Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “I love her,” said Duvo simply. “But she and I have spoken of this. I cannot wed. There is much that I cannot speak of, Ceofrin. I would be a danger to her.”

  “You are a spy?” Ceofrin’s voice dropped to a husky whisper, fear shone in his eyes.

  Duvo shook his head. “No. This . . . petty war means nothing to me.” He leaned forward. “Listen to me, Ceofrin, I would never willingly do anything to harm her. And I have not . . . nor will I . . . take advantage of her love. You understand that? I’ll not be leaving her with a swollen belly. But I will be leaving come the spring.”

  Ceofrin was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was edged with bitterness. “A curse on love!” he said. “Like life, it always ends in unhappiness.” Pushing himself to his feet, he strode away towards the kitchens. Duvo hefted his harp and lightly ran his fingers over the twenty-five strings. Light notes echoed around the room and a host of dust motes, lit by a sudden shaft of sunlight, seemed to dance in rhythm to the sweetness of the sound.

  “No man should curse love,” said Duvo. “Ultimately, love is all there is.”

  Brune had never been in a city as large as Corduin, and as he walked along beside Tarantio’s horse he tried to remember landmarks. There were scores of roads and alleys, crossing and re-crossing wide avenues, lines of shops and stalls, and beyond them workplaces and factories. There were, it seemed to Brune, hundreds of statues, most of them portraying lions—some with wings, some with two heads, some wearing crowns.

  They had journeyed less than a mile and Brune was hopelessly confused. Confusion was a major fact of Brune’s life, and it scared him. He glanced nervously up at Tarantio. “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  The answer reassured Brune, and his panic vanished. “There are lots of lion statues,” he said.

  “It is the symbol of Corduin’s ruling house.” Tarantio swung the horse to the right, down a narrow cobbled street. Brune’s boots were thin, and the cobbles dug into the soles of his feet.

  “Are we nearly there?”

  “Nearly,” agreed Tarantio, turning left into an even narrower alley which opened out into a circular stableyard. Several horses were in their stalls: others were being exercised in a field nearby. A short, wiry, elderly man with a drooping grey moustache approached the two men. Tarantio swung down from the saddle.

  “A fine beast,” said the newcomer, eyeing the horse. “Just a small cow-hock short of greatness. My name is Chase. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to winter him here,” said Tarantio.

  “There are cheaper places, my friend,” said Chase amiably.

  “The best rarely comes cheap,” said Tarantio. “What down payment do you require?”

  “Who recommended you to me?”

  “The merchant, Lunder. I came here last year to view his prize mares. Liked what I saw.”

  “Will he guarantee your payment?”

  “I need no guarantees. My word is iron.”

  Chase looked hard at him, his flinty eyes raking Tarantio’s lean face. “I think that’s probably true, warrior. Therefore, from you, I’ll take two gold pieces. That will keep him in grain and grass for two months. Then I shall require a further five to last until the spring.”

  Tarantio opened his coat and reached inside, producing a small pouch from which he took seven small gold coins. Each was embossed with two crossed swords on the face, the reverse showing a spreading oak. He passed the coins to Chase.

  “You are a trusting man, I see,” said Chase.

  “Indeed I am. But not blindly so. You say your name is Chase. Once you were called Persial, the Fleet One. For twenty-five years you were the finest horse-racer in the Duchies. Your career ended when you were fifty. Someone offered you a fortune to lose a race, but you refused. Your hands and feet were broken with hammers. Now you are Chase, the horse-trainer.”

  Chase smiled grimly. “Men change, stranger. Perhaps now I am wiser.”

  Tarantio shook his head. “Men don’t change. They just learn to disguise the lack of change. I’d like him grain-fed, and I shall be visiting regularly.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Can you recommend a place to stay for a few nights?”

  “There’s a tavern close by. They have rooms, and the finest food you’ll ever eat. They also have a musician who plays the sweetest music I ever heard. The place is called the Wise Owl. Turn south outside the entrance and it’s in the third street on the left. You’ll not find better. Mention my name to Ceofrin, the owner.”

