Morningstar (27 page)

“We seek no treasure,” I told him, “though I think you are right about Kaygan. How shall we find Gareth?”

“Just head north. If he wants to be found, you’ll see him.”

“How many men were with the swordsman?” queried Mace.

“Seven. They had a tracker with them, Cheos. Local man. He’s good. They say he could trail the north wind to its lair in the ice wastes.”

“You have been very helpful,” I said. “Many thanks.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” replied the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. Mace produced two silver pennies, which he laid before the man, but Scoris shook his head. “I’ll not have it said,” he told us, dropping his voice, “that I charged the Morningstar for breakfast.”

With a broad smile and a wink he rose and returned to his kitchen. “How did he know you?” whispered Wulf.

Mace chuckled. “It is not me he recognized, half-wit! How many men travel the forest in the company of a giant and a hunchback?”

He was just downing the last of his cider when Astiana ran into the tavern. “Lykos!” she shouted. “He’s here!” Wulf leapt to his feet, grabbing for his bow. Mace and I rose. Piercollo curled his hand around the haft of a long bread knife.

“Time to leave!” said Mace softly.

“Show yourself, wolfshead!” came the shout from beyond the tavern. Mace swore and moved to the shuttered window, peering through the crack.

“There must be twenty men out there,” he said.

“There are a dozen more beyond the back door,” Scoris informed us, his face red and his eyes showing his fear.

“They were hidden in the church,” said Astiana. “The priest warned me, and I came as fast as I could.”

I moved to the window. Lykos, in full armor and helm, a sword in his hand, sat upon a gray gelding. The helm’s visor was partly open, and I could see that his eye was bandaged, the wound seeping blood, which had stained the cloth. Around him were men-at-arms, several with crossbows aimed at the door but most armed with swords.

“I have a cellar,” said Scoris. “There is a tunnel that leads out into the storehouse and barn. Use it quickly!”

Mace took his bow and notched an arrow to the string. “Not yet!” he said grimly. Drawing back on the string, he gave a swift instruction to Wulf. The hunchback moved behind the door and suddenly wrenched it open. Three crossbow shafts
hammered into the wood, a fourth slashing through the doorway to punch home into the wall.

Mace stepped into the doorway. “I told you what would happen, Lykos, when next we met.” The crossbowmen were frantically seeking to reload, the swordsmen standing by uselessly. Mace raised his bow, the arrow flashing through the air to lance between visor and helm, and Lykos reeled back in the saddle, the shaft piercing his brain. For a moment he sat stock-still, then his body fell, his foot catching in the stirrup. Such was the clang of the armor as it struck the ground that the gelding reared and fled in panic, the armored corpse with foot caught dragging behind. Several men ran after the beast; the others charged the tavern.

Mace leapt back inside, slamming shut the door. Wulf lowered the guard bar into place. Scoris waved us out into the kitchen, lifting a trapdoor; there was a narrow flight of stairs leading down into darkness.

“Go quickly!” said Scoris, handing Piercollo a lit lantern.

“You will be in great trouble for this,” I said.

“No matter!”

Mace was behind him. I saw his hand come up, heard the thud of the blow on the man’s neck, then Scoris fell forward upon me. Lowering his unconscious body to the ground, I rounded on Mace. “What have you done?”

“Protected him as best I can. Now move!”

Piercollo went first, followed by Ilka, Astiana, Wulf, and myself. Mace pulled shut the trapdoor behind us and brought up the rear. The cellar was dank but filled with the sweet smell of cider casks. Swiftly we crossed it, coming to a tunnel that sloped upward. At the far end, some twenty paces distant, we could see a thin shaft of light. Piercollo doused the lantern, and we silently approached the storehouse. Sliding back the bolts on the hinged trapdoors, we emerged into the building. All was silent inside, but we could hear the distant shouts of the disappointed soldiers back at the tavern.

The store was filled with hanging carcasses of salted meats, barrels of apples and other fruit, sacks of flour and sugar, oats and wheat. There were two great doors, wide enough to allow the passage of wagons, and a side exit leading to the north.

Wulf opened the side door, peering out. There was no one in sight.

And the trees were but a few hundred feet away.

