David Gemmell - Rigante 4 - Stormrider

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PROLOGUE

THE NIGHT SKY WAS LIT BY FLAMES, AND BLACK SMOKE SWIRLED across the valley as the town of Shelsans

continued to burn. There were no screams now, no feeble cries, no begging for mercy. Two thousand

heretics were dead, most slain by sword or mace, though many had been committed to the cleansing

fires.

The young Knight of the Sacrifice stood high upon the hillside and stared down at the burning

town. Reflections of the distant flames shone on his blood-spattered silver breastplate and

glistening helm. The wind shifted and Winter Kay smelt the scent of roasting flesh. Far below the

wind fanned the hunger of the flames. They blazed higher, devouring the ancient timber walls of

the Old Museum, and the carved wooden gates of the Albitane Church.

Winter Kay removed his helm. His lean, angular features gleamed with sweat. Plucking a linen

handkerchief from his belt he examined it for bloodstains. Finding none he wiped the cloth over

his face and short-cropped dark hair. Putting on armour had been a waste of time today.

The townsfolk had offered no armed resistance as the thousand knights had ridden into the valley.

Instead hundreds of them had walked from the town singing hymns, and crying out words of welcome

and brotherhood. When they saw the Knights of the Sacrifice draw their longswords and heel their

horses forward they had fallen to their knees and called upon the Source to protect them.

What idiots they were, thought Winter Kay. The Source blessed only those with the courage to

fight, or the wit to run. He could not recall how many he had slain that day, only that his sword

had been blunted by dusk, and that his holy white cloak had been drenched in the blood of the

evil.

Some had tried to repent, begging for their lives as they were dragged to the pyres. One man - a

stocky priest in a blue robe -had hurled himself to the ground before Winter Kay, promising him a

great treasure if he was spared.

'What treasure do you possess, worm?' asked Winter Kay, pressing his sword point against the man's

back.

'The Orb, sir. I can take you to the Orb of Kranos.'

'How quaint,' said Winter Kay. 'I expect it resides alongside the Sword of Connavar, and the Helm

of Axias. Perhaps it is even wrapped in the Veiled Lady's robe?'

'I speak the truth, sir. The Orb is hidden in Shelsans. It has been kept there for centuries. I

have seen it.'

Winter Kay hauled the man to his feet by his white hair. He was short and heavy, his face round,

his eyes fearful. From all around them came the screams of the dying cultists. Winter Kay dragged

the man towards the town. A woman ran past him, a sword jutting from her breast. She staggered

several steps then fell to her knees. A knight followed her, wrenching the sword clear and

decapitating her. Winter Kay walked on, holding his prisoner by the collar of his robe.

The man led him to a small church. In the doorway lay two dead priests. Beyond them were the

bodies of a group of women and children.

The prisoner pointed to the altar. 'We need to move it, sir,' he said. 'The entrance to the vault

is below it.' Sheathing his sword Winter Kay released the man. Together they lifted the altar

table clear of the trapdoor beneath. The priest took hold of an iron ring and dragged the trapdoor

open. Below it was a narrow set of steps. Winter Kay gestured the priest to climb down, and then

followed him.

It was gloomy inside. The priest found a tinder box and struck a flame, lighting a torch that was

set in a bracket on the grey wall. They moved on down a narrow corridor, which opened out into a

circular room. There were already torches lit here, and an elderly man was sitting before an oval

table. In his hands was a curiously carved black box, some eighteen inches high. Winter Kay

thought it to be polished ebony. The old man saw the newcomers and gently laid the box upon the

table.

'The Orb is within it,' said the captured priest.

'Oh, Pereus, how could you be so craven?' asked the elderly man.

'I don't want to die. Is that so terrible?' the prisoner replied.

'You will die anyway,' said the old priest, sadly. 'This knight has no intention of letting you

live. There is not an ounce of mercy in him.'

'That is not true,' wailed the prisoner, swinging towards Winter Kay.

'Ah, but it is,' the knight told him, drawing his sword. The little priest tried to run, but

Winter Kay sprang after him, delivering a ferocious blow to the back of the man's head. The skull

cracked open. The priest crumpled to the stone floor. 'Is that truly the Orb of Kranos?' Winter

Kay asked.

'Aye, it is. Do you have any inkling of what that means?'

'It is a relic of ancient times. A crystal ball, some say, through which we can see the future.

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Show it to me.'

'It is not crystal, Winter Kay. It is bone.'

'How is it you know my name?'

'I have the Gift, sir knight, though at this moment I wish I did not. So kill me and be done with

it.'

'All in good time, priest. My arm is tired from constant work today. I'll let it rest awhile. Show

me the Orb.'

The elderly priest stepped away from the table. 'I have no wish to see it. The box is not locked.'

Winter Kay strode forward. As he reached out for the lid he realized the box was not made of wood

at all, but was cast from some dark metal. 'What are these symbols etched upon it?' he asked.

'Ward spells. The Orb radiates evil. The box contains it.'

'We shall see.' Winter Kay flipped open the lid. Within the box was an object wrapped in black

velvet. Putting down his bloody sword Winter Kay reached in and lifted it out. Carefully he folded

back the cloth. The priest was right. It was no crystal ball. It was a skull, an iron circlet upon

its brow. 'What nonsense is this?' demanded Winter Kay. Reaching out he touched the yellowed brow.

The skull began to glow, as if a bright candle had been lit within its hollow dome. Winter Kay

felt a powerful surge of warmth flow along his fingers and up his arm. It was exquisite. It

continued to flow through his body, up through his chest and neck and into his head. He cried out

with the pleasure of it. All weariness from the day of slaughter fell away. He felt invigorated.

