Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “Perhaps you should speak a little louder,” advised Tarantio. “I don’t think all the people in the tavern could hear you.”

  Brune swung round. “Why would they want to?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It was sarcasm, Brune. I was trying to point out that it is not wise to talk so loudly about money; it could be that there are robbers close by.”

  “You don’t need to tell me twice,” said Brune, tapping his nose. “So, did you see him?”

  “Yes. We have done rather well. My investments have brought me almost two thousand silver pieces.”

  “Two thousand!” exclaimed Brune. “In silver?” Several people close by turned to look at the two men. Dace’s laughter echoed inside Tarantio’s mind. “I am so glad we brought him with us,” said Dace.

  “What will you do with all that money?” Brune asked.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Tarantio told the sandy-haired youngster. “Anything you like.”

  Brune thought long and hard. “Shame about the harpman,” he said, at last. “You should have been here last night. He was amazing. Can I fetch you some more ale?”

  Tarantio nodded. “Let me enjoy this one,” said Dace. “It is a long time since I tasted good ale.”

  “No. I don’t want to see bloodshed here.”

  “I promise, brother. No blades. Just a jug of ale, and then I shall sleep.”

  Tarantio relaxed and faded back as Dace stretched and finished the last of the pie. Brune was on his way back to the table when a tall man, one of the troublesome nobles, turned suddenly, colliding with him. Ale swished from the two jugs Brune was carrying, splashing the man’s black silk shirt.

  “You clumsy dolt!” he shouted.

  “Sorry,” said Brune amiably, trying to move past the man. “But you did bump me.”

  As Brune walked on the tall man’s fist struck him behind the ear, punching him from his feet. Brune fell against a table, striking his head on the back of a chair before pitching unconscious to the floor.

  Dace vaulted the table and reached the scene just as the tall man was unleashing a kick against Brune’s body. Dace’s foot lashed out to hook under the man’s leg; then with a flick he sent the tall man crashing to the floor. The man rolled to his knees and drew a dagger. Dace grinned and reached for his own; then he stopped.

  “You are a bore, brother,” he said aloud.

  The tall man rose, eyes narrowed. “I’ll gut you for that, you whoreson!”

  “Don’t tell me, show me,” said Dace contemptuously. The man lunged. Dace side-stepped, grabbing the knife wrist with his left hand, his right arm moving under the man’s elbow. Dace slammed down with his left and up with his right. A sickening crack echoed around the room as the tall man’s arm snapped at the elbow; the victim’s scream was awful. The tall man fell back as Dace released him, the knife falling from his fingers. White bone was jutting through the sleeve of his black shirt, which was now stained with blood. He screamed again. “Oh, shut up!” snapped Dace, ramming the heel of his palm into the man’s nose and following up with a right uppercut that lifted him to his toes. Stepping back, Dace let the man fall and then walked to Brune, who was groaning and trying to rise.

  A movement from behind caused Dace to spin. Three men were approaching, knives in their hands. Dace laughed at them, then he walked towards them.

  “Happily for you, I promised a friend I’d kill no-one tonight. However, that does not mean I cannot cripple you—like your friend on the floor, who will be lucky to use that arm again. So who is first? I think I’ll smash a knee-cap next time!”

  He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. “What is the problem, children? Can’t make up your minds about who will be the first? What about you?” he asked, stepping in close to a lean, bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace laughed at them. “What a trio of buttercups,” he said. “Pick up your friend and get him to a surgeon.” Swinging towards the bar, he called out, “Two more jugs of ale, if you please.”

  The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace helped Brune to his feet. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “My head hurts,” said Brune.

  “Ah well, you’re used to that,” said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the jugs, and leaned in to Dace.

  “I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you . . . injured . . . is highly connected.”

  “His arm isn’t,” said Dace, with a wide smile.

  “I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of Vint, the Duke’s Champion.”

  “Champion, you say? Is he any good?”

  “It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good—to my reckoning, anyway.”

  Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. “It makes him interesting,” he agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away.

  “You promised,” said Tarantio.

  “I kept my promise. I didn’t know someone was going to punch the idiot. And I didn’t kill him, brother.”

  “You crippled him!”

