Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “I would have been a great Champion,” said Dace. “We could have been rich.”

  “Why did you want to kill her?”

  “She was bad for us. You were falling in love with her, and she with you. The courtesan could not resist the young virgin boy with the deadly sword. She stroked your face when you wept. How touching! How sickening! Is that why we are going to Corduin? To see the bitch?”

  Tarantio sighed. “You don’t really exist, Dace. I am insane. One day someone will recognize it. Then I’ll be locked away, or hanged.”

  “I exist,” said Dace. “I am here. I will always be here. Sigellus knew that. He spoke to me often. He liked me.”

  With the dawn came fresh pangs of hunger. Tarantio spent an hour trying to catch another trout, but luck was not with him. He scooped a two-pound female, but she wriggled in his grasp, turned a graceful somersault in the air and returned to the depths. Drying himself, he dressed and strode off towards the higher country.

  The air was thinner here, the wind cold against his face. Autumn was closing fast, and within a few short weeks the snow would come. Slowly and carefully Tarantio climbed a steep slope, moving warily among huge boulders which littered the mountainside. He wondered idly how the boulders had come to be here, since they were not of the same stone as the surrounding cliffs. Many of them had deep grooves along the base, as if haphazardly chiselled by a stonemason.

  “Volcanic eruptions,” said Dace, “way back in the past. Gatien used to talk of them, but then you had little interest in geology.”

  “I remember that you liked stories of earthquakes and volcanoes. Death and destruction have always fascinated you, Dace.”

  “Death is the only absolute, the only certainty.”

  Finally, with the sun beginning its long, slow fall to the west, Tarantio reached level ground and stopped to rest. Several rabbits emerged from a grassy knoll and he killed one with a throwing knife. Finding a flat rock he skinned the beast, then removed the entrails, separating the heart and kidneys. There was a small stream nearby, and close to it he found a bed of nettles, and beyond it some chives. Further searching brought him the added treasure of wild onions. Returning to his camp-site, he prepared a fire. Once it had caught well, he drew his knife and cut two large square sections of bark from a silver birch. Using a forked stick he held one section of bark over the fire, warming it, making it easier to fold. Then he scored the bark and expertly folded it into a small bowl. Repeating the process with the second square, he grew impatient and the bark split. Tarantio swore at himself. Painstakingly he selected and cut another section.

  Filling the first bowl with water from the stream, he returned to the fire, built a second blaze and fed it steadily with dry wood. When the coals were ready, he placed the bowl on the fire and added a handful of nettles, chopped chives and several onions. On the first fire he skewered and cooked the rabbit. The meat was greasy and tender, and he ate half of it immediately, tearing the remainder and adding it to his simmering bowl.

  At this high altitude the water boiled away swiftly and three times Tarantio was forced to fetch more water from the stream to add to his stew. Bark bowls would not burn—unless the flames of the fire rose above the water line.

  Back at the mercenaries’ camp he had left several fine copper cooking pots and various utensils gathered over the years. But when Karis’s lancers had struck there had been no time to think of possessions.

  Tarantio lay back, staring up at the sky. It was difficult now to focus on a time when there had been no wars. Almost a third of his life had been spent marching from one battle site to another, while Dace and others fought to hold a town, or take it—charging an enemy line, or resisting a charge.

  Up here in the mountains such petty squabbles seemed far away. But then so did the charms of beautiful women like the Lady Miriac. Dace was right. He had fallen in love with her and he thought of her often, remembering the satin softness of her skin and the sweetness of her breath. It mattered nothing that she was a courtesan, a whore for the nobility. He felt he had seen something beyond that, something deeper and more enduring.

  “Such a romantic, you are, brother. At the first glint of gold she would hurl herself on her back and open her legs. Your gold or someone else’s. It would mean nothing to her.”

  “You said she was falling in love with me,” he reminded Dace.

  “In love with the virgin, I said. That’s what touched her. After a while she would have tired of you.”

  “We’ll never know, will we?”

  At dusk Tarantio ate the stew. It was bitter and good, but the memory of his last meal with added salt back among the mercenaries eroded the pleasure. Dace had fallen silent, for which Tarantio was grateful. He could still sense his presence, but the lack of conversation was welcome.

  The following morning he continued on his way, across narrow valleys full of alder and birch and pine. The weather had cleared and the sun shone now in a clear sky, the snow on the distant peaks glowing like white flame.

  As he walked, his mind was far from battles and war, recalling gentle days with Gatien, researching ancient texts, trying to make sense of the tortured history of this fertile continent. If ever these wars end, I will become a scholar, Tarantio decided.

  Even as the thought came to him he could hear Dace’s mocking laughter.

