“Well, sit you down,” said the Duke. “I think you will find the duel postponed indefinitely.” He glanced up and scanned the faces of his councillors. “All of you listen well to what you are about to hear. Understand that this is no jest. The decisions made here today will affect us all for the rest of our lives. Those lives, I should add, might not be very long-lived.” Turning his head, he glanced at Goran. “You speak first, boy. Tell it all as you told me.”
Nervous and trembling in such company, Goran began to speak at speed, his words tumbling out. Karis stopped him. “Slowly, boy. Take it from the beginning. You were looking after your sheep, and then you saw something. Go from there.”
Goran took a deep breath, then told of what he had seen. Then Capel addressed them, outlining the tragedy that had befallen his captain and most of the men. Lastly Karis spoke, describing the actions of Sirano and the words of the Eldarin ghost.
Then there was silence. It was Vint who broke it. “I know nothing of these Daroth,” he said, “but if they can bleed I can kill them.”
“Do not be too sure,” warned Karis. “When my horse leapt the gully I put an arrow into the throat of one of them. It was a lucky shot, but it struck true. Not only did it not kill him, but he clambered out of the gully, tore the arrow loose and threw it aside. They are huge, these Daroth, and mightily muscled.”
“Karis is quite correct,” said the Duke. “No arrow or sword can kill them. That’s what it says here, in this ancient book. In war they are sublime killers, impervious to pain. Their strength is prodigious. Many of the stories here are—in essence—myths. But all myths contain a grain of truth. According to this source there were . . . are? . . . seven cities of the Daroth. Twenty thousand or so Daroth live in each city. There is a map here. Five of the Daroth cities are too far away to trouble us now. One other is more than two months’ ride from Corduin. That leaves only the last; it has no name, but we will call it Daroth One. Let us assume that there are twenty thousand Daroth living there. What size of army could they muster? And what must we do to combat them?” His dark eyes scanned the assembly. “Let us begin with reaction to what we have heard.”
One by one the councillors spoke, asking questions of Capel, Goran and Karis. The warrior woman coolly read the mood of the councillors: they were stumbling in the dark, confused and uncertain. After the meeting had been in progress for an hour, she stepped up to the Duke. “If I may, my lord?” she said, with a bow. “I do have a suggestion.”
“I would be glad to hear it,” he told her.
“There is little we can do to plan until we know the intentions of the Daroth. This we cannot ascertain until we have sent a delegation to them. I propose that a small group should be selected to ride north and meet with their leaders.”
“We do not even know the language they speak,” objected Vint. “And from the way they attacked Capel and his men, one would surmise they are in no mood to negotiate.”
“Even so,” said Karis, “there is really no alternative. We need to know their numbers, their fighting style, their weaponry, their strategies. Do they have siege-engines? If not, no matter how strong they are they will not breach the walls of Corduin. Language is not the greatest problem here. Lack of knowledge is what could destroy us.”
“Would you lead this group, Karis?” asked the Duke.
“I would, my lord—for a thousand in silver.”
Vint’s laughter boomed out. “Ever the mercenary, Karis!”
Albreck, Duke of Corduin, entered his private apartments and sat down on a richly embroidered couch. One of his manservants knelt before him, pulling off the Duke’s boots. Another brought him a crystal goblet filled with cooled apple juice; Albreck sipped the drink, and handed the goblet to the servant.
“Your bath is prepared, my lord,” said the man.
“Thank you. Is my wife in her apartments?”
“No, my lord, she is dining with the Lady Peria. She has ordered her carriage to be ready for her return at dusk.”
Albreck stood. The two servants undressed him and removed his rings; then he strode naked to the rear rooms and slowly descended the steps into the sunken bath. Servants scurried around him, bringing buckets of warmed, perfumed water which they added to the bath, but the Duke was oblivious to them.
The War of the Pearl was a costly nonsense, which Albreck had tried hard to avoid. But there was no escape from Sirano’s ambition, and the army of Hlobane had been drawn into the conflict. Now, his army depleted and supplies short, he faced an enemy of unknown power.
