David Gemmell – Rigante 3 – Ravenheart

Gaise laughed. ‘One can only measure deeds by results. I made the jump and I feel free of fear, and strong, and young and happy. Therefore the risk was worth it. Now let us debate it no more. You will not lecture me – and I will jump no more fallen trees. Agreed?’

‘Agreed, sir,’ answered Mulgrave. But he remained troubled. He knew then that Gaise Macon was cursed with a reckless spirit, and such a vice could prove deadly. Given time, he thought, I can cure him of it.

The two riders moved on. ‘I wish I had killed the poor wretch,’ said Gaise suddenly.

Mulgrave remained silent. The screams from the captured assassin had been terrible, and had lasted for hours. There was no escaping them. At last there had been silence, and the Moidart had walked back from the cells, his clothing drenched in blood. Then he had written out a list and soldiers had ridden into Eldacre to arrest those named upon it. The assassins had killed three of the four guards. The fourth was missing, but a warrant for his arrest had been issued.

‘He should not have been tortured,’ said Gaise. ‘Hanged, yes, tortured no.’

‘The Moidart needed to know if others were involved in the plot,’ said Mulgrave.

‘You heard him, Mulgrave. By the end he would have named St Persis Albitane as a co-conspirator.’

‘The saint was arrested once, I understand,’ said Mulgrave, ‘and taken to Stone for execution. I think it was the time that Bane fought for the Veiled Lady.’

‘Not Bane,’ said Gaise. ‘It was a gladiator named Rage. And you are changing the subject.’

‘It is probably best we do not discuss the Moidart’s methods. Though I will say that I agree with you. I wish the man had died before he did.’

The grey stone schoolhouse could be seen now, and the cobbled streets leading into the village of Old Hills. As they approached, Mulgrave saw a crowd gathering. A fight was just starting.

A black-haired youth was being set upon by two – no three — larger men.

Taybard Jaekel had always disliked Kaelin Ring. If asked why he could come up with a number of reasons, though none of them were entirely convincing, even to himself. The powerful young Varlish would say that Ring was ‘too cocky for his own good’, or that the clansman ‘looked down on him’. Taybard knew that these statements did not convey anything like the real reason, and yet even he could not say exactly why the mere sight of Kaelin Ring would set his blood boiling. The easy, graceful way he moved infuriated Taybard. The fact that the local girls – even Varlish girls — smiled at him, and hung on his every word, was like salt upon an open wound. Now Chara Ward, the girl of Taybard’s dreams – who had never even given Taybard a second glance – had set her cap at Kaelin Ring. Everyone knew it. Taybard Jaekel would have walked through fire to see Chara look at him the way she gazed at the clan youth. And so his dislike had distilled into a cold hatred.

Taybard and his friends had been earning coppers in the market, fetching and carrying for the shoppers, when news came in of the assassination attempt on the Moidart. All business had stopped momentarily as people paused to discuss the dreadful incident. Most of the residents of Old Hills were Varlish, and many could remember the last clan uprising fourteen years before. Those had been bloody times, days of rape, pillage and murder, ending only when the beetlebacks had crushed the last of the Rigante. An attack upon the Moidart might be the herald of a new uprising.

Kaelin Ring had come walking along Market Lane, a canvas bag hanging from his shoulder. He had not seen Taybard and his friends. Nor did he seem to notice the gathering crowd. It looked, to Taybard, as if Ring felt the worries of the townsfolk were somehow beneath him.

Kammel Bard, one of Taybard’s companions, an overweight redheaded youth, saw him staring at Ring. ‘He can’t be bothered with the likes of us, Tay,’ he said.