Dark Moon (5 page)

‘We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.’

‘You have learned,’ agreed the old man. ‘As an individual, and a fine one. I do not see great hope for your race, however.’

‘The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,’ argued Duvodas.

‘That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had – and we retain – a capacity for violence in defence of our lives. But we have no lust for it. At the dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in random slaughter as the humans do.’

‘If you hold the humans in such low regard, sir, why is it that the Eldarin invest the rivers with magic, keeping the humans free of disease and plague?’

‘We do it because we love life, Duvo.’

‘And why not tell the humans about the enchantment in the water? Would they not then lose their hatred of you?’

‘No, they would not. They would disbelieve us and hate us the more. Now, once more, try to reach the purity of Air Magic.’

Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now and gazed down at the hunter. Without the healing waters, plague and disease had ripped across the land. Lifting the harp, his fingers touched the strings, sending out a series of light, rippling notes. The scent of roses in bloom filled the cabin, rich and heady. Duvodas continued to play, the music swelling. A golden light radiated from his harp, bathing the walls, flowing through doorways, sending dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Dust motes gleamed in the air like tiny diamonds, and the atmosphere in the cabin – moments before pungent with the smell of disease – became fresh, clean and sharp as the breeze of spring.

There was a pitcher of curdled milk on the table beside him. Moment by moment it changed. First the fur of mildew on the pitcher rim receded, then the texture of the semi-liquid contents altered, re-emulsifying, the lumps fading, melting back into the creamy richness of fresh milk.

The music continued, the mood changing from lilting and light to the powerful rhythms and the rippling chords of the dance.

The hunter groaned softly. The black boils were receding now. Sweat bathed the face of the singer as he rose from his chair. Still playing his harp he opened his grey-green eyes and slowly made his way into the back bedroom. The music flowed over the dying woman, holding to her, soaking into her soul. Duvodas felt a terrible weariness weighing down on him like a boulder, but his fingers danced upon the strings, never faltering. Moving, on he came to the second bedroom. The golden light of his harp shone upon the bed and the faces of the two girls, the oldest of them not more than five.

Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden light fading.

Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow.

‘I wish I had been here sooner, little one,’ he said.

He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two lengths of cord.

Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and placed the body inside.

As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him.

‘How is it that we are alive?’ asked the hunter.

‘The fever must have passed, my friend,’ Duvodas told him. ‘I am sorry about your son. I should have dug deeper, but I did not have the strength.’

The man’s strong face trembled, and tears flowed, but he blinked them back. ‘The Eldarin did this to us,’ he said, the words choking him. ‘They sent the plague. May they all rot in Hell! I curse them all! I wish they had but one neck, and I would crush it in my hands.’

The fist struck the old man full in the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Bright lights shone before his eyes and, disoriented, Browyn tried to rise. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the soft earth. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard the sound of smashing crockery coming from his cabin, and then an iron hand gripped his throat. ‘You tell, you old bastard, or I swear I’ll cut your eyes out!’

‘Maybe it was all just lies,’ said another voice. ‘Maybe there never was any gold.’

‘There was gold,’ grunted the first man. ‘I
know
it. He paid Simian with it. Small nuggets. Simian wouldn’t lie to me. He knows better.’

Browyn was dragged to his knees. ‘Can you hear me, old fool? Can you?’

The old man fought to focus on the flat, brutal face that was now inches from his own. In all his life he had enjoyed one great talent: he could see the souls of men. In this moment of terror his gift was like a curse, for he looked into the face of his tormentor and saw only darkness and spite. The image of the man’s soul was scaled and pitted, the eyes red as blood, the mouth thin, a pointed blue tongue licking at grey lips. Browyn knew in that moment that his life was over. Nothing would prevent this man from killing him. He could see the enjoyment of the torture in the blood-red eyes of the naked soul.

‘I can hear you,’ he said, tasting blood on his lips.

‘So where is it?’

He had already told them about the single nugget he had found in the stream beyond the cabin. It was with this he had paid Simian for last winter’s supplies. But he had never found more, despite long days of searching. The nugget must have been washed down from higher in the mountains, and wedged itself in the bend of the stream.

