Morningstar

CHAPTER TWELVE

Moonlight bathed the silent city as I walked. I had no feeling for direction and was moving aimlessly. In the distance I could hear Brackban’s men singing of the victory, their laughter echoing in the narrow streets.

I turned a corner and found myself standing in the same alleyway where first I had seen Jarek Mace leap from the balcony. It seemed as if centuries had passed since then… a different world. I sat down on the cobbles and wished that I had my harp. I could not even remember the name of the girl we had rescued. There were no more tears inside me at that time. Ilka was gone and I felt the emptiness that comes with the cleaving of shared memories. Part of the joy of life is to sit with a loved one and say, ‘Do you remember that day on the mountain?’ Or perhaps a walk by a stream, or a dance at Midsummer, when the rains came. Joys continually given the breath of life by the speaking of them.

We made love only nine times. And I recall every precious moment, every touch and kiss, the sweetness of her breath, the smell of her hair.

I sat alone, my mind floating back through the days in the forest. A door creaked and I looked up to see an elderly woman and a small child emerging into the night. The woman was skeletally thin, her shoulders bowed. The child was standing, clinging to her hand, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘It is safe,’ I said. ‘They are all dead.’

‘I heard the singing,’ said the old woman. The… creatures did not sing.’

I stood then and approached them, but the child shrank back against the woman’s skirts. ‘How did you escape them?’ I asked.

‘We hid in the attic,’ she told me. ‘We have been there for… the Lord knows how long.’

I took her by the arm and led her back towards the palace. She was weak, as was the child. They had eaten nothing in all that time, and had survived only on rain-water that flowed down through a crack in the roof. At first the child would not suffer me to carry her, but her tiny body had no strength in it and she began to cry. I lifted her then, hugging her to me, and her head fell to my shoulder and she slept.

As we made our slow way through the city other survivors crept out from their hiding-places, drawn by the songs and laughter from the palace. Man is a great survivor. Floods, famine, drought, war and pestilence — he will defeat them all. Even in Ziraccu, in a city of Vampyres, there were those who had found sanctuary, surviving against all odds.

But of the eighteen thousand original inhabitants, no more than six hundred remained.

By morning we had gathered them all. I walked among them, and will never forget their eyes. All had that haunted look. None would ever come close to forgetting the terror. For many had been hunted by their own loved ones, friends and brothers. Husbands had made prey of their wives, children their parents.

Oh, Cataplas, how great an evil you unleashed upon the world! And it was an evil of the most vile kind — men, women and children turned into Vampryes against their will, becoming creatures of vileness themselves. Men talk of the judgement of God. What did you say, Cataplas, when — if — you faced that inquisition? “It was not my fault? I didn’t know?” Will that be considered a defence? I think not. What evil is greater than to force others to walk the path of darkness?

Of the six hundred survivors some seventeen died within the next three days, some because they were malnourished, others because they were old and frail. But most, I think, merely gave up, having nothing to live for.

Brackban organized teams of helpers and people from the surrounding areas moved into the city, taking over shops and stores, taverns and houses. I could not stay there. Neither could the Morningstar, and we walked together back into the forest.

But not before we had once more dealt with the skulls. Brackban took the first and hid it somewhere in the city. Wulf took the second and I the third. I buried mine beneath the roots of a huge oak. What Wulf did with his I never asked.

Jarek Mace said little as we walked on that first day. His wounds were troubling him, but there was more on his mind than merely pain.

We built a fire in a shallow cave and boiled some oats in a makeshift bowl of bark. I sat and watched the flames licking at the wood, yet unable to burn through because the water within the bowl was absorbing the heat. We shared the porridge and then placed the empty bowl back upon the fire. It was consumed almost instantly, as if the blaze was exacting its revenge for being thwarted.

‘He died well then, Corlan?’ asked Mace, breaking the long silence.

‘Yes. He charged them all, fearlessly.’

He shook his head. ‘Who would have thought it? Is he in Heaven, do you think?’

I shrugged. ‘I have never believed in Paradise. But we have seen Hell, Jarek. So who knows?’

‘I like to think he might be. But then how would they weigh the balances? He was a robber and a killer. Did this one act of courage eclipse the rest of his deeds?’ He sighed and forced a smile. ‘Listen to me! Jarek Mace talking of Paradise.’

‘I think you are talking of redemption — and, yes, I believe no man is so evil that he cannot redeem himself. He saved my life. No question of that. He acted with great heroism — as did you.’

‘Nonsense! I went there because the bastard was hunting me. I was looking out for myself.’

‘There is no one else here, Jarek,’ I said wearily. ‘Just you and I. So let us drop the pretence. You are the Morningstar. It is your destiny. You know it, and I know it. And you journeyed to the heart of the evil because you had to, because that is what being the Morningstar is all about. You are no longer Jarek Mace the outlaw, the man of bitterness. You are the Lord of the Forest and the people worship you. In a thousand years they will speak of you. You have changed, my friend. Why not admit it?’

‘Still the romantic, Owen? I have not changed.’

‘You are wrong. You once told me that friendship was merely a word used to describe one man needing some service from another. You said it did not exist in the form bards use. But Corlan died for you — and the people of this land. You know that is true. And when you were ready to tackle Golgoleth alone you did not expect anyone to accompany you. But we did. And something else… though you will not admit it… if I, or Wulf, had been in your place, and set off alone to the Vampyre city, you would have accompanied us — even if Golgoleth had never heard your name.’

‘Pah! Dream on, bard! You do not know me at all, and I will not have you force your heroic images on to me. I like you, Owen. I like Wulf. And, yes, I would risk much for you both. That much I have learned. But I will always look after my own interest first. Always! And I will give my life for no man.’

His face was flushed and angry, his eyes bright with a kind of fear. I was about to speak, but I saw in him then a secret terror and I knew, with great certainty, that he understood the inevitability of his destiny. I felt cold suddenly, and into my mind came the image of the garlanded bull being led through the streets, with the people cheering and throwing flowers beneath its feet. But at the top of the hill, in the bright sunshine, waited the priest with the curved knife, and the altar upon which the blood would run.

Our eyes held, and I knew that similar thoughts were filling the mind of Jarek Mace. He licked his lips and tried to smile, and I knew what he would say — what, indeed, he had to say, the words like a charm to ward off the evil of that final day in the sun.

‘I am not the Morningstar, Owen. I am not.’

But we both knew. He was watching my face intently. ‘Well, say something, Owen, even if it is to disagree.’

I looked away. ‘I don’t know what the future holds,’ I said, ‘but we are friends, and I will stand beside you.’That may not be a safe place to be,’ he whispered.

‘I would have it no other way.’

The village was almost unrecognizable from the sleepy hamlet where I had first seen Ilka and Megan, where I learned to cure meats and filled my days with the splitting of logs and the playing of the harp. There were canvas tents pitched all along the lakeside, makeshift shelters erected close to the trees. Hundreds of people had moved down from the mountains as word of the fall of Ziraccu spread through the forest.

Even as Mace and I emerged from the woods we could see a line of wagons on the far hills, wending its way down to the settlement.

People were milling around in the town centre, and such was the crush that Mace passed unrecognized within it until we reached the calm of Megan’s cabin.

The old woman was lying on her back, apparently asleep, an elderly man sitting beside her. It was the same man who had tended her in the village of Ocrey, when she was burned by Cataplas’ spell.

‘How is she, Osian?’ I asked him. He looked up, his pale blue eyes cold and unwelcoming.

‘She is preparing for the journey,’ he said, the words harsh, his bitterness plain.

Megan opened her eyes, her head tilting on the pillow. ‘The conquering heroes return,’ she whispered.

The room smelt of stale sweat and the sickly, sweet aroma of rotting flesh. Her face was grey, the skin beneath the eyes and beside the mouth tinged with blue. I swallowed hard, trying to compose my features so that the shock of her condition would not register. It was futile. My face was an open window and the clouds of my sorrow were plain for her to see. ‘I am dying, Owen,’ she said. ‘Come — sit beside me.’Osian rose, his old joints creaking, and slowly made his way out into the sunlight. I sat on the bed and took hold of Megan’s hand. The skin was hot and dry, the absence of flesh making talons of her fingers.

‘I am so sorry,’ I said.

‘Carleth’s assassin had poison upon his blade,’ she told me. ‘Help me upright!’

Mace fetched a second pillow and I lifted her into position. She weighed next to nothing and her head sagged back on a neck too thin to support it. ‘I should be dead by now,’ she said, ‘but my Talent keeps my soul caged in this rotting shell.’ She smiled weakly at Mace. ‘Go out into the sun, Morningstar,’ she ordered him. He backed away swiftly, gratefully, without a word, and Megan and I were alone. ‘Like many strong men he cannot stand the sight of sickness,’ she said. Her head rolled on the pillow and her gaze fastened to mine. ‘Such heartache you have suffered, Owen. Such pain.’