'This is a wondrous piece,' he said. 'I feel reborn.'

'Evil knows its own kind,' said the old man.

Winter Kay laughed aloud. 'I am not evil, fool. I am a Knight of the Sacrifice. I live to destroy

evil wherever I find it. I do the work of the Source. I cleanse the land of the ungodly. Now tell

me what magic has been placed in this skull.'

'Only what was always there. That. . . that creature was once a mighty king. A great hero

destroyed him and freed the world of his evil. However, the darkness within him cannot die. It

seeks to reach out and corrupt the souls of men. It will bring you nothing but sorrow and death.'

'Interesting,' said Winter Kay. 'There is an old adage: the enemy of my enemy must therefore be my

friend. Since you are named by the church as the enemy, then this must be a vessel for good. I

find no evil in it.'

'That is because its evil has already found you.'

'And now you begin to bore me, old man. I shall give you a few moments to make your peace with the

blessed Source - and then I shall send you to Him.'

'I will go gladly, Winter Kay. Which is more than can be said for you, when the one with the

golden eye comes for you.'

Winter Kay's sword swept up, then down in a murderous arc. Having been blunted by a day of murder

the blade did not completely decapitate the old man. Blood sprayed across the room. Several drops

splashed to the table, spattering the skull. Light blazed from the bone. As Winter Kay gazed upon

it an ethereal face seemed to form for a brief moment. Then it faded.

Wrapping the skull in its hood of black velvet Winter Kay returned it to its box and carried it

from the burning ruins of Shelsans.

CHAPTER ONE

THE WINTER IN THE NORTHERN MOUNTAINS WAS THE MOST VICIOUS IN more than thirty years. Rivers and

lakes lay under a foot of ice, and fierce blizzards raged across the land for days on end. Sheep

trapped in snowdrifts died in their scores, and only the hardiest of the cattle would live to see

the spring. Many roads were impassable and the townspeople struggled to survive. Highlanders of

the Black Rigante came out of the mountains, bringing food and supplies, aiding farmers, seeking

out those citizens trapped within lonely homes high in the hills. Even so, many died, frozen in

their beds.

Few ventured out into the wilderness between Black Mountain and the craggy western peaks of the

Rigante homeland.

Kaelin Ring was wishing he was not one of them as he struggled through the bitter cold towards the

high cabin of Finbarr Ustal. Labouring under a heavy pack, to which was strapped a new long-

barrelled musket, Kaelin pushed up the last steep hill. Ice shone brightly in his dark beard, and

the long, white scar on his right cheek felt as if it was burning. His legs ached from the

unaccustomed stride pattern necessitated by the wide snowshoes he wore. Kaelin climbed on, growing

ever more weary. At twenty-three he was a powerful young man. In summer he would run, sometimes

for ten miles over the hills, revelling in the strength and stamina of his youth, but at this

moment he felt like an old man, his muscles exhausted, his body crying out for rest. Anger flared.

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'Rest here and you'll die,' he told himself.

His dark eyes scanned the hill ahead. The slope was steep and stretched on and up for another half-

mile. He paused and clumsily readjusted the straps of his pack. Kaelin was wearing two pairs of

gloves, one pair of lamb's wool, the second of rabbit fur, but his fingers still felt numb. A

fierce wind blew down over the hills, lifting snow in flurries, stinging his face and eyes. The

wind billowed his sheepskin hood, flicking it away from his face. With a curse Kaelin grabbed at

it, hauling it back into place. The sky above was grey and heavy with snow clouds. Kaelin stared

balefully at the slope ahead. He was coming to the end of his strength. To die here would be

laughable, he told himself. Never to see Chara again, or his little son Jaim. 'It will not

happen,' he said aloud. ‘I’ll not be beaten by a touch of snow.'

The wind picked up, roaring into his chest and almost throwing him from his feet. 'Is that the

best you can do?' shouted Kaelin. Strengthened by his anger he ducked his head into the wind and

began to climb again. The pain in his legs was growing now, his calves tight and cramping. As he

struggled on he focused on Finbarr, and the welcome he would receive as he entered the warmth and

security of the high cabin.

Finbarr had worked at Ironlatch Farm for several years, but last year had come to live in the

north-west cabin with his wife and two surviving children. His oldest son had died two years ago.

Employed by Maev Ring to watch over the stock in these mountain pastures Finbarr patrolled the

high country, distributing bales of hay, and digging out sheep trapped in the snow. It was tough,

demanding work. His wife, Ural, a strong woman, often worked alongside him, as did the two boys.

Kaelin had not seen the family for more than two months, and, caught within one of his wandering

moods, had packed some supplies and set off for the cabin. In good weather it was a day's walk

from Ironlatch, but in these conditions it had taken the powerful young highlander more than three

times as long. He had been forced to spend one whole day in a cliff cave, sheltering from a fierce

blizzard.

Exhausted now, Kaelin began to sweat from the effort of climbing the hill. Fear touched him. In

these conditions a man had to move slowly and carefully. At this temperature perspiration would

freeze against the skin beneath a man's clothes, draining all warmth from his flesh.

'I am almost there,' he thought. 'The sweat does not matter.'

The sun was dropping low over the mountains as he approached the last quarter-mile, and he was now

regretting that he had chosen to bring his new long-barrelled musket, and his two Emburley

pistols. Kaelin had planned to do a little hunting with Finbarr and the boys, but now all he

wanted was a chair by a warm hearth, and to be relieved of the weight of his guns and his pack. He

shivered with pleasure at the thought of the heat from Finbarr's fire.

