Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “Who else have you chosen?”

  “Vint, the boy Goran, and a politician called Pooris. But it must be a small group.”

  “Forin is in Corduin,” he told her. “He is a good man—and he knows many stories of the Daroth. He could be useful.”

  “I will have him found. Will you come?”

  “You have not mentioned a price,” he pointed out.

  Karis grinned. “One hundred in silver.”

  “That is agreeable. And what about him?” he asked, gesturing at the green-clad swordsman.

  “What about him?” countered Karis.

  “He wants to kill me. I do not relish being stabbed to death as I sleep.”

  “How dare you?” snapped Vint. “I never murdered a man in my life. You have my word that our duel will wait until we return. Or is my word not good enough for you?”

  “Is his word good, Karis?” asked Tarantio.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I agree. I won’t kill him until we return.”

  Vint’s handsome face lost its colour. “You are an arrogant man, Tarantio,” he said, “but it would be wise to remember the old adage—never a horse that couldn’t be rode, never a man that couldn’t be throwed.”

  “I’ll remember that when I find a horse I can’t ride.”

  “Would either of you mind,” put in Karis, “if I enquired as to what caused this enmity?”

  “A friend of his attacked Brune. Hit him from behind, then tried to kick him while he was unconscious. I stopped him. He drew a knife on me and I broke his arm. Should have killed him, but I didn’t.”

  “That is not how it happened,” said Vint to Karis. “My friend was dining when this . . . drunken savage . . . attacked him for no reason.”

  “For what it is worth, Vint, I have never known Tarantio to lie. Nor have I ever seen him drunk. But that is beside the point. You are both strong men, the kind I would want with me on this mission. I will not however take either of you if you do not grip hands now, and swear to be sword brothers until we return. I cannot afford such hatred. While we are in Daroth lands, you must each be willing to risk your life for the other. You understand me?”

  “Why would he need a sword brother?” asked Vint. “Surely he could master the Daroth on his own.”

  “That is enough!” snapped Karis. “Shake hands and swear your oath. Both of you.”

  For a moment the two men sat in stony silence, then Tarantio rose and offered his hand. Vint stared at it for several heartbeats, then thrust out his own, and the two men clasped each other wrist to wrist. “I will defend your life as my own,” said Tarantio.

  “And I likewise,” hissed Vint.

  “We will depart at dawn,” said Karis. “If your man Forin has not been found by then, we will leave without him.”

  “I would like to bring my . . . friend . . . Brune,” put in Tarantio, as Karis moved towards her horse.

  She swung back. “Can he fight?”

  Tarantio shrugged. “No, General, but he has the eyes of an eagle. Trust me on this.”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Of all the joys Duvodas had ever known, this was the most intense, the most beautiful. In his young life he had summoned the music of the earth, and watched its magic flow across the land. He had healed the sick, and felt the lifeblood of the universe flowing in his veins. But here and now, as he lay beside his new bride, he felt complete and utterly happy. He stroked her long dark hair as she slept, and stared down at her beautiful face lit by the virgin light of a new dawn. Duvo sighed.

  The wedding had been joyous and raucous. Ceofrin had opened his tavern to friends, family and loyal customers. The food and drink were free, and Duvo had played for them. The priest had arrived at noon, the guests pushing back the tables so that he could lay the ceremonial sword and sheaf of corn upon the freshly swept floor. Duvo had put aside his harp and led Shira to the centre of the room. The words were simple.

  “Do you, Duvodas of the Harp, agree to this binding of soul and flesh?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you swear to value the life of this, your beloved, as you value your own?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you honour her with the truth, and bless her with love for all the days of your life?”

  “I will.”

  “Then take up the sword.”

  Duvo had never before held a blade, and he was loath to touch it. But it was a ceremonial piece, representing defence of the family, that had never been used in combat, and he knelt and lifted it by the hilt. The crowd cheered and Shira’s father, Ceofrin, stood by misty-eyed as he did so.

  “Do you, Shira, agree to this binding of soul and flesh?” asked the priest.

  “I do.”

  “Do you swear to value the life of this, your beloved, as you value your own?”

  “Always.”

  “Will you honour him with the truth, and bless him with love for all the days of your life?”

  “I will.”

  “Then take up the sheaf, which represents life and the continuation of life.”

  She did so, then turned to Duvo, offering it to him. He took it from her hand, then drew her to him, kissing her. The crowd roared their approval, and the revelry began again.

  Now it was dawn, and Shira slept on. Dipping his head, he kissed her brow. Sorrow slipped through his joy like a cold breeze, and he shivered.

  The Daroth were coming.

  That was why he had changed his mind about marrying the girl beside him, for only thus could he guarantee her safety. Now when he left Corduin, she would be beside him, and he would take her far from the threat of war and violence.

  Rising from the bed, he took up his harp and sat by the window. Nervously he stroked the strings, reaching out for the harmony. He quite expected to feel nothing, and remembered a walk with Ranaloth through the gardens of the Temple of the Oltor.

  “Why did you raise me, Master Ranaloth?” he had asked. “You do not like humans.”

