Nonetheless we travelled on in relative good humour, coming at last to Corlan’s camp in the village by the lake where I had first met Megan.
It was no surprise – indeed it was a great joy – to see her sitting outside her cabin with a homespun dress of brown wool clinging to her bony frame, a faded red shawl around her shoulders.
‘You took your time,’ she said as I approached her, smiling.
‘Mace wanted to return to the ruined castle, to find more weapons of enchantment.’And he looks right pretty,’ she said as Mace, sporting a black, raven-winged helm and cuirass, marched across the clearing to be greeted by the blond archer, Corlan. The two men embraced as a crowd of warriors looked on, cheering.
Megan ushered Ilka and myself into her cabin and we sat by the fire in the easy silence only friends can create. Her scorched skin had healed remarkably, without scars or weals.
‘It took time,’ she told me, ‘but Osian nursed me well. I am glad that you prospered, however. And Mace. He is important, you know – more than you would believe.’To whom?’ I asked, making light of her comment.
To you. To us. To the future – and the past.’He is what he always was, Megan – an outlaw, selfish, self-obsessed and vain. The man will never be a saint.’She chuckled and shook her head. ‘You do not believe in redemption, Owen? How disappointing. Perhaps Mace will surprise you.’You believe in him?’ I asked, surprised.
‘I saw him – a long time ago – produce heroism and courage in a situation of darkness and despair. There is more to him than you see. But that is because you cannot tear yourself from stories and legends. Heroes, in a bard’s eyes at least, must be tall and fair, villains dark and terrible. Yet sometimes both can be fair and terrible, the roles shifting and changing. But we will see. All this is for another day. Now there is a more immediate problem – and I think Mace is just learning of it.’What is that?’Ziraccu is a closed city. The gates have been barred for more than two weeks now. People go in – travellers, merchants – but none come out.’They have the plague?’ I whispered, making the sign of the Protective Cross.
‘Worse. But we will wait for Mace. I do not want to have to tell the story twice.’Does Cataplas have a part in this?’Do not concern yourself with him,’ she said wearily. ‘His evil is as nothing compared with what is awakening in Ziraccu.’The skulls?’The evil of Golgoleth,’ she said, her face pale.
Just then we heard excited shouts from outside the cabin and Mace loomed in the doorway. ‘Owen, get yourself out here.’Scrambling to my feet, I ran outside. A scouting party of
Corlan’s hunters had emerged from the forest, two of them holding the aims of a struggling man.
‘Well, well,’ said Mace. ‘He does not appear so terrifying now, does he?’I said nothing. For the prisoner was Cataplas . . .
His condition was a shock to me; his hair and beard were matted and filthy, his purple robes torn and mud-stained, and the skin of his face loose and sagging, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
The hunters dragged him towards Mace, but he turned his head and saw me. He smiled wearily.
‘Hello, Owen,’ he said. ‘How are you?’A hunter cuffed him on the side of the face, then hissed, ‘Be silent until you’re spoken to, wizard!’They are very ill-mannered,’ said Cataplas, still speaking directly to me. The hunter raised his hand again, but Mace stopped him.
Megan walked from the cabin to stand beside me. She sighed as she saw the captive, and her eyes were sorrowful. ‘Bring him inside,’ she ordered the men, ‘and fetch the captains.’Ah, Megan,’ said Cataplas sweetly, ‘how pleasant to see you again. Are you well?’That I am, Cataplas. But it is no thanks to you.’I tried to learn, to follow your wisdom and your teachings. But … I am not in the best of health now.’I see that,’ she told him. Approaching the guards she spoke again. ‘Release his arms. He has no power to cause harm.’ They obeyed her and she led the stooped old man into the cabin.