“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 what? 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 upward. 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.
“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 tables, collecting coins. 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 midmorning 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 marketplace.
She climbed the wooden steps to the auctioneer’s platform and began to preach to the crowd, who gathered around 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 behavior 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 swift
ly 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 center, 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 had 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.
“I am Brackban, captain of militia.”
“The same Brackban who allows sedition to be preached in the town center by outlawed sects?” Lykos sneered.
“Since when have the Gastoigne nuns been outlawed?” answered Brackban.
“Since their abbess was nailed to the gates of the abbey,” shouted Lykos. “Arrest him!” Several soldiers leapt from their mounts and ran at the captain.
Brackban jumped back, his sword hissing from its scabbard. The first man to rush in died instantly, his neck half-severed, but before the sword could rise again, Brackban was overcome and borne to the ground.
The crowd stood by, silent and uncertain. “There is a reward of twenty silver pieces to the man or woman who identifies or captures the traitress known as Astiana. She will be brought to the keep this evening or this entire settlement will be judged as traitors, their property forfeit.”
“I am Astiana,” came a high clear voice, and I saw the young nun step forward from the back of the crowd. Two soldiers moved alongside her, pinning her arms.
The crowd surged forward, and the soldiers swung their mounts, many of which were frightened by the sudden movement. One horse went down. I don’t believe the crowd intended violence at that moment, but in the confusion the soldiers drew their swords and lashed out at the town dwellers nearest to them. What followed was panic, rearing horses, and people running in every direction, trying to escape the swords of the soldiers.
It was a miracle that no one was killed, though many were later treated for wounds, deep cuts caused by the slashing sabers.
I saw Piercollo shepherding Ilka from the scene. Then a horseman moved in, his blade slicing down. Piercollo swayed back from the cut, then grabbed the man by his cloak and hauled him from the saddle. Instantly soldiers bore down on him. Ilka tried to draw her sword, but Piercollo pushed her from him, sending her sprawling to the ground.
I made to rise and run to his assistance, but Jarek Mace grabbed my shoulder. “Wait!” he ordered.
“Take him alive!” yelled Lykos, and more soldiers leapt from their mounts to rush in toward the Tuscanian. Two he felled with sweeping punches, but he was tripped from behind and fell heavily, striking his head upon a wooden post. Then he was still.
Rolling him to his belly, they bound his hands.
Mace pulled me back from the table where we sat into the shadows of the eating house. Wulf was nowhere in sight.
Lykos strolled down to the now nearly deserted square and stood before the bound giant. Piercollo was conscious now, and three soldiers hauled him to his feet. “I saw you in Rualis,” he said. “You were with the man known as the Morningstar. Where is he?”
Piercollo said nothing, and Lykos struck him savagely across the face.
“You will tell me all you know,” he said. “Take him away.”
Mace dragged me back inside the deserted eating house as the soldiers prepared to depart. Wulf emerged from a shadowed alcove.
“What now, Mace?” he asked.
The warrior released his hold on me and rubbed his chin, his eyes thoughtful. “No matter what that officer said, the town leaders will have a meeting. Find out where it is to be held and when and try to gauge the feeling of the militia. Is this Brackban popular? And the nun; how do the townspeople feel about her?”
“What are you planning?” I inquired.
He smiled at me. “Why, I shall attempt to rescue our friend, of course. Is that not what you would expect from the Morning-star?”
“Yes, it is, but not what I would expect from you.”
“Life is full of surprises, Owen.”
Ilka came in, her eyes wide and fearful but her expression determined. She stood before Mace, and he glanced down at her. “We will do what we can to free him,” he told her. She nodded and tapped the hilt of her saber.
“Even to fighting for him,” agreed Mace. She smiled then and took hold of his hand, kissing his fingers.
The owner of the eating house came in from the street. He was a tall, fat man with small feet who walked with the grace of a dancer. A curious sight. “A bad business,” he said, shaking his head. “Very bad.”
“What did Brackban mean about Pasel being a free town?” I asked him.
“When the war began, we refused to send men to serve against Edmund. As a reward, he declared Pasel a free borough. No man resident here with land pays tax. But trappers, hunters, and loggers all pay a portion of their profits to the king.”
“The gratitude of kings is short-lived,” observed Mace.
“It would appear so. Can I fetch you more food, sirs?”
Mace asked for some toasted bread and cheese, while Ilka and I ordered hot oats and honey. We sat in silence while the owner prepared our second breakfast. When he returned, Mace bade him join us, and he poured himself a flagon of ale and sat with us.
“Brackban spoke well,” said Mace.
“A good man,” replied the owner. “He led a company of soldiers in the Oversea War—received a golden medal after the siege of Ancour. Little good it will do him now. We told him to order the nun from Pasel, but he refused. God’s curse upon women with sharp tongues!”
“A pretty young piece,” put in Mace.
“Pretty? I suppose so. But trouble! Spends her days begging for coin and then feeding the crippled and the useless. I ask you, what is the point of such actions? A man is useful only as long as he can contribute to the general good. To feed him thereafter is to waste good food and prolong his agony. Better that he die quietly with dignity.”
“Perhaps she believes all life is sacred,” I said softly.
br /> “Pah!” was his first response. Then: “Last autumn a tree fell upon the legs of a young logger, crushing the bones beyond repair. The man was finished and ready to die. But no! She takes him in, feeding him, reading to him. The pour soul lived another six months before gangrene finally took him. You think he thanked her for making him suffer?”
“Perhaps he did,” I offered. Below the table Mace’s boot cracked into my shin.
“Women,” he said. “They all make us suffer one way or another. But tell me why Brackban refused to send her away. After all, he was the captain of militia.”
“Besotted with her, I suppose,” said the owner. “That’s all I can think. Now he’ll hang for it—or worse.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mace. “Perhaps he’ll be rescued. Who knows? The Morningstar may come to his aid.”
“Morningstar! Why would he care what happens in Pasel? This is a working town, full of working men. They say he is a rebel lord—another cursed Angostin. He’ll end up as a duke or something, pardoned by the king. They look after their own. Bastards!”
“I’ve heard,” whispered Mace, leaning in close, “that the Morningstar is of the line of Rabain.”
“Would that were true! But it isn’t, man. These stories are like children’s tales. Men tell them to make us feel there is hope. There isn’t hope for the likes of you and me. We just earn our bread and hope to stave off sickness and death long enough to sire a family. This is the world of the Angostins, and even if the Morningstar were Rabain himself, they would snuff him out like a candle.” Pushing himself to his feet, he smiled ruefully. “Well, it was nice talking to you, but I’ve work to do.”
Wulf returned after an hour or so and slid onto the bench alongside Mace. “Brackban is well liked, a regular hero.”
“What about the woman?”