Morningstar

CHAPTER SIX

I wept and Megan moved alongside me, her arms around me. ‘Let it go, Owen. Release it.’

My head dropped to her shoulder, my eyes squeezed shut and painful sobs racked my frame. At last I felt the cool breeze upon my back and sensed the coming of the dawn. Pulling back from her, I forced a smile. ‘I am ashamed of myself, wailing like a child.’

‘Where there is pain there is often a tear or two.’

‘Yes, but the pain is gone now, back to whence it came, locked away. Where do we go today?’

‘We find Mace,’ she told me. ‘But first let us view the enemy.’ Moving back from me, she watched the sun rise behind a bank of cloud that turned to gold before my eyes, the sky around it turquoise and blue. I felt my soul swell at the beauty of it. Slowly the sun rose through the golden cloud and its rays pierced the flesh of vapour, spearing down to strike the rock-face and the cave, illuminating the rear wall.

Megan gestured with her right hand. The wall shimmered, flattened, glowed.. and disappeared, becoming a window that looked down upon a long hall. There were flags and pennants hung from poles on both sides of the hall, and a long table that ran down its centre. At the head of the table sat Azrek, eyes downcast and expression brooding. His fist crashed down upon the wood and a golden goblet was sent spinning to the floor. ‘I want him dead. I want his death to be hard.’

‘We are seeking him now, my lord,’ came a voice, but the speaker was not in view. ‘Send out the Six.’

‘I shall see that they are fed and then released, lord.’

‘No!’ stormed Azrek, rising to his feet, his pale face gleaming in the torchlight, his black hair hanging lank about his lean features. ‘I don’t want them fed. Let them feast on his heart.’

‘Yes, sir… but…’

‘But what, fool?’

‘They are hungry.They will need to eat before they track down the Morningstar.’

‘Then let them hunt their meat in the forest. There is plenty there. Succulent meat. Highland delicacies.’ Azrek laughed, the sound echoing through the hall and whispering out into the cave. The unseen servant departed and we heard the door close, then creak open moments later.

‘What is it?’ demanded Azrek.

‘You will wish me to mark the Six with the soul of the Morningstar,’ came a soft voice that seemed all too familiar. Yet I could not place it.

‘Yes. Imprint the smell of it upon their senses.’

‘There is no smell, sir, merely an aura that is his alone.’

‘Spare me your pedantry. I pay you well, magicker, and what do you offer me in return? You promised me the Morningstar. Well, where is he?’

‘Surely you do not blame me, sir. My light shone over him. It was then left to your soldiers to apprehend him. They failed, not I.’

‘You all failed,’ snarled Azrek, ‘and I will not tolerate it. The soldiers who fell back before his blade are now hanging by their heels, their skin flayed from their bodies. Be warned, magicker, I do not like to lose. And this task should be simplicity itself. One man in a forest. One creature of flesh and bone and sinew. Is that too much for you?’

‘Not at all, sir. But using the Six will prove costly. They will not return, they will stay in the forest, hunting and killing until they themselves are slain.’

‘What is that to me?’

‘It cost many lives, more than forty if memory serves, to create them.’

‘They were only lives,’ answered Azrek. The world is full of lives.

‘As you say, sir. The Lord of Lualis has sent out Criers to announce a larger reward of 2,000 sovereigns for information leading to the apprehension of the Morningstar, and twenty gold pieces for his companions — the hunchback, the giant and the bard, Odell.’

‘Ah yes, Odell… I would like to hear him sing. There are notes I shall teach him that he would not believe he could reach.’

‘I am sure of that, my lord,’ said the other smoothly, ‘but there are two other matters to which I must draw your attention. Firstly, the woman Megan. I had the ashes raked but there were no bones evident. She did not die in the flames.’

‘How could that be? We saw her tied to the stake.’

‘Indeed we did. I believe Odell, hidden by the smoke, climbed the pyre and freed her as the soldiers pursued the Morningstar.’

‘So where is she now, magicker?’

‘Why, sir, she is watching us,’ he answered, his voice remaining even. The window in the wall appeared to tremble and the castle hall beyond spun and rose. Down, down swept the image. Azrek seemed to swell and grow.

‘Get back!’ shouted Megan, but my limbs seemed frozen and I was unable to tear my eyes from the scene. Azrek looked at me — saw me, as if from across a room. A second figure moved into view.

‘How are you, Owen?’ said Cataplas amiably.

He seemed unchanged from the master I had known, a long purple velvet robe hanging from his lean frame, his grey wispy, trident beard clinging like mist to his chin. His hand came up with fingers spread. A small ball of flames flickered on his palm, swelling and growing.

Megan grabbed my arm, pulling me back. ‘Run, Owen!’ she screamed.

Idly Cataplas tossed the flaming globe towards us.

We were at the cave entrance when it sailed through the window. Megan hurled herself at me, spinning me from my feet, just as a great explosion sounded and a tongue of flame seared out from the mouth of the cave, scorching the grass for twenty feet.

I rolled to my back. Megan was lying some way from me, her white robe smouldering.

‘No!’ I shouted, scrambling to my feet and running to her. In taking the time to push me clear she had suffered terrible bums to her left side. Her arm was blackened and split and bloody, and most of her hair had been scorched away. Her eyes opened and she groaned.

I was no healer, but like all magickers I knew the simple spells of Warming and Cooling, both of which are used by those whose skills are directed towards healing the sick. Swiftly I covered her burns with cool air and she sighed and sank back to the grass.

‘I am sorry, Megan,’ I told her. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘I can heal myself,’ she whispered, ‘given time, that is. But it is taking all my power and I can be of no use to you for a while. Mace is on his way here — I reached him last night. When he arrives I will be sleeping deeply. Take me to the town of Ocrey. It is north of here — perhaps a day’s travel. Do not seek to wake me but carry me to the house of Osian. It is built beside a stream to the west of Ocrey. There is an old man living there; he will… care for me. You understand?’

‘Yes. I will do as you say.’

‘And warn Mace of the Six. He must be prepared.’

‘Who are they?’

But she was sinking fast and I had to lower my ear to her mouth to hear the softest of whispers.

‘The Satan Hounds,’ she murmured.

The name sent a shiver through me but before I could question her further Megan closed her eyes, passing from consciousness. I had no idea what she had meant, but there was no way she could have spoken literally. The Satan Hounds, more often called the Shadows of Satan, were mythical creatures, said to have walked the earth beside their master following his Fall from Heaven, when the world had been but a glowing ball of molten rock lashed by seething seas of lava.

