Dark Moon

by David Gemmell

  “I am not insane,” he repeated, “but the next morning Dace said goodbye to me—and I can no longer find him. I call, but he is not there.”

  “And that frightens you?”

  He nodded. “Dace could fight his way clear of any danger. He feared nothing in combat. But I do. And I do not want to die—not now I have found you again.”

  “We are going to die,” she said. “Perhaps not today or tomorrow—but sometime in the future we will cease to be. It cannot be avoided, no matter how far or how fast we run. I do love you, Chio, but I do not know you very well. So I may be wrong in what I am about to say, but I will say it nonetheless: you will come to hate yourself if you run now. I believe this to be true.”

  “You want to stay here? And face the Daroth?”

  “No, I want to run too. Yet I will stay. I will stare my fears in the face, as I have always done—not over my shoulder as I flee.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” he said miserably.

  “Look into your heart, Chio. How did it feel to have your friend look at you with contempt? How do you feel about yourself?”

  “Lessened,” he said simply.

  “Then go to the meeting. Take back your sword. No-one can take away your pride; you have to willingly surrender it. Once you do so, you will never be the same man again.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be much use to them without Dace.”

  “Perhaps you are Dace. Perhaps he is merely another manifestation of you. Even if he is not, you are still a man of courage. I know this, for I could never love a coward.”

  He smiled then, and she saw his expression lighten. “You are a wonder,” he said.

  “Indeed I am,” she told him. “And if Dace returns, tell him I love him too.”

  The Meeting Hall was filled with officers and men. The Duke, dressed in a tunic and leggings of black silk, sat at the head of the table, with Karis to his right. The white wall behind him had been stripped of paintings, and Ozhobar had sketched out a map of the catacombs on the bare plaster.

  The Duke rose. “This will be the final battle,” he told his grim-faced audience. “Below the ground, underneath the city, you will face a terrible enemy. Karis will explain the strategy to you. It will not be easy to carry out the orders—which is why every man here has been hand-picked. You are the most courageous fighters we have, and I am proud to stand in this room with you.”

  With that he sat down, and Karis pushed back her chair and moved to the wall. Using a slender rapier, she pointed to the map. “This area is where we expect the Daroth to break through. Already we can hear them. Lanterns have been placed around the catacombs, so that you will be able to see your targets. The object is to hit the enemy hard, then fall back to our second line of defence, which will be here,” she said, pointing to an area where the tunnels branched and narrowed.

  “Excuse me, General,” said an older officer, a tall man sporting a curling moustache but no beard, “but I know the catacombs. Wouldn’t it be wiser to fortify the main tunnel? You have us retreating along a branch section.”

  “That is a good point,” she admitted, “but the main tunnel branches farther back, then splits into a honeycomb of passages. We could lose a great many men there.” He made to speak again, but Karis raised her hand. “Do not question me further, sir; you are overlooking the menace of the Daroth talent for reading minds. I don’t know how strongly they will be able to penetrate our plans once the killing begins. But I do not want us—here and now—to examine all the possibilities for defence or counter-attacks. What is vital is that you all listen, and obey your orders to the best of your abilities. The fate of the city will depend on you.”

  In the silence that followed she mapped out the line of the rolling retreat, the numbers of crossbow-men and the positions they should occupy. “As each group retreats they should keep close to the walls, so that the next line of bowmen can rake the enemy. When you pass through the lines, take up positions to the rear and prepare to cover your comrades as they in turn retreat.” Slowly and methodically she covered the plan again, then asked questions of the officers until she was sure they knew what was required.

  The man with the curling moustache spoke again. “And what if the line breaks, General? What do we do?”

  “You get out as best you can,” Karis told him. Seeing that he was about to speak again, she raised her hand to halt him. “No more questions,” she said. “Go and gather your men, give out your orders, then assemble at the park entrance to the catacombs. Vint and Forin will be there waiting for you.”

  “As will I,” said Tarantio, from the rear of the room. Forin swung in his seat and gave a broad grin. As the officers filed out Tarantio moved over to Forin. “I think you have something that belongs to me,” he said.

  “Indeed I do, man. It is good to see you.” Unbuckling his sword belt he passed the weapon to Tarantio.

  “What changed your mind?” asked Karis.

  “The love of a good woman,” Tarantio answered.

  “You and Vint will cover the withdrawals. You will rove freely, making use of the available cover—and there is a great deal of that. The catacombs are a maze of stalactites and stalagmites.”

  “I never could remember the difference between the two,” muttered Forin.

  “Neither could I,” said the Duke. “Think of the ‘c’ and the ‘g’ as standing for ceiling and ground. Stalactites grow from the ceiling downwards, stalagmites from the ground up.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Forin. The Duke gave a short bow.

  “When I say free roving,” said Karis, “I mean exactly that. But do not allow yourself to be drawn away from the retreating lines. There are a number of blind tunnels that lead nowhere, and a great many more that have hidden pits, some of which are very deep. The main areas we are defending have been marked by white paint. Keep to those.”

  Vint spoke up. “I know this is a difficult area, Karis, but all the men who were here heard you talk about a rolling retreat. Retreats do not win battles. They know you will have a secondary plan of action; we all know it. Therefore so will the Daroth. It has to involve the exits; you will be planning to ambush them as they come out. Therefore they will probably not follow us.”

  “Forgive me, General,” said the Duke, “but I was thinking the same thing. Once the battle begins, the Daroth can take any number of exits.”

  “That is true,” said Karis, “but firstly the Daroth may not yet know about the catacombs. Secondly, even if they do, they will not be familiar with the layout.”

  “Every man here will have seen the map,” said Forin.

  “Yes,” agreed Karis, “but we cannot cover all the eventualities. As you can see, if the Daroth are drawn into the first series of tunnels the number of exits available to them drops to eight. The farther we pull them, the fewer their options.”

  “At the risk of labouring the point,” said Vint, “everything you are telling us can be learned by the enemy.”

  “That is why I am not telling you everything. Trust me, Vint. We will surprise them. You see, they also will face a difficult dilemma. They know I have misdirected them once before, by planting false information in the mind of one of our scouts. Therefore, in the chaos of battle within the tunnels, they will not be able to trust completely in the thoughts of the men facing them. That will lead to confusion, believe me.”

  “I believe you, Karis,” said Vint. “I just don’t want to be used like that poor scout.”

  “You are being used in exactly that way,” she told him coldly.

  The smell of lantern oil hung heavily in the still air of the catacombs, and the warriors crouched in nervous silence, listening to the steady thudding sound of Daroth hammers and pick-axes coming ever closer. Forin wiped sweat from his face and glanced at Vint, who was standing beside the column of a towering stalagmite. The swordsman’s face seemed strained and tense in the yellow, flickering light of the lanterns. Some way to his left Tarantio was sitting on a jut of roc
k, head down and arms on his knees. Forin took a deep, calming breath and walked back among the kneeling crossbow-men. No-one spoke, and the sheen of fear-sweat was bright on every face.

  For the second time in an hour Forin strode forward, crossing the cavern floor all the way to the far wall. Once there, heart pounding, he placed his hand on the rock. This time he could feel the vibration of the Daroth hammers tingling against his palm.

  Tarantio looked up as the giant returned, lantern light gleaming on the polished iron breastplate. “Soon,” whispered Forin.

  “Where are you, Dace?”

  There was no response. Tarantio was trembling and terror was growing within him. A splintering thud, louder than before, caused him to jerk as if stung. Rising to his feet, he found his legs unsteady and was filled with an urge to run from this dark, shadow-haunted place. Even as the thought came to him, a young crossbow-man to the rear dropped his weapon and scrambled back along the paint-marked tunnel. Other men stirred and Forin moved amongst them, patting a shoulder here, pausing to whisper encouragement there, his colossal presence calming them. He gave the signal to cock the weapons.

  Tarantio’s mouth was dry, and he thought of Miriac waiting for him back at the house, the bright sunshine streaming through the open windows. If the Daroth were to break through here . . . The thought was too awful to entertain.

  The edge of a pick-axe smashed through the black rock. The crossbow-men set up their tripods, resting their heavy weapons upon them, aiming at the wall. Vint and Tarantio moved back away from the killing area. Tarantio drew his sword, which shimmered in the lantern light.

  A large section of rock fell away—then another, crashing to the cavern floor. A huge Daroth engineer stepped into sight. Three crossbow bolts smashed through his skull and he pitched to the ground. Frenzied activity began in the tunnel, picks and hammers crashing at the last barriers. The hole widened and the Daroth swarmed through, their faces ghostly white, their massive forms throwing giant shadows on the walls.

  Crossbow bolts tore into them, and they charged. Tarantio darted from behind a stalagmite and sent a slashing cut through the ribs of the first Daroth warrior. Ducking under a thrusting sword-blade, he speared his own weapon through the belly of a second. On the other side of the cavern Vint lanced his sword into the chest of a Daroth warrior, then spun on his heel to send a reverse cut across the throat of a second. Behind them the crossbow-men were retreating to the second line of defence.

  Vint leapt back, then turned on his heel and ran for cover, keeping close to the right-hand wall. A hurled spear smashed into a stalagmite, sending shards of stone into his face and neck. Ahead was a line of sandbags, with crossbow-men kneeling behind them. As Vint leapt over them, then spun to face the enemy, he saw Tarantio running along the far side of the cavern, scrambling to safety.

  The mass of Daroth surged forward. The crossbows sang, and fifty bolts slammed into the leading warriors. The Corduin soldiers struggled in vain to reload—a few succeeded—but the Daroth were upon them, serrated swords smashing through armour, flesh and bone. Vint leaped forward, cutting and killing. “Back!” he shouted. The defenceless crossbow-men needed no instructions; they fled along the tunnel. Vint followed them, Tarantio to his right.

  There was no sound of pursuit. Spinning, the two men looked back. The Daroth were standing by the sandbag wall, then they filed away to the right. Vint swore.

  Karis’s plan was not working.

  Alone in the dark Ozhobar listened to the distant sounds of battle, the screams of wounded men, the clash of steel, the hissing song of crossbow strings. Appalling sounds, he thought.

  Evil.

  Ozhobar was not a religious man. He had prayed only once in his life. It had not been answered, and he had buried the ones he loved, the plague continuing to sweep through the islands causing misery and desolation to those left behind. But one did not need to be religious to understand the nature of evil. The plague had an evil effect, but was merely a perversion of nature; it was not sentient. The Daroth, on the other hand, Ozhobar believed to be evil incarnate. They knew what they were doing, the pain they caused and the despair they created. Worse, they had fostered hatred in their enemies that would last for generations. And hatred was the mother of all evil.

  You will not make me hate you, thought Ozhobar. But I will kill you!

  The sounds of fighting died away. Ozhobar lifted the glass from his lantern, exposing the naked flame, then rose and glanced down the sloping tunnel. He could see no movement, so he closed his eyes and listened. At first there was nothing, then he heard the sound of boots upon stone. The mouth of the tunnel was over 100 feet from where he now stood. Lifting the lantern, he moved behind the huge pottery ball and lit the oil-soaked rags wedged into the holes.

  Ahead he could see flickering shadows as the Daroth moved up the slope.

  Ozhobar sat down with his back to the wall, placed his boots against the burning ball and thrust hard. It began to roll, slowly at first on the gentle slope; then it gathered pace. The Daroth came into sight. Ozhobar took up his crossbow and aimed it, sending an iron bolt into the ball, shattering a section of the pottery. Blazing oil spilled out, and flames erupted through the Daroth ranks.

  Not waiting to see the result Ozhobar scrambled back, replaced the glass on the lantern and then climbed farther up the slope, traversing a ledge that brought him out high above the cavern floor. He could clearly see the stream of burning oil flowing out of the tunnel. A flash of bright light came from the far side, and he saw Daroth warriors fleeing from the mouth of a second tunnel. Two of them were engulfed in flames, their comrades staying well back.