I nodded, but did not speak. ‘She was a good girl, bonny and brave,’ she continued.

‘Don’t say any more,’ I pleaded, for I could feel myself losing control. I took a deep breath. ‘Let us talk of other things.’

‘Do not let your grief make you push her away,’ she warned me, ‘for then she would be truly dead.’

‘I think of her all the time, Megan. I just cannot speak of her.’

‘You won, poet. You destroyed the evil, you made the land safe. But it is not over.’

‘The Vampyre Kings will not return,’ I told her. ‘They are gone — and we have the skulls.’

‘And yet Mace will face Golgoleth again,’ she whispered. I shivered and drew back.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. With sword in hand he must cross the walls of the castle and challenge the Lord of the Vampyres. And next time he will not have you to send a shining shaft to his rescue. But he will have me.’

‘Her eyes were distant, unfocused, and I could see that she was becoming delirious. I held to her hand, stroking the dry skin. ‘He will be gone from you, but he will return. I waited so long. So long… The circle of time spins… spins.’ She was silent for a little while, staring at some point in the past, some ancient memory that brought a smile to her face.

‘Megan!’ I called. But she did not hear me.

‘I love you,’ she told the ghost of her memory. ‘Why did you leave me?’

Unconsciously her power flared, bathing her face with youth and beauty. ‘How could you leave me?’ she asked.

I remained silent, for my voice could no longer reach her. But as I gazed on the glory of what was, I found myself echoing her thoughts. How could any man leave such a woman?

‘You had it all,’ she said, bright tears forming and flowing to her cheeks. ‘You were the King. Everything you ever wanted!’

I called to her again, but there was no response. And in that moment I knew. From the first day, when she had known my name and we sat talking about magick and life, I had yearned to know the mystery of Megan. Now it was all clear. Here she lay, weak and dying, yet even delirious she could still cast one of the Seven Great Spells. My mouth was dry, my heartbeat irregular with the shock.

And I called her name — her true name. ‘Horga!’

The word was a whisper but it flowed through her delirium. The spell of beauty faded and she blinked and returned to me.

‘I’m sorry, Owen, was I drifting?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you know what to call me?’

I shrugged and smiled. ‘I also have Talent, lady. When first I created the image of Horga, I used the beauty that you showed me from your youth. It seemed right. And I have always known there was something special about you — from that first day. And when Cataplas admitted you were his teacher I knew you must have powers I could not even guess at. How have you lived so long? And why have you waited here, in this forest? Why? Did you know Golgoleth would come again?’

She nodded. ‘You will have all your answers, my boy. But not all of them now. I will set you a riddle, Owen. When did you first meet me?’

‘It was here by this lakeside in winter.’

‘Indeed it was, but I first met you in the springtime and you warned me not to read your mind, for there were memories there that were not for me.’

‘You have lost me, lady. We had no such conversation.’

‘Oh, Owen — that conversation is yet to be, and this meeting now is the memory from which you will protect me. The circle of time…’ She fell silent again, and I could only guess at the effort of will that kept her alive. I felt her fingers press against mine. ‘I wanted… needed to live for just a little while longer,’ she said. ‘One question has kept me alive. And the answer is but a few months away. Now I will never know.’

‘Who was the man you loved?’ I asked her, as her tears began to flow again.

‘Who do you think?

‘’Rabain.’

Very good, Owen. Yes, it was Rabain. He was a great King, loved — perhaps even adored. He slew the Vampyre Lords and created an order of knights pledged to combat evil. And he loved me. I know that he loved me! But he left me, Owen… he mounted his horse and rode from me. I have never forgotten that day. How could I? His armour was golden, and a white cloak was draped across his shoulders. He had no shield nor helm. The horse was a stallion — huge, maybe eighteen hands, white as a summer cloud. And that was my last sight of him. I had begged him to stay. I offered him immortality. Such was my power then that I thought I could keep us both young for ever. I even fell to my knees before him. Can you imagine that? I could have cast a spell to stop him, of course. I considered it, Owen. I could have made him love me more; I know I could. But that would not have been real. And it would have eaten away at me, as this poison is doing now. So I let him go.’

‘Why did he leave?’ I asked her.

She tried to smile. ‘An old man whom he loved came to him. A poet. He told him the future. Such a kind old man. But I think he was closer to Rabain than I could ever have been. And because Rabain needed him I journeyed to fetch him. It needed mighty spells and great concentration. I wish now that I had refused.’

‘What did he tell him?’

‘I don’t know, Owen. That’s what I have waited all these years to find out. All these years… lonely years.’

‘And you found no other lovers?’

A sound came from her then, a dry chuckle, and her eyes glinted. ‘Hundreds,’ she said. ‘As the centuries passed I whiled away many a year with handsome men. Some gave me real pleasure, some even happiness. But none was Rabain… none was Rabain.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know. That’s what was… is… so painful. He knew he was riding into great danger, as did I. But neither of us spoke of death. He told me he would come back and I said I believed him. And I dressed him in his armour, fastening every hook, greasing the shoulder-plates. Every hook. And at last I stood before him and he leaned down and kissed me. And the armour was cold, so cold.’

‘How long were you together?’

‘Ten years. The merest fraction of my lifetime. I bore him a son — a fine boy, who became a good man. He in turn had many sons and the line grew. I tried to keep them all in my mind, but it was not possible — save for one line which held true: the Arkneys. They are of the blood of Rabain. When the Angostins first invaded the north the Earl of Arkney married a Highland princess and the line continued. That was what pleased me so much when Raul Raubert stood tall alongside the Morningstar. He is the last of that line, and the blood is still true.’

Once more she fell silent, then she smiled again, her eyes sorrowful. ‘But the line also produced Gilbaud Azrek.’ She sighed. ‘I have lived too long and seen-too much.’Her voice faded away and I called her name. Her eyes flickered and her voice whispered into my mind.

‘You will see me again, Owen, but I will not know you.’

And she died there, slipping away without pain.

I held her hand for a little while. Then I covered her face and left the cabin.

I found Mace sitting by the lakeside skimming flat pebbles across the surface of the water. I sat beside him, but he did not look at me.

‘Bastard life!’ he said, hurling yet another stone which bounced six times before disappearing below the water.

‘You liked the old woman, didn’t you?’

‘Don’t try to climb inside my head!’ he stormed.

‘I do not wish to be intrusive. But she is gone, Jarek; she passed away without pain.’

He said nothing, but turned his face from me.

‘How did you meet her?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘I was sitting by a camp-fire when she just walked from the trees. She sat down as if I was an old friend and began to talk. You know? The weather, the crops, the fishing. Just talk. I shared my meal with her. It was cold, and around dusk she stood and said she had a spare bed in her cabin. So I went with her.’

‘Have you known her long?’

‘No — maybe a month before I saw you in the forest. But she was good to talk to. She didn’t ask for anything. And she liked me, Owen… for myself. You understand? Just for me — Jarek Mace.’

‘Like a mother?’

‘I told you not to get inside my head! She was just an old woman. But I was comfortable with her. I didn’t have to think about bedding her; I didn’t have to woo her. You can have no idea how good that is sometimes. Just to talk to a woman, and to listen. No seductive voice, no easy charm. And she was a good woman, Owen. Back there when she faced the Burning, I did want to help. I wanted…ah, what does it matter? Everything dies. Gods, you should know that by now.’

It was as if he had slapped me, for Ilka’s face flashed into my mind and I felt the weight of grief.

‘I’m sorry, Owen,’ he said swiftly, reaching out and gripping my arm. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. She was a good girl; she deserved more.’

‘Well,’ I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice, ‘she was bedded by the Morningstar, so her life wasn’t a complete waste.’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘What would you have me say? She was barely eighteen and she’s dead. I made love to her nine times; we had merely days.’

‘That’s all any of us has, Owen. Just days. A few moments in the sun. Yours were shorter than most — but you had them. My mother gave me very little, but she offered one piece of advice I have long treasured. She used to say, “What you have can be taken from you, but no one can take what you have already enjoyed.” You understand?’

‘I wish I had never met her,’ I said, and at that moment I meant it. The sharpness of my sorrow seemed immensely more powerful than the love we had experienced.

‘No, you don’t,’ he assured me. ‘Not even close. You said it yourself… her life was one of tragedy. But you supplied something pure, something joyful. You gave her a reason for being. Be proud of that!’

I looked at him with new eyes. ‘Is this the Jarek Mace who led a woman to suicide? Is this the robber who cares only for gold?’

