Dark Moon

Chapter Five

Duvodas was troubled. Eyes closed, he stroked the harp strings, sending out a fluted ripple of notes. 'That is very pretty,' said Shira.

'It is wrong,' he said, opening his eyes and looking at the girl. Dressed in a skirt of russet brown and a blouse of cream-coloured wool, she was sitting on the round wall of the well. Putting aside his harp, Duvodas walked to her and kissed her cheek. 'I am not good company today,' he told her.

'You are always good company, Duvo. And what do you mean, it is wrong? What is wrong?'

'I don't know - exactly. I saw a painting once of three women on a castle wall, staring down over the sea. I remembered it for years. But when I saw it again one of the women was wearing a green dress, though I had remembered it as blue. Suddenly the picture looked wrong to me, as if an artist had changed it.' He paused, then returned to his harp. Balancing it to his hip, he played the chorus notes of the Love Song of Bual. When he had finished, Shira clapped her hands. 'I love that,' she said. 'You played it the first night you were here.'

'Not like that,' he told her. 'The music has changed.'

'How can music change?'

He smiled. 'I draw my music from the magic of the land. Either the magic has changed, or my ability to channel it has altered. The first time you heard the love song you wept. Tears of happiness. That is the magic of Bual. But you did not weep today. The magic touched you differently. Your reaction is more of the mind than the heart.'

'Perhaps that is because it is no longer new to me,' she suggested.

'No. The magic should have brought tears. Something is wrong, Shira.'

'You are very tired. You performed for over two hours last night.'

'You have put the cart before the horse, pretty one. I performed for two hours because something had changed. You remember the group who complained about the pies? Said they were tasteless? The food should have tasted exquisite. I know my skills remain, and I trust my abilities. I have eaten no meat, drunk no wine. It is a mystery. I have long understood that magic does not swell brightly within cities. The stone walls, streets, roads and foundations close us off from the land and its power. The murders, the hangings, the robberies, the violence -these also taint the purity. But I know how to deal with that, Shira. I make myself immune to the pettiness of the world, to its dark side.' He fell silent for a moment, then he took her by the arm. 'Will you walk with me to the hillside? Perhaps I can find the answer with grass below my feet.'

'I cannot today. Two of the cooks have fallen ill and Father needs me.'

'Were the cooks here last night?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'Then they should not be ill. They heard the music.' Without another word he strode from the yard and out into the streets of Corduin. Back in Eldarisa he would have sought out one of the many seers, and received his answer within moments. Here, in this giant sarcophagus of a city, there were no seers of worth. There was no magic, save his own. There was sorcery. Sometimes he could feel its emanations coming from the palace of the Duke. But it was small sorcery, childishly malevolent. His music was stronger.

What then, he wondered, was drawing the life from his songs?

Duvo wandered on through the streets. The gates of the park were open and he strolled through, following the path to the High Hill, then leaving it and walking upon the grass. He lay down on his back, stretching out his arms and closing his eyes, feeling the power of the land like a gentle voice whispering to his soul.

Yet even here it was changed in an - as yet - indefinable way.

His upbringing in Eldarisa had taught Duvo never to worry at a problem, but to let his mind float around it.

Master Ranaloth had told him many times that lack of focus was the key.

'That does not seem to make sense, sir,' the ten-year-old Duvo had told him, as they strolled through the scented gardens of the Oltor Temple.

'Focus is only required, young human, when the core of the problem is identified. You are angry because of what Peltra said to you this morning. You are focusing now on what made her say it, and this might help you. But lose your focus, and let your mind free, and you will find yourself asking why the words hurt you, and what it is in you that drew the words from her.'

'She hates me because I am human. She calls me an animal, says that I smell.'

'That is still your anger speaking. Lose it. Float above it.'

Duvo sighed. 'I don't think I can do what you require of me, Master Ranaloth. I am not Eldarin.'

'But Peltra is, and she cannot do it either . . . yet.'

'I do not know why she is angry with me. I have never harmed her. Equally, I cannot say why her words hurt me. I am a human. I am an animal - as we all are. Perhaps I even smell.' He laughed. 'Why did it hurt me, sir?'

'Because it was intended to. And because you care about what Peltra thinks of you.'

'I do care. She is normally a sweet person. I thought she was fond of me.'

'Your essay on the healing powers of mountain herbs was very fine, Duvo. Well researched.'

'Thank you, sir. The library is wonderfully well equipped.'

'And what led you to the Book of Sorius?'

Duvo thought about it. 'It was Peltra. We were walking on the hillsides and she was telling me about it.' He reddened. 'I won the prize, but I wouldn't have won if she hadn't told me about the Book.'

'There is no shame in that,' said Ranaloth softly.

'I think perhaps there is, sir. I didn't think. She was so proud of discovering the mystery you set that she bragged to me of it. Then I too studied the text - and won the prize.'

'Your perception, then, is that you were at fault?'

'I believe that I was. But it was not intended, it was merely thoughtlessness.'

