the one-eyed clansman. News of his exploits always made Huntsekker smile, even when Grymauch had made off with his own prizewinning bull.
For most men such a reverse would have been a humiliation. For Huntsekker it was a golden moment. Even now he didn't quite know why. When he acquired the animal he had made it clear that anyone who attempted to steal it would be hunted down mercilessly. His reputation was such that he believed no-one -save Grymauch - would have the nerve to attempt the task. He had kept the bull tethered close to his own house, and guarded day and night. A long cord was cunningly concealed at the base of the paddock gate, attached to a series of bells. Anyone opening the gate would set them ringing. Further up the trail he had a ditch dug to prevent anyone leading the bull towards the south.
He knew Grymauch would still make the attempt, and night after night Huntsekker had sat up, his blunderbuss loaded, waiting for the moment that he would catch the man. Truth to tell he had no intention of killing him. The highlands would be an immeasurably poorer place without Jaim Grymauch. No, he would catch him, then have a drink with him before releasing him.
But Grymauch had not come. For fifteen nights Huntsekker kept watch. On the sixteenth he had dozed. Not for more than a few moments. When he opened his eyes the paddock was empty. Huntsekker had roared with anger and rushed out into the night, waking his herdsmen. The two guards were trussed behind a water trough. Neither had seen the attacker. The hidden bell cord had been neatly sliced. Huntsekker and his men saw tracks leading south, and had raced in pursuit. When they came to the ditch they found two heavy planks had been laid across it. For most of the night they searched, finding nothing. At dawn they trudged wearily back to the farm - to see the bull back in its paddock, a sprig of heather tied to its horn.
Huntsekker chuckled at the memory. Not that he would ever admit to enjoying the affair. However, his good humour faded as his mind returned to the task at hand. If Jaim Grymauch was with Chain Shada then Huntsekker would be forced to take his head. There would be no choice. He hadn't wanted this mission, but no-one refused the Moidart. It was not healthy - as Shada and his comrade had discovered. Huntsekker had taken no joy in hanging the fighter Gorain. The man had been blubbing and begging as he had been taken to the tree. Huntsekker had struck him a blow to the back of the head, then looped the rope over his neck. Dal and Vinton had tried to haul him to the bough, but the unconscious Gorain had been too heavy, and Huntsekke
r had been forced to help them. Then he had left the note the Moidart supplied, and had returned home. He had no idea what the note said, being unable to read, but he had heard the stories the following day. They irritated him. He had seen Grymauch fight the man. How could anyone believe such nonsense? Yet they had. They had lapped it up like dogs at the gravy.
Huntsekker caught signs of movement on the far hill. Two men were moving into sight. They cut away to the right, entering the trees. Easing himself back the big man ran down the hillside to where his men were waiting. Dal Naydham was sitting with his back to a tree, eyes closed. Vinton Gabious was hunched in his cloak. The brothers Bass and Boillard Seeton were asleep. Huntsekker nudged them awake with his boot. Bass surged upright, a double-edged knife in his hand. Huntsekker stepped back as the knife flashed out. 'They are coming,' he said.
Turning away he strolled to where Dal Naydham was rubbing his eyes. Dal was a small man, round-shouldered and balding. He had been with Huntsekker for more than twenty years. 'Is it Grymauch?' he asked.
'Too far away to tell.'
'I do hope not.'
'I share that hope,' Huntsekker admitted.
Boillard Seeton joined them. He was tall and thin, long black hair framing his sallow face. He looked like a priest, thought Huntsekker, his large deep-set brown eyes radiating compassion. 'Can I take the heads, Harvester?' he asked. 'I've never taken heads.'
Huntsekker disliked being called Harvester, and he was already regretting hiring the brothers. 'I take the heads, Seeton. It is what I do. Now adopt your positions.'
'Just one head, then?'
Huntsekker reached down and grasped the black handle of the scythe at his belt. It leapt clear, moonlight gleaming on the crescent blade. The point pricked Boillard's skinny throat. 'Anger me further, scumbucket, and I'll take yours,' he said.
'No need to get tetchy,' said Boillard Seeton, stepping back. 'No harm in asking.'