The stars were bright, and there were few clouds. Wrapped in a blanket, I sat for perhaps an hour before I felt the need to sleep. It was like warmth stealing over me, bringing with it the memories of childhood—fires in the hearth, my brothers nestling alongside me, the great warhound Nibal on the floor beside the bed, his huge head resting on his paws. I leaned my head to the wall beside me. But I could feel no rough stones; it was as if a feather pillow had been placed there. My body felt light, my mind drifting, and it seemed that I floated gently down through warm water into the mindless security of prebirth.
From far away I could hear a voice calling me. It was irritating, like the buzz of an angry insect. I tried to shut my mind to it, but already the warmth and comfort were drifting away. Angry now, I moved my head. The cold stone rasped against my ear. I groaned and awoke, but the voice remained.
“Beware, Owen! You are in peril!”
Opening my eyes, I saw the image of Megan’s face floating before me, shimmering in the darkness. This was the Megan I knew, old and yet unbending. I blinked and yawned, my body slow to function. “Awake, Owen!” she ordered me. My mouth was dry, and I pushed myself to my knees, realizing that a powerful sleep spell had been laid upon me. Swinging my head, I saw that the others were sleeping heavily, sprawled by the dying fire.
Megan disappeared as I got to my feet. The stars were no longer shining, the sky was dark with clouds that sped by with unbelievable speed. I looked out into the night, but there were no trees, only a rolling mist that swirled around the cabin.
“Mace!” I shouted, stumbling toward him. “Wake up!” Grabbing his shoulder, I shook him savagely. His eyes opened dreamily, then shut again. Hauling him up, I slapped his face. Once. Twice. His eyes snapped open.
“What in the devil …?”
“Sorcery! Wake the others!”
He rolled to his feet, snatching up his sword. As it slid from the scabbard, it was shining like moonlight trapped in crystal. I took a deep breath, gathering myself for the coming attack, trying to calm my mind, preparing it for whatever enchantment I could muster. Wulf awoke next, and then Piercollo, Raul, the brothers, and Scrymgeour.
But of Ilka and Astiana there was no sign.
The sound of chanting came from the mist, echoing around the cabin. At first there seemed no meaning within the noise, but slowly a single word became clear within the chant.
“Golgoleth! Golgoleth! Golgoleth!”
Raul had his sword drawn, but I moved alongside him, saying, “That blade is useless against the foes we face.” Wulf had drawn both his short swords, and I took one from him, handing the glittering weapon to the astonished earl. Mace tossed his spare knife to Scrymgeour, and we waited for the attack.
Black-cloaked shapes were moving in the mist, and the chanting continued, low and insistent, sinister and threatening.
“It is only noise,” Mace pointed out. I nodded.
The mist slowly cleared. But there were no trees, no forest, no sky.
The ruined cabin stood now within a great gray hall.
A hooded figure was seated upon a white throne, which could have been of ivory but was more likely, I considered, to have been shaped and worked from bone. Around him stood many soldiers, their faces covered by dark helms, curved swords in their hands. One of the soldiers approached the cabin entrance and lifted clear his helm. His face was pale and bloodless, his eyes dark, and when he spoke, elongated canines gleamed white in his lipless mouth.
“Surrender the skull!” he said, his voice cold.
“This is a hall of the dead,” I whispered to Mace. “He is—”
“I know what he is,” snapped Mace, his gaze locked on the Vampyre’s.
“Return it!” echoed the order.
“Come and take it!” Mace told him.
We were standing with our backs to the hearth, bright swords in our hands. But then the thought came. If we were truly in a hall of the dead, then we had been drawn from our bodies. We were souls, not flesh. And in that instant I realized something else.
The cabin could not exist here!
“Form a circle!” I shouted, spinning on my heel, my dagger ready.
The walls of the cabin dissolved, and a score of dark shapes rushed in. The brothers Ciarhan and Cearus had been placed behind us in what we had hoped was a position of safety. Dark blades plunged into them, and they fell. Wulf was the first to react; he charged at the attackers, his silver blade slashing through them. I leapt to join him with my dagger raised.
