I felt humbled by the scene as Mace’s blood flowed to the land that had created him. Through him an entire nation had enjoyed a rebirth of courage, a renewal of hope. But then, that is what heroes do, it is not? They make us all a great gift, our lives made larger and more noble by their existence. It matters not a whit that Mace himself was less than legends make him.
For what he gave to the future was far greater than what he took from the past. As long as there is evil in the world, there will be men—aye, and women—who will say. “Stand up and fight it. Be strong like the Morningstar.”
And I knew then, as Mace lay dying, that the song would soon be all there was.
He died just before the dawn, and one by one the torchbearers snuffed out their lights, allowing the last of the night to close in over the tableau. We sat with his body until sunrise, and then Wulf, following his instructions, took the body deep into the forest, burying it in an unmarked grave where no man would stumble upon it.
The hunchback would not even tell me where Mace lay save to say that each morning the sun would shine upon him and each night the stars would glitter above him like a crown.
Raul Raubert was acclaimed as the new king, Brackban becoming his chamberlain.
And so what Mace had told me so cynically came to pass. Nothing ever changes … The Angostins ruled in the Highlands once more, and order was established in the northern world.
Raul Raubert was a good king, and there were many fine changes to the law. His standard remained the silver star embroidered by Astiana, and from then until this day the kings of the Highlands are called sons of the Morningstar.
And what of the others? Astiana went on to become an abbess, a saintly old woman who cared for the sick. She became the princess of legend, Mace’s great love, a warrior woman who helped him defeat the Vampyres. I tried to keep Ilka’s memory alive among the people, but no one wants to hear songs about mute whores, no matter how brave. No, Astiana filled their hearts.
Piercollo traveled back to his beloved Tuscania. He wrote me once to say he had entered the contest and won it once more. He dedicated his victory to the memory of Lykos, the man who had blinded him. I was pleased at that, for evil thrives only when it breeds, and Piercollo had neutered its power.
And Wulf? I used to see him in the old days. I would journey into the forest and stay at his cabin for a while; we would hunt together and talk of old times and shared memories. But as the years passed, his memory blurred and he began to remember a different story. He recalled a golden-haired man with a heart of unblemished purity and the courage of ten lions. At first I gently mocked him, but he grew angry and accused me of “slighting the greatest man who ever lived.” Mace’s dark side, his callousness and cruelty, his womanizing and his greed, all became signs of a reckless youth and a sense of humor.
Such is the way with heroes. Their greatness grows with the passing of time, their weaknesses shrinking. Perhaps that is as it should be.
Wulf died ten years ago. The king—Raul’s eldest grandson, Maric—had his body moved to the royal tomb at Ziraccu. A statue was raised to him—a bronze statue. The likeness is almost chilling. Crafted twice life-size, the statue stands facing the south with a longbow in hand, keen bronze eyes staring toward the borders watching for the enemy. Wulf would have liked it.
Perhaps a statue will be raised for me one day soon.
As for Owen Odell, well, for several years I journeyed, staying far from the curious eyes of men who knew me only as a legend. I took passage on a ship that sailed the length of the island and stepped ashore on the south coast, making my way to my father’s castle. I found him sitting in the long room behind the stables. He was cleaning and oiling leather bridles and stirrups, and he looked up as his son entered.
“You should have known better than to drop your sword on a battlefield,” said Aubertain. “And as for running among mounted knights … damn stupid! Lucky no one removed your head from your shoulders.”
“You were there?”
“Where else would I be when my king goes to war?”
“You were the knight who saved me,” I said, remembering the collision that had stopped the lance piercing my chest. “You charged your horse into the lancer.”
He shrugged. “I’m a stubborn man, Owen, but I’ll not see my sons killed even if they are fighting on the wrong side. Welcome home, Son. Have you seen your mother yet?”
I don’t think I was truly complete until that moment. Megan told me once that there was a man I must meet who would make me whole, and she was right. And now I had found him again. He stood and opened his arms, and I embraced him, the last of my bitterness vanishing.
My brother Braife had been one of the knights slain by Mace in that last charge, but my father bore the Morningstar no ill will.
“He was a man, by God,” he said as we sat by the hearth fire on a cold winter’s evening. “I’ll never forget that ride. And I’m grateful to him for what he did for you. I think he made a man of you, Owen.”
“Aye, Father. I think he did.”
I stayed in the south until my father died. It happened seven years after I came home and only weeks after the death of my mother from the yellow fever. I moved back to the Highlands then and built my house close to the oak beneath which is buried the skull of Golgoleth.
I have lived long, ghost, and I have seen much, but even I am beginning to believe in the song. Every spring, when the celebrations begin, I think of Mace, his easy smile and his casual charm.
And I listen to fathers telling their sons that one day, when the realm is threatened, the Morningstar will come again.
Oh, ghost, how I wish I could be there when he does!
