Dark Moon

Chapter Four

Sirano, the fifth Duke of Romark, was the image of the man who had sired him - tall, athletic, handsome, his hair black and his eyes a deep ocean blue. It was for this reason that his father, a short, burly, blond-haired man, hated him. The fourth Duke of Romark was a bitter man, who had married for love only to find that his feelings were one-sided. His wife betrayed him with the captain of his Guards, and fell pregnant by him in the third year of their unhappy marriage.

The captain died in mysterious circumstances, stabbed to death in what appeared to be a drunken brawl.

The wife was said to have fainted and drowned in her bath three days after giving birth to Sirano. Everyone agreed it was a tragedy, and there was great sympathy for the fourth Duke.

The child was raised by a series of nurses. Quick and alert, he was always desperate for his father's affection, which was never forthcoming. He never knew why. At school Sirano was the best in his year, and swiftly grew to understand the intricacies of language and the arts. By the age of twelve he could lead discussions on the merits of the great sculptors, debate the philosophical attitudes of the Three Teachers, and had written a thesis on the life and work of the soldier-king, Pardark.

Those who knew him as a young man claimed his father's coldness finally turned the boy's heart to ice on his fifteenth birthday. On the night of the celebrations he was heard to have a terrible row with the fourth Duke, who was heavily drunk.

It was after this that Sirano became fascinated by the wonders of sorcery. He studied day and night, forsaking the normal noble pursuits of hunting and whoring, and gathered to himself books and scrolls. His first spell, involving the sacrifice of a pet rabbit, went awry, the headless creature running down the long corridor of the east wing, spraying blood onto the hanging velvet drapes. His second spell was more successful and ultimately damning.

In a bid to discover why his father loathed him, the sixteen-year-old Sirano wrought the ancient spell of summoning, and called upon the spirit of his dead mother. He conducted this rite in the marble bathroom in which she had died. No spirit came, but what did occur changed the young man's life.

Somewhere during the spell he made a small mistake and instead of summoning a spirit, his spell became one of revelation. In an instant the room grew cold, and Sirano felt a curious sensation of dizziness and weightlessness. Bright colours shone in his eyes, and his body fell to the floor. His spirit, however, floated free and he found himself staring down at a beautiful woman taking her bath. Her eyes were sad, her cheeks tear-stained, and Sirano noted that her belly was still stretched and slack, evidence of a recent birth. The door opened and his father stepped inside. He was slimmer and younger, his hair thicker, and his face was white and angry.

'Did you think I would not find out?' he said.

'You have killed him,' she answered. 'What more can you do to me?'

'Much more!' he hissed. Without another word he punched her full in the face, then thrust her down below the water.

The spirit of Sirano recoiled from the sight. Her legs kicked out, thrashing water over the floor, but the fourth Duke maintained his grip until all struggles ceased.

The room spun and Sirano opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the empty bathroom, a small cut on his temple from where his head had struck the edge of a marble sink.

Slowly he rose.

For two years he continued to study, mastering all that he could of spell-making. On the night of his eighteenth birthday he lit the black candles in his room and placing a grass snake in a round glass jar along with a lock of his father's hair, he painstakingly worked through the Five Levels of Aveas. There was no feeling in him, no anger, no sorrow. When at last he had completed the spell, he rose from his knees and, carrying the snake in the jar, walked slowly along the corridor to his father's apartment.

There were two young serving maids in his bed. Sirano whispered two Words of Power and touched each of them on the forehead. Both rose silently, eyes flickering, and deep in a trance returned to their own beds. Drawing up a chair, Sirano gestured towards the lanterns set in brackets on the walls. They flared into life, casting flickering light on the sleeping man. His face was fat now, bloated with rich living, and a vein throbbed at his temple.

'Wake up, Father,' commanded Sirano. The Duke jerked as if slapped.

'What in Hell's name?' He glanced to his left and right. 'Where are ... ?'

'Gone. Tell me why you killed my mother.'

'Get out! Get out before I fetch my whip!'

'No more whips,' said Sirano softly. 'No more beatings or cold words. Just answer my question.'

'Are you mad?'

'As in insanity, you mean? I do believe that I am. It is not an unpleasant feeling. In fact there is some comfort in it. But let us get back to the question at hand. When you walked into that bathroom she said, "You have killed him. What more can you do to me?" You said, "Much more." Then you drowned her. Why?'

Colour drained from the Duke's face as his mouth opened, then closed. 'How . . . ?' he whispered at last.

'It doesn't matter, Father. Nothing matters except your answer. Speak.'

'I ... she ... I loved her,' he said. 'Truly. But ... it wasn't enough for her. She took a man to her bed. One of my Guards. They were planning, I think, to have me killed. Yes, to kill me. I found out.' Anguish twisted his face. 'Why do you want to hear this?'

'The man you killed. Was he tall and dark, with blue eyes?'

'Yes. Yes, he was.'

'I see,' said Sirano. 'I have often wondered why your mistresses never swell with child. Now I know.

Your seed is not strong. And you are not my father.'

'No, I am not!' shouted the older man. 'But you will be the Duke when I am dead. I raised you as my own. You owe me for that!'

Sirano smiled. 'I think not. That was just ego on your part. You robbed me of the love of a mother and a father. You have made my life miserable. But I am eighteen now, and a man. I am ready for a man's duties. Goodbye, Father. May your soul burn!'

Rising, Sirano spoke a single word. The snake in the

glass shimmered, then was gone. The old Duke made to speak, but something swelled in his windpipe. He scrabbled at his throat and his body writhed; his hand lashed out, striking the wall with a dull thump. His legs thrashed below the sheets, a low gurgling choke came from him. Sirano watched him die, then reached down and opened the old man's mouth.

The head of the snake was just visible. Wrenching open the Duke's jaws, Sirano pressed his fingers down into the throat, drawing out the serpent. It flapped and writhed around his wrist. Moving to the window, he flung the creature out into the garden.

After the official seven days of mourning, Sirano took the Blessing and donned the mantle of the Duke of Romark. The ceremony over, he took his advisors to the ramparts of the high west wall and pointed at the mountains of the Eldarin.

'There is great danger there, my friends,' he said. They are sorcerers and shape-shifters. What are they planning, do you think?'

Eight years later the twenty-six-year-old Sirano sat listening as his captains made their reports. The forces of the Duke of Corduin had been repulsed, with heavy losses on both sides, on the western border. The renegade corsair, Belliese, had savaged a Romarkian supply fleet in the southern seas, and captured two war galleons. Elsewhere there was only one victory that could be described as anything but pyrrhic. Karis and her lancers had smashed a mercenary force heading to relieve a small fortress town eighty miles north of Loretheli. Two hundred and forty enemy soldiers were killed for the loss of fifteen dead and thirty-one wounded. The town had surrendered to Karis a day later, its treasury of 12,000 gold coins now swelling the Romark coffers. As the officers discussed tactics, Romark found his mind wandering, his gaze focusing on Karis. Tall and slim, her long dark hair held in place by a silver circlet, she radiated a martial beauty that Sirano found intoxicating. She was not classically beautiful, for her nose was long, and her face somewhat angular. Yet there was something about this warrior woman that stirred his blood as no other could.

Dismissing the captains, Sirano gestured for Karis to remain. Rising from the table, he moved to a beautifully crafted cabinet at the window wall of the large study, removing a cut-glass decanter. Half filling two crystal globe glasses he passed one to Karis.

'My congratulations, Karis. Your raid was an exemplary lesson in tactics.'

Karis gave a short bow, her large dark eyes holding to his own. 'This is what you wished to discuss?' she asked him.

'I have nothing to discuss,' he said, 'but I enjoy your company. Sit for a while.' Karis stretched out on a couch, leaving no room for the Duke to join her. But she lay back with one foot on the floor, the other leg straight, and Sirano did not try to stop his gaze from dwelling on her open legs and the cut of her blue silk leggings. Resisting the urge to run his hand along her thigh, he drew up a chair close to her and sat, sipping his brandy. Karis smiled at him, her expression cat-like.

