Morningstar (8 page)

“You are wrong, master bard. My family was traveling at the time of my birth, and I was born in a village such as this. Far to the north. But I came here twenty years ago, and I have been content.”

“But what is there here for you?”

“Peace,” she answered.

“Why does Jarek Mace stay with you? Is he a relative?”

“No. Just a man.”

“I wish you would tell me more, Megan. I feel … there is so much more to know.”

“There is always more to know,” she chided. “Even as you lie on your deathbed there will be more to know. Are you another Cataplas in an endless search for knowledge? It is not the mark of a wise man, Owen.”

I shrugged. “How can the search for knowledge be foolish?” I countered.

“When it is conducted for its own sake. A man who seeks to learn how to irrigate a field in order to grow more crops has not only increased his knowledge but found the means to make life better for his fellows. Learning must be put to use.”

“Perhaps Cataplas will do exactly that when he believes he knows enough.”

She did not answer me at first but stirred the coals in the fire, adding fresh wood to the flickering flames. “There was once a prince in this land, to the north of here, who was on a quest for knowledge. He was a good man, a kind man, but his quest became an obsession. His brothers, also good men, tried to sway him; he was a fine magicker, and he became a great sorcerer. But even this was not enough. He traveled across the sea, passing from land to land, ever seeking; he journeyed into desolate mountains and subterranean caverns, sought out lost cities, and communed with spirits and demons. After twelve years he returned, late one night, to the city of his birth. His brothers ruled that city wisely and well. In the summer the water was clean, filtered through sand and shale. In the winter the storehouses were full, and no one starved. But then he returned. Within the week travelers began to notice that the gates of the city were always shut, and woodsmen carried tales of screams and sounds of terror within the gray walls.

“The days passed into weeks. No one left the silent city. People began to gather from the villages and towns, staring at the towering walls, wondering what secrets were hidden there. Several men scaled those walls, but none returned.

“And then one night the gates opened. And the people saw—”

At that moment the white face of a Vampyre appeared in front of my eyes, his teeth white, the canines long and sharp and hollow. I screamed and fell back, toppling from my chair. Megan’s
laughter filled the cabin as I scrambled up, embarrassed and yet still fearful, my heart hammering.

“That was unkind,” I admonished her.

“But wondrously entertaining.” Her smile faded, and she spread her hands. “I am sorry, Owen. I could not resist it.”

“You had me convinced the tale was true. You are a fine storyteller.”

“Oh, it was true,” she said. “Have you not heard of Golgoleth and the Vampyre kings? Two thousand years ago these lands knew great terror and tragedy. For the prince, Golgoleth, had returned as a creature of darkness, a Vampyre. He tainted the souls of his brothers, joining them to him and bringing them the dark joys of the undead. And then the evil spread throughout the city and ultimately throughout the land.”

“I have heard of Golgoleth,” I told her. “It is a tale to frighten naughty children: Be good or Golgoleth will come for you. But I doubt the truth of the story as it is now told. I see him as an evil man and a practitioner of the black arts but not as an undying immortal feasting on blood.”

“He did not feast on blood, poet, but on innocence. But perhaps you are right. Perhaps it was fable.”

Talons scraped upon the wood of the roof, and I leapt from my seat. Then an owl hooted, and I heard the flapping of wings in the night.

“Just fable,” said Megan, smiling, her eyes mocking. “Will you sleep now, or perhaps you need a stroll into the forest. It is very pleasant in the moonlight.”

I grinned then and shook my head. “I think I will just go to sleep and save my walk for the dawn.”

Spring came early, the thaw swelling the mountain streams, bright beautiful flowers growing on the hillsides. It was on the third day of spring that Garik’s sheep were slaughtered, and great excitement followed. Huge tracks were found near the two butchered animals, and Wulf, the senior woodsman, pronounced them to be troll spoor.

There were three of the creatures, probably a mated pair with a cub. They were far from the troll passes, the high cold peaks of the northwest, and it was rare, Wulf informed me, to find the beasts so far south.

