‘Listen to me,’ said Mace, his voice soothing. ‘If we stay here, we’re going to die. Now that’s fine for an ugly little man like you, who has nothing to live for. But for someone like me – tall, handsome and charming – it’s a galling thought. Now you wouldn’t want to be responsible for the tears of a thousand women, would you?’Wulf’s answer was short, to the point and utterly disgusting. But he laughed and the tension eased.
Slowly we made our way down into the valley. It was cold, the night breeze chilling as it whispered through the trees.
‘What is this place?’ I asked Wulf.
‘You perform it often enough, Owen,’ he replied. ‘This is where Rabain fought the assassins. We just entered the realm of the Vampyre Kings.’,
The valley floor was lit by moonlight which turned the streams to ribbons of silver, the grass on the hillside to shards of shining iron. I shivered when Wulf spoke, the cold wind blowing around my back and legs. He laughed at my fear, but I could see his own in the gleam of his eyes and the wary way he glanced around at the shadowed trees.
The Vampyre Kings! Dread creatures, the fabric of nightmare, but dead now for a thousand years, I told myself, seeking comfort in the thought.
How could I be frightened?
Yet I was. Rabain had killed the Three on the fabled Night of the Seventh Star, after the Battle of Coulin. He and his men had stormed the Grey Castle, dousing the great gates with oil and setting them ablaze, fighting their way through the courtyards and alleyways into the palace keep. Jerain the Archer had slain the first of the Kings, a shaft of silver piercing his eye. Boras the Cyclops had killed the second, catching him upon the battlements and hurling him to oblivion on the rocks below. But it was Rabain who slew the last – and greatest – of the Vampyre Kings. Golgoleth had taken refuge in his throne room, surrounded by demons sharp-fanged and armed with serrated swords. Rabain and the enchantress Horga had come upon them as they were in the midst of creating a dark enchantment that might have turned the battle. Horga’s spells sundered the demons while Rabain and Golgoleth did battle.
It was a fine story, incorporating trolls and Elven princes, vicious sorcerers and cunning demons. And very popular in the northlands, where they take their fables seriously.
Yet here was Owen Odell, Angostin by birth and temperament, trembling with terror in a dark valley, victim to barbarous superstition.
‘Why is it so cold?’ I asked Wulf, as we walked deeper into the darkness.
‘Sorcery,’ he whispered.
‘Horse-dung!’ declared Jarek Mace. ‘The valley is deep. Cold air falls, hot air rises. Cast a Wanning spell, Owen. You’ll feel better.’
‘Piercollo does not like this place,’ stated the Tuscanian. ‘It has the smell of decay.’Mildew,’ said Mace. ‘You can see it on the bushes.’ We crossed the valley floor and Wulf glanced back to the crest of the valley. He pointed at the soldiers lined there, small as children’s toys in the distance. They made no attempt to follow us. ‘More sense than we have,’ Wulf muttered. Their lack of movement troubled me and I spoke to Mace about it, but he merely shrugged. ‘Superstition. It is just a valley, Owen, leading to the Troll Reaches. About sixty miles from here is the source of the Deeway River, and beyond that the cities of Casley and Keras. No demons, just thick forest and a few Trolls. The Trolls will not bother us. They fear men – and rightly so.’Looking back, I saw that the soldiers had gone. I spoke to Wulf as we walked on. ‘Why did we come here?’ ‘Mace’s idea,’ he answered. ‘Don’t blame me!’ ‘No, I meant why did we move in this direction at all?’ ‘No choice. The soldiers were behind us all the way.’ ‘But we could have cut to the east, or the west.’ ‘I tried that, but they were circling behind. I couldn’t be sure where they were.’Then perhaps we were steered this way?’ Wulf halted, then turned to me. ‘You could be right, bard.’ ‘No, he is not!’ hissed Mace, looming out of the dark. ‘You are like two children trying to frighten one another. We chose which way to run; they merely followed us. And now they are too cowardly to follow further. And if I hear one more word about Vampyre Kings, ghosts, spirits or Trolls, I shall crack a skull or two!’We trudged on in silence, Ilka staying close to the huge form of Piercollo, Mace leading. Wulf, his bow strung, walking just behind me.