I guessed that the pain must have made her delirious. The Six were probably no more than warhounds — even so they would be dangerous, for Cataplas had imprinted upon their minds the image of Mace. The talk of souls and auras was, I was sure, a lie to fool only the uninitiated.

Mace arrived within the hour, Piercollo and Eye-patch with him. The hunchback had been left at their camp some two hours’ march to the west. Piercollo lifted the sleeping Megan and cradled her to his chest, her head upon his massive shoulder. She did not wake and none of us spoke as we walked out into the morning.

Mace took the lead, moving smoothly across the forest floor. He was wearing a black sleeveless jerkin of well-oiled leather and a green woollen shirt, with puffed sleeves and cuffs of black leather that doubled as wristguards. As usual he wore his high riding-boots and trews of green. He had no cap today, and the sun glinted on blond highlights in his auburn hair. Wide-shouldered and slim of hip, he looked every inch the hero that he ought to have been — the warrior of legend, the Forest Lord.

I looked away and thought of Cataplas. I had been surprised when I saw him in the service of Azrek and yet, upon consideration, I should not have been. He was an amiable man, yet remote. Polite and courteous, but without feeling, lacking understanding of human emotions. His skills had always been awesome and his search for knowledge carried out with endless dedication. I can remember many pleasant evenings in his company, enjoying his wit and his intelligence, his skills as a storyteller and his incomparable talent. But I cannot remember a single act of simple kindness.

We entered the outskirts of the town of Ocrey, located the home of Osian — a slender old man, toothless and near blind — and laid Megan carefully upon a narrow pallet bed. Osian said nothing when we arrived but waited, silent and unmoving, for our departure. We slipped away into the gathering darkness, crossing several hills and streams before Mace chose a camp-site in a sheltered hollow.

Piercollo built a small fire and we settled around it.

I was saddened by what had happened to Megan, but also irritated by the lack of reaction in Mace. This was his friend and I had rescued her; yet not a word of praise was forthcoming. His head pillowed on his arm, he slept by the fire. Piercollo nodded off, his back to a wide oak tree, and I sat miserably in the company of Eye-patch, who had said not one word on this long day.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked him suddenly, as he leaned forward to add a dry stick to the fire.

His single eye glanced up and he stared at me for a long moment. ‘What is it to you?’ he responded.

It was not said in a challenging way and I shrugged. ‘I am just making conversation. I am not tired.’

‘What happened to the old woman? Mace said she was unhurt by the Burning.’

‘She was, but a sorcerer cast a spell of Fire.’

He accepted that without comment, then hawked and spat. ‘You can’t deal with magickers,’ he said at last. ‘Not one of them has a soul. Their hearts are shrivelled and black.’

‘A generalization, I think.’

‘A what?’

‘You are putting all magickers together, saying they are all the same. That is not so.’

‘An expert, are you?’ he hissed.

‘I would not say so. But there are men who learn the art of Healing, spending their lives in the service of others. They are magickers.’

He thought for a moment. ‘They are doctors,’ he announced, as if that ended the discussion. ‘Sorcerers are different.’

‘Indeed they are,’ I agreed. He seemed pleased.

‘My name is Gamail, though most call me Patch.’

‘You shoot well. How can you judge distance with but one eye?’

He chuckled and removed the patch, tossing it to me. ‘Put it on,’ he ordered. Holding it up to my eye, I saw that it was virtually transparent. Then I looked at his face, to see two good eyes staring back at me.

‘Why do you wear it?’

‘Three years ago I was fighting in the Oversea War and the eye was infected. After that it would take no strong light, but would weep and blur. I met a doctor who made that for me; it dulls the light.’

An eerie howl echoed through the night, followed almost instantly by a high-pitched scream.

Mace awoke. ‘What in Hell’s name was that?’ he enquired. I shook my head.

‘I never heard nothing like it in my life,’ whispered Patch.

‘How close was it?’ asked Jarek Mace.

‘Difficult to say up here,’ Patch told him. ‘Maybe a mile, maybe two.’

‘Have you heard of the Shadows of Satan?’ I asked softly.

‘Tell me a story on another night,’ grunted Mace, settling down once more.

‘I do not believe it is a story. Megan used her powers to overhear a sorcerer talking to Count Azrek. The Count ordered the release of the Six, and they were to hunt you down. I asked Megan about the Six; she said they were the Shadows.’

Jarek Mace rolled to his feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before this?’ he stormed.

‘I thought she was delirious. What are these beasts?’

‘How should I know? But would you want creatures called Shadows of Satan hunting you in the night?’

‘No.’

The howls came again, closer this time. ‘Wolves?’ I whispered.

‘No wolf I’ve ever heard made a sound like that,’ muttered Patch, rising.

Swiftly we woke Piercollo and set off into the darkness.

The moon was high and three-quarters full, moon-shadows lacing the track at our feet as we moved on into the night. Mace and Patch notched arrows to their bows and carried them ready for use. We travelled at speed, stopping often to listen for sounds of pursuit.

At first we heard nothing, then came the eerie howling from left and right. Jarek Mace swore and pushed on, down a long slope to a stream that rushed over white rocks and pebbles. Mace splashed into it, running swiftly towards the west, the water spraying up around his boots like molten silver. I followed him, Piercollo behind me and Patch bringing up the rear.

We ran in the stream for several hundred yards until it curved north, then Mace scrambled up the opposite bank, taking hold of a jutting and exposed tree-root and hauling himself clear. Reaching out his hand, he pulled me up after him. Piercollo jumped for the root, his huge fingers snaking round it, but the wood snapped with a loud crack that echoed in the night. The big man slid backwards, cannoning into Patch, and both men tumbled into the stream.

A dark shadow moved on the opposite bank. I blinked and stared at the spot. At first I saw nothing, then a massive, horned snout pushed clear of the undergrowth.

How can I describe it without chilling your blood? It was both the most loathsome and the most terrifying sight my eyes had yet beheld. The face — if face it could be called — was pale and hairless, the nose distended and flattened. Long, curved tusks extended up from the lower lip. But it had fangs also, like a wolf. In weight and girth it was the size of a great bull, but there were no hooves, the legs being thick and heavily muscled above great paws similar to those of a lion. In all it was a grotesque deformity, a meld of many creatures.

Yet it was the eyes that sent ice into my soul. For, without doubt, they were human and they gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

‘Behind you!’ I yelled at the struggling men. Piercollo was hauling himself from the stream, but Patch swung, his bow still in his hand, the arrow lost in the swirling water. He saw the beast and reached instantly for his quiver.