  Ozhobar’s assistant, Brek, came into sight, emerging from a cleft in the tunnel. The Daroth saw him and surged forward. Brek ran towards a tunnel mouth, but a jagged spear smashed through his back and he fell.

  High on the ledge, Ozhobar felt the sting of grief. Brek had been a good man, solid and trustworthy. With a sigh, Ozhobar watched the Daroth milling in the centre of the cavern. Then they broke into a run and surged forward.

  Towards the waiting crossbow-men.

  Three volleys of bolts plunged into the advancing Daroth, but there was no slowing them now. Tarantio killed two, then dashed to his left as a spear smashed into the rock by his head. Three huge warriors ran at him. Cut off from the main body of defenders, he ran into a narrow tunnel, then turned swiftly and drove his blade through the white skull of the first pursuer. A spear slammed into his left shoulder, the serrated blade tearing up through his collar-bone. Blood sprayed from the wound. Tarantio swept his sword across the Daroth’s belly, then backhanded a cut that half severed his head.

  The pain from his wound was intense, blood was flowing freely inside his shirt and pooling above his belt. Movement was agony, but he scrambled farther back into the tunnel, searching for an exit. Another spear flashed past him.

  Spinning once more, he swayed away from a wild, slashing cut. His riposte passed through the Daroth’s forearm, to send the limb spinning through the air. Still the Daroth rushed him, his great fist clubbing into Tarantio’s chest and hurling him from his feet. Tarantio rolled as the creature leapt for him feet-first. Pushing himself upright, the swordsman plunged his weapon into the Daroth’s chest. “Now die, you whoreson!” he hissed.

  As the sound of pounding boots came from the tunnel mouth, Tarantio swore and stumbled farther back into the darkness. There were no lanterns here, and only the shimmering glow from his sword offered any light. He felt a touch of cool air brush his cheek. It came from above, but his left arm was useless and there was no way he could climb to the opening. The tunnel itself petered out into a black wall of rock. Two Daroth spear-men came into sight. The first lunged at Tarantio, whose sword swept across his body—slicing through the shaft—then reversed and tore open the Daroth’s throat. The second spear slammed through his side and deep into the rock behind. Cutting through the shaft he flung the blade like a knife. It slammed point first into the Daroth�
��s ridged brow, sinking in all the way up to the hilt. Tarantio tried to move forward to retrieve the blade, then cried out in agony, for he was pinned to the wall.

  He could hear the stealthy footfalls of more Daroth approaching. His heart sank and he ceased to struggle. If that was death, so be it, he thought.

  “A pox on you, brother! I’m not ready to die yet!”

  Dace hurled himself forward, his wounded body sliding clear of the broken spear-shaft. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his broken collar-bone. Reaching out, he grasped the hilt of his sword and then struggled to his feet.

  Four Daroth swordsmen rounded the bend in the tunnel and, with a bloodcurdling scream, Dace charged them—his sword slicing through the chest of the first, the skull of the second and the ribs of the third. The fourth stumbled; Dace leapt upon him, using his sword like a dagger which he drove down through the neck and into the lungs.

  Dace fell with him, then staggered upright. “Where are you, you bastards?” he screamed. “I’ll kill you all!”

  “Dace, for the sake of Heaven, let’s find a way out of here!” cried Tarantio.

  But Dace ignored him. He took three running steps, then pitched sideways into the wall and half fell. Blood-drenched and swaying, he made it back to the main tunnel and saw the bodies of a score of Daroth and as many Corduin men. Picking his way through them he heard the sounds of battle up ahead.

  “I’m coming for you!” shouted Dace, his voice echoing through the tunnels. He stumbled on, then fell to his knees.

  “Stop, Dace,” Tarantio urged him. “Stop now. We are dying.”

  Dace sat with his back to the wall and gazed down at his blood-drenched clothes. There was no feeling in his right leg now, and his vision was swimming. “I am not going to die in the dark,” he said.

  With a great effort he rolled to his knees, then got his good leg under him, forcing himself upright. As two Daroth warriors came into sight, Dace blinked sweat from his eyes. “Come on!” he called. “Come and die, you ugly whoresons!”