He struck me then, a sharp blow with the back of his hand that made my head spin, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Wallow in self-pity if you must,’ he said coldly. ‘I have more important matters to attend to.’

We buried Megan in a meadow beneath the branches of a willow — an open spot overlooked by the mountains, with a stream close by. We made no headstone, nor even marked the spot. Such was the way of death in the forest at that time.

No prayers were spoken by any, but when the gravediggers had moved away and I stood alone by the small mound of earth I said my farewells, allowing the wind to carry my words wherever it travelled.

Horga the Enchantress was gone from the world to whatever oblivion or Paradise existed beyond the veils of life. As a bard I could hope that Rabain was waiting for her somewhere between worlds, but as a man I could feel only sadness at her passing.

The next few months were both chaotic and memorable. Angostin citadels were overthrown throughout the land, and the people were filled with the spirit of freedom. Yet these were not easy times. For despite the tyranny of Angostin rule, they still supplied law of a kind. Without them anarchy beckoned, and Brackban was forced to become a judge as well as a general. Units were sent to police towns and cities, new laws were struck in the name of the Morningstar. Disputes needed to be settled, the rights to land established.

I remember well one case where five families laid claim to a tavern in Ziraccu. The first maintained they had ownership rights stolen during the days before the Angostin invasion; the second claimed to have bought the rights from Azrek; the third had an earlier claim, based on a deed signed by the Highland King some sixty years previously. The fourth swore that the most recent owner had willed it to them, and produced documents to support their story. As to the fifth, well, they were in possession, having moved in following the slaying of the Vampyre Kings. Their claim was that they had taken over a shell with no stock and had built up the custom, investing their own capital.

There were scores of cases like these — some judged by Mace, others by Brackban or Raul Raubert. But the lists grew and other judges were appointed. Most came from the Church, bishops and priests — even an Abbess, though having a woman as a judge proved unpopular at first. Others were clerks or lawyers from freed cities.

Slowly, as autumn moved into winter, some degree of order was established.

The outlaws of Corlan now followed Mace, like an elite royal guard, and Brackban continued his training of recruits and officers. The pace of revolution slowed, but despite the many irritations the mood remained optimistic. Even when travellers, merchants and tinkers moved up from the south with news of Edmund’s gathering army, there was little gloom. ‘We have the Morningstar,’ said the people. ‘Nothing can defeat him.’During these months I saw little of Mace. He rode through the land with Raul gathering men, giving speeches, collecting coin to pay for the weapons the new army would need. There was no line of credit offered by merchants — for they did not believe in the Morningstar. All they knew was that the Angostin Battle King was preparing to march north in the spring — and where he marched, death and destruction followed.

Desperation makes for cost, my dear ghost. Our army was in dire need of weapons, and the iron for these was found only in the south. Therefore we needed to pay men who were willing to smuggle them across to us. An iron-tipped spear that should cost as little as two pennies now sold for twenty. Swords and halberds were seven, eight times the price. And armour? No matter how much coin we raised, the cost was prohibitive.

Edmund had closed off the southern borders and merchants found with wagons loaded with weapons were hanged, drawn and quartered. The ports were sealed also and Ikenas galleons were anchored offshore, ready with their grappling-irons to storm any ship that tried to sail past.

Our biggest fear was starvation, for a great deal of the food consumed in the north was imported from the richer, more fertile southlands.

Wulf and Piercollo were placed in charge of supplies for the army, but their roles widened as winter took hold. The movement of food to villages and towns cut off by snow, the filling of storehouses in cities, the distribution of supplies throughout the north — this consumed all their time. The winter months were fraught with peril but, save for isolated cases, there was no starvation. In the northern city of Callias a mob looted the storehouse, but Brackban’s militia routed them, hanging twenty of the ringleaders as an example to others. It was the only serious incident of that long, bitter winter.

And what of Owen Odell during this period? I had no place in the new government, and Mace did not speak to me for weeks following the incident by the lakeside. I had no niche, no specific role. I helped Wulf and Piercollo with the organization of food, and I worked alongside Astiana in caring for the sick; the Gastoigne sister had moved into Ziraccu to help the survivors of Golgoleth’s brief reign. There were orphans to be cared for, families to be found who would take in an extra child during the harsh winter months. And she founded a school, where each day she taught unwilling youngsters the principles of letters and arithmetic.

But for the most part I idled away my days thinking of Ilka and playing my harp. I lived then in Megan’s cabin and continued her work of curing meats, preparing geese and poultry for the table, and gathering herbs which Astiana used to draw out infections and fevers.

With the coming of spring, however, the mood of the people began to change. The talk was all of the coming war and the ferocious reputation of the Battle King.

One bright morning, as I sat on a hillside overlooking the lake, I saw a rider gallop his horse into the settlement square. People swarmed around him as he sought out Brackban, who was visiting the town. I did not go down; I knew by the chill in my blood the news the rider carried.

The Battle King was coming.

The snows were melting on the hillsides when I was summoned to Ziraccu. And as the riders came, bringing a spare horse, I was sure that Mace needed my counsel. I had felt somewhat aggrieved during the winter when he did not call upon me, nor seek my advice. And now, as I rode a tall stallion, I practised in my mind the manner of my rebuke to him for his lack of courtesy. I would be gentle and ultimately forgiving, but nonetheless send a shaft that would strike home.

Mace had not taken up residence in the palace; it was closed now and none ventured into it. The Vampyres had gone but the memory lingered and the evil done there had according to local legend, seeped into the walls. Instead the Morningstar had taken over a house in the rich merchants’ quarter. There were fine gardens around it, hemmed in by high walls. I rode with my escort to the front gates where grooms led our horses away and servants ushered us into the main hall. The two riders who had accompanied me bowed and left me there and it was Brackban, not Mace, who moved out to greet me. He led me through to a small library and we sat in comfortable chairs of padded leather set beside a fireplace. The sun was hot outside, yet here in this room of stone it was cool, and a fire had been lit.

‘Take off your boots and relax,’ said Brackban, moving to a wide table of oak on which were scattered documents, scrolls and letters, wax and a seal bearing the mark of the Morningstar. He looked tired, I thought, and thinner, and his long blond hair had been harshly cut close to his head. Wearing a long robe of dark green, he looked more a cleric than a warrior. There was a jug of wine on the table and Brackban filled two silver goblets, passing one to me. Then he sat opposite and quietly drained his drink.

‘Where is Mace?’ I asked him.

He said nothing for a moment, then sighed. ‘He is gone, Owen. I don’t know where.’Gone?’ I echoed, mystified.

‘Three days ago he was reported to be heading for Ziraccu. He should have been here late yesterday. I can only think that he has been waylaid, or taken by agents of the King. God alone knows where he is now.’

I looked away from him. I knew instinctively that Mace had not been waylaid nor captured; he had done what he always promised — he had cut and run now that the end was in sight. But what could I say to this strong, loyal man who had been left to pick up the pieces?

‘Without him we are finished,’ continued Brackban. ‘We have a fledgling army, maybe three thousand men. They are good men for the most part, and brave. Edmund will have three, four times as many — and they are seasoned warriors. We have archers and foot-soldiers but he has cavalry, heavily-armoured knights who can strike fast and hard.’ He rubbed at his tired eyes. ‘What can we do, Owen? I am at the end of my strength. When word reaches the men that Mace is taken — or lost — then the desertions will begin. The lands will be open to Edmund. Have we done all this for nothing?’

‘I will do my best to find him,’ I promised.

He nodded. ‘You do not think he was captured, then?’

‘I don’t know for certain what happened,’ I hedged, ‘but I will send a Search-spell. In the meantime, don’t say anything about his disappearance. Where was he last seen?’

There was a map on the wall, black ink etched on pale leather. Brackban rose and walked to where it hung, stabbing his finger at an ornate triangle — the Angostin symbol for a city with a university. ‘He went to see the Bishop of Lowis; he is the senior tutor at the school there.’

‘Why should Mace want to see a teacher?’

‘Brackban shrugged. ‘The man sent him a letter. Mace seemed intrigued by it.’

‘Where is this letter?’

‘I have no idea.’Did you see it?’

‘No. Mace merely said it was to do with some legend, some ancient artefact. I took little notice. God knows I have no time to study history, Owen. But I don’t think it was important; it was just a whim.’

What do they study at the university?’Medicine, law and history. But do not concern yourself with that. We have maybe two weeks; then two armies will face one another. If Mace does not arrive before then.. ’He spread his hands.

‘What will you do if he has been taken — or cannot be found?’

‘What can I do? This is my land; they are my people. You think I will run away into the forest and leave them to their fate? I couldn’t do that, Owen. Death would be preferable. No, I shall take my men and confront the Battle King. Who knows, maybe God will favour us.’

