“You are in pain?” he asked.
“My leg often troubles me—especially when it is going to rain. I shall be all right in a moment. I am sorry for having to ask you to leave. I know that what happened was not your fault.”
He shrugged, and forced a smile. “Do not concern yourself. There are many taverns. And I will not need more than a few days to find a place of my own.”
Taking his empty plate, she limped back to the kitchen.
“Such a sweet child,” said Dace. “And you fell for it, brother.”
“What she said was no more than the truth. Vint will come here looking for you . . . me.”
“I’ll kill him,” said Dace confidently.
“What is the point, Dace? How many deaths do you need?” asked Tarantio wearily.
“I don’t need deaths,” objected Dace. “I need amusement. And this conversation is becoming boring.” With that Dace faded back, leaving Tarantio mercifully alone.
Returning to his room, he filled a pewter bowl and washed his face and hands. Brune yawned and stretched. “I had a lovely dream,” he said, sitting up and scratching his thick fingers through his sandy hair.
“Lucky you,” said Tarantio. “Pack your gear. Today we look at houses.”
“I’d like to stay here and talk to Shira.”
“I can see the attraction. However, the man I fought last night is likely to come back with a large number of friends—including a sword-killer named Vint. They’ll be looking for you and me. You’re welcome to stay here, of course. But keep your dagger close by.”
“No,” said Brune. “I think I’d like to look at houses. I don’t want to meet any sword-killers.”
“Wise choice,” Tarantio told him.
“Boring—but wise,” added Dace.
The twelve targets were circles of hard-packed straw, four feet in diameter, placed against a wall of sacks filled with sand. The archers stood some sixty paces from the targets, their arrows thrust into the earth.
Tarantio and Brune had waited for almost an hour for a place to become free, and stood now on the extreme right of the line. “Let me see you strike the gold,” said Tarantio.
Brune squinted at the circle. It was painted in a series of rings, yellow on the outer, followed by red, blue, green, and lastly a gold centre. “I don’t think I can,” he said.
“Just cock the bow, and we’ll make judgements later.” Brune pulled an arrow from the earth and notched it to the string. “Wait,” said Tarantio. “You did not check the cock feather.”
“The what?”
“Put down the bow,” ordered Tarantio and Brune obeyed. Tarantio lifted an arrow and showed the flights to the bewildered young man. “See how feathers are set into the shaft. Like a Y. Two sets of feathers are set close together, the third stands alone. This is the cock feather. When archers are told to cock their bow, this means that the cock feather should point away from the bow. Otherwise, it will strike the bow as it is loosed and deflect the arrow.”
“I see,” said Brune, taking up his bow again. Drawing the string back to his chin, the young man let fly. The shaft soared high over the target, striking the top of the sand-sack wall. “Was that good?” he asked.
“Had your opponent been fifteen feet tall, it would have scared him,” said Tarantio. “Let me see the bow.”
It was cheaply made from a single piece of wood some four feet long. The best bows were constructed of elm or yew, and often skilled bowyers would create bonded versions incorporating both woods. Tarantio cocked an arrow and drew back the string. The pull was no more than twenty pounds. Loosing the shaft, he watched it punch weakly home in the blue inner ring.
“You’re very good,” said Brune admiringly.
“No, I’m not,” said Tarantio, “but even a master archer would have difficulty with this bow. You’d probably be better off throwing a stone at an advancing enemy. This does not have the power to punch through armour.”
“I made it myself,” said Brune. “I like it.”
“Have you ever hit anything with it?”
“Not yet,” admitted the young man.
“Trust me, Brune. If you are ever hunting deer with it, just run up and use it like a club.”
Several men approached them. The first, a tall slim bowman in a tunic of fine leather, bowed to Tarantio. “Are you planning to practise further, sir?” he enquired. “I have little time myself and was hoping to loose a few shafts.” His dark hair was close-cropped, his head shaved in two crescents above the ears, and he sported a thin trident beard. His clothes were expensive, and he was obviously a nobleman. Knowing how arrogant the nobility could be, Tarantio was impressed by the courteous way he phrased his question.
