David Gemmell - Morningstar

At the end of the performance there was tumultuous applause. Cataplas bowed and we left the hall.

Outside, in the shadows of the corridor, he said his goodbyes. ‘I have taught you all that you can learn,’ he said. ‘Now it is time for you to walk your own path.’ He bowed stiffly, turned and walked away, his long velvet robe brushing the cold stone of the walls.

As I lay in bed that night I pictured again the golden lion. I can remember a cold chill sweeping over me and I sat up, rigid with fear. The lion had scattered the dishes!

It was not a trick played with light; not a creation of magick. In the seconds before Cataplas transformed it into an eagle it had been real, solid, the golden claws and fangs capable of rending and tearing.

Not magick at all, but sorcery.

Now Patch was dead, as the burned corpses in the clearing were dead. I looked ahead to where Jarek Mace and Piercollo were walking in the sunlight… and I shivered.

In a world of violence, war and sudden death, these men could hold their own. But against Cataplas and all the demonic powers he could summon, what hope was left for them?

And for me.

Fear returned then, with great force.

Towards mid-morning we crested a tall hill and gazed out over the slender lakes that shone like silver in the valleys of the central forest. The land stretched away in great folds in a hundred variations of green and brown, speckled with the hazy purples of bracken and golden-yellow splashes of gorse. The trees were thinner here, and we could see at least two settlements by the largest of the lakes — wooden houses, single-storied, built along the shoreline. Boats and coracles were out on the lake, fishermen casting their nets for the red-fleshed fish that journeyed in from the sea in late spring.

All in all it was a quietly beautiful sight.

‘Not a single tavern,’ grunted Mace. ‘And I doubt there’s a whore to be had.’He was wrong. One of the first people I recognized, apart from the twisted figure of Wulf, was the blonde mute, Ilka. She stood with arms folded across her chest, her great blue eyes watching us as we strolled into the settlement.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Mace,’ shouted Wulf. ‘Where’s Megan?’

Mace explained, then told the story of the monstrous creatures which had hunted us. Wulf’s face was set and grim as he listened.

‘We’ve heard of them,’ he grunted. ‘They struck a family of tinkers the night afore last — ripped them to pieces. At first we thought it was trolls, but they’ve no cloven hoofs. There are hunting-parties out, five in all. I was with one of them. We just got back.’

‘Well,’ said Mace with a grin, ‘they won’t be needed. Owen cast a mighty spell that burned them up like great torches. And our singing friend here took out the last with a spear the size of a small tree.’

Piercollo chuckled. ‘Life is not without excitement in your company, Morningstar.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ snapped Mace, uneasy. ‘It began as a jest, but it is no longer amusing.’ Then he spotted Ilka and smiled, his good humour restored. Waving her to him, he took her arm and led her off into the trees. She glanced back once and her eyes held mine. I cannot say what the look meant, but I sighed and my spirits plummeted.

Mace was gone for most of the afternoon and Wulf took us to his camp-site outside the settlement. He had crafted from woven branches a lean-to shelter with a sloping roof, and two movable windbreaks. A fire was burning within a circle of stones, and six rabbits were hanging from a tree branch nearby.

‘Welcome to my hearth,’ he said, settling himself beside the fire. Piercollo and I lay down on the dry ground. Immediately fatigue overtook me, and I fell asleep to the sound of Wulf’s flute and the deep tenor beauty of Piercollo singing a gentle ballad.

It was dark when I awoke. Mace was back and sitting with the others, throwing dice and betting on the result. Ilka sat apart from them, hugging her knees and rocking gently from side to side. I stretched and sat up, smiling at her. She did not respond, but her eyes remained locked to mine.

Lifting my head, I signalled to her to join me, but she shook her head and looked away.

‘Ah, the mighty magician is awake,’ said Jarek Mace, ‘and he has missed his supper.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ I told him.

The stars were out, the moon a glorious crescent, the light so strong it cast shadows from the trees to the silvered ground.

More than a dozen men came moving from the undergrowth, grim men, dressed as foresters in leather jerkins and trews with daggers at their belts and longbows in their hands. I froze. Mace moved easily to his feet and waited. The newcomers walked slowly, purposefully, their eyes watching Mace. Piercollo eased himself to his feet but Wulf sat very still, his hand on his dagger.

A tall bowman, his hair silver in the moonlight, strode forward to stand before Mace. ‘So you’d be the Morningstar?’ said the newcomer, looking Mace up and down. ‘Why is it that I am not impressed?’

‘I have no idea,’ responded Mace, ‘but your wife was impressed the last time I bedded her. But then the competition was not fierce.’

Even by the light of the moon and stars I saw the man redden. ‘Be careful, Mace! I am not known for my patience.’

‘You are not known for anything, Corlan,’ snapped Mace. ‘Now say what you have come to say, and then begone!’

‘You think I won’t kill you? You think your life is charmed?’

‘I know that if you try I’ll cut your throat,’ Mace told him.

Corlan’s gaze swept to the dagger at Mace’s belt; it was still scabbarded.

‘You think you are fast enough to beat an arrow?’

I know I am. Now speak your piece.’

‘I want some of the profit from this… Morningstar game of yours. Let us face facts, Mace. Whatever plan you have cannot be carried off without men. And you have only Wulf. He’s good, and so are you. But you need more. I have them. All we want is a share. Isn’t that right, men?’

‘Aye,’ the foresters chorused.

‘And if I don’t agree?’

‘Then you die here. And perhaps so do I. Now, do we have an agreement?’

Mace swung to me. ‘Well, Owen, do we have an agreement?’

For a moment I was thunderstruck, but then I saw the look in Mace’s eyes — sharp, direct — and I knew he was warning me to be careful. Beyond that I could not guess at his reasons for drawing me into the discussion.

‘Who in the devil’s name is he?’ asked Corlan.

‘It is his game,’ answered Mace easily. ‘The Morningstar was his idea.’

‘What is the game?’ asked the forester, turning to me.

In that moment I set my foot on a perilous path. I am not sure now how far ahead I could see; I like to think that a small part of my mind, a deep dark corner close to the soul, inspired me. But I fear it was merely self-preservation that made me speak as I did.

‘It is the greatest game of all,’ I said, ‘and the profits will make beggars of kings.’

My voice was firm and resonant, deep and compelling, and the ease of the lie surprised me. I excused it then — as I do now — by saying that as a bard, I was also a performer, and I was performing before an audience who, if they did not like my words, might kill me.

Corlan looked at me with fresh eyes. He saw a tall, dark-haired young man of Angostin countenance, straight of nose, strong of chin, keen of eye, and my confidence grew. ‘You are correct, Corlan, we will need men — but far more than you have here. These will come in time, but you will be the first — after you have pledged the Soul Oath.’

‘I want to hear about gold — not oaths,’ he said.

‘You will hear all you need to in good time,’ I told him. ‘Gather round me.’