The men of the village armed themselves with bow, spear,
and ax and set off in pursuit. I went with them, for I had never seen a troll and was anxious to increase my knowledge. There are many tales of the beasts in legend, almost all of them involving the kidnapping and eating of children or maidens. But in all my long life I have never come across a recorded incident where trolls feasted on human flesh.

We followed the trail for two days as it wound higher into the mountains. One of the beasts walked with a limp—probably the male, pronounced Wulf, for his track was the largest. Often the cub’s spoor would disappear for long periods, but this, I was told, only showed that the female was carrying him.

On the second night we came upon the remains of their camp fire, the ashes surrounded by splintered sheep’s bones.

“No point looking for them in the dark,” said Wulf, settling down beside the dead fire and building a fresh blaze upon the remains. There were ten men besides myself and Wulf in the hunting party, and they stretched out around the fire and began to talk of better days. Garik the baker was there, and Lanis the tanner. The others I forget.

“Have you ever seen a troll?” I asked Wulf as we sat together. The hunchback nodded.

“The last time was ten years ago, up in the high country. Big fellow, he was, gray as a rock, with tusks curling up from his jaw, just like a boar. I didn’t have my bow strung at that moment, and so we just stood and looked at each other. Then he said, ‘Go.’ So I went.”

“They truly have the power of speech? I thought that was myth.”

“Ah, they can talk, right enough. Just a bit. When I was a tiny lad, my father took me to Ziraccu Fair on Midsummer Day. They had a young troll there, caged. He could speak a fair bit.”

“What happened to him?”

“They had a tourney for the knights, and before it there was a troll baiting. Hunting hounds were set on the beast. He fought right well for a while—too good, really. Killed four o’ the hounds. So the knights came in and hamstrung him. It was more even then, and the hounds tore him apart. It was good sport. My father told me I should feel privileged to have seen it. There’s not so much troll baiting nowadays—less of ’em, you see. They do it with bears now, I’m told, but it’s not the same.”

I moved away from the fire, and as the others slept, I idly cast
a search spell, picturing a fanged snout on a flat gray face. The sphere floated away, then stopped no more than twenty feet from the fire. I sat bolt upright, hand on dagger, and considered waking Wulf.

But first I sent out a questing spell, small as a firefly, and watched it as it flew to where the troll was hiding. The spark did not change color, nor did it speed away from the hiding place. I brought the tiny flame back to me and opened my mouth. It flew in and settled on my tongue. There was fear there, and resignation, but no feeling of impending violence. I sighed, for it came to me then that the creature in the bushes was the crippled male, and he was there to die in order to save his family.

I stood silently and crossed the small clearing, halting just before the dark undergrowth. The troll got to his feet. He was upward of eight feet tall, and there was only one tusk growing from his lower jaw, curving out, wickedly sharp, to a point level with his eye. The second horn had been sheared off, the stump brown and pitted. His skin was covered with hundreds of nodules and growths that on a human would have been termed warts. A roughly made sheepskin loincloth was tied around his waist. I beckoned him to follow me and walked away from the campsite. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but truly, there was no fear. I did not expect to be harmed, nor was I.

The beast followed me to the crown of a hill, where I sat upon a boulder and faced him. He squatted down in front of me, and in the moonlight I saw that his eyes were distinctly human, huge and round, and gray as an autumn storm cloud.

“Do not remain here,” I said. “It is not safe.”

“Nowhere safe,” he replied. He was, as Wulf had described, stone-gray and hairless, and upon the calf of his huge right leg there was a vicious scar, serrated and long, the muscles around it withered and weak. But his arms and shoulders bulged with muscle.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Fought bear. Killed it,” he grunted. “Why you talk?”

I spread my hands. “I have never seen a troll.”

“Troll?” He shook his head. “A bad name. But we call you
Uisha-rae
, the pigs-that-walk-on-two-legs. Why you follow us?”

“You killed two sheep belonging to Garik the baker.”

“For this we must die?”

“No,” I said. “Go with your … family into the north. No
one will find your tracks. Go tonight. I will hold them sleeping until you are far away.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Go now.”