The boys, Feargol and Basson, would be delighted to see him. The youngsters loved his stories -

stories he had first heard from the giant Jaim Grymauch when he was their age; tales of Connavar

the King, and Bane, who had fought in the great arenas of Stone. Basson, the elder at ten, would

sit at Kaelin's feet, his eyes wide, his attention rapt. Feargol, a six-year-old with an unruly

mop of red hair, would interrupt the tales constantly, asking the oddest questions. 'Did Bane wear

a hat?' he asked one day, just as Kaelin was telling the boys the story of a gladiatorial contest

between Bane and a Stone warrior.

'Not while he was fighting before the crowd,' said Kaelin, patiently. 'So Bane drew his sword and

stepped out before the emperor, a powerful man named—'

'What kind of a hat did he wear when he wasn't fighting?' asked Feargol.

'Will you be quiet?' snapped Basson, a slim young lad, who had inherited his mother's fair skin

and blond hair. 'Who cares if he had a hat?'

'I like hats,' said Feargol.

'He had a woollen hat,' said Kaelin, 'just like yours, with ear protectors. When it was cold he

would let them down and tie them below his chin. In the summer he would lift the ear flaps up and

tie them at the top of the hat.'

'What colour was it?' asked Feargol. 'Was it white like mine?'

'Yes, it was white.'

Feargol was delighted. Scrambling up from the floor he ran back into the bedroom and returned

wearing his white hat. Then he sat quietly as Kaelin finished the story.

The memory lifted Kaelin's mood as he saw the cabin. He pictured the fire and the friendly

reception, the boys running out to greet him. Kaelin paused in his climb. There was no smoke

coming from the stone chimney. This was odd, for there was enough firewood to last the winter. He

and Finbarr had spent weeks hauling and sawing logs, chopping rounds and stacking the fuel by the

north wall.

As he came closer to the cabin he saw that the timbers of the west wall had caved in, and part of

the roof had fallen. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sa.w something red flicker in a nearby

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tree. Squinting against the fierce cold wind, and the flurrying snow, Kaelin focused on the tree.

Finbarr's older son, Basson, dressed in a thin red nightshirt, was clinging to the upper branches.

Kicking off his snowshoes Kaelin scrambled up the last part of the slope, his weariness forgotten.

Even as he came to the tree he knew that the boy was dead.

The ten-year-old had frozen to death. There was ice in his blond hair, and his skin was blue.

Great gouges had been torn from the trunk of the tree below him. Kaelin recognized the marks as

the talons of a grizzly. They reached up almost nine feet.

Moving to the shattered wall of the cabin he saw the timbers had been smashed open. There were

talon grooves in the shattered wood and blood upon the snow around the ruined door. Shrugging off

his pack he pulled off his gloves. There would be no point trying to load the musket. The firing

mechanism would be frozen solid. Opening his heavy sheepskin coat he pulled one of his long-

barrelled Emburley pistols from its leather sheath and cocked it. He did not go into the cabin,

but examined the bloodstained ground. There were bear tracks and a deep channel where something

had been dragged towards the trees - something leaking gore.

With a sinking heart Kaelin Ring followed the channel. What he found, just inside the tree line,

sickened him. The remains of the family were scattered here. Finbarr's head - half the face bitten

away - was resting by a tree root. Of Ural there was part of a leg, and a ripped and bloody

section of skirt. Kaelin had neither the heart nor the stomach to search for signs of the child,

Feargol.

He returned to the cabin. There were deep claw marks on the outer, smashed walls. Inside, the

table was broken in half, and two of the chairs were shattered. Several shelves had been torn from

the walls, and the floor was littered with broken crockery. A discharged musket and a pistol lay

close to the door of the back bedroom. A broken sabre was resting against the far wall, and a

bloody kitchen knife had been hurled into the hearth. From what Kaelin could see - and the fact

that Basson had scrambled up the tree in his nightshirt - the bear had come upon the cabin at

night. It had smashed at the door and the frame, tearing out the timbers. This had not been done

quickly. Finbarr and Ural had time to load and fire the musket and pistol. As the bear came

through they had fought it with sword and knife. Spray patterns of blood upon the walls showed

that they had died here. Basson must have ducked past the bear and run for the trees.

Kaelin moved to the hearth. Dropping to one knee he retrieved the bloodstained kitchen knife. Then

he pressed his hand to the hearth stones. They were still slightly warm.

The attack had been last night.

Rising, Kaelin walked through to the small back bedroom. There was no sign here of disruption. The

boys' bunk beds stood against the far wall, opposite the large double bed shared by Finbarr and

Ural. Kaelin sat down upon the bed. This was a harsh land, and he had both killed men and seen

others die upon the battlefield. Nothing like this, though.

It was unheard of for a bear - even a grizzly - to attack a cabin in this way. Often the beasts

would scavenge around for scraps of food, but mostly they would keep away from people. Every high-

lander knew the two main rules when it came to dealing with such animals. Avoidance came first -

especially if it was a mother with cubs, or it was feeding, or defending a kill. The second rule -

if avoidance was not possible - was to remain calm and move slowly away from the beast. Given the

choice bears tended to leave humans alone. Most attacks Kaelin had heard of had come when people

had blundered upon a feeding bear and surprised it. The rips and tears in the timbers of the cabin

showed that this grizzly had launched a frenzied assault in order to reach the people inside.

