Dark Moon

Chapter Two

Three hundred miles to the north-east, at the centre of a new desert of barren rocks, a slender, blond-haired man climbed to the top of what had once been Capritas Hill. His green cloak was torn and threadbare, the soles of his shoes worn thin as paper. Duvodas the Harp Carrier stood at the summit and fought to hold down a rising tide of desolation and despair. His gentle face and soft grey-green eyes reflected the sorrow he felt. There was no magic left in the land. Black and grey mountains bare of earth reared up from the plains like rotting teeth, and Duvodas felt as if he was sitting in the jaws of death. Where once had been sculpted beauty, amid forests and streams and verdant valleys, now nothing remained. The flesh of the land had been stripped to the bone, clawed away by a hand larger than eternity. The four cities of the Eldarin had vanished, and even the whispering wind flowing over the dry rocks could find no memory of their existence. Not a trace. Not a broken cup, not a tombstone, not a child's toy.

His grey-green eyes scanned the jagged peaks, pausing at the Twins, two pinnacles of rock that for centuries had been an elegant backdrop to the city of Eldarisa. Upon reaching the age of majority the children of the Eldarin would climb Bizha, the left-hand peak, then leap the eight feet to the rugged platform atop the neighbouring Puzhac.

The pinnacles had graced the Enchanted Park, and many and glorious were the flowers that grew there.

Now all was dead stone. Not a single blade of grass grew here now, and even his memories could not flower in this barren place. Duvodas rose and unwrapped his small harp.

It seemed almost blasphemous to consider music in such a cold and empty landscape, but music was all he had, and his slender fingers danced upon the strings, sending out a stream of melancholy notes to echo among the rocks. Closing his eyes he sang the Song of Elyda, and her love of the Forest King, his voice almost breaking as he reached the chorus of farewell, where Elyda stood by the dark river watching as her lover's body was borne away to eternity on the black barge of the night.

The music faded away and Duvodas covered the harp and swung it to his shoulders.

Leaving the hillside, he took what once had been the forest road and walked swiftly towards the distant plains. Eight years before he had travelled this way, striding under the overhanging branches, watching sunlight dapple the trail, listening to the ceaseless music of stream and river. Bird-song had filled the air then, sweet and piping, and the scent of the forest had intoxicated him. Now dry dust billowed around his feet, and not a sound disturbed the graveyard silence.

For most of the day he walked, angling his journey to the north-east. By dusk he could see the long black line of earth, like a ten-foot dike thrown up against a threatening sea. It stretched for miles across his path.

He reached it as night was falling and scrambled up its loose banks, pausing at the crest. This was once the northernmost border of Eldarin land. Shrouded in mist, protected by magic, it was here that Duvodas had crossed during that long-ago autumn night. There were still oaks growing here, but it was no longer a wood. Many trees had died through lack of water.

He had expected to feel more comfortable with earth once more beneath his feet, but it was not so. The smell of grass, wet from the recent rain, made a bitter contrast to the desolation he had left behind.

Duvodas trudged on through the trees. Eight years ago he had come to a village, a thriving farm community on the banks of the River Cruin. Unlike the furry-skinned Eldarin who raised him, Duvodas, being human, could walk among the races of Man without fear. Even so, without coin he had not been welcomed, nor offered a place for the night. Not even a bowl of soup. The villagers had viewed him with suspicion, and when he offered to sing for his supper had told him they had no need of music.

Tired and hungry, Duvodas had moved on.

Now he stood at the edge of the village once more. The houses were deserted, the forty-foot-wide river bed dry and cracked.

Whatever dread force had ripped away the soil of the mountains had sucked the river dry. Without water the farmland had been robbed of its sustenance. In the moonlight Duvodas could see that the villagers had vainly tried to sink wells to feed their crops.