'I hear you have a new mistress,' said Karis. 'Is she sweet?'

'Indeed she is,' he told her. 'She even tells me she loves me.'

'And does she?'

'Who can say? I am rich, and I am powerful. Many women would find that attractive in itself.'

'So modest, Saro,' she chided him. 'You are also handsome and witty. I don't doubt that you provide your partners with great physical joy.'

'How kind,' he said. 'Are you still cavorting with that mercenary lieutenant . . . Giriak?'

She nodded, then sat up and drained her brandy. 'He is young and strong.'

'And has he fallen in love with you?'

She shrugged. 'He uses the words wonderfully, with exquisite timing. I think that might be the same thing, don't you?'

'It certainly is for me,' he conceded. 'But then I am not entirely sure I know what love is. Neither do you, dear heart. . . unless of course we are talking of your first love, battle.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'You misread me, Sirano.'

He chuckled with genuine humour. 'I do not believe that I do. There are many in all the Duchies who wish for this war to be ended, but you are not among them. War is life to you. The day peace comes -

and come it will one day when I win - you will know panic.'

'I think not. Panic is alien to me. However, this conversation is entirely hypothetical. The forces are too even for there to be a decisive end to the conflict. Added to which there are the mercenary armies; they follow only gold. When you Dukes seek to end the battles, what do you think will become of them? Will they lay down their arms and return to the land? No, Saro. You and your noble friends and enemies have loosed the wolves. You will not round them up easily.'

He shrugged. 'These are problems for another day.' His gaze returned to her silk-clad limbs. 'You really are very attractive,' he said. 'One day we should get to know one another a little better.'

'One day,' she agreed. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Karis rose and refilled her brandy glass.

'Have you unlocked the secrets of the Pearl?' she asked him.

'I think we are close,' he said. 'I believe it to be a power source of some kind.'

'You said the same thing two months ago,' she reminded him.

'Patience is one of my virtues,' he replied. 'So far we have tried probe spells of increasing power. Nothing pierces the Pearl. Yet even as we speak my sorcerers are preparing themselves for the ritual of Aveas. I think we will have answers today. It is one of the reasons I asked you to wait with me.'

Karis sipped her brandy, then returned to the couch. This time she did not stretch herself out, but sat on the edge of the seat. 'I am not a magicker, Saro, but do the spells of Aveas not require a death?'

'I am afraid that they do. But needs must when demons threaten, as they say.'

'And what will it achieve, this murder?' she asked him.

'That is hard to say. I tend to think that when wizards talk of human sacrifice they are at their wits' end. But I have studied enough to know that great magic can be conjured from terror. And there is nothing more terrifying than to be chained to an altar, with a knife raised above your heart.'

Before she could answer, there came a knock at the study door. 'Enter!' he called.

A tall, thin man wearing long robes of blue velvet entered and bowed. He was bald, the skin of his face stretched tight around a large skull. 'It would be good,' Sirano told him, 'if you have brought me welcome news.'

'Something of interest has occurred, lord,' answered the man, his voice low and deep. 'It is something I think you should witness for yourself.'

'We will join you presently,' said Sirano, waving his hand and dismissing the wizard. After he had left, Karis rose to leave. 'Wait!' Sirano ordered.

'I do not wish to see it,' she said. 'Human sacrifice does not interest me.'

'Nor me,' he agreed. 'Come with me anyway.'

'Do you order it, lord?' she asked him, her tone faintly mocking.

'Indeed I do, Captain,' he said, moving alongside her and laying his hand on her shoulder. Leaning towards her he tenderly kissed her cheek. 'I adore the perfume of your hair,' he whispered.

Together they walked the long corridor, descending the circular stairs to the lower levels. Torches shone on the bare stone walls and a sleek, fat rat ran across their path as they moved towards two double doors.

Sirano paused. That rat was altogether too well-fed for my liking,' he said. 'Remind me to send for the quartermaster when we are finished here.'

'Perhaps the rat is a pet,' she said, with a grin.

'Perhaps. More likely the vermin have found a way into the grain store, which I ordered sealed tight.'

Sirano pushed open the double doors and they entered a large circular room, ablaze with the light of twenty lanterns. Three sorcerers in robes of velvet stood around a flat table to which a naked young girl was strapped by her arms and legs. Just beyond the altar, set on an upturned eagle's claw of bronze, rested the Eldarin Pearl. Karis had never seen the jewel, and was stunned by its beauty. It seemed to pulse with living colour, and she could feel warmth emanating from it.

'Oh, please, my lord, save me!' wailed the girl tied to the altar table. Karis swung to look at her. She was no more than fourteen.

'Be silent, child,' ordered Sirano. Swinging to the tall bald sorcerer, he asked, 'Why has the ritual not yet been completed?'

'It has, my lord. That is, what is of interest.'

'Spare me the riddles, Calizar.'

'Observe, lord.' The tall man raised his left hand and began to chant. Red smoke flowed from his fingers, oozing out towards the milky beauty of the Pearl. As it came closer the smoke shifted, forming what appeared to Karis to be a large four-taloned claw which descended towards the Pearl. Just as the red smoke was about to touch the globe, a jagged spark of lightning lanced up. Blue fire exploded within the smoke, flaring in an intricate web of light. The red claw disappeared.

As the smoke faded, the sorcerer raised his right hand. The curved dagger he held flashed down, plunging into the young girl's heart. Her slender body arched up, and a strangled cry was torn from her lips. Calizar dragged the knife clear. A white cloud billowed from the Pearl and swept out over the murdered girl, masking her completely. The huge room filled with the scent of roses. Sirano watched with interest. Karis stood by, her distaste for the attempted sacrifice washed away by a sudden feeling of prescience as she stared intently at the child on the altar.

After several seconds, the white cloud rose from the girl and flowed back into the Pearl.

'No more, please!' wailed the child. Sirano stepped in close, his hand pressing down on the white flesh of her small breasts. There was not a mark, nor a speck of blood to show where the knife tore into her heart.

'How many times has this happened?' asked Sirano.

This was the fourth, my lord. The Pearl will not, it seems, allow a human sacrifice.'

'Fascinating! What do you make of it, Calizar?'

'It is quite beyond me, Lord Sirano.'

'Give me the dagger and cast the talon-smoke.' Calizar handed him the blade, then began to chant. The girl on the altar started to cry. Sirano smiled at her, and stroked her hair.

'Don't hurt me!' she begged him.

He did not reply. The red smoke closed around the Pearl, lightning and blue sparks came out once more in response.

'Now!' whispered Calizar.

Sirano turned . . . and slammed the dagger into the wizard's chest, driving in the blade up to the hilt. Calizar staggered back and then fell to his knees, his long upper body slumping forward until his brow thudded against the cold stone of the floor.

The white cloud issued from the Pearl, sweeping over the wizard. But as it touched him it recoiled and returned instantly to the globe, seeping through the multicoloured outer layer.

Sirano knelt by the corpse and pushed it to its back. 'I have no time', he said, 'for wizards who find new magic beyond them.' Rising, he turned to the other two sorcerers. 'Do you find this utterly beyond you?'

'Not at all, my lord. But it will require a great deal of study,' replied the first. His colleague nodded agreement.

'Good,' said Sirano. 'So what have we learned today?'

'The Pearl is sentient,' said the first sorcerer, a small man with close-set eyes and a long pointed beard.

'What else?'

'That we can establish some kind of control over it.

We made it heal the child. But if you will forgive me for saying so, lord, I do not - yet,' he added swiftly,

'understand why it brought the girl back to life and not my brother Calizar.'

'Ah, but I do,' said Sirano. 'Continue your work.'

'What about the girl, lord?'

'No more sacrifices for the moment. Give her ten gold crowns and send her home.'

Swinging away from them he led Karis back to the upper study.

