David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘But there is to be a fight,’ I said. ‘Surely if such a battle takes place, someone will die?’

She nodded and spun on my hand, her finger pointing to the scarred youngster. Golden light blazed from her finger to engulf the young man and above his head appeared a skull, the universal sign of impending doom.

‘Thank you, Horga,’ I said, bowing to the image. She lifted her arms and disappeared. I turned my attention to the warriors. There has already been a fight,’ I told them, smiling. ‘An even contest that ended with broken bones. There is no need now for further violence. But if you wish it, we will oblige you.’

‘I am not afraid to die,’ said the youngster, but his eyes betrayed the lie.

‘Of course you are not,’ I assured him. ‘You are a brave man. You are all brave men. But death is eternal, and I like to think that when my time comes and the maggots feast upon my eyes, I will have died for something worthwhile. And I want my sons, tall sons, to stand beside my bed and bid me farewell with love in their hearts.’

‘He should apologize to me!’ said the young man, pointing to Piercollo.

The giant spread his arms. ‘If that is what you wish, then I do so gladly,’ he said. ‘I am sorry that you were offended, and doubly sorry that your brother is hurt. And I am deeply glad that I do not have to kill you. Will you drink with us? Piercollo will pay.’

The man nodded and sheathed his sword, the others following his example. They did not stay long, but they drank with us and the enmity ended there.

Just before midnight a young nun entered the tavern and moved between the tables, collecting coin. Stopping before us, she held out a leather pouch. ‘To feed the poor and the sick,’ she said.

Each of us gave a silver penny and she smiled her thanks and moved away.

Mace’s eyes never left her. ‘What order was she?’ he asked me.

‘I think she is a Gastoigne. They have braided belts with three tassels.’

‘Celibates?’ he asked. I nodded.

‘What a waste,’ he said. ‘I wonder if she lives nearby.’

I know what you would be thinking, my dear ghost, were you capable of thought: Where is the princess? Where is the great love of the Morningstar for whom he risked his life on a score of occasions, climbing tall towers under silver moonlight, journeying into deep, spirit-haunted caverns, fighting men and beasts conjured by sorcerers?

I could tell you-with a degree of truth — that she didn’t exist. Or at least, not as the myths would have you believe. I will say no more now. For Mace’s great love is both a part of my tale, and yet not. But I will leave that riddle to be explained in its proper place.

The woman who gave life to the stories was quite different. To begin with, her hair was not spun gold, nor was her skin alabaster white. She was not tall, standing at just over five and a half feet, and her beauty did not make men gasp. She was what some men call a handsome woman, her features regular, her mouth full and sensual. As to her eyes they were hazel, the brows heavy — indicators, in my experience, of a passionate nature.

Her name was Astiana and she was the Gastoigne sister seeking alms in the tavern. And while it is true that Mace noticed her, it was only in the way he noticed most women. He gave no other thought to her that night, and indeed spent it in the company of a buxom serving-girl with a gap-toothed smile and welcoming eyes.

There were no rooms in the tavern and Wulf, Piercollo, Ilka and I left the place just after midnight and slept in a field close by.

Mace found us just after dawn and we sat and talked for a while. Piercollo wanted to buy supplies and, since it was Market Day, we decided to stay in Pasel. By mid-morning we were bored and anxious to be on our way. The town offered little in the way of entertainment and the market was dull. Piercollo obtained two sides of ham, a sack of oats, some sugar and salt, and various dried herbs and seasonings. He was content, and we were all ready to move on when Astiana came to the Market Place.

She climbed the wooden steps to the auctioneer’s platform and began to preach to the crowd, who gathered round to listen. She spoke of love and caring, of the need to help those less fortunate. Her speaking voice was good, though not powerful, and her delivery was less than perfect. But she made up for this with passion and belief, her every word hammering home into the hearts of the listeners.

Even so I was surprised that the crowd remained for she began to criticize Angostin rule — the unfair taxes and the criminal behaviour of the conquerors. Then she spoke of the hope of the people and cried out the name of the Morningstar. A great cheer went up.

This was dangerous talk and I looked around, seeking out the militia.

They were there, lounging against the walls of nearby buildings, but they made no attempt to stop her. At last a tall officer, with braided blond hair beneath a helm of iron, stepped forward. ‘That is enough, sister!’ he called.

Astiana turned to him. ‘You should be ashamed, Brackban,’ she chided. ‘You serve the cause of the evil upon this land.’

‘You have had your quarter-hour, Astiana, and now the auctioneer is waiting and there are cattle to sell. Step down, if you please.’

The slender nun raised her hand and blessed the crowd, then walked swiftly from the platform, and I saw Brackban wander away into the nearest tavern.

The cattle auction had no interest for me and I returned to my companions, who were sitting at a bench table near the town centre enjoying a late breakfast of bread and cheese. ‘She spoke well of me,’ said Mace. ‘Fine sentiments.’

‘She was not speaking of you, Jarek,’ I told him coldly.

‘You are in a foul temper this morning.’

‘Not at all. It is just that I see things more clearly now.’

‘Have I done something to offend you, Owen?’

Piercollo had wandered to the edge of the crowd, watching the auction. Ilka was beside him; both were out of earshot. ‘Offend me? Last night our friend could have been slain, and you did nothing. You left him to his fate. I find that despicable.’

‘You did well enough without me,’ he pointed out, ‘and why should I risk my life for the man? I did not ask him to break the fellow’s jaw; it was nothing to do with me.’

‘Had it been you under attack, would you have expected us to stand with you?’

‘No,’ he answered simply. ‘Nor would I have asked you.’

‘We were ready to leave when a troop of soldiers rode in, scattering the crowd at the auction. Hauling on their reins, the fifty men sat their mounts while their officer dismounted and climbed to the platform, pushing aside the auctioneer.

‘By the order of Azrek, Lord of the North,’ he shouted, ‘the town of Pasel is now under direct military rule. The militia is hereby disbanded. My name is Lykos, and town leaders will assemble this evening one hour after dusk at the keep, where I shall inform them of the new laws and taxes decreed by the Lord Azrek. There will be a curfew at dusk and anyone found abroad after this will be arrested. There will be no public meetings, and no gatherings until further notice.’

I saw Brackban walk from the tavern and stand with arms folded before the newcomer. ‘Pasel is not in your lord’s domain,’ he said. ‘You have no authority here.’

‘Azrek is the Lord of the North, a post given him by Edmund the High King. Do you dispute the King’s right by conquest?’

‘Pasel is a free town — also by decree of the King,’ argued Brackban. ‘Our taxes are paid in full, and held for you at the keep. But we report to the Lord of Rualis. I repeat, Azrek has no authority here.’

‘Who are you, soldier?’ asked Lykos.