The third man emerged from the cabin. ‘There’s nothing there, Brys,’ he said. ‘He’s almost out of food. Maybe he’s telling the truth.’

‘We’ll find out,’ said Brys, drawing a dagger and pricking it under the skin of Browyn’s eye. The point was needle-sharp and the old man felt a trickle of blood on his cheek. ‘Which eye would you like to lose first, scum-bucket?’ he hissed.

‘Brys!’ the third man called out. ‘There’s someone coming!’

The mercenary let go of Browyn’s throat and the old man fell gratefully from his grasp. Blinking, he strained to focus on the newcomer. He was a slim young man, with dark, close-cropped hair; over his shoulder he carried a heavy woollen coat of storm-cloud grey, and around his waist was a sword-belt from which hung two short swords. Browyn could also see the hilt of a throwing-knife in the man’s knee-length boot. As the warrior came closer Browyn rubbed sweat from his eyes … the blows he had taken must have blurred his senses. The newcomer had not one soul – but two. The first was almost a mirror image of the man himself, darkly handsome, but golden light radiated from the face. But the second … Browyn’s heart sank. The second had a face of corpse-grey, and a shock of white hair like a lion’s mane. The eyes were yellow, and slitted like those of a hunting cat.

‘Good morning,’ said the newcomer, laying his coat over a tree-stump. Moving past the three mercenaries, he helped Browyn to his feet. ‘Is this your cabin, sir?’ Browyn nodded dumbly. ‘Would you object to me resting here for a while? It is a long walk from the lowlands, and I would be grateful for your hospitality.’

‘Who do you think you are?’ shouted Brys, storming forward. The newcomer leaned to the left, his right foot slamming into the mercenary’s stomach, hurling him from his feet. Brys slumped to the ground, howling in pain. Dropping his dagger, he gasped for breath and continued to groan.

‘You two will need to carry your friend back to his horse,’ said the young man amiably.

‘Kill him!’ grunted Brys. ‘Kill the bastard.’ The other two men did not move or speak.

The newcomer knelt beside Brys. ‘I think your friends are brighter than you,’ he said, picking up the man’s dagger and slipping it back into the mercenary’s sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man. ‘Do you have any salt?’ he asked.

Browyn nodded and the newcomer smiled. ‘You have no idea what a relief that is.’

‘What the hell’s the matter with you two?’ shouted Brys, struggling to his knees.

‘He’s Tarantio,’ replied one of them. ‘I saw him fight that duel in Corduin. I’m right, aren’t I?’ he said, looking at the newcomer.

‘Indeed you are.’

‘There’s no gold here,’ said the mercenary. ‘We would have found it.’

Tarantio shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘Are you going to kill us?’

‘No. I am not in a killing mood.’

‘Well, I am, you scum-sucking bastard!’ shouted Brys, drawing his sword.

‘Brys! Don’t!’ shouted his comrades. But he ignored them.

‘
You’d better let me take him
,’ said Dace.

‘
No
,’ answered Tarantio. ‘
Sigellus trained us both, and I am not afraid
.’

‘
Don’t try to disarm him
,’ warned Dace. ‘
Just kill the whoreson
.’

The mercenary attacked, his sword slashing towards Tarantio’s head. The two short swords flashed up to block the stroke, but Brys was ready for the move and spun to his left, his elbow slamming against Tarantio’s cheek. Tarantio staggered back, vision blurring. Brys aimed a wild cut at Tarantio’s head. The blade slashed high, as Tarantio dropped to one knee and then surged upright, the left-hand blade snaking out. Brys made a desperate block, but the weapon pricked his shoulder, tearing the skin of his chest. Brys fell back. He grinned. ‘You’re good, Tarantio,’ he said. ‘But you are not that good. I am better.’

‘
He is right, you know
,’ said Dace. ‘
He’ll wear you down and kill you. Let me have him
.’