The Vampyres fell back, dismayed. I glanced down to see if the brothers were still alive, but there was no sign of them or of the slain Vampyres. The stone floor of the hall was bare.
We stood in a circle now, with the Vampyres all around us.
“We cannot fight them all,” said Wulf. “What do you suggest, Mace?”
“Take my sword,” Mace told Piercollo, then moved back to where Wulf’s bow lay. Notching a gleaming arrow to the string, he stepped forward and aimed the shaft at the herald. “Send us back!” he ordered.
“I faced the first death like a man,” the herald sneered. “I can face the second in the same way.”
I moved alongside Mace and whispered, “Ignore him. Take the one on the throne!” Mace swayed to his right, the arrow flashing through the air, a gleam of silver light that sped toward the breast of the hooded figure. Just before it struck the figure disappeared, and the shaft hammered into the throne. The bones fell apart, crashing to the floor of the hall.
The world spun crazily, and I recall the sensation of falling, spinning through the air.
I awoke with a start to see Astiana leaning over me. As I opened my eyes, she whispered, “Thanks be to God!”
I sat up. Mace was on his knees, rubbing his eyes. Wulf was groaning. Piercollo was sitting by himself with his head in his hands. The earl was kneeling with Scrymgeour beside the bodies of the brothers. There were no marks upon them, but they were cold and dead.
“Where is it?” shouted Wulf suddenly, the sound making me jump. “Where is the skull?”
“The enemy has it,” said Astiana softly.
“What are you talking about?” ’ hissed Mace. “We fought them off.”
She shook her head. “Last night a vision came to me, warning me of great danger. I tried to rouse you all, but only Ilka awoke. Then a man appeared from the forest, a tall, thin man with a straggly beard. Ilka had her saber ready, and he did not threaten us. He merely said that unless we gave him the skull, none of you would wake. At first I did not believe him, but then he told me to check the heartbeat of the earl’s men. Two of them were already dead. Then I knew he spoke the truth.”
“You gave Cataplas the skull?” I said, astonished. “You have delivered a great weapon into the hands of evil men!”
“I did it to save you.” she argued, tears in her eyes. “And I was right! You returned!”
I was furious. “We came back …” I began.
Mace grabbed my arm. “We returned.” he said gently, “thanks to you, Astiana. Now, let us say no more about it.”
The dawn was breaking, and the first rays of the morning sun shone down upon us.
“I did the right thing. Owen, I did!” said Astiana, moving alongside me.
My anger died down as swiftly as it had come. “Of course you did,” I told her, smiling, and I glanced at Mace.
My father would have liked him. The spell of if only had no power over the Morningstar.
It took almost a month to reach the southeastern edges of the forest, where the distant towers of Ziraccu could be seen from the highest hills. All around us the world was changing. Corlan had intercepted five rich convoys and was becoming almost as great a legend as the Morningstar. Brackban had gathered a powerful force of some five hundred men and had fought two skirmishes with Ikenas soldiers, fighting them to a standstill in the first and routing them in the second.
Towns and villages had risen against the invader, and word of the rebellion had reached E
bracum, where Edmund the king was spending the summer and autumn. In one of the ransacked convoys Corlan had found correspondence from the king to Azrek demanding action against the Morningstar, allied to a promise of more troops in the spring.
But this we did no! know as we began our journey.
For the first few days, as we traveled, Ilka stayed close beside Astiana, locked in the silent communion of spirit, and I found myself envying the Gastoigne sister her ability. Longing to share it, I became morose and distant. But after some ten days, as we camped in a shallow cave, Ilka came and sat beside me, reaching out and lightly touching my hand. I heard a whisper then, deep in my mind, like the memory of a lost song.
“Owen.”
I shivered, and my hand trembled. “Owen,” came the voice again, hesitant, lacking in confidence.
“I hear you,” I whispered.