He glanced across at the bunk beds, and thought of little Feargol in his white cap. Finbarr had

been over-protective of both his sons. He had already lost one child, his oldest boy, to a fever

that was raging in Black Mountain. Finbarr had been determined to keep his other children safe. It

was one of the reasons he had moved his family to this high cabin.

Kaelin shivered, his exhaustion returning. No time now to mourn the dead, he thought. The bear

would be back to finish his feeding. Kaelin knew he should be long gone when that happened. Cold

reality touched his mind. If he left now he would almost certainly die. He did not have the

strength to make it back to the high cave. He cursed softly. In all likelihood the bear would not

come to the cabin. It would eat its fill, and return to its lair. Kaelin fetched his pack and

carried it back into the main room. Then he prepared a fire. Once the flames caught he removed his

hooded cloak and sheepskin topcoat and squatted down before the blaze. The heat was welcome.

Outside the light was fading. If the bear did come now . . .

Fear touched the young Rigante, and he tried to quell it. 'If it comes I'll kill it,' he said

aloud. The strength of the words calmed him, though only momentarily. Finbarr and Ural had

discharged weapons at the beast. They had not stopped it.

Kaelin added more wood to the fire. His Emburley pistols were more powerful than Finbarr's

weapons, and his musket was new. Picking up the weapon he rubbed at the mechanism with a fire-

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warmed cloth. Once it was working he loaded the musket and left it on the floor within easy reach.

Warmer now, he began to relax a little as his strength returned. There was a bitter breeze blowing

through the ruined wall. Kaelin found Finbarr's box of tools and began to make temporary repairs.

The bear had torn out the timbers to the right of the door frame. The frame had buckled and

snapped, tearing off the door and causing the roof to drop. Timbers had bent inwards, and the bear

had struck them, snapping two completely as it entered the cabin. There was no way to repair the

frame properly, but Kaelin managed to force some of the timbers back, and nail them, reinforcing

the repair with sections of wood from the broken table. By the end of two hours he had created

enough of a barrier to prevent the worst of the weather from freezing the cabin. Were the bear to

return, however, it would be a matter of moments before it tore its way in.

Kaelin recovered Finbarr's musket and pistol, found the man's powder and shot and reloaded both

weapons. Then he went to his pack, and removed some of the food he had brought to share with the

family. There was a round of cheese, a section of honey-roasted ham, and two pottery containers of

plum preserve, which the children loved. Sadness swept once more over Kaelin. They were good boys,

and would have become fine men. Adding fuel to the fire he sat quietly, eating slices of ham.

Then he heard a noise. Rolling to his feet he snatched up his musket and cocked it. The sound had

come from the bedroom. His heart began to beat more rapidly. Moving forward, he flicked the latch

of the door and threw it open. There was no window here, and no way the bear could have gained

entrance. Kaelin stepped inside. The room was empty. Dropping to one knee he bent and looked under

the bed. A pile of folded clothing lay there. Kaelin rose, and scanned the small room. Apart from

the beds there was a chest of drawers and, by the other wall, an ancient trunk, covered with

carved symbols. 'Get a grip, Kaelin,' he told himself. 'Now you're hearing things.'

As he spoke he heard a soft sob coming from the trunk. Leaving the musket on the bed he knelt by

the old chest and lifted the lid. Red-haired Feargol was curled up inside, still in his

nightshirt. His face showed his terror. 'It's all right, boy,' said Kaelin, softly. 'It's Uncle

Kaelin. You are safe now.' He reached into the trunk. Feargol squeezed shut his eyes and tried to

burrow down through the clothes it contained. Kaelin paused. Instead of picking up the child he

gently patted his thin shoulder. 'You've been very brave, Feargol. I am very proud of you,' he

said, keeping his voice low and gentle. 'I think you should come out and have some food with me

now.'

Leaving the boy he gathered up his musket and returned to the fire. He sat for some time, waiting,

but Feargol did not come out. With a sigh Kaelin added more wood to the fire. The boy had moved

beyond terror. He had listened to the roar of the bear and the screams of his parents. He had

heard the snapping of bones and the rending of flesh. His world had been torn apart by the talons

and teeth of a crazed beast. If necessary Kaelin would go and lift him from the trunk, but he knew

it would be better for the boy to make his own choice.

Years before, when Kaelin was just turned twelve, he and the giant Jaim Grymauch had taken part in

a search for a lost Varlish boy. It was believed the child had wandered into the low woods, and

search parties started out to find him. Jaim had doubted the prevailing wisdom, and, a long coil

of rope on his shoulders, had set off into the hills.

'Why are we heading here?' Kaelin had asked him.

'It is said the boy was troubled, and fearful. Other boys had threatened him. In the woods you can

hide - but you cannot see an enemy coming. Up in the hills you can also hide, but there are high

vantage points. From them you can watch your pursuers.'

They had searched for most of the day. Often Jaim would stop and squat down, listening. Kaelin

remembered it well. The big man would crouch, lift the band of black cloth around the socket of

his ruined left eye, and scratch at the puckered, stitched skin of his eyelid. It was something he

always did when he was worried. Towards dusk Kaelin heard a faint sound, and the two of them found

a fissure, where the ground had given way. Moving to it Jaim called the boy's name. He was

answered by a cry for help.

'Are you injured, lad?'

'No. Please get me out.'

'Can you stand? Are your arms still strong?'

'Yes. Please come and get me.'

‘I’ll lower a rope to you. You must tie it round your waist.'

'I can't,' wailed the child. 'Come and get me.'

'I can climb down there,' whispered Kaelin.

