SPHERE OF MAGIC
“Let the sentence be carried out!” the Angostin called. The men took hold of Megan and, unresisting, she was led to the pyre and forced to clamber high upon the piled wood before her hands were unbound and lashed to the stake.
It was then that I saw the floating sphere gliding effortlessly over the heads of the spectators. Sometimes it hovered over individuals before moving on. Perfectly round and swirling, like smoke encased in glass, the Search-spell moved on.
Suddenly the Search-spell found its prey, and a shaft of white light flashed into the evening air, hanging for several heartbeats above the head of Jarek Mace. In sudden fear the mob melted away from him and the white light became golden, bathing him. Already handsome, he appeared at once godlike, his fringed buckskin shirt of molten gold, his skin of burnished bronze. And he smiled as he executed an elaborate and perfect bow.
“It’s the Morningstar!” the Angostin bellowed. “Take him!”
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books:
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
DARK MOON
IRONHAND’S DAUGHTER
THE HAWK ETERNAL
The Drenai Saga
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF
DRUSS THE LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
WINTER WARRIORS
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE SWORDS OF NIGHT AND DAY
The Stones of Power Cycle
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
The Rigante
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
Troy
LORD OF THE SILVER BOW
SHIELD OF THUNDER
FALL OF KINGS
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1992 by David A. Gemmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Random House Group in 1992.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
www.delreybooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93–90187
eISBN: 978-0-307-79752-0
v3.1
DEDICATION
Morningstar is dedicated with great affection to a man
who can’t stand heroic fantasy and who will never read
this novel. But despite his aversion to this kind of
fiction he has actively supported my work—and the work
of other British writers—for many years.
Roger Peyton and his staff at Andromeda Bookshop
in Birmingham helped me get my first American sale
and ensured Gemmell books were on display long before
they were available even in my own hometown.
Fortunes are made when the big stores back an author.
But Andromeda is where the dreams begin.
My thanks to Rog, his partner Rod Milner,
and all the guys in Brum.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks also to my editor Oliver Johnson, copy editor Jean Maund, proofreader and researcher Stella Graham, and test readers Val Gemmell, Tom Taylor, and Edith Graham.
Special thanks to Vikki Lee France for continuing support and encouragement.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Excerpts from WAYLANDER
Prologue
YOU KNOW ME, then? I thought so. It is rare for travelers to journey to the high lands at the start of winter. What are you—a scholar, a historian, both? I know you are no magicker, and you appear to be weaponless. Ah, a storyteller! Well, there is honor in that.
I have been a storyteller for sixty-eight years. Aye, and a magicker of some talent. Not great talent, mind you. But I could work the Dragon’s Egg. Not many could do that right. Have you seen it? Well, perhaps it is not as popular as once it was. But I could make the dragon break clear of the egg without the shell turning to dust. First the head would come clear, then one tiny, beautiful wing. At last he would ease himself from the shell and then devour it with tongues of fire. It required great concentration, but I could never get the scales right; they would shimmer and fade.
I cannot do it now, of course. The power is almost gone from me.
So, what stories can I give you?
The Morningstar? Everything is known of him—his courage, his battles, his rescues. There are no new stories.
The truth, you say? Now, that is novel. Perhaps unique. Why would you be interested in the truth? Of what use is that to a storyteller? Your listeners will not want the truth. They never do, and they never did. They want heroes, boy. Men of wonder, handsome and tall, men of honor. The Highlanders of legend. They would sweep the truth from the table and stamp it beneath their feet like a beetle. Truth has an ugly face, you see.
There are few still living who remember the Morningstar. Some are blind, some senile. Whisper his name in their ears and you will see them smile, watch the strength flow back into their limbs. That is real magick.
No, you don’t want the truth. And neither do I.
Do you like my house? It was built a half century ago. I wanted to be able to see the sun rise over the eastern lakes, to watch the new pines grow on the flanks of the mountains. Mostly I wanted a home surrounded by trees—oak, beech, and elm. It is a simple house. At least by your standards, for you are a nobleman. How do I know? Your boots alone would cost two years’ wages for a workingman. But this house is comfortable. I have three servants, and a local farmer supplies all my food. He charges me nothing, for his grandfather marched with the Morningstar and his father once sat on the great man’s knee.
Each year at the harvest feast I sing for my supper. I stand at the head of the farmer’s table, and I speak of the old days. Do I tell the truth? After a fashion. What I tell them is a history they all know. It is comfortable; it fills them with pride. There is no harm in that.
But the truth? Like a poisoned dagger, boy.
Yet still you want to hear it …
No, I will not speak of those days. You may stay here the night and join me for breakfast in the morning. Then you will go.
Do not be disappointed. I am favoring you with a kindness, though you cannot understand it. You see, the world knows the Morningstar. He lives in the hearts and souls of his people.
You know the song-prayer:
He is the light reborn
that shadows fear; when
night descends on us,
he will be near.
Do I believe that? Of course. I wrote it.
Midnight. A time for memories. My visitor is abed, his
disappointment shrouded by sleep and the dreams of the young. There is a log fire behind me, filling the room with warmth and a golden glow. Shadows flicker by the rafters like old ghosts.
It is an effort, but I push open the window, dislodging the snow from the sill. The cold, skeletal fingers of winter reach in, whispering against my shirt. I shiver and stare out over the bleak glens to the ice-covered lakes and the mountains beyond.
Steep snow-covered peaks are silhouetted against the moon-bright sky, and I can just make out the trees in their winter coats of fallen cloud. And there is a mist—a Highland mist—stretching into the distance, covering the ice-filled gulleys and the silent glens.
On, the Highlands. The people have forgotten now that I ever was Angostin. After sixty-eight years they treat me as if I were born into the old nobility. And I, for my part, have learned all their customs: the dance of the swords, the blessing of the oak, the slashed palm of brotherhood. At the celebrations I always wear the war cloak of the Raubert clan given to me by Raul himself ten years ago.
I wonder sometimes what my family would think of me, were any left alive to see me now. There are no sword dances among the Angostins. So serious are my southern kin, excelling only in battle and in the building of monstrous fortresses of gray stone. A dour people are the Angostins, with an uneasy dislike of song and laughter.
Somewhere a wolf howls. I cannot see him from here.
The truth. How could I begin to tell it? Yet there is a need in me to speak of it, to release it into the air. There is a deep armchair by the fire, covered in soft leather, filled with horsehair. It is a comfortable chair, and I have spent many a long hour in its depths, my head resting on its curved cushions. It is empty now. But I will use the remnants of my power to fashion a listener. I will create a ghost of the future. He shall hear the true tale of the Morningstar.
I do not wave my hands or speak the words of power. That is for firelit evenings in taverns, entertaining the gullible. They like to see a magicker perform. But this is no performance, so I will merely concentrate.
There he sits, sculpted in light, crafted from magick, silent and waiting. I have given him an intelligent face with keen gray eyes, like the nobleman in the guest room upstairs. And he is young, for it is the young who shape all tomorrows and only the old and the weary who twist our todays—stunting them, holding them back, making them safe. There he sits, waiting, ghostly and transparent. Once I could have dressed him in purple, and any who saw him would marvel at his appearance. Now he shifts and fades. But that, I suppose, is how a ghost should look.
Where shall I begin, spirit? What would you like to hear?
Naturally he does not answer, but I know what he would be thinking were he able to think.
Begin at the beginning, storyteller. Where else but Ziraccu?
1
IT IS ALL ruins now but back then, under a younger sun, the city walls were strong and high. There were three sets of walls on different levels, for Ziraccu was an ancient settlement, the first of its buildings raised during the Age of Stone, when neolithic tribesmen built their temples and forts on the highest hills of this Highland valley. Hundreds of years later—perhaps thousands, for I am no expert on matters historical—a new tribe invaded the north, bearing sharp weapons of bronze. They also built in the valley, throwing up walls around the four hills of Ziraccu. Then came the Age of Iron and the migration of the tribes that now populate the mountains of the north. The painted warriors of bronze were either killed or absorbed by these fierce new invaders. And they, too, built their homes in the high valley. And Ziraccu grew. On the highest levels dwelled the rich in marble palaces surrounded by fine gardens and parks. On the next level down dwelled the merchants and the skilled craftsmen, their houses more homely yet comfortable, built of stone and timber. While at the foot of the hills, within the circle of the lower walls, were the slums and tenements of the poor. Narrow streets, stinking with sewage and waste, high houses, old and dilapidated, alleys and tunnels, steps and stairways, dark with danger and bright with the gleam of the robber’s blade. Here there were taverns and inns where men sat silently listening for the watchmen.
Ziraccu, the merchant city. Everything had a price in Ziraccu. Especially in the years of the Angostin War, when the disruption to trade brought economic ruin to many.
I was young then, and I could weave my stories well. It was a good living, traveling from city to city, entertaining at taverns—and occasionally palaces—singing and magicking. The Dragon’s Egg was always a favorite, and I am sorry it has fallen into disregard in these latter days.
It was an evening in autumn in Ziraccu, and I was hired to play the hand harp at a wedding celebration in the south quarter. The daughter of a silk merchant was marrying the son of a spice trader. It was more an alliance than a marriage, and the bride was far from attractive. I will not dwell on her shortcomings, for I was, and am, a gentleman. Suffice to say that her ugliness was not so great as to be memorable. On the other hand, I felt great pity for the groom, a fine upstanding youngster with clear blue eyes and a good chin. I could not help but notice that he rarely looked at his bride, his eyes lingering on a young maiden seated at the foot of the table.