Now on the hillside Duvo tried to float free of the problem, letting his mind wander. Many things could alter the flow of magic from the land: death, violence, disease, fear - even joy. Equally, the mind or body of the musician could be out of harmony with the magic. Calmly and carefully Duvo examined his thoughts.

His mind was sharp, and attuned to the flow. Likewise his body had been fed no flesh, consumed no alcohol. Nor had he succumbed to his physical desire for Shira. Confident that he was not the problem, Duvo relaxed and took up his harp, playing the ancient lay of the Far Time, and the Dying of the Light. As he played he felt the power of the land flowing through him, filling his veins and drawing him in. He was at one with the grass and the earth, with the trees and flowers, feeling the heartbeat of life swelling around him.

The land welcomed his music. As the lay ended, Duvo took a deep breath.

At eighteen Master Ranaloth had taken him to a glade at the centre of Oltor Forest, where together they had sat upon a flat boulder. 'What music would you play here?' asked Ranaloth.

'That is simple, sir. There are three. Each would be apposite. A forest song, a river song, or a mountain song.' He shrugged. 'Is there more to the question than I can see? Is it a riddle of some kind?'

'You will not know until you play, Duvo.'

Taking up his harp, Duvo reached out for the forest music. There was nothing. Rising he glanced down at the boulder. Perhaps the stone was blocking the flow. He took two steps, then reached out again. Nothing.

He glanced at Ranaloth, and saw the sorrow in his golden eyes. 'Am I doing something wrong, sir?'

Ranaloth shook his head. 'You know the history of Oltor Forest?'

'This is where they all died.'

'Yes,' said the Eldarin sadly. 'This is where a race was obliterated. The Oltor were a gentle, independent people, but they could not stand against the Daroth. Their cities were systematically destroyed and the last remnants of their people fled here, to this forest. A Daroth army surrounded it - sixty thousand strong - and the slaughter began. The last Oltor, twenty women and more than a hundred children, managed to reach this glade. They went no further.'

'And now there is no magic in the glade?' whispered Duvo.

'No magic,' agreed Ranaloth. 'Bring it back, Duvo.'

The elderly Eldarin rose, patted the young man's shoulder and walked away. Duvo sat down. A race died here, he thought. Not just a tribe, or a clan, or even a nation. But a race. He shivered, and felt the enormity of the task he had been set. How does a man restore magic after such an act?

Holding his harp to his hip, Duvo tried to play, but there was no music to be found. For several hours he sat in the glade. The sun fell, and the moon rose; still the young man waited for inspiration. An hour before the dawn he rose and moved across the glade, reaching the edge of the trees. Here he could feel the tiniest tremor of magic, like the breeze from a butterfly's wing. Slowly he circled the glade; then he began to play as he walked, the softly lilting Song of Birth. As the music swelled he edged away from the magic, towards the centre of the glade. Three steps he made before the music died away. Again and again Duvo returned to the trees, drawing the magic forward, letting it flow through him into the earth below his feet. Inch by weary inch, he slowly created a magical web that criss-crossed the glade.

The dawn came, the sun rising towards noon. Exhausted now, Duvo played on. Moving to the centre of his web, he calmed himself for the Creation Hymn. He stood silently for several minutes, breathing deeply, calming his mind. Then his fingers danced upon the strings and his strong clear voice sang out. Sunlight shone down

upon the glade, and several birds flew into the branches of nearby trees. Duvo walked as he sang, and not once did the music waver.

The magic was back!

He slumped down upon the boulder and laid his harp beside him, his fingers cramped and trembling.

Master Ranaloth emerged from the tree-line, sunlight shining on his snow-white fur. His own harp was slung across his shoulder.

'You did well, Duvo,' he said, pride in his voice. 'You are a human beyond compare. And in you I see hope for your race.'

'Thank you, sir. It was harder than I could have believed. Tell me, though, why only this glade? Is it because the end came here?'

'It was not just this glade,' said Ranaloth. 'It was the whole forest. The glade was the last point of emptiness.'

Duvo stared at him. 'The forest covers hundreds of square miles. And you . . . ?'

'It took many centuries, Duvo. But it was necessary.'

'But you could not have done it alone?'

'It is my gift. And now it is yours. Without magic the land dies. Oh, you can still grow crops upon it, but it is spiritually dead nonetheless. The evil of the Daroth is that they live to kill - and they destroy not only races, but also the soul of the lands they inhabit. That is a crime beyond comprehension. You humans do it also. Though you do it more slowly, with your cities of stone, your lusts and your greed.

But among you are those who care. Among the Daroth there are none.'

'You speak as if the Daroth still live. But the Eldarin destroyed them centuries ago.'

'The Eldarin do not destroy, Duvo. The Daroth live.'

'Where?'

'Where they can do no harm.'

Duvo had asked many questions, but Ranaloth would say no more. 'But what if they return?' Duvo asked.

'As long as the Eldarin survive, they will not return.'

Now, on the grass of the hillside above Corduin, Duvo rose and stared towards the north. His throat was dry, his heart hammering. He knew now why the magic of the land was changed. He could feel it; the slow, almost imperceptible pull towards the north, the power seeping away like water through a cracked jug.