'I know,' said Jaim, softly. 'Maybe you will have to. Sit tight now, and be quiet while I talk to

the boy.' Jaim transferred his attention to the fissure. 'I know you are a brave lad. So listen to

me now. Up here the stars are about to shine, and the air is sweet. Have you ever heard of the

magic eye?'

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'No,' replied the boy.

And Jaim had told him a wondrous tall tale. 'Now my magic eye can always tell a hero,' he

finished. 'And you, my lad, are a hero. A lesser boy would have died in this fall. I am going to

lower the rope now. Let me know when you can feel it.' Jaim uncoiled the rope and gently threaded

it down the opening.

'I have it!'

'Put it round your waist. Nice and tight. Shout to me when you have done it.'

'Will you pull me up then?'

'I'm not a strong man, boy,' lied Jaim. 'You'll need to climb a little. I might be able to haul

you to the first handhold.'

'I can't climb,' wailed the boy. 'It's dark and I'm not strong.'

'Well, we'll see,' said Jaim. 'Is the rope tight?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then you start to climb and I'll take in the slack.'

It took about twenty minutes for the boy to make the climb. When he at last emerged Jaim clapped

him on the back and told him how proud he was of him. 'You're a fine lad,' he said.

After they had returned the boy to his home, and were returning to their own, Kaelin asked: 'Why

did you torture him so? I could have climbed down there in a minute. And you are not weak at all.

You are the strongest man in the highlands.'

Jaim had paused in their walk. 'Ah, Kaelin, you have much to learn. There is no greater despair

than to feel helpless. Had we merely pulled him out he would have carried that helplessness like a

sack upon his shoulders. Any problem in his life would have seen him crying for help. We grow by

doing, boy. We make ourselves men by our own actions. Yes, I helped him. But he climbed out. He

took his own life in his own hands and he made a decision. It is a life lesson he learned today.

He will be stronger for it.'

Sitting now by the fire in Finbarr's ravaged cabin Kaelin began to sing an old song that Jaim had

taught him many years ago.

'Lost by the roadside, happy in my hideaway, Far from the troubles of when I was a runaway. No-one

can catch me, and not a man can match me. I'm the cunning outlaw, all my troubles cast away.'

He finished the song, and then called out. 'I have some plum preserve here for you, my little

friend. And the fire is warm.' Then he began to sing again.

Just when he was starting to believe he would have to fetch the boy he saw the little six-year-old

step into the doorway. His blue nightshirt was stained with urine, and he was wearing his white

hat, with the ear flaps hanging down. Kaelin reached out and lifted a jar of preserve. 'I think we

should eat a little something, my friend,' he said, his voice soft and soothing. Feargol turned

towards the ruined wall, and stood staring at the broken timbers.

'The bear is going to come back,' he said.

'If it does I'll kill it,' said Kaelin. ‘I’ll let no bear come close to my friend Feargol.'

'Did the bear eat Basson?'

'No.'

'But it ate my daddy,' said the child, beginning to tremble. Tears spilled to his face.

'You and I are going to Ironlatch Farm tomorrow,' said Kaelin. 'It will be an adventure. You'll

come and live with me and Chara and little Jaim. We'll be glad to have you. You know why? Look at

me, Feargol. You know why?'

The little boy turned his gaze away from the torn wall. 'Why?'

'Because I like you. I think you are a fine boy. You are brave and you are bright. You are just

like Bane. Come and sit by the fire. We'll eat, and we'll rest, and tomorrow we'll go home.'

Feargol walked across to where Kaelin waited. Then he sat on his lap. Kaelin put his arms round

him and stroked his shoulder. 'Are you frightened of the bear?' the little boy asked.

'I was, Feargol. But not now. Trust me, boy. I'll not let it harm a hair of your head.'

'It has a horrible face, all scaly.'

After a while Feargol ate a little of the ham and cheese, following them with some sweet plum

preserve. Then Kaelin took him back into the bedroom and found some clothes for him. The boy was

very pale, his eyes wide and fearful. Kaelin dressed him in a warm shirt and leggings, chatting to

him all the while. Then they returned to the main room, and Kaelin found a container of lantern

oil. Filling an old jug with it, he placed it on the floor.

Feargol stayed close to him, watching him. Kaelin walked to the bedroom and cut a strip from a

blanket. This he wrapped round a section of wood from a broken chair leg, and doused it with

lantern oil. 'What are you doing?' asked Feargol.

'It's a surprise,' said Kaelin. 'Now I think you should rest. We have a long walk tomorrow, and

you'll need to be strong.' Gathering blankets he laid them on the floor by the fire. 'You just lie

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down. I'll keep watch.'

Feargol did as he was told, but he didn't sleep. He lay very still, watching Kaelin.

'Am I really like Bane?' he asked.

'Yes. Very brave.'

'I don't feel brave. I feel very frightened.'

'Trust me, my friend. I know you are brave. I can tell. My uncle Jaim gave me a magic eye. I can

always see the truth.'

'Where did he get it?'

Kaelin smiled, remembering the day Jaim told him the same story. 'He found it in a secret well,

that could only be seen when the moon was new. It was left there by a mighty wizard.'

'Where do you keep it?' asked Feargol, suddenly yawning.

'Keep it?'

'The magic eye.'

'Ah! I keep it here,' said Kaelin, tapping the centre of his forehead.

'I can't see it.'

'That's because it's magical. You can only see it when the moon is new, and when a white owl flies

overhead.'

Feargol yawned again. 'I have a magic eye,' he said. 'Daddy told me not to tell anyone.' The room

was warm now, and dancing fire shadows flickered on the walls. Kaelin sat quietly as the boy fell

asleep.