The beast reared up on its hind legs, turned, and limped away from me. I returned to the campsite and cast a sleep spell that kept the hunters snoring until around noon. Once they began to wake, I pretended sleep and lay quietly as they argued among themselves. They could not believe they had slept so long. Back in the village each of the men would have risen before dawn and been working for a good hour before the sun climbed into sight.

With the trail cold, Wulf at last called off the hunt, and we set off toward the village.

By midafternoon we were joined by Jarek Mace, who came loping along the trail carrying his longbow. He joked with the others for a while, then dropped back to walk alongside me at the rear of the group.

“You keep curious company,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?”

He smiled and tapped his nose.

“You saw them?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“You did not kill them, did you?”

“You are a strange man, bard,” he answered. “The male could have killed you, Owen, and if any of the others had found the tracks as I did and known that you spoke to the creature, then they would have killed you. Why did you take the risk?”

“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “It just seemed … somehow sad. Here was a small family being hunted by armed men, and the male—the father—was ready to give up his life to protect his wife and child. I felt it would be wrong to kill them.”

“They were only trolls,” he whispered.

“I know. Why are they so hated?”

“They talk,” he answered.

“That makes no sense.”

He shrugged and walked on in silence. I thought long and hard about the trolls, and I realized he was right. Man is the only animal capable of hate, and in the main he reserves his hatred for his fellow man. No one hates a bear or a lion; they might fear them for their power and ferocity, but they will not hate them. But the troll … Grotesque and powerful, yet with
the capacity for speech, he is the perfect target for all man’s resentments.

It was a dispiriting thought as we trudged on along muddy trails.

We camped by a swollen stream in a small hollow surrounded by beech trees. The night was cool, but there was little breeze and the camp fire gave a pleasant glow to the hollow. I sat with Wulf and Jarek Mace while the others slept.

“The Angostins have gone,” said Jarek, “but they left behind an army of occupation under three generals. Ziraccu is being rebuilt, and they are allowing Ikenas to move north and settle there.”

“Who cares?” responded Wulf. “As long as they stay away from the forest, I don’t give a good God damn.”

“I don’t think they will stay clear,” Jarek told him. “Edmund has given the entire forest to the new count, Azrek. He was responsible for the sacking of Callen Castle and the murder of the nuns and priests at the monastery there. He is a greedy man by all accounts; he will want his taxes paid.”

“We paid this year’s taxes to Leopold,” said Wulf.

Jarek chuckled. “That will not concern Azrek.”

“If there’s nothing to take, what can he do?” responded the hunchback.

Jarek said nothing. Wrapping himself in his sheepskin cloak, he lay down beside the dying fire and closed his eyes.

It was midmorning on the following day when we topped the last rise before the lake. Black smoke was billowing from the village, and we could see several buildings ablaze.

Wulf and the other villagers ran down the slope, but Jarek Mace stood quietly on the brow of the hill, scanning the distant tree line. Swiftly he strung his longbow and notched an arrow to the string. Then he walked slowly down the hill, angling to the south. I followed him, dagger in hand.

We found Ilka, the mute whore, hiding among the thick bushes at the foot of the hill. Her face was bruised, and an arrow was lodged in the muscles behind one shoulder blade. The wound was not deep, and it seemed the shaft had struck her at an oblique angle. Jarek broke the arrow but did not pull it clear. “It needs to be cut free,” he said. “If we drag it out, she could bleed to death.”

The girl could hardly stand, and so I lifted her into my arms
and carried her into the ruined village. Bodies were everywhere—women, old men, and children, scattered in death. Wulf was kneeling by his murdered family, cradling his yellow-haired daughter in his arms and weeping.

Jarek Mace walked to Megan’s house. It was undamaged, and the old woman was sitting by her fire; she was unharmed. I carried Ilka inside, laying her on the wide bed, turning her to her side so that the broken arrow jutted upward. Jarek Mace had run to the far wall, pulling open a hidden compartment. It was empty, and he cursed loudly.

“What happened, Megan?” I asked.

“Soldiers from Ziraccu. There was no warning; they merely rode in and began the killing. There was no resistance.”