Dark Moon

Chapter One

Tarantio was a warrior. Before that he had been a sailor, a miner, a breaker of horses, and an apprentice cleric to an elderly writer. Before that a child: quiet and solitary, living with a widowed father who drank in the mornings and wept in the afternoons.

His mother was an acrobat in a travelling group of gypsies, who entertained at banquets and public gatherings. It was from her he inherited his nimbleness of foot, his speed of hand and his dark, swarthy good looks. She had died of the plague when Tarantio was six years old. He could hardly remember her now, save for one memory of a laughing girl-woman who threw him high in the air. From his father he had - he believed - inherited nothing. Save, perhaps, for the demon within that was Dace.

Now Tarantio was a young man and had lived with Dace for most of his life.

A cold wind whispered into the cave. Tarantio's dark, curly hair had been shaved close to the scalp to prevent lice, and the draught chilled his neck. He lifted the collar of his heavy grey coat and, drawing one of his short swords, he laid it close to hand. Outside the rain was heavy, and he could hear water cascading down the cliff walls. The pursuers would surely have taken shelter somewhere.

'They may be just outside,' whispered the voice of Dace in his mind. 'Creeping up on us. Ready to cut our throats.'

'You'd like that, Dace. More men to kill.'

'Each to his own,' said Dace amiably. Tarantio was too tired to argue further, but Dace's intrusion made him sombre. Seven years ago war had descended upon the Duchies like a sentient hurricane, sucking men into his angry heart. And in the whirling maelstrom of his fury he fed them hatred and filled them with a love of destruction. The War Demon had many faces, none of them kind. Eyes of death, cloak of plague, mouth of famine and hands of dark despair.

War and Dace were made for each other. Within the beast's hungry heart Dace was in ecstasy. Men admired him for his lethal skills, for his deadly talents. They sought him out as if he were a talisman.

Dace was a killer of men. There was a time when Tarantio had known how many had died under his blades.

Before that, there was a time when he had remembered every face. Now only two remained firmly in his mind: the first, his eyes bulging, his jaw hanging slack, blood seeping over the satin sheets. And the second, a slim bearded thief and killer whose swords Tarantio now wore.

Tarantio added two logs to the fire, watching the flame shadows dancing on the walls of the cave. His two companions were stretched out on the floor, one sleeping, the other dying. 'Why do you still think of the slaughter on the beach?' asked Dace. Tarantio shivered as the memories flared again.

Seven years ago the old ship had been beached against a storm, the mast dismantled, the sail wrapped and laid against the cliff wall. The crew were sitting around fires talking and laughing, playing dice. Against all odds they had survived the storm. They were alive, and their relieved laughter echoed around the cliffs, the sound drifting into the shadow-haunted woods beyond.

The killers had attacked silently from those woods -appearing like demons, the firelight gleaming from raised swords and axes. The unarmed sailors had no chance and were hacked down without mercy, their blood staining the sand.

Tarantio, as always, had been sitting away from the others, lying on his back in the rocks, staring up at the distant stars. At the first screams he had rolled to his knees, and watched the slaughter in the moonlight. Unarmed and unskilled, the young sailor had been powerless to help his comrades.

Crouching down he hid, trembling, on the cold stones, the incoming tide lapping at his legs. He could hear the thieves plundering the ship, tearing open the hatches and unloading the booty. Spices and liquor from the islands, silks from the southern continent, and a shipment of silver ingots bound for the mint at Loretheli.

Towards dawn one of the attackers had walked into the rocks to relieve himself. Terror filled Tarantio with panic and Dace rose within him, flaring like a light within the skull. Dace reared up before the astonished reaver, crashing a fist-sized rock against the man's head. The thief pitched forward without a sound. Dragging him out of sight of his comrades, Dace drew a knife from the man's belt and stabbed him to death.

The dead man wore two short swords, their black hilts tightly bound with leather. Dace had unbuckled the sword-belt and swung it around his own waist. Relieving the man of his bulging purse, Dace had stolen away through the rocks, leaving the scene of the massacre far behind.

Once clear, the panic gone, Tarantio dragged Dace back and resumed control. Dace had not objected; without

the prospect of violence, and the need to kill, he was easily bored.