'Well?' she asked him. 'Are you going to tell me why it saved the girl.'

'She was innocent,' he said.

'How does that help you unlock the Pearl's secrets?'

'It made a choice, my beauty. Don't you see? It is sentient. So we will offer it more choices. And very soon I will have more power than any man who ever walked this land.'

For six days Karis saw no sign of Sirano. At midnight on the seventh day a tremor ran through the castle.

Karis, who was lying in bed nursing a goblet of wine in her hands, leapt to her feet and ran to the balcony.

Bright lights were blazing from the highest rooms of the keep, and lightning forked up from the top turret.

Blocks of stone cascaded down to the courtyard below, some smashing through the stable roof.

The naked man who moments before had been lying alongside Karis moved out onto the balcony. 'His magic will kill us all,' he said, gripping the bronze balcony rail. Darkly handsome, his strong face now showed signs of fear. It was not an attractive sight, thought Karis.

'He says he is close to the secrets of the Pearl,' Karis told him.

Giriak swore. 'You told me that a week ago. Yesterday a section of the main wall came crashing down -

killed three of my men. He'll wreck the entire city if this goes on much longer. Have you seen the columns of refugees? They're leaving the city in droves.'

Karis shrugged. 'What do you care?' she asked him. 'He gives you gold.'

'I'd like to live to spend it.'

Another tremor struck, and a small crack appeared on the facing wall of the balcony. 'Son of a whore!'

hissed Giriak, leaping back into the main room. Karis grinned as she turned to face him. Holding out her arms, she gestured to him.

'Come!' she called. 'Make love to me on the balcony, before it falls.'

'Don't be foolish,' he urged her. Karis let fall the green robe she wore, her naked body glistening in the moonlight. Another tremor struck and the crack in the stone opened wider, tracing a thick black line all the way to the wall. 'Come in!' yelled Giriak.

'Come out,' she taunted. 'Show me you are a man.'

'You are mad, woman! Do you want to die?'

'Collect your clothes and get out,' she said, contemptuously turning from him and climbing to the bronze rail. Balanced delicately, she walked along it, feeling the cold, smooth metal beneath her feet. One more tremor and she would fall. She knew it, and a delicious sense of excitement swept through her. This was life! For some moments she stood there with arms raised.

Lightning swept up from the turret, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the foundations of the building. Karis lost her balance, then spun and launched herself back into the bedchamber, landing on her shoulder and rolling to her feet. Behind her the balcony sheared away and crashed to the courtyard below.

Karis shivered, then glanced around the room. Giriak had gone.

Gathering the wine jug and a goblet, she sat down on the round embroidered rug at the centre of the room.

Giriak was a disappointment. Like all the men she had known. Is it a fault in men themselves, she wondered, or merely a flaw in the kind of men I find exciting? Indeed, is the flaw in me?

Her father had maintained that it was. He claimed she was devil-possessed, and tried for years to thrash the devil from her. He would drag her from the cabin and tie her to a post in the barn. The words that followed were always the same. 'Recant! Open your heart to the Source. Beg for forgiveness.' Karis had tried all that, but it made no difference. If she proclaimed her innocence, he would beat her. If she admitted guilt and called upon the Source to forgive her, her father's rage would grow incandescent. 'You lie and mock me!' he would shout. Then he would beat her legs and buttocks with the birch until she bled. So she learned to stay silent through it all, head twisted, her deep brown eyes holding to his insane gaze.

There was no knight at hand to rescue the child, no hero to stride through the forest and pluck her away.

Just her and her world-weary mother, a woman old before her time, beaten down by the years and the cold fists of her husband.

'One day I will go back and kill him,' she thought, swilling down the last of the wine. Lying on her back, she stared up at the ornate, painted ceiling. Cracks were showing here too. Giriak was right, Sirano was destroying his own city. 'It is nothing to me,' she said.

Does anything matter to you? she asked herself. Or does life have nothing more to offer than a stunning victory in battle or a sweaty rut with a powerful man?

'Both are one and the same thing,' she said aloud. The ceiling shifted and swam. At first she thought it was another tremor, but then, as her stomach lurched, she realized it was the effect of the wine. Rolling to her knees, she forced herself upright. Taking a deep drink from a pitcher of water, she moved to the bed and sat down. As always her powerful constitution began to override the alcohol in her system.

Weariness flowed over her, and she wished now that she had not sent Giriak away. It would have been pleasant to lie close, feeling the warmth of his body as she drifted into sleep.

The bedroom door opened and she felt the touch of a cool breeze. Opening her eyes, she sat up. But it was not Giriak who entered.

Sirano stood in the doorway, and Karis was surprised by the change in the man. His handsome face was thin and drawn, his cheeks covered by black stubble, his eyes dark-rimmed and weary. His clothes, so beautifully fashioned from black silk, were sweat-stained and creased, and his black hair was lank and dark with sweat. Moving to the bedside, he gave a tired smile.

'You are beautiful naked, Karis,' he said. The words were forced, no more than echoes of what would only a few days before have been genuine emotion.

'You look dreadful,' she told him. 'How long since you slept?'

'Days. I swear I am close though. The Pearl's defences are thin. If I had the energy, I would have stayed for the breakthrough tonight. The Spell of Seven almost made it. It could not save all the victims. That's when I knew.'

'How many did you kill, Saro?'

'Kill? Oh, the girls . . . two. Five survived. But I am almost there, Karis.'

'You will ruin your city and destroy yourself in the process. Do you know the quakes are spreading further? A rider came in today. He said Corduin was struck three times in the last month. Is this your doing?'

He nodded. 'Do not concern yourself. With the power of the Pearl, I can rebuild and Morgallis will be a hundred times more beautiful than before. And we will have eternity to make it even better.

Immortality lies within that sphere.'

'We?' she countered.

'Why not, Karis? You and I. Young for ever.'

'Perhaps I do not want to be young for ever,' she told him.

'You say that only because you have not yet felt the winter fingers of the grave upon your skin.' His eyes were bright and feverish. Karis rose from the bed and filled a goblet with water, which she offered to him. 'Wine,' he said. 'Give me wine.'

Hurling the water to the floor, she poured the last of the wine into the goblet. He took it from her with a trembling hand and drank deeply. 'I am so tired.'

'Then go to your room and sleep.'

For a moment he was silent, his expression thoughtful. 'I am not a vain man,' he said at last. 'I know that you find me attractive. And I truly believe you are the most divine of women. Why then do we never sleep together?'

'This is not the time to talk of it, Saro,' she told him.

He smiled. 'I know the answer - but I wanted to hear you say it. You are a mercenary. When your contract is finished, you move to the highest bidder. It would complicate matters if you were emotionally involved with one of the four Dukes. Not so?'

'Exactly so,' she agreed. 'Knowing this, why do you persist?'

'I yearn for the unattainable,' he said. His expression softened. 'Do you trust my word, Karis?'

'I have no reason to doubt it.'

'Then grant me permission to stay until dawn. I have the need to feel the warmth of human skin against my own. I shall not make any attempt to seduce you - that I swear.'

'What of your mistress? Is her skin not soft and warm?'

'May I stay?' he said.

She looked at him, then sighed. 'You may stay -until dawn.'

Sirano rose and slowly stripped away his clothes before stumbling to the bed. When Karis pulled back the coverlet and slipped in beside him his body was cold to the touch. Putting her arms around him, she drew him close.

'She is dead, Karis,' he whispered. 'Her body is no longer soft and warm.'

'You sacrificed her?'

'With my own hand.'

Karis did not speak. His breathing deepened and soon he was asleep in her arms. But no sleep came to Karis. The girl had been no more than eighteen, and was besotted with Sirano, her doe-eyes never leaving his face. She lived to please him. Now she had died to please him.

Karis lay still for some time, then eased herself away from the sleeping man. Rising silently, she moved to where her clothes lay discarded on the floor. Slipping her dagger from its sheath, she returned to the bed. One thrust was all it would take.

