‘Why tell me?’ asked Jarek, not unkindly.
‘You’re a wandering man, Mace. There’s nothing here for any of us now, so I guess you’ll be traveling on. I’d like to accompany you.’
‘You don’t even like me, Wulf.’
‘True enough — but I liked what I saw on the road. I liked it when you stopped them — right well I liked it. You ain’t one of us, Mace — more like you are one of them. But, by God’s Holy Eyes, you were a Highlander at that moment.’
Jarek Mace chuckled, then reached out and laid his hand on Wulfs twisted back. ‘You are the best woodsman I’ve ever known,’ he said. ‘Having you with us will mean good food and less time lost. You’re welcome. But know this: I don’t intend taking on the Angostins again. There’s no profit in it.’
‘Time will tell about that, Mace,’ said Wulf.
We stayed for two more days, helping the surviving villagers to pack their belongings ready for the trek into the depths of the forest. Hut walls were dismantled and loaded on rough-built carts, and even Garik’s iron stove was hauled clear of the bakery and manhandled on to the wagon.
The dead were buried in a mass grave at the edge of the trees and the Naeser Abbess, Ka-Piana, spoke movingly about the journey of the souls to the Far River. Many tears were shed.
At last, on the morning of the third day, Lanis the Tanner came running into the village. His face red from exertion, he sprinted across the clearing and stumbled to a halt before Jarek Mace.
‘They are coming!’ he said, between great gulps of air. ‘Maybe a hundred horsemen.’
Word spread swiftly and the villagers grabbed the last of their belongings and filed away towards the north and the deep forest. Within minutes only Jarek, Wulf and myself were left in the clearing by the lake. I glanced around. Already the settlement had a lonely feel, abandoned and desolate.
‘Time to go,’ said Mace. Swinging on his heel, he loped away to the north-west and the hills, carrying his longbow in his left hand: his right rested on his longsword, pushing down on the hilt and keeping the scabbard high so that it would not clatter against his leg. Wulf followed him in an ungainly run; he too carried a longbow, and a short, single-bladed hand-axe was thrust into this wide leather belt.
As usual I brought up the rear. I had no sword or bow, bearing only my harp, a money-pouch and the leaf-shaped dagger Wulf had given me. I no longer wore the clothing of a bard; the red and yellow would stand out amid the greens and browns of the forest. Now I was clad in leaf-green trews and an oiled jerkin of deep brown, worn over a rust-coloured woollen shirt. In truth I was a different man from the Owen Odell who had come to the village in the depths of winter. The constant work with the axe had built muscle to my arms and shoulders, and my stamina had increased so that I could run for an hour without being winded.
Which was just as well — for as we reached the hillside we heard the thunder of hooves on the cleared ground behind us. I glanced back to see men-at-arms riding towards us. The trees were not far ahead now, but even so I experienced a moment of panic.
Jarek and Wulf did not even bother to look back, but I increased my pace, passing them both to reach the tree-line some thirty paces ahead. There I stopped and waited for the others.
Mace came to a halt and strung his longbow. Wulf did the same.
Three of the leading riders were galloping their lathered mounts up the hillside. Jarek hefted his bow, pulled an arrow from his leather quiver and swiftly notched it to the string. The bow came up. Apparently without aiming, he loosed the arrow which plunged home into the chest of the leading rider. He pitched from the saddle, closely followed by a second man, shot through the throat by a shaft from Wulf. The third rider dragged on the reins, turning his horse so fast that the beast fell and rolled over him.
Jarek and Wulf spun on their heels and moved back into the undergrowth, angling away from the route taken by the villagers and leading the enemy further into the forest.
Within the hour all sounds of pursuit had faded and we were far into the hills, following game trails and narrow tracks totally unsuited to travel on horseback.
The Highlands are beautiful in spring, ablaze with colour and life. From the high mountain-sides the forest below becomes an ocean of green flowing through countless valleys, vast and breathtaking, held in check only by the white-topped mountains standing like snow giants of legend.
For days we wandered, traversing steep slopes or scrambling down into deep glens, camping in hollows or caves. Wulf caught several hares and, on the third day, Jarek killed a big-horn sheep and we dined that night on fat mutton and fried liver.
I had no idea where we were heading, nor did I care. The air was fresh, my limbs were young and full of strength, and my eyes could scarce drink in the wonder of my surroundings.
I know it may seem callous, considering the tragedy so recently behind us, but it seemed to me then that nothing could surpass my joy. I was alive and surrounded by beauty on a massive scale.
But then we met Piercollo….
Of us all he came closest to being the reality within the myth. There are more stories about him than any of us, including the Morningstar. And while the greater part of them are inventions or distortions, if life had placed him in those fictitious situations of peril he would have reacted just as the storytellers claim.
Added to which, there was never any malice in Piercollo. I do not believe he ever truly learned to hate. And what a voice! When he sang, such was the warmth and emotion that he could stave off winter. I’d swear that if he burst into song in an icy glade the snow would melt and spring flowers push up through the frozen earth just to hear him.
Of them all, I miss him the most.
We were walking down into a shaded glen. The sun was high, just past noon on a warm spring day. Jarek Mace was leading us and we were moving north-west towards the distant market town of Lualis. As usual I brought up the rear, walking behind Wulf whose mood on this day was sullen, the loss of his family heavy upon him.
Then we heard the sound of a man singing, his voice rich, the language unknown to me. But the song soared out above and through the trees with a power I could scarce believe. My skin tingled with the excitement of it, and I knew that this… unknown… singer was performing for the forest, just as I had months before with my harp. He was singing from the heart, carrying the music from the well of his soul and releasing it into the air like a flock of golden birds.
Mace dropped back to where Wulf and I stood spellbound.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Jarek Mace. Wulf’s hand slashed the air, commanding silence, and we stood for several minutes and listened. At last the song faded. Mace looked at us both, then chuckled and shook his head. Stringing his bow, he strode off in the direction from which the song had come. As we followed him there came the aroma of roasting meat. We had breakfasted on wild turkey and were far from hungry, yet the smell made the mouth water and the stomach growl. Suddenly it was as if I had not eaten in days, such was my new-found appetite.
We came to a clearing beside a swift-flowing stream. There, beside a trench fire-pit upon which a whole sheep was being turned upon a spit, sat a huge black-bearded man. He was wearing a purple shirt and hose of wool, and about his shoulders was a chequered black and white shawl. He glanced up as we emerged from the trees, but did not stand or greet us.
‘Good day to you,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘I see we are in time for lunch’
‘You are in time to watch me eat my lunch,’ agreed the man amiably. The voice was deep, and heavily accented. He smiled as he spoke, but the smile did not reach the sombre brown eyes.