Alone and friendless, Tarantio had walked the thirty miles west to the Corsair city of Loretheli, looking for a berth on a new ship. Instead he had met Sigellus the Swordsman. Tarantio thought of him often, and of the perils they had faced together. But the thoughts were always tinged with sadness and the velvet claw of regret at his death. Sigellus had understood about Dace. During one of their training sessions Dace had broken loose, and had tried to kill Sigellus. The Swordsman had been too skilled for him then, but Dace managed to cut him before Sigellus blocked a thrust and hammered his iron fist into Dace's chin, spinning him from his feet.

'What the Hell is wrong with you, boy?' he had asked, when Tarantio regained consciousness. For the second time in his young life, he talked about Dace. Sigellus had listened, his grey eyes expressionless, blood dripping from a shallow cut to his right cheek just below the eye. When at last he had told it all, including the murders, Sigellus sat back and let out a deep sigh. 'All men carry demons, Chio,' he said. 'At least you have made an effort to control yours. May I speak with Dace?'

'You don't think I am insane?'

'I do not know what you are, my boy. But let me speak with Dace.'

'He can hear you, sir,' said Tarantio. 'I do not wish to let him free.'

'Very well. Hear me, Dace, you fight with great passion, and you are uncannily fast. But it will take you time to learn to be half as good as I am. So understand this. If you try to kill me again, I will spear your belly and gut you like a fish.' He looked into Chio's dark blue eyes. 'Did he understand that?'

'Yes, sir. He understood.'

'That is good.' Sigellus had smiled then, and, with a silk handkerchief he had mopped the trickle of blood from his face. 'Now I think that is enough practice for today. I can hear a jug of wine calling my name.'

' I hate him,' said Dace. 'One day I will kill him.'

'That is a lie,' Tarantio told him. 'You don't hate him at all.'

For a time Dace was silent. When at last his voice whispered into Tarantio's mind it was softer than at any time before. 'He is the first person, apart from you, to ever speak to me. To speak to Dace.'

In that instant Tarantio felt a surge of jealousy. 'He threatened to kill you,' he pointed out.

'He said I was good. Uncannily fast.'

'He is my friend.'

'You want me to kill him?'

'No!'

'Then you must let him be my friend too.'

Tarantio shivered and pushed the painful memories from his mind.

The War of the Pearl had begun, and the Four Duchies were recruiting fighting men. Few had even seen the artefact they were willing to kill - or die - for. Fewer still understood the importance of the Pearl. Rumours were rife: it was a weapon of enormous power; it was a healing stone which could grant immortality; it was a prophetic jewel which could read the future. No-one really knew.

After his time with Sigellus, he and Dace had wandered through the warring Duchies, taking employment with various mercenary units and twice holding commissions in regular forces, taking part in sieges, cavalry attacks, minor skirmishes and several pitched battles. Mostly they had the good fortune to be with the victorious side, but four times they had - as now - been among the refugees of a ruined army.

The camp-fire burned low in the shallow cave and Tarantio sat before it, the heat barely reaching his cold hands. By the far wall lay Kiriel, his life fading. Belly wounds were always the worst, and this one was particularly bad, having severed the intestines. The boy moaned and cried out. Tarantio moved to him, laying his fingers over the boy's mouth. 'Be strong, Kiriel. Be silent. The enemy are close.' Kiriel's fever-bright eyes opened. They were cornflower blue, the eyes of a child, frightened and longing for reassurance.

'I am hurting, Tarantio,' he whispered. 'Am I dying?'

'Dying? From a little scratch like that? You just rest. By dawn you'll feel like wrestling a bear.'

'Truly?'

'Truly,' lied Tarantio, knowing that by dawn the boy would be dead. Kiriel closed his eyes. Tarantio stroked his blond hair until he slept, then returned to the fire. A huge figure stirred by the far wall, then rose and sat opposite the warrior.

'To lie is a kindness sometimes,' said the big man softly, firelight reflecting in his twin-forked red beard, his green eyes shining like cold jewels. 'I think the thrust must have burst his spleen. The wound stinks.'

Tarantio nodded, then added the last of the fuel to the fire as the other man chuckled. 'Thought we were finished back there - until you attacked them. I have to be honest, Tarantio, I had heard of your skills but never believed the stories. Shem's tits, but I do now! Never seen the like. I'm just glad I was close enough to make the break with you. You think any of the others survived?'

Tarantio considered the question. 'Maybe one or two.

Like us. But it is unlikely. That was a killing party; they weren't seeking prisoners.'

'You think they're still following us?'

Tarantio shrugged. 'They are or they aren't. We'll know tomorrow.'

'Which way should we head?'