The Eldarin had not survived.

And the Daroth were back ...

Tarantio sat at a corner table, his back to the wall, and finished the last of the meat pie. The gravy was thick and rich, the meat tender. The atmosphere in the Wise Owl was tense, for the musician had not appeared this evening and many of the guests were complaining. Ceofrin moved among the tables, making his apologies and assuring his customers that the harpist would appear momentarily. One group of four young nobles rounded on the innkeeper, claiming that the food tasted like dung and they had no intention of paying. Shira moved to the table and spoke to them, and they settled down, explaining they had travelled across the city to hear Duvodas play. Then they apologized for the outburst. Tarantio was impressed by the harmony she radiated, and he glanced across at Brune, who was staring at her with undisguised admiration. Ceofrin backed away from the table, relief showing on his round, fat face. Shira refilled the wine goblets and then, with a last dazzling smile, returned to the kitchen.

'I hope the harpist does appear,' said Brune.

'I don't think he is in the building,' Tarantio told him. Brune's disappointment showed.

Dace, however, was delighted. 'How do people listen to that dreadful screeching?' he asked.

'Because it is beautiful,' Tarantio told him. It was impossible to lie to Dace, and he could feel his confusion at the answer. 'Explain it to me,' Dace insisted.

' I don't think that I can, brother. I hear it and it moves me to tears. Yet I can feel your discomfort.'

'Well, he's not here now, for which I am thankful. And tell the idiot he has gravy on his chin.'

'Wipe your chin, Brune.' The young man grinned at Tarantio and rubbed his hand across his face, licking the gravy from his palm.

'It's good food here. Shira cooked it, you know. Ah, but she's a wonder.' He glanced towards the kitchen, hoping for a glimpse of the girl, but the door was now closed. 'Did you see that man about your money?' he asked in a loud voice.

'Perhaps you should speak a little louder,' advised Tarantio. 'I don't think all the people in the tavern could hear you.' Brune swung round. 'Why would they want to?'

'It doesn't matter. It was sarcasm, Brune. I was trying to point out that it is not wise to talk so loudly about money; it could be that there are robbers close by.'

'You don't need to tell me twice,' said Brune, tapping his nose. 'So, did you see him?'

'Yes. We have done rather well. My investments have brought me almost two thousand silver pieces.'

'Two thousand!' exclaimed Brune. 'In silver?' Several people close by turned to look at the two men.

Dace's laughter echoed inside Tarantio's mind. 'I am so glad we brought him with us,' said Dace.

'What will you do with all that money?' Brune asked.

'Let's talk about something else,' Tarantio told the sandy-haired youngster. 'Anything you like.'

Brune thought long and hard. 'Shame about the harp-man,' he said, at last. 'You should have been here last night. He was amazing. Can I fetch you some more ale?'

Tarantio nodded. 'Let me enjoy this one,' said Dace. 'It is a long time since I tasted good ale.'

'No. I don't want to see bloodshed here.'

'I promise, brother. No blades. Just a jug of ale, and then I shall sleep.'

Tarantio relaxed and faded back as Dace stretched and finished the last of the pie. Brune was on his way back to the table when a tall man, one of the troublesome nobles, turned suddenly, colliding with him. Ale swished from the two jugs Brune was carrying, splashing the man's black silk shirt.

'You clumsy dolt!' he shouted.

'Sorry,' said Brune amiably, trying to move past the man. 'But you did bump me.'

As Brune walked on the tall man's fist struck him behind the ear, punching him from his feet. Brune fell against a table, striking his head on the back of a chair before pitching unconscious to the floor.

Dace vaulted the table and reached the scene just as the tall man was unleashing a kick against Brune's body. Dace's foot lashed out to hook under the man's leg; then with a flick he sent the tall man crashing to the floor. The man rolled to his knees and drew a dagger. Dace grinned and reached for his own; then he stopped.

'You are a bore, brother,' he said aloud.

The tall man rose, eyes narrowed. 'I'll gut you for that, you whoreson!'

'Don't tell me, show me,' said Dace contemptuously. The man lunged. Dace side-stepped, grabbing the knife wrist with his left hand, his right arm moving under the man's elbow. Dace slammed down with his left and up with his right. A sickening crack echoed around the room as the tall man's arm snapped at the elbow; the victim's scream was awful. The tall man fell back as Dace released him, the knife falling from his fingers.

White bone was jutting through the sleeve of his black shirt, which was now stained with blood. He screamed again. 'Oh, shut up!' snapped Dace, ramming the heel of his palm into the man's nose and following up with a right uppercut that lifted him to his toes. Stepping back, Dace let the man fall and then walked to Brune, who was groaning and trying to rise.

A movement from behind caused Dace to spin. Three men were approaching, knives in their hands. Dace laughed at them, then he walked towards them.

'Happily for you, I promised a friend I'd kill no-one tonight. However, that does not mean I cannot cripple you - like your friend on the floor, who will be lucky to use that arm again. So who is first? I think I'll smash a knee-cap next time!'

