Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “It’s like a huge bunch of grapes,” said Forin. “How do they live in them?”

  Tarantio did not answer. As they rode on every building disgorged more Daroth, who stood silently watching the small cavalcade. The road was paved and smooth, the sound of the horses’ hooves loud in the silence.

  “They are an ugly people,” said Dace.

  “Perhaps we look ugly to them,” observed Tarantio.

  Ahead were two tall spires. Black smoke drifted lazily from the top of both, forming a pall above the city. Tarantio sniffed the air. There was an odd smell about the place, sweet, sickly and unpleasant.

  The roadway widened and the group rode between two black pillars, heading towards a huge grey dome; the smoking spires were situated behind it. The Daroth riders peeled away, leaving only the leader, who dismounted before the round open entrance to the dome.

  “Stay with the horses,” Karis told Goran, as the group dismounted.

  “I want to find my father,” objected the boy.

  “If he is here, I will find him,” she promised.

  The Daroth entered the dome; Karis and the others followed. The councillor Pooris kept close to the warrior woman; his face was pale, his hands trembling. Tarantio and Forin were just behind them, followed by Vint and Brune.

  The huge building was lit by globed lanterns set into the walls, and Karis was amazed to find that no pillars supported the colossal domed ceiling. There were no statues or adornments. At the far end of the circular hall was an enormous table shaped like a sickle blade. Around it were some fifty Daroth warriors, kneeling on the weirdly carved chairs Tarantio had first seen in the Daroth tomb.

  “My father would have liked to see this,” said Forin. Tarantio could hear the fear in his voice, but the big man was controlling it well.

  Karis moved forward. “Who is the leader here?” she asked, her voice echoing strangely. A series of clicks sounded from the Daroth then a warrior at the centre of the table rose.

  “I am what you humans would call the Duke Daroth,” he said.

  “I am Karis.”

  “What is your purpose here?”

  “A delegation such as this is our way of showing our peaceful intentions. Let me introduce the councillor Pooris, who has a message from our Duke.” Turning, she gestured Pooris forward. The little man took a nervous step towards the table and bowed low.

  “My Duke wishes it to be known that he welcomes the return of the Daroth people, and hopes that this new era will bring trade and prosperity to both our peoples. He wishes to know if there is anything you desire from us, in the way of trade.”

  “We only desire that you die,” said the Daroth. “We will not coexist. This is now a Daroth world. Only the Daroth will survive. But tell me more of the salt you offer.”

  Karis watched as Pooris faltered, feeling sympathy for the little politician. The Daroth’s words were certainly not honey-coated, and left little room for further negotiation. “Might I ask, sir,” said Pooris, “that you expand upon your decision? War is never without cost. And peace can bring riches and plenty.”

  “I have said what I have said,” the Daroth told him. “Now I wish to hear of the salt you will send.”

  Pooris stepped forward. His hands were no longer trembling. “The salt was offered in the spirit of peace. Why would we send it to an enemy?”

  “Trade,” said the Daroth Duke, simply. “We understand that when you humans desire something that you cannot take by force, you trade for it. We will take the salt as trade.”

  “In return for what, sir?” asked Pooris.

  “We have more than a hundred of your older humans. We have no use for them; we will trade them for their weight in salt.”

  “Do you have a man here named . . .” Pooris swung to Karis and gave her a questioning look.

  “Barin,” she said.

  “He is here,” said the Daroth Duke. “He is important to you?”

  “His son is with us. That is how we know he was captured by you. We would like him returned.”

  “He is owned by one of my captains. He does not wish to trade him; he will, however, allow you to fight for him.” The clicking sound came again from the gathered group. Karis took it to be laughter. All her adult life Karis had been skilled in the reading of men. The skull-faced Daroth were not men, but even so she could sense their contempt for the human embassy. In that moment she realized that their chances of leaving alive were slender at best. Under normal circumstances Karis was a cautious leader, but sometimes, she knew, recklessness could carry the day. Calmly she stepped forward, laying her hand on the shoulder of the councillor and drawing him back.

