David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘Show me!’ I snarled.

An arrow slashed through the air to punch through the temple of the man Cheos. He staggered to the left and then fell across the fire, flames searing up around his clothing. Another arrow slammed into the chest of the second man, Symen; he grunted and fell back against the wall, vainly trying to pull the shaft loose. Kaygan leapt to where Astiana stood at the far wall, seizing her habit and dragging her in front of him.

‘Let her go!’ I ordered him. He replied with an obscenity, lifting his sabre and holding the blade at Astiana’s throat.

‘Who is out there?’ he demanded of me.

‘The Morningstar,’ I told him. ‘And you are about to die!’

‘Jernais, get the other woman!’ The last of his men ran at Ilka but an arrow punched through his back, high on the shoulder, just as he reached her. As he arched back, screaming, Ilka stepped forward to slash her sabre through his throat.

‘You are alone, Kaygan,’ I said softly. ‘Or do you think to spend the rest of your life hiding behind the sister?’

‘Call him in!’ he ordered me. ‘I wish to see his face.’

I walked out into the open. ‘Only one is left alive,’ I called, ‘and he is holding Astiana hostage.’ Mace and Wulf stepped into sight, arrows notched and bows bent. ‘He wants to see the Morningstar.’

Mace tossed his bow to Wulf and strode into the ruined building.

‘You don’t look so formidable,’ sneered Kaygan.

‘Are you going to kill her, or stand there talking all day?’

‘I will kill her — unless you agree to meet me in single combat, sword to sword.’

‘All right,’ said Mace suddenly, ‘let her go and we will duel.’ Drawing his sword he stepped out into the open, turning to see Kaygan hurl Astiana aside.

‘Now, Wulf!’ snapped Mace. The hunchback sent his shaft straight at Kaygan’s chest, but the man’s sabre flashed through the air, cutting the arrow in two. Mace swore and Kaygan ran forward and leapt into the clearing, a wide grin on his face.

‘Now you’ll die, you whoreson!’ he shouted.

Mace’s black blade parried swiftly as Kaygan launched an attack of blistering speed, the sabre clanging against the longsword with a sound like a ringing bell. Kaygan was lithe and fast, supple and agile, while Mace — normally so cat-like and graceful — seemed clumsy by comparison. The clashing of blades continued while Wulf circled the fighters, bowstring drawn back, seeking a chance to kill Kaygan.

No duellist myself, yet still I could recognize quality in a swordsman, and these two were of the finest. Both were cool, their concentration finely honed, each parry followed by a deadly riposte in a game of cut and block, thrust and counter. But Kaygan was the better.

They fought for some minutes, their blades crashing together, before the first blood was spilt, Kaygan’s sabre sliding along Mace’s sword and opening a shallow wound in the taller man’s shoulder. Mace leapt back and Kaygan followed in swiftly, the point of the sabre lancing towards his opponent’s belly. Mace swayed to the left, his own sword arcing towards Kaygan’s face. Off-balance, Kaygan hurled himself to the ground, rolling to his feet in one easy movement, but blood was flowing from a gash in his cheek.

Both men circled warily now, and it was Kaygan who spoke first. ‘You do not have my skill, Morningstar. You know it! How does it feel to be about to die?’Mace laughed aloud. Kaygan swore and attacked again. Mace blocked the cut and then kicked out, his boot thudding into Kaygan’s groin. But the man twisted at the last moment, taking the weight of the blow on his thigh. Even so he was forced back and Mace counter-attacked, the black sword hammering down against the slender sabre and pushing it back. A long cut appeared on Kaygan’s head, bright blood drenching the golden hair.

Once again both men moved apart, circling. ‘I hear you’re good with apples,’ said Mace. ‘Fight back often, do they?’

With a snarl of fury Kaygan leapt in to the attack, his sword a flashing blur of white light. Mace fell back against the ferocious onslaught, his jerkin sliced, a thin line of blood across his chest. There was no respite now, both men fighting to the limits of power and endurance.

At first I thought Kaygan would win it, but as time passed he seemed more desperate, less sure of his skill.

Finally, as he launched yet another attack, he stumbled. Mace’s blade flashed over the sabre, sweeping down into Kaygan’s neck, cleaving through collar-bone and rib-cage to exit in a bloody spray from his chest.

Azrek’s champion died without a sound, his body slumping to the earth. Mace staggered back, then turned on me, his eyes angry. ‘Why didn’t you cast a spell or something? You could have blinded him with a flash of light!’

‘You didn’t need me,’ I said. ‘And such a light might have blinded your…’

‘By God, he was skilful,’ said Mace. ‘I never want to fight his like again.’

Moving away from us, he sat by the stream, cupping water in his hands and drinking his fill. His face was bathed in sweat and he stripped his clothes from him and splashed naked into the stream, lying down on the cold stones and allowing the water to run over his body. Both cuts were shallow and needed no stitches, but they bled profusely as soon as he left the water to sit in the sunshine with his back against a tree.

‘I’ll get some cloth for bandages,’ I told him.

‘No. The blood will clot of its own accord. I saw you kill a man today, Owen. How did it feel?’

‘Awful. I never want to do it again.’

‘The next one will be easier. Why did you do it?’

‘They were going to rape the women.

’And you thought to stop five of them?’

‘I thought I would do something. A man cannot stand by at such a time.’

He chuckled. ‘Of course a man can, but that is beside the point. You did well. What a hero you are, Owen Odell! A rescuer of maidens. A fit companion for the Morningstar, wouldn’t you think?’

‘I thought Kaygan would kill you,’ I told him, changing the subject. ‘He was better than you — faster, more skilful. You knew that.’

‘So did he,’ he replied, his expression becoming serious. ‘But there are two kinds of warrior — the one who likes to win, and the one who fears to lose. Both can be good. Both can be exceptional. But in a contest between the two there can be only one victor. Fear has no place in combat, Owen. Before, yes. After, often. But not during.’

‘How did you know that he feared to lose?’

‘When he asked me how it felt to know I was going to die.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The nature of combat, Owen. We threaten our opponents in order to inspire fear. Yet how do we decide what will frighten them? How? We think of what terrifies us and we try to use it against our enemy. He asked me how it felt to face death? That then was his greatest fear. That’s why I laughed at him.’

‘And that’s why you knew you’d win?’

‘That and one other small point,’ said Mace, with a grin.

‘And what was that?’He couldn’t position himself for the kill, because he knew that if he moved an inch the wrong way then Wulf would put an arrow through his heart.’ Mace laughed aloud. ‘Life just isn’t fair, is it, Owen?’

‘Could you have beaten him without that advantage?’

‘I think so. But why should I?’

‘It would have been more honourable.’

He shrugged. ‘Such honour is for your songs, my friend. When an eagle sees a rabbit on open ground he does not think, ‘Poor creature. I will wait for him to move closer to his burrow.’ Life is a dangerous game, Owen. It is deadly serious. And the difference between life and death is like this!’ Holding up one hand, he snapped his fingers. ‘One thrust! One cut! A fall from a horse. The touch of a plague wind. If I could, I would have cut Kaygan’s throat in his sleep.’