Morningstar (9 page)

“Why did they spare you?”

“They did not see me,” she said wearily, pushing herself to her feet and approaching the injured girl.

Jarek Mace stormed out of the hut. Once more I followed him. It was the first time I had seen him genuinely angry. I knew it had nothing to do with the slaughter of the villagers; he was furious because the soldiers had found his cache of stolen gold and jewels.

Running to the weeping hunchback, Jarek dragged him to his feet. “They had horses,” he shouted. “That means they must keep to the road. We can cut them off by taking the hunting track.”

“Leave me alone!” screamed Wulf.

“You will let them die unavenged?” hissed Jarek Mace. The hunchback froze, his dark eyes gleaming. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You are right, Mace. Let’s kill them all!”

I had no wish to remain in this village of the dead, and when the fourteen hunters loped off, I followed them. It was a grueling run, down through glens, up over hills, through dense undergrowth, finally crossing a wide, shallow river and wading to the far bank and the road to Ziraccu.

Wulf ran down to the road, kneeling to examine the tracks. “They’ve not yet passed,” he told Mace. “See, this was their outward journey.”

“How many?”

The hunchback moved back and forth along the road, studying the hoofprints. “Maybe thirty, perhaps less. But no more.”

Jarek called the men together, ordering six to take cover on the right of the road, seven on the left. “Do not let fly until I do,” he commanded them.

“What about me?” I asked. “What should I do?”

“Stay with me,” he answered, then sat down at the side of the road with his longbow beside him.

“How can we fight thirty?” I asked him as the fear started to gnaw at my belly.

“You just keep killing until there’s none left,” he answered grimly.

He was in no mood for conversation, so I sat in silence for a while, watching the north, listening for the sound of hoofbeats.

“Why did they kill everyone?” I asked at last.

“Azrek is encouraging immigrants from the south to settle here; they will pay good money for tracts of forest land. Wulf and the others were tenants of Count Leopold. They have no rights.”

“They could have been ordered off. There was no need to kill.”

“There is rarely any
need
to kill,” he said, “but men still do it.”

“As you are intending to now?”

“They stole my gold,” he hissed, as if that were answer enough.

We sat for perhaps an hour, and then I heard them, the slow clopping of hooves upon the dirt road. My heart began hammering, and my mouth went dry.

Jarek stood and notched an arrow to his bow before stepping out into the middle of the road. I could not seem to move my legs and sat for a moment staring at him. He seemed so relaxed as he waited, his bow held by his side, a slight smile showing on his handsome face. Drawing my knife, I climbed unsteadily to my feet.

“Stay where you are,” he ordered, “and when the battle starts, run back into the undergrowth. No horse will follow you there.”

Then they came in sight, more than twenty horsemen, the front three in full armor with plumed helmets upon their heads. Behind the trio were men-at-arms in breastplates and helms of leather, and bringing up the rear was a wagon loaded with booty.

“Good day, gentlemen,” called Jarek Mace.

4

T
HE KNIGHT RIDING
at the center of the trio, a huge man wearing a shining breastplate of silver and a helmet sporting a horsehair plume, lifted his arm and halted the convoy. The visor of his helmet was raised, and I could see a corn-yellow mustache and eyes the color of a winter sky, gray and cold. Reining in the giant black stallion, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and gazed upon the tall, lean form of Jarek Mace.

“What do you want, fellow?” he asked, his voice as deep as distant thunder.

“When you travel upon my road, Sir Knight, then you must pay my toll,” Jarek answered.

“A toll, is it?” responded the knight as laughter sounded from the riders behind him. “Tell me, fellow, how it is that you came to … own this road. For I was under the impression the forest was ruled by Count Azrek.”

“He is—for the present—the Count of Ziraccu,” Jarek told him. “I am the lord of this forest.”

“And what might your name be, my lord?” asked the knight.

“Why, I am the Morningstar.”

The knight leaned back, removed his right gauntlet, and opened a purse tied to the sword belt at his waist. “And what will the toll cost us?”

“All that you have,” said Jarek.

“Enough of this nonsense,” snapped the knight. “I would have given you a silver penny for your impudence. Now step aside or feel the weight of my whip!”

“Certainly, Sir Knight.” Jarek moved to his right and then
swung back, the longbow coming up, the string stretching, the notched shaft leaping from the bow. The knight swayed back as the arrow slashed by him to punch through the helmet of the young knight to his left. Without a sound the surprised victim slid from the saddle, pitching headfirst to the ground.

Shafts flashed from both sides of the road, plunging into men and horses. The pain-maddened beasts reared, throwing their riders to the road. More arrows tore into the men-at-arms.

The two knights had both drawn their swords, but instead of entering the fray, they spurred on their mounts toward Jarek Mace. The young bowman sprinted toward me, ducking just as a longsword hissed toward his head.

Instead of giving chase, the knights galloped on toward Ziraccu. Jarek cursed and ran back into the road, notching a second arrow to his string. His arm came up, and I watched him take aim and loose the shaft, which sang through the air and thudded into the back of the second knight. The man straightened in the saddle, then swayed, but clung to the pommel as the horses moved out of range. Jarek turned.

The villagers had dropped their bows and charged the demoralized men-at-arms. Several of the enemy threw down their weapons and began pleading for mercy. There was none to be had, and they were all butchered.

It was not a pleasant sight.