She smiled a wondrous smile, her blue eyes wide, tears glistening there. And she said no more for a little while. I took her hand in both of mine, stroking her skin.
“I love you,” I told her, my voice breaking.
“Why?” whispered the voice in my mind.
At first I could say nothing. How does a man answer such a question? I rose, drawing her up with me, and we walked from the camp to sit beneath the bright stars. Her face was bathed in silver light, her blond hair shining almost white in the moonlight.
“When I first came to the village,” I told her, holding gently to her hand, “I sat in despair by the lakeside. I could see only evil everywhere. And I played my harp—you remember?” She nodded. “And then you came to me, and you danced. You changed the music in my mind and my soul; you were a dancing flame in the winter of my heart. I think from that moment my love for you was born. You understand?”
“Owen Odell,” came the voice in my mind, rippling like a song, making a gentle melody of the name. Moving close beside me, she kissed my cheek, and I drew her in to an embrace.
Ilka nestled beside me, and we sat in companionable silence, her head against my chest, but we did not make love that night or for many nights after. In truth I was afraid, for I was inexperienced, and I did not wish our love to be sullied by doing that which had brought her such pain in the past.
What foolishness. Love changes everything, and as a bard—if not as a man—I should have known that simple fact. When at last we lay together on a blanket spread beside a stream, I felt her joy, bright, unfettered, and free. That one fumbling and inexpert union was for her, she told me later, like a bridge of light across a dark stream.
From then on we were inseparable, and even Mace neither made jokes at our expense nor attempted to bed her again. I do not know to this day whether Ilka ever loved me with the same passion I felt for her. And it does not matter. She needed me, and she was happy. This was everything.
Piercollo understood it better than many men would, but he was a man of music and his soul was great. “I am happy for you, my friend,” he said as we approached the end of our journey. “She is a good girl. And she deserves happiness—as do you.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
For a moment he was silent, then he shook his head and his smile faded. “Only with the great song,” he said, and walked on ahead.
My soul was light, my mood merry. Thoughts of Cataplas and Azrek were far from my mind, and the loss of the skull seemed a reason more for relief than for concern. It was a burden, and we were free of it. But Wulf did not see it this way; he had made a promise to Gareth’s ghost and felt he had been shamed. No matter how many times Mace and I tried to reassure him, he remained sullen and withdrawn.
“I must get it back,” he repeated. “I must.”
Astiana was unrepentant about surrendering the skull, which irritated me somewhat. Had she accepted that there might be the slimmest of possibilities that she was wrong, then I would have been the first to say, “Well, what’s done is done. Let us forget it.” But she did not. Despite all her fine traits and her courage, she had one great failing—an inability to admit to error.
It is baffling to me why so many people find it difficult to say “I was wrong.” The words, when spoken with repentance, always turn away wrath. But those who cling to their absolute tightness despite any evidence to the contrary will always arouse anger in their comrades or superiors.
Nonetheless we traveled on in relative good humor, coming at last to Corlan’s camp in the village by the lake where I had first met Megan.
It was no surprise—indeed, it was a great joy—to see her sitting outside her cabin with a homespun dress of brown wool clinging to her bony frame, a faded red shawl around her shoulders.
“You took your time,” she said as I approached her, smiling.
“Mace wanted to return to the ruined castle to find more weapons of enchantment.”
“And he looks right pretty,” she said as Mace, sporting a black raven-winged helm and cuirass, marched across the clearing to be greeted by the blond archer, Corlan. The two men embraced as a crowd of warriors looked on, cheering.
Megan ushered Ilka and myself into her cabin, and we sat by the fire in the easy silence only friends can create. Her scorched skin had healed remarkably, without scars or weals.
“It took time,” she told me, “but Osian nursed me well. I am glad that you prospered, however. And Mace. He is important, you know—more than you would believe.”
“To whom?” I asked, making light of her comment.
“To you. To us. To the future—and the past.”
“He is what he always was, Megan—an outlaw, selfish, self-obsessed, and vain. The man will never be a saint.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “You do not believe in redemption, Owen? How disappointing. Perhaps Mace will surprise you.”
