Stormrider: A Novel of the Rigante [Paperback]

In Stormrider David Gemmell yet again demonstrates the passion for storytelling and the heroic which makes his best books so very much better than his sometimes clunky individual sentences might indicate.

Driven back to the barren hills of their homeland, the Rigante clansmen whose ancient ways have dominated Gemmell's series named for them are the natural world's last resource against crusaders, whose corrupt magic would destroy everything. Yet the crucial hero of the struggle is not the Rigante chieftain Kaelin, but Gaise, the dashing cavalryman son of the Rigante's worst enemy, the Moidart.

Gemmell is fascinated by what makes good men do evil--Gaise becomes hideously ruthless in his pursuit of a righteous war--and also by what makes evil men do good; faced with an ultimate evil that regards him as a personal enemy, the Moidart is forced not only onto the side of Good, but also to an understanding of what he really wants.

Gemmell is fond of the brutal and of the sentimental, but there is an underlying integrity to his work that comes from a real belief in the importance of what he is saying; his work is sometimes ponderous and pretentious, but never trivial. --Roz Kaveney --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

"Probably the finest living writer of heroic fantasy."- "Time Out"

"From the Trade Paperback edition."

‘Gemmell is a fireside mythmonger; his characters and plots have the authentic feel of legends handed down through the ages’

The eagerly awaited final novel in the Rigante series. A sequel to the bestselling Ravenheart.

Centuries after Connavar's triumphant battles against the invading army of Stone gained the Rigante their freedom, the clan finds itself oppressed once again. Magic that once flourished has been all but snuffed out. The Varlish king and his barons have stolen Rigante lands and robbed the people of their culture and liberty. From the Rigante's former seat of power the black-hearted Moidart rules; only in the north are the clansmen free. There, in the Druagh mountains, the magic still reigns, strengthened by bold, brilliant victories of the outlaw leader known as Ravenheart. In the south, civil war has drenched the land in blood, and the armies of destruction are slowly creeping north where Ravenheart waits, believing the armies of hated Moidart will come, led by the brutal ruler's only son, Stormrider.

Ravenheart and Stormrider: enemies of uncommon courage, are unaware that the fate of their world lies in their hands. Both are destined to be heroes, but one of them is doomed. For a secret lost in the uncharted past has returned to haunt these two warriors as they face, not only the malice of powerful men, but the vengeance of an ancient evil, rising from the bloodshed to slake its thirst. As immense armies of darkness advance, it seems as if nothing will stop them. They crush their enemies with ease, until only a few thousand highlanders stand before them, with no help in sight.

But these are not ordinary men. They are clansmen, and more than that, they are Rigante.

RAVENHEART AND STORMRIDER: heroes of uncommon courage; enemies to the death.

The Rigante are a conquered people. From their former seat of power the black-hearted Moidart rules; only in the north are the clansmen free. There, in the Druagh mountains, the outlaw leader known as Ravenheart waits as the Varlish armies of destruction creep slowly towards his stronghold, led by the Moidart's only son, Stormrider.

Ravenheart and Stormrider are unaware that the fate of their world lies in their hands. Both are destined to be heroes, but one of them is doomed. For a secret lost in the uncharted past has returned to haunt these two warriors as they face the vengeance of an ancient evil, rising from the bloodshed to slake its thirst...

David A. Gemmell's first novel, Legend, was first published in 1984 and went on to become a classic. His most recent Drenai and Rigante novels are available as Corgi paperbacks; all are Sunday Times bestsellers.

Widely regarded as the finest writer of heroic fantasy, David Gemmell lived in Sussex until his tragic death in July 2006.

