“Spoken like the hero you are!” stormed Astiana.
“Hero?” responded Mace. “Where are the heroes? The Angostins have slaughtered them all. There are no more heroes, Sister. They lie upon the fields of battle, the crows feasting upon their eyes. They went into battle with clubs and staves, told they could defeat armored knights and seasoned troops. And they believed it! Well, they had no chance, but they were heroes. That’s what heroes do, isn’t it? They tackle impossible odds and laugh in the face of death. Well, I saw no laughter. Only terror as the first charge cleared their ranks and the swords and maces and spears and lances tore into their flesh. I am not a hero, Astiana. But I am alive.”
The conversation died there. Wulf banked up the fire, and Piercollo sat silently staring into the flames, while Astiana turned away from us and settled down to sleep with her back to the fire.
I felt low then, a deep depression hanging over me. We tend to think of heroes as men apart—their angers are always colossal, but they rage only against the foe. We rarely see them in a damp forest, complaining about the cold, and never think of them urinating against a tree. They never suffer toothache; their noses are never red from sneezing in the winter. Thus we strip away the reality.
In tales of old the sun shines brighter, the winter snow becomes beautiful, an elven cloak upon the land. And the hero rides a white stallion and searches for the monster who has kidnapped the princess. Always he finds her, slaying the beast who took her.
Still angry, Mace wandered away from the campsite. I followed and found him sitting upon a ledge of rock. “Do not lecture me, Owen,” he warned.
“I am not here to lecture. She was wrong, and you were quite right.”
“You don’t believe that; you are merely trying to ease my irritation. I saw your eyes when I told you of the gold in the keep. You were disappointed. Just as when I refused to fight fifty soldiers to save Megan.”
“Perhaps I was,” I agreed, “but that does not make me right. You are not responsible for the dreams of others. Yet you did take the name, and it is the name that haunts you.”
“I know. And you would like me to live up to it. I can’t, Owen. Not even if I tried. It is not in my nature, my friend. Can you understand that? I know what I am. When I was a child I longed for friendship. But I was the son of a whore, and no one wanted me to join their games. I learned to live without them. I joined the circus when I was little more than twelve. The master there beat me ceaselessly, using pain to teach me. I walked the high wire, I swung upon the flying bar, I danced with the bear. I learned to juggle and to tumble, but always he was there with his crop or his cane. I learned then, Owen, that a man stands alone in this world. He does not ask to enter it, and he begs not to be taken from it. In between there is fear, hardship, and a little pleasure. I choose to seek pleasure.” He lapsed into silence for a moment, his eyes distant. “Why did the whore refuse me, Owen? I have never been unkind to her.”
“She does not wish to remain a whore,” I told him.
“Why? What else is there for her?”
“She will be my wife,” I said, speaking the words before I even realized they were there.
Where I expected a sneering comment or, worse, a scornful laugh, he merely nodded sagely. “You could do worse,” he said with a shrug.
“How long before we reach the Ringwearer?” I asked, changing the subject and suppressing my anger.
“Maybe too long,” he replied. “We can travel no faster.”
“What about horses? We could buy them in Willow.”
He shook his head. “We can move faster without them. Trust me. I just hope that this Gareth is a canny fighter, for there is no doubt the enemy will be upon him before we arrive.”
I tried not to think about the perils facing Gareth: the killers, the sorcery of Cataplas, the demons he could summon.
I could only hope we would be in time.
The weather was kind for most of the journey to Willow, the sun shining, and the only hours of rainfall coming during the fifth night, when we were sheltered in a deep cave with a fine fire to keep the chill from our bones. Piercollo’s wound was healing well, though I must admit that I shuddered when I saw Astiana remove the bandage and bathe the ruined eye. The red-hot iron had destroyed the muscles around the now-empty socket, and crimson scars radiated out from the wound. Mace cut an eye patch from a piece of black leather, and this held in place a poultice of herbs prepared by Astiana. Piercollo bore his pain with dignity and courage and on the fourth day even resumed cooking for the company. It was a welcome relief, for Wulf was perhaps the worst cook I can remember. According to Mace, he could make fresh rabbit taste like goats’ droppings.