  “You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said about Vint?”

  “Yes. And we are going to avoid him.”

  “There is no sense of adventure in you.” The door opened and Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. “Damn!” said Dace. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I think I’ll sleep now.”

  Tarantio took a deep breath. “Where is the man who hit me?” asked Brune.

  “He’s gone,” replied Tarantio.

  “Did you hurt him?” asked Brune.

  “I think I did,” said Tarantio.

  Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a full day as he tried to make his report. As night fell he sat shivering beneath an archway at the main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The officer looked at him long and hard. “I am Capel,” he said. “For my sins I am the second in command of this . . . outpost. So tell me, child, your important news.” Goran did so, and Capel listened without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons and monster warriors on monster horses.

  “You understand, child,” he said, “that such a fanciful tale is likely to see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?”

  “It’s true, sir. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  The officer rose wearily to his feet. “I’ll take you to the captain. But this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.”

  “I must see him,” said Goran.

  Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes.

  The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. “I would like to see this miracle,” he said. “You will ride with me, boy. And if it proves—as I think it will—a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How does that sound?”

  Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell. The door was locked behind him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a young soldier helped him mount a
fine grey stallion, and the troop cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel.

  “Tell me again about these monsters,” said the soldier.

  “They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. Their horses were giants.”

  “You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird’s, perhaps?”

  “Yes, sir. Like a hawk’s beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and pointed.”

  The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a white linen towel.

  After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran’s village an hour after noon. It was deserted.

  Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside the captain’s mount. “Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the boy said.” The captain looked around nervously.

  “How many in the raiding party?” he asked, sweat breaking out on his plump face.

  “No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than any I’ve seen.”

  “I think we should go back, don’t you?” said the captain.

  “We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the Duke?”

  “Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.”

  “I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now be between us and the garrison.”

  The fat man’s eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. “Yes, of course. You think then we should . . . push on?”

  “With care, sir.”

  The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning himself at the centre of the troop. Goran edged his mount alongside Capel. “The captain doesn’t seem much like a soldier,” he said.

  “He’s a nobleman, lad. They’re a different breed—born to be officers.” He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills and valleys, woods and plains.

  The fat officer moved alongside Capel. “It is like a dream,” he said. “What can it mean?”

  “When I was a lad our village storyteller told tales of ancient days. The Three Races—you remember, sir? The Oltor, the Eldarin and the Daroth?”

  “What of it?”

  “Our storyteller’s description of the Daroth matches what the boy saw. Huge, powerful heads of white, ridged bone. A beak of a mouth.”

  “It cannot be,” said the captain. “The Daroth were destroyed by the Eldarin centuries ago.”

  “And a few days ago this was the Great Northern Desert,” pointed out Capel. Around them the thirty men were sitting their horses nervously. There was no conversation, but Goran could feel the tension.

  “And that looks like no human settlement I have ever heard of,” went on Capel, gesturing towards the distant city of black domes. “Should we send a delegation?”

  “No! We are not politicians. I think we have seen enough. Now we will ride back.”

  One of the soldiers pointed to a small hollow at the foot of the hills, where the remains of a fire-pit could clearly be seen.

  “Go down and check it,” the captain ordered Capel. “Then we’ll leave.”

  The officer beckoned three men to follow him and rode down the slope. Goran heeled his horse forward and followed them.

  At the foot of the hill Capel dismounted. Bones were scattered around the pit, and a small pile of skulls had been carelessly kicked into the ashes. A little way to the right was a mound of torn and bloody clothing. Goran jumped from his horse and began to search through the clothes. His father’s tunic was not among them.

  “Riders!” shouted one of the three soldiers. Goran saw some twenty monsters approaching from the south. Running to his horse, he vaulted to the saddle.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Capel. Turning his mount towards the slope, he glanced up to see, far above them, the captain’s horse rear suddenly, pitching him to the ground. The sound of screaming horses filled the air. One gelding toppled head-first over the crest with a long black spear through its neck. Capel dragged on the reins of his mount, his mind racing. Above him now he could see scores of white-faced warriors moving out onto the slope—behind him twenty more riders were bearing down. With three men he could make no difference to the battle being waged above, and if he tried he would be caught between two forces. To be forced to run from a fight was galling, but to stay would be certain death. Death did not frighten Capel, but if no-one escaped there would be no-one to raise the alarm back in Corduin.

