Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “Kario,” said Tarantio suddenly. “A young man who was sent to join you. Have you seen him?”

  “Kario? No, I don’t believe we have any acolytes of that name. But then we may have turned him away. Now that the last days are upon us, there is no need of new acolytes. The evils of this world will be burned away and the Letters of Revelation will rule, as our prophet ordained. Have no fear, brothers, we will rule wisely and well, and the world will become a paradise of prayer and celebration. I am sorry that your journey here has been in vain.”

  “We are grateful for your hospitality,” said Tarantio. “And doubly grateful for the heat spell you sent down the path for us.”

  “It was not for you, my friend, though I am glad you took benefit from it. The Servants of the Lord are coming, and we wished to show them courtesy.”

  “The Servants of the Lord?” queried Duvodas.

  “Those who are fulfilling His desires. The Cleansers. The Bringers of Fire and Destruction. As the Holy Word tells us: ‘Their swords will plough the cities, their spears will sunder armies. Fortress walls will shiver and fall at the sound of their hoofbeats.’ ”

  “The Daroth,” said Tarantio.

  “Indeed,” agreed the old man amiably. “The Servants of the Lord. Your soup is getting cold. Eat. Rest.”

  Tarantio sat down and ate, dipping bread into the soup. It was bland and tasteless. “It is very good,” he said. “Tell me, brother, why are the Servants of the Lord coming here?”

  “We sent an emissary to them—to let them know that not all men are consumed by evil. We captured one of their enemies, the vile Sirano. He destroyed many of the Servants with devilish fire, then escaped into the wilderness. We have him here—awaiting their justice.”

  The sound of singing faded away, to be followed by a booming noise coming from the gates. “Ah, they are here,” said the old priest. “Please excuse me. I must welcome them with my brothers.”

  It was Dace who rose and moved to block the priest’s path. “Where is Sirano held?” he asked.

  “Why would you wish to know that?”

  “We are here to rescue him,” said Dace.

  “You are Slaves of the Ungodly?” The old man took a backward step. “I shall tell you nothing.” Dace drew a throwing-knife, then spun and hurled it into the throat of the priest in the kitchen. The man staggered back, then fell from sight. Dace drew a second blade and advanced on the old man.

  “Oh, you will tell me, old fool. And you will tell me now!”

  “He is in the upper turret,” wailed the old man. “Please do not kill me!”

  Dace sheathed the knife, and gestured to the priest to leave. “Go,” he said coldly. “Welcome your guests.” As the old man shuffled past the warrior, Dace slammed a blow to the priest’s neck which snapped with a loud crack. “Let’s go,” he told Duvodas.

  “There was no need to kill them,” stormed Duvo.

  “Look out of the window,” ordered Dace, and Duvodas did so. In the courtyard below, some twenty Daroth warriors had marched through the gates. “You think any of these priests will be alive come dusk? Now let’s find Sirano.”

  With a heavy heart Duvodas followed Dace. The two men left the room and ran along the corridor. Finding a set of stairs leading up, they took them two at a time. At the top was another corridor; moving along it they came to a spiral staircase. “This place is like a rabbit warren,” said Dace. “I can’t tell where we are. Let us hope this is the way to the turret he spoke of.”

  Running up the stairs they came to a bolted door. Dace opened it and stepped inside, but the room within was empty. He swore and moved to the window. There were three more turrets visible. “Is there no magic you can use to find him?” he asked Duvodas.

  The Singer shook his head. “Not magic—but have you noticed only that turret window has bars?” he said, pointing across the courtyard. “The question is, how to reach it.”

  “That, at least, is simple,” said Dace, opening the window and climbing out onto the narrow sill. The courtyard was some sixty feet down, but below the window, to the right, was a parapet that connected the turrets. Dace tensed, then leapt the gap. Duvodas took a deep breath and climbed out. Closing his eyes, he made the jump. Dace grabbed him, hauling him to safety, then together they ran along the parapet, entering a small door and emerging into a narrow corridor and a second circular stair.

