Dark Moon (21 page)

‘Why did the Eldarin gather all these bones?’ Duvo had asked.

Ranaloth gave a sad smile. ‘They were a fine people, who knew the songs of the earth. We learned their songs; you now sing many of them. But the Oltor will sing no more. It is fitting that we can walk here and see the result of evil. This is what it means to confront the Daroth. How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what war is, Duvo. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.’

Now, in the quiet of the dawn, Duvo began the Song of Vornay – sweet and lilting, soft as the feather of a dove, gentle as a mother’s kiss. The music filled the room, and Duvo was amazed to find that not only was the magic still there, but it had changed for the better. Where the power had been passive and impersonal, it was now vibrant and fertile. He was hard pressed to contain it, and found himself playing the Creation Hymn. As his fingers danced upon the strings he became aware of a nest upon the roof outside the window, and the young chicks within it. And below, from the alley, he felt the tiny, irrepressible music in the heartbeat of three new pups, born in the night. Duvo smiled and continued his song.

Suddenly he faltered.

The sense of magic was strong upon him and he realized, with both dread and longing, that new life was closer still … within the room. Putting aside his harp, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the still sleeping Shira. As the magic faded from his mind, he reached out one last time, and felt the tiny spark of what in nine months would be his child.

His son … or daughter. A sense of wonder flowed through him, and an awesome feeling of humility linked with mortality filled his mind.

Shira awoke and smiled sleepily. ‘I had such wonderful dreams,’ she said.

Sixty miles north-east of Corduin, in a moonlit hollow, Karis studied the ancient map. According to the coordinates they were less than twenty miles from Daroth One. They had seen no Daroth warriors in the four days since they left Corduin, but everywhere there were signs of panic: small villages deserted, columns of refugees fleeing for what they perceived as the safety of the city.

The others were still asleep as the dawn sun rose. Karis added dry wood to the embers of last night’s fire and gently blew it to fresh life. Autumn was fast becoming winter, and a chill breeze was blowing down from the mountains.

The politician, Pooris, rose from his blankets, saw Karis by the fire and moved across to her. He was a small, thin man, bald – save for a thin circlet of silver hair above his ears. ‘Good morning to you, Karis,’ he said, his voice smooth as winter syrup.

‘Let us hope it proves so,’ she said. He smiled, but the action did not reach his button-bright blue eyes.

‘May we speak – privately?’ he asked her.

‘It does not get much more private than this, Pooris,’ she pointed out.

He nodded, then swung a glance to the sleeping warriors. Satisfied they could not hear him he turned again to the warrior woman. ‘I am not blessed with physical bravery,’ he said. ‘I have always been frightened of pain – suffering of any kind. I fear the Daroth.’ He sighed. ‘Fear is not a strong enough word. I cannot sleep for worrying.’

‘Why tell me this?’

‘I don’t know. To share, perhaps? Is there some secret to your courage? Is there something I can do to bolster my own?’

‘Nothing that I know of, Pooris. If trouble comes, stay close to me. Follow my lead. No hesitation.’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘Bear this in mind also, councillor – not many cowards would volunteer for a mission such as this.’

‘Are you frightened, Karis?’

‘Of course. We are all riding into the unknown.’

‘But you think we will survive?’

She shrugged. ‘I hope that we will.’

‘I have often wondered what constitutes heroism,’ he said. ‘Tarantio and Vint are sword-killers. Most people would call them heroes. But does heroism come naturally to swordsmen?’

Karis shook her head. ‘Heroes are people who face down their fears. It is that simple. A child afraid of the dark who one day blows out the candle; a woman terrified of the pain of childbirth who says, “It is time to become a mother.” Heroism does not always live on the battlefield, Pooris.’

The little councillor smiled. ‘Thank you, lady,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For listening to my fears.’ He rose and walked away through the trees and Karis returned to studying the map. While the Duke’s men searched for Forin she had spent her time in the library, reading everything she could find about the Daroth. It wasn’t much. She had widened the scope, investigating stories – myths mainly – of a race of giant warriors said to have inhabited the north country. Perhaps these tales were also of the Daroth.

