Morningstar

CHAPTER TEN

Mace’s black blade parried swiftly as Kaygan launched an attack of blistering speed, the sabre clanging against the longsword with a sound like a ringing bell. Kaygan was lithe and fast, supple and agile, while Mace — normally so cat-like and graceful — seemed clumsy by comparison. The clashing of blades continued while Wulf circled the fighters, bowstring drawn back, seeking a chance to kill Kaygan.

No duellist myself, yet still I could recognize quality in a swordsman, and these two were of the finest. Both were cool, their concentration finely honed, each parry followed by a deadly riposte in a game of cut and block, thrust and counter. But Kaygan was the better.

They fought for some minutes, their blades crashing together, before the first blood was spilt, Kaygan’s sabre sliding along Mace’s sword and opening a shallow wound in the taller man’s shoulder. Mace leapt back and Kaygan followed in swiftly, the point of the sabre lancing towards his opponent’s belly. Mace swayed to the left, his own sword arcing towards Kaygan’s face. Off-balance, Kaygan hurled himself to the ground, rolling to his feet in one easy movement, but blood was flowing from a gash in his cheek.

Both men circled warily now, and it was Kaygan who spoke first. ‘You do not have my skill, Morningstar. You know it! How does it feel to be about to die?’Mace laughed aloud. Kaygan swore and attacked again. Mace blocked the cut and then kicked out, his boot thudding into Kaygan’s groin. But the man twisted at the last moment, taking the weight of the blow on his thigh. Even so he was forced back and Mace counter-attacked, the black sword hammering down against the slender sabre and pushing it back. A long cut appeared on Kaygan’s head, bright blood drenching the golden hair.

Once again both men moved apart, circling. ‘I hear you’re good with apples,’ said Mace. ‘Fight back often, do they?’

With a snarl of fury Kaygan leapt in to the attack, his sword a flashing blur of white light. Mace fell back against the ferocious onslaught, his jerkin sliced, a thin line of blood across his chest. There was no respite now, both men fighting to the limits of power and endurance.

At first I thought Kaygan would win it, but as time passed he seemed more desperate, less sure of his skill.

Finally, as he launched yet another attack, he stumbled. Mace’s blade flashed over the sabre, sweeping down into Kaygan’s neck, cleaving through collar-bone and rib-cage to exit in a bloody spray from his chest.

Azrek’s champion died without a sound, his body slumping to the earth. Mace staggered back, then turned on me, his eyes angry. ‘Why didn’t you cast a spell or something? You could have blinded him with a flash of light!’

‘You didn’t need me,’ I said. ‘And such a light might have blinded your…’

‘By God, he was skilful,’ said Mace. ‘I never want to fight his like again.’

Moving away from us, he sat by the stream, cupping water in his hands and drinking his fill. His face was bathed in sweat and he stripped his clothes from him and splashed naked into the stream, lying down on the cold stones and allowing the water to run over his body. Both cuts were shallow and needed no stitches, but they bled profusely as soon as he left the water to sit in the sunshine with his back against a tree.

‘I’ll get some cloth for bandages,’ I told him.

‘No. The blood will clot of its own accord. I saw you kill a man today, Owen. How did it feel?’

‘Awful. I never want to do it again.’

‘The next one will be easier. Why did you do it?’

‘They were going to rape the women.

’And you thought to stop five of them?’

‘I thought I would do something. A man cannot stand by at such a time.’

He chuckled. ‘Of course a man can, but that is beside the point. You did well. What a hero you are, Owen Odell! A rescuer of maidens. A fit companion for the Morningstar, wouldn’t you think?’

‘I thought Kaygan would kill you,’ I told him, changing the subject. ‘He was better than you — faster, more skilful. You knew that.’

‘So did he,’ he replied, his expression becoming serious. ‘But there are two kinds of warrior — the one who likes to win, and the one who fears to lose. Both can be good. Both can be exceptional. But in a contest between the two there can be only one victor. Fear has no place in combat, Owen. Before, yes. After, often. But not during.’

‘How did you know that he feared to lose?’

‘When he asked me how it felt to know I was going to die.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The nature of combat, Owen. We threaten our opponents in order to inspire fear. Yet how do we decide what will frighten them? How? We think of what terrifies us and we try to use it against our enemy. He asked me how it felt to face death? That then was his greatest fear. That’s why I laughed at him.’

‘And that’s why you knew you’d win?’

‘That and one other small point,’ said Mace, with a grin.

‘And what was that?’He couldn’t position himself for the kill, because he knew that if he moved an inch the wrong way then Wulf would put an arrow through his heart.’ Mace laughed aloud. ‘Life just isn’t fair, is it, Owen?’

‘Could you have beaten him without that advantage?’

‘I think so. But why should I?’

‘It would have been more honourable.’

He shrugged. ‘Such honour is for your songs, my friend. When an eagle sees a rabbit on open ground he does not think, ‘Poor creature. I will wait for him to move closer to his burrow.’ Life is a dangerous game, Owen. It is deadly serious. And the difference between life and death is like this!’ Holding up one hand, he snapped his fingers. ‘One thrust! One cut! A fall from a horse. The touch of a plague wind. If I could, I would have cut Kaygan’s throat in his sleep.’

‘Do you even understand the concept of honour?’ I asked him.

‘Obviously not,’ he replied. He gaze flickered past me and I turned to watch Astiana approach. ‘Ah,’ whispered Mace, ‘the grateful thanks of the rescued maiden!’

‘Why don’t you clothe yourself?’ she demanded. ‘Such displays of nakedness are obscene.’

Mace climbed to his feet and stood before her with hands on hips. ‘There are women who have paid to see me thus,’ he said softly. ‘But I wouldn’t expect a dried-up, passionless piece of baggage to understand that. And so, sister — and I say this with all the respect you deserve — kiss my buttocks!’

I tensed myself for the exchange I felt was sure to follow, but Astiana laughed — a rich, merry sound that made us all smile. All, that is, save Mace. ‘I would sooner kiss your buttocks than your face,’ she told him. Then she glanced down, studying his lower body. ‘And as for paying to see it, I wonder how many asked for their money back when they saw how little they were getting.’

Wulf guffawed and Ilka smiled. Mace reddened, then he too grinned. ‘What does one expect after a cold bath?’ he asked me.

Gathering his green woollen leggings, I tossed them to him. ‘Sharper than a serpent’s bite is the tongue of a righteous woman,’ I quoted.

‘Amen to that!’ he agreed, dressing swiftly.

Piercollo walked into the clearing, gazed at the bodies and then approached us.

‘They found their man,’ he said, his voice low. ‘They nail him to a tree. It is not pretty sight.’

‘We’ll find him,’ said Mace. ‘Stay here with the women.’ Calling Wulf to him, they backtracked the giant. I followed them, but I wished I hadn’t.

Gareth had been tortured in ways I will not describe. Let it be sufficient to say that there was no way to recognize the man I had seen in my dream save by the blood-drenched white hair. He had been blinded and cut, burned and gouged.

