Morningstar

CHAPTER NINE

Brackban, Jairn and the militia soldiers left soon after dawn, heading south, but Piercollo had developed a fever in the night and Astiana remained behind to care for him. There was no way the giant would be fit to travel for several days and, though Mace wanted to leave him behind, Wulf and I refused. Ilka, though incapable of speech, made it plain she felt the same, sitting beside the wounded man and glaring up at Mace.

Jarek took his bow and quiver and left the cave without a word.

I banked up the fire with the last of the fuel and sat watching him stride out towards the forest.

Astiana moved alongside me. ‘Is he truly the Morningstar?’ she asked.

‘He is,’ I told her.

‘He is a callous man, hard and bitter.’

‘That also,’ I agreed.

She asked how we met, and I told her of the rescue back in Ziraccu, though I left out small details like Mace’s adulterous adventures with the noble lady and his return for a share of the reward. I spoke also of how we saved Megan from the fire, and of the fight with the beasts in the forest.

‘They say he is Rabain come again,’ said Astiana, her gaze locked to mine. ‘Would you agree with such sentiments?’

‘Who am I to agree or disagree? I am but a bard. Who was Rabain? What do we know of him, save that he fought the Vampyre Kings and was made King himself? Mace was talking of him earlier. Was he a wolfshead or a rebel knight? A prince or a peasant?’

‘You are cynical, Owen,’ she said. ‘I thought all bards were romantics, singing of chivalry and honour.’

‘I sing of those things. I dream. But here there is a grim reality. Death is sudden, brutal. Men are cruel, mindlessly vicious. Why did Lykos blind Piercollo? Why did they tie Megan to the Burning Stake? Why do the Angostins glory in war?’ I glanced back to where Wulf was sitting with Ilka beside the fire. ‘The hunchback is my friend, brave and steadfast. Yet when first I saw him he was kneeling over the body of a traveller he had slain; he was cutting the rings from the dead man’s fingers. And Ilka — sweet Ilka — was raped as a child and had her tongue torn from her mouth. Where is chivalry in this? A man who taught me to create illusions of light, sweet and beautiful, now transforms men and animals into demonic creatures filled only with the lust to kill. Where is honour in this?’

‘Honour is here,’ she whispered, placing her hand over my heart. ‘Or do you believe that good can only exist in pure surroundings, untouched by the world’s darkness? What value would there be in that? Virtue is like a ring of gold. It does not matter where you place, it, in a swamp or a cowpat; it will remain gold, untarnished. Lesser metals are corroded, ruined, corrupted. Not gold. The true heart remains true.’

‘Just words,’ I snapped, more brutally than I intended. ‘The evil triumph always, for they are strong and merciless. Good men are hampered, chained by their honour. They cannot compete, for they play by different rules.’

For a while she was silent and we sat in the new sunshine, each lost within our own thoughts. I think I almost hated myself for voicing such a philosophy of despair, and my heart was heavy. But after some minutes had passed she spoke again.

‘I do not agree with you. A thousand years ago the Vampyre Kings ruled this land. They were brought down and destroyed. Their evil was colossal, yet a good man destroyed them. The battle between good and evil is circular. Good wins, evil wins, good again. The rules are immaterial.’

‘How is your philosophy different from mine, sister?’ I countered. ‘If such a circle exists, then there can never be a true victor.’

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘But then victory is not the prize; it is the battle itself. You are part of that battle, Owen. You and Wulf, and Piercollo. Yes, even Jarek Mace, though he knows it not.’

‘Oh, he is a warrior, no doubt of that,’ I agreed. ‘But which side does he fight for? I don’t think he cares about good or evil. He cares only for Jarek Mace.’

Piercollo awoke and groaned in pain and Astiana rose and moved to where he lay. I stood and walked out into the sunlight.

The ring, with its pale stone, felt heavy on my hand.

In that moment I felt like pulling it clear and throwing it high over the hillside. I would be free. I could walk from the forest and head south, all the way to the coast and my father’s estates, far from war and brutality. I could sit by a warm-fire in the evenings, my belly full, and I could play my harp and sing my songs without fearing a dagger in my ribs or a demon at my soul. It was tempting.

But at that moment — perhaps because I was thinking of home — I saw again my father sitting in the high-backed chair, his children at his feet, his warhounds close by. And I could hear his voice, deep and slow, as he told us stories of manhood or set us riddles to solve:

'There were once three men, proud and strong, the best mountain climbers in all the land. In every city tavern people would gather and wonder which man was greatest. Finally they agreed to meet to decide the issue once and for all. There was a peak of sheer granite, three thousand feet high, which men called Rasboreth. No one had ever conquered Rasboreth, though many had tried, and many had died or been crippled in the attempt. Just as they were about to begin the climb, an angel appeared and told them all that their deaths were but one day distant. The first man said, ‘I shall go home and fill my belly with wine until the time of my death,’ The second man said, ‘I shall find a woman with a soft body and welcoming eyes, and I shall lie with her until the time of my death.’ Both turned to the third man. ‘And what of you?’ they asked him.

‘Me? Why I shall climb the mountain.’ '

He had laughed at our non-comprehension and we had gone to our beds none the wiser. But now I knew what he meant. A man must finish what he starts, allowing no threat or fear to stand in his way.

I had made a promise to Gareth, and I would keep it. Mace was dismissive of my talents as a warrior, but my skills lay in other directions. I did not see myself as essentially heroic. My fears were very great. But I learned at my father’s knee that a man is judged not by his words or by his principles, or even by his wit. He is judged by his actions.

How could I, Owen Odell the Angostin, speak out against evil if I did not stand against darkness?

A hand touched my shoulder and I turned to see Piercollo beside me. His face was grey, the bandage over his eye bloody.

‘I am sorry,’ I told him. ‘You have suffered terribly.’

