Like the recent battle. The plan was for Luden Macks to inflict some damage on the Royalist army, to come close to victory, by overpowering and killing the elderly Lord Buckman and his Guards. As Macks and his forces cut through towards the enemy centre they would be attacked by the Knights of the Sacrifice, hidden in woods close to the king’s headquarters. Luden Macks’s army would be repulsed – though not destroyed – and Winter Kay’s standing with the king, following the death of Buckman, would be enhanced. It was, in essence, a simple plan. He had come upon it while holding the skull in his hands. The images formed in his mind like shining steel. Potential problem areas were seen as a corrosive red, like rust forming on the beauty of the steel. In this second phase of his vision he had seen the one flaw in the plan. Buckman was a fighter and a charismatic leader. His line would hold long enough for reinforcements to be brought up.
Winter Kay had then prepared his strategy. Lord Person was sent to the right flank, with strict orders to avoid action unless directly attacked. All other regular units were positioned in such a way as to be useless to Buckman once Luden Macks broke through.
It would have worked, but for one small rogue element.
Gaise Macon.
Because of him Buckman scored a partial victory, and Winter Kay had been forced to have the man poisoned – a deed which did not sit well. The old warrior deserved to die on the battlefield.
Now, as he sat beneath Person’s contorted body, Winter Kay found his anger rising. When first he had seen Gaise Macon at close quarters, and looked into those odd eyes, he had remembered the curse of the old priest back in Shelsans.’I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you, when the one with the golden eye comes for you.’
I should have had him killed then, thought Winter Kay. And he would have – but for the Moidart.
The source of unlimited power lay in the north. Winter Kay understood this, though he did not know why he understood it. It was like an aftertaste from holding the skull. Once his plans were formed he would drift into strange dreams, that always melted away upon awakening, leaving him drained. For days afterwards he would find himself thinking about the high north lands, and picturing mountains he had never actually seen. At such times he would be filled with an indescribable longing.
He had, during the last year, tried to court the Moidart, inviting him south. Always the man refused. The refusals were courteous. Winter Kay had planned to visit him next spring, to take the skull and heal the man’s scars, drawing him into the Brotherhood. The Moidart would have proved an invaluable ally.
Such a pity that a fine man should have been cursed with a son like Gaise Macon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
APOTHECARY RAMUS PONDERED ON THE NATURE OF IRONY. A SMALL man, near sighted and balding, he had never wished harm on any living soul. His life had been one of service, the gathering of herbs and medicines for the relief of pain and the curing of disease. He was also – though he had been surprised to discover it – well loved in the town of Old Hills.
In short, were anyone who knew him to be asked, they would say: ‘Ramus is a good man, a kind man.’ Those with a keener eye – like Alterith Shaddler, the spindly schoolteacher – would add: ‘He is a shy man, with no understanding of malice or evil.’ They would be able to say little more than this, for no-one knew him well. In his fifty plus years Ramus had, until recently, made no friends. He encouraged no visitors to his tiny cottage home, and engaged in no small talk or gossip. Ramus was invariably polite to all he met, doffing his grey woollen cap to the women, nodding or bowing briefly to the men. His shyness gave him a neutrality which allowed his patients to discuss intimate details of their conditions without embarrassment. Ramus would sit quietly, listen intently, and then prescribe adequate medication or herbal remedies.