‘I think,’ said Piercollo softly, ‘that it is easier to build a legend than to be one.’Why do you stay?’ I asked him. This is not your land – or your war. And the man who blinded you is dead. There is no need for you to stand at the last battle.’Evil has no nationality,’ he answered. ‘And Piercollo will stand beside his friends. It is all he knows.’We walked on. Wulf killed a pheasant and we shared the meat by a dusk fire. The hunchback was in a surly mood, argumentative and short-tempered, and well before midnight he had wrapped himself in his blanket and was asleep.
Piercollo was in no mood to talk, and he too dozed with his back to a broad tree. My mind was too full for sleep and I sat by the fire, lost in thought.
Around midnight I thought I heard faint music and strained to locate the source of the sound, but it danced at the edge of hearing, softer than the whisper of a breeze through leaves. Adding twigs to the fire, I leaned back against a boulder and wished I had brought my harp with me. I had a need for music, for the release it brings.
Piercollo stirred and stretched. He saw me sitting there and smiled. ‘You need to sleep, my friend.’Not yet.’ Idly he drew his dagger and began to whittle at a length of wood, cutting shavings for a future fire. Suddenly his knife snapped at the hilt.
‘It was poor iron,’ he said, hurling the broken weapon aside.
‘You should have taken one of the enchanted blades,’ I told him, drawing my own black dagger and tossing it to him. He continued to whittle in silence. ‘Will you go back to Tuscania?’ I asked him.
‘I hope so, Owen.’And will you try your luck at the competition again?’He shook his head. ‘I think not. The music is gone from me; they burned it out with my eye.’That must not prove to be true, for then evil will have conquered you. A small victory, perhaps, but one that should not be accepted lightly. As long as the rest of us are deprived of your voice, then Lykos will have won. But when you sing again you will know joy – as will all who hear you. And then Lykos will be but a bad memory.’
‘Maybe one day,’ he said, ‘but not yet.’I did not press him.
The fire was dying down and a strange silence settled on the camp-site. I glanced up. No breeze stirred the leaves, no movement. All was utterly still.
‘What is happening?’ whispered Piercollo. I focused my eyes on the clouds in the moonlit sky. They too had stopped, frozen, like a great painting.
A soft light shone between us, growing and swelling, becoming a doorway of gold. And through it stepped Megan, young and dazzling in her beauty, a gown of golden thread shimmering about her slender frame . . .
She saw me and swung her head. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘Who, lady?’The wielder of the black sword,’ she answered.
My shock at seeing her was immeasurable. I had watched this woman die from the poison inflicted by an assassin’s blade. Yet here she was, in the prime of youth, with no illusion, no magick spell to enhance her beauty.
‘Do you know me, lady?’ I asked softly.
‘No, sir. And my need to find the wielder is pressing. Where is he?’I rose and bowed. ‘You seek the Morningstar, but he is not here. We are his friends. How can we help you?’You cannot help me,’ she said dismissively, her gaze raking the trees around us. ‘You have no idea how far I have travelled, or how great the drain on my energy.’I think I have, Horga. You have travelled across the centuries -and the spell was mighty.’How is it that you know my name?’ she asked.
‘I am also a. . . magicker. And we have already met -in my past and your future. Let us leave it at that. Why do you seek the wielder?’Piercollo was sitting frozen with shock, while Wulf had awoken but had not moved, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of the legendary sorceress. Horga stepped around the fire and approached me, reaching out her hand to touch my head. My fingers closed firmly around her wrist. ‘Trust me, lady, and do not read my mind.’