Morningstar (14 page)

“Why so melancholy?” asked Megan, and I shivered as my mind fled back to the present.

“I was thinking of my father.” I told her then of the unhappiness of my childhood and the story of the great fire that all but destroyed the estate.

“Do you still think you hate him, Owen?”

“No, but his treatment of me still causes me pain. The memories are jagged and sharp.”

“You are much like him.”

“You misread me, Megan. He is a warrior, a killer, a knight. I am none of these things, nor would I wish to be.”

“What do you wish to be?”

I looked out at the night sky, considering her question. “I would like to be content, Megan. Happy. I have known in the woods moments of genuine joy, like when Piercollo sang or when Mace brought the treasure back to the people. But not the happiness I dream of.”

“And what would bring it to you?”

“I do not know. Love, perhaps. A family and a quiet home. Fame. To be known as the greatest bard in the Angostin kingdoms.”

“These will not bring you what you seek,” she told me, her voice soft.

“No? How can you be sure?”

“There is a man you must first find. He will give you the answers.”

“He would need to be a great teacher, this man. Who is he?”

“You will know him when you meet him,” she answered. “Is your father still alive?”

I shrugged. “I have no knowledge of his affairs. I have not contacted my family for more than six years. But yes, I would think he is still alive. He was strong as an ox and would now be only forty-two years of age.”

“When this is over, Owen, seek him out.”

“For what purpose?”

“To tell him you love him.”

I wanted to laugh in her face, to ram home the stupidity of her words. But I could not. And anger flared in me then, a hot silent fury that was washed away by the sudden tears stinging my eyes.

6

I
WEPT
,
AND
Megan moved alongside me, her arms around me. “Let it go, Owen. Release it.” My head dropped to her shoulder, my eyes squeezed shut, and painful sobs racked my frame. At last I felt the cool breeze upon my back and sensed the coming of the dawn. Pulling back from her, I forced a smile.

“I am ashamed of myself, wailing like a child.”

“Where there is pain, there is often a tear or two.”

“Yes, but the pain is gone now, back to whence it came, locked away. Where do we go today?”

“We find Mace,” she told me. “But first let us view the enemy.”

Moving back from me, she watched the sun rise behind a bank of clouds that turned to gold before my eyes, the sky around it turquoise and blue. I felt my soul swell at the beauty of it. Slowly the sun rose through the golden cloud, and its rays pierced the flesh of vapor, spearing down to strike the rock face and the cave, illuminating the rear wall.

Megan gestured with her right hand. The wall shimmered, flattened, glowed … and disappeared, becoming a window that looked down upon a long hall. There were flags and pennants hung from poles on both sides of the hall and a long table that ran down its center. At the head of the table sat Azrek, eyes downcast and expression brooding. His fist crashed down upon the wood, and a golden goblet was sent spinning to the floor.

“I want him dead. I want his death to be hard.”

“We are seeking him now, my lord,” came a voice, but the speaker was not in view.

“Send out the Six.”

“I shall see that they are fed and then released, lord.”

“No!” stormed Azrek, rising to his feet, his pale face gleaming in the torchlight, his black hair hanging lank about his lean features. “I don’t want them fed. Let them feast on his heart.”

“Yes, sir … but …”

“But what, fool?”

“They are hungry. They will need to eat before they track down the Morningstar.”

“Then let them hunt their meat in the forest. There is plenty there. Succulent meat. Highland delicacies.” Azrek laughed, the sound echoing through the hall and whispering out into the cave. The unseen servant departed, and we heard the door close, then creak open moments later.

“What is it?” demanded Azrek.

“You will wish me to mark the Six with the soul of the Morningstar,” came a soft voice that seemed all too familiar. Yet I could not place it.

“Yes. Imprint the smell of it upon their senses.”

“There is no smell, sir, merely an aura that is his alone.”

“Spare me your pedantry. I pay you well, magicker, and what do you offer me in return? You promised me the Morningstar. Well, where is he?”

“Surely you do not blame me, sir. My light shone over him. It was then left to your soldiers to apprehend him. They failed, not I.”

“You all failed,” snarled Azrek, “and I will not tolerate it. The soldiers who fell back before his blade are now hanging by their heels, their skin flayed from their bodies. Be warned, magicker, I do not like to lose. And this task should be simplicity itself. One man in a forest. One creature of flesh and bone and sinew. Is that too much for you?”

“Not at all, sir. But using the Six will prove costly. They will not return; they will stay in the forest, hunting and killing, until they themselves are slain.”

“What is that to me?”

“It cost many lives, more than forty if memory serves, to create them.”

“They were only lives,” answered Azrek. “The world is full of
lives
.”

“As you say, sir. The Lord of Lualis has sent out criers to announce a larger reward of two thousand sovereigns for information
leading to the apprehension of the Morningstar and twenty gold pieces for his companies—the hunchback, the giant, and the bard, Odell.”

“Ah yes, Odell … I would like to hear him sing. There are notes I shall teach him that he would not believe he could reach.”

“I am sure of that, my lord,” said the other smoothly, “but there are two other matters to which I must draw your attention. First, the woman Megan. I had the ashes raked, but there were no bones evident. She did not die in the flames.”

“How could that be? We saw her tied to the stake.”

