Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

  Whatever his own feelings, Mendark was not going to be dictated to by Yggur. “Indeed! Let him finish his tale first. Llian, be warned that we will weigh your every word.”

  Llian continued haltingly, knowing he was speaking for his life. The interrogation was worse than any abuse he had suffered from being Zain, but they learned nothing more. Nor did Rulke’s compulsion come to light, for that was buried deep and Llian knew nothing about it.

  “Tell me again how you escaped,” said Yggur, blind eyes glaring through him. He questioned every aspect of Llian’s story, over and over. “I’m not satisfied,” Yggur said at the end.

  “I’ve already told you a dozen times!” Llian cried.

  “Enough, Yggur!” said Mendark. “Karan, Llian, leave us for the moment. Llian, give up your journal and papers.”

  They read through every word, especially the descriptions of Tensor’s gate.

  “We need to discuss this further,” Mendark said, when they had finished with the documents. “I know that Rulke was exhausted, but even so, how could either of them escape? That both did, separately, beggars credibility. Yet I can find no crack in his story.”

  “Nor I,” said Shand and Malien together. Malien signed for the old man to go first.

  “Nor I,” Shand repeated. “But the Zain are cunning liars, as we know. How could anyone resist, least of all Llian? He collaborated with Tensor after all.”

  “Rulke might have let them go,” said Malien.

  “Of course he let them go!” Yggur shouted. “To spy on us! Kill them both, put an end to it.”

  There was a horrified silence. Mendark sprang to his feet. “They haven’t been tried!”

  Yggur retreated a step. “Justice is a weakness we cannot afford with Rulke at large.”

  “Hold on!” replied Mendark. “That’s what your war with Thurkad and me was supposed to be all about—justice! I agree with Malien. Even if Llian has sold himself, what can he do but spy? And if so, which I doubt, the spy can tell us as much about his master.”

  “Just so,” said Malien. “We may learn more about Rulke than he does about us.”

  “You dare, after what Rulke did to me?” said Yggur incredulously. “Be sure, finish him now.”

  “Then perhaps we’d better be sure with you as well,” Mendark said coldly. “I believe Llian, and he has many skills that I would put to use. We need his mind and memory at our councils.”

  They questioned Karan just as carefully, though not as long, and in the end put her under no restraint either. It was as clear as anything could be, where Rulke was concerned, that she had told the truth about her escape.

  By the time the investigation was completed it was long past time to set out, so they hurriedly began the night’s march. In a few hours dawn came with a brilliant flare in the east, and as soon as the sun rose the heat forced them to set up camp again.

  While they were doing that Mendark fell in beside Llian. “There is a matter that I did not raise last night,” he said. “You have an obligation to me for the fifteen years I sponsored you at the college.”

  “I am aware of it,” said Llian. “What do you require of me?”

  “Be sure that you do not forget who is your master,” Men-dark said ominously.

  “I’m afraid,” Llian said after they had gone to their tent.

  Karan lay sweating on a sheet spread out on the crumbly salt. Llian had adapted to the conditions but she could not.

  “I’m so hot. Fasten the flap, please.”

  When Llian had done that she took off all her clothes, spread them over the sheet and lay down again, trying to get away from the heat coming up from the ground. Her luminously pale skin was shiny with perspiration.

  Llian was peering out through the flap of the tent. “Fan me,” she said.

  He waved his journal listlessly back and forth. The waft stirred her curls. She sighed. “I don’t know how I am going to survive this journey.”

  “I don’t know if I am,” he replied somberly.

  Karan sat up and took his hand, at once contrite. “Llian, I’m sorry! I’m so selfish.”

  “I’m frightened of Basitor and Yggur.”

  “Mendark seems to be on your side.”

  “Only because he wants something from me! I’m afraid of everyone now, except you. And most of all Rulke. Karan, the temptation was unbearable. That time when I… when I searched your room for the Mirror, that was nothing to this.”

  She drew him down. They lay together, saying nothing, but sweating more than the heat required.

