The man ran at him. With no time to turn the spear point towards his attacker Gaise spun on his heels, the haft of the lance cracking against the man’s temple. With a grunt he toppled to the floor. Bringing the lance to bear Gaise hurdled the fallen man and plunged the spear into the side of the attacker struggling with the Moidart. The man gave out a terrible scream and dropped his knife. The Moidart took up the weapon, ramming it into the assassin’s throat. Pushing aside the corpse the Moidart wrenched the blade clear and rose to his feet.
The last of the assassins hefted his dagger. ‘I’ll kill you yet, you black-hearted bastard!’ he yelled. He rushed at the Moidart. A gunshot boomed. The assassin staggered, blood pumping from a great tear in his throat. He grabbed the gallery rail and tried to pull himself towards the Moidart. A second shot echoed in the gallery. The assassin’s head snapped back. Gaise saw that he had been shot this time through the right eye. The young noble swung to see the tall figure of Mulgrave walking along the gallery, two long-barrelled duelling pistols in his hands. Gaise ran to a curtain, wrenching it open. Moonlight bathed the gallery. Mulgrave placed the pistols on a nearby table and moved alongside the Moidart. ‘You are cut, my lord,’ he said.
‘It is nothing,’ said the Moidart, his voice cold. ‘I see one of these wretches still lives.’ He pointed to the unconscious man Gaise had struck with the lance butt. Take him to the cells. I will attend his questioning myself.’
‘Yes, lord.’ Mulgrave glanced at Gaise. ‘You fought well, sir,’ he said. Gaise bowed and returned his attention to his father. The Moidart did not look at him but walked back towards his room. ‘Send the surgeon to me,’ he told Mulgrave. Then he paused and stared down at the carpet. He swung towards Gaise. ‘I see that you were stealing my coal. We will speak of this another time.’
At thirty-one Maev Ring was a handsome woman, tall and green-eyed. Her hair, still a lustrous red, now shone with faint streaks of silver. She was regarded by many clansmen as cold and remote -largely due to the fact that, following the death of her husband ten years before, she had refused all advances from the many widowers among the clan. Maev had been just sixteen when she had wed the young warrior Calofair. It was widely accepted that they were the best-looking couple in the highlands. Many of the young men envied Calofair’s luck. Maev was not only beautiful but also the sister of Lanovar, the chieftain, and all men knew that this brilliant and gifted warrior would bring prosperity to the clan. Through his efforts the Rigante name would be restored to the Scroll of Clans, and their stolen lands returned to their rightful owners. These were days of golden promise.
But Lanovar had been murdered by the Moidart, and the beetlebacks had descended on the clan villages, killing and burning. For years those with Rigante blood were forced to stay away from towns and settlements, building homes in the bleak highlands. They survived by raiding Varlish settlements and convoys, stealing cattle and coin or any merchandise that could be useful. Life was harsh back then.
Maev Ring remembered without sentiment the squalid sod-roofed dwellings, the sickness and deaths among the old and the weak. As she sat now by the kitchen window of her six-roomed house she thought again of Calofair, his flesh eaten away by the fever, the wound in his chest festering and angry. He was beyond speech at the end, only his eyes showing any sign of life. Maev had sat with him, holding his hand. And then, as the light of life faded, she had kissed his brow. She had been tempted to take a dagger and slash open the veins at her wrists, to fly away from the woes of the world and travel with the spirit of Calofair. She shivered at the memory. Four-year-old Kaelin had approached her, tears in his eyes. ‘Will Uncle get better, Aunt Maev?’
It was a summer night, and the last of the sun’s rays was shining through the roughly wrought door of the hut. By its light the twenty-year-old Maev could see the flea bites on the child’s ankles and wrists. His face was pinched and sallow. Maev put her arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. ‘Uncle is better now,’ she told him. ‘He is walking across green hills with comrades he has not seen in years. He is tall and proud, and wearing the colours of the Rigante.’
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191