He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. 'What is the problem, children? Can't make up your minds about who will be the first? What about you?' he asked, stepping in close to a lean, bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace laughed at them. 'What a trio of buttercups,' he said. 'Pick up your friend and get him to a surgeon.' Swinging towards the bar, he called out, 'Two more jugs of ale, if you please.'

The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace helped Brune to his feet. 'How are you feeling?' he asked.

'My head hurts,' said Brune.

'Ah well, you're used to that,' said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the jugs, and leaned in to Dace.

'I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you . . . injured ... is highly connected.'

'His arm isn't,' said Dace, with a wide smile.

'I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of Vint, the Duke's Champion.'

'Champion, you say? Is he any good?'

'It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good - to my reckoning, anyway.'

Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. 'It makes him interesting,' he agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away.

'You promised,' said Tarantio.

'I kept my promise. I didn't know someone was going to punch the idiot. And I didn't kill him, brother.'

'You crippled him!'

'You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said about Vint?'

'Yes. And we are going to avoid him.'

'There is no sense of adventure in you.' The door opened and Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. 'Damn!' said Dace. 'Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I think I'll sleep now.'

Tarantio took a deep breath. 'Where is the man who hit me?' asked Brune.

'He's gone,' replied Tarantio.

'Did you hurt him?' asked Brune.

'I think I did,' said Tarantio.

Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a full day as he tried to make his report.

As night fell he sat shivering beneath an archway at the main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The officer looked at him long and hard. 'I am Capel,' he said. 'For my sins I am the second in command of this ... outpost. So tell me, child, your important news.' Goran did so, and Capel listened without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons and monster warriors on monster horses.

'You understand, child,' he said, 'that such a fanciful tale is likely to see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?'

'It's true, sir. I swear it on my mother's grave.'

The officer rose wearily to his feet. 'I'll take you to the captain. But this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.'

'I must see him,' said Goran.

Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes.

The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. 'I would like to see this miracle,' he said. 'You will ride with me, boy. And if it proves - as I think it will - a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How does that sound?'

Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell.

The door was locked behind him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a young soldier helped him mount a fine grey stallion, and the troop cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel.

'Tell me again about these monsters,' said the soldier.

'They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. Their horses were giants.'

'You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird's, perhaps?'

'Yes, sir. Like a hawk's beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and pointed.'

The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a white linen towel.

After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran's village an hour after noon. It was deserted.

Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside the captain's mount. 'Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the boy said.' The captain looked around nervously.

'How many in the raiding party?' he asked, sweat breaking out on his plump face.

'No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than any I've seen.'

'I think we should go back, don't you?' said the captain.

'We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the Duke?'

'Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.'

'I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now be between us and the garrison.'

The fat man's eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. 'Yes, of course. You think then we should

.. . push on?'

'With care, sir.'

The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning himself at the centre of the troop.

Goran edged his mount alongside Capel. 'The captain doesn't seem much like a soldier,' he said.

'He's a nobleman, lad. They're a different breed - born to be officers.' He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills and valleys, woods and plains.

The fat officer moved alongside Capel. 'It is like a dream,' he said. 'What can it mean?'

'When I was a lad our village storyteller told tales of ancient days. The Three Races - you remember, sir? The Oltor, the Eldarin and the Daroth?'

'What of it?'

'Our storyteller's description of the Daroth matches what the boy saw. Huge, powerful heads of white, ridged bone. A beak of a mouth.'

'It cannot be,' said the captain. 'The Daroth were destroyed by the Eldarin centuries ago.'

'And a few days ago this was the Great Northern Desert,' pointed out Capel. Around them the thirty men were sitting their horses nervously. There was no conversation, but Goran could feel the tension.

'And that looks like no human settlement I have ever heard of,' went on Capel, gesturing towards the distant city of black domes. 'Should we send a delegation?'

'No! We are not politicians. I think we have seen enough. Now we will ride back.'

One of the soldiers pointed to a small hollow at the foot of the hills, where the remains of a fire-pit could clearly be seen.

'Go down and check it,' the captain ordered Capel. 'Then we'll leave.'

The officer beckoned three men to follow him and rode down the slope. Goran heeled his horse forward and followed them.

At the foot of the hill Capel dismounted. Bones were scattered around the pit, and a small pile of skulls had been carelessly kicked into the ashes. A little way to the right was a mound of torn and bloody clothing.

Goran jumped from his horse and began to search through the clothes. His father's tunic was not among them.

'Riders!' shouted one of the three soldiers. Goran saw some twenty monsters approaching from the south.

Running to his horse, he vaulted to the saddle.

'Let's get out of here,' said Capel. Turning his mount towards the slope, he glanced up to see, far above them, the captain's horse rear suddenly, pitching him to the ground. The sound of screaming horses filled the air. One gelding toppled head-first over the crest with a long black spear through its neck. Capel dragged on the reins of his mount, his mind racing. Above him now he could see scores of white-faced warriors moving out onto the slope - behind him twenty more riders were bearing down. With three men he could make no difference to the battle being waged above, and if he tried he would be caught between two forces. To be forced to run from a fight was galling, but to stay would be certain death. Death did not frighten Capel, but if no-one escaped there would be no-one to raise the alarm back in Corduin.

