David Gemmell – Rigante 4 – Stormrider

‘Use your talent, man.’

Aran took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he reached out. His hand lightly touched the golden hilt. He stiffened and drew in a deep breath.

‘This is the sword of Connavar,’ he said. ‘Sweet heaven, how did you come by it?’

‘A dead man gave it to him, apparently,’ said the Moidart.

‘A dead man named Riamfada. Can you use the magic, Master Powdermill?’

‘I need time to prepare, my lord. This is … this is remarkable. Priceless.’

‘Forget the monetary value,’ snapped the Moidart. ‘Can you cast a spell with it?’

‘Oh, my lord, I can,’ said Powdermill.

Mulgrave was wandering in a green meadow under starlight. He had no idea how he had arrived there, or indeed where he was.

He thought he could hear running water, and realized he was thirsty. The sound was coming from somewhere to his left.

Walking on a little he saw an old mill, its wheel slowly turning as the river pushed against its blades. It was very like the mill back in Shelsans, where his father had worked. On some summer afternoons Mulgrave would run along the river bank, bringing the food his mother had prepared for Father. He would emerge from the warehouse alongside the mill, and sit in silence, breaking bread with his son. Even now the memories of those quiet days filled Mulgrave with a mixture of sadness and great joy.

He walked on towards the river bank, half hoping his father would be there. Instead he saw the white-haired woman he had dreamed of so often lately. A pale blue and green shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. She turned towards him, beckoning him to sit beside her. ‘Can you speak now?’ he asked her.

‘I could always speak, Mulgrave. You could not hear.’ Raising her hand she tapped a finger to his chest. ‘The little amulet Ermal Standfast gave you contains earth magic. Not much – but enough to allow a Rigante to make contact with a foreigner.’ She said it with a soft smile.

‘Is Ermal safe?’

‘Of course. Men like Ermal are always safe. They run and hide when danger threatens.’

‘Good for him. I wish I could run and hide from it all. I hate what I see now, and I despise what I have become.’

‘Love often carries us along roads we would not wish to travel,’ she said. ‘Love is a burden sometimes. Yet it is still to be treasured.’

Mulgrave picked up a stone and threw it out over the river. ‘I see myself in him,’ he said. ‘After the massacre I was raised for a while by a cold-hearted couple who used me badly. I don’t know why, but after I escaped them I found it hard to trust anyone. When I met Gaise I saw the same secret sorrow in his eyes. I wanted him to find the happiness that was lost to me. I wanted to see him with a wife and family. To know the joys of life. Instead he is following a darker path.’

‘He has unchained the bear,’ said the Wyrd sadly. ‘It is a curse of his bloodline. Great men they can be, but there is inside them a terrible beast. While they control it they are heroes. When it controls them they become . . . the Moidart, and villains like him.’ She sighed. ‘I have no right to criticize them. Not any more.’

‘Have you killed people?’ he asked.

‘Not directly. I urged the Rigante to march to Eldacre. Many of them will be slain. Perhaps all of them. I have taken the first tottering steps on the road to damnation. Do you believe that committing a small evil to prevent a greater evil is justified?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mulgrave. ‘I remember once thinking it would have been a good thing if the Moidart had been strangled at birth. Now he is fighting against evil. I don’t know what any of it means. I just wish I wasn’t part of it.’

‘I know,’ whispered the Wyrd. ‘I once dreamed of bringing back the Seidh to guide the world, to renew its magic. I would then spend my life healing and encouraging people to do good. When I died I would leave the world a better place than it was before me. Now I have encouraged a people I love to take part in a war to stop the Seidh coming back. To shoot and stab and kill. Perhaps Cernunnos is right. Perhaps we are a race not worth saving.’