Wulf knelt by the man, then looked up at Mace. ‘They continued long after he told them everything,’ he said. ‘By God, I’m glad we killed them!’

I felt a whisper of wind against my face and stood frozen in shock, for within that gentle breeze I heard words, soft, sibilant, like distant echoes. ‘Gareth?’ I said, amazed. Wulf and Mace both turned to me, but I ignored them. ‘Speak slowly,’ I whispered. ‘I cannot… yes, yes, that’s better. Yes, I can see it. Wait!’ I walked to the edge of some bushes to the east and knelt, pushing apart the thick branches. There, nestling on the dark loam, was a moonstone set in a ring of gold. I lifted it and returned to the body, no longer averting my eyes from the wounds.

‘I have found it, Gareth,’ I said. ‘And your killers are on the road to whatever Hell they have earned.’

The voice in the wind whispered again. I turned to Wulf. His dark eyes were staring at me, his ugly mouth open. Lifting the ring, I offered it to the hunchback. ‘For a thousand years,’ I told him, ‘the Ringwearers have pledged to protect the skulls. Will you take on this task now and allow our friend, Gareth, to find his rest?’

Wulf backed away. ‘I want nothing to do with it,’ he said. ‘You hear me?’

‘Oh, the devil with it,’ said Mace. ‘I’ll take it!’ Scooping the ring from my hand, he tried to place it on his signet finger. But the ring was far too small. ‘It’s made for a child,’ he complained.

‘No,’ I said gently, not taking my gaze from Wulf. ‘It was made for a man. Take it, Wulf.’

‘Why me?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, ‘but the spirit of this man is here with us. He chose you.’

‘My hands are bigger than Mace’s. No way it will fit.’

‘Try!’

‘I can’t!’ he screamed, backing away. ‘It’ll be the death of me. I know that! I can feel it in my bones. And I hate sorcery!’ For a moment only he was silent. ‘Why did he choose me? Ask him that? Why not Mace?’

‘I don’t need to. He told me. Because you have the heart, and when you give your word it is like iron.’

He swallowed hard. ‘He said that? Truly?’

‘Truly.’

Wulf stumbled forward and took the ring from Mace. It slid easily over his middle finger, sitting snug and tight. ‘Do I have to make an oath?’ he asked.

‘You already did,’ I told him, and the whisper in the wind became a fading sigh. ‘And he is at peace.’

We prised loose the poniards with which Gareth’s arms were nailed to the tree and buried his body in the shade of a spreading oak. We were silent as we returned to the ruined cabin, but as we came in sight of the building Mace pulled me aside, leaving Wulf to walk on to where Piercollo and the women sat in the sunlight.

‘What else did he say?’ asked Mace.

‘What makes you think there was anything else?’

‘Ah, Owen! Some men are born to be liars. Others are like you. Now tell me.’

‘He said there were forces of evil gathering. Very powerful.’ I turned away but Mace caught me by the shoulder, spinning me.

‘And?’

‘He said we couldn’t stand against them. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied now?’

He smiled grimly. ‘He said we were going to die, did he not?’

I looked away and nodded. ‘What now?’ I asked him.

He hawked and spat. ‘We fight,’ he said. ‘Where can we run?’

‘You will fight on, even though you cannot win?’

‘Of course I can win, Owen. Azrek is only a man, but I am the Morningstar!’ He chuckled, then slapped me on the shoulder.

‘You are mocking me,’ I said, sternly.

‘Just a little, Owen. Just a little.’

The skull of Golgoleth was in the canvas sack where Kaygan had left it, his spear buried in the earth beside it. Wulf swung the sack over his shoulder and sat down away from the others, his face set, his eyes distant.

Mace wandered into the shelter, idly stirring the fire to life, adding wood though the day was warm. Piercollo approached me. ‘What happened, Owen?’ I told him of the spirit conversation, and of Wulf s decision. He nodded glumly. ‘I think the good God is having big joke on us.’

‘If he is I fail to see the humour.’ I took out my harp and tuned the strings. I did not feel like playing, but I idly ran my fingers through the melody of Marchan, a light stream of high notes like the bird-song of morning. Piercollo walked away towards Wulf and Ilka came to sit upon my left, Astiana beside her.

‘Ilka has a question for you,’ said the sister. I stopped playing and forced a smile. ‘She wishes to know why you kissed her hand.’

It was the wrong time for such a conversation, for my heart was heavy and my mind filled with the death of Gareth. I looked into Ilka’s sweet, blue eyes and I sighed. What could I say? To talk of love at such a time was, I felt, beyond me. The silence grew and I saw Ilka’s eyes cloud with doubt, uncertainty, perhaps dismay. I tried to smile, then I reached out and took her hand once more, raising it to my lips, and wishing that I could talk with her as Astiana did. But I could not.

I walked away from them to be by myself in the sunlit forest.

A few months before I had been but a bard, earning a poor living in the taverns and halls of Ziraccu. Now I was an outlaw, a wolfshead, a hunted man. And I walked in the company of a legend. Sitting down on a fallen log I glanced around me and saw a leg close by, the body hidden by bushes. Rising, I walked towards the corpse; it was Kaygan, his dead eyes staring up at me, his men lying close by heaped one upon another. Piercollo must have thrown them here while Mace, Wulf and I were burying Gareth.

Tonight the foxes and carrion would feed; the crows would follow in the next few days, once the stench of decay carried to them.

I began to tremble and felt the beginnings of panic stirring in my belly. How could we stand against Azrek and Cataplas? And even were we to succeed, we would only bring down upon the Highlands the wrath of Edmund, the Angostin Battle King.

How easy it is to talk about standing against darkness. How bright and brave the words sound. But it is one matter to raise your courage like a banner on a single day of battle, and quite another to endure day after day, week after week, with every moment promising the kind of death that Gareth had suffered.

Birds fluttered from the trees to my left and I heard the sound of walking horses. My throat was suddenly dry, my heart hammering. Spinning, I ran for the cabin. Wulf was still sitting alone, the sack in his lap.

‘Riders!’ I said, as I ran past him and into the ruined building. Mace had heard me and was instantly on his feet, gathering his bow and notching an arrow to the string. Without a word he leapt past me and loped across the clearing. Piercollo threw his vast pack over his shoulder while Astiana and Ilka gathered up their Mankets. Only a few heartbeats had passed, but when we stepped back into the open Wulf and Mace had vanished.

I stepped from the cabin just as a knight rode from the trees.

Behind him were three men-at-arms dressed in tunics of grey wool, with leather helms upon their heads. The knight himself was in full armour of shining plate, his cylindrical helm embossed with gold and sporting an eagle with flared wings. His breastplate was plain, but gold had been worked into his shoulder-guards and gauntlets, and the pommel of the sword at his side was a ruby as large as a baby’s fist. His horse, a grey stallion of at least seventeen hands, was also armoured, its chest and flanks protected by chain-mail. The knight saw me and raised his arm.