Kaelin Ring had no magical powers. He did not dream of future events, nor did he see ghosts. And

yet he knew with grim certainty that the bear would return. It was not fear which filled him with

this sense of foreboding. He knew that for sure. All his own fears had vanished the moment he had

found little Feargol alive.

The bear would simply come back to feed. In doing so he would scent Kaelin and the boy. Like all

the local highlanders Kaelin knew the bears which roamed his territory. In this area there was

only one huge grizzly. The locals called him Hang-lip. At some point in his young life he had been

in a fight, and his lower lip had been half cut away. It hung now from his jaw, flapping as he

walked. Kaelin had seen him often. He was big. On his hind legs he would reach almost eight feet -

ten if he stretched his paws high. He lived alone. Finbarr had told Kaelin that Hang-lip had

killed another bear in his territory - old Shabba. The news had saddened Kaelin, for Shabba had

held a place in his heart. The old bear had once ransacked a camp of Kaelin's, and this had caused

much merriment to Chara Jace, who, safe in a tree, had watched the whole scene. It was the first

time Kaelin and Chara had been alone together. Old Shabba had ambled over to where Kaelin lay and

sniffed his face before wandering off. And Hang-lip had killed him. 'I should have hunted him down

then,' thought Kaelin. Bears would fight, but generally when one ran the other would let it go.

Not Hang-lip. He was a killer. Now he had killed humans, and dined on their bodies. Jaim had once

told Kaelin that in such circumstances bears developed a rare taste for human flesh, and would

continue to hunt people. Kaelin had no idea if this were true. Jaim was a wonderful storyteller,

and, like all storytellers, had a curious disregard for truth. What Kaelin did know, however, was

that a musket ball was unlikely to kill such a beast instantly. The bear's ribs were immensely

powerful, and any ball that struck one would bounce away. It would be a rare shot that found a way

to a bear's heart.

The night wore on. Kaelin kept the fire blazing, and moved his position so that he was close to

the entrance. From here he could see the edge of the trees, and listen for sounds of the bear's

return. He was tired now, and longed for an hour's sleep. His mind wandered, and he thought of

Jaim Grymauch, recalling the great fight he had had with the Varlish champion, Gorain. What a day

that had been. The Bishop of Eldacre had invited Gorain and another champion, the legendary Chain

Shada, to fight at the Highland Games. The bishop had wanted to see the clansmen humbled, and

reinforce belief in Varlish superiority. It would have worked, too. But the one-eyed Jaim had

fought Gorain to a standstill before knocking him out of the circle and into the crowd. It was a

colossal moment, and Kaelin would treasure it all his life.

His own life had changed that night too. A girl who loved him had been murdered by a Varlish

soldier and his nephew. They had raped her, then hanged her. Kaelin had found them both. In a

night of bleak savagery he had killed them. Truth to tell he did not regret their deaths, nor his

part in them. He did, however, feel shame at the way he had ripped at their bodies. Blind with

rage he had cut off their heads and jammed them on the posts of a bridge.

Kaelin jerked to wakefulness. He had dozed, his head resting against the wall. He rubbed his eyes

and stared out at the tree line. There was nothing there, and no sounds of crunching bone could be

heard.

He pushed himself to his feet. Just as he did so a colossal black form reared into the opening,

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its huge head pushing over the newly repaired wall, its torn lip hanging. Kaelin hurled himself to

the floor and rolled. Hang-lip let out a roar. Feargol awoke and screamed at the top of his voice.

The bear lashed at a timber, which parted and flew across the room. Kaelin scrambled to the jug of

lantern oil, grabbed the chair leg wrapped in cloth and held it in the fire. Flames leapt to the

cloth. Carrying torch and jug he ran towards the bear, flinging the oil into its face. The beast

lunged at him, but was hindered by a second timber, which groaned under its weight. Kaelin thrust

the burning torch into the bear's mouth. The oil on its fur caught fire instantly, flaring up

around its eyes. With a hideous roar it dropped to all fours and ran in flames towards the trees.

Feargol was sobbing by the fire. Kaelin moved to him. 'He's gone,' he said. The boy was trembling

and Kaelin drew him into an embrace. 'I am very proud of you, Feargol,' he said, softly. 'I would

never have been as brave as you when I was your age. I was frightened of mice, you know.'

‘I am frightened of mice,' said Feargol, holding hard to Kaelin's shirt and pushing his head

against the man's chest.

Then we are alike,' Kaelin told him. 'Once I was frightened of mice - and now I fight bears.'

'He will come back. I know he will. '

Kaelin sat quietly for a moment. The boy was already terrified, and it was tempting to offer a

small lie. It would relax him for a while. He dismissed the idea. 'Yes, Feargol, he will be coming

back. He's not hungry any more. He just wants us dead. So I will have to kill him. But we will get

to Ironlatch. I promise you.'

'Can you kill him?' asked the child. 'My daddy couldn't.'

'He took your daddy by surprise. Finbarr was a brave man, and your mother was a fine woman. But I

will be ready for the beast, Feargol - and you will help me.'

'I can't fight bears, Kaelin. I can't!' Tears welled in the boy's eyes.

'You won't need to fight him, my friend. You will help me prepare. I want you to go to the kitchen

and find any long knives. Then you can fetch your daddy's staff. We are going to make a spear. Off

you go.' Kaelin gently eased the child from his embrace and stood. Feargol waited for a moment,

then ran into the kitchen. Kaelin gathered up his musket and returned to the opening. A spear was

unlikely to be more useful than his own weapons, but it would keep the child occupied.