  Chapter Two

  Three hundred miles to the north-east, at the centre of a new desert of barren rocks, a slender, blond-haired man climbed to the top of what had once been Capritas Hill. His green cloak was torn and threadbare, the soles of his shoes worn thin as paper. Duvodas the Harp Carrier stood at the summit and fought to hold down a rising tide of desolation and despair. His gentle face and soft grey-green eyes reflected the sorrow he felt. There was no magic left in the land. Black and grey mountains bare of earth reared up from the plains like rotting teeth, and Duvodas felt as if he were sitting in the jaws of death. Where once had been sculpted beauty, amid forests and streams and verdant valleys, now nothing remained. The flesh of the land had been stripped to the bone, clawed away by a hand larger than eternity. The four cities of the Eldarin had vanished, and even the whispering wind flowing over the dry rocks could find no memory of their existence. Not a trace. Not a broken cup, not a tombstone, not a child’s toy.

  His grey-green eyes scanned the jagged peaks, pausing at the Twins, two pinnacles of rock that for centuries had been an elegant backdrop to the city of Eldarisa. Upon reaching the age of majority the children of the Eldarin would climb Bizha, the left-hand peak, then leap the eight feet to the rugged platform atop the neighbouring Puzhac. The pinnacles had graced the Enchanted Park, and many and glorious were the flowers that grew there. Now all was dead stone. Not a single blade of grass grew here now, and even his memories could not flower in this barren place. Duvodas rose and unwrapped his small harp.

  It seemed almost blasphemous to consider music in such a cold and empty landscape, but music was all he had, and his slender fingers danced upon the strings, sending out a stream of melancholy notes to echo among the rocks. Closing his eyes he sang the Song of Elyda, and her love of the Forest King, his voice almost breaking as he reached the chorus of farewell, where Elyda stood by the dark river watching as her lover’s body was borne away to eternity on the black barge of the night.

  The music faded away and Duvodas covered the harp and swung it to his shoulders.

  Leaving the hillside, he took what once had been the forest road and walked swiftly towards the distant plains. Eight years before he had travelled this way, striding under the overhanging branches, watching sunlight dapple the trail, listening to the ceaseless music of stream and river. Bird-song had filled the air then, sweet and piping, and the scent of the forest had intoxicated him. Now dry dust billowed around his feet, and not a sound disturbed the graveyard silence.

  For most of the day he walked, angling his journey to the north-east. By dusk he could see the long black line of earth, like a ten-foot dike throw
n up against a threatening sea. It stretched for miles across his path. He reached it as night was falling and scrambled up its loose banks, pausing at the crest. This was once the northernmost border of Eldarin land. Shrouded in mist, protected by magic, it was here that Duvodas had crossed during that long-ago autumn night. There were still oaks growing here, but it was no longer a wood. Many trees had died through lack of water.

  He had expected to feel more comfortable with earth once more beneath his feet, but it was not so. The smell of grass, wet from the recent rain, made a bitter contrast to the desolation he had left behind.

  Duvodas trudged on through the trees. Eight years ago he had come to a village, a thriving farm community on the banks of the River Cruin. Unlike the furry-skinned Eldarin who raised him, Duvodas, being human, could walk among the races of Man without fear. Even so, without coin he had not been welcomed, nor offered a place for the night. Not even a bowl of soup. The villagers had viewed him with suspicion, and when he offered to sing for his supper had told him they had no need of music.

  Tired and hungry, Duvodas had moved on.

  Now he stood at the edge of the village once more. The houses were deserted, the forty-foot-wide riverbed dry and cracked.

  Whatever dread force had ripped away the soil of the mountains had sucked the river dry. Without water the farmland had been robbed of its sustenance. In the moon-light Duvodas could see that the villagers had vainly tried to sink wells to feed their crops.

  He sheltered for the night in a deserted barn, then moved on at first light to higher country, remembering the kindness of the hunter and his family whose long cabin had been built in a fold of land bordering the tree-line of the hills. Eight years ago he had arrived there wet and miserable, a victim of hunger and desperate weariness. When a huge dog had rushed at him, baring its teeth, Duvodas had no time to react. One moment he was on his feet, the next the dog had leapt, crashing into his chest and hurling him to the ground. All air was punched from his lungs and he lay gasping under the weight of the mastiff, listening to its low, rumbling growl. A man’s voice had sounded. The dog reluctantly backed away.

  “You must be a stranger to these parts, my friend,” said the voice. A powerful hand gripped his arm, hauling him upright. In the moonlight the hunter’s hair seemed to glint with flecks of steel, and his pale grey eyes shone like silver.

  “I am indeed,” Duvodas told him. “I am a . . . minstrel. I would be pleased to sing you a song, or tell a story in return . . .”

  “You don’t need to sing,” said the man. “Come, we have food and a warm cabin.”

  The memory lifted his spirits and he walked on, coming to the cabin just after noon. It was as he remembered it, long and low beneath a roof of turf, though the second section built for the children had now weathered in, losing its newness and blending with the old. The door was open.

  Duvodas strode through the vegetable patch and entered the cabin. It was dark inside, but he heard a groan and saw the hunter lying naked on the floor by the hearth. Moving to him, Duvodas knelt. The man’s skin was hot and dry, and black plague boils had erupted on his neck, armpits and groin; one had split, and the skin was stained with pus and blood. Leaving him, Duvodas moved to the first of the back rooms. The hunter’s wife was unconscious in the bed; her face was fleshless, and she too had the plague. Duvodas opened the door to the new section. When last he had been here the couple had only one child, a boy of nine. There were three youngsters in the room, two young girls and an infant boy all in one bed. The boy was dead, the two girls fading fast. Duvodas pulled back the blanket covering them.