We ate well for the next three days, Piercollo gathering herbs and wild onions and Wulf snaring rabbits and a hedgehog or two. One morning we even dined on a fungus growing from the side of a tree. Ox heart, Piercollo called it, and indeed it dripped red when torn from the bark. It had a savory taste and, when cooked with sliced onions, was most welcome to the palate.
On the morning of the eighth day of travel we climbed to a hilltop overlooking the village of Willow. There were some thirty houses there and no sign of a keep or tower. The largest building was a church situated at the village center. For some time we sat looking down at the settlement, watching for soldiers, but seeing none, we ventured in.
There was a tavern on the eastern side of Willow, and bidding farewell to Astiana, who headed for the church, we entered the building, taking a table near a shuttered window and ordering meat, bread, and ale. There was no ale to be had, we were told, but the village was renowned, said the innkeeper, for its cider. It was indeed very fine, and after several tankards I felt a great warmth for Willow growing inside me.
Mace called the innkeeper to our table and bade him sit with us. There were no other customers, and the man, a round-faced Highlander named Scoris, eased himself down onto the bench alongside me. He smelled of apples and wood smoke, a most pleasing combination. I warmed to him instantly.
“We are seeking a man named Gareth,” said Mace.
“By God, he is becoming popular,” replied Scoris. “Has he discovered a gold mine?”
“I take it we are not the first to ask for him?” I asked.
“No. Two days ago—or was it three?—Kaygan the swordsman came here. Is he a friend of yours?”
“No. Who is he?” asked Mace.
“Mercenary soldier. It is said he’s killed seventeen men in one-to-one combat. He’s Azrek’s champion now, so he says. He put on a show here. Never seen the like. Tossed an apple in the air and cut it into four slices before it fell. And sharp? His sword cut through two lit candles, sliced through them but left them standing.”
“What kind of blade does he carry?” inquired Mace, his voice soft in tone but his eyes betraying his interest.
“Saber.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall man, much as yourself. Only slimmer. Golden hair and slanted eyes, like one of them foreigners in the old stories. Only he ain’t no foreigner. Born in Ziraccu—almost a Highlander.”
“What did he want with Gareth?” I asked Scoris.
“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. He was a showman, all right, but not a man to question, if you take my point. Friendly enough on the surface, but he has dead eyes. Never question a man with dead eyes.”
“What did you tell him?” put in Wulf.
“Same as I’ll tell you. Gareth is a hermit. Strange young man, white-haired, though ’e’s no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty. Lives up in the hills somewhere. Comes to the village maybe twice a year for supplies—salt, sugar, and the like. He’s no trouble to anyone, and he pays for his food in old coin. Some say he has a treasure hid in the mountains, and a few years back a group of ne’er-do-wells journeyed up into the high country to take it from him. They didn’t come back, and they weren’t missed, I can tell you. I expect Kaygan heard the treasure stories and wants it for himself.”
/> “We seek no treasure,” I told him, “though I think you are right about Kaygan. How shall we find Gareth?”
“Just head north. If he wants to be found, you’ll see him.”
“How many men were with the swordsman?” queried Mace.
“Seven. They had a tracker with them, Cheos. Local man. He’s good. They say he could trail the north wind to its lair in the ice wastes.”
“You have been very helpful,” I said. “Many thanks.”
“Ah, it was nothing,” replied the innkeeper with a wave of his hand. Mace produced two silver pennies, which he laid before the man, but Scoris shook his head. “I’ll not have it said,” he told us, dropping his voice, “that I charged the Morningstar for breakfast.”
With a broad smile and a wink he rose and returned to his kitchen. “How did he know you?” whispered Wulf.
Mace chuckled. “It is not me he recognized, half-wit! How many men travel the forest in the company of a giant and a hunchback?”
