Gemmell, David – Morningstar

The name sent a shiver through me but before I could question her further Megan closed her eyes, passing from consciousness. I had no idea what she had meant, but there was no way she could have spoken literally. The Satan Hounds, more often called the Shadows of Satan, were mythical creatures, said to have walked the earth beside their master following his Fall from Heaven, when the world had been but a glowing ball of molten rock lashed by seething seas of lava.

I guessed that the pain must have made her delirious. The Six were probably no more than warhounds – even so they would be dangerous, for Cataplas had imprinted upon their minds the image of Mace. The talk of souls and auras was, I was sure, a lie to fool only the uninitiated.

Mace arrived within the hour, Piercollo and Eye-patch with him. The hunchback had been left at their camp some two hours’ march to the west. Piercollo lifted the sleeping Megan and cradled her to his chest, her head upon his massive shoulder. She did not wake and none of us spoke as we walked out into the morning.

Mace took the lead, moving smoothly across the forest floor. He was wearing a black sleeveless jerkin of well-oiled leather and a green woollen shirt, with puffed sleeves and cuffs of black leather

that doubled as wristguards. As usual he wore his high riding-boots and trews of green. He had no cap today, and the sun glinted on blond highlights in his auburn hair. Wide-shouldered and slim of hip, he looked every inch the hero that he ought to have been -the warrior of legend, the Forest Lord.

I looked away and thought of Cataplas. I had been surprised when I saw him in the service of Azrek and yet, upon considera­tion, I should not have been. He was an amiable man, yet remote. Polite and courteous, but without feeling, lacking understanding of human emotions. His skills had always been awesome and his search for knowledge carried out with endless dedication. I can remember many pleasant evenings in his company, enjoying his wit and his intelligence, his skills as a storyteller and his incomparable talent. But I cannot remember a single act of simple kindness.

We entered the outskirts of the town of Ocrey, located the home of Osian – a slender old man, toothless and near blind – and laid Megan carefully upon a narrow pallet bed. Osian said nothing when we arrived but waited, silent and unmoving, for our departure. We slipped away into the gathering darkness, crossing several hills and streams before Mace chose a camp-site in a sheltered hollow.

Piercollo built a small fire and we settled around it.

I was saddened by what had happened to Megan, but also irritated by the lack of reaction in Mace. This was his friend and I had rescued her; yet not a word of praise was forthcoming. His head pillowed on his arm, he slept by the fire. Piercollo nodded off, his back to a wide oak tree, and I sat miserably in the company of Eye-patch, who had said not one word on this long day.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked him suddenly, as he leaned forward to add a dry stick to the fire.

His single eye glanced up and he stared at me for a long moment. ‘What is it to you?’ he responded.

It was not said in a challenging way and I shrugged. ‘I am just making conversation. I am not tired.’What happened to the old woman? Mace said she was unhurt by the Burning.’

‘She was, but a sorcerer cast a spell of Fire.’He accepted that without comment, then hawked and spat. ‘You can’t deal with magickers,’ he said at last. ‘Not one of them has a soul. Their hearts are shrivelled and black.’A generalization, I think.’A what?’You are putting all magickers together, saying they are all the same. That is not so.’An expert, are you?’ he hissed.

‘I would not say so. But there are men who learn the art of Healing, spending their lives in the service of others. They are magickers.’He thought for a moment. They are doctors,’ he announced, as if that ended the discussion. ‘Sorcerers are different.’Indeed they are,’ I agreed. He seemed pleased.

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