  At the top they unbolted the door and stepped inside, where a man was lying in a pallet bed. His face was hideously burned on the left-hand side. Pus was seeping from the ruined eye-socket, and his hair had been burned away. He was unconscious.

  “He looks close to death,” said Dace. “You want me to carry him through?”

  “You are right. He is on the verge of death.” Duvodas unwrapped his harp and sat beside the bed. His fingers rippled across the strings and the scent of roses filled the room. “What in Hell’s name are you doing?” hissed Dace. “The Daroth could be on their way here now!”

  “Then watch out for them,” said Duvodas calmly. His fingers danced upon the strings.

  Dace ran from the room and down the stairs. Far below, someone screamed. Moving to a window, he gazed down to see a priest staggering out into the courtyard, blood streaming from a gaping wound in his back. The huge figure of a Daroth moved slowly after him. Other screams began. “Well,” said Dace softly, “you were right about the end of the world. Your world, anyway.” To Dace the screams were more musical than the hideous noise coming from Duvo’s harp. How, he wondered, could people enjoy such sounds?

  “I do,” said Tarantio.

  “Then you enjoy them, brother. Call me when killing is needed.” Dace faded back and Tarantio rose and moved back up the stairs. The wounded man was awake now. His face was still badly scarred, but the wounds were clean.

  Sirano sat up. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Duvodas and this is the warrior, Tarantio. We have come to find the Pearl. We must return it to the lands of the Eldarin. We must bring them back.”

  “What are the screams I hear?”

  “The Daroth are killing the priests.”

  Sirano gestured to a canvas pack by the far wall. When Duvodas moved to it and opened the flap, the Eldarin Pearl lay there. Reaching into the bag Duvo tenderly stroked the surface, which was warm to the touch. His hand trembled. The Eldarin were here, trapped within an orb of pure magic together with their homes, their lands, the rivers and streams that fed the earth, and the forests where Duvo had played as a child. All existed beneath his palm. Reverently he closed the canvas flap. “Now we can go,” he said, looping the bag over his shoulder. “Now there is hope.”

  “We can talk about hope back in Corduin,” said Tarantio. “Are you ready, Duvodas?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To get us back with your Oltor magic?”

  “We must make it back to level ground,” Duvo told him. “Otherwise we might appear a thousand feet above Corduin.”

  Tarantio swore. In the courtyard below three priests had tried to reach the mountain path. A long spear plunged through the back of the first, pinning him to the gates. The second was almost cut in half by a swinging broadsword. The third, a young man, fell to his knees and begged for his life. A Daroth warrior grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back into the building. Tarantio drew back from the window. “There is only one way out,” he said, “and the Daroth are there. Our only chance is to find a rope to climb over the battlements.”

  Sirano rose and put on his clothes, which were scorched, blackened and bloodstained. The three men left the room and made their way back to the parapet door. Tarantio stepped through and peered down into the courtyard. Five bodies lay there, blood drenching the snow around them. There were no sounds of screaming now. Swiftly Tarantio led the others across to a second door and along a corridor, stopping to look into each room. Moving silently down another flight of stairs, they came to a store-room where there were barrels of wine and ale, casks of dried fr
uit, sacks of salt and flour.

  In the corner lay two coils of rope. Sounds of booted feet on stone came from outside, and the three men ran to the rear of the store-room, ducking down behind the barrels.

  The door opened and two Daroth entered. Duvodas heard the hissing sound of their breathing, and was sure they could hear the pounding of his heart. A clicking noise sounded, and Duvodas heard the scraping of a sack on the stone. Then there was silence. Cautiously he peered over the barrels: the Daroth had gone.

  “They wanted the salt,” whispered Tarantio. “I would guess they are about to feed.”

  “Maybe we can slip by them,” suggested Duvodas.

  “I doubt it. Anytime now they will find Sirano gone; then they will search the monastery. Our best chance is to use the ropes and slip over the battlements.”

  “They will be able to see us from the main building,” objected Sirano.

  “You have any other suggestions?” Tarantio asked.

