The child was unharmed, and such was Wulf s delight that he made me a present of an ornate dagger with a leaf-shaped blade and a ruby encased in gold at the hilt. He also grabbed my shoulders, dragged me down and kissed me on both cheeks — an altogether unpleasant experience.
But in the days that followed, when I was out among the villagers I would be greeted with smiles and people would enquire, politely, after my health.
It was two months before news of the war filtered through to the village. A traveling tinker, well-known to Wulf and therefore allowed to pass through, came to us one bright cold morning. He told of the fall of Ziraccu, the slaughter of its inhabitants. Count Leopold had been found hiding in the granary; his eyes were put out and he was placed in a cage and hanged from the ruined walls.
Then the army had moved on to the north. Thankfully they avoided this part of the forest.
During the evenings I would sit with Megan, listening to tales of the Highlands. They were fine, companionable times. Jarek Mace was often absent, traveling to other settlements yet always returning with news, or coin, or venison.
‘What were you like when younger?’ I asked Megan one evening, when Jarek was abroad on one of his journeys.
‘I was like this,’ she answered. Golden light bathed her from head to toe, and her short-cropped iron-grey hair was replaced by golden curls hanging free to milk-white shoulders. Her face was beautiful beyond description, her eyes blue as the summer sky, her lips full. Her figure was slim, but the breasts were large in comparison; her neck long and sleek, the skin smooth as porcelain.
I was lost for words — but not at her beauty. This was one of the Seven Great Spells, and only masters of the craft could weave one so casually,’
‘Where did you learn such a piece?’ I asked.
The beautiful woman shrugged and smiled. ‘Long ago, from a man named Cataplas.’
‘He was my teacher,’ I told her.
‘I know.’
‘But I had not the skill to learn the Seven.’
‘There is yet time,’ she said, letting fall the spell.
‘You are noble-born,’ I pointed out. ‘The gown you conjured was purest satin, and there were pearls at neck and cuff.’
‘You think I would create sacking to wear?’ she countered.
‘Why must you be so mysterious, lady?’
‘Why must you be so inquisitive?’
‘The first words you spoke to me were, ‘Do you not bow in the presence of a lady?’ Not a woman — a lady. That intrigued me at the time; it still does. You were not born in the village.’
‘You are wrong, master bard. My family were traveling at the time of my birth, and I was born in a village such as this. Far to the north. But I came here twenty years ago, and I have been content.’
‘But what is there here for you?’
‘Peace,’ she answered.
‘Why does Jarek Mace stay with you? Is he a relative?’
‘No. Just a man.’
‘I wish you would tell me more, Megan. I feel… there is so much more to know.’
‘There is always more to know,’ she chided. ‘Even as you lie on your death-bed there will be more to know. Are you another Cataplas in an endless search for knowledge? It is not the mark of a wise man, Owen.’
I shrugged. ‘How can the search for knowledge be foolish?’ I countered.
‘When it is conducted for its own sake. A man who seeks to learn how to irrigate a field in order to grow more crops has not only increased his knowledge but has found the means to make life better for his fellows. Learning must be put to use.’
‘Perhaps Cataplas will do exactly that when he believes he knows enough.’
She did not answer me at first but stirred the coals in the fire, adding fresh wood to the flickering flames. ‘There was once a prince in this land, to the north of here, who had a quest for knowledge. He was a good man, a kind man, but his quest became an obsession. His brothers, also good men, tried to sway him; he was a fine magicker, and he became a great sorcerer. But even this was not enough. He travelled across the sea, passing from land to land, ever seeking; he journeyed into desolate mountains and subterranean caverns, sought out lost cities, and communed with spirits and demons. After twelve years he returned, late one night, to the city of his birth. His brothers ruled that city wisely and well. In the summer the water was clean, filtered through sand and shale. In the winter the storehouses were full, and no one starved. But then he returned. Within the week travelers began to notice that the gates of the city were always shut, and woodsmen carried tales of screams and sounds of terror within the grey walls.
‘The days passed into weeks. No one left the silent city. People began to gather from the villages and towns, staring at the towering walls, wondering what secrets were hidden there. Several men scaled those walls, but none returned.
‘And then one night the gates opened. And the people saw…‘ At that moment the white face of a Vampyre appeared in front of my eyes, his teeth white, the canines long and sharp and hollow. I screamed and fell back, toppling from my chair. Megan’s laughter filled the cabin as I scrambled up, embarrassed and yet still fearful, my heart hammering.
‘That was unkind,’ I admonished her.
‘But wondrously entertaining.’ Her smile faded and she spread her hands. ‘I am sorry, Owen. I could not resist it.’
‘You had me convinced the tale was true. You are a fine storyteller.’
‘Oh, it was true,’ she said. ‘Have you not heard of Golgoleth and the Vampyre Kings? Two thousand years ago these lands knew great terror and tragedy. For the prince, Golgoleth, had returned as a creature of darkness, a Vampyre. He tainted the souls of his brothers, joining them to him and bringing them the dark joys of the Undead. And then the evil spread throughout the city, and ultimately throughout the land.’
‘I have heard of Golgoleth,’ I told her. ‘It is a tale to frighten naughty children: Be good or Golgoleth will come for you. But I doubt the truth of the story as it is now told. I see him as an evil man and a practitioner of the Black Arts, but not as an undying immortal feasting on blood.’
‘He did not feast on blood, poet, but on innocence. But perhaps you are right. Perhaps it was fable.’
Talons scraped upon the wood of the roof and I leapt from my seat. Then an owl hooted and I heard the flapping of wings in the night.
‘Just fable,’ said Megan, smiling, her eyes mocking. ‘Will you sleep now — or perhaps you need a stroll into the forest? It is very pleasant in the moonlight.’
I grinned then and shook my head. ‘I think I will just go to sleep — and save my walk for the dawn.’
Spring came early, the thaw swelling the mountain streams, bright beautiful flowers growing on the hillsides. It was on the third day of spring that Garik’s sheep were slaughtered, and great excitement followed. Huge tracks were found near the two butchered animals and Wulf, the senior woodsman, pronounced them to be Troll-spoor.
There were three of the creatures, likely a mated pair with a cub. They were far from the Troll passes, the high cold peaks of the north-west, and it was rare, Wulf informed me, to find the beasts so far south.
The men of the village armed themselves with bow, spear and axe and set off in pursuit. I went with them, for I had never seen a Troll and was anxious to increase my knowledge. There are many tales of the beasts in legend, almost all of them involving the kidnap and eating of children or maidens. But in all my long life I have never come across a recorded incident where Trolls feasted on human flesh.
We followed the trail for two days as it wound higher into the mountains. One of the beasts walked with a limp — probably the male, pronounced Wulf, for his track was the largest. Often the cub’s spoor would disappear for long periods, but this, I was told, only showed that the female was carrying him.