The air was bitterly cold and it was snowing heavily. He knew the two of them would struggle to

stay alive on the outside. If they set out soon after dawn they could reach the cliff cave by

dusk. Kaelin had used it often, and had left a good supply of dry wood there. It would be a hard,

strength-sapping walk. Yet what were the choices? When Hang-lip returned Kaelin would shoot him.

Would the shots reach his heart? Perhaps. And perhaps was not good enough when he had a child to

save. Picturing the long walk to the cliff cave he realized it was almost totally over open

ground. If the bear came after them, as he feared it would, there would be nowhere to hide. The

lack of options made him angry. To stay would be to invite disaster and death. To go would remove

them from the only defensible position, and put them at risk from the awful cold.

Then there was the problem of clothing. Dressing to keep warm would involve many layers of wool,

and this would restrict speed of movement. His snowshoes would help over steep drifts, but he

would have to carry the boy as well as the pack and the musket, and - perhaps - the spear. Kaelin

swore softly.

Looking out into the night he almost wished the bear would return now. Then he could take his

shot, and see if he could bring it down.

Feargol came back into the main room, carrying three long knives. 'Will these do?' he asked.

One was too thin, but the other two were good, strong blades.

'Aye, one of these will be fine,' he told the boy, rubbing his hair. 'Now fetch the staff.'

Finbarr's staff was just under six feet long, and fashioned from oak. Finding the dead man's tools

Kaelin took a small hacksaw and cut a channel four inches deep in the staff's tip. Then, with a

hammer, he smashed the horn handle of the knife, releasing the blade. This he inserted into the

channel. Feargol watched him as he bound the new spear with twine. Once it was fully tied Kaelin

tested the weapon. The blade was still a little loose. Cutting free the twine he retied it more

tightly. Satisfied at last, he laid the spear on the floor.

The cold was becoming more intense and Kaelin told Feargol to add more fuel to the fire. The boy

obeyed instantly. As soon as he had done it he ran back to sit close to Kaelin. 'It's cold over

here,' said the man.

'I'm all right,' answered Feargol.

'What is your soul name?'

'Moon Lantern.'

'That's a good name. Mine is Ravenheart.'

'Why did your daddy call you that?'

'On the night I was born - so my uncle Jaim told me - there was a mighty stag at bay. Several

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wolves had cornered it. Just as they were attacking the stag my father's hound, Raven, came

bursting out of the trees. He tore into the wolves and they ran away. He was a fine dog, Jaim

said.'

'What happened to him?'

'He and my father died that night. Both had been shot in an ambush. Raven was dying even as he

saved the stag.'

'I never knew Jaim. My daddy speaks of him. He says he was tall as a house, and the bravest

Rigante ever.'

'He was tall, but only a few inches taller than me.' Kaelin chuckled. 'He did seem big, though. I

miss him.'

'I miss my daddy,' said Feargol, blinking back tears. Kaelin put his arm round him.

'Aye, it is hard when those we love leave the world. No denying it.'

Outside the sky was lightening. Dawn was not far off. Kaelin took a deep breath. 'Go and find your

warmest clothes, Feargol. We'll be leaving soon.'

'What about the bear?'

'We are in his territory. If we leave it maybe - just maybe - he will not follow.'

'I don't want to go.'

'Neither do I, my friend. But it will be safer.' All the while he was talking Kaelin kept watch on

the tree line, his musket in his hand. There was no predicting the actions of this bear. Indeed,

it was rare to see a grizzly out in such weather. In normal circumstances it should have been

hibernating.

As the dawn approached Kaelin pulled on his heavy topcoat and climbed out of the shattered

doorway. The world outside was white and alien, and unnaturally silent. Cocking the musket he

moved out into the open and scanned the trees. The tracks of the bear headed off towards the

north. Kaelin edged round the hut. By the wood store was a sled, about five feet long, neatly made

with polished runners. He had seen Basson and Feargol playing on it last winter. Sadness touched

him, and he glanced at the tree to which Basson's dead body still clung.

Returning to the cabin Kaelin helped Feargol to dress, placing a wool-lined, hooded coat over his

clothes and finding him two sets of mittens. Outside once more he pulled the sled clear of the

wood store, placing his pack inside it. The rope handles were frozen, but he brushed the ice clear

and dragged the sled out onto open ground. It slid easily. Returning to the cabin he fetched out

the spear and Finbarr's pistol and musket. These he also placed in the sled, the spear jutting out

over the rear. Finding his snowshoes he strapped them on, and called Feargol. The little boy

peeked out, then ran to stand alongside Kaelin.

'We are going to take the sled,' Kaelin told him. Feargol was not listening. He was staring

horrified at his brother in the tree.

'Basson!' he called.

'Shhh!' said Kaelin, dropping down to kneel alongside the child. 'We must make no noise.'

'He won't come down!' wailed Feargol.

'Listen to me, little friend. Listen to me. Basson is dead. He can't be hurt any more. We must get

you home. Then I'll come back and look after Basson.' Feargol began to cry. Kaelin drew him close

and kissed his cheek. 'Be brave for a little while longer. Now climb in the sled.'

'Basson says he's frightened of the bear,' said Feargol. 'Tell him to come down.'

'He is safe where he is, Feargol. The bear cannot get him. I'll come back for him when I have you

safe at Ironlatch. I promise. Now get into the sled.'

The boy slid in alongside his father's musket. 'Hold on to the spear,' said Kaelin. 'Don't let it

fall out.' Carrying his own musket over his shoulder, Kaelin took hold of the rope with his left

hand and began to drag the sled towards the long, downward slope, glancing back constantly to see

if the beast had returned. After a quarter of an hour they reached the crest and Kaelin stopped.

