Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  The sound of cloth scraping on stone came from his left and Tarantio sat up. The huge form of the red-bearded warrior Forin was kneeling over the body of Kiriel, furtively searching through the dead boy’s pockets.

  “He has no coin,” said Tarantio softly.

  Forin sat back. “None of us have coin,” he grunted. “Three months’ back pay, and you think we’ll get it now—even if we make it back to the border?”

  Tarantio rolled to his feet and stepped outside the cave. The sun was clearing the eastern mountains, bathing the forest with golden light. The harsh cold stone of the cliff, corpse-grey in the twilight of the night before, now shone like coral. Tarantio emptied his bladder, then returned to the cave.

  “It was that damned woman . . . Karis,” said Forin. “I’ll bet she’s a witch.”

  “She needs no sorcery,” said Tarantio, swinging his sword-belt around his waist.

  “You know her?”

  “Rode with her for two campaigns. Cold she is, and hard, and she can out-think and out-plan any general I ever served.”

  “Why did you quit her service?” asked the giant.

  “I didn’t. I was with her when she fought for the Duke of Corduin. At the end of the season she resigned and joined the army of Romark. He was said to have offered her six thousand in gold. I don’t doubt it is an exaggeration—but not by much, I’d wager.”

  “Six thousand!” whispered Forin, awed by the sum.

  Tarantio moved to Kiriel’s body. The boy looked peaceful, his face relaxed. He could have been sleeping, save for the statue stillness of his features. “He was a good lad,” said Tarantio, “but too young and too slow.”

  “It was his first campaign,” said Forin. “He ran away from the farm to enlist. Thought it would be safer to be surrounded by soldiers.” The big man looked up at Tarantio. “He was just a farm boy. Not a killer, like you—or me.”

  “And now he’s a dead farm boy,” said Tarantio. Forin nodded, then rose and faced the swordsman.

  “What drives you, man?” he asked suddenly. “Last night I saw the light of madness in your eyes. You wanted to kill me. Why?”

  “It is what we do,” whispered Tarantio. He walked to the mouth of the cave and scanned the tree-line. There was no sign of the pursuers. Swinging back, he met Forin’s gaze. “Good luck to you,” he said. Dipping into his pouch, he produced a small golden coin which he tossed to the surprised warrior.

  “What is this for?” asked Forin.

  “I was wrong about you, big man. You’re a man to match the mountains.”

  Forin looked embarrassed. “How do you know?”

  Tarantio smiled. “Instinct. Try to stay alive.” With that he headed off towards the west.

  If he could avoid his pursuers for another full day, they would give up and return to the main force. Two days was generally all that could be allowed for hunting down stragglers. The main purpose of such hunting-parties was not merely for the sport, but to prevent small groups of mercenaries re-forming behind the advancing line. Once the following group realized their quarry had separated, they would likely turn back, Tarantio reasoned.

  As he walked on through stands of birch and alder and oak, Tarantio’s mood lightened. He had always liked trees. They were restful on the eye, from the slender silver birch to the great oaks, gnarled giants impervious to the passing of man’s years. As a child—in the days before Dace—he had often climbed high trees and sat, perched like an eagle, way above the ground. Tarantio shivered. It was growing cold here in the high country, and fall flowers were in bloom upon the hillsides. It would be good to rest in Corduin. The war had not touched it yet, save for shortages of food and supplies. Tarantio had ventured some of his wages there with the merchant, Lunder. With luck his investments would pay for a winter of leisure.

  The ground below his feet was muddy from recent heavy rain, and his left boot leaked badly, soaking through the thick woollen sock which squelched as he walked. For an hour he moved on, leaving a trail a blind man could follow, heading always west. Then, as he passed beneath a spreading oak he leapt up and drew himself into the branches. Traversing the tree, he jumped down on to a wide rocky ledge. Mud from his boots stained the stone, and he wiped it clear with the hem of his heavy grey coat before moving on more carefully over firmer ground. Leaving no tracks, he headed north-west.

  For another hour he travelled, moving with care, always keeping a wary eye on his back-trail, and rarely emerging on to open ground without first scanning the tree-line. Now, high above the point at which he had switched direction, he climbed into the branches of a tall beech and settled down to watch the trail. From a pouch on his sword-belt he drew the last of his dried meat, tore off a chunk and began to chew.

  Before he had finished his meagre meal the pursuers came into sight. There were eight of them, armed with bows and spears. At this distance they looked insect-size as they inched their way down the hillside, pausing below the oak. For a while they stood still, and Tarantio could imagine the argument among them. From the point where they now gathered, the distance to any one of four different towns or cities was around the same. To the west, beyond the mountains, was the lake city of Hlobane. North-east lay Morgallis, capital of the Duke of Romark. To the south was Loretheli, a neutral port, governed by the Corsairs. And to the north-west—Tarantio’s destination—the oldest and finest city in the Duchies, Corduin.

  For a little while the men searched the area for sign of Tarantio’s trail. Finding nothing, they held a hurried meeting, then turned back the way they had come.

  Tarantio leaned back against the bole of the beech and allowed himself to relax. He had left his helm back at the cave, along with the crimson sash that signalled his service with the new Duke of The Marches. Now there was nothing that linked him to any of the four combatants. Once again he was a free man, ready to offer Dace’s services to the highest bidder. Dropping down from the tree, he continued on his way throughout the afternoon, crossing valleys and heading for a distant lake that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. It was long and narrow, widening at the centre and flaring at the tip, like the tail of a great fish. There was a small island at the centre, on which a stand of pine reared against the backdrop of the mountains. The sun was warmer now and Tarantio shrugged off his heavy jacket, laying it on a flat rock.

  “When will we eat?” asked Dace. Tarantio had been aware of his presence from the moment he sighted the pursuers.

  “Perhaps you would like to catch the fish this time?” he said, aloud.

  “Too boring. And you do it so well!”

  Tarantio removed his shirt, leggings and boots and waded slowly out into the cold, clear waters of the lake. Here he stood, staring down at the gravel around his feet.

  It was spawning time for the speckled trout and after a while he saw a female with red lateral spots upon her body. She swam in close to the motionless man and began to make sweeping motions with her tail against the loose gravel, scraping out a hole in which to lay her eggs. Several males were swimming close by, identified by the reddish bands upon their flanks. With his hands below the surface Tarantio waited patiently, trying to ignore the fish with his conscious mind. The cold water was seeping into his bones, and he felt a rise of irritation that the males kept circling away from him. Be calm, he told himself. The good hunter is never anxious or hasty.

  A good-size male, weighing around three pounds, swam by him, brushing his leg. Tarantio did not move. The fish glided over his hands. With an explosive surge Tarantio reared upright, his right hand catching the trout and flicking it out to the bank, where it flapped upon the soft earth. The other fish disappeared instantly. Tarantio waded from the lake, killed the fish, then gutted it expertly.

  “Neatly done,” said Dace.

  Preparing a small fire in the rocks Tarantio sat down, naked, and cooked his dinner. The flavour of the trout was bland; some would call it delicate. Tarantio wished he had kept just a pinch of his salt.

  As the sun s
ank into the west, the temperature fell. Tarantio dressed and settled down by the fire.

  He should have quit last season when Karis joined Romark. The Duke of The Marches was a poor general, and a miser to boot. With Karis leading the opposition cavalry, the prospects had been none too good for the mercenary units patrolling the border. He wondered about the 6,000 gold pieces. What would she do with such a sum? He grinned in the fading light. Karis was no farmer. Nor did she seem to enjoy what men termed the good life. Her clothes were always ill-fitting; only her armour showed the glint of great expense. Oh, and her horses, he remembered. Three geldings, each over sixteen hands. Fine animals, strong, proud and fearless in battle. Not one of them cost less than 600 silver pieces. But as for Karis herself, she wore no jewellery, sported no brooches or bracelets, nor did she yearn to own property. What will you do with all that gold? he wondered.

  “You just don’t understand her,” said Dace.

  “And you do?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  “She is driven by something in her past—that’s what Gatien would have said. A traumatic event, or a tragedy. Because of this she is not comfortable being a woman, and seeks to hide her femininity in a man’s armour.”

  “I don’t believe Gatien would have made it sound so simple.”

  “Yes,” agreed Dace, “he was an old windbag.”

  “And a fine foster-father. No-one else offered to take us in.”

  “He got a cleric he didn’t have to pay for, and someone to listen to his interminable stories.”

  “I don’t know why you pretend you did not like him. He was good to us.”

  “He was good to you. He would not acknowledge my existence, save as an imaginary playmate you had somehow conjured.”

  “Maybe that is all you are, Dace. Have you ever thought of that?”

  “You would be surprised by what I think of,” Dace told him.

  Adding fuel to the fire, Tarantio leaned back, using his coat for a pillow. The stars were out now, and he gazed at the constellation of the Fire Dancer twinkling high above the crescent moon.

  “It is all mathematically perfect, Chio,” Gatien had told him. “The stars move in their preordained paths, rising and falling to a cosmic heartbeat.” Tarantio had listened, awe-struck, to the wisdom of the white-bearded old man.

  “My father told me they were the candles of the gods,” he said.

  Gatien ruffled his hair. “You still miss him, I expect.”

  “No, he was weak and stupid,” said Tarantio. “He hanged himself.”

  “He was a good man, Chio. Life dealt with him unkindly.”

  “He quit. Gave up!” stormed the boy. “He did not love me at all. And we do not care that he is gone.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Gatien, misunderstanding. “But we will not argue about that. Life can be harsh, and many souls are ill-equipped to face it. Your father fell to three curses. Love, which can be the greatest gift the Heavens can offer, or worse than black poison. Drink, which, like a travelling apothecary, offers much and supplies nothing. And a little wealth, without which he would not have been able to afford the dubious delights of the bottle.” Gatien sighed. “I liked him, Chio. He was a gentle man, with a love of poetry and a fine singing voice. However, that is enough maudlin talk. We have work to do.”

  “Why do you write your books, Master Gatien? No-one buys them.”

  Gatien gave an eloquent shrug. “They are my monument to the future. And they are dangerous, Chio, more powerful than spells. Do not tell people—any people—what you have read in my home.”

  “What can be more dangerous than spells, Master Gatien?”

  “The truth. Men will blind themselves with hot irons, rather than face it.”

  Tarantio looked down into the flickering flames of the camp-fire now, and remembered the great, roaring blaze which had engulfed the house of Master Gatien. He saw again the soldiers of the Duke of The Marches, holding their torches high, and with immense sadness he recalled the old man running back into the burning building, desperate to save his life’s work. His last sight of Master Gatien was of a screeching human torch, his beard and clothes aflame, staggering past the windows of the upper corridor.

  Up until then Dace had merely been a disembodied voice in his mind. He had first heard him when he looked up at his father’s body, hanging by the neck from the balcony rail, his features bloated and purple, his trews stained with urine.

  “We don’t care,” said the voice. “He was weak, and he didn’t love us.”

  But when Gatien burned, Dace found a pathway to the world of flesh. “We will avenge him,” he said.

  “We can’t!” objected Tarantio. “He lives in a castle surrounded by guards. We . . . I . . . am only fifteen. I’m not a soldier, not a killer.”

  “Then let me do it,” said Dace. “Or are you a coward?”

  Two nights later Dace had crept to the walls of the Duke’s castle and scaled them, slipping past the sleeping sentries. Then he had made his way down the long circular stairwell to the main corridor of the castle keep. There were no guards. The Duke’s bedroom was lit by a single lantern, the Duke himself asleep in his wide four-poster bed. Dace gently pulled back the satin sheet, exposing the Duke’s fat chest. Without a moment of hesitation he rammed the small knife deep into the man’s heart. The Duke surged upright, his mouth hanging open; then he sagged back.

  “Gatien was our friend,” said Dace. “Rot in hell, you miserable bastard!”

  The old Duke had died without another sound, but his bowels had opened and the stench filled the room. Dace had sat quietly, staring down at the corpse. He had drawn Tarantio forward to share the scene. Tarantio remembered his father’s face, bloated and swollen, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the rope tight around his neck. Death was always ugly, but this time it had a sweetness Tarantio could taste.

  “Never again,” whispered Tarantio. “I’ll never kill again.”

  “You won’t have to,” Dace told him. “I’ll do it for you. I enjoyed it.”

  With a surge of willpower Tarantio dragged control from Dace. Then he fled the castle, confused and uncertain. He had been raised on stories of heroes, of knights and chivalry. No hero would have felt as he did now. The soaring, ecstatic burst of joy Dace had experienced filled the fifteen-year-old with disgust. And yet he had also tasted that joy.

  Now by the lake, with such sombre thoughts in his mind, Tarantio found sleep difficult, and when at last he did succumb, he dreamt again of the old man. “The truth burns, Chio,” he said. “The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.”

  It rained in the night, putting out his fire, and he awoke cold and shivering. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright, slipped, and fell face first into the mud. The sound of Dace’s laughter drifted into his mind. “Ah, life at one with nature,” mocked Dace. Tarantio swore. “Now, now,” said Dace. “Always try to keep a sense of humour.”

  “You like humour?” said Tarantio. “Laugh at this, then!” Closing his eyes, he opened the inner pathways and fell back into himself. Dace tried to stop him, but the move was so sudden and unexpected that before he could summon any defences Dace found himself hurtled forward into control of the wet shivering body.

  “You whoreson!” spluttered Dace, water pouring down his face.

  “You try being at one with nature,” said Tarantio happily, safe and warm within the borders of the mind. Dace tried the same manoeuvre, struggling to drag Tarantio from his sanctuary, but it did not work. Furious now, Dace looked around, then took shelter within the bole of a spreading oak. The huge tree had at one time been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk, but amazingly it had survived. Dace climbed inside. There was not much room for a full-grown man, but he removed his sword-belt and wedged his back against the dry bark and watched the downpour outside.

  “You’ve made your point, Chio,” said Dace. “Now let me back. I’m cold and I’m bored.”
r />   “I like it here.”

  Out on the lake the rain sheeted down, and a distant rumble of thunder drummed out. Dace swore. If lightning were to strike the tree again, he would be fried alive.

  He swore again. Then grinned. All life is chance, he decided. And at least, for the moment, he was out of the rain and wind.

  “All right, you can come back,” said Tarantio, failing to keep the fear from showing.

  “No, no. I’m just getting used to it,” responded Dace.

  Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the lake and the island at its centre. Dace bared his teeth in a wolf’s-head grin. “Come!” he yelled. “Strike me if you dare!”

  “Do you want us to die?” asked Tarantio.

  “I don’t much care,” replied Dace. “Perhaps that is what makes me the best.”

  The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, and the moon shone bright in a clear sky. “Come then, brother,” said Dace. “Come out into the world of mud and mediocrity. I have had my fun.”

  Tarantio took control and eased himself from the tree, then turned back to gather dry bark and dead wood from the hole. With this he started a new fire.

  “We could have been in a palace,” Dace reminded him. “In that large soft bed with satin sheets, within the room of silvered mirrors.”

  “You would have killed her, Dace. Don’t deny it. I could feel the desire in you.”

  The Duke of Corduin had sent a famous courtesan to him: the Lady Miriac. Miriac of the golden hair. Her skills had been intoxicating. Even without the mirrors the night would have been the most memorable of his young life, but with them Tarantio had seen himself make love, and be made love to, from every angle, giving him memories he would carry for as long as the breath of life clung to him. He sighed.

  But at the height of his passion he had felt Dace’s anger and jealousy. The raw power of the emotions had frightened him.

  And Tarantio had fled the arms of Miriac, and turned his back on the promise of riches.