  “Thank you,” said Tarantio, turning to lift his saddlebags and blankets from the gelding.

  “Do you have a name, son?” asked Chase.

  “I am Tarantio.”

  Chase grinned. “I’ll have the gelding’s saddle close by him, day and night.”

  Hefting his saddlebags to his shoulder, Tarantio strolled away, Brune following. “That was a lot of money,” said Brune. “I have never seen seven gold pieces together before. I saw one once. Lat had one; he let me hold it. It was heavier than I thought it would be.”

  “Gold is a heavy metal,” said Tarantio.

  They reached the Wise Owl just before dusk and tapped on the main doors. “We open in an hour,” a tall, burly man shouted from an upper window.

  “We are seeking a room for a few days,” Tarantio told him.

  “I’m not letting rooms at the moment.”

  “Chase sent us to you,” said Tarantio.

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place? Wait there and I’ll be down.”

  Two log fires had been recently lit, one at each end of the wide dining area inside, and two serving girls were cleaning the wicks on the wall lanterns. There was a raised dais to the right of the long bar, upon which a blond young man, dressed in a shirt of green silk and leggings of brown wool, was tuning the strings of a hand harp. “I have just the one room,” said Ceofrin, ushering the two men inside. “Two beds and a good fireplace. It overlooks the main square. The price is a quarter silver a night, but that also buys you breakfast and an evening meal. Wine or ale is extra. How many nights are you staying?”

  “Probably no more than four. I’m looking to rent a small house for the winter.”

  “There’s lots empty in the North Quarter. That’s where the Eldarin Plague hit hardest.” Suddenly a series of shimmering notes filled the room and Tarantio jerked as if stung. Brune looked at him quizzically, but nothing was said, and the two men followed Ceofrin up the wide staircase. “Do you want to book a table for tonight? It’ll be busy and if you don’t book you’ll miss the music.”

  “Have some food brought to the room,” said Tarantio. “I am not in the mood for music.”

  “I am,” said Brune. “He sounds very good.”

  “You’ll not believe it until you hear it,” said Ceofrin confidently.

  As they moved along an upper corridor, a beautiful, dark-haired girl stepped out of a room and walked towards them, limping heavily. “My daughter, Shira,” said Ceofrin, pride in his voice. “She will be cooking tonight.”

  Tarantio bowed. Brune stood, mouth open, as Shira smiled at him. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling. In that moment he realized his hands were dirty, his clothes travel-stained, his hair a tangled, greasy mop. “Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. Brune looked at it, then realized with a jerk that he was supposed to shake it. He glanced down at his own grubby palm, and wiped it quickly down the side of his leggings. Then he took her hand and gently squeezed it. “And you are?” she prompted.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  “He is Brune,” said Tarantio, with a wide smile.

  “Yes . . .” he said. “I am Brune. Pleased to meet you.”

  “And I am Tarantio,” said the swordsman, taking her outstretched hand and raising it to his lips. With another dazzling smile she eased past them and made her slow, ungainly way down the corridor.

  “This way,” sa
id Ceofrin, leading them into a wide room with two well-crafted beds of pine. The ceiling was white and low, supported by long oak beams, and there was a stone-built fireplace set against the northern wall. The wide windows were leaded and Tarantio moved over to them, glancing out and down on the cobbled square. “It is cold now, but I’ll get a maid up to light the fire. Then it’ll be cosy, you mark my words.”

  “It is fine,” said Tarantio, reaching into his pouch and producing his last gold coin. He flipped it to Ceofrin and the tavern-keeper hefted the coin. “This will leave you with nineteen silvers,” he said. “I will have a servant bring the remainder to you.”

  “Is there a bath here?” asked Tarantio.

  “Aye. I’ll get the water heated—it will take around half an hour. It’s on the ground floor—the door behind where the harpist is practising.”

  As Ceofrin left the room Brune walked to the first of the beds and sat down. “Oh,” he said, “wasn’t she beautiful?”