None of the research material she had found had supplied a clue as to what action she should take when they approached the Daroth city. Pooris had suggested riding with a flag of truce. Why should the Daroth recognize this convention? she had asked him.

Forin – who, as Tarantio had told her, knew many stories of the Daroth – had only one suggestion. ‘Take salt as a gift,’ he said. ‘According to my father, who heard it from the Eldarin, the Daroth adore the taste. It works on their system like wine does with us.’

Karis had taken heed. But in order to offer salt to the Daroth, they must first agree to speak. They had not spoken with Capel’s men, but had attacked swiftly and without mercy.

Pooris returned from the woods and began to neatly fold and roll his blanket. Forin awoke, belched loudly and sat up. He yawned and stretched; rising, he thrust his hand down the front of his leather leggings and scratched at his genitals. Then he saw Karis, and gave a sheepish grin. ‘I like to check that the old soldier is still alive,’ he said. Then he too strolled from the camp. He did not go as far as Pooris had done, and Karis could hear him noisily urinating against a nearby tree-trunk.

Pooris reddened, but Karis merely chuckled. ‘Do not be embarrassed, councillor,’ she advised him. ‘You are not among the nobility now.’

‘I rather guessed that,’ he said.

Tarantio and Brune joined her, then Goran and Vint. They breakfasted on oats they had found in an abandoned village. Goran and Vint sweetened theirs with honey; Tarantio ate his with salt; Pooris was not hungry. And Forin refused the oats, chewing instead upon his ration of dried meat. Brune ate his portion, scraping the last of the porridge from the bowl with his fingers.

‘I think we will see the Daroth today,’ said Vint. ‘They must have outriders. Have you come up with a plan yet, Karis?’

Ignoring the question, she finished her meal, then cleaned her plate upon the grass. ‘When we do see them, not one of you must draw a weapon,’ she said at last. ‘You will sit quietly while I ride forward.’

‘And if they attack?’ asked Pooris.

‘We scatter and meet again here.’

‘It has the merits of simplicity,’ observed Vint. Drawing his knife, he began to scrape away the bristles on his cheeks and chin.

‘Why bother to shave?’ asked the red-bearded Forin.

‘One must observe certain standards,’ pointed out Vint, with a self-mocking grin. ‘And naturally,’ he continued, ‘I want the Daroth to see me in the full bloom of my beauty. They will be so over-awed they will immediately surrender to us and swear fealty!’

‘Exactly my plan,’ said Karis drily.

She kicked earth over the fire, extinguishing it, then they saddled their horses and rode north. The boy, Goran, heeled his mount alongside Warain. ‘Do you think my father is still alive?’ he asked Karis.

‘There is no way to know,’ she said, ‘but let us pray so. You are a brave lad. You deserve to find him.’

‘Father says we don’t always get what we deserve,’ he pointed out.

‘He is a wise man,’ said Karis.

They rode on for more than two hours, cresting the low hills before the mountains and heading down through a narrow pass on to the broad grasslands. From here they could see the distant city. There were no walls around it, and the buildings were round, squat and ugly to the human eye.

‘Like a huge mound of horse droppings,’ observed Forin.

Karis heeled Warain forward and the small troop cantered on.

As they approached the city, a line of twenty horsemen rode from it to intercept them. Karis felt a tightness in her belly. The horses upon which they rode were huge, eighteen hands, dwarfing even the giant Warain. She felt Warain tense beneath her. ‘Steady, now,’ she said, patting his sleek grey neck.

The leading Daroth warrior drew his long serrated sword and rode at Karis. Untying the pouch at her belt, she rode to meet him with hand outstretched. His sword was raised, his oval jet-black eyes staring hard at her as she came abreast of him. Smoothly she extended her arm and offered him the pouch. Letting go of the reins, he took it from her and clumsily opened it. Salt spilled out. Placing a large finger into his beaked mouth, his swollen purple tongue licked out, wetting the tip. He dipped it into the salt pouch and tasted it.

