Gemmell, David - Rigante 3 - Ravenheart

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David A. Gemmell's first novel Legend, a powerful heroic fantasy, was first published in 1984. Since then he

has become a full-time writer and his bestsellers include the Jon Shannow novels, Wolf in Shadow, The Last

Guardian and Bloodstone, the continuing Drenai series and The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend. His most

recent bestsellers, Sword in the Storm, Echoes of the Great Song and Midnight Falcon and Hero in the Shadows

are also published by Corgi. His latest novel Stormrider is now available from Bantam Press. David Gemmell

is married with two teenage children and lives in East Sussex.

By David Gemmell

The Drenai books

Legend The King Beyond the Gate

Waylander

Quest for Lost Heroes

Waylander II: In the Realm of the Wolf

The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend

The Legend of Deathwalker

Winter Warriors Hero in the Shadows

The Jon Shannow books

Wolf in Shadow

The Last Guardian

Bloodstone

The Stones of Power books

Ghost King

Last Sword of Power

Lion of Macedon

Dark Prince

The Hawk Queen books

Ironhand's Daughter

The Hawk Eternal

The Rigante books

Sword in the Storm

Midnight Falcon

Ravenheart

Stormrider

Individual titles

Knights of Dark Renown

Morning Star

Dark Moon

Echoes of the Great Song

RAVENHEART

CORGI BOOKS

RAVENHEART A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14675 7

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY

Bantam Press edition published 2001 Corgi edition published 2002

13579108642

The right of David Gemmell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of

the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise

circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Set in 10/12pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,

18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox 8c Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire.

Ravenheart is dedicated with love to the memory of Bill Woodford, a big, flawed, tough and kindly man.

During the Second World War he fought with distinction at El Alamein, Anzio, Salerno and Monte Cassino,

and was mentioned in despatches twice for gallant conduct. In 1954 he married a woman he adored, and raised

her son as his own. As I said in the dedication to Legend, back in 1984, without him Druss the Legend would

never have walked the walls of Dros Delnoch. He was at the heart of many of the heroes I have created over the

years - none more so than Jaim Grymauch, whose story is told within these pages.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many people helped to make Ravenheart the joy it was to create. To my test readers, Jan Dunlop, Tony Evans,

Alan Fisher, Stella Graham and Steve Hutt, many thanks. I am grateful also to editors Steve Saffel of Del Rey

and Selina Walker of Transworld for their valuable input, and to Nancy Webber for copy-editing the

manuscript and improving it.

Lastly my thanks to the guys from the good old days for fond memories of teamwork, rows, fun and occasional

craziness - Tony Goring, Bunk Harffey, Peter Hart, Ray Hodd, Dave Lyons, Pete Robertson, 'Shuffler', Brian

Smith, Pete Stevens, Tom Taylor and Glen Veness.

PROLOGUE

THE SUN WAS SETTING AND LANOVAR SAT SLUMPED AGAINST THE STONE, the last of the

sunlight bathing him in gold. There was a little heat in this dying winter sun, and the brightness felt good

against his closed lids. Lanovar sighed and opened his eyes. The huge figure of Jaim Grymauch stood close by,

gazing down at him.

'Let me carry you to the Wyrd, Lan,' he said. 'She'll cast some ancient spell and heal you.'

'In a while, my friend. I'll just rest here and gather my strength.'

Grymauch swore and turned away. Loosening the strap at his shoulder he swung the massive broadsword clear

of his back. The black hilt was almost a foot long, crowned with an iron globe pommel. The curved quillons

were beautifully crafted to represent the flared wings of a hunting falcon. Drawing the fifty-two-inch blade

from the scabbard, Grymauch examined the sword in the fading light. There were still bloodstains upon the

blade and he wiped them away with the hem of his black cloak. Beside him Lanovar lifted clear the wedge of

blood-soaked cloth he had been holding to the wound in his side. The bleeding had slowed, and the pain was

almost gone. He glanced up at Grymauch.

'That monstrosity should be in the Druagh museum,' he said. 'It's an anachronism.'

'I don't know what that means,' muttered Grymauch.

'It means out of its time, my friend. That blade was created to rip through plate armour. No-one wears plate any

more.'