  “I do not dislike them,” answered the Eldarin. “I dislike no-one.”

  “I understand that. But you have said that we are like the Daroth, natural destroyers.”

  Ranaloth had nodded agreement. “This is true, Duvo, and many among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race among us. But you were lost and alone, an abandoned babe on a winter hillside. I had always wondered if a human could learn to be civilized—if you could put aside the violence of your nature and the evils of your heart. So I brought you here. You have proved it possible, and made me happy and proud. The triumph of will over the pull of the flesh—this is what the Eldarin achieved many aeons ago. We learned the value of harmony. Now you understand it also, and perhaps you can carry this gift back to your race.”

  “What must I beware of, sir?” he had asked.

  “Anger and hatred—these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway through which hatred—disguised and unrecognized—can pass.”

  “How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?”

  “Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.”

  “You think I should avoid love?”

  Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. “No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But when it happens you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps even lost.”

  “Then I will never love,” said the young man.

  “I hope that is not true. Come, let us walk into the Temple and pay homage to the Oltor.” Together they had strolled through the entrance. The vast circular building housed hundreds of thousands of bones, laid upon black velvet cloths. Every niche was filled with them—skulls, thigh-bones, tiny metatarsals, fragments and splin
ters. There was little else here, no statues, no paintings, no seats. On a high table, laid upon a sheet of satin, were a dozen red stones. “The blood of the Oltor Prime,” said Ranaloth. “One of the last to die. His lifeblood stained the rocks below him.”

  “Why did the Eldarin gather all these bones?” Duvo had asked.

  Ranaloth gave a sad smile. “They were a fine people, who knew the songs of the earth. We learned their songs; you now sing many of them. But the Oltor will sing no more. It is fitting that we can walk here and see the result of evil. This is what it means to confront the Daroth. How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what war is, Duvo. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.”

  Now, in the quiet of the dawn, Duvo began the Song of Vornay—sweet and lilting, soft as the feather of a dove, gentle as a mother’s kiss. The music filled the room, and Duvo was amazed to find that not only was the magic still there, but it had changed for the better. Where the power had been passive and impersonal, it was now vibrant and fertile. He was hard-pressed to contain it, and found himself playing the Creation Hymn. As his fingers danced upon the strings he became aware of a nest upon the roof outside the window, and the young chicks within it. And below, from the alley, he felt the tiny, irrepressible music in the heartbeat of three new pups, born in the night. Duvo smiled and continued his song.

  Suddenly he faltered.

  The sense of magic was strong upon him and he realized, with both dread and longing, that new life was closer still . . . within the room. Putting aside his harp, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the still sleeping Shira. As the magic faded from his mind, he reached out one last time, and felt the tiny spark of what in nine months would be his child.

  His son . . . or daughter. A sense of wonder flowed through him, and an awesome feeling of humility linked with mortality filled his mind.

  Shira awoke and smiled sleepily. “I had such wonderful dreams,” she said.

  Sixty miles north-east of Corduin, in a moonlit hollow, Karis studied the ancient map. According to the coordinates they were less than twenty miles from Daroth One. They had seen no Daroth warriors in the four days since they left Corduin, but everywhere there were signs of panic: small villages deserted, columns of refugees fleeing for what they perceived as the safety of the city.

  The others were still asleep as the dawn sun rose. Karis added dry wood to the embers of last night’s fire and gently blew it to fresh life. Autumn was fast becoming winter, and a chill breeze was blowing down from the mountains.

  The politician, Pooris, rose from his blankets, saw Karis by the fire and moved across to her. He was a small, thin man, bald—save for a thin circlet of silver hair above his ears. “Good morning to you, Karis,” he said, his voice smooth as winter syrup.

  “Let us hope it proves so,” she said. He smiled, but the action did not reach his button-bright blue eyes.

  “May we speak—privately?” he asked her.

  “It does not get much more private than this, Pooris,” she pointed out.

  He nodded, then swung a glance to the sleeping warriors. Satisfied they could not hear him he turned again to the warrior woman. “I am not blessed with physical bravery,” he said. “I have always been frightened of pain—suffering of any kind. I fear the Daroth.” He sighed. “‘Fear’ is not a strong enough word. I cannot sleep for worrying.”

  “Why tell me this?”

  “I don’t know. To share, perhaps? Is there some secret to your courage? Is there something I can do to bolster my own?”

  “Nothing that I know of, Pooris. If trouble comes, stay close to me. Follow my lead. No hesitation.” She looked at him and smiled. “Bear this in mind also, Councillor—not many cowards would volunteer for a mission such as this.”

  “Are you frightened, Karis?”

  “Of course. We are all riding into the unknown.”

  “But you think we will survive?”

  She shrugged. “I hope that we will.”

  “I have often wondered what constitutes heroism,” he said. “Tarantio and Vint are sword-killers. Most people would call them heroes. But does heroism come naturally to swordsmen?”

  Karis shook her head. “Heroes are people who face down their fears. It is that simple. A child afraid of the dark who one day blows out the candle; a woman terrified of the pain of childbirth who says, ‘It is time to become a mother.’ Heroism does not always live on the battlefield, Pooris.”

