Morningstar (10 page)

“I don’t enjoy watching men kill one another, but it was rewarding to see the joy on the faces of those who believed they had lost everything only to find a hero had rescued them.”

“Does it not strike you as … unfair … that this hero is the only one to lose money on the venture?”

“You didn’t lose,” I told him. “As soon as I saw that crowd, I guessed what would happen, so I stuffed my pockets with coin and I kept this.” Reaching inside my tunic shirt, I pulled clear a small pouch. Opening it, I tipped the contents into Jarek’s outstretched hands; there were rings and necklets, brooches and bracelets, all of heavy gold, several studded with gems, emeralds and rubies.

His smile widened, and he winked at me. “By heavens, Owen. I like you more and more. I hope you have deep pockets.”

“Deep enough, I would say, for around fifty silver pieces.”

“There is hope for you, my friend, in this wicked world of ours.”

“Maybe,” muttered Megan, rising and stretching her back. Without a word to us she walked to the wide bed and laid herself down beside the sleeping Ilka.

Jarek returned the gold to the pouch, then slipped it inside his jerkin.

“Why not travel with me, Owen?” he asked. “We’ll see the high country, the lonely passes, the stands of pine.”

“I think I will,” I told him.

Toward midnight, with the women sleeping, the hunchback Wulf came to the door. “I need to talk with you, Mace,” he said.

Jarek ushered him to the hearth, where the hunchback sat awkwardly, his twisted back unsuited to the chair. “I’ve nothing here anymore,” he said. Jarek nodded but remained silent. “Most women turned away from me, but not my Tess. A good woman, and I treated her right. Good young’uns, too. Pretty—not like their sire. But they are gone now. Gone.” His voice trailed away, and he cleared his throat and spit into the dying fire. “Anyways, what I’m saying is that I’ve no holds here.”

“Why tell me?” asked Jarek, not unkindly.

“You’re a wandering man, Mace. There’s nothing here for any of us now, so I guess you’ll be traveling on. I’d like to accompany you.”

“You don’t even like me, Wulf.”

“True enough, but I liked what I saw on the road. I liked it when you stopped them—right well I liked it. You ain’t one of us, Mace—more like you are one of them. But by God’s holy eyes, you were a Highlander at that moment.”

Jarek Mace chuckled, then reached out and laid his hand on Wulf’s twisted back. “You are the best woodsman I’ve ever known,” he said. “Having you with us will mean good food and less time lost. You’re welcome. But know this: I don’t intend taking on the Angostins again. There’s no profit in it.”

“Time will tell about that, Mace,” said Wulf.

We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers pack their belongings for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on roughly built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled onto the wagon.

The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees, and the Naeser abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey of the souls to the far river. Many tears were shed.

At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.

“They are coming!” he said between great gulps of air. “Maybe a hundred horsemen.”

Word spread swiftly, and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away toward the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf, and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.

“Time to go,” said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the northwest and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand, his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he, too, carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand ax was thrust into this wide leather belt.

As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money pouch, and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-colored woolen shirt. In truth, I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the ax had built muscle in my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.

Which was just as well, for as we reached the hillside, we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding toward us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.

Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.

Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.

Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver, and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow, which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider dragged
on the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.

Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy farther into the forest.

Within the hour, all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.

The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with color and life. From the high mountainsides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.

For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into the deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares, and on the third day Jarek killed a bighorn sheep; we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.

I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarcely drink in the wonder of my surroundings.

I know it may seem callous considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.

But then we met Piercollo …

Of us all he came closest to being the reality within the myth. There are more stories about him than any of us, including the Morningstar. And while the greater part of them are inventions or distortions, if life had placed him in those fictitious situations of peril, he would have reacted just as the storytellers claim.

Added to which, there was never any malice in Piercollo. I do not believe he ever truly learned to hate. And what a voice! When he sang, such was the warmth and emotion that he could stave off winter. I’d swear that if he burst into song in an icy glade, the snow would melt and spring flowers would push up through the frozen earth just to hear him.

Of them all, I miss him the most.

We were walking down into a shaded glen. The sun was high, just past noon on a warm spring day. Jarek Mace was leading us, and we were moving northwest toward the distant market
town of Lualis. As usual I brought up the rear, walking behind Wulf, whose mood on this day was sullen, the loss of his family heavy upon him.

Then we heard the sound of a man singing, his voice rich, the language unknown to me. But the song soared out above and through the trees with a power I could scarcely believe. My skin tingled with the excitement of it, and I knew that this unknown singer was performing for the forest, just as I had months before with my harp. He was singing from the heart, carrying the music from the well of his soul and releasing it into the air like a flock of golden birds.

Mace dropped back to where Wulf and I stood spellbound.

