Ravenheart (36 page)

There was no movement from the house, and with a heavy heart Call Jace moved across the clearing and up onto the
porch. He had spent many happy hours in that secluded place, and the memory of Magra’s laughter filled his mind.

Her naked body was in the bedroom, though not on the bed. It lay against the far wall. It seemed to Jace that she must have cowered there, for her legs were drawn up tight against her body. Blood from her slashed throat had flowed across her breasts and then pooled on the wooden boards beneath her.

“I’m sorry, lass,” said Call Jace. “Had I loved you less, no one would have come here. Had I loved you more, I’d have taken you to my home.”

Turning on his heel, he strode out and returned to the trees.

Call Jace was no longer tired. He had his hunting knife, his saber, his pistol, and enemies to kill.

Aye, and a broken arm and a body past its prime! Get a hold of yourself, man, he thought. This is no time to be thinking like an old-style Rigante berserker. Magra must be avenged, that is true. But you can’t do it in this condition. First you must escape the killers. His heart yearned to go hunting them, but his head remained cool. Magra was dead. Nothing could change that. Yet in order to avenge her Call needed to see the killers, to know them. He had caught only the barest glimpse in that first attack.

How could he get close without the dogs scenting him?

Turning again, he moved swiftly back into the house and through to the narrow kitchen. At the back of a small cupboard he found a pottery spice jar. Pulling clear the cork lid, he carefully sniffed the contents. As a young man Jace had discovered the joys of spiced food. Peppercorns were expensive, but he had acquired a store of them. Some he had given to Magra for when she cooked for him. From another cupboard he took a small pepper mill and ground the spice to a fine powder. Time was short, and Jace listened for the sound of the dogs.

Returning to the doorway, he sprinkled half of the black powder across the opening. Leaving the house through the rear window, he ran across to the tree line, pausing to sprinkle more powder into two of the bootprints he had made.

Once into the trees, he reloaded his pistol. It was not easy with one hand, but sitting down, he gripped the butt between his knees and tipped a measure of gunpowder from his horn, followed by a ball and then a wad to hold it in place. Filling the flash pan was even more difficult, but he managed it. Satisfied the weapon was primed, he drew back the hammer and waited.

Time passed slowly, and it was almost an hour before he heard the sounds of men moving through the trees far to his right. The first of the killers came into sight. Two sleek, powerful hunting hounds were straining at the leash, almost dragging the man forward. Call Jace narrowed his eyes. He had never seen the man before, but he would know him again. Four other men came into sight, all carrying long-barreled muskets. They, too, were unknown to Jace. A sixth man followed at the rear. His face was familiar, but Jace could not place him.

The dog handler released the leash, and the hounds bounded toward the house, barking furiously. The first of them reached the doorway, sniffed the pepper, and immediately began to shake its head and snort. But the second did not follow its example. It ran into the house, then leapt through the rear window and came like an arrow toward Jace’s hiding place. It did not pause to sniff the bootprints.

Jace eased himself back into the trees. The hound cleared the first bush with a prodigious leap. The Rigante leader laid down his pistol and drew his hunting knife. As the dog leapt at him, Jace rolled to his left, slamming the blade deep into the dog’s side. Its jaws raked his shoulder, tearing the skin. Dragging the knife clear, Jace plunged it three times into the beast’s neck. The dog slumped to the ground.

Sheathing his knife, Jace took up the pistol and peered over the bush. Some of the men had gone into the house. Two others—one the dog handler—were moving toward the trees. The handler was calling out a name. Beside him the dying dog whimpered at the sound.

“Shella, where are you, boy?”

As the two men came close, Jace reared up. His pistol boomed, the shot taking the musketeer full in the face and hurling him from his feet. Dropping the pistol, Jace drew his saber and leapt forward. The unarmed dog handler stood rooted in shock even as Jace’s blade opened his throat.

Spinning on his heel, Jace threw himself back toward the bushes just as the thunder of a musket blast sounded from the rear window. While holding the sword hilt Jace could not gather his pistol. He swore and let go of the sword. Rolling over, he grabbed the pistol, pushing it into his belt. Then he grabbed his sword, pushed himself to his feet, and began to run once more. A musket ball tore through the shoulder of his leather shirt, scoring the skin but not penetrating.

Four dead. The odds were better now but still formidable. Three men with muskets and the young fair-haired man with the familiar face. Jace doubted the surviving dog would soon recover its sense of smell.

But he was wrong.

13

P
ERSIS
R
OEBUCK HAD
never desired to be a killer. It had always been his dream to attend the apothecary college in Baracum and then, perhaps, if fortune favored him, go on to become a surgeon. His father had encouraged him always to be ambitious but never haughty or arrogant.

Persis had studied hard and had even written to the apothecary Ramus in Old Hills, asking questions about herbs and their uses. Ramus had been kind enough to reply and had sent several books, complete with hand-painted illustrations, to aid the young man in his quest.

Five years earlier Persis had been a happy and contented young man living with his widowed father on their farm just east of the Black Mountain settlement. The farm was not a rich one, for the earth was thin and grazing for the cattle was sparse. His father owned only sixty head, but he had acquired a fine bull whose talents as a stud brought in extra income. It was this income that allowed Persis to acquire more books in order to prepare for the entrance examination to the college.

