‘What a strange question, Owen. What would you have me say? I was born in a village that was too insignificant to have a name. My mother was a whore – at least that’s what the villagers believed, for she bore a son out of wedlock. I used to dream that my father was the lord of the manor and that one day he would acknowledge me, take me into his own home and name me as ‘his heir. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. My mother died when I was twelve. I found work in a traveling circus, walking the high wire, juggling and tumbling. Then I became a soldier. Then I came here. That is me . . . that is Jarek Mace.’Of course it isn’t,’ I told him. That is merely a precis of a life. It says nothing of the man. What do you believe in? What do you love? What do you aspire to be?’I want my castle by the sea,’ he said, with a rueful smile.
‘What about a wife, children?’He shrugged. ‘I had a woman once, lived with her for months. I cannot see there will ever be anyone to keep me content for longer than that.’What happened to her?’I have no idea, Owen. She got fat and pregnant, so I left.’
‘You never went back?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Why should I?’You have a son somewhere – or a daughter. You don’t wish to see your child?’I think I have many children; I hope to have many more. But I don’t wish to see them grow, to smell their soiled wrappings, to listen to them mewling and crying.’And friendship?’ I enquired. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’What is friendship, Owen? Two men each requiring something from the other. Well, I require nothing from anyone, therefore I need no friends.’You have never known love, have you, Jarek? You have no conception of what it entails. Just as when you talked of Piercollo’s songs; for you they were meaningless sounds. I feel great pity for you. You are not really alive. You are a man apart, self-obsessed and, I would guess, very lonely.’You would guess wrong,’ he said. ‘I know what love is. It is a swelling in the loins that is soon satisfied. It is a stolen kiss under moonlight. Nothing more. But you bards build it up with sweet words and many promises, songs of broken hearts and true love. It is all dung. I never met a wife who wouldn’t succumb to my advances while her husband was away. So much for marital love!’ He leaned forward and shook his head. ‘You don’t pity me, Owen. You envy me. I am everything you would desire to be.’For a moment I was silent, but I held his gaze. ‘I think you need to believe that. I think it is important to you.’What is important is that I get some sleep,’ he said. Sitting up, he wrapped a blanket around his broad shoulders and threw several chunks of wood on the fire. Just as he was lying down I saw his eyes narrow. ‘Look at that,’ he said softly and I turned.
The arrow Wulf had fired into the door beam was glowing with a gentle white light. Throwing back his blanket, Mace reached for his sword. As he pulled the blade clear of the scabbard, it was no longer black but shining as if made from starlight.
‘What is happening, Owen?’ he whispered.
My mouth was dry, my heart beating wildly as I drew my own hunting-knife. It too shone brilliantly. ‘I don’t know.’Smoothly he rose and, sword in hand, moved towards the
ruined doors. Holding my dagger before me I followed him. As we neared the doorway we heard sounds from the courtyard beyond, scraping and rustling, the shuffling of boots upon the stones.
A figure loomed up before us. Dirt and mud clung to his helm, and the hand that held the rusted sword wore what appeared to be a tattered gauntlet. But it was no gauntlet. The skin of the hand hung in flapping tatters, the tendons twisted. Worms and maggots glided between the bones.
I gagged and fell back before the apparition, but Mace leapt forward, his sword fashioning an arc of light as it cut through the cadaver’s shoulder, cleaving down to exit under the left arm. The Undead warrior made no sound as the body fell. Mace stepped across the corpse and raised his sword high.