Dark Moon

Chapter Twelve

In all his young life Sirano had never experienced the focus he now applied to the Five Levels of Aveas.

The bottles trembled with the power he transmitted, the glass warm to the touch. Lifting the last of them he unwittingly saw the horror of his reflection - the scarred bald head, the empty eye-socket, the side of his face melted away as if white candle-wax had been poured over the skin. 'What an evil countenance,' he said, aloud.

Evil. The word jolted him.

Are you evil, Sirano? he asked himself. Are the Daroth evil? It was an interesting thought. There were those who believed evil was an absolute - priests and holy men, mostly. In their view evil hung in the air, touching every man, woman and child, promoting the seeds of hatred, lust and greed, planting them in hearts and minds. Others, as Sirano himself had believed, considered it to be a movable feast. What appeared as evil to one man could be considered good by another. Much depended on the moral codes and laws that governed each society. What moral codes had the Daroth broken? Perhaps none, by their reasoning. Therefore were they evil?

Sirano chuckled. What a time, he thought, to be considering philosophical points. All that he knew for certain was that he himself had broken the codes of his society. He had killed a woman who loved him, had overseen the destruction of his people, and had brought horror and desolation to his lands. A great sadness touched him then, a sense of something lost which could never be recovered. Duvodas had spoken of redemption. For some crimes there could be no redemption . . .

Wearily Sirano rose and searched the store-room, finding a small pile of empty sacks. With his dagger he cut a four-foot length from a coil of thin rope. Making two slices in the neck of a sack, he tied the rope to it.

Filling it with the six bottles, he looped the rope over his shoulder and stood, the bottles clinking against one another.

Tarantio had asked him if he wanted to die. Oh, yes, he thought. I can think of no greater relief than to fall into darkness.

Slowly he made his way out into the corridor, then along it and through a series of rooms until he came to a narrow staircase. He had last been here ten years ago, when he had endowed the monastery with a gift of gold. Then he had wandered the place and marvelled at the labyrinthine design. The large hall where now the Daroth would be feeding was on the lower level, but above and around it was a gallery. Sirano recalled his visit, trying to remember the routes through the monastery. Descending the stairs he cut left, then padded through a long library, checking his bearings by peering out of a window. Now he knew where he was. Down two more flights of stairs, and along another corridor he paused at the last door. Taking a deep breath, he eased it open and slipped through to the gallery. Smoke was swirling around the rafters and he could smell the sweet, sickly scent of roasting flesh. Glancing over the rail, he saw the Daroth below. They had torn up the slabs of the floor and broken them to form a low wall around a carefully fashioned cooking area. Red-hot charcoal burned within it and a body was spitted over it. There were bloody bones scattered around the floor, and most of the Daroth were sitting well back from the fire, eating in silence. Two others were standing by the open door, overlooking the gates.

Sirano dipped his hand into the bag he carried, pulling forth a bottle. Then he strode into view. 'I was asking myself,' he said in a loud voice, 'whether the Daroth could be considered to be evil. Do you see yourselves as evil?'

Heat and pain roared into his mind and he staggered. He thought he had been prepared for the mental onslaught, but it had come so swiftly he had no time to fight it. He did so now, summoning a masking spell which flowed through his mind like a cooling stream. 'Have none of you the wit to offer me an answer?' he called.

'We came for you, Sirano,' said a deep voice. He could not, at first, identify the speaker.

'And you have found me. Now answer the question. Are you evil?'

The two Daroth by the door had moved inside. Sirano scanned the group. Two were now missing. A towering Daroth warrior moved closer, carefully avoiding the fire. 'The word has little meaning for us, human. We are Daroth. We are one. There is nothing else of importance under the stars. Survival is the ultimate goal. What is good enables us to survive and to continue. What is evil threatens that survival.'

'How did the Oltor threaten you? I thought that they saved you.'

'They sought to deny us land. They closed the gateways to our own world.'

'And the Eldarin?'

'We will not coexist,' said the Daroth. 'Their magic was strong. They could have . . . troubled us.'

'So!' shouted Sirano. 'It was fear that prompted you.'

'We fear nothing!' declared the Daroth, his voice rising.

The gallery door swept open and a huge Daroth warrior surged inside. Sirano spun and let fly with the bottle, which burst on the warrior's chest. Flames spewed out to envelop the enormous white head, and a terrifying scream sounded. Fire consumed the towering figure, and the air was filled with black smoke. The Daroth crashed back into the door, then fell to his knees, his body flaring like a great torch. Blue flames hissed from him, and the heat was incredible. Pulling another bottle clear, Sirano swung towards the second door. As it opened he hurled the bottle - but it exploded harmlessly against the far wall. Climbing over the gallery rail, Sirano leapt to a ledge on one of the ten wooden pillars supporting the ceiling.

'You fear extinction!' he shouted. 'Your lives are ruled by terror! That is why you cannot coexist. You believe that every race is as vile and self-centred as your own. And this time you are right. We will destroy you! We will hunt you down and wipe your grotesque species from the face of the earth!'

Three Daroth moved out onto the gallery. Sirano hurled another bottle, but they dived back and it too exploded without harm to the warriors. From his vantage point on the column, he saw the figures of Tarantio and Duvodas make the dash across open ground to the gates.

A hurled spear smashed through Sirano's belly, pinning him to the pillar. Pain engulfed him, blood spraying from his mouth as he sagged down against the spear.