'Any way you choose, Forin. But we'll not be travelling together. I'm heading over the mountains. Alone.'

'Something about my company you don't like?' asked the big man, anger flaring.

Tarantio looked up into the man's glittering eyes. Forin was a killer - a man on the edge. During the summer he had killed two mercenaries with his bare hands after a fight over an unpaid wager. To anger him would not be wise. Tarantio was seeking some conciliatory comment when he felt Dace flare up inside him. Normally he would have fought back, held the demon in check by force of will.

But he was bone-weary, and Dace flashed through his defences. Dace grinned at Forin. 'What is there to like? You're a brute. You have no conscience. You'd cut your mother's throat for a silver penny.'

Forin tensed, his hand closing around his sword-hilt. Dace laughed at him. 'But bear in mind, you ugly son of a bitch, that I could cut you in half without breaking sweat. I could swallow you whole if someone buttered your head and pinned your ears back.'

For a heartbeat the giant sat stock-still, then his laughter boomed out. 'By Heaven, you think a lot of yourself, little man! I think I would prove a mouthful even for the legendary Tarantio. However, such talk is foolishness. We are being hunted and it makes no sense to fight amongst ourselves. Now tell me why we should not move on together.'

Within the halls of his own subconscious, Tarantio felt

Dace's disappointment. In that moment Tarantio surged back into control; he blinked, and took a deep breath. 'They will have seen our tracks,' he told Forin, 'and know that one of us is wounded. They are unlikely therefore to follow us in strength. I would think eight to ten men may be on our trail. When we part company, and they find the tracks, they will be forced to either split their numbers or choose just one of us to follow. Either way the odds will be better for all of us.'

'All of us? The boy will be dead by morning.'

'I meant both you and I,' said Tarantio swiftly.

Forin nodded. 'Why did you not give that reason in the first place? Why the insults?'

Tarantio shrugged. 'Gypsy blood. Don't be too offended, Forin. I don't like anybody much.'

Forin relaxed. 'I'm not offended. There was a time when I would have paid considerably more than a silver penny for the privilege of cutting my mother's throat. I was a child then. All I knew was that she had broken my father's heart. And she'd abandoned me. So you were not too far wrong.' He gave an embarrassed grin, and idly tugged at the braids of his beard. 'He was a good man, my father. A great story-teller. All the village children would gather at our home to listen to him. He knew history too. All the stories of the ancient kingdoms, the Eldarin, the Daroth and the old Empire. He used to mix them with myth. Wonderful nights! We would sit with our eyes wide open in terror, our jaws hanging. He had a great voice, deep and sepulchral.'

'I frightened him,' said Dace. 'Now he wants to be our friend.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Tarantio. 'But then you frighten everyone - including me.'

'What happened to your father?' asked Tarantio aloud.

'He caught the lung sickness and faded away.' Forin

lapsed into silence and began to brush the mud from his brown leather leggings. Tarantio saw that the big man was struggling with his emotions. Forin cleared his throat, then drew his hunting-knife. From a deep pocket he produced a whetstone and began to sharpen the blade with long, smooth strokes. At last satisfied with the edge, he took a small, oval, silver-edged mirror from the same pocket and began to shave the stubble above the line of his red beard. When he had finished he sheathed the blade and returned the mirror to his pocket. He glanced at the silent Tarantio. 'My father was a good man. He deserved better. He weighed no more than a child when he died.'

'A bad way to go,' agreed Tarantio.

'No-one's yet told me of a good way,' Forin pointed out. 'You know, I saw an Eldarin once. He came to see my father. I was about seven years old then. Frightened the life out of me. But he sat quietly by the hearth and I peeked at him from behind my father's chair. It wasn't the fur on his face and arms that was so disturbing; it was the eyes. They were so large. But he spoke softly and my father insisted I step forward and shake hands. He was right. Once I was close, I lost my fear.'

Tarantio nodded. 'I was apprenticed to an old man who wrote histories. He described the Eldarin. Said they had faces that resembled wolves.'

'That's not exactly right,' said Forin. 'Wolves gives the wrong impression. It suggests savagery, and there was nothing savage about this one. But then I'm seeing him through the eyes of a trusting seven-year-old.

He let me touch the white fur on his face and brow. It was soft, like rabbit pelt. I fell asleep by the fire as he and my father talked. In the morning he was gone.'

'What did they talk about?'