With a terrible cry the creature charged, uprooting bushes and snapping a young sapling in its way. An arrow from the bow of Jarek Mace flashed across the water, burying itself in the left eye of the monster, causing it to rear up on its colossal hind legs. Seizing his opportunity, Patch sent a shaft thudding into its exposed black belly and the creature came down on all fours. It was covered in matted black fur and had a massive hump upon its neck. The hump writhed and two long arms unfolded from it, the fingers long and pale, curved claws clicking together. Charging once more, it bore down on Patch.

Piercollo, unarmed, hurled himself at the beast, meeting its charge. He was swept aside like a leaf in a storm, but his attack caused the creature to swing its huge head, seeking out this new enemy. Patch coolly shot an arrow into its throat and it screamed again, its ghastly jaws opening wide.

Jarek Mace sent a shaft into the open mouth… it vanished from sight, feathers and all.

Piercollo rose from the water, raising a jagged boulder above his head and crashing it down upon the beast’s skull. I heard the bone splinter and the creature’s front legs folded. Without a further sound, it died.

The Tuscanian dragged himself over the crest of the bank, Patch nimbly following him.

Mace notched another arrow to his bow, his keen eyes staring back down the trail. Without a word he swung back to the west and set off through the forest.

We followed him in silence.

And the howling began again.

The night has a capacity for terror that the day can never match. Often in my life I have woken in the dark to hear some sound, some creaking of a shutter, or the soft whispering of the wind through dry leaves. In the dark it is easy to picture a stealthy assassin, an undead Vampyre, stalking through the house.

But in the forest the power of the dark swells. Silhouetted trees are eldritch giants with waving arms and sharp talons; the rustling of the undergrowth becomes the stealthy slithering of giant serpents. The hoot of an owl, the fluttering wings of a bat, cause icy fingers to pluck upon the strings of the soul’s fears, unearthly and threatening.

I shall never forget that midnight run through the dark of the forest with the beasts from the pit upon our trail, the fickle moon hiding often behind thick cloud and forcing us to halt, standing stock-still, blind and terrified. Then she would shine again and our trembling legs would carry us on, following the narrow deer trails ever west.

Piercollo suffered most for his enormous bulk, despite its prodigious strength, was not made for running and he began to fall behind. I shouted to Mace to wait for him, but he ignored me — until the next eerie wail sounded from some way ahead of us. Only then did he halt. Another cry shattered the silence of the night — this time from our left.

Piercollo staggered up to us. ‘I… can… go no… further,’ he said, the breath wheezing from his lungs.

Mace swung, his eyes raking the trees. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a circle of oaks. Forcing our way through the undergrowth we reached the trees. Mace climbed the first, ordering Patch to scale the tree opposite; since Piercollo and I were unarmed he ignored us and we climbed a gnarled oak at the edge of the circle, seating ourselves on a broad bough some fifteen feet from the ground. Piercollo leaned back against the trunk of the tree and wiped the sweat from his face.

‘This is not to my liking, friend Owen.’

‘Nor mine,’ I admitted. ‘But the creatures cannot climb.’

‘Piercollo sighed. ‘He is not what I expected.’

‘Who?’

‘The Morningstar.’

‘He is what he is,’ I told him. He nodded and closed his eyes.

The moon disappeared once more and darkness descended. A cool breeze fluttered across me, causing an instant shiver, for sweat had drenched my clothing. I cast a Warming spell and relaxed a little.

Then came the sound of bushes being uprooted and cloven hooves beating upon the soft ground. Leaning back I took hold of a branch, gripping it with both hands and hugging myself to the tree.

The moon eased herself clear of the clouds and I glanced down to see the monsters come to a halt, their great heads angled up, staring at Jarek Mace as he sat in full view of them. His bow bent back and a shaft slashed through the air to bury itself in the throat of the lead beast. It reared high, then charged the tree; the oak was old and firm, yet the vibration almost dislodged Mace. Patch loosed an arrow which sliced into the hump of a second beast. While the first circled the oak which Mace had climbed, the remaining four rushed towards where Patch was hidden. There was a tremendous crash as two of the creatures butted the oak and Patch lost hold of his bow, which fell to the ground; he grabbed at a branch to stop himself from falling. Now the beasts moved slowly against the base of the tree and began to push. At first the oak withstood the pressure, but soon I saw one root appear above ground, then another.

Suddenly the tree yawed. Patch’s legs swung clear and he was now hanging by his hands some twenty feet above the ground. An arrow from Mace slashed into the side of one of the beasts, but it showed no sign that it felt any pain.

With a wrenching groan the oak gave way, tumbling Patch to the ground. He hit hard, rolled, and came to his feet running towards the nearest tree.

The beasts set after him…

Taking a deep breath, I concentrated hard. The spell of Light was not easy, though neither was it the most difficult. But what I wanted now was not just illumination. Forming the spell, I held it for several heartbeats, letting it swell until I could control it no longer. My hand flashed out.

The spell sped from me like a flash of lightning, bursting in the space between Patch and the pursuing monsters, blinding them and causing them to swerve away from their victim. For one brief second I was exultant. But I had forgotten the first beast, the one which had been circling Jarek Mace. Unseen by me, it had cut across the small clearing and, just as Patch leapt for an overhanging branch, it caught him, the taloned arms dragging him back, the awful jaws closing on his waist. With one dreadful cry the bowman died, his corpse ripped into two.

The other creatures gathered round and began to feed. I could not watch, and I tried to close my ears to the sound of ripping flesh and snapping bone.

‘Fire! We need fire!’ shouted Jarek Mace. ‘Can you do it, Owen?’At the sound of his voice the five beasts moved away from their grisly feast and rushed at the oak in which he had taken refuge. Hurling their huge bodies against the trunk, they sought to dislodge him as they had the unfortunate Patch. But this tree was old, and firm, and it did not budge.

Two of the beasts then began to pound their hooves at the base of the tree, digging away at the roots, exposing them, then ripping at the soft wood with their fangs.

‘Fire, Owen!’ bellowed Mace.

I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. To create a fire was a variation on the spell of Warming, but the power was condensed, focused on a very small point, usually a fragment of dry bark or shredded leaf.

I stared intently at the twisted hump on the back of the nearest monster, concentrating on the mass of black, matted fur- holding back the spell, allowing it to build, feeling the pressure grow within my mind. When I could hold it no longer I threw out my arm, pointing at the beast. Blue flame crackled out, lancing down to strike the hump. Smoke billowed from the fur and the monster reared up, screaming, the sound almost human.

I had expected a few small fingers of fire, but what followed astounded me.

