Morningstar (31 page)

It was a fine performance, and I could see that the newcomers were all impressed by it. Mace was the very picture of nobility. Astiana smiled softly and shook her head. I caught her eye, and we exchanged smiles.

Mace strode from the cabin, calling me to him. “Well?” he asked me as we moved out of earshot.

“You were very fine,” I told him.

“Yes, I surprised myself. How simple it all is. How people long to be led. I wish I’d discovered it years ago.”

“What do you plan?”

He turned to me, laying his hand on my shoulder. “You began it, Owen. Now I shall finish it. I will gather an army, and I will take Ziraccu. After that … who knows? There will be gold and plunder aplenty. I intend to be rich, Owen. Maybe I shall cross the sea to warmer climes, buy a palace. By God, why stop at a palace?”

“You are mightily pleased with yourself,” I snapped, “but may I remind you that we are still a small band of outlaws and there is no army as yet.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” he responded. “The Earl of Arkney was ready to bend his knee to me—an Angostin prince! Oh, I shall raise an army. No doubt of that. Azrek can have no more than five hundred men at Ziraccu. There are ten times that many warriors in the forest. We will sack the city, and then I shall disappear.”

“Why stop at Ziraccu?” I said, intending my voice to be mocking. But he did not notice the tone; instead he laughed aloud.

“One should not be too greedy, my friend. I can win that battle, but once I have, the rebellion will be over. Edmund will march his armies back to the north and crush any who stand in
his way. But that will matter nothing, for the Morningstar will be long gone.”

“And leave behind all those who followed you? Yes, that sounds like you, Jarek Mace. You will not have to see the ropes hanging from every tree or the rotting corpses upon them.”

His smile faded. “I did not ask these people to make me their hero. I owe them nothing. I owe you nothing.”

“I agree. But what you said in there was wonderful. No more Angostin overlords, no more serfs and slaves. Merely Highlanders, men judged by their actions and not by their blood. That’s worth fighting for, Jarek. That’s worth dying for!”

“Nothing is worth dying for!” he stormed. “And I’ll tell you why: because nothing ever changes. There will always be kings, and there will always be serfs. Edmund has conquered the north, but he will die one day, and there will be other civil wars. And yes, the north will be free, because a Highland Edmund will arise. But nothing will change, Owen. Not for the likes of you and me. Not for Wulf or Ilka. The strongest conquer; the weak suffer. It is the world’s way.”

“It is the coward’s way!” I stormed. “What man has made, man can change. Yes, there have always been despots and tyrants, but equally there have been benevolent rulers, strong men who cared for their people. But if men followed your philosophy of despair, they would build nothing. What would be the point of fashioning a home from timber and stone? One day the timbers will rot and the roof fall in. Why learn which herbs will conquer which diseases? We are all going to die, anyway. Why teach our children to read? They’ll never be able to change anything!”

For a moment he seemed taken aback, but it was more as a response to the passion of my argument than a result of the argument itself. “By God,” he said, “if you could fight like you can talk, you’d be a formidable opponent.”

“Go ahead, Jarek Mace, mock if you will. It is something you are good at.”

“I am good at many things, Owen,” he replied. “Keeping myself alive during a bloody war is but one of my talents. Being a hard man to kill is another. Now I am playing this game of yours to the best of my ability. Do not ask for more, for there is no more to give. I care nothing for Angostins. And I am not even a Highlander, I am a lowborn Ikenas. They want to make
me Rabain reborn, so be it! They want to follow me to the gates of hell, well, let them. All I want is to see Azrek dead and to have some gold to spend. Is that so bad?”

“You could be king,” I said softly. “Can’t you see that? The people will rise in their thousands.”

“And Edmund will crush them,” he said, hammering his fist into the palm of his left hand for emphasis.

The light was beginning to fail, and we walked back toward the shelter.

I thought I saw a shadow move at the edge of my vision, but when I swung around, there was nothing to see. And night flowed over the clearing, the sky thick with clouds that covered the moon and stars.

I have discovered in my long life that there are many words and phrases that have more power than any spell of magick. The most well-known of these is, of course,
I love you
. But by far the most deadly is
if only
.

For these two words can strip a man’s strength, his courage, and his confidence. They become the father of regret and anguish and pain. A man kneels by his dead children in a plague village and thinks, If only we had journeyed south in the summer. A farmer gazes at his rain-ruined crop and believes he would have been a rich man if only he had bred horses instead. Lives are ruled by
if only
.

I have my father to thank for being free of the spell cast by those two words.

“Foolish regret weighs more than iron,” he would say. “Every man alive makes mistakes; that’s how he learns. Only the weakling talks of life’s unfairness or claims he is jinxed by bad luck. The strong man shrugs his shoulders and walks on.”

I remember one winter evening, as we were gathered around the fire, when one of my brothers, Braife, was crying because his favorite hound had been killed in a fight with wolves. He was weeping not just because of the loss but because he had chosen to carry a spear that day and not a bow. With the bow, he said, he might have driven the wolves back.

“Most likely,” agreed Aubertain, “but you weren’t carrying the bow. It was not even a mistake, nor yet an error of judgment. You were hunting boar, and for that a man needs a long spear. Everything you did was correct, but the dog died. When I was
a young knight in the Oversea War, I had a friend called Ranuld, a bright, witty, shining man. We were riding together through a forest, hunting deer, when he suggested trying to the east. I maintained the deer would be in the west, and it was to the west that we rode. We had traveled no more than a mile when a band of robbers leapt from hiding in the undergrowth. We drove them off, of course, killing three, but when they had gone, Ranuld fell from his horse. He had a deep dagger wound in his chest, and it had pierced the lung. He died in my arms then. I screamed my bitterness to the heavens, and I regret his death to this day, but not with guilt. I chose the west because the forest was more dense there and the ground was low, indicating water and good feed for deer. It was not my fault that he died. Nor was it your fault, Braife, that the hound was slain.”

Forgive me, my ghostly friend, for this departure from the trail, but it has relevance.

I thought I saw a darting shadow in the trees, and I did not mention it to Mace or to Wulf. I wish I had, but in my mind at the time I dismissed it as a trick of the fading light or a fox moving stealthily.

But it was Cataplas … and I should have guessed it and warned Mace. We could have hunted him down and prevented so many tragedies. Yet I did not think of it. Perhaps Cataplas protected himself with a spell; perhaps I was tired. I do not know. And despite the whispering memory of my father’s advice, I still regret that missed moment.

We moved into the shelter. Raul was talking to Astiana, while Piercollo and Ilka were preparing supper. The brothers and Scrymgeour were gambling, using bone dice, and Wulf was sitting by himself with the wrapped skull in his lap.

It was a warm evening with a gentle breeze blowing over the ruins, and I played my harp after supper, summoning sweet melodies of summer dances to entertain the company. Wulf did not join in with his flute, and Piercollo, despite my cajoling, declined to sing.

The hours flowed by. Wulf and Ilka were asleep, but Astiana was entertaining the others with tales of the Elder Days. At first I listened, for there were several I had not heard, but then she moved on to the stories of the Gabala knights, and I wandered away to sit facing the forest, staring out into the darkness.

The stars were bright, and there were few clouds. Wrapped
in a blanket, I sat for perhaps an hour before I felt the need to sleep. It was like warmth stealing over me, bringing with it the memories of childhood—fires in the hearth, my brothers nestling alongside me, the great warhound Nibal on the floor beside the bed, his huge head resting on his paws. I leaned my head to the wall beside me. But I could feel no rough stones; it was as if a feather pillow had been placed there. My body felt light, my mind drifting, and it seemed that I floated gently down through warm water into the mindless security of prebirth.

From far away I could hear a voice calling me. It was irritating, like the buzz of an angry insect. I tried to shut my mind to it, but already the warmth and comfort were drifting away. Angry now, I moved my head. The cold stone rasped against my ear. I groaned and awoke, but the voice remained.

“Beware, Owen! You are in peril!”

Opening my eyes, I saw the image of Megan’s face floating before me, shimmering in the darkness. This was the Megan I knew, old and yet unbending. I blinked and yawned, my body slow to function. “Awake, Owen!” she ordered me. My mouth was dry, and I pushed myself to my knees, realizing that a powerful sleep spell had been laid upon me. Swinging my head, I saw that the others were sleeping heavily, sprawled by the dying fire.