At last Wulf the hunchback, covered in blood, approached where Jarek was sitting at the roadside.

“My children are avenged,” he said softly. “Thank you, Mace.” Jarek merely nodded, but the hunchback remained where he was. “What do we do now?” he asked.

“Do? Take the booty and get away from this place as soon as possible. Those knights did not ride back for an early supper.”

“Yes,” Wulf agreed. “Yes, you’re right.”

Two of the villagers moved up to the driving seat of the wagon and turned the horses back toward the north, while Wulf and the others began stripping the dead of valuables and weapons.

Jarek loped to the wagon, pulling himself over the tailboard. I ran to join him. He was sitting beside some thirty small sacks of coin; scattered around him were golden ornaments, statues, bracelets, bangles, and brooches.

“I’m a rich man, bard,” he said, chuckling. “I think I’ll buy a castle by the sea.”

“Why did you talk to the knights?” I asked him. “Why not just attack?”

“They were moving. A walking horse, when frightened, breaks into a run. A standing horse will usually rear. It is that simple. I wanted the convoy halted.”

“You are an amazing man,” I told him. “What made you give the name Morningstar?”

He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “I thought it would amuse you, Owen. And anyway, the odds were that someone would escape. I didn’t want anyone rushing to Azrek with the name Jarek Mace, now, did I?”

“You think he won’t find out eventually?”

“By then I will be long gone. What a fine day, to be sure!” With his dagger he ripped open a coin sack. Silver pennies tumbled out. He grabbed a handful and tossed them in the air, where they spun in the sunlight before tinkling down to the wagon boards. “I love money,” said Jarek.

Jarek Mace was in high good humor as the iron-rimmed wagon wheels rolled slowly along the forest road. Wulf and the others—having stripped all valuables from the twenty-two dead Ikenas—set off back over the hills to the village. They would arrive hours before us, but I was tired and had no wish to walk too soon among the bodies of the slain. The aftermath of revenge leaves no sweetness in the mouth, and a wagon full of gold was no recompense for a village of the dead.

The sun was low in the sky as we rounded the last bend, and I saw the glittering lake and a large crowd awaiting us. Jarek was sleeping, and I did not at first wake him.

The valuables in the wagon had come, I knew, from more than one settlement, and I guessed—rightly—that in the waiting throng were representatives of those other villages and towns. I could see Megan standing beside a tall woman dressed in the severe black habit and white head scarf of the Order of Naesar nuns.

As the wagon hove into sight, the crowd pushed forward, yelling and cheering.

Jarek awoke at once. “What the devil?” he said, sitting up.

A great cheer went up as he stood.

“Morningstar! Morningstar!” I saw Wulf and the other warriors
at the front of the crowd with their arms raised, the last of the sunlight glinting on their stolen weapons.

Nimbly Mace leapt from the wagon to stand with hands on hips, accepting their tribute. The crowd parted, and the abbess strode forward; she was around sixty years of age, stern of face, her eyes deep-set and glacial blue. Moving past Jarek, she opened the tailboard of the wagon and reached inside. Lifting clear a small golden statue of the blessed Saint Katryn and holding it aloft, she turned to the crowd.

“She is returned to us,” cried the abbess, and a section of the crowd cheered.

An elderly man approached. His face was lined, his right eye dead and useless. With difficulty he bowed, then took Jarek’s hand.

“You have saved our lives,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “We have had a bleak winter, and the money they robbed from us was to have been used to buy food. Without it our community was finished. I have no way to thank you, but we will not forget you, Morningstar.”

Jarek was speechless, but I saw his eyes darken as men and women crowded around the wagon, lifting out goods and coin.

Megan came through the crowd, taking Jarek’s arm and leading him away from the throng. “Keep calm!” I heard her whisper. “It is only money.”

“
My
money!” he hissed.

I almost felt sorry for him then. Not quite … but almost.

Back in Megan’s home we sat beside the fire. The young whore, Ilka, was sleeping, her back bandaged; the wound, Megan assured us, was free of infection. Jarek stared gloomily into the flames.

“It was a fine act,” I told him, making sure to keep the smile from my face. He glanced up at me, then grinned.

“Easy made, swiftly lost,” he said.

“What will you do now?” asked Megan.

Jarek shrugged. “I’ll head deeper into the forest. No point staying here; the village is finished.”

“They didn’t kill everyone,” said Megan. “Many people escaped into the undergrowth where the horses would not follow. We can rebuild.”

“That is not what I meant. The killers will be back.”

Megan nodded. “What would you advise?”

“It is not for me to give advice,” answered Jarek. “Who am I but a wandering mercenary with no ties here?”

“Silly boy,” she told him. “You are the Morningstar!”

“Oh, stop this nonsense,” Jarek snapped. “It was a jest, nothing more.”

“I know,” replied Megan, “but you should have heard the men talk about it. You called yourself the lord of the forest. You demanded that the Angostins pay a toll to pass. You stood alone at the center of the road. Can you not see it, Jarek? You took on the mantle of leadership, albeit for your own purposes.”

“Well, I ended up with nothing as a result of it,” he said.

“Nothing?” whispered Megan. “All those people thanking you, looking up to you. That is worth more than gold!”

“Nothing is worth more than gold,” he said, his smile in place. “But yes, I’ll grant you it was more pleasant than having a boil lanced.” He swung to me. “Did you enjoy the day, bard?”