Dark Moon

Chapter Eight

Sirano lay trembling on his bed, his body racked by painful sobbing. He had not cried since he was a child, but now all his defences had been torn apart like paper. Clea, who had loved him, was dead, sacrificed by him in order to gain the power of the Pearl. The Eldarin, who had offered no harm to the human race, had vanished. And now had come the crowning glory of his achievements: the return of the Daroth. Sirano lay on the broad bed, hugging the Eldarin Pearl to him. 'Come back to me, old man,' he pleaded. 'For pity's sake, come back!'

Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep full of bad, hurtful dreams. He saw his mother killed again and again, and watched his father die, the snake wriggling in his throat. Worse than both of these, though, was the vision of the overweeningly arrogant man he had become, plunging the world into war. And for what? To prove his father wrong? To show that he, Sirano, was a towering figure in human history?

He awoke, and found himself lying not on his bed but on a field of green grass, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers. The madness brought on by exhaustion and lack of sleep had passed, and he was himself again. Beside him sat the silver-furred Eldarin elder. The creature had huge, dark eyes, that radiated sorrow.

'Why am I here?' asked Sirano.

"Why indeed?' answered the spirit.

'I did not know the Daroth would come. You cannot blame me.'

'I do not apportion blame, human. You were warned, and you chose to ignore the warning. Who would you blame? You are a student of history. You know the Eldarin do not lie.'

'But I didn't know! If you had told me about the Daroth I would have desisted.'

'Would you?'

Sirano stayed silent. 'Where did you go?' he asked at last.

'Where do you think? The Eldarin exist within the Pearl, held frozen, awaiting the Day of Awakening.

Just as we did with the Daroth. You loosed the chains that held the Daroth captive. But only one living man can free the Eldarin.'

'Tell me what to do, I beg of you! Advise me!'

The Eldarin shook his head. 'The situation is beyond my advice, Sirano. As of tomorrow, Morgallis will be destroyed. Nothing you can do can save it, nor save the thousands who still inhabit it. Death and destruction are upon you, and I pity you and all who serve you. Now go from here. And do not return.' The Eldarin waved his hand dismissively. Sirano felt a jolt, as if from a fall, and awoke again in his own bed. It was dark, and his body was cold. He crawled under the covers, shivering.

He lay there for half an hour, but as the sky lightened he pushed back the covers and moved to his study. From a large jar on the shelf above the window he took a dozen small glass balls, which he placed in a canvas bag. This he slung across his shoulder, and made his way down the stairs to the huge cellar beneath the great hall. There were hundreds of barrels here, scores containing lantern oil, others filled with brandy or fortified wine. One by one he placed ten of the glass globes among the lantern oil barrels. Lastly he turned on the taps. There were no drains here, nowhere for the liquid to go save to slowly cover the stone floor.

Moving upstairs and out into the night, Sirano ran through the deserted streets, heading for the north wall.

Giriak was there, with around 40 bowmen and some 200 soldiers. Sirano ran up the steps. 'Are they here?' he asked.

'They will be soon,' said Giriak. 'According to our scout there are thousands of them. They are not human, Sirano.'

The Duke ignored the lack of formality. 'They are Daroth,' he said. The men gathered around him began to whisper amongst themselves. 'We cannot hold here,' Sirano told Giriak. 'The city is finished. Get your men back from the walls. Rouse as many of the citizens as you can, and try to reach Prentuis. Do it now!'

'What are you going to do?' Giriak asked.

'I'll stay and talk to them. Perhaps we can reach an agreement.'

'You hired me and my men. If you wish us to stay and fight, we will.'

Sirano smiled, and clapped the warrior on the shoulder. 'You are a good man, Giriak. You are all good men.

Go now, and live!'

For a moment only Giriak stood his ground, then he swung away. 'You heard the Lord Sirano. Let's go!'

Gratefully the warriors left the walls, leaving Sirano alone.

The sky was lightening now, the bright stars fading into the grey. The dawn sun crept over the eastern mountains, bathing the city in gold. Sirano sat on the ramparts and gazed back over Morgallis. Some of the buildings were ancient, built with love and care centuries before. This was his city. And he had destroyed it.

He hoped Giriak would rescue most of the city-dwellers, but knew that was unlikely. These last few thousand had endured earthquakes and war; they would not leave their homes. The lucky ones would die under the swords of the Daroth. The young and tender-faced a different fate.

