Horga the enchantress was gone from the world to whatever oblivion or paradise existed beyond the veils of life. As a bard I could hope that Rabain was waiting for her somewhere between worlds, but as a man I could feel only sadness at her passing.
The next few months were both chaotic and memorable. Angostin citadels were overthrown throughout the land, and the people were filled with the spirit of freedom. Yet these were not easy times. For despite the tyranny of Angostin rule, they still supplied law of a kind. Without them arnarcy beckoned, and Brackban was forced to become a judge as well as a general. Units were sent to police towns and cities; new laws were struck in the name of the Morningstar. Disputes needed to be settled, the rights to land established.
I remember well one case in which five families laid claim to a tavern in Ziraccu. The first maintained that it had ownership rights stolen during the days before the Angostin invasion; the second claimed to have bought the rights from Azrek; the third had an earlier claim, based on a deed signed by the Highland king some sixty years previously. The fourth swore that the most recent owner had willed it to them and produced documents to support its story. As to the fifth, well, it was in possession, having moved in following the slaying of the Vampyre kings. Their claim was that they had taken over a shell with no stock and had built up the custom, investing their own capital.
There were scores of cases like these, some judged by Mace, others by Brackban or Raul Raubert. But the lists grew, and other judges were appointed. Most came from the church, bishops and priests—even an abbess, though having a woman as a judge proved unpopular at first. Others were clerks or lawyers from freed cities.
Slowly, as autumn moved into winter, some degree of order was established.
The outlaws of Corlan now followed Mace like an elite royal guard, and Brackban continued his training of recruits and officers. The pace of revolution slowed, but despite the many irritations, the mood remained optimistic. Even when travelers, merchants, and tinkers moved up from the south with news of Edmund’s gathering army, there was little gloom. “We have the Morningstar,” said the people. “Nothing can defeat him.”
During those months I saw little of Mace. He rode through the land with Raul gathering men, giving speeches, collecting coin to pay for the weapons the new army would need. There was no line of credit offered by merchants, for they did not believe in the Morningstar. All they knew was that the Angostin battle king was preparing to march north in the spring, and where he marched, death and destruction followed.
Desperation makes for cost, my dear ghost. Our army was in dire need of weapons, and the iron for those was found only in the south. Therefore, we needed to pay men who were willing to smuggle them across to us. An iron-tipped spear that should have cost as little as two pennies now sold for twenty. Swords and halberds were seven, eight times the price. And armor? No matter how much coin we raised, the cost was prohibitive.
Edmund had closed off the southern borders, and merchants found with wagons loaded with weapons were hanged, drawn, and quartered. The ports were sealed also, and Ikenas galleons were anchored offshore, ready with the grappling irons to storm any ship that tried to sail past.
Our biggest fear was starvation, for a great deal of the food consumed in the north was imported from the richer, more fertile southlands.
Wulf and Piercollo were placed in charge of supplies for the army, but their roles widened as winter took hold. The movement of food to villages and towns cut off by snow, the filling of storehouses in cities, the distribution of supplies throughout the north—this consumed all their time. The winter months were fraught with peril, but save for isolated cases, there was no starvation. In the northern city of Callias a mob looted the storehouse, but Brackban’s militia routed them, hanging twenty of the ringleaders as an example to others. It was the only serious incident of that long, bitter winter.
And what of Owen Odell during this period? I had no place in the new government, and Mace did not speak to me for weeks after the incident by the lakeside. I had no niche, no specific role. I helped Wulf and Piercollo with the organization of food, and I worked alongside Astiana in caring for the sick; the Gastoigne sister had moved into Ziraccu to help the survivors of Golgoleth’s brief reign. There were orphans to be cared for, families to be found who would take in an extra child during the harsh winter months. And she founded a school where each day she taught unwilling youngsters the principles of letters and arithmetic.
But for the most part I idled away my days thinking of Ilka and playing my harp. I lived then in Megan’s cabin and continued her work of curing meats, preparing geese and poultry for the table, and gathering the herbs that Astiana used to draw out infections and fevers.
With the coming of spring, however, the mood of the people began to change. The talk was all of the coming war and the ferocious reputation of the battle king.
One bright morning, as I sat on a hillside overlooking the lake, I saw a rider gallop his horse into the settlement square. People swarmed around him as he sought out Brackban, who was visiting the town. I did not go down; I knew by the chill in my blood the news the rider carried.
The battle king was coming.
The snows were melting on the hillsides when I was summoned to Ziraccu. And as the riders came, bringing a spare horse, I was sure that Mace needed my counsel. I had felt somewhat aggrieved during the winter when he did not call upon me or seek my advice. And now, as I rode a tall stallion, I practiced in my mind the manner of my rebuke to him for his lack of courtesy. I would be gentle and ultimately forgiving but nonetheless send a shaft that would strike home.
Mace had not taken up residence in the palace; it was closed now, and none ventured into it. The Vampyres had gone, but the memory lingered and the evil done there had, according to local legend, seeped into the walls. Instead the Morningstar had taken over a house in the rich merchants’ quarter. There were fine gardens around it, hemmed in by high walls. I rode with my escort to the front gates, where grooms led our horses away and servants ushered us into the main hall. The two riders who had accompanied me bowed and left me there, and it was Brackban, not Mace, who moved out to greet me. He led me through to a small library, and we sat in comfortable chairs of padded leather set beside a fireplace. The sun was hot outside, yet here in this room of stone it was cool, and a fire had been lit.