'I don't remember much of it. Poetry. Stories. The

Daroth massacres fascinated my father, but the Eldarin would not speak of them.' Forin's green eyes caught Tarantio's steady gaze. 'If you don't like people, why did you carry the boy here? You hardly knew him. He only joined us a few days ago.'

'Who knows? Let's get some sleep.' Using his heavy woollen coat as a blanket, Tarantio lay down by the dying fire.

The dream was sharp and clear. Once again he and the other mercenaries were surrounded, the enemy rushing in out of the darkness with sharp swords in their hands. Caught in a trap, scores died within the opening moments of the charge. Tarantio had frozen momentarily, but Dace had not. Drawing both his swords, Dace scanned the advancing line, and then charged. He did not know that Forin and Kiriel had followed him. Nor did he care. His deadly swords slashing left and right, he cut a path through the attackers, then sprinted for the darkness of the trees. Forin and Kiriel got through, though the boy took a terrible stab to the stomach. There was little moonlight, but Dace's night vision was good and, eyes narrowed, he led them deep into the heart of the forest. Kiriel collapsed against a tree, blood soaking his shirt and leggings. Safe now, Tarantio resumed control of his body and had half-carried the boy on. Then, when Kiriel finally collapsed, Forin had lifted him into his arms and brought him to the cave.

In the dream Tarantio became the boy, fear of death filling him with terror. And the faces of the men Dace had killed to break free became old friends and comrades of past skirmishes.

An old man's face floated before him. 'The truth burns, Chio,' it said. 'The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.'

Tarantio awoke in the faint light of the pre-dawn. As always he came fully awake immediately, senses alert and mind sharp. It was the only period of the day when Dace was absent, and Tarantio felt at one with himself and the world. He took a slow deep breath, revelling in the emotional privacy.

The sound of cloth scraping on stone came from his left and Tarantio sat up. The huge form of the redbearded warrior Forin was kneeling over the body of Kiriel, furtively searching through the dead boy's pockets.

'He has no coin,' said Tarantio softly.

Forin sat back. 'None of us have coin,' he grunted. 'Three months' back pay, and you think we'll get it now -

even if we make it back to the border?'

Tarantio rolled to his feet and stepped outside the cave. The sun was clearing the eastern mountains, bathing the forest with golden light. The harsh cold stone of the cliff, corpse-grey in the twilight of the night before, now shone like coral. Tarantio emptied his bladder, then returned to the cave.

'It was that damned woman . . . Karis,' said Forin. 'I'll bet she's a witch.'

'She needs no sorcery,' said Tarantio, swinging his sword-belt around his waist.

'You know her?'

'Rode with her for two campaigns. Cold she is, and hard, and she can out-think and out-plan any general I ever served.'

'Why did you quit her service?' asked the giant.

'I didn't. I was with her when she fought for the Duke of Corduin. At the end of the season she resigned and joined the army of Romark. He was said to have offered her six thousand in gold. I don't doubt it is an exaggeration -but not by much, I'd wager.'

'Six thousand!' whispered Forin, awed by the sum.

Tarantio moved to Kiriel's body. The boy looked peaceful, his face relaxed. He could have been sleeping, save for the statue stillness of his features. 'He was a good lad,' said Tarantio, 'but too young and too slow.'

'It was his first campaign,' said Forin. 'He ran away from the farm to enlist. Thought it would be safer to be surrounded by soldiers.' The big man looked up at Tarantio. 'He was just a farm boy. Not a killer, like you - or me.'

'And now he's a dead farm boy,' said Tarantio. Forin nodded, then rose and faced the swordsman.

'What drives you, man?' he asked suddenly. 'Last night I saw the light of madness in your eyes. You wanted to kill me. Why?'

'It is what we do,' whispered Tarantio. He walked to the mouth of the cave and scanned the tree-line.

There was no sign of the pursuers. Swinging back, he met Forin's gaze. 'Good luck to you,' he said.

Dipping into his pouch, he produced a small golden coin which he tossed to the surprised warrior.

'What is this for?' asked Forin.

'I was wrong about you, big man. You're a man to match the mountains.'

Forin looked embarrassed. 'How do you know?'

Tarantio smiled. 'Instinct. Try to stay alive.' With that he headed off towards the west.

If he could avoid his pursuers for another full day, they would give up and return to the main force.

Two days was generally all that could be allowed for hunting down stragglers. The main purpose of such hunting-parties was not merely for the sport, but to prevent small groups of mercenaries re-forming behind the advancing line. Once the following group realized their quarry had separated, they would likely turn back, Tarantio reasoned.

