Morningstar

CHAPTER SEVEN

With great care Mace, Wulf and I eased our way across the floor to the jagged hole. I brought the sphere of light closer and we lay on our bellies gazing down into a pit some twelve feet deep. Piercollo lay stunned, his pack beside him. The light did not penetrate far and I could see little more save that one of the joists had given way, leaving the timbers with no support where Piercollo had fallen.

‘There must be another way down,’ said Mace.

‘I’ll find it,’ Wulf told him, moving back from the hole.

‘He might be dead,’ I whispered.

‘More likely a broken leg,’ Mace told me. ‘We’ll soon know. Stay here and call me if he wakes.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to build a fire. I’m cold and I’m hungry. Wulf will find the way in below, then we’ll get him out.’

Piercollo lay unmoving and I watched Mace cross the hall to a huge hearth where he gathered tinder and splinters of rotten wood. The Tuscanian groaned and stirred.

‘Don’t move for a moment,’ I called down. ‘You may have broken bones.’

Slowly he rolled to his back. I moved the sphere down into the hole and Piercollo sat up, then ran his hand down his right leg. ‘There is a small scratch,’ he said. ‘It is not much. Nothing, I think, is broken. Bring the light closer.’

I did as he asked and slowly he stood. ‘There is no door,’ he called.

‘There must be.’

‘Piercollo is not blind, Owen. There is no door.’

Moving back from the hole, I made my way to where Mace was slowly adding fuel to the small fire. ‘He is all right,’ I told him, ‘but there is no way out of the cellar.’

‘That makes no sense,’ muttered Mace. Leaving Ilka to tend the fire, he returned to where Piercollo waited. The sphere was less bright now and my concentration was fading. ‘Is there anything down there you can use to climb out?’ called Mace.

‘Many boxes, but they are rotten. There is a broken table, and some weapons. No. Nothing I can use.’

Wulf returned and stretched out alongside Mace. ‘There’s no stairs down. Nothing.’

‘How are we going to get him out?’ I asked.

Both men ignored me. Mace sat up and looked around the hall. There was no furniture, save a broken chair covered in cobwebs and a few threadbare cushions thick with dust and mildew. Standing, he made his way to the far wall and lifted an ancient torch from its iron bracket. Dusting off the charred, loose strands from the tip, he held it over the fire and it caught instantly, flaring up with long tongues of flame.

‘Move aside,’ he ordered us and walked to the edge of the hole. ‘Stand back,’ he told Piercollo. Then he jumped into the cellar, landing easily with knees bent to take the impact of the ten-foot drop. A few sparks fell from the torch, but these he stamped out. With this new light we could see the full area of the cellar; it was no more than twenty feet long, and about half as wide. Weapons and armour had been piled around the walls — helms, bows, swords, daggers, axes. All of them jet-black and unadorned.

Holding aloft his torch Mace studied the ceiling, examining the remaining joists. They seem sound,’ he announced. ‘I don’t think they’ll give way.’ Moving to the Tuscanian’s pack he hefted it, then passed it to Piercollo. ‘Throw it through the hole,’ he said. The Tuscanian swayed to his left, then sent it sailing up over the rim.

Placing the spluttering torch in an upturned black helm, Mace moved beneath the hole, cupping his hands. ‘Come, my large friend,’ he said, ‘it is time for you to leave this place.’You cannot take Piercollo’s weight,’ the Tuscanian warned him.

‘Well, if I can’t then you’ll just have to sit down here until you grow thinner. Would you like us to come back in a couple of months?’Piercollo placed his huge hands on Mace’s shoulders, then lifted a foot into the cupped palms. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

‘Do it, you big ox!’

Piercollo tensed his leg, pushing his weight down on to Mace’s locked fingers. Mace groaned but held firm and Piercollo rose, his right arm stretching towards the rim of the hole, his fingers curling over the edge. I gripped his wrist to give him support while Wulf took hold of the Tuscanian’s jerkin and began to pull. At first there was no discernible sign of movement, but with Mace pushing from below and the two of us pulling from above Piercollo managed to get one arm over the rim. After that we dragged him clear in moments.