'You pose no threat to us!' sneered the Daroth leader. 'Your pitiful race is weak and spineless. Your weapons are useless against us. We have crushed your armies, and destroyed two of your greatest cities. Nothing that lives can stand against us.'

Loosing the bag from his shoulder Sirano, with the last ounce of his strength, tossed it into the fire. It erupted with a tremendous explosion that hurled several Daroth from their feet, engulfing two of them in flames.

A second spear slammed into Sirano's chest. And with it came the gift he sought above all others.

Darkness.

As Duvodas entered the tavern Shira ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck. 'I was so frightened,' she said. 'I thought you had left me.' He hugged her close and kissed her cheek.

'Never! I will never leave you again.' His fingers stroked through her long dark hair, and her face tilted up towards him. Tenderly he kissed her lips, then eased free of her embrace and sat beside the fire. Her father, Ceofrin, ambled forward and patted Duvo's shoulder.

'You look exhausted, man. I'll get some food for you.' Ceofrin moved to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of porridge and a container filled with honey. It remained untouched.

'What happened? Did you find it?' asked Shira. Duvodas opened the canvas pouch and removed the Pearl, which shone brilliantly in the firelight. For a moment none of them spoke. The Pearl was warm in Duvo's hands, and the weight of responsibility was strong upon him. Shira's gaze moved from the orb to Duvo, and her love for him swelled. Ceofrin stood back. He did not understand the nature of the Pearl's power, but he did know that armies had fought and died for seven years to possess it, and now it lay within his tavern.

'Oh,' said Shira at last, 'it is so beautiful. Like a moon fallen from the sky.'

'It contains the Eldarin, their cities and their lands. Everything.' Slowly he told them of the journey to the monastery and of the death of Sirano, Duke of Romark. 'What happened at the monastery was terrible,' he said. 'The monks were slain by the Daroth, the younger ones consumed by them.'

Ceofrin listened as Duvo repeated his tale. 'I can only imagine the anger you must feel,' he said.

Duvodas shook his head. 'The Eldarin taught me how to deal with anger: you must let it flow through you without pause. It was a hard lesson, but I believe I mastered it. Anger leads only to hate, and hate is the mother of evil. The Daroth are what they are. Like a storm, perhaps, destructive and violent. I will not hate them. I will not hate anything.'

'If you ask me,' said Ceofrin, 'you are walking a hard road. Man is born to love, and to hate. I do not believe that any teaching can alter that.'

'You are wrong,' said Duvodas. 'In my life I have seen evil in all its forms, great and small. They have not altered my perceptions.'

Ceofrin smiled. 'You are a good man, Duvo. May I touch it?' Duvo passed it to him. Hefting the Pearl in his huge hands, he stared hard into its milky depths. 'I cannot see cities here.'

'They are there, nonetheless. I must get the Pearl to the highest mountain of the Eldarin lands. Then they will return.'

'And help us destroy the Daroth?' asked Ceofrin.

'No. I do not believe they will.'

'Then why bring them back?'

'Father! How can you say that?' asked Shira. 'Do they not deserve to live?'

'I did not mean it in that way,' said Ceofrin, reddening. 'What I meant is that if they chose to hide from a human army because they do not like to fight, then why bring them back to face a Daroth one?'

'It is a good point,' conceded Duvodas. 'That said, the Eldarin are a wise people who may well offer alternatives to war. Their return alone will force the Daroth to reconsider their plans.'

'I hope that you are right, Duvo,' said Ceofrin, returning the Pearl. 'Now I must prepare the kitchens.

There is food to be cooked, and ale to be brought up from the cellar.' He glanced once more at the Pearl and shook his head. 'It seems strange to think of such humdrum matters on a day such as this.'

'Life goes on, my friend,' said Duvodas, pushing himself to his feet.

Shira took his arm. 'You need some rest,' she said. 'Come. The bedroom is warm and there are fresh, clean sheets upon the bed.' Together they made their way to the upper rooms, where Duvodas laid his harp upon the table and stripped off his travel-stained clothes.

'Lie with me for a while,' he said, as he slipped under the covers.

'I have work to do,' she told him. 'And if I came in there with you, you would not rest!'

Duvodas rolled to one elbow and looked at her. The pregnancy was now well advanced. 'Are you still sick in the mornings?' he asked her.

'No, but I have the most incredible cravings for food. Honey-cakes dipped in gravy! Can you imagine?'

'Happily I cannot,' he said. Lying back on the pillow

he closed his eyes. His body felt as if it were floating in a boat on a gentle current. He felt her kiss upon his cheek, then drifted away into a dreamless sleep.

When he awoke it was close to midnight and Shira lay fast asleep beside him. Reaching out he drew her to him, holding her close. In ten days they would join the first of the refugees, heading for Loretheli. Once he had settled Shira there, he would strike out south-west to the lands of the Eldarin. Shira awoke in his arms and snuggled closer. He could smell the sweet perfume of her hair and skin, and feel the warmth of her body.

Arousal grew in him and he made love to her, slowly and without passion, kissing her softly. Then he lay back, still holding her. 'I love you,' she whispered.

'And I you.' It seemed then that there was no world outside. The whole universe was contained in this one small, cosy room. Placing his hand on Shira's swollen belly, he felt the life there. His son. The thought brought a lump to his throat. His son! 'He will be born in the late spring in a city by the sea,' Shira had said.

'I will show him to the sunrise and the sunset. He will be handsome, like you, with fair hair and your eyes.

Not at first, for all babies are born with blue eyes. But they will turn grey-green as he gets older.'

