Morningstar (24 page)

“Don’t do it, Jarek! He is a hostage!” I shouted. “The rules of war state—”

“I do not play by their rules,” said Mace. But the dagger did not plunge into Lykos’ heart; instead, Mace lanced the point into the Angostin’s right eye, the blade twisting. The officer’s scream was awful to hear. Mace dragged the dagger back, then moved in close to the half-blinded man. “I’m going to let you live for a little while, you worm, so that you can suffer as he is going to suffer. But when you are healed, I’ll come back for you. You hear me? The Morningstar will come back for you!”

Hurling the whimpering man from him, he stalked away into the forest.

I ran after him, grabbing his arm. “Why are you so angry?” I asked him. “You won! You rescued Piercollo and the others.”

“You fool, Owen! You heard Brackban back in the marketplace. They have all the tax money there in that damned keep. I could have been rich—and clear of this cursed forest. Now they’ll be hunting me even harder. A pox on your Morningstar!”

I felt confusion in my soul as we made our way deeper into the forest, in turn both elated and depressed. My elation came from recognizing the trap before it was sprung, the depression from walking into it in the first place. It made my plan seem naïve and stupid, for I had been outthought by Lykos, and only Mace’s speed of action had saved us.

How had I known of the trap? I wondered at this for some
time and realized it was the soldiers in the sleeping area who had alerted my subconscious. As we had walked into the keep and up the long winding stair, I had seen soldiers lounging on their pallet beds. But the men had been wearing breastplates and boots. No warrior, save one expecting trouble, rests in this way. I should have seen it more swiftly, I know, but it was pleasing even so to realize that the weakest son of the great Aubertain could at times think like a fighter.

And was my plan so naïve? No. What I had not considered was how the legend of the Morningstar would be interpreted by Lykos. Had he known the real Mace, Lykos would never have expected a rescue attempt. But he didn’t; he knew only the legend. And such a hero would surely die of shame if he did not attempt to aid his friends.

We made camp in a deep cave high up on the flanks of a tall mountain. From the entrance we could see the land around for miles, and there was no obvious possibility of a surprise attack.

On the walk to the mountain each of the twenty-strong party—save Piercollo, who was in great pain—collected wood and tinder for the night fire. On Wulf’s instruction I lit the fire close to the back wall of the cave. In this way the breeze from the entrance forced the smoke up against the rear wall and out of the cave overhead, leaving the air below pure and clean. The wood was dry, for it had been gathered above ground, snapped from dead trees. Branches left on grass or moss or earth tend to soak in water and make poor fuel.

Astiana tended to Piercollo’s ruined eye, making a compress of herbs, which she bound over the wound. Brackban, Jairn, Wulf, and Mace sat together at the cave mouth, discussing, no doubt, the events of the evening. The other men, mostly militia soldiers who had served with Brackban, stretched themselves out near the fire and slept.

Ilka approached me, taking my hand and pointing to Piercollo. “I am not a healer,” I said gently. Lifting her right hand, she waved it, stretched fingers miming the actions of a magicker. “That is not my skill, Ilka,” I told her, but she continued to tug, and I moved alongside the wounded man.

Astiana looked up but did not smile. “It could become infected,” she said. “It was not a clean wound.”

“No infection.” mumbled Piercollo. “They used hot metal … very hot. Very red. The eye is gone, I think.”

Taking a deep breath, I placed my hand upon the compress. “Tell me if this helps or hinders,” I said, casting a cooling spell over the area.

Piercollo lay back, his good eye closing. “Better,” he whispered. “Much better.” I deepened the spell, my hand trembling with the cold. His breathing slowed, and he slept.

I left the women tending him and joined Mace and the others. Brackban thrust out a meaty hand and grinned. “My thanks to you, sorcerer.”

I shook my head. “Sorcery is, thankfully, not my area of expertise, sir. But I was pleased to assist in your rescue.”

“Talks prettily, doesn’t he?” put in Wulf.

“I don’t judge a man by how he talks,” said Brackban, “but by how he acts. I know you did not enter that keep to rescue me; you were looking for your friend. But even so I am now in your debt, and I always repay.”

“You have nothing to repay,” Mace said easily.

“I disagree, Morningstar. Jairn says you have an army in the south of the forest. I would be honored to join it. I have some experience with soldiering; I have trained men for battle.”

As clearly as the sun shining through a break in a storm cloud, I saw then what needed to be done. When I had sent Corlan and his men south, it had been to eliminate a danger to us, to put distance between us. But now Owen Odell, the son of Aubertain, knew without doubt what action was called for. The reign of Azrek in this land was evil, and evil must be countered wherever it is met. Mace had no understanding of this, but then, Mace was no longer in control.

Before he could answer, I spoke up. “The army is not yet gathered, Brackban. When the Morningstar spoke of it, he meant the men of the Highlands, who even now are tending farms or raising cattle.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, tugging at a blond braid of hair that hung from his temple.

I looked into his clear blue eyes. “There is no army—not yet. The time is not right. The war between north and south is barely over; the southern Angostins control all the major cities. To begin an uprising now would be futile. But soon the majority of their forces will travel back to the south, leaving garrisons to control the Highlands. Then we will gather the men; then we will cast the Angostins from among us.”

“What then can I do?” he asked.

“You can recruit the iron core. Find men of courage, men with ability. Old soldiers, veterans. Then we can call the men of the Highlands to arms. We can train them, arm them.”

“What about coin? Arms cost money.”

“Go south and seek out a man named Corlan. He will supply coin. Tell him you are sent by Jarek Mace. Corlan leads the men of the Morningstar. You will aid him where you can, but your responsibility will be the gathering of officers. The heart of the army.”

“Is this the same Corlan who has brought murder and savagery to the forest for the last five years?”

“It is. But he fights now for the Highlands.”

“And you trust him?” The question was asked softly, but Brackban’s eyes had hardened, and I knew he was skeptical.

Mace leaned forward. “He has sworn the soul oath,” he said. “As you will—as will every man here. If he betrays us, he will die horribly. Is that not so, Owen?”

“Yes. But it is not necessary for Brackban to swear. I can read his heart, and he is a true man.”

“I will swear it anyway,” said Brackban.

Once again I conjured the dancing flame and watched as it glided along Brackban’s arm, disappearing into his chest.

“Do you swear to follow the Morningstar unto the ends of life and to give your life in order to free the Highlands?”

“I do.”

“So be it. The soul fire now burns inside you. It will strengthen your resolve and aid your courage. But should you ever betray the cause, it will rot your body from within and you will die. You understand?”

“I understand.” He reached out his hand to Mace, who took it in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “Until death, Morningstar,” he said.

“Until death,” agreed Jarek Mace.

After banking up the fire, I slept, a thin blanket around my shoulders, my head pillowed on my arm. I could feel the warmth of the flames on my back, and my thoughts were mellow. Piercollo, though grievously hurt, was alive and free, owing in no small measure to my talents. I felt relaxed and free of care.

* * *

I drifted into sleep and awoke by another fire, beneath a sky shining with the light of two moons, one a crescent, the other full and huge, its surface scarred and pitted like a silver plate engraved with black ink.

I sat up and stared around me. The landscape was flat, but the small blaze had been set on the brow of the only hill for miles. It was a poor place for a fire, with nothing to reflect the heat. And yet the setting was somehow perfect. I became aware—as dreamers do—that I was not alone; three other men sat close by, hooded and silent. I looked at the first man, and his head came up. He was not unhandsome, the face slender, the eyes dark, the skin swarthy. He pushed back his hood, and I saw that he was wearing a black helm upon his long hair; he was not old, yet his hair was already silver.

“You wear the ring,” he said. The other two men had not moved, and I switched my gaze to them. They shimmered and faded in the moonlight, and their heads remained shadowed within the hoods. “I am Gareth,” said the first man, lifting his hand. I saw his ring then, the twin of the one I now wore, the white stone shining like a tiny moon.

“I found it,” I told him.

“I know. It was at the gray keep.”

“My ring,” came a hoarse whisper from my left. The shimmering figure raised its head, and the moonlight fell upon a translucent face, the image drifting between flesh and bone. One moment his features were clear and human; the next, as he moved, the skull shone through. “My ring,” he repeated.

“It was not my intention to steal it,” I said.

“Yet you have it,” said Gareth.

“It was upon the hand of a dead man. Is that theft?”

“You took what was not yours.”

I could not argue against such logic, and I shrugged. “I will return it if you wish.”

“You read the inscription?”

“Yes. Guard am I, sword pure, heart strong.”

“Did you understand it?”

“No.”

Gareth nodded. “I thought not. The sorcerer who attacked you—he would have understood. Not enough to be fearful but enough to wreak chaos. What do we guard, Owen?”

“I don’t know. Some hidden treasure? A holy relic?”

“We guarded the Three, lest the evil should come again. Now two have been found, and the third is sought. Where do you stand in this?”

“How can I answer? I do not know of what you speak.”

“The skulls, Owen.”

Once when I was a small child I was playing on a frozen lake, when the ice gave way beneath me. The shock of the icy water to my system was terrifying. Such was the feeling of dread that touched me now when Gareth spoke.

The skull at the keep. One of the Three. One of the Vampyre kings.

“Why do you guard them?” I asked at last.

“On the orders of Rabain and Horga,” he answered. “When the kings were slain, it was found that the skulls could not be destroyed. Horga took them and kept them apart. She tried to bum them in fierce furnaces. They were struck repeatedly by iron mallets. They were dropped from high cliff tops, but they did not shatter on the rocks below, nor were they even marked. At last, defeated by them, Horga and Rabain ordered them to be taken to three secret locations, there to be guarded for eternity by the Ringwearers.”

“You are a thousand years old?” I asked him.

He smiled then and shook his head. “No. Three families were chosen from among Rabain’s knights. From father to son they passed the rings and the secret. It was never to be spoken of, but the head of the family was pledged to guard the resting place of the skulls so that they would never again be brought together.”

“Why? What peril can come from old bones?”

He shrugged and spread his hands. “I cannot say. I do not know. But Horga claimed that if ever they were to be gathered in one place, then a great evil would live again. The families were true to the promise of their ancestors. We lived our lives chained to the past, the Ringwearers … until ten years ago.” He pointed to the farthest figure, who still had not moved. “Lorin spoke of the skull, and the word reached Azrek. You know of him, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“He sent men to the forest, hunters, killers. Lorin fought them off, slaying four of them, but they returned with Cataplas,
and Lorin died. But first they tortured him until finally he broke and talked of the gray keep.

“Cataplas journeyed there with his killers. Kircaldy was there. He fought also, then barricaded himself in the tower. Cataplas sent a spell of fire that burned the flesh from his bones, but Cataplas did not find the skull—not until you came and unwittingly made him a gift of it.

“Now there is only one: the skull of Golgoleth, the greatest of the Vampyre kings. Cataplas seeks it. Azrek desires it. It must be denied to them.”

“Do they know where to find it?”

“I think that they do.”

“How?”

“The kings were joined by sorcery, and there are lines of power between the skulls. One was not enough to locate the others, but with two a skilled sorcerer will be drawn to the third.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Kircaldy and Lorin both died before they sired sons. Lorin’s ring was taken by Cataplas, but you have the ring of Kircaldy. Will you take on the responsibility of the promise? Will you become a Ringwearer?”

There was no need for me to consider my words. “I will,” I said.

“You may die for that promise, Owen Odell.”

“All men die, Gareth.”

“Then journey to the troll reaches. Come as quickly as you can. I will find you—if I still live.”

I noticed then that the spirit of Kircaldy was no longer present. “Where has he gone?” I asked.

“To a place of rest.”

“And what of Lorin? He remains.”

“Cataplas has his ring. Until another guardian is found, Lorin will know no peace.”

When I awoke, the cave was dark, the fire merely embers casting soft shadows on the far wall. I rose silently and walked to the entrance. A cold wind was blowing across the mountainside, but I found Mace sitting with his back to a boulder, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

“You look lost in thought,” I said, seating myself beside him.

“There is much to think about. Do you think Rabain was like me?”