Dark Moon (6 page)

Browyn eased his bruised frame back on to the bench seat and stared into the fire. Sleep came easily, and he dreamt of youth and the race he had run against the three great champions. Five long miles. He had finished ninth, but the memory of running alongside such athletes remained with him, like a warming fire in the room of memories.

When he awoke, the shutters of the small windows on either side of the main door were closed. His two lanterns, hanging in their iron brackets on the west wall, were lit, and the cabin was filled with the aroma of cooking meat and spicy herbs. Browyn stretched and sat up, but he groaned as the pain from his bruises flared.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked the young man. Browyn blinked and looked around. The cabin was now neat and tidy, only the broken shelves giving evidence of the day’s savagery. Nervously he opened the path to his talent and sought out the image of the young man’s soul. With relief he saw that there was only one. The beating he had taken at the hands of the raiders must have confused him, he thought. Tarantio’s soul was bright, and as untainted by evil as any human spirit could be. Which, Browyn realized sadly, merely meant that the darkness was considerably smaller than the light.

‘My name is Browyn. And I am feeling a little better. Welcome to my home, Tarantio.’

‘It is good to be here,’ the young man told him. ‘I took the liberty of raiding your food store. I also found some onions growing nearby and I have made a thick soup.’

‘Did you see to the horse?’

‘I did,’ said Tarantio. ‘I fed him some oats, and he is tethered close by.’

They ate in silence, then Browyn slept again for an hour. He was embarrassed when he woke. ‘Old men do this, you know,’ he said. ‘We cat-nap.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighty-two. Doesn’t seem possible, does it? In a world gone mad, one bridge-builder can reach eighty-two, while young men in the fullness of their strength rush around with sharp swords and cut themselves to pieces. How old are you, Tarantio?’

‘Twenty-one. But sometimes I feel eighty-two.’

‘You are a strange young man – if you don’t mind me pointing it out?’ Tarantio smiled and shook his head. ‘You killed that swine very expertly, which shows that you are a man accustomed to violence. And yet you have cleaned my cabin in a manner which would have brought words of praise from my dear wife – a rare thing, I can tell you. And you cook better than she did – which sadly is no rare thing. Those men were afraid of you. Are you famous?’

‘They were the kind of men to be afraid,’ Tarantio said softly, ‘and reputations have a habit of growing on their own. The deed itself can be an acorn, but once men hear of it the tale soon becomes a mighty oak.’

‘Even so, I would like to hear of the acorn.’

‘I would like to hear about bridge-building. And since I am the guest, and you the host, my wishes should be paramount.’

‘You have been well trained, boy,’ said Browyn admiringly. ‘I think I like you. And I do know something of the acorn. You were the student of Sigellus the Swordsman. I knew him, you know.’

‘No-one knew him,’ said Tarantio sadly.

The old man nodded. ‘Yes, he was a very enigmatic man. You were friends?’

‘I think that we were – for a while. You should rest now, Browyn. Give those bruises a chance to heal.’

‘Will you be here when I wake?’

‘I will.’

In the darkest hour of the night Tarantio sat on the floor by the fire, his back against the bench seat. It was wonderfully quiet, and so easy to believe that the world he knew, of war and death, was merely the memory of another age. He gazed around the room, lit now only by the flickering flames of the log fire. With Dace asleep there was nothing here that spoke of violence – save for his own swords lying on the carved pine table.

The old man had asked him about the acorn of his legend, but it was not a tale Tarantio relished telling. Nor, save for the first hours of pleasure with the Lady Miriac, did he like recalling the events of the last day.

‘Never give in to hate,’ Sigellus had told him. ‘Hate blurs the mind. Stay cool in combat, no matter what your opponent does. Understand this, boy, if he seeks to make you angry he does not do it for your benefit. Are you listening, Dace?’

‘He is listening,’ Tarantio told him.

‘That’s good.’

Tarantio remembered the bright sunshine in the open courtyard, the light glinting from the steel practice blades. Pulling clear his face-mask, he asked Sigellus, ‘Why is Dace so much stronger and faster than me? We use the same muscles.’

