Read Online Rigante Series 04 - Stormrider by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Gemmell
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Barstead, on the south coast. After one battle Covenant troops had entered the town, rooting out Royalist supporters. Sixty men were hanged. Three days later, the Covenant army in retreat, the Royalists had marched through Barstead. Three hundred and ten men with Covenant sympathies had been hanged. Then had come the Redeemers. Mulgrave shivered.
The town had been torched. No-one knew what had happened to all the women and children who had survived the murder of their men. But Mulgrave had heard from a scout who passed through the charred remains of Barstead. Blackened bodies were everywhere.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind Mulgrave continued on his way, cutting through alleyways and down narrow streets. A half-starved dog growled at him as he passed. Mulgrave ignored the beast, and the dog went back to chewing on the frozen carcass of a dead rat.
Crossing the curved bridge Mulgrave paused to stare down at the frozen stream. Some way along the bank, several men had cut holes in the ice, and were sitting, wrapped in blankets, their fishing lines bobbing.
Mulgrave walked on. The road was icy and treacherous, and he slithered as he reached the downward slope leading to the small church. It was an old building, with a crooked spire. For years there had been talk of repairing the spire, but Mulgrave liked it as it was. He paused in the cold to stare up at it. Some of the timbers had given way on the north side, causing it to lean precariously. It looked for all the world like a wizard's hat. Many of the townspeople predicted it would fall soon, but Mulgrave doubted it, though he did not know why. Gazing at the crooked spire lifted his spirits. It seemed to mock the straight, unbending Varlish values it had been built to commemorate.
A little way behind the church was Ermal Standfast's thatched cottage. Smoke was drifting up from the tall chimney. Mulgrave strolled to the front door and stepped inside, pushing the door shut against the swirling snow. The once portly priest was sitting by his fire, a black and white chequered blanket around his thin shoulders, a heavy red woollen cap upon his bald head. He glanced up and grinned as Mulgrave removed his cloak and stamped his booted feet upon the rush mat just inside the front door. 'It will get warmer soon,' said Ermal. 'Spring is coming.'
'It's taking its time,' replied Mulgrave, slipping out of his sheepskin jerkin. The swordsman pulled up a chair and sat, extending his hands towards the fire.
'How is your shoulder?'
'Almost healed,' said Mulgrave. 'Though it aches in this weather.'
'It will. How old are you?' Ermal asked, suddenly.
Mulgrave had to think about the question. 'Thirty-four . . . almost thirty-five,' he said.
'When you are past forty it will ache all the time.'
'What an inspiring thought.'
Ermal Standfast chuckled. 'Two inches lower and that ball would have meant you never had to ache again. An inch to the left and you might have lost your arm. Give thanks for the ache, Mulgrave.
Experiencing it means you are alive. Are you ready to rejoin your regiment?'
'No - though I will, for a while. I intend to ask Gaise for permission to quit the army.'
Ermal seemed surprised. 'My information is that you are a talented soldier. Why would a man turn his back on his talents?'
'My talents put men in the ground.'
'Ah, yes. There is that. The Grey Ghost will be sad to lose you. When he brought you to me he said you were his dearest friend. He sat by your bedside for fully two days.'
Mulgrave felt a stab of guilt. 'Gaise knows how I feel. I have seen too much death. Have you ever walked across a field in the aftermath of a battle?'
'Happily, no.'
'Luden Macks once said that the saddest sight in all the world is a battle lost. The second saddest sight is a battle won.'
'The man is your enemy, and yet you quote him.'
Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no enemies. I just want to go . . .' He hesitated.
'Home?' prompted Ermal.
Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no
The town had been torched. No-one knew what had happened to all the women and children who had survived the murder of their men. But Mulgrave had heard from a scout who passed through the charred remains of Barstead. Blackened bodies were everywhere.
Pushing such thoughts from his mind Mulgrave continued on his way, cutting through alleyways and down narrow streets. A half-starved dog growled at him as he passed. Mulgrave ignored the beast, and the dog went back to chewing on the frozen carcass of a dead rat.
Crossing the curved bridge Mulgrave paused to stare down at the frozen stream. Some way along the bank, several men had cut holes in the ice, and were sitting, wrapped in blankets, their fishing lines bobbing.
Mulgrave walked on. The road was icy and treacherous, and he slithered as he reached the downward slope leading to the small church. It was an old building, with a crooked spire. For years there had been talk of repairing the spire, but Mulgrave liked it as it was. He paused in the cold to stare up at it. Some of the timbers had given way on the north side, causing it to lean precariously. It looked for all the world like a wizard's hat. Many of the townspeople predicted it would fall soon, but Mulgrave doubted it, though he did not know why. Gazing at the crooked spire lifted his spirits. It seemed to mock the straight, unbending Varlish values it had been built to commemorate.
A little way behind the church was Ermal Standfast's thatched cottage. Smoke was drifting up from the tall chimney. Mulgrave strolled to the front door and stepped inside, pushing the door shut against the swirling snow. The once portly priest was sitting by his fire, a black and white chequered blanket around his thin shoulders, a heavy red woollen cap upon his bald head. He glanced up and grinned as Mulgrave removed his cloak and stamped his booted feet upon the rush mat just inside the front door. 'It will get warmer soon,' said Ermal. 'Spring is coming.'
'It's taking its time,' replied Mulgrave, slipping out of his sheepskin jerkin. The swordsman pulled up a chair and sat, extending his hands towards the fire.
'How is your shoulder?'
'Almost healed,' said Mulgrave. 'Though it aches in this weather.'
'It will. How old are you?' Ermal asked, suddenly.
Mulgrave had to think about the question. 'Thirty-four . . . almost thirty-five,' he said.
'When you are past forty it will ache all the time.'
'What an inspiring thought.'
Ermal Standfast chuckled. 'Two inches lower and that ball would have meant you never had to ache again. An inch to the left and you might have lost your arm. Give thanks for the ache, Mulgrave.
Experiencing it means you are alive. Are you ready to rejoin your regiment?'
'No - though I will, for a while. I intend to ask Gaise for permission to quit the army.'
Ermal seemed surprised. 'My information is that you are a talented soldier. Why would a man turn his back on his talents?'
'My talents put men in the ground.'
'Ah, yes. There is that. The Grey Ghost will be sad to lose you. When he brought you to me he said you were his dearest friend. He sat by your bedside for fully two days.'
Mulgrave felt a stab of guilt. 'Gaise knows how I feel. I have seen too much death. Have you ever walked across a field in the aftermath of a battle?'
'Happily, no.'
'Luden Macks once said that the saddest sight in all the world is a battle lost. The second saddest sight is a battle won.'
'The man is your enemy, and yet you quote him.'
Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no enemies. I just want to go . . .' He hesitated.
'Home?' prompted Ermal.
Mulgrave shook his head. 'I have no
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