‘And what do I get for this… favour?’ he asked Horga suddenly.
‘What would you want?’
‘I see what I want, lady,’ he said, his gaze flowing over her body. ‘But is it part of the price you will pay?’
She did not blush but smiled broadly. ‘Is that all? Then I agree.’
‘Wait!’ I said, seizing Mace by the arm and pulling him back away from the group, out of earshot of the sorceress. ‘You have not understood a single word of this, have you?’ I whispered. ‘Do you know who you are?’
Of course I know who I am. What sort of a question is that? I am Jarek Mace — and the most beautiful woman God ever created has offered herself to me. Now we both know that back in the past Rabain destroyed the Vampyre Kings. All I need to do is travel back with her, give him my sword and earn my reward. And I don’t need to fight a lost battle here. By God, Owen, I cannot believe my luck!’
He tried to move away from me, but I kept a firm hold of his arm.
‘If you can tear your gaze away from her for a moment, let me point something out to you — that is, if you can still think! You are being summoned. That makes you the summoned-one. Are you concentrating, Jarek? The summoned-one? Ra-he-borain? Rabain, Jarek. It is you! When you step through whatever gateway she has created, you will be Rabain.’
Suddenly he was no longer trying to pull away. The full force of the argument struck him and he relaxed in my grip. ‘I am Rabain?’ he whispered.
‘You will be if you travel with her.’
He laughed then. ‘How can I lose, Owen? Rabain didn’t, did he? He got to be King.’
Yes, he got to be King,’ I said, holding the sadness from my voice.
He turned away from me and approached Horga, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘How soon do we… leave?’ he asked.
‘Now,’ she replied, lifting her arm.
Golden light blazed through the clearing…
And I was alone. Piercollo and Wulf had vanished with Mace, drawn with him because they carried the weapons of enchantment.
I built up the fire and waited, my thoughts sombre.
After a short while, even before the new wood had burnt through, there was a second bright flaring of light and Piercollo and Wulf were back.
Both were dressed differently and Wulf s beard was better trimmed, his hair cut short. He was wearing a tunic and boots of finest leather, and a golden dagger was belted at his side. Piercollo looked much the same — save that he now wore an eye-patch of silver that needed no thong to hold it in place. He moved to me, hauling me to my feet and taking me into a bear-hug that almost broke my back.
‘He is the King then?’ I asked, as Piercollo released me.
‘Aye,’ said Wulf. ‘And not making a bad job of it. But he’s staying behind, Owen. He wouldn’t come back with us. He’s living with the sorceress now, like husband and wife. But we asked her to send us back. How long have we been gone?’
‘Merely a few minutes.’
‘Sweet Heaven!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We were there for almost a year. You should have seen it, Owen. Mace was the hero! We stormed the Vampyre keep. I killed one of the Kings with…’
‘With a silver arrow, I know. And Piercollo slew the second, hurling him from the high walls, where his neck was broken, his head severed upon a sharp rock.’
‘You saw it?’
‘No, my friends, I didn’t need to see it; it is a part of history. You were Jerain the bowman, Piercollo was Boras the Cyclops — the one-eyed. It is a wondrous circle. All this time men have been saying that Mace is Rabain reborn. And they were right, after a fashion. All the legends said that Rabain would come again. And, in a way, he did. And he will.’
‘Mace ain’t coming back,’ said Wulf. ‘Trust me on that.’
‘No, Wulf, you trust me. The Morningstar will appear at the last battle. There is an old man in the past, a poet, and he will convince Mace that he should return.’
There is a wide, long meadow in a valley eight miles south of Ziraccu. It is flanked by trees and a narrow ribbon stream to the west, with a line of hills to the east. Being old, they are not high hills, mere humps in the land rising no more than two hundred feet. The meadow itself now has a church upon it. They call it the Morningstar Abbey. Pilgrims journey to it, for there is a tomb there — an empty tomb — but legend tells us there is a cloth within the sarcophagus that was stained with the blood of the Morningstar.
For fifty years there have been claims of miraculous healings and it has become a shrine, guarded now by an order of monks, saying prayers thrice daily by the statue of Jarek Mace. How he would have chuckled to see their set, serious faces.
But I am drifting ahead of the tale.
On the last day of spring, on a cloudy morning — the grass white with dew, and mist like the ghosts of yesterday swirling upon the meadow — our army waited. There was no church then, only a long flat area of killing ground.
There were three thousand seven hundred foot-soldiers at the centre, Brackban standing in the fourth rank of seven with a standard-bearer beside him. The standard had been made by Astiana; it was a simple piece, black linen upon which she had embroided a star of silver thread. Brackban was garbed for war in the black, enchanted armour, a raven-winged helm upon his blond head. Almost one thousand of our front-line troops wore breastplates and carried round, iron-rimmed wooden shields. Most of them and around half of the others also sported helms of baked leather, some reinforced by bronze. But there were still many men who had no armour.
But Brackban was a popular man and the troops gathered around him, ready to fight and die for their homeland.
He had listened in silence as I told him of Mace’s quest — of his journey into the past. He did not, I think, believe me. And even if he did, it meant little to him. For all he took from the tale was that Mace had gone.
‘What now, Owen?’ he had asked me.
‘Prepare for battle. The Morningstar will return.’
‘You seem confident.’
‘I am.’
‘Wulf does not agree with you.’
‘He does not know all that I know. Have faith, Brackban. Tell the men that the Morningstar will be with them on the day of battle. Tell them he will come in glory, his armour gold and riding upon a huge white stallion. Tell them that.’
‘I do not want to lie to them.’
It is no lie.’
To the left of the battlefield was Raul Raubert, with three hundred Angostin knights. These were men who had survived the first invasion, some by hiding, others by running. I was not inspired by them, but Raul was leading them and his courage was without question. His role was to deflect the enemy cavalry, hold them back if he could.
But all the reports suggested that Edmund’s force had more than four thousand heavily-armoured knights. Three hundred would not hold them for long.
Wulf had stationed himself on the right with the Men of the Morningstar, the archers and woodsmen. Eight hundred of these stood ready, their arrows thrust in the earth beside them, an indication for all that they were not prepared to run. Here were their weapons. Here they would stand.
It was noon before Edmund appeared, his column of knights riding along the crest of the hills in a glittering display of martial power. Behind them came the foot-soldiers, marching in ranks, disciplined and calm, every man clad in breastplate and greaves, carrying square iron shields emblazoned with dragons, leopards or griffins. The King himself could be clearly seen: his armour was polished like silver and he rode a tall horse, black as jet, its head and chest armoured with chain-mail and plate.
Slowly the infantry filed out to stand in ranks opposite us, about a quarter of a mile distant.
My fears began then in earnest, and I felt the weight of the unaccustomed sword that was belted to my side and the chain-mail shirt I wore. Beside me Piercollo waited grimly, a long-handled axe in his hands.