David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

‘I am sorry, Senlic. I did not wish to pry.’

Senlic sighed, then forced a smile. ‘My father always told me that life was nothing but memories. He was right. As each moment passes it becomes history. He thought it was important to hold on to the moment, savouring it. He often talked of good times past, and hoped that the future would supply more golden memories. The truth is, though, that memories are only golden when shared; when you can say to a loved one, “Do you remember that walk by the orchard grove when first we held hands?” She will smile and say, “Of course I do, you old fool.” That is the joy of memories. When Katra died she took half my life with her, and now the memory of the orchard is at best bittersweet. Ah, I am getting old and I talk too much.’

Senlic heaved himself from the chair and stretched his back. ‘I’ll have a pack ready for you tomorrow when you leave. Try to keep it safe from bears this time.’ Then he patted Kaelin’s shoulder and left the house.

Holding his broken left arm to his chest, Call Jace slid down the gulley on his back. His leg hit a tree root, which twisted him, and he began to roll. The fractured forearm struck a rock. Jace cried out. At the bottom of the gulley he lay still, gritting his teeth against the agony. Then he sat up. Blood had soaked his black shirtsleeve. Carefully he undid the button of his cuff and folded back the sleeve. The ball had hit his forearm, shattering the bone. There was no exit wound. He tried to flex his fingers, but they were stiff and swollen.

In the distance he heard the dogs barking. Jace swore and struggled to his feet. His pistol was gone, discharged into the face of one of his attackers, then knocked from his hand in the short fight that followed. His sword too was lost, trapped between the ribs of another man. He hoped the bastard would die hard.

Jace moved along the gulley and into the stream, splashing through the clear water and emerging on the other side. He took five steps then stopped. With great care he extended his right foot backwards, placing it into the last footprint he had made, then did the same with the left. He did this until he was standing once more in the stream. Then, with water swirling around his ankles, he pushed on, following the line of the stream as it angled north-west. Without pursuers this route would have him back in Rigante country in around five hours. Trouble was the hunters knew this too. If Jace headed for home – as they must be expecting – they would cut him off. With one useless arm, and no sword, he would be killed without undue effort.

Jace kept to the stream for a quarter of a mile, then emerged on the same side as he had entered, clambering up over a gently sloping rocky outcrop and then onto a deer trail that cut back towards the south-east. The fingers of his injured arm were throbbing now, the skin tight and stretched. He had been lucky. He had seen the musketeer at the last moment and had instinctively thrown up his arm as the man fired. The shot would otherwise have struck him in the head. The musketeer had dropped his weapon and pulled a pistol from his belt. He was marginally too slow. Jace drew his own flintlock and discharged it, the ball taking the assassin in the bridge of the nose, smashing his skull.

Other men had rushed from the trees. Jace had time to draw his sabre and plunge it into the body of the foremost. The man had screamed and, twisting as he fell, dragged the sword from Jace’s hand. As the others closed in the Rigante leader had spun on his heel and fled into the forest.

Call Jace glanced up at the sky. Close to two hours had passed since he had been shot. Twice musket balls had screamed by him -one ricocheting from a tree trunk and spattering his face with splinters. Now they had brought dogs into the hunt. He scrambled up a steep bank and paused at the top, crouching low and listening. The dogs were not barking now. Think, man! What to do, where to go?

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