‘But I am alive, my friend, thanks to you. I will repay. Piercollo will stand with you, and with the Morningstar. We will make war upon these men of evil.’

I seem to remember a cloud passing across the face of the sun at that moment, but probably it did not. The weight of that memory, even after all these years, is still great. For I knew that something of beauty had been lost to the world and I grieved for it.

From that day to the last battle, I never heard Piercollo sing again.

Mace returned towards dusk with fresh cuts of venison and we spent a second night in the cave. Piercollo’s fever had begun to pass, but he was still too weak to travel far.

We broiled the venison and ate well that night. Mace was in better humour and told us that he had seen hunting-parties of soldiers scouring the woods and forest tracks, but none had chanced upon our trail. ‘There’s not a woodsman among them,’ he said.

Even so we kept watch that night, taking it in turns to sit just inside the cave-mouth watching the moonlit hills.

I took the last watch, relieving Wulf at around midnight, and sat wrapped in a blanket beneath the stars. It was a clear night, soundless, a cool breeze whispering across the cave entrance. The smell of damp grass was in the air and bats flew above me. An old badger with a twisted front paw moved out on to the hillside, his fur like silver thread, his gait clumsy. Yet he had great dignity as he slowly made his way down the slope.

At the bottom he paused, his snout lifting to scent the air. Suddenly his dignity fled and he scurried into the undergrowth. I was immediately tense, narrowing my eyes to scour the tree-line.

But I could see nothing.

Then a huge grey wolf came into sight, padding across the grass. He was followed by six more. Something small caught my eye, and I swung my gaze to see several rabbits near a half-buried boulder. The wolves ignored them.

This struck me as curious, but not threatening. Perhaps they had recently fed. Perhaps they had discovered the carcass of the deer slain by Mace.

On they came, straight towards the cave.

‘Mace!’ I called and he came awake instantly, as did Wulf. Both men gathered their bows and moved alongside me. I pointed to the pack no more than a hundred paces distant.

‘You woke me for wolves?’ snapped Mace.

‘Look at them,’ I said. ‘They are corning straight at us. No turning of heads, no interest in the rabbits.’ Mace muttered some obscenity and moved back to the fire, blowing it to life and adding a thick, dry branch. The dead leaves caught instantly, flaring to life. Mace ran back to the entrance and stepped out on to the hillside. The wolves saw him and increased their speed.

Wulf notched an arrow to his bow. In the pale moonlight it shone like silver.

‘Get back, Mace!’ I yelled. ‘They are possessed!’Mace hurled the burning branch at the first grey beast. The brand hit the wolf in the face, the flames singeing the fur of its back, yet it ignored the fire and ran straight at him, leaping for his throat. An arrow from Wulf lanced into the beast’s chest and it slumped to the earth.

Mace drew his sword, cleaving it through the neck of a second wolf, but the remaining five were all around him now. Wulf killed another, then threw aside his bow and ran at the creatures. Pulling an arrow from the quiver he had left behind, I followed him. A huge wolf hurled itself at Mace, knocking him from his feet. Losing his grip on the sword, he made a grab for his dagger; he would have been too late, but I arrived alongside him and tapped the wolf with the shining arrow. It froze momentarily, then ran away across the hillside with tail between its legs. Two more charged in. Mace rolled to his knees to drive his dagger into the throat of the first, and I threw the arrow at the second. The point barely broke the skin of the beast but still the wolf, freed from the spell, loped away from us. The last of the creatures leapt at Wulf, sinking its fangs into his forearm. His shortsword plunged into the creature’s side, the blade piercing the heart. Its forelegs folded beneath it and it sank to the earth without a sound. Wulf tried to pull the jaws apart, but they were locked to his forearm. Mace and I managed to prise them clear. Wulf pushed back his torn sleeve and blood gushed from the puncture wounds above and below his left wrist.

The hunchback swore loudly. ‘Were they rabid, do you think?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I assured him. ‘Cataplas cast a spell on them. As soon as we touched them with our weapons, the spell was leached away. Had they been rabid, they would have continued their attack.’ I was not sure that this was true, but my words comforted Wulf.

‘Why me?’ muttered Wulf, trying to staunch the flow of blood. ‘They were all round you, Mace, and you haven’t a scratch!’

‘The gods favour the handsome, Wulf — you should know that. And you should have known better than to run at wolves.’

‘I saved your life, you bastard!’

‘True,’ Mace agreed, grinning. ‘Which is the second thing to remember about gods: they rarely aid the stupid.’

‘It’s not a mistake I’ll make again!’ responded the hunchback, turning back towards the cave. Astiana bound his wounds, but Wulf was still complaining as the dawn came up.

‘We must move,’ said Mace, kneeling beside Piercollo. ‘Can you keep up with us?’

‘We should stay for at least another two days,’ put in Astiana.

‘Perhaps we should. But who knows what the sorcerer will send against us next time. Tell me, Owen,’ he said, turning to me, ‘does Cataplas know where we are?’

‘I believe so. He would have been linked to the wolves.’

‘Then we have no choice,’ said Mace.

The giant pushed himself to his feet. ‘I will be with you, Morningstar. Do not concern yourself. Piercollo is strong.’

‘What about you, sister? Where will you go?’

‘I will travel with you as far as the village of Willow. It is close to the Troll Reaches and I have friends there.’

Mace smiled. ‘I always like the company of attractive women.’

‘And I like attractive men,’ she told him icily. ‘It’s a shame there are none close by.’

‘I think she loves me,’ Mace told me as we set off towards the north.

We travelled towards the north-west, moving with care, listening for sounds from the soldiers hunting us. Twice we saw mounted warriors, but they were far off and we passed by unseen.

