As we sat around the fire blazing in the stone-built hearth, I entertained the company with the tale of Arian and Llaw and the return of the Gabala knights. But after this, following requests from Wulf and Mace, I performed once more Rabain’s battles with the Vampyre assassins.
The magick was as usual greeted by warm applause, save from Astiana, who as a sister of God frowned upon the talent.
“Did Rabain’s son actually kill him?” asked Mace suddenly as the figures faded away. “In life, I mean.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. All we know of Rabain comes from legend, word of mouth. In some tales it is his son who slays him. In others he journeyed across the Far Sea. In at least one he climbed into a chariot of fire and journeyed to join the gods.”
“There are other legends of Rabain,” said Astiana, “older, darker. In these, he has no son.”
This aroused my interest, and I questioned her further. “When I was first a novice,” she explained, “there was an old monk who gathered such stories, writing them in a great book. He said that the first tales of Rabain were of a demon summoned from hell, Ra-he-borain—the Summoned One. The Vampyre kings had destroyed the armies of light and Horga the sorceress, in desperation, called upon a prince of blood. He was a killer, damned to an eternity of torment, burning in lakes of fire. She drew him back, and he slew Golgoleth. All the Vampyre armies fell to ash in that moment, for as the old tales have it, when the lord of Vampyres dies, his legions die with him.”
“What happened to Rabain?” asked Mace.
“He was returned to the pit.”
“That’s hardly fair,” Wulf complained.
“Life isn’t fair,” said Mace, chuckling, “but I like the tale. At least his son doesn’t betray him in this one. Did he get a chance to enjoy a parade?”
“He enjoyed Horga. I understand,” said Astiana primly. “That was his price for doing what was right. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he demanded her body. It was that act which meant he would be returned to the pit. He knew this, but such was his desire that he suffered the fires of eternity to have her.”
“Must have been some woman,” said Mace with a broad grin. “Though I can’t say as I would ever strike such a bargain. So, poor Rabain still sits in his lake of fire. I wonder if he thinks it was worth it?”
“According to legend,” Astiana continued, “Ra-he-borain merely waits to be called again, his pain as nothing compared with his memories of Horga.”
“That is a tale invented by a woman,” said Mace scornfully. “You all think too much of yourselves.”
“And you think too little,” she snapped.
“You are wrong, Sister. There are parts of a woman that I revere.”
The threatened row did not materialize, for at that moment the storm winds died down and we heard a terrible scream echo through the forest.
“By God’s holy tears!” whispered Wulf. “That chills the blood!”
Mace rose. “I think the Ringwearer has made contact with Kaygan and his men,” he said.
“We must help him,” I cried, the scream still echoing in my head.
“We can’t,” Mace told me. “Not yet. There is a storm raging over the forest. What good could we do, blundering around in the dark and the wet?”
“But it is one man against seven!” I protested.
“It’s better that way,” muttered Wulf. “At least he knows that every man he sees is an enemy.”
“But the scream … it could have been Gareth. They may already have him!”
“That is unlikely,” put in Mace. “They will be sheltering from the rain, just like us. This is no weather to be hunting a man.”
Thunder rolled across the sky, lightning following instantly, and the rain fell with great force. Wulf banked up the fire, and we sat in silence for a while.
“What will we do tomorrow?” I asked at last.
“You and the women will wait here,” said Mace. “Wulf and I will find Gareth.”
“And then?”
“We’ll see. Take the first watch, Owen, and wake me in about four hours.” Wrapping himself in his cloak, Mace settled down, falling asleep almost instantly.
The fire was warm and comforting, making me sleepy, so I moved away from it to sit below the edge of the broken roof, the dripping water splashing my boots. The forest beyond was cold and uninviting, gleaming with dark light. Somewhere out there, beneath the wind-whipped trees, a man was fighting for his life … a man alone.
I shivered and pulled my cloak tight around my shoulders. Astiana moved alongside me. “Can you not sleep?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“No. Who is this man you are trying to aid?”
“His name is Gareth.” I told her then of the skulls and of my dream, and I spoke of Cataplas and his yearning for knowledge. She listened intently.
“I have not heard this legend of the skulls, but the oldest of the stories says that upon his death, Golgoleth pledged to return. The bodies of the Vampyre kings were burned, but the skulls remained untouched by the flames. They were said to have been hurled into the sea from a ship that sailed to the edge of the world.”
