Dark Moon (25 page)

‘He left Corduin,’ said Tarantio.

‘As well he might. I have no time for magickers: a tricksy bunch, if you take my meaning. Now a man knows where he is with leeches. They suck out the vileness. Nothing magical there.’

Tarantio showed the man to the door, paid him, then returned to the bedside. ‘
You should have made him eat his leeches
,’ said Dace. ‘
The man was an idiot
.’

‘
There was something in what he said. I think this illness is down to the magicker. You saw Brune’s eyes. Both are golden now. There was no magic orb; it is just a spell of some kind. And it is spreading over him
.’

‘
Yes
,’ said Dace cheerfully, ‘
it is – and we should have killed Ardlin too
.’

‘
Is that your answer to everything, brother? Kill it?
’

‘
Each to his own
,’ said Dace. Brune groaned, then spoke out in a language Tarantio had never heard. It was soft, lilting and musical. Tarantio sat beside the bed, laying his hand on Brune’s fevered brow. He was burning up. Fetching a bowl of warm water, he drew back the covers and bathed Brune’s naked body, allowing the evaporation to cool the skin. ‘
He is losing a lot of weight
,’ said Dace. ‘
Maybe you should cook a broth, or something
.’

Brune’s golden eyes opened. ‘Oh, it hurts,’ he said.

‘Lie still, my friend. Rest if you can.’

‘I am cold.’

Tarantio felt his brow again, then he covered him with blankets and walked out to the kitchen area. The young woman he had hired to cook for them had fled when Brune’s fever began. There was no food in the house. Returning to the bedroom, Tarantio built up the fire then threw his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the snow. It was a long walk to the Wise Owl tavern and he was frozen long before he reached it. Snow had begun to fall again, and his shoulders and hair were crowned with white.

He rapped on the door and Shira opened it. Stepping inside he brushed the snow from his shoulders. ‘I am sorry to trouble you,’ he said, ‘but I have a friend who is sick, and there is no food. Could you prepare something for me to take back?’

‘Of course,’ she said brightly. As she turned away, he saw that she was pregnant.

‘My congratulations to you,’ he said.

She reddened. ‘We are very pleased, Duvo and I.’

‘Duvo?’

‘The Singer. You remember?’

‘Ah yes. I wish you both happiness.’

‘Sit down by the fire and I will fetch you some mulled wine while you wait.’ She limped away towards the kitchens. Tarantio removed his cloak and squatted by the fire. He shivered as the heat touched him. Staring into the dancing flames he began to relax, and did not hear the soft footfalls behind him. But Dace did, and surged into control – rising and twisting, his sword flashing into his hand.

A lean, blond-haired man with green eyes stood there. ‘I am Duvodas,’ he said.

‘You’re lucky not to be a dead Duvodas,’ said Dace. ‘What are you doing sneaking up on people?’

‘I was not sneaking, Tarantio. You were lost in thought. Shira tells me you have a sick friend and I was wondering if I could help.’

Dace was about to spit out a reply when Tarantio dragged him back. ‘Are you skilled in medicine?’ he asked. Duvodas said nothing for a moment, but his eyes narrowed. Tarantio wondered if, somehow, he had seen the transformation.

‘I know a little of herbs and potions,’ Duvodas said.

‘Then you would be most welcome at my home. I have become rather fond of Brune. He is not the brightest of men, but he is honest and he doesn’t talk much. And forgive me for my earlier rudeness. I have lived too long amid wars and battles. People appearing silently behind me usually wish me harm.’

‘Think nothing of it, my friend.’

Shira returned with a canvas shoulder-bag, bulging with food. ‘This should keep the wolf from the door for a day at least. Come by tomorrow, and I will have a hamper for you.’ Tarantio offered to pay, but Shira refused. ‘We still owe you a meal for the day you left, sir. Pay me for tomorrow’s food.’

Tarantio bowed, then accepted the bag which he slung over his shoulder. Donning his cloak, he made for the door. Duvodas walked out into the snow with him. Tarantio looked hard at the man, who was wearing only a shirt of green cotton, thin leggings and boots. ‘You will freeze to death,’ said Tarantio.

‘I like the cold,’ said Duvodas, and the two men strolled out into the snow-covered street. An icy wind was blowing against them as they walked, the snow swirling round them. Tarantio glanced at Duvodas, wondering that the man seemed oblivious to the cold. Twenty minutes later Tarantio pushed open his front door and stepped inside. The living-room fire had burned low and he added fuel.