“No, you may have the target,” said Tarantio amiably. “My friend and I are finished here. Where can I purchase a good bow?”
“For you, or your friend?” enquired the man.
“For him.”
“Have you considered a crossbow? I saw your friend shoot, and—with all respect—he does not have an eye for it.”
“I fear you are right,” agreed Tarantio. The slim bowman turned to one of his companions, calling him forward. The man held a black crossbow, its stock engraved with silver, which the bowman took and offered to Tarantio.
“Let him try a shot or two with this,” he suggested.
“You are most kind.”
“It is very pretty,” said Brune. “How does it work?”
Tarantio touched the top of the crossbow to the ground, placing his foot inside the iron stirrup at the head, then drew back the string. Taking a small black bolt from the bowman he slid it home. “Aim it towards the target, then squeeze this lever under the stock,” he told Brune. Brune lifted the crossbow and squeezed. The bolt vanished into the sand-sacks some eight feet to the left of the target.
“That was closer,” said Brune. “Wasn’t it?”
The men with the bowman laughed. The bowman himself moved to stand before the sandy-haired Brune, looking closely into his eyes. “Which is your bad eye?” he asked.
“This one,” said Brune, tapping his right cheek.
“Can you see out of it at all?”
“I can see colours with it, but it doesn’t work very well.”
“Have you always had this problem?”
“No. Only since someone hit me with a lump of wood.”
“Your friend is almost blind in the right eye,” he told Tarantio. “Take him to Nagellis, in the North Quarter. There is a magicker there named Ardlin, who has a house beside the Three Heads fountain. You can’t miss it—it has a huge stained-glass window showing the naked form of the Goddess Irutha.” The man smiled. “It is a fine window. Ardlin is a healer of great talent.”
“Thank you,” said Tarantio. “You are most kind.”
“Think nothing of it, my friend.” The bowman offered his hand. “My name is Vint.”
Tarantio looked into the man’s smoke-grey eyes. “And I am Tarantio,” he told him, accepting the handshake.
Vint’s face hardened. “That is a pity,” he said. “I was rather hoping that when we finally met I would dislike you.”
“There is much to dislike,” said Tarantio. “You just don’t know me well enough yet.”
“Let us hope that is true,” said Vint. “Where may I call upon you?”
“I have rented a house not far from here. I believe the street is called Nevir North. The house has red tiles and two chimneys. The owners placed a stone wolf to the right of the gate.”
“This afternoon then, an hour before dusk?” offered Vint.
“That is suitable,” agreed Tarantio.
“Sabres?” asked Vint.
“Bring two,” said Tarantio. “I prefer short swords, but I’ll gladly borrow one of yours.”
“No, no. Short swords it is. Would you object if I brought some of my younger students?”
“Not at all.”
“They can carry his body back,” said Dace.
Tarantio turned away. Brune handed back the crossbow and hurried after him. “What is happening?” he asked.
“Let’s find this magicker, Brune,” said Tarantio. “I can’t teach the bow to a half-blind archer.”
“Why is that man going to fight you?”
“It is what he does,” Tarantio told him.
Karis was not easily shocked. Her early life of pain, betrayal and brutality at the hands of her father had birthed in her a cynicism that allowed her to accept the outrageous as if it were commonplace. But when she crested the last rise before the Great Northern Desert, she was stunned. Expecting a vista of bare rock and drifting sand, she was met by a landscape of verdant green dotted with woods and streams.
She knew this area well, having fought two skirmishes here last year. There was no way she could have lost her bearings. To her left, the sun was low in the sky. Ahead, therefore, was north. No question of it.
Guiding the great grey gelding down the slope, she rode to the grasslands and into a grove of trees beside a rippling stream. Dismounting, she loosened Warain’s saddle-girth, but did not remove the saddle. Then she let him wander and graze. Warain was well trained, and would come to her fast at a single whistle. Sitting beside the stream, Karis drank deeply, then emptied her water canteen and refilled it.