Grymauch sighed. Returning the blade to its scabbard, he sat down beside his friend. 'Out of its time, eh?' he

said. 'It's like us then, Lan. We should have been born in the days of the real highland kings.'

Blood was leaking slowly from the cloth plugging the exit wound in Lanovar's lower back, a dark stain

spreading across the outlawed blue and green cloak of the Rigante. 'I need to plug that wound again,' said

Grymauch.

Lanovar made no complaint as the clansman pulled him forward and he felt nothing as Grymauch pressed a

fresh wad of cloth into the wound. His mind wandered briefly, and he saw again the Standing Stone and the

tall, black-clad man waiting there. Regrets were pointless now, but he should have trusted his instincts. He had

known deep in his heart that the Moidart could not be trusted. As their gaze met he had seen the hatred in the

man's dark eyes. But the prize had been too great, and Lanovar had allowed the dazzle of its promise to blind

him to the truth.

The Moidart had promised that the Turbulent Years would end. No more pointless bloodshed, no more

senseless feuds, no more murdered soldiers and clansmen. This night, at the ancient stone, he and the Moidart

would clasp hands and put an end to the savagery. For his part the Moidart had also agreed to petition the king

to have Clan Rigante reinstated to the Roll of Honour.

Lanovar's black warhound, Raven, had growled deeply as they walked into the clearing. 'Be silent, boy,'

whispered Lanovar. 'This is an end to battle - not the beginning of it.' He approached the Moidart, extending his

hand. 'It is good that we can meet in this way,' he said. 'This feud has bled the highlands for too long.'

'Aye, it ends tonight,' agreed the Moidart, stepping back into the shadow of the stone.

For a fraction of a heartbeat Lanovar stood still, his hand still extended. Then he heard movement from the

undergrowth to left and right and saw armed men rise up from hiding. Six soldiers carrying muskets emerged

and surrounded the Rigante leader. Several others moved into sight, sabres in their hands. Raven bunched his

muscles to charge, but Lanovar stopped him with a word of command. The Rigante leader stood very still. As

agreed, he had brought no weapon to the meeting.

He glanced back at the Moidart. The nobleman was smiling now, though no humour showed in his dark,

hooded eyes. Instead there was hatred, deep and all-consuming.

'So, your word counts for nothing,' said Lanovar softly. 'Safe conduct, you said.'

'It will be safe conduct, you Rigante scum,' said the Moidart. 'Safe conduct to my castle. Safe conduct to the

deepest dungeon within it. Then safe conduct up every step of the gallows.'

At that moment a bellowing war cry pierced the air. A massive figure rushed into sight, a huge broadsword

raised high. His lower face was masked by a black scarf, and his dark clothes bore no clan markings. Lanovar's

spirits soared.

It was Grymauch!

The surprised soldiers swung towards the charging warrior. Several shots were fired, but not one ball struck

him. The massive broadsword clove down, slicing a soldier from shoulder to belly before exiting in a bloody

spray. In the panic that followed the clansman's charge Lanovar leapt to his left, grabbed a musket by the barrel

and dragged it from the hands of a startled soldier. As the man rushed in to retrieve the weapon Lanovar

crashed the butt into his face, knocking him from his feet. A second musketeer ran in. The warhound Raven

gave a savage growl then leapt, his great jaws closing on the man's throat. Lanovar raised the musket to his

shoulder and sought out the Moidart. The nobleman had ducked back into the undergrowth. More shots rang

out. Smoke from the guns drifted like mist in the clearing, and the air stank of sulphur. Grymauch, slashing the

great blade left and right, hurled himself at the musketeers. A swordsman ran in behind him. Raising the

captured musket again Lanovar fired quickly. The shot struck the hilt of the swordsman's upraised weapon and

ricocheted back through the hapless man's-right eye. Across the clearing three more musketeers came into

view. Raven, his jaws drenched with blood, tore into them. One went down screaming. The others shot into the

snarling hound. Raven slumped to the ground.

Lanovar threw aside the musket and ran towards Grymauch. The musketeers, their weapons empty, were

backing away from the ferocious clansman. The swordsmen were either dead or fled into the woods. Lanovar

moved alongside the blood-spattered warrior.