We ran across the open ground, every moment fearing the sound of pursuit. But we passed unseen from Willow and once more entered the forest.

The songs talk of the fight with Lykos, telling us that Mace met him in single combat while Astiana stood on a scaffold with a rope around her neck. But life is rarely like the songs, my dear ghost.

That is a sorry fact for a bard to learn. For we like our heroes pure, you see—golden men, demigods without flaw. Just as we like our villains to be black-hearted and vile. When men sit in taverns, supping their ale and listening to poets regaling them with epic stories, they cannot be bothered to think. They do not wish their enjoyment to be sullied by shades of gray. No, they desire only sinister black and spotless white. And are women any different? No, again. Forced by their fathers—yes, even sold by them—into a life of servitude and drudgery, they
need
to believe there are heroes. They look at the dull, flat features of their husbands and dream of golden-haired men who would slay dragons for them.

We even follow this practice in life itself. The enemy is always reviled, pictured as the despoiler of women, the eater of babies, a living plague upon the earth, a servant of Satan. Wars are never fought for plunder or gain. Oh, no, they are always depicted as ultimate battles between good and evil. But then, looking at the nature of man, that is understandable. Can you imagine the scene, the great king gathering his troops before an epic battle. “Right, my lads,” he says as he sits upon his great black stallion, “today we fight for my right to steal gold from whomever I choose. The enemy are men much the same as yourselves. A good bunch, probably, with wives and children back home. And at the end of the battle, when I have more riches than I’ll ever spend in a lifetime, many of them—and indeed, many of you—will be worm food or crippled. Better to be dead, really, because I’ll have no use for you once you can no longer wield a sword. All right, lads. Let’s be at them!”

No. Far better for the poor foot soldier to be told that he is fighting for God, and right, and justice in the world against an enemy spawned from darkness.

But where was I? Ah, yes, Lykos was dead, as Mace had promised he would be. And thus the legend grew.

Word flew through the forest faster than a raven’s flight, the story growing, adding to the myth of the Morningstar. The townsmen of Pasel, learning of the killing, rose up and retook the keep. The revolt spread, and Rualis rebelled against the Angostins, slaughtering the soldiers and the noble families who had ruled there for three centuries. Farther south Brackban was gathering men to the Morningstar’s cause.

Corlan the outlaw had attacked three convoys, and his men of the Morningstar were heroes now, carrying a sacred flame in their hearts.

You have never seen a forest fire, ghost. It is a fearsome thing. One moment all is silent, dry, and hot; the next, a tiny flicker of flame dances upon dead leaves. Other dancers join it, and they run across the ground, flaring up against dead wood. A breeze fans them, and they scatter until it is a dance no longer. Flames roar high into the sky, great oaks burn like tinder, and the dancers become a ravening monster propelled by the wind.

Such was the rebellion.

When I had sent Corlan south, it had merely been to separate him and his men from us, to put distance between us. I do not believe—though I would like to—that I planned the rebellion from the start. But I will say with all honesty that the seed of the idea was growing when I gave Brackban his orders. Why should the Highlanders not control their own destiny? By what right, save that of conquest, did the Angostins rule?

But this was not in my mind as we walked toward the troll reaches, seeking the Ringwearer, Gareth.

I was more concerned with our safety, for ahead of us were stretches of forest and mountain inhabited by creatures many times stronger than men. Here was the last refuge of the trolls and, according to fable, many other ancient races, dread beasts and sorcerous evil.

But more immediate was the threat of Kaygan the swordsman and his seven killers, and worse than these the ever-present fear of Cataplas and his sorcery. None of which seemed to bother Mace as we walked. He was in high good humor.

“All that armor plate,” he said, “breastplate, shoulder guards, greaves, thigh protectors, gauntlets, helm. Must have
cost at least thirty gold pieces. And one arrow ends his miserable existence. By God, isn’t life wonderful?”

“There is nothing wonderful about the taking of a life,” put in Astiana, “though I grant that Lykos deserved death.”

“It shouldn’t have been as quick,” said Wulf. “I’d like to have had an evening in his company with some hot irons and a blazing fire.”

“To achieve what?” asked the sister stonily.