“Take off your boots and relax,” said Brackban, moving to a wide table of oak on which were scattered documents, scrolls, letters, wax, and a seal bearing the mark of the Morningstar. He looked tired, I thought, and thinner, and his long blond hair had been harshly cut close to his head. Wearing a long robe of dark green, he looked more a cleric than a warrior. There was a jug of wine on the table, and Brackban filled two silver goblets, passing one to me. Then he sat opposite and quietly drained his drink.
“Where is Mace?” I asked him.
He said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “He is gone, Owen. I don’t know where.”
“Gone?” I echoed, mystified.
“Three days ago he was reported to be heading for Ziraccu. He should have been here late yesterday. I can only think that he has been waylaid or taken by agents of the king. God alone knows where he is now.”
I looked away from him. I knew instinctively that Mace had not been waylaid or captured; he had done what he always promised—he had cut and run now that the end was in sight. But what could I say to this strong, loyal man who had been left to pick up the pieces?
“Without him we are finished,” continued Brackban. “We have a fledgling army, maybe three thousand men. They are good men for the most part, and brave. Edmund will have three, four times as many, and they are seasoned warriors. We have archers and foot soldiers, but he has cavalry, heavily armored knights who can strike fast and hard.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. “What can we do, Owen? I am at the end of my strength. When word reaches the men that Mace is taken—or lost—then the desertions will begin. The lands will be open to Edmund. Have
we done all this for nothing?”
“I will do my best to find him,” I promised.
He nodded. “You do not think he was captured, then?”
“I don’t know for certain what happened,” I hedged, “but I will send a search spell. In the meantime, don’t say anything about his disappearance. Where was he last seen?”
There was a map on the wall, black ink etched on pale leather. Brackban rose and walked to where it hung, stabbing his finger at an ornate triangle: the Angostin symbol for a city with a university. “He went to see the Bishop of Lowis; he is the senior tutor at the school there.”
“Why should Mace want to see a teacher?”
Brackban shrugged. “The man sent him a letter. Mace seemed intrigued by it.”
“Where is this letter?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you see it?”
“No. Mace merely said it had to do with some legend, some ancient artifact. I took little notice. God knows I have no time to study history, Owen. But I don’t think it was important; it was just a whim.”
“What do they study at the university?”
“Medicine, law, and history. But do not concern yourself with that. We have maybe two weeks; then two armies will face one another. If Mace does not arrive before then …” He spread his hands.
“What will you do if he has been taken or cannot be found?”
“What can I do? This is my land; they are my people. You think I will run away into the forest and leave them to their fate? I couldn’t do that, Owen. Death would be preferable. No, I shall take my men and confront the battle king. Who knows, maybe God will favor us.”
He spoke with little confidence, for he knew, as did I, that where battles were concerned, God tended to favor the army with the most lances. I left the house with a heavy heart and rode back to the village, seeking out Wulf and Piercollo. When I told them of Mace’s disappearance, Wulf was not surprised.
“I’ve known him longer than any of the others,” he said. “He’s a solitary man, is Mace. And he looks out for himself. He’s got courage, right enough, but it’s not the enduring kind. You understand me? It’s like the farmer who strives year in and year out. Come plague, pestilence, drought, famine, or locusts, he digs in and weathers the years. That’s real strength. Mace can fight, probably better than any man I ever knew. But he doesn’t have that strength. It was that way with Golgoleth. He went into the city because he couldn’t have borne waiting for Golgoleth to come for him.”
There was no anger in the hunchback’s voice, no edge of bitterness.
“I shall try to find him,” I said.
“Won’t do no good, Owen,” said Wulf. “He’s turned his back on us; that’s all there is to it.”
“Even so, I shall try. Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.”
“As will Piercollo,” said the giant, smiling. “I am tired of these people around me, the noise and the chatter. It will be good to hear the music of the forest. Where do we begin, Owen?”
“Tonight I will send out three search spells—north, west, and east. By dawn I will at least know which direction to travel. As we move, I shall send out other spells. Eventually we’ll find him.”
“How long is eventually?” Wulf asked.
“It could take weeks—months,” I admitted.
“Well,” he said grimly, “I’ll be with you for six days. After that I’ll make my way back here to join Brackban. I’ll not have it said that Wulf was afraid of the fight.”
We set off to the northwest two hours after dawn. I was tired, for I had been awake all night, holding to the search spells and focusing on the enchantment. The spell to the east showed nothing, but both north and west gave a glimmer of hope. I have already explained the nature of search globes, but when one casts such magick across large distances, there is no immediate, visible sign of success. The magicker must attune himself to the spell and rely on his instincts. When I held to the eastern globe, I felt only emptiness; this, then, was a cold route. At first the northern spell gave me a sense of warmth, but gradually this shifted to the western globe, thus giving me Mace’s direction of travel.
