Morningstar (26 page)

The hunchback swore loudly. “Were they rabid, do you think?” he asked.

“No,” I assured him. “Cataplas cast a spell on them. As soon as we touched them with our weapons, the spell was leached away. Had they been rabid, they would have continued their attack.” I was not sure that this was true, but my words comforted Wulf.

“Why me?” muttered Wulf, trying to staunch the flow of blood. “They were all around you, Mace, and you haven’t a scratch!”

“The gods favor the handsome, Wulf—you should know that. And you should have known better than to run at wolves.”

“I saved your life, you bastard!”

“True,” Mace agreed, grinning. “Which is the second thing to remember about gods: they rarely aid the stupid.”

“It’s not a mistake I’ll make again!” responded the hunchback, turning back toward the cave. Astiana bound his wounds, but Wulf was still complaining as the dawn came up.

“We must move,” said Mace, kneeling beside Piercollo. “Can you keep up with us?”

“We should stay for at least another two days,” put in Astiana.

“Perhaps we should. But who knows what the sorcerer will send against us next time. Tell me, Owen,” he said, turning to me, “does Cataplas know where we are?”

“I believe so. He would have been linked to the wolves.”

“Then we have no choice,” said Mace.

The giant pushed himself to his feet. “I will be with you, Morningstar. Do not concern yourself. Piercollo is strong.”

“What about you, Sister? Where will you go?”

“I will travel with you as for as the village of Willow. It is close to the troll reaches, and I have friends there.”

Mace smiled. “I always like the company of attractive women.”

“And I like attractive men,” she told him icily. “It’s a shame there are none close by.”

“I think she loves me,” Mace told me as we set off toward the north.

We traveled toward the northwest, moving with care, listening for sounds from the soldiers hunting us. Twice we saw mounted warriors, but they were far off and we passed by unseen.

Piercollo walked in silence, uncomplaining, though the pain from his eye must have been great. We halted at midday in a sheltered hollow, where Wulf built a fire beneath the spreading branches of a tall pine. The wood he used was dry, and what little smoke it made was dissipated as it passed through the thick branches overhead. We cooked a little of the venison and sat quietly, each with his own thoughts. Wulf’s arm was paining him, but the hunchback had been lucky; the bite had been partly blocked by his leather wrist guard, and the wounds were not deep.

Ilka came to sit beside me, and for the first time I took her hand, raising it to my lips and kissing the fingers. It was as if I had struck her, and she jerked her hand from mine, her eyes angry.

“I am sorry,” I told her. “I did not mean to offend you.”

But she stood and walked away from me, sitting beside Piercollo and Astiana. It had been an unconscious gesture and one of love, yet I had forgotten the reality of her life. Because she had been raped, tortured, and forced to become a whore, such a kiss for her was simply a request for carnality. I felt clumsy and stupid.

That night, after another seven or eight miles of travel, we found shelter under an overhang of rock. Mace gestured to Ilka, summoning her. When she shook her head and turned away, he stood and walked around the small fire to where she sat.

“Is it that time of the month?” he asked her. Once more she shook her head.

“Then come with me.” Ilka rose and stood before him, her hand on her scabbarded saber. Then she pointed first at Piercollo,
then at Wulf, and finally at me. I didn’t understand what was happening, though I was glad she had refused him. “What is happening here?” asked Mace, becoming irritated.

Ilka was agitated now, but she could not make herself understood. It was Piercollo who finally saw what she was trying to say.

“She is one of us now, Mace,” he said. “She is no longer a whore.”

“But she is a whore,” Mace pointed out. “It’s what she’s good at, and it’s what I need!”

“Leave her be, Jarek,” I said. “She was forced into the life, and now she has chosen to forsake it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a whore,” Mace snapped.

“Nor with not being one,” put in Astiana.

“I don’t need a nun to advise me about whores,” Mace replied, angry now.

“No, I would imagine you are expert enough in that area. After all, why would any woman sleep with you but for money?”

“They don’t do much sleeping, Sister. But since Ilka has discovered purity, perhaps you would like to take her place. I’ll give you a silver penny for the poor.” Astiana’s hand streaked for his face, but he caught her wrist and pulled her in close. “I like passion in a woman,” he said, lifting her from her feet.

