David Gemmell - Morningstar

How could I be frightened?

Yet I was. Rabain had killed the Three on the fabled Night of the Seventh Star, after the Battle of Coulin. He and his men had stormed the Grey Castle, dousing the great gates with oil and setting them ablaze, fighting their way through the courtyards and alleyways into the palace keep. Jerain the Archer had slain the first of the Kings, a shaft of silver piercing his eye. Boras the Cyclops had killed the second, catching him upon the battlements and hurling him to oblivion on the rocks below. But it was Rabain who slew the last — and greatest — of the Vampyre Kings. Golgoleth had taken refuge in his throne room, surrounded by demons sharp-fanged and armed with serrated swords. Rabain and the enchantress Horga had come upon them as they were in the midst of creating a dark enchantment that might have turned the battle. Horga’s spells sundered the demons while Rabain and Golgoleth did battle.

It was a fine story, incorporating trolls and Elven princes, vicious sorcerers and cunning demons. And very popular in the northlands, where they take their fables seriously.

Yet here was Owen Odell, Angostin by birth and temperament, trembling with terror in a dark valley, victim to barbarous superstition.

‘Why is it so cold?’ I asked Wulf, as we walked deeper into the darkness.

‘Sorcery,’ he whispered.

‘Horse-dung!’ declared Jarek Mace. ‘The valley is deep. Cold air falls, hot air rises. Cast a Warming spell, Owen. You’ll feel better.’

‘Piercollo does not like this place,’ stated the Tuscanian. ‘It has the smell of decay.’

‘Mildew,’ said Mace. ‘You can see it on the bushes.’ We crossed the valley floor and Wulf glanced back to the crest of the valley. He pointed at the soldiers lined there, small as children’s toys in the distance. They made no attempt to follow us.

‘More sense than we have,’ Wulf muttered.

Their lack of movement troubled me and I spoke to Mace about it, but he merely shrugged. ‘Superstition. It is just a valley, Owen, leading to the Troll Reaches. About sixty miles from here is the source of the Deeway River, and beyond that the cities of Casley and Keras. No demons, just thick forest and a few Trolls. The Trolls will not bother us. They fear men — and rightly so.’

Looking back, I saw that the soldiers had gone. I spoke to Wulf as we walked on. ‘Why did we come here?’

‘Mace’s idea,’ he answered. ‘Don’t blame me!’

‘No, I meant why did we move in this direction at all?’

‘No choice. The soldiers were behind us all the way.’

‘But we could have cut to the east, or the west.’

‘I tried that, but they were circling behind. I couldn’t be sure where they were.’

‘Then perhaps we were steered this way?’ Wulf halted, then turned to me.

‘You could be right, bard.’

‘No, he is not!’ hissed Mace, looming out of the dark. ‘You are like two children trying to frighten one another. We chose which way to run; they merely followed us. And now they are too cowardly to follow further. And if I hear one more word about Vampyre Kings, ghosts, spirits or Trolls, I shall crack a skull or two!’

We trudged on in silence, Ilka staying close to the huge form of Piercollo, Mace leading. Wulf, his bow strung, walking just behind me.

The clouds gathered and it began to rain — thin, icy needles, driven by the wind, instantly soaking through our clothes. Lightning forked across the northern sky and soon the ground below our feet became sodden and we walked ankle-deep in mud. After about an hour we finally crossed the valley floor and began the long climb through wooded hills until we reached the far crest and gazed down on a second valley and a small lake, black as jet. Beside it was a ruined keep, its walls crumbling, its gates sagging and rotten. The style was ancient, the towers square-built, not round as with Angostin architecture.

‘You know who built that keep?’ asked Wulf.

‘Don’t say it!’ warned Jarek Mace. ‘All I know is that we are going to be warm and dry for the night. And I don’t care if it was built by the devil himself. I’m soaked through, cold and in evil temper. So keep your mouth shut and let’s get in there and start a fire.’

‘It’ll be haunted,’ whispered Wulf to me as we followed Mace down into the valley. ‘Mark my words.’

But at that moment Wulf slipped in the mud and slid down the hillside past Jarek Mace. For a moment we watched in stunned silence, then Mace’s laughter roared out above the rain. ‘Give my regards to the Vampyre Kings!’ he yelled as the hunchback hurtled towards the keep.

The sight was so ludicrous that all fear fled from me and I bent double, laughing fit to burst. Even Ilka was smiling as we followed the hunchback down, finding him sitting at the foot of the hill staring at his broken bow.

‘We’ll buy a new one at the next town,’ said Jarek Mace, but Wulf was inconsolable.

‘Best I’ve ever had,’ he muttered. ‘Had it blessed by the Abbess. It’s never let me down before. Witchcraft, that’s what it is!’

‘You fell on it!’ said Mace. ‘That’s not witchcraft, that’s just clumsiness.’

Wulf shook his head. ‘It was blessed,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing blessed can survive in this place. That’s why no one lives here, no crops grow. Even the trees are covered with mildew, and most are rotten.’

‘I’m not listening to any more of this,’ snapped Mace, walking through the stone gates.

We followed him across a paved courtyard. The stones were uneven, grass pushing up between them. The rain hissed down, the castle walls gleaming in the faint light that pierced the clouds. Lightning flashed across the sky, sending dancing shadows behind the broken columns to our left.

Jarek Mace climbed the steps leading to the hall of the keep and kicked the rotted doors, the wood splintering and falling to the thick dust beyond, which rose like smoke around his boots. A rat scurried for shelter, and then we were inside.

‘Make light, Owen,’ ordered Mace.

I sent a small shining sphere floating into the hall.

The floor was wooden and I stepped gingerly upon it, but it seemed solid enough.

For me it was — but not for Piercollo.

Advancing into the middle of the hall he let fall his pack, which hit the floor with a resounding thud. This was followed by a sudden creaking, then a series of explosive cracks — and the Tuscanian disappeared from sight.

With great care Mace, Wulf and I eased our way across the floor to the jagged hole. I brought the sphere of light closer and we lay on our bellies gazing down into a pit some twelve feet deep. Piercollo lay stunned, his pack beside him. The light did not penetrate far and I could see little more save that one of the joists had given way, leaving the timbers with no support where Piercollo had fallen.

‘There must be another way down,’ said Mace.

‘I’ll find it,’ Wulf told him, moving back from the hole.

‘He might be dead,’ I whispered.

‘More likely a broken leg,’ Mace told me. ‘We’ll soon know. Stay here and call me if he wakes.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to build a fire. I’m cold and I’m hungry. Wulf will find the way in below, then we’ll get him out.’

Piercollo lay unmoving and I watched Mace cross the hall to a huge hearth where he gathered tinder and splinters of rotten wood. The Tuscanian groaned and stirred.

‘Don’t move for a moment,’ I called down. ‘You may have broken bones.’

Slowly he rolled to his back. I moved the sphere down into the hole and Piercollo sat up, then ran his hand down his right leg. ‘There is a small scratch,’ he said. ‘It is not much. Nothing, I think, is broken. Bring the light closer.’