He sheltered for the night in a deserted barn, then moved on at first light to higher country, remembering the kindness of the hunter and his family whose long cabin had been built in a fold of land bordering the tree-line of the hills. Eight years ago he had arrived there wet and miserable, a victim of hunger and desperate weariness. When a huge dog had rushed at him, baring its teeth, Duvodas had no time to react. One moment he was on his feet, the next the dog had leapt, crashing into his chest and hurling him to the ground. All air was punched from his lungs and he lay gasping under the weight of the mastiff, listening to its low, rumbling growl. A man's voice had sounded. The dog reluctantly backed away.

'You must be a stranger to these parts, my friend,' said the voice. A powerful hand gripped his arm, hauling him upright. In the moonlight the hunter's hair seemed to glint with flecks of steel, and his pale grey eyes shone like silver.

'I am indeed,' Duvodas told him. 'I am a ... minstrel. I would be pleased to sing you a song, or tell a story in return ...'

'You don't need to sing,' said the man. 'Come, we have food and a warm cabin.'

The memory lifted his spirits and he walked on, coming to the cabin just after noon. It was as he remembered it, long and low beneath a roof of turf, though the second section built for the children had now weathered in, losing its newness and blending with the old. The door was open.

Duvodas strode through the vegetable patch and entered the cabin. It was dark inside, but he heard a groan and saw the hunter lying naked on the floor by the hearth. Moving to him, Duvodas knelt. The man's skin was hot and dry, and black plague boils had erupted on his neck, armpits and groin; one had split, and the skin was stained with pus and blood. Leaving him, Duvodas moved to the first of the back rooms. The hunter's wife was unconscious in the bed; her face was fleshless, and she too had the plague. Duvodas opened the door to the new section. When last he had been here the couple had only one child, a boy of nine. There were three youngsters in the room, two young girls and an infant boy all in one bed. The boy was dead, the two girls fading fast. Duvodas pulled back the blanket covering them.

Duvodas unwrapped his harp and returned to the main room. His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast.

Pulling up a chair he sat in the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and sought the inner peace from which all magic flowed. His breathing deepened. He had learned much in his time among the Eldarin but, being human, healing magic had never come easily to him. The power was born of tranquillity and harmony, twin skills that Man could never master fully.

'Your veins are full of stimulants to violent activity,' Ranaloth had told him, as they sat beneath the shadow of the Great Library. 'Humans are essentially hunter-killers. They glory in physical strength and heroism. This is not in itself evil, you understand, but it prepares the soul for potential evil. The human is ejected from the mother, and its first instinct is to rage against the violation of its resting place in the womb.'

'We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.'

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

'The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,' argued Duvodas.

'That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had - and we retain - a capacity for violence in defence of our lives.

But we have no lust for it. At the dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in random slaughter as the humans do.'

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

'We do it because we love life, Duvo.'

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

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

Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now and gazed down at the hunter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'So where is it?'

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

The third man emerged from the cabin. 'There's nothing there, Brys,' he said. 'He's almost out of food.

Maybe he's telling the truth.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The newcomer knelt beside Brys. 'I think your friends are brighter than you,' he said, picking up the man's dagger and slipping it back into the mercenary's sheath. Rising, he turned back to the old man.

'Do you have any salt?' he asked.

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

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

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

'Indeed you are.'

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

Tarantio shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'

'Are you going to kill us?'

'No. I am not in a killing mood.'

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

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

'You'd better let me take him,' said Dace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Let me feel the joy!' shouted Dace.

'There is no joy,' said Tarantio, dragging the sword clear. Brys toppled to his right. Take the body with you,'

ordered Tarantio, turning to the other mercenaries. 'And leave his horse behind.'

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

'No-one wants to die,' Tarantio told him.

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

Then they mounted.

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

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

'No. But there is salt,' said Tarantio wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fire had died down, and Tarantio added logs from a stack in the hearth.

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

'Is that true?' Tarantio asked him.

'Of course it isn't true,' said Browyn, with a smile. 'But it is the sort of thing old people are expected to say.