“Where would he be heading?” I asked Wulf.
“There is a port, Barulis, at the Deeway estuary, northwest of here. If Edmund’s fleet hasn’t yet blocked it, maybe he is planning to take a sea voyage. Or he may just lie low in Barulis. But whatever his plan, it will take him some days to reach the city. I think I can cut his trail before then. We’ll find him, Owen.”
As we walked, I reached out with my talent, sending a new search globe to the northwest. As I concentrated my mind, honing my powers, I became aware, as magickers will, of an enchanter close by. I stopped, closed my eyes, and linked my thoughts to the globe. I became one with the spell, and my soul floated high above the forest in a circle of light. I had not the physical strength or the mental strength to hold myself for long in this spirit form, but it was long enough to see what I had both sensed and feared.
A second search spell was floating above the trees.
The enemy was also seeking the Morningstar.
There was much on my mind as we traveled. Ilka’s death was still an open wound, and still I could not bring myself to talk to anyone about her. But I thought of her constantly. And Megan’s dying words continued to haunt me. She had lived for two thousand years, waiting for the answer to a question. What question? And who could have answered it? And what did she mean when she told me that she would see me again but that she would not know me? Was she delirious then? Was it a kind of madness that precedes death?
But more than anything I thought of Jarek Mace and the confusion he must have felt at being a hero to so many. There is a legend of a giant called Parmeus who stole the book of knowledge from the gods. Every step he took with it saw the weight grow, until he felt he was carrying a mountain. At last he fell, and the weight pushed him far below the earth, where he still tries to carry his burden. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are attributed to these struggles in certain areas. But I knew that Mace would understand the awesome pressure Parmeus bore, for hero worship can be no less weighty, no less burdensome.
True, there were rewards. Mace had enjoyed several parades. But notwithstanding these distractions, he still had a legend to live up to, whereas in truth he was merely a common soldier and a skilled swordsman. How could he, despite the expectation of the people, hope to defeat the battle king?
We made good time, for the rains held off and the ground was firm, and within two days we had reached an area of level ground high in the mountains, a verdant plateau with several villages and an ancient castle built upon an island at the center of a long loch. It was a pretty spot, untouched by war. Fat cattle grazed on the new grass, and sheep and goats could be seen on the hillsides.
We were tired of walking and made our way down to the lakeside. An elderly man approached us; he was carrying a loaf of bread, which he broke into three pieces for us, an ancient Highland custom of welcome. We bowed our thanks, and I described Mace, asking him if such a man had passed by.
“You mean the Morningstar?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “We are friends of his.”
He nodded sagely. “Well, if you’re his friends, I don’t doubt he’ll find you,” said the old man knowingly.
“He would if he was told that Owen Odell, Wulf, and Piercollo had traveled far to see him.”
“And you’d be Odell the wizard?”
It would have taken too long to correct him, so I merely nodded. He said nothing more and walked away to his hut. The three of us sat down and finished the bread, which was a little stale but still tasty.
“He’s here,” said Wulf, “and I’ll wager he won’t see us.”
As the day wore on and the sun fell lower, it seemed that Wulf would be proved right. Just after dusk the old man came out of his hut, bringing with him a pot of stewed beef and several clay bowls. I thanked him and ques
tioned him about the settlement—how long it had been there and so on. He sat with us for a while, talking of the Highlands and his life. He had been a soldier for twenty years and had fought in three Oversea Wars. But he had come home a decade before and was now a fisherman and content. I asked him about the castle at the center of the lake.
“Been there since before my great-grandfather’s time,” he said. “No one recalls now when it was built, but it was after them Vampyre wars the stories tell of, I reckon. Never been used for war, though. Armies don’t come here. Nothing for them: no plunder, no gain. Been a monastery now for more than a hundred years. Lowis monks. Fine spirit they produce there, made from grain. Take your head off, it will! Not that they allow much of it to leave the monastery. Maybe a barrel at midwinter. By God, there’s some celebration around that time.”
The name struck a chord with me, and I remembered the conversation with Brackban. Mace had spoken with the Bishop of Lowis.
“Can you row me across the lake?” I asked the old man.
“I could, I reckon,” he said, “if I had a mind to.”
“I am not a killer, sir. I have no evil intent toward the Morningstar. But it is vital that I see him.”
“I know you’re no murderer, boy. Been around enough of them in my life. Him, now,” he said, gesturing a gnarled finger at Wulf, “he’s a rough ‘un. Wouldn’t want him against me on a dark night.”
Wulf gave a lopsided grin. “You’re safe, old man.”
“Aye, I am. But if I hadn’t liked the look of you, I’d have poisoned that stew.”
“The way it tasted, I thought you had,” replied Wulf.
The old man gave a dry chuckle. “All right, I’ll take you across, Owen Odell. But only you, mind!”
I followed him along the shoreline to where an ancient coracle was pulled up on the bank; it was made of dry rushes and resembled my old bathtub back home. “She leaks somewhat, but she’ll get us there,” he promised, and together we pulled the old craft out onto the dark water. I clambered in, and he followed me, settling down on his knees and picking up a wide-bladed oar, which he used expertly as the coracle moved out onto the lake.