‘We seek the Morningstar,’ he said, his voice muffled by the helm.

I said nothing and the knight swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, his armour creaking. Raising his gauntleted hands, he lifted the helm from his head, laying it over the pommel of his saddle.

‘We have come a long way, fellow, and would appreciate a little hospitality.’

‘Hospitality is in short supply,’ I told him. ‘What business have you with the Morningstar?’

‘That is for he and I to discuss,’ answered the knight. One of the men-at-arms dismounted and moved alongside him, raising his shoulder-guard and unhooking the curved pins that held it in place. This was repeated on the other side and the plates were lifted clear. The knight himself removed his gauntlets and unhooked the forearm and bicep protectors, laying them across his saddle. Slowly, and with care, the man-at-arms unhooked the leg-guards and greaves, lifting the soleless iron boots from around the knight’s legs and feet. At last the nobleman was free of all the armour, and the man-at-arms spread the pieces on a blanket and sat cleaning them with a cloth which he first dipped in a glass jar of grease.

The knight walked across to where we stood. He was a tall handsome man, with dark hair, tightly curled, and fine, delicate features — his eyes deep brown and close-set on either side of a curved Angostin nose. Beardless, he was not much older than Mace or myself, in his early to middle twenties.

‘I am Raul Raubert,’ he said, as if the name had a power. I had not heard it, and said so. He shrugged and smiled. ‘My family has… had… estates in the north. And you must be Owen Odell, the bard.’

‘I am,’ I admitted. ‘How do you know of me?’

He smiled again. ‘Who does not know of you? The sorcerer who aids the Morningstar, who cast his spells to save a witch from burning? The tales of you all are spreading far, my friend. Even to Ebracum, I understand.’ Noticing Astiana and Ilka, he turned away from me and bowed smoothly ‘Forgive my bad manners, ladies, but I have ridden far. Even so, that is no excuse for ignoring you. Raul Raubert, Earl of Arkney.’

I stepped forward. ‘The sister is Astiana, of the Gastoigne Order. And this is Ilka, one of our company.’

‘I am charmed,’ he said. ‘Your presence here gives grace to the setting.’ Swinging back to me, his smile faded. ‘Now to more pressing matters, if you please, master Odell. Where is the Morningstar?’

‘He will make his presence known — when he is ready, my lord,’ I said smoothly. ‘Do you come to fight him or serve him?’

‘Neither,’ snapped the nobleman. ‘I am an Earl of the kingdom. I serve only the King.’

‘The Highland King is dead,’ I pointed out. ‘Slain by Edmund. If you wish to serve kings, I suggest you travel to Ebracum.’

‘By Heavens, you are a provocative fellow! Beware, sir, lest I order my men to give you a thrashing.’

I could not stop myself and my laughter rang out. ‘You think me amusing?’ stormed the young knight, his face reddening.

‘No, I think you are an Angostin, born and bred. You stand in a forest, virtually alone, and you think to threaten me. Does it not occur to you that within the next few minutes you might die? Can such a thought seep through the mass of bone between your ears? The Angostins are hated here, whether they be northerners or invaders. And should the Morngingstar desire it, he will kill you without warning.’

‘You mean he is not Angostin?’ said Raul, astonished.

‘I mean exactly that.’

‘Then how has he raised a rebellion? Why would anyone follow him?’

‘I see you have had a sheltered upbringing, Raul Raubert. And life is about to offer you a number of surprises. But let us begin with the simple observation that there were kings and princes long before the Angostins invaded this land.’

His expression hardened. ‘Do not treat me like a dullard, sir. I am well aware of the kingdom’s history. I had thought, however, that the Morningstar was a brother noble who had hidden in the forest following the defeats on the battlefield. Such is the story that is spreading through the land. And he cannot be just another robber — otherwise the angel would not have led me here.’

Now it was my turn to be surprised. ‘Angel? I don’t understand.

’I came into the forest three days ago. We camped by a small lake to the west. As I sat by the water’s edge a vision came to me of a beautiful angel floating just above the surface of the lake. She asked my name. I told her. She said I should seek the Morningstar and told me to ride east. Last night she appeared again as I lay beneath the stars. Now I am here, and you tell me the Morningstar is no nobleman. I do not believe it!’

I lifted my hand, palm upwards. ‘Would this be the angel?’ I asked him, shaping the sunlight into the image of the young Megan.

‘Yes, by God’s grace! Who is she?’

‘A friend,’ I told him. ‘Come inside, my lord, and we shall wait for the Morningstar together.’

Piercollo had rebuilt the fire and was setting a pot of broth above it. I introduced him to Raul, but the nobleman merely nodded his head in the giant’s direction and then ignored him.

‘How goes it beyond the forest?’ I asked Raul.

‘Badly,’ he answered, settling himself beside the fire. ‘We won one battle in the north, scattering the enemy. We felt the tide was turning and were jubilant. But then Edmund himself took the field and three of our most senior nobles fled during the night with their men. We were crushed then, scattered. Men say that Edmund hanged every man he could catch. They herded the prisoners to a wood near Cousen and there weren’t enough branches for the ropes. So Edmund had gallows built. Six thousand men were slain there.

‘Now the forest is the last refuge for men whom Edmund terms rebels. You know he captured Detain, the Earl of Postney, and tried him for treason? He was hanged, part-boiled and dismembered. How can you try a man for treason when you are not his King?’

I shrugged. ‘The conquerors make the laws, my lord. Should they judge it treason for a Highlander to breathe mountain air, then it is treason.’

‘How great is the Morningstar’s army?’

‘It has not yet lost,’ I said carefully, ‘and therefore is in better order than the one you left.

‘But can it stand against Edmund?’

‘Time will answer that, my lord.’

‘You are being evasive. How many cavalry do you have? How many knights? Men-at-arms?’

‘I am but a humble bard, Raul Raubert. These questions must wait until you meet the Morningstar. You have ridden far. Rest for a while.’ I cast a spell of Drowsiness; it is not one of my better enchantments, being a variation on the spells of Contentment and Warmth, but Raul was already weary and he yawned and stretched out on his side, his head pillowed on a rolled blanket.

‘Wake me… when he returns,’ he said.

‘Of course, my lord,’ I told him, my voice low and soothing.

I rose and moved outside where the men-at-arms were sitting together on the grass. One of them stood and approached me. He was a burly fellow with short-cropped, wispy black hair balding at the crown.

‘Where is my lord?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping. Have you come far?’

‘Far enough, by God! We’ve had our arses kicked from the northern sea to the edge of the forest.’

‘You took part in the battles?’

‘Aye — for what it was worth. Is there any food here? We haven’t eaten for three days.’

‘Of course. Wait here and I’ll bring you some broth.’

