Morningstar (19 page)

“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 saber, 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 précis 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 that 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 inquired. “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 toward 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 gaundet. 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 when 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 sent 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 travelers. 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, partly 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 onto 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 stairs beyond, the rest of us following. I did not dare to look back. At the top of the stairs 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 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 and had never 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 cleared the rib cage of a tall skeleton, but the creature moved on as if nothing had happened. Ilka ran in, the shining silver saber 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 gray 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.”