In the lantern light his face looked very young, boyish and innocent. You are not innocent, she thought. You are a killer, succumbing to evil.

A brilliant light shone down upon the bed, illuminating his face, and Karis swung round. The western wall was glowing bright, as if lit from within. A tall figure emerged from it; his face was slender, and framed with white fur save around the eyes and nose. Karis flipped the dagger, then hurled it. It sailed through the figure and clattered against the far wall.

'You have nothing to fear, child,' whispered a voice inside her head.

'Who are you?' she asked, aloud. Beside her Sirano stirred and woke.

'I am Ranaloth,' said the apparition.

'The spirit of the Pearl,' said Sirano. 'Are you ready to give me what I want?'

'I cannot. Nor should you make any more attempts to steal it.'

'I will beat you, Eldarin. Just as I destroyed your people. You cannot stop me.'

'You are not quite correct. I could stop you. I could kill you, child. Instead I appeal to you, Sirano, not to continue. The Pearl is more important than your ambition. And should you succeed, you will unleash a terror you cannot control.'

'Empty words,' sneered Sirano.

'The Eldarin do not lie, Duke of Romark; we put that behind us a thousand years ago. You see the Pearl as a weapon, as an aid to your dreams of conquest and immortality. But it is not a weapon. And it will not, even if pierced, give you what you desire.'

'Do not seek to fool me, old man,' said Sirano. 'I am a Master of Spells. I can feel the power within the Pearl, and soon I will draw it to me.'

The figure stood silently for a moment, then Ranaloth spoke again. 'A long time ago the Eldarin faced another evil,' he said. 'We contained it, removed it from the world. The Pearl holds that evil at bay. Do not .

. .' Suddenly the light around the apparition flickered and the old man staggered. 'Your sorcerers continue to attack us,' he said. His shoulders slumped, and he spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. 'Now,' he said, an infinite sadness in his voice, 'it is too late.' Turning to Karis, he told her, 'Leave this city and take to the high places. Your world is finished. Desolation and horror await you.'

The light dimmed and the figure disappeared. The two humans sat in silence for several moments, then Karis rose from the bed. 'What have you done, Saro? What has your evil brought us to?'

'Evil?' he sneered. 'What is evil? All men of power are called evil by their enemies. It means nothing, it is just a word.'

'The Eldarin said our world is finished. He promised desolation and horror.'

'He lied!'

'Why would he lie? What would be his purpose?' Karis shook her head. 'No, Sirano, his words rang with the truth. You destroyed the Eldarin. You plunged the world into war. And now you have unleashed an evil force that might destroy us all.'

'What evil force? I tell you he lied, and I'll tell you why. It was because he knew I had him! And I will have his power!'

'I don't think so,' said Karis. 'And you no longer have me.'

'We have a contract!'

'The unearned monies will be returned to you. My men and I will leave with the dawn.'

'As you will,' he said. 'Perhaps when you come back to me on bended knee I will forgive you, Karis.'

She laughed at him. 'You will need to be immortal, Saro, to live long enough to see that day. Now be so kind as to leave me in peace. I need some sleep.'

The door closed behind Sirano and Karis stood silently, listening as the sound of his footsteps receded.

Once sure he was not coming back, she moved swiftly to the large wardrobe and took from it her riding clothes: breeches of brown oiled leather and a shirt of thick, cream-coloured wool, knee-length boots with a two-inch heel, and a sleeveless leather jerkin, the shoulders and upper back reinforced by a delicately wrought cape and hood of tiny mail rings. Moving to the mirror by the bedside she brushed back her shoulder-length black hair, drawing it tightly into a ponytail which she tied at the nape of her neck. Without the softening effect of her hair hanging loose Karis looked older, and she stared hard at her reflection. The dark eyes had seen too much pain, and it showed in the guarded gaze. Leaning forward, she lifted her hand to her temple. A single grey hair shone there. Angrily she plucked it out. Twenty-eight is not so old, she reminded herself.

'Move yourself,' she said, aloud. 'You don't have time to stare into mirrors.'

Once the shock of her defection had worn off, Sirano would take steps to stop her. Of all the mercenary leaders Karis was, quite simply, the best. She knew it. He knew it. He would not allow her to join one of his enemies, and Karis had no wish to be strapped to an altar and sacrificed to the Pearl.

Looping her sword-belt around her slender waist and twirling her sheepskin riding cloak about her shoulders, she took a last look around the room. The dagger she had hurled at the Eldarin ghost lay against the far wall. She sheathed it in the hidden scabbard of her right boot. Lastly she opened the small chest by the far wall and took from it a heavy pouch containing forty gold pieces, which she thrust deep into a hidden pocket inside her jerkin. Gathering her hunting-bow and quiver, she walked from the room, moving silently along the corridor and down the winding stairs to the courtyard door.

At the stables she bridled and saddled Warain, the strongest and fastest of her geldings. It irked her to leave behind the other two, but they were stabled at the barracks and fetching them would add an hour she could not afford. Warain's great grey head nuzzled her, and she rubbed his broad brow with her knuckles and then led him from the stall.

A bleary-eyed stableboy rose from his bed of straw. 'Can I help you, sir?' he asked.

Karis loomed over the child, then took his chin in her hand. 'Do I look like a man to you, boy?' she asked him.

He blinked nervously. 'I'm sorry, ma'am. I was half asleep.'

Karis shook her head, annoyed at the irritation she felt. The boy was probably not yet past puberty, but even so ... 'Go and fill me a small sack of grain,' she ordered him. He ran off to the far end of the stable, returning with the feed-sack moments later. Looping it over the high pommel of the saddle, Karis ruffled the boy's hair. 'Do not mind me, child. It has been a long and exhausting day.'

'I saw only the boots and the sword, ma'am. You are very beautiful,' he said gallantly.

'Tell me that in ten years, and I'll promise you a night to remember!' Karis swung into the saddle as the boy opened the stable door. She ducked down into Warain's neck and steered the gelding through the open doorway. Warain was over sixteen hands tall and the lintel stone above the door brushed her shoulders.

Sitting up, she heeled Warain forward and rode slowly down Long Avenue towards the Western Gate. She had left behind all of her clothes, and various gifts and souvenirs that others would have considered of sentimental value. But Karis was not a sentimental woman. She had only one regret - not being able to say goodbye to the veteran warrior, Necklen. The old man had become a friend -and friendship with a man was rare for Karis. He loved her like a man should love a daughter. Anger flared as old memories burst to life. If she had known a father like Necklen, maybe now she would be happy.

Tugging on the reins, she halted Warain. There was still time to find Necklen and urge him to ride with her.

He would come willingly. Karis was torn. His company always lifted her spirits, but the perils would be great and she had no wish to lead the old man to his death. 'I will send for you,' she whispered, 'when I have a new command.'

The streets were deserted as she rode, but everywhere there were signs of Sirano's obsessive desire to open the secrets of the Pearl. Huge cracks showed on the sides of buildings and several walls had fallen. The road ahead was buckled, sharp paving stones twisted up from the surface like broken teeth. She could see the main gates now, and the two sentries standing below the tall arch. She had timed her departure well, and the dawn light was just creeping above the eastern mountains. No-one was allowed out of Morgallis at night without a pass.

'Good morning,' she said, as she drew abreast of the men.

'Good day to you, Karis,' said the first guard amiably. He gave her a wide smile. His face was familiar, and she struggled for a link. The name came first.

'You are looking well, Gorl. Perhaps too well,' she added, pointing at the man's paunch. 'How long since you marched on a campaign?'

'Almost a year - and I don't miss it. Got me a wife now, and two nippers.'

'A wife? And you swore no one woman could satisfy you.'

He shook his head, and grinned. 'That was afore I knew you, lady. You taught me different.' Then she remembered: Gorl had been one of her many lovers. Was it on the Mountain Campaign, she wondered? No, that was the slim bowman who had died near Loretheli. 'Where are you riding to, this chilly morning?' asked Gorl, the question cutting through her thoughts.