He spoke with little confidence for he knew, as did I, that where battles were concerned God tended to favour the army with the most lances. I left the house with a heavy heart and rode back to the village, seeking out Wulf and Piercollo. When I told them of Mace’s disappearance, Wulf was not surprised.

‘I’ve known him longer than any of the others,’ he said. ‘He’s a solitary man, is Mace. And he looks out for himself. He’s got courage right enough, but it’s not the enduring kind. You understand me? It’s like the farmer who strives year in and year out. Come plague, pestilence, drought, famine or locusts, he digs in and weathers the years. That’s real strength. Mace can fight — probably better than any man I ever knew. But he doesn’t have that strength. It was that way with Golgoleth. He went in to the city because he couldn’t have borne the waiting for Golgoleth to come for him.’

There was no anger in the hunchback’s voice, no edge of bitterness.

‘I shall try to find him,’ I said.

‘Won’t do no good, Owen,’ said Wulf. ‘He’s turned his back on us; that’s all there is to it.’

‘Even so, I shall try. Will you come with me?’

‘Of course I will.’As will Piercollo,’ said the giant, smiling. ‘I am tired of all these people around me, the noise and the chatter. It will be good to hear the music of the forest. Where do we begin, Owen?’

‘Tonight I will send out three Search-spells — north, west and east. By dawn I will at least know which direction to travel. As we move I shall send out other spells. Eventually we’ll find him.’

‘How long is eventually?’ Wulf asked.

‘It could take weeks — months,’ I admitted.

‘Well,’ he said grimly, ‘I’ll be with you for six days. After that I’ll make my way back here to join Brackban. I’ll not have it said that Wulf was afraid of the fight.’

We set off to the north-west two hours after dawn. I was tired, for I had been awake all night, holding to the Search-spells and focusing upon the enchantment. The spell to the east showed nothing, but both north and west gave a glimmer of hope. I have already explained the nature of search-globes, but when one casts such magick across large distances there is no immediate, visible sign of success. The magicker must attune himself to the spell and rely on his instincts. When I held to the eastern globe I felt only emptiness; this then was a cold route. At first the northern spell gave me a sense of warmth, but gradually this shifted to the western globe, thus giving me Mace’s direction of travel.

‘Where would he be heading?’ I asked Wulf.

‘There is a port, Barulis, at the Dee way estuary, north-west of here. If Edmund’s fleet hasn’t yet blocked it, maybe he is planning to take a sea voyage. Or he may just lie low in Barulis. But whatever his plan, it will take him some days to reach the city. I think I can cut his trail before then. We’ll find him, Owen.’

As we walked I reached out with my Talent, sending a new search-globe to the north-west. As I concentrated my mind, honing my powers, I became aware, as magickers will, of an enchanter close by. I stopped, closed my eyes and linked my thoughts to the globe. I became one with the spell, and my soul floated high above the forest in a circle of light. I had not the strength, nor the mental strength, to hold myself for long in this spirit form, but it was long enough to see what I had both sensed and feared.

A second Search-spell was floating above the trees.

The enemy were also seeking the Morningstar.

There was much on my mind as we travelled. Ilka’s death was still an open wound, and still I could not bring myself to talk to anyone about her. But I thought of her constantly. And Megan’s dying words continued to haunt me. She had lived for two thousand years, waiting for the answer to a question. What question? And who could have answered it? And what did she mean when she told me she would see me again, but that she would not know me? Was she delirious then? Was it a kind of madness that precedes death?

But more than anything I thought of Jarek Mace, and the confusion he must have felt at being a hero to so many. There is a legend of a giant called Parmeus who stole the book of knowledge from the gods… Every step he took with it saw the weight grow, until he felt he was carrying a mountain. At last he fell, and the weight pushed him far below the earth where he still tries to carry his burden. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are attributed to these struggles in certain areas. But I knew that Mace would understand the awesome pressure Parmeus bore, for hero-worship can be no less weighty, no less burdensome.

True, there were rewards. Mace had enjoyed several parades. But notwithstanding these distractions, he still had a legend to live up to, whereas in truth he was merely a common soldier and a skilled swordsman. How could he — despite the expectation of the people — hope to defeat the Battle King?

We made good time, for the rains held off and the ground was firm, and within two days we had reached an area of level ground high in the mountains, a verdant plateau with several villages and an ancient castle built upon an island at the centre of a long loch. It was a pretty spot, untouched by war. Fat cattle grazed on the new grass, and sheep and goats could be seen on the hillsides.

We were tired of walking and made our way down to the lakeside. An elderly man approached us; he was carrying a loaf of bread which he broke into three pieces for us, an ancient Highland custom of welcome. We bowed our thanks and I described Mace, asking him if such a man had passed by.

‘You mean the Morningstar?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I answered, surprised. ‘We are friends of his.’

He nodded sagely. ‘Well, if you’re his friends I don’t doubt he’ll find you,’ said the old man knowingly.

‘He would if he was told that Owen Odell, Wulf and Piercollo had travelled far to see him.’

‘And you’d be Odell the Wizard?’

It would have taken too long to correct him, so I merely nodded. He said nothing more and walked away to his hut. The three of us sat down and finished the bread, which was a little stale but still tasty.

‘He’s here,’ said Wulf, ‘and I’ll wager he won’t see us.’

As the day wore on and the sun fell lower, it seemed that Wulf would be proved right. Just after dusk the old man came out of his hut, bringing with him a pot of stewed beef and several clay bowls. I thanked him and questioned him about the settlement — how long it had been here, and so on. He sat with us for a while, talking of the Highlands and his life. He had been a soldier for twenty years, and had fought in three Oversea Wars. But he had come home a decade before, and was now a fisherman and content. I asked him about the castle at the centre of the lake.

‘Been there since before my great-grandfather’s time,’ he said. ‘No one recalls now when it was built, but it was after them Vampyre Wars the stories tell of, I reckon. Never been used for war, though. Armies don’t come here. Nothing for them: no plunder, no gain. Been a monastery now for more than a hundred years. Lowis monks. Fine spirit they produce there, made from grain. Take your head off, it will! Not that they allow much of it to leave the monastery. Maybe a barrel at midwinter. By God, there’s some celebration around that time.’

The name struck a chord with me and I remembered the conversation with Brackban. Mace had spoken with the Bishop of Lowis.

‘Can you row me across the lake?’ I asked the old man.

‘I could, I reckon,’ he said, ‘if I had a mind to.’

‘I am not a killer, sir. I have no evil intent towards the Morningstar. But it is vital that I see him.’

‘I know you’re no murderer, boy. Been around enough of them in my life. Him, now,’ he said, gesturing a gnarled finger at Wulf, ‘he’s a rough ‘un. Wouldn’t want him against me on a dark night.’

Wulf gave a lopsided grin. ‘You’re safe, old man.’

‘Aye, I am. But if I hadn’t liked the look of you, I’d have poisoned that stew.’

‘The way it tasted, I thought you had,’ replied Wulf.

The old man gave a dry chuckle. ‘All right, I’ll take you across, Owen Odell. But only you, mind!’

I followed him along the shoreline to where an ancient coracle was pulled up on the bank; it was made of dry rushes and resembled my old bathtub back home. ‘She leaks somewhat, but she’ll get us there,’ he promised, and together we pulled the old craft out on to the dark water. I clambered in and he followed me, settling down on his knees and picking up a wide-bladed oar which he used expertly as the coracle moved out onto the lake.

Water seeped in, drenching my leggings, and I began to wonder if this was a good night to learn to swim. The old man glanced back over his shoulder and chuckled. ‘Seems like I didn’t use enough pitch,’ he said, ‘but don’t you worry, she won’t sink.’

The island of the castle loomed before us, dark and unwelcoming. The coracle scraped on shingle and the old man leapt nimbly out, dragging the craft towards the land. I stood and splashed into the shallow water, wading ashore; a cold breeze blew and I shivered.

‘You’ll be grateful for the wet,’ said the boatman. ‘The monks’ll take pity on you and offer you some of their water-of-life.’

I thanked him and set off up a narrow path that led to the main gates of the castle. There were no sentries on the walls, and no sound from within. I bunched my hand into a fist and pounded on the gate. At first nothing happened, but after several attempts and a growing soreness in my hand I heard the bar being lifted. The gate swung open and a small man with shaven head came into sight; he was wearing a long grey habit bound with a rope of silken thread.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded gruffly.

‘A little courtesy,’ I responded, ‘and shelter for the night.’

‘There’s shelter to be had in the village,’ he told me.

‘I thought this was a House of God,’ I said, my temper rising.

‘That does not make it a haven for vagrant ruffians,’ he replied.

‘I am not a violent man…’ I began.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then do not allow yourself to fall into bad habits. Good night to you.’