'Why should he not have beautiful brown eyes, like his mother?'

'Perhaps he will,' she had said.

Karis sat quietly as Tarantio told her of the journey, and the recovery of the Pearl. Forin, Necklen and Vint were sitting close by, while Brune was in the kitchen, preparing a supper for them all. 'You believe it?

About the Pearl, I mean?' she asked.

'I do,' said Tarantio. 'Brune told me about the resurrection of the Oltor. And Brune does not have the imagination to lie.'

'I hope that you are right. What concerns me, however, is that the Daroth were at the monastery at all.'

'What do you mean?' Tarantio asked.

'All of our plans are predicated on the fact that the Daroth do not like the cold, and will not arrive before the full spring thaw. Now you tell me they climbed a mountain trail in sub-zero temperatures and murdered scores of priests. By that token they could be here within days. And we are not ready.'

Karis swung to Forin. 'What do you think?' she asked.

'There is a difference between a small group tackling the frozen wilderness and an army doing the same thing. In spring there will be sufficient water for their soldiers and their horses. In winter the streams and rivers are frozen. Likewise grass for their mounts, which at present is under the snow. I think we still have time - albeit less than we would like.'

'I agree with Forin,' said Necklen. 'And since there is nothing we can do about it, I suggest we move on as we have planned.'

Karis nodded. 'The new catapult is wonderfully efficient. Three more are being assembled now to protect the eastern wall.'

'What about west and south?' asked Tarantio.

'I am not too concerned about the western wall. The land falls away from it; there is no site for a catapult, and any charge from foot-soldiers would be slowed by the steep slope. In the south we could have a problem; but if we have weeks left before the siege then more catapults will be assembled and raised to protect it. I think the Daroth will strike first from the north, where they will try to breach the walls and storm through.

Our first - and main - task is to stop them there.'

'Ozhobar tells me you and he have other plans,' said Necklen. 'When will you share them with us?'

'I won't be sharing them, my friend,' replied Karis. 'The Daroth are telepaths. I do not believe they will seek to read our minds before the first charge, for they are arrogant and believe us to be pitifully weak. When we turn them back, however, that arrogance will begin to leach away. Then they will concentrate on learning what else we have in store. It is vital that our secondary plans remain secret. That is why neither Ozhobar nor myself will be on the walls — or in sight of the Daroth - at any time.'

'I take it,' said Vint, 'that is why the stonemasons have been gouging deep holes in the stonework behind the gates?'

'It is. You will see many such activities in the days to come. Try not to be curious.'

Vint laughed. 'Easier said than done, my lady.'

'I know. I remember the silly mind-games Giriak used to play. One of them involved not thinking about a donkey's ears for ten heartbeats. It was impossible. Even so, you must try. Also warn all the men along the north wall: any sudden headaches or feelings of warmth in the skull are to be reported and the men questioned. I tend to think the Daroth will concentrate on officers, but I could be wrong.'

'How many fighting men will we have, Karis?' asked Necklen. 'Already the numbers listed for the refugee columns have reached ten thousand, and they are still rising. Councillor Pooris says he and his department are weighed down by the requests.'

'The closest estimate is fifteen thousand fighting men,' said Karis. 'We should outnumber the Daroth by three to one. However, that statistic is meaningless, since our troops will need to be spread around the four walls. It is likely we will be evenly matched on the north wall.'

Brune brought in several trays of meat, bread and cake, and a large flagon of red wine.

'Prentuis fell within a day,' said Necklen. 'One blood-filled, terrible day!'

'This is not Prentuis,' said Karis. 'And they were not led by me.'

The logistics of the problem had initially excited Pooris. Several thousand refugees to be shepherded to the city of Hlobane, just under 300 miles south-west, and then a further 410 miles south and east to the port city of Loretheli. The problem was now much greater, and Pooris sat with Niro and a score of clerics in the hall above the Great Library, frantically trying to collate statistics.

Fourteen thousand people had now declared their wish to leave Corduin, almost 20 per cent of the adult population. The Duke's riders had made a score of hazardous journeys south with messages to and from Belliese, the Corsair Duke, who had demanded five silver pieces for every refugee, a further ten for any who wished to be transported on to the islands. The sum was not extortionate, but was now coming close to emptying the treasury.

Considering the fact that there were more than 10,000 mercenaries now in Corduin who demanded payment on the first day of every month, the problem was serious indeed. Without the windfall of the executed Lunder's fortune, the project would never have been begun. Even with it, Pooris now doubted whether the city's finances would stretch far enough.

The spidery figure of Niro loomed over his desk and Pooris glanced up. 'There are not enough wagons, sir,' said Niro. 'Not by half. The price of those there are has trebled already. It will rise higher.'

'How many have we purchased for movement of food and silver?'

'Thirty, sir. But the main holding yard was broken into last night, and five were stolen. I have placed extra guards there.'

'Were our wagons marked as ordered?'

'Yes, sir. A yellow strip hidden by the rear axle.'

'Order a full search. When the wagons are found the owners are to be hanged.'

Niro hesitated. 'You are aware, sir, that they will have been sold on in good faith? The people who now have them will not be the thieves.'

'I am aware of that. Before they are hanged they will be questioned as to those who sold them the vehicles.

Anyone named will also be hunted down and hanged. We will leave no-one in any doubt as to the severity of punishment should such thieving continue.'

'Yes, sir.' Niro moved away and Pooris leaned back and rubbed his chin. The bristle growing there surprised him. How long had he been in the building? Fourteen hours? Eighteen?