Ahead was a steep dip of around half a mile, ending in the frozen river. Removing his snowshoes

Kaelin wedged them into the sled. He glanced back.

The bear was at the cabin. Around his head, and his sagging lip, the fur had burnt away, giving

him a demonic look. He reared up on his hind legs, and saw the distant man and boy. With a savage

roar he dropped to all fours and began to run at them.

Kaelin pushed the sled forward onto the slope. The snow was thick, and the sled did not begin to

slide. Grunting with the effort he pushed harder. He did not dare look back. The sled began to

move. Leaping onto it he grabbed for the ropes, losing hold of his musket, which fell to the snow.

The sled slowed, then picked up speed.

Kaelin risked a glance back. The bear was closing fast, sending up great sprays of snow as it

bounded towards them. The ground dipped more sharply and the sled gathered pace.

Then it was away, skidding and slithering towards the river below. Twice it hit hidden rocks and

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almost toppled. Kaelin wrestled with the rope guides, desperately trying to keep the sled upright.

Halfway down there was a another dip, and a rise. The sled left the ground. The spear started to

fall, but Feargol grabbed the haft, holding on tight. 'Good boy!' shouted Kaelin.

They closed on the river at terrific speed. Kaelin realized the sled would strike the ice with

great force. If the surface gave way they would be plunged into the water, and swept below the

ice. He tried to turn the sled and slow it, but to no avail. It hit the river bank, sending up a

huge spray of snow. Finbarr's musket and pistol flew out. Feargol was hurled back into Kaelin, who

grabbed him. This time the spear also fell clear. The sled rose into the air, landed on the ice

and spun wildly. Kaelin and the boy were thrown out. Kaelin held tightly to Feargol, and managed

to turn himself so that he struck the ice on his back, shielding the child from impact. They slid

across the frozen river, slamming into the far bank. For a moment Kaelin lay still, his head

spinning. Then he pushed Feargol to the bank and rolled to his knees. Far above on the slope he

could see the bear. It was padding along the ridge, and making no attempt to follow them down.

Kaelin stood. His legs were trembling. 'Are you all right?' he asked Feargol.

'That was really fast,' said the boy.

'Yes, it was.'

Kaelin stumbled out onto the ice. The sled was lying on its side. He righted it, and saw that it

was relatively undamaged. His pack was lying close by, as were the spear and Finbarr's musket. The

pistol was nowhere in sight. Replacing pack, spear and musket he dragged the sled to the bank.

'The bear isn't following us,' said Feargol, happily.

'It looks that way,' agreed Kaelin.

It took some time to find a way out of the river bed, but eventually man and boy hauled the sled

up onto more solid ground. It was here that Kaelin discovered his snowshoes had also been lost.

His temper snapped and he swore loudly.

'Those were bad words,' said Feargol. Kaelin took a deep breath.

'Yes, they were.' He grinned at the child. 'Not a word to Chara about them.'

'She'll send you to bed without supper,' said Feargol.

'Aye - and more than that,' said Kaelin.

The journey to the cliff cave took more than six hours. Feargol was cold and trembling as they

reached the cliff, and could not make the climb to the cave entrance. Kaelin swung the boy to his

back. 'Hold on tight,' he said. Then, removing his gloves, he reached up for the first hold. The

cliff face was ice-covered, but the holds were deep, the climb easy. The cave entrance was only

some ten feet above the ground and Kaelin made it in moments, carrying the child inside and

lowering him to the floor. There was wood stacked by the far wall. Kaelin prepared a fire, and,

once it was started, sat Feargol beside it. Then he returned to the sled, removing the pack,

musket and spear. The spear he threw haft first into the cave. The pack and musket he carried up.

Feargol was lying beside the fire asleep. Kaelin shook him awake. 'Not yet, boy,' he said. 'First

we must get you warm. Otherwise you'll die.' Removing the boy's topcoat and hat he rubbed at his

arms and legs. The fire grew brighter and warmer. Feargol began to tremble and shiver. His lips

were blue. His eyes closed. 'Stay awake!' roared Kaelin.

'S-s-sorry,' said the boy.

'I'm not angry,' Kaelin told him. 'You can sleep in a little while. First we let the fire warm our

bodies. Then we eat a little. All right?'

'Yes, Uncle Kaelin.'

'You are a tough boy. You'll be fine.'

'Who left the wood here?'

'I did. A man should always be prepared. There are lots of places around these highlands where I

have left fuel, or supplies. My uncle Jaim taught me that.'

Feargol's colour was better now, and Kaelin relaxed a little. Fetching his pack, he took out more

of the dried meat and cheese and shared it with the child. The cave was warmer now. Some sixteen

feet deep and fourteen feet wide, it had once been considerably larger, but, on the western side,

a rock fall had collapsed part of the roof. One wall was now merely a wedged mass of broken

stones, and several boulders had tumbled into the cave. Kaelin glanced at the wood store. He had

spent the best part of a day last autumn bringing wood to the cave, and stacking it by the east

wall. There was enough now to last through the night and tomorrow, if necessary.

It would still be a tough journey home, but if they travelled with care they would make it.

Feargol lay down on the floor. Kaelin folded the now empty pack and made a pillow for the child.

'I've never been that fast in the sled,' said Feargol, sleepily. 'Daddy never let us go down the

long slope.'

'A wise man, your daddy,' said Kaelin, ruffling the boy's red hair. 'Sleep now. It will be a

tiring day tomorrow.'

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David Gemmell - Rigante 4 - Stormrider

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