“They could have been ordered off. There was no need to kill.”
“There is rarely any need to kill,” he said, “but men still do it.”
“As you are intending to now?”
“They stole my gold,” he hissed, as if that were answer enough.
We sat for perhaps an hour, and then I heard them, the slow clopping of hooves upon the dirt road. My heart began hammering, and my mouth went dry.
Jarek stood and notched an arrow to his bow before stepping out into the middle of the road. I could not seem to move my legs and sat for a moment staring at him. He seemed so relaxed as he waited, his bow held by his side, a slight smile showing on his handsome face. Drawing my knife, I climbed unsteadily to my feet.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered, “and when the battle starts, run back into the undergrowth. No horse will follow you there.”
Then they came in sight, more than twenty horsemen, the front three in full armor with plumed helmets upon their heads. Behind the trio were men-at-arms in breastplates and helms of leather, and bringing up the rear was a wagon loaded with booty.
“Good day, gentlemen,” called Jarek Mace.
4
THE KNIGHT RIDING at the center of the trio, a huge man wearing a shining breastplate of silver and a helmet sporting a horsehair plume, lifted his arm and halted the convoy. The visor of his helmet was raised, and I could see a corn-yellow mustache and eyes the color of a winter sky, gray and cold. Reining in the giant black stallion, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and gazed upon the tall, lean form of Jarek Mace.
“What do you want, fellow?” he asked, his voice as deep as distant thunder.
“When you travel upon my road, Sir Knight, then you must pay my toll,” Jarek answered.
“A toll, is it?” responded the knight as laughter sounded from the riders behind him. “Tell me, fellow, how it is that you came to … own this road. For I was under the impression the forest was ruled by Count Azrek.”
“He is—for the present—the Count of Ziraccu,” Jarek told him. “I am the lord of this forest.”
“And what might your name be, my lord?” asked the knight.
“Why, I am the Morningstar.”
The knight leaned back, removed his right gauntlet, and opened a purse tied to the sword belt at his waist. “And what will the toll cost us?”
“All that you have,” said Jarek.
“Enough of this nonsense,” snapped the knight. “I would have given you a silver penny for your impudence. Now step aside or feel the weight of my whip!”
“Certainly, Sir Knight.” Jarek moved to his right and then swung back, the longbow coming up, the string stretching, the notched shaft leaping from the bow. The knight swayed back as the arrow slashed by him to punch through the helmet of the young knight to his left. Without a sound the surprised victim slid from the saddle, pitching headfirst to the ground.
Shafts flashed from both sides of the road, plunging into men and horses. The pain-maddened beasts reared, throwing their riders to the road. More arrows tore into the men-at-arms.
The two knights had both drawn their swords, but instead of entering the fray, they spurred on their mounts toward Jarek Mace. The young bowman sprinted toward me, ducking just as a longsword hissed toward his head.
Instead of giving chase, the knights galloped on toward Ziraccu. Jarek cursed and ran back into the road, notching a second arrow to his string. His arm came up, and I watched him take aim and loose the shaft, which sang through the air and thudded into the back of the second knight. The man straightened in the saddle, then swayed, but clung to the pommel as the horses moved out of range. Jarek turned.
The villagers had dropped their bows and charged the demoralized men-at-arms. Several of the enemy threw down their weapons and began pleading for mercy. There was none to be had, and they were all butchered.
It was not a pleasant sight.
At last Wulf the hunchback, covered in blood, approached where Jarek was sitting at the roadside.
“My children are avenged,” he said softly. “Thank you, Mace.” Jarek merely nodded, but the hunchback remained where he was. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“Do? Take the booty and get away from this place as soon as possible. Those knights did not ride back for an early supper.”
“Yes,” Wulf agreed. “Yes, you’re right.”
Two of the villagers moved up to the driving seat of the wagon and turned the horses back toward the north, while Wulf and the others began stripping the dead of valuables and weapons.
Jarek loped to the wagon, pulling himself over the tailboard. I ran to join him. He was sitting beside some thirty small sacks of coin; scattered around him were golden ornaments, statues, bracelets, bangles, and brooches.
“I’m a rich man, bard,” he said, chuckling. “I think I’ll buy a castle by the sea.”
“Why did you talk to the knights?” I asked him. “Why not just attack?”
“They were moving. A walking horse, when frightened, breaks into a run. A standing horse will usually rear. It is that simple. I wanted the convoy halted.”