A young cleric approached him and bowed. Pooris was so tired he could not remember the man's name.

'What is it?'

'A small problem, sir. We have run out of red wax for the Duke's seal. There is none to be found anywhere.'

Every official refugee was to be given a note of authority stamped with the seal of Duke Albreck, and each, upon presentation of the seal, was entitled to remove from the treasury a sum not to exceed twenty gold pieces -

assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum banked there.

'Red wax,' mumbled Pooris. 'May the Gods spare me! What colours are there to be had?'

'Blue, sir. Or green.'

'Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which gives authority.'

'Yes, sir.' The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet and sipped it.

The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little game and less shelter.

The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a day.

All told, the full journey might take three months.

And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent.

Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they remained in their own homes . . .

Pooris had been against the expedition from the start,

despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been against him.

'You will not stop people deserting,' said Karis. 'If heroes came in great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people have cowardly hearts.'

'And if we force them to stay,' put in Albreck, 'there will be panic when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; it will be escorted to Hlobane.'

'That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,' said Karis.

'I fear that is true, sir,' added Pooris.

'Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We will fight the Daroth - and we will beat him.' The Duke gave a rare smile. 'And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?'

'It is true, my lord.'

True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the arrangements for the civilian withdrawal.

A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped inside.

'Another problem?' he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug.

'Of course, sir. What else would you expect?'

Pooris gestured him to a seat. 'I was scanning the list of refugees. You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.'

'Yes. And?'

'Twelve of the city's fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and suchlike.'

'Indeed not.'

'Curiously, only two of Corduin's sixty-four bakers have applied to leave.' Niro grinned. 'Makers of bread are more courageous than makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don't you think?'

'I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?'

'None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder's execution.'

'Will you be leaving also?' asked Pooris. 'I understand that more than four-fifths of the city's clerics have applied.'

'No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood by his side.'

'Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once told me - and I have seen it to be true -

that nothing is as long-lived as a monarch's hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.'

'Even so, I shall stay.'

'You have faith in our lady general?'

'Her men have faith. They have seen her in action,' said Niro.

'As have I. I watched her bring a mountain down on a group of Daroth riders. More importantly, to do so she crushed several of our own people. She is ruthless, Niro. And single-minded. I do believe that we are lucky to have her. Yet . . . the Daroth are not like any human enemy we have ever faced. Every one of their warriors is stronger than three of ours. And we have not yet seen what strategies they are capable of.'

'I shall observe them with interest,' said Niro, rising.

Pooris smiled. 'You are an optimist,' he said. 'And if we do survive I shall make sure you achieve what you hope for.' Niro bowed and Pooris gave a dry chuckle. 'Falling short, of course, of my own position.'

'Of course, sir.'

He was moving through the darkness of the tunnels, hearing the child's cry for help in the distance. He came to the coal face, and here there was — as he knew there would be - a jagged crack just wide enough for a body to squeeze through.

'Help me! Please!'

Tarantio eased himself through the crack and into the greenish glare of the tunnel beyond. Opal-eyed creatures shuffled forward, picks and shovels in their hands.

'Where is the boy?' he demanded.

The cries came again from far ahead and, drawing his sword, Tarantio ran forward. The creatures scattered before him. At the far end of the enormous cavern stood a man, guarding a bolted door.

Tarantio halted his run and advanced slowly on the swordsman facing him. His hair was white and stood out from his head in ragged spikes. But it was the eyes that caught Tarantio's attention: they were golden, and slitted like those of a great cat.

'Where is the boy?' demanded Tarantio.

'First you must pass me,' said the demonic warrior.

In his mind Tarantio sought out Dace, but he was not to be found. Fear rose in him, followed by a quaking certainty that he was looking into the face of death. His mouth was dry, his sword hand wet with sweat. 'Help me!' cried the boy. Tarantio took a deep breath and threw himself into the attack.

The demon lowered his sword and offered his neck to Tarantio's blade. At the last moment he swung the blow aside.

'Why do you want me to kill you?' he asked.

'Why do you want to kill me?' the demon responded.

'I just want to help the boy.'

'To do so you must kill me,' said the demon, sadly.

Tarantio awoke in a cold sweat. Rising from his bed, he wandered out to the kitchen and filled a long goblet with cool water. In the main room Forin was asleep on a couch; the others had gone. Tarantio entered the room, moving silently to the fire. It was dying down and he added a fresh log.

'You can't sleep?' enquired Forin, yawning and sitting up.

'No. Bad dreams.'

'The Daroth?'

'Worse than the Daroth. I've had the same dream for several years now.' He told Forin about it.

'Why didn't you kill it?' Forin asked.

'I don't know.'

'Silly things, dreams,' said the giant. 'I once dreamt I was standing naked in a marketplace, where all the stalls were selling honey-cakes riddled with maggots. Everyone was buying them and extolling their virtues. No sense at all.'

Tarantio shook his head. 'Not necessarily. You are a man of iron principles. Most are not. You know the values of loyalty and friendship, where others see only the price to be paid for such comradeship.

Merchants, town dwellers, farmers - all despise warriors. They see us as violent and deadly, and indeed we are. What we come to learn, however, is that life is often short and always unpredictable. We fight for gold, but we know that true friendship is worth more than gold, and that comradeship is above price.'

Forin sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. 'What has this to do with nakedness and maggoty cakes?'