  “We did not come here to kill Daroth,” she said coolly. “But if necessary we will do this. How does one challenge your captain?”

  “You already have,” said the Duke. “He says he will fight the largest of you—the red-bearded one.”

  “I choose who fights,” said Karis, “and I will not use my strongest warrior. It would be beneath him to fight a single Daroth. Before this duel takes place, however, Lord Duke, what are the rules? When my chosen fighter has killed your captain, do we then have possession of the man Barin?”

  “If you kill my captain you own all his possessions, for he is pod-lost and cannot live again.”

  “And we will be allowed to leave the city?”

  “Why would we keep you here? We know all we need to know of your puny race. Your young ones are sweet and tender, your old ones stringy. Who will you choose to fight for the human?”

  “Where is the captain?” she demanded.

  A Daroth rose from beside the Duke and Karis looked hard at him. The warrior was huge, barrel-chested and powerful. She swung to Tarantio and he nodded acceptance. “I think your captain looks old and fat,” she said. “I will therefore use my smallest warrior.”

  “When he dies,” said the captain, “you will become mine. I will feast on you tonight, female. I will swallow your eyes whole.”

  Karis ignored him and walked back to Tarantio. “Can you take him?” she asked, her voice just a whisper.

  “I can take anything that lives,” Dace told her. Drawing his short swords, he stepped out to meet the captain. The Daroth was carrying a long, serrated broadsword. As Dace took up his fighting stance he felt a hot stab of pain in his mind, like a flame searing up from his neck and into his cranium. He staggered back.

  “They are telepaths,” came the voice of Tarantio. “Fight through the pain. I will try to block the fire.”

  Dace’s anger swelled. Huge as the Daroth was, still he felt he needed the advantage of magic. You may be big, thought Dace, but you are a coward! The pain flared once more.

  “He is in here with us,” whispered Tarantio. “He can hear us.”

  “I think I’ll kill him now,” said Dace. He darted forward, ducking under a ferocious cut to slam his sword-blade into the Daroth’s belly. The blade did not penetrate more than half an inch. Dace leapt back, swaying away from a slashing blow that would have opened him from shoulder to belly.

  “The armpit,” said Tarantio. “Remember the tomb. They have no bone protection there.”

  The Daroth backed away, his elbows dropping protectively to his sides. “Yes, I had remembered, brother,” snapped Dace. “So good of you to remind our opponent.” The Daroth, now holding his blade double-handed, ran forward and sent a wicked sweeping cut which Dace parried. Such was the power of the blow that the smaller warrior was sent hurtling to the floor. As Dace rolled to his knees, the Daroth leapt towards him with sword raised. Dace switched his grip on his right-hand sword, holding it now like a dagger. He waited until the last moment, then surged upright, dancing aside as the serrated sword came down. As his sword slammed into the Daroth’s armpit, plunging through muscle and tissue, a hideous croaking scream came from the captain, who stumbled and fell to his knees. Dace plunged his second sword into the Daroth’s body, alongside the first blade, then levered it up and down. Milk-coloured liquid spraye
d from the wound, drenching Dace. Dragging his swords clear he threw himself upon the dying Daroth’s back and smashed again and again at the nape of the giant neck and the raised vertebrae showing there. The white skin peeled away, exposing bone. One of the vertebrae cracked, a second suddenly dislodging. The Daroth’s head fell sideways. Dace delivered a tremendous blow to the neck, which snapped with a sound that echoed around the hall. The Daroth captain pitched forward from his knees, his face striking the stone floor. The fiery pain in his mind faded away, but still Dace continued to hack at the neck, his blows frenzied and powerful. The head rolled clear.

  “That is enough,” he heard Karis say. Dace blinked. He had an urge to rip out the Daroth’s dark eyes and swallow them whole. Tarantio surged back into control.

