David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘Then think, Owen! What is there about this place? What is its history?’

‘How many times must I tell you that I don’t know!’ I said, my voice rising. Piercollo stirred but did not wake, but Wulf grunted and sat up.

‘How long now to the dawn?’ asked the hunchback.

‘Another hour,’ Mace told him. Wulf rubbed circulation back into his cold limbs, then joined us.

‘I told you no good would come of entering this place,’ he grumbled.

‘We’re alive, aren’t we?’ responded Jarek Mace.

‘For now,’ muttered Wulf. ‘We’ll all end up like him,’ he added, pointing to the skeleton.

‘No, we won’t,’ said Mace forcefully. ‘That graveyard does not contain an inexhaustible supply of corpses, and we have enchanted blades to cut our way through what remains of them. And we will, come daylight. Put aside your fears, Wulf. Think of this, there may be many of them but what opposition do they offer? Their muscles are rotten, they move as if through water. Not one of them has so far laid a blade upon us, and if they did they are so rusted as to be useless. They do not pose a real danger, save for the terror they inspire in us with their appearance. But they are not real. They are filled with sorcery, but they are not the men they were. You might just as well fear a few sticks joined together with rotted string.’

There was truth in what he said, and I was surprised that it had not occurred to me before. Without the blades of power the dead would have overwhelmed us, but with them we were relatively safe. It was irritating that Mace had understood this simple fact whereas I, a schooled Angostin, had been swept away on a tide of superstition and terror.

Wulf, though, was not entirely convinced. ‘This is an evil realm,’ he said. ‘The Vampyre Kings laid great spells upon it. They live in the ground, in the trees and valleys.’

‘Their spells died with them,’ said Mace. ‘Is that not so, Owen?’

‘Yes. All sorcery fades with the passing of the sorcerer. A spell is a creation of the mind, held in being by the concentration of the magicker. When the mind ceases to operate, the spell is gone.’

‘Who is to say when the mind ceases to operate?’ asked Wulf. ‘Perhaps the Vampyre Kings did not cease to be when their bodies were slain. Have you ever thought of that, bard?’

‘You are a happy companion,’ hissed Jarek Mace. ‘What do you think these Undead Kings have been doing for the last thousand years? Playing dice? Counting trees? If they are still alive, I think we would have heard of them.’ He swung to me. ‘I wonder where your sorcerer friend is hiding. I want to see no more globes of fire.’

‘I do not think that you will. Such a spell takes a toll, even on a sorcerer of his dark skill. Raising the corpses weakened him, and the fireball was not as fast or as deadly as it might have been. I would guess he has gone somewhere to rest — perhaps even returned to Ziraccu.’

‘That would take weeks,’ said Wulf.

‘Not by the paths he will travel,’ I told him.

‘I know all the paths there are,’ the hunchback insisted.

I shook my head. ‘Once, when I was apprenticed to him, we were commissioned to entertain at a castle on the west coast. It was two hundred miles away, but we made the journey in less than an hour. First he blindfolded me, then led me by the hand. All I remember was the terrible cold, and the sibilant hissing of what I took to be beasts around me. But nothing touched me, save Cataplas. Suddenly I felt the sun on my back and Cataplas removed the blindfold. We were on a cliff-top overlooking the sea, and to our right was the castle.’

Wulf shivered and rose, rubbing at his neck, which I later learned gave him great pain and was probably the cause of much of his ill-humour. The twisted hump upon his back put pressure on the thick, corded neck muscles, and little could be done to alleviate it. Still rubbing at the muscles, he wandered away.

‘I think I’ll leave this forest and head south,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘The north is becoming altogether too perilous.’

‘I do not think that would prove a wise decision,’ I told him.

‘It is my experience that the best defence against danger is distance,’ he said, with a smile.

‘There is no distance that will keep Cataplas from you. Azrek wants you dead, Jarek. Through Cataplas he can send demons to hunt you down wherever you are — even across the sea. If you leave, you will be alone and easy prey.’

‘This is your fault,’ he said, his eyes showing anger. ‘You and that foolish Morningstar dream. Am I doomed then to walk this forest, killing enemies already dead, fighting monsters and demons?’

‘Perhaps, but my father — for all his faults a great general — would have offered you some simple advice. He would have said, ‘Jarek, when your enemy’s strength is overwhelming, when you are surrounded by foes, there is only one choice for the brave. Attack.’

His smile was genuine. ‘You are a wonderful fool, Owen. What would you have me do? Raise an army from among the peasants and the Highlanders and sweep the Angostins from power?’

‘Why not?’ I asked him.

‘You see me as a king, perhaps? King Jarek?’

‘It hardly matters how I see you. It is how they see you.’

The smile faded. ‘I am a man, Owen. You heard what the sorcerer said, and I would admit to being a murderer. As to rape… that was untrue. I have never needed to force myself on a woman. But I have stolen, and I have deceived, and I have lied and I have cheated. I say this without shame. This land of ours is made for strong men, and strong men will always take what they want from the weaker. I know what I am — and I am not your Morningstar.’

The sky lightened, pink and gold seeping above the eastern mountains. I rose to my feet and stretched. The sun slowly filled the sky with light, and the dawn was majestic. I leaned over the parapet and gazed down at the ramparts.

The host of the dead were gone. All that remained were a few rusted helms, broken swords, scraps of leather and white shards of bone.

The sun was bright upon my face, its warmth pure, its light healing to the soul.

The rays fell upon the skeleton by the door, and I saw again the gold ring upon a finger of bone. No longer glowing, it was of thick, red gold set with a white stone. Reaching down I drew the ring clear, lifting it close to my eyes. On the inner rim the goldsmith had engraved a line of verse in the ancient tongue of the Belgae. The rhyme is lost in translation, but it read:

Guard am I, sword pure, heart strong.

The circle of the ring was tiny, but when I touched it to the tip of my signet finger it slid into place, fitting snugly. I gazed down at the skeleton. ‘I think you stood at your post when all others would have fled. I think you were a brave man, and true. May you know rest!’

Ilka was awake and I felt her eyes upon me. I smiled at her, embarrassed now for speaking to the dead who had no ears to hear. For the first time she returned my smile, and I found her to be beautiful.

The shock was both exquisite and curiously debilitating. My mouth was suddenly dry and I found myself staring at her, wondering how I had never before noticed her loveliness. The smile faded as I stared and she turned away and walked to the battlements, looking out over the wooded valley and the shining lake.

‘Let’s be moving,’ said Mace. ‘I don’t want to be here when real warriors arrive.’

Piercollo shouldered his pack and we returned to the hall of the keep. Mace jumped down into the cellar and rummaged among the weapons, gathering two more quivers of black arrows and a second dagger.

I looked around, aware that something was missing.

Then I remembered.