'You do not value what they value. You would not buy what they buy. As to the nakedness, you have thrown off all that they are.'

'I like that,' said Forin. 'I like that a lot. What then does your dream mean?'

'It is a search for something that is lost to me.' Tarantio felt uncomfortable discussing it further, and changed the subject. 'I saw you and your men in that armour today. I see what you mean.'

'Ludicrous, isn't it?' agreed Forin, with a wide grin. 'But it works well. Especially the arm-plates; they are all individually hinged, allowing almost full movement. Incredible! I think I could take a Daroth wearing it.'

'You should be able to catch him unawares as he falls over laughing,' said Tarantio.

'Is there any wine left?' asked the giant, moving out to the kitchen without waiting for an answer. He came back with a jug and two goblets.

'Not for me,' said Tarantio. 'Drinking that will only give me more dreams.'

Forin filled a goblet and drained it in a single swallow. Wiping his beard with the back of his hand, he leaned back on the couch. 'What do you think of Vint?' he asked.

'In what way?'

'I was just wondering. He seems very .. . close with Karis.'

They are lovers, I should imagine.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Common knowledge. Karis always has a lover somewhere; she's that sort of woman.'

'What sort . . . exactly?' said Forin coldly, his green eyes narrowing.

The swordsman saw the anger there. 'Is there something here that I don't understand?' he countered.

'Not at all,' answered Forin, forcing a smile. 'As I said, I was just wondering.'

'Karis is an unusual woman, that's what I meant. Whenever I've served with her, she's had a different lover.

Sometimes more than one. But it does not affect her talents. She never seems to fall in love with any of them.'

'How many has she had?'

'Gods, man, how would I know? But Vint was one of them. Now he is again.'

Forin drained another goblet. 'I wish I'd never met her,' he said, with feeling.

Tarantio remained silent for a moment. 'When did you meet her?' he asked softly.

Forin glanced up. 'Is it that damned obvious?'

'What happened?'

This time Forin did not bother with the goblet but raised the jug to his lips, tilting it high until all the wine was gone. 'She came to me one night, asking questions about the Daroth. Then we... well, you know.

Something happened to me; she got into my blood somehow. Can't stop thinking of her.'

'Have you talked to her about it?'

'To say what? She avoids me, Chio, unless she is already in company. Why would she do that?'

'I'm the wrong man to ask. I have never understood women.'

'Have you ever been in love?' asked Forin.

'Yes,' said Tarantio, surprising himself.

'Well, I haven't. I don't even know if this is love. Maybe if I slept with her again, it would all fall into place and I'd be able to smile and say goodbye, and she'd vanish from my mind.'

'Ask him if she was good in bed,' suggested Dace.

'Maybe that is her problem too,' said Tarantio. 'Maybe she feels something strongly for you. I don't think she wants to fall in love, and usually picks men merely to satisfy a need - a physical need.'

'I've never known a night like it. Maybe never will again,' said Forin. He gave a long sigh. 'If this is love, I don't think I like it.' He lay back on the couch, and within minutes was snoring softly.

'What is wrong with you?' asked Dace. 'You could have asked for details.'

'Do you dream, Dace?'

'I've told you before that I don't.'

'I know. I believe it to be a lie. Why would you lie to me?'

'That is a premise built on a foundation of feathers.'

Tarantio returned to his bed and lay down, drawing the blankets over him. As he drifted into sleep he heard Dace whisper, 'Thank you, brother.'

'For what?' asked Tarantio sleepily.

'For not killing us.'

As the thaw continued, a sense of urgency surrounded all aspects of city life. Karis and Ozhobar met often, planning late into the night, testing new weapons in secret so that no knowledge of their purpose could leak out to the troops manning the walls. Vint led scouting missions to the north, watching for signs of the approach of the Daroth. Forin drilled his fifty soldiers constantly; always in full armour, until the heavy plate felt like a second skin. The Duke, Pooris and the other bureaucrats worked ceaselessly to prepare for the evacuation.

At last the day arrived - four days later than planned. Thousands of citizens assembled in the fields to the south of the city while the veteran officer, Capel, in charge of the exodus, tried to assemble the wagons into a convoy. There was a sense of joy about the proceedings, and safety beckoned for the refugees. Shira and Duvodas, having said farewell to the tearful Ceofrin, were in the last wagon to leave. They sat together on the driver's seat, waiting their turn. Duvo's hand absently strayed to the canvas pouch he wore, his fingers tracing the outline of the Pearl. I will bring you back, he promised silently, recalling the frozen figures in the silent city.

'It is a beautiful day,' said Shira.

'I don't think Capel would agree with you,' he answered, pointing to the grey-bearded officer as he rode up and down the line of wagons, seeking to instil some sense of order. The head of the convoy had set out almost three hours before, but the wagons in the rear were still waiting.

At last Duvodas received the signal to move, and he flicked the reins against the backs of the four oxen.

The beasts leaned in to the traces and the wagon jerked forward. The land was hilly at the start of the journey, and before they had gone more than a mile from the city they came upon the first casualty. A wagon, taking a turn too fast, had tipped over and slid down the slope. Furniture was strewn over the snow-patched grass, and one of the oxen was dead. Soldiers were cutting away the traces as Duvo and Shira drove up.

Hitching ropes to their rear axle they hauled the other wagon upright. The soldiers repacked it, and the journey continued. On the last of the high ground, Shira swung round to see the distant city of Corduin, brilliantly lit by sunshine. 'Oh look, Duvo! What a wonderful sight!' He glanced at her and saw that her eyes were moist, her

lips trembling. Putting his arm around her, he drew her to him.