Re-tying the pouch, he slipped it into a pocket in his black jerkin, then returned his gaze to Karis. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, his voice cold, sepulchral.

‘We come to speak with your leader,’ she told him.

‘He can hear you. All Daroth can hear you.’

‘It is our custom to speak face to face.’

‘You have more salt?’

‘Much more. And we can deliver many convoys of it, fresh from the sea.’

‘Follow me,’ said the rider, sheathing his sword.

The city was unlike anything Tarantio had ever seen. The buildings were all spherical and black, unadorned and dull to the eye, built in a seemingly haphazard manner, yet all linked and joined by covered walkways. There were many levels of them, one atop the other.

‘It’s like a huge bunch of grapes,’ said Forin. ‘How do they live in them?’

Tarantio did not answer. As they rode on every building disgorged more Daroth, who stood silently watching the small cavalcade. The road was paved and smooth, the sound of the horses’ hooves loud in the silence.

‘
They are an ugly people
,’ said Dace.

‘
Perhaps we look ugly to them
,’ observed Tarantio.

Ahead were two tall spires. Black smoke drifted lazily from the top of both, forming a pall above the city. Tarantio sniffed the air. There was an odd smell about the place, sweet, sickly and unpleasant.

The roadway widened and the group rode between two black pillars, heading towards a huge grey dome; the smoking spires were situated behind it. The Daroth riders peeled away, leaving only the leader, who dismounted before the round open entrance to the dome.

‘Stay with the horses,’ Karis told Goran, as the group dismounted.

‘I want to find my father,’ objected the boy.

‘If he is here, I will find him,’ she promised.

The Daroth entered the dome; Karis and the others followed. The councillor Pooris kept close to the warrior woman; his face was pale, his hands trembling. Tarantio and Forin were just behind them, followed by Vint and Brune.

The huge building was lit by globed lanterns set into the walls, and Karis was amazed to find that no pillars supported the colossal domed ceiling. There were no statues or adornments. At the far end of the circular hall was an enormous table shaped like a sickle blade. Around it were some fifty Daroth warriors, kneeling on the weirdly carved chairs Tarantio had first seen in the Daroth tomb.

‘My father would have liked to see this,’ said Forin. Tarantio could hear the fear in his voice, but the big man was controlling it well.

Karis moved forward. ‘Who is the leader here?’ she asked, her voice echoing strangely. A series of clicks sounded from the Daroth, then a warrior at the centre of the table rose.

‘I am what you humans would call the Duke Daroth,’ he said.

‘I am Karis.’

‘What is your purpose here?’

‘A delegation such as this is our way of showing our peaceful intentions. Let me introduce the councillor Pooris, who has a message from our Duke.’ Turning, she gestured Pooris forward. The little man took a nervous step towards the table and bowed low.

‘My Duke wishes it to be known that he welcomes the return of the Daroth people, and hopes that this new era will bring trade and prosperity to both our peoples. He wishes to know if there is anything you desire from us, in the way of trade.’

‘We only desire that you die,’ said the Daroth. ‘We will not coexist. This is now a Daroth world. Only the Daroth will survive. But tell me more of the salt you offer.’

Karis watched as Pooris faltered, feeling sympathy for the little politician. The Daroth’s words were certainly not honey-coated, and left little room for further negotiation. ‘Might I ask, sir,’ said Pooris, ‘that you expand upon your decision? War is never without cost. And peace can bring riches and plenty.’

‘I have said what I have said,’ the Daroth told him. ‘Now I wish to hear of the salt you will send.’

Pooris stepped forward. His hands were no longer trembling. ‘The salt was offered in the spirit of peace. Why would we send it to an enemy?’

‘Trade,’ said the Daroth Duke, simply. ‘We understand that when you humans desire something that you cannot take by force, you trade for it. We will take the salt as trade.’

‘In return for what, sir?’ asked