'I quit Sirano's service last night. I think I'll ride for the sea. Rest up with a few sailors.'

Gorl chuckled. 'By the Gods, you're a wonder, Karis! Live like a whore, fight like a tiger, look like an angel. It was two years before I got you out of my blood. Or thought I had.'

'I think of you fondly too,' she said. 'Now open the gate.'

Stepping back, he winched the bar out of its broad sockets while the other guard pushed open the gate of oak and bronze. 'You stay healthy, you hear?' shouted Gorl as she heeled Warain into a canter.

Karis waved and rode out into the hills.

Maybe it was after the siege of that garrison fort near Hlobane . . . No. A fleeting memory touched her, and she recalled making love to Gorl in the shade of a willow tree beside a fast-flowing stream. There were no willows near the garrison. Oh well, she thought. It will come to me or it won't.

Once out of sight of the city, she swung to the west, and by midday had ridden almost a complete semi-circle, the city now south-east of her. It would not fool any pursuers for long, but by the time they figured out her true direction she would be long gone. How far would Sirano go to see her captured or slain, she wondered? A long, long way, she decided. Then she laughed aloud. 'You arrogant strumpet,' she told herself. 'Maybe he has forgotten you already.'

To the best of her recollection it was around 240 miles to Corduin, much of it over rough country. The fastest route would be north and west, skirting the line of the Great North Desert. She smiled at the memory of her mother's stories. The desert was a place of myth and magic, a haunted land. Tribes of giants had once wandered there, eaters of human flesh, violaters of young girls. But with the memories came the sadness of reality, and she remembered her mother's bruised face, the blackened eyes, and the terrible sorrow that rules when love is replaced by fear.

'Just you and I, Warain,' she said, with a sigh. 'Come, let us work some of that fat from you.' The big grey bunched his muscles and broke into a run.

High on a hillside overlooking the city of Corduin, a beautiful raven-haired girl beside him, Duvodas sat on a broken wall beside a trickling stream. His harp glinted in the sunlight as it lay on the green silk shirt he had removed to allow the sun's autumn warmth to his skin. 'What are you thinking, Song-man?' asked Shira. Her crippled leg was hidden by the folds of her rust-coloured skirt, and her beauty was now unsullied. Duvodas slid off the wall to sit beside her on the grass.

'I was thinking of far-off days and gentle music, Shira. Of sunshine on meadows, of laughter and song.

There was magic there - a magic born of love and caring. Where I grew up, they would have healed your leg. Then you would have been able to run across these hills.'

'Sometimes I try to forget about my leg,' she said, sadly. 'Especially when I am sitting down.'

He was instantly contrite, reaching out and stroking her cheek. 'I am sorry,' he said. 'That was thoughtless.

Forgive me?'

She smiled, and he was lost in wonder at the beauty of it. Joy radiated from her, as powerfully as any music from his harp. Her hair was dark and long, her skin ivory fair. But the magic of her was in that radiant smile; it was both enchanting and contagious. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips. 'You are a beautiful woman, Shira.'

'And you are a rogue, Song-man,' she chided him.

'How can you say that?' he asked her, genuinely puzzled.

'A woman can tell. How many other girls have you complimented so prettily?'

'None,' he said. 'I have never met one with a smile like yours.' She wagged her finger at him, but he knew she was pleased. Twisting round, she opened the picnic hamper and produced two plates, some fresh-baked bread and two sealed pottery jars, one containing butter and the other a strawberry preserve.

'Customers have been asking Father where he purchased his new ale and wines. They say they have never tasted finer.'

'Music has that effect on appetites,' he said. 'How is your father's gout?'

'You are changing the subject again. You do that

every time I talk about the effect of your music. Are you embarrassed by your talent?'

He smiled and shook his head. 'I love my music. It is just.. . when I am with you, I don't want to think about taverns and customers. I want to enjoy the freshness of the fields, the smell of the flowers, and -

most of all - your company.' It was astonishing to Duvo that Shira, soon to be nineteen, was unmarried. He had understood the words when one of the tavern regulars told him: 'Shame about the leg. She's a wonderful girl, but she'll get no man.' How, he wondered, could a physical injury to a limb have such an effect? It was a mystery to Duvo. It was true that she walked clumsily, but her spirit was a delight and her personality extraordinary. She was kind and caring. What was it then that she now lacked in the eyes of suitors?

They ate in pleasant silence, finishing the meal with a jug of apple juice. Replete, Duvodas lay back on the grass, staring up at the sky. There was a fight outside the tavern last night,' she told him. 'People were queuing to get in. Father cannot believe his luck. And, to answer your question, his gout seems to have disappeared.'

'That is good news.'

'Where are you from, Duvo? Where is this land where my leg could be straightened?'

'It is in a far place,' he said softly, sitting up. 'A place we can no longer journey to. It exists only in here,' he said, tapping his temple. 'But I remember the joy of it. I will always treasure those memories.'

'Where was it?'

'It is better not to speak of it.'

She leaned in close to him, so close he could smell the perfume of her hair. The effect was disconcertingly pleasant. 'You lived with the Eldarin, didn't you?'

He sighed. 'Yes. With the gentle Eldarin.'

'They were going to destroy us all - that's what our schoolteacher told us.'

He shook his head. 'The Eldarin were peaceful; they had no wish to dominate others. But truth counts for nothing against the evil lies of men like Sirano. What I will never understand is the reason behind it all.

What did Sirano and the others hope to achieve by destroying the Eldarin? The world has been at war ever since. Thousands have died. And for what? Did they envy the Eldarin their civilization, their knowledge?

Was it just greed? I don't know. Hate seems so much stronger than love. A sculptor can spend years fashioning a statue from a single piece of marble. Another man can wreck it in a heartbeat with a heavy hammer. Love and hate.'

'I am sorry,' she said. 'Now I have saddened you.'

'You must not mention the Eldarin to anyone. I like my life as it is. Quiet.'

'Your secret is safe with me. All your secrets are safe with me.'

Leaning in he kissed her cheek. 'So chaste, Song-man,' she whispered. 'Is that all you wish for?'

'I wish for many things,' he told her, drawing her close. 'Most of them I cannot have.'

'You could have me,' she told him. He looked into her eyes and saw the fear of rejection there.

'Please do not fall in love with me, Shira,' he said. 'Soon I will be moving on.'

'Why must you go? Are you not happy here?'

'It is not a question of happiness.'

She pulled away from him, but as she did so she raised her hand and ran her fingers through his long blond hair. 'You cannot ask someone not to love you,' she said. 'It lessens love if you believe it can be controlled by mere will. I have loved you from the moment I saw you. You remember when you came into the tavern? Father said he had no need of a singer, and you told him that you would double his takings in the first week?'

'I do. I didn't know you were there.'

'I was in the kitchen doorway. When you came in the sun was at your back, and your hair shone like gold.

I'll never forget that day.'

Drawing her down to the grass, he kissed her gently on the lips. Then he sat up. 'There is no deceit in me, Shira. I love you as I have loved no other. That is the truth. But there is another truth.'

'You have a wife?'

'No! That is something I cannot have. What I mean is that it will not be long before someone - as you have - begins to question my music and the spells it weaves. Then I will be forced to flee into the night.'

'I would go with you.'

Tenderly he took her hand. 'What kind of life could I offer you? I am a wanderer with no home and no people.'

She sat in silence for a moment. 'Would you have taken me with you had I been able to run across these hills?' she asked.

'No, never that. I love you, Shira. I love you for everything you are; for your sweetness and your love of life, for your caring and your courage.'