'Your father will be fine.'

'I don't know. I just wish he had come with us.'

'So do I, my love. But, as he said, his life is in Corduin.' Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. 'I will do everything in my power to make you happy for as long as we live. I will keep sickness from you and our son, and we will know great joy.'

'I already know great joy,' she said. 'From the moment you came into my life.'

The oxen had halted. Now Duvo rapped the reins and they moved on. For several hours they rode. As far as the eye could see, the line of wagons stretched out towards the south-west. Soldiers rode up and down the line, checking on the stragglers.

Towards mid-afternoon the rear of the line halted once more. To the right was a high cliff-face, to the left a wide-open section of gorse and heather. Duvo climbed down from the wagon. 'I'll see what's holding us up,' he said, loping off towards the south.

As he neared a bend in the trail he saw a wagon some fifteen paces ahead, its left rear wheel shattered.

Men were unloading boxes and furniture, lightening the load so that a spare wheel could be lifted into place. There were enough bodies for the work, and Duvo turned back and strolled along the line.

Suddenly a woman screamed.

Duvo's eyes sought her out. She was middle-aged and stout, and she was standing on the driver's seat, pointing to the east. He turned. Half a mile away, across the gorse, a long line of riders was moving slowly forward. They rode huge horses, and the faces of the riders were bone-white. Other people began to shout. Then to run.

He started to sprint back towards his own wagon. As it came into sight, he saw Shira standing up and waving to him - and behind her two Daroth riders, galloping along the trail. Fear welled in him, and he continued to run towards her.

One of the Daroth levelled a long spear. 'No!' Duvo screamed. 'No!'

Shira turned. The spear took her in the belly, lifting her high in the air, the bloody point emerging from her back. Almost casually the Daroth flicked the spear and Shira was flung from it to the ground. All his life Duvodas had been taught to eliminate anger from his soul, allowing it to float through him, leaving him untouched. But it was not anger he felt in that dread moment.

It was a blind, bottomless rage.

Letting out an animal scream he pointed at the Daroth, sending out a heat spell which burst to life inside the creature's skull. With a hideous shriek, the Daroth dropped his spear and grabbed at his temples.

Then his head exploded.

The second Daroth bore down on Duvo. There was no fear now in the Singer, and a second heat spell exploded in the Daroth's chest, sending white blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. Duvo continued to run, coming alongside Shira and dropping to his knees. The wound was terrible, and he cried out in anguish to see it. Her body was almost torn in half, and Duvo saw the tiny arm and hand of his dead son protruding from the wound.

Something died in him then, and a terrible coldness settled on his soul. Trembling he touched his hand to Shira's blood, then smeared four bloody lines down his own face.

Duvodas rose and walked slowly towards the Daroth line. There were hundreds of riders, but they were not moving with speed. It was as if they wanted to delay the moment, so that every ounce of fear could be extracted from the helpless refugees.

'Fear,' hissed Duvodas. 'I will show you fear!' Raising his hands, he drew on the magic of the land. Never before had it felt so strongly within him, pulsing with a power he had not realized could be contained in a single human frame. Darkly exultant, Duvodas extended his arms, redirecting the magic, flowing it like a storm over the gorse and the heather. Every seed and root beneath the earth swelled with sudden, rushing life, writhing up from the ground, the growth of years erupting in seconds.

The ground below the Daroth writhed and trembled. At first it only slowed the huge horses, whose powerful legs broke the new roots and branches.

Stronger and faster grew the plants and bushes and trees. The horses were forced to a halt and the Daroth swung in their saddles, their dark eyes seeking out the sorcerer. Duvodas felt their power strike him, and he staggered. He sensed their hatred, and their arrogant belief that they had defeated him, and he allowed them a brief moment of exultation. Then he fed upon their hatred, and hurled it back at them with ten times the force. The nearest riders shrieked and pitched from their saddles. Sharp roots pricked at their skin, then burrowed through muscle and around bone. Horses reared and fell, toppling their riders. The Daroth tried to hack their way clear of the eldritch forest, but even their massive bodies were no match for the power of nature.

One Daroth tried to reach Duvodas, his huge sword cutting left and right to smash through the surging growth, but he stumbled and fell to his knees. A fast-growing oak sliced into his stomach, lifting him upright. One branch burst through his lungs and out through his back, another surged up his throat, slithering from his mouth like a grotesque tongue.

Roots clawed their way into flesh - ripping into bellies and chests, lancing through legs and arms and necks.

And still the forest grew. The struggling bodies of the Daroth and their mounts were lifted higher and higher, dangling like corpses on a colossal gibbet.

The refugees watched in awe-struck silence as hundreds of Daroth were destroyed.

At last Duvodas let fall his arms, and men, women and children gazed upon the dangling corpses which moments before had been a terrible threat. There were no cheers from the saved. No one rushed forward to congratulate the blood-smeared young man who stood staring malevolently at the dead.

The officer Capel rode slowly towards him, dismounting by his side. 'I don't know how you did it, man, but I'm grateful. Come, let us bury your dead. We must move on.'

Duvodas said nothing. He stood stock-still, his body rigid. Capel placed his hand on Duvo's shoulder.

'Come now, lad. It is over.'

'It is not over,' said Duvo, turning his face towards the officer. Capel blanched as he saw the blood red lines on the young man's face. Pulling a scarf from his belt, he gave it to Duvodas.