“You believe in him?” I asked, surprised.
“I saw him—a long time ago—produce heroism and courage in a situation of darkness and despair. There is more to him than you see. But that is because you cannot tear yourself from stories and legends. Heroes, in a bard’s eyes at least, must be tall and fair, villains dark and terrible. Yet sometimes both can be fair and terrible, the roles shifting and changing. But we will see. All this is for another day. Now there is a more immediate problem, and I think Mace is just learning of it.”
“What is that?”
“Ziraccu is a closed city. The gates have been barred for more than two weeks now. People go in—travelers, merchants—but none come out.”
“They have the plague?” I whispered, making the sign of the protective cross.
“Worse. But we will wait for Mace. I do not want to have to tell the story twice.”
“Does Cataplas have a part in this?”
“Do not concern yourself with him,” she said wearily. “His evil is as nothing compared with what is awakening in Ziraccu.”
“The skulls?”
“The evil of Golgoleth,” she said, her face pale.
Just then we heard excited shouts from outside the cabin, and Mace loomed in the doorway. “Owen, get yourself out here.”
Scrambling to my feet, I ran outside. A scouting party of Corlan’s hunters had emerged from the forest, two of them holding the arms of a struggling man.
“Well, well,” said Mace. “He does not appear so terrifying now, does he?”
I said nothing For the prisoner was Cataplas …
His condition was a shock to me; his hair and beard were matted and filthy, his purple robes torn and mud-stained, the skin of his face loose and sagging, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
The hunters dragged him toward Mace, but he turned his head and saw me. He smiled wearily.
“Hello, Owen,” he said. “How are you?”
A hunter cuffed him on the side of the face, then hissed, “Be silent until you’re spoken to, wizard!”
“They are very ill mannered,” said Cataplas, still speaking directly to me. The hunter raised his hand again, but Mace stopped him.
Megan walked from the cabin to
stand beside me. She sighed as she saw the captive, and her eyes were sorrowful. “Bring him inside,” she ordered the men, “and fetch the captains.”
“Ah, Megan,” said Cataplas sweetly, “how pleasant to see you again. Are you well?”
“That I am, Cataplas. But it is no thanks to you.”
“I tried to learn, to follow your wisdom and your teachings. But … I am not in the best of health now.”
“I see that,” she told him. Approaching the guards, she spoke again. “Release his arms. He has no power to cause harm.” They obeyed her, and she led the stooped old man into the cabin.
Wulf approached, his eyes angry, a sharp dagger in his hand. “He didn’t look so pathetic when he sent the dead after us,” he snapped. “Nor when he delivered our souls into hell. Let me cut his heart out, Mace!”
“Perhaps later,” agreed Mace, patting the man’s twisted shoulder, then following Megan into the cabin. I stood outside, still reeling from the ruin in the eyes of my old master. The man was a shell, his mind almost gone.
The powerful figure of Brackban moved past me. Then the outlaw Corlan approached the cabin, but instead of entering, he came alongside me. I looked up into his gray eyes. His pale hair was tied back in a long ponytail that accentuated the harshness of his features, the high cheekbones, and the cruel mouth.
“A word with you, sorcerer,” he said, keeping his voice low. I nodded dumbly. The last thing I needed now was a conversation with a murderous outlaw whom I had tricked into becoming a soldier of the light. Yet I stood there, my face expressionless.
“We all swore an oath,” said Corlan, “and I have done my part. You agree?”
“It would appear so,” I answered him.
“Now I want to be released from it.”
“Why?” I asked him, only half-interested.
He seemed confused, uncertain, and he licked his lips nervously. “I am not a good man,” he said at last. “I blame no one for it save myself. And I joined this venture for gain, I admit it. But now …” His voice trailed off, and his face reddened. “Listen to what I say, sorcerer; I will have no part in betraying these people. You understand? They look up to me, they trust me. I want my soul released from the promise.”