Free Stormrider by David Gemmell

the worst of the grapeshot.
    The wound in Mulgrave’s shoulder, so small and seemingly insignificant, had festered badly. He had slipped into a semicoma two days later.
    He had returned to full consciousness in this cottage. According to Ermal Standfast, Mulgrave had been taken to the field surgeon, and the man had shrugged and said: “He will be dead within a week. The wound has gone bad.” Gaise Macon would have none of it. Having been told of a healer in Shelding, some thirty miles from the battlefield, he had commandeered a wagon.
    Mulgrave had little recollection of the journey to Shelding. He remembered burning pain and occasional glimpses of clouds scurrying across a blue sky. Odd snippets of conversation: “I think he is dying, my lord.” And Gaise Macon saying: “He will not die. I will not allow it.”
    He remembered the jolting of the wheels on the rutted road. But most of the journey was lost to him.
    Ermal returned with two pottery jugs. Passing one to Mulgrave, he resumed his seat. “So what will you do, my friend?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Have you lost faith in the cause?”
    Mulgrave shrugged. “What cause?” He rubbed at his eyes. He had not slept well for weeks. Nightmares haunted him, and he would awaken several times a night, sometimes crying out in anger and despair.
    “Kings are chosen by the Source, so it is said,” put in Ermal. “Therefore, those who fight for the king could be considered godly. Is that not cause enough?”
    “Anyone who believes
that
has not seen the work of the king’s Redeemers.”
    “There are always rumors of excesses in war,” said the priest.
    Mulgrave looked at him, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes. “Aye, you are right,” he said. “Let us talk of other things.” Mulgrave noted his friend’s relief. Ermal relaxed back into his chair and sipped his tisane. A coal on the fire split and crackled briefly. Several cinders dropped into the grate.
    “Are you still having dreams of the white-haired woman?” asked Ermal.
    “Yes.”
    “Does she speak to you yet?”
    “No. She tries, but I hear nothing. I think she is in danger.”
    “What makes you think that?” asked Ermal.
    “In the last few dreams she has been on a mountainside, struggling to climb. She stops and looks back. There are . . . men . . . below her. Following, I think. Then she looks directly at me and speaks. But I hear nothing.”
    Ermal added a thick log to the fire. “Why did you hesitate?” he asked.
    Mulgrave was nonplussed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Before you said ‘men.’ Are they men?”
    “What else could they be?” answered Mulgrave, suddenly uncomfortable.
    Ermal opened his hands. “It is a dream, Mulgrave. They could be anything. They could be fish on horseback.”
    Mulgrave chuckled. “I see. You think, then, that this is some trick of the mind? That she is not real?”
    “I cannot say for certain. I once knew a man—Aran Powdermill. Strange little chap. Had two gold teeth in the front of his mouth. The man was crooked, a thief and a cheat who would do anything for money. Yet he could
see
events happening great distances away. He was also adept at finding lost items. He once located a child who had fallen down a forgotten well. He demanded two chaillings to find her. I also knew a woman who could commune with the dead. Truly remarkable talents they both possessed. Equally, I once dreamed I was trapped inside a blackberry pie with a white bear. Absolutely nothing mystical there. I had eaten too much and fallen asleep on a bearskin rug. Some dreams are visions; some are merely the mind’s fancies. You do not recall having met this woman?”
    “No.”
    “Do you recognize the mountains?”
    “Aye, I do. The Druagh mountains in the north.”
    “Perhaps you should travel there.”
    “I have been thinking of it.”
    “It might be best to wait until the spring. The war has displaced many citizens, and there are now said to be bands of thieves and