Epilogue
A GRAINE AWOKE AN hour before dawn, yawned, and stretched. The window was open, the air cold and fresh, stars gleaming in the winter sky. He was cold yet excited by the prospect of a morning meeting with the legendary Owen Odell. Swiftly he dressed, pulling on his warm woolen tunic and trews, his socks of softest wool and his boots of shining leather. He needed a shave and wondered whether the strange old man would allow him the use of one of the servants. Probably not, he decided. These Highlanders were a curious breed.
Hungry, the young nobleman made his way downstairs to the larder, helping himself to a sweet honey cake and washing it down with soured apple juice.
What a loathsome place, he decided as he opened the shuttered window and gazed out over the night-dark mountains. No theaters, no palaces of lascivious amusements, no dances, no readings of the latest works of literature. What clods these people must be, in their primitive dwellings, with their dull little lives.
But the journey would be worth it for the book. He would neither tour taverns nor tell saga stories around flickering camp fires. Oh, no. His father would pay a hundred monks to copy the tale and bind it in leather for sale and private readings among the nobility.
First, however, there was the old man. Agraine smiled. It would be easy to charm the ancient poet—soft words, a honeyed tongue. The story would spill out soon enough. God knows, the elderly loved to prattle!
Taking a second cake, the young man mounted the stairs, approaching the room where first he had spoken with Owen Odell. The door was ajar, and he heard voices.
Moving silently forward, he leaned in close to the crack by the door hinge, closing his right eye and straining to see into the room. But a floorboard creaked, and the voices within fell silent.
“Come in, Agraine,” called the old poet.
Sheepishly the young man opened the door.
“I did not mean to …” His voice trailed away, for standing in the center of the room was a golden-haired woman of lustrous beauty, clothed only in a shimmering gown of green silk. Agraine’s mouth fell open, and clumsily he executed a bow. “I am sorry, Lord Odell. I had no idea you had other guests.”
“It was a surprise to me, my boy,” the old man told him. “This is an old friend of mine … Megan.”
Agraine was sha
rp enough to spot the lie, but he kept his thoughts to himself and smiled at the woman. “It is a great pleasure, my lady. Do you live close?”
She laughed, the sound like sweet music. “Very close. And I have come to invite … Lord Odell … to visit my home. I was just explaining it to him when we heard you arrive.”
The old man chuckled as if at some private jest. “You will, I hope, excuse me, young man. For I must leave you to break your fast alone.”
“It is freezing outside, and there is deep snow in the valley,” stuttered Agraine, unwilling to allow the vision to depart from his company.
“You are quite wrong,” said the golden-haired woman. “It is springtime, and the flowers are in bloom.”
They were both smiling now, and Agraine felt the red flush of embarrassment burning his cheeks. With great effort Owen Odell rose from his chair, his bony hand descending on the young man’s shoulder. “I am sorry, my boy; we do not mean to mock. But Megan is right. Where we travel it will be springtime. And there is a young man—little older than yourself—who is waiting to speak with an old poet. It is a circle, you see. Forgive me.”
The golden-haired woman was standing beside the open door, and the wind was sending flurries of snow against her bare feet. Taking Odell’s arm, she led the old man out into the winter night.
Agraine stood for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts. Then he ran to the door.
The two of them were only a few paces out into the snow-covered clearing, Megan supporting the poet, who moved with slow shuffling steps. They stopped, and the woman raised her hand. Light rose from her fingers in a fountain of sparkling gold, raining down over both figures. Around and around, like shimmering stars, the golden flakes whirled about the poet and his lady. Agraine blinked against the light and the sudden darkness that followed it.
He blinked again. The clearing was deserted.
Owen Odell was gone.
Coming soon to bookstore near you …
WAYLANDER
by David Gemmell.
The beginning of the Dranai Saga!
Published by Del Rey Books.
Here is the opening chapter of
WAYLANDER …
1
THEY HAD BEGUN to torture the priest when the stranger stepped from the shadows of the trees.
“You stole my horse,” he said quietly. The five men spun around. Beyond them the young priest sagged against the ropes that held him, raising his head to squint through swollen eyes at the newcomer. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and a black leather cloak was drawn about him.
“Where is my horse?” he asked.
“Who is to say? A horse is a horse, and the owner is the man who rides him,” answered Dectas. When the stranger first spoke, Dectas had felt the thrill of fear course through him, expecting to find several men armed and ready. But now, as he scanned the trees in the gathering dusk, he knew the man was alone. Alone and mad. The priest had proved but sorry sport, gritting his teeth against the pain and offering neither curse nor plea. But this one would sing his song of pain long into the night.
“Fetch the horse,” said the man, a note of boredom in his deep voice.
“Take him!” ordered Dectas and swords sang into the air as the five men attacked. Swiftly the newcomer swept his cloak over one shoulder and lifted his right arm. A black bolt tore into the chest of the nearest man, a second entered the belly of a burly warrior with upraised sword. The stranger dropped the small double crossbow and lightly leapt back. One of his attackers was dead, and a second knelt clutching the bolt in his belly.
The newcomer loosened the thong that held his cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground behind him. From twin sheaths he produced two black-bladed knives.
“Fetch the horse!” he ordered.
