David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart
David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart
PROLOGUE
THE SUN WAS SETTING AND LANOVAR SAT SLUMPED AGAINST THE STONE, the last of the sunlight bathing him in gold. There was a little heat in this dying winter sun, and the brightness felt good against his closed lids. Lanovar sighed and opened his eyes. The huge figure of Jaim Grymauch stood close by, gazing down at him.
‘Let me carry you to the Wyrd, Lan,’ he said. ‘She’ll cast some ancient spell and heal you.’
‘In a while, my friend. I’ll just rest here and gather my strength.’
Grymauch swore and turned away. Loosening the strap at his shoulder he swung the massive broadsword clear of his back. The black hilt was almost a foot long, crowned with an iron globe pommel. The curved quillons were beautifully crafted to represent the flared wings of a hunting falcon. Drawing the fifty-two-inch blade from the scabbard, Grymauch examined the sword in the fading light. There were still bloodstains upon the blade and he wiped them away with the hem of his black cloak. Beside him Lanovar lifted clear the wedge of blood-soaked cloth he had been holding to the wound in his side. The bleeding had slowed, and the pain was almost gone. He glanced up at Grymauch.
‘That monstrosity should be in the Druagh museum,’ he said. ‘It’s an anachronism.’
‘I don’t know what that means,’ muttered Grymauch.
‘It means out of its time, my friend. That blade was created to rip through plate armour. No-one wears plate any more.’
Grymauch sighed. Returning the blade to its scabbard, he sat down beside his friend. ‘Out of its time, eh?’ he said. ‘It’s like us then, Lan. We should have been born in the days of the real highland kings.’
Blood was leaking slowly from the cloth plugging the exit wound in Lanovar’s lower back, a dark stain spreading across the outlawed blue and green cloak of the Rigante. ‘I need to plug that wound again,’ said Grymauch.
Lanovar made no complaint as the clansman pulled him forward and he felt nothing as Grymauch pressed a fresh wad of cloth into the wound. His mind wandered briefly, and he saw again the Standing Stone and the tall, black-clad man waiting there. Regrets were pointless now, but he should have trusted his instincts. He had known deep in his heart that the Moidart could not be trusted. As their gaze met he had seen the hatred in the man’s dark eyes. But the prize had been too great, and Lanovar had allowed the dazzle of its promise to blind him to the truth.
The Moidart had promised that the Turbulent Years would end. No more pointless bloodshed, no more senseless feuds, no more murdered soldiers and clansmen. This night, at the ancient stone, he and the Moidart would clasp hands and put an end to the savagery. For his part the Moidart had also agreed to petition the king to have Clan Rigante reinstated to the Roll of Honour.
Lanovar’s black warhound, Raven, had growled deeply as they walked into the clearing. ‘Be silent, boy,’ whispered Lanovar. ‘This is an end to battle – not the beginning of it.’ He approached the Moidart, extending his hand. ‘It is good that we can meet in this way,’ he said. ‘This feud has bled the highlands for too long.’
‘Aye, it ends tonight,’ agreed the Moidart, stepping back into the shadow of the stone.
For a fraction of a heartbeat Lanovar stood still, his hand still extended. Then he heard movement from the undergrowth to left and right and saw armed men rise up from hiding. Six soldiers carrying muskets emerged and surrounded the Rigante leader. Several others moved into sight, sabres in their hands. Raven bunched his muscles to charge, but Lanovar stopped him with a word of command. The Rigante leader stood very still. As agreed, he had brought no weapon to the meeting.
He glanced back at the Moidart. The nobleman was smiling now, though no humour showed in his dark, hooded eyes. Instead there was hatred, deep and all-consuming.
‘So, your word counts for nothing,’ said Lanovar softly. ‘Safe conduct, you said.’