“Let her go, Mace,” said Piercollo, his voice dangerously low. The giant climbed to his feet, his huge hands clenched into fists.

Mace glanced at him and smiled, but there was no trace of humor in his eyes. “I’ll not harm her,” he told him, releasing the woman and stepping back.

Astiana’s face was flushed, her anger barely controlled. “To think,” she said, “that I glorified your name to the people. You are no better than those you fight. You are a disgusting animal.”

“I never claimed to be otherwise,” he responded. “Not once. But I am not here to live your dreams, and I am not responsible for them. I am a man trying to stay alive and enjoy myself while doing it. Is that so wrong? And as for disgusting animals, well, I never saw an animal to fit that description. Plenty of men, yes, and a few women. But never an animal. And do not fear for your virtue with me, Sister. I’ll not trouble you.”

Turning away from her, he approached Piercollo. “Anything else you wish to say?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the giant told him.

“Don’t ever threaten me,” Mace warned him. “Not ever!”

“She is of the church,” said Piercollo. “It is not right to treat her with disrespect.”

“A black dress does not command respect,” hissed Mace. “I’ve known churchmen who were adulterers, torturers, killers. And I’ve shared the beds of a nun or two. They are just people like you and me, only they are mostly weaker, clinging to superstition, hiding behind convent walls because they haven’t the courage to face real lives. Respect? I’ll tell you what I respect. Gold. It asks nothing and gives everything. It keeps you warm, and it buys you pleasure. And there’s not a man alive who won’t sell his soul for the right amount of it.”

“Spoken like the hero you are!” stormed Astiana.

“Hero?” responded Mace. “Where are the heroes? The Angostins have slaughtered them all. There are no more heroes, Sister. They lie upon the fields of battle, the crows feasting upon their eyes. They went into battle with clubs and staves, told they could defeat armored knights and seasoned troops. And they believed it! Well, they had no chance, but they were heroes. That’s what heroes do, isn’t it? They tackle impossible odds and laugh in the face of death. Well, I saw no laughter. Only terror as the first charge cleared their ranks and the swords and maces and spears and lances tore into their flesh. I am not a hero, Astiana. But I am alive.”

The conversation died there. Wulf banked up the fire, and Piercollo sat silently staring into the flames, while Astiana turned away from us and settled down to sleep with her back to the fire.

I felt low then, a deep depression hanging over me. We tend to think of heroes as men apart—their angers are always colossal, but they rage only against the foe. We rarely see them in a damp forest, complaining about the cold, and never think of them urinating against a tree. They never suffer toothache; their noses are never red from sneezing in the winter. Thus we strip away the reality.

In tales of old the sun shines brighter, the winter snow becomes beautiful, an elven cloak upon the land. And the hero rides a white stallion and searches for the monster who has kidnapped the princess. Always he finds her, slaying the beast who took her.

Still angry, Mace wandered away from the campsite. I followed
and found him sitting upon a ledge of rock. “Do not lecture me, Owen,” he warned.

“I am not here to lecture. She was wrong, and you were quite right.”

“You don’t believe that; you are merely trying to ease my irritation. I saw your eyes when I told you of the gold in the keep. You were disappointed. Just as when I refused to fight fifty soldiers to save Megan.”

“Perhaps I was,” I agreed, “but that does not make me right. You are not responsible for the dreams of others. Yet you did take the name, and it is the name that haunts you.”

“I know. And you would like me to live up to it. I can’t, Owen. Not even if I tried. It is not in my nature, my friend. Can you understand that? I know what I am. When I was a child I longed for friendship. But I was the son of a whore, and no one wanted me to join their games. I learned to live without them. I joined the circus when I was little more than twelve. The master there beat me ceaselessly, using pain to teach me. I walked the high wire, I swung upon the flying bar, I danced with the bear. I learned to juggle and to tumble, but always he was there with his crop or his cane. I learned then, Owen, that a man stands alone in this world. He does not ask to enter it, and he begs not to be taken from it. In between there is fear, hardship, and a little pleasure. I choose to seek pleasure.” He lapsed into silence for a moment, his eyes distant. “Why did the whore refuse me, Owen? I have never been unkind to her.”

“She does not wish to remain a whore,” I told him.

“Why? What else is there for her?”

