Ravenheart

  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

  Copyright © David A. Gemmell 2001 Title page illustration by Fred Deelan

  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 s
oldiers 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 to
o 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.'