“Indeed we did. I believe Odell, hidden by the smoke, climbed the pyre and freed her as the soldiers pursued the Morningstar.”

“So where is she now, magicker?”

“Why, sir, she is watching us,” he answered, his voice remaining even. The window in the wall appeared to tremble, and the castle hall beyond spun and rose. Down, down swept the image. Azrek seemed to swell and grow.

“Get back!” shouted Megan, but my limbs seemed frozen and I was unable to tear my eyes from the scene. Azrek looked at me—saw me as if from across a room. A second figure moved into view.

“How are you, Owen?” said Cataplas amiably.

He seemed unchanged from the master I had known, a long purple velvet robe hanging from his lean frame, his gray wispy trident beard clinging like mist to his chin. His hand came up with fingers spread. A small ball of flames flickered on his palm, swelling and growing.

Megan grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Run, Owen!” she screamed.

Idly Cataplas tossed the flaming globe toward us.

We were at the cave entrance when it sailed through the window. Megan hurled herself at me, spinning me from my feet, just as a great explosion sounded and a tongue of flame seared out from the mouth of the cave, scorching the grass for twenty feet.

I rolled to my back. Megan was lying some way from me, her white robe smoldering.

“No!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet and running to her. In taking the time to push me clear she had suffered terrible burns to her left side. Her arm was blackened and split and
bloody, and most of her hair had been scorched away. Her eyes opened, and she groaned.

I was no healer, but like all magickers I knew the simple spells of warming and cooling, both of which are used by those whose skills are directed toward healing the sick. Swiftly I covered her burns with cool air, and she sighed and sank back to the grass.

“I am sorry, Megan,” I told her. “I am so sorry.”

“I can heal myself,” she whispered, “given time, that is. But it is taking all my power, and I can be of no use to you for a while. Mace is on his way here—I reached him last night. When he arrives, I will be sleeping deeply. Take me to the town of Ocrey. It is north of here, perhaps a day’s travel. Do not seek to wake me but carry me to the house of Osian. It is built beside a stream to the west of Ocrey. There is an old man living there; he will … care for me. You understand?”

“Yes. I will do as you say.”

“And warn Mace of the Six. He must be prepared.”

“Who are they?” But she was sinking fast, and I had to lower my ear to her mouth to hear the softest of whispers.

“The Satan Hounds,” she murmured.

The name sent a shiver through me, but before I could question her further, Megan closed her eyes, passing from consciousness. I had no idea what she had meant, but there was no way she could have spoken literally. The Satan Hounds, more often called the Shadows of Satan, were mythical creatures said to have walked the earth beside their master after his fall from heaven, when the world had been but a glowing ball of molten rock lashed by seething seas of lava.

I guessed that the pain must have made her delirious. The Six were probably no more than warhounds. Even so, they would be dangerous, for Cataplas had imprinted upon their minds the image of Mace. The talk of souls and auras was, I was sure, a lie to fool only the uninitiated.

Mace arrived within the hour, Piercollo and Eye Patch with him. The hunchback had been left at their camp some two hours’ march to the west. Piercollo lifted the sleeping Megan and cradled her to his chest, her head upon his massive shoulder. She did not wake, and none of us spoke as we walked out into the morning.

Mace took the lead, moving smoothly across the forest floor.
He was wearing a black sleeveless jerkin of well-oiled leather and a green woolen shirt with puffed sleeves and cuffs of black leather that doubled as wrist guards. As usual he wore his high riding boots and trews of green. He had no cap today, and the sun glinted on blond highlights in his auburn hair. Wide-shouldered and slim of hip, he looked every inch the hero that he ought to have been—the warrior of legend, the forest lord.

I looked away and thought of Cataplas. I had been surprised when I saw him in the service of Azrek, and yet, upon consideration, I should not have been. He was an amiable man, yet remote. Polite and courteous, but without feeling, lacking understanding of human emotions. His skills had always been awesome, and his search for knowledge carried out with endless dedication. I can remember many pleasant evenings in his company, enjoying his wit and his intelligence, his skills as a storyteller, and his incomparable talent. But I cannot remember a single act of simple kindness.

We entered the outskirts of the town of Ocrey, located the home of Osian—a slender old man, toothless and nearly blind—and laid Megan carefully upon a narrow pallet bed. Osian said nothing when we arrived but waited, silent and unmoving, for our departure. We slipped away into the gathering darkness, crossing several hills and streams before Mace chose a campsite in a sheltered hollow.

Piercollo built a small fire, and we settled around it.

I was saddened by what had happened to Megan but also irritated by the lack of reaction in Mace. This was his friend and I had rescued her, yet not a word of praise was forthcoming. His head pillowed on his arm, he slept by the fire. Piercollo nodded off, his back to a wide oak tree, and I sat miserably in the company of Eye Patch, who had said not one word on this long day.

“Where are you from?” I asked him suddenly as he leaned forward to add a dry stick to the fire.

His single eye glanced up, and he stared at me for a long moment. “What is it to you?” he responded.

It was not said in a challenging way, and I shrugged. “I am just making conversation. I am not tired.”

“What happened to the old woman? Mace said she was unhurt by the burning.”

“She was, but a sorcerer cast a spell of fire.”

He accepted that without comment, then hawked and spit. “You can’t deal with magickers,” he said at last. “Not one of them has a soul. Their hearts are shriveled and black.”