Some corpses still lay on the tower, and these we threw over the walls. The skeleton that had been there when we arrived, we let be. In ages past he had barred the door against an attack and had died there, lost and alone, his flesh devoured by carrion birds, his bones white and clean. It seemed right somehow to let him lie.
On the ramparts below the corpse warriors still gathered, huddled in a silent mass, faces staring up at us.
Cataplas moved out into the open by the graveyard, a tall, slender figure. Looking up, he saw me. “You are in bad company, Owen!” he called, his voice pleasant as always.
“You vile creature!” I stormed. “How dare you say that? I at least stand alongside men of courage, not torturers like Azrek. You disgust me!”
“There is no need for rudeness,” he admonished me, “You are an Angostin. How is it that the son of Aubertain could seek the friendship of a murdering peasant, a known robber and rapist?”
I was astonished. Here was a sorcerer leading an army of the undead, daring to speak to me of manners. I stared down at him. He was too far away for me to be able to see the wispy beard and the sad gray eyes, but the robe was the same, faded velvet trimmed with gold. “The company I keep is my own affair, Cataplas,” I called out. “Now, say what you have to say, for I do not wish this conversation to last a moment longer than necessary.”
“As you wish,” he replied, no trace of anger in his tone. “You seek to thwart me in my quest for knowledge, though for what purpose I cannot ascertain. I have two now in my possession; the third I will find. Nothing you or your band of petty cutthroats can do will stop me. And what will you do with the last should you find it before me? You cannot use its power. The three need to be together. You are a magicker, Owen, with little gift for sorcery. What is your purpose in opposing me?”
I could not fathom the riddle of his words, but I answered as if I understood his every phrase. “I oppose you because you are evil, Cataplas. Perhaps you always were.”
“Evil? A concept invented by kings to keep the peasants in order. There is only knowledge, Owen. Knowledge is power. Power is right. But I will not debate with you. I see now that you are no threat. Have you yet found a god to follow?”
“Not yet,” I told him.
“Then find one swiftly—and send up your prayers, for you will meet him soon.”
He raised his arm, and I watched the fireball grow upon his palm, then soar into the sky toward us.
Jarek Mace leapt to the battlements, bow bent and arrow aimed at the sorcerer.
“No!” I shouted. “Strike the fireball!”
At the last moment he twisted his arm, sending the silver shaft singing through the air. It smote the glowing fireball in the center, sundering it, and the arrow exploded in a brilliant burst of white light that nearly blinded us. Jarek Mace stumbled upon the battlements, and I threw myself forward, grabbing at his jerkin and hauling him back to safety.
He notched a second arrow to his bow and sought out Cataplas.
But the sorcerer had gone.
Piercollo moved forward, his face gray with weariness. “Will they come again?” he asked.
I shrugged, but Mace clapped the giant on the shoulder. “If they do, we will turn them back.”
Unconvinced, Piercollo merely nodded and walked back to the ramparts, sitting down with his back to the wall. Wulf settled down opposite him, lying on his side with his head on Piercollo’s pack. Ilka squatted between them, staring down at the saber in her hands.
“The enchanted blades saved us,” I told Mace.
“Yes, they are sharp and true.”
“It was not the sharpness. We did not even have to plunge them home. As they touched the corpses, all sorcery was drawn from them.”
“A lucky find,” he agreed absently, “but what did the old man mean about the three and the one?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must,” he insisted.
“Truly, I don’t.”
“Then think on it!” he snapped. Turning from me, he began to pace the battlements, keeping a watchful eye on the cadavers below. I sat down with my back to the cold stone wall and thought of all Cataplas had said.
I have two now in my possession; the third I will find. Nothing you or your band of petty cutthroats can do will stop me. And what will you do with the last should you find it before me? You cannot use its power. The three need to be together.
Two in his possession. Two of what? You cannot use its power. What power?
No matter how much I forced my brain to concentrate, I could make no sense of the words. The three need to be together.
Stretching out on the wooden floor, I pillowed my head upon my arm and slept. Mace woke me with a boot in the ribs, and I grunted and rolled, scrabbling for my dagger. “Are they back?” I whispered hoarsely.
“No, but I’m getting bored with my own company. Have you thought about the problem?”
“I have, but to no avail.”
He sank down beside me, his handsome face taut, the eyes red-rimmed and tired. “The old man wants something, and he thinks we know more than we do. Why? What have we done to make him think so, save by coming here?”
“You think these ruins are the key?” I asked him.
“They must be. I do not believe he came here just to kill us; he wanted to make a bargain. You said he was a man interested in knowledge. Power. He wasn’t here looking for gold or treasure, but something else entirely. I would guess it is in that cellar. Something we didn’t find—a magical trinket, perhaps. A holy relic.”
“I don’t believe so. There are few such pieces, save in myth. The cup of Arenos, the spear of Gtath. And as for holy relics … Cataplas has moved beyond such things. They would burn him now, were he to touch them.”
“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 humor. 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 defense 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.
It was the skull.
And it had gone …
8
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 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 free, 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 at him. I almost hated him then and wished that I, too, could be seen as a guardian of the frighten
ed, 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 his 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 mustache 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 his seat. 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.