David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘Tell me of the Great Parade when Rabain was made King.’

‘I’ve told you that a score of times.’

‘I know — but I like parades. I like the idea of riding into a city and having the crowds throw flowers before me, making a carpet of blooms. And young women waving from balcony windows, blowing kisses and promises.’

I looked at him for a moment in the dying light. ‘Who are you, Jarek Mace?’ I asked him.

‘What a strange question, Owen. What would you have me say? I was born in a village that was too insignificant to have a name. My mother was a whore — at least that’s what the villagers believed, for she bore a son out of wedlock. I used to dream that my father was the lord of the manor and that one day he would acknowledge me, take me into his own home and name me as his heir. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. My mother died when I was twelve. I found work in a traveling circus, walking the high wire, juggling and tumbling. Then I became a soldier. Then I came here. That is me… that is Jarek Mace.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ I told him. ‘That is merely a precis of a life. It says nothing of the man. What do you believe in? What do you love? What do you aspire to be?’

‘I want my castle by the sea,’ he said, with a rueful smile.

‘What about a wife, children?’

He shrugged. ‘I had a woman once, lived with her for months. I cannot see there will ever be anyone to keep me content for longer than that.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I have no idea, Owen. She got fat and pregnant, so I left.’

‘You never went back?’ I asked, amazed.

‘Why should I?’

‘You have a son somewhere — or a daughter. You don’t wish to see your child?

‘’I think I have many children; I hope to have many more. But I don’t wish to see them grow, to smell their soiled wrappings, to listen to them mewling and crying.’

‘And friendship?’ I enquired. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘What is friendship, Owen? Two men each requiring something from the other. Well, I require nothing from anyone, therefore I need no friends.’

‘You have never known love, have you, Jarek? You have no conception of what it entails. Just as when you talked of Piercollo’s songs; for you they were meaningless sounds. I feel great pity for you. You are not really alive. You are a man apart, self-obsessed and, I would guess, very lonely.’

‘You would guess wrong,’ he said. ‘I know what love is. It is a swelling in the loins that is soon satisfied. It is a stolen kiss under moonlight. Nothing more. But you bards build it up with sweet words and many promises, songs of broken hearts and true love. It is all dung. I never met a wife who wouldn’t succumb to my advances while her husband was away. So much for marital love!’ He leaned forward and shook his head. ‘You don’t pity me, Owen. You envy me. I am everything you would desire to be.’

For a moment I was silent, but I held his gaze. ‘I think you need to believe that. I think it is important to you.’

‘What is important is that I get some sleep,’ he said. Sitting up, he wrapped a blanket around his broad shoulders and threw several chunks of wood on the fire. Just as he was lying down I saw his eyes narrow. ‘Look at that,’ he said softly and I turned.

The arrow Wulf had fired into the door beam was glowing with a gentle white light. Throwing back his blanket, Mace reached for his sword. As he pulled the blade clear of the scabbard, it was no longer black but shining as if made from starlight.

‘What is happening, Owen?’ he whispered.

My mouth was dry, my heart beating wildly as I drew my own hunting-knife. It too shone brilliantly. ‘I don’t know.’

Smoothly he rose and, sword in hand, moved towards the ruined doors. Holding my dagger before me I followed him. As we neared the doorway we heard sounds from the courtyard beyond, scraping and rustling, the shuffling of boots upon the stones.

A figure loomed up before us. Dirt and mud clung to his helm, and the hand that held the rusted sword wore what appeared to be a tattered gauntlet. But it was no gauntlet. The skin of the hand hung in flapping tatters, the tendons twisted. Worms and maggots glided between the bones.

I gagged and fell back before the apparition, but Mace leapt forward, his sword fashioning an arc of light as it cut through the cadaver’s shoulder, cleaving down to exit under the left arm. The Undead warrior made no sound as the body fell. Mace stepped across the corpse and raised his sword high.

Bright light shone in the courtyard and I saw a host of the Undead gathering before the keep.

In the instant that the light of the sword fell upon them I saw Cataplas standing beneath the ruined gates, his arms raised. The corpses shuffled forward with rusted weapons in their hands.

‘Get back!’ I yelled to Mace.

He took a step back, his face ashen, then I saw his jaw tighten. Spinning on his heel he ran into the hall, shouting to Wulf and the others.

The hunchback rolled to his feet. ‘What is happening?’ he asked, reaching for his bow.

There was no need to answer, for the first of the Undead warriors reached the door, his face a twisted, black mask of horror. More of the cadavers crowded in behind the first and Wulf seat a gleaming silver shaft into the chest of a tall, skeletal figure. The arrow passed through the rotted body, which collapsed into the doorway. Piercollo lifted a burning brand from the fire and threw it into the surging mass of corpses; but they were mud-covered and dank, and the torch sizzled and died.

‘To the stairs!’ shouted Jarek Mace, taking up his bow and quiver. Behind us, to the left, was a set of stone steps — the wooden banisters torn down, probably used for firewood by some ancient travellers. Piercollo and Ilka were the first to climb the stairs, followed by Wulf and myself. Jarek Mace was the last and he moved slowly, backing up the stone steps, an arrow notched to his bow.

At the top of the stairs was an empty door-frame, bronze hinges bent and warped, evidence of the door having been ripped away. There was a section of battlement beyond, some five feet wide and twenty long. Piercollo moved out along it.

A blackened arm reached over the crenellated battlement, then a helm appeared, part rusted, the bronze ear-guards glowing with a green patina. The face beneath it was almost completely corrupted, the nose and eyes long disappeared. It hauled itself on to the battlements and Piercollo ran at it, swinging his enormous pack and hammering it against the creature. The dead warrior was hurled back over the wall to fall without a sound.

More arms and hands and heads appeared. Piercollo reached the far end of the battlements to find a locked door. Stepping back, he lifted his leg and kicked out; the lock-bar shattered, the door caving in. The giant stepped into the doorway and climbed the winding stair beyond, the rest of us following. I did not dare to look back. At the top of the stair was a second door, also barred.

‘Don’t break it!’ ordered Jarek Mace. Swiftly he eased himself to the front, pushing his dagger between the dry timbers of the door and plunging the blade into the wooden lock-bar. Then he lifted it clear, the door creaked open and we found ourselves on the roof of a square turret, bathed in the light of a cold moon. A skeletal warrior, cold and still, lay with his back against the wall, a ring on his signet finger glowing in the moonlight.

‘There’s already one of them here!’ said Wulf, backing away from the corpse.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘The ring he is wearing — it carries enchantment. I do not think he is a danger to us.’

‘You’re sure?’ the hunchback pressed.

‘Not entirely,’ I admitted.