David Gemmell - Morningstar

I did not know what to say. Yes, I had suspected the man. Something in the eyes, perhaps, the sheen of sweat upon his brow, the trembling of his hand as he accepted the illusion of fire. But the truth was hard. His guilt had betrayed him, and the mere fact that he had felt guilt showed he was at heart a good man. And I had seen him slain, probably dooming his family.

Did I do well?

I still recall his face and, worse, the look of relief that touched him as the knife released his soul.

For several weeks we journeyed through the high country, stopping at lonely hamlets or small villages, passing through more open areas where dry-stone walls dotted the hills like necklaces and crops grew on ploughed fields.

Ilka travelled with us — though none, I think, invited her. She helped Piercollo with the cooking and stayed close to me as we walked. For a while her company disconcerted me, for whenever I looked at her I found her eyes upon me, the gaze frank and open. But without language the meaning was lost and I found myself hating anew the brutal men who had robbed her of both her childhood and her voice.

Sometimes in the night she would suffer tormented dreams and make sounds that were more animal than human, her mutilated tongue trying to form words. I went to her once in the night, and stroked her hair to calm her. But she awoke and waved me back, her eyes full of fear.

I think she was content in our company. Piercollo liked her, and when he sang she would sit close to him, hugging her knees and rocking gently to the music.

Slowly we worked our way north-west. We did not have any set destination that I can recall; we merely wandered, enjoying the sunshine, moving from town to village, village to town. Occasionally I entertained villagers, offering them the Dragon’s Egg, the Tower of Rabain, and various other well-known enchant-tales. Often I would ask for requests from the audience. The further north we travelled the more the villagers asked for tales of the Elder Days, the great wars of the Vampyre Kings, the heroism of Rabain, the enchantment of Horga.

These tales were not as popular in the south, where the Angostins wished to hear of their own heroes, but the Highlanders loved them. It took me time to learn to fashion the magick images of Rabain and Horga. I practised nightly by our camp-fire, with Wulf and Mace staring intently at the ghostly forms I created.

‘Take away the beard,’ suggested Wulf.

‘The beard’s fine,’ insisted Mace, ‘but he is too stocky. The man was a swordsman, long in the arm, well-balanced. Make him taller.’

Horga, they agreed, was spectacular. I did not tell Mace that I based her on the image Megan had showed me of herself when young, glorious of face and slender of figure.

On the first performance, in a small river town in the shadow of the Rostin Peaks, I received a fine ovation, but the audience wanted to see the great battle that destroyed the Vampyre Kings.

It irked me that I could not oblige them. Rarely have I been able to sustain more than a few distinct and moving images. Instead I chose to show Rabain’s fight in the forest with the Undead assassins. I stumbled upon the best technique almost by accident; I believe it is still used by magickers today.

At first I had Rabain fighting a single opponent, a vile white-faced creature with long fangs and a black cloak. Mace found the scene risible.

‘He doesn’t look Undead, he looks half-dead,’ he said, chuckling. ‘And so thin. Your audience will have sympathy only for the assassin.’

I was deeply irritated by this observation. But he was quite correct.

‘Have more attackers, six or seven,’ he advised.

I tried — I thought unsuccessfully. But the reaction from Wulf and Mace was extraordinary. They were transfixed by the scene. What had happened was that I could not retain detail in all six assassins and therefore they became blurred and indistinct, their cloaks swirling like black smoke, unearthly and unreal. This, in turn, made them demonic and terrifying.

Mace schooled me in sword-fighting techniques my Rabain figure could use against his attackers, spinning on his heel, reversing his sword, diving and rolling to hamstring an opponent. All in all it was a fine fight scene, and I used it to conclude all my performances.

I earned more coin during our few weeks in the north than in all my time in Ziraccu. And I almost forgot Azrek and Cataplas…

But, of course, they had not forgotten us.

One morning, just after dawn, as we lay sleeping in our beds in a small hut on the edge of the village of Kasel, a young boy ran inside, shaking Mace by the shoulder.

‘Soldiers!’ he screamed. Mace rolled to his knees and fell, then staggered upright. He had downed enough ale the previous night to drown an ox. Shaking his head he kicked out at the still sleeping Wulf; the hunchback swore, but soon roused himself. Piercollo, Ilka and I were already awake, and we gathered our belongings and followed Mace out into the trees.

The thunder of hooves came from behind us, but we darted into the undergrowth and slid down a long bank out of sight. The twenty or so soldiers left their mounts in the village and set off after us on foot. Wulf was contemptuous of them at first, leading us deeper into the trees along rocky slopes that would leave little sign for our pursuers. But as the day wore on they remained doggedly on our trail. We splashed along streams, climbed over boulders, zig-zagged our way through dense undergrowth. But nothing could shake the soldiers.

‘Are they using sorcery?’ asked Wulf, as dusk fell.

‘I do not know,’ I answered him, ‘but I do not think so. If there was an enchanter with them they would have caught us by now. I think they must be accompanied by a skilled tracker.’

He is certainly good,’ grunted Wulf grudgingly. ‘Let’s be moving!’

On we travelled, coming at last to a steep slope curving down into a dark valley. Wulf traversed it, then made as if to lead us back the way we had come. Mace ran alongside him.

‘Where are you going? That’s where they are!’

‘I know that!’ snapped Wulf. ‘I’m going back to kill their scout.’

‘Let’s just get down into the valley,’ said Mace. ‘There will be plenty of hiding-places there.’

‘No! I’m not running any further.’

‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ roared Mace. ‘We can’t take on twenty men.’

‘I’m not going down there.’

‘Why? It’s just a valley.’

‘I’m not going there, and that’s all there is to it,’ answered Wulf.

‘Listen to me,’ said Mace, his voice soothing. ‘If we stay here, we’re going to die. Now that’s fine for an ugly little man like you, who has nothing to live for. But for someone like me — tall, handsome and charming — it’s a galling thought. Now you wouldn’t want to be responsible for the tears of a thousand women, would you?’

Wulf’s answer was short, to the point and utterly disgusting. But he laughed and the tension eased.

Slowly we made our way down into the valley. It was cold, the night breeze chilling as it whispered through the trees.

‘What is this place?’ I asked Wulf.

‘You perform it often enough, Owen,’ he replied. ‘This is where Rabain fought the assassins. We just entered the realm of the Vampyre Kings.’,

The valley floor was lit by moonlight which turned the streams to ribbons of silver, the grass on the hillside to shards of shining iron. I shivered when Wulf spoke, the cold wind blowing around my back and legs. He laughed at my fear, but I could see his own in the gleam of his eyes and the wary way he glanced around at the shadowed trees.

The Vampyre Kings! Dread creatures, the fabric of nightmare, but dead now for a thousand years, I told myself, seeking comfort in the thought.