I ate with them, learning their names and their background. The man who had first spoken to me was called Scrymgeour. He had served the Arkney family for twenty-two of his thirty-seven years, first as a stableboy and then as senior herdsman to their vast herds of cattle. The other two were Cearus and Ciarhan, brothers who had been part of the Arkney contingent. Two hundred men had marched from the north — these three remained.

‘How did you escape?’ I asked Scrymgeour.

‘Blind luck. Lord Raul is not the brightest of men, but he’s a bonny fighter. They hit us from both sides, having knights hidden in a wood on our flank. Lord Raul charged at them as they charged at us. We followed, and somehow we cut through them. Some of them swung their mounts to give chase, but as we entered the woods a mist came up and they lost us. By the time it had cleared the battle was over, if battle it could be called. God’s Teeth, you should have seen the bodies. As far as the eye could see! So we headed south-west. God knows why! But he has this dream now, that the Morningstar will free the land.’

‘You don’t think that he will?’

‘Ain’t likely. Look at the stories. He robs a tax column, rescues a witch. What else? I don’t doubt he’s a hero, but he’s not an army, is he?’

‘Not yet,’ I agreed.

He shook his head. ‘This Edmund is a great warlord, no question. His troops are well-disciplined, his captains know their trade and his tactics are brilliant: hit hard and fast. He’s never lost. I’ve seen three battles now, and believe me there’s no stopping him.’

‘Why then do you stay with the Earl?’

‘His father asked me to look after him. A great man, he was, and good to me and mine. Fair, you know? Two years ago I was gored by our sire bull — laid up three months. My wage was paid, food was brought to my wife, and the old earl’s own surgeon came to tend my wounds. You don’t forget that.’

‘No, I imagine you wouldn’t,’ I agreed. ‘He died, I take it?’

‘He was hanged by Azrek. They had to carry the old man from his sick-bed to do it.’ His face darkened, his eyes narrowing. ‘Doubt he knew what was going on. Paralysed, he was. Couldn’t speak.’

‘Why did they hang him?’ I asked softly.

‘Said he was supporting rebellion, we were told. The news only reached us a fortnight past. That Azrek is the worst kind of scum. The old Earl was his uncle, you know. Many’s the time he came north as a boy to play in the estates at Arkney. He virtually grew up with Raul. Twisted little swine he was then. I caught him once torturing a puppy. Said it bit him, lying little toad!’ He cleared his throat and spat. ‘But he can fight too. Good swordsman, best I ever saw. Gilbaud Azrek. I hope I live long enough to ram six inches of steel into his guts!’

It was coming on towards dusk when Mace and Wulf reappeared, their bows across their shoulders. The brothers, Cearus and Ciarhan, were asleep. Scrymgeour was sitting with whetstone in hand, his back to a tree, sharpening his sword with long sweeping strokes.

‘What took you so long?’ I asked Mace.

‘Once we saw you were in no danger we decided to backtrack them, to see if they were alone.

’And they were?’

‘Of course. You don’t think we’d have come back if it was a trap.’

‘Nice to know,’ I told him.

Grinning, he walked past me and approached Scrymgeour. The man-at-arms stood and sheathed his knife.

‘You know who I am?’ Mace asked him.

‘I’d guess you to be the man called Morningstar.’

‘And that doesn’t impress you?’

‘Should it?’

‘No, it shouldn’t, my friend,’ said Mace. ‘I don’t want dreamers around me, men with their heads full of legends and fables. I want men who know how to keep their swords sharp and their wits sharper.’

‘Good enough,’ said Scrymgeour. ‘They say Azrek has offered 2,000 gold pieces for your head.’

‘The price has some way to go, I think,’ Mace told him.

‘You’re not Angostin. You sound like one, but you’re not, are you?’

‘I am the Morningstar,’ said Mace. ‘I am the mountains and the forest. I am the voice and heart of the Highlands. With all of this, do I need to be Angostin?’

‘I am not the man you have to convince,’ said Scrymgeour at last. ‘My lord lies sleeping in the shelter. Convince him and you’ll have me.’

‘I like loyalty in a man,’ said Mace easily, though I could sense his annoyance. He had turned his full power and charm on Scrymgeour but to no avail, it seemed. He swung away and we walked towards the shelter. In the few brief strides before we reached it I told him of Raul and the vision Megan had sent him. He nodded and asked no questions.

Inside the ruined cabin I awoke the nobleman. Seeing Mace, he scrambled to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

‘Welcome to my camp, Raul Raubert,’ said Mace, his voice deepening, the accent sharpening and becoming more Angostin.

‘You are…’

‘I am the man the vision sent you to find.’

‘To which of the noble houses are you connected, sir?’

‘All that is past, Raul. Dead. Burned to ashes. Here I make no distinction between Angostin and Highlander. You understand? Here we are all men, and we will be judged by our actions. Once you were the Earl of Arkney. Now you are a young man abroad in the forest with nothing more than your armour and your weapons. It matters nothing that you are Angostin. Out there you are less than nothing, for you cannot catch a rabbit for your supper — and if you could, I doubt you’d know how to prepare it. You would starve in the summer, freeze to death in the winter. How will being Angostin save you? From this moment you are a Highlander — nothing more and nothing less.’

The young man blinked and swung his gaze, first to me, then to Wulf and Piercollo and finally back to Mace.

‘I… don’t know what to say. I am Angostin and proud of it. I don’t know if I can put that aside.’

‘There is always more than one choice in life, Raul,’ said Mace sternly. ‘You can, if you wish, ride from here and seek a ship to take you across the sea. You can sign on as a mercenary knight in foreign wars. Or you could put aside your armour and seek employment in the south, under another name. Perhaps you could be a scribe, or join a monastery. But I hope you will stay here and fight for your country and your people.’

‘I want to fight,’ said Raul. ‘Gilbaud Azrek murdered my father and I must avenge him. My soul will not rest until I do.’

‘Then what are you, Raul Raubert?’

‘I am a warrior. A knight. What would you have me say?’

‘What are you?’ repeated Mace. I saw that Scrymgeour and the brothers had entered the shelter and were listening intently. Raul swallowed hard.

‘I am a Highlander,’ he said.

He made as if to kneel but Mace stepped forward, taking him by the arms and pulling him upright. ‘I don’t want men on their knees,’ he said. ‘I want men who will bow the knee to no one.’

It was a fine performance and I could see that the newcomers were all impressed by it. Mace was the very picture of nobility. Astiana smiled softly and shook her head. I caught her eye and we exchanged smiles.

Mace strode from the cabin, calling me to him. ‘Well?’ he asked me, as we moved out of earshot.

‘You were very fine,’ I told him.

‘Yes, I surprised myself. How simple it all is. How people long to be led. I wish I’d discovered it years ago.’

‘What do you plan?’

He turned to me, laying his hand on my shoulder. ‘You began it, Owen. Now I shall finish it. I will gather an army and I will take Ziraccu. After that… who knows? There will be gold and plunder aplenty. I intend to be rich, Owen. Maybe I shall cross the sea to warmer climes, buy a palace. By God, why stop at a palace?’