Perhaps the Eldarin have come back, she thought. What had happened here was the very opposite of the disaster that had struck Eldarin lands during the short-lived war. But the instant the thought came she dismissed it, recalling the words of the Eldarin spirit which had appeared in her room. “A long time ago the Eldarin faced another evil,” he said. “We contained it, removed it from the world. The Pearl holds that evil at bay.”
This place does not feel evil, thought Karis. The water is sweet and good, the grass rich and green. What evil, then?
Karis was tired. She had been riding for three days, and had eaten little. Yesterday all she had found was a bush of sweet berries, but these had given her a sour stomach. The day before that she had brought down a pheasant, and cooked it in clay. But there was little meat on the bird.
Allowing Warain to graze for an hour she slept briefly, then summoned the gelding, tightened the saddle and rode back into the dry hills. Ordinarily she would have camped by the stream, but her mind was troubled.
She built a small fire and lay down beside it. It was not cold enough to require a camp-fire, but the flames comforted her, inducing a feeling of safety.
What was the evil the Eldarin had contained?
Karis wished she remembered more of her mother’s stories. The flesh-eating tribes of giants had a name, but she could not recall it. She awoke in the night as Warain’s front hoof pawed at the ground. Rising, she pulled her bow from the back of the saddle and strung it. “What is it you hear, grey one?” she whispered, notching an arrow to the bow. In the distance a wolf howled. Warain’s head swung towards the sound.
In the bright moonlight Karis scanned the area. There was no sign of movement. “The wolves will not trouble us, my friend,” she said, moving to the horse and patting its long, sleek neck. Warain nuzzled her shoulder. “You are the most beautiful male in my life,” she whispered. “Strong, and true. When we get to Corduin, I’ll winter you with Chase. You remember Chase, don’t you? The crippled rider.” She scratched the grey’s broad brow. “Now settle down and rest.”
The fire had died and she lay down beside the embers, wrapping her cloak about her.
Just before dawn she woke, and sat up, hungry and irritable. Yesterday she had spotted a deer, but had not killed it. It seemed a great waste of life and beauty to slay such a magnificent beast for the sake of a meal or two. Now she regretted it. Drinking deeply from the canteen, she rose and saddled the gelding. “If we see a deer today,” she told the horse, “it dies. I swear my stomach has wrapped itself around my backbone.”
Stepping into the saddle, she rode down once more into the new grassland, heading for Corduin.
The memory of the guard back at the gate was beginning to irritate her. She remembered he was a ten-heartbeat lover—grunt, thrust, sweat and collapse. But where? What had he said—fight like a tiger, live like a whore, look like an angel? He meant it as a compliment, but the word “whore” did not sit right with Karis. She used men as she used food: to satisfy a hunger, a need she could not—would not—rationalize. Unlike food, however, the men rarely satisfied her.
Even as the thought came to her she remembered Vint, the pale-eyed swordsman. He knew how to satisfy a woman’s hunger. His body was lean and hard, his caresses soft and gentle. And, as an added bonus, there was no emotion in him—no fear of love, or jealousy. She had heard that he became the Duke of Corduin’s Champion after Tarantio had refused the post. So far he had killed five men in duels. If he was still in Corduin . . .
The sun was high, the sky cloudless as she rode through the green hills. To her right she saw a red hawk swoop down on a luckless rabbit. Hauling on the reins, she scanned the area for a falconer. Hawks, she knew, preferred feather to fur; they had to be wedded to it. But there was no man in sight. The hawk struck the rabbit, sending it tumbling, then settled down to feed as Karis rode on.
Then she remembered the night she had seduced the sentry, Gorl. She and her mercenaries had struck a wagon convoy sixty miles south of Hlobane, when she was under contract to Belliese. That’s where the willows were, and she had chosen Gorl because of the lustre of his beard and his deep, soft eyes. Her spirits lifted. Having remembered, she filed him away to be forgotten once more.
“I hope you find a good man,” her mother had said, as Karis prepared to run away into the night. Her father was stretched out on the floor in a drunken stupor.
“You should come with me,” she urged the tired woman.
“Where would I go? Who would have me now?”
“Then let me kill him where he lies. We’ll drag the body out and bury it.”
