Morningstar (21 page)

Beyond the town, upon a gentle sloping hill, there was a round keep manned by twenty militia soldiers. These men, led by a taciturn captain named Brackban, maintained what order they could in such a rough place.

Mace knew the town well and led us to an ill-smelling tavern on the east of the settlement. It was some two hours after dusk, and the huge ale room was crammed with customers: loggers in their sleeveless leather jerkins, trappers in furs, whores with earrings of brass and necklets of copper and lips stained with berry juice.

There were no tables free, and I saw Mace’s mood begin to darken. He moved to the rear of the room, where three men were sprawled across a bench, drunk and insensible. Mace seized the shoulder of the first, dragging him clear of the seat
and dumping him upon the floor. The man stirred but did not wake. When the second man was hauled from his place, he awoke and tried to rise but slumped back, grumbling incoherently. The third came to with a start and tried to strike Mace—it was a mistake. Mace leaned back, and the blow missed wildly; his fist cannoned into the man’s jaw, snapping back his head, which cracked against the wooden wall behind. He sagged sideways; Mace hit him twice more, then threw him to the floor.

Sliding into the now-vacant seat, Mace leaned upon his forearms and bellowed for a serving girl. As we seated ourselves, a plump woman wearing a dress of homespun wool and a leather apron pushed her way through to us. She was tired, her eyes dull, but she forced a smile, took our order, and vanished back into the throng.

Ilka was nervous and sat close to Piercollo, her eyes glancing from left to right at the milling men. His huge arm moved around her shoulder, and he patted her as one would a frightened child. She smiled up at him. I almost hated him then and wished that I, too, could be seen as a guardian of the frightened, a warrior of note.

It was impossible to hold a conversation in such a place, and when the ale and food were carried to us, we ate and drank in silence, each with his own thoughts.

A young man, slim, his face scarred, put his hand on Ilka’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear. She shook her head, but his hand slid down over her breast. Piercollo moved swiftly, pulling the man clear. The Tuscanian said nothing, but his arm tensed and jerked, and the unfortunate suitor flew back into the throng as if launched from a catapult. Mace chuckled and shook his head.

The noise behind us faded away, and I turned to see the scarred young man moving forward again, but alongside him was a huge trapper dressed in a wolfskin coat. The man was bald and beardless, but he sported a long red-gold mustache braided at the ends.

He reached Piercollo and tapped the giant’s shoulder. “You have insulted my brother,” he said.

Piercollo sighed and stood. “Your brother has the manners of a donkey,” he told him.

The newcomer smiled. “True, but he is still my brother. And while Karak is here, no one lays a hand on him.” Even as he
spoke the man launched a punch. Piercollo swayed back, his own hand sweeping up, the fingers closing around Karak’s fist and catching it easily. I saw the Tuscanian’s knuckles whiten as he squeezed the captured hand.

“Piercollo does not like to fight,” he said softly. “Piercollo likes to sit and drink in peace.” The man’s face twisted in pain, his right hand reaching for the dagger at his belt, but Piercollo squeezed harder, and I heard a knuckle crack. Karak winced and groaned, and his hand fell away from the dagger. “It would be good for us to be friends,” said Piercollo, “and perhaps drink together. Yes?”

“Yes,” agreed the man, the word almost exploding from between clenched teeth.

“Good,” said Piercollo with a wide smile. Releasing Karak, he patted his shoulder almost affectionately and turned back to his seat. In that moment the man drew his dagger. Piercollo, his back turned, rammed his elbow into Karak’s face, catching him on the bridge of the nose. Everyone in the room heard the bone break. Karak staggered back with blood pouring from his nostrils. Then, with a wild cry, he leapt at Piercollo. The Tuscanian stepped in to meet him, his fist thundering against the man’s chin. There was a sickening crack, and the attacker fell, his knife clattering across the floorboards.

“You’ve killed him!” shouted the scarred young man, dropping to his knees beside the body. For a moment we all thought this might be true, but the injured Karak groaned and tried to move; his jaw was shattered, his nose broken. Several men moved forward to aid him, turning him to his back, where he lay gasping for some time before his friends gathered around him, carrying him from the room.