He was just downing the last of his cider when Astiana ran into the tavern. “Lykos!” she shouted. “He’s here!” Wulf leapt to his feet, grabbing for his bow. Mace and I rose. Piercollo curled his hand around the haft of a long bread knife.
“Time to leave!” said Mace softly.
“Show yourself, wolfshead!” came the shout from beyond the tavern. Mace swore and moved to the shuttered window, peering through the crack.
“There must be twenty men out there,” he said.
“There are a dozen more beyond the back door,” Scoris informed us, his face red and his eyes showing his fear.
“They were hidden in the church,” said Astiana. “The priest warned me, and I came as fast as I could.”
I moved to the window. Lykos, in full armor and helm, a sword in his hand, sat upon a gray gelding. The helm’s visor was partly open, and I could see that his eye was bandaged, the wound seeping blood, which had stained the cloth. Around him were men-at-arms, several with crossbows aimed at the door but most armed with swords.
“I have a cellar,” said Scoris. “There is a tunnel that leads out into the storehouse and barn. Use it quickly!”
Mace took his bow and notched an arrow to the string. “Not yet!” he said grimly. Drawing back on the string, he gave a swift instruction to Wulf. The hunchback moved behind the door and suddenly wrenched it open. Three crossbow shafts hammered into the wood, a fourth slashing through the doorway to punch home into the wall.
Mace stepped into the doorway. “I told you what would happen, Lykos, when next we met.” The crossbowmen were frantically seeking to reload, the swordsmen standing by uselessly. Mace raised his bow, the arrow flashing through the air to lance between visor and helm, and Lykos reeled back in the saddle, the shaft piercing his brain. For a moment he sat stock-still, then his body fell, his foot catching in the stirrup. Such was the clang of the armor as it struck the ground that the gelding reared and fled in panic, the armored corpse with foot caught dragging behind. Several men ran after the beast; the others charged the tavern.
Mace leapt back inside, slamming shut the door. Wulf lowered the guard bar into place. Scoris waved us out into the kitchen, lifting a trapdoor; there was a narrow flight of stairs leading down into darkness.
“Go quickly!” said Scoris, handing Piercollo a lit lantern.
“You will be in great trouble for this,” I said.
“No matter!”
Mace was behind him. I saw his hand come up, heard the thud of the blow on the man’s neck, then Scoris fell forward upon me. Lowering his unconscious body to the ground, I rounded on Mace. “What have you done?”
“Protected him as best I can. Now move!”
Piercollo went first, followed by Ilka, Astiana, Wulf, and myself. Mace pulled shut the trapdoor behind us and brought up the rear. The cellar was dank but filled with the sweet smell of cider casks. Swiftly we crossed it, coming to a tunnel that sloped upward. At the far end, some twenty paces distant, we could see a thin shaft of light. Piercollo doused the lantern, and we silently approached the storehouse. Sliding back the bolts on the hinged trapdoors, we emerged into the building. All was silent inside, but we could hear the distant shouts of the disappointed soldiers back at the tavern.
The store was filled with hanging carcasses of salted meats, barrels of apples and other fruit, sacks of flour and sugar, oats and wheat. There were two great doors, wide enough to allow the passage of wagons, and a side exit leading to the north.
Wulf opened the side door, peering out. There was no one in sight.
And the trees were but a few hundred feet away.
We ran across the open ground, every moment fearing the sound of pursuit. But we passed unseen from Willow and once more entered the forest.
The songs talk of the fight with Lykos, telling us that Mace met him in single combat while Astiana stood on a scaffold with a rope around her neck. But life is rarely like the songs, my dear ghost.
That is a sorry fact for a bard to learn. For we like our heroes pure, you see—golden men, demigods without flaw. Just as we like our villains to be black-hearted and vile. When men sit in taverns, supping their ale and listening to poets regaling them with epic stories, they cannot be bothered to think. They do not wish their enjoyment to be sullied by shades of gray. No, they desire only sinister black and spotless white. And are women any different? No, again. Forced by their fathers—yes, even sold by them—into a life of servitude and drudgery, they need to believe there are heroes. They look at the dull, flat features of their husbands and dream of golden-haired men who would slay dragons for them.
We even follow this practice in life itself. The enemy is always reviled, pictured as the despoiler of women, the eater of babies, a living plague upon the earth, a servant of Satan. Wars are never fought for plunder or gain. Oh, no, they are always depicted as ultimate battles between good and evil. But then, looking at the nature of man, that is understandable. Can you imagine the scene, the great king gathering his troops before an epic battle. “Right, my lads,” he says as he sits upon his great black stallion, “today we fight for my right to steal gold from whomever I choose. The enemy are men much the same as yourselves. A good bunch, probably, with wives and children back home. And at the end of the battle, when I have more riches than I’ll ever spend in a lifetime, many of them—and indeed, many of you—will be worm food or crippled. Better to be dead, really, because I’ll have no use for you once you can no longer wield a sword. All right, lads. Let’s be at them!”
No. Far better for the poor foot soldier to be told that he is fighting for God, and right, and justice in the world against an enemy spawned from darkness.
But where was I? Ah, yes, Lykos was dead, as Mace had promised he would be. And thus the legend grew.
Word flew through the forest faster than a raven’s flight, the story growing, adding to the myth of the Morningstar. The townsmen of Pasel, learning of the killing, rose up and retook the keep. The revolt spread, and Rualis rebelled against the Angostins, slaughtering the soldiers and the noble families who had ruled there for three centuries. Farther south Brackban was gathering men to the Morningstar’s cause.
Corlan the outlaw had attacked three convoys, and his men of the Morningstar were heroes now, carrying a sacred flame in their hearts.
You have never seen a forest fire, ghost. It is a fearsome thing. One moment all is silent, dry, and hot; the next, a tiny flicker of flame dances upon dead leaves. Other dancers join it, and they run across the ground, flaring up against dead wood. A breeze fans them, and they scatter until it is a dance no longer. Flames roar high into the sky, great oaks burn like tinder, and the dancers become a ravening monster propelled by the wind.
Such was the rebellion.
When I had sent Corlan south, it had merely been to separate him and his men from us, to put distance between us. I do not believe—though I would like to—that I planned the rebellion from the start. But I will say with all honesty that the seed of the idea
was growing when I gave Brackban his orders. Why should the Highlanders not control their own destiny? By what right, save that of conquest, did the Angostins rule?
But this was not in my mind as we walked toward the troll reaches, seeking the Ringwearer, Gareth.
I was more concerned with our safety, for ahead of us were stretches of forest and mountain inhabited by creatures many times stronger than men. Here was the last refuge of the trolls and, according to fable, many other ancient races, dread beasts and sorcerous evil.
But more immediate was the threat of Kaygan the swordsman and his seven killers, and worse than these the ever-present fear of Cataplas and his sorcery. None of which seemed to bother Mace as we walked. He was in high good humor.
“All that armor plate,” he said, “breastplate, shoulder guards, greaves, thigh protectors, gauntlets, helm. Must have cost at least thirty gold pieces. And one arrow ends his miserable existence. By God, isn’t life wonderful?”
“There is nothing wonderful about the taking of a life,” put in Astiana, “though I grant that Lykos deserved death.”
“It shouldn’t have been as quick,” said Wulf. “I’d like to have had an evening in his company with some hot irons and a blazing fire.”
“To achieve what?” asked the sister stonily.
“Achieve?” responded Wulf. “Why, I would have enjoyed it.”
“I can see no pleasure in such torture,” muttered Piercollo. “He is dead, and that is an end to it.”
The clouds gathered, and the sky darkened. We sheltered from the coming storm in an old log dwelling, long deserted. The west wall had collapsed, the cabin was open to the elements, but there was enough of a roof left on the east and north walls to protect us from the rain and the gathering storm.