Piercollo walked in silence, uncomplaining, though the pain from his eye must have been great. We halted at midday in a sheltered hollow, where Wulf built a fire beneath the spreading branches of a tall pine. The wood he used was dry, and what little smoke it made was dissipated as it passed through the thick branches overhead. We cooked a little of the venison and sat quietly, each with our own thoughts. Wulf’s arm was paining him, but the hunchback had been lucky; the bite had been partly blocked by his leather wrist-guard and the wounds were not deep.

Ilka came to sit beside me and, for the first time, I took her hand, raising it to my lips and kissing the fingers. It was as if I had struck her and she jerked her hand from mine, her eyes angry.

‘I am sorry,’ I told her. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’

But she stood and walked away from me, sitting beside Piercollo and Astiana. It had been an unconscious gesture, and one of love, yet I had forgotten the reality of her life. Raped, tortured and forced to become a whore, such a kiss for her was simply a request for carnality. I felt clumsy and stupid.

That night, after another seven or eight miles of travel, we found shelter under an overhang of rock. Mace gestured to Ilka, summoning her. When she shook her head and turned away, he stood and walked round the small fire to where she sat.

‘Is it that time of the month?’ he asked her. Once more she shook her head.

‘Then come with me.’ Ilka rose and stood before him, her hand on her scabbarded sabre. Then she pointed first at Piercollo, then Wulf and finally me. I didn’t understand what was happening, though I was glad she had refused him.

‘What is happening here?’ asked Mace, becoming irritated.

Ilka was agitated now, but she could not make herself understood. It was Piercollo who finally saw what she was trying to say.

‘She is one of us now, Mace,’ he said. ‘She is no longer a whore.’

‘But she is a whore,’ Mace pointed out. ‘It’s what she’s good at — and it’s what I need!’

‘Leave her be, Jarek,’ I said. ‘She was forced into the life, and now she has chosen to forsake it.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being a whore,’ Mace snapped.

‘Nor with not being one,’ put in Astiana.

‘I don’t need a nun to advise me about whores,’ Mace replied, angry now.

‘No, I would imagine you are expert enough in that area. After all, why would any woman sleep with you but for money?’

‘They don’t do much sleeping, sister. But since Ilka has discovered purity, perhaps you would like to take her place. I’ll give you a silver penny for the poor.’ Astiana’s hand streaked for his face, but he caught her wrist and pulled her in close. ‘I like passion in a woman,’ he said, lifting her from her feet.

‘Let her go, Mace,’ said Piercollo, his voice dangerously low. The giant climbed to his feet, his huge hands clenched into fists.

Mace glanced at him and smiled, but there was no trace of humour in his eyes. ‘I’ll not harm her,’ he told him, releasing the woman and stepping back.

Astiana’s face was flushed, her anger barely controlled. ‘To think,’ she said, ‘that I glorified your name to the people. You are no better than those you fight. You are a disgusting animal.’

‘I never claimed to be otherwise,’ he responded. ‘Not once. But I am not here to live your dreams, and I am not responsible for them. I am a man trying to stay alive — and enjoy myself while doing it. Is that so wrong? And as as for disgusting animals? Well, I never saw an animal to fit that description. Plenty of men, yes, and a few women. But never an animal. And do not fear for your virtue with me, sister. I’ll not trouble you.’

Turning away from her, he approached Piercollo. ‘Anything else you wish to say?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ the giant told him.

‘Don’t ever threaten me,’ Mace warned him. ‘Not ever!’

‘She is of the Church,’ said Piercollo. ‘It is not right to treat her with disrespect.’

‘A black dress does not command respect,’ hissed Mace. ‘I’ve known churchmen who were adulterers, torturers, killers. And I’ve shared the beds of a nun or two. They are just people, like you and me — only they are mostly weaker, clinging to superstition, hiding behind convent walls because they haven’t the courage to face real lives. Respect? I’ll tell you what I respect. Gold. It asks nothing and gives everything. It keeps you warm and it buys you pleasure. And there’s not a man alive who won’t sell his soul for the right amount of it.’

‘Spoken like the hero you are!’ stormed Astiana.

‘Hero?’ responded Mace. ‘Where are the heroes? The Angostins have slaughtered them all. There are no more heroes, sister. They lie upon the fields of battle, the crows feasting upon their eyes. They went into battle with clubs and staves, told they could defeat armoured knights and seasoned troops. And they believed it! Well, they had no chance, but they were heroes. That’s what heroes do, isn’t it? They tackle impossible odds and laugh in the face of death. Well, I saw no laughter. Only terror as the first charge clove their ranks and the swords and maces and spears and lances tore into their flesh. I am not a hero, Astiana. But I am alive.’

The conversation died there. Wulf banked up the fire and Piercollo sat silently staring into the flames, while Astiana turned away from us and settled down to sleep with her back to the fire.

I felt low then, a deep depression hanging over me. We tend to think of heroes as men apart — their angers are always colossal, but they rage only against the foe. We rarely see them in a damp forest, complaining about the cold, and never think of them urinating against a tree. They never suffer toothache, their noses are neverred from sneezing in the winter. Thus we strip away the reality.

In tales of old the sun shines brighter, the winter snow becomes beautiful, an Elven cloak upon the land. And the hero rides a white stallion and searches for the monster who has kidnapped the princess. Always he finds her, slaying the beast who took her.

Still angry, Mace wandered away from the camp-site. I followed and found him sitting upon a ledge of rock. ‘Do not lecture me, Owen,’ he warned.

‘I am not here to lecture. She was wrong, and you were quite right.’

‘You don’t believe that, you are merely trying to ease my irritation. I saw your eyes when I told you of the gold in the keep. You were disappointed. Just as when I refused to fight fifty soldiers to save Megan.’

‘Perhaps I was,’ I agreed, ‘but that does not make me right. You are not responsible for the dreams of others. Yet you did take the name, and it is the name that haunts you.’