As he walked on through stands of birch and alder and oak, Tarantio's mood lightened. He had always liked trees. They were restful on the eye, from the slender silver birch to the great oaks, gnarled giants impervious to the passing of man's years. As a child - in the days before Dace - he had often climbed high trees and sat, perched like an eagle, way above the ground. Tarantio shivered. It was growing cold here in the high country, and Fall flowers were in bloom upon the hillsides. It would be good to rest in Corduin.

The war had not touched it yet, save for shortages of food and supplies. Tarantio had ventured some of his wages there with the merchant, Lunder. With luck his investments would pay for a winter of leisure.

The ground below his feet was muddy from recent heavy rain, and his left boot leaked badly, soaking through the thick woollen sock which squelched as he walked. For an hour he moved on, leaving a trail a blind man could follow, heading always west. Then, as he passed beneath a spreading oak he leapt up and drew himself into the branches. Traversing the tree, he jumped down on to a wide rocky ledge. Mud from his boots stained the stone, and he wiped it clear with the hem of his heavy grey coat before moving on more carefully over firmer ground. Leaving no tracks, he headed north-west.

For another hour he travelled, moving with care, always keeping a wary eye on his back-trail, and rarely emerging on to open ground without first scanning the tree-line. Now, high above the point at which he had switched direction, he climbed into the branches of a tall beech and settled down to watch the trail. From a pouch on his sword-belt he drew the last of his dried meat, tore off a chunk and began to chew.

Before he had finished his meagre meal the pursuers came into sight. There were eight of them, armed with bows and spears. At this distance they looked insect-sized as they inched their way down the hillside, pausing below the oak. For a while they stood still, and Tarantio could imagine the argument among them. From the point where they now gathered, the distance to any one of four different towns or cities was around the same. To the west, beyond the mountains, was the lake city of Hlobane.

North-east lay Morgallis, capital of the Duke of Romark. To the south was Loretheli, a neutral port, governed by the Corsairs. And to the north-west — Tarantio's destination - the oldest and finest city in the Duchies, Corduin.

For a little while the men searched the area for sign of Tarantio's trail. Finding nothing, they held a hurried meeting, then turned back the way they had come.

Tarantio leaned back against the bole of the beech and allowed himself to relax. He had left his helm back at the cave, along with the crimson sash that signalled his service with the new Duke of The Marches. Now there was nothing that linked him to any of the four combatants. Once again he was a free man, ready to offer Dace's services to the highest bidder. Dropping down from the tree, he continued on his way throughout the afternoon, crossing valleys and heading for a distant lake that sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. It was long and narrow, widening at the centre and flaring at the tip, like the tail of a great fish. There was a small island at the centre, on which a stand of pine reared against the backdrop of the mountains. The sun was warmer now and Tarantio shrugged off his heavy jacket, laying it on a flat rock.

'When will we eat?' asked Dace. Tarantio had been aware of his presence from the moment he sighted the pursuers.

'Perhaps you would like to catch the fish this time?' he said, aloud.

'Too boring. And you do it so well!'

Tarantio removed his shirt, leggings and boots and waded slowly out into the cold, clear waters of the lake. Here he stood, staring down at the gravel around his feet.

It was spawning time for the speckled trout and after a while he saw a female with red lateral spots upon her body. She swam in close to the motionless man and began to make sweeping motions with her tail against the loose gravel, scraping out a hole in which to lay her eggs. Several males were swimming close by, identified by the reddish bands upon their flanks. With his hands below the surface Tarantio waited patiently, trying to ignore the fish with his conscious mind. The cold water was seeping into his bones, and he felt a rise of irritation that the males kept circling away from him.

Be calm, he told himself. The good hunter is never anxious or hasty.

A good-sized male, weighing around three pounds, swam by him, brushing his leg. Tarantio did not move. The fish glided over his hands. With an explosive surge Tarantio reared upright, his right hand catching the trout and flicking it out to the bank, where it flapped upon the soft earth. The other fish disappeared instantly. Tarantio waded from the lake, killed the fish, then gutted it expertly.

'Neatly done,' said Dace.

Preparing a small fire in the rocks Tarantio sat down, naked, and cooked his dinner. The flavour of the trout

was bland; some would call it delicate. Tarantio wished he had kept just a pinch of his salt.

As the sun sank into the west, the temperature fell. Tarantio dressed and settled down by the fire.

