Morningstar by David Gemmell Page B

of the souls to the far river. Many tears were shed.
    At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.
    “They are coming!” he said between great gulps of air. “Maybe a hundred horsemen.”
    Word spread swiftly, and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away toward the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf, and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.
    “Time to go,” said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the northwest and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand, his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he, too, carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand ax was thrust into this wide leather belt.
    As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money pouch, and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-colored woolen shirt. In truth, I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the ax had built muscle in my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.
    Which was just as well, for as we reached the hillside, we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding toward us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.
    Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.
    Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.
    Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver, and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow, which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider draggedon the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.
    Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy farther into the forest.
    Within the hour, all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.
    The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with color and life. From the high mountainsides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.
    For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into the deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares, and on the third day Jarek killed a bighorn sheep; we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.
    I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarcely drink in the wonder of my surroundings.
    I know it may seem callous considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.
    But then we met Piercollo …
    Of us all he came closest to being the