Morningstar by David Gemmell

someone would escape. I didn’t want anyone rushing to Azrek with the name Jarek Mace, now, did I?”
    “You think he won’t find out eventually?”
    “By then I will be long gone. What a fine day, to be sure!” With his dagger he ripped open a coin sack. Silver pennies tumbled out. He grabbed a handful and tossed them in the air, where they spun in the sunlight before tinkling down to the wagon boards. “I love money,” said Jarek.
    Jarek Mace was in high good humor as the iron-rimmed wagon wheels rolled slowly along the forest road. Wulf and the others—having stripped all valuables from the twenty-two dead Ikenas—set off back over the hills to the village. They would arrive hours before us, but I was tired and had no wish to walk too soon among the bodies of the slain. The aftermath of revenge leaves no sweetness in the mouth, and a wagon full of gold was no recompense for a village of the dead.
    The sun was low in the sky as we rounded the last bend, and I saw the glittering lake and a large crowd awaiting us. Jarek was sleeping, and I did not at first wake him.
    The valuables in the wagon had come, I knew, from more than one settlement, and I guessed—rightly—that in the waiting throng were representatives of those other villages and towns. I could see Megan standing beside a tall woman dressed in the severe black habit and white head scarf of the Order of Naesar nuns.
    As the wagon hove into sight, the crowd pushed forward, yelling and cheering.
    Jarek awoke at once. “What the devil?” he said, sitting up.
    A great cheer went up as he stood.
    “Morningstar! Morningstar!” I saw Wulf and the other warriorsat the front of the crowd with their arms raised, the last of the sunlight glinting on their stolen weapons.
    Nimbly Mace leapt from the wagon to stand with hands on hips, accepting their tribute. The crowd parted, and the abbess strode forward; she was around sixty years of age, stern of face, her eyes deep-set and glacial blue. Moving past Jarek, she opened the tailboard of the wagon and reached inside. Lifting clear a small golden statue of the blessed Saint Katryn and holding it aloft, she turned to the crowd.
    “She is returned to us,” cried the abbess, and a section of the crowd cheered.
    An elderly man approached. His face was lined, his right eye dead and useless. With difficulty he bowed, then took Jarek’s hand.
    “You have saved our lives,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “We have had a bleak winter, and the money they robbed from us was to have been used to buy food. Without it our community was finished. I have no way to thank you, but we will not forget you, Morningstar.”
    Jarek was speechless, but I saw his eyes darken as men and women crowded around the wagon, lifting out goods and coin.
    Megan came through the crowd, taking Jarek’s arm and leading him away from the throng. “Keep calm!” I heard her whisper. “It is only money.”
    “
My
money!” he hissed.
    I almost felt sorry for him then. Not quite … but almost.
    Back in Megan’s home we sat beside the fire. The young whore, Ilka, was sleeping, her back bandaged; the wound, Megan assured us, was free of infection. Jarek stared gloomily into the flames.
    “It was a fine act,” I told him, making sure to keep the smile from my face. He glanced up at me, then grinned.
    “Easy made, swiftly lost,” he said.
    “What will you do now?” asked Megan.
    Jarek shrugged. “I’ll head deeper into the forest. No point staying here; the village is finished.”
    “They didn’t kill everyone,” said Megan. “Many people escaped into the undergrowth where the horses would not follow. We can rebuild.”
    “That is not what I meant. The killers will be back.”
    Megan nodded. “What would you advise?”
    “It is not for me to give advice,” answered Jarek. “Who am I but a wandering mercenary with no ties here?”
    “Silly boy,” she told him. “You are the Morningstar!”
    “Oh, stop this