'Wipe your face now,' he said. 'You'll frighten the children.' Dumbly Duvo wiped the blood away. But it made no difference. The crimson lines remained, as if tattooed upon his skin.

'Dear Heaven,' whispered Capel. 'What is happening here?'

'Death,' said Duvodas coldly. 'And it is but the beginning.'

The Pearl at his side was forgotten now, as was his mission, as slowly he began to walk towards the new forest. Trees and roots shrank away from him, creating a path.

'Where are you going?' Capel called out.

'To destroy the Daroth,' said Duvodas, striding on faster now.

And the forest closed in around him.

Leaving his lieutenant in charge of the convoy, Capel made the seven-mile ride to Corduin to report the bizarre events of the day. Despite the imminence of the Daroth threat, the Duke felt compelled to ride out to the scene of the slaughter. With Vint, Necklen and twenty lancers, the Duke arrived at the scene just before dusk.

The group drew rein at the edge of the forest. The bodies of the Daroth horses hung, skewered into the tree-tops. The Daroth corpses had withered away to dry skin, flapping in the evening breeze.

'I have never seen - or heard of - anything like it,' said the Duke. 'How could this happen?' No one answered him.

'I wish the sorcerer had come back to Corduin,' said Vint. 'We could certainly use him there.'

'Who was he?' asked the Duke.

'A harpist, sir. He sang at the Wise Owl tavern. I heard him once or twice; he was very good.'

'His name is Duvodas, my lord,' put in Capel.

The Duke turned his hooded eyes on Capel. 'My apologies, Captain, for doubting your story. It sounded incredible. But here is the evidence, and I do not know what it means. You had best rejoin the column, and I wish you good luck on your journey.'

Capel saluted. 'And may good fortune be with you, sir,' he said. Then he swung his horse and galloped off towards the south.

The riders reached Corduin just after dark and the Duke summoned Karis to his private chambers. The warrior woman looked drawn and tired, and there was about her a nervous energy that concerned Albreck. 'I hope you are getting enough rest, General,' he said, offering her a seat.

'Not a lot of time for rest, my lord. Apart from the attack on the convoy, our scouts report the main Daroth army is camped less than a day's march from the city.'

'So close? That is unfortunate.'

'They halted their march at the same time as the forest miracle,' said Karis. 'I would imagine the scale of the slaughter has given them a nasty shock. They would have had no reason to believe that any human would have such power.'

'I am rather shocked myself. How could this man have accomplished such a feat?'

'Vint is questioning the tavern-keeper, Ceofrin, and I have had a long conversation with Tarantio. It seems that Duvodas was raised among the Eldarin, who taught him many secrets of magic. Tarantio is stunned by the events; he maintains that Duvodas was a pacifist, wholly opposed to war and violence.

He also told me a strange tale concerning Sirano.' Karis told the Duke of the attempted rescue of Sirano at the monastery, the coming of the Daroth and the recovery of the Eldarin Pearl.

'Sirano was right,' said the Duke, bitterness in his voice. 'The Pearl is a fearsome weapon. Why did this harpist not bring it to us? We could have destroyed the Daroth utterly!'

'Perhaps it is best that he did not,' answered Karis. 'Ever since Sirano unleashed his magic against the Pearl, nothing has been the same. And we cannot spend valuable time concerning ourselves with speculation. Perhaps within a day the enemy will be upon us. That must be our prime concern.'

Albreck offered Karis a goblet of wine, but she refused. 'I must leave you, my lord. I am meeting Ozhobar at his forge.'

'Of course,' said Albreck, rising with her. 'But first tell me how your plans are progressing.'

She shrugged. 'That is hard to say, sir. The weapons are untried against the Daroth, and much depends on the strategies they adopt.'

'And what of your strategies, Karis?'

She gave a weary smile. 'In war it is best to act, and therefore force your enemy to react. We do not have the luxury of such a strategy. To attack the Daroth on open ground would be suicidal, therefore the first advantage is his. When you add to that the simple fact that our enemy is telepathic, and many times more powerful than any human warrior, our problems become mountainous. Because of their mental powers I cannot even explain my tactics to my commanders, for fear that the Daroth will discover them. All in all the prospects are bleak.'

'You sound defeatist,' he said.

Karis shook her head. 'Not at all, sir. If the Daroth act as I suspect they will, then we have a chance to hold them. If we can beat off their first attack, we will further sow the seeds of doubt in them. The miracle of the forest will have worried them. If we stop them without magic, it will worry them further. And doubt is a demon that can destroy an army.'

Duke Albreck smiled. 'Thank you, General. Please continue your duties.'

Karis bowed and left the room. Moving through to the rear of his apartments, the Duke lit two lanterns and stood staring at the armour hanging on the wooden frame. It had been his grandfather's, and had been worn by his father in several battles. Albreck himself had never worn it. The helm of iron, polished until it shone like silver, was embellished with the golden head of a roaring lion. The image of a lion had also been added in gold to the breastplate. It was altogether garish and hideously eye-catching. Albreck had always viewed it with distaste.

'A ruler has to be seen by his warriors,' his father had told him. 'And seen in battle as a colossal figure, head and shoulders above other men. A leader must be inspirational. This armour you sneer at, boy, serves that purpose. For when I wear it, I am Corduin.'

Albreck remembered the day his father had led the army from the city. He had watched, with his mother and brother, from an upper balcony in the palace. And that night, when the victorious Duke had returned, he had understood his father's words. In the moonlight his father had looked like a god.

