Dark Moon (16 page)

‘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.