‘I have given much thought to that, Chio. It is a complex matter. Years ago I studied to be a surgeon – before I realized my skills with the blade were better suited to the work I do now. Muscles are made up of thousands of bands of fibre. The energy they expend is used up in a heartbeat. Therefore they work economically – several hundred, perhaps, at a time.’ Sigellus lifted his sword into the air. ‘As I do this,’ he said, ‘the muscles are taking it in turn to expend energy. That is where the economy comes in. Now Dace, perhaps through a greater surge of adrenalin, can make his muscles work harder, more bands operating at a single command. That is why you always feel so weary after Dace fights. Put simply, he expends more energy than you.’

Tarantio smiled as he remembered the grey-garbed swordsman. As the fire slowly died, he recalled their first meeting. After the massacre of his shipmates, Tarantio had made his way along the coast to the Corsair city of Loretheli, hoping to find employment with a merchant ship. There were no berths, and he had worked for a month as a labourer on a farm just outside Loretheli, earning the few coins he now had in his purse. With the harvest over he was back at the docks moving from ship to ship, seeking a crewman’s wage. But the war fleets of the Duchies were now at sea and the port of Loretheli was effectively sealed. No-one was hiring sailors. He was heading towards the last ship berthed at the dock when he saw Sigellus. The man was obviously drunk. He was swaying as if on a ship’s deck, and he was using the sabre in his hand as a support, the point against the cobbled stones. Facing him were two corsairs, gaudily dressed in leggings and shirts of bright yellow silk. Both held curved cutlasses. Sigellus was a tall man and slender, clean-shaven and thin-faced. His head was shaved above both ears in sweeping crescents, yet worn long from the crown like the plume of an officer’s helm. He was wearing a doublet of grey silk embroidered with silver thread, and leggings of a darker grey that matched his calf-length boots. Tarantio paused and watched the scene. The corsairs were about to attack, and surely the drunken man would be cut down. Yet there was something about the man that caught Tarantio’s attention. The swaying stopped and he stood, statue-still.

‘This is not wise,’ he told the corsairs, his voice slurred.

The first of his attackers leapt forward, the cutlass slashing from right to left, aiming for the swordsman’s neck. As Sigellus dropped to one knee, the corsair’s blade sliced air above him and his own sabre licked out to nick the man’s bicep. A flash of crimson bloomed on the yellow silk shirt. Off balance, the corsair stumbled and fell. Sigellus rose smoothly as the second man lunged. He parried the thrust, spun on his heel and hammered his elbow against the man’s ear. The corsair tumbled to the cobbled stone.

Both men rose and advanced again. ‘You have already shown a lack of wisdom, lads,’ said Sigellus, his voice now cold and steady. ‘There is no need for you to die.’

‘We don’t intend to die, you old whoreson,’ said the first man, blood dripping from the wound in his upper arm.

As Tarantio watched he saw a movement behind the swordsman. Another corsair stepped silently from the shadows, a curved dagger in his hand.

‘Behind you!’ yelled Tarantio and Sigellus spun instantly, the sabre hissing out, the blade slicing through the corsair’s throat, half decapitating him. Blood sprayed out as the man fell. The other two attackers rushed in. Tarantio watched them both die. The speed of the swordsman’s movements was dazzling. Wiping his blade on the shirt of one of the corpses, Sigellus stepped across to where Tarantio stood open-mouthed.

‘My thanks to you, friend,’ he said, returning the sabre to its scabbard. ‘Come, I will repay your kindness with a meal and a jug of wine. You look as if you could use one.’

A jug of wine was always close to Sigellus, recalled Tarantio with a touch of sadness. It was wine which killed him, for he had been the worse for drink when he had fought the Marches Champion, Carlyn. He had been humilated, and cut several times, before the death stroke was administered. Dace had instantly challenged Carlyn, and they had fought in the High Hall of Corduin palace the following night. As Carlyn fell dead not one cheer was raised, for Dace had cruelly and mercilessly toyed with the swordsman, cutting off both his ears and slicing open his nose during the duel …

A log fell from the hearth and rolled on to the rug at his feet, jerking Tarantio from his memories. Using a set of iron tongs, he lifted it back to the fire and then stretched out on the floor. ‘When you draw your sword, Chio,’ Sigellus had warned him, ‘always fight to kill. There is no other way. A wounded man can still deal a death stroke.’

‘You didn’t fight to kill against those corsairs. Not at first.’

‘Ah, that’s true. But then I’m special. I am – and I say this humbly, dear boy – the best there ever was. And, drunk or sober, the best there ever will be.’

He was wrong. For now there was Dace.

The dream was the same. A child was crying and Tarantio was trying to find him. Deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, Tarantio searched. He knew the tunnels well. He had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in the face. Through this came the thin, piping cries of terror
.

‘
The demons are coming! The demons are coming!’ he heard the child cry
.

‘
I am with you,’ he answered. ‘Stay where you are!
’

Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, and yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light strong enough to throw shadows. As always in his dream he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. Ragged men moved into sight, grey-skinned, opal-eyed. At first he thought they were blind, but they came towards him steadily. In their hands were the tools of mining – sharp pickaxes and heavy hammers
.

‘
Where is the boy?’ he demanded
.

‘
Dead. As you are,’ came a new voice in his mind. It was not Dace. In that moment Tarantio realized he was truly alone. Dace had vanished
.

‘
I am not dead
.’

‘
You are dead, Tarantio,’ argued the voice. ‘Where is your passion? Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life without these things? It is nothing
.’

‘
I have dreams!’ shouted Tarantio
.

‘
Name one!
’

His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. ‘Where is the boy?’ he screamed
.

‘
The boy weeps,’ said the voice
.

Tarantio awoke with a start, his heart beating fast. ‘I do have dreams,’ he said, aloud.

‘Indeed you do,’ said Browyn, ‘and that one must have been powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.’ The old man was sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost dead. Adding thin pieces of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over the blaze. ‘You are very pale,’ he said, leaning forward and squinting into Tarantio’s face. ‘I think it was more of a nightmare.’

‘It was,’ agreed Tarantio. ‘I have it often.’ Rubbing his eyes, he moved to the window. The sun was high over the mountains. ‘I do not usually sleep this late. It must be the mountain air.’

‘Aye,’ said Browyn. ‘Would you like some rose-hip tea? It is made to my own recipe.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?’

Tarantio shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A long time ago I worked as a miner. I hated it. They lowered us into the centre of the earth – or so it seemed. The days were black with coal dust, and twice there were roof falls that crushed men to pulp.’

‘And you dream of digging coal?’

‘No. But I am back in the mine. I can hear a child calling. He needs help but I cannot find him.’

‘It must mean something,’ said Browyn, moving to the hearth. Wrapping a cloth around his hand he lifted the kettle from its bracket and returned to the table, filling two large cups with boiling water. To each he added a small muslin bag. A sweet aroma filled the room. ‘Dreams always have meaning,’ continued the old man.

‘I think it is telling me to avoid working in mines,’ said Tarantio as, rising, he moved to the table. Browyn stirred the contents of the cups, then hooked out the bags. Tarantio tasted the brew. ‘It is good,’ he said. ‘There is a hint of apple here.’

‘How will the war end?’ asked Browyn suddenly.

Tarantio shrugged. ‘When men are tired of fighting.’

‘You know why it began?’ Browyn asked.

‘Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.’

Browyn laughed. ‘Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With their terrible magic and their arcane weapons. Bloody nonsense! Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people. They had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever caused a war? Look to history. They were a scholarly people who kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?’

‘What other games are there, Browyn? A man must eat.’

‘And you can see no end to the madness?’

‘I don’t think about it. It is hard enough trying to stay alive.’

Browyn’s face showed his disappointment. Refilling the cups and adding two more muslin bags, he remained silent for a while. ‘I was there, you know, seven years ago when the Holy Army marched to the Eldarin borders. We had three sorcerers who claimed they knew a spell to breach the magical barrier. We were full of righteous anger against the Eldarin, and we believed all the lies about their preparations for war. We were also in a rage because of the village that had been massacred: women and children torn to pieces by Eldarin talons. Three years later I spoke to a scout who had been the first on the scene. He said there were no talon marks. The villagers had been killed by swords and arrows, and they had been robbed of all copper and silver coin. But we did not know that then. Our leaders fed us with stories of Eldarin brutality.