The memories brought a sigh from him, and he drew the longsword from its scabbard. It was blade-heavy, a knight's weapon, designed to be wielded from the saddle, striking down at enemy foot soldiers.

Albreck returned it to its scabbard.

A servant entered bearing a tray. 'Your supper, my lord,' he said.

'Set it upon the table.'

'Yes, my lord. Very fine armour, my lord.'

'Indeed it is. Tomorrow have it returned to the museum.'

'Yes, my lord.'

Albreck returned to the main room and sat down by the fire, leaving the meal untouched. He fell asleep in the chair. His night servant found him there, and covered him with a soft blanket.

Avil had never achieved any promotion. He had been a scout now for six years, and had done his job as well as any man. He had just been unlucky. Anyone could have missed a small raiding party coming through the Salian canyon; there were any number of branch passes along the route. It had been so unfair to be forced to carry the blame. Had they known he had been asleep during the raid he would have been hanged. But then a man had to sleep, and Avil felt no guilt about the incident.

But this new woman general, she knew his worth. She had spoken to him personally about this mission, and Avil intended to prove himself to her. She had summoned him to her private quarters, and given him a goblet of fine wine.

'I have been watching your progress,' she said, 'and it is my belief that you have been wrongly overlooked for promotion.' Even Avil had started to believe the stories of his carelessness. Now, however, someone in authority had seen his true worth. 'I need a good scout to give me an accurate estimate of enemy numbers,' she had said. 'I want you to observe them. See how they make camp, observe their actions.'

'Why is it important to see how they make camp?' he had asked.

'A good army is disciplined. Everything they do indicates how well they are led. A lazy general will be lax, the camp disorganized. You understand?'

'Yes, General. Of course. How stupid of me!'

'Not stupid at all,' she assured him. 'A sensible man asks questions - that is how he learns.' A huge hound padded over to him, resting his head in Avil's lap. 'He likes you,' said Karis.

'I know him. This is Stealer. He hangs around the barracks and steals scraps.'

Karis had laughed. She was not a great beauty, he thought, but there was about her an earthy quality that made a man think of nakedness and a warm bed. In that moment he understood one of her nicknames: some of the men called her 'The Whore of War'. Avil found his eyes wandering to her breasts; she was wearing a thin, woollen shirt and he could see their outline. 'You have heard, of course, about our magician?' she asked, dropping her voice.

'Everyone is talking about the slaughter of the Daroth,' he said, dragging his gaze from her body and trying to look into her eyes.

'We have three sorcerers,' she told him.

'Three?'

'Their powers are astonishing. One can bring fire from the sky. They were trained by the Eldarin.

Naturally this must not be spoken of. You understand?'

'Yes, General. .. well, no. Would it not ease the fears of the people to know we have such power?'

'Indeed it would. But if the Daroth were to find out just how strong we are, then they might not come within the range of our spells.'

'Oh, I see. But surely they already know about the slaughter, and the magical forest?'

'I don't doubt that they do. That was unfortunate - but we had to protect our refugees. However, the Daroth know of only one sorcerer and one great spell. They probably believe they can overcome us despite his abilities. That is when the other two will wreak their terrible spells.'

She had offered him a second goblet of wine then. It was heady stuff. He told her of his plans and ambitions, and of his life back on the farm. She seemed fascinated by everything he said. No-one had ever been fascinated before. He told her this, and that his comrades called him dull. Karis assured him that he was far from dull. In fact, she had enjoyed his company immensely, and when he returned from his scouting mission they must meet again.

Avil was smitten. Her last words came back to haunt him now, as he sat at the feet of the Daroth general.

'Be very careful, Avil. If the mission goes wrong, do not allow yourself to be taken alive. They must not find out about our plans.'

'You can trust me, General. I will say nothing. I will cut my own throat before I betray you.'

Luck had deserted him yet again - for the last time. He had crept close to the Daroth camp, sure that he was unobserved; but then this terrible pain had struck his head and he had passed out. When he awoke he was in the centre of a circle of Daroth warriors. Their faces were blank, alien and unreadable, but Avil knew of their foul practices and his fear weakened his bladder. He felt the warm urine soaking his leggings and, for a moment at least, shame outweighed his terror.

'Give us your name.' said a deep voice. Avil jerked and gazed around, trying to identify the speaker.

'I am Avil,' he said, his voice trembling.

'You are frightened, Avil.'

'Yes. Yes, I am.'

'Would you like to be released to return to your city?'

'Yes. Very much.'

'Then tell me of the forces gathered there.'

'The forces? The Duke's army, you mean? I don't know how many there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.'

A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil's hair, dragged him to his feet. The creature took hold of the young man's arm - and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that made Avil feel nauseous.

'Concentrate, Avil,' said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, then subsided. 'Tell me about the wizards.'

In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames - none of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and - merely with her conversation - had given him one of the finest evenings of his life.

Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined not to betray her. 'I know nothing of . . .'

'Beware, Avil,' warned the Daroth. 'I can inflict great pain on you. The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to me.'

Tears flowed from Avil's eyes and his lip trembled. He began to weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. 'The wizards.

Tell me of the wizards.'

'There are no wizards!' shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the fire blast down on these devils!

'How will this happen?' asked the Daroth softly. 'How will the fire come?'

Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn't be that stupid. What was happening? 'Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from the sky,' the Daroth repeated.

Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring up at the night sky and the bright stars.

I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. The clicking noise sounded again.

Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal.