Morningstar (25 page)

“What do you mean?”

“An outlaw, a mercenary. Was he trapped into becoming the hero, or was he truly your Morningstar?”

“I don’t know, Jarek. Once I would have said he was everything the stories claim. But now I have seen the birth of a legend.”

“And you are disappointed.”

“Not exactly,” I told him. “You did stand upon the road alone and defy the Angostins, and you did fight your way clear on the day of the burning. Because of that Megan was freed. You faced the Shadows of Satan, and you rescued Piercollo. You have courage. No man can take that from you.”

“Perhaps,” he said, staring away over the mountains.

“What is troubling you?”

“Brackban swearing to follow me unto death. I don’t want that sort of devotion; it makes me uneasy.”

“I now understand the mystery of Cataplas and the Three,” I said, seeking to change the subject. He was at once interested, and I told him of the dream meeting with Gareth and the ghosts.

“You believe it was a true vision?”

“I do.”

“And you intend to find this Gareth in the troll reaches?”

“I must. I am now a Ringwearer.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, Owen, what a wondrous fool you are. What help will you give Gareth? How will you stop Cataplas and his killers? Sing them to death, perhaps?” He laughed, and I felt foolish.

“You could come with me,” I pointed out.

“Why would I wish to?”

“You are a hunted man, Jarek Mace. Cataplas will find you one day, and with the third skull perhaps his powers would double. Then where would you be, lord of the forest? How will you battle the demons who will stalk you in these dark woods?”

Still good-humored, he thumped my shoulder. “Good, Owen! You do not appeal to my fine nature or mention friendship and loyalty. You send your shaft straight to the gold. I like that!”

“Then you will come with me? Gareth is in peril. He urged me to travel with all speed.”

“I’ll think on it.”

9

B
RACKBAN
, J
AIRN
,
AND
the militia soldiers left soon after dawn, heading south, but Piercollo had developed a fever in the night, and Astiana remained behind to care for him. There was no way the giant would be fit to travel for several days, and though Mace wanted to leave him behind, Wulf and I refused. Ilka, though incapable of speech, made it plain she felt the same, sitting beside the wounded man and glaring up at Mace.

Jarek took his bow and quiver and left the cave without a word.

I banked up the fire with the last of the fuel and sat watching him stride out toward the forest.

Astiana moved alongside me. “Is he truly the Morningstar?” she asked.

“He is,” I told her.

“He is a callous man, hard and bitter.”

“That also,” I agreed.

She asked how we had met, and I told her of the rescue back in Ziraccu, though I left out small details such as Mace’s adulterous adventures with the noble lady and his return for a share of the reward. I spoke also of how we saved Megan from the fire and of the fight with the beasts in the forest.

“They say he is Rabain come again,” said Astiana, her gaze locked to mine. “Would you agree with such sentiments?”

“Who am I to agree or disagree? I am but a bard. Who was Rabain? What do we know of him save that he fought the Vampyre kings and was made king himself? Mace was talking of him earlier. Was he a wolfshead or a rebel knight? A prince or a peasant?”

“You are cynical, Owen,” she said. “I thought all bards were romantics, singing of chivalry and honor.”

“I sing of those things. I dream. But here there is a grim reality. Death is sudden, brutal. Men are cruel, mindlessly vicious. Why did Lykos blind Piercollo? Why did they tie Megan to the burning stake? Why do the Angostins glory in war?” I glanced back to where Wulf was sitting with Ilka beside the fire. “The hunchback is my friend, brave and steadfast. Yet when first I saw him he was kneeling over the body of a traveler he had slain; he was cutting the rings from the dead man’s fingers. And Ilka—sweet Ilka—was raped as a child and had her tongue torn from her mouth. Where is chivalry in this? A man who taught me to create illusions of light, sweet and beautiful, now transforms men and animals into demonic creatures filled only with the lust to kill. Where is honor in this?”

“Honor is here,” she whispered, placing her hand over my heart. “Or do you believe that good can exist only in pure surroundings, untouched by the world’s darkness? What value would there be in that? Virtue is like a ring of gold. It does not matter where you place it, in a swamp or a cowpat; it will remain gold, untarnished. Lesser metals are corroded, ruined, corrupted. Not gold. The true heart remains true.”

“Just words,” I snapped more brutally than I had intended. “The evil triumph always, for they are strong and merciless. Good men are hampered, chained by their honor. They cannot compete, for they play by different rules.”

For a while she was silent, and we sat in the new sunshine, both lost within our own thoughts. I think I almost hated myself for voicing such a philosophy of despair, and my heart was heavy. But after some minutes had passed, she spoke again.

“I do not agree with you. A thousand years ago the Vampyre kings ruled this land. They were brought down and destroyed. There evil was colossal, yet a good man destroyed them. The battle between good and evil is circular. Good wins, evil wins, good again. The rules are immaterial.”

“How is your philosophy different from mine, Sister?” I countered. “If such a circle exists, then there can never be a true victor.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But then, victory is not the prize; it is the battle itself. You are part of that battle, Owen. You and
Wulf and Piercollo. Yes, even Jarek Mace, though he knows it not.”

“Oh, he is a warrior, no doubt of that,” I agreed. “But which side does he fight for? I don’t think he cares about good or evil. He cares only for Jarek Mace.”