  “Let them find me. Then you two can slip through the gate.”

  Tarantio stared at the scarred young man. “You want to die?” he asked.

  “It holds no terrors for me. I brought the world to this. I destroyed the Eldarin and allowed the Daroth to live again. My city is destroyed, my people slain. Look at me. Disfigured and grotesque. Why should I fear to die?”

  “He has a point,” said Dace. “He is an ugly son of a bitch.”

  “It is true that you have been responsible for great evil,” said Duvodas, “but no man should ignore the possibility of redemption.”

  “I don’t want redemption,” declared Sirano. “I want revenge! That will best be achieved if you succeed with the Pearl. The Eldarin can destroy the Daroth. They have the power.”

  “Even if we brought them back, they might not do it,” said Duvodas. “They are not killers.”

  “The more fool them,” said Sirano. “But at the least they could cage them again. You have magic. You understand the heat spell?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” Sirano moved to the shelves on the back wall. There were scores of empty bottles there; he took down several and laid them on the floor. “Apply great heat to the necks and melt them, making a complete seal,” he said.

  “For what purpose?” asked Duvodas.

  “Because I ask it.”

  Duvodas knelt on the floor and held his hands over the neck of the first bottle. Tarantio watched as the blue glass neck swelled, then sagged over, melting like candle-wax. When six bottles had been heated, Duvo glanced up at Sirano. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now you leave me. Get as close to the gate as you can. You will know when the moment to leave has arrived.”

  Sirano knelt by the sealed bottles and began to chant.

  “Sorcery!” whispered Duvodas.

  “Yes, sorcery,” answered Sirano wearily. “Black, evil sorcery.” Looking up at Tarantio, he smiled. “I will give you a gift, warrior. Let me have your swords.” Tarantio pulled his short swords clear and laid them by Sirano. The Duke of Romark lifted the first and sliced the blade along his left palm. Blood welled and he smeared the blade with it. The chant began again. The blood on the sword hissed and bubbled, and the blade shimmered and shone like polished silver. Cutting his right palm, Sirano repeated the process with the second sword. “Be careful as you sheath them,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Tarantio.

  Sirano lifted a sword and lightly swung it at a barrel filled with dried fruit. The blade sliced through the wood as easily as a wire through a round of cheese. Dried apricots spilled from the barrel. “As I said, sheath them with care. Now leave me.”

  Carefully Tarantio scabbarded the blades, then took Duvodas by the arm. “It is his life,” he said. “Let him live it—or lose it—as he will.”

  As they reached the door Sirano’s voice called out. “Tell me, who is in charge of Corduin’s defences?”

  “Karis,” answered Tarantio.

  Sirano smiled. “Give her a message for me. The Daroth burn like wax. Naked fire is a terror to them.”

  The two men stepped into the corridor and silently made their way to the ground floor. Ahead of them was the door to the courtyard. Bodies lay sprawled in the corridor; Tarantio noted that all of them were older men.

  “What now?” whispered Duvodas.

  “Now we wait,” said Tarantio.

  Chapter Twelve

  In all his young life Sirano had never experienced the focus he now applied to the Five Levels of Aveas. The bottles trembled with the power he transmitted, the glass warm to the touch. Lifting the last of them he unwittingly saw the horror of his reflection—the scarred bald head, the empty eye-socket, the side of his face melted away as if white candle-wax had been poured over the skin. “What an evil countenance,” he said, aloud.

  Evil. The word jolted him.

  Are you evil, Sirano? he asked himself. Are the Daroth evil? It was an interesting thought. There were those who believed evil was an absolute—priests and holy men, mostly. In their view evil hung in the air, touching every man, woman and child, promoting the seeds of hatred, lust and greed, planting them in hearts and minds. Others, as Sirano himself had believed, considered it to be a movable feast. What appeared as evil to one man could be considered good by another. Much depended on the moral codes and laws that governed each society. What moral codes had the Daroth broken? Perhaps none, by their reasoning. Therefore, were they evil?

  Sirano chuckled. What a time, he thought, to be considering philosophical points. All that he knew for certain was that he himself had broken the codes of his society. He had killed a woman who loved him, had overseen the destruction of his people and had brought horror and desolation to his lands. A great sadness touched him then, a sense of something lost which could never be recovered. Duvodas had spoken of redemption. For some crimes there could be no redemption . . .

  Wearily Sirano rose and searched the store-room, finding a small pile of empty sacks. With his dagger he cut a four-foot length from a coil of thin rope. Making two slices in the neck of a sack, he tied the rope to it. Filling it with the six bottles, he looped the rope over his shoulder and stood, the bottles clinking against one another.

  Tarantio had asked him if he wanted to die. Oh, yes, he thought. I can think of no greater relief than to fall into darkness.

  Slowly he made his way out into the corridor, then along it and through a series of rooms until he came to a narrow staircase. He had last been here ten years ago, when he had endowed the monastery with a gift of gold. Then he had wandered the place and marvelled at the labyrinthine design. The large hall where now the Daroth would be feeding was on the lower level, but above and around it was a gallery. Sirano recalled his visit, trying to remember the routes through the monastery. Descending the stairs he cut left, then padded through a long library, checking his bearings by peering out of a window. Now he knew where he was. Down two more flights of stairs, and along another corridor, he paused at the last door. Taking a deep breath, he eased it open and slipped through to the gallery. Smoke was swirling around the rafters and he could smell the sweet, sickly scent of roasting flesh. Glancing over the rail, he saw the Daroth below. They had torn up the slabs of the floor and broken them to form a low wall around a carefully fashioned cooking area. Red-hot charcoal burned within it and a body was spitted over it. There were bloody bones scattered around the floor, and most of the Daroth were sitting well back from the fire, eating in silence. Two others were standing by the open door, overlooking the gates.

  Sirano dipped his hand into the bag he carried, pulling forth a bottle. Then he strode into view. “I was asking myself,” he said in a loud voice, “whether the Daroth could be considered to be evil. Do you see yourselves as evil?”

  Heat and pain roared into his mind and he staggered. He thought he had been prepared for the mental onslaught, but it had come so swiftly he had no time to fight it. He did so now, summoning a masking spell which flowed through his mind like a co
oling stream. “Have none of you the wit to offer me an answer?” he called.

  “We came for you, Sirano,” said a deep voice. He could not, at first, identify the speaker.

  “And you have found me. Now answer the question. Are you evil?”

  The two Daroth by the door had moved inside. Sirano scanned the group. Two were now missing. A towering Daroth warrior moved closer, carefully avoiding the fire. “The word has little meaning for us, human. We are Daroth. We are one. There is nothing else of importance under the stars. Survival is the ultimate goal. What is good enables us to survive and to continue. What is evil threatens that survival.”

  “How did the Oltor threaten you? I thought that they saved you.”

  “They sought to deny us land. They closed the gateways to our own world.”

  “And the Eldarin?”

  “We will not coexist,” said the Daroth. “Their magic was strong. They could have . . . troubled us.”

  “So!” shouted Sirano. “It was fear that prompted you.”

  “We fear nothing!” declared the Daroth, his voice rising.

  The gallery door swept open and a huge Daroth warrior surged inside. Sirano spun and let fly with the bottle, which burst on the warrior’s chest. Flames spewed out to envelop the enormous white head, and a terrifying scream sounded. Fire consumed the towering figure, and the air was filled with black smoke. The Daroth crashed back into the door, then fell to his knees, his body flaring like a great torch. Blue flames hissed from him, and the heat was incredible. Pulling another bottle clear, Sirano swung towards the second door. As it opened he hurled the bottle—but it exploded harmlessly against the far wall. Climbing over the gallery rail, Sirano leapt to a ledge on one of the ten wooden pillars supporting the ceiling.

  “You fear extinction!” he shouted. “Your lives are ruled by terror! That is why you cannot coexist. You believe that every race is as vile and self-centred as your own. And this time you are right. We will destroy you! We will hunt you down and wipe your grotesque species from the face of the earth!”