  Capel swung his horse towards the east. “Follow me!” he shouted. The three soldiers and Goran obeyed instantly, and they galloped back down the slope to the level ground of the plain. The huge horses of the enemy could not match the speed of the Corduin mounts. They did not try. Capel glanced back to see the Daroth riding slowly up the slope.

  And just for a moment he glimpsed the fat captain running witlessly along the crest. But then he was gone.

  The dream was subtly different. The child was still crying and Tarantio was trying to find him—deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, he searched. He knew the tunnels well; he had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in the face; through this came the thin, piping cries of terror.

  “The demons are coming! The demons are coming!” he heard the child cry.

  “I am with you,” he answered. “Stay where you are!”

  Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light, strong enough to throw shadows. As always he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. The ragged men with opal eyes advanced through the gloom, hammers and pickaxes in their hands.

  “Where is the boy?” he demanded, drawing his swords.

  “Dead. As you are,” came the voice in his mind.

  “I am not dead.”

  “You are dead, Tarantio,” argued the voice. “Where is your passion? Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life without these things? It is nothing.”

  “I have dreams!” shouted Taranto.

  “Name one!”

  His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. “Where is the boy?” he screamed.

  The voice fell silent and Tarantio moved forward. The line of ragged men parted, and beyond them he saw a swordsman waiting for him. The man was lean, his face grey, his eyes golden and slitted like those of a hunting cat. His hair was white and spiky, standing out from his head like a lion’s mane. In his hands were two swords.

  “Where is the child?” asked Tarantio.

  “Will you die to find out?” the demon asked in return.

  Tarantio awoke and swung his legs from the bed. The sound of Brune’s soft snoring filled the room. Tarantio took a deep, calming breath. Dawn light was shining through the leaded glass of the windows, making geometric patterns on the floor of the room. Tarantio dressed swiftly and went downstairs. One of the two fires in the dining hall had died, but the other was still flickering. Adding two thin logs to it, he blew the blaze to life and sat quietly before the flames.

  “You look troubled,” said Shira, limping in from the kitchen.

  “Bad dreams,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “I used to have bad dreams,” she said. “Would you like some breakfast? We have eggs today.”

  “Thank you.”

  She left him with his thoughts, and he pictur
ed the dream again and again. Still there was no sense to it. Tarantio shivered, and added more fuel to the growing fire.

  Shira returned with a plate of fried eggs and a slab of steak. Tarantio thanked her and devoured the meal. She sat down beside him when he had finished, and handed him a mug of hot, sweet tisane.

  Tarantio relaxed. “This is good,” he said. “I don’t recognize the flavour.”

  “Rose-petal, lemon mint, and a hint of camomile, sweetened with honey.”

  Tarantio sighed. “The best time of the day,” he said, trying to make conversation. “Quiet and uncluttered.”

  “I have always liked the dawn. A new day, fresh and virgin.”

  The use of the word “virgin” unsettled Tarantio, and he looked away into the fire. “You were very frightening last night,” she said.

  “I am sorry you witnessed it.”

  “I thought someone was going to die. It was horrible.”

  “Violence is never pleasant,” he agreed. “However, the man brought it upon himself. He should not have struck Brune, nor should he have attempted to kick him thereafter. It was the act of a coward. Though he will, I think, be regretting his actions now.”

  “Will you be taking Father’s advice, and leaving us?”

  “I have not yet found a dwelling that suits me.”

  “This tavern never made any money,” she said suddenly, “not until Duvo came with his music. Father worked hard, and we scraped by. Now he is on the verge of success, and that means a lot to him.”

  “I am sure that it does,” agreed Tarantio, waiting for her to continue.

  “But taverns with a reputation for violence tend to lose their customers.”

  He looked into her wide, beautiful eyes. “You would like me to leave?”

  “I think it would be wise. Father didn’t sleep last night. I heard him pacing the room.”

  “I will find another tavern,” he promised her.

  She made to rise, then winced and sat back.