Before I could reply he had stepped back, and began to close the gate. I threw my weight against it — rather too sharply, for the gate crashed into him, hurling him to the ground. I stepped inside. ‘My apologies,’ I told him, reaching out a hand to help him up. He rolled to his knees, ignoring my offer of aid, then heaved himself upright.

‘Your non-violent behaviour is not impressive,’ he said.

‘Neither is your grasp of God’s hospitality,’ I responded.

‘Owen!’ came a familiar voice and I turned and looked up. Standing by an open doorway, framed in lantern-light, stood Jarek Mace.

‘Yes, it is me,’ I said. ‘Wulf and Piercollo are waiting for you at the village.’

‘You are just the man I wanted to see,’ he said. ‘Come up. There’s something I want to show you.’

The greeting had been cheerful, and deeply irritating. Not, ‘How did you find me, Owen? By God, you must be a skilled magicker.’ No guilt over his shameful treatment of me during the winter. No apology for the slap, or the slights.

I mounted the stairs fighting to suppress a growing anger. The room he was in was a mess, littered with scrolls and manuscripts carelessly pulled from their protective leather sheaths. ‘I think I’ve found it,’ he said. ‘I am not a good reader, but I can make out the name Rabain.’

‘What on earth are you looking for?’

‘The Bishop of Lowis told me that I was part of a prophecy. Can you imagine that? Someone, thousands of years ago, named me. Me! The whole story. So he said. Well, if that is true, we’ll be able to see the ending.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘You don’t believe in prophecies?’

I shook my head. ‘How can any of us know the future? It hasn’t happened yet. And every man has a hundred choices to make every day. It was for this that you scared the wits out of Brackban?’

‘What’s Brackban got to do with it?’

‘You disappeared, Jarek. And without you there is no rebellion.’

‘Well, if we find the right ending I’ll come back with you,’ he said, picking up an old scroll and passing it to me. ‘Read it!’

Sitting down with my back to a lantern, I held up the scroll and unrolled it. The first line explained that it was the eighth copy and gave the name of the monk and the year the copy was made. I passed this on to Jarek — who was singularly unimpressed.

‘I don’t care who copied the damn thing! Just read the story.’I scanned the opening lines. ‘It is not about Rabain; he is just mentioned in it. The story is of a knight called Ashrael…’

Clearly exasperated, Mace took a deep breath. ‘Read it aloud!’ he hissed.

‘These are the exploits, faithfully recorded, of the knight known as Ashrael…’ I stopped and glanced up. ‘If they were faithfully recorded, Jarek, then they have already happened. This is not a prophecy.’Then there must be another scroll!’ he stormed.

But I was reading on, idly skimming the fine, flowing script. ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘This is curious.’ I began to pick out phrases from the story, reading them aloud. ‘The Lady of the Dream told this tale, and bade me mark it for future times. The days of the Vampyre Kings will come again, and the knight Ashrael will find the Sword that was Lost… Great shall be the grief within the city.. from the depths of the earth Ashrael will rise… mighty will be the King who strides the land… Ashrael will light the torch that guides the ancient hero home… Rabain shall appear at the last battle, his armour gold, his stallion white, his cloak a cloud, his sword lightning.’

‘It hasn’t got my name in it,’ snapped Mace.

‘But it has. Ashrael, the last star to fade as the sun rises. The Morning Star!’ I read on. ‘It is all here, Jarek: the invasion, the coming of the hero known as the Morningstar. Even the Burning of the Witch and the rescue… and the Vampyre Kings reborn, Ashrael coming up from the bowels of the earth. We entered through the sewers. Dear God, it’s uncanny.’

‘But how does it end?’ he asked.

‘Mighty will be the King who strides the land, his hand a hammer, his dreams of blood… Edmund, the Hammer of the Highlands. Ravens will gather above the meadow, and from the past Rabain shall appear at the last battle, his armour gold, his…’

‘Yes, yes,’ stormed Mace. ‘But what about me?’

‘It doesn’t say. It just concludes that Rabain will appear and join the attack, and that Ashrael’s name will live on for as long as men revere heroes.’

‘Well, that’s no damn good!’ He slumped down in a chair and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘You were right. There’s no prophecy!’

‘No, I was wrong, I never had a chance to talk of Megan’s last words, and who she was. Now listen to me.’ And I told him most of what Megan had said, word for word. His interest quickened when I came to describe her parting from Rabain, and his golden armour and white cloak. ‘That’s the answer she was waiting for, Jarek. She wanted to see Rabain one more time. She wanted to know why he had to ride to some battle in the future that should have meant nothing to him. He is coming! Just like the legends always promised. When the need is great, Rabain will live again! Think of it! The Morningstar and Rabain on the same battlefield. How can we lose?’

‘Hold on, bard! Megan… Horga… said he came back. That doesn’t mean we are going to win, does it? I’m not going to face up to Edmund just in the hope of seeing a hero from the past and maybe watch him cut to pieces.’

‘What will you do then?’

‘I don’t know — but I’ll tell you this… I wish I had never met you. I would have been far happier, I know that.’

‘Knowing what you know, would you really change anything?’ I asked him. ‘If you could go back to that day in the forest, would you walk past my fire?’

He sighed, then grinned. ‘Maybe not. I had my parades, Owen. In Kapulis and Porthside they threw flowers before me. And women? I could have had them form a queue. But there’s a price to be paid for these few months of pleasure — and it’s not a price I can afford… even with the prospect of meeting Rabain. Can three thousand men defeat ten thousand in an open battle? Against the finest warlord I have ever seen?’

‘There’s only one way to find out, my friend. And no one lives for ever. Face it, Jarek, would you want to grow old and toothless, with women looking on you with disdain?’

‘I am twenty-four years old. That’s a little early to consider losing my teeth! And I expect to mature like fine wine.’

I smiled dutifully, and then let the silence grow. ‘I don’t want to go back, Owen,’ he said at last. ‘It has the wrong… feel. I cannot see us winning the battle. And I couldn’t watch as men who believed in me were cut down, their dreams destroyed. I couldn’t!’

No one will force you to, Jarek. No one. Tomorrow I will go back to Wulf and Piercollo. I will not tell them I have seen you. We will wait until noon, and then make our way back to Ziraccu.’

‘Do you think me a coward?’ he asked.

‘After all that you have done? How could I? Whatever else, you stood your ground and fought the Vampyre Kings. You gave the people hope. And because of you they found their courage again, and their pride. I shall tell Brackban that you were murdered by agents of the King. That way the legend will live on. But you must leave this land and never return.’

‘I understand that. Thank you, Owen. Will you make up a song about me?’

‘If I survive the battle, I shall. And about Wulf and Piercollo. And Ilka, Corlan and Megan. I think it will be a good song.’

He stood then and extended his hand.

I took it… and left the monastery castle.

At the lakeside, I found the old man still waiting.

‘Did you see your friend?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘The Morningstar was not there.’

‘What are we waiting for?’ demanded Wulf as I sat quietly in the sunshine, my eyes drawn to the castle on the island. It was more than an hour past noon, and I stood.

‘Nothing at all,’ I said. ‘Let’s be on our way.’

‘Where to?’ he asked. ‘Still north-west?’

‘No. Let’s go back to Ziraccu.’

‘I thought we were looking for Mace,’ he said. ‘What in the Devil’s name is going on, Owen?’

‘It was a fool’s errand and I am tired of it,’ I lied. Wulf swore and Piercollo stared at me, his one dark eye watching my face. But he said nothing until we were well on our way and Wulf was scouting ahead.

‘He was there, friend Owen. Why did you lie?’

‘I gave him the chance to join us and he did not take it. There was no more to be said. Let the world think he died; it is better that way.’

‘It is hard to be adored by so many.’

‘You speak as if you have knowledge of it.’

‘I do. In my country the voice is considered the greatest of musical instruments. We are singers. Every year there is a competition — a great gathering of voices. I won that competition six times. People would travel hundreds of leagues to hear me perform. It began to bear me down. Every day I would practise, until the joy was gone. That is why I took the offer to come to the land of the Ikenas. I ran away, Owen. Fame did not agree with me. Perhaps it is the same for Mace.’

‘I think he is just afraid of dying,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I do not think you are right. I think he was more afraid of winning.’

I stopped and turned to him. ‘Winning? But then he would achieve all his dreams — riches, power, women.’

‘No, my friend. That would be the end of his dreams. What is there after a war but rebuilding, reorganizing? Endless days of petitions and laws and all the petty day-to-day running of a state. It is no different from having a shop or a store. Bills to pay, stock to order, workers to instruct. It would be dull, Owen. What need would the people have for a Morningstar?’