Mace sank to the floor of the cellar, breathing heavily. ‘One more minute and he would have broken my back,’ he said at last. Then he rose and, torch in hand, moved among the weapons.

‘A new bow for you, Wulf,’ he called, hurling the weapon through the opening. This was followed by several scabbarded swords, daggers and two quivers of black-shafted arrows. Lastly a small box sailed over the rim, landing heavily and cracking open.

‘Keep back!’ yelled Mace. ‘I’m coming up.’ Dousing the torch and stamping out all the cinders he leapt to grab the rim, then hauled himself smoothly clear of the hole. He was covered in dust and cobwebs, but his grin was bright as he dusted himself down. ‘Let’s see what treasure is in the box,’ he said. The wood was rotten, but what appeared to be bands of bronze held it together. Mace ripped away the lid and pulled clear a large velvet pouch. The leather thongs were rotten, the velvet dry and ruined, but something creamy-white fell clear, rolling from his hands to bounce on the wooden floor.

‘May the saints protect us!’ whispered Wulf, backing away.

On the floor at our feet was a skull, the lower jaw missing but the upper intact. Teeth were still embedded in the bone, most of them apparently normal. But the two canines on either side of the incisors were twice as long as the others and wickedly sharp.

Mace picked up the skull, turning it in his hands. ‘These teeth are hollow,’ he said, tapping the canines.

‘Leave it be, Mace,’ hissed Wulf. ‘You can see what it is, damn you!’

‘It’s a skull,’ said Mace. He swung to me. ‘Vampyre?’

I nodded dumbly. ‘I would say so.’

‘Well, well! Do you think it’s worth anything?’

‘Not to me,’ I told him.

‘Throw it back into the cellar,’ urged Wulf. ‘It is a thing of evil.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mace, dropping the skull back into the shattered box. Picking up the bow he had found for Wulf, he crossed to where the hunchback stood. ‘Take a look at this. It’s metal, but it weighs next to nothing and I cannot see how it was strung.’

Wulf, with one last nervous glance at the box containing the skull, took the weapon and I moved forward to examine it with him. Much shorter than a longbow, but longer than the hunting-bows used by Angostin scouts, it was sharply curved, the string disappearing into the bow tips.

‘No range,’ said Wulf. Pulling an arrow from his quiver he notched it and drew back the string, aiming the shaft at the frame of the door. The arrow leapt from the bow, struck the beam and shattered.

‘Try one of these,’ offered Mace, pulling a black-shafted arrow from one of the quivers he had thrown from the cellar. The arrow was of metal; even the flights, which looked like raven feathers, were in fact metallic and stiff.

Wulf drew back on the string once more and the shaft sang through the air, punching home into the wood of the frame and burying itself deep.

Not one of us, not even the mighty Piercollo, could pull it loose.

‘Have you ever seen weapons like these, Owen?’ Mace asked me.

‘No. According to legend, the swords and arrows of Rabain’s men were of the purest silver, in order to slay the Undead. They were said to shine with starlight when Vampyres were near. I doubt it was true. More likely Horga cast an enchantment, an illusion to lift the spirits of the warriors.’

For some time Wulf and Mace examined the weapons. The swords and daggers were lighter than any I had seen, and incredibly sharp. Mace put aside his own longsword, replacing it with a black blade and scabbard. The hilt was wound with black wire, and there was even a dark gem in the pommel that reflected no gleam of light from the fire. Wulf took two short swords and I acquired a long hunting-knife, double-edged. Piercollo refused a weapon, but Ilka also chose a short sword, curved like a small sabre, which she belted to her slim waist.

We ate sparingly, for our supplies were low, and then sat talking for a while. Mace asked me to tell a story about the Elder Days, one he had not heard. I could think of nothing new and so I told him of the death of Rabain, murdered by his son two years after the Great Battle and the ending of the reign of the Vampyre Kings. The son died soon after — slain, some fables have it, by Horga the Enchantress. And the land descended into bloody civil war.

‘That’s a fine tale to end a day with,’ grumbled Mace. Piercollo and Wulf were already asleep, while Ilka sat staring into the dying fire, lost in thoughts she could not share.