“You are an amazing man,” I told him. “What made you give the name Morningstar?”
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “I thought it would amuse you, Owen. And anyway, the odds were that someone would escape. I didn’t want anyone rushing to Azrek with the name Jarek Mace, now, did I?”
“You think he won’t find out eventually?”
“By then I will be long gone. What a fine day, to be sure!” With his dagger he ripped open a coin sack. Silver pennies tumbled out. He grabbed a handful and tossed them in the air, where they spun in the sunlight before tinkling down to the wagon boards. “I love money,” said Jarek.
Jarek Mace was in high good humor as the iron-rimmed wagon wheels rolled slowly along the forest road. Wulf and the others—having stripped all valuables from the twenty-two dead Ikenas—set off back over the hills to the village. They would arrive hours before us, but I was tired and had no wish to walk too soon among the bodies of the slain. The aftermath of revenge leaves no sweetness in the mouth, and a wagon full of gold was no recompense for a village of the dead.
The sun was low in the sky as we rounded the last bend, and I saw the glittering lake and a large crowd awaiting us. Jarek was sleeping, and I did not at first wake him.
The valuables in the wagon had come, I knew, from more than one settlement, and I guessed—rightly—that in the waiting throng were representatives of those other villages and towns. I could see Megan standing beside a tall woman dressed in the severe black habit and white head scarf of the Order of Naesar nuns.
As the wagon hove into sight, the crowd pushed forward, yelling and cheering.
Jarek awoke at once. “What the devil?” he said, sitting up.
A great cheer went up as he stood.
“Morningstar! Morningstar!” I saw Wulf and the other warriors at the front of the crowd with their arms raised, the last of the sunlight glinting on their stolen weapons.
Nimbly Mace leapt from the wagon to stand with hands on hips, accepting their tribute. The crowd parted, and the abbess strode forward; she was around sixty years of age, stern of face, her eyes deep-set and glacial blue. Moving past Jarek, she opened the tailboard of the wagon and reached inside. Lifting clear a small golden statue of the blessed Saint Katryn and holding it aloft, she turned to the crowd.
“She is returned to us,” cried the abbess, and a section of the crowd cheered.
An elderly man approached. His face was lined, his right eye dead and useless. With difficulty he bowed, then took Jarek’s hand.
“You have saved our lives,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “We have had a bleak winter, and the money they robbed from us was to have been used to buy food. Without it our community was finished. I have no way to thank you, but we will not forget you, Morningstar.”
Jarek was speechless, but I saw his eyes darken
as men and women crowded around the wagon, lifting out goods and coin.
Megan came through the crowd, taking Jarek’s arm and leading him away from the throng. “Keep calm!” I heard her whisper. “It is only money.”
“My money!” he hissed.
I almost felt sorry for him then. Not quite … but almost.
Back in Megan’s home we sat beside the fire. The young whore, Ilka, was sleeping, her back bandaged; the wound, Megan assured us, was free of infection. Jarek stared gloomily into the flames.
“It was a fine act,” I told him, making sure to keep the smile from my face. He glanced up at me, then grinned.
“Easy made, swiftly lost,” he said.
“What will you do now?” asked Megan.
Jarek shrugged. “I’ll head deeper into the forest. No point staying here; the village is finished.”
“They didn’t kill everyone,” said Megan. “Many people escaped into the undergrowth where the horses would not follow. We can rebuild.”
“That is not what I meant. The killers will be back.”
Megan nodded. “What would you advise?”
“It is not for me to give advice,” answered Jarek. “Who am I but a wandering mercenary with no ties here?”
“Silly boy,” she told him. “You are the Morningstar!”
“Oh, stop this nonsense,” Jarek snapped. “It was a jest, nothing more.”
“I know,” replied Megan, “but you should have heard the men talk about it. You called yourself the lord of the forest. You demanded that the Angostins pay a toll to pass. You stood alone at the center of the road. Can you not see it, Jarek? You took on the mantle of leadership, albeit for your own purposes.”
“Well, I ended up with nothing as a result of it,” he said.
“Nothing?” whispered Megan. “All those people thanking you, looking up to you. That is worth more than gold!”
“Nothing is worth more than gold,” he said, his smile in place. “But yes, I’ll grant you it was more pleasant than having a boil lanced.” He swung to me. “Did you enjoy the day, bard?”
