Morningstar (43 page)

One knight with lance leveled rode at me, but a second inadvertently got in his way, the two horses colliding shoulder to shoulder. Then I was past them and running toward where Mace lay.

He was still alive when I reached him. Raul was kneeling beside him, holding his hand.

“Get me … to the … forest,” whispered Mace.

Piercollo gently lifted him, and we walked toward the north. Wulf joined us, then other men gathered around.

We halted in the shade of a huge oak, where Piercollo laid the Morningstar carefully down, removing his white cloak and making of it a pillow.

The other men fell back, creating a circle around the dying warrior.

As the sun began to fade, Brackban arrived, his officers with him. I had sat with Mace for an hour by then, and he had said nothing. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged.

With the gathering dark, men lit torches and held them high, bathing the scene in flickering light. I knelt to Mace’s left. Behind me stood Piercollo and Wulf; to the left was Raul Raubert, and beside him was Brackban.

Mace opened his eyes and looked at me. “Surprised … you … eh?”

“No, my friend. It was no surprise. I was waiting for you.”

“Had … to come back, Owen.”

“Why?” I asked him, leaning in close, for his voice was fading.

“I … wanted … another parade!” He smiled weakly. “I … wonder if they … have … them … in hell.”

“You’ll never find out,” I promised him. “Never!”

“Make it … a good … song, Owen.”

He made me leave him then and spoke quietly to Wulf and then Raul Raubert and lastly Brackban.

I stood back from them in the torchlight and saw that the torchbearers were weeping, and I, too, felt the weight of it as I watched the tableau in the circle of light: the blood-covered warrior in his ruined armor of gold, the hunchback beside him, and the giant standing close by.

I felt humbled by the scene as Mace’s blood flowed to the land that had created him. Through him an entire nation had enjoyed a rebirth of courage, a renewal of hope. But then, that is what heroes do, it is not? They make us all a great gift, our lives made larger and more noble by their existence. It matters not a whit that Mace himself was less than legends make him.

For what he gave to the future was far greater than what he took from the past. As long as there is evil in the world, there will be men—aye, and women—who will say. “Stand up and fight it. Be strong like the Morningstar.”

And I knew then, as Mace lay dying, that the song would soon be all there was.

He died just before the dawn, and one by one the torchbearers snuffed out their lights, allowing the last of the night to close in over the tableau. We sat with his body until sunrise, and then Wulf, following his instructions, took the body deep into the forest, burying it in an unmarked grave where no man would stumble upon it.

The hunchback would not even tell me where Mace lay save to say that each morning the sun would shine upon him and each night the stars would glitter above him like a crown.

Raul Raubert was acclaimed as the new king, Brackban becoming his chamberlain.

And so what Mace had told me so cynically came to pass. Nothing ever changes … The Angostins ruled in the Highlands once more, and order was established in the northern world.

Raul Raubert was a good king, and there were many fine changes to the law. His standard remained the silver star embroidered
by Astiana, and from then until this day the kings of the Highlands are called sons of the Morningstar.

And what of the others? Astiana went on to become an abbess, a saintly old woman who cared for the sick. She became the princess of legend, Mace’s great love, a warrior woman who helped him defeat the Vampyres. I tried to keep Ilka’s memory alive among the people, but no one wants to hear songs about mute whores, no matter how brave. No, Astiana filled their hearts.

Piercollo traveled back to his beloved Tuscania. He wrote me once to say he had entered the contest and won it once more. He dedicated his victory to the memory of Lykos, the man who had blinded him. I was pleased at that, for evil thrives only when it breeds, and Piercollo had neutered its power.

And Wulf? I used to see him in the old days. I would journey into the forest and stay at his cabin for a while; we would hunt together and talk of old times and shared memories. But as the years passed, his memory blurred and he began to remember a different story. He recalled a golden-haired man with a heart of unblemished purity and the courage of ten lions. At first I gently mocked him, but he grew angry and accused me of “slighting the greatest man who ever lived.” Mace’s dark side, his callousness and cruelty, his womanizing and his greed, all became signs of a reckless youth and a sense of humor.

Such is the way with heroes. Their greatness grows with the passing of time, their weaknesses shrinking. Perhaps that is as it should be.

Wulf died ten years ago. The king—Raul’s eldest grandson, Maric—had his body moved to the royal tomb at Ziraccu. A statue was raised to him—a bronze statue. The likeness is almost chilling. Crafted twice life-size, the statue stands facing the south with a longbow in hand, keen bronze eyes staring toward the borders watching for the enemy. Wulf would have liked it.

Perhaps a statue will be raised for me one day soon.

As for Owen Odell, well, for several years I journeyed, staying far from the curious eyes of men who knew me only as a legend. I took passage on a ship that sailed the length of the island and stepped ashore on the south coast, making my way to my father’s castle. I found him sitting in the long room behind the stables. He was cleaning and oiling leather bridles and stirrups, and he looked up as his son entered.

“You should have known better than to drop your sword on a battlefield,” said Aubertain. “And as for running among mounted knights … damn stupid! Lucky no one removed your head from your shoulders.”

“You were there?”

“Where else would I be when my king goes to war?”