'We leave! Now!' he shouted.

As they swung away the Moidart stepped from behind a tree. Grymauch saw him - and the long-barrelled pistol

in his hand. Vainly he tried to move across Lanovar, shielding him. But the shot tore through Grymauch's black

cloak, ripping into the outlaw leader's side and out through his back. 'That is for Rayena!' shouted the Moidart.

Lanovar's legs had given way instantly. Grymauch reached down, hauled him upright, and draped the paralysed

man across his shoulder. Then he had run into the thickets beyond the trail. At first the pain had been

incredible, but then Lanovar had passed out. When he awoke he was here on the mountainside, and the pain

was all but gone.

'How are you feeling?' asked Grymauch.

'Not so braw,' admitted Lanovar. Grymauch had plugged the wound again and had settled him back against a

rock face. Lanovar began to slide sideways. He tried to move his right arm to stop himself. The limb twitched,

but did not respond. Grymauch caught him and held him close for a moment. 'Just wedge me against the rock,'

whispered Lanovar. Grymauch did as he was bid.

'Are you warm enough? You look cold, Lan. I'll light a fire.'

'And bring them down upon us? I think not.' Reaching down, he pressed his left hand against the flesh of his

left thigh. ‘I cannot feel my leg.'

'I told you, man. Did I not tell you?' stormed Grymauch. 'The man is a serpent. There is no honour in him.'

'Aye, you told me.' Lanovar began to tremble. Grymauch moved in close, pulling off his own black cloak and

wrapping it around the shoulders of his friend. He looked into Lanovar's curiously coloured eyes, one green,

one gold.

'We'll rest a little,' said Grymauch. 'Then I'll find the Wyrd.'

Jaim Grymauch moved out along the ledge and stared down over the mountainside. There was no sign of

pursuit now. But there would be. He glanced back at his wounded friend. Again and again he replayed the

scene in his mind. He should have been there sooner. Instead, to avoid being seen by Lanovar, he had cut

across the high trail, adding long minutes to the journey. As he crested the rise he had seen the soldiers

crouched in hiding, and watched as his greatest friend walked into the ambush. Masking his face with his scarf

Jaim had drawn his sword and rushed down to hurl himself at the enemy. He would willingly have sacrificed

his own life to save Lanovar from harm.

The sun was setting, the temperature dropping fast. Jaim shivered. There was precious little fuel to be found

this high. Trees did not grow here. He moved back alongside Lanovar. The Rigante leader's face looked ghostly

pale, his eyes and cheeks sunken. Jaim's black cloak sat upon the man's shoulders like a dark shroud. Jaim

stroked Lanovar's brow. The wounded man opened his eyes.

Jaim saw that he was watching the sky turn crimson as the sun set. It was a beautiful sunset and Lanovar

smiled.

'I love this land,' he said, his voice stronger. 'I love it with all my heart, Jaim. This is a land of heroes. Did you

know the great Connavar was born not two miles from here? And the Battle King, Bane. There used to be a

settlement by the three streams.'

Jaim shrugged. 'All I know about Connavar is that he was nine feet tall and had a magic sword, crafted from

lightning. Could have done with that sword two hours ago. I'd have left none of the bastards alive.'

They lapsed into silence. Jaim felt a growing sense of disorient-ation. It was as if he was dreaming. Time had

no meaning, and even the breeze had faded away. The new night was still and infinitely peaceful.

Lanovar is dying.

The thought came unbidden and anger raged through him. 'Rubbish!' he said aloud. 'He is young and strong. He

has always been strong. I'll get him to the Wyrd. By heaven I will!'

Jaim rolled to his knees and, lifting Lanovar into his arms, pushed himself to his feet. Lanovar's head was

resting on Jaim's shoulder. Moonlight bathed them both. 'We're going now, Lan.'

Lanovar groaned, his face contorting with pain. 'Put . . . me . . . down.'

'We must find the Wyrd. She'll have magic. The Wishing Tree woods have magic.' In his mind he saw the

woods, picturing the path he must take. At least four miles from here, part of it across open ground. Two hours

of hard toil.

Two hours.