The remaining two hesitated, glancing to Dectas for guidance. Black blades hissed through the air, and both men dropped without a sound.
Dectas was alone.
“You can have the horse,” he said, biting his lip and backing toward the trees. The man shook his head.
“Too late,” he answered softly.
Dectas turned and sprinted for the trees, but a sharp blow in the back caused him to lose balance, and his face ploughed the soft earth. Pushing his hands beneath him, he struggled to rise. Had the newcomer thrown a rock, he wondered? Weakness flowed through him, and he slumped to the ground … The earth was soft as a featherbed and sweet smelling like lavender. His leg twitched.
The newcomer recovered his cloak and brushed the dirt from its folds before fastening the thongs at the shoulder. Then he recovered his three knives, wiping them clean on the clothes of the dead. Lastly he collected his bolts, despatching the wounded man with a swift knife cut across the throat. He picked up his crossbow and checked the mechanism for dirt before clipping it to his broad black belt. Without a backward glance he strode to the horses.
“Wait!” called the priest. “Release me. Please!”
The man turned. “Why?” he asked.
The question was so casually put that the priest found himself momentarily unable to phrase an answer.
“I will die if you leave me here,” he said at last.
“Not good enough,” said the man, shrugging. He walked to the horses, finding that his own mount and saddlebags were as he had left them. Satisfied, he untied his horse and walked back to the clearing.
For several moments he stared at the priest; then he cursed softly and cut him free. The man sagged forward into his arms. He had been badly beaten, and his chest had been repeatedly cut; the flesh hung in narrow strips, and his blue robes were stained with blood. The warrior rolled the priest to his back, ripping open the robes, then walked to his horse and returned with a leather canteen. Twisting the cap he poured water on the wounds. The priest writhed but made no sound. Expertly the warrior smoothed the strips of skin back into place.
“Lie still for a moment,” he ordered. Taking needle and thread from a small saddlebag, he neatly stitched the flaps. “I need a fire,” he said. “I can’t see a damned thing!”
The fire once lit, the priest watched as the warrior went about his work. The man’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, but the priest noted that they were extraordinarily dark, deep sable brown with flashing gold flecks. The warrior was unshaven, and the beard around his chin was speckled with gray.
Then the priest slept …
When he awoke, he groaned as the pain from his beating roared back at him like a snarling dog. He sat up, wincing as the stitches in his chest pulled tight. His robes were gone, and beside him lay clothes obviously taken from the dead men, for brown blood stained the jerkin that lay beside them.
The warrior was packing his saddlebags and tying his blanket to his saddle.
“Where are my robes?” demanded the priest.
“I burned them.”
“How dare you! Those were sacred garments.”
“They were merely blue cotton. And you can get more in any town or village.” The warrior returned to the priest and squatted beside him. “I spent two hours patching your soft body, priest. It would please me if you allowed it to live for a few days before hurling yourself on the fires of martyrdom. All across the country your brethren are burning, or hanged, or dismembered. And all because they don’t have the courage to remove those damned robes.”
“We will not hide,” said the priest defiantly.
“Then you will die.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“I don’t know, priest, you tell me. You were close to it last evening.”
“But you came.”
“Looking for my horse. Don’t read too much into it.”
“And a horse is worth more than a man in today’s market?”
“It always was, priest.”
“Not to me.”
“So if I had been tied to the tree, you would have rescued me?”
“I would have tried.”
“And we would both have been dead. As it i
s, you are alive and, more importantly, I have my horse.”
“I will find more robes.”
“I don’t doubt that you will. And now I must go. If you wish to ride with me, you are welcome.”
“I don’t think that I do.”
The man shrugged and rose. “In that case, farewell.”
“Wait!” said the priest, forcing himself to his feet. “I did not wish to sound ungrateful, and I thank you most sincerely for your help. It is just that were I to be with you, it would put you in danger.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” answered the man. “As you wish, then.”
He walked to his horse, tightened the saddle cinch, and climbed into the saddle, sweeping out his cloak behind him.
“I am Dardalion,” called the priest.
The warrior leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.
“And I am Waylander,” he said. The priest jerked as if struck. “I see you have heard of me.”
“I have heard nothing that is good,” replied Dardalion.
“Then you have heard only what is true. Farewell.”
“Wait! I will travel with you.”
Waylander drew back on the reins. “What about the danger?” he asked.
“Only the Vagrian conquerors want me dead, but at least I have some friends—which is more than can be said for Waylander the Slayer. Half the world would pay to spit on your grave.”
“It is always comforting to be appreciated,” said Waylander. “Now, Dardalion—if you are coming, put on those clothes and then we must be away.”
Dardalion knelt by the clothes and reached for a woolen shirt, but as his fingers touched it he recoiled and the color drained from his face.
Waylander slid from his saddle and approached the priest. “Do your wounds trouble you?” he asked.
Dardalion shook his head, and when he looked up Waylander was surprised to see tears in his eyes. It shocked the warrior, for he had watched this man suffer torture without showing pain. Now he wept like a child, yet there was nothing to torment him.