The real truth - if such a spectacular beast exists - is that I was a bridge-builder with no taste for violence whatever. And I have to admit that it is not a skill I ever wished to acquire.' His keen blue eyes stared hard at the younger man. 'I hope you don't consider that an offensive remark.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Did you see to the horse?'

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

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

'How old are you?'

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

'Twenty-one. But sometimes I feel eighty-two.'

'You are a strange young man - if you don't mind me pointing it out?' Tarantio smiled and shook his head. 'You killed that swine very expertly, which shows that you are a man accustomed to violence.

And yet you have cleaned my cabin in a manner which would have brought words of praise from my dear wife - a rare thing, I can tell you. And you cook better than she did - which sadly is no rare thing.

Those men were afraid of you. Are you famous?'

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

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

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

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

'No-one knew him,' said Tarantio sadly.

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

'I think that we were - for a while. You should rest now, Browyn. Give those bruises a chance to heal.' 'Will you be here when I wake?'

'I will.'

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

The old man had asked him about the acorn of his legend, but it was not a tale Tarantio relished telling.

Nor, save for the first hours of pleasure with the Lady Miriac, did he like recalling the events of the last day.

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

Are you listening, Dace?'

'He is listening,' Tarantio told him.

'That's good.'

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

We use the same muscles.'

'I have given much thought to that, Chio. It is a complex matter. Years ago I studied to be a surgeon -

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

Tarantio smiled as he remembered the grey-garbed swordsman. As the fire slowly died, he recalled their first meeting. After the massacre of his shipmates, Tarantio had made his way along the coast to the Corsair city of Loretheli, hoping to find employment with a merchant ship. There were no berths, and he had worked for a month as a labourer on a farm just outside Loretheli, earning the few coins he now had in his purse. With the harvest over he was back at the docks moving from ship to ship, seeking a crewman's wage.

But the war fleets of the Duchies were now at sea and the port of Loretheli was effectively sealed. No-one was hiring sailors. He was heading towards the last ship berthed at the dock when he saw Sigellus. The man was obviously drunk. He was swaying as if on a ship's deck, and he was using the sabre in his hand as a support, the point against the cobbled stones. Facing him were two corsairs, gaudily dressed in leggings and shirts of bright yellow silk. Both held curved cutlasses. Sigellus was a tall man and slender, clean-shaven and thin-faced. His head was shaved above both ears in sweeping crescents, yet worn long from the crown like the plume of an officer's helm. He was wearing a doublet of grey silk embroidered with silver thread, and leggings of a darker grey that matched his calf-length boots. Tarantio paused and watched the scene.

The corsairs were about to attack, and surely the drunken man would be cut down. Yet there was something about the man that caught Tarantio's attention. The swaying stopped and he stood, statue-still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'My thanks to you, friend,' he said, returning the sabre to its scabbard. 'Come, I will repay your kindness with

a meal and a jug of wine. You look as if you could use one.'

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

A log fell from the hearth and rolled on to the rug at his feet, jerking Tarantio from his memories.

Using a set of iron tongs, he lifted it back to the fire and then stretched out on the floor. 'When you draw your sword, Chio,' Sigellus had warned him, 'always fight to kill. There is no other way. A wounded man can still deal a death stroke.'

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

'Ah, that's true. But then I'm special. I am - and I say this humbly, dear boy - the best there ever was.

And, drunk or sober, the best there ever will be.'

He was wrong. For now there was Dace.

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

Through this came the thin, piping cries of terror.

'The demons are coming! The demons are coming!' he heard the child cry.

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

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

'Where is the boy?' he demanded.

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

'I am not dead.'

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

'I have dreams!' shouted Tarantio.

'Name one!'

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

'The boy weeps,' said the voice.

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

'Indeed you do,' said Browyn, 'and that one must have been powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.' The old man was sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost dead.

Adding thin pieces of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over the blaze. 'You are very pale,' he said, leaning forward and squinting into Tarantio's face. 'I think it was more of a nightmare.'

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

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

'Thank you.'

'Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?'

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

'And you dream of digging coal?'

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

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

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

'There is a hint of apple here.'

'How will the war end?' asked Browyn suddenly.

Tarantio shrugged. 'When men are tired of fighting.'

'You know why it began?' Browyn asked.

'Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.'

Browyn laughed. 'Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With their terrible magic and their arcane weapons. Bloody nonsense! Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people.

They had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever caused a war? Look to history.

They were a scholarly people who kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?'

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

'And you can see no end to the madness?'

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

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

'However, I am losing the thread of the story . . . From where I stood on that day I could see, above the mist, the green mountains of Eldarin, the forests and the woods, the fields and the distant spires of a beautiful city.

Then an old man came out of the mist and stood before our battle-lines. His back was bent, and the fur of his face was cloud-white. Like a ghostly wolf. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

'No one answered him. A young man with a sling moved forward and let fly. The stone struck the old man high on the head, he staggered, then stepped back into the mist. Soldiers charged forward, but they struck the invisible wall that separated the mountains of the Eldarin from the valleys of men. The sorcerers stepped forward then, and began to chant. Behind them ten thousand soldiers waited. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and the mist that shielded the barrier disappeared. It was an astonishing moment, Tarantio. The sun shone brightly upon a barren landscape. Grey rock as far as the eye could see. No grass, no forests and woods. No city. To our right there was a river that, moments before, had flowed down through the mists to water the valleys. Eighty feet wide, and very deep. Now there was no flowing water, and we watched the last of the moisture soaking into the clay at the river bed. The Eldarin had gone. In an instant. Gone! Ahead of us the earth was scored away, and we stood on the edge of an earth wall maybe ten feet high.

'We moved into the mountains, searching for them. There was nothing to find. Then a search party came back with the body of a single Eldarin. It was the old man. They had caught him hiding in a cave. He had with him the Pearl.' Browyn's eyes shone with the memory. 'It was so beautiful, the size of a man's fist, and swimming with colour - opal grey, dawn pink, holy white .. . You could sense its power. But I digress . . .

The Demon War was over before it had begun, and our army of

ten thousand had killed one old man. Within weeks the new war had begun, the War of the Pearl. How many thousands have died since that day? Plagues, starvation, drought and famine. And we are no closer to a conclusion. Does it not make you long to change the world?'

'I cannot change it,' said Tarantio.

They finished their drinks in silence, then Browyn led Tarantio out of the cabin and into the sunlight.

'There's something I'd like to show you,' said the old man. 'Follow me.' Together they walked up the hillside, along an old deer trail flanked by tall pines. At the top was a clearing, and at the centre, on a raised scaffold, stood a fishing boat, its sides sleek and beautifully crafted. There was a central cabin, and a tall mast from which hung no sail. The craft was fully forty feet long. Tarantio stood amazed for a moment, then he walked to where a ladder rested against the scaffold. Swiftly he climbed to the boat's deck, Browyn following. 'What do you think?' asked Browyn.

'She is beautiful,' said Tarantio. 'But we are a mile above the lake. How will you float her?'

'I don't intend to float her. I just wanted to build her.'

Tarantio laughed. 'I don't believe this,' he said. 'I am standing on a boat on a mountain. There is no sense in it.'

Browyn's smile faded. 'Sense? Why does it have to make sense? I always dreamed of building a boat. Now I have achieved it. Can you not understand that?'

'But a boat must have water,' argued Tarantio. 'Only then can it fulfil its purpose.'

Browyn shook his head angrily. 'First we speak of sense, now of purpose. You are a warrior, Tarantio.

Where is the sense in war? What is the purpose of it? This boat is my dream. Mine. Therefore it is for me to say what purpose it serves.' Stepping forward, Browyn put his hands on the young man's shoulders. 'You know,' he said, sadly, 'you do not think like a young man. You are old before your time. A young man would understand my boat. Come, let us get back to the cabin. I have work to do. And you have a journey to make.'