“Close your eyes, my lord, and I will wash your hair,” said a servant. Albreck did so, momentarily gaining enjoyment from the rush of warm water to his crown. Nimble fingers massaged his scalp.
All the ancient stories told of the horrors of the Daroth, their ferocity, their malevolence and their cruelty. Not one spoke of art, or love. Was it possible that an entire race could be devoid of such feelings? Albreck doubted it—and in that doubt there was a seed of hope. Perhaps a war could be avoided? Perhaps the old stories were exaggerated.
The servant rinsed his hair, then dried it with a warmed towel. Albreck rose from the bath and donned an ankle-length white robe held out for him. Then he returned to his room and sat beside the fire.
Even if the stories were exaggerated, the truth came through like a searing flame. The Oltor had been wiped out, their race annihilated, their cities rendered to dust. No-one now knew for sure what the Oltor had looked like, nor what kind of race they were. They had saved the Daroth, and in return the Daroth had destroyed them. There was not a great deal of hope to be found in such deeds.
A burning log fell to the hearth. A servant stepped forward swiftly, taking up a pair of brass tongs and lifting it back to the flames. Albreck glanced up. “Fetch the Chief Armourer,” he told the man.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And bring me the Red Book from my study.”
“At once, my lord.”
Albreck sighed. All his life he had loved the arts: music, painting, poetry. But he also had a passion for history, and would have liked nothing better than to spend his days in study. Instead he had been born to this title, with all its concomitant burdens.
The servant returned within moments, carrying a large book bound with red leather. Albreck thanked him and opened it, scanning the pages which were filled with a neat, flowing script. Each page bore a date, and Albreck found the entry he was looking for. The Chief Armourer had introduced a Weapon Maker to him last summer. The man had designed a new siege-engine, which he claimed would help Albreck win the war.
Albreck had long since decided the situation would be resolved—once men realized the true futility of the exercise of war—around a negotiating table, and had no desire to invest in new weapons of destruction. He recalled the Weapon Maker as a large man, brilliant of mind, with a pompous turn of phrase. The pomposity he could ignore, the brilliance was what was required.
The Chief Armourer arrived, breathless and red from running. Albreck thanked him for arriving so swiftly, and asked him if the Weapon Maker was still resident in Corduin.
“Indeed he is, my lord. He is currently working on a new sabre for the swordsman, Vint.”
“I would like to see him. Bring him to my apartments this evening.”
“Yes, my lord. Are we then to build the new siege-engines?”
The Duke ignored him and returned to his reading. He did not see the man bow, nor hear the door click shut behind him.
Karis was given a suite of apartments on the first floor of the palace. At her command, servants prepared a perfumed bath for her; then she dismissed them. Vint arrived soon after, just as Karis was undressing.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Why not?” she answered, lowering her lean frame into the water. Vint chuckled, then doffed his boots, leggings and shirt.
“By Heaven, Karis, you are still the most desirable woman I’ve ever known.”
“Beautiful sounds better
,” she admonished him.
He paused and stared at her critically. “Well . . . you’re not a great beauty, my dove. Your nose is too long, and your features too sharp. Also—to be frank—you are a little too lean. However, that said, I never knew a better bed partner.”
“How coy,” she said, with a smile. “As I recall, we have not yet rutted in a bed. The back of a wagon, the bank of a river, and . . . oh yes, the hay-loft of a barn. No bed that I can recall.”
“Nakedness and pedantry do not go together,” he said, sliding into the water beside her. “And now it is your turn to compliment me.”
Reaching out, she stroked the skin of his shaved temples. “I preferred it when it was long and braided,” she told him.
“One has to remain in style, Karis. It shows the populace where true wealth lies. Now play the game and offer me a compliment.”
“You are among the top fifty lovers I have known.”
His laughter pealed out. “Ah, but I have missed you, lady. You help to remind me that I am—despite my talents—merely mortal. But you do not fool me. I am in the top ten.”
“Arrogant man,” she said, allowing him to move closer to her.