Capel swung his horse towards the east. 'Follow me!' he shouted. The three soldiers and Goran obeyed instantly, and they galloped back down the slope to the level ground of the plain. The huge horses of the enemy could not match the speed of the Corduin mounts. They did not try. Capel glanced back to see the Daroth riding slowly up the slope.

And just for a moment he glimpsed the fat captain running witlessly along the crest. But then he was gone.

The dream was subtly different. The child was still crying and Tarantio was trying to find him - deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, he 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, yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light, strong enough to throw shadows. As always he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. The ragged men with opal eyes advanced through the gloom, hammers and pickaxes in their hands.

'Where is the boy?' he demanded, drawing his swords.

'Dead. As you are,' came the voice in his mind.

'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 voice fell silent and Tarantio moved forward. The line of ragged men parted, and beyond them he saw a swordsman waiting for him. The man was lean, his face grey, his eyes golden and slitted like those of a hunting cat. His hair was white and spiky, standing out from his head like a lion's mane. In his hands were two swords,

'Where is the child?' asked Tarantio.

'Will you die to find out?' the demon asked in return.

Tarantio awoke and swung his legs from the bed. The sound of Brune's soft snoring filled the room.

Tarantio took a deep, calming breath. Dawn light was shining through the leaded glass of the windows, making geometric patterns on the floor of the room. Tarantio dressed swiftly and went downstairs. One of the two fires in the dining hall had died, but the other was still flickering. Adding two thin logs to it, he blew the blaze to life and sat quietly before the flames.

'You look troubled,' said Shira, limping in from the kitchen.

'Bad dreams,' he said, forcing a smile.

'I used to have bad dreams,' she said. 'Would you like some breakfast? We have eggs today.'

'Thank you.'

She left him with his thoughts, and he pictured the dream again and again. Still there was no sense to it. Tarantio shivered, and added more fuel to the growing fire.

Shira returned with a plate of fried eggs and a slab of steak. Tarantio thanked her and devoured the meal. She sat down beside him when he had finished, and handed him a mug of hot, sweet tisane.

Tarantio relaxed. 'This is good,' he said. 'I don't recognize the flavour.'

'Rose-petal, lemon mint, and a hint of camomile, sweetened with honey.'

Tarantio sighed. 'The best time of the day,' he said, trying to make conversation. 'Quiet and uncluttered.'

'I have always liked the dawn. A new day, fresh and virgin.'

The use of the word 'virgin' unsettled Tarantio, and he looked away into the fire. 'You were very frightening last night,' she said.

'I am sorry you witnessed it.'

'I thought someone was going to die. It was horrible.'

'Violence is never pleasant,' he agreed. 'However, the man brought it upon himself. He should not have struck Brune, nor should he have attempted to kick him thereafter. It was the act of a coward. Though he will, I think, be regretting his actions now.'

'Will you be taking Father's advice, and leaving us?'

'I have not yet found a dwelling that suits me.'

'This tavern never made any money,' she said suddenly, 'not until Duvo came with his music. Father worked hard, and we scraped by. Now he is on the verge of success, and that means a lot to him.'

'I am sure that it does,' agreed Tarantio, waiting for her to continue.

'But taverns with a reputation for violence tend to lose their customers.'

He looked into her wide, beautiful eyes. 'You would like me to leave?'

'I think it would be wise. Father didn't sleep last night. I heard him pacing the room.'

'I will find another tavern,' he promised her.

She made to rise, then winced and sat back.

'You are in pain?' he asked.

'My leg often troubles me - especially when it is going to rain. I shall be all right in a moment. I am sorry for having to ask you to leave. I know that what happened was not your fault.'

He shrugged, and forced a smile. 'Do not concern yourself. There are many taverns. And I will not need more than a few days to find a place of my own.'

Taking his empty plate, she limped back to the kitchen.

'Such a sweet child,' said Dace. 'And you fell for it, brother.'

'What she said was no more than the truth. Vint will come here looking for you . . . me.'

'I'll kill him,' said Dace confidently.

'What is the point, Dace? How many deaths do you need?' asked Tarantio wearily.

'I don't need deaths,' objected Dace. 'I need amusement. And this conversation is becoming boring.'

With that Dace faded back, leaving Tarantio mercifully alone.

Returning to his room, he filled a pewter bowl and washed his face and hands. Brune yawned and stretched. 'I had a lovely dream,' he said, sitting up and scratching his thick fingers through his sandy hair.

'Lucky you,' said Tarantio. 'Pack your gear. Today we look at houses.'

'I'd like to stay here and talk to Shira.'

'I can see the attraction. However, the man I fought last night is likely to come back with a large number of friends - including a sword-killer named Vint. They'll be looking for you and me. You're welcome to stay here, of course. But keep your dagger close by.'