His words shook me, for I could feel the ring of truth in them. Mace was in an impossible situation. Defeat would mean death, and victory an end to a life he enjoyed.

‘I think,’ said Piercollo softly, ‘that it is easier to build a legend than to be one.’

‘Why do you stay?’ I asked him. This is not your land — or your war. And the man who blinded you is dead. There is no need for you to stand at the last battle.’

‘Evil has no nationality,’ he answered. ‘And Piercollo will stand beside his friends. It is all he knows.’

We walked on. Wulf killed a pheasant and we shared the meat by a dusk fire. The hunchback was in a surly mood, argumentative and short-tempered, and well before midnight he had wrapped himself in his blanket and was asleep.

Piercollo was in no mood to talk, and he too dozed with his back to a broad tree. My mind was too full for sleep and I sat by the fire, lost in thought.

Around midnight I thought I heard faint music and strained to locate the source of the sound, but it danced at the edge of hearing, softer than the whisper of a breeze through leaves. Adding twigs to the fire, I leaned back against a boulder and wished I had brought my harp with me. I had a need for music, for the release it brings.

Piercollo stirred and stretched. He saw me sitting there and smiled. ‘You need to sleep, my friend.’

‘Not yet.’ Idly he drew his dagger and began to whittle at a length of wood, cutting shavings for a future fire. Suddenly his knife snapped at the hilt.

‘It was poor iron,’ he said, hurling the broken weapon aside.

‘You should have taken one of the enchanted blades,’ I told him, drawing my own black dagger and tossing it to him. He continued to whittle in silence.

‘Will you go back to Tuscania?’ I asked him.

‘I hope so, Owen.’

And will you try your luck at the competition again?’

He shook his head. ‘I think not. The music is gone from me; they burned it out with my eye.’

‘That must not prove to be true, for then evil will have conquered you. A small victory, perhaps, but one that should not be accepted lightly. As long as the rest of us are deprived of your voice, then Lykos will have won. But when you sing again you will know joy — as will all who hear you. And then Lykos will be but a bad memory.’

‘Maybe one day,’ he said, ‘but not yet.’

I did not press him.

The fire was dying down and a strange silence settled on the camp-site. I glanced up. No breeze stirred the leaves, no movement. All was utterly still.

‘What is happening?’ whispered Piercollo. I focused my eyes on the clouds in the moonlit sky. They too had stopped, frozen, like a great painting.

A soft light shone between us, growing and swelling, becoming a doorway of gold. And through it stepped Megan, young and dazzling in her beauty, a gown of golden thread shimmering about her slender frame…

She saw me and swung her head. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

‘Who, lady?’

‘The wielder of the black sword,’ she answered.

My shock at seeing her was immeasurable. I had watched this woman die from the poison inflicted by an assassin’s blade. Yet here she was, in the prime of youth, with no illusion, no magick spell to enhance her beauty.

‘Do you know me, lady?’ I asked softly.

‘No, sir. And my need to find the wielder is pressing. Where is he?’

I rose and bowed. ‘You seek the Morningstar, but he is not here. We are his friends. How can we help you?’

‘You cannot help me,’ she said dismissively, her gaze raking the trees around us. ‘You have no idea how far I have travelled, or how great the drain on my energy.’

‘I think I have, Horga. You have travelled across the centuries — and the spell was mighty.’

‘How is it that you know my name?’ she asked.

‘I am also a… magicker. And we have already met — in my past and your future. Let us leave it at that. Why do you seek the wielder?’

Piercollo was sitting frozen with shock, while Wulf had awoken but had not moved, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of the legendary sorceress. Horga stepped around the fire and approached me, reaching out her hand to touch my head. My fingers closed firmly around her wrist. ‘Trust me, lady, and do not read my mind.’

She withdrew her hand and her face became pensive. ‘I do trust you. I would know if you were false.’ She sighed and sat. Wulf rose and brought her a water-sack, pouring a drink for her; she sipped the liquid from his copper cup and smiled her thanks.

‘Tell me about Golgoleth,’ I said. Her face darkened, her eyes gleaming.

‘He thinks he has won, but I will not have it so. He stole the weapons crafted to destroy him, and hid them with spells even I could not pierce. Until now!’

‘You sent a Search-spell into the future,’ I said, amazed. ‘By God’s Holy Grace, that is power indeed!’

‘And I found them. Even his spells cannot linger indefinitely. The weapons were hidden, as I suspected, in the depths of his own castle. The big man fell through the floor — I saw it — and I saw the wielder leap down and claim his blade. And then I knew what must be done. But it has taken me time… precious time… to cast the magick and travel the roads of future days.’ Her gaze turned to me, the power of her eyes upon me. ‘But you have not told me how you know me.’

‘I knew you, lady. In my life we had already met before today. We were friends. In yours we have yet to become friends. My name is Owen Odell.’

She nodded. ‘I shall remember it. But tell me, Owen Odell, you must know whether I won or lost?’

‘I know. You must not.’

She laughed then, a light rippling sound full of gaiety. ‘The complexity of time. I shall play the game, Owen. But where is the wielder?’

‘He is coming. It is his destiny, I know that now.’

‘What is his name?’

‘He is known as Ashrael, the Morningstar.’

Her gaze flickered beyond me and I turned to see Mace standing at the edge of the trees, longbow in hand, the black sword belted at his waist.

‘By God, Owen,’ he said, ‘that is your best illusion yet!’

‘It is no illusion,’ I told him, rising. He stepped forward, disbelieving, and reached out to stab a finger at the golden-robed woman. Her hand slapped his aside and Mace leapt back in shock.

‘But… it is Horga! You created the image!’

‘No, I did not. And this, as you rightly say, is the lady of legend.’

Mace bowed. ‘What can I say, madam? I thought Owen’s images were beautiful enough, but in the flesh you are a vision of loveliness.’

‘I thank you, sir. But now — if I may — I would ask a favour of you. You have no need to grant it, but…’

‘Say the word and I will empty the sea with a cup for you. I’ll take a mountain apart stone by stone.’

‘I want you to come with me, back into the past. There is a great evil there that has almost conquered my world. Only a few heroes remain, ready to stand against the onslaught of the Dark. We need your sword — and the skill you have shown in using it. Will you come?’

Mace turned to me. ‘Is this some jest, Owen?’

I shook my head. ‘This is Horga. And the enemy they are facing is Golgoleth. She has walked the Mists to find you. Can you understand what that means?’

‘It means that I have to go up against the bastard a second time. Oh yes, I know what it means.’

‘I don’t think you do. You are being summoned into the past. You are the wielder of the black sword. Think, man!’

‘And what do I get for this… favour?’ he asked Horga suddenly.

‘What would you want?’

‘I see what I want, lady,’ he said, his gaze flowing over her body. ‘But is it part of the price you will pay?’

She did not blush but smiled broadly. ‘Is that all? Then I agree.’

‘Wait!’ I said, seizing Mace by the arm and pulling him back away from the group, out of earshot of the sorceress. ‘You have not understood a single word of this, have you?’ I whispered. ‘Do you know who you are?’

Of course I know who I am. What sort of a question is that? I am Jarek Mace — and the most beautiful woman God ever created has offered herself to me. Now we both know that back in the past Rabain destroyed the Vampyre Kings. All I need to do is travel back with her, give him my sword and earn my reward. And I don’t need to fight a lost battle here. By God, Owen, I cannot believe my luck!’

He tried to move away from me, but I kept a firm hold of his arm.

‘If you can tear your gaze away from her for a moment, let me point something out to you — that is, if you can still think! You are being summoned. That makes you the summoned-one. Are you concentrating, Jarek? The summoned-one? Ra-he-borain? Rabain, Jarek. It is you! When you step through whatever gateway she has created, you will be Rabain.’

Suddenly he was no longer trying to pull away. The full force of the argument struck him and he relaxed in my grip. ‘I am Rabain?’ he whispered.

‘You will be if you travel with her.’

He laughed then. ‘How can I lose, Owen? Rabain didn’t, did he? He got to be King.’

Yes, he got to be King,’ I said, holding the sadness from my voice.

He turned away from me and approached Horga, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘How soon do we… leave?’ he asked.

‘Now,’ she replied, lifting her arm.

Golden light blazed through the clearing…

And I was alone. Piercollo and Wulf had vanished with Mace, drawn with him because they carried the weapons of enchantment.

I built up the fire and waited, my thoughts sombre.

After a short while, even before the new wood had burnt through, there was a second bright flaring of light and Piercollo and Wulf were back.

Both were dressed differently and Wulf s beard was better trimmed, his hair cut short. He was wearing a tunic and boots of finest leather, and a golden dagger was belted at his side. Piercollo looked much the same — save that he now wore an eye-patch of silver that needed no thong to hold it in place. He moved to me, hauling me to my feet and taking me into a bear-hug that almost broke my back.

