Morningstar by David Gemmell Page A

nonsense,” Jarek snapped. “It was a jest, nothing more.”
    “I know,” replied Megan, “but you should have heard the men talk about it. You called yourself the lord of the forest. You demanded that the Angostins pay a toll to pass. You stood alone at the center of the road. Can you not see it, Jarek? You took on the mantle of leadership, albeit for your own purposes.”
    “Well, I ended up with nothing as a result of it,” he said.
    “Nothing?” whispered Megan. “All those people thanking you, looking up to you. That is worth more than gold!”
    “Nothing is worth more than gold,” he said, his smile in place. “But yes, I’ll grant you it was more pleasant than having a boil lanced.” He swung to me. “Did you enjoy the day, bard?”
    “I don’t enjoy watching men kill one another, but it was rewarding to see the joy on the faces of those who believed they had lost everything only to find a hero had rescued them.”
    “Does it not strike you as … unfair … that this hero is the only one to lose money on the venture?”
    “You didn’t lose,” I told him. “As soon as I saw that crowd, I guessed what would happen, so I stuffed my pockets with coin and I kept this.” Reaching inside my tunic shirt, I pulled clear a small pouch. Opening it, I tipped the contents into Jarek’s outstretched hands; there were rings and necklets, brooches and bracelets, all of heavy gold, several studded with gems, emeralds and rubies.
    His smile widened, and he winked at me. “By heavens, Owen. I like you more and more. I hope you have deep pockets.”
    “Deep enough, I would say, for around fifty silver pieces.”
    “There is hope for you, my friend, in this wicked world of ours.”
    “Maybe,” muttered Megan, rising and stretching her back. Without a word to us she walked to the wide bed and laid herself down beside the sleeping Ilka.
    Jarek returned the gold to the pouch, then slipped it inside his jerkin.
    “Why not travel with me, Owen?” he asked. “We’ll see the high country, the lonely passes, the stands of pine.”
    “I think I will,” I told him.
    Toward midnight, with the women sleeping, the hunchback Wulf came to the door. “I need to talk with you, Mace,” he said.
    Jarek ushered him to the hearth, where the hunchback sat awkwardly, his twisted back unsuited to the chair. “I’ve nothing here anymore,” he said. Jarek nodded but remained silent. “Most women turned away from me, but not my Tess. A good woman, and I treated her right. Good young’uns, too. Pretty—not like their sire. But they are gone now. Gone.” His voice trailed away, and he cleared his throat and spit into the dying fire. “Anyways, what I’m saying is that I’ve no holds here.”
    “Why tell me?” asked Jarek, not unkindly.
    “You’re a wandering man, Mace. There’s nothing here for any of us now, so I guess you’ll be traveling on. I’d like to accompany you.”
    “You don’t even like me, Wulf.”
    “True enough, but I liked what I saw on the road. I liked it when you stopped them—right well I liked it. You ain’t one of us, Mace—more like you are one of them. But by God’s holy eyes, you were a Highlander at that moment.”
    Jarek Mace chuckled, then reached out and laid his hand on Wulf’s twisted back. “You are the best woodsman I’ve ever known,” he said. “Having you with us will mean good food and less time lost. You’re welcome. But know this: I don’t intend taking on the Angostins again. There’s no profit in it.”
    “Time will tell about that, Mace,” said Wulf.
    We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers pack their belongings for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on roughly built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled onto the wagon.
    The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees, and the Naeser abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey