Free Morningstar by David Gemmell Page B

was raised, and I could see a corn-yellow mustache and eyes the color of a winter sky, gray and cold. Reining in the giant black stallion, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and gazed upon the tall, lean form of Jarek Mace.
    “What do you want, fellow?” he asked, his voice as deep as distant thunder.
    “When you travel upon my road, Sir Knight, then you must pay my toll,” Jarek answered.
    “A toll, is it?” responded the knight as laughter sounded from the riders behind him. “Tell me, fellow, how it is that you came to … own this road. For I was under the impression the forest was ruled by Count Azrek.”
    “He is—for the present—the Count of Ziraccu,” Jarek told him. “I am the lord of this forest.”
    “And what might your name be, my lord?” asked the knight.
    “Why, I am the Morningstar.”
    The knight leaned back, removed his right gauntlet, and opened a purse tied to the sword belt at his waist. “And what will the toll cost us?”
    “All that you have,” said Jarek.
    “Enough of this nonsense,” snapped the knight. “I would have given you a silver penny for your impudence. Now step aside or feel the weight of my whip!”
    “Certainly, Sir Knight.” Jarek moved to his right and thenswung back, the longbow coming up, the string stretching, the notched shaft leaping from the bow. The knight swayed back as the arrow slashed by him to punch through the helmet of the young knight to his left. Without a sound the surprised victim slid from the saddle, pitching headfirst to the ground.
    Shafts flashed from both sides of the road, plunging into men and horses. The pain-maddened beasts reared, throwing their riders to the road. More arrows tore into the men-at-arms.
    The two knights had both drawn their swords, but instead of entering the fray, they spurred on their mounts toward Jarek Mace. The young bowman sprinted toward me, ducking just as a longsword hissed toward his head.
    Instead of giving chase, the knights galloped on toward Ziraccu. Jarek cursed and ran back into the road, notching a second arrow to his string. His arm came up, and I watched him take aim and loose the shaft, which sang through the air and thudded into the back of the second knight. The man straightened in the saddle, then swayed, but clung to the pommel as the horses moved out of range. Jarek turned.
    The villagers had dropped their bows and charged the demoralized men-at-arms. Several of the enemy threw down their weapons and began pleading for mercy. There was none to be had, and they were all butchered.
    It was not a pleasant sight.
    At last Wulf the hunchback, covered in blood, approached where Jarek was sitting at the roadside.
    “My children are avenged,” he said softly. “Thank you, Mace.” Jarek merely nodded, but the hunchback remained where he was. “What do we do now?” he asked.
    “Do? Take the booty and get away from this place as soon as possible. Those knights did not ride back for an early supper.”
    “Yes,” Wulf agreed. “Yes, you’re right.”
    Two of the villagers moved up to the driving seat of the wagon and turned the horses back toward the north, while Wulf and the others began stripping the dead of valuables and weapons.
    Jarek loped to the wagon, pulling himself over the tailboard. I ran to join him. He was sitting beside some thirty small sacks of coin; scattered around him were golden ornaments, statues, bracelets, bangles, and brooches.
    “I’m a rich man, bard,” he said, chuckling. “I think I’ll buy a castle by the sea.”
    “Why did you talk to the knights?” I asked him. “Why not just attack?”
    “They were moving. A walking horse, when frightened, breaks into a run. A standing horse will usually rear. It is that simple. I wanted the convoy halted.”
    “You are an amazing man,” I told him. “What made you give the name Morningstar?”
    He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “I thought it would amuse you, Owen. And anyway, the odds were that