Morningstar (42 page)

He tried to move away from me, but I kept a firm hold of his arm. “If you can tear your gaze away from her for a moment, let me point something out to you, that is, if you can still think! You are being summoned. That makes you the
Summoned One
. Are you concentrating, Jarek? The Summoned One? Ra-he-borain? Rabain, Jarek. It is you! When you step through whatever gateway she has created, you will be Rabain.”

Suddenly he was no longer trying to pull away. The full force of the argument struck him, and he relaxed in my grip. “I am Rabain?” he whispered.

“You will be if you travel with her.”

He laughed then. “How can I lose, Owen? Rabain didn’t, did he? He got to be king.”

“Yes, he got to be king,” I said, holding the sadness from my voice.

He turned away from me and approached Horga, taking her hand and kissing it. “How soon do we … leave?” he asked.

“Now,” she replied, lifting her arm.

Golden light blazed through the clearing …

And I was alone. Piercollo and Wulf had vanished with Mace, drawn with him because they carried the weapons of enchantment.

I built up the fire and waited, my thoughts somber.

After a short while, even before the new wood had burned through, there was a second bright flaring of light and Piercollo and Wulf were back.

Both were dressed differently, and Wulf’s beard was better trimmed, his hair cut short. He was wearing a tunic and boots of the finest leather, and a golden dagger was belted at his side. Piercollo looked much the same, save that he now wore an eye patch of silver that needed no thong to hold it in place. He moved to me, hauling me to my feet and taking me into a bear hug that almost broke my back.

“He is the king, then?” I asked as Piercollo released me.

“Aye,” said Wulf. “And not making a bad job of it. But he’s staying behind, Owen. He wouldn’t come back with us. He’s living with the sorceress now, like husband and wife. But we asked her to send us back. How long have we been gone?”

“Merely a few minutes.”

“Sweet heaven!” he said, shaking his head. “We were there for almost a year. You should have seen it, Owen. Mace was the hero! We stormed the Vampyre keep. I killed one of the kings with—”

“With a silver arrow, I know. And Piercollo slew the second, hurling him from the high walls, where his neck was broken, his head severed upon a sharp rock.”

“You saw it?”

“No, my friends, I didn’t need to see it; it is a part of history. You were Jerain the bowman. Piercollo was Boras the Cyclops—the one-eyed. It is a wondrous circle. All this time men have been saving that Mace is Rabain reborn. And they were right, after a fashion. All the legends said that Rabain would come again. And in a way he did. And he will.”

“Mace ain’t coming back,” said Wulf. “Trust me on that.”

“No, Wulf, you trust me. The Morningstar will appear at the
last battle. There is an old man in the past, a poet, and he will convince Mace that he should return.”

There is a wide, long meadow in a valley eight miles south of Ziraccu. It is flanked by trees and a narrow ribbon stream to the west, with a line of hills to the east. Being old, they are not high hills, mere humps in the land rising no more than two hundred feet. The meadow itself now has a church upon it. They call it the Morningstar Abbey. Pilgrims journey to it, for there is a tomb there—an empty tomb—but legend tells us there is a cloth within the sarcophagus that was stained with the blood of the Morningstar.

For fifty years there have been claims of miraculous healings, and it has become a shrine, guarded now by an order of monks, saying prayers thrice daily by the statue of Jarek Mace. How he would have chuckled to see their set, serious faces.

But I am drifting ahead of the tale.

On the last day of spring, on a cloudy morning—the grass white with dew and mist like the ghosts of yesterday swirling upon the meadow—our army waited. There was no church then, only a long flat area of killing ground.

There were 3,700 foot soldiers at the center, Brackban standing in the fourth rank of seven with a standard-bearer beside him. The standard had been made by Astiana; it was a simple piece, black linen upon which she had embroidered a star of silver thread. Brackban was garbed for war in the black enchanted armor, a raven-winged helm upon his blond head. Almost one thousand of our front-line troops wore breastplates and carried round iron-rimmed wooden shields. Most of them and around half the others also sported helms of baked leather, some reinforced by bronze. But there were still many men who had no armor.

But Brackban was a popular man, and the troops gathered around him, ready to fight and die for their homeland.