‘I am sorry, Jarek. My mood is dark. What would you like to hear?’

‘Tell me of the Great Parade when Rabain was made King.’

‘I’ve told you that a score of times.’

‘I know — but I like parades. I like the idea of riding into a city and having the crowds throw flowers before me, making a carpet of blooms. And young women waving from balcony windows, blowing kisses and promises.’

I looked at him for a moment in the dying light. ‘Who are you, Jarek Mace?’ I asked him.

‘What a strange question, Owen. What would you have me say? I was born in a village that was too insignificant to have a name. My mother was a whore — at least that’s what the villagers believed, for she bore a son out of wedlock. I used to dream that my father was the lord of the manor and that one day he would acknowledge me, take me into his own home and name me as his heir. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. My mother died when I was twelve. I found work in a traveling circus, walking the high wire, juggling and tumbling. Then I became a soldier. Then I came here. That is me… that is Jarek Mace.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ I told him. ‘That is merely a precis of a life. It says nothing of the man. What do you believe in? What do you love? What do you aspire to be?’

‘I want my castle by the sea,’ he said, with a rueful smile.

‘What about a wife, children?’

He shrugged. ‘I had a woman once, lived with her for months. I cannot see there will ever be anyone to keep me content for longer than that.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I have no idea, Owen. She got fat and pregnant, so I left.’

‘You never went back?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Why should I?’

‘You have a son somewhere — or a daughter. You don’t wish to see your child?

‘’I think I have many children; I hope to have many more. But I don’t wish to see them grow, to smell their soiled wrappings, to listen to them mewling and crying.’

‘And friendship?’ I enquired. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘What is friendship, Owen? Two men each requiring something from the other. Well, I require nothing from anyone, therefore I need no friends.’

‘You have never known love, have you, Jarek? You have no conception of what it entails. Just as when you talked of Piercollo’s songs; for you they were meaningless sounds. I feel great pity for you. You are not really alive. You are a man apart, self-obsessed and, I would guess, very lonely.’

‘You would guess wrong,’ he said. ‘I know what love is. It is a swelling in the loins that is soon satisfied. It is a stolen kiss under moonlight. Nothing more. But you bards build it up with sweet words and many promises, songs of broken hearts and true love. It is all dung. I never met a wife who wouldn’t succumb to my advances while her husband was away. So much for marital love!’ He leaned forward and shook his head. ‘You don’t pity me, Owen. You envy me. I am everything you would desire to be.’

For a moment I was silent, but I held his gaze. ‘I think you need to believe that. I think it is important to you.’

‘What is important is that I get some sleep,’ he said. Sitting up, he wrapped a blanket around his broad shoulders and threw several chunks of wood on the fire. Just as he was lying down I saw his eyes narrow. ‘Look at that,’ he said softly and I turned.

The arrow Wulf had fired into the door beam was glowing with a gentle white light. Throwing back his blanket, Mace reached for his sword. As he pulled the blade clear of the scabbard, it was no longer black but shining as if made from starlight.

‘What is happening, Owen?’ he whispered.

My mouth was dry, my heart beating wildly as I drew my own hunting-knife. It too shone brilliantly. ‘I don’t know.’

Smoothly he rose and, sword in hand, moved towards the ruined doors. Holding my dagger before me I followed him. As we neared the doorway we heard sounds from the courtyard beyond, scraping and rustling, the shuffling of boots upon the stones.

A figure loomed up before us. Dirt and mud clung to his helm, and the hand that held the rusted sword wore what appeared to be a tattered gauntlet. But it was no gauntlet. The skin of the hand hung in flapping tatters, the tendons twisted. Worms and maggots glided between the bones.

I gagged and fell back before the apparition, but Mace leapt forward, his sword fashioning an arc of light as it cut through the cadaver’s shoulder, cleaving down to exit under the left arm. The Undead warrior made no sound as the body fell. Mace stepped across the corpse and raised his sword high.

Bright light shone in the courtyard and I saw a host of the Undead gathering before the keep.

In the instant that the light of the sword fell upon them I saw Cataplas standing beneath the ruined gates, his arms raised. The corpses shuffled forward with rusted weapons in their hands.