“Achieve?” responded Wulf. “Why, I would have enjoyed it.”

“I can see no pleasure in such torture,” muttered Piercollo. “He is dead, and that is an end to it.”

The clouds gathered, and the sky darkened. We sheltered from the coming storm in an old log dwelling, long deserted. The west wall had collapsed, the cabin was open to the elements, but there was enough of a roof left on the east and north walls to protect us from the rain and the gathering storm.

As we sat around the fire blazing in the stone-built hearth, I entertained the company with the tale of Arian and Llaw and the return of the Gabala knights. But after this, following requests from Wulf and Mace, I performed once more Rabain’s battles with the Vampyre assassins.

The magick was as usual greeted by warm applause, save from Astiana, who as a sister of God frowned upon the talent.

“Did Rabain’s son actually kill him?” asked Mace suddenly as the figures faded away. “In life, I mean.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. All we know of Rabain comes from legend, word of mouth. In some tales it is his son who slays him. In others he journeyed across the Far Sea. In at least one he climbed into a chariot of fire and journeyed to join the gods.”

“There are other legends of Rabain,” said Astiana, “older, darker. In these, he has no son.”

This aroused my interest, and I questioned her further. “When I was first a novice,” she explained, “there was an old monk who gathered such stories, writing them in a great book. He said that the first tales of Rabain were of a demon summoned from hell, Ra-he-borain—the Summoned One. The Vampyre kings had destroyed the armies of light and Horga the sorceress, in desperation, called upon a prince of blood. He was a killer, damned to an eternity of torment, burning in lakes of fire. She
drew him back, and he slew Golgoleth. All the Vampyre armies fell to ash in that moment, for as the old tales have it, when the lord of Vampyres dies, his legions die with him.”

“What happened to Rabain?” asked Mace.

“He was returned to the pit.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Wulf complained.

“Life isn’t fair,” said Mace, chuckling, “but I like the tale. At least his son doesn’t betray him in this one. Did he get a chance to enjoy a parade?”

“He enjoyed Horga. I understand,” said Astiana primly. “That was his price for doing what was right. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he demanded her body. It was that act which meant he would be returned to the pit. He knew this, but such was his desire that he suffered the fires of eternity to have her.”

“Must have been some woman,” said Mace with a broad grin. “Though I can’t say as I would ever strike such a bargain. So, poor Rabain still sits in his lake of fire. I wonder if he thinks it was worth it?”

“According to legend,” Astiana continued, “Ra-he-borain merely waits to be called again, his pain as nothing compared with his memories of Horga.”

“That is a tale invented by a woman,” said Mace scornfully. “You all think too much of yourselves.”

“And you think too little,” she snapped.

“You are wrong, Sister. There are parts of a woman that I revere.”

The threatened row did not materialize, for at that moment the storm winds died down and we heard a terrible scream echo through the forest.

“By God’s holy tears!” whispered Wulf. “That chills the blood!”

Mace rose. “I think the Ringwearer has made contact with Kaygan and his men,” he said.

“We must help him,” I cried, the scream still echoing in my head.

“We can’t,” Mace told me. “Not yet. There is a storm raging over the forest. What good could we do, blundering around in the dark and the wet?”

“But it is one man against seven!” I protested.

“It’s better that way,” muttered Wulf. “At least he knows that every man he sees is an enemy.”

“But the scream … it could have been Gareth. They may already have him!”

“That is unlikely,” put in Mace. “They will be sheltering from the rain, just like us. This is no weather to be hunting a man.”

Thunder rolled across the sky, lightning following instantly, and the rain fell with great force. Wulf banked up the fire, and we sat in silence for a while.

“What will we do tomorrow?” I asked at last.

“You and the women will wait here,” said Mace. “Wulf and I will find Gareth.”

“And then?”

“We’ll see. Take the first watch, Owen, and wake me in about four hours.” Wrapping himself in his cloak, Mace settled down, falling asleep almost instantly.

The fire was warm and comforting, making me sleepy, so I moved away from it to sit below the edge of the broken roof, the dripping water splashing my boots. The forest beyond was cold and uninviting, gleaming with dark light. Somewhere out there, beneath the wind-whipped trees, a man was fighting for his life … a man alone.