David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

‘How long?’ he asked.

‘A day. Perhaps two.’

‘Was he my father, Dweller? I often wondered. I felt close to the man.’

‘No. He was not your father, Rayster. Why are you not inside with the others?’

‘I prefer my own company at such a time. How is Chara taking it?’

‘Badly. There is no other way.’

‘First Jaim and now Call Jace. It seems all the great Highlanders are leaving us.’

‘You are one of the great highlanders, Rayster. Kaelin Ring is another. Then there is little Feargol, who killed the bear. If he lives he will be great too.’ They stood in silence for a while, staring at the clouds drifting over the mountains. ‘The nights are getting warmer,’ she noted.

‘Aye. It will be good to see the sunshine and watch the flowers grow.’

Reaching out she took his hand. ‘If ever you decide you need to know about your parents just speak to me.’

He shrugged. ‘What does it matter, Dweller? I am who I am. I am Rigante and that counts for much.’

‘The desire to be Rigante is what counts,’ she said.

Hundreds of miles to the south-east the first drop of the king’s blood splashed to the yellow bone of the skull.

The Wyrd staggered back and cried out. Rayster rushed to her side, supporting her just as she began to fall. ‘Are you ill?’ he asked.

‘Move away from me,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and staring towards the south. She began to tremble. Rayster moved back a pace, worried now. ‘Further back,’ she said, waving her arm at him.

As he watched her Rayster saw the wind begin to billow her white hair. Her shawl fluttered out, then blew away from her, flipping in the air. Yet where Rayster stood there was no wind, merely a slight, cooling breeze. The Dweller leaned into the gale all around her, and cried out in a language Rayster had never heard. Then she toppled to her knees and fell. Rayster stayed back no longer. Running in he knelt by her, lifting her unconscious body from the cold ground.

Inside the great round house someone shouted. Rayster carried the Dweller inside, and saw men running up the stairs. He thought at first that Call Jace had died. Laying the Dweller upon a long, leather-covered couch he touched her neck, feeling for a pulse. Reassured by the steady beat under his fingers he left her there, and followed the men upstairs. Several women were standing in the doorway of a bedroom. Rayster eased his way through the crowd. Little Feargol Ustal was sitting on the floor. A large bed had been upended and was resting against the wall. Rugs were scattered everywhere and a blanket was hanging from a ceiling rafter. Rayster moved into the room.

‘What happened, little man?’ he asked.

Feargol looked up at him. ‘The man with the antlers came,’ said Feargol, tears in his eyes. ‘He brought a storm with him.’

Rayster knelt by the boy. There was a deep bruise on his cheekbone, and a small cut on his brow. He was trembling, and Rayster took him into his arms, lifting him from the floor.

Moving back through the crowd Rayster saw the fear in their eyes. ‘The boy is possessed,’ he heard someone say.

Ignoring the comment Rayster carried Feargol downstairs. The Dweller was conscious now. Rayster took the boy to her.

‘What is happening here, Dweller?’ asked the clansman.

‘Darkness and death,’ answered the Wyrd.

Taybard Jaekel always enjoyed night duty. It was cold and lonely, but it meant freedom from the social interactions of the day. His thoughts could roam, his mind relax. It wasn’t that Taybard did not enjoy the company of friends like Banny Achbain and Kammel Bard, or even that he disliked sitting in taverns with his comrades. It was just that the night was so tranquil.

He had hunkered down in the small garden outside Gaise Macon’s cottage, his cloak – and an extra blanket – round his shoulders, and his thoughts were all of home. Much had changed for the young rifleman in the last four years, and at times he looked back on the wildness of his youth as if viewing the life of someone else entirely. He had been loud then, and arrogant, looking down on highlanders and seeing himself as a Varlish, proud and un-conquered. It was such a grand nonsense. Almost all of the Varlish in Old Hills had highland blood. The pure blood folk of Eldacre town referred to them contemptuously as ‘kilted Varlish’.