Flames roared out, blazing with white light — more powerful than any beacon fire, brighter than daylight. The creature rolled to its back, but nothing could extinguish the blaze. In its panic and pain it ran into the other beasts and the flames spread to engulf three of them; then dried leaves on the ground ignited beneath the hooves of the fourth monster, whose legs caught fire, sheets of flame searing around its body.

An unholy glow filled the clearing, and the heat was so intense that Piercollo and I eased our way around the tree, putting the trunk between us and the scorching flames. Even so the heat was almost unbearable, the light so bright that both of us squeezed shut our eyes.

The blaze lit the sky for several minutes, the flames reaching thirty feet or more into the air. Then they died, swiftly dwindling. I climbed around to the front of the tree. There were no leaves now — the branches smouldering, the tips glowing red with hot ash.

Writhing on the forest floor was a score of blackened shapes. One looked like the burned carcass of a dog, another a horse, yet another a man. One by one they ceased all movement.

Suddenly the last creature emerged from the undergrowth. How it had escaped I do not know, but it advanced into the smouldering clearing and stood, its grotesque arms unfolding from its hump. Jarek Mace sent his last two shafts into the flanks of the beast but it ignored them and advanced on the tree, continuing to dig at the roots.

‘Piercollo has had enough of this,’ said the giant. Taking hold of a long part-burned branch he wrenched hard, the dry wood snapping with a loud crack. The branch was some six feet in length and as thick as four spears bound together. He proceeded to strip away the twigs and shoots growing from it. ‘Give me your dagger,’ he ordered me and I did so. Resting the broken length of wood in the crook of the bough on which we stood, Piercollo began to cut away at the tip of the branch, shaping it to a rough point. I could see that he was trying to craft a weapon, but what kind? It was too large for a spear, and too unwieldy to be used as a lance.

At last satisfied, he returned my dagger, then hefted the branch and edged out along the bough some twelve feet above the ground.

‘Ho, there!’ he called out. ‘Creature of ugliness! Come to Piercollo!’The beast lifted its grotesque head, its huge eyes focusing on the Tuscanian. Piercollo stood very still with the huge spear held vertically, the point aimed at the ground below. At first the creature just stood, staring up at him, then it moved across the clearing.

‘That is it, monster! Come to me!’

With a roar it charged at the tree.

Gripping the weapon with both hands, Piercollo dropped from the bough, his enormous weight driving the huge spear deep into the creature’s back, through its enormous belly and into the ground beneath. The monster’s legs buckled and it sank to the earth with blood pouring from its mouth.

Slowly I climbed down and walked among the many corpses.

Megan had said that magick and sorcery were more closely linked than I knew. But as I gazed upon the dreadful, fire-blackened bodies I hoped — prayed, almost — that she was wrong.

Five years before, when I had been living with Cataplas at his home by the Sea of Gaels, I had watched him experiment with dead mice, dissecting them, examining the innards. Then he had laid the bodies side by side.

‘Look at them, Owen, and tell me what you see.’

‘What is there to see, save two dead rodents?’

‘Use your Talent, concentrate. Think of colours, auras.’

I stared at the mice and true enough they glowed with a faint light, radiating out from their tiny bodies.

‘What is that?’ I asked, amazed.

‘The essence of life,’ he told me. ‘You will see that light for three days more — then it will be gone. But watch this!’With a sharp knife he cut the bodies neatly in two, then took the hind legs and rear body of the first and laid it against the severed front torso of the second. Cataplas took a deep breath and I felt the gathering of his power. The light around the two halves swelled and I watched the skin of the bodies writhe together, the edges meeting, joining. The rear legs twitched, the head moved. The hybrid struggled to rise, took several weak steps, then fell again. Cataplas clicked his fingers and the light faded, the twinned beast ceasing to move.

‘You are a sorcerer!’ I whispered.

‘I am a seeker after knowledge,’ he replied.

Here, in this clearing, I could see the result of his quest and it sickened me.

Jerek Mace moved alongside me. ‘Where do they come from?’ he asked. ‘There are at least three men here, and several hounds.’The beasts are… were… merged… creations of sorcery. Hounds, horses, men, boars, bonded together into…’ I turned away, desperate to put the Hellish scene behind me.

‘Sorcery or not, we killed them,’ said Mace, slapping my shoulder. ‘The fire you sent was unbelievable. I did not realize you had such power.’

‘Neither did I. Can we leave this place?’

‘Presently,’ said Mace, with a smile.

I watched in disbelief as he searched the remnants of what had once been the body of Patch. He returned with the bowman’s money-pouch.

‘Should have been mine,’ he said, ‘and would have been had my string not snapped. Let us go.’

The attack left me in a state of numbed shock, the passing of terror leaving in its place an emptiness, a void that could not even grieve for the ghastly death of the archer, Patch. I stumbled on behind Jarek Mace and Piercollo, scarcely noticing the journey or the rising of the sun and the warmth of a new day.

Cataplas had moved from amorality to evil and was apparently unmarked by the process. Throughout my years with him I had never sensed his capacity for darkness, and none of his actions hinted at the horror of which he was capable. Often we would journey on foot across the land, stopping at wayside taverns to entertain revellers, or in castles to perform for the nobles and their ladies. Always Cataplas was punctiliously polite, soft-voiced and charming. I never once saw him lose his temper.

Yet here he was practising the darkest sorceries, merging men and beasts, blood-hungry creatures who lived only to kill. I wondered then — hoped, might be a better description — if he himself had been put under a spell. But I knew it was not so.

Long-forgotten memories came back to me. A performance had been cancelled because of the death of a child; the parents were grieving and had no wish to be entertained. Cataplas had been irritated by what he saw as their lack of good manners.

‘Did they not realize,’ he said to me, ‘that I have walked thirty miles to show them my magick?’

‘But their son is dead,’ I answered.

‘I did not kill him. What has it to do with me?’

All that interested Cataplas was the pursuit of knowledge. Magick he had mastered, as no man before or since. But magick was, he said, merely a game played with light, illusory and — artistic considerations aside — worthless.

We parted company one winter’s evening just after a performance at the Royal Court in Ebracom. He had filled the Great Hall with golden birds whose songs were a joy to the ear and the heart, and concluded with the creation of a golden-scaled lion who leapt upon the table before the King, scattering pots and dishes. Women screamed and men leapt back, tipping over chairs and falling to the floor, alarming the war-hounds who sat beneath the table feeding on scraps. Only the King remained seated, a grim smile upon his cruel mouth.

The lion rose up on its hind legs and became a huge silver eagle that soared into the air and flew around the rafters, devouring the golden songbirds.