‘Get back!’ I yelled to Mace.

He took a step back, his face ashen, then I saw his jaw tighten. Spinning on his heel he ran into the hall, shouting to Wulf and the others.

The hunchback rolled to his feet. ‘What is happening?’ he asked, reaching for his bow.

There was no need to answer, for the first of the Undead warriors reached the door, his face a twisted, black mask of horror. More of the cadavers crowded in behind the first and Wulf seat a gleaming silver shaft into the chest of a tall, skeletal figure. The arrow passed through the rotted body, which collapsed into the doorway. Piercollo lifted a burning brand from the fire and threw it into the surging mass of corpses; but they were mud-covered and dank, and the torch sizzled and died.

‘To the stairs!’ shouted Jarek Mace, taking up his bow and quiver. Behind us, to the left, was a set of stone steps — the wooden banisters torn down, probably used for firewood by some ancient travellers. Piercollo and Ilka were the first to climb the stairs, followed by Wulf and myself. Jarek Mace was the last and he moved slowly, backing up the stone steps, an arrow notched to his bow.

At the top of the stairs was an empty door-frame, bronze hinges bent and warped, evidence of the door having been ripped away. There was a section of battlement beyond, some five feet wide and twenty long. Piercollo moved out along it.

A blackened arm reached over the crenellated battlement, then a helm appeared, part rusted, the bronze ear-guards glowing with a green patina. The face beneath it was almost completely corrupted, the nose and eyes long disappeared. It hauled itself on to the battlements and Piercollo ran at it, swinging his enormous pack and hammering it against the creature. The dead warrior was hurled back over the wall to fall without a sound.

More arms and hands and heads appeared. Piercollo reached the far end of the battlements to find a locked door. Stepping back, he lifted his leg and kicked out; the lock-bar shattered, the door caving in. The giant stepped into the doorway and climbed the winding stair beyond, the rest of us following. I did not dare to look back. At the top of the stair was a second door, also barred.

‘Don’t break it!’ ordered Jarek Mace. Swiftly he eased himself to the front, pushing his dagger between the dry timbers of the door and plunging the blade into the wooden lock-bar. Then he lifted it clear, the door creaked open and we found ourselves on the roof of a square turret, bathed in the light of a cold moon. A skeletal warrior, cold and still, lay with his back against the wall, a ring on his signet finger glowing in the moonlight.

‘There’s already one of them here!’ said Wulf, backing away from the corpse.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘The ring he is wearing — it carries enchantment. I do not think he is a danger to us.’

‘You’re sure?’ the hunchback pressed.

‘Not entirely,’ I admitted.

Mace shut the door, forcing the lock-bar back into place, then he ran to the battlements and leaned out. I moved alongside him.

Below us the cadavers had started to climb the walls, their dead faces looking up, their skeletal fingers finding the cracks in the mortar and hauling themselves ever closer.

A hammering began on the barred door behind us. There’s no way out!’ screamed Wulf.

‘Be silent!’ Mace roared.

In the bright moonlight I saw the graveyard beyond the castle, the ground heaving and moving as corpse after corpse pushed up from the soft earth.

‘How can we hold them?’ I asked Mace, fighting to keep my voice calm.

‘You’re the magicker! You tell me!’ he replied.

There was nothing I could say. I had no experience with sorcery — nor ever desired to acquire such experience. Illusions with light and heat were all that I knew.

‘How long till the dawn?’ I asked.

Mace stared up at the sky. ‘Four hours. Maybe five.’

The first of the Undead reached the top of the battlements. Drawing my dagger I thrust it at the blackened face. As the blade touched the decaying skin, the creature’s hold on the stone loosened and it fell. A second appeared and Mace beheaded it with a savage cut. Still more and more reached the tower. Unarmed, Piercollo took hold of one Undead warrior, throwing him back over the parapet. Wulf, short sword in hand, moved back and forth across the tower, plunging his blade into Undead bodies.

Piercollo swept up a rusted sword and clove it through the rib-cage of a tall skeleton, but the creature moved on as if nothing had happened. Ilka ran in, the shining silver sabre sweeping across the skeleton’s back. Instantly it crumbled to the battlements.

