Dark Moon (20 page)

Vint rose from the bath. Robes had been left draped across a bench seat. Donning one, he passed the other to Karis. ‘Are you doing this to stop me from carrying out my duel?’

‘Not at all,’ she assured him. ‘I do not interfere in the lives of my men. If you wish to die young, then make good on your challenge – but not until we return.’

Vint smiled. ‘Who could deny you anything, Karis?’

There was a discreet tap at the door. When Karis opened it, the dark-haired boy Goran stood outside. Karis ushered him in and he stood on the threshold looking nervous and ill at ease. ‘What did you want?’ she asked him.

‘Can I come with you tomorrow?’

‘I do not think that would be wise, boy. Our chances of returning alive are not great.’

‘They took my father. I … I need to find out whether he lives.’

‘You were close?’ she asked.

‘He is the finest man who ever walked,’ said Goran, his voice thickening and tears forming in his eyes. ‘Please let me come.’

‘Oh, let him come, Karis,’ said Vint. ‘The boy has spirit, and wouldn’t you want to look for your own father?’

Karis’s eyes were cold as she turned to Vint. ‘If it was my father,’ she said, ‘I’d help the Daroth skin him!’

Brune sat quietly in the garden behind the house, watching a line of ants moving up a rose-bush. They filed slowly up the stem of a late-flowering bud, then down again. Brune focused on the bud, which was covered with greenfly. The ants were moving up, one at a time, behind the greenfly, and appeared to be stroking the aphids. This puzzled Brune: it was as if the tiny black insects were paying homage to their larger green cousins. But that was ridiculous. Narrowing his eyes, Brune looked closer. Then he smiled. The ants were feeding. Stroking the greenfly caused the aphids to produce a viscous discharge. Brune clapped his hands and laughed aloud.

‘What is so amusing?’ asked Tarantio, stepping out into the sunshine. He was carrying a black crossbow with a slim stock and wings of iron, and a quiver of stiffened leather containing twenty short black quarrels.

‘The ants are milking the greenfly,’ Brune told him. ‘I didn’t know they did that.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Tarantio laid bow and quiver on the stone table beside the bench on which Brune was sitting.

‘The rose-bush. Look at the ants.’

Tarantio walked the length of the garden, some sixty paces, and knelt down by the bush for a few moments. Then he returned to the seated Brune. ‘I see they are swarming near the greenfly, but what makes you believe they are milking them?’ he asked.

‘You can see it. Look, there’s one feeding now; he’s filling his food sac.’

‘Are you mocking me, Brune? I can hardly see the bud from here.’

‘It’s my new eye,’ said Brune proudly. ‘I can see all sorts of things with it, if I try hard. I was watching the ants earlier. They swap food. Did you know that? They rear up in front of each other, then one vomits …’

‘I am sure it is fascinating,’ said the swordsman swiftly. ‘However, we have work to do. I have purchased this crossbow and I’d like to see how your new eye affects your aim.’

Tarantio showed Brune how to cock the weapon, then bade him shoot at the trunk of a thick oak some twenty paces away.

‘Which part of the trunk?’ asked Brune. Tarantio laughed and moved to the tree, scanning the bark. There was a small knot no more than an inch in diameter. Tarantio touched it with his index finger.

‘Just here,’ he said. As he spoke, Brune hefted the weapon. ‘Wait!’ cried Tarantio. The black bolt slammed into the knot, barely inches from Tarantio’s outstretched hand. Furious, he stormed back to where Brune stood. ‘You idiot! You could have killed me.’

‘I hit the knot,’ said Brune gleefully.

‘But the bolt might have ricocheted. It happens, Brune.’

‘I’m sorry. It was just so easy. Don’t be angry.’

Tarantio took a deep breath, then sighed. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘we know the gold was well spent. The magicker did a fine job. Perhaps a little too fine.’ Leaning in close to Brune he stared into the young man’s eyes.

‘What are you looking at?’ asked Brune nervously.

‘Your left eye. I could have sworn it was blue.’

‘It
is
blue,’ said Brune.

‘Not any more. It is a kind of golden brown. Ah well, maybe it is just part of the magic from the golden orb.’

‘He wasn’t supposed to change the colour,’ objected Brune, worried now. ‘He wasn’t, was he?’

‘I don’t suppose that it matters,’ replied Tarantio, with a smile. ‘Not if you can see ants feeding. Anyway, it is a good colour. And it better matches the gold of your right eye.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes.’

They heard the sound of horses on the road outside. Tarantio’s face hardened as Vint came riding to the gate. The Corduin swordsman gave a broad smile and waved as he dismounted. He opened the gate wide, and a second rider came through. Tarantio watched as Karis dismounted, tethering her grey to the gatepost.

‘Good to see you again, Chio,’ she said.

‘And you, Karis. Come to see him die?’ he asked.

‘Not today. What brings you to Corduin?’

‘I grew tired of war,’ he told her. ‘Added to which I was with the mercenaries your lancers destroyed. I barely got away. Did life prove too dull with Sirano?’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed. Karis glanced at Brune. ‘What is the matter with his eye?’

‘Nothing. He sees better than any man alive. What is it you want?’

Karis smiled. ‘A little hospitality would be pleasant. A drink perhaps? Then we can talk.’

Tarantio sent Brune inside to fetch wine. Vint sat perched on the edge of the stone table, while Karis sat down opposite Tarantio. She told him of the return of the Daroth, and the murder of the villagers and the soldiers from the northern garrison. Tarantio listened, astonished. Brune returned with a pitcher of wine and four clay cups, but no-one touched the drink.

‘You saw them yourself?’ asked Tarantio.

‘I did, Chio. Horses of eighteen hands or more, huge warriors with white, naked skulls and twisted faces. And the desert is no more. Trust me. The Daroth are back.’ She told him of Sirano’s assault on the Pearl, and of the ghostly Eldarin. Lastly she outlined the decision of the Council to send a group of riders to meet with the Daroth. ‘I will be leading the group,’ she said. ‘I want you with me.’

‘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.

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 splinters. 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.’