He should have quit last season when Karis joined Romark. The Duke of The Marches was a poor general, and a miser to boot. With Karis leading the opposition cavalry, the prospects had been none too good for the mercenary units patrolling the border. He wondered about the 6,000 gold pieces. What would she do with such a sum? He grinned in the fading light. Karis was no farmer. Nor did she seem to enjoy what men termed the good life. Her clothes were always ill-fitting; only her armour showed the glint of great expense.

Oh, and her horses, he remembered. Three geldings, each over sixteen hands. Fine animals, strong, proud and fearless in battle. Not one of them cost less than 600 silver pieces. But as for Karis herself, she wore no jewellery, sported no brooches or bracelets, nor did she yearn to own property. What will you do with all that gold, he wondered?

'You just don't understand her,' said Dace.

'And you do?'

'Of course.'

'Then explain it to me.'

'She is driven by something in her past - that's what Gatien would have said. A traumatic event, or a tragedy. Because of this she is not comfortable being a woman, and seeks to hide her femininity in a man's armour.'

'I don't believe Gatien would have made it sound so simple.'

'Yes,' agreed Dace, 'he was an old windbag.'

'And a fine foster-father. No-one else offered to take us in.'

'He got a cleric he didn't have to pay for, and someone to listen to his interminable stories.'

'I don't know why you pretend you did not like him. He was good to us.'

'He was good to you. He would not acknowledge my existence, save as an imaginary playmate you had somehow conjured.'

'Maybe that is all you are, Dace. Have you ever thought of that?'

' You would be surprised by what I think of,' Dace told him.

Adding fuel to the fire, Tarantio leaned back, using his coat for a pillow. The stars were out now, and he gazed at the constellation of the Fire Dancer twinkling high above the crescent moon.

'It is all mathematically perfect, Chio,' Gatien had told him. 'The stars move in their preordained paths, rising and falling to a cosmic heartbeat.' Tarantio had listened, awe-struck, to the wisdom of the white-bearded old man.

'My father told me they were the candles of the gods,' he said.

Gatien ruffled his hair. 'You still miss him, I expect.'

'No, he was weak and stupid,' said Tarantio. 'He hanged himself.'

'He was a good man, Chio. Life dealt with him unkindly.'

'He quit. Gave up!' stormed the boy. 'He did not love me at all. And we do not care that he is gone.'

'Yes, we do,' said Gatien, misunderstanding. 'But we will not argue about that. Life can be harsh, and many souls are ill-equipped to face it. Your father fell to three curses. Love, which can be the greatest gift the Heavens can offer, or worse than black poison. Drink, which, like a travelling apothecary, offers much and supplies nothing. And a little wealth, without which he would not have been able to afford the dubious delights of the bottle.' Gatien sighed. 'I liked him, Chio. He was a gentle man, with a love of poetry and a fine singing voice. However, that is enough maudlin talk. We have work to do.'

'Why do you write your books, Master Gatien? No-one buys them.'

Gatien gave an eloquent shrug. 'They are my monument to the future. And they are dangerous, Chio, more powerful than spells. Do not tell people - any people - what you have read in my home.'

'What can be more dangerous than spells, Master Gatien?'

'The truth. Men will blind themselves with hot irons, rather than face it.'

Tarantio looked down into the flickering flames of the camp-fire now, and remembered the great, roaring blaze which had engulfed the house of Master Gatien. He saw again the soldiers of the Duke of The Marches, holding their torches high, and with immense sadness he recalled the old man running back into the burning building, desperate to save his life's work. His last sight of Master Gatien was of a screeching human torch, his beard and clothes aflame, staggering past the windows of the upper corridor.

Up until then Dace had merely been a disembodied voice in his mind. He had first heard him when he looked up at his father's body, hanging by the neck from the balcony rail, his features bloated and purple, his trews stained with urine.

'We don't care,' said the voice. 'He was weak, and he didn't love us.'

But when Gatien burned, Dace found a pathway to the world of flesh. 'We will avenge him,' he said.

'We can't!' objected Tarantio. 'He lives in a castle surrounded by guards. We ... I . . . am only fifteen.

I'm not a soldier, not a killer.'

'Then let me do it,' said Dace. 'Or are you a coward?'