“You were the knight who saved me,” I said, remembering the collision that had stopped the lance piercing my chest. “You charged your horse into the lancer.”

He shrugged. “I’m a stubborn man, Owen, but I’ll not see my sons killed even if they are fighting on the wrong side. Welcome home, Son. Have you seen your mother yet?”

I don’t think I was truly complete until that moment. Megan told me once that there was a man I must meet who would make me whole, and she was right. And now I had found him again. He stood and opened his arms, and I embraced him, the last of my bitterness vanishing.

My brother Braife had been one of the knights slain by Mace in that last charge, but my father bore the Morningstar no ill will.

“He was a man, by God,” he said as we sat by the hearth fire on a cold winter’s evening. “I’ll never forget that ride. And I’m grateful to him for what he did for you. I think he made a man of you, Owen.”

“Aye, Father. I think he did.”

I stayed in the south until my father died. It happened seven years after I came home and only weeks after the death of my mother from the yellow fever. I moved back to the Highlands then and built my house close to the oak beneath which is buried the skull of Golgoleth.

I have lived long, ghost, and I have seen much, but even I am beginning to believe in the song. Every spring, when the celebrations begin, I think of Mace, his easy smile and his casual charm.

And I listen to fathers telling their sons that one day, when the realm is threatened, the Morningstar will come again.

Oh, ghost, how I wish I could be there when he does!

A
GRAINE AWOKE AN
hour before dawn, yawned, and stretched. The window was open, the air cold and fresh, stars gleaming in the winter sky. He was cold yet excited by the prospect of a morning meeting with the legendary Owen Odell. Swiftly he dressed, pulling on his warm woolen tunic and trews, his socks of softest wool and his boots of shining leather. He needed a shave and wondered whether the strange old man would allow him the use of one of the servants. Probably not, he decided. These Highlanders were a curious breed.

Hungry, the young nobleman made his way downstairs to the larder, helping himself to a sweet honey cake and washing it down with soured apple juice.

What a loathsome place, he decided as he opened the shuttered window and gazed out over the night-dark mountains. No theaters, no palaces of lascivious amusements, no dances, no readings of the latest works of literature. What clods these people must be, in their primitive dwellings, with their dull little lives.

But the journey would be worth it for the book. He would neither tour taverns nor tell saga stories around flickering camp fires. Oh, no. His father would pay a hundred monks to copy the tale and bind it in leather for sale and private readings among the nobility.

First, however, there was the old man. Agraine smiled. It would be easy to charm the ancient poet—soft words, a honeyed tongue. The story would spill out soon enough. God knows, the elderly loved to prattle!

Taking a second cake, the young man mounted the stairs,
approaching the room where first he had spoken with Owen Odell. The door was ajar, and he heard voices.

Moving silently forward, he leaned in close to the crack by the door hinge, closing his right eye and straining to see into the room. But a floorboard creaked, and the voices within fell silent.

“Come in, Agraine,” called the old poet.

Sheepishly the young man opened the door.

“I did not mean to …” His voice trailed away, for standing in the center of the room was a golden-haired woman of lustrous beauty, clothed only in a shimmering gown of green silk. Agraine’s mouth fell open, and clumsily he executed a bow. “I am sorry, Lord Odell. I had no idea you had other guests.”

“It was a surprise to me, my boy,” the old man told him. “This is an old friend of mine … Megan.”

Agraine was sharp enough to spot the lie, but he kept his thoughts to himself and smiled at the woman. “It is a great pleasure, my lady. Do you live close?”

She laughed, the sound like sweet music. “Very close. And I have come to invite … Lord Odell … to visit my home. I was just explaining it to him when we heard you arrive.”

The old man chuckled as if at some private jest. “You will, I hope, excuse me, young man. For I must leave you to break your fast alone.”

“It is freezing outside, and there is deep snow in the valley,” stuttered Agraine, unwilling to allow the vision to depart from his company.

“You are quite wrong,” said the golden-haired woman. “It is springtime, and the flowers are in bloom.”

They were both smiling now, and Agraine felt the red flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks. With great effort Owen Odell rose from his chair, his bony hand descending on the young man’s shoulder. “I am sorry, my boy; we do not mean to mock. But Megan is right. Where we travel it will be springtime. And there is a young man—little older than yourself—who is waiting to speak with an old poet. It is a circle, you see. Forgive me.”

The golden-haired woman was standing beside the open door, and the wind was sending flurries of snow against her bare feet. Taking Odell’s arm, she led the old man out into the winter night.

Agraine stood for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts. Then he ran to the door.

The two of them were only a few paces out into the snow-covered clearing, Megan supporting the poet, who moved with slow shuffling steps. They stopped, and the woman raised her hand. Light rose from her fingers in a fountain of sparkling gold, raining down over both figures. Around and around, like shimmering stars, the golden flakes whirled about the poet and his lady. Agraine blinked against the light and the sudden darkness that followed it.

He blinked again. The clearing was deserted.

Owen Odell was gone.

Coming soon to bookstore near you …

WAYLANDER

by David Gemmell
.

The beginning of the Dranai Saga!
Published by Del Rey Books
.
Here is the opening chapter of
WAYLANDER …

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