'No,' said Brune. 'I think I'd like to look at houses. I don't want to meet any sword-killers.'

'Wise choice,' Tarantio told him.

'Boring - but wise,' added Dace.

The twelve targets were circles of hard-packed straw, four feet in diameter, placed against a wall of sacks filled with sand. The archers stood some sixty paces from the targets, their arrows thrust into the earth.

Tarantio and Brune had waited for almost an hour for a place to become free, and stood now on the extreme right of the line. 'Let me see you strike the gold,' said Tarantio.

Brune squinted at the circle. It was painted in a series of rings, yellow on the outer, followed by red, blue, green, and lastly a gold centre. 'I don't think I can,' he said.

'Just cock the bow, and we'll make judgements later.' Brune pulled an arrow from the earth and notched it to the string. 'Wait,' said Tarantio. 'You did not check the cock feather.'

'The what?'

'Put down the bow,' ordered Tarantio and Brune obeyed. Tarantio lifted an arrow and showed the flights to the bewildered young man. 'See how feathers are set into the shaft. Like a Y. Two sets of feathers are set close together, the third stands alone. This is the cock feather. When archers are told to cock their bow, this means that the cock feather should point away from the bow. Otherwise, it will strike the bow as it is loosed and deflect the arrow.'

'I see,' said Brune, taking up his bow again. Drawing the string back to his chin, the young man let fly. The shaft soared high over the target, striking the top of the sand-sack wall. 'Was that good?' he asked.

'Had your opponent been fifteen feet tall, it would have scared him,' said Tarantio. 'Let me see the bow.'

It was cheaply made from a single piece of wood some four feet long. The best bows were constructed of elm or yew, and often skilled bowyers would create bonded versions incorporating both woods. Tarantio cocked an arrow and drew back the string. The pull was no more than twenty pounds. Loosing the shaft, he watched it punch weakly home in the blue inner ring.

'You're very good,' said Brune admiringly.

'No, I'm not,' said Tarantio, 'but even a master archer would have difficulty with this bow. You'd probably be better off throwing a stone at an advancing enemy. This does not have the power to punch through armour.'

'I made it myself,' said Brune. 'I like it.'

'Have you ever hit anything with it?'

'Not yet,' admitted the young man.

'Trust me, Brune. If you are ever hunting deer with it, just run up and use it like a club.'

Several men approached them. The first, a tall slim bowman in a tunic of fine leather, bowed to Tarantio.

'Are you planning to practise further, sir?' he enquired. 'I have little time myself and was hoping to loose a few shafts.' His dark hair was close-cropped, his head shaved in two crescents above the ears, and he sported a thin trident beard. His clothes were expensive, and he was obviously a nobleman. Knowing how arrogant the nobility could be, Tarantio was impressed by the courteous way he phrased his question.

'No, you may have the target,' said Tarantio amiably. 'My friend and I are finished here. Where can I purchase a good bow?'

'For you, or your friend?' enquired the man.

'For him.'

'Have you considered a crossbow? I saw your friend shoot, and — with all respect - he does not have an eye for it.'

'I fear you are right,' agreed Tarantio. The slim bowman turned to one of his companions, calling him forward. The man held a black crossbow, its stock engraved with silver, which the bowman took and offered to Tarantio.

'Let him try a shot or two with this,' he suggested.

'You are most kind.'

'It is very pretty,' said Brune. 'How does it work?'

Tarantio touched the top of the crossbow to the ground, placing his foot inside the iron stirrup at the head, then drew back the string. Taking a small black bolt from the bowman he slid it home. 'Aim it towards the target, then squeeze this lever under the stock,' he told Brune. Brune lifted the crossbow and squeezed. The bolt vanished into the sand-sacks some eight feet to the left of the target.

'That was closer,' said Brune. 'Wasn't it?'

The men with the bowman laughed. The bowman himself moved to stand before the sandy-haired Brune, looking closely into his eyes. 'Which is your bad eye?' he asked.

'This one,' said Brune, tapping his right cheek.

'Can you see out of it at all?'

'I can see colours with it, but it doesn't work very well.'

'Have you always had this problem?'

'No. Only since someone hit me with a lump of wood.'

'Your friend is almost blind in the right eye,' he told Tarantio. Take him to Nagellis, in the North Quarter. There is a magicker there named Ardlin, who has a house beside the Three Heads fountain.

You can't miss it - it has a huge stained-glass window showing the naked form of the Goddess Irutha.'

The man smiled. 'It is a fine window. Ardlin is a healer of great talent.'

'Thank you,' said Tarantio. 'You are most kind.'

'Think nothing of it, my friend.' The bowman offered his hand. 'My name is Vint.'

Tarantio looked into the man's smoke-grey eyes. 'And I am Tarantio,' he told him, accepting the handshake.

Vint's face hardened. 'That is a pity,' he said. 'I was rather hoping that when we finally met I would dislike you.'

'There is much to dislike,' said Tarantio. 'You just don't know me well enough yet.'

'Let us hope that is true,' said Vint. 'Where may I call upon you?'

