Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  Capel saluted. “And may good fortune be with you, sir,” he said. Then he swung his horse and galloped off towards the south.

  The riders reached Corduin just after dark and the Duke summoned Karis to his private chambers. The warrior woman looked drawn and tired, and there was about her a nervous energy that concerned Albreck. “I hope you are getting enough rest, General,” he said, offering her a seat.

  “Not a lot of time for rest, my lord. Apart from the attack on the convoy, our scouts report the main Daroth army is camped less than a day’s march from the city.”

  “So close? That is unfortunate.”

  “They halted their march at the same time as the forest miracle,” said Karis. “I would imagine the scale of the slaughter has given them a nasty shock. They would have had no reason to believe that any human would have such power.”

  “I am rather shocked myself. How could this man have accomplished such a feat?”

  “Vint is questioning the tavern-keeper, Ceofrin, and I have had a long conversation with Tarantio. It seems that Duvodas was raised among the Eldarin, who taught him many secrets of magic. Tarantio is stunned by the events; he maintains that Duvodas was a pacifist, wholly opposed to war and violence. He also told me a strange tale concerning Sirano.” Karis told the Duke of the attempted rescue of Sirano at the monastery, the coming of the Daroth and the recovery of the Eldarin Pearl.

  “Sirano was right,” said the Duke, bitterness in his voice. “The Pearl is a fearsome weapon. Why did this harpist not bring it to us? We could have destroyed the Daroth utterly!”

  “Perhaps it is best that he did not,” answered Karis. “Ever since Sirano unleashed his magic against the Pearl, nothing has been the same. And we cannot spend valuable time concerning ourselves with speculation. Perhaps within a day the enemy will be upon us. That must be our prime concern.”

  Albreck offered Karis a goblet of wine, but she refused. “I must leave you, my lord. I am meeting Ozhobar at his forge.”

  “Of course,” said Albreck, rising with her. “But first tell me how your plans are progressing.”

  She shrugged. “That is hard to say, sir. The weapons are untried against the Daroth, and much depends on the strategies they adopt.”

  “And what of your strategies, Karis?”

  She gave a weary smile. “In war it is best to act, and therefore force your enemy to react. We do not have the luxury of such a strategy. To attack the Daroth on open ground would be suicidal, therefore the first advantage is his. When you add to that the simple fact that our enemy is telepathic, and many times more powerful than any human warrior, our problems become mountainous. Because of their mental powers I cannot even explain my tactics to my commanders, for fear that the Daroth will discover them. All in all the prospects are bleak.”

  “You sound defeatist,” he said.

  Karis shook her head. “Not at all, sir. If the Daroth act as I suspect they will, then we have a chance to hold them. If we can beat off their first attack, we will further sow the seeds of doubt in them. The miracle of the forest will have worried them. If we stop them without magic, it will worry them further. And doubt is a demon that can destroy an army.”

  Duke Albreck smiled. “Thank you, General. Please continue your duties.”

  Karis bowed and left the room. Moving through to the rear of his apartments, the Duke lit two lanterns and stood staring at the armour hanging on the wooden frame. It had been his grandfather’s, and had been worn by his father in several battles. Albreck himself had never worn it. The helm of iron, polished until it shone like silver, was embellished with the golden head of a roaring lion. The image of a lion had also been added in gold to the breastplate. It was altogether garish and hideously eye-catching. Albreck had always viewed it with distaste.

  “A ruler has to be seen by his warriors,” his father had told him. “And seen in battle as a colossal figure, head and shoulders above other men. A leader must be inspirational. This armour you sneer at, boy, serves that purpose. For when I wear it, I am Corduin.”

  Albreck remembered the day his father had led the army from the city. He had watched, with his mother and brother, from an upper balcony in the palace. And that night, when the victorious Duke had returned, he had understood his father’s words. In the moonlight his father had looked like a god.

  The memories brought a sigh from him, and he drew the longsword from its scabbard. It was blade-heavy, a knight’s weapon, designed to be wielded from the saddle, striking down at enemy foot-soldiers.

  Albreck returned it to its scabbard.

  A servant entered bearing a tray. “Your supper, my lord,” he said.

  “Set it upon the table.”

  “Yes, my lord. Very fine armour, my lord.”

  “Indeed it is. Tomorrow have it returned to the museum.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Albreck returned to the main room and sat down by the fire, leaving the meal untouched. He fell asleep in the chair. His night servant found him there, and covered him with a soft blanket.

  Avil had never achieved any promotion. He had been a scout now for six years, and had done his job as well as any man. He had just been unlucky. Anyone could have missed a small raiding party coming through the Salian canyon; there were any number of branch passes along the route. It had been so unfair to be forced to carry the blame. Had they known he had been asleep during the raid he would have been hanged. But then a man had to sleep, and Avil felt no guilt about the incident.