‘You are mightily pleased with yourself,’ I snapped, ‘but may I remind you that we are still a small band of outlaws, and there is no army as yet.’

‘You don’t see it, do you?’ he responded. The Earl of Arkney was ready to bend his knee to me — an Angostin prince! Oh, I shall raise an army. No doubt of that. Azrek can have no more than five hundred men at Ziraccu. There are ten times that many warriors in the forest. We will sack the city — and then I shall disappear.’

‘Why stop at Ziraccu?’ I said, intending my voice to be mocking. But he did not notice the tone; instead he laughed aloud.

‘One should not be too greedy, my friend. I can win that battle — but once I have, the rebellion will be over. Edmund will march his armies back to the north and crush any who stand in his way. But that will matter nothing, for the Morningstar will be long gone.’

‘And leave behind all those who followed you? Yes, that sounds like you, Jarek Mace. You will not have to see the ropes hanging from every tree, nor the rotting corpses upon them.’

His smile faded. ‘I did not ask these people to make me their hero. I owe them nothing. I owe you nothing.’

‘I agree. But what you said in there was wonderful. No more Angostin overlords, no more serfs and slaves. Merely Highlanders, men judged by their actions and not by their blood. That’s worth righting for, Jarek. That’s worth dying for!’

‘Nothing is worth dying for!’ he stormed. ‘And I’ll tell you why: because nothing ever changes. There will always be kings and there will always be serfs. Edmund has conquered the north — but he will die one day, and there will be other civil wars. And yes, the north will be free, because a Highland Edmund will arise. But nothing will change, Owen. Not for the likes of you and me. Not for Wulf or Ilka. The strongest conquer, the weak suffer. It is the world’s way.’

‘It is the coward’s way!’ I stormed. ‘What Man has made, Man can change. Yes, there have always been despots and tyrants, but equally there have been benevolent rulers, strong men who cared for their people. But if men followed your philosophy of despair they would build nothing. What would be the point of fashioning a home from timber and stone? One day the timbers will rot and the roof fall in. Why learn which herbs will conquer which diseases? We are all going to die anyway. Why teach our children to read? They’ll never be able to change anything!’

For a moment he seemed taken aback, but it was more as a response to the passion of my argument than a result of the argument itself. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘if you could fight like you can talk, you’d be a formidable opponent.’

‘Go ahead, Jarek Mace, mock if you will. It is something you are good at.’

‘I am good at many things, Owen,’ he replied. ‘Keeping myself alive during a bloody war is but one of my talents. Being a hard man to kill is another. Now I am playing this game of yours to the best of my ability. Do not ask for more, for there is no more to give. I care nothing for Angostins. And I am not even a Highlander, I am a low-born Ikenas. They want to make me Rabain reborn, so be it! They want to follow me to the gates of Hell, well, let them. All I want is to see Azrek dead and to have some gold to spend. Is that so bad?’

‘You could be King,’ I said softly. ‘Can’t you see that? The people will rise in their thousands.’

‘And Edmund will crush them,’ he said, hammering his fist into the palm of his left hand for emphasis.

The light was beginning to fail and we walked back towards the shelter.

I thought I saw a shadow move at the edge of my vision, but when I swung round there was nothing to see. And night flowed over the clearing, the sky thick with cloud which covered the moon and stars.

I have discovered in my long life that there are many words and phrases which have more power than any spell of magick. The most well-known of these is, of course, I love you. But by far the most deadly is, if only.

For these two words can strip a man’s strength, his courage and his confidence. They become the father of regret and anguish and pain. A man kneels by his dead children in a plague village and thinks, ‘If only we had journeyed south in the summer.’ A farmer gazes at his rain-ruined crop and believes he would have been a rich man if only he had bred horses instead. Lives are ruled by if only.

I have my father to thank for being free of the spell cast by these two words.

‘Foolish regret weighs more than iron,’ he would say. ‘Every man alive makes mistakes; that’s how he learns. Only the weakling talks of life’s unfairness, or claims he is jinxed by bad luck. The strong man shrugs his shoulders and walks on.’

I remember one winter evening, as we were gathered around the fire, when one of my brothers, Braife, was crying because his favourite hound had been killed in a fight with wolves. He was weeping not just because of the loss, but because he had chosen to carry a spear that day and not a bow. With the bow, he said, he might have driven the wolves back.

‘Most likely,’ agreed Aubertain, ‘but you weren’t carrying the bow. It was not even a mistake, nor yet an error of judgement. You were hunting boar, and for that a man needs a long spear. Everything you did was correct, but the dog died. When I was a young knight in the Overseas War I had a friend called Ranuld, a bright, witty, shining man. We were riding together through a forest, hunting deer, when he suggested trying to the east. I maintained the deer would be in the west — and it was to the west that we rode. We had travelled no more than a mile when a band of robbers leapt from hiding in the undergrowth. We drove them off, of course, killing three, but when they had gone Ranuld fell from his horse. He had a deep dagger wound in his chest, and it had pierced the lung. He died in my arms then. I screamed my bitterness to the heavens and I regret his death to this day, but not with guilt. I chose the west because the forest was more dense there and the ground was low, indicating water and good feed for deer. It was not my fault that he died. Nor was it your fault, Braife, that the hound was slain.’

Forgive me, my ghostly friend, for this departure from the tale, but it has relevance.

I thought I saw a darting shadow in the trees, and I did not mention it to Mace or to Wulf. I wish I had, but in my mind at the time I dismissed it as a trick of the fading light or a fox moving stealthily.

But it was Cataplas… and I should have guessed it and warned Mace. We could have hunted him down and prevented so many tragedies. Yet I did not think of it. Perhaps Cataplas protected himself with a spell, perhaps I was tired. I do not know. And, despite the whispering memory of my father’s advice, I still regret that missed moment.

We moved into the shelter. Raul was talking to Astiana, while Piercollo and Ilka were preparing supper. The brothers and Scrymgeour were gambling, using bone dice, and Wulf was sitting by himself with the wrapped skull in his lap.

It was a warm evening, with a gentle breeze blowing over the ruins, and I played my harp after supper, summoning sweet melodies of summer dances to entertain the company. Wulf did not join in with his flute and Piercollo, despite my cajoling, declined to sing.

The hours flowed by. Wulf and Ilka were asleep, but Astiana was entertaining the others with tales of the Elder Days. At first I listened, for there were several I had not heard, but then she moved on to the stories of the Gabala Knights and I wandered away to sit facing the forest, staring out into the darkness.

The stars were bright and there were few clouds. Wrapped in a blanket I sat for perhaps an hour before I felt the need to sleep. It was like warmth stealing over me, bringing with it the memories of childhood — fires in the hearth, my brothers nestling alongside me, the great warhound Nibal on the floor beside the bed, his huge head resting on his paws. I leaned my head to the wall beside me. But I could feel no rough stones; it was as if a feather pillow had been placed there. My body felt light, my mind drifting, and it seemed that I floated gently down, through warm water, into the mindless security of pre-birth.