Jaim could feel Lanovar's lifeblood running over his hands. In that moment Jaim knew they didn't have two

hours. He sank to his knees and placed his friend on the ground. Tears misted his eyes. His great body began to

shake. He fought to control his grief, but it crashed through his defences. Throughout his twenty years of life

there had been one constant: the knowledge of Lanovar's friendship, and, with it, the belief that they would

change the world.

'Look after Gian and the babe,' whispered Lanovar.

Jaim took a deep breath. He wiped away his tears. ‘I’ll do my best,' he said, his voice breaking. His mind,

reeling from the horror of the present, floated back to the past: days of childhood and adolescence, pranks and

adventures. Lanovar had always been reckless, and yet canny. He had a nose for trouble, and the wit to escape

the consequences.

Not this time, thought Grymauch. He felt the tears beginning again, but this time shed them in silence. Then he

saw Gian's face in his mind. Sweet heaven, how would he tell her?

She was heavily pregnant, the babe due in a few days. It was the thought of the child to be that had led Lanovar

to trust the Moidart. He had told Jaim only the night before that he didn't want the child growing up in the

world of violence he had known. As they sat at supper in Lanovar's small, sod-roofed hut, the Rigante leader

had spoken with passion about the prospect of peace. 'I want my son to be able to wear the Rigante colours with

pride, not be hunted down as an outlaw. Not too much to ask, is it?'

Gian said nothing, but Lanovar's younger sister, the red-haired Maev, had spoken up. 'You can ask what you

like,' she said. 'But the Moidart cannot be trusted. I know this in my soul!'

'You should listen to Maev,' urged the raven-haired Gian, moving into the main room and easing herself down

into an old armchair. One of the armrests was missing, and some horsehair was protruding from a split in the

leather. 'The Moidart hates you,' she said. 'He has sworn a blood oath to have your head stuck upon a spike.'

"Tis all politics, woman. Peace with the highland Rigante will mean more tax income for the Moidart and the

king. It will mean more merchants able to bring their convoys through the mountain passes, and that will bring

down the prices. Gold is what the king cares about. Not heads upon spikes. And, as one of his barons, the

Moidart will have to do what is good for the king.'

'You'll take Grymauch with you,' insisted Gian.

'I will not. We are to meet alone, with no weapons. I'll take Raven.'

Later Maev had come to the hulking fighter as he sat in the doorway of his own hut.

Normally his heart would beat faster as she approached him, his breath catch in his throat. Maev was the most

beautiful woman Grymauch had ever seen. He had hoped to find the courage to tell her so, but instead had

stood by as she and the handsome young warrior, Calofair, had begun their courtship. Calofair was now in the

north, trading with the Black Rigante. When he came back he and Maev would Walk the Tree.

Jaim glanced up as Maev approached. 'You'll go anyway,' she said.

'Aye, of course I will.'

'You'll not let him see you.'

Jaim had laughed. 'He's a bonny swordsman and a fine fighter, but he's a hopeless woodsman. He'll not see me,

Maev.'

Gian came walking across to them. Maev put her arms around the pregnant woman, and kissed her cheek. Jaim

Grymauch wondered briefly how it would feel if Maev did the same to him. He reddened at the thought. Gian

stretched and pressed her palms into the small of her back. This movement caused her pregnant belly to look

enormous. Jaim laughed. 'Pregnancy suits some women,' he said. 'Their skin glows, their hair shines. They

make a man think of the wonders of nature. Not you, though.'

'Aye, she's ugly now right enough,' said Maev. 'But when she's birthed the rascal she'll become slim and

beautiful again. Whereas you, you great lump, will always be ugly.' Maev's smile faded. 'Why does the Moidart

hate Lanovar so?'

Jaim shrugged. The truth clung to him, burning in his heart, but he could not voice it. Lanovar was a fine man,

braw and brave. He had many virtues and few vices. Sadly, one of his vices was that he found women

irresistible. Before wedding Gian the previous spring Lanovar had been seen several times in Eldacre town.

Few knew the woman he had met there, but Jaim Grymauch was one of them. He suspected that the Moidart

was another. Rayena Tremain was beautiful. No doubt of it. She was tall and slender, and she moved with an

animal grace that set men's hearts beating wildly. The first affair with Lanovar had been brief, the parting

apparently acrimonious.