Megan disappeared as I got to my feet. The stars were no longer shining, the sky was dark with clouds that sped by with unbelievable speed. I looked out into the night, but there were no trees, only a rolling mist that swirled around the cabin.

“Mace!” I shouted, stumbling toward him. “Wake up!” Grabbing his shoulder, I shook him savagely. His eyes opened dreamily, then shut again. Hauling him up, I slapped his face. Once. Twice. His eyes snapped open.

“What in the devil …?”

“Sorcery! Wake the others!”

He rolled to his feet, snatching up his sword. As it slid from the scabbard, it was shining like moonlight trapped in crystal. I took a deep breath, gathering myself for the coming attack, trying to calm my mind, preparing it for whatever enchantment I could muster. Wulf awoke next, and then Piercollo, Raul, the brothers, and Scrymgeour.

But of Ilka and Astiana there was no sign.

The sound of chanting came from the mist, echoing around
the cabin. At first there seemed no meaning within the noise, but slowly a single word became clear within the chant.

“Golgoleth! Golgoleth! Golgoleth!”

Raul had his sword drawn, but I moved alongside him, saying, “That blade is useless against the foes we face.” Wulf had drawn both his short swords, and I took one from him, handing the glittering weapon to the astonished earl. Mace tossed his spare knife to Scrymgeour, and we waited for the attack.

Black-cloaked shapes were moving in the mist, and the chanting continued, low and insistent, sinister and threatening.

“It is only noise,” Mace pointed out. I nodded.

The mist slowly cleared. But there were no trees, no forest, no sky.

The ruined cabin stood now within a great gray hall.

A hooded figure was seated upon a white throne, which could have been of ivory but was more likely, I considered, to have been shaped and worked from bone. Around him stood many soldiers, their faces covered by dark helms, curved swords in their hands. One of the soldiers approached the cabin entrance and lifted clear his helm. His face was pale and bloodless, his eyes dark, and when he spoke, elongated canines gleamed white in his lipless mouth.

“Surrender the skull!” he said, his voice cold.

“This is a hall of the dead,” I whispered to Mace. “He is—”

“I know what he is,” snapped Mace, his gaze locked on the Vampyre’s.

“Return it!” echoed the order.

“Come and take it!” Mace told him.

We were standing with our backs to the hearth, bright swords in our hands. But then the thought came. If we were truly in a hall of the dead, then we had been drawn from our bodies. We were souls, not flesh. And in that instant I realized something else.

The cabin could not exist here!

“Form a circle!” I shouted, spinning on my heel, my dagger ready.

The walls of the cabin dissolved, and a score of dark shapes rushed in. The brothers Ciarhan and Cearus had been placed behind us in what we had hoped was a position of safety. Dark blades plunged into them, and they fell. Wulf was the first to
react; he charged at the attackers, his silver blade slashing through them. I leapt to join him with my dagger raised.

The Vampyres fell back, dismayed. I glanced down to see if the brothers were still alive, but there was no sign of them or of the slain Vampyres. The stone floor of the hall was bare.

We stood in a circle now, with the Vampyres all around us.

“We cannot fight them all,” said Wulf. “What do you suggest, Mace?”

“Take my sword,” Mace told Piercollo, then moved back to where Wulf’s bow lay. Notching a gleaming arrow to the string, he stepped forward and aimed the shaft at the herald. “Send us back!” he ordered.

“I faced the first death like a man,” the herald sneered. “I can face the second in the same way.”

I moved alongside Mace and whispered, “Ignore him. Take the one on the throne!” Mace swayed to his right, the arrow flashing through the air, a gleam of silver light that sped toward the breast of the hooded figure. Just before it struck the figure disappeared, and the shaft hammered into the throne. The bones fell apart, crashing to the floor of the hall.

The world spun crazily, and I recall the sensation of falling, spinning through the air.

I awoke with a start to see Astiana leaning over me. As I opened my eyes, she whispered, “Thanks be to God!”

I sat up. Mace was on his knees, rubbing his eyes. Wulf was groaning. Piercollo was sitting by himself with his head in his hands. The earl was kneeling with Scrymgeour beside the bodies of the brothers. There were no marks upon them, but they were cold and dead.