  Tarantio dropped his saddlebags by the far wall. “A vision,” he agreed. “Shame about the leg.”

  “Did I seem very stupid to her, do you think?”

  “A man who suddenly can’t remember his own name is very rarely considered a genius,” said Tarantio. “But I think she was pleased by your reaction to her beauty.”

  “You really think so?”

  Tarantio did not reply. Shucking off his coat and tugging off his boots, he lay down on the second bed.

  Brune lay back, picturing Shira’s smile. Life was suddenly full of sunlight.

  One hundred and twelve miles north-east, above the flanks of the highest mountain of the Great Northern Desert, a black vulture banked on the thermals, gliding towards the south, its keen eyes scanning the desert for signs of movement. It banked again, this time towards the west. The vulture did not hear the low, rumbling sounds from the peak of the mountain, but it saw boulders shiver and tremble. One huge stone rolled clear, bouncing down the red slope, dislodging hundreds of smaller stones and sending up a cloud of crimson dust. The vulture dipped its wings and flew closer.

  A fissure opened, and the bird saw a small, dark object exposed to the light.

  It was the last sight the vulture would ever experience . . .

  A fierce wave of freezing air erupted from the mountain-top, striking the bird and ripping away its feathers. Dead in an instant, the vulture fell from the sky.

  On the mountain-top a black pearl shimmered in the sunlight. The spell holding it wavered and shrank, then fell away like a broken chain.

  In the warmth of the sun the black pearl swelled to the size of a large boulder. Blue flames crackled around it, hugging to the surface, flaring into lightning bolts that blazed in every direction.

  Sixty miles away a young shepherd boy, named Goran, watched the display from the green hills south of the desert. He had seen dry storms before, but never one such as this. The sky was not dark but brilliantly blue and clear, and the lightning seemed to be radiating from a mountain-top like a spiked crown of blue-white light. He climbed to a high vantage point and sat down. As far as the eye could see, the dead stone of the desert filled his vision.

  The lightning continued for some time, without thunder or rain. The boy became bored with the lights, and was about to descend to his flock of sheep when a dark cloud rose up from the distant mountain. From here the cloud looked no larger than a man’s head but, considering the distance, Goran guessed it to be colossal. He wished his father were here to see it, and perhaps explain the phenomenon. As the cloud continued to rise, swelling and growing, filling the sky, Goran realized that it could not possibly be a cloud. It was perfectly round, the perimeter sharp and clearly defined. Like the moon. Like a black moon—only twenty times the size.

  No-one back at the village was going to believe this, and Goran could feel his irritation rising. If he told them they would laugh at him. Yet, if he said nothing, he might never learn the reason for the phenomenon. He was only thirteen. Perhaps colossal black moons had been seen before in the desert. How could he find out without risking derision?

  These thoughts vanished as the black moon suddenly fell from the sky, striking the point of the seemingly tiny mountain peak like a boulder crushing an anthill. But the black moon did not crush the mountain. Instead it burst upon the stone.

  Goran scrambled to his feet, fear causing his heart to pound. No longer solid, the moon had become a gigantic tidal wave, hundreds of feet high, roaring across the desert, sweeping towards the hillside on which he stood. Too frightened to run, Goran stood petrified as the black wall advanced, engulfing the red rocks of the desert. On the hillside the flock of sheep panicked, and ran. Goran just stood there.

  As the tidal wave devoured the miles between them Goran saw that it was shrinking, and from his high vantage point he found he could see beyond the advancing black wall. Behind the wave, the land was no longer dead rock and shimmering heat hazes; there was the pale green of pastures and meadows, the deeper hues of forests and woods. And more incredible yet, as the shrinking black wave grew closer he saw a strange city appear behind it, a city of dark domes like thousands of black moons wedged together.

  The tidal wave shrank and slowed as it neared him, until at last it gently lapped at the foot of the hills, seamlessly joining to the grass where his sheep fed.