Sirano was alone. Not a human in sight. Suddenly he realized he had always been alone. This moment before the storm epitomized his life. The child ignored by the man he thought was his father, had grown into a man apart. Incomplete. Unfinished.

And self-pitying, he realized . ..

The sun rose higher, the land awakening. Sirano looked at the distant tree-line, waiting for the Daroth.

As a child he had gone hawking in those woods, hunting rabbit and pigeon. He had swum in the streams, and climbed the tall trees. And in a glade, near the centre, he had played the mighty hero - fighting imaginary foes, defending his people.

Now the game was real and, unlike his childish fantasies, doomed to failure.

The first of the Daroth riders emerged from the woods. They came in a line, fifty abreast, and rode slowly towards the city gates. Sirano climbed to the ramparts and looked down on the riders. Creatures out of nightmare, colossal and unreal, they moved forward in silence. From the woods came thousands of foot-soldiers. There were no battle cries, only the slow drumbeat of their boots striking the ground in perfect harmony.

'What do you want here?' called out Sirano, as the first of the riders neared the wall.

The Daroth did not reply. Forty foot-soldiers dragged a bronze-headed battering-ram forward, lining it up against the gates. They swung it back, then thundered it forward. Sirano heard the splintering of the wood, and felt the impact on the parapet under his feet. Taking one of his remaining two glass globes, he hurled it down. It smashed against the ram. Fire exploded outward, engulfing the Daroth. Their armour glowing red, they staggered back, slapping at the flames which sprang from their clothing. Some fell, and not one of their comrades ran forward to help. The stricken Daroth blazed like torches, and died where they fell.

Forty more Daroth made their silent way to the smouldering ram. Four times it swung - and the gates gave.

Sirano ran down the steps as the Daroth swarmed through, then sprinted along the street, heading for the palace. Daroth riders galloped after him.

He was breathing heavily when he reached the long, tree-lined avenue which led to the palace building, and could hear the pounding of hooves behind him. Swinging round, he threw the last of his globes. It struck a rider in the chest. Flames enveloped him. The huge horse reared, throwing the Daroth back from the saddle.

Sirano sprinted on, up the twelve steps to the main doors and on into the Great Hall. At the far end, beneath a huge stained-glass window, was the Ducal Chair, carved from mahogany and inlaid with ivory and silver.

Upon it was the Eldarin Pearl.

Sirano ran to the chair and, taking the Pearl in his hands, sat down. Drawing in a deep breath he shouted out a single Word of Power. Below the Hall one of the globes scattered in the oil ignited, the flames spreading quickly across the cellar floor, licking at the wooden barrels.

Daroth warriors swarmed into the Hall. 'Welcome to Morgallis,' said Sirano, with a broad smile. 'Who is your leader?'

The Daroth approached him, spreading out in a wide circle. He stared at their bone-white features and their dark, soulless eyes. 'Afraid to speak?' he asked them.

A towering figure stepped from the ranks. 'I am the general,' it said. 'And tonight I shall feast on your heart.'

'I think not, you ugly whoreson! But let it not be said that Sirano did not give his guests a warm welcome.'

Rising, Sirano shouted once more. All the remaining globes flared into life, the heat rising like a volcano.

Beneath the feet of the Daroth the huge flagstones shifted. A wall of flame seared out. Then came a second explosion that tore the walls asunder, collapsing the roof.

Sirano, his clothing ablaze, was hurled up and back, his burning body smashing through the stained-glass window, where it crashed into the upper branches of a willow tree in the Ducal gardens. He fell through the branches into a deep pond.

His body a sea of pain, he dragged himself from the water and, still clutching the Eldarin Pearl, staggered out into the street beyond.

Behind him a tower of flame was roaring up a hundred feet, through the broken roof of the palace.

The Daroth army swept on towards the south, sacking villages and towns, until they reached the outskirts of Prentuis. There for the first time they came up against a human army, of 2,000 horse, 500 bowmen and 3,000 foot-soldiers. The humans were cut to pieces, the army scattered. The carnage inside the city was awful to behold, and the few survivors who made it to Loretheli on the coast told grisly stories of the massacre, and the terrible feasting that followed it.

In less than a month two of the great cities of the Four Duchies had fallen to an inhuman enemy. The Duke of The Marches had been killed on the battlefield outside Prentuis. Of the Duke of Romark there was no news.

The snows came early, and the Daroth withdrew. But no-one had any doubts that the spring would bring fresh terror.