'You speak of courage, Duvo. Where is yours? I know how hard life can be. Two of my brothers have died in this senseless war, and I have spent my life in constant pain. From the day the wagon wheel crushed my leg -until you played for me - I have rarely known a moment when I could not feel the scraping of bone as I moved. But I go on, Duvo. We all go on. Life is harsh, life is cruel, life is uncaring. But we go on. I could take it with better heart if you did not love me. You could say farewell then, and I would be sad for a long while. But I would recover, I would take the wound and let it heal. Yet to love me, and still leave me ... that is hard to bear.'

Duvodas sat very still, staring into her large, dark eyes. All tension flowed from him, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. Then he sighed. 'None of us can help the way we are, Shira.'

They returned the plates and cups to the hamper and Duvodas lifted it to his shoulder. Shira gathered up his green shirt and his harp and took his arm. Her twisted left leg, several inches shorter than the right, made her movements ungainly and clumsy. Slowly they made their way down the hillside and on to the path towards the gates. Several children ran by and two of them stopped and laughed at Shira. She did not seem to mind, but the sound cut through Duvodas.

'Why do they laugh?' he asked her.

'My walk is comical,' she said.

'Would you laugh at another's misfortune?'

'Last winter the merchant Lunder, a large man and very pompous, came to collect a debt from Father. As he left, his foot slipped on the ice. He struggled to stay upright, then his legs flew up in the air and he fell into a ditch. I laughed so much there were tears running down my face.'

'I don't understand where the humour lies,' he told her.

'Did the Eldarin not laugh?'

'Yes. They knew great joy. But it was never as a result of brutality or derision.'

They fell silent and walked on. Outside the gates they turned on to the main street and on through the square. There were four fresh corpses hanging from the gibbet there. Three had placards around their necks proclaiming the single word: THIEF; the fourth placard said DESERTER. Several women were standing in front of the gibbet. Two were weeping.

'So much pain in the world,' said Shira. Duvodas did not reply. Few were the days when the gibbet went unused.

They moved on, reaching the tavern just before dusk. Shira's father stepped out to meet them. Fat, tall and bald, Ceofrin was every inch the tavern-keeper, his face ruddy with good health, his smile swift and reassuring. Duvodas sensed that Ceofrin was hoping for good news, and his heart sank.

'Did you two have a good picnic?' he asked.

'Aye, Father,' said Shira, letting go of Duvo's arm. 'It was very pleasant.' Slipping past him she limped into the tavern.

Ceofrin took the picnic hamper from Duvo. 'You two make a fine couple,' he said. 'I've never seen her so happy.'

'She is a wonderful girl,' Duvo agreed.

'And she'll make a fine wife. With a handsome dowry!'

'With or without the dowry,' said Duvo. Shira had placed his harp on a nearby table. Now he gathered it up and began to walk towards the stairs.

'Wait,' said Ceofrin. 'I'd like a word with you, lad - if you don't mind.'

Duvo took a deep breath and turned back, his grey-green eyes focusing on Ceofrin's blunt, honest face.

There was no hiding his emotions; the innkeeper was worried, and it showed. He sat down at a table by the leaded glass window and gestured to Duvo to sit opposite. 'This is not easy for me, Duvodas.' He licked his lips, then rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. 'I'm not a fool. I know the world is a harsh, cruel place. Two of my sons are buried in unmarked graves somewhere south of Morgallis. My daughter - the most beautiful child you ever saw - was crippled beneath a wagon. My wife died of the Eldarin Plague - as did nearly a quarter of the people in Corduin five years ago. You understand what I'm saying? I don't see life like one of your songs.'

'I understand,' said Duvo, softly, waiting for the man to get to the point.

'But Shira now . . . she's different. Never complained about the leg, did you know that? Just took the hurt and got on with her life. Everyone loves her. She's like a ... a living embodiment of your music. When she is around people smile. They feel good. She's nineteen now, an old maid. All of her school friends are married; some with babes. But not many suitors will consider a crippled wife. Shira understood this, yet still she fell in love. Not with a baker, or a tailor's clerk, but with a handsome musician. I am a plain man, and not good with the ladies. I can tell those who are, though. You could have your pick. You understand what I'm saying? She loves you, man, and that means you have it in your power to destroy her.' Ceofrin rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if trying to wipe a bad taste from his lips. 'So where do you stand?' he said at last.

'I love her,' said Duvo simply. 'But she and I have spoken of this. I cannot wed. There is much that I cannot speak of, Ceofrin. I would be a danger to her.'

'You are a spy?' Ceofrin's voice dropped to a husky whisper, fear shone in his eyes.

Duvo shook his head. 'No. This . . . petty war means nothing to me.' He leaned forward. 'Listen to me, Ceofrin, I would never willingly do anything to harm her. And I have not . . . nor will I ... take advantage of her love. You understand that? I'll not be leaving her with a swollen belly. But I will be leaving come the spring.'

Ceofrin was silent for a moment. When at last he spoke his voice was edged with bitterness. 'A curse on love!' he said. 'Like life, it always ends in unhappiness.' Pushing himself to his feet, he strode away towards the kitchens. Duvo hefted his harp and lightly ran his fingers over the twenty-five strings. Light notes echoed around the room and a host of dust motes, lit by a sudden shaft of sunlight, seemed to dance in rhythm to the sweetness of the sound.

'No man should curse love,' said Duvo. 'Ultimately, love is all there is.'

Brune had never been in a city as large as Corduin, and as he walked along beside Tarantio's horse he tried to remember landmarks. There were scores of roads and alleys, crossing and re-crossing wide avenues, lines of shops and stalls, and beyond them workplaces and factories. There were, it seemed to Brune, hundreds of statues, most of them portraying lions - some with wings, some with two heads, some wearing crowns.

They had journeyed less than a mile and Brune was hopelessly confused. Confusion was a major fact of Brune's life, and it scared him. He glanced nervously up at Tarantio. 'Do you know where we are?' he asked.

'Of course.'

The answer reassured Brune, and his panic vanished. 'There are lots of lion statues,' he said.

'It is the symbol of Corduin's ruling house.' Tarantio swung the horse to the right, down a narrow cobbled street. Brune's boots were thin, and the cobbles dug into the soles of his feet.

'Are we nearly there?'

'Nearly,' agreed Tarantio, turning left into an even narrower alley which opened out into a circular stable-yard. Several horses were in their stalls: others were being exercised in a field nearby. A short, wiry, elderly man with a drooping grey moustache approached the two men. Tarantio swung down from the saddle.

'A fine beast,' said the newcomer, eyeing the horse. 'Just a small cow-hock short of greatness. My name is Chase. What can I do for you?'

'I'd like to winter him here,' said Tarantio.

'There are cheaper places, my friend,' said Chase amiably.

'The best rarely comes cheap,' said Tarantio. 'What down payment do you require?'

'Who recommended you to me?'

'The merchant, Lunder. I came here last year to view his prize mares. Liked what I saw.'

'Will he guarantee your payment?'

'I need no guarantees. My word is iron.'

Chase looked hard at him, his flinty eyes raking Tarantio's lean face. 'I think that's probably true, warrior. Therefore, from you, I'll take two gold pieces. That will keep him in grain and grass for two months. Then I shall require a further five to last until the spring.'

Tarantio opened his coat and reached inside, producing a small pouch from which he took seven small gold coins. Each was embossed with two crossed swords on the face, the reverse showing a spreading oak. He passed the coins to Chase.

'You are a trusting man, I see,' said Chase.

'Indeed I am. But not blindly so. You say your name is Chase. Once you were called Persial, the Fleet One. For twenty-five years you were the finest horse-racer in the Duchies. Your career ended when you were fifty. Someone offered you a fortune to lose a race, but you refused. Your hands and feet were broken with hammers. Now you are Chase, the horse-trainer.'

Chase smiled grimly. 'Men change, stranger. Perhaps now I am wiser.'

Tarantio shook his head. 'Men don't change. They just learn to disguise the lack of change. I'd like him grain-fed, and I shall be visiting regularly.'

'Whenever you like.'

'Can you recommend a place to stay for a few nights?'

