David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

Their curses meant nothing to Mulgrave. The world could offer no greater hurt than the one he carried. He stayed on in Eldacre for some months, assisting in the rebuilding of the war-damaged community. Then he saddled a horse and quietly rode away.

A week later he arrived at the outskirts of Shelding, and drew rein on the high ground from where the enemy musketeers had attacked the Eldacre Company. It seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime.

Mulgrave dismounted and tethered his horse. Taking a canteen from his saddle he drank a little water. He felt light-headed and weak, and realized he had not eaten in two days. He had lost a great deal of weight in the last few months, and was now skeletally thin.

He gazed down at the distant town. It was here that he had experienced the last happiness of his life. It was here that he had served the real Gaise Macon, the young man of honour and courage. Not the killer he had become. Nor the god-prince that legend was now creating.

The days in Shelding had become golden in his memory. Perhaps that was why he felt drawn here. He shivered as a cool breeze blew across his rain drenched clothes. I should have died here, he thought, suddenly. Despair engulfed him and he struggled to his feet. Moving to his horse he drew a pistol from the saddle scabbard. Cocking it he pressed the barrel against his throat and pulled the trigger.

There was a loud click.

Rain had seeped into the flash pan, drenching the powder. Sitting down he cleaned out the pan and recharged it.

‘This is not your destiny,’ came the voice of the Wyrd in his mind.

‘Leave me be!’

‘Close your eyes, Mulgrave. Join me at the mill.’

‘I just want peace!’

‘Join me, Mulgrave. If only to say goodbye.’

He sat back against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. The world shimmered and a warm breeze touched his skin. Opening the eyes of his spirit he gazed down on the old mill and the water glittering in the sunlight. ‘I am so lost, Wyrd,’ he said.

‘You are not lost, my friend. You are alone. Sometimes it feels the same.’ The Wyrd took his hand. ‘You did not kill him, Mulgrave. He was dead from the moment he accepted the skull.’

‘I know that, Wyrd. The knowledge does not help me. What hurts me most is that he had no life. A tortured childhood with an uncaring father, and then a war. No wife, no family, no love.’

‘You loved him.’

‘It is not the same.’

‘I think you are wrong,’ she said, softly. ‘Your friendship meant the world to him. You were like the father he never knew, and the brother he never had. You were the rock he could cling to and idolize. You helped a frightened boy become a man of courage. You were his hero always.’ She patted his hand. ‘Sit here a while, and, when you are ready, return to the flesh.’

Then she was gone. Alone now, Mulgrave stood and wandered down to the mill. The last time the Wyrd had brought him here was to talk in secret with Gaise. He had listened in horror as his friend asked for his help. ‘I cannot do it,’ Mulgrave had said.

‘You must, Mulgrave. There is no-one else. Taybard Jaekel is dead.’

‘Then let us fight on, sir. We can win without the skull.’

‘Aye, we might – though I doubt it. But what then? The skull cannot be destroyed. One day someone else will be drawn to it. I need your friendship now more than ever before. If you still have love for me after all I have done, then do this one last thing for me, Mulgrave, I beg of you.’

And, in the name of love, he had agreed.

Mulgrave walked away from the mill, and wished himself back to the world of the flesh. When he opened his eyes he smelt woodsmoke. Turning his head he saw the Wyrd sitting by a small fire. ‘How did you get here?’ he asked.

‘By the old ways,’ she answered, with a smile. Then she peered at him. ‘You look dreadful, Mulgrave,’ she said. ‘You have no flesh on you at all.’