Two nights later Dace had crept to the walls of the Duke's castle and scaled them, slipping past the sleeping sentries. Then he had made his way down the long circular stairwell to the main corridor of the castle keep. There were no guards. The Duke's bedroom was lit by a single lantern, the Duke himself asleep in his wide four-poster bed. Dace gently pulled back the satin sheet, exposing the Duke's fat chest. Without a moment of hesitation he rammed the small knife deep into the man's heart.

The Duke surged upright, his mouth hanging open; then he sagged back.

'Gatien was our friend,' said Dace. 'Rot in hell, you miserable bastard!'

The old Duke had died without another sound, but his bowels had opened and the stench filled the room. Dace had sat quietly, staring down at the corpse. He had drawn Tarantio forward to share the scene. Tarantio remembered his father's face, bloated and swollen, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the rope tight around his neck. Death was always ugly, but this time it had a sweetness Tarantio could taste.

'Never again,' whispered Tarantio. 'I'll never kill again.'

' You won't have to,' Dace told him. 'I'll do it for you. I enjoyed it.'

With a surge of willpower Tarantio dragged control from Dace. Then he fled the castle, confused and uncertain. He had been raised on stories of heroes, of knights and chivalry. No hero would have felt as he did now. The soaring, ecstatic burst of joy Dace had experienced filled the fifteen-year-old with disgust. And yet he had also tasted that joy.

Now by the lake, with such sombre thoughts in his mind, Tarantio found sleep difficult, and when at last he did succumb, he dreamt again of the old man. 'The truth burns, Chio,' he said. The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.'

It rained in the night, putting out his fire, and he awoke cold and shivering. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright, slipped, and fell face first into the mud. The sound of Dace's laughter drifted into his mind.

'Ah, life at one with nature,' mocked Dace. Tarantio swore. 'Now, now,' said Dace. 'Always try to keep a sense of humour,'

'You like humour?' said Tarantio. 'Laugh at this, then!' Closing his eyes, he opened the inner pathways and fell back into himself. Dace tried to stop him, but the move was so sudden and unexpected that before he could summon any defences Dace found himself hurtled forward into control of the wet shivering body.

'You whoreson!' spluttered Dace, water pouring down his face.

'You try being at one with nature,' said Tarantio happily, safe and warm within the borders of the mind.

Dace tried the same manoeuvre, struggling to drag Tarantio from his sanctuary, but it did not work. Furious now, Dace looked around, then took shelter within the bole of a spreading oak. The huge tree had at one time been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk, but amazingly it had survived. Dace climbed inside. There was not much room for a full-grown man, but he removed his sword-belt and wedged his back against the dry bark and watched the downpour outside.

'You've made your point, Chio,' said Dace. 'Now let me back. I'm cold and I'm bored.'

'I like it here:

Out on the lake the rain sheeted down, and a distant rumble of thunder drummed out. Dace swore. If lightning were to strike the tree again, he would be fried alive.

He swore again. Then grinned. All life is chance, he decided. And at least, for the moment, he was out of the rain and wind.

'All right, you can come back,' said Tarantio, failing to keep the fear from showing.

'No, no. I'm just getting used to it,' responded Dace.

Lightning flashed nearby, illuminating the lake and the island at its centre. Dace bared his teeth in a wolf's-head grin. 'Come!' he yelled. 'Strike me if you dare!'

'Do you want us to die?' asked Tarantio.

' I don't much care,' replied Dace. 'Perhaps that is what makes me the best.'

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come, and the moon shone bright in a clear sky. 'Come then, brother,' said Dace. 'Come out into the world of mud and mediocrity. I have had my fun.'

Tarantio took control and eased himself from the tree, then turned back to gather dry bark and dead wood from the hole. With this he started a new fire.

'We could have been in a palace,' Dace reminded him. 'In that large soft bed with satin sheets, within the room of silvered mirrors.'

'You would have killed her, Dace. Don't deny it. I could feel the desire in you.'

The Duke of Corduin had sent a famous courtesan to him: the Lady Miriac. Miriac of the golden hair.

Her skills had been intoxicating. Even without the mirrors the night would have been the most memorable of his young life, but with them Tarantio had seen himself make love, and be made love to, from every angle, giving him memories he would carry for as long as the breath of life clung to him. He sighed.

But at the height of his passion he had felt Dace's anger and jealousy. The raw power of the emotions had frightened him.

And Tarantio had fled the arms of Miriac, and turned his back on the promise of riches.

' I would have been a great Champion,' said Dace. 'We could have been rich.'

'Why did you want to kill her?'