  Duvodas unwrapped his harp and returned to the main room. His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast. Pulling up a chair he sat in the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and sought the inner peace from which all magic flowed. His breathing deepened. He had learned much in his time among the Eldarin but, being human, healing magic had never come easily to him. The power was born of tranquillity and harmony, twin skills that Man could never master fully.

  “Your veins are full of stimulants to violent activity,” Ranaloth had told him, as they sat beneath the shadow of the Great Library. “Humans are essentially hunter-killers. They glory in physical strength and heroism. This is not in itself evil, you understand, but it prepares the soul for potential evil. The human is ejected from the mother, and its first instinct is to rage against the violation of its resting place in the womb.”

  “We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.”

  “You have learned,” agreed the old man. “As an individual, and a fine one. I do not see great hope for your race, however.”

  “The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,” argued Duvodas.

  “That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had—and we retain—a capacity for violence in defence of our lives. But we have no lust for it. At the dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in random slaughter as the humans do.”

  “If you hold the humans in such low regard, sir, why is it that the Eldarin invest the rivers with magic, keeping the humans free of disease and plague?”

  “We do it because we love life, Duvo.”

  “And why not tell the humans about the enchantment in the water? Would they not then lose their hatred of you?”

  “No, they would not. They would disbelieve us and hate us the more. Now, once more, try to reach the purity of Air Magic.”

  Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now and gazed down at the hunter. Without the healing waters, plague and disease had ripped across the land. Lifting the harp, his fingers touched the strings, sending out a series of light, rippling notes. The scent of roses in bloom filled the cabin, rich and heady. Duvodas continued to play, the music swelling. A golden light radiated from his harp, bathing the walls, flowing through doorways, sending dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Dust motes gleamed in the air like tiny diamonds, and the atmosphere in the cabin—moments before pungent with the smell of disease—became fresh, clean and sharp as the breeze of spring.

  There was a pitcher of curdled milk on the table beside him. Moment by moment it changed. First the fur of mildew on the pitcher rim receded, then the texture of the semi-liquid contents altered, re-emulsifying, the lumps fading, melting back into the creamy richness of fresh milk.

  The music continued, the mood changing from lilting and light to the powerful rhythms and the rippling chords of the dance.

  The hunter groaned softly. The black boils were receding now. Sweat bathed the face of the singer as he rose from his chair. Still playing his harp he opened his grey-green eyes and slowly made his way into the back bedroom. The music flowed over the dying woman, holding to her, soaking into her soul. Duvodas felt a terrible weariness weighing down on him like a boulder, but his fingers danced upon the strings, never faltering. Moving, on he came to the second bedroom. The golden light of his harp shone upon the bed and the faces of the two girls, the oldest of them not more than five.

  Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden light fading.

  Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow.

  “I wish I had been here sooner, little one,” he said.

  He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two lengths of cord.

  Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and placed the body inside.

  As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him.


  “How is it that we are alive?” asked the hunter.

  “The fever must have passed, my friend,” Duvodas told him. “I am sorry about your son. I should have dug deeper, but I did not have the strength.”

  The man’s strong face trembled, and tears flowed, but he blinked them back. “The Eldarin did this to us,” he said, the words choking him. “They sent the plague. May they all rot in Hell! I curse them all! I wish they had but one neck, and I would crush it in my hands.”

  The fist struck the old man full in the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Bright lights shone before his eyes and, disoriented, Browyn tried to rise. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the soft earth. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard the sound of smashing crockery coming from his cabin, and then an iron hand gripped his throat. “You tell, you old bastard, or I swear I’ll cut your eyes out!”

  “Maybe it was all just lies,” said another voice. “Maybe there never was any gold.”

  “There was gold,” grunted the first man. “I know it. He paid Simian with it. Small nuggets. Simian wouldn’t lie to me. He knows better.”

  Browyn was dragged to his knees. “Can you hear me, old fool? Can you?”

  The old man fought to focus on the flat, brutal face that was now inches from his own. In all his life he had enjoyed one great talent: he could see the souls of men. In this moment of terror his gift was like a curse, for he looked into the face of his tormentor and saw only darkness and spite. The image of the man’s soul was scaled and pitted, the eyes red as blood, the mouth thin, a pointed blue tongue licking at grey lips. Browyn knew in that moment that his life was over. Nothing would prevent this man from killing him. He could see the enjoyment of the torture in the blood-red eyes of the naked soul.

  “I can hear you,” he said, tasting blood on his lips.

  “So where is it?”

  He had already told them about the single nugget he had found in the stream beyond the cabin. It was with this he had paid Simian for last winter’s supplies. But he had never found more, despite long days of searching. The nugget must have been washed down from higher in the mountains, and wedged itself in the bend of the stream.