David Gemmell: Morningstar

Armed men rushed into sight and set off after him. The officer of the Watch approached me. ‘What is happening here?’ he asked.

I explained briefly about the attack on the girl, and of our sudden rescue. He knelt by the still unconscious woman, his fingers reaching out to feel the pulse at her throat. ‘She’ll come round,’ he said. ‘Her name is Petra. She is the daughter of the tavern-keeper, Bellin.

‘Which tavern?’

‘The Six Owls; it is quite close by. Come, I’ll help you carry her there.’

‘Who is the man you are chasing?’

‘Jarek Mace.’ He said the name as if it was one I should know, but when I professed ignorance he smiled.

‘He is a reaver, a thief, an adulterer, a robber — whatever takes his fancy. There is no crime he would not commit — if the price were worth the risks.’

‘But he came to our aid.’

‘I doubt that. We had him cornered and he ran. I would guess he jumped from the window to escape us — and landed in the midst of a fight. Lucky for you, eh?’

‘Extraordinarily lucky. Perhaps it was fate.’

‘If fate is kind to you, bard, you will not meet him again.’

That was the first time I saw the Morningstar.

The officer of the Watch was a kindly man. I do not recall his name, but I remember how he covered the unconscious girl with his grey cloak before lifting her into his arms. I thought this a gallant act. He was a strong man, and had no need of my assistance as we walked through the alleys, corning at last to a wider street where three inns were situated. The Six Owls was centrally placed, the building — three floors high — stretching across an arched tunnel that led to the stables. Heavy curtains covered the many ground-floor windows, but the sound of raucous singing could be heard from within.

We took Petra, who was by now recovering, to a door at the rear and entered a wide kitchen. Two middle-aged women ran forward as they saw the girl but the officer comforted them, his voice soothing.

A serving girl ran to fetch the owner of the tavern, a colossal man named Bellin. Bald as a rock and round as he was tall, his aims were huge, his face moon-shaped and pale.

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ he boomed, his small brown eyes glinting with what I took to be ferocity.

‘This gentleman rescued the young lady,’ said the officer. ‘She was being attacked by a gang of ruffians. I fear they were intent on rape. But no harm has been done.’

‘They didn’t…?’ began Bellin.

‘No,’ the officer answered.

‘The gods be praised,’ said the innkeeper, stepping forward and taking his daughter into a suffocating embrace. Her senses had returned and she looked towards me. Easing herself clear of her father’s arms, she curtseyed prettily. She did not seem in the least troubled, and I guessed then that she had recovered far more swiftly than any of the men had guessed. Her eyes were upon me and I thought I saw an invitation there, but I was young then and found it hard to believe that any attractive girl would give me a second glance.

‘I thank you, sir, for your kindness and your bravery,’ she said.

What could I say? I recall mumbling some nonsense and wishing I was gone. The innkeeper moved his great bulk towards me, then stamped me on the shoulder. It was the most painful moment of the night, but I grinned foolishly and basked in their praise.

‘Where did this happen?’ asked Bellin.

Petra took hold of the officer’s arm. ‘Baker’s Alley,’ she said swiftly. I saw the officer’s reaction and knew at once that this was not the place of the incident. But he said nothing, and neither did I.

It seemed the young lady had been visiting her grandmother, having taken a basket of pies and fruit for the old woman. It was a fine story, but both the officer and I knew she had detoured to meet some young suitor. The officer waited while Petra removed herself to her room to dress, but when she returned his cloak he bowed and left to resume his duties. After he had gone I asked Bellin if he could supply directions back to the inn where I had purchased lodgings. When I named the place he guffawed.

‘You cannot stay in such a cockroach-infested hovel,’ he insisted and offered me, free of charge, his best guest-room, slipping two gold coins into my hand as he ushered me through the main drinking hall. I am ashamed to say that I did not even make a polite attempt to refuse either. But then times were hard in Ziraccu.

The room was low-ceilinged and boasted two windows, one narrow and leaded, the other large and leading to a small balcony. The bed was softer than I liked, but the mattress was thick and clean. There was a table, four leather covered chairs, and a stool set before the stone fireplace. A fire had been recently lit, and the room was still cold. I sat down upon the stool and sipped a goblet of fine wine.

These lodgings were far better than those for which I had paid. Banking the fire, which by now had fulfilled its purpose and warmed the room, I took off my coat and undershirt, laying them carefully upon the back of a chair. The boots, complete with the wedding silver and the two gold coins, I left under the bed.

All in all it had been a fine day. It was not often that a bard was treated like a hero and, though I find compliments embarrassing, I am forced to admit that I enjoyed the praise. There was a little guilt also, for it was not I but Jarek Mace who had saved the girl. But I consoled myself with the thought that it was I, Owen Odell, who had first rushed to her rescue.

A copper warming-pan had been left in the bed. I removed it, slid under the heavy blankets and closed my eyes, seeing again the tall man leaping to our aid. I have seen many troupes of dancers in my life, yet rarely have I watched so graceful a human being. He had moved with great economy, always in balance, his confident skills wondrously displayed.

I pictured him again in my mind. Somewhat above six feet tall, wearing a common soldier’s jerkin of dark leather and beneath it a white blouse with puffed sleeves, slashed with… silk? Probably. But his dark leggings were of cheap wool, frayed at the knee, and his boots were those of a cavalryman. You know the old style, worn high over the knee to protect the rider, but folded down when afoot. Expensive boots.

A curious mixture, to be sure! But could I make a song of it? The hero bard and the wolfshead swordsman.

I doubted it, for there was no suitable ending. The swordsman had not fallen in love with the girl, and the tale was too swift in the telling.

Snuggling down, I slept without dreams until somewhere close to dawn.

I was awakened by a hand that closed over my mouth. ‘Do not cry out, goat-face, or I shall slit your throat!’ The hand moved away from my mouth, but I felt the point of a dagger against my neck. The room was dark and I could see nothing save a black silhouette above me.

‘What do you want?’ I managed to ask.

‘The gold. Where is it?’

‘Gold? What are you talking about?’

‘Don’t bandy words with me! I rescued the wench, the reward should be mine.’

‘Jarek Mace?’

‘You know me?’ asked the man, surprised.

Stepping back from the bed, he opened a tinder-box and struck his flint. Flames sprang up within the iron box. Lighting a taper from them, he moved to the three lanterns hanging upon the whitewashed walls. Soon the room was bathed in light and I sat up, watching him. He was wide-shouldered yet narrow of hip, long-legged and — as I have said — exceedingly graceful in his movements. His hair was light brown, worn long to the shoulder but cropped above the eyes. There was nothing special about the shape of his head, or his eyes or mouth, yet the combination of his features created a remarkably handsome face. Turning back to the bed he grinned, and such was the power of the smile that I returned it.