‘He is the King then?’ I asked, as Piercollo released me.

‘Aye,’ said Wulf. ‘And not making a bad job of it. But he’s staying behind, Owen. He wouldn’t come back with us. He’s living with the sorceress now, like husband and wife. But we asked her to send us back. How long have we been gone?’

‘Merely a few minutes.’

‘Sweet Heaven!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We were there for almost a year. You should have seen it, Owen. Mace was the hero! We stormed the Vampyre keep. I killed one of the Kings with…’

‘With a silver arrow, I know. And Piercollo slew the second, hurling him from the high walls, where his neck was broken, his head severed upon a sharp rock.’

‘You saw it?’

‘No, my friends, I didn’t need to see it; it is a part of history. You were Jerain the bowman, Piercollo was Boras the Cyclops — the one-eyed. It is a wondrous circle. All this time men have been saying that Mace is Rabain reborn. And they were right, after a fashion. All the legends said that Rabain would come again. And, in a way, he did. And he will.’

‘Mace ain’t coming back,’ said Wulf. ‘Trust me on that.’

‘No, Wulf, you trust me. The Morningstar will appear at the last battle. There is an old man in the past, a poet, and he will convince Mace that he should return.’

There is a wide, long meadow in a valley eight miles south of Ziraccu. It is flanked by trees and a narrow ribbon stream to the west, with a line of hills to the east. Being old, they are not high hills, mere humps in the land rising no more than two hundred feet. The meadow itself now has a church upon it. They call it the Morningstar Abbey. Pilgrims journey to it, for there is a tomb there — an empty tomb — but legend tells us there is a cloth within the sarcophagus that was stained with the blood of the Morningstar.

For fifty years there have been claims of miraculous healings and it has become a shrine, guarded now by an order of monks, saying prayers thrice daily by the statue of Jarek Mace. How he would have chuckled to see their set, serious faces.

But I am drifting ahead of the tale.

On the last day of spring, on a cloudy morning — the grass white with dew, and mist like the ghosts of yesterday swirling upon the meadow — our army waited. There was no church then, only a long flat area of killing ground.

There were three thousand seven hundred foot-soldiers at the centre, Brackban standing in the fourth rank of seven with a standard-bearer beside him. The standard had been made by Astiana; it was a simple piece, black linen upon which she had embroided a star of silver thread. Brackban was garbed for war in the black, enchanted armour, a raven-winged helm upon his blond head. Almost one thousand of our front-line troops wore breastplates and carried round, iron-rimmed wooden shields. Most of them and around half of the others also sported helms of baked leather, some reinforced by bronze. But there were still many men who had no armour.

But Brackban was a popular man and the troops gathered around him, ready to fight and die for their homeland.

He had listened in silence as I told him of Mace’s quest — of his journey into the past. He did not, I think, believe me. And even if he did, it meant little to him. For all he took from the tale was that Mace had gone.

‘What now, Owen?’ he had asked me.

‘Prepare for battle. The Morningstar will return.’

‘You seem confident.’

‘I am.’

‘Wulf does not agree with you.’

‘He does not know all that I know. Have faith, Brackban. Tell the men that the Morningstar will be with them on the day of battle. Tell them he will come in glory, his armour gold and riding upon a huge white stallion. Tell them that.’

‘I do not want to lie to them.’

It is no lie.’

To the left of the battlefield was Raul Raubert, with three hundred Angostin knights. These were men who had survived the first invasion, some by hiding, others by running. I was not inspired by them, but Raul was leading them and his courage was without question. His role was to deflect the enemy cavalry, hold them back if he could.

But all the reports suggested that Edmund’s force had more than four thousand heavily-armoured knights. Three hundred would not hold them for long.

Wulf had stationed himself on the right with the Men of the Morningstar, the archers and woodsmen. Eight hundred of these stood ready, their arrows thrust in the earth beside them, an indication for all that they were not prepared to run. Here were their weapons. Here they would stand.

It was noon before Edmund appeared, his column of knights riding along the crest of the hills in a glittering display of martial power. Behind them came the foot-soldiers, marching in ranks, disciplined and calm, every man clad in breastplate and greaves, carrying square iron shields emblazoned with dragons, leopards or griffins. The King himself could be clearly seen: his armour was polished like silver and he rode a tall horse, black as jet, its head and chest armoured with chain-mail and plate.

Slowly the infantry filed out to stand in ranks opposite us, about a quarter of a mile distant.

My fears began then in earnest, and I felt the weight of the unaccustomed sword that was belted to my side and the chain-mail shirt I wore. Beside me Piercollo waited grimly, a long-handled axe in his hands.

‘There are rather a lot of them,’ I observed, trying to keep my voice calm.

‘Many,’ he agreed.

The infantry alone outnumbered us by at least three — possibly four — to one. Eight to ten thousand men, battle-hardened and accustomed to victory.

I wondered how the battle would start. For here we were, all of us in a summer meadow, standing silently staring at one another. It seemed so unlikely that we were all about to be embroiled in a bloody fight to the death.

A herald rode from the Angostin camp, galloping his horse to within twenty paces of our centre. There was no breeze to speak of, and the herald’s words carried to every man in the front ranks.

‘The Lord of the Land demands that you lay down your weapons. He further insists that the rebel leaders Jarek Mace, Brackban and Owen Odell are to be detained and delivered to him. Failure to comply with these orders will result in the extermination of every man who holds arms against the King. You have one hour to make your decisions. If the men named are brought before the Lord Edmund within that time, no action will be taken against you.’

Tugging on the reins, the rider galloped back to the Angostin lines, leaving a silent army behind him.

You could feel the tension in every man. Ahead of us was a mighty foe — unbeaten, seemingly invincible. Fear swept through our ranks like a mist — cold, strength-sapping.

But as the fear swelled a single voice broke out in song. It was Piercollo and he was singing an old and famous Highland battle hymn — a deep, rolling ballad, slow and martial. It was called ‘The Shield-bearer’, and it told of a boy going to war for the first time.

Around me I saw warriors looking at the giant Tuscanian, then several voices joined in, thin and piping against his deep tenor. And the sound swelled, the power and pride of the lyrics expelling all fear, until the entire army of the Highlands was singing the battle-song. I looked to Brackban and he grinned, the tension and weariness falling from him. Then he too began to sing and the sound filled the meadow, sweeping out to envelop the enemy army.

At the final verse Piercollo raised his axe above his head, the sunlight gleaming from the huge curved blades. Swords flashed up into the sunlight, and the song was replaced by a deafening roar of defiance.

Edmund did not bother to wait for the hour to pass. A trumpet note blared out and the cavalry thundered down from the hills.

Raul Raubert led his men to meet them and Wulf and the archers drew back on their bowstrings, sending a black cloud of shafts into the enemy horsemen. The knights fell in their hundreds.

A roll of drums sounded and the enemy infantry, lances levelled, began to walk towards us. The drums increased in tempo, the walk becoming a run, becoming a charge.

And the day of blood began, the screams of the dying, the clash of swords and spears, the neighing of horses, the pounding of hooves upon the grass. Chaos and terror, fury and death flowed around me as I stood in the fifth rank. In front of me Piercollo fought like the giant he was, his great axe rising and falling to smash men from their feet. The lines bent and gave and I found myself drawn into the madness of the battle where I stabbed and thrust, parried and countered, desperately fighting to stay alive within the swirl of war.

I don’t know how long the initial fighting went on, but it seemed to be hours. Finally the Angostins pulled back, re-forming their lines for a second charge. We had lost more than half our men, and many of the others now carried wounds. It took no military mind to realize that one more charge could finish us. Yet no one ran, nor cried out for mercy. We stood our ground as men.

‘Now would be a good time for magic,’ said Wulf, easing himself alongside us, his arrows gone. He drew his two short swords and sniffed loudly.

‘I do not think my illusions would hold them for long,’ I told him.

‘You should have studied better,’ was Wulf’s caustic reply.

I saw the enemy King mount his black stallion and ride out to join his cavalry. They gathered around him, listening to his exhortations.

Glancing to my left, I saw Raul Raubert, his armour drenched in blood, calling his own knights to him. There were scarce sixty left, but they gathered around him. I felt shame then for doubting them.

The enemy cavalry formed a line and swept down towards our flank. There were no arrows left now and Brackban tried to set up a shield-wall to oppose them. Raul spurred his horse forward, his men around him in a tight wedge. Instantly I guessed his plan: he was trying to force his way through to Edmund.

The Angostins were ready for such a move and several hundred knights galloped ahead of the King, blocking Raul’s path.

The infantry swept forward.