“Don’t say that! Please. He . . . was a good man once. He truly was. You just go, my dear. You can find employment in Prentuis—you’re a good girl, with a fine body. You’ll find a good man there.”
Karis had walked away without a backward glance. Find a good man? She had found scores. Some who made love tenderly, whispering words of endearment, and others who had been rough and primal. Never had she considered wedding any of them. Never had she made the mistake of loving any of them. No, the men who made her stomach tremble she avoided. Sirano had been one.
Tarantio another . . .
“You I will never forget,” she said aloud. She had first seen him swimming in a lake with twenty or so soldiers. It had been a long, dry, dusty march, and when they camped by the lake the men threw off their armour and clothes and ran into the water, splashing each other like children. Karis had dismounted and sat at the lakeside watching them whoop and dive and laugh. But one slim young man did not join in the revelry. He swam away from the group, then walked naked into the undergrowth, emerging moments later with handfuls of lemon mint which he rubbed across his skin. His face and arms were tanned gold, but his chest and legs were white. He was lean, and beautifully muscled, the dark hair on his chest tapering down to a fine line pointing like an arrow to his loins.
“I will have you,” Karis had decided. She had called him over, and he waded to where she sat.
“What is your name, soldier?”
“I am Tarantio.”
“My captain spoke of you.” His eyes were a deep, dark blue, his hair thick and tightly curled. “He said you were a ferocious fighter. With a thousand like you, he says he could conquer the world.”
He had smiled then and turned from her to swim away. The smile had been dazzling, and in that moment Karis knew she would never take him to her bed.
Warain pulled up now, his ears pricked and his nostrils flaring. Karis looked around, but could see nothing untoward. But she trusted Warain. Angling to the right through the trees she came to a rise and looked down upon the green plain. In the distance four riders were h
eading towards the hills where she waited. They were being pursued by a score of warriors wearing huge white helms. Karis shaded her eyes.
Below her, hidden in a gully, was another group. These were closer, and she saw the reality—not helms at all, but heads of stark white bone. They were armed with serrated swords, and the fleeing riders were heading straight for them.
Karis pulled her bow clear, strung it, and notched an arrow. Then she heeled Warain into a run down the slope.
The pounding of the gelding’s hooves alerted the warriors below and they swung as she thundered towards them. Her arrow slammed into a white neck, then Warain leapt the gully and galloped on towards the riders. Karis pointed to the hills. “You are in a trap!” she shouted. “Follow me!” Swinging Warain, she rode hard for the high ground. The riders turned after her, and together they made the long, slow climb.
The pursuing enemy angled up the slope to cut off the escape. Heat flared inside Karis’s head, and she felt the onset of a terrible fear. The horses were affected also, and Warain almost stumbled. The grey gelding righted himself, but he slowed almost to a stop and Karis could feel him trembling with terror. It is sorcery, she thought. “On, Great One!” she shouted, touching her heels to Warain’s flanks. At the sound of her voice, his muscles bunched and he surged forward. Three of the enemy riders had cut across the line of escape, and their huge mounts bore down on the fleeing group.
Warain galloped on. Karis angled him towards the first of the massive horses. He needed no urging; he could see the enemy mounts—they were larger and more powerful than he—but Warain was a war-horse of enormous pride. Striding out even faster, the great grey charged at the enemy, his mighty shoulder striking the first horse with tremendous power. With a whinny of pain and terror the enemy horse toppled, pinning its rider beneath it. Warain surged through the gap, and on to open ground, the four smaller horses coming through in his wake.
Karis swung to see the warriors scrambling out of the gully. One still had her arrow in his neck, and she watched him tear it clear and throw it aside.
Then she was over the crest and out of sight of the pursuing horsemen. Outpacing their pursuers, the group rode on for an hour heading south-west. At the top of a high hill Karis pulled up and looked back. From here she could see for miles; the pursuit had been abandoned. Leaning over Warain’s neck, she stroked her fingers through his white mane. “I am proud of you,” she whispered. A middle-aged man, wearing the armour of a Corduin lancer, approached her. “My thanks to you, Karis,” he said. “The Gods alone know what would have become of us had you not been to hand.”
Dark Moon Page 13