Brys launched a sudden attack, sword raised high. As Tarantio made to block, the voice of Dace hissed at him: ‘
He’s got a knife in his left hand!
’ Tarantio leapt back – then launched himself forward. The move caught Brys by surprise and before he could react Tarantio’s right-hand sword had slashed down on his hand. Three fingers were chopped away, the dagger falling clear.

‘You bastard!’ screamed Brys, charging forward. Terrible pain exploded in the mercenary’s body … his sword fell from his hand and he stared down at the blade embedded in his belly. An agonized groan burst from his lips as acid fire filled him. His knees buckled, but the jutting sword held him upright, the blade driving deeper.

‘
Let me feel the joy!
’ shouted Dace.

‘
There is no joy
,’ said Tarantio, dragging the sword clear. Brys toppled to his right. ‘Take the body with you,’ ordered Tarantio, turning to the other mercenaries. ‘And leave his horse behind.’

‘We don’t want to die,’ said the first man.

‘No-one wants to die,’ Tarantio told him.

Together the man and his companion lifted the dead man, and heaved him over the saddle of a brown mare. Then they mounted.

As they rode away, Tarantio swung to the old man. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ he asked him.

‘Not half as badly as I would have been. I am grateful to you. What they said is true. There is no gold.’

‘No. But there is salt,’ said Tarantio wearily.

‘
You were lucky
,’ whispered Dace. ‘
Where would you have been had I not seen the knife?
’

‘
Dead
,’ answered Tarantio, moving across the open ground to the dead man’s horse. Just over sixteen hands tall, the gelding stood quietly as Tarantio ran his hand over the beast’s flanks. The coat was flat with a healthy sheen, and the skin below was supple and strong. Its front conformation was good, the point of the shoulders in line with knee and hoof. At the rear it tended towards a slight cow-hocked stance, which in humans was called knock-kneed. This was probably why a mercenary could afford such a potentially expensive mount. Cow-hocked horses often strain ligaments on the inside of the limb. Speaking to it gently Tarantio moved around the horse, stroking its long nose and looking into its bright, brown eyes. Lastly he checked the legs. They were powerful, with no sign of heat or swelling, and the gelding had been recently re-shod. Moving to the rear of the horse, Tarantio watched the swelling of its rib-cage; its breathing was even and slow. ‘Well, well,’ said Tarantio softly, patting the gelding’s flank, ‘he may have been a vile man, but he certainly looked after you. I’ll try to do the same.’

Browyn moved alongside him, checking the gelding’s nose and mouth. ‘I’d say around nine years old,’ said the old man, ‘with plenty of speed and strength.’

Tarantio stood back from the gelding, casting his eye along the line of its back, the length of the neck and the shape of the head. ‘Without the cow-hocked stance, he would bring around four hundred in silver. As he is, he would fetch less than fifty.’

‘There’s no sense in it,’ agreed Browyn. ‘He is a fine animal.’

Browyn relaxed. In that moment a great weariness descended upon him. The aftershock of the attack caused him to tremble and Tarantio took his arm. ‘You need to sit down,’ said the warrior. ‘Come, I’ll help you inside.’

The cabin was a mess, papers strewn about the floor among shards of smashed pottery and two broken shelves. There was a beautifully carved bench seat by a large open hearth and Tarantio half carried the old man to it. Browyn sank down gratefully, and Tarantio fetched him a cup of water. Browyn began to shiver. The fire had died down, and Tarantio added logs from a stack in the hearth.

‘Age makes fools of all of us,’ said Browyn miserably. ‘There was a time when I would have fancied my chances of taking all three.’

‘Is that true?’ Tarantio asked him.

‘Of course it isn’t true,’ said Browyn, with a smile. ‘But it is the sort of thing old people are expected to say. The real truth – if such a spectacular beast exists – is that I was a bridge-builder with no taste for violence whatever. And I have to admit that it is not a skill I ever wished to acquire.’ His keen blue eyes stared hard at the younger man. ‘I hope you don’t consider that an offensive remark.’

‘Why would I? I agree with the sentiments. You sit there for a while. I’ll clear up the mess.’