“If you could have made that fight last a little longer, I might have won a few bets,” said Jarek Mace.

“I do not like to fight,” repeated Piercollo, downing the last of his ale.

“For someone who doesn’t like it, you are rather good at it.”

Piercollo shrugged, and it seemed to me that a great sadness had fallen upon him.

“You had no choice,” I told him. “He intended to kill you.”

“I know, Owen, but it gives me no pleasure to cause pain. You understand? I like to hear laughter and song. He was so foolish; we could have sat together and had a drink, told stories,
and become friends. But no. Now he will spend months with broken bones. And for what? Because he has a brother with bad manners. It makes no sense.”

“You are a good man,” I said. “You were not to blame.”

“I am not good man. Good men do not break the bones of others. I am weak, friend Owen.”

The doors opened, and a group of men entered. I tensed, for one of them was the scarred young man and he was carrying a sword. “Oh, no!” I whispered. Mace saw them and turned his attention to his ale; in that moment I knew he would leave the Tuscanian to his fate. I tapped Piercollo on the shoulder and pointed to the new arrivals. There were five men, all armed with swords or daggers. Piercollo pushed himself to his feet, and I rose with him, my hand upon my dagger. Ilka also stood, but Mace and Wulf remained where they were, studiously ignoring the proceedings.

Piercollo said nothing as the men advanced, but I pushed my way to the front. “He is unarmed,” I said, keeping my voice even.

“He is going to die,” said the scarred youngster.

“You think so? Let us see,” I said, raising my hand palm upward. First I created a flash of white light, spearing up from the palm to the ceiling—I always find this focuses the attention of the audience. The five men jumped back in shock. “And now the future!” I said this in a loud voice, keeping their gazes locked to me. Instantly the image of Horga formed upon my palm, the enchantress standing just over two feet tall, a white dress billowing in an unseen breeze. “I call upon you, Horga,” I said, “to tell us the future if you will. Are there any here who will die tonight?” She floated from my hand, circling the room, pausing now and again above grim-faced men who looked away, licking their lips, trying to still the terror in their hearts. Finally she returned to my hand and shook her head.

“But there is to be a fight,” I said. “Surely if such a battle takes place, someone will die.”

She nodded and spun on my hand, her finger pointing to the scarred youngster. Golden light blazed from her finger to engulf the young man, and above his head appeared a skull, the universal sign of impending doom.

“Thank you, Horga,” I said, bowing to the image. She lifted her arms and disappeared. I turned my attention to the warriors.
“There has already been a fight,” I told them, smiling. “An even contest that ended with broken bones. There is no need now for further violence. But if you wish it, we will oblige you.”

“I am not afraid to die,” said the youngster, but his eyes betrayed the lie.

“Of course you are not,” I assured him. “You are a brave man. You are all brave men. But death is eternal, and I like to think that when my time comes and the maggots feast upon my eyes, I will have died for something worthwhile. And I want my sons, tall sons, to stand beside my bed and bid me farewell with love in their hearts.”

“He should apologize to me!” said the young man, pointing to Piercollo.

The giant spread his arms. “If that is what you wish, then I do so gladly,” he said. “I am sorry that you were offended and doubly sorry that your brother is hurt. And I am deeply glad that I do not have to kill you. Will you drink with us? Piercollo will pay.”

The man nodded and sheathed his sword, the others following his example. They did not stay long, but they drank with us and the enmity ended there.

Just before midnight a young nun entered the tavern and moved between tables, collecting coins. Stopping before us, she held out a leather pouch. “To feed the poor and the sick,” she said.

Each of us gave a silver penny, and she smiled her thanks and moved away.

Mace’s eyes never left her. “What order was she?” he asked me.

“I think she is a Gastoigne. They have braided belts with three tassels.”

“Celibates?” he asked. I nodded.

“What a waste,” he said. “I wonder if she lives nearby.”

I know what you would be thinking, my dear ghost, were you capable of thought: Where is the princess? Where is the great love of the Morningstar for whom he risked his life on a score of occasions, climbing tall towers under silver moonlight, journeying into deep spirit-haunted caverns, fighting men and beasts conjured by sorcerers?