  The little councillor smiled. “Thank you, lady,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For listening to my fears.” He rose and walked away through the trees and Karis returned to studying the map. While the Duke’s men searched for Forin she had spent her time in the library, reading everything she could find about the Daroth. It wasn’t much. She had widened the scope, investigating stories—myths mainly—of a race of giant warriors said to have inhabited the north country. Perhaps these tales were also of the Daroth.

  None of the research material she had found had supplied a clue as to what action she should take when they approached the Daroth city. Pooris had suggested riding with a flag of truce. Why should the Daroth recognize this convention? she had asked him.

  Forin—who, as Tarantio had told her, knew many stories of the Daroth—had only one suggestion. “Take salt as a gift,” he said. “According to my father, who heard it from the Eldarin, the Daroth adore the taste. It works on their system like wine does with us.”

  Karis had taken heed. But in order to offer salt to the Daroth, they must first agree to speak. They had not spoken with Capel’s men, but had attacked swiftly and without mercy.

  Pooris returned from the woods and began to neatly fold and roll his blanket. Forin awoke, belched loudly and sat up. He yawned and stretched; rising, he thrust his hand down the front of his leather leggings and scratched at his genitals. Then he saw Karis, and gave a sheepish grin. “I like to check that the old soldier is still alive,” he said. Then he too strolled from the camp. He did not go as far as Pooris had done, and Karis could hear him noisily urinating against a nearby tree-trunk.

  Pooris reddened, but Karis merely chuckled. “Do not be embarrassed, Councillor,” she advised him. “You are not among the nobility now.”

  “I rather guessed that,” he said.

  Tarantio and Brune joined her, then Goran and Vint. They breakfasted on oats they had found in an abandoned village. Goran and Vint sweetened theirs with honey; Tarantio ate his with salt; Pooris was not hungry. And Forin refused the oats, chewing instead upon his ration of dried meat. Brune ate his portion, scraping the last of the porridge from the bowl with his fingers.

  “I think we will see the Daroth today,” said Vint. “They must have outriders. Have you come up with a plan yet, Karis?”

  Ignoring the question, she finished her meal, then cleaned her plate upon the grass. “When we do see them, not one of you must draw a weapon,” she said at last. “You will sit quietly while I ride forward.”

  “And if they attack?” asked Pooris.

  “We scatter and meet again here.”

  “It has the merits of simplicity,” observed Vint. Drawing his knife, he began to scrape away the bristles on his cheeks and chin.

  “Why bother to shave?” asked the red-bearded Forin.

  “One must observe certain standards,” pointed out Vint, with a self-mocking grin. “And naturally,” he continued, “I want the Daroth to see me in the full bloom of my beauty. They will be so overawed they will immediately surrender to us and swear fealty!”

  “Exactly my plan,” said Karis drily.

  She kicked earth over the fire, extinguishing it, then they saddled their horses and rode north. The boy, Goran, heeled his mount alongside Warain. “Do you think my father is still alive?” he asked Karis.

  “There is no way to know,” she said, “but let us pray so. You are a brave lad. You deserve to find him.”

 
“Father says we don’t always get what we deserve,” he pointed out.

  “He is a wise man,” said Karis.

  They rode on for more than two hours, cresting the low hills before the mountains and heading down through a narrow pass on to the broad grasslands. From here they could see the distant city. There were no walls around it, and the buildings were round, squat and ugly to the human eye.

  “Like a huge mound of horse droppings,” observed Forin.

  Karis heeled Warain forward and the small troop cantered on.

  As they approached the city, a line of twenty horsemen rode from it to intercept them. Karis felt a tightness in her belly. The horses upon which they rode were huge, eighteen hands, dwarfing even the giant Warain. She felt Warain tense beneath her. “Steady, now,” she said, patting his sleek grey neck.

  The leading Daroth warrior drew his long serrated sword and rode at Karis. Untying the pouch at her belt, she rode to meet him with hand outstretched. His sword was raised, his oval jet-black eyes staring hard at her as she came abreast of him. Smoothly she extended her arm and offered him the pouch. Letting go of the reins, he took it from her and clumsily opened it. Salt spilled out. Placing a large finger into his beaked mouth, his swollen purple tongue licked out, wetting the tip. He dipped it into the salt pouch and tasted it.

  Retying the pouch, he slipped it into a pocket in his black jerkin, then returned his gaze to Karis. “Why are you here?” he asked, his voice cold, sepulchral.

  “We come to speak with your leader,” she told him.

  “He can hear you. All Daroth can hear you.”

  “It is our custom to speak face to face.”

  “You have more salt?”

  “Much more. And we can deliver many convoys of it, fresh from the sea.”

  “Follow me,” said the rider, sheathing his sword.

  The city was unlike anything Tarantio had ever seen. The buildings were all spherical and black, unadorned and dull to the eye, built in a seemingly haphazard manner, yet all linked and joined by covered walkways. There were many levels of them, one atop the other.