‘I know. And you would like me to live up to it. I can’t, Owen. Not even if I tried. It is not in my nature, my friend. Can you understand that? I know what I am. When I was a child I longed for friendship. But I was the son of the whore, and no one wanted me to join their games. I learned to live without them. I joined the circus when I was little more than twelve. The master there beat me ceaselessly, using pain to teach me. I walked the high wire, I swung upon the flying bar, I danced with the bear. I learned to juggle and to tumble, but always he was there with his crop or his cane. I learned then, Owen, that a man stands alone in this world. He does not ask to enter it, and he begs not to be taken from it. In between there is fear, hardship and a little pleasure. I choose to seek pleasure.’ He lapsed into silence for a moment, his eyes distant. ‘Why did the whore refuse me, Owen? I have never been unkind to her.’

‘She does not wish to remain a whore,’ I told him.

‘Why? What else is there for her?’

‘She will be my wife,’ I said, speaking the words before I even realized they were there.

Where I expected a sneering comment, or worse a scornful laugh, he merely nodded sagely. ‘You could do worse?’ he said, with a shrug.

‘How long before we reach the Ringwearer?’ I asked, changing the subject and suppressing my anger.

‘Maybe too long,’ he replied. ‘We can travel no faster.’

‘What about horses? We could buy them in Willow.’

He shook his head. ‘We can move faster without them. Trust me. I just hope that this Gareth is a canny fighter, for there is no doubt the enemy will be upon him before we arrive.’

I tried not to think about the perils facing Gareth — the killers, the sorcery of Cataplas, the demons he could summon.

I could only hope we would be in time.

The weather was kind for most of the journey to Willow, the sun shining, and the only hours of rainfall coming during the fifth night when we were sheltered in a deep cave with a fine fire to keep the chill from our bones. Piercollo’s wound was healing well, though I must admit that I shuddered when I saw Astiana remove the bandage and bathe the ruined eye. The red-hot iron had destroyed the muscles around the now empty socket and crimson scars radiated out from the wound. Mace cut an eye-patch from a piece of black leather, and this held in place a poultice of herbs prepared by Astiana. Piercollo bore his pain with dignity and courage and, on the fourth day, even resumed cooking for the company. It was a welcome relief, for Wulf was perhaps the worst cook I can remember. According to Mace, he could make fresh rabbit taste like goats’ droppings.

We ate well for the next three days, Piercollo gathering herbs and wild onions and Wulf snaring rabbits and a hedgehog or two. One morning we even dined on a fungus growing from the side of a tree. Ox-heart, Piercollo called it, and indeed it dripped red when torn from the bark. It had a savoury taste and, when cooked with sliced onions, was most welcome to the palate.

On the morning of the eighth day of travel we climbed to a hilltop overlooking the village of Willow. There were some thirty houses here and no sign of a keep or tower. The largest building was a church, situated at the village centre. For some time we sat looking down at the settlement, watching for soldiers, but seeing none we ventured in.

There was a tavern on the eastern side of Willow and, bidding farewell to Astiana, who headed for the church, we entered the building, taking a table near a shuttered window and ordering meat, bread and ale. There was no ale to be had, we were told, but the village was renowned, said the innkeeper, for its cider. It was indeed very fine, and after several tankards I felt a great warmth for Willow growing inside me.

Mace called the innkeeper to our table and bade him sit with us. There were no other customers and the man, a round-faced Highlander named Scoris, eased himself down on to the bench alongside me. He smelled of apples and woodsmoke, a most pleasing combination. I warmed to him instantly.

‘We are seeking a man named Gareth,’ said Mace.

‘By God he is becoming popular,’ replied Scoris. ‘Has he discovered a gold mine?’

‘I take it we are not the first to ask for him?’ I asked.

‘No. Two days ago — or was it three? — Kaygan the Swordsman came here. Is he a friend of yours?’

‘No. Who is he?’ asked Mace.

‘Mercenary soldier. It is said he’s killed seventeen men in one-to-one combat. He’s Azrek’s champion now, so he says. He put on a show here. Never seen the like. Tossed an apple in the air and cut it into four slices before it fell. And sharp? His sword cut through two lit candles, sliced through them but left them standing.’

‘What kind of blade does he carry?’ enquired Mace, his voice soft in tone but his eyes betraying his interest.

‘Sabre.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Tall man, much as yourself. Only slimmer. Golden hair and slanted eyes, like one of them foreigners in the old stories. Only he ain’t no foreigner. Born in Ziraccu — almost a Highlander.’

‘What did he want with Gareth?’ I asked Scoris.

‘He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He was a showman, all right, but not a man to question, if you take my point. Friendly enough on the surface, but he has dead eyes. Never question a man with dead eyes.’

‘What did you tell him?’ put in Wulf.

‘Same as I’ll tell you. Gareth is a hermit. Strange young man, white-haired, though ‘e’s no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty. Lives up in the hills somewhere. Comes to the village maybe twice a year for supplies — salt, sugar and the like. He’s no trouble to anyone and he pays for his food in old coin. Some say he has a treasure hid in the mountains, and a few years back a group of ne’er-do-wells journeyed up into the high country to take it from him. They didn’t come back and they weren’t missed, I can tell you. I expect Kaygan heard the treasure stories and wants it for himself.’

‘We seek no treasure,’ I told him, ‘though I think you are right about Kaygan. How shall we find Gareth?’

‘Just head north. If he wants to be found you’ll see him.’

‘How many men were with the swordsman?’ queried Mace.

‘Seven. They had a tracker with them, Cheos. Local man. He’s good. They say he could trail the north wind to its lair in the ice wastes.’

‘You have been very helpful,’ I said. ‘Many thanks.’