‘You are a strange man,’ he said. ‘Were you raised in a cold climate?’

‘No. Where is your friend?’

‘In the first of the back bedrooms.’

The two men walked through the house and found Brune mumbling in his sleep. ‘Do you recognize the language he is speaking?’ asked Tarantio as Duvodas sat by the bed. Brune suddenly began to sing, and the room was filled with the scent of roses. Then he groaned and was silent.

‘Where did that scent come from?’ asked Tarantio. ‘No rose blooms in the snow.’

‘What magic was worked on this man?’ asked Duvodas. Tarantio told him of the damaged eye and the visit to Ardlin.

‘I did not see what he did. But Brune’s eyesight is now phenomenal.’

‘He is not dying,’ said Duvodas. ‘He is changing.’

‘Into what?’

‘I cannot say for sure. But the magic is powerful within him, and it is growing.’ Brune’s golden eyes opened and he stared at Duvodas. The Singer took his hand and spoke in the Eldarin tongue. Brune smiled and nodded; then he fell asleep once more.

‘What did you say to him?’

‘I thanked him for his song and the scent of roses.’

‘Can you do anything to help him?’

‘No. He needs no help from me. Let us leave him resting.’ Duvodas returned to the living room and sat down by the fire. Tarantio offered him wine but Duvodas refused, requesting water instead. Tarantio brought him a goblet, then sat down opposite him.

‘You are the man who killed the Daroth,’ said the Singer. ‘I have heard of you. The whole city has heard of you. You make the enemy seem mortal.’

‘They
are
mortal.’

‘They once destroyed an entire race,’ said Duvodas. ‘Wiped them out. Now they are lost to history. I was once in a temple that housed their bones. They were called the Oltor; they were Singers, Musicians and Poets. They believed the Universe was the Great Song, and all life within it merely echoes of the melody. Their music was magical, their magic was music. Their cities were said to be gardens of great beauty, at one with the land, harmonious and joyful. The Daroth destroyed the cities utterly, dashed the statues to dust, burnt the paintings, tore up the songs. They are devourers, these Daroth. They live to destroy.’

‘I am not a student of history,’ said Tarantio, ‘but I know how to fight. The Duke has commissioned new weapons, powerful crossbows that can put a bolt through six inches of teak. We will kill a lot of Daroth.’

‘Sadly, that is probably true. There will be a lot more killing,’ said Duvodas, ‘but I shall not wait to see it. Shira and I will be leaving as soon as the snow melts. I will take her to the islands, far away from the war.’

‘One day the Daroth might reach them,’ said Tarantio. ‘What will you do then?’

‘I shall die,’ replied Duvo. ‘I am not a killer. I am a Singer.’

‘Like the Oltor? A race that will not fight does not deserve to live. It is against nature.’

Duvodas rose. ‘I was taught that evil always carries the seeds of its own downfall. One can only hope that it is true. When your friend awakes, feed him no meat and give him no wine. Give him bread, hot oats or dried fruit. And plenty of water.’

‘Meat makes a man strong,’ observed Tarantio.

‘It will make him vomit,’ said Duvodas.

‘What is it that you are not telling me?’ Tarantio asked.

‘If I knew for certain, I would tell you. I will call again when he is awake.’

‘Again!’ shouted Karis, and began to count slowly. The fifty crossbow-men placed the heads of their black bows on the icy ground and began to turn the iron handles on both sides of the stock. By the time Karis had reached the count of twelve, they had notched the thick rope. Sliding bolts into place, they hefted the heavy weapons, rested them on the long support tripod, and took up their positions. The last man was ready as Karis reached fifteen. ‘Shoot!’ she called.

Fifty black bolts flashed through the air to hammer home into targets of solid oak set thirty paces from the bowmen. Karis loped across the target field. The bolts had all struck home, but not deeply.

Vint strolled across to where she stood. ‘The accuracy is fine,’ he said.

‘The penetration is not,’ she told him. ‘At twenty paces the bolts smash through the wood. At thirty they barely scratch it.’

‘Then we wait until the Daroth are within twenty paces.’

‘Gods, man! Is your imagination dead? Yes, we will cut them down. Then, as the reloading takes fifteen seconds, they will be upon us before a second volley can be loosed. The Duke believes we can have five hundred crossbow-men ready by spring. We will need to kill more than five hundred Daroth.’