Rayena had - four months later - wed the Moidart, in a great ceremony in Eldacre Cathedral. Within the year

there were rumours that the marriage was foundering.

Lanovar began acting strangely, disappearing for days at a time. Jaim, concerned for his leader and his friend,

had secretly followed him one morning. Lanovar travelled to the high hills, to a small, abandoned hunting

lodge. After an hour a lone horsewoman rode up. Jaim was astonished to see it was Rayena.

Beside him now Lanovar groaned, the sound jerking Jaim back to the painful present. Lanovar's face was

bathed in sweat, and his breathing was shallow and laboured. 'I was never . . . frightened ... of dying,

Grymauch,' he said.

'I know that.'

'I am now. My son is about to be ... born and I've . . . given him no soul-name.'

In the distance a wolf howled.

CHAPTER ONE

THE THIN CANE SLASHED THROUGH THE AIR. THE FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD youth winced, but

uttered no cry. Blood seeped from a split in the skin of his right palm. The tall, bony schoolmaster loomed over

the black-haired boy. He was about to speak, but saw the blood on the tip of his bamboo cane. Alterith

Shaddler gazed on it with distaste, then laid the bamboo on the shoulder of the lad's grey shirt. Drawing the

cane back and forth he cleaned it, leaving thin crimson streaks on the threadbare garment. 'There are those,' said

Alterith Shaddler, his voice as cold as the air in the stone schoolroom, 'who doubt the wisdom of trying to teach

the rudiments of civilized behaviour to highland brats. Since knowing you, boy, I am more inclined to count

myself among their number.'

Alterith placed the cane upon the desktop, straightened his threadbare white horsehair wig, and clasped his

hands behind his back. The youth remained where he was, his hands now at his sides. It was a shame that he'd

been forced to draw blood, but these clan youngsters were not like Varlish boys. They were savages who did

not feel pain in the same way. Not once did any of them make a sound while being thrashed. Alterith was of the

opinion that the ability to feel pain was linked to intelligence - 'No sense no feeling', as his old tutor, Mr

Brandryth, was apt to say regarding clan folk.

The schoolmaster looked into the youth's dark eyes. 'You understand why I punished you?'

'No, I do not.'

Alterith's hand lashed out, slapping the boy hard upon the cheek. The sound hung in the air. 'You will call me

sir when you respond to me. Do you understand that?'

'I do ... sir,' answered the youth, his voice steady, but his eyes blazing with anger.

Alterith was tempted to slap him again for the look alone - and would have, had the distant ringing of Dusk

Bell not sounded from the St Persis Albitane School. Alterith glanced to his right, gazing through the open

window and across the old parade square to the main school building. Already Varlish youngsters were

emerging from the great doors, carrying their books. One of the masters came in sight, his midnight blue

academic cape shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Alterith looked with longing at the old building. Within it

were libraries, filled with historical tomes, fine works of philosophy, diaries of famous Varlish soldiers and

statesmen. There were three halls, and even a small theatre set aside for great plays. The teacher sighed, and

returned his gaze to the cold stone walls of his own classroom. It was a former stable, the stalls ripped out and

replaced with twenty ancient desks and chairs. Twenty chairs and fifty students, the unlucky ones sitting on the

floor in ranks around the walls. There were no books here, the children using slate boards and chalk for their

work. The walls were bare but for a single map of the Moidart's domain, and beside it the daily prayer for the

Moidart's continued health.

What a waste of my talents, he thought.

'We will recite the prayer,' he said, offering the customary short bow. The fifty pupils in the class rose, and - as

they had been taught - returned the bow. Then the chant began.

'May the Source bless the Moidart, and keep him in good health. May his lands be fertile, his people fed, his

honour magnified, his laws be known, his word be obeyed, for the good of the faithful.'

'Good day to you all,' said Alterith.

'Good day, sir,' they chanted.

Alterith looked down into the eyes of the black-haired youth.

'Begone, Master Ring. And bring a better attitude with you tomorrow.'