‘Ah, it was nothing,’ replied the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. Mace produced two silver pennies which he laid before the man, but Scoris shook his head. ‘I’ll not have it said,’ he told us, dropping his voice, ‘that I charged the Morningstar for breakfast.’

With a broad smile and a wink he rose and returned to his kitchen. ‘How did he know you?’ whispered Wulf.

Mace chuckled. ‘It is not me he recognized, half-wit! How many men travel the forest in the company of a giant and a hunchback?’

He was just downing the last of his cider when Astiana ran into the tavern. ‘Lykos!’ she shouted. ‘He’s here!’ Wulf leapt to his feet, grabbing for his bow. Mace and I rose. Piercollo curled his hand around the haft of a long bread-knife.

‘Time to leave!’ said Mace softly.

‘Show yourself, wolfshead!’ came the shout from beyond the tavern. Mace swore and moved to the shuttered window, peering through the crack.

‘There must be twenty men out there,’ he said.

‘There are a dozen more beyond the back door,’ Scoris informed us, his face red and his eyes showing his fear.

‘They were hidden in the church,’ said Astiana. ‘The priest warned me and I came as fast as I could.’

I moved to the window. Lykos, in full armour and helm, a sword in his hand, sat upon a grey gelding. The helm’s visor was partly open and I could see that his eye was bandaged, the wound seeping blood which had stained the cloth. Around him were men-at-arms, several with crossbows aimed at the door but most armed with swords.

‘I have a cellar,’ said Scoris. ‘There is a tunnel that leads out into the storehouse and barn. Use it quickly!’

Mace took his bow and notched an arrow to the string. ‘Not yet!’ he said grimly. Drawing back on the string, he gave a swift instruction to Wulf. The hunchback moved behind the door and suddenly wrenched it open. Three crossbow shafts hammered into the wood, a fourth slashing through the doorway to punch home into the wall.

Mace stepped into the doorway. ‘I told you what would happen, Lykos, when next we met.’ The cross-bowmen were frantically seeking to reload, the swordsmen standing by uselessly. Mace raised his bow, the arrow flashing through the air to lance between visor and helm, and Lykos reeled back in the saddle, the shaft piercing his brain. For a moment he sat stock-still, then his body fell, his foot catching in the stirrup. Such was the clang of the armour as it struck the ground that the gelding reared and fled in panic, the armoured corpse with foot caught dragging behind. Several men ran after the beast, the others charged the tavern.

Mace leapt back inside, slamming shut-the door. Wulf lowered the guard-bar into place. Scoris waved us out into the kitchen, lifting a trap-door; there was a narrow flight of stairs leading down into darkness.

‘Go quickly!’ said Scoris, handing Piercollo a lit lantern.

‘You will be in great trouble for this,’ I said.

‘No matter!’

Mace was behind him. I saw his hand come up, heard the thud of the blow on the man’s neck, then Scoris fell forward upon me. Lowering his unconscious body to the ground, I rounded on Mace. ‘What have you done?’

‘Protected him as best I can. Now move!’

Piercollo went first, followed by Ilka, Astiana, Wulf and myself. Mace pulled shut the trap-door behind us and brought up the rear. The cellar was dank, but filled with the sweet smell of cider casks. Swiftly we crossed it, coming to a tunnel which sloped upward. At the far end, some twenty paces distant, we could see a thin shaft of light. Piercollo doused the lantern and we silently approached the storehouse. Sliding back the bolts on the hinged trap-doors we emerged into the building. All was silent inside, but we could hear the distant shouts of the disappointed soldiers back at the tavern.

The store was filled with hanging carcasses of salted meats, barrels of apples and other fruit, sacks of flour and sugar, oats and wheat. There were two great doors, wide enough to allow the passage of wagons, and a side exit leading to the north.

Wulf opened the side door, peering out. There was no one in sight.

And the trees were but a few hundred feet away.

We ran across the open ground, every moment fearing the sound of pursuit. But we passed unseen from Willow and once more entered the forest.

The songs talk of the fight with Lykos, telling us that Mace met him in single combat while Astiana stood on a scaffold with a rope around her neck. But life is rarely like the songs, my dear ghost.

That is a sorry fact for a bard to learn. For we like our heroes pure, you see — golden men, demi-gods without flaw. Just as we like our villains to be black-hearted and vile. When men sit in taverns, supping their ale and listening to poets regaling them with epic stories, they cannot be bothered to think. They do not wish their enjoyment to be sullied by shades of grey. No, they desire only sinister black and spotless white. And are women any different? No, again. Forced by their fathers — yes, even sold by them — into a life of servitude and drudgery, they need to believe there are heroes. They look at the dull, flat features of their husbands and they dream of golden-haired men who would slay dragons for them.

We even follow this practice in life itself. The enemy is always reviled, pictured as the despoiler of women, the eater of babies, a living plague upon the earth, a servant of Satan. Wars are never fought for plunder or gain. Oh, no, they are always depicted as ultimate battles between good and evil. But then, looking at the nature of Man, that is understandable. Can you imagine the scene, the great King gathering his troops before an epic battle. ‘Right, my lads,’ he says, as he sits upon his great black stallion, ‘today we fight for my right to steal gold from whomsoever I choose. The enemy are men much the same as yourselves. A good bunch, probably, with wives and children back home. And at the end of the battle, when I have more riches than I’ll ever spend in a lifetime, many of them — and indeed many of you — will be wormfood, or crippled. Better to be dead, really, because I’ll have no use for you once you can no longer wield a sword. All right, lads? Let’s be at them!’

No. Far better for the poor foot-soldier to be told that he is fighting for God, and right, and justice in the world against an enemy spawned from darkness.

But where was I? Ah yes, Lykos was dead — as Mace had promised he would be. And thus the legend grew.

