David Gemmell - Morningstar

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Prologue

You know me then? I thought so. It is rare for travelers to journey to the high

lands at the start of winter. What are you - a scholar, an historian, both? I know you

are no magicker, and you appear to be weaponless. Ah, a storyteller! Well, there is honor

in that.

I have been a storyteller for sixty-eight years. Aye, and a magicker of some

talent. Not great talent, mind you. But I could work the Dragon's Egg. Not many could do

that right. Have you seen it? Well, perhaps it is not as popular as once it was. But I

could make the dragon break clear of the egg, without the shell turning to dust. First

the head would come clear, then one tiny, beautiful wing. At last he would ease himself

from the shell, and then devour it with tongues of fire. It required great concentration,

but I could never get the scales right; they would shimmer and fade.

I cannot do it now, of course. The power is almost gone from me.

So, what stories can I give you?

The Morningstar? Everything is known of him - his courage, his battles, his

rescues. There are no new stories.

The truth, you say? Now that is novel. Perhaps unique. Why would you be interested

in the truth? Of what use is that to a sstoryteller? Your listeners will not want the

truth. They never do, and they never did. They want heroes, boy. Men of wonder, handsome

and tall, men of honor. The Highlanders of legend. They would sweep the truth from the

table and stamp it beneath their feet like a beetle. Truth has an ugly face, you see.

There are few still living who remember the Morningstar. Some are blind, some

senile. Whisper his name in their ears and you will see them smile, watch the strength

flow back into their limbs. That is real magick.

No, you don't want the truth. And neither do I.

Do you like my house? It was built a half-century ago. I wanted to be able to see

the sun rise over the eastern lakes, to watch the new pines grow on the flanks of the

mountains. Mostly I wanted a home surrounded by trees - oak, beech and elm. It is a

simple house. At least by your standards, for you are a nobleman. How do I know? Your

boots alone would cost two years' wages for a working man. But this house is comfortable.

I have three servants, and a local farmer supplies all my food. He charges me nothing,

for his grandfather marched with the Morningstar, and his father once sat on the great

man's knee.

Each year at the Harvest Feast, I sing for my supper. I stand at the head of the

farmer's table and I speak of the old days. Do I tell the truth? After a fashion. What I

tell them is a history they all know. It is comfortable, it fills them with pride. There

is no harm in that.

But the truth? Like a poisoned dagger, boy.

Yet still you want to hear it…No, I will not speak of those days. You may stay here

the night and join me for breakfast in the morning. Then you will go.

Do not be disappointed. I am favoring you with a kindness, though you cannot

understand it. You see, the world knows the Morningstar. He lives in the hearts and souls

of his people.

You know the song-prayer: He is the light reborn that shadows fear, when night

descends on us, he will be near.

Do I believe that? Of course. I wrote it.

Midnight. A time for memories. My visitor is abed, his disappointment shrouded by

sleep and the dreams of the young. There is a log-fire behind me, filling the room with

warmth and a golden glow. Shadows flicker by the rafters like old ghosts.

It is an effort but I push open the window, dislodging the snow from the sill. The

cold, skeletal fingers of winter reach in, whispering against my shirt. I shiver and

stare out over the bleak glens to the ice-covered lakes and the mountains beyond.

Steep snow-covered peaks are silhouetted against the moon-bright sky, and I can

just make out the trees in their winter coats of

fallen cloud. And there is a mist - a Highland mist - stretching into the distance,

covering the ice-filled gulleys and the silent glens.

Oh, the Highlands. The people have forgotten now that I ever was Angostin. After

sixty-eight years they treat me as if I was born into the old nobility. And I, for my

part, have learned all their customs: the Dance of the Swords, the Blessing of the Oak,

the slashed palm of Brotherhood. At the celebrations I always wear the war-cloak of the

Raubert clan, given me by Raul himself ten years ago.

I wonder sometimes what my family would think of me, were any left alive to see me

now. There are no sword dances among the Angostins. So serious are my southern kin,

excelling only in battle and in the building of monstrous fortresses of grey stone. A

dour people are the Angostins, with an uneasy dislike of song and laughter.