Vint shook his head. ‘That presupposes we will be facing them on open ground. Surely the majority of our crossbow-men will be shooting from the walls?’

‘The bows are too heavy for accurate use upon the battlements,’ said Karis wearily. ‘And shooting downwards lessens the target area. Two-thirds of the bolts would miss. We need something more. There must be another weakness we can exploit.’

Strolling back to the waiting bowmen, she signalled them to load again and to shoot without the tripod support. Half the bolts missed the target. She kept them hard at work for another hour, then dismissed them.

Back in the barracks building she studied the reports of the massacres at Morgallis and Prentuis. Sirano had destroyed his own palace, killing scores of Daroth in the process. The Duke of The Marches had been less successful. Reliable reports claimed that no more than fifty Daroth were killed in the battle. Several thousand trained men had been slain, and scores of thousands of civilians.

A servant brought her a meal of black bread and soft cheese. She ate swiftly then donned a sheepskin jerkin and made her way to the stables. Saddling Warain, she rode the grey out through the northern gates and across the open ground before the walls. Pausing a hundred paces from the walls, she looked back, picturing the line of crossbow-men. Heeling Warain into a run, she began to count once more. Three times she made the run at the wall, watched by perplexed soldiers on the ramparts. Then she turned away from the city and rode into the hills.

It was past dusk when she returned. Leading Warain to his stall, she rubbed him down with fresh straw, filled his feedbox with grain, and covered his grey back with a thick woollen blanket.

Returning to her rooms, she found Vint waiting for her. ‘Did you clear your head, Karis?’ he asked, offering her a goblet of mulled wine. She drained it in a single swallow.

There was a log fire blazing in the hearth. Karis moved to it and removed her wet, cold clothing. Vint crossed the room and began to massage her shoulders and neck. ‘You are very cold,’ he said, his voice husky.

‘Then warm me,’ she told him.

Later, as they lay naked beneath satin sheets and heavy blankets, Karis waited until Vint’s breathing deepened, then slid silently from the bed and returned to the fire. It had died down and she placed two fresh logs upon it.

In order to use the crossbows to maximum effect, the Daroth charge would have to be slowed. Three volleys would cause carnage in their ranks, but that would involve holding up the Daroth for almost a minute within a twenty-pace range. Karis drank two goblets of wine, and still felt no drowsiness. She thought of waking Vint for another session of love-making, but decided against it. He was a caring and thoughtful lover, taking his time and making the moments last. At this moment Karis did not need such drawn-out intensity. Instead, she donned fresh leggings and a white woollen shirt, buckskin boots and her hooded jerkin, and walked from the palace into the night.

The streets were deserted and a bitter wind was blowing down from the north. Karis pulled her hood over her long dark hair, and turned down a side alley towards the Barracks tavern. Golden lantern light glowed from the windows and a rush of welcome heat enveloped her as she pushed open the door. There were two log fires burning, one at each end of the long room within, and the tavern was packed with soldiers. Karis scanned the room, spotting the red-bearded giant Forin sitting in a corner with a young whore perched upon his knee.

Karis eased her way through the crowd and removed her jerkin, draping it over the back of the chair opposite the giant. ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

‘Will it take long?’ he asked. ‘I have plans for the evening.’ He grinned up at the young whore, who forced a laugh and stared at Karis with open hostility.

‘I want you to tell me everything you can remember of your father’s stories concerning the Daroth. Everything!’

‘Can this not wait until the morning?’

‘No, it cannot,’ said Karis. The young whore, sensing her payment receding, leaned forward, her face showing her anger. But before the girl could speak Karis drew her dagger and slammed it point first into the table. ‘One wrong word from you and I shall cut your tongue out,’ she said, her voice icy. The whore’s painted mouth dropped open, fear replacing her anger. ‘Now go away and find another client,’ said Karis. ‘There are plenty to choose from.’

The girl slid from Forin’s lap and moved away into the crowd. Forin drained his tankard. ‘You have lost me a night’s pleasure,’ he said.

‘And saved you a dose of the pox, in all probability.’

Forin was about to reply when she saw him glance over her shoulder, his green eyes narrowing. Instantly alert to danger, Karis pushed back her chair and spun round. The young whore was approaching with two men. ‘That’s her! Pulled a knife on me, she did!’