Morningstar (18 page)

How could I be frightened?

Yet I was. Rabain had killed the Three on the fabled Night of the Seventh Star, after the Battle of Coulin. He and his men had stormed the gray castle, dousing the great gates with oil and setting them ablaze, fighting their way through the courtyards and alleyways into the palace keep. Jerain the archer had slain the first of the kings, a shaft of silver piercing his eye. Boras the Cyclops had killed the second, catching him upon the battlements and hurling him to oblivion on the rocks below. But it was Rabain who had slain the last and greatest of the Vampyre kings. Golgoleth had taken refuge in his throne room, surrounded by demons sharp-fanged and armed with serrated swords. Rabain and the enchantress Horga had come upon them as they were in the midst of creating a dark enchantment that might have turned the battle. Horga’s spells sundered the demons while Rabain and Golgoleth did battle.

It was a fine story, incorporating trolls and elven princes, vicious sorcerers and cunning demons. And very popular in the northlands, where they take their fables seriously.

Yet here was Owen Odell, Angostin by birth and temperament, trembling with terror in a dark valley, victim to barbarous superstition.

“Why is it so cold?” I asked Wulf as we walked deeper into the darkness.

“Sorcery,” he whispered.

“Horse dung!” declared Jarek Mace. “The valley is deep. Cold air falls; hot air rises. Cast a warming spell, Owen. You’ll feel better.”

“Piercollo does not like this place,” stated the Tuscanian. “It has the smell of decay.”

“Mildew,” said Mace. “You can see it on the bushes.”

We crossed the valley floor, and Wulf glanced back to the crest of the valley. He pointed at the soldiers lined up there, small as children’s toys in the distance. They made no attempt to follow us.

“More sense than we have,” Wulf muttered.

Their lack of movement troubled me, and I spoke to Mace about it, but he merely shrugged. “Superstition. It is just a valley, Owen, leading to the troll reaches. About sixty miles from here is the source of the Deeway River, and beyond that the cities of Casley and Keras. No demons, just thick forest and
a few trolls. The trolls will not bother us. They fear men—and rightly so.”

Looking back, I saw that the soldiers had gone. I spoke to Wulf as we walked on. “Why did we come here?”

“Mace’s idea,” he answered. “Don’t blame me!”

“No, I meant why did we move in this direction at all?”

“No choice. The soldiers were behind us all the way.”

“But we could have cut to the east or the west.”

“I tried that, but they were circling behind. I couldn’t be sure where they were.”

“Then perhaps we were steered this way.”

Wulf halted, then turned to me. “You could be right, bard.”

“No, he is not!” hissed Mace, looming out of the dark. “You are like two children trying to frighten one another.
We
chose which way to run; they merely followed us. And now they are too cowardly to follow further. And if I hear one more word about Vampyre kings, ghosts, spirits, or trolls, I shall crack a skull or two!”

We trudged on in silence, Ilka staying close to the huge form of Piercollo, Mace leading. Wulf, his bow strung, walked just behind me.

The clouds gathered, and it began to rain—thin, icy needles, driven by the wind, instantly soaking through cur clothes. Lightning forked across the northern sky, and soon the ground below our feet became sodden and we walked ankle-deep in mud.

After about an hour we finally crossed the valley floor and began the long climb through wooded hills until we reached the far crest and gazed down on a second valley and a small lake, black as jet. Beside it was a ruined keep, its wall crumbling, its gates sagging and rotten. The style was ancient, the towers square-built, not round as with Angostin architecture.

“You know who built that keep?” asked Wulf.

“Don’t say it!” warned Jarek Mace. “All I know is that we are going to be warm and dry for the night. And I don’t care if it was built by the devil himself. I’m soaked through, cold, and in an evil temper. So keep your mouth shut and let’s get in there and start a fire.”

“It’ll be haunted,” whispered Wulf to me as we followed Mace down into the valley. “Mark my words.”

But at that moment Wulf slipped in the mud and slid down the hillside past Jarek Mace. For a moment we watched in
stunned silence, then Mace’s laughter roared out above the rain. “Give my regards to the Vampyre kings!” he yelled as the hunchback hurtled toward the keep.

The sight was so ludicrous that all fear fled from me, and I bent double, laughing fit to burst. Even Ilka was smiling as we followed the hunchback down, finding him sitting at the foot of the hill staring at his broken bow.

“We’ll buy a new one at the next town,” said Jarek Mace, but Wulf was inconsolable.

“Best I’ve ever had,” he muttered. “Had it blessed by the abbess. It’s never let me down before. Witchcraft, that’s what it is!”

“You fell on it!” said Mace. “That’s not witchcraft; that’s just clumsiness.”

Wulf shook his head. “It was blessed,” he repeated. “Nothing blessed can survive in this place. That’s why no one lives here, no crops grow. Even the trees are covered with mildew, and most are rotten.”

“I’m not listening to any more of this,” snapped Mace, walking through the stone gates.

We followed him across a paved courtyard. The stones were uneven, grass pushing up between them. The rain hissed down, the castle walls gleaming in the faint light that pierced the clouds. Lightning flashed across the sky, sending dancing shadows behind the broken columns to our left.

Jarek Mace climbed the steps leading to the hall of the keep and kicked the rotted doors, the wood splintering and falling to the thick dust beyond, which rose like smoke around his boots. A rat scurried for shelter, and then we were inside.

“Make light, Owen,” ordered Mace.

I sent a small shining sphere floating into the hall.

The floor was wooden, and I stepped gingerly upon it, but it seemed solid enough.

