Stormrider by David Gemmell

ended in a stalemate.”
    “What did he reply?”
    “He said he would not take criticism from a glory-seeking popinjay,” answered Gaise. He smiled as he said it, his good humor flowing back. “What on earth is a popinjay, Mulgrave?”
    “A brightly colored bird from the southern continents, sir. And how did you respond?”
    “I pointed out that had my riders followed his example and refrained from charging, the battle would have been lost.”
    “Ah, then you did, in a manner of speaking, suggest he lacked nerve.”
    “By heaven, Mulgrave, of course he lacks nerve. There’s not an officer in the king’s army who doesn’t know that.”
    “Yet he had the nerve to challenge you.”
    “Aye, but not immediately. The challenge came the following day. We are due to meet on open ground at midday tomorrow. With pistols, if you please.”
    “You have chosen pistols, sir?” asked Mulgrave, surprised. “I would have thought swords more . . . suitable.”
    “As would I. But his second informed me that Lord Ferson has an injured shoulder. He asked if I would object to pistols. It is all nonsense,” said Gaise. “Luden Macks will chuckle when he hears of it.” Gaise Macon drew up a chair, then dragged off his knee-length riding boots. One of his socks boasted a huge hole through which his toes could be seen. “Popinjay, eh?” he said. “By heaven, there are crofters back home with better clothes than mine.” He looked into Mulgrave’s pale eyes. “Will you be my second, my friend?”
    “Of course, sir. I would urge you, however, to avoid any gallant gestures.”
    “Such as what?”
    “Do not try to wound him. Take him through the heart.”
    Gaise sighed. “I have no desire to kill him, Mulgrave.”
    “It is not
your
desire that concerns me, sir. A wounded man is still dangerous, and I would far sooner see him below the earth than you.” Mulgrave fell silent.
    Gaise tugged on his boots and returned to the fire, adding fuel. “Do you not find it puzzling, Mulgrave?” he asked.
    “What, sir?”
    “That a known coward should challenge me—and request pistols. Had it been swords, I could have wounded him and honor might have been satisfied. Pistols are another matter entirely. As you can testify, my friend, even a shallow wound can corrupt and become mortal. Then there is the question of Winterbourne.”
    “Winterbourne?”
    “Aye, he is Ferson’s second. Did I not mention that?”
    “No, sir. I did not realize that Lord Ferson was so closely connected to the Redeemers.”
    “Nor I, until now.”
    Mulgrave rose from his chair and crossed the ruined room to the shattered north wall. Snow was falling outside, and the wind was chilly. The open land beyond was lit by hundreds of campfires. Mulgrave shivered. He had seen too many of these camps in the last four years. He scratched at his white hair and moved away from the wind. Kneeling by the fire, he added a log. Gaise was right: The duel made no sense. And why would a cold-blooded killer like Winterbourne befriend a coward like Ferson? Mulgrave turned the events over and over in his mind. If Ferson was so aggrieved, why had he not instantly issued a challenge? Why wait a day? His thoughts swung to the Earl of Winterbourne. Mulgrave detested the man, regarding him with a deep and perfect loathing. The acts of Winterbourne’s Redeemers were unspeakable. Worse, by being unpunished and unchecked, they were condoned by the king. Mulgrave hated killing, but at least he believed he was fighting on the side of right. Not so now. In this war there was no balance between right and wrong, good and evil. Both sides had committed atrocities.
    “How is your shoulder now?” asked Gaise.
    “Healed, sir.”
    “That is good. I have missed you, Mulgrave. It is good to have you back.”
    Mulgrave stayed silent. He wanted to tell his friend that he would be leaving soon for the north, but now that the moment was upon him, he could not find the words.
    An uneasy silence