The battle was almost over…

A rolling boom of thunder broke above our heads, a jagged spear of lightning flashing up from the hill-top to the east. But instead of disappearing the lightning held, frozen, white-gold from earth to sky. The charging Angostins faltered, men turning to watch the light.

It widened, becoming a gateway arched by a glorious rainbow. And through the gateway rode a single knight on a huge white horse.

‘The Morningstar!’ I yelled, breaking the silence.

His armour was gold and he wore no helm upon his head. In his right hand he carried his black longsword, in his left a spiked ball of iron on a length of chain. I smiled, remembering his first description of the weapon. Jarek Mace had arrived for the battle carrying a morningstar.

Touching spurs to the stallion, he charged at the enemy cavalry.

‘Morningstar! Morningstar!’ went up the roar from the Highlanders, and they surged forward at the bemused infantry before them. Stunned by this sudden attack, the Angostins fell back in disorder.

I did not join the rush of fighting men. I stood with Piercollo beside me and watched the last ride of Jarek Mace.

His horse reached the bottom of the hill and several knights rode against him. His sword lanced out, spilling the first from the saddle; the second fell, the spiked ball crushing his skull. The third thrust a lance into Mace’s side, but a disembowelling cut from the black sword clove through the knight’s belly.

On rode the Morningstar, cutting and killing, blood streaming from cuts on his face and arms.

Edmund drew his own sword and spurred his mount to the attack. There were blades all around the Morningstar now, hacking and slashing, but somehow he stayed in the saddle and the giant white stallion bore him on.

Edmund galloped his black horse alongside Mace and plunged his sword into the Morningstar’s belly. I saw Mace’s face twist in pain and then the spiked ball swung through the air, crashing into Edmund’s helm. The King swayed in the saddle, losing his grip on the sword which still jutted from Mace’s body. Now it was the Morningstar who lifted his sword one last time, slamming the blade forward into Edmund’s neck. Blood gushed — and the King fell.

With the Angostin infantry streaming from the field, the knights were in danger of being surrounded. Several of them tried to recover the King’s body, but they were cut down by Raul Raubert and his men, who had forced their way through to the Morning-star.

The white stallion, its chest pierced by many blades, suddenly fell, pitching Mace to the ground. I dropped my sword and ran towards him, dodging and swerving among the knights and their maddened mounts.

One knight with lance levelled rode at me, but a second inadvertently got in his way, the two horses colliding shoulder to shoulder. Then I was past them and running towards where Mace lay.

He was still alive when I reached him. Raul was kneeling beside him, holding his hand.

‘Get me… to the… forest,’ whispered Mace.

Piercollo gently lifted him and we walked towards the north. Wulf joined us, then other men gathered round.

We halted in the shade of a huge oak where Piercollo laid the Morningstar carefully down, removing his white cloak and making of it a pillow.

The other men fell back, creating a circle around the dying warrior.

As the sun began to fade Brackban arrived, his officers with him. I had sat with Mace for an hour by then and he had said nothing. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.

With the gathering dark, men lit torches and held them high, bathing the scene in flickering light. I knelt to Mace’s left. Behind me stood Piercollo and Wulf; to the left was Raul Raubert, beside him Brackban.

Mace opened his eyes and looked at me.’

‘Surprised…you… eh?’

‘No, my friend. It was no surprise. I was waiting for you.’

‘Had… to come back, Owen.’

‘Why?’ I asked him, leaning in close, for his voice was fading.

‘I… wanted… another parade!’ He smiled weakly. ‘I… wonder if they… have… them… in Hell.’

‘You’ll never find out,’ I promised him. ‘Never!’

‘Make it… a good… song, Owen.’

He made me leave him then, and spoke quietly to Wulf and then Raul Raubert, and lastly Brackban.

I stood back from them in the torchlight and saw that the torchbearers were weeping, and I too felt the weight of it as I watched the tableau in the circle of light — the blood-covered warrior in his ruined armour of gold, the hunchback beside him and the giant standing close by.

I felt humbled by the scene, as Mace’s blood flowed to the land that had created him. Through him an entire nation had enjoyed a rebirth of courage, a renewal of hope. But then that is what heroes do, is it not? They make us all a great gift, our lives made larger and more noble by their existence. It matters not a whit that Mace himself was less than legends make him.

For what he gave to the future was far greater than he took from the past. As long as there is evil in the world, there will be men — aye, and women — who will say. ‘Stand up and fight it. Be strong like the Morningstar.’And I knew then, as Mace lay dying, that the song would soon be all there was.

He died just before the dawn and one by one the torchbearers snuffed out their lights, allowing the last of the night to close in over the tableau. We sat with his body until sunrise and then Wulf, following his instructions, took the body deep into the forest, burying it in an unmarked grave where no man would stumble upon it.

The hunchback would not even tell me where Mace lay, save to say that each morning the sun would shine upon him and each night the stars would glitter above him like a crown.

Raul Raubert was acclaimed as the new King, Brackban becoming his chamberlain.

And so what Mace had told me so cynically came to pass. Nothing ever changes… The Angostins ruled in the Highlands once more, and order was established in the northern world.

Raul Raubert was a good King, and there were many fine changes to the law. His standard remained the silver star embroidered by Astiana, and from then until this day the Kings of the Highlands are called Sons of the Morningstar.

And what of the others? Astiana went on to become an Abbess, a saintly old woman who cared for the sick. She became the princess of legend, Mace’s great love, a warrior-woman who helped him defeat the Vampyres. I tried to keep Ilka’s memory alive among the people, but no one wants to hear songs about mute whores, no matter how brave. No, Astiana filled their hearts.

Piercollo travelled back to his beloved Tuscania. He wrote me once to say he had entered the contest and won it once more. He dedicated his victory to the memory of Lykos, the man who had blinded him. I was pleased at that, for evil only thrives when it breeds and Piercollo had neutered its power.

And Wulf? I used to see him in the old days. I would journey into the forest and stay at his cabin for a while; we would hunt together and talk of old times and shared memories. But as the years passed his memory blurred and he began to remember a different story. He recalled a golden-haired man with a heart of unblemished purity and the courage of ten lions. At first I gently mocked him, but he grew angry and accused me of ‘slighting the greatest man who ever lived.’ Mace’s dark side, his callousness and cruelty, his womanizing and his greed, all became signs of a reckless youth and a sense of humour.

Such is the way with heroes. Their greatness grows with the passing of time, their weaknesses shrinking. Perhaps that is as it should be.

Wulf died ten years ago. The King — Raul’s eldest grandson, Marie — had his body moved to the royal tomb at Ziraccu. A statue was raised to him — a bronze statue. The likeness is almost chilling. Grafted twice life-size, the statue stands facing the south with a longbow in hand, keen bronze eyes staring towards the borders watching for the enemy. Wulf would have liked it.

Perhaps a statue will be raised for me one day soon.

As for Owen Odell, well, for several years I journeyed, staying far from the curious eyes of men who knew me only as a legend. I took passage on a ship that sailed the length of the island and stepped ashore on the south coast, making my way to my father’s castle. I found him sitting in the long room behind the stables. He was cleaning and oiling leather bridles and stirrups and he looked up as his son entered.

‘You should have known better than to drop your sword on a battlefield,’ said Aubertain. ‘And as for running among mounted knights… damn stupid! Lucky no one removed your head from your shoulders.’

‘You were there?’

‘Where else would I be when my King goes to war?’

‘You were the knight who saved me,’ I said, remembering the collision which stopped the lance piercing my chest. ‘You charged your horse into the lancer.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a stubborn man, Owen, but I’ll not see my sons killed — even if they are fighting on the wrong side. Welcome home, son. Have you seen your mother yet?’

I don’t think I was truly complete until that moment. Megan told me once that there was a man I must meet who would make me whole, and she was right. And now I had found him again. He stood and opened his arms and I embraced him, the last of my bitterness vanishing.

My brother Braife had been one of the knights slain by Mace in that last charge, but my father bore the Morningstar no ill-will.

‘He was a man, by God,’ he said, as we sat by the hearth fire on a cold winter’s evening. ‘I’ll never forget that ride. And I’m grateful to him for what he did for you. I think he made a man of you, Owen.’

‘Aye, father. I think he did.’

I stayed in the south until my father died. It happened seven years after I came home, and only weeks following the death of my mother from the yellow fever. I moved back to the Highlands then, and built my house close to the oak beneath which is buried the skull of Golgoleth.

I have lived long, ghost, and I have seen much, but even I am beginning to believe in the song. Every spring, when the celebrations begin, I think of Mace, his easy smile and his casual charm.

And I listen to fathers telling their sons that one day, when the realm is threatened, the Morningstar will come again.

Oh, ghost, how I wish I could be there when he does!