For me it was—but not for Piercollo.

Advancing into the middle of the hall, he let fall his pack, which hit the floor with a resounding thud. This was followed by a sudden creaking, then a series of explosive cracks—and the Tuscanian disappeared from sight.

7

W
ITH GREAT CARE
Mace, Wulf, and I eased our way across the floor to the jagged hole. I brought the sphere of light closer, and we lay on our bellies gazing down into a pit some twelve feet deep. Piercollo lay stunned, his pack beside him. The light did not penetrate far, and I could see little more save that one of the joists had given way, leaving the timbers with no support where Piercollo had fallen.

“There must be another way down,” said Mace.

“I’ll find it,” Wulf told him, moving back from the hole.

“He might be dead,” I whispered.

“More likely a broken leg,” Mace told me. “We’ll soon know. Stay here and call me if he wakes.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to build a fire. I’m cold and I’m hungry. Wulf will find the way in below, then we’ll get him out.”

Piercollo lay unmoving, and I watched Mace cross the hall to a huge hearth, where he gathered tinder and splinters of rotten wood. The Tuscanian groaned and stirred.

“Don’t move for a moment,” I called down. “You may have broken bones.”

Slowly he rolled to his back. I moved the sphere down into the hole, and Piercollo sat up, then ran his hand down his right leg. “There is a small scratch,” he said. “It is not much. Nothing, I think, is broken. Bring the light closer.”

I did as he asked, and slowly he stood. “There is no door,” he called.

“There must be.”

“Piercollo is not blind, Owen. There is
no
door.”

Moving back from the hole, I made my way to where Mace was slowly adding fuel to the small fire. “He is all right,” I told him, “but there is no way out of the cellar.”

“That makes no sense,” muttered Mace. Leaving Ilka to tend the fire, he returned to where Piercollo waited. The sphere was less bright now, and my concentration was fading. “Is there anything down there you can use to climb out?” called Mace.

“Many boxes, but they are rotten. There is a broken table and some weapons. No. Nothing I can use.”

Wulf returned and stretched out alongside Mace. “There’s no stairs down. Nothing.”

“How are we going to get him out?” I asked.

Both men ignored me. Mace sat up and looked around the hall. There was no furniture save a broken chair covered in cobwebs and a few threadbare cushions thick with dust and mildew. Standing, he made his way to the far wall and lifted an ancient torch from its iron bracket. Dusting off the charred, loose strands from the tip, he held it over the fire and it caught instantly, flaring up with long tongues of flame.

“Move aside,” he ordered us, and walked to the edge of the hole. “Stand back,” he told Piercollo. Then he jumped into the cellar, landing easily with knees bent to take the impact of the ten-foot drop. A few sparks fell from the torch, but those he stamped out. With this new light we could see the full area of the cellar; it was no more than twenty feet long and about half as wide. Weapons and armor had been piled around the walls: helms, bows, swords, daggers, axes. All of them were jet-black and unadorned.

Holding aloft his torch, Mace studied the ceiling, examining the remaining joists. “They seem sound,” he announced. “I don’t think they’ll give way.” Moving to the Tuscanian’s pack, he hefted it, then passed it to Piercollo. “Throw it through the hole,” he said. The Tuscanian swayed to his left, then sent it sailing up over the rim.

Placing the spluttering torch in an upturned black helm, Mace moved beneath the hole, cupping his hands. “Come, my large friend,” he said, “it is time for you to leave this place.”

“You cannot take Piercollo’s weight,” the Tuscanian warned him.

“Well, if I can’t, then you’ll just have to sit down here until
you grow thinner. Would you like us to come back in a couple of months?”

Piercollo placed his huge hands on Mace’s shoulders, then lifted a foot into the cupped palms. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Do it, you big ox!”

Piercollo tensed his leg, pushing his weight down onto Mace’s locked fingers. Mace groaned but held firm, and Piercollo rose, his right arm stretching toward the rim of the hole, his fingers curling over the edge. I gripped his wrist to give him support while Wulf took hold of the Tuscanian’s jerkin and began to pull. At first there was no discernible sign of movement, but with Mace pushing from below and the two of us pulling from above, Piercollo managed to get one arm over the rim. After that we dragged him clear in moments.

Mace sank to the floor of the cellar, breathing heavily. “One more minute and he would have broken my back,” he said at last. Then he rose and, torch in hand, moved among the weapons.

“A new bow for you, Wulf,” he called, hurling the weapon through the opening. This was followed by several scabbarded swords, daggers, and two quivers of black-shafted arrows. Lastly a small box sailed over the rim, landing heavily and cracking open.

“Keep back!” yelled Mace. “I’m coming up.” Dousing the torch and stamping out all the cinders, he leapt to grab the rim, then hauled himself smoothly clear of the hole. He was covered in dust and cobwebs, but his grin was bright as he dusted himself down. “Let’s see what treasure is in the box,” he said. The wood was rotten, but what appeared to be bands of bronze held it together. Mace ripped away the lid and pulled clear a large velvet pouch. The leather thongs were rotten, the velvet dry and ruined, but something creamy white fell clear, rolling from his hands to bounce on the wooden floor.

“May the saints protect us!” whispered Wulf, backing away.

On the floor at our feet was a skull, the lower jaw missing but the upper intact. Teeth were still embedded in the bone, most of them apparently normal. But the two canines on either side of the incisors were twice as long as the others and wickedly sharp.

Mace picked up the skull, turning it in his hands. “These teeth are hollow,” he said, tapping the canines.