“She will be my wife,” I said, speaking the words before I even realized they were there.

Where I expected a sneering comment or, worse, a scornful laugh, he merely nodded sagely. “You could do worse,” he said with a shrug.

“How long before we reach the Ringwearer?” I asked, changing the subject and suppressing my anger.

“Maybe too long,” he replied. “We can travel no faster.”

“What about horses? We could buy them in Willow.”

He shook his head. “We can move faster without them. Trust me. I just hope that this Gareth is a canny fighter, for there is no doubt the enemy will be upon him before we arrive.”

I tried not to think about the perils facing Gareth: the killers, the sorcery of Cataplas, the demons he could summon.

I could only hope we would be in time.

The weather was kind for most of the journey to Willow, the sun shining, and the only hours of rainfall coming during the fifth night, when we were sheltered in a deep cave with a fine fire to keep the chill from our bones. Piercollo’s wound was healing well, though I must admit that I shuddered when I saw Astiana remove the bandage and bathe the ruined eye. The red-hot iron had destroyed the muscles around the now-empty socket, and crimson scars radiated out from the wound. Mace cut an eye patch from a piece of black leather, and this held in place a poultice of herbs prepared by Astiana. Piercollo bore his pain with dignity and courage and on the fourth day even resumed cooking for the company. It was a welcome relief, for Wulf was perhaps the worst cook I can remember. According to Mace, he could make fresh rabbit taste like goats’ droppings.

We ate well for the next three days, Piercollo gathering herbs and wild onions and Wulf snaring rabbits and a hedgehog or two. One morning we even dined on a fungus growing from the side of a tree. Ox heart, Piercollo called it, and indeed it dripped red when torn from the bark. It had a savory taste and, when cooked with sliced onions, was most welcome to the palate.

On the morning of the eighth day of travel we climbed to a hilltop overlooking the village of Willow. There were some thirty houses there and no sign of a keep or tower. The largest building was a church situated at the village center. For some time we sat looking down at the settlement, watching for soldiers, but seeing none, we ventured in.

There was a tavern on the eastern side of Willow, and bidding farewell to Astiana, who headed for the church, we entered the building, taking a table near a shuttered window and ordering meat, bread, and ale. There was no ale to be had, we were told, but the village was renowned, said the innkeeper, for its cider. It was indeed very fine, and after several tankards I felt a great warmth for Willow growing inside me.

Mace called the innkeeper to our table and bade him sit with us. There were no other customers, and the man, a round-faced Highlander named Scoris, eased himself down onto the bench
alongside me. He smelled of apples and wood smoke, a most pleasing combination. I warmed to him instantly.

“We are seeking a man named Gareth,” said Mace.

“By God, he is becoming popular,” replied Scoris. “Has he discovered a gold mine?”

“I take it we are not the first to ask for him?” I asked.

“No. Two days ago—or was it three?—Kaygan the swordsman came here. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No. Who is he?” asked Mace.

“Mercenary soldier. It is said he’s killed seventeen men in one-to-one combat. He’s Azrek’s champion now, so he says. He put on a show here. Never seen the like. Tossed an apple in the air and cut it into four slices before it fell. And sharp? His sword cut through two lit candles, sliced through them but left them standing.”

“What kind of blade does he carry?” inquired Mace, his voice soft in tone but his eyes betraying his interest.

“Saber.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall man, much as yourself. Only slimmer. Golden hair and slanted eyes, like one of them foreigners in the old stories. Only he ain’t no foreigner. Born in Ziraccu—almost a Highlander.”

“What did he want with Gareth?” I asked Scoris.

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He was a showman, all right, but not a man to question, if you take my point. Friendly enough on the surface, but he has dead eyes. Never question a man with dead eyes.”

“What did you tell him?” put in Wulf.

“Same as I’ll tell you. Gareth is a hermit. Strange young man, white-haired, though ’e’s no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty. Lives up in the hills somewhere. Comes to the village maybe twice a year for supplies—salt, sugar, and the like. He’s no trouble to anyone, and he pays for his food in old coin. Some say he has a treasure hid in the mountains, and a few years back a group of ne’er-do-wells journeyed up into the high country to take it from him. They didn’t come back, and they weren’t missed, I can tell you. I expect Kaygan heard the treasure stories and wants it for himself.”