I do not know how long we struggled and fought, for time seemed to drag by ever more slowly as we tired. Mace was indefatigable, his shining sword a blur of light as he darted across the tower. But eventually the attack slowed and then faltered. I risked a glance over the battlements, but could see no more dark shapes clinging to the walls.

The graveyard was also still, the churned earth unmoving now.

Some corpses still lay on the tower, and these we threw over the walls. The skeleton that had been there when we arrived, we let be. In ages past he had barred the door against an attack and had died there, lost and alone, his flesh devoured by carrion birds, his bones white and clean. It seemed right somehow to let him lie.

On the ramparts below the corpse warriors still gathered, huddled in a silent mass, faces staring up at us.

Cataplas moved out into the open by the graveyard, a tall, slender figure. Looking up, he saw me. ‘You are in bad company, Owen!’ he called, his voice pleasant as always.

‘You vile creature!’ I stormed. ‘How dare you say that? I at least stand alongside men of courage — not torturers, like Azrek. You disgust me!’

‘There is no need for rudeness,’ he admonished me. ‘You are an Angostin. How is it that the son of Aubertain could seek the friendship of a murdering peasant, a known robber and rapist?’

I was astonished. Here was a sorcerer leading an army of the Undead, daring to speak to me of manners. I stared down at him. He was too far away for me to be able to see the wispy beard and the sad grey eyes, but the robe was the same, faded velvet trimmed with gold. ‘The company I keep is my own affair, Cataplas,’ I called out. ‘Now say what you have to say, for I do not wish this conversation to last a moment longer than necessary.’

‘As you wish,’ he replied, no trace of anger in his tone. ‘You seek to thwart me in my quest for knowledge, though for what purpose I cannot ascertain. I have two now in my possession, the third I will find. Nothing you or your band of petty cut-throats can do will stop me. And what will you do with the last should you find it before me? You cannot use its power. The three need to be together. You are a magicker, Owen, with little gift for sorcery. What is your purpose in opposing me?’

I could not fathom the riddle of his words, but I answered as if I understood his every phrase. ‘I oppose you because you are evil, Cataplas. Perhaps you always were.’

‘Evil? A concept invented by Kings to keep the peasants in order. There is only knowledge, Owen. Knowledge is power. Power is right. But I will not debate with you. I see now that you are no threat. Have you yet found a god to follow?’

‘Not yet,’ I told him.

‘Then find one swiftly — and send up your prayers, for you will meet him soon.’

He raised his arm and I watched the fireball grow upon his palm, then soar into the sky towards us.

Jarek Mace leapt to the battlements, bow bent and arrow aimed at the sorcerer.

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Strike the fireball!’At the last moment he twisted his arm, sending the silver shaft singing through the air. It smote the glowing fireball in the centre, sundering it, and the arrow exploded in a brilliant burst of white light that near blinded us. Jarek Mace stumbled upon the battlements and I threw myself forward, grabbing at his jerkin and hauling him back to safety.

He notched a second arrow to his bow and sought out Cataplas.

But the sorcerer had gone.

Piercollo moved forward, his face grey with weariness. ‘Will they come again?’ he asked.

I shrugged, but Mace clapped the giant on the shoulder. ‘If they do, we will turn them back.’

Unconvinced, Piercollo merely nodded and walked back to the ramparts, sitting down with his back to the wall. Wulf settled down opposite him, lying on his side with his head on Piercollo’s pack. Ilka squatted between them, staring down at the sabre in her hands.

‘The enchanted blades saved us,’ I told Mace.

‘Yes, they are sharp and true.’

‘It was not the sharpness. We did not even have to plunge them home. As they touched the corpses, all sorcery was drawn from them.’

‘A lucky find,’ he agreed absently, ‘but what did the old man mean about the three and the one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must,’ he insisted.

‘Truly, I don’t.’

‘Then think on it!’ he snapped. Turning from me he began to pace the battlements, keeping a watchful eye on the cadavers below. I sat down with my back to the cold stone wall and thought of all Cataplas had said.