  Karis walked to the sickle table and stood silently for a moment. “As I thought, old and fat,” she said. “I would like the man, Barin, brought out now. I will trade the rest of his possessions for the prisoners you hold. Added to this—upon my return to Corduin—I will also arrange a wagon of salt to be brought to the edge of your lands.”

  “I accept your trade, female,” said the Duke. “You have entertained us well today. Come the spring—when the Daroth army descends upon your city—you will entertain us more.”

  “We will surprise you, my lord, I think.”

  “I do not believe so. The human who fought for you is unique. You do not have enough like him to trouble us.”

  Karis smiled. “That remains to be seen. I look forward to your visit.”

  There were 107 captives, all of them past middle age, and several white-haired elders. They were herded out to the open ground before the dome, where Karis greeted them. The last to arrive was Goran’s father, a burly man with dark curly hair and beard. Goran ran to him, and hugged him. Barin ruffled his son’s hair, then looked up at Karis. “We must leave quickly,” he said, his voice low. “There is no honour among these monsters. And their word is not iron.”

  Karis nodded, and led the refugees back along the main street of the city of domes. Daroth came from every doorway to stare at them as they made their way towards the grasslands. Karis noticed that all the Daroth eyes were fixed upon the lean figure of Tarantio. He had killed one of them in single combat, and all had felt the blows of his swords.

  They reached the outskirts of the city without incident and headed south. “You must beware of warmth and pain in your mind,” said Barin. “This will indicate they are reading your thoughts.”

  Karis passed the warning back to the others. “What do you think they will do?” she asked the man.

  “The blood relatives of the Daroth cut down by your swordsman will follow you. They will try to take you alive, and keep you until the entombing. Then you will be fed to the wife of the Daroth your man fought—save for your heart, which will be placed in the coffin with the body of her husband.”

  “What did the Duke mean about pod-lost?” asked Karis.

  “The Daroth are virtually immortal. They exist in a single body for no more than ten years. Then, when the pods are ripe and a new form emerges, the old body is shed. Your man ended the life of the Daroth captain. Under normal circumstances he would have been born again, but his pod was either flawed in some way, or diseased. Whatever the answer, his immortality ended in that hall. Now his relatives will seek to avenge his passing.”

  “But why me?” she asked. “Why not Tarantio, who actually killed him?”

  “You are the leader. It was you who instigated the duel.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Head for high ground where the air is thin and cold. It affects the Daroth far more than us; they are heavy, and they do not like the cold.”

  “You know of such a place?”

  “There is a pass through the mountains—some twelve miles east of here. It is very high.”

  Once out of sight of the city, Karis led the column down into a deep gully, then changed the direction of travel from south to east. Vint rode alongside her. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Karis told him of Barin’s warning. “If they do come after us, I do not see how we can fight,” said Vint.

  “There is always a way to fight,” snapped Karis. “My father had a pet python; he used to feed it with live mice. The python was around six feet in length. He made me watch the snake feed. It was . . . nauseating.”

  “What has this to do with the Daroth?” asked Vint.

  “One day a mouse killed the snake.”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “Neither did my father; he accused me of poisoning it. But it was true. I freed the mouse. I hope she had a long life, and gave rise to many legends among her kind.”

  Heeling Warain into a run, Karis circled the column and galloped back along the line of refugees where she swung into place between Tarantio and Brune. “You fought well, my friend,” she said with a smile. “You will become a legend. The Daroth Slayer, they will call you.”

  “Their Duke was right,” said Tarantio. “We will not stop them in the spring. Shemak’s Balls, Karis, they are tough to kill! I cannot see how men can defeat them. Their skin is like toughened leather, their bones stronger than teak.”

  “Yet you killed one.”

  Tarantio smiled. “There are not many like me,” he said. “For which I have—up to now—always been grateful.” When Karis told him of Barin’s warning, Tarantio ordered Brune to ride to the crest of a nearby hill and watch for signs of pursuit.