'There's a tavern close by. They have rooms, and the finest food you'll ever eat. They also have a musician who plays the sweetest music I ever heard. The place is called the Wise Owl. Turn south outside the entrance and it's in the third street on the left. You'll not find better. Mention my name to Ceofrin, the owner.'

'Thank you,' said Tarantio, turning to lift his saddlebags and blankets from the gelding.

'Do you have a name, son?' asked Chase.

'I am Tarantio.'

Chase grinned. 'I'll have the gelding's saddle close by him, day and night.'

Hefting his saddlebags to his shoulder, Tarantio strolled away, Brune following. 'That was a lot of money,'

said Brune. 'I have never seen seven gold pieces together before. I saw one once. Lat had one; he let me hold it. It was heavier than I thought it would be.'

'Gold is a heavy metal,' said Tarantio.

They reached the Wise Owl just before dusk and tapped on the main doors. 'We open in an hour,' a tall, burly man shouted from an upper window.

'We are seeking a room for a few days,' Tarantio told him.

'I'm not letting rooms at the moment.'

'Chase sent us to you,' said Tarantio.

'Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Wait there and I'll be down.'

Two log fires had been recently lit, one at each end of the wide dining area inside, and two serving girls were cleaning the wicks on the wall lanterns. There was a raised dais to the right of the long bar, upon which a blond young man, dressed in a shirt of green silk and leggings of brown wool, was tuning the strings of a hand harp. 'I have just the one room,' said Ceofrin, ushering the two men inside.

'Two beds and a good fireplace. It overlooks the main square. The price is a quarter silver a night, but that also buys you breakfast and an evening meal. Wine or ale is extra. How many nights are you staying?'

'Probably no more than four. I'm looking to rent a small house for the winter.'

'There's lots empty in the North Quarter. That's where the Eldarin Plague hit hardest.' Suddenly a series of shimmering notes filled the room and Tarantio jerked as if stung. Brune looked at him quizzically, but nothing was said, and the two men followed Ceofrin up the wide staircase. 'Do you want to book a table for tonight? It'll be busy and if you don't book you'll miss the music.'

'Have some food brought to the room,' said Tarantio. 'I am not in the mood for music.'

'I am,' said Brune. 'He sounds very good.'

'You'll not believe it until you hear it,' said Ceofrin confidently.

As they moved along an upper corridor, a beautiful, dark-haired girl stepped out of a room and walked towards them, limping heavily. 'My daughter, Shira,' said Ceofrin, pride in his voice. 'She will be cooking tonight.'

Tarantio bowed. Brune stood, mouth open, as Shira smiled at him. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling. In that moment he realized his hands were dirty, his clothes travel-stained, his hair a tangled, greasy mop. 'Hello,' she said, holding out her hand. Brune looked at it, then realized with a jerk that he was supposed to shake it. He glanced down at his own grubby palm, and wiped it quickly down the side of his leggings. Then he took her hand and gently squeezed it. 'And you are?' she prompted.

'Yes,' he said. 'I am.'

'He is Brune,' said Tarantio, with a wide smile.

'Yes . . .' he said. 'I am Brune. Pleased to meet you.'

'And I am Tarantio,' said the swordsman, taking her outstretched hand and raising it to his lips. With another dazzling smile she eased past them and made her slow, ungainly way down the corridor.

'This way,' said Ceofrin, leading them into a wide room with two well-crafted beds of pine. The ceiling was white and low, supported by long oak beams, and there was a stone-built fireplace set against the northern wall. The wide windows were leaded and Tarantio moved over to them, glancing out and down on the cobbled square. 'It is cold now, but I'll get a maid up to light the fire. Then it'll be cosy, you mark my words.'

'It is fine,' said Tarantio, reaching into his pouch and producing his last gold coin. He flipped it to Ceofrin and the tavern-keeper hefted the coin. 'This will leave you with nineteen silvers,' he said. 'I will have a servant bring the remainder to you.'

'Is there a bath here?' asked Tarantio.

'Aye. I'll get the water heated - it will take around half

an hour. It's on the ground floor - the door behind where the harpist is practising.'

As Ceofrin left the room Brune walked to the first of the beds and sat down. 'Oh,' he said, 'wasn't she beautiful?'

Tarantio dropped his saddlebags by the far wall. 'A vision,' he agreed. 'Shame about the leg.'

'Did I seem very stupid to her, do you think?'

'A man who suddenly can't remember his own name is very rarely considered a genius,' said Tarantio.

'But I think she was pleased by your reaction to her beauty.'

'You really think so?'

Tarantio did not reply. Shucking off his coat and tugging off his boots, he lay down on the second bed.

Brune lay back, picturing Shira's smile. Life was suddenly full of sunlight.

One hundred and twelve miles north-east, above the flanks of the highest mountain of the Great Northern Desert, a black vulture banked on the thermals, gliding towards the south, its keen eyes scanning the desert for signs of movement. It banked again, this time towards the west. The vulture did not hear the low, rumbling sounds from the peak of the mountain, but it saw boulders shiver and tremble. One huge stone rolled clear, bouncing down the red slope, dislodging hundreds of smaller stones and sending up a cloud of crimson dust. The vulture dipped its wings and flew closer.

A fissure opened, and the bird saw a small, dark object exposed to the light.

It was the last sight the vulture would ever experience. . .

A fierce wave of freezing air erupted from the mountain-top, striking the bird and ripping away its feathers. Dead in an instant, the vulture fell from the sky.

On the mountain-top a black pearl shimmered in the sunlight. The spell holding it wavered and shrank, then fell away like a broken chain.

In the warmth of the sun the black pearl swelled to the size of a large boulder. Blue flames crackled around it, hugging to the surface, flaring into lightning bolts that blazed in every direction.

Sixty miles away a young shepherd boy, named Goran, watched the display from the green hills south of the desert. He had seen dry storms before, but never one such as this. The sky was not dark but brilliantly blue and clear, and the lightning seemed to be radiating from a mountain-top like a spiked crown of blue-white light. He climbed to a high vantage point and sat down. As far as the eye could see, the dead stone of the desert filled his vision.

The lightning continued for some time, without thunder or rain. The boy became bored with the lights, and was about to descend to his flock of sheep when a dark cloud rose up from the distant mountain. From here the cloud looked no larger than a man's head but, considering the distance, Goran guessed it to be colossal.

He wished his father were here to see it, and perhaps explain the phenomenon. As the cloud continued to rise, swelling and growing, filling the sky, Goran realized that it could not possibly be a cloud. It was perfectly round, the perimeter sharp and clearly defined. Like the moon. Like a black moon - only twenty times the size.

No-one back at the village was going to believe this, and Goran could feel his irritation rising. If he told them they would laugh at him. Yet, if he said nothing, he might never learn the reason for the phenomenon.

He was only thirteen. Perhaps colossal black moons had been seen before in the desert. How could he find out without risking derision?

These thoughts vanished as the black moon suddenly fell from the sky, striking the point of the seemingly tiny mountain peak like a boulder crushing an anthill. But the black moon did not crush the mountain.

Instead it burst upon the stone.

Goran scrambled to his feet, fear causing his heart to pound. No longer solid, the moon had become a gigantic tidal wave, hundreds of feet high, roaring across the desert, sweeping towards the hillside on which he stood. Too frightened to run, Goran stood petrified as the black wall advanced, engulfing the red rocks of the desert. On the hillside the flock of sheep panicked, and ran. Goran just stood there.

As the tidal wave devoured the miles between them Goran saw that it was shrinking, and from his high vantage point he found he could see beyond the advancing black wall. Behind the wave, the land was no longer dead rock and shimmering heat hazes; there was the pale green of pastures and meadows, the deeper hues of forests and woods. And more incredible yet, as the shrinking black wave grew closer he saw a strange city appear behind it, a city of dark domes like thousands of black moons wedged together.

