David Gemmell - Morningstar

‘He died well then, Corlan?’ asked Mace, breaking the long silence.

‘Yes. He charged them all, fearlessly.’

He shook his head. ‘Who would have thought it? Is he in Heaven, do you think?’

I shrugged. ‘I have never believed in Paradise. But we have seen Hell, Jarek. So who knows?’

‘I like to think he might be. But then how would they weigh the balances? He was a robber and a killer. Did this one act of courage eclipse the rest of his deeds?’ He sighed and forced a smile. ‘Listen to me! Jarek Mace talking of Paradise.’

‘I think you are talking of redemption — and, yes, I believe no man is so evil that he cannot redeem himself. He saved my life. No question of that. He acted with great heroism — as did you.’

‘Nonsense! I went there because the bastard was hunting me. I was looking out for myself.’

‘There is no one else here, Jarek,’ I said wearily. ‘Just you and I. So let us drop the pretence. You are the Morningstar. It is your destiny. You know it, and I know it. And you journeyed to the heart of the evil because you had to, because that is what being the Morningstar is all about. You are no longer Jarek Mace the outlaw, the man of bitterness. You are the Lord of the Forest and the people worship you. In a thousand years they will speak of you. You have changed, my friend. Why not admit it?’

‘Still the romantic, Owen? I have not changed.’

‘You are wrong. You once told me that friendship was merely a word used to describe one man needing some service from another. You said it did not exist in the form bards use. But Corlan died for you — and the people of this land. You know that is true. And when you were ready to tackle Golgoleth alone you did not expect anyone to accompany you. But we did. And something else… though you will not admit it… if I, or Wulf, had been in your place, and set off alone to the Vampyre city, you would have accompanied us — even if Golgoleth had never heard your name.’

‘Pah! Dream on, bard! You do not know me at all, and I will not have you force your heroic images on to me. I like you, Owen. I like Wulf. And, yes, I would risk much for you both. That much I have learned. But I will always look after my own interest first. Always! And I will give my life for no man.’

His face was flushed and angry, his eyes bright with a kind of fear. I was about to speak, but I saw in him then a secret terror and I knew, with great certainty, that he understood the inevitability of his destiny. I felt cold suddenly, and into my mind came the image of the garlanded bull being led through the streets, with the people cheering and throwing flowers beneath its feet. But at the top of the hill, in the bright sunshine, waited the priest with the curved knife, and the altar upon which the blood would run.

Our eyes held, and I knew that similar thoughts were filling the mind of Jarek Mace. He licked his lips and tried to smile, and I knew what he would say — what, indeed, he had to say, the words like a charm to ward off the evil of that final day in the sun.

‘I am not the Morningstar, Owen. I am not.’

But we both knew. He was watching my face intently. ‘Well, say something, Owen, even if it is to disagree.’

I looked away. ‘I don’t know what the future holds,’ I said, ‘but we are friends, and I will stand beside you.’That may not be a safe place to be,’ he whispered.

‘I would have it no other way.’

The village was almost unrecognizable from the sleepy hamlet where I had first seen Ilka and Megan, where I learned to cure meats and filled my days with the splitting of logs and the playing of the harp. There were canvas tents pitched all along the lakeside, makeshift shelters erected close to the trees. Hundreds of people had moved down from the mountains as word of the fall of Ziraccu spread through the forest.

Even as Mace and I emerged from the woods we could see a line of wagons on the far hills, wending its way down to the settlement.

People were milling around in the town centre, and such was the crush that Mace passed unrecognized within it until we reached the calm of Megan’s cabin.

The old woman was lying on her back, apparently asleep, an elderly man sitting beside her. It was the same man who had tended her in the village of Ocrey, when she was burned by Cataplas’ spell.

‘How is she, Osian?’ I asked him. He looked up, his pale blue eyes cold and unwelcoming.

‘She is preparing for the journey,’ he said, the words harsh, his bitterness plain.

Megan opened her eyes, her head tilting on the pillow. ‘The conquering heroes return,’ she whispered.

The room smelt of stale sweat and the sickly, sweet aroma of rotting flesh. Her face was grey, the skin beneath the eyes and beside the mouth tinged with blue. I swallowed hard, trying to compose my features so that the shock of her condition would not register. It was futile. My face was an open window and the clouds of my sorrow were plain for her to see. ‘I am dying, Owen,’ she said. ‘Come — sit beside me.’Osian rose, his old joints creaking, and slowly made his way out into the sunlight. I sat on the bed and took hold of Megan’s hand. The skin was hot and dry, the absence of flesh making talons of her fingers.

‘I am so sorry,’ I said.

‘Carleth’s assassin had poison upon his blade,’ she told me. ‘Help me upright!’

Mace fetched a second pillow and I lifted her into position. She weighed next to nothing and her head sagged back on a neck too thin to support it. ‘I should be dead by now,’ she said, ‘but my Talent keeps my soul caged in this rotting shell.’ She smiled weakly at Mace. ‘Go out into the sun, Morningstar,’ she ordered him. He backed away swiftly, gratefully, without a word, and Megan and I were alone. ‘Like many strong men he cannot stand the sight of sickness,’ she said. Her head rolled on the pillow and her gaze fastened to mine. ‘Such heartache you have suffered, Owen. Such pain.’

I nodded, but did not speak. ‘She was a good girl, bonny and brave,’ she continued.

‘Don’t say any more,’ I pleaded, for I could feel myself losing control. I took a deep breath. ‘Let us talk of other things.’

‘Do not let your grief make you push her away,’ she warned me, ‘for then she would be truly dead.’

‘I think of her all the time, Megan. I just cannot speak of her.’

‘You won, poet. You destroyed the evil, you made the land safe. But it is not over.’

‘The Vampyre Kings will not return,’ I told her. ‘They are gone — and we have the skulls.’

‘And yet Mace will face Golgoleth again,’ she whispered. I shivered and drew back.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. With sword in hand he must cross the walls of the castle and challenge the Lord of the Vampyres. And next time he will not have you to send a shining shaft to his rescue. But he will have me.’

‘Her eyes were distant, unfocused, and I could see that she was becoming delirious. I held to her hand, stroking the dry skin. ‘He will be gone from you, but he will return. I waited so long. So long… The circle of time spins… spins.’ She was silent for a little while, staring at some point in the past, some ancient memory that brought a smile to her face.

‘Megan!’ I called. But she did not hear me.

‘I love you,’ she told the ghost of her memory. ‘Why did you leave me?’

Unconsciously her power flared, bathing her face with youth and beauty. ‘How could you leave me?’ she asked.

I remained silent, for my voice could no longer reach her. But as I gazed on the glory of what was, I found myself echoing her thoughts. How could any man leave such a woman?

‘You had it all,’ she said, bright tears forming and flowing to her cheeks. ‘You were the King. Everything you ever wanted!’