  Goran sat silently, jaw agape. There was no desert now, no hint of the gloomy, depressing stone. Verdant hills and valleys greeted his gaze, and away to the right a glistening stream rippled down over white rocks, joining to a river that vanished into deep woods.

  Leaving his sheep to feed on the new grass he ran back down the hills and up along the deer trail, his heart thumping. Cresting the last rise before the village, he ran down to the main street and found his father, the farmer Barin, taking lunch with the blacksmith, Yordis, outside the forge.

  Swiftly the boy told the men what he had seen. At first his father laughed and, leaning forward, smelt his son’s breath. “Well, it is not wine you’ve been drinking,” he said, ruffling Goran’s hair.

  “Perhaps he fell asleep, Barin,” offered the blacksmith, “and dreamt the whole affair.”

  “No, sir,” insisted the boy. “But even if I had, I would have had to be awake to run back and tell you about it. I swear the desert is gone, and there is a city no more than five miles from our hills.”

  “It is a dull day,” said Barin, “and a ride will make it more interesting. But be warned, Goran, if there is no city I shall take off my belt and flay your buttocks till they bleed!” Swinging to the blacksmith, he said, “You wish to see this city, my friend?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Yordis. The two men saddled their mounts and, the boy riding behind his father, set out for the hills.

  Once there, the good humour vanished, and the two men sat their horses and gazed silently at the distant city.

  “What in Hell’s name is going on?” asked the smith.

  “I don’t know,” Barin replied. “Ride back and fetch the others. The boy and I will wait.”

  The smith rode off as father and son dismounted. “It is a magical city,” said the boy. “Perhaps the Eldarin have come back.”

  “Perhaps,” his father agreed.

  Yordis returned with some twenty villagers, and the group rode down to the rich grassland. Dismounting, they walked around in silence for a while, then gathered together and sat in a circle. “Someone should ride to the garrison; they could send a rider to Corduin to let Lord Albreck know what has occurred,” said Barin.

  “Who would be believed?” asked a village elder. “I have seen it and I still do not believe it.”

  “Should we go to the domed city and make ourselves known to them?” asked another.

  “That will not be necessary,” said Barin. “It seems they are coming to us.”

  The men rose and turned to see a hundred horsemen galloping across the grassland. The horses were huge, taller by six hands than anything the villagers had ever
seen, and the riders were large, powerful warriors, seemingly wearing helms of white bone. But as they came closer, Barin realized that they were not helms at all. The riders were not human. Fear rose in him and, grabbing his son, he lifted him to the saddle. “Get to the Duke Albreck,” he hissed. Then he slapped his hand hard on to the rump of the horse, which half reared and then bolted towards the south.

  The riders ignored the fleeing boy and formed a circle around the villagers. One of them dismounted and walked up to Barin. The warrior was more than seven feet tall, huge across the shoulder. His face was flat, the bone of his ridged nose flowing up over his hairless cranium. The eyes were huge and black, showing no evidence of a pupil, and the beaked mouth was a curious M-shape, curving downward, lipless and cruel.

  The creature loomed over the farmer, and a series of guttural clicks came from its mouth. Barin blinked and licked his lips nervously. “I . . . I do not understand you,” he said. The creature paused, then made a motion with his hand, touching his own lipless mouth and then pointing to Barin. “What is it you want?” asked Barin. The creature nodded vigorously, then gestured him to continue.

  “I do not know what to say, nor whether you can understand my words. I fear you cannot. We are all villagers here, and we came to see the miracle of the desert. We mean no harm to anyone. We are peaceful people. The reason we came so far north was to avoid the wars that plague our lands.” Barin spoke on for some time, his eyes shifting nervously from the monster before him to the other riders who sat motionless. After some time the creature before him lifted his hand. He spoke, but the words were strange and—largely—meaningless. But there were some familiar sounds now. He seemed to be asking Barin a question. Barin shook his head. The monster motioned him to speak again and he did so, telling them of problems with crops, of raising buildings on marsh land, of the plague that stopped short of their village but almost obliterated three others. Just as he was running out of things to say, the monster spoke again.