Piercollo awoke and groaned in pain, and Astiana rose and moved to where he lay. I stood and walked out into the sunlight.

The ring, with its pale stone, felt heavy on my hand.

In that moment I felt like pulling it clear and throwing it high over the hillside. I would be free. I could walk from the forest and head south, all the way to the coast and my father’s estates, far from war and brutality. I could sit by a warm fire in the evenings, my belly full, and I could play my harp and sing my songs without fearing a dagger in my ribs or a demon at my soul. It was tempting.

But at that moment—perhaps because I was thinking of home—I saw again my father sitting in the high-backed chair, his children at his feet, his warhounds close by. And I could hear his voice, deep and slow, as he told us stories of manhood or set us riddles to solve:

He had laughed at our noncomprehension, and we had gone to our beds none the wiser. But now I knew what he meant. A man
must finish what he starts, allowing no threat or fear to stand in his way.

I had made a promise to Gareth, and I would keep it. Mace was dismissive of my talents as a warrior, but my skills lay in other directions. I did not see myself as essentially heroic. My fears were very great. But I learned at my father’s knee that a man is judged not by his words or by his principles or even by his wit. He is judged by his actions.

How could I, Owen Odell the Angostin, speak out against evil if I did not stand against darkness?

A hand touched my shoulder, and I turned to see Piercollo beside me. His face was gray, the bandage over his eye bloody.

“I am sorry,” I told him. “You have suffered terribly.”

“But I am alive, my friend, thanks to you. I will repay. Piercollo will stand with you and with the Morningstar. We will make war upon these men of evil.”

I seem to remember a cloud passing across the face of the sun at that moment, but probably it did not. The weight of that memory, even after all these years, is still great. For I knew that something of beauty had been lost to the world, and I grieved for it.

From that day to the last battle I never heard Piercollo sing again.

Mace returned toward dusk with fresh cuts of venison, and we spent a second night in the cave. Piercollo’s fever had begun to pass, but he was still too weak to travel far.

We broiled the venison and ate well that night. Mace was in better humor and told us that he had seen hunting parties of soldiers scouring the woods and forest tracks, but none had chanced upon our trail. “There’s not a woodsman among them,” he said.

Even so we kept watch that night, taking it in turns to sit just inside the cave mouth watching the moonlit hills.

I took the last watch, relieving Wulf at around midnight, and sat wrapped in a blanket beneath the stars. It was a clear night, soundless, a cool breeze whispering across the cave entrance. The smell of damp grass was in the air, and bats flew above me. An old badger with a twisted front paw moved out onto the hillside, his fur like silver thread, his gait clumsy. Yet he had great dignity as he slowly made his way down the slope.

At the bottom he paused, his snout lifting to scent the air. Suddenly his dignity fled, and he scurried into the undergrowth. I was immediately tense, narrowing my eyes to scour the tree line.

But I could see nothing.

Then a huge gray wolf came into sight, padding across the grass. He was followed by six more. Something small caught my eye, and I swung my gaze to see several rabbits near a half-buried boulder. The wolves ignored them.

This struck me as curious but not threatening. Perhaps they had recently fed. Perhaps they had discovered the carcass of the deer slain by Mace.

On they came, straight toward the cave.

“Mace!” I called, and he came awake instantly, as did Wulf. Both men gathered their bows and moved alongside me. I pointed to the pack no more than a hundred paces distant.

“You woke me for wolves?” snapped Mace.

“Look at them,” I said. “They are coming straight at us. No turning of heads, no interest in the rabbits.”

Mace muttered some obscenity and moved back to the fire, blowing it to life and adding a thick, dry branch. The dead leaves caught instantly, flaring to life. Mace ran back to the entrance and stepped out onto the hillside. The wolves saw him and increased their speed.

Wulf notched an arrow to his bow. In the pale moonlight it shone like silver.

“Get back, Mace!” I yelled. “They are possessed!”

Mace hurled the burning branch at the first gray beast. The brand hit the wolf in the face, the flames singeing the fur of its back, yet it ignored the fire and ran straight at him, leaping for his throat. An arrow from Wulf lanced into the beast’s chest, and it slumped to the earth.

Mace drew his sword, cleaving the neck of a second wolf, but the remaining five were all around him now. Wulf killed another, then threw aside his bow and ran at the creatures. Pulling an arrow from the quiver he had left behind, I followed him. A huge wolf hurled itself at Mace, knocking him from his feet. Losing his grip on the sword, he made a grab for his dagger, he would have been too late, but I arrived alongside him and tapped the wolf with the shining arrow. It froze momentarily, then ran away across the hillside with its tail between its legs. Two more
charged in. Mace rolled to his knees to drive his dagger into the throat of the first, and I threw the arrow at the second. The point barely broke the skin of the beast, but still the wolf, freed from the spell, loped away from us. The last of the creatures leapt at Wulf, sinking its fangs into his forearm. His short sword plunged into the creature’s side, the blade piercing the heart. Its forelegs folded beneath it, and it sank to the earth without a sound. Wulf tried to pull the jaws apart, but they were locked to his forearm. Mace and I managed to prize them clear. Wulf pushed back his torn sleeve, and blood gushed from the puncture wounds above and below his left wrist.