From far away I could hear a voice calling me. It was irritating, like the buzz of an angry insect. I tried to shut my mind to it, but already the warmth and comfort were drifting away. Angry now, I moved my head. The cold stone rasped against my ear. I groaned and awoke, but the voice remained.

‘Beware, Owen! You are in peril!’

Opening my eyes, I saw the image of Megan’s face floating before me, shimmering in the darkness. This was the Megan I knew, old and yet unbending. I blinked and yawned, my body slow to function. ‘Awake, Owen!’ she ordered me. My mouth was dry and I pushed myself to my knees, realizing that a powerful Sleep spell had been laid upon me. Swinging my head I saw that the others were sleeping heavily, sprawled by the dying fire.

Megan disappeared as I got to my feet. The stars were no longer shining, the sky was dark with cloud which sped by with unbelievable speed. I looked out into the night but there were no trees, only a rolling mist which swirled around the cabin.

‘Mace!’ I shouted, stumbling towards him. ‘Wake up!’ Grabbing his shoulder, I shook him savagely. His eyes opened dreamily, then shut again. Hauling him up, I slapped his face. Once. Twice. His eyes snapped open.

‘What in the devil…?’

‘Sorcery! Wake the others!’

He rolled to his feet, snatching up his sword. As it slid from the scabbard it was shining, like moonlight trapped in crystal. I took a deep breath, gathering myself for the coming attack, trying to calm my mind, preparing it for whatever enchantment I could muster. Wulf awoke next and then Piercollo, Raul, the brothers and Scrymgeour.

But of Ilka and Astiana there was no sign.

The sound of chanting came from the mist, echoing around the cabin. At first there seemed no meaning within the noise, but slowly a single word became clear within the chant.

‘Golgoleth! Golgoleth! Golgoleth!’

Raul had his own sword drawn but I moved alongside him, saying, ‘That blade is useless against the foes we face.’ Wulf had drawn both his short swords and I took one from him, handing the glittering weapon to the astonished Earl Mace tossed his spare knife to Scrymgeour and we waited for the attack.

Black-cloaked shapes were moving in the mist and the chanting continued — low and insistent, sinister and threatening.

‘It is only noise,’ Mace pointed out.

I nodded.

The mist slowly cleared. But there were no trees, no forest, no sky.

The ruined cabin stood now within a great, grey hall.

A hooded figure was seated upon a white throne, which could have been of ivory but was more likely, I considered, to be shaped and worked from bone. Around him stood many soldiers, their faces covered by dark helms, curved swords in their hands. One of the soldiers approached the cabin entrance and lifted clear his helm. His face was pale and bloodless, his eyes dark, and when he spoke elongated canines gleamed white in his lipless mouth.

‘Surrender the skull!’ he said, his voice cold.

‘This is a Hall of the Dead,’ I whispered to Mace. ‘He is.. ’

‘I know what he is,’ snapped Mace, his gaze locked on the Vampyre’s.

‘Return it!’ echoed the order.

‘Come and take it!’ Mace told him.

We were standing with our backs to the hearth, bright swords in our hands. But then the thought came. If we were truly in a Hall of the Dead, then we had been drawn from our bodies. We were souls, not flesh. And in that instant I realized something else.

The cabin could not exist here!

‘Form a circle!’ I shouted, spinning on my heel, my dagger ready.

The walls of the cabin dissolved and a score of dark shapes rushed in. The brothers Ciarhan and Cearas had been placed behind us, in what we had hoped was a position of safety. Dark blades plunged into them and they fell. Wulf was the first to react; he charged at the attackers, his silver blade slashing through them. I leapt to join him with my dagger raised.

The Vampyres fell back, dismayed. I glanced down to see if the brothers were still alive, but there was no sign of them nor of the slain Vampyres. The stone floor of the hall was bare.

We stood in a circle now, with the Vampyres all around us.

‘We cannot fight them all,’ said Wulf. ‘What do you suggest, Mace?’

‘Take my sword,’ Mace told Piercollo, then moved back to where Wulf’s bow lay. Notching a gleaming arrow to the string, he stepped forward and aimed the shaft at the herald. ‘Send us back!’ he ordered.

‘I faced the first death like a man,’ the herald sneered. ‘I can face the second in the same way.’

I moved alongside Mace and whispered, ‘Ignore him. Take the one on the throne!’ Mace swayed to his right, the arrow flashing through the air — a gleam of silver light that sped towards the breast of the hooded figure. Just before it struck the figure disappeared and the shaft hammered into the throne. The bones fell apart, crashing to the floor of the hall.

The world spun crazily and I recall the sensation of falling, spinning through the air.

I awoke with a start to see Astiana leaning over me. As I opened my eyes she whispered, ‘Thanks be to God!’

I sat up. Mace was on his knees, rubbing his eyes. Wulf was groaning. Piercollo was sitting by himself with his head in his hands. The Earl was kneeling, with Scrymgeour, beside the bodies of the brothers. There were no marks upon them, but they were cold and dead.

‘Where is it?’ shouted Wulf suddenly, the sound making me jump. ‘Where is the skull?’

‘The enemy has it,’ said Astiana softly.

‘What are you talking about?’ hissed Mace. ‘We fought them off.’

She shook her head. ‘Last night a vision came to me, warning me of great danger. I tried to rouse you all, but only Ilka awoke. Then a man appeared from the forest — a tall, thin man with a straggly beard. Ilka had her sabre ready and he did not threaten us. He merely said that unless we gave him the skull none of you would wake. At first I did not believe him, but then he told me to check the heartbeat of the Earl’s men. Two of them were already dead. Then I knew he spoke the truth.’

‘You gave Cataplas the skull?’ I said, astonished. ‘You have delivered a great weapon into the hands of evil men!’

‘I did it to save you,’ she argued, tears in her eyes. ‘And I was right! You returned!’

I was furious. ‘We came back…’ I began.

Mace grabbed my arm. ‘We returned,’ he said gently, ‘thanks to you, Astiana. Now let us say no more about it.’

The dawn was breaking and the first rays of the morning sun shone down upon us.

‘I did the right thing, Owen. I did!’ said Astiana, moving alongside me.

My anger died down as swiftly as it had come. ‘Of course you did,’ I told her, smiling, and I glanced at Mace.

My father would have liked him. The spell of if only had no power over the Morningstar.

It took almost a month to reach the south-eastern edges of the forest, where the distant towers of Ziraccu could be seen from the highest hills. All around us the world was changing. Corlan had intercepted five rich convoys and was becoming almost as great a legend as the Morningstar. Brackban had gathered a powerful force of some five hundred men and had fought two skirmishes with Ikenas soldiers, fighting them to a standstill in the first and routing them in the second.