Somewhere a wolf howls. I cannot see him from here.

The truth. How could I begin to tell it? Yet there is a need in me to speak of it,

to release it into the air. There is a deep armchair by the fire, covered in soft

leather, filled with horsehair. It is a comfortable chair, and I have spent many a long

hour in its depths,my head resting on its curved cushions. It is empty now. But I will

use the remnants of my power to fashion a listener. I will create a ghost of the future.

He shall hear the true tale of the Morningstar.

I do not wave my hands, nor speak the words of power. That is for fire lit evenings

in taverns, entertaining the gullible. They like to see a magicker perform. But this is

no performance, so I will merely concentrate. There he sits, sculpted in light, crafted

from magick, silent and waiting. I have given him an intelligent face, with keen grey

eyes, like the nobleman in the guest-room upstairs. And he is young, for it is the young

who shape all tomorrows, and only the old and the weary who twist our today’s - stunting

them, holding them back,making them safe. There he sits, waiting, ghostly and

transparent. Once I could have dressed him in purple, and any who saw him would marvel at

his appearance. Now he shifts and fades. But that, I suppose, is how a ghost should look.

Where shall I begin, spirit? What would you like to hear?

Naturally he does not answer, but I know what he would be thinking, were he able to

think.

Begin at the beginning, storyteller. Where else but Ziraccu?

Chapter One

It is all ruins now but back then, under a younger sun, the city walls were strong

and high. There were three sets of walls on different levels, for Ziraccu was an ancient

settlement, the first of its buildings raised during the Age of Stone, when Neolithic

tribesmen built their temples and forts on the highest hills of this Highland valley.

Hundreds of years later- perhaps thousands, for I am no expert on matters historical - a

new tribe invaded the north, bearing sharp weapons of bronze. They also built in the

valley, throwing up walls around the four hills of Ziraccu. Then came the Age of Iron,

and the migration of the tribes who now populate the mountains of the north. The painted

warriors of Bronze were either killed or absorbed by these fierce new invaders. And they

too built their homes in the high valley. And Ziraccu grew. On the highest levels dwelt

the rich in marble palaces surrounded by fine gardens and parks. On the next level down

dwelt the merchants and the skilled craftsmen, their houses more homely yet comfortable,

built of stone and timber. While at the foot of the hills, within the circle of the lower

walls, were the slums and tenements of the poor. Narrow streets, stinking with sewage and

waste, high houses, old and dilapidated, alleys and tunnels, steps and stairways, dark

with danger and bright with the gleam of the robber's blade. Here there were taverns and

inns where men sat silently listening for the Watchmen.

Ziraccu, the merchant city. Everything had a price in Ziraccu. Especially in the

years of the Angostin War, when the disruption to trade brought economic ruin to many.

I was young then, and I could weave my stories well. It was a good living,

traveling from city to city, entertaining at taverns -and occasionally palaces - singing

and magicking. The Dragon's Egg was always a favorite, and I am sorry it has fallen into

disregard in these latter days.

It was an evening in autumn in Ziraccu, and I was hired to play the hand-harp at a

wedding celebration in the south quarter. The daughter of a silk merchant was marrying

the son of a spice trader. It was more an alliance than a marriage and the bride was far

from attractive. I will not dwell on her shortcomings for I was, and am, a gentleman.

Suffice to say that her ugliness was not so great as to be memorable. On the other hand I

felt great pity for the groom, a fine, upstanding youngster with clear blue eyes and a

good chin. I could not help but notice that he rarely looked at his bride, his eyes

lingering on a young maiden seated at the foot of the table.

It was not the look of a lascivious man, and I knew instantly that these two were

lovers. I felt for them, but said nothing. I was being paid six silver pennies for my

performance and this, at the time, was more important than true love thwarted.

The evening was dull and the guests, filled with good wine, became maudlin. I

collected my fee, which I hid carefully in a special pocket in my right boot before

setting off for my lodgings in the northern quarter.