The night sky was lit by flames, and black smoke swirled
across the valley as the town of Shelsans continued to burn. There were no screams now, no feeble cries, no begging for mercy. Two thousand heretics were dead, most slain by sword or mace, though many had been committed to the cleansing fires.
The young Knight of the Sacrifice stood high upon the hillside and stared down at the burning town. Reflections of the distant flames shone on his blood-spattered silver breastplate and glistening helm. The wind shifted and Winter Kay smelt the scent of roasting flesh. Far below the wind fanned the hunger of the flames. They blazed higher, devouring the ancient timber walls of the Old Museum, and the carved wooden gates of the Albitane Church.
Winter Kay removed his helm. His lean, angular features gleamed with sweat. Plucking a linen handkerchief from his belt he examined it for bloodstains. Finding none he wiped the cloth over his face and short-cropped dark hair. Putting on armour had been a waste of time today.
The townsfolk had offered no armed resistance as the thousand knights had ridden into the valley. Instead hundreds of them had walked from the town singing hymns, and crying out words of welcome and brotherhood. When they saw the Knights of the Sacrifice draw their longswords and heel their horses forward they had fallen to their knees and called upon the Source to protect them.
What idiots they were, thought Winter Kay. The Source blessed only those with the courage to fight, or the wit to run. He could not recall how many he had slain that day, only that his sword had been blunted by dusk, and that his holy white cloak had been drenched in the blood of the evil.
Some had tried to repent, begging for their lives as they were dragged to the pyres. One man - a stocky priest in a blue robe - had hurled himself to the ground before Winter Kay, promising him a great treasure if he was spared.
'What treasure do you possess, worm?' asked Winter Kay, pressing his sword point against the man's back.
'The Orb, sir. I can take you to the Orb of Kranos.'
'How quaint,' said Winter Kay. 'I expect it resides alongside the Sword of Connavar, and the Helm of Axias. Perhaps it is even wrapped in the Veiled Lady's robe?'
'I speak the truth, sir. The Orb is hidden in Shelsans. It has been kept there for centuries. I have seen it.'
Winter Kay hauled the man to his feet by his white hair. He was short and heavy, his face round, his eyes fearful. From all around them came the screams of the dying cultists. Winter Kay dragged the man towards the town. A woman ran past him, a sword jutting from her breast. She staggered several steps then fell to her knees. A knight followed her, wrenching the sword clear and decapitating her. Winter Kay walked on, holding his prisoner by the collar of his robe.
The man led him to a small church. In the doorway lay two dead priests. Beyond them were the bodies of a group of women and children.
The prisoner pointed to the altar. 'We need to move it, sir,' he said. 'The entrance to the vault is below it.' Sheathing his sword Winter Kay released the man. Together they lifted the altar table clear of the trapdoor beneath. The priest took hold of an iron ring and dragged the trapdoor open. Below it was a narrow set of steps. Winter Kay gestured the priest to climb down, and then followed him.
It was gloomy inside. The priest found a tinder box and struck a flame, lighting a torch that was set in a bracket on the grey wall. They moved on down a narrow corridor, which opened out into a circular room. There were already torches lit here, and an elderly man was sitting before an oval table. In his hands was a curiously carved black box, some eighteen inches high. Winter Kay thought it to be polished ebony. The old man saw the newcomers and gently laid the box upon the table.
'The Orb is within it,' said the captured priest.
'Oh, Pereus, how could you be so craven?' asked the elderly man.

'I don't want to die. Is that so terrible?' the prisoner replied.
'You will die anyway,' said the old priest, sadly. 'This knight has no intention of letting you live. There is not an ounce of mercy in him.'
'That is not true,' wailed the prisoner, swinging towards Winter Kay.
'Ah, but it is,' the knight told him, drawing his sword. The little priest tried to run, but Winter Kay sprang after him, delivering a ferocious blow to the back of the man's head. The skull cracked open. The priest crumpled to the stone floor. 'Is that truly the Orb of Kranos?' Winter Kay asked.
'Aye, it is. Do you have any inkling of what that means?'
'It is a relic of ancient times. A crystal ball, some say, through which we can see the future. Show it to me.'
'It is not crystal, Winter Kay. It is bone.'
'How is it you know my name?' --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.