  Karan had been feeling on edge all the night’s march. When they stopped at dawn she ate her skagg silently then went immediately to the tent, which Llian had put up in the shade of a low ridge. She threw off her clothes again and slept, not waking when he came in shortly after.

  The day wore on, and it was hot even by the standards of the Dry Sea. The whole camp slept—no need for guards out here.

  Karan gave a little sigh and turned over in her sleep. Her eyes began to race under their lids. She began to pant. “Ohh!” she said, making a moaning sound in her throat that could have been pleasure or pain. “Ohh, ohh, ohh!”

  Llian woke from his own fractured sleep to see her jerk upright. Her eyes were open, her arms held out like a sleep walker. Rising to her feet, she drew her arms back to her chest, took three deep breaths, standing spread-legged like a weightlifter, then gave a loud, groaning cry and forced her arms straight up as if lifting a weight above her head.

  One hand knocked out the ridgepole, collapsing the canvas around her. She struck blindly at the cloth over her face then folded up on the floor, bringing the tent down on them both.

  Llian lifted it up again. Karan was awake now, staring at him with a look of hungry despair. “I’m scared, Llian.” She took his hand, then the rest of the company were outside the tent, crying out what was the matter.

  “Karan had a bad dream,” said Llian, putting his head out.

  They went away again, though Yggur gave Llian a long smoldering stare as if he could pierce through the veil of blindness and see right into his mind.

  “What was your dream?” Llian asked once everyone had gone and the tent was back up.

  “I dreamed about Rulke. He was standing on top of his construct like a conquering hero and beams of light were coming out the front of it. The light burned everything it touched. He’s coming, Llian!”

  “Yes!” Llian whispered back. “He’s coming!”

  She lay down again, staring at the canvas. She could no longer sleep. Karan had left out part of her dream. Llian had been there too, standing at Rulke’s right hand like the most faithful of servants.

  * * *

  The following day Karan and Llian were trudging along at the rear, traversing a landscape of a thousand head-high knobs, pinnacles and winding, maze-like gullies. The others were well ahead. They turned a corner and Yggur stood in the middle of the path, blocking their way. Llian looked over his shoulder to see huge Basitor step out behind them.

  Llian froze. “What is it?” said Karan absently, still lost in her own worries.

  “Spies!” Basitor spat. “Traitors!”

  “Liars!” said Yggur. “Sit down, Karan and Llian. We’re going to have a little talk.”

  No choice but to do so—the rest of the company were out of earshot. They sat on a weathered ledge of salt the color of yellow ocher. Basitor drew a long knife with a chisel point.

  “Now, Llian,” Yggur said, “you will tell me what happened last night or…” He nodded toward Basitor.

  The big Aachim squatted down in front of Karan. “Or I gouge out her eyes.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Karan said calmly. She was terrified but dared not show it. “I dreamed about Rulke. He was standing on his construct and a great light shone out the front of it.”

  Yggur brought his face right up to hers, staring at her nose to nose. “And that’s all?” he asked, his breath sour on her face. His pupils were glazed
with a yellow film.

  “Yes,” she whispered, but her eyes drifted sideways as she spoke. She could not stop them.

  “She’s lying!” Basitor cried, thrusting out his knife until the point touched her lower eyelid. “Speak true, Karan, or I swear I’ll have your eyeballs dangling down your cheeks.”

  “Karan,” Llian yelped, “if there’s any more, tell them!”

  Tears of terror were running down her cheeks. She shook her head.

  “Then do him!” Yggur grated, jerking his head at Llian.

  Llian flung his head to one side, cracking his ear against hard salt. Basitor grabbed him by the jaw, squeezing hard. His other hand brought the knife up to Llian’s eye. Llian went as rigid as an iron gate, staring unblinking at the point.

  “Well, Karan?” said Yggur nastily. “What is it to be? Your lover’s eyes or…?” He slowly brought the knife lower.

  “I dreamed that Llian was there too, standing beside Rulke,” she said in a rush. “But that’s all it was—a dream!”

  “That proves his villainy. Is there anything else you want to tell us?” Basitor said, pricking Llian’s groin.