Towns and villages had risen against the invader and word of the rebellion had reached Ebracum, where Edmund the King was spending the summer and autumn. In one of the ransacked convoys Corlan had found correspondence from the King to Azrek demanding action against the Morningstar, allied to a promise of more troops in the spring.

But this we did not know as we began our journey.

For the first few days, as we travelled, Ilka stayed close beside Astiana, locked in the silent commune of spirit, and I found myself envying the Gastoigne sister her ability. Longing to share it, I became morose and distant. But after some ten days, as we camped in a shallow cave, Ilka came and sat beside me, reaching out and lightly touching my hand. I heard a whisper then, deep in my mind, like the memory of a lost song.

‘Owen.’

I shivered and my hand trembled. ‘Owen,’ came the voice again, hesitant, lacking in confidence.

‘I hear you,’ I whispered.

She smiled a wondrous smile, her blue eyes wide, tears glistening there. And she said no more for a little while. I took her hand in both of mine, stroking her skin.

‘I love you,’ I told her, my voice breaking.

‘Why?’ whispered the voice in my mind.

At first I could say nothing. How does a man answer such a question? I rose, drawing her up with me, and we walked from the camp to sit beneath the bright stars. Her face was bathed in silver light, her blonde hair shining almost white in the moonlight.

‘When I first came to the village,’ I told her, holding gently to her hand, ‘I sat in despair by the lakeside. I could see only evil everywhere. And I played my harp — you remember?’ She nodded. ‘And then you came to me and you danced. You changed the music in my mind and my soul; you were a dancing flame in the winter of my heart. I think from that moment my love for you was born. You understand?’

‘Owen Odell,’ came the voice in my mind, rippling like a song, making a gentle melody of the name. Moving close beside me she kissed my cheek, and I drew her in to an embrace.

Ilka nestled beside me and we sat in companionable silence, her head against my chest, but we did not make love that night nor for many nights after. In truth I was afraid, for I was inexperienced, and I did not wish our love to be sullied by doing that which had brought her such pain in the past.

What foolishness. Love changes everything and as a bard — if not as a man — I should have known that simple fact. When at last we lay together, on a blanket spread beside a stream, I felt her joy — bright, unfettered and free. That one fumbling and inexpert union was for her, she told me later, like a bridge of light across a dark stream.

From then on we were inseparable and even Mace made no jokes at our expense, nor did he ever attempt to bed her again. I do not know to this day whether Ilka ever loved me with the same passion I felt for her. And it does not matter. She needed me and she was happy. This was everything.

Piercollo understood it better than many men would, but he was a man of music and his soul was great. ‘I am happy for you, my friend,’ he said, as we approached the end of our journey. ‘She is a good girl. And she deserves happiness — as do you.’

‘Have you ever been in love?’

For a moment he was silent, then he shook his head and his smile faded. ‘Only with the Great Song,’ he said, and walked on ahead.

My soul was light, my mood merry. Thoughts of Cataplas and Azrek were far from my mind, and the loss of the skull seemed more a reason for relief than concern. It was a burden, and we were free of it. But Wulf did not see it this way; he had made a promise to Gareth’s ghost, and felt he had been shamed. No matter how many times Mace and I tried to reassure him, he remained sullen and withdrawn.

‘I must get it back,’ he repeated. ‘I must.’

Astiana was unrepentant about surrendering the skull, which irritated me somewhat. Had she accepted that there might be the slimmest of possibilities that she was wrong, then I would have been the first to say, ‘Well, what’s done is done. Let us forget it.’ But she did not. Despite all her fine traits and her courage she had one great failing — an inability to admit to error.

It is baffling to me why so many people find it difficult to say, ‘I was wrong.’ The words, when spoken with repentance, always turn away wrath. But those who cling to their absolute Tightness, despite any evidence to the contrary, will always arouse anger in their comrades or superiors.

Nonetheless we travelled on in relative good humour, coming at last to Corlan’s camp in the village by the lake where I had first met Megan.

It was no surprise — indeed it was a great joy — to see her sitting outside her cabin with a homespun dress of brown wool clinging to her bony frame, a faded red shawl around her shoulders.

‘You took your time,’ she said as I approached her, smiling.

‘Mace wanted to return to the ruined castle, to find more weapons of enchantment.’

‘And he looks right pretty,’ she said as Mace, sporting a black, raven-winged helm and cuirass, marched across the clearing to be greeted by the blond archer, Corlan. The two men embraced as a crowd of warriors looked on, cheering.

Megan ushered Ilka and myself into her cabin and we sat by the fire in the easy silence only friends can create. Her scorched skin had healed remarkably, without scars or weals.

‘It took time,’ she told me, ‘but Osian nursed me well. I am glad that you prospered, however. And Mace. He is important, you know — more than you would believe.’

‘To whom?’ I asked, making light of her comment.

‘To you. To us. To the future — and the past.’

‘He is what he always was, Megan — an outlaw, selfish, self-obsessed and vain. The man will never be a saint.’

She chuckled and shook her head. ‘You do not believe in redemption, Owen? How disappointing. Perhaps Mace will surprise you.’

‘You believe in him?’ I asked, surprised.

‘I saw him — a long time ago — produce heroism and courage in a situation of darkness and despair. There is more to him than you see. But that is because you cannot tear yourself from stories and legends. Heroes, in a bard’s eyes at least, must be tall and fair, villains dark and terrible. Yet sometimes both can be fair and terrible, the roles shifting and changing. But we will see. All this is for another day. Now there is a more immediate problem — and I think Mace is just learning of it.’

‘What is that?’

‘Ziraccu is a closed city. The gates have been barred for more than two weeks now. People go in — travellers, merchants — but none come out.’

‘They have the plague?’ I whispered, making the sign of the Protective Cross.

‘Worse. But we will wait for Mace. I do not want to have to tell the story twice.’

‘Does Cataplas have a part in this?’

‘Do not concern yourself with him,’ she said wearily. ‘His evil is as nothing compared with what is awakening in Ziraccu.’

‘The skulls?’

‘The evil of Golgoleth,’ she said, her face pale.

Just then we heard excited shouts from outside the cabin and Mace loomed in the doorway. ‘Owen, get yourself out here.’

Scrambling to my feet, I ran outside. A scouting party of Corlan’s hunters had emerged from the forest, two of them holding the aims of a struggling man.

‘Well, well,’ said Mace. ‘He does not appear so terrifying now, does he?’

I said nothing. For the prisoner was Cataplas…

His condition was a shock to me; his hair and beard were matted and filthy, his purple robes torn and mud-stained, and the skin of his face loose and sagging, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

The hunters dragged him towards Mace, but he turned his head and saw me. He smiled wearily.

‘Hello, Owen,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

A hunter cuffed him on the side of the face, then hissed, ‘Be silent until you’re spoken to, wizard!’

‘They are very ill-mannered,’ said Cataplas, still speaking directly to me. The hunter raised his hand again, but Mace stopped him.