  But this new woman general, she knew his worth. She had spoken to him personally about this mission, and Avil intended to prove himself to her. She had summoned him to her private quarters, and given him a goblet of fine wine.

  “I have been watching your progress,” she said, “and it is my belief that you have been wrongly overlooked for promotion.” Even Avil had started to believe the stories of his carelessness. Now, however, someone in authority had seen his true worth. “I need a good scout to give me an accurate estimate of enemy numbers,” she had said. “I want you to observe them. See how they make camp, observe their actions.”

  “Why is it important to see how they make camp?” he had asked.

  “A good army is disciplined. Everything they do indicates how well they are led. A lazy general will be lax, the camp disorganized. You understand?”

  “Yes, General. Of course. How stupid of me!”

  “Not stupid at all,” she assured him. “A sensible man asks questions—that is how he learns.” A huge hound padded over to him, resting his head in Avil’s lap. “He likes you,” said Karis.

  “I know him. This is Stealer. He hangs around the barracks and steals scraps.”

  Karis had laughed. She was not a great beauty, he thought, but there was about her an earthy quality that made a man think of nakedness and a warm bed. In that moment he understood one of her nicknames: some of the men called her “The Whore of War.” Avil found his eyes wandering to her breasts; she was wearing a thin, woollen shirt and he could see their outline. “You have heard, of course, about our magician?” she asked, dropping her voice.

  “Everyone is talking about the slaughter of the Daroth,” he said, dragging his gaze from her body and trying to look into her eyes.

  “We have three sorcerers,” she told him.

  “Three?”

  “Their powers are astonishing. One can bring fire from the sky. They were trained by the Eldarin. Naturally this must not be spoken of. You understand?”

  “Yes, General . . . well, no. Would it not ease the fears of the people to know we have such power?”

  “Indeed it would. But if the Daroth were to find out just how strong we are, then they might not come within the range of our spells.”

  “Oh, I see. But surely they already know about the slaughter, and the magical forest?”

  “I don’t doubt that they do. That was unfortunate—but we had to protect our refugees. However, the Daroth know of only one sorcerer and one great spell. T
hey probably believe they can overcome us despite his abilities. That is when the other two will wreak their terrible spells.”

  She had offered him a second goblet of wine then. It was heady stuff. He told her of his plans and ambitions, and of his life back on the farm. She seemed fascinated by everything he said. No-one had ever been fascinated before. He told her this, and that his comrades called him dull. Karis assured him that he was far from dull. In fact, she had enjoyed his company immensely, and when he returned from his scouting mission they must meet again.

  Avil was smitten. Her last words came back to haunt him now, as he sat at the feet of the Daroth general. “Be very careful, Avil. If the mission goes wrong, do not allow yourself to be taken alive. They must not find out about our plans.”

  “You can trust me, General. I will say nothing. I will cut my own throat before I betray you.”

  Luck had deserted him yet again—for the last time. He had crept close to the Daroth camp, sure that he was unobserved; but then this terrible pain had struck his head and he had passed out. When he awoke he was in the centre of a circle of Daroth warriors. Their faces were blank, alien and unreadable, but Avil knew of their foul practices and his fear weakened his bladder. He felt the warm urine soaking his leggings and, for a moment at least, shame outweighed his terror.

  “Give us your name,” said a deep voice. Avil jerked and gazed around, trying to identify the speaker.

  “I am Avil,” he said, his voice trembling.

  “You are frightened, Avil.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Would you like to be released to return to your city?”

  “Yes. Very much.”

  “Then tell me of the forces gathered there.”

  “The forces? The Duke’s army, you mean? I don’t know how many there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.”

  A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil’s hair, dragged him to his feet. The creature took hold of the young man’s arm—and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that made Avil feel nauseous.

  “Concentrate, Avil,” said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, then subsided. “Tell me about the wizards.”

  In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames—none of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and—merely with her conversation—had given him one of the finest evenings of his life. Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined not to betray her. “I know nothing of . . .”

  “Beware, Avil,” warned the Daroth. “I can inflict great pain on you. The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to me.”

  Tears flowed from Avil’s eyes and his lip trembled. He began to weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. “The wizards. Tell me of the wizards.”

  “There are no wizards!” shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the fire blast down on these devils!

  “How will this happen?” asked the Daroth softly. “How will the fire come?”

  Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn’t be that stupid. What was happening? “Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from the sky,” the Daroth repeated.

  Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring up at the night sky and the bright stars.

  I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. The clicking noise sounded again.

  Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You realize the impossibility of what we are planning, don’t you?” said Ozhobar, as he and Karis sat beside the forge, enjoying the last of its dying heat. “You can’t hide secrets from a telepathic race. Every weapon we have tested has been seen by our men. The Daroth will not be surprised.”

  “That entirely depends on the manner in which their mental powers operate,” she said. “Can they read all thoughts, or only those we are thinking as they view us?”

  “We have no way of knowing,” said Ozhobar, stroking his sandy beard.