At the end of the performance there was tumultuous applause. Cataplas bowed and we left the hall.

Outside, in the shadows of the corridor, he said his goodbyes. ‘I have taught you all that you can learn,’ he said. ‘Now it is time for you to walk your own path.’ He bowed stiffly, turned and walked away, his long velvet robe brushing the cold stone of the walls.

As I lay in bed that night I pictured again the golden lion. I can remember a cold chill sweeping over me and I sat up, rigid with fear. The lion had scattered the dishes!

It was not a trick played with light; not a creation of magick. In the seconds before Cataplas transformed it into an eagle it had been real, solid, the golden claws and fangs capable of rending and tearing.

Not magick at all, but sorcery.

Now Patch was dead, as the burned corpses in the clearing were dead. I looked ahead to where Jarek Mace and Piercollo were walking in the sunlight… and I shivered.

In a world of violence, war and sudden death, these men could hold their own. But against Cataplas and all the demonic powers he could summon, what hope was left for them?

And for me.

Fear returned then, with great force.

Towards mid-morning we crested a tall hill and gazed out over the slender lakes that shone like silver in the valleys of the central forest. The land stretched away in great folds in a hundred variations of green and brown, speckled with the hazy purples of bracken and golden-yellow splashes of gorse. The trees were thinner here, and we could see at least two settlements by the largest of the lakes — wooden houses, single-storied, built along the shoreline. Boats and coracles were out on the lake, fishermen casting their nets for the red-fleshed fish that journeyed in from the sea in late spring.

All in all it was a quietly beautiful sight.

‘Not a single tavern,’ grunted Mace. ‘And I doubt there’s a whore to be had.’He was wrong. One of the first people I recognized, apart from the twisted figure of Wulf, was the blonde mute, Ilka. She stood with arms folded across her chest, her great blue eyes watching us as we strolled into the settlement.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mace,’ shouted Wulf. ‘Where’s Megan?’

Mace explained, then told the story of the monstrous creatures which had hunted us. Wulf’s face was set and grim as he listened.

‘We’ve heard of them,’ he grunted. ‘They struck a family of tinkers the night afore last — ripped them to pieces. At first we thought it was trolls, but they’ve no cloven hoofs. There are hunting-parties out, five in all. I was with one of them. We just got back.’

‘Well,’ said Mace with a grin, ‘they won’t be needed. Owen cast a mighty spell that burned them up like great torches. And our singing friend here took out the last with a spear the size of a small tree.’

Piercollo chuckled. ‘Life is not without excitement in your company, Morningstar.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ snapped Mace, uneasy. ‘It began as a jest, but it is no longer amusing.’ Then he spotted Ilka and smiled, his good humour restored. Waving her to him, he took her arm and led her off into the trees. She glanced back once and her eyes held mine. I cannot say what the look meant, but I sighed and my spirits plummeted.

Mace was gone for most of the afternoon and Wulf took us to his camp-site outside the settlement. He had crafted from woven branches a lean-to shelter with a sloping roof, and two movable windbreaks. A fire was burning within a circle of stones, and six rabbits were hanging from a tree branch nearby.

‘Welcome to my hearth,’ he said, settling himself beside the fire. Piercollo and I lay down on the dry ground. Immediately fatigue overtook me, and I fell asleep to the sound of Wulf’s flute and the deep tenor beauty of Piercollo singing a gentle ballad.

It was dark when I awoke. Mace was back and sitting with the others, throwing dice and betting on the result. Ilka sat apart from them, hugging her knees and rocking gently from side to side. I stretched and sat up, smiling at her. She did not respond, but her eyes remained locked to mine.

Lifting my head, I signalled to her to join me, but she shook her head and looked away.

‘Ah, the mighty magician is awake,’ said Jarek Mace, ‘and he has missed his supper.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ I told him.

The stars were out, the moon a glorious crescent, the light so strong it cast shadows from the trees to the silvered ground.

More than a dozen men came moving from the undergrowth, grim men, dressed as foresters in leather jerkins and trews with daggers at their belts and longbows in their hands. I froze. Mace moved easily to his feet and waited. The newcomers walked slowly, purposefully, their eyes watching Mace. Piercollo eased himself to his feet but Wulf sat very still, his hand on his dagger.

A tall bowman, his hair silver in the moonlight, strode forward to stand before Mace. ‘So you’d be the Morningstar?’ said the newcomer, looking Mace up and down. ‘Why is it that I am not impressed?’

‘I have no idea,’ responded Mace, ‘but your wife was impressed the last time I bedded her. But then the competition was not fierce.’

Even by the light of the moon and stars I saw the man redden. ‘Be careful, Mace! I am not known for my patience.’

‘You are not known for anything, Corlan,’ snapped Mace. ‘Now say what you have come to say, and then begone!’

‘You think I won’t kill you? You think your life is charmed?’

‘I know that if you try I’ll cut your throat,’ Mace told him.

Corlan’s gaze swept to the dagger at Mace’s belt; it was still scabbarded.

‘You think you are fast enough to beat an arrow?’

I know I am. Now speak your piece.’

‘I want some of the profit from this… Morningstar game of yours. Let us face facts, Mace. Whatever plan you have cannot be carried off without men. And you have only Wulf. He’s good, and so are you. But you need more. I have them. All we want is a share. Isn’t that right, men?’

‘Aye,’ the foresters chorused.

‘And if I don’t agree?’

‘Then you die here. And perhaps so do I. Now, do we have an agreement?’

Mace swung to me. ‘Well, Owen, do we have an agreement?’

For a moment I was thunderstruck, but then I saw the look in Mace’s eyes — sharp, direct — and I knew he was warning me to be careful. Beyond that I could not guess at his reasons for drawing me into the discussion.

‘Who in the devil’s name is he?’ asked Corlan.

‘It is his game,’ answered Mace easily. ‘The Morningstar was his idea.’

‘What is the game?’ asked the forester, turning to me.

In that moment I set my foot on a perilous path. I am not sure now how far ahead I could see; I like to think that a small part of my mind, a deep dark corner close to the soul, inspired me. But I fear it was merely self-preservation that made me speak as I did.

‘It is the greatest game of all,’ I said, ‘and the profits will make beggars of kings.’

My voice was firm and resonant, deep and compelling, and the ease of the lie surprised me. I excused it then — as I do now — by saying that as a bard, I was also a performer, and I was performing before an audience who, if they did not like my words, might kill me.

Corlan looked at me with fresh eyes. He saw a tall, dark-haired young man of Angostin countenance, straight of nose, strong of chin, keen of eye, and my confidence grew. ‘You are correct, Corlan, we will need men — but far more than you have here. These will come in time, but you will be the first — after you have pledged the Soul Oath.’

