Free Morningstar by David Gemmell Page A

unharmed. I carried Ilka inside, laying her on the wide bed, turning her to her side so that the broken arrow jutted upward. Jarek Mace had run to the far wall, pulling open a hidden compartment. It was empty, and he cursed loudly.
    “What happened, Megan?” I asked.
    “Soldiers from Ziraccu. There was no warning; they merely rode in and began the killing. There was no resistance.”
    “Why did they spare you?”
    “They did not see me,” she said wearily, pushing herself to her feet and approaching the injured girl.
    Jarek Mace stormed out of the hut. Once more I followed him. It was the first time I had seen him genuinely angry. I knew it had nothing to do with the slaughter of the villagers; he was furious because the soldiers had found his cache of stolen gold and jewels.
    Running to the weeping hunchback, Jarek dragged him to his feet. “They had horses,” he shouted. “That means they must keep to the road. We can cut them off by taking the hunting track.”
    “Leave me alone!” screamed Wulf.
    “You will let them die unavenged?” hissed Jarek Mace. The hunchback froze, his dark eyes gleaming. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath.
    “You are right, Mace. Let’s kill them all!”
    I had no wish to remain in this village of the dead, and when the fourteen hunters loped off, I followed them. It was a grueling run, down through glens, up over hills, through dense undergrowth, finally crossing a wide, shallow river and wading to the far bank and the road to Ziraccu.
    Wulf ran down to the road, kneeling to examine the tracks. “They’ve not yet passed,” he told Mace. “See, this was their outward journey.”
    “How many?”
    The hunchback moved back and forth along the road, studying the hoofprints. “Maybe thirty, perhaps less. But no more.”
    Jarek called the men together, ordering six to take cover on the right of the road, seven on the left. “Do not let fly until I do,” he commanded them.
    “What about me?” I asked. “What should I do?”
    “Stay with me,” he answered, then sat down at the side of the road with his longbow beside him.
    “How can we fight thirty?” I asked him as the fear started to gnaw at my belly.
    “You just keep killing until there’s none left,” he answered grimly.
    He was in no mood for conversation, so I sat in silence for a while, watching the north, listening for the sound of hoofbeats.
    “Why did they kill everyone?” I asked at last.
    “Azrek is encouraging immigrants from the south to settle here; they will pay good money for tracts of forest land. Wulf and the others were tenants of Count Leopold. They have no rights.”
    “They could have been ordered off. There was no need to kill.”
    “There is rarely any
need
to kill,” he said, “but men still do it.”
    “As you are intending to now?”
    “They stole my gold,” he hissed, as if that were answer enough.
    We sat for perhaps an hour, and then I heard them, the slow clopping of hooves upon the dirt road. My heart began hammering, and my mouth went dry.
    Jarek stood and notched an arrow to his bow before stepping out into the middle of the road. I could not seem to move my legs and sat for a moment staring at him. He seemed so relaxed as he waited, his bow held by his side, a slight smile showing on his handsome face. Drawing my knife, I climbed unsteadily to my feet.
    “Stay where you are,” he ordered, “and when the battle starts, run back into the undergrowth. No horse will follow you there.”
    Then they came in sight, more than twenty horsemen, the front three in full armor with plumed helmets upon their heads. Behind the trio were men-at-arms in breastplates and helms of leather, and bringing up the rear was a wagon loaded with booty.
    “Good day, gentlemen,” called Jarek Mace.

4
    T HE KNIGHT RIDING at the center of the trio, a huge man wearing a shining breastplate of silver and a helmet sporting a horsehair plume, lifted his arm and halted the convoy. The visor of his helmet