Read Online Rigante Series 04 - Stormrider by David Gemmell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Gemmell
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her, as if caught on a breeze. Dropping to her knees she stretched out her arms. The strength of the magic was awesome.
It seemed to seep up from the ground, flowing out like mist.
'Is this paradise?' she whispered.
'It is at the moment,' he said. 'This is Uzamatte. You see that tree?' He pointed to her left. She looked round, and stared in disbelief at the redwood. It was ten times - perhaps twenty times - as thick as any tree she had ever seen. 'It is over two thousand years old,' Riamfada told her. 'This tree was ancient when Connavar fought the armies of Stone. The magic feeds it. There were trees like this in your world across the ocean, Caretha. No longer. Man has used up much of the magic there, burned it away in his wars, suffocated it with his greed. One day he will come here. He will look at these trees and will see no majesty. He will see timber. He will gaze upon the mountains and the waterfalls and he will see gold and silver. And far below the earth he will tunnel and burrow.' Riamfada sighed, and gave a small smile. 'But not yet.'
'There is still magic in my world,' said the Wyrd. 'Every day I try to summon more, to feed the land.'
'Yes, you do, child.'
'I know it is a losing battle,' she continued. 'In one day of war more harm is done than I can put right in ten lifetimes. It is said more than a hundred thousand have already died, and yet the war goes on. Gaise Macon is fighting in it now, and I fear for him. One day it will reach the north. I know this in my heart. It fills me with sorrow - and with terror.'
'You must rest now, Caretha. Absorb the magic. Strengthen your body and your spirit. You cannot stay here long. Sleep for a few hours, then I will return you to Sorrow Bird Lake. Once you are home you must find a way to reach the spirit of the white-haired swordsman. I do not have your gift for prophecy, but I sense he will be vital in the days ahead.'
'Could you not help us against this evil, Riamfada?'
'I am helping you, child. In the only way I can.'
Mulgrave the Swordsman trudged through the snow, a hood covering his prematurely white hair, a thick sheepskin jerkin and flowing cloak keeping the cold from his slender frame. He wandered through the market square. Most of the stalls were empty, but crowds were gathering around the few traders with food to sell. A brace of rabbits fetched a chailling - four times the usual price.
The woman who bought them thrust them deep into a canvas sack and scurried away, her eyes fearful.
Well she might be. Tempers were short now. Mulgrave wondered if all wars caused such a loss of simple humanity. Almost everyone seemed quicker to anger these days, and fights were commonplace among the citizens.
Armed guards were outside the bakery on the corner of Marrall Street, and a long queue of hungry people waited for the doors to open. There would not be enough loaves for all. It began to snow once more. The wind picked up, cold and searching. Mulgrave's grey cloak swirled up and he gathered it in, drawing it close around his chest. The raw chill caused his left shoulder to ache around the healing wound.
Despite the crowds in the square the small town was ominously quiet, footfalls dulled in the thick snow, whispered conversations swept away by the winds. Fear was everywhere. Not just from the threat of starvation, Mulgrave knew. The war was coming closer, and with it the terror. Only a few years ago the folk of Shelding would have argued in the taverns and meeting halls, debating the rights and wrongs of the Covenant. Some would have spoken up for the king's absolute right to rule. Others would have sided with the Covenanters, pointing out that every Varlish citizen should have equal rights under the law. Sometimes the debates would become heated, but mostly they were good-natured. At the close, the townsfolk would have gone back to their homes content.
After four years of war there were no more amiable debates.
Everyone knew of the fate of towns like
It seemed to seep up from the ground, flowing out like mist.
'Is this paradise?' she whispered.
'It is at the moment,' he said. 'This is Uzamatte. You see that tree?' He pointed to her left. She looked round, and stared in disbelief at the redwood. It was ten times - perhaps twenty times - as thick as any tree she had ever seen. 'It is over two thousand years old,' Riamfada told her. 'This tree was ancient when Connavar fought the armies of Stone. The magic feeds it. There were trees like this in your world across the ocean, Caretha. No longer. Man has used up much of the magic there, burned it away in his wars, suffocated it with his greed. One day he will come here. He will look at these trees and will see no majesty. He will see timber. He will gaze upon the mountains and the waterfalls and he will see gold and silver. And far below the earth he will tunnel and burrow.' Riamfada sighed, and gave a small smile. 'But not yet.'
'There is still magic in my world,' said the Wyrd. 'Every day I try to summon more, to feed the land.'
'Yes, you do, child.'
'I know it is a losing battle,' she continued. 'In one day of war more harm is done than I can put right in ten lifetimes. It is said more than a hundred thousand have already died, and yet the war goes on. Gaise Macon is fighting in it now, and I fear for him. One day it will reach the north. I know this in my heart. It fills me with sorrow - and with terror.'
'You must rest now, Caretha. Absorb the magic. Strengthen your body and your spirit. You cannot stay here long. Sleep for a few hours, then I will return you to Sorrow Bird Lake. Once you are home you must find a way to reach the spirit of the white-haired swordsman. I do not have your gift for prophecy, but I sense he will be vital in the days ahead.'
'Could you not help us against this evil, Riamfada?'
'I am helping you, child. In the only way I can.'
Mulgrave the Swordsman trudged through the snow, a hood covering his prematurely white hair, a thick sheepskin jerkin and flowing cloak keeping the cold from his slender frame. He wandered through the market square. Most of the stalls were empty, but crowds were gathering around the few traders with food to sell. A brace of rabbits fetched a chailling - four times the usual price.
The woman who bought them thrust them deep into a canvas sack and scurried away, her eyes fearful.
Well she might be. Tempers were short now. Mulgrave wondered if all wars caused such a loss of simple humanity. Almost everyone seemed quicker to anger these days, and fights were commonplace among the citizens.
Armed guards were outside the bakery on the corner of Marrall Street, and a long queue of hungry people waited for the doors to open. There would not be enough loaves for all. It began to snow once more. The wind picked up, cold and searching. Mulgrave's grey cloak swirled up and he gathered it in, drawing it close around his chest. The raw chill caused his left shoulder to ache around the healing wound.
Despite the crowds in the square the small town was ominously quiet, footfalls dulled in the thick snow, whispered conversations swept away by the winds. Fear was everywhere. Not just from the threat of starvation, Mulgrave knew. The war was coming closer, and with it the terror. Only a few years ago the folk of Shelding would have argued in the taverns and meeting halls, debating the rights and wrongs of the Covenant. Some would have spoken up for the king's absolute right to rule. Others would have sided with the Covenanters, pointing out that every Varlish citizen should have equal rights under the law. Sometimes the debates would become heated, but mostly they were good-natured. At the close, the townsfolk would have gone back to their homes content.
After four years of war there were no more amiable debates.
Everyone knew of the fate of towns like
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