Mulgrave walked on. The road was icy and treacherous, and he slithered as he reached the downward slope leading to the small church. It was an old building, with a crooked spire. For years there had been talk of repairing the spire, but Mulgrave liked it as it was. He paused in the cold to stare up at it. Some of the timbers had given way on the north side, causing it to lean precariously. It looked for all the world like a wizard’s hat. Many of the townspeople predicted it would fall soon, but Mulgrave doubted it, though he did not know why. Gazing at the crooked spire lifted his spirits. It seemed to mock the straight, unbending Varlish values it had been built to commemorate.
A little way behind the church was Ermal Standfast’s thatched cottage. Smoke was drifting up from the tall chimney. Mulgrave strolled to the front door and stepped inside, pushing the door shut against the swirling snow. The once portly priest was sitting by his fire, a black and white chequered blanket around his thin shoulders, a heavy red woollen cap upon his bald head. He glanced up and grinned as Mulgrave removed his cloak and stamped his booted feet upon the rush mat just inside the front door. ‘It will get warmer soon,’ said Ermal. ‘Spring is coming.’
‘It’s taking its time,’ replied Mulgrave, slipping out of his sheepskin jerkin. The swordsman pulled up a chair and sat, extending his hands towards the fire.
‘How is your shoulder?’
‘Almost healed,’ said Mulgrave. ‘Though it aches in this weather.’
‘It will. How old are you?’ Ermal asked, suddenly.
Mulgrave had to think about the question. ‘Thirty-four . . . almost thirty-five,’ he said.
‘When you are past forty it will ache all the time.’
‘What an inspiring thought.’
Ermal Standfast chuckled. ‘Two inches lower and that ball would have meant you never had to ache again. An inch to the left and you might have lost your arm. Give thanks for the ache, Mulgrave. Experiencing it means you are alive. Are you ready to rejoin your regiment?’
‘No – though I will, for a while. I intend to ask Gaise for permission to quit the army.’
Ermal seemed surprised. ‘My information is that you are a talented soldier. Why would a man turn his back on his talents?’
‘My talents put men in the ground.’
‘Ah, yes. There is that. The Grey Ghost will be sad to lose you. When he brought you to me he said you were his dearest friend. He sat by your bedside for fully two days.’
Mulgrave felt a stab of guilt. ‘Gaise knows how I feel. I have seen too much death. Have you ever walked across a field in the aftermath of a battle?’
‘Happily, no.’
‘Luden Macks once said that the saddest sight in all the world is a battle lost. The second saddest sight is a battle won.’
‘The man is your enemy, and yet you quote him.’
Mulgrave shook his head. ‘I have no enemies. I just want to go . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Home?’ prompted Ermal.
Mulgrave shook his head. ‘I have no home. The place where I was born is deserted now.’
‘What about your family?’
Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, but stared into the fire. ‘I come from Shelsans,’ he said. Ermal shuddered inwardly. He made the Sign of the Tree.
‘How did you survive?’ he asked. ‘You can have been no more than nine . . . maybe ten.’
‘I was in the hills when the knights came, visiting an old man who made honey mead wine. We saw the massacre. The old man took me to a cave high in the mountains.’ Taking up a blackened poker Mulgrave absently stirred the coals of the fire. ‘The closest I have to a thought of home lies far to the north. The Druagh mountains. It is good there. The air is clean. I like the people. There is something about the highlanders I warm to.’
Ermal rose. ‘I have a little tisane left, and some honey. Warm yourself while I prepare it.’
Mulgrave leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His left shoulder was throbbing, and he could feel a prickling in the tips of his fingers. Luck had been with him on that dreadful day, as the grapeshot screamed through the air. A rider on his left – Toby Vainer – had been ripped apart, his face disappearing in a bloody spray. A second volley had torn through the men on his right. Yet only a single ball had punched into Mulgrave, and not one had come close to Gaise Macon. The young general had ridden on, his grey horse leaping over the first cannon. The cannoneers had scattered and run as the cavalry broke through. Gaise and his riders had pursued them. Mulgrave had tried to follow. But his horse collapsed and died beneath him, hurling him from the saddle. Only then did Mulgrave see that the beast’s body had shielded him from the worst of the grapeshot.