'I have rented a house not far from here. I believe the street is called Nevir North. The house has red tiles and two chimneys. The owners placed a stone wolf to the right of the gate.'

'This afternoon then, an hour before dusk?' offered Vint.

'That is suitable,' agreed Tarantio.

'Sabres?' asked Vint.

'Bring two,' said Tarantio. 'I prefer short swords, but I'll gladly borrow one of yours.'

'No, no. Short swords it is. Would you object if I brought some of my younger students?'

'Not at all.'

'They can carry his body back,' said Dace.

Tarantio turned away. Brune handed back the crossbow and hurried after him. 'What is happening?' he asked.

'Let's find this magicker, Brune,' said Tarantio. 'I can't teach the bow to a half-blind archer.'

'Why is that man going to fight you?'

'It is what he does,' Tarantio told him.

Karis was not easily shocked. Her early life of pain, betrayal and brutality at the hands of her father had birthed in her a cynicism that allowed her to accept the outrageous as if it were commonplace. But when she crested the last rise before the Great Northern Desert, she was stunned. Expecting a vista of bare rock and drifting sand, she was met by a landscape of verdant green dotted with woods and streams.

She knew this area well, having fought two skirmishes here last year. There was no way she could have lost her bearings. To her left, the sun was low in the sky. Ahead, therefore, was north. No question of it.

Guiding the great grey gelding down the slope, she rode to the grasslands and into a grove of trees beside a rippling stream. Dismounting, she loosened Warain's saddle-girth, but did not remove the saddle. Then she let him wander and graze. Warain was well trained, and would come to her fast at a single whistle. Sitting beside the stream, Karis drank deeply, then emptied her water canteen and refilled it.

Perhaps the Eldarin have come back, she thought. What had happened here was the very opposite of the disaster that had struck Eldarin lands during the short-lived war. But the instant the thought came she dismissed it, recalling the words of the Eldarin spirit which had appeared in her room. '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.'

This place does not feel evil, thought Karis. The water is sweet and good, the grass rich and green. What evil, then?

Karis was tired. She had been riding for three days, and had eaten little. Yesterday all she had found was a bush of sweet berries, but these had given her a sour stomach. The day before that she had brought down a pheasant, and cooked it in clay. But there was little meat on the bird.

Allowing Warain to graze for an hour she slept briefly, then summoned the gelding, tightened the saddle and rode back into the dry hills. Ordinarily she would have camped by the stream, but her mind was troubled.

She built a small fire and lay down beside it. It was not cold enough to require a camp-fire, but the flames comforted her, inducing a feeling of safety.

What was the evil the Eldarin had contained?

Karis wished she remembered more of her mother's stories. The flesh-eating tribes of giants had a name, but she could not recall it. She awoke in the night as Warain's front hoof pawed at the ground. Rising, she pulled her bow from the back of the saddle and strung it. 'What is it you hear, grey one?' she whispered, notching an arrow to the bow. In the distance a wolf howled. Warain's head swung towards the sound.

In the bright moonlight Karis scanned the area. There was no sign of movement. 'The wolves will not trouble us, my friend,' she said, moving to the horse and patting its long, sleek neck. Warain nuzzled her shoulder.

'You are the most beautiful male in my life,' she whispered. 'Strong, and true. When we get to Corduin, I'll winter you with Chase. You remember Chase, don't you? The crippled rider.' She scratched the grey's broad brow. 'Now settle down and rest.'

The fire had died and she lay down beside the embers, wrapping her cloak about her.

Just before dawn she woke, and sat up, hungry and irritable. Yesterday she had spotted a deer, but had not killed it. It seemed a great waste of life and beauty to slay such a magnificent beast for the sake of a meal or two. Now she regretted it. Drinking deeply from the canteen, she rose and saddled the gelding. 'If we see a deer today,' she told the horse, 'it dies. I swear my stomach has wrapped itself around my backbone.'

Stepping into the saddle, she rode down once more into the new grassland, heading for Corduin.

The memory of the guard back at the gate was beginning to irritate her. She remembered he was a ten-heartbeat lover - grunt, thrust, sweat and collapse. But where? What had he said - fight like a tiger, live like a whore, look like an angel? He meant it as a compliment, but the word whore did not sit right with Karis.

She used men as she used food: to satisfy a hunger, a need she could not -would not - rationalize. Unlike food, however, the men rarely satisfied her.

Even as the thought came to her she remembered Vint, the pale-eyed swordsman. He knew how to satisfy a woman's hunger. His body was lean and hard, his caresses soft and gentle. And, as an added bonus, there was no emotion in him - no fear of love, or jealousy. She had heard that he became the Duke of Corduin's Champion after Tarantio had refused the post. So far he had killed five men in duels. If he was still in Corduin . ..

The sun was high, the sky cloudless as she rode through the green hills. To her right she saw a red hawk swoop down on a luckless rabbit. Hauling on the reins, she scanned the area for a falconer. Hawks, she knew, preferred feather to fur; they had to be wedded to it. But there was no man in sight. The hawk struck the rabbit, sending it tumbling, then settled down to feed as Karis rode on.

