Morningstar (29 page)

No duelist myself, still I could recognize quality in a swordsman, and these two were of the finest. Both were cool, their concentration finely honed, each parry followed by a deadly riposte in a game of cut and block, thrust and counter. But Kaygan was the better.

They fought for some minutes, their blades crashing together, before the first blood was spilt, Kaygan’s saber sliding along Mace’s sword and opening a shallow wound in the taller man’s shoulder. Mace leapt back, and Kaygan followed in swiftly, the point of the saber lancing toward his opponent’s belly. Mace swayed to the left, his sword arcing toward Kaygan’s face. Off balance, Kaygan hurled himself to the ground, rolling to his feet in one easy movement, but blood was flowing from a gash in his cheek.

Both men circled warily now, and it was Kaygan who spoke first. “You do not have my skill, Morningstar. You know it! How does it feel to be about to die?”

Mace laughed aloud. Kaygan swore and attacked again. Mace blocked the cut and then kicked out, his boot thudding into Kaygan’s groin. But the man twisted at the last moment, taking the weight of the blow on his thigh. Even so, he was forced
back, and Mace counterattacked, the black sword hammering down against the slender saber and pushing it back. A long cut appeared on Kaygan’s head, bright blood drenching the golden hair.

Once again both men moved apart, circling. “I hear you’re good with apples,” said Mace. “Fight back often, do they?”

With a snarl of fury Kaygan leapt into the attack, his sword a flashing blur of white light. Mace fell back against the ferocious onslaught, his jerkin sliced, a thin line of blood across his chest. There was no respite now, both men fighting to the limits of power and endurance.

At first I thought Kaygan would win it, but as time passed he seemed more desperate, less sure of his skill.

Finally, as he launched yet another attack, he stumbled. Mace’s blade flashed over the saber, sweeping down into Kaygan’s neck, cleaving the collarbone and rib cage to exit in a bloody spray from his chest.

Azrek’s champion died without a sound, his body slumping to the earth. Mace staggered back, then turned on me, his eyes angry. “Why didn’t you cast a spell or something? You could have blinded him with a flash of light!”

“You didn’t need me,” I said. “And such a light might have blinded
you
!”

“By God, he was skillful,” said Mace. “I never want to fight his like again.”

Moving away from us, he sat by the stream, cupping water in his hands and drinking his fill. His face was bathed in sweat, and he stripped his clothes from himself and splashed naked into the stream, lying down on the cold stones and allowing the water to run over his body. Both cuts were shallow and needed no stitches, but they bled profusely as soon as he left the water to sit in the sunshine with his back against a tree.

“I’ll get some cloth for bandages,” I told him.

“No. The blood will clot of its own accord. I saw you kill a man today, Owen. How did it feel?”

“Awful. I never want to do it again.”

“The next one will be easier. Why did you do it?”

“They were going to rape the women.”

“And you thought to stop five of them?”

“I thought I would do
something
. A man cannot stand by at such a time.”

He chuckled. “Of course a man can, but that is beside the point. You did well. What a hero you are, Owen Odell! A rescuer of maidens. A fit companion for the Morningstar, wouldn’t you think?”

“I thought Kaygan would kill you,” I told him, changing the subject. “He was better than you—faster, more skillful. You knew that.”

“So did he,” he replied, his expression becoming serious. “But there are two kinds of warrior: the one who likes to win and the one who fears to lose. Both can be good. Both can be exceptional. But in a contest between the two there can be only one victor. Fear has no place in combat, Owen. Before, yes. After, often. But not during.”

“How did you know that he feared to lose?”

“When he asked me how it felt to know I was going to die.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The nature of combat, Owen. We threaten our opponents in order to inspire fear. Yet how do we decide what will frighten them? How? We think of what terrifies us, and we try to use it against our enemy. He asked me how it felt to face death. That, then, was his greatest fear. That’s why I laughed at him.”

“And that’s why you knew you’d win?”

“That and one other small point,” said Mace with a grin.

“And what was that?”

“He couldn’t position himself for the kill because he knew that if he moved an inch the wrong way, then Wulf would put an arrow through his heart.” Mace laughed aloud. “Life just isn’t fair, is it, Owen?”

“Could you have beaten him without that advantage?”

“I think so. But why should I?”

“It would have been more honorable.”

He shrugged. “Such honor is for your songs, my friend. When an eagle sees a rabbit on open ground, he does not think, Poor creature. I will wait for him to move closer to his burrow. Life is a dangerous game, Owen. It is deadly serious. And the difference between life and death is like this!” Holding up one hand, he snapped his fingers. “One thrust! One cut! A fall from a horse. The touch of a plague wind. If I could, I would have cut Kaygan’s throat in his sleep.”

“Do you even understand the concept of honor?” I asked him.

“Obviously not,” he replied. His gaze flickered past me, and I turned to watch Astiana approach. “Ah,” whispered Mace, “the grateful thanks of the rescued maiden!”

“Why don’t you clothe yourself?” she demanded. “Such displays of nakedness are obscene.”

Mace climbed to his feet and stood before her with hands on hips. “There are women who have paid to see me thus,” he said softly. “But I wouldn’t expect a dried-up, passionless piece of baggage to understand that. And so, Sister—and I say this with all the respect you deserve—kiss my buttocks!”

I tensed myself for the exchange I felt was sure to follow, but Astiana laughed, a rich, merry sound that made us all smile. All, that is, save Mace. “I would sooner kiss your buttocks than your face,” she told him. Then she glanced down, studying his lower body. “And as for paying to see it, I wonder how many asked for their money back when they saw how little they were getting.”

Wulf guffawed, and Ilka smiled. Mace reddened, then he, too, grinned. “What does one expect after a cold bath?” he asked me.

Gathering his green woolen leggings, I tossed them to him. “Sharper than a serpent’s bite is the tongue of a righteous woman,” I quoted.

“Amen to that!” he agreed, dressing swiftly.

Piercollo walked into the clearing, gazed at the bodies, and then approached us.

“They found their man,” he said, his voice low. “They nailed him to a tree. It is not a pretty sight.”

“We’ll find him,” said Mace. “Stay here with the women.” Calling Wulf to him, they backtracked the giant. I followed them, but I soon wished I hadn’t.

Gareth had been tortured in ways I will not describe. Let it be sufficient to say that there was no way to recognize the man I had seen in my dream save by the blood-drenched white hair. He had been blinded and cut, burned and gouged.

Wulf knelt by the man, then looked up at Mace. “They continued long after he told them everything,” he said. “By God, I’m glad we killed them!”

I felt a whisper of wind against my face and stood frozen in shock, for within that gentle breeze I heard words, soft, sibilant, like distant echoes. “Gareth?” I said, amazed. Wulf and Mace
both turned to me, but I ignored them. “Speak slowly,” I whispered. “I cannot … yes, yes, that’s better. Yes, I can see it. Wait!” I walked to the edge of some bushes to the east and knelt, pushing apart the thick branches. There, nestling on the dark loam, was a moonstone set in a ring of gold. I lifted it and returned to the body, no longer averting my eyes from the wounds.

“I have found it, Gareth,” I said. “And your killers are on the road to whatever hell they have earned.”

The voice in the wind whispered again. I turned to Wulf. His dark eyes were staring at me, his ugly mouth open. Lifting the ring, I offered it to the hunchback. “For a thousand years,” I told him, “the Ringwearers have pledged to protect the skulls. Will you take on this task now and allow our friend Gareth to find his rest?”

Wulf backed away. “I want nothing to do with it,” he said. “You hear me?”

“Oh, the devil with it,” said Mace. “I’ll take it!” Scooping the ring from my hand, he tried to place it on his signet finger. But the ring was far too small. “It’s made for a child,” he complained.

“No,” I said gently, not taking my gaze from Wulf. “It was made for a man. Take it, Wulf.”

“Why me?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but the spirit of this man is here with us. He chose you.”

“My hands are bigger than Mace’s. No way it will fit.”

“Try!”

“I can’t!” he screamed, backing away. “It’ll be the death of me. I know that! I can feel it in my bones. And I hate sorcery!” For a moment only he was silent. “Why did he choose me? Ask him that? Why not Mace?”

“I don’t need to. He told me. Because you have the heart, and when you give your word, it is like iron.”

He swallowed hard. “He said that? Truly?”

“Truly.”

Wulf stumbled forward and took the ring from Mace. It slid easily over his middle finger, sitting snug and tight. “Do I have to make an oath?” he asked.

“You already did,” I told him, and the whisper in the wind became a fading sigh. “And he is at peace.”

We prized loose the poniards with which Gareth’s arms were nailed to the tree and buried his body in the shade of a spreading oak. We were silent as we returned to the ruined cabin, but as we came in sight of the building, Mace pulled me aside, leaving Wulf to walk on to where Piercollo and the women sat in the sunlight.

“What else did he say?” asked Mace.

“What makes you think there was anything else?”

“Ah, Owen! Some men are born to be liars. Others are like you. Now tell me.”

“He said there were forces of evil gathering. Very powerful.” I turned away, but Mace caught me by the shoulder, spinning me.

“And?”

“He said we couldn’t stand against them. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied now?”

He smiled grimly. “He said we were going to die, did he not?”

I looked away and nodded. “What now?” I asked him.

He hawked and spit. “We fight,” he said. “Where can we run?”

“You will fight on even though you cannot win?”

“Of course I can win, Owen. Azrek is only a man, but I am the Morningstar!” He chuckled, then slapped me on the shoulder.

“You are mocking me,” I said sternly.

“Just a little, Owen. Just a little.”

The skull of Golgoleth was in the canvas sack where Kaygan had left it, his spear buried in the earth beside it. Wulf swung the sack over his shoulder and sat down away from the others, his face set, his eyes distant.

Mace wandered into the shelter, idly stirring the fire to life, adding wood though the day was warn:. Piercollo approached me. “What happened, Owen?” I told him of the spirit conversation and of Wulf’s decision. He nodded glumly. “I think the good God is having big joke on us.”

“If he is. I fail to see the humor.” I took out my harp and tuned the strings. I did not feel like playing, but I idly ran my fingers through the melody of Marchan, a light stream of high notes like the bird song of morning. Piercollo walked away toward
Wulf, and Ilka came to sit upon my left, Astiana beside her.

“Ilka has a question for you,” said the sister. I stopped playing and forced a smile. “She wishes to know why you kissed her hand.”

It was the wrong time for such a conversation, for my heart was heavy and my mind filled with the death of Gareth. I looked into Ilka’s sweet, blue eyes and sighed. What could I say? To talk of love at such a time was, I felt, beyond me. The silence grew, and I saw Ilka’s eyes cloud with doubt, uncertainty, perhaps dismay. I tried to smile, then I reached out and took her hand once more, raising it to my lips and wishing that I could talk with her as Astiana did. But I could not.

I walked away from them to be by myself in the sunlit forest.

A few months before I had been but a bard, earning a poor living in the taverns and halls of Ziraccu. Now I was an outlaw, a wolfshead, a hunted man. And I walked in the company of a legend. Sitting down on a fallen log, I glanced around me and saw a leg close by, the body hidden by bushes. Rising, I walked toward the corpse; it was Kaygan, his dead eyes staring up at me, his men lying close by, heaped one upon another. Piercollo must have thrown them there while Mace, Wulf, and I were burying Gareth.

Tonight the foxes and carrion would feed; the crows would follow in the next few days, once the stench of decay carried to them.

I began to tremble and felt the beginnings of panic stirring in my belly. How could we stand against Azrek and Cataplas? And even if we were to succeed, we would only bring down upon the Highlands the wrath of Edmund, the Angostin battle king.

How easy it is to talk about standing against darkness. How bright and brave the words sound. But it is one matter to raise your courage like a banner on a single day of battle and quite another to endure day after day, week after week, with every moment promising the kind of death Gareth had suffered.

Birds fluttered from the trees to my left, and I heard the sound of walking horses. My throat was suddenly dry, my heart hammering. Spinning, I ran for the cabin. Wulf was still sitting alone, the sack in his lap.

“Riders!” I said as I ran past him and into the ruined building. Mace had heard me and was instantly on his feet, gathering
his bow and notching an arrow to the string. Without a word he leapt past me and loped across the clearing. Piercollo threw his vast pack over his shoulder while Astiana and Ilka gathered their blankets. Only a few heartbeats had passed, but when we stepped back into the open, Wulf and Mace had vanished.

I stepped from the cabin just as a knight rode from the trees. Behind him were three men-at-arms dressed in tunics of gray wool, with leather helms upon their heads. The knight himself was in full armor of shining plate, his cylindrical helm embossed with gold and sporting an eagle with flared wings. His breastplate was plain, but gold had been worked into his shoulder guards and gauntlets, and the pommel of the sword at his side was a ruby as large as a baby’s fist. His horse, a gray stallion of at least seventeen hands, was also armored, its chest and flanks protected by chain mail. The knight saw me and raised his arm.