Not a native of Ziraccu, I soon became lost, for there were no signs to be seen, no

aid to the wanderer. I entered an ill-smelling maze of alleys, my heart pounding. My harp

was slung over my right shoulder, and any who saw me would recognize the clothes of a

bard - bright yellow shirt and red leggings. It would be most unusual to be accosted, for

bards were rarely rich and were the only gatherers of news and gossip. We were welcome

everywhere -especially those of us who knew a little magick. But - and this is the

thought that occupied me - there were always those who knew nothing of tradition. Some

mindless robber who would plunge his knife into my belly before he realized his mistake.

Therefore I walked with care through the dark alleyways, drawing myself up to my

full height, pulling back my shoulders so as to appear tough, strong and confident. I was

not armed - not even with a short knife. Who would need a knife at a wedding?

Several rats scurried across my path and I saw a corpse lying by the entrance to a

short tunnel. In the bright moonlight it was easy to see that the corpse had been there

for some days. His boots were gone, as was his belt.

I turned away my gaze and strode on. I never did like to look upon corpses. No man

needs such a violent, visual reminder of his mortality. And there is no dignity in death.

The bladder loosens,

the bowels empty and the corpse always assumes an expression of profound idiocy.

I walked on, listening for anything that might indicate a stealthy assassin

creeping towards me. A foolish thing to do, for immediately the thought comes to you the

ear translates every sound into a footfall, or the whisper of cloth against a wall.

I was breathing heavily when at last I came out on to a main thoroughfare I

recognized.

Then the scream sounded.

I am not by nature heroic, but upbringing counts for much in a man's life and my

parents had always made it clear that a strong man must defend the weak. The cry came

from a woman. It was not born of pain, but of fear, and that is a terrible sound. I swung

round and ran in the direction of the cry; it was a move of stunning stupidity.

Turning a sharp corner into a narrow alley, I saw four men surrounding a young

woman. They had already ripped her dress from her, and one of the attackers had loosened

his leggings, exposing his fish-white legs and buttocks.

'Stop that!' I shouted. Not the most powerful opening line, I'll admit, especially

when delivered in a high-pitched shriek. But my arrival stunned them momentarily and the

naked man struggled to pull up his leggings, while the other three swung to face me. They

were a grotesque bunch, ugly and filthy, dressed in greasy rags. Fight them? I would have

given all I had not to touch them.

One of them drew a dagger and advanced towards me, grunting out some kind of

enquiry. The language he used was as foul as his look. The strangest thoughts come to a

man in danger, or so I have found. Here was a man with no regard for his appearance. His

face and clothes were filthy, his teeth blackened and rotting, yet his dagger was sharp

and bright and clean. What is it that makes a man take more care of a piece of iron than

his own body?

'I am a bard,' I said.

He nodded sagely and then bade me go away, using language I would not dream of

repeating.

'Step away from the lady, if you please,' I told them. 'Otherwise I shall call the

Watch.’ There was some laughter at this and two of the other three advanced upon me. One

sported a hook such as is used to hang meat, while the second held two lengths of wood

with a wire stretched between them. The last of them remained with the girl, holding her

by throat and hair.

I had no choice but to run - and I would have done so. But fear had frozen my

limbs, and I stood like a sacrificial goat waiting for the knife and the hook and the

wicked throat wire.

Suddenly a man leapt from the balcony above to land in their midst, sending two of

them sprawling. The one on his feet, he of the meat-hook, swung his weapon at the

newcomer, who swayed aside and lashed out with a sword-belt he was holding in his left

hand. The buckle caught the man high on the left cheek, spinning him from his feet. It

was then that I saw that the newcomer was wearing only one boot and was carrying his

sword-belt in his hand. Hurling aside his scabbard he drew his blade, lancing it through

the neck of his nearest foe. But the first of the villains I had seen rose up behind the

newcomer.