“There are many stories of Rabain,” I said, “but the heart of them remains constant. He fought the evil of the kings, destroying them—he and Horga.”
“I wonder what happened to her,” said Astiana.
I shrugged. “She married a farmer and raised strong sons. She became an abbess, a sister of mercy. She walked into the forest and became an oak, tall and commanding. She transformed herself into a dove and flew across the Gray Sea. Perhaps she did all of these and more. But I expect she just got old and died like everyone else.”
Astiana took my hand, lifting it to peer at the moonstone ring. “Why did you agree to wear it?” she asked softly.
“I cannot say. But it was right that I did.”
“You are not a warrior, Owen. How can you fight men like Kaygan?”
“I will do the best I can, sister. I was not the greatest of my father’s sons, and my skill with weapons is poor. But still the blood of Aubertain is in my veins. And he is a man who would never step aside for evil. Nor will Owen Odell.”
“You are very brave, Owen,” she said, releasing my hand.
Direct compliments always make me feel uncomfortable, and I changed the subject. “Why are you still with us, lady? You have no love for Mace, and you do not like violence.”
“You are wrong, Owen, on both counts. I knew it when I left you all in Willow.”
“Sweet heaven!” I whispered. “You can’t be in love with Mace!”
“I did not say I was in love,” she snapped. “Why is it that men always reduce things to the carnal?” But her face was flushed, and I believed then and believe now that my arrow was close to the mark. For some reason the knowledge depressed me. Why was it, I wondered, that so many women fell for the charm of rogues, offering their love to men who would drink it like wine and then cast them aside like empty bottles?
“He is a powerful man,” she said at last, her voice low.
“Yes,” I agreed, “and the world is filled with men of such power. They cheat, they wound, they lust, and they kill. We are sitting in this desolate place because of men of power, and we are being hunted by men of power.”
My voice was harsh, the bitterness spilling like acid. Astiana said no more and backed away from me, returning to the fire.
The rain began to ease, and the moon shone bright through broken clouds. I sat alone through the night, lost in memories, walking the gardens of vanished dreams.
As a child I had so wanted to be like my father, another man of power, tall and strong, a fearless knight. It was not in me, for I never learned to like causing pain and gained no pleasure from success in competition. When I was thirteen—just before my fourteenth birthday, in fact—I remember Aubertain responding to a challenge at a tournament. In full armor, with sword and mace, he fought his opponent, hacking and hammering until the man’s he
lm had burst its rivets. Then the bloody mace had crashed through the skull, and the knight had fallen. Aubertain had raised his mace and sent forth a scream of victory that clawed into my heart with talons of fire. I felt his surging exhilaration, sensed the ecstasy that certain men gain from combat. My dreams of being a knight died on that day, and I saw other things. I saw the knight’s widow being helped from the viewing dais. I saw her ashen face and her wide, disbelieving eyes. And I watched his sons run to the broken body, passing through the shadow of the triumphant Aubertain.
I was glad that my father was alive, but I never, ever desired to be a warrior after that.
The rain came again just before dawn, then faded away, leaving the forest washed clean and ready for the new sun. Mace awoke with the first rays of morning and moved across to me. “Good man. We needed our sleep,” he said, patting my shoulder. “We may have to fight today.”
“Will you challenge Kaygan?”
“God, no! If I see him, I’ll send a shaft through his back. You stay here. Wulf and I will scout around for a while.”
Armed with their longbows, they set off through the forest—Mace tall and powerful, Wulf shorter and stockier, yet both men moving with animal grace, entirely at home in their surroundings.
A short time later Piercollo decided to explore for herbs and wild onions. His eye was still paining him, and he rarely spoke. His presence, once so vibrant with love of life, was now brooding and dangerously quiet.
“Be careful,” I said. “There may be enemies close by.”
“Good for them if they don’t find me,” he grunted.
I boiled some oats and shared them with Ilka and Astiana. The two women sat close together, and every once in a while Astiana would look at Ilka and nod or shake her head. For some minutes I watched.
“You are communicating,” I said at last. Astiana waved me to silence, and the two of them sat staring at one another, the breakfast forgotten. Suddenly Ilka nodded and smiled, reaching out to take Astiana’s hands in hers.
“Yes,” said Astiana, “I hear you.”
Tears welled in Ilka’s eyes, and the two women embraced.
“You are a mystic,” I said, moving in close.