‘I want to hear about gold — not oaths,’ he said.

‘You will hear all you need to in good time,’ I told him. ‘Gather round me.’

I moved away and sat, not looking at any of them. Corlan was the first to sit before me, the others forming a semi-circle on either side of him. Mace, Wulf and Piercollo placed themselves behind me. By now I had thought out my plan of action, one that would take the outlaws as far from us as was humanly possible. Better than that, it would also involve them in tackling Azrek and his men, and perhaps diverting his attention from us. I was mightily pleased with myself as I began to speak.

‘The Highlands have been burned by war, the nobles scattered or slain. The land is in turmoil, and foreign lords have control of the cities. Taxes are ungathered, cattle unbranded, homes left empty, fields lie fallow. Here in this forest are many settlements and the Angostins will seek to loot and plunder, thus paying their mercenary armies. But how many roads are there to Ziraccu? Only a handful that can be used by wagons laden with gold and coin. The first moves of the Morningstar will be to close those roads, to exact a toll from the Angostins.’

‘What kind of a toll?’ asked a lean, hatchet-faced man to the left of Corlan.

‘All that they have.’

‘We could do that without you,’ said Corlan. ‘Where does the Morningstar fit in this?’

‘Be patient, Corlan, and listen. You will take their gold. Half you will hide, the other half will be returned to the people. You will be known as the Men of the Morningstar and you will let it be known in the settlements that you are fighting for the freedom of the land. You will be heroes. When you need food you will pay for it. You will steal nothing from the settlements; there will be no looting or rape. You will walk the forest with heads held high and you will bask in the acclaim of the people.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ snapped Corlan.

‘What is there to understand?’ I answered him. ‘You will have gold and honor. And when the time is right you will know the full plan. And you will be rich, as all of you will be rich, with more gold than a man could spend in twenty lifetimes.’

‘So you say. But you have told us nothing,’ put in another man.

‘You know all you need to know. How can you lose? If I am wrong, or my plan is flawed, you will still have the profit from your raids.’

‘Why the Men of the Morningstar?’ asked Corlan.

‘You have heard the legends growing. You know what the people think of Jarek Mace. He is seen as the banner of rebellion, he is the heart of resistance to the Angostin evil. In his name you will be welcome everywhere. They will hide you and feed you; they will die to protect you; they will beg to join you.’

‘Do you trust him, Mace?’ Corlan swung to stare into Mace’s eyes.

‘He has been proved right so far.’

‘I don’t know. You are a canny man, Mace. I don’t like you, but you fight like a demon and you’ve the mind of a wolf. You believe we’ll be rich as kings?’

‘Why else would I be here?’

Corlan nodded. ‘I would guess that’s true. What of you, Wulf?’

The hunchback shrugged. ‘I follow the Morningstar,’ he said, with a twisted grin.

‘Then we’ll do it,’ said Corlan, making to rise.

‘Wait,’ I said softly. ‘First the Soul Oath.’

‘I need no oaths,’ hissed Corlan.

‘But I do,’ I whispered. Raising my right hand with palm upwards I stared down at the skin, holding myself still, forcing my concentration to deepen. Blue and yellow flames leapt from the palm, bright and hurtful to the eyes.

Corlan fell back, dropping his bow. ‘You are a sorcerer!’ he shouted.

‘Indeed I am,’ I said, my voice deep as rolling thunder. It was a fine performance and I risked a glance at the other men, seeing the fear in their faces. ‘This is the flame that cannot die. This is the light which feeds on souls. Each man will reach into this flame, taking it into himself. It will sear the flesh of oathbreakers, spreading like a cancer through the body. Any man here who betrays another of the company will die horribly, his soul burning in the pit of a thousand flames. His spirit will fly screaming to the realm of the Vampyre Kings. There will be no escape. Once you have touched this flame the Soul Oath will have been made. There will be no turning back from it.’

‘I’ll not touch it!’ roared Corlan.

‘Then you will not be rich,’ I said, smiling.

‘Have you done this, Mace?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ answered the warrior. ‘Would you like to see me do it again?’

‘Yes! Yes!’Mace leaned forward and his eyes held mine. With my head turned away from Corlan I winked. Mace grinned and thrust his hand into the flame. A small tongue of fire leapt to his palm. It did not burn him, but then it could not for it was but an illusion. The flame danced upon his arm, moving to his chest and vanishing into his clothing above the heart. ‘I am no oathbreaker,’ said Mace softly.

‘Nor am I!’ insisted Corlan, kneeling before me and extending his hand. I could not resist adding a fraction of the Warming spell to the fire, just strong enough to cause a little discomfort. Corlan tensed as the fire touched him, but he did not move as the flame glided along his arm. Silently, almost reverentially, each of the men accepted the flame, until at last a young dark-haired warrior pushed out his arm. I saw that he was sweating heavily. The fire touched him and he screamed, hurling himself back from me and slapping his hand against the grass. The fire slid over him. I increased the size of the flame, and the power of the Warming spell.

‘Take it away!’ he begged.

‘Speak the truth and save yourself,’ I said, though I knew not why.

‘They made me do it! They have my wife!’The flames disappeared and the man rolled to his knees, facing Corlan. ‘I didn’t want to betray you, Corlan. But they told me they’d kill Norm. And it’s not you they want, but the Morningstar!’

‘I understand,’ whispered Corlan. ‘I wondered why you spent so long in Ziraccu. How do you communicate with them?’

‘I mark the trees. And they gave me this!’ He opened his shirt and I saw a black stone suspended from a length of twine. At the centre of the stone was a small white crystal.

‘The man who gave you this,’ I said, ‘was he tall, and slender, dressed in flowing purple robes?’

‘Yes, yes, that was him.’

‘Give it to me!’The man pulled it clear, tossing it across the clearing. Catching it by the string I dashed it against a rock. The crystal shattered, the stone splitting in half.

‘What was it?’ asked Jarek Mace.

‘A simple Find-stone. The sorcerer places a spell upon the crystal and no matter where it is carried he can always locate it,’

‘I am sorry,’said the man,’but they have my…’Corlan moved behind him and his words were cut off by a sharp knife slicing across his throat. Blood gushed from the wound and the dying man’s eyes opened wide. Then he pitched forward to his face and lay twitching upon the grass. Corlan wiped his knife on the dead man’s tunic and rose.

‘We will do as you say, Sorcerer. We will close the roads. We will be the Men of the Morningstar. But if you play us false it will take more than a spell to save you.’

