Read Online Rigante Series 04 - Stormrider by David Gemmell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Gemmell
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home. The place where I was born is deserted now.'
'What about your family?'
Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, but stared into the fire. 'I come from Shelsans,' he said.
Ermal shuddered inwardly. He made the Sign of the Tree.
'How did you survive?' he asked. 'You can have been no more than nine . . . maybe ten.'
'I was in the hills when the knights came, visiting an old man who made honey mead wine. We saw the massacre. The old man took me to a cave high in the mountains.' Taking up a blackened poker Mulgrave absently stirred the coals of the fire. 'The closest I have to a thought of home lies far to the north. The Druagh mountains. It is good there. The air is clean. I like the people. There is something about the highlanders I warm to.'
Ermal rose. 'I have a little tisane left, and some honey. Warm yourself while I prepare it.'
Mulgrave leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His left shoulder was throbbing, and he could feel a prickling in the tips of his fingers. Luck had been with him on that dreadful day, as the grapeshot screamed through the air. A rider on his left - Toby Vainer - had been ripped apart, his face disappearing in a bloody spray. A second volley had torn through the men on his right.
Yet only a single ball had punched into Mulgrave, and not one had come close to Gaise Macon. The young general had ridden on, his grey horse leaping over the first cannon. The cannoneers had scattered and run as the cavalry broke through. Gaise and his riders had pursued them. Mulgrave had tried to follow. But his horse collapsed and died beneath him, hurling him from the saddle.
Only then did Mulgrave see that the beast's body had shielded him from the worst of the grapeshot.
The wound in Mulgrave's shoulder - so small and seemingly insignificant - had festered badly. He had slipped into a semi-coma two days later.
He had returned to full consciousness in this cottage. According to Ermal Standfast Mulgrave had been taken to the field surgeon, and the man had shrugged and said: 'He will be dead within a week. The wound has gone bad.' Gaise Macon would have none of it. Having been told of a healer in Shelding, some thirty miles from the battlefield, he had commandeered a wagon.
Mulgrave had little recollection of the journey to Shelding. He remembered burning pain, and occasional glimpses of clouds scurrying across a blue sky. Odd snippets of conversation ... 'I think he is dying, my lord.' And Gaise Macon saying: 'He will not die. I will not allow it.' He remembered the jolting of the wheels on the rutted road. But most of the journey was lost to him.
Ermal returned with two pottery jugs. Passing one to Mulgrave, he resumed his seat. 'So what will you do, my friend?'
'I don't know.'
'Have you lost faith in the cause?'
Mulgrave shrugged. 'What cause?' He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well for weeks. Nightmares haunted him, and he would awake several times a night, sometimes crying out in his anger and despair.
'Kings are chosen by the Source, so it is said,' Ermal went on. 'Therefore those who fight for the king could be considered godly. Is that not cause enough?'
'Anyone who believes that has not seen the work of the king's Redeemers.'
'There are always rumours of excesses in war,' said the priest. Mulgrave looked at him, seeing the fear in the man's eyes.
'Aye, you are right,' he said. 'Let us talk of other things.' He noted his friend's relief. Ermal relaxed back into his chair and sipped his tisane. A coal upon the fire split and crackled briefly. Several cinders dropped into the grate.
'Are you still dreaming of the white-haired woman?' asked Ermal.
'Yes.'
'Does she speak to you yet?'
'No. She tries, but I hear nothing. I think she is in danger.'
'What makes you think that?'
'In the last few dreams she has been on a mountainside, struggling to climb. She stops and looks back. There are ... men . . . below her. Following, I think. Then she looks directly at me and speaks. But I hear
'What about your family?'
Mulgrave said nothing for a moment, but stared into the fire. 'I come from Shelsans,' he said.
Ermal shuddered inwardly. He made the Sign of the Tree.
'How did you survive?' he asked. 'You can have been no more than nine . . . maybe ten.'
'I was in the hills when the knights came, visiting an old man who made honey mead wine. We saw the massacre. The old man took me to a cave high in the mountains.' Taking up a blackened poker Mulgrave absently stirred the coals of the fire. 'The closest I have to a thought of home lies far to the north. The Druagh mountains. It is good there. The air is clean. I like the people. There is something about the highlanders I warm to.'
Ermal rose. 'I have a little tisane left, and some honey. Warm yourself while I prepare it.'
Mulgrave leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. His left shoulder was throbbing, and he could feel a prickling in the tips of his fingers. Luck had been with him on that dreadful day, as the grapeshot screamed through the air. A rider on his left - Toby Vainer - had been ripped apart, his face disappearing in a bloody spray. A second volley had torn through the men on his right.
Yet only a single ball had punched into Mulgrave, and not one had come close to Gaise Macon. The young general had ridden on, his grey horse leaping over the first cannon. The cannoneers had scattered and run as the cavalry broke through. Gaise and his riders had pursued them. Mulgrave had tried to follow. But his horse collapsed and died beneath him, hurling him from the saddle.
Only then did Mulgrave see that the beast's body had shielded him from the worst of the grapeshot.
The wound in Mulgrave's shoulder - so small and seemingly insignificant - had festered badly. He had slipped into a semi-coma two days later.
He had returned to full consciousness in this cottage. According to Ermal Standfast Mulgrave had been taken to the field surgeon, and the man had shrugged and said: 'He will be dead within a week. The wound has gone bad.' Gaise Macon would have none of it. Having been told of a healer in Shelding, some thirty miles from the battlefield, he had commandeered a wagon.
Mulgrave had little recollection of the journey to Shelding. He remembered burning pain, and occasional glimpses of clouds scurrying across a blue sky. Odd snippets of conversation ... 'I think he is dying, my lord.' And Gaise Macon saying: 'He will not die. I will not allow it.' He remembered the jolting of the wheels on the rutted road. But most of the journey was lost to him.
Ermal returned with two pottery jugs. Passing one to Mulgrave, he resumed his seat. 'So what will you do, my friend?'
'I don't know.'
'Have you lost faith in the cause?'
Mulgrave shrugged. 'What cause?' He rubbed at his eyes. He hadn't slept well for weeks. Nightmares haunted him, and he would awake several times a night, sometimes crying out in his anger and despair.
'Kings are chosen by the Source, so it is said,' Ermal went on. 'Therefore those who fight for the king could be considered godly. Is that not cause enough?'
'Anyone who believes that has not seen the work of the king's Redeemers.'
'There are always rumours of excesses in war,' said the priest. Mulgrave looked at him, seeing the fear in the man's eyes.
'Aye, you are right,' he said. 'Let us talk of other things.' He noted his friend's relief. Ermal relaxed back into his chair and sipped his tisane. A coal upon the fire split and crackled briefly. Several cinders dropped into the grate.
'Are you still dreaming of the white-haired woman?' asked Ermal.
'Yes.'
'Does she speak to you yet?'
'No. She tries, but I hear nothing. I think she is in danger.'
'What makes you think that?'
'In the last few dreams she has been on a mountainside, struggling to climb. She stops and looks back. There are ... men . . . below her. Following, I think. Then she looks directly at me and speaks. But I hear
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