'She was bad for us. You were falling in love with her, and she with you. The courtesan could not resist the young virgin boy with the deadly sword. She stroked your face when you wept. How touching! How sickening! Is that why we are going to Corduin? To see the bitch?'

Tarantio sighed. 'You don't really exist, Dace. I am insane. One day someone will recognize it. Then I'll be locked away, or hanged.'

'I exist,' said Dace. 'I am here. I will always be here. Sigellus knew that. He spoke to me often. He liked me.'

With the dawn came fresh pangs of hunger. Tarantio spent an hour trying to catch another trout, but luck was not with him. He scooped a two-pound female, but she wriggled in his grasp, turned a graceful somersault in the air and returned to the depths. Drying himself, he dressed and strode off towards the higher country.

The air was thinner here, the wind cold against his face. Autumn was closing fast, and within a few short weeks the snow would come. Slowly and carefully Tarantio climbed a steep slope, moving warily among huge boulders which littered the mountainside. He wondered idly how the boulders had come to be here, since they were not of the same stone as the surrounding cliffs. Many of them had deep grooves along the base, as if haphazardly chiselled by a stonemason.

'Volcanic eruptions,' said Dace, 'way back in the past. Gatien used to talk of them, but then you had little interest in geology.'

'I remember that you liked stories of earthquakes and volcanoes. Death and destruction have always fascinated you, Dace.'

'Death is the only absolute, the only certainty.'

Finally, with the sun beginning its long, slow fall to the west, Tarantio reached level ground and stopped to rest. Several rabbits emerged from a grassy knoll and he killed one with a throwing knife. Finding a flat rock he skinned the beast, then removed the entrails, separating the heart and kidneys. There was a small stream nearby, and close to it he found a bed of nettles, and beyond it some chives. Further searching brought him the added treasure of wild onions. Returning to his camp-site, he prepared a fire. Once it had caught well, he drew his knife and cut two large square sections of bark from a silver birch. Using a forked stick he held one section of bark over the fire, warming it, making it easier to fold. Then he scored the bark and expertly folded it into a small bowl. Repeating the process with the second square, he grew impatient and the bark split. Tarantio swore at himself. Painstakingly he selected and cut another section.

Filling the first bowl with water from the stream, he returned to the fire, built a second blaze and fed it steadily with dry wood. When the coals were ready, he placed the bowl on the fire and added a handful of nettles, chopped chives and several onions. On the first fire he skewered and cooked the rabbit. The meat was greasy and tender, and he ate half of it immediately, tearing the remainder and adding it to his simmering bowl.

At this high altitude the water boiled away swiftly and three times Tarantio was forced to fetch more water from the stream to add to his stew. Bark bowls would not burn - unless the flames of the fire rose above the water line.

Back at the mercenaries' camp he had left several fine copper cooking pots and various utensils gathered over the years. But when Karis's lancers had struck there had been no time to think of possessions.

Tarantio lay back, staring up at the sky. It was difficult now to focus on a time when there had been no wars. Almost a third of his life had been spent marching from one battle site to another, while Dace and others fought to hold a town, or take it - charging an enemy line, or resisting a charge.

Up here in the mountains such petty squabbles seemed far away. But then so did the charms of beautiful women like the Lady Miriac. Dace was right. He had fallen in love with her and he thought of her often, remembering the satin softness of her skin and the sweetness of her breath. It mattered nothing that she was a courtesan, a whore for the nobility. He felt he had seen something beyond that, something deeper and more enduring.

'Such a romantic, you are, brother. At the first glint of gold she would hurl herself on her back and open her legs. Your gold or someone else's. It would mean nothing to her.'

'You said she was falling in love with me,' he reminded Dace.

'In love with the virgin, I said. That's what touched her. After a while she would have tired of you.'

'We'll never know, will we?'

At dusk Tarantio ate the stew. It was bitter and good, but the memory of his last meal with added salt back among the mercenaries eroded the pleasure. Dace had fallen silent, for which Tarantio was grateful. He could still sense his presence, but the lack of conversation was welcome.

The following morning he continued on his way, across narrow valleys full of alder and birch and pine. The weather had cleared and the sun shone now in a clear sky, the snow on the distant peaks glowing like white flame.

As he walked, his mind was far from battles and war, recalling gentle days with Gatien, researching ancient texts, trying to make sense of the tortured history of this fertile continent. If ever these wars end, I will become a scholar, Tarantio decided.

Even as the thought came to him he could hear Dace's mocking laughter.