The lad said nothing. He took one backward step then spun on his heel and walked away.

One day, thought Alterith Shaddler, Kaelin Ring will hang. He has no respect for his betters.

The master sighed again, then moved swiftly across the room, lifting his greatcoat from its hook on the wall

and swinging it across his thin shoulders. Despite the promise of spring the highland air was still icy cold.

Wrapping a long woollen scarf around his neck Alterith left the old stable and walked across the parade ground

into the school proper, striding down the now silent corridor leading to the outer grounds. Several of the other

teachers were sitting in the Academic Chamber as he passed. A fire was blazing in the hearth and Alterith could

smell the spices used in the mulled wine. It would have been pleasant to sit in one of those deep armchairs, his

feet extended towards the fire. But then, unlike the other members of staff at Persis Albitane, teaching was

Alterith's only source of income, and he could not afford the Chamber membership fee. Pushing thoughts of

mulled wine and warm fires from his mind he strode out into the cold air. The sun was shining in a clear, bright

sky. Immediately his eyes began to water. Alterith squinted towards the road and the lake beyond.

He could see the pony and open carriage already making their way slowly along the water's edge. Alterith's

heart sank at the prospect of the four-mile journey to the Moidart's estate. He would be frozen and blue by the

time they arrived, his teeth chattering, his mind unable to function properly. Alterith hoped the Moidart himself

would not be present to witness his arrival. The last time they had met, Alterith, limbs trembling with the cold,

had tried to bow - only to see his horsehair wig slide off and land on the marbled floor at the Moidart's feet.

Alterith blushed at the memory.

The sound of the pony's hooves could be heard now and Alterith walked down to meet the carriage, anxious for

the journey to begin as soon as possible. The driver nodded to him but said nothing. He was, as usual, wearing

a thick overcoat and had a plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Alterith climbed into the open-topped

carriage and settled back, pushing his bony hands into the sleeves of his greatcoat and trying not to think about

the cold.

Kaelin Ring had no coat. He had loaned it to his sick friend, Banny, though at this moment was regretting the

kindness. Banny had not come to school today, which meant the coat was hanging on a hook in his hut, and not

keeping the wind's icy fingers from tugging at Kaelin's thin shirt.

Kaelin ran from the school yard and out onto the cattle trail leading up into the hills. At least the cold made the

pain in his hands less worrisome, he thought. Anger touched him then, warming him as he ran. He pictured old

White-Wig, tall and skinny, his narrow lips constantly twisted in a contemptuous smirk, his pale eyes seeping

tears whenever sunlight shone upon them. His clothes smelled of mothballs. The bony Varlish bastard will pay

for every stroke he has ever laid upon me, decided Kaelin as he ran. He tried to think of punishments befitting

such an ogre. When I am a man next year I'll nail him by his hands to the schoolhouse gates, then I'll take a

whip to his hide. Five strokes for every one he's laid upon me.

Suddenly Kaelin's good humour came flooding back. He would need to be a great deal better at his arithmetic

to tally such a sum. What a pity it was not thought worthwhile to teach the clan children mathematics. Perhaps

he should ask old White-Wig for private lessons. The thought was so ridiculous that Kaelin slowed to a stop

and burst out laughing. How would the conversation go? 'I'm planning my vengeance on you. So would you

kindly explain the multiplication so that I may lash your back to the exact number required?'

His laughter pealed out once more, then faded as he heard hoof-beats. Moving to the side of the trail he waited.

Five riders emerged from the trees. All of them were soldiers of the Moidart - beetlebacks, as the highlanders

called them, referring to the black breastplates of baked leather they wore. The lead rider was a portly officer

named Galliott. He was known widely as Galliott the Borderer, since his main role was to track and capture

criminals and outlaws before they could cross the borders that marked the limit of the Moidart's jurisdiction.

Just behind him was the sallow-faced Sergeant Bindoe and three other soldiers Kaelin did not know.

Galliott drew rein and smiled at Kaelin: 'Cold to be going without a coat, Master Ring.' His voice, as ever, was

friendly and warm, and Kaelin found it difficult to hold a dislike for the man. But not impossible if he worked

at it.

'Aye, it is, sir.'