Word flew through the forest faster than a raven’s flight, the story growing, adding to the myth of the Morningstar. The townsmen of Pasel, learning of the killing, rose up and re-took the keep. The revolt spread and Rualis rebelled against the Angostins, slaughtering the soldiers and the noble families who had ruled there for three centuries. Further south Brackban was gathering men to the Morningstar’s cause.

Corlan, the outlaw, had attacked three convoys and his Men of the Morningstar were heroes now, carrying a sacred flame in their hearts.

You have never seen a forest fire, ghost. It is a fearsome thing. One moment all is silent, dry and hot, the next a tiny flicker of flame dances upon dead leaves. Other dancers join it and they run across the ground, flaring up against dead wood. A breeze fans them and they scatter until it is a dance no longer. Flames roar high into the sky, great oaks burn like tinder, and the dancers become a ravening monster propelled by the wind.

Such was the rebellion.

When I sent Corlan south it had merely been to separate him and his men from us, to put distance between us. I do not believe — though I would like to — that I planned the rebellion from the start. But I will say, with all honesty, that the seed of the idea was growing when I gave Brackban his orders. Why should the Highlanders not control their own destiny? By what right, save that of conquest, did the Angostins rule?

But this was not in my mind as we walked towards the Troll Reaches, seeking the Ringwearer, Gareth.

I was more concerned with our safety, for ahead of us were stretches of forest and mountain inhabited by creatures many times stronger than men. Here was the last refuge of the Trolls and, according to fable, many other ancient races, dread beasts and sorcerous evil.

But more immediate was the threat of Kaygan the Swordsman and his seven killers, and worse than these the ever-present fear of Cataplas and his sorcery. None of which seemed to bother Mace as we walked. He was in high good humour.

‘All that armour-plate,’ he said, ‘breastplate, shoulder-guards, greaves, thigh-protectors, gauntlets, helm. Must have cost at least thirty gold pieces. And one arrow ends his miserable existence. By God, isn’t life wonderful?’

‘There is nothing wonderful about the taking of a life,’ put in Astiana, ‘though I grant that Lykos deserved death.’

‘It shouldn’t have been as quick,’ said Wulf. ‘I’d like to have had an evening in his company with some hot irons and a blazing fire.’

‘To achieve what?’ asked the sister stonily.

‘Achieve?’ responded Wulf. ‘Why, I would have enjoyed it.

’I can see no pleasure in such torture,’ muttered Piercollo. ‘He is dead, and that is an end to it.’

The clouds gathered and the sky darkened. We sheltered from the coming storm in an old log dwelling long deserted. The west wall had collapsed, the cabin was open to the elements, but there was enough of a roof left on the east and north walls to protect us from the rain and the gathering storm.

As we sat around the fire blazing in the stone-built hearth, I entertained the company with the tale of Arian and Llaw and the return of the Gabala Knights. But after this, following requests from Wulf and Mace, I performed once more Rabain’s battles with the Vampyre assassins.

The magick was as usual greeted by warm applause, save from Astiana who, as a sister of God, frowned upon the Talent.

‘Did Rabain’s son actually kill him?’ asked Mace suddenly, as the figures faded away. ‘In life, I mean.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. All we know of Rabain comes from legend, word of mouth. In some tales it is his son who slays him. In others he journeyed across the Far Sea. In at least one he climbed into a chariot of fire and journeyed to join the gods.’

‘There are other legends of Rabain,’ said Astiana, ‘older, darker. In these, he has no son.’

This aroused my interest and I questioned her further. ‘When I was first a novice,’ she explained, ‘there was an old monk who gathered such stories, writing them in a great book. He said that the first tales of Rabain were of a demon summoned from Hell. Ra-he-borain — the Summoned One. The Vampyre Kings had destroyed the armies of Light and Horga the Sorceress, in desperation, called upon a Prince of Blood. He was a killer, damned to an eternity of torment, burning in lakes of fire. She drew him back and he slew Golgoleth. All the Vampyre armies fell to ash in that moment for, as the old tales have it, when the Lord of Vampyres dies his legions die with him.’

‘What happened to Rabain?’ asked Mace.

‘He was returned to the pit.’

‘That’s hardly fair,’ Wulf complained.

‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Mace, chuckling, ‘but I like the tale. At least his son doesn’t betray him in this one. Did he get a chance to enjoy a parade?’

‘He enjoyed Horga, I understand,’ said Astiana primly. ‘That was his price for doing what was right. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he demanded her body. It was that act which meant he would be returned to the pit. He knew this, but such was his desire that he suffered the fires of eternity to have her.’

‘Must have been some woman,’ said Mace, with a broad grin. ‘Though I can’t say as I would ever strike such a bargain. So, poor Rabain still sits in his lake of fire. I wonder if he thinks it was worth it?’

‘According to legend,’ Astiana continued, ‘Ra-he-borain merely waits to be called again, his pain as nothing compared with his memories of Horga.’

‘That is a tale invented by a woman,’ said Mace scornfully. ‘You all think too much of yourselves.’

‘And you think too little,’ she snapped.

‘You are wrong, sister. There are parts of a woman that I revere.’

The threatened row did not materialize, for at that moment the storm winds died down and we heard a terrible scream echo through the forest.

‘By God’s Holy Tears!’ whispered Wulf. ‘That chills the blood!’

Mace rose. ‘I think the Ringwearer has made contact with Kaygan and his men,’ he said.

‘We must help him,’ I cried, the scream still echoing in my head.

‘We can’t,’ Mace told me. ‘Not yet. There is a storm raging over the forest. What good could we do — blundering around in the dark and the wet?’

‘But it is one man against seven!’ I protested.

‘It’s better that way,’ muttered Wulf. ‘At least he knows that every man he sees is an enemy.’

‘But the scream… it could have been Gareth. They may already have him!’

‘That is unlikely,’ put in Mace. ‘They will be sheltering from the rain, just like us. This is no weather to be hunting a man.’