I ignored the threat. Fear had risen too fast in me to risk any speech.

‘When do we meet — and where?’ Corlan asked.

‘When the time is right,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘And we will find you.’

Corlan nodded and strode back into the forest, his men following. Wulf and Piercollo dragged the corpse back into the undergrowth and returned to the dying fire.

‘That was impressive, Owen,’ said Mace, squatting down beside me. I said nothing, for I could not pull my gaze from the blood upon the ground. ‘I don’t know how you knew he was a traitor,’ he continued, patting my shoulder, ‘but you did well.’

I did not know what to say. Yes, I had suspected the man. Something in the eyes, perhaps, the sheen of sweat upon his brow, the trembling of his hand as he accepted the illusion of fire. But the truth was hard. His guilt had betrayed him, and the mere fact that he had felt guilt showed he was at heart a good man. And I had seen him slain, probably dooming his family.

Did I do well?

I still recall his face and, worse, the look of relief that touched him as the knife released his soul.

For several weeks we journeyed through the high country, stopping at lonely hamlets or small villages, passing through more open areas where dry-stone walls dotted the hills like necklaces and crops grew on ploughed fields.

Ilka travelled with us — though none, I think, invited her. She helped Piercollo with the cooking and stayed close to me as we walked. For a while her company disconcerted me, for whenever I looked at her I found her eyes upon me, the gaze frank and open. But without language the meaning was lost and I found myself hating anew the brutal men who had robbed her of both her childhood and her voice.

Sometimes in the night she would suffer tormented dreams and make sounds that were more animal than human, her mutilated tongue trying to form words. I went to her once in the night, and stroked her hair to calm her. But she awoke and waved me back, her eyes full of fear.

I think she was content in our company. Piercollo liked her, and when he sang she would sit close to him, hugging her knees and rocking gently to the music.

Slowly we worked our way north-west. We did not have any set destination that I can recall; we merely wandered, enjoying the sunshine, moving from town to village, village to town. Occasionally I entertained villagers, offering them the Dragon’s Egg, the Tower of Rabain, and various other well-known enchant-tales. Often I would ask for requests from the audience. The further north we travelled the more the villagers asked for tales of the Elder Days, the great wars of the Vampyre Kings, the heroism of Rabain, the enchantment of Horga.

These tales were not as popular in the south, where the Angostins wished to hear of their own heroes, but the Highlanders loved them. It took me time to learn to fashion the magick images of Rabain and Horga. I practised nightly by our camp-fire, with Wulf and Mace staring intently at the ghostly forms I created.

‘Take away the beard,’ suggested Wulf.

‘The beard’s fine,’ insisted Mace, ‘but he is too stocky. The man was a swordsman, long in the arm, well-balanced. Make him taller.’

Horga, they agreed, was spectacular. I did not tell Mace that I based her on the image Megan had showed me of herself when young, glorious of face and slender of figure.

On the first performance, in a small river town in the shadow of the Rostin Peaks, I received a fine ovation, but the audience wanted to see the great battle that destroyed the Vampyre Kings.

It irked me that I could not oblige them. Rarely have I been able to sustain more than a few distinct and moving images. Instead I chose to show Rabain’s fight in the forest with the Undead assassins. I stumbled upon the best technique almost by accident; I believe it is still used by magickers today.

At first I had Rabain fighting a single opponent, a vile white-faced creature with long fangs and a black cloak. Mace found the scene risible.

‘He doesn’t look Undead, he looks half-dead,’ he said, chuckling. ‘And so thin. Your audience will have sympathy only for the assassin.’

I was deeply irritated by this observation. But he was quite correct.

‘Have more attackers, six or seven,’ he advised.

I tried — I thought unsuccessfully. But the reaction from Wulf and Mace was extraordinary. They were transfixed by the scene. What had happened was that I could not retain detail in all six assassins and therefore they became blurred and indistinct, their cloaks swirling like black smoke, unearthly and unreal. This, in turn, made them demonic and terrifying.

Mace schooled me in sword-fighting techniques my Rabain figure could use against his attackers, spinning on his heel, reversing his sword, diving and rolling to hamstring an opponent. All in all it was a fine fight scene, and I used it to conclude all my performances.

I earned more coin during our few weeks in the north than in all my time in Ziraccu. And I almost forgot Azrek and Cataplas…

But, of course, they had not forgotten us.

One morning, just after dawn, as we lay sleeping in our beds in a small hut on the edge of the village of Kasel, a young boy ran inside, shaking Mace by the shoulder.

‘Soldiers!’ he screamed. Mace rolled to his knees and fell, then staggered upright. He had downed enough ale the previous night to drown an ox. Shaking his head he kicked out at the still sleeping Wulf; the hunchback swore, but soon roused himself. Piercollo, Ilka and I were already awake, and we gathered our belongings and followed Mace out into the trees.

The thunder of hooves came from behind us, but we darted into the undergrowth and slid down a long bank out of sight. The twenty or so soldiers left their mounts in the village and set off after us on foot. Wulf was contemptuous of them at first, leading us deeper into the trees along rocky slopes that would leave little sign for our pursuers. But as the day wore on they remained doggedly on our trail. We splashed along streams, climbed over boulders, zig-zagged our way through dense undergrowth. But nothing could shake the soldiers.

‘Are they using sorcery?’ asked Wulf, as dusk fell.

‘I do not know,’ I answered him, ‘but I do not think so. If there was an enchanter with them they would have caught us by now. I think they must be accompanied by a skilled tracker.’

He is certainly good,’ grunted Wulf grudgingly. ‘Let’s be moving!’

On we travelled, coming at last to a steep slope curving down into a dark valley. Wulf traversed it, then made as if to lead us back the way we had come. Mace ran alongside him.

‘Where are you going? That’s where they are!’

‘I know that!’ snapped Wulf. ‘I’m going back to kill their scout.’

‘Let’s just get down into the valley,’ said Mace. ‘There will be plenty of hiding-places there.’

‘No! I’m not running any further.’

‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ roared Mace. ‘We can’t take on twenty men.’

‘I’m not going down there.’

‘Why? It’s just a valley.’

‘I’m not going there, and that’s all there is to it,’ answered Wulf.

‘Listen to me,’ said Mace, his voice soothing. ‘If we stay here, we’re going to die. Now that’s fine for an ugly little man like you, who has nothing to live for. But for someone like me — tall, handsome and charming — it’s a galling thought. Now you wouldn’t want to be responsible for the tears of a thousand women, would you?’

Wulf’s answer was short, to the point and utterly disgusting. But he laughed and the tension eased.