  “No,” she said softly. “There was nothing else.” Llian’s eyes were watering. She gently wiped the tears from his cheek.

  The knife prodded back up. “We haven’t finished yet, by a long mark,” said Yggur. ‘Tell us about the Nightland, Llian. Tell us what you really did there those five days by yourself.”

  Llian began to tell the story again, but Yggur interrupted. “We’ve heard that story. Tell us the real story.”

  Llian shook his head. They would maim him, gouge out his eyes, for he had nothing more to tell. Karan saw their only chance. Yggur was awkward, practically blind. She could get away from him easily. But Basitor was another thing entirely—very fast, very agile. She might escape him but Llian never would.

  Karan’s hand was on the ground beside her seat. It closed on gritty dust and as Basitor moved the knife between Llian and her, she flung her handful into his eyes.

  It blinded him but Basitor kept going, lunging with the knife toward the place he knew Karan to be, throwing his other arm sideways in case she darted that way.

  Llian hooked his foot around Basitor’s leg, bringing him down. The knife arced toward Karan with all his weight behind it. She jerked frantically to one side, the knife jammed into the salt beside her throat, then Basitor slammed down on top of her, cracking heads.

  For an instant he was stunned, just enough time for the normally clumsy Llian to snatch the knife.

  “Help!” Llian roared at the top of his voice. “Stay where you are, Yggur! Help, help!” He twisted his hand in the neck of Basitor’s robes and pulled them tight, at the same time pressing the knife hard against the base of the Aachim’s skull. “Roll off Karan, very slowly. Any sudden move and I’ll drive the knife right through your spine.”

  Basitor’s muscles tensed. Afraid of his enemy, Llian pressed really hard. “I will!” he hissed, twisting the cloth until Basitor began to choke. Yggur made a surreptitious move. “Stay where you are,” grated Llian, “or I kill your only friend, blind man!”

  Suddenly the Aachim relaxed and rolled sideways, enough for Karan to crawl out from beneath. There was a huge lump on her forehead and another at the back where it had been driven against the rock salt. She looked dazed.

  Llian gave her his hand. “Come on!” he said. “Out of my way, Yggur!” He thrust the knife at his face, making sure that even Yggur could see it.

  Yggur pressed back against the canyon wall. “I never forget!” he hissed. “Live in fear for the rest of your life. I swear that I will bring you to ruin, however long it takes.”

  16

  * * *

  SALTSTORM

  Karan sat down on a blocky outcrop of salt, mopping her brow. She reeked, and so did everyone else, for not a drop of water could be spared for washing, and there was no point in changing one set of sweaty, salt-saturated clothes for another just as foul. A desperate, grinding week had passed but their progress had been negligible. Every afternoon there had been a saltstorm that lasted well into the night, precious traveling time lost, and as it was the time of the new moon the nights were very dark. They were still in the lava fields, treacherous country that was dangerous at night, so each day they began as soon as there was light enough to see and walked until the heat became unbearable.

  Seven days after Karan and Llian had rejoined the rest of the company, they crossed off the basalt to a place where the salt had been forced up into blocks as tall as towers, or broken into cracks and crevasses, and the upthrust blocks were sculpted by the wind into fantastic shapes.

  The path now led along the base of a wind-carved canyon some eight or ten spans high, with a flat floor of gritty salt that squeaked underfoot. It was hard to walk on but at least there was shade, allowing them a few more hours of travel each day.

  Karan and Llian were together at the rear, not the best position because they breathed dust stirred up by those in front. Llian preferred to walk behind because he could see where everyone was. Neither could speak; their mouths were too dry. Anyway, they had exhausted all conversation long ago—everyone was too irritable.

  In the mid-afternoon, with flat country ahead of them, they set out again. A murky yellow cloud hung in the hazy distance. They trudged on, wanting to make as much progress as possible before they were forced to camp.

  “This looks worse than the others,” Osseion muttered. The cloud was much bigger than any other saltstorm they had experienced. It was a monster, the dust towering as tall as thunderheads, an awesome sight on the featureless plains.

  “Hoy!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  The lead Aachim, far ahead, kept plodding head-down across the salt. Osseion wrenched the hand axe off his pack, banging on the metal base of the water sled to catch their attention.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! They woke to the danger and came plodding back. Already the saltstorm covered half the sky.

  “Tents won’t hold against this,” shouted Asper.

  “There were caves back there,” yelled Karan.

  They ran down a split in a buttress of salt. Further along it became a cave blasted out by the storms of ages past.

  “No good!” said Shand. “The wind’s blowing straight in.”

  “No time to find a better one,” Asper shouted above the noise of the wind. The advance gusts were already stinging their eyes with grit. “If we make a door with our tents and sleds…”

  “It’ll never hold in this wind.”

  “If it doesn’t, we’re dead!”

  They retreated into the cave, which was twenty or thirty paces long, winding and multi-branched. The walls and roof were wind-scoured layers of red, brown and yellow-colored salt, the floor salt gravel that crunched underfoot. The Aachim worked furiously, one group unstitching their tents while others took apart the water sleds and reassembled them into a frame the size and shape of the entrance, to which they would fasten the tent canvas to make a door.

  “Hurry!” Mendark yelled, but the work could not go any faster.

  A dust gale blasted in, whiting out the shelter. Karan scrunched herself up in a corner with her back to the wind. She had her cloak over her face but still the dust got through. Beside her she could hear Llian choking.

  Just as the door was being installed the storm struck in fury. The canvas cracked like a whip. Osseion and a group of Aachim, who were holding the frame, were driven hard back against the wall by the wind. Someone yelped, then the door was torn out of their hands and hurled across the cave, right at Llian.

  Basitor, who was walking by, threw himself to his right and caught the frame with one hand. It whipped him off his feet, his arms and legs whirled in the air, then the edge of the frame crunched into the wall beside Llian’s jaw. Basitor thudded after it.

  Llian scrambled up. “You saved my life!” he said incredulously.

  Basitor rolled over. Coming to his k
nees, he spat out blood and a broken tooth. Then he smiled, a warming smile, and Llian realized what a brave friend Basitor could have been, in other circumstances.

  Slowly the smile faded. “But what have I saved it for?” said Basitor. He turned away, his arm hanging oddly.

  “Asper, I think I’ve dislocated my shoulder.” Asper inspected the injury. “Hold still.” With a quick snap that brought tears to Basitor’s eyes he popped the shoulder back in its socket.

  The canvas was still flapping, the twisted frame trying to lift itself into the air again. Wind roared in through the door, filling the room with white. Karan sat on it, pulled her hood over her head and waited.

  The squall passed. The Aachim stood around the frame, planning how to re-form the twisted metal. After half an hour or so they had the door up again. It flapped, booming like a big drum. Every gust sent puffs of salt squirting in through the gaps. Osseion was covered in layers of white dust, scalloped up his arms like tiny sand dunes. Everyone else was the same.

  All that night the wind howled down the canyon, wailing like the wind in Shazmak, though more unnerving; snapping the canvas, putting even the Aachim on edge.

  The next day dawned. There were now many more empty waterbags than full ones. The cavern was dimly lit by day with a pale yellow light seeping through crevasses in the salt. Their nights were lit by the globes purloined from Katazza. They went over their situation again and again. Llian’s news of the construct had taken away their last hope. Rulke had a potent new weapon, while they were in disarray and faced a journey of months just to return to Thurkad. And what would they find there?

  Tensor sat dully, head bowed, taking no account of anything. But occasionally when Llian was talking, or even sitting silently, he would look up to find the Aachim’s gaze on him, a stare so impersonal that it stripped away all his petty secrets and self-delusions. Seemingly Tensor’s soul was so bare that the secrets of others could not be hidden from him. At such times Llian was reminded of Rulke’s offered reward—knowledge that a chronicler could only dream about. Desire for it burned so hot that he was sure it showed on his face. He felt that Tensor was reading him—reading a betrayal that Llian had committed but could not remember. Had he? And if he had, why would Tensor protect his secret?