Thunder rolled across the sky, lightning following instantly, and the rain fell with great force. Wulf banked up the fire and we sat in silence for a while.

‘What will we do tomorrow?’ I asked at last.

‘You and the women will wait here,’ said Mace. ‘Wulf and I will find Gareth.’

‘And then?’

‘We’ll see. Take the first watch, Owen, and wake me in about four hours.’ Wrapping himself in his cloak Mace settled down, falling asleep almost instantly.

The fire was warm and comforting, making me sleepy, so I moved away from it to sit below the edge of the broken roof, the dripping water splashing my boots. The forest beyond was cold and uninviting, gleaming with dark light. Somewhere out there, beneath the wind-whipped trees, a man was fighting for his life… a man alone.

I shivered and pulled my cloak tight around my shoulders. Astiana moved alongside me. ‘Can you not sleep?’ I asked, keeping my voice low.

‘No. Who is this man you are trying to aid?’

‘His name is Gareth.’ I told her then of the skulls and of my dream, and I spoke of Cataplas and his yearning for knowledge. She listened intently.

‘I have not heard this legend of the skulls, but the oldest of the stories says that, upon his death, Golgoleth pledged to return. The bodies of the Vampyre Kings were burnt, but the skulls remained untouched by the flames. They were said to have been hurled into the sea, from a ship that sailed to the edge of the world.’

‘There are many stories of Rabain,’ I said, ‘but the heart of them remains constant. He fought the evil of the Kings, destroying them — he and Horga.’

‘I wonder what happened to her?’ said Astiana.

I shrugged. ‘She married a tanner and raised strong sons. She became an abbess, a sister of mercy. She walked into the forest and became an oak, tall and commanding. She transformed herself into a dove and flew across the Grey Sea. Perhaps she did all of these and more. But I expect she just got old and died like everyone else.’

Astiana took my hand, lifting it to peer at the moonstone ring. ‘Why did you agree to wear it?’ she asked softly.

‘I cannot say. But it was right that I did.’

‘You are not a warrior, Owen. How can you fight men like Kaygan?’

‘I will do the best I can, sister. I was not the greatest of my father’s sons, and my skill with weapons is poor. But still the blood of Aubertain is in my veins. And he is a man who would never step aside for evil. Nor will Owen Odell.’

‘You are very brave, Owen,’ she said, releasing my hand.

Direct compliments always make me feel uncomfortable and I changed the subject. ‘Why are you still with us, lady? You have no love for Mace, and you do not like violence.’

‘You are wrong, Owen… on both counts. I knew it when I left you all in Willow.’

‘Sweet Heaven!’ I whispered. ‘You can’t be in love with Mace!’

‘I did not say I was in love,’ she snapped. ‘Why is it that men always reduce things to the carnal?’ But her face was flushed and I believed then, and believe now, that my arrow was close to the mark. For some reason the knowledge depressed me. Why was it, I wondered, that so many women fell for the charm of rogues, offering their love to men who would drink it like wine and then cast them aside like empty bottles?

‘He is a powerful man,’ she said at last, her voice low.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and the world is filled with men of such power. They cheat, they wound, they lust and they kill. We are sitting in this desolate place because of men of power, and we are being hunted by men of power.’

My voice was harsh, the bitterness spilling like acid. Astiana said no more and backed away from me, returning to the fire.

The rain began to ease and the moon shone bright through broken clouds. I sat alone through the night, lost in memories, walking the gardens of vanished dreams.

As a child I had so wanted to be like my father — another man of power, tall and strong, a fearless knight. It was not in me, for I never learned to like causing pain, and gained no pleasure from success in competition. When I was thirteen — just before my fourteenth birthday, in fact — I remember Aubertain responding to a challenge at a tournament. In full armour, with sword and mace, he fought his opponent, hacking and hammering until the man’s helm had burst its rivets. Then the bloody mace had crashed through the skull and the knight had fallen. Aubertain raised his mace and sent forth a scream of victory that clawed into my heart with talons of fire. I felt his surging exhilaration, sensed the ecstasy that certain men gain from combat. My dreams of being a knight died on that day and I saw other things. I saw the knight’s widow being helped from the viewing dais. I saw her ashen face and her wide, disbelieving eyes. And I watched his sons run to the broken body, passing through the shadow of the triumphant Aubertain.

I was glad that my father was alive, but I never, ever desired to be a warrior after that.

The rain came again just before dawn, then faded away, leaving the forest washed clean and ready for the new sun. Mace awoke with the first rays of morning and moved across to me. ‘Good man. We needed our sleep,’ he said, patting my shoulder. ‘We may have to fight today.’

‘Will you challenge Kaygan?’

‘God, no! If I see him I’ll send a shaft through his back. You stay here. Wulf and I will scout around for a while.’

Armed with their longbows they set off through the forest — Mace tall and powerful, Wulf shorter and stockier, yet both men moving with animal grace, entirely at home in their surroundings.

A short time later Piercollo decided to explore for herbs and wild onions. His eye was still paining him and he rarely spoke. His presence, once so vibrant with love of life, was now brooding and dangerously quiet.

‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘There may be enemies close by.’

‘Good for them if they don’t find me,’ he grunted.

I boiled some oats and shared them with Ilka and Astiana. The two women sat close together and, every once in a while, Astiana would look at Ilka and nod or shake her head. For some minutes I watched.

‘You are communicating,’ I said at last. Astiana waved me to silence and the two of them sat staring at one another, the breakfast forgotten. Suddenly Ilka nodded and smiled, reaching out to take Astiana’s hands in hers.

‘Yes,’ said Astiana, ‘I hear you.’

Tears welled in Ilka’s eyes and the two women embraced.

‘You are a mystic,’ I said, moving in close.

Astiana shrugged. ‘I have a gift from God. It is not the same.’

