Stormrider by David Gemmell Page A

developed, and then Gaise spoke again. “I think Winterbourne is behind the duel. I think he pressured Ferson into making the challenge.”
    “For what purpose, sir?”
    “I wish I knew. We do not see eye to eye on certain matters, but we both have the same objective, the defeat of Luden Macks and the covenanters.”
    “You stood against him after Ballest, sir. You refused to hand over those villagers.”
    “Women and children, Mulgrave. They were not covenanters. They were merely scavenging for food.”
    “I agree with you, sir, and it does you credit that you fed them. Winterbourne would have killed them all. We both know that.”
    “Aye, he is a hard, cruel man,” admitted Gaise. “But that was a year ago and a small matter even then. He ought to have forgotten it by now.”
    “Perhaps he has, sir. Might be safer, though, to assume that he has not.”
    Gaise Macon chuckled. “Were you always so suspicious of your fellow men, Mulgrave? Did you never learn the joys of forgiving and forgetting?”
    “Indeed, I have, sir,” Mulgrave answered with a smile. “I knew a man once, a gentle man. He took it upon himself to help a former convict rebuild his life. He took the man in, gave him the freedom of his home.”
    “I can guess the end,” said Gaise. “The convict killed him or robbed him.”
    “No, sir. The convict became a carpenter and worked very hard. He even repaired the good man’s roof. He did this for no payment, in gratitude for all that the man had done for him.”
    “Then what is the point of this story?” asked Gaise.
    “He wasn’t a very good carpenter. One day the roof caved in and killed the good man.”
    Gaise Macon’s laughter rang out. “Now, the moral of
that
story is worth debating. Another time, though. I must see if our supplies have arrived. Ride with me, Mulgrave.”
    Swinging his gray coat around his shoulders, he walked from the room.
    With a sigh Mulgrave followed him.

    Ice crunched under their horses’ hooves as they negotiated the treacherous trail, their mounts slithering and sliding on the steep hills. Mulgrave’s hands and feet were bitterly cold as he rode alongside the young general, and the winter wind stung like needles on his face. It made him feel even colder to see that Gaise wore no gloves or hat, though his body was well protected by a long sheepskin-lined cloak. Mulgrave glanced up at the sky. The snow clouds were clearing now, the stars shining brightly. It would grow colder yet before the dawn. His horse stumbled, then righted itself.
    Ahead was a small slope leading down to where the Eldacre Company had made camp. Gaise led the way, allowing his gray gelding to pick its own path through the mud and ice.
    A middle-aged soldier wearing a hooded cloak approached them and saluted. Gaise stepped down from the saddle, and the soldier took hold of the gray’s reins.
    “Are the supplies in, Lanfer?” asked Gaise.
    “Aye, my lord,” replied Lanfer Gosten. “Less than half of what was promised. Even on short rations there’s not enough to last a week. Four wagons was all we got.”
    “Gather ten men and follow me to the quartermaster general,” ordered Gaise. Swinging into the saddle, he touched heels to the gray and rode through the camp.
    Mulgrave followed, drawing alongside the angry young man. “Are you planning something rash, sir?” he asked.
    Gaise said nothing for a moment. “Did Ermal like my gift?” he said suddenly.
    The question took Mulgrave by surprise. He recalled the little priest’s delight at the bottle of apple brandy. They had sat on the last night staring at it, wondering how two whole apples could have been inserted through such a narrow neck. Then they had pulled the cork and filled their glasses. The liquor had been sweet and warming.
    “He was most grateful, sir,” said Mulgrave, “though perplexed.”
    Gaise grinned. “As was I when first I saw them. Did he think magic was used?”
    “At first he did. But by the time we