Megan walked from the cabin to stand beside me. She sighed as she saw the captive, and her eyes were sorrowful. ‘Bring him inside,’ she ordered the men, ‘and fetch the captains.’

‘Ah, Megan,’ said Cataplas sweetly, ‘how pleasant to see you again. Are you well?’

‘That I am, Cataplas. But it is no thanks to you.’

‘I tried to learn, to follow your wisdom and your teachings. But… I am not in the best of health now.’

‘I see that,’ she told him. Approaching the guards she spoke again. ‘Release his arms. He has no power to cause harm.’ They obeyed her and she led the stooped old man into the cabin.

Wulf approached, his eyes angry, a sharp dagger in his hand. ‘He didn’t look so pathetic when he sent the Dead after us,’ he snapped. ‘Nor when he delivered our souls into Hell. Let me cut his heart out, Mace!’

‘Perhaps later,’ agreed Mace, patting the man’s twisted shoulder, then following Megan into the cabin.

I stood outside, still reeling from the ruin in the eyes of my old master. The man was a shell, his mind almost gone.

The powerful figure of Brackban moved past me. Then the outlaw Corlan approached the cabin, but instead of entering he came alongside me. I looked up into his grey eyes. His pale hair was tied back in a long pony-tail which accentuated the harshness of his features, the high cheekbones and the cruel mouth.

‘A word with you, sorcerer,’ he said, keeping his voice low. I nodded dumbly. The last thing I needed now was a conversation with a murderous outlaw whom I had tricked into becoming a soldier of the Light. Yet I stood there, my face expressionless.

‘We all swore an oath,’ said Corlan, ‘and I have done my part. You agree?’

‘It would appear so,’ I answered him.

‘Now I want to be released from it.’

‘Why?’ I asked him, only half interested.

He seemed confused, uncertain, and he licked his lips nervously. ‘I am not a good man,’ he said at last. ‘I blame no one for it, save myself. And I joined this venture for gain, I admit it. But now…’ His voice trailed off and his face reddened. ‘Listen to what I say, sorcerer; I will have no part in betraying these people. You understand? They look up to me, they trust me. I want my soul released from the promise.’

‘I stared at the man, disbelieving, and he misread my expression.

‘I know you think me a fool, and Mace will laugh until his sides split. But there it is. And my men feel as I do — every one of them.’

‘You think it is any different with Mace?’ I countered.

Now it was his turn to be shocked. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘It is not difficult, Corlan. Look at everything he has done. Where is the profit? What gain has he made, save to be hunted by men and demons? He is the Morningstar. And had we, when first you came to us, asked you to give up the outlaw life and fight for justice, would you have done it? No. You would have laughed at us! Can you not see it, my friend? You do not need to be released from the Soul Oath. You have freed yourselves.’

He shook his head. ‘You mean you tricked me?’

‘I would not say tricked. What I offered was to make you rich beyond the dreams of common men. Answer me this: what riches are greater than the love and admiration of your fellows, the trust you spoke of? Would you sell it for gold or gems? I kept my promise, Corlan. You are richer now than ever before. Is that not to?’

He took a deep breath, then nodded.

‘Now let us hear what the wizard can tell us,’ I said, striding away and into the cabin.

There were around a dozen people inside, some of Brackban’s new officers and several of Corlan’s hunters. Mace was sitting between Raul and Wulf and the men formed a half-circle around Megan and Cataplas. The old seeress was speaking as we entered, and I bowed in apology for interrupting her.

Corlan and I edged our way into the circle and Megan began again. ‘I believe I know what is happening in Ziraccu,’ she said, ‘but this man was there and you must listen to what he says.’ Half turning, she touched Cataplas on the shoulder. ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked him gently.

‘You must let me go,’ he told her. ‘They will seek me out, you see, and my powers seem to have deserted me.’

‘First tell us what happened when you returned with the skull.’

He began to tremble and blink rapidly, his skeletal frame convulsing. Megan reached out, laid her hand upon his head and whispered words in a language I had never heard. His eyes closed and his trembling ceased.

‘Can you still hear me, Cataplas?’ she whispered.

‘I can, my lady.’ His voice was stronger now, though slow and halting.

‘You are carrying the skull of Golgoleth, and you are back in Ziraccu. How do you feel?’

‘Very fine. I have them all now. The secrets of the past will be mine. My quest for knowledge and wisdom is almost at an end.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I run through the streets, my heart beating rapidly, and I mount the stairs to my rooms. But Azrek is waiting there. ‘You have it?’ he demands, stretching out his hand. ‘Yes,’ I tell him. He is pleased, but he does not smile. ‘Show it to me.’ The other two skulls are on my desk and I hesitate. ‘Surely we must take care,’ I warn him. ‘We do not yet understand the power that may be unleashed.’

‘He waves his hand angrily, strides forward and takes the velvet pouch from my hands, pulling it open. So hasty is he that one of the sharp canines pricks his finger, and blood flows from the wound. I feel a surge of force, dark and cold, and I try to raise a spell to protect me. But it is too late. Azrek staggers back, the skull glowing like a lantern. He tries to drop it, but it holds to his hands. The hands.. they are glowing too, every vein shining. I watch as the force flows up his arms. ‘Oh, God!’ he shouts. ‘Help me!’ I should have run, but I could not. The light reaches his face — so bright. Then the skull fades and falls to ash. Azrek’s head is down and I cannot see him clearly. But now he looks up. Oh, dear God, he looks up!’ Cataplas said nothing for a moment, his mouth hanging open, a thin stream of spittle running to his chin.

‘And then?’ prompted Megan.

‘It is not Azrek. The man is tall, his eyes jet-black, his hair white and long. He gazes at me. ‘You desire knowledge,’ he says, his voice deep and melodious. ‘And you shall have it. The wisdom of the universe will be yours. Now fetch me two men, strong men, for my brothers ache to live again.’ I did as he bade me, and in the days that passed I watched more soldiers becoming Vampyres; I saw them move among the people of the city, I heard the screams, the begging, the cries of the damned. On the eighth… no, the ninth day I tried to flee. Early in the morning, with the sun bright and the city apparently deserted. But as I reached the shadows of the postern gate he was there. Golgolgeth. I used all my power against him, but it was as nothing and he reached out and gripped my face, his long nails piercing the skin. ‘Foolish little man,’ he said, and I felt the enchantment being drawn out of me. ‘Go from here,’ he told me. ‘Go into the forest. There you will wander, lost and alone, tired and hungry. And I will find you. Just as your love of life reaches its highest point I will find you — and take your soul.’ The gate opened, though no hand touched it, and he flung me out into the sunlight. I ran then… and ran… and ran. And now he is coming for me.’ He began to weep, but Megan whispered words of power and his head sagged forward.

The men in the room were silent for a few moments, then Mace cleared his throat. ‘It can’t be true, Megan! His mind has gone, for God’s sake.’

‘It is true, Morningstar. The Vampyre Kings have returned.’