‘What does she say?’

‘Be patient, Owen,’ she advised me. ‘We are almost there.’

‘I wandered away from them to sit by the ruined wall. It was there that I caught sight of armed men moving from the undergrowth and my heart began to beat faster. Three of the men carried longbows, the remaining two wielded barbed spears. I stood and waited as they approached. One of the spearmen grinned as he saw me. He was a handsome, golden-haired fellow, with eyes the colour of a winter sky, blue and chilling.

‘God’s greeting, brother,’ he said, his voice mellow.

‘And to you,’ I responded. I saw them relax as they neared. The golden-haired stranger let fall a canvas sack from his shoulder and thrust his spear into the earth beside it. Stepping into the shelter, he saw Astiana and bowed low.

‘Well, this is pleasant,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Two lovely women and a young man together in the forest. How sweet! How inviting!’

There was an edge to his voice that left me tense and apprehensive. I glanced at his companions; they were hard-faced men, grim and tough, and I saw that their gaze lingered upon the women. All colour fled from Ilka’s face and her eyes were wide and fearful. She had lived this scene once before, the horror of it never leaving her. Now she was facing her nightmare again. Astiana smoothly rose to her feet, her expression serene.

‘Who might you be, sir?’ I asked the leader, though I knew the answer, having seen the curved sabre at his side. But I wanted to divert him, to take his attention from the women.

‘I am Kaygan,’ he said.

‘Not the great swordsman, the champion of Azrek?’

‘You have heard of me?’

‘Who has not, sir?’ I said, hoping that flattery would win him over. ‘It is an honour and a privilege to meet you. Why, only a few days ago we heard of a display you gave in the town of Willow. Men were still talking of it.’

‘How gratifying,’ he said. ‘And you, what is your name?’

‘Graeme,’ I lied. ‘Graeme of Ebracum. I am a bard, sir, and would welcome an opportunity to talk with you of your exploits. Perhaps I could compose a saga-poem based upon them.’

‘You seem right friendly, master Graeme. But we have other thoughts on our minds — do we not, lads? Last night we lost two of our men, but we captured and killed our enemy. So today we are in the mood to celebrate our victory. What better way is known to man than to enjoy the soft bodies of women? You, sister, remove your garments, if you please. It has been a long time since I’ve heard a nun screaming with pleasure.’

‘I doubt it was pleasure,’ Astiana told him.

‘Surely a hero would not stoop to actions so base?’ I said swiftly.

He laughed and shook his head. ‘Base? There is nothing base in rutting with women. It is what they were created for — to pleasure men. Now, sister, the garments. I wish to see those hidden breasts.’

‘Ilka scrambled to her feet, drawing her sabre. Kaygan stepped back, his smile in place. ‘Such spirit!’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps I should have you first, my pretty! Cheos, you and Symen take the nun! This one wishes to see my skill with a sabre.’

‘Two of the bowmen put down their weapons and advanced on Astiana. ‘Never had a nun,’ said the first, a thin bearded woodsman in brown leather leggings and a deerskin jerkin.

‘Then it’s time you widened your education, Cheos,’ said Kaygan. ‘You will find the experience most satisfying.’ He drew his own weapon and extended the point, tapping it against Ilka’s blade.

‘No!’ I shouted, drawing my dagger.

‘Oh, and kill the bard,’ he said, not even looking at me.

I am not quick to anger, but the contempt with which he treated me fired my blood. One of the men drew his own knife and advanced upon me. So great was my fury that, instead of retreating or begging for life, I threw myself at him. His eyes widened in shock and he tried to stab at me. With my left hand I thrust aside his arm, my own dagger slicing into his belly and up into the lungs above. He sagged against me and gave out with a low groan. Wrenching the blade clear, I let him fall. Kaygan turned and gazed at me with new eyes. ‘You will die slowly for that,’ he promised.

‘Show me!’ I snarled.

An arrow slashed through the air to punch through the temple of the man Cheos. He staggered to the left and then fell across the fire, flames searing up around his clothing. Another arrow slammed into the chest of the second man, Symen; he grunted and fell back against the wall, vainly trying to pull the shaft loose. Kaygan leapt to where Astiana stood at the far wall, seizing her habit and dragging her in front of him.

‘Let her go!’ I ordered him. He replied with an obscenity, lifting his sabre and holding the blade at Astiana’s throat.

‘Who is out there?’ he demanded of me.

‘The Morningstar,’ I told him. ‘And you are about to die!’

‘Jernais, get the other woman!’ The last of his men ran at Ilka but an arrow punched through his back, high on the shoulder, just as he reached her. As he arched back, screaming, Ilka stepped forward to slash her sabre through his throat.

‘You are alone, Kaygan,’ I said softly. ‘Or do you think to spend the rest of your life hiding behind the sister?’

‘Call him in!’ he ordered me. ‘I wish to see his face.’

I walked out into the open. ‘Only one is left alive,’ I called, ‘and he is holding Astiana hostage.’ Mace and Wulf stepped into sight, arrows notched and bows bent. ‘He wants to see the Morningstar.’

Mace tossed his bow to Wulf and strode into the ruined building.

‘You don’t look so formidable,’ sneered Kaygan.

‘Are you going to kill her, or stand there talking all day?’

‘I will kill her — unless you agree to meet me in single combat, sword to sword.’

‘All right,’ said Mace suddenly, ‘let her go and we will duel.’ Drawing his sword he stepped out into the open, turning to see Kaygan hurl Astiana aside.

‘Now, Wulf!’ snapped Mace. The hunchback sent his shaft straight at Kaygan’s chest, but the man’s sabre flashed through the air, cutting the arrow in two. Mace swore and Kaygan ran forward and leapt into the clearing, a wide grin on his face.

‘Now you’ll die, you whoreson!’ he shouted.