“What the hell is that?” asked Jarek Mace. Wulf’s hand slashed the air, commanding silence, and we stood for several minutes and listened. At last the song faded. Mace looked at us both, then chuckled and shook his head. Stringing his bow, he strode off in the direction from which the song had come. As we followed him, there came the aroma of roasting meat. We had breakfasted on wild turkey and were far from hungry, yet the smell made the mouth water and the stomach growl. Suddenly it was as if I had not eaten in days, such was my newfound appetite.

We came to a clearing beside a swiftly flowing stream. There, beside a trench fire pit upon which a whole sheep was being turned on a spit, sat a huge black-bearded man. He was wearing a purple shirt and hose of wool, and about his shoulders was a black-and-white checkered shawl. He glanced up as we emerged from the trees but did not stand or greet us.

“Good day to you,” said Jarek Mace. “I see we are in time for lunch.”

“You are in time to watch me eat
my
lunch,” agreed the man amiably. The voice was deep and heavily accented. He smiled as he spoke, but the smile did not reach the somber brown eyes.

“That is hardly civil,” Jarek told him. “Here we are, three hungry travelers, and you with a complete sheep almost ready for the carving.” He moved to the fire trench, where several pots bubbled beside the sheep. “Ah, liver broth, vegetables, wild onions, and herbs. Quite a feast for one man.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it. But I prefer to eat in privacy. So why not be on your way.”

Mace grinned and stepped back from the fire trench. “Has it
occurred to you, my large friend, that we could just confiscate this meal? You are one against three.”

The large man sighed and rose ponderously to his feet. Sitting down, he had seemed large enough, but now, standing, he was an alarming size. He was somewhere around seven inches above six feet tall; his breadth of shoulder was immense, and he towered over Mace.

“How would you do that?” he asked, the words spoken softly. “With your bow? You think an arrow could stop me reaching you and breaking your arms and legs?”

“Good point,” Mace agreed, laying aside the bow and drawing his longsword.

“No good, either,” said the man. “One cut, one thrust, is all you get. And I have been cut before.”

“Turn the spit,” said Mace. “The meat is charring.”

The giant glanced back, saw that it was true, and moved to the roasting sheep, turning the iron handle with one hand.

“Now,” said Mace, “it would appear that we are in somewhat of a quandary. We are hungry; you are loath to share your food. We do not want to kill you or to be killed. Therefore, let us wrestle for it.”

The man stared at him without expression for several heartbeats, then shook his head in disbelief. “You would wrestle
me
?”

“Best of three falls,” offered Mace. “What do you say? If you win, we’ll be on our way. If I win, we share the meat.”

“Agreed,” said the man. Turning to me, he pointed to the spit. “You think you can keep her turning?”

“I’ll do my best,” I told him. He moved away from the spit to stand before Mace, looming over him and dwarfing him.

“First let us talk about the rules,” said Mace, stepping in close. Suddenly he hooked his foot behind the giant’s leg and hammered his elbow into the man’s face. As he stumbled back, Mace leapt feet first at him, his boots thundering against the huge chest. His opponent toppled like a tree, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud. “Rule number one—there
are
no rules!”

The giant was unperturbed. Raising himself to his elbows, he gave a low, rumbling laugh. “Had you asked for a one-fall advantage, I would have given it to you,” he said, climbing to his feet. Mace ran forward and once again leapt at him feet first.
This time the man swayed and caught the flying figure, holding him in his arms with no more effort than if he had been holding a child. With a sway of the hips and a grunt of effort, he hurled Mace high into the air.

I winced at the thought of the landing that would follow, but Jarek Mace was a man of surprises. His body twisted in the air in a full somersault, and he landed perfectly on his feet.

“Very good,” said his opponent, clapping his hands. “Now let us be serious.”

They circled one another for several moments; then Mace darted in, dropped to his knee, and hurled his full weight against the giant’s legs. The man did not move. Reaching down, he grabbed Mace by the jerkin, hauling him to his feet—and beyond.

“A nice try, but you are competing at the wrong weight.” With infinite lack of speed the giant lifted his arms and slammed Mace to the ground. Then the stranger stood and walked back toward the fire trench. Mace rolled to his knees, drew his dagger, and was about to rush in and stab his opponent in the back when the man, without looking back, spoke again.

“I like you, little fellow,” he said. “Let us call it a draw and eat.”

I never knew whether Piercollo heard the whisper of iron hissing from the sheath; he never spoke of it. But I saw the light of anger fade from Mace’s eyes.

“It is safe now, I think” called the stranger, and a group of women and children came out from their hiding places in the trees. There were three elderly women, four younger wives, and eight children ranging in age from around four to twelve. Mace stood openmouthed as they appeared, and I looked toward Wulf; there was no reaction from the hunchback, and I guessed he had known of their presence all along.

“Let us eat!” said our host. There were no plates, but the children had pulled sections of bark from the surrounding trees and scrubbed them clean, and the succulent mutton was placed upon them.