He had listened in silence as I told him of Mace’s quest, of his journey into the past. He did not, I think, believe me. And even if he did, it meant little to him. For all he took from the tale was that Mace had gone.

“What now, Owen?” he had asked me.

“Prepare for battle. The Morningstar will return.”

“You seem confident.”

“I am.”

“Wulf does not agree with you.”

“He does not know all that I know. Have faith, Brackban. Tell the men that the Morningstar will be with them on the day of battle. Tell them he will come in glory, his armor gold and riding upon a huge white stallion. Tell them that.”

“I do not want to lie to them.”

“It is no lie.”

To the left of the battlefield was Raul Raubert with three hundred Angostin knights. These were men who had survived the first invasion, some by hiding, others by running. I was not inspired by them, but Raul was leading them, and his courage was without question. His role was to deflect the enemy cavalry, hold them back if he could.

But all the reports suggested that Edmund’s force had more than four thousand heavily armored knights. Three hundred would not hold them for long.

Wulf had stationed himself on the right with the men of the Morningstar, the archers and woodsmen. Eight hundred of them stood ready, their arrows thrust in the earth beside them, an indication for all that they were not prepared to run. Here were their weapons. Here they would stand.

It was noon before Edmund appeared, his column of knights riding along the crest of the hills in a glittering display of martial power. Behind them came the foot soldiers, marching in ranks, disciplined and calm, every man clad in breastplate and greaves, carrying a square iron shield emblazoned with dragons, leopards, or griffins. The king himself could be clearly seen: his armor was polished like silver, and he rode a tall horse, black as jet, its head and chest armored with chain mail and plate.

Slowly the infantry filed out to stand in ranks opposite us, about a quarter of a mile distant.

My fears began then in earnest, and I felt the weight of the unaccustomed sword that was belted to my side and the chain mail shirt I wore. Beside me Piercollo waited grimly, a long-handled ax in his hands.

“There are rather a lot of them,” I observed, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Many,” he agreed.

The infantry alone outnumbered us by at least three—possibly
four—to one. Eight to ten thousand men, battle-hardened and accustomed to victory.

I wondered how the battle would start. For here we were, all of us in a summer meadow, standing silently staring at one another. It seemed so unlikely that we were all about to be embroiled in a bloody fight to the death.

A herald rode from the Angostin camp, galloping his horse to within twenty paces of our center. There was no breeze to speak of, and the herald’s words carried to every man in the front ranks.

“The lord of the land demands that you lay down your weapons. He further insists that the rebel leaders Jarek Mace, Brackban, and Owen Odell are to be detained and delivered to him. Failure to comply with these orders will result in the extermination of every man who holds arms against the king. You have one hour to make your decisions. If the men named are brought before the Lord Edmund within that time, no action will be taken against you.”

Tugging on the reins, the rider galloped back to the Angostin lines, leaving a silent army behind him.

You could feel the tension in every man. Ahead of us was a mighty foe—unbeaten, seemingly invincible. Fear swept through our ranks like a mist—cold, strength-sapping.

But as the fear swelled, a single voice broke out in song. It was Piercollo, and he was singing an old and famous Highland battle hymn, a deep, rolling ballad, slow and martial. It was called “The Shield Bearer,” and it told of a boy going to war for the first time.

Around me I saw warriors looking at the giant Tuscanian, then several voices joined in, thin and piping against his deep tenor. And the sound swelled, the power and pride of the lyrics expelling all fear, until the entire army of the Highlands was singing the battle song. I looked to Brackban, and he grinned, the tension and weariness falling from him. Then he, too, began to sing, and the sound filled the meadow, sweeping out to envelop the enemy army.

At the final verse Piercollo raised his ax above his head, the sunlight gleaming from the huge curved blades. Swords flashed up into the sunlight, and the song was replaced by a deafening roar of defiance.

Edmund did not bother to wait for the hour to pass. A trumpet note blared out, and the cavalry thundered down from the hills.

Raul Raubert led his men to meet them, and Wulf and the archers drew back on their bowstrings, sending a black cloud of shafts into the enemy horsemen. The knights fell in their hundreds.