The tidal wave shrank and slowed as it neared him, until at last it gently lapped at the foot of the hills, seamlessly joining to the grass where his sheep fed.

Goran sat silently, jaw agape. There was no desert now, no hint of the gloomy, depressing stone. Verdant hills and valleys greeted his gaze, and away to the right a glistening stream rippled down over white rocks, joining to a river that vanished into deep woods.

Leaving his sheep to feed on the new grass he ran back down the hills and up along the deer trail, his heart thumping. Cresting the last rise before the village, he ran down to the main street and found his father, the farmer Barin, taking lunch with the blacksmith, Yordis, outside the forge.

Swiftly the boy told the men what he had seen. At first his father laughed and, leaning forward, smelt his son's breath. 'Well, it is not wine you've been drinking,' he said, ruffling Goran's hair.

'Perhaps he fell asleep, Barin,' offered the blacksmith, 'and dreamt the whole affair.'

'No, sir,' insisted the boy. 'But even if I had, I would have had to be awake to run back and tell you about it.

I swear the desert is gone, and there is a city no more than five miles from our hills.'

'It is a dull day,' said Barin, 'and a ride will make it more interesting. But be warned, Goran, if there is no city I shall take off my belt and flay your buttocks till they bleed!' Swinging to the blacksmith, he said,

'You wish to see this city, my friend?'

'I wouldn't miss it for the world,' said Yordis. The two men saddled their mounts and, the boy riding behind his father, set out for the hills.

Once there, the good humour vanished, and the two men sat their horses and gazed silently at the distant city.

'What in Hell's name is going on?' asked the smith.

'I don't know,' Barin replied. 'Ride back and fetch the others. The boy and I will wait.'

The smith rode off as father and son dismounted. 'It is a magical city,' said the boy. 'Perhaps the Eldarin have come back.'

'Perhaps,' his father agreed.

Yordis returned with some twenty villagers, and the group rode down to the rich grassland. Dismounting, they walked around in silence for a while, then gathered together and sat in a circle. 'Someone should ride to the

garrison; they could send a rider to Corduin to let Lord Albreck know what has occurred,' said Barin.

'Who would be believed?' asked a village elder. 'I have seen it and I still do not believe it.'

'Should we go to the domed city and make ourselves known to them?' asked another.

'That will not be necessary,' said Barin. 'It seems they are coming to us.'

The men rose and turned to see a hundred horsemen galloping across the grassland. The horses were huge, taller by six hands than anything the villagers had ever seen, and the riders were large, powerful warriors, seemingly wearing helms of white bone. But as they came closer, Barin realized that they were not helms at all. The riders were not human. Fear rose in him and, grabbing his son, he lifted him to the saddle. 'Get to the Duke Albreck,' he hissed. Then he slapped his hand hard on to the rump of the horse, which half-reared and then bolted towards the south.

The riders ignored the fleeing boy and formed a circle around the villagers. One of them dismounted and walked up to Barin. The warrior was more than seven feet tall, huge across the shoulder. His face was flat, the bone of his ridged nose flowing up over his hairless cranium. The eyes were huge and black, showing no evidence of a pupil, and the beaked mouth was a curious M-shape, curving downward, lipless and cruel.

The creature loomed over the farmer, and a series of guttural clicks came from its mouth. Barin blinked and licked his lips nervously. 'I... I do not understand you,' he said. The creature paused, then made a motion with his hand, touching his own lipless mouth and then pointing to Barin. 'What is it you want?' asked Barin. The creature nodded vigorously, then gestured him to continue.

'I do not know what to say, nor whether you can understand my words. I fear you cannot. We are all villagers here, and we came to see the miracle of the desert. We mean no harm to anyone. We are peaceful people. The reason we came so far north was to avoid the wars that plague our lands.' Barin spoke on for some time, his eyes shifting nervously from the monster before him to the other riders who sat motionless.

After some time the creature before him lifted his hand. He spoke, but the words were strange and - largely - meaningless. But there were some familiar sounds now. He seemed to be asking Barin a question. Barin shook his head. The monster motioned him to speak again and he did so, telling them of problems with crops, of raising buildings on marsh land, of the plague that stopped short of their village but almost obliterated three others. Just as he was running out of things to say, the monster spoke again.

'What are you?' it asked, the voice deep and harsh, the dialect perfectly pronounced.

'We are villagers from the south. We mean no harm, sir.'

'You serve the Eldarin?'

'No, sir. We serve the Duke of Corduin. The Eldarin are no more; there was a war and they . . . disappeared.

Their lands became a desert, like this one . ..' He tailed off lamely.

'A desert, you say? What is the desert?'

'Barren .. . empty . . . devoid of life. No water or earth. No grass or trees. That is a desert. Until this very morning the desert was all around here. Red stone, not a handful of earth for thousands of square miles. But today - and my son saw this - a great black cloud rose up and everything . . . the city, the trees, flowed from it. That's why we came here.'

The huge warrior stood silently for a moment. 'There is much here to think on,' he said at last. 'And our mastery of your language is ... not good. This morning the sun rose .. . wrong. I think you . . . truth speak.

Eldarin did this to us with ... magic.'

'You are mastering the language wonderfully, sir,' said Barin. 'And with such speed . . . swiftness. In my judgement that is amazing.'

'We have talent for tongues,' said the creature. 'Your ... people . . . killed Eldarin?'

'Yes. Well ... no one knows what happened to them. Their land was destroyed. Our army was there to fight them, but what happened there was the . . . opposite of what happened here. The grass and trees and water disappeared. So did their cities.'

'You and I will . . . discuss . . . this further. But let us deal first with matters we can make judgement upon.

Which of you here is the strongest?'

There was silence as the villagers stood by, frightened. 'I am,' said the smith at last, stepping forward.

The leader approached him, towering over Yordis by more than a foot. 'What is your race called?' he asked.

'We are just . . . men,' the smith answered.

The leader called to one of his riders, who dismounted and approached. 'Fight him,' the leader ordered Yordis.

'We are not here to fight, sir,' put in Barin. 'We are none of us warriors.'

'Be silent. I wish to see your man fight against a Daroth warrior.'

Drawing his sword the leader tossed it to the smith, who caught it expertly by the hilt but then sagged under the weight of the weapon. Instantly his opponent drew his own sword and attacked. Yordis blocked the first blow, and sent a two-handed sweep that hammered against the warrior's shoulder, cutting deep into the white flesh. A milky fluid began to stream from the wound. The smith attacked again, but the warrior ducked under a slashing cut and rammed his own blade deep into the smith's belly, wrenching it up through the heart. Blood and air hissed from Yordis's open lungs, and his body fell to the earth. The wounded warrior sheathed his sword and drew a curved dagger; with this he cut a strip of flesh from the smith's forearm, and ate it. Blood staining his ghost-white face, the warrior turned to his leader. 'They taste of salt,' he said. A hissing staccato sound came from the other warriors, which Barin took to be a form of laughter. Yordis had been a dear friend, but the farmer was too shocked and frightened to feel despair at his parting. In that moment all he felt was relief that it was not him lying on the soft earth, with blood pooling beneath him.

The leader took Barin by the arm. 'Mount your pony and follow us,' he said. 'We need to speak further.'

'What of my friends?' he asked.

The leader barked out an order, whereupon the warriors drew their serrated swords and closed in. The villagers tried to run, but the circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. Within the space of a few heartbeats all the villagers were slain, the grass stained red by their blood.

Barin stood by, mesmerized by the slaughter. 'We meant you no harm,' he said. 'They are . . . were . . . peaceful people.'

The leader loomed above him, his huge dark eyes staring down unblinking. 'They were nothing, for they were not strong.'

It took Barin three attempts to mount his gelding, his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The leader stepped into the saddle of his enormous stallion. Around him the Daroth warriors were dismounting; they ran to the bodies and began to strip away the clothes.

'Your friends' lives will not be completely wasted,' said the leader. 'Salt flesh is a great delicacy.'