David Gemmell - Morningstar

It was the skull.

And it had gone…

It was High Summer when we finally reached the town of Pasel, a river settlement in the high country some three days north of Rualis. The economy of the town was based on timber. The loggers would cut the tall pines and strip them of branches, then haul them to the river, where they would be floated down to Rualis on the wide Deeway. Pasel was a rough town, not as violent as Rualis, but there were many fights and much blood shed during the summer when itinerant workers would journey north seeking employment and the town swelled with whores and merchants, tinkers and thieves. The mountains here were rich with game and hunters would gather to trap the beaver and bear, lions and wolves. And when hungry for pleasure the hunters and trappers would converge on Pasel to rut and fight and gamble away their hard-won coins.

Beyond the town, upon a gentle sloping hill, there was a round keep manned by twenty militia soldiers. These men, led by a taciturn captain named Brackban, maintained what order they could in such a rough place.

Mace knew the town well and led us to an ill-smelling tavern on the east of the settlement. It was some two hours after dusk and the huge ale-room was crammed with customers — loggers in their sleeveless leather jerkins, trappers in furs, whores with earrings of brass and necklets of copper, and lips stained with berry juice. There were no tables spare and I saw Mace’s mood begin to darken. He moved to the rear of the room, where three men were sprawled across a bench, drunk and insensible. Mace seized the shoulder of the first, dragging him clear of the seat and dumping him upon the floor. The man stirred but did not wake. When the second man was hauled from his place, he awoke and tried to rise, but slumped back grumbling incoherently. The third came to with a start and tried to strike Mace — it was a mistake. Mace leaned back and the blow missed wildly; his fist cannoned into the man’s jaw, snapping back his head which cracked against the wooden wall behind. He sagged sideways; Mace hit him twice more, then threw him to the floor.

Sliding into the now vacant seat, Mace leaned upon his forearms and bellowed for a serving-girl. As we seated ourselves a plump woman wearing a dress of homespun wool and a leather apron pushed her way through to us. She was tired, her eyes dull, but she forced a smile, took our order and vanished back into the throng.

Ilka was nervous and sat close to Piercollo, her eyes glancing from left to right at the milling men. His huge arm moved around her shoulder and he patted her, as one would a frightened child. She smiled up him. I almost hated him then and wished that I too could be seen as a guardian of the frightened, a warrior of note.

It was impossible to hold a conversation in such a place and when the ale and food were carried to us we ate and drank in silence, each with our own thoughts.

A young man, slim, his face scarred, put his hand on Ilka’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear. She shook her head, but his hand slid down over her breast. Piercollo moved swiftly, pulling the man clear. The Tuscanian said nothing, but his arm tensed and jerked and the unfortunate suitor flew back into the throng as if launched from a catapult. Mace chuckled and shook his head.

The noise behind us faded away and I turned to see the scarred young man moving forward again, but alongside him was a huge trapper dressed in a wolfskin coat. The man was bald and beardless, but he sported a long red-gold moustache, braided at the ends.

He reached Piercollo and tapped the giant’s shoulder. ‘You have insulted my brother,’ he said.

Piercollo sighed and stood. ‘Your brother has the manners of a donkey,’ he told him.

The newcomer smiled. ‘True, but he is still my brother. And while Karak is here no one lays a hand on him.’ Even as he spoke the man launched a punch. Piercollo swayed back, his own hand sweeping up, the fingers closing around Karak’s fist and catching it easily. I saw the Tuscanian’s knuckles whiten as he squeezed the captured hand.

‘Piercollo does not like to fight,’ he said softly. ‘Piercollo likes to sit and drink in peace.’ The man’s face twisted in pain, his right hand reaching for the dagger at his belt, but Piercollo squeezed harder and I heard a knuckle crack. Karak winced and groaned, and his hand fell away from the dagger. ‘It would be good for us to be friends,’ said Piercollo, ‘and perhaps drink together. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ agreed the man, the word almost exploding from between clenched teeth.

‘Good,’ said Piercollo, with a wide smile. Releasing Karak, he patted his shoulder almost affectionately and turned back to hisseat. In that moment the man drew his dagger. Piercollo, his back turned, rammed his elbow into Karak’s face, catching him on the bridge of the nose. Everyone in the room heard the bone break. Karak staggered back with blood pouring from his nostrils. Then with a wild cry he leapt at Piercollo. The Tuscanian stepped in to meet him, his fist thundering against the man’s chin. There was a sickening crack and the attacker fell, his knife clattering across the floorboards.

‘You’ve killed him!’ shouted the scarred young man, dropping to his knees beside the body. For a moment we all thought this might be true, but the injured Karak groaned and tried to move; his jaw was shattered, his nose broken. Several men moved forward to aid him, turning him to his back, where he lay gasping for some time before his friends gathered around him, carrying him from the room.

‘If you could have made that fight last a little longer, I might have won a few bets,’ said Jarek Mace.

‘I do not like to fight,’ repeated Piercollo, downing the last of his ale.

‘For someone who doesn’t like it, you are rather good at it.’

Piercollo shrugged, and it seemed to me that a great sadness had fallen upon him.

‘You had no choice,’ I told him. ‘He intended to kill you.’

‘I know, Owen, but it gives me no pleasure to cause pain. You understand? I like to hear laughter and song. He was so foolish; we could have sat together and had a drink, told stories and become friends. But no. Now he will spend months with broken bones. And for why? Because he has a brother with bad manners. It makes no sense.’

‘You are a good man,’ I said. ‘You were not to blame.’

‘I am not good man. Good men do not break the bones of others. I am weak, friend Owen.’

The doors opened and a group of men entered. I tensed, for one of them was the scarred young man and he was carrying a sword. ‘Oh, no!’ I whispered. Mace saw them and turned his attention to his ale; in that moment I knew he would leave the Tuscanian to his fate. I tapped Piercollo on the shoulder and pointed to the new arrivals. There were five men, all armed with swords or daggers. Piercollo pushed himself to his feet and I rose with him, my hand upon my dagger. Ilka also stood but Mace and Wulf remained where they were, studiously ignoring the proceedings.

Piercollo said nothing as the men advanced, but I pushed my way to the front. ‘He is unarmed,’ I said, keeping my voice even.

‘He is going to die,’ said the scarred youngster.

‘You think so? Let us see,’ I said, raising my hand palm upwards. First I created a flash of white light, spearing up from the palm to the ceiling — I always find this focuses the attention of the audience. The five men jumped back in shock. ‘And now the future!’ I said this in a loud voice, keeping their gazes locked to me. Instantly the image of Horga formed upon my palm, the enchantress standing just over two feet tall, a white dress billowing in an unseen breeze. ‘I call upon you, Horga,’ I said, ‘to tell us the future, if you will. Are there any here who will die tonight?’ She floated from my hand, circling the room, pausing now and again above grim-faced men who looked away, licking their lips, trying to still the terror in their hearts. Finally she returned to my hand and shook her head.