Long stakes had been hammered into the earth of the valley floor, hundreds of them. The heads of dead Varlish soldiers had been rammed atop them. And the bloody work was continuing.
‘Like a forest of death,’ said Korrin Talis. ‘Why are they doing it?’
‘To frighten the soldiers who are following,’ said Kaelin. ‘They will come here with their huge army, and they will see the rotting heads of their comrades. It will tell them that this is going to be a fierce and deadly war, with no quarter.’
‘It is appalling,’ said Rayster. ‘Makes me ashamed to be part of it.’
‘There’s no humanity in these Varlish,’ said Korrin Talis.
They watched as a wagon trundled along the trail below, carrying more stakes, and more heads. Kaelin turned away. ‘Let’s bury our dead and head back for Eldacre,’ he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AT DUSK GAISE MACON SENT OUT ORDERS FOR THE HUNTING PARTIES to cease looking for Varlish stragglers and to return to the captured enemy camp. He should have been exultant, for the victory had been nothing short of spectacular. Four thousand eight hundred enemy dead, the acquisition of four thousand muskets, fifteen supply wagons and twenty unused cannon. There were also tents, tools, sabres, knives, pistols – all of which would be helpful to the cause.
The only small note of annoyance had come with the escape of Sperring Dale and a group of his officers. They had not taken part in the attack, and had galloped from the camp at first sight of the Eldacre counter attack. But this was not what sat heavy upon the heart of Gaise Macon.
‘Your word, Varlish, is dog shit on my boot heel.’
Gaise tried to push the memory from his tired mind. He could not. How would he have felt had the same trick been used on him by – say – Sir Winter Kay during the civil war? Yet what else could he have done to gain such a victory? Had he fought in a more noble way he might still have won, but his losses would have been far higher. Many more Rigante would now be dead and buried.
The Moidart was right. Leadership was lonely. All around him now were happy, contented men. Victors. More than that, they looked to him now as a conqueror. He was the Grey Ghost, unbeaten and invincible.
He had also learned that two of his other new generals, Ganley Konin and Ordis Mantilan, could be relied upon to follow orders well. Konin’s cavalry had performed excellently, while Mantilan’s musketeers had shown nerve in the initial charge of the enemy Lancers.
He wondered about the Moidart’s luck. He had chosen none of these men, and yet Beck, Konin and Mantilan – none of whom had ever commanded such large units – were proving to be invaluable.
What would Mulgrave have made of it? Sadness touched him at the thought of his friend. Mulgrave was back in Eldacre. They had not spoken since arriving home. Gaise missed him terribly.
Sitting now in the tent occupied so recently by Sperring Dale Gaise lit a lantern and idly searched through the belongings left behind by the Redeemer. Spare shirts and leggings, a crimson cloak, and a small selection of books. One was a book of verse, another the gospel of Persis Albitane. This last made Gaise smile. What did a murderous savage like Sperring Dale gain from reading the words of a man of peace and love? Did he find it humorous?
An image appeared in his mind and a sweet voice rose up from his memory. ‘I think I shall kiss you, Gaise Macon.’ He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. The more he struggled to forget Cordelia Lowen, the more hurt he felt when her face came unbidden to his mind. Had he loved her? In truth he did not know. Now he would never know.
A shadow fell across the tent flap. Gaise glanced up. ‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Powdermill, my lord. May I enter?’
‘Come in.’
The little man ducked under the flap and grinned, showing gold teeth. ‘They’re still running south. No other force is in sight.’