A roll of drums sounded, and the enemy infantry, lances leveled, began to walk toward us. The drums increased in tempo, the walk becoming a run, becoming a charge.

And the day of blood began, the screams of the dying, the clash of swords and spears, the neighing of horses, the pounding of hooves upon the grass. Chaos and terror, fury and death flowed around me as I stood in the fifth rank. In front of me Piercollo fought like the giant he was, his great ax rising and falling to smash men from their feet. The lines bent and gave, and I found myself drawn into the madness of the battle, where I stabbed and thrusted, parried and countered, desperately fighting to stay alive within the swirl of war.

I don’t know how long the initial fighting went on, but it seemed to be hours. Finally the Angostins pulled back, reforming their lines for a second charge. We had lost more than half our men, and many of the others now carried wounds. It took no military mind to realize that one more charge could finish us. Yet no one ran or cried out for mercy. We stood our ground as men.

“Now would be a good time for magic,” said Wulf, easing himself alongside us, his arrows gone. He drew his two short swords and sniffed loudly.

“I do not think my illusions would hold them for long,” I told him.

“You should have studied better,” was Wulf’s caustic reply.

I saw the enemy king mount his black stallion and ride out to join his cavalry. They gathered around him, listening to his exhortations.

Glancing to my left, I saw Raul Raubert, his armor drenched in blood, calling his own knights to him. There were scarcely sixty left, but they gathered around him. I felt shame then for doubting them.

The enemy cavalry formed a line and swept down toward our flank. There were no arrows left now, and Brackban tried to set up a shield wall to oppose them. Raul spurred his horse forward,
his men around him in a tight wedge. Instantly I guessed his plan: he was trying to force his way through to Edmund.

The Angostins were ready for such a move, and several hundred knights galloped ahead of the king, blocking Raul’s path.

The infantry swept forward.

The battle was almost over …

A rolling boom of thunder broke above our heads, a jagged spear of lightning flashing up from the hilltop to the east. But instead of disappearing, the lightning held, frozen, white-gold from earth to sky. The charging Angostins faltered, men turning to watch the light.

It widened, becoming a gateway arched by a glorious rainbow. And through the gateway rode a single knight on a huge white horse.

“The Morningstar!” I yelled, breaking the silence.

His armor was gold, and he wore no helm upon his head. In his right hand he carried his black longsword, in his left a spiked ball of iron on a length of chain. I smiled, remembering his first description of the weapon. Jarek Mace had arrived for the battle carrying a morningstar.

Touching spurs to the stallion, he charged at the enemy cavalry.

“Morningstar! Morningstar!” went up the roar from the Highlanders, and they surged forward at the bemused infantry before them. Stunned by this sudden attack, the Angostins fell back in disorder.

I did not join the rush of fighting men. I stood with Piercollo beside me and watched the last ride of Jarek Mace.

His horse reached the bottom of the hill, and several knights rode against him. His sword lanced out, spilling the first from the saddle; the second fell, the spiked ball crushing his skull. The third thrust a lance into Mace’s side, but a disemboweling cut from the black sword cleaved the knight’s belly.

On rode the Morningstar, cutting and killing, blood streaming from cuts on his face and arms.

Edmund drew his sword and spurred his mount to the attack. There were blades all around the Morningstar now, hacking and slashing, but somehow he stayed in the saddle and the giant white stallion bore him on.

Edmund galloped his black horse alongside Mace and plunged his sword into the Morningstar’s belly. I saw Mace’s face twist
in pain, and then the spiked ball swung through the air, crashing into Edmund’s helm. The king swayed in the saddle, losing his grip on the sword that still jutted from Mace’s body. Now it was the Morningstar who lifted his sword one last time, slamming the blade forward into Edmund’s neck. Blood gushed, and the king fell.

With the Angostin infantry streaming from the field, the knights were in danger of being surrounded. Several of them tried to recover the king’s body, but they were cut down by Raul Raubert and his men, who had forced their way through to the Morningstar.

The white stallion, its chest pierced by many blades, suddenly fell, pitching Mace to the ground. I dropped my sword and ran toward him, dodging and swerving among the knights and their maddened mounts.