David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

The big man scanned the upper tree line, seeking out the assassins. There was no-one in sight. Rising, he grunted with pain as he took off the heavy bearskin coat. As he did so a flattened ball dropped away from the narrow, double mesh chain mail that was expertly fitted to the lining of the shoulders, extending down to his hips. Two of the outer mesh rings had snapped, but the second layer had saved his life.

Bruised, bleeding and angry Huntsekker donned the coat. He would not go straight to Eldacre. Instead he would go home first.

And fetch his scythe.

CHAPTER NINE

JAKON GALLOWGLASS HAD FEW FRIENDS. A NATURALLY TACITURN MAN, he had little time for socializing, and no inclination at all to sit gossiping around camp fires. Only two activities interested the young southerner, fighting and whoring. At nineteen he had been in the army for five years, at war now for four. In that time he had developed a taste for battle. Where most soldiers spent their lives caught between boredom and terror Jakon Gallowglass enjoyed his to the full. He was neither introspective nor imaginative. He listened as his comrades spoke of their fears of death or mutilation, but let the words wash over him. Jakon would wrap himself in his cloak and think of better things. There was a new whore at Mellin’s tavern, a buxom youngster from the eastern shires. Three daens for a swift ride, and half a chailling for an entire night. Jakon could not imagine why a man would want a whore for an entire night. He’d spent an evening with one once. The ride had been most enjoyable, but afterwards all she’d wanted to do was talk. Endlessly. There had been a buzzing in his ears for days afterwards. It was amazing how many words had flowed out of her. She told him her life story, and by the end of the evening Jakon felt he had lived it several times over.

No, give him the swift ride every time.

He had enjoyed just such a ride this very evening, and was on his way back to camp. Snow had been falling hard, and Jakon trudged slowly through it, climbing a steep bank to cut across the fields. As he approached a small wood he saw a horseman enter the trees. It was his commanding officer, Barin Macy, in his uniform of scarlet and gold, partially obscured by his fur-lined cloak. Jakon paused in the moonlight, idly wondering what the general would be doing at this time of night in such a desolate place. In normal circumstances Jakon would not have gone a single step out of his way to find out. Curiosity was not one of his vices. On this occasion, however, the general was riding across the path Jakon was to take. This posed a problem, in that he had slipped out of camp without a pass, and, were he to be seen, he’d have to endure a flogging. So he hunkered down beside a bush and waited for the rider to exit the trees.

Only he didn’t.

Jakon was growing cold, and decided to see if he could creep past the small wood without being noticed. Keeping low he angled his way down the slope to the edge of the trees. He could hear voices now, and paused again.

‘They’re northerners. There’ll be few tears shed,’ he heard someone say.

‘Even so, they are good fighting men. It’ll not be easy,’ came the reply.

‘I think you are wrong, Macy. They’ll be expecting nothing. Your men will get in close, and at the first volley the Eldacre men will panic and run. Keep your cavalry in reserve to mop up stragglers. And bring back the head of the traitor Macon.’

‘Damn it, Velroy, this is hard to believe. The Grey Ghost has been our finest cavalry leader. He’s turned several battles. Why would he defect to Luden Macks? It makes no sense.’

‘It is not for us to question orders. Pick your men carefully and ride out late the day after tomorrow. Attack the town the following morning. Come in on all four sides. No-one must escape.’