This strengthened Powdermill’s resolve. He could not safely harness the power of the skull, but if he found a way to serve it, he could still profit by it. If Cernunnos was to live again, then he would need worshippers. His spirit flew to the centre of the enemy camp. Not a single Redeemer spirit was in the air. None of these men had natural talent. The skull had fed them, as it was now feeding him.
Powdermill flowed through the officers’ tents, seeking out Winter Kay.
He found him at last, standing on a ridge beside a huge cannon. He was staring out over the enemy fortifications. For a few moments Powdermill observed him. He was similar in look to the Moidart, the same harsh, patrician features, the same hawklike eyes. Yet Powdermill sensed a weakness in the man, shards of self-doubt and fear that were missing in the Moidart.
Focusing his newly boosted powers Powdermill spoke. Winter Kay jerked and spun. ‘Who is there?’
‘A servant of Kranos, my lord.’
Winter Kay stepped back, his hand upon the hilt of a slim-bladed dagger at his belt. Powdermill concentrated, allowing his spirit to glow gently in the night. ‘I have what you desire to possess. I have that which was stolen from you.’
‘Bring it to me. You will be rewarded handsomely.’
‘It is at Castle Eldacre, my lord. I have it now in my hands.’
‘This is some trick of the Moidart’s to torment me.’
‘Not so, my lord. I am Powdermill. I was forced into the Moidart’s service, and threatened with death if I did not comply. Now I have the Orb, and I wish to serve you.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘There is something I want, and only you can give it to me.’
‘Name it.’
‘The sword of Gaise Macon. And to continue to serve the Lord Kranos.’
‘You want a sword?’
‘Not any sword, my lord. It is an ancient weapon, forged in a time of magic.’
‘I promise you will have it. Bring me the skull.’
‘I cannot bring it, my lord. Between Eldacre and yourself lie the forces of the Moidart. I could not find a way through alone. When the battle is won I shall be at Eldacre Castle and you will have the skull.’
‘I need it now,” said Winter Kay. Powdermill heard the desperation in his voice.
‘Here in the town there are few fighting men, my lord. The castle itself is virtually empty. Maybe twenty soldiers, older men unfit for service in the field, a dozen surgeons and helpers tending wounded men, plus Maev Ring and a few clerics. If you send a small force, skirt the battlefield, and ride directly to the castle, there will be none to stop you.’
‘Maev Ring?’
‘She is the Moidart’s quartermaster.’
‘The witch who brought about the death of my brother Gayan? She is at the castle?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And all you want is Macon’s sword?’
‘Yes, my lord, and to serve you and Kranos. I have no wish to die, and it is my understanding that those who serve the Seidh lord will become immortal.’
‘I will send a force, Powdermill. If your deeds match your words I will grant you what you wish.’
As dawn approached the guns on the southern ridge suddenly boomed, flame belching from the huge barrels. Taybard Jaekel squirmed down in his trench. Fifty yards to the south the earth erupted. Great plumes of mud and dirt billowed up. A terrible screeching filled the air. Shards of metal and clumps of earth showered down over Taybard and Jakon.
Taybard glanced back to where the Moidart – dressed in black, save for a stylized breastplate of burnished silver – was standing beside Beck. The earl calmly walked to the edge of the ridge and stared out at the pits and craters in the ground. ‘They’ll have their range presently,’ he said.
‘Aye, time to move back, my lord,’ said Beck, nervously.
Beck shouted an order and the main body of the two thousand musketeers retired from the ridge. Some fifty men remained, huddled in narrow trenches. Beck moved up to where Taybard and Jakon were crouched. ‘Sit it out, boys, and signal us when their infantry approaches.’