“Arrogance is one of my many virtues. Will you allow me to accompany you on your mission?”
“Yes. I would have requested you.”
“How pleasing.” Leaning in, he kissed her lips, gently at first and then with increasing ardour. His hand caressed her breast, then his arm circled her waist, lifting her on to him. They made love slowly, and Karis allowed her mind to relax. He was right; he was high on the list of good lovers. But, as enjoyable as it was, there was no time to fully appreciate his skills. Karis increased the rhythm, then began to moan, her breath coming in sharp gasps. Vint’s hands gripped her hips, and he too began to move with greater urgency. He sighed as he climaxed. Satisfied that she had fooled him, Karis kissed his cheek, then moved away.
“I needed that,” he said, with a smile. “I was prepared for a duel, and the blood was up. Sex is certainly a fine substitute for fighting. Not perfect, mind, but close.”
“Who was the lucky opponent?”
“A man named Tarantio. Said to be something of a swordsman.”
Karis laughed aloud. “Ah my dear, dear Vint. You are the lucky man. Tarantio would have cut your ears off.”
His face hardened, and no sign of humour remained. “Don’t mock me, darling. There is not a man alive to best me with any kind of blade.”
“Trust me, Vint,” she said, her face serious. “I have seen you both fight and there is in you a quality of greatness with the blade. But Tarantio . . . ? He is inhuman. You were not here when he fought Carlyn; it was awesome.”
“I remember the story,” said Vint. “Carlyn killed the legendary Sigellus and was challenged by one of his pupils. It was said to have been some fight.”
“It wasn’t a fight, Vint, not even close. Tarantio cut him to pieces; he sliced off both the man’s ears, cut his nose, then criss-crossed his face with deep cuts. Each one could have been a death stroke, but Tarantio was playing with him. And Carlyn was almost as good as you, my dear.”
“I think you underestimate me, Karis. I am not without a few tricks of my own.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be killed. Where would I go for good love-making?”
“I take it Tarantio is also among the top ten of your lovers?”
Karis forced a laugh. “You will never know. Now tell me where I can find him.”
“You will invite him onto our quest?”
“Yes. And pay him anything for the privilege.”
Vint rose from the bath. Robes had been left draped across a bench seat. Donning one, he passed the other to Karis. “Are you doing this to stop me from carrying out my duel?”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “I do not interfere in the lives of my men. If you wish to die young, then make good on your challenge—but not until we return.”
Vint smiled. “Who could deny you anything, Karis?”
There was a discreet tap at the door. When Karis opened it, the dark-haired boy Goran stood outside. Karis ushered him in and he stood on the threshold looking nervous and ill at ease. “What did you want?” she asked him.
“Can I come with you tomorrow?”
“I do not think that would be wise, boy. Our chances of returning alive are not great.”
“They took my father. I . . . I need to find out whether he lives.”
“You were close?” she asked.
“He is the finest man who ever walked,” said Goran, his voice thickening and tears forming in his eyes. “Please let me come.”
“Oh, let him come, Karis,” said Vint. “The boy has spirit, and wouldn’t you want to look for your own father?”
Karis’s eyes were cold as she turned to Vint. “If it was my father,” she said, “I’d help the Daroth skin him!”
Brune sat quietly in the garden behind the house, watching a line of ants moving up a rose-bush. They filed slowly up the stem of a late-flowering bud, then down again. Brune focused on the bud, which was covered with greenfly. The ants were moving up, one at a time, behind the greenfly, and appeared to be stroking the aphids. This puzzled Brune: it was as if the tiny black insects were paying homage to their larger green cousins. But that was ridiculous. Narrowing his eyes, Brune looked closer. Then he smiled. The ants were feeding. Stroking the greenfly caused the aphids to produce a viscous discharge. Brune clapped his hands and laughed aloud.
“What is so amusing?” asked Tarantio, stepping out into the sunshine. He was carrying a black crossbow with a slim stock and wings of iron, and a quiver of stiffened leather containing twenty short black quarrels.