Astiana shrugged. “I have a gift from God. It is not the same.”
“What does she say?”
“Be patient, Owen,” she advised me. “We are almost there.”
I wandered away from them to sit by the ruined wall. It was there that I caught sight of armed men moving from the undergrowth, and my heart began to beat faster. Three of the men carried longbows; the remaining two wielded barbed spears. I stood and waited as they approached. One of the spearmen grinned as he saw me. He was a handsome, golden-haired fellow with eyes the color of a winter sky, blue and chilling.
“God’s greeting, Brother,” he said, his voice mellow.
“And to you,” I responded. I saw them relax as they neared. The golden-haired stranger let fall a canvas sack from his shoulder and thrust his spear into the earth beside it. Stepping into the shelter, he saw Astiana and bowed low.
“Well, this is pleasant,” he said, turning to me. “Two lovely women and a young man together in the forest. How sweet! How inviting!”
There was an edge to his voice that left me tense and apprehensive. I glanced at his companions; they were hard-faced men, grim and tough, and I saw that their gazes lingered upon the women. All color fled from Ilka’s face, and her eyes were wide and fearful. She had lived this scene once before, the horror of it never leaving her. Now she was facing her nightmare again. Astiana smoothly rose to her feet, her expression serene.
“Who might you be, sir?” I asked the leader, though I knew the answer, having seen the curved saber at his side. But I wanted to divert him, to take his attention from the women.
“I am Kaygan,” he said.
“Not the great swordsman, the champion of Azrek?”
“You have heard of me?”
“Who has not, sir?” I said, hoping that flattery would win him over. “It is an honor and a privilege to meet you. Why, only a few days ago we heard of a display you gave in the town of Willow. Men were still talking of it.”
“How gratifying,” he said. “And you, what is your name?”
“Graeme,” I lied. “Graeme of Ebracum. I am a bard, sir, and would welcome an opportunity to talk with you of your exploits. Perhaps I could compose a saga poem based upon them.”
“You seem right friendly, Master Graeme. But we have other thoughts on our minds, do we not, lads? Last night we lost two of our men, but we captured and killed our enemy. So today we are in the mood to celebrate our victory. What better way is known to man than to enjoy the soft bodies of women? You, Sister, remove your garments, if you please. It has been a long time since I’ve heard a nun screaming with pleasure.”
“I doubt it was pleasure,” Astiana told him.
“Surely a hero would not stoop to actions so base,” I said swiftly.
He laughed and shook his head. “Base? There is nothing base in rutting with women. It is what they were created for—to pleasure men. Now, Sister, the garments. I wish to see those hidden breasts.”
Ilka scrambled to her feet, drawing her saber. Kaygan stepped back, his smile in place. “Such spirit!” he whispered. “Perhaps I should have you first, my pretty! Cheos, you and Symen take the nun! This one wishes to see my skill with a saber.”
Two of the bowmen put down their weapons and advanced on Astiana. “Never had a nun,” said the first, a thin bearded woodsman in brown leather leggings and a deerskin jerkin.
“Then it’s time you widened your education, Cheos,” said Kaygan. “You will find the experience most satisfying.” He drew his own weapon and extended the point, tapping it against Ilka’s blade.
“No!” I shouted, drawing my dagger.
“Oh, and kill the bard,” he said, not even looking at me.
I am not quick to anger, but the contempt with which he treated me fired my blood. One of the men drew his knife and advanced upon me. So great was my fury that instead of retreating or begging for life, I threw myself at him. His eyes widened in shock, and he tried to stab at me. With my left hand I thrust aside his arm, my dagger slicing into his belly and up into the lungs above. He sagged against me and gave out with a low groan. Wrenching the blade clear, I let him fall. Kaygan turned and glazed at me with new eyes. “You will die slowly format,” he promised.
“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 saber 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 saber 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 saber 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.
10
MACE’S BLACK BLADE parried swiftly as Kaygan launched an attack of blistering speed, the saber clanging against the longsword with a sound like a ringing bell. Kaygan was lithe and fast, supple and agile, while Mace, normally so catlike 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 duelist myself, 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 saber 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 saber lancing toward his opponent’s belly. Mace swayed to the left, his sword arcing toward 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 counterattacked, the black sword hammering down against the slender saber and pushing it back. A long cut appeared on Kaygan’s head, bright blood drenching the golden hair.