'Look out!' I cried. Our unknown helper spun on his heel, his sword plunging into

the chest of his opponent. I was behind the man, and I saw the blade emerge from his

back; he gave a strangled scream and his knees buckled. The warrior desperately tried to

tear his sword loose from the man's chest, but it was stuck fast. The rogue with the

throat-wire leapt upon the newcomer's back, but before he could twist the wire round his

intended victim's throat he ducked and twisted, hurling his attacker into a wall. As the

villain rose groggily the newcomer took two running steps, then launched himself through

the air feet first, his one boot cracking against the base of the man's neck and

propelling his face into the wall. There was a sickening thud, followed instantly by the

crunching of bones. The sound was nauseating, and my stomach turned. The last of the

villains loosed his hold on the girl, throwing her to the ground and sprinting away into

the shadows. As the girl fell she struck her head on the cobbles. I ran to her, lifting

her gently, She moaned. 'You bastard! I'll see you dead! You'll not escape me!' shouted a

voice from an upper window. I glanced up to see a bearded man upon the balcony. He was

hurling abuse at the newcomer. It did not seem to perturb the fellow. Swiftly he wrested

his sword clear of the corpse, then gathered his second boot which was lying some

distance away against a wall.

'Help me with her,' I ordered him.

'Why?' he asked, pulling on his boot.

'We must get her to safety.’ There he is! Take him!' screamed the man on the

balcony. The sound of running footsteps came from the alley.

Time to go,' said the newcomer with a bright smile. At once he was on his feet and

running.

Armed men rushed into sight and set off after him. The officer of the Watch

approached me. 'What is happening here?' he asked.

I explained briefly about the attack on the girl, and of our sudden rescue. He

knelt by the still unconscious woman, his fingers reaching out to feel the pulse at her

throat. 'She'll come round,' he said. 'Her name is Petra. She is the daughter of the

tavern-keeper, Bellin. ’Which tavern?’ The Six Owls; it is quite close by. Come, I'll

help you carry her there.’ Who is the man you are chasing? ’Jarek Mace.’ He said the name

as if it was one I should know, but when I professed ignorance he smiled. 'He is a

reaver, a thief, an adulterer, a robber - whatever takes his fancy. There is no crime he

would not commit - if the price were worth the risks.’ But he came to our aid.’ I doubt

that. We had him cornered and he ran. I would guess he jumped from the window to escape

us - and landed in the midst of a fight. Lucky for you, eh? ’Extraordinarily lucky.

Perhaps it was fate.’ If fate is kind to you, bard, you will not meet him again.’ That

was the first time I saw the Morningstar.

The officer of the Watch was a kindly man. I do not recall his name, but I remember

how he covered the unconscious girl with his grey cloak before lifting her into his arms.

I thought this a gallant act. He was a strong man, and had no need of my assistance as we

walked through the alleys, corning at last to a wider street where three inns were

situated. The Six Owls was centrally placed, the building - three floors high -

stretching across an arched tunnel

that led to the stables. Heavy curtains covered the many ground-floor windows, but

the sound of raucous singing could be heard from within.

We took Petra, who was by now recovering, to a door at the rear and entered a wide

kitchen. Two middle-aged women ran forward as they saw the girl but the officer comforted

them, his voice soothing.

A serving girl ran to fetch the owner of the tavern, a colossal man named Bellin.

Bald as a rock and round as he was tall, his aims were huge, his face moon-shaped and

pale.

'What's this? What's this?' he boomed, his small brown eyes glinting with what I

took to be ferocity.

'This gentleman rescued the young lady,' said the officer. 'She was being attacked

by a gang of ruffians. I fear they were intent on rape. But no harm has been done.’ They

didn't. . . ?' began Bellin.

'No,' the officer answered.

'The gods be praised,' said the innkeeper, stepping forward and taking his daughter

into a suffocating embrace. Her senses had returned and she looked towards me. Easing

herself clear of her father's arms, she curtseyed prettily. She did not seem in the least

troubled, and I guessed then that she had recovered far more swiftly than any of the men

had guessed. Her eyes were upon me and I thought I saw an invitation there, but I was

young then and found it hard to believe that any attractive girl would give me a second

glance.

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摘要：

PrologueYouknowmethen?Ithoughtso.Itisrarefortravelerstojourneytothehighlandsatthestartofwinter.Whatareyou-ascholar,anhistorian,both?Iknowyouarenomagicker,andyouappeartobeweaponless.Ah,astoryteller!Well,thereishonorinthat.Ihavebeenastorytellerforsixty-eightyears.Aye,andamagickerofsometalent.Notgreatt...

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David Gemmell - Morningstar

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