David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

The sun was setting, the temperature dropping fast. Jaim shivered. There was precious little fuel to be found this high. Trees did not grow here. He moved back alongside Lanovar. The Rigante leader’s face looked ghostly pale, his eyes and cheeks sunken. Jaim’s black cloak sat upon the man’s shoulders like a dark shroud. Jaim stroked Lanovar’s brow. The wounded man opened his eyes.

Jaim saw that he was watching the sky turn crimson as the sun set. It was a beautiful sunset and Lanovar smiled.

‘I love this land,’ he said, his voice stronger. ‘I love it with all my heart, Jaim. This is a land of heroes. Did you know the great Connavar was born not two miles from here? And the Battle King, Bane. There used to be a settlement by the three streams.’

Jaim shrugged. ‘All I know about Connavar is that he was nine feet tall and had a magic sword, crafted from lightning. Could have done with that sword two hours ago. I’d have left none of the bastards alive.’

They lapsed into silence. Jaim felt a growing sense of disorient-ation. It was as if he was dreaming. Time had no meaning, and even the breeze had faded away. The new night was still and infinitely peaceful.

Lanovar is dying.

The thought came unbidden and anger raged through him. ‘Rubbish!’ he said aloud. ‘He is young and strong. He has always been strong. I’ll get him to the Wyrd. By heaven I will!’

Jaim rolled to his knees and, lifting Lanovar into his arms, pushed himself to his feet. Lanovar’s head was resting on Jaim’s shoulder. Moonlight bathed them both. ‘We’re going now, Lan.’

Lanovar groaned, his face contorting with pain. ‘Put . . . me . . . down.’

‘We must find the Wyrd. She’ll have magic. The Wishing Tree woods have magic.’ In his mind he saw the woods, picturing the path he must take. At least four miles from here, part of it across open ground. Two hours of hard toil.

Two hours.

Jaim could feel Lanovar’s lifeblood running over his hands. In that moment Jaim knew they didn’t have two hours. He sank to his knees and placed his friend on the ground. Tears misted his eyes. His great body began to shake. He fought to control his grief, but it crashed through his defences. Throughout his twenty years of life there had been one constant: the knowledge of Lanovar’s friendship, and, with it, the belief that they would change the world.

‘Look after Gian and the babe,’ whispered Lanovar.

Jaim took a deep breath. He wiped away his tears. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, his voice breaking. His mind, reeling from the horror of the present, floated back to the past: days of childhood and adolescence, pranks and adventures. Lanovar had always been reckless, and yet canny. He had a nose for trouble, and the wit to escape the consequences.

Not this time, thought Grymauch. He felt the tears beginning again, but this time shed them in silence. Then he saw Gian’s face in his mind. Sweet heaven, how would he tell her?

She was heavily pregnant, the babe due in a few days. It was the thought of the child to be that had led Lanovar to trust the Moidart. He had told Jaim only the night before that he didn’t want the child growing up in the world of violence he had known. As they sat at supper in Lanovar’s small, sod-roofed hut, the Rigante leader had spoken with passion about the prospect of peace. ‘I want my son to be able to wear the Rigante colours with pride, not be hunted down as an outlaw. Not too much to ask, is it?’

Gian said nothing, but Lanovar’s younger sister, the red-haired Maev, had spoken up. ‘You can ask what you like,’ she said. ‘But the Moidart cannot be trusted. I know this in my soul!’

‘You should listen to Maev,’ urged the raven-haired Gian, moving into the main room and easing herself down into an old armchair. One of the armrests was missing, and some horsehair was protruding from a split in the leather. ‘The Moidart hates you,’ she said. ‘He has sworn a blood oath to have your head stuck upon a spike.’