I have two now in my possession, the third I will find. Nothing you or your band of petty cut-throats can do will stop me. And what will you do with the last should you find it before me? You cannot use its power. The three need to be together.

Two in his possession. Two of what? You cannot use its power. What power?

No matter how much I forced my brain to concentrate, I could make no sense of the words. The three need to be together.

Stretching out on the wooden floor, I pillowed my head upon my arm and slept. Mace woke me with a boot in the ribs and I grunted and rolled, scrabbling for my dagger. ‘Are they back?’ I whispered hoarsely.

‘No, but I’m getting bored with my own company. Have you thought about the problem?’

‘I have — but to no avail.’He sank down beside me, his handsome face taut, the eyes red-rimmed and tired. ‘The old man wants something, and he thinks we know more than we do. Why? What have we done to make him think so, save by coming here?’

‘You think these ruins are the key?’ I asked him.

‘They must be. I do not believe he came here just to kill us; he wanted to make a bargain. You said he was a man interested in knowledge. Power. He wasn’t here looking for gold or treasure, but something else entirely. I would guess it is in that cellar. Something we didn’t find — a magical trinket perhaps? A holy relic?’

‘I don’t believe so. There are few such pieces, save in myth. The Cup of Arenos, the Spear of Gtath. And as for holy relics… Cataplas has moved beyond such things. They would burn him now, were he to touch them.’

‘Then think, Owen! What is there about this place? What is its history?’

‘How many times must I tell you that I don’t know!’ I said, my voice rising. Piercollo stirred but did not wake, but Wulf grunted and sat up.

‘How long now to the dawn?’ asked the hunchback.

‘Another hour,’ Mace told him. Wulf rubbed circulation back into his cold limbs, then joined us.

‘I told you no good would come of entering this place,’ he grumbled.

‘We’re alive, aren’t we?’ responded Jarek Mace.

‘For now,’ muttered Wulf. ‘We’ll all end up like him,’ he added, pointing to the skeleton.

‘No, we won’t,’ said Mace forcefully. ‘That graveyard does not contain an inexhaustible supply of corpses, and we have enchanted blades to cut our way through what remains of them. And we will, come daylight. Put aside your fears, Wulf. Think of this, there may be many of them but what opposition do they offer? Their muscles are rotten, they move as if through water. Not one of them has so far laid a blade upon us, and if they did they are so rusted as to be useless. They do not pose a real danger, save for the terror they inspire in us with their appearance. But they are not real. They are filled with sorcery, but they are not the men they were. You might just as well fear a few sticks joined together with rotted string.’

There was truth in what he said, and I was surprised that it had not occurred to me before. Without the blades of power the dead would have overwhelmed us, but with them we were relatively safe. It was irritating that Mace had understood this simple fact whereas I, a schooled Angostin, had been swept away on a tide of superstition and terror.

Wulf, though, was not entirely convinced. ‘This is an evil realm,’ he said. ‘The Vampyre Kings laid great spells upon it. They live in the ground, in the trees and valleys.’

‘Their spells died with them,’ said Mace. ‘Is that not so, Owen?’

‘Yes. All sorcery fades with the passing of the sorcerer. A spell is a creation of the mind, held in being by the concentration of the magicker. When the mind ceases to operate, the spell is gone.’

‘Who is to say when the mind ceases to operate?’ asked Wulf. ‘Perhaps the Vampyre Kings did not cease to be when their bodies were slain. Have you ever thought of that, bard?’

‘You are a happy companion,’ hissed Jarek Mace. ‘What do you think these Undead Kings have been doing for the last thousand years? Playing dice? Counting trees? If they are still alive, I think we would have heard of them.’ He swung to me. ‘I wonder where your sorcerer friend is hiding. I want to see no more globes of fire.’

‘I do not think that you will. Such a spell takes a toll, even on a sorcerer of his dark skill. Raising the corpses weakened him, and the fireball was not as fast or as deadly as it might have been. I would guess he has gone somewhere to rest — perhaps even returned to Ziraccu.’

‘That would take weeks,’ said Wulf.

‘Not by the paths he will travel,’ I told him.

