Gemmell, David – Morningstar

‘There must be twenty men out there,’ he said.

There are a dozen more beyond the back door,’ Scoris informed us, his face red and his eyes showing his fear.

‘They were hidden in the church,’ said Astiana. ‘The priest warned me and I came as fast as I could.’I moved to the window. Lykos, in full armour and helm, a sword in his hand, sat upon a grey gelding. The helm’s visor was partly open and I could see that his eye was bandaged, the wound seeping blood which had stained the cloth. Around him were men-at-arms, several with crossbows aimed at the door but most armed with swords.

‘I have a cellar,’ said Scoris. ‘There is a tunnel that leads out into the storehouse and barn. Use it quickly!’Mace took his bow and notched an arrow to the string. ‘Not yet!’ he said grimly. Drawing back on the string, he gave a swift instruction to Wulf. The hunchback moved behind the door and suddenly wrenched it open. Three crossbow shafts hammered into the wood, a fourth slashing through the doorway to punch home into the wall.

Mace stepped into the doorway. ‘I told you what would happen, Lykos, when next we met.’ The cross-bowmen were frantically seeking to reload, the swordsmen standing by uselessly. Mace raised his bow, the arrow flashing through the air to lance between visor and helm, and Lykos reeled back in the saddle, the shaft

piercing his brain. For a moment he sat stock-still, then his body fell, his foot catching in the stirrup. Such was the clang of the armour as it struck the ground that the gelding reared and fled in panic, the armoured corpse with foot caught dragging behind. Several men ran after the beast, the others charged the tavern.

Mace leapt back inside, slamming shut-the door. Wulf lowered the guard-bar into place. Scoris waved us out into the kitchen, lifting a trap-door; there was a narrow flight of stairs leading down into darkness.

‘Go quickly!’ said Scoris, handing Piercollo a lit lantern.

‘You will be in great trouble for this,’ I said.

‘No matter!’Mace was behind him. I saw his hand come up, heard the thud of the blow on the man’s neck, then Scoris fell forward upon me. Lowering his unconscious body to the ground, I rounded on Mace. ‘What have you done?’Protected him as best I can. Now move!’Piercollo went first, followed by Ilka, Astiana, Wulf and myself. Mace pulled shut the trap-door behind us and brought up the rear. The cellar was dank, but filled with the sweet smell of cider casks. Swiftly we crossed it, coming to a tunnel which sloped upward. At the far end, some twenty paces distant, we could see a thin shaft of light. Piercollo doused the lantern and we silently approached the storehouse. Sliding back the bolts on the hinged trap-doors we emerged into the building. All was silent inside, but we could hear the distant shouts of the disappointed soldiers back at the tavern.

The store was filled with hanging carcasses of salted meats, barrels of apples and other fruit, sacks of flour and sugar, oats and wheat. There were two great doors, wide enough to allow the passage of wagons, and a side exit leading to the north.

Wulf opened the side door, peering out. There was no one in sight.

And the trees were but a few hundred feet away.

We ran across the open ground, every moment fearing the sound of pursuit. But we passed unseen from Willow and once more entered the forest.

The songs talk of the fight with Lykos, telling us that Mace met

him in single combat while Astiana stood on a scaffold with a rope around her neck. But life is rarely like the songs, my dear ghost.

That is a sorry fact for a bard to learn. For we like our heroes pure, you see – golden men, demi-gods without flaw. Just as we like our villains to be black-hearted and vile. When men sit in taverns, supping their ale and listening to poets regaling them with epic stories, they cannot be bothered to think. They do not wish their enjoyment to be sullied by shades of grey. No, they desire only sinister black and spotless white. And are women any different? No, again. Forced by their fathers – yes, even sold by them – into a life of servitude and drudgery, they need to believe there are heroes. They look at the dull, flat features of their husbands and they dream of golden-haired men who would slay dragons for them.

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