  By late afternoon the refugees were exhausted, and the line was stretched out over several hundred yards. Brune had returned with good news, that the pursuing Daroth had headed off into the north. So far the ruse had worked. But they were still several miles from the pass, and Karis was loath to allow a rest stop. Forin and Vint gave up their horses to two old men and the convoy moved on, ever more slowly.

  At dusk they came to the foothills of the mountains, where Karis allowed the refugees to rest. Dismounting she walked among them. “I want you all to listen to me,” she said. “The Daroth are following us and they are intent on slaughter. Ahead of us is a long climb, but it is a climb to life. I know you are all tired, but let fear add strength to your limbs.”

  The fear was there; she could see it in their eyes. One by one they pushed themselves to their feet, and moved out onto the slopes. Brune galloped his horse from the hills. “They are three—maybe four—miles away,” he said. “There are twenty of them.”

  Hearing this, the refugees began to run.

  Karis rode ahead of them, Tarantio, Brune and Pooris with her. At the top of the steepest part of the rise, she reined in and scanned the shadow-haunted pass. For the first 200 yards it rose gently, but then inclined sharply for another 200. Then the walls narrowed to less than fifteen feet apart. She rode Warain up the sharp incline, then dismounted. Huge boulders were strewn across the trail. Glancing up, she saw there were scores more precariously balanced on both walls of rock. With more time she could have set up an avalanche. But was there time?

  The first of the refugees staggered by her. Karis called out to them to help, then put her shoulder to a massive boulder some seven feet in diameter. Ten men sprang to help her, and slowly the huge stone began to move. “Carefully now,” said Karis. “We do not want to send it down on our own people.” Slowly they rolled the boulder to the edge of the rise. The refugees were streaming up the narrow incline; behind them, less than half a mile distant, came the Daroth.

  More than two-thirds of the refugees were behind her now, but around twenty were still struggling up the slope. Tarantio, Vint and Forin ran down to help the stragglers. Brune rode his horse down and lifted one old man across his saddle, galloping him back to safety.

  Bunched tightly, the Daroth charged. Eight people had still not reached the incline, as the Daroth bore down on them. A spear smashed through the back of the last man, tearing out his lungs. Karis swore. The surviving seven were doomed, and if she did not act swiftly the Daroth would reach the cr
est.

  “Now!” she cried, and the men beside her threw their weight against the boulder. For a moment only it refused to move, then it slowly rolled clear. Gathering speed, the enormous stone crashed against the right hand wall of the pass, careering off to thunder down the slope.

  The first to die was a refugee, his body crushed to pulp. Half-way up the slope, the Daroth saw the threat and tried to turn—but close-packed as they were, there was no escape. The boulder crashed into their ranks, smashing bones and killing horses and riders. Then it hammered against the wall of the pass, dislodging yet more rocks and stones which showered down on the Daroth below. A section of cliff sheared away, plunging down to block the pass. A cloud of dust billowed up, obscuring the carnage.

  One refugee came out of the dust, scrambling up the incline to fall at Karis’s feet. The man had a gash to his head, and a broken arm. Friends helped him to stand and supported him.

  In the dying light of the sun the refugees watched as the dust cleared. Not one Daroth could be seen.

  “Let’s go home,” said Karis.

  Karis led the refugees back to their ruined villages, where the ninety-three survivors picked their way through the debris, seeking what possessions they could find. There was little food, for the Daroth had stripped the storehouse and driven away all the cattle. Tarantio, Forin and Brune rode off into the valley to hunt. Karis, Vint and Pooris remained behind. The small politician had said little since their departure from Daroth One, and he sat with shoulders slumped, his back against the wall of the plundered storehouse.

  Karis sat down before him. “What is troubling you, Councillor?”

  He gave a weak smile. “Look at all their faces,” he said, waving in the direction of the refugees as they searched through the wreckage. “They are lost. Ruined. Not because their village has been attacked—such is the lot of farmers, I am afraid. They are lost because they have seen the enemy, and they know their world is gone for ever.”

  “They have not beaten us yet,” she said, but Pooris said nothing and Karis returned to where Vint sat by an open fire.