‘There you are wrong,’ said Cordley Lowen. ‘The area under the Moidart’s rule has a history of rebellion, which is why his disgusting methods were allowed by the king, and his father before him. His treatment of the clans, the tortures, the dismemberments and the hangings, are, sadly, a matter of public record. Though they pale into insignificance compared to some of the atrocities being perpetrated now in this war.’
‘Luden Macks has much to answer for,’ said Cordelia. ‘He will be brought to account for them.’
Cordley Lowen said nothing for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Do not make judgements about matters which are beyond your knowledge, Cordelia. Not all the atrocities . . .’ he faltered, then swore softly. This surprised Cordelia, for she had never heard her father use such language. ‘Damn it, girl, not a tenth of the atrocities can be laid at Macks’s door. Men, women and children have been ruthlessly and horribly butchered by soldiers riding under the king’s banner.’ He fell silent for a few moments, and she saw that he was struggling for control. He closed his eyes and took several deep, slow breaths. ‘Come the spring I shall resign my commission and we will go back to Varingas. Possibly even cross the water and head east to the Middle Sea. You always liked the estates there, I recall.’
‘I thought you were happy in the army, Father. Only recently you said you had been invited to join a select order of knights. It was a great honour, you said.’
‘We will talk no more of it. Do you like Macon?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she admitted.
‘He is doomed, Cordelia. He has enemies in very high places. His death is assured.’
She stared at him. ‘There must be something we can do.’
‘Aye, there is,’ he said, sadly. ‘We can leave. And that is what we will do in four days.’
‘No, that is not what I meant. We must warn him.’
‘These are forces far beyond our ability to tackle. We cannot save him”, Cordelia. I will be hard pressed to save myself.’
‘How can you talk this way?’ she cried, stepping back from him. ‘It is contemptible.’
‘As I said but a moment ago, never is a long time,’ he told her, sadly.
.Huntsekker had never been what he would describe as a deep thinking man. His needs were simple, and he rarely bothered with concepts or philosophies that required dedicated thought. Conversations revolving around politics bored him. Talk of religion mystified him. Love? Well, that was totally baffling. He had seen grown men, tough men, reduced to whimpering dolts because some doxy refused their attentions.
For Huntsekker the world was essentially a remarkably simple place. A man should earn enough to fill his belly, build a home to keep out the cold, and survive for as long as he could before death took him. Then he was worm food. These were the basics. If a man was lucky he would also find a little happiness. Even that, however, was not guaranteed.
But as he trudged on through the melting snow he found himself thinking about life. This was no longer unusual and all the more disquieting for it. It had tended to happen more frequently in the last four years. Huntsekker even knew the exact moment it began.
When Jaim Grymauch died saving Maev Ring. Huntsekker had been there, and had watched as the huge highlander stalked across the cathedral square, scattering the guards with his quarterstaff. Then the four Knights of the Sacrifice, in full silver armour, had run at him. Grymauch had dropped his staff and drawn a huge, old-fashioned broadsword from a scabbard between his shoulders. He killed two in swift fashion, threw the third into the execution fire, and left the fourth unconscious. In the crowd Huntsekker had felt a soaring of the heart as the one-eyed clansman had cut his lady free.
It was a moment of joy unmatched in Huntsekker’s long life. It was pure and unselfish. It spoke of something beyond the Harvester’s narrow vision of existence. It shone like sunlight after the storm.