His father had been a fine man, upstanding and righteous. He had no hatred for the highlanders and taught Persis never to look down on another man for the sake of his blood or his religion. “The Source loves all men,” his father would say.

When the Black Rigante bastard Call Jace had come to the farm, his father had greeted him cordially, offering refreshments. Persis had sat quietly in the corner. He had not fully—at thirteen—understood the nature of their conversation. It
was something to do with tribute payments. His father had told Jace he saw no reason to pay for a service he did not need and had pointed out that his farm was too poor to suffer attacks from raiders. Jace had seemed to accept that but had urged his father to reconsider his position. “These are dangerous times,” he said.

When Jace had gone, Persis had asked his father about the conversation. But the old man had merely smiled and shrugged it off.

The following day their stud bull had been found with its throat cut.

Father had wept at the sight, for he could not afford to replace such a fine animal. Then he had visited the barracks to tell the colonel about the incident and how it had followed his refusal to pay Jace.

Two weeks later his father’s body had been discovered. His throat had been cut.

A good and a kind man had been murdered on the orders of the Rigante leader. Even at thirteen Persis knew this. All thoughts of apothecary training fled from his mind, though even if they had not, the farm could no longer support such dreams. His uncle Mathys took over the farm, and Persis worked like a slave to help keep it going. They managed to survive for four years, but in the end the enterprise failed. Mathys sold the property and lands to the farmer whose lands adjoined theirs. The price was not high, and Mathys stayed on to manage the farm for the new owner, while Persis took work in Black Mountain as a storeman-loader for Arus Grassman.

Through Grassman he had come to know the new captain of the Beetlebacks, Captain Ranaud. He had told him about the murder of his father. Ranaud had been most sympathetic. “It is a disgrace that men like Jace should be allowed to exist,” he said. “But that is the way of the world, I am afraid. The problem was created by weak officers years ago and has only been exacerbated since.”

Then, the previous month, Ranaud had come to see him in
his meager lodgings behind the warehouse. He had spoken of a plan to bring Jace to justice. “Not,” he said, “the justice of the courts, sadly, but justice nevertheless.” He told Persis of Jace’s lust for a lewd woman who lived in the high hills close to Rigante country. “A few good men could end this bandit’s evil forever,” he said.

Persis Roebuck would have paid with his soul for the opportunity to avenge his father. He begged Ranaud to allow him to be part of the hunt. Killing Jace would mean that no other boy would have to go through the torment he had suffered. Ranaud agreed.

Now Persis Roebuck sat on the porch of the whore’s home, wiping the nostrils of the hunting dog with a damp cloth. Four men were dead. Four remained. The deaths had not dampened the young man’s fervor. If Jace killed all the other men, Persis would still go after him. Evil had to be countered wherever it was found. His father had taught him that.

Killers had to be punished.

Persis glanced across at the body of Keets. Jace had pierced his body with his saber, and the man had died in agony. He and Brace should never have killed the woman, thought Persis. That, too, was evil. “She’s a whore, and she has seen us,” Keets had said. Barley the dog handler and Persis had argued with him, and Keets had seemed to agree. Then he and Brace had gone back into the house. When they had emerged, there had been blood on Keets’ hands.

“Oh, no,” said Barley, the dog handler. “What in hell’s name have you done?”

“I’m the leader here,” said Keets, “and I have done what was necessary. But don’t worry, your hands are spotless.”

Brace chuckled. “I can see why Jace came here,” he said. “She drained us dry to save her life. Damn, but her pleading made it all the sweeter.”

“You raped her?” said the astonished Persis.

“Hardly call it rape,” said Brace, a hulking, powerfully built loader from Grassman’s warehouse. “She offered it to save her life.”

Keets was now dead, as indeed were Barley, Jube, and Mather. The vile Brace was still alive and sitting not ten feet away, honing his saber with a whetstone.

“What shall we do?” asked Lane Pikard, a lanky young man who worked with Persis in Grassman’s warehouse. Persis did not like him. Lane had an unreasoning hatred of highlanders. As far as Persis could tell, no highlander had ever harmed him, yet Lane talked constantly of the need to “exterminate the vermin.” Persis guessed he had absorbed much of his hatred from Enson Giese, the aging wolf hunter. The man bragged of his grisly exploits against clansmen, how he had once castrated a highlander for an assault on a “good Varlish girl.” Persis became aware that Lane was looking at him, still waiting for an answer to his question.

“We go after him,” said Persis. “We find him, and we kill him. He is wounded and losing blood, and he has been chased all day. He is an old man, Lane, and will be weary by now. I think the hound is ready. We will track him. We will catch him.”

“He’s killed four already,” put in Enson Giese. “Chances are, if we do go after him, he’ll take another, maybe two.”

Persis glanced up at the wolf hunter. He was the oldest man there, at fifty, and a former Beetleback dishonorably discharged for drunkenness. Despite his cruel nature, he was no coward. He was also a fine shot with a musket. “You have no choice, Enson,” said Persis. “Why do you think Jace waited here at the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wanted to
see
us. Now he has. If he lives, we die—or we flee south. I’m not anxious to leave. Are you?”

“Guess not. Let’s find him, then. It will be good to listen to him squeal.”

“I hate him, but I don’t think he’s the squealing kind,” said Persis.

Enson chuckled. “They all squeal, boy, when you have a knife to their balls. They beg, they plead, they promise. Even the great Call Jace. You’ll see.”