'Perhaps your uncle Jaim will buy you one.'

‘I’ll ask him next time he visits, sir.'

'You've not seen him then?'

'Has he broken the law, Mr Galliott?'

The officer chuckled. 'Always, boy. He was born to break the law. Two nights ago he was in a fight at the Cock

Crow tavern. Broke a man's arm and stabbed another in the face. Fellow was lucky not to lose an eye. If you

see your uncle tell him the owner of the tavern applied to the magistrate for damages to three tables, several

chairs and a window frame. Costs have been set at one chailling and nine daens - plus a two chailling and six

daens fine. If it is paid by the end of the month there will be no charges against Jaim. If not, I am to arrest him

and take him to the Assizes for judgement by the Moidart.'

'If I see him I'll tell him, Mr Galliott.' Kaelin shivered.

'And get yourself a coat,' said the officer. Heeling his mount, he rode away. Kaelin watched as the riders

cantered towards the town. Sergeant Bindoe glanced back, and Kaelin could feel the malice in the man.

Beetlebacks were hated and feared in the highlands. Most - though not all - were Varlish, and over the years

had been responsible for many outrages. Only a month previously a woman living in an isolated cabin had

walked into town and reported to the magistrate that she had been raped by three beetlebacks, one of whom was

Bindoe. Her story had not been believed and she had been birched and jailed for two weeks for fabrication

under oath. After all, it was said, what self-respecting Varlish soldier would touch a lice-infested highland slut?

Kaelin waited until the beetlebacks were out of sight then ran on. The wind was less fierce within the woods

and he was soon sweating as he ran. The trail wound up, ever higher. He stopped at a break in the trees and

gazed down over the hills below. Hundreds of small dwellings dotted the countryside, and many more, he

knew, were hidden from his gaze, their sod roofs blending into the landscape. Cattle and sheep and goats were

grazing on the new spring grass, and, some way to the west, Kaelin saw more beetlebacks riding the Eldacre

Road where it met the shores of the lake.

Cutting away from the main trail he darted up a side slope, hurdling a fallen tree, and sprinted along the final

stretch to the crack in the cliff face. It had rained in the night and, glancing down, Kaelin saw that he was

leaving footprints in the earth. He continued to run along the line of the cliffs until he reached higher ground,

then climbed to the vertical rock. The face was sheer for some fifty feet, but Jaim Grymauch had taught him to

overcome his fear of heights, and to glory in the joys of the climb. Wedge holds, hand hams, pressure holds, all

were second nature to Kaelin Ring now and he smoothly ascended the wall of rock, traversing back until he

was once more alongside the crack in the face. Swinging himself inside he edged along the narrow gap then

climbed again, emerging into a deep cave. A fire was burning in a rough-made hearth and a man was sitting

beside it, gently burnishing the blade of an enormous broadsword. Kaelin leapt to the floor of the cave and ran

to the fire. The man glanced up. He had but one eye, the other covered by a strip of black cloth wound around

his bald head, and his face was scarred and pitted. There was a large, purple bruise upon his cheek and a cut to

his lip was almost healed. Splashes of dried blood had stained the black cloak and kilt he wore.

'I hope you learned a goodly amount today,' said Jaim Grymauch.

Kaelin settled down opposite the big man. 'I learned that Connavar was a Varlish prince and not a clansman at

all,' he said.

'Aye, I've heard that. Did they also tell you that he shat pearls and pissed fine wine?' Putting aside the

broadsword Jaim reached out and took Kaelin's hand, turning the palm towards the firelight. 'I see that you've

been insolent again. What was it this time?'

'I told old White-Wig that Connavar was Rigante and that the man who wrote about him being Varlish was a

stinking liar.'

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摘要：

DavidA.Gemmell'sfirstnovelLegend,apowerfulheroicfantasy,wasfirstpublishedin1984.Sincethenhehasbecomeafull-timewriterandhisbestsellersincludetheJonShannownovels,WolfinShadow,TheLastGuardianandBloodstone,thecontinuingDrenaiseriesandTheFirstChroniclesofDrusstheLegend.Hismostrecentbestsellers,Swordinthe...

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Gemmell, David - Rigante 3 - Ravenheart

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