David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

Jaim patted the youth’s thigh. ‘Good lad,’ he said. Reaching up, he pulled clear the black cloth headband that protected his ruined eye. The empty socket had been stitched some years before, and was now sealed tight. Jaim rubbed at the scars. ‘It baffles me,’ he said, ‘how an eye that is long gone can still itch.’ Settling the cloth back into place, he glanced down the hillside. There was still no sign of herdsmen, even though the sun had been up for some minutes. ‘They breed ’em lazy in these parts,’ he said with a grin.

Kaelin did not reply. He was gently massaging his calf. They had crossed the mountains yesterday, and, though Kaelin was strong and as fleet as any youngster of his age, he had struggled to keep up with Jaim Grymauch. Especially when they reached the pass. Jaim had said it was open, yet still they had to dig their way through one snow-blocked section and make a precarious climb across a high icy ledge. Kaelin had been relieved to see the glittering water of Moon Lake, the paddocks and outbuildings of the Moidart’s western estate nestling by its banks.

He and Jaim had slept in a derelict shack close to a long-deserted coal quarry. Jaim lit a small fire, while Kaelin roamed the area in the twilight gathering the fragments of coal that still dotted the hillside. Kaelin loved to watch coal burn. It was a mystery to him how the black rock could catch fire, and how the flames could suddenly hiss and turn blue.

They slept on the floor of the shack and Kaelin was awakened by Jaim three hours before the dawn. ‘Time to find the watching spot,’ said Jaim. Sleepily the youth followed the big man out into the darkness and down into the lower, gorse-covered hills. Using a broad-bladed knife Jaim cut several thick branches, handing them to Kaelin for carrying. The youngster handled them with care, for the needle-sharp thorns could lance through skin as easy as winking. Jaim moved further down the hillside, seeking out a hiding place. Decided on an old gorse bush, skirted with heather. He cut an entrance into the eastern side of the bush, then, from within it, he and Kaelin built up a layered outer wall of the branches he had cut. When the hide was completed Jaim squirmed across to the western-facing branches and gently parted them with his hands. Satisfied he had a good view of the outbuildings and paddocks he squatted down, delved deep into his leather undershirt and produced two hard baked oatcakes. He passed one to Kaelin.

‘Are you bored, young Ravenheart?’ he asked.

Kaelin shook his head. The truth was that he loved to roam the mountains with Jaim Grymauch. It made him forget for a while that, as a highlander, he had no real future in a world ruled by the Varlish. He could not even admit publicly to being a Rigante. The clan had been outlawed twenty years before. The wearing of the pale blue and green Rigante plaid was an act punishable by death. All Rigante males in the area had been forced to change clans – most becoming Pannone. Those who refused and took to the hills were ruthlessly hunted down and murdered by the beetlebacks. A few hundred had fled into the bleak northern mountains, where they survived by raiding and stealing. They were known now as Black Rigante, and every few years strong forces of beetlebacks and musketeers would enter the mountains seeking them out. Ten years ago a small settlement of Black Rigante clansmen had been surrounded and slaughtered, though almost eighty beetlebacks had been killed in the raid, and two hundred injured. They lived now in an uneasy truce.

No, Kaelin Ring was never bored while with Jaim. ‘Do you have a poem for the bull yet?’ he asked.

‘I thought I had,’ replied Jaim, ‘but now I’ve seen him I realize it’s inadequate. I shall work on another.’

Kaelin grinned. There were some who thought Grymauch’s bull-stealing verses were simply indications of the man’s vanity. The one-eyed warrior was as well known for his rhymes as for his raiding. Many of his songs were sung at festival feasts, and Kaelin knew at least twenty bull-songs by heart. He also knew that vanity had little to do with Grymauch’s poems. Aunt Maev reckoned it was merely Grymauch’s deep, hypnotic voice and confident movement that mesmerized the animals. But Kaelin believed the verses’were the links in a magical chain between Grymauch and the bull. He had twice seen the big man walk into starlit fields, take the chosen bull by the nose ring, and gently lead him away from all he knew.