It was not the look of a lascivious man, and I knew instantly that these two were lovers. I felt for them but said nothing. I was being paid six silver pennies for my performance, and that, at the time, was more important than true love thwarted.
The evening was dull, and the guests, filled with good wine, became maudlin. I collected my fee, which I hid carefully in a special pocket in my right boot before setting off for my lodgings in the northern quarter.
Not a native of Ziraccu, I soon became lost, for there were no signs to be seen, no aid to the wanderer. I entered an ill-smelling maze of alleys, my heart pounding. My harp was slung over my right shoulder, and any who saw me would recognize the clothes of a bard—bright yellow shirt and red leggings. It would be most unusual to be accosted, for bards were rarely rich and were the only gatherers of news and gossip. We were welcome everywhere—especially those of us who knew a little magick. But—and this is the thought that occupied me—there were always those who knew nothing of tradition, some mindless robber who would plunge his knife into my belly before he realized his mistake.
Therefore, I walked with care through the dark alleyways, drawing myself up to my full height, pulling back my shoulders so as to appear tough, strong, and confident. I was not armed, not even with a short knife. Who would need a knife at a wedding?
Several rats scurried across my path, and I saw a corpse lying by the entrance to a short tunnel. In the bright moonlight it was easy to see that the corpse had been there for some days. His boots were gone, as was his belt.
I turned away my gaze and strode on. I never did like to look upon corpses. No man needs such a violent, visual reminder of his mortality. And there is no dignity in death. The bladder loosens, the bowels empty, and the corpse always assumes an expression of profound idiocy.
I walked on, listening for anything that might indicate a stealthy assassin creeping toward me. A foolish thing to do, for immediately the thought comes to you, the ear translates every sound into a footfall or the whisper of cloth against a wall.
I was breathing heavily when at last I came out onto a main thoroughfare I recognized.
Then the scream sounded.
I am not by nature heroic, but upbringing counts for much in a man’s life, and my parents had always made it clear that a strong man must defend the weak. The cry came from a woman. It was born not of pain but of fear, and that is a terrible sound. I swung around and ran in the direction of the cry; it was a move of stunning stupidity.
Turning a sharp corner into a narrow alley, I saw four men surrounding a young woman. They had already ripped her dress from her, and one of the attackers had loosened his leggings, exposing his fish-white legs and buttocks.
“Stop that!” I shouted. Not the most powerful opening line, I’ll admit, espec
ially when delivered in a high-pitched shriek. But my arrival stunned them momentarily, and the naked man struggled to pull up his leggings, while the other three swung to face me. They were a grotesque bunch, ugly and filthy, dressed in greasy rags. Fight them? I would have given all I had not to touch them.
One of them drew a dagger and advanced toward me, grunting out some kind of inquiry. The language he used was as foul as his look. The strangest thoughts come to a man in danger, or so I have found. Here was a man with no regard for his appearance. His face and clothes were filthy, his teeth blackened and rotting, yet his dagger was sharp and bright and clean. What is it that makes a man take more care of a piece of iron than this own body?
“I am a bard,” I said.
He nodded sagely and then bade me go away, using language I would not dream of repeating.
“Step away from the lady, if you please,” I told them. “Otherwise I shall call the watch.”
There was some laughter at this, and two of the other three advanced upon me. One sported a hook such as is used to hang meat, while the second held two lengths of wood with a wire stretched between them. The last of them remained with the girl, holding her by the throat and hair.
I had no choice but to run, and I would have done so. But fear had frozen my limbs, and I stood like a sacrificial goat waiting for the knife and the hook and the wicked throat wire.
Suddenly a man leapt from the balcony above to land in their midst, sending two of them sprawling. The one on his feet, he of the meat hook, swung his weapon at the newcomer, who swayed aside and lashed out with a sword belt he was holding in his left hand. The buckle caught the man high on the left cheek, spinning him from his feet. It was then that I saw that the newcomer was wearing only one boot and was carrying his sword belt in his hand. Hurling aside his scabbard, he drew his blade, lancing it through the neck of his nearest foe. But the first of the villains I had seen rose up behind the newcomer.
“Look out!” I cried. Our unknown helper spun on his heel, his sword plunging into the chest of his opponent. I was behind the man, and I saw the blade emerge from his back; he gave a strangled scream, and his knees buckled. The warrior desperately tried to tear his sword loose from the man’s chest, but it was stuck fast. The rogue with the throat wire leapt upon the newcomer’s back, but before he could twist the wire around his intended victim’s throat, the newcomer ducked and twisted, hurling his attacker into a wall. As the villain rose groggily, the newcomer took two running steps, then launched himself through the air feet first, his one boot cracking against the base of the man’s neck and propelling his face into the wall. There was a sickening thud, followed instantly by the crunching of bones. The sound was nauseating, and my stomach turned.