“I don’t enjoy watching men kill one another, but it was rewarding to see the joy on the faces of those who believed they had lost everything only to find a hero had rescued them.”
“Does it not strike you as … unfair … that this hero is the only one to lose money on the venture?”
“You didn’t lose,” I told him. “As soon as I saw that crowd, I guessed what would happen, so I stuffed my pockets with coin and I kept this.” Reaching inside my tunic shirt, I pulled clear a small pouch. Opening it, I tipped the contents into Jarek’s outstretched hands; there were rings and necklets, brooches and bracelets, all of heavy gold, several studded with gems, emeralds and rubies.
His smile widened, and he winked at me. “By heavens, Owen. I like you more and more. I hope you have deep pockets.”
“Deep enough, I would say, for around fifty silver pieces.”
“There is hope for you, my friend, in this wicked world of ours.”
“Maybe,” muttered Megan, rising and stretching her back. Without a word to us she walked to the wide bed and laid herself down beside the sleeping Ilka.
Jarek returned the gold to the pouch, then slipped it inside his jerkin.
“Why not travel with me, Owen?” he asked. “We’ll see the high country, the lonely passes, the stands of pine.”
“I think I will,” I told him.
Toward midnight, with the women sleeping, the hunchback Wulf came to the door. “I need to talk with you, Mace,” he said.
Jarek ushered him to the hearth, where the hunchback sat awkwardly, his twisted back unsuited to the chair. “I’ve nothing here anymore,” he said. Jarek nodded but remained silent. “Most women turned away from me, but not my Tess. A good woman, and I treated her right. Good young’uns, too. Pretty—not like their sire. But they are gone now. Gone.” His voice trailed away, and he cleared his throat and spit into the dying fire. “Anyways, what I’m saying is that I’ve no holds here.”
“Why tell me?” asked Jarek, not unkindly.
“You’re a wandering man, Mace. There’s nothing here for any of us now, so I guess you’ll be traveling on. I’d like to accompany you.”
“You don’t even like me, Wulf.”
“True enough, but I liked what I saw on the road. I liked it when you stopped them—right well I liked it. You ain’t one of us, Mace—more like you are one of them. But by God’s holy eyes, you were a Highlander at that moment.”
Jarek Mace chuckled, then reached out and laid his hand on Wulf’s twisted back. “You are the best woodsman I’ve ever known,” he said. “Having you with us will mean good food and less time lost. You’re welcome. But know this: I don’t intend taking on the Angostins again. There’s no profit in it.”
“Time will tell about that, Mace,” said Wulf.
We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers pack their belongings for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on roughly built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled onto the wagon.
The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees, and the Naeser abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey of the souls to the far river. Many tears were shed.
At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.
“They are coming!” he said between great gulps of air. “Maybe a hundred horsemen.”
Word spread swiftly, and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away toward the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf, and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.
“Time to go,” said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the northwest and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand, his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he, too, carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand ax was thrust into this wide leather belt.
As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money pouch, and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-colored woolen shirt. In truth, I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the ax had built muscle in my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.
Which was just as well, for as we reached the hillside, we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding toward us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.
Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.
Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.
Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver, and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow, which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider dragged on the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.
Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy farther into the forest.
&
nbsp; Within the hour, all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.
The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with color and life. From the high mountainsides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.
For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into the deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares, and on the third day Jarek killed a bighorn sheep; we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.
I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarcely drink in the wonder of my surroundings.
I know it may seem callous considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.
But then we met Piercollo …
Of us all he came closest to being the reality within the myth. There are more stories about him than any of us, including the Morningstar. And while the greater part of them are inventions or distortions, if life had placed him in those fictitious situations of peril, he would have reacted just as the storytellers claim.
Added to which, there was never any malice in Piercollo. I do not believe he ever truly learned to hate. And what a voice! When he sang, such was the warmth and emotion that he could stave off winter. I’d swear that if he burst into song in an icy glade, the snow would melt and spring flowers would push up through the frozen earth just to hear him.
Of them all, I miss him the most.
We were walking down into a shaded glen. The sun was high, just past noon on a warm spring day. Jarek Mace was leading us, and we were moving northwest toward the distant market town of Lualis. As usual I brought up the rear, walking behind Wulf, whose mood on this day was sullen, the loss of his family heavy upon him.