Then she remembered the night she had seduced the sentry, Gorl. She and her mercenaries had struck a wagon convoy sixty miles south of Hlobane, when she was under contract to Belliese. That's where the willows were, and she had chosen Gorl because of the lustre of his beard and his deep, soft eyes. Her spirits lifted. Having remembered, she filed him away to be forgotten once more.

'I hope you find a good man,' her mother had said, as Karis prepared to run away into the night. Her father was stretched out on the floor in a drunken stupor.

'You should come with me,' she urged the tired woman.

'Where would I go? Who would have me now?'

'Then let me kill him where he lies. We'll drag the body out and bury it.'

'Don't say that! Please. He. . . was a good man once. He truly was. You just go, my dear. You can find employment in Prentuis - you're a good girl, with a fine body. You'll find a good man there.'

Karis had walked away without a backward glance. Find a good man? She had found scores. Some who made love tenderly, whispering words of endearment, and others who had been rough and primal. Never had she considered wedding any of them. Never had she made the mistake of loving any of them. No, the men who made her stomach tremble she avoided. Sirano had been one.

Tarantio another ...

'You I will never forget,' she said aloud. She had first seen him swimming in a lake with twenty or so soldiers. It had been a long, dry, dusty march, and when they camped by the lake the men threw off their armour and clothes and ran into the water, splashing each other like children. Karis had dismounted and sat at the lakeside watching them whoop and dive and laugh. But one slim young man did not join in the revelry. He swam away from the group, then walked naked into the undergrowth, emerging moments later with handfuls of lemon mint which he rubbed across his skin. His face and arms were tanned gold, but his chest and legs were white. He was lean, and beautifully muscled, the dark hair on his chest tapering down to a fine line pointing like an arrow to his loins.

'I will have you,' Karis had decided. She had called him over, and he waded to where she sat.

'What is your name, soldier?'

'I am Tarantio.'

'My captain spoke of you.' His eyes were a deep, dark blue, his hair thick and tightly curled. 'He said you were a ferocious fighter. With a thousand like you, he says he could conquer the world.'

He had smiled then and turned from her to swim away. The smile had been dazzling, and in that moment Karis knew she would never take him to her bed.

Warain pulled up now, his ears pricked and his nostrils flaring. Karis looked around, but could see nothing untoward. But she trusted Warain. Angling to the right through the trees she came to a rise and looked down upon the green plain. In the distance four riders were heading towards the hills where she waited. They were being pursued by a score of warriors wearing huge white helms. Karis shaded her eyes.

Below her, hidden in a gully, was another group. These were closer, and she saw the reality - not helms at all, but heads of stark white bone. They were armed with serrated swords, and the fleeing riders were heading straight for them.

Karis pulled her bow clear, strung it, and notched an arrow. Then she heeled Warain into a run down the slope.

The pounding of the gelding's hooves alerted the warriors below and they swung as she thundered towards them. Her arrow slammed into a white neck, then Warain leapt the gully and galloped on towards the riders. Karis pointed to the hills. 'You are in a trap!' she shouted. 'Follow me!' Swinging Warain, she rode hard for the high ground. The riders turned after her, and together they made the long, slow climb.

The pursuing enemy angled up the slope to cut off the escape. Heat flared inside Karis's head, and she felt the onset of a terrible fear. The horses were affected also, and Warain almost stumbled. The grey gelding righted himself, but he slowed almost to a stop and Karis could feel him trembling with terror. 'It is sorcery,' she thought. 'On, Great One!' she shouted, touching her heels to Warain's flanks. At the sound of her voice, his muscles bunched and he surged forward. Three of the enemy riders had cut across the line of escape, and their huge mounts bore down on the fleeing group.

Warain galloped on. Karis angled him towards the first of the massive horses. He needed no urging; he could see the enemy mounts - they were larger and more powerful than he - but Warain was a war-horse of enormous pride.

Striding out even faster, the great grey charged at the enemy, his mighty shoulder striking the first horse with tremendous power. With a whinny of pain and terror the enemy horse toppled, pinning its rider beneath it. Warain surged through the gap, and on to open ground, the four smaller horses coming through in his wake.

Karis swung to see the warriors scrambling out of the gully. One still had her arrow in his neck, and she watched him tear it clear and throw it aside.

Then she was over the crest and out of sight of the pursuing horsemen. Outpacing their pursuers, the group rode on for an hour heading south-west. At the top of a high hill Karis pulled up and looked back. From here she could see for miles; the pursuit had been abandoned. Leaning over Warain's neck, she stroked her fingers through his white mane. 'I am proud of you,' she whispered. A middle-aged man, wearing the armour of a Corduin lancer, approached her. 'My thanks to you, Karis,' he said. 'The Gods alone know what would have become of us had you not been to hand.'

She remembered him from her time in the Duke's service - a good man, sound and cautious, but not lacking in courage. 'What were they, Capel?' she asked him.

'They are Daroth. And I fear the world has changed.'