Slowly we made our way down into the valley. It was cold, the night breeze chilling as it whispered through the trees.

‘What is this place?’ I asked Wulf.

‘You perform it often enough, Owen,’ he replied. ‘This is where Rabain fought the assassins. We just entered the realm of the Vampyre Kings.’,

The valley floor was lit by moonlight which turned the streams to ribbons of silver, the grass on the hillside to shards of shining iron. I shivered when Wulf spoke, the cold wind blowing around my back and legs. He laughed at my fear, but I could see his own in the gleam of his eyes and the wary way he glanced around at the shadowed trees.

The Vampyre Kings! Dread creatures, the fabric of nightmare, but dead now for a thousand years, I told myself, seeking comfort in the thought.

How could I be frightened?

Yet I was. Rabain had killed the Three on the fabled Night of the Seventh Star, after the Battle of Coulin. He and his men had stormed the Grey Castle, dousing the great gates with oil and setting them ablaze, fighting their way through the courtyards and alleyways into the palace keep. Jerain the Archer had slain the first of the Kings, a shaft of silver piercing his eye. Boras the Cyclops had killed the second, catching him upon the battlements and hurling him to oblivion on the rocks below. But it was Rabain who slew the last — and greatest — of the Vampyre Kings. Golgoleth had taken refuge in his throne room, surrounded by demons sharp-fanged and armed with serrated swords. Rabain and the enchantress Horga had come upon them as they were in the midst of creating a dark enchantment that might have turned the battle. Horga’s spells sundered the demons while Rabain and Golgoleth did battle.

It was a fine story, incorporating trolls and Elven princes, vicious sorcerers and cunning demons. And very popular in the northlands, where they take their fables seriously.

Yet here was Owen Odell, Angostin by birth and temperament, trembling with terror in a dark valley, victim to barbarous superstition.

‘Why is it so cold?’ I asked Wulf, as we walked deeper into the darkness.

‘Sorcery,’ he whispered.

‘Horse-dung!’ declared Jarek Mace. ‘The valley is deep. Cold air falls, hot air rises. Cast a Warming spell, Owen. You’ll feel better.’

‘Piercollo does not like this place,’ stated the Tuscanian. ‘It has the smell of decay.’

‘Mildew,’ said Mace. ‘You can see it on the bushes.’ We crossed the valley floor and Wulf glanced back to the crest of the valley. He pointed at the soldiers lined there, small as children’s toys in the distance. They made no attempt to follow us.

‘More sense than we have,’ Wulf muttered.

Their lack of movement troubled me and I spoke to Mace about it, but he merely shrugged. ‘Superstition. It is just a valley, Owen, leading to the Troll Reaches. About sixty miles from here is the source of the Deeway River, and beyond that the cities of Casley and Keras. No demons, just thick forest and a few Trolls. The Trolls will not bother us. They fear men — and rightly so.’

Looking back, I saw that the soldiers had gone. I spoke to Wulf as we walked on. ‘Why did we come here?’

‘Mace’s idea,’ he answered. ‘Don’t blame me!’

‘No, I meant why did we move in this direction at all?’

‘No choice. The soldiers were behind us all the way.’

‘But we could have cut to the east, or the west.’

‘I tried that, but they were circling behind. I couldn’t be sure where they were.’

‘Then perhaps we were steered this way?’ Wulf halted, then turned to me.

‘You could be right, bard.’

‘No, he is not!’ hissed Mace, looming out of the dark. ‘You are like two children trying to frighten one another. We chose which way to run; they merely followed us. And now they are too cowardly to follow further. And if I hear one more word about Vampyre Kings, ghosts, spirits or Trolls, I shall crack a skull or two!’

We trudged on in silence, Ilka staying close to the huge form of Piercollo, Mace leading. Wulf, his bow strung, walking just behind me.

The clouds gathered and it began to rain — thin, icy needles, driven by the wind, instantly soaking through our clothes. Lightning forked across the northern sky and soon the ground below our feet became sodden and we walked ankle-deep in mud. After about an hour we finally crossed the valley floor and began the long climb through wooded hills until we reached the far crest and gazed down on a second valley and a small lake, black as jet. Beside it was a ruined keep, its walls crumbling, its gates sagging and rotten. The style was ancient, the towers square-built, not round as with Angostin architecture.

‘You know who built that keep?’ asked Wulf.

‘Don’t say it!’ warned Jarek Mace. ‘All I know is that we are going to be warm and dry for the night. And I don’t care if it was built by the devil himself. I’m soaked through, cold and in evil temper. So keep your mouth shut and let’s get in there and start a fire.’

‘It’ll be haunted,’ whispered Wulf to me as we followed Mace down into the valley. ‘Mark my words.’

But at that moment Wulf slipped in the mud and slid down the hillside past Jarek Mace. For a moment we watched in stunned silence, then Mace’s laughter roared out above the rain. ‘Give my regards to the Vampyre Kings!’ he yelled as the hunchback hurtled towards the keep.

The sight was so ludicrous that all fear fled from me and I bent double, laughing fit to burst. Even Ilka was smiling as we followed the hunchback down, finding him sitting at the foot of the hill staring at his broken bow.

‘We’ll buy a new one at the next town,’ said Jarek Mace, but Wulf was inconsolable.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ he muttered. ‘Had it blessed by the Abbess. It’s never let me down before. Witchcraft, that’s what it is!’

‘You fell on it!’ said Mace. ‘That’s not witchcraft, that’s just clumsiness.’

Wulf shook his head. ‘It was blessed,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing blessed can survive in this place. That’s why no one lives here, no crops grow. Even the trees are covered with mildew, and most are rotten.’

‘I’m not listening to any more of this,’ snapped Mace, walking through the stone gates.

We followed him across a paved courtyard. The stones were uneven, grass pushing up between them. The rain hissed down, the castle walls gleaming in the faint light that pierced the clouds. Lightning flashed across the sky, sending dancing shadows behind the broken columns to our left.

Jarek Mace climbed the steps leading to the hall of the keep and kicked the rotted doors, the wood splintering and falling to the thick dust beyond, which rose like smoke around his boots. A rat scurried for shelter, and then we were inside.

‘Make light, Owen,’ ordered Mace.

I sent a small shining sphere floating into the hall.

The floor was wooden and I stepped gingerly upon it, but it seemed solid enough.

For me it was — but not for Piercollo.

Advancing into the middle of the hall he let fall his pack, which hit the floor with a resounding thud. This was followed by a sudden creaking, then a series of explosive cracks — and the Tuscanian disappeared from sight.