‘I know all the paths there are,’ the hunchback insisted.

I shook my head. ‘Once, when I was apprenticed to him, we were commissioned to entertain at a castle on the west coast. It was two hundred miles away, but we made the journey in less than an hour. First he blindfolded me, then led me by the hand. All I remember was the terrible cold, and the sibilant hissing of what I took to be beasts around me. But nothing touched me, save Cataplas. Suddenly I felt the sun on my back and Cataplas removed the blindfold. We were on a cliff-top overlooking the sea, and to our right was the castle.’

Wulf shivered and rose, rubbing at his neck, which I later learned gave him great pain and was probably the cause of much of his ill-humour. The twisted hump upon his back put pressure on the thick, corded neck muscles, and little could be done to alleviate it. Still rubbing at the muscles, he wandered away.

‘I think I’ll leave this forest and head south,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘The north is becoming altogether too perilous.’

‘I do not think that would prove a wise decision,’ I told him.

‘It is my experience that the best defence against danger is distance,’ he said, with a smile.

‘There is no distance that will keep Cataplas from you. Azrek wants you dead, Jarek. Through Cataplas he can send demons to hunt you down wherever you are — even across the sea. If you leave, you will be alone and easy prey.’

‘This is your fault,’ he said, his eyes showing anger. ‘You and that foolish Morningstar dream. Am I doomed then to walk this forest, killing enemies already dead, fighting monsters and demons?’

‘Perhaps, but my father — for all his faults a great general — would have offered you some simple advice. He would have said, ‘Jarek, when your enemy’s strength is overwhelming, when you are surrounded by foes, there is only one choice for the brave. Attack.’

His smile was genuine. ‘You are a wonderful fool, Owen. What would you have me do? Raise an army from among the peasants and the Highlanders and sweep the Angostins from power?’

‘Why not?’ I asked him.

‘You see me as a king, perhaps? King Jarek?’

‘It hardly matters how I see you. It is how they see you.’

The smile faded. ‘I am a man, Owen. You heard what the sorcerer said, and I would admit to being a murderer. As to rape… that was untrue. I have never needed to force myself on a woman. But I have stolen, and I have deceived, and I have lied and I have cheated. I say this without shame. This land of ours is made for strong men, and strong men will always take what they want from the weaker. I know what I am — and I am not your Morningstar.’

The sky lightened, pink and gold seeping above the eastern mountains. I rose to my feet and stretched. The sun slowly filled the sky with light, and the dawn was majestic. I leaned over the parapet and gazed down at the ramparts.

The host of the dead were gone. All that remained were a few rusted helms, broken swords, scraps of leather and white shards of bone.

The sun was bright upon my face, its warmth pure, its light healing to the soul.

The rays fell upon the skeleton by the door, and I saw again the gold ring upon a finger of bone. No longer glowing, it was of thick, red gold set with a white stone. Reaching down I drew the ring clear, lifting it close to my eyes. On the inner rim the goldsmith had engraved a line of verse in the ancient tongue of the Belgae. The rhyme is lost in translation, but it read:

Guard am I, sword pure, heart strong.

The circle of the ring was tiny, but when I touched it to the tip of my signet finger it slid into place, fitting snugly. I gazed down at the skeleton. ‘I think you stood at your post when all others would have fled. I think you were a brave man, and true. May you know rest!’

Ilka was awake and I felt her eyes upon me. I smiled at her, embarrassed now for speaking to the dead who had no ears to hear. For the first time she returned my smile, and I found her to be beautiful.

The shock was both exquisite and curiously debilitating. My mouth was suddenly dry and I found myself staring at her, wondering how I had never before noticed her loveliness. The smile faded as I stared and she turned away and walked to the battlements, looking out over the wooded valley and the shining lake.

‘Let’s be moving,’ said Mace. ‘I don’t want to be here when real warriors arrive.’

Piercollo shouldered his pack and we returned to the hall of the keep. Mace jumped down into the cellar and rummaged among the weapons, gathering two more quivers of black arrows and a second dagger.

I looked around, aware that something was missing.

Then I remembered.

It was the skull.

And it had gone…