I could tell you with a degree of truth that she didn’t exist. Or
at least not as the myths would have you believe. I will say no more now. For Mace’s great love is both a part of my tale and yet not. But I will leave that riddle to be explained in its proper place.

The woman who gave life to the stories was quite different. To begin with, her hair was not spun gold, nor was her skin alabaster white. She was not tall, standing at just over five and a half feet, and her beauty did not make men gasp. She was what some men call a handsome woman, her features regular, her mouth full and sensual. As to her eyes, they were hazel, the brows heavy—indicators, in my experience, of a passionate nature.

Her name was Astiana, and she was the Gastoigne sister seeking alms in the tavern. And while it is true that Mace noticed her, it was only in the way he noticed most women. He gave no other thought to her that night and indeed spent it in the company of a buxom serving girl with a gap-toothed smile and welcoming eyes.

There were no rooms in the tavern, and Wulf, Piercollo, Ilka, and I left the place just after midnight and slept in a field close by.

Mace found us just after dawn, and we sat and talked for a while. Piercollo wanted to buy supplies, and since it was market day, we decided to stay in Pasel. By midmorning we were bored and anxious to be on our way. The town offered little in the way of entertainment, and the market was dull. Piercollo obtained two sides of ham, a sack of oats, some sugar and salt, and various dried herbs and seasonings. He was content, and we were all ready to move on when Astiana came to the marketplace.

She climbed the wooden steps to the auctioneer’s platform and began to preach to the crowd, who gathered around to listen. She spoke of love and caring, of the need to help those less fortunate. Her speaking voice was good though not powerful, and her delivery was less than perfect. But she made up for this with passion and belief, her every word hammering home into the hearts of the listeners.

Even so I was surprised that the crowd remained, for she began to criticize Angostin rule—the unfair taxes and the criminal behavior of the conquerors. Then she spoke of the hope of
the people and cried out the name of the Morningstar. A great cheer went up.

This was dangerous talk, and I looked around, seeking out the militia.

They were there, lounging against the walls of nearby buildings, but they made no attempt to stop her. At last a tall officer with braided blond hair beneath a helm of iron stepped forward. “That is enough, Sister!” he called.

Astiana turned to him. “You should be ashamed, Brackban,” she chided. “You serve the cause of the evil upon this land.”

“You have had your quarter hour, Astiana, and now the auctioneer is waiting and there are cattle to sell. Step down, if you please.”

The slender nun raised her hand and blessed the crowd, then walked swiftly from the platform, and I saw Brackban wander away into the nearest tavern.

The cattle auction had no interest for me, and I returned to my companions, who were sitting at a bench table near the town center, enjoying a late breakfast of bread and cheese. “She spoke well of me,” said Mace. “Fine sentiments.”

“She was not speaking of you, Jarek,” I told him coldly.

“You are in a foul temper this morning.”

“Not at all. It is just that I see things more clearly now.”

“Have I done something to offend you, Owen?”

Piercollo had wandered to the edge of the crowd, watching the auction. Ilka was beside him; both were out of earshot. “Offend me? Last night our friend could have been slain, and you did nothing. You left him to his fate. I find that despicable.”

“You did well enough without me,” he pointed out, “and why should I risk my life for the man? I did not ask him to break the fellow’s jaw; it had nothing to do with me.”

“Had it been you under attack, would you have expected us to stand with you?”

“No,” he answered simply. “Nor would I have asked you.”

We were ready to leave when a troop of soldiers rode in, scattering the crowd at the auction. Hauling on their reins, the fifty men sat their mounts while their officer dismounted and climbed to the platform, pushing aside the auctioneer.

“By the order of Azrek, lord of the north,” he shouted, “the town of Pasel is now under direct military rule. The militia is hereby disbanded. My name is Lykos, and town leaders will
assemble this evening one hour after dusk at the keep, where I shall inform them of the new laws and taxes decreed by the Lord Azrek. There will be a curfew at dusk, and anyone found abroad after this will be arrested. There will be no public meetings and no gatherings until further notice.”

I saw Brackban walk from the tavern and stand with arms folded before the newcomer. “Pasel is not in your lord’s domain,” he said. “You have no authority here.”