  “Exactly. Therefore I will waste no energy in trying to second-guess their talents,” said Karis. “Did you study Tarantio’s swords?”

  “Yes. Remarkable. It seems the spell has—among other things—significantly reduced the friction on the blades. But that is not what makes them so deadly.”

  “Can you duplicate them?”

  “Sadly, no. I am not a sorcerer, Karis. I am a scientist. The blades seem to shimmer in and out of existence. It is not possible, for example, to hold the metal. I tried to put a clamp on one of the blades, but it just slid clear. They will cut clean through stone, wood, and leather. Even iron, though less cleanly.”

  “I would give ten years of my life to have a hundred such blades,” said Karis. “Why did Sirano have to allow himself to be killed?”

  Ozhobar lifted a small linen sack and opened it, offering a biscuit to Karis. “I do feel honoured,” she said. He chuckled.

  “They were a gift from the Duke’s chef. They are rather good—though not as fine as my own oatcakes.”

  “This is why you are willing to share them?”

  Ignoring the remark, Ozhobar reached down a second sack, considerably heavier than the first. From this he took a handful of what appeared to be small black pebbles. “What do you think?” he asked, passing them to Karis.

  “Better than stones,” she said. “Iron?”

  “Yes. Each ballista will loose around two hundred of these. The trick is to cause a spread that is not too wide. I think I have achieved it. Come and see.”

  Together they walked to the rear of the building. In an enclosed area, hidden by high walls yet brilliantly lit by moonlight, there stood a giant crossbow with arms over ten feet wide, built on a criss-crossed timber frame. On each side of the frame were handles, which when turned drew back the giant arms. Striding past the machine, Ozhobar hauled an old door of thick oak to the far wall, resting it there. Then he returned to the machine and, together with Karis, wound the handles until the rope and its sling of leather dropped over a large bronze hook. Locking it into place, Ozhobar filled the leather cup with iron pellets. Having checked the alignments, he walked around to where Karis stood. “The door is oak, almost two inches thick.” With a boyish grin he handed her a small hammer. “Strike the release bolt hard. Do it from behind.”

  Karis moved to the rear of the machine and struck the bolt. There was a sudden hiss, then a sharp clanging as the arms swept forward to strike the wooden restraints. Almost immediately came a series of small thunderclaps as the iron shot smashed into the door. Ozhobar ambled over to the ruined wood.

  “Well?” he asked, as Karis joined him. The door was peppered with deep holes that in many places had completely pierced the wood; in the centre it was torn apart, ripped to tinder. Ozhobar grinned. “You like it?”

  “It is incredible! What kind of killing range?”

  “Against the Daroth? Who can tell? Though I would guess at around fifty feet. After that the momentum will start to slacken. Fifty down to twenty-five would be the optimum.”

  “Why not inside twenty-five feet?” she asked.

  “Oh, it will still kill, but the spread will be small.” He pointed to the door. “As you can see, at a range of only about fifteen feet the pellets struck in a rough circle of . . . what? . . . around four feet. That equates with one Daroth. But at fifty feet the circle of death will be much greater.”

  “How many ballistae will we have?”

  “That depends on h
ow long the Daroth wait. If we can get five more days I can have three by the northern gate, two others ready for swift transportation across the city.”

  “We will, I believe, have a few days,” she said. Something in her voice caught his attention, and he stared intently at her.

  “You . . . instituted the plan?”

  “Yes. The scout has not returned.”

  “This troubles you,” he said softly.

  “Would it not trouble you? I have no qualms about sending soldiers to their deaths, but this time I had to lie, to deceive. He was a dull man, but I don’t doubt he deserved better than to be betrayed by his general.”

  “You chose him because he was a careless man. Therefore it could be argued that his own carelessness killed him.”

  “Yes, I could argue that—but it wouldn’t be true. I think it will buy us time, though not much. It won’t be long before they capture another scout, or get someone close enough to our walls to read another mind.”

  “Five days. That is all we need.”

  Ozhobar covered the ballista with a tarpaulin and led Karis back to the warmth of the forge. “Did you overcome the recoil problem on the catapult?” she asked him.

  “Of course. I weighted the cross timbers. It is a little less manoeuvrable now, but still accurate. Necklen has mastered the machine, and his crew operate well.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Karis.

  “Another biscuit?”

  She smiled. “No. I’d better be getting back. I still have work to do.”

  A deep growl sounded from outside the main door and Karis strolled across to it. Outside, Stealer was baring his fangs at a huge figure.

  “Call off the hound before I break its neck,” said Forin.

  Karis bade Ozhobar good night, then stepped out into the night with Stealer padding alongside her, still keeping a wary eye on the man. “What do you want?” she asked wearily.

  “To talk,” said Forin.

  “I have no time to talk.”

  “No time or no desire?” he asked, pausing in his walk. She moved two paces ahead, then swung back to him.