Ignoring them, Taybard walked down the slope. As he went he caught a glimpse of a second Covenanter moving into sight. The man’s musket came up. Taybard dropped to one knee. The musket ball screamed by him, and his own rifle boomed in response. The shot took the Covenanter through the bridge of the nose, snapping his head back. His legs gave way and he pitched to the earth. Once more Taybard calmly reloaded, then began to climb the slope. The first sniper lay dead, his throat torn away. Taybard sighed, and gestured to the soldiers. When they came up he ordered them to collect the two muskets and the powder and shot carried by the Covenanters.
The soldiers obeyed him gleefully, searching the bodies for any coin or valuables before pulling off their boots and belts. Taybard sat on a rock nearby. His hands were trembling now, and he rubbed the palms against his mud-streaked trews.
‘You’ve got blood on your face,’ said Jakon Gallowglass, moving to sit alongside him. Gallowglass was a lean five-year veteran from the south. No more than nineteen years of age, he had taken part in six major battles and a score of skirmishes. Taybard glanced at the man’s pale features.
‘Jabbed myself on my rifle as I got into position,’ said Taybard.
‘First shot was mighty fine. Took your time, though.’
‘That’s why it was fine.’
‘Won’t be no fresh fighting till the spring now,’ said Gallowglass. ‘With luck we’ll be billeted in Baracum. Good whores in Baracum. You know where the Grey Ghost will be taking you?’
‘Home would be good,’ Taybard told him, laying his rifle against the rock. He rubbed his eyes. His hand smelt of black powder, acrid and unpleasant. Blood from his cheek was smeared on his palm.
‘Aye, the war hasn’t reached the north,’ said Jakon. ‘Must be good up there. Got a sweetheart back home?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well. After all the whores you’ve had you wouldn’t want to be taking the pox home, eh?’
Taybard stared gloomily at the dead Covenanter. He was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. His face was boyish.
‘Never seen no-one shoot as good as you,’ said Gallowglass. ‘Is it you or the Emburley?’
‘A bit of both, I guess.’
‘Ah, well. Time to finish the patrol. My thanks to you, Jaekel. That’s the second time you’ve pulled my irons from the fire.’
‘Your turn next time.’
Taybard watched as Gallowglass gathered the seven men. Within minutes they had entered the trees and were gone. Taybard sat for a while with the dead Covenanters, then rose and made his way back down the trail.
It began to rain. Pulling a leather cap from the pocket of his green jerkin Taybard held it over the hammer and flash pan of his rifle. Within minutes the rain had turned to sleet and then snow. Taybard trudged on, his feet cold.
The Covenanter sniper and his friend would not feel it.
Taybard covered the three miles to camp in just over an hour, reported his action to Duty Sergeant Lanfer Gosten, then made his way to the cluster of tents occupied by the Grey Ghost’s company. Squatting down by a camp fire Taybard warmed his hands, then ducked into the tent he shared with Kammel Bard and Banny Achbain. The tent was empty. Taybard’s clothes were soaked through. He removed his jerkin and shirt and rummaged in his pack for the spare woollen shirt he had purchased in Baracum the previous autumn. There were holes in it, but it was warm nevertheless. As he pulled it on the small pendant he wore caught in the cloth. Carefully he eased it clear, then gazed at it. Within a spherical cage of silver wire lay a perfect musket ball fashioned from gold. He had been so proud when he won it last year. The king himself had been present with his two sons, but the prize had been presented by his own general, Gaise Macon. Taybard had never expected to win. He was lying in seventh place after the standing targets.
A cold wind blew in from the tent entrance and Taybard tugged on his shirt, then donned the damp jerkin once more.