“The ants are milking the greenfly,” Brune told him. “I didn’t know they did that.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarantio laid bow and quiver on the stone table beside the bench on which Brune was sitting.
“The rose-bush. Look at the ants.”
Tarantio walked the length of the garden, some sixty paces, and knelt down by the bush for a few moments. Then he returned to the seated Brune. “I see they are swarming near the greenfly, but what makes you believe they are milking them?” he asked.
“You can see it. Look, there’s one feeding now; he’s filling his food sac.”
“Are you mocking me, Brune? I can hardly see the bud from here.”
“It’s my new eye,” said Brune proudly. “I can see all sorts of things with it, if I try hard. I was watching the ants earlier. They swap food. Did you know that? They rear up in front of each other, then one vomits—”
“I am sure it is fascinating,” said the swordsman swiftly. “However, we have work to do. I have purchased this crossbow and I’d like to see how your new eye affects your aim.”
Tarantio showed Brune how to cock the weapon, then bade him shoot at the trunk of a thick oak some twenty paces away.
“Which part of the trunk?” asked Brune. Tarantio laughed and moved to the tree, scanning the bark. There was a small knot no more than an inch in diameter. Tarantio touched it with his index finger.
“Just here,” he said. As he spoke, Brune hefted the weapon. “Wait!” cried Tarantio. The black bolt slammed into the knot, barely inches from Tarantio’s outstretched hand. Furious, he stormed back to where Brune stood. “You idiot! You could have killed me.”
“I hit the knot,” said Brune gleefully.
“But the bolt might have ricocheted. It happens, Brune.”
“I’m sorry. It was just so easy. Don’t be angry.”
Tarantio took a deep breath, then sighed. “Well,” he said at last, “we know the gold was well spent. The magicker did a fine job. Perhaps a little too fine.” Leaning in close to Brune he stared into the young man’s eyes.
“What are you looking at?” asked Brune nervously.
“Your left eye. I could have sworn it was blue.”
“It is blue,” said Brune.
“Not any more. It i
s a kind of golden brown. Ah well, maybe it is just part of the magic from the golden orb.”
“He wasn’t supposed to change the colour,” objected Brune, worried now. “He wasn’t, was he?”
“I don’t suppose that it matters,” replied Tarantio, with a smile. “Not if you can see ants feeding. Anyway, it is a good colour. And it better matches the gold of your right eye.”
“You think so?”
“Yes.”
They heard the sound of horses on the road outside. Tarantio’s face hardened as Vint came riding to the gate. The Corduin swordsman gave a broad smile and waved as he dismounted. He opened the gate wide, and a second rider came through. Tarantio watched as Karis dismounted, tethering her grey to the gatepost.
“Good to see you again, Chio,” she said.
“And you, Karis. Come to see him die?” he asked.
“Not today. What brings you to Corduin?”
“I grew tired of war,” he told her. “Added to which I was with the mercenaries your lancers destroyed. I barely got away. Did life prove too dull with Sirano?”
“Something like that,” she agreed. Karis glanced at Brune. “What is the matter with his eye?”
“Nothing. He sees better than any man alive. What is it you want?”
Karis smiled. “A little hospitality would be pleasant. A drink perhaps? Then we can talk.”
Tarantio sent Brune inside to fetch wine. Vint sat perched on the edge of the stone table, while Karis sat down opposite Tarantio. She told him of the return of the Daroth, and the murder of the villagers and the soldiers from the northern garrison. Tarantio listened, astonished. Brune returned with a pitcher of wine and four clay cups, but no-one touched the drink.
“You saw them yourself?” asked Tarantio.
“I did, Chio. Horses of eighteen hands or more, huge warriors with white, naked skulls and twisted faces. And the desert is no more. Trust me. The Daroth are back.” She told him of Sirano’s assault on the Pearl, and of the ghostly Eldarin. Lastly she outlined the decision of the Council to send a group of riders to meet with the Daroth. “I will be leading the group,” she said. “I want you with me.”
Dark Moon Page 15
