With a broad smile and a wink he rose and returned to his kitchen. ‘How did he know you?’ whispered Wulf.
Mace chuckled. ‘It is not me he recognized, half-wit! How many men travel the forest in the company of a giant and a hunchback?’
He was just downing the last of his cider when Astiana ran into the tavern. ‘Lykos!’ she shouted. ‘He’s here!’ Wulf leapt to his feet, grabbing for his bow. Mace and I rose. Piercollo curled his hand around the haft of a long bread-knife.
‘Time to leave!’ said Mace softly.
‘Show yourself, wolfshead!’ came the shout from beyond the tavern. Mace swore and moved to the shuttered window, peering through the crack.
‘There must be twenty men out there,’ he said.
‘There are a dozen more beyond the back door,’ Scoris informed us, his face red and his eyes showing his fear.
‘They were hidden in the church,’ said Astiana. ‘The priest warned me and I came as fast as I could.’
I moved to the window. Lykos, in full armour and helm, a sword in his hand, sat upon a grey gelding. The helm’s visor was partly open and I could see that his eye was bandaged, the wound seeping blood which had stained the cloth. Around him were men-at-arms, several with crossbows aimed at the door but most armed with swords.
‘I have a cellar,’ said Scoris. ‘There is a tunnel that leads out into the storehouse and barn. Use it quickly!’
Mace took his bow and notched an arrow to the string. ‘Not yet!’ he said grimly. Drawing back on the string, he gave a swift instruction to Wulf. The hunchback moved behind the door and suddenly wrenched it open. Three crossbow shafts hammered into the wood, a fourth slashing through the doorway to punch home into the wall.
Mace stepped into the doorway. ‘I told you what would happen, Lykos, when next we met.’ The cross-bowmen were frantically seeking to reload, the swordsmen standing by uselessly. Mace raised his bow, the arrow flashing through the air to lance between visor and helm, and Lykos reeled back in the saddle, the shaft piercing his brain. For a moment he sat stock-still, then his body fell, his foot catching in the stirrup. Such was the clang of the armour as it struck the ground that the gelding reared and fled in panic, the armoured corpse with foot caught dragging behind. Several men ran after the beast, the others charged the tavern.
Mace leapt back inside, slamming shut-the door. Wulf lowered the guard-bar into place. Scoris waved us out into the kitchen, lifting a trap-door; there was a narrow flight of stairs leading down into darkness.
‘Go quickly!’ said Scoris, handing Piercollo a lit lantern.
‘You will be in great trouble for this,’ I said.
‘No matter!’
Mace was behind him. I saw his hand come up, heard the thud of the blow on the man’s neck, then Scoris fell forward upon me. Lowering his unconscious body to the ground, I rounded on Mace. ‘What have you done?’
‘Protected him as best I can. Now move!’
Piercollo went first, followed by Ilka, Astiana, Wulf and myself. Mace pulled shut the trap-door behind us and brought up the rear. The cellar was dank, but filled with the sweet smell of cider casks. Swiftly we crossed it, coming to a tunnel which sloped upward. At the far end, some twenty paces distant, we could see a thin shaft of light. Piercollo doused the lantern and we silently approached the storehouse. Sliding back the bolts on the hinged trap-doors we emerged into the building. All was silent inside, but we could hear the distant shouts of the disappointed soldiers back at the tavern.
The store was filled with hanging carcasses of salted meats, barrels of apples and other fruit, sacks of flour and sugar, oats and wheat. There were two great doors, wide enough to allow the passage of wagons, and a side exit leading to the north.
Wulf opened the side door, peering out. There was no one in sight.
And the trees were but a few hundred feet away.
We ran across the open ground, every moment fearing the sound of pursuit. But we passed unseen from Willow and once more entered the forest.
The songs talk of the fight with Lykos, telling us that Mace met him in single combat while Astiana stood on a scaffold with a rope around her neck. But life is rarely like the songs, my dear ghost.
That is a sorry fact for a bard to learn. For we like our heroes pure, you see — golden men, demi-gods without flaw. Just as we like our villains to be black-hearted and vile. When men sit in taverns, supping their ale and listening to poets regaling them with epic stories, they cannot be bothered to think. They do not wish their enjoyment to be sullied by shades of grey. No, they desire only sinister black and spotless white. And are women any different? No, again. Forced by their fathers — yes, even sold by them — into a life of servitude and drudgery, they need to believe there are heroes. They look at the dull, flat features of their husbands and they dream of golden-haired men who would slay dragons for them.
We even follow this practice in life itself. The enemy is always reviled, pictured as the despoiler of women, the eater of babies, a living plague upon the earth, a servant of Satan. Wars are never fought for plunder or gain. Oh, no, they are always depicted as ultimate battles between good and evil. But then, looking at the nature of Man, that is understandable. Can you imagine the scene, the great King gathering his troops before an epic battle. ‘Right, my lads,’ he says, as he sits upon his great black stallion, ‘today we fight for my right to steal gold from whomsoever I choose. The enemy are men much the same as yourselves. A good bunch, probably, with wives and children back home. And at the end of the battle, when I have more riches than I’ll ever spend in a lifetime, many of them — and indeed many of you — will be wormfood, or crippled. Better to be dead, really, because I’ll have no use for you once you can no longer wield a sword. All right, lads? Let’s be at them!’
No. Far better for the poor foot-soldier to be told that he is fighting for God, and right, and justice in the world against an enemy spawned from darkness.
But where was I? Ah yes, Lykos was dead — as Mace had promised he would be. And thus the legend grew.
Word flew through the forest faster than a raven’s flight, the story growing, adding to the myth of the Morningstar. The townsmen of Pasel, learning of the killing, rose up and re-took the keep. The revolt spread and Rualis rebelled against the Angostins, slaughtering the soldiers and the noble families who had ruled there for three centuries. Further south Brackban was gathering men to the Morningstar’s cause.
Corlan, the outlaw, had attacked three convoys and his Men of the Morningstar were heroes now, carrying a sacred flame in their hearts.
You have never seen a forest fire, ghost. It is a fearsome thing. One moment all is silent, dry and hot, the next a tiny flicker of flame dances upon dead leaves. Other dancers join it and they run across the ground, flaring up against dead wood. A breeze fans them and they scatter until it is a dance no longer. Flames roar high into the sky, great oaks burn like tinder, and the dancers become a ravening monster propelled by the wind.
Such was the rebellion.
When I sent Corlan south it had merely been to separate him and his men from us, to put distance between us. I do not believe — though I would like to — that I planned the rebellion from the start. But I will say, with all honesty, that the seed of the idea was growing when I gave Brackban his orders. Why should the Highlanders not control their own destiny? By what right, save that of conquest, did the Angostins rule?
But this was not in my mind as we walked towards the Troll Reaches, seeking the Ringwearer, Gareth.
I was more concerned with our safety, for ahead of us were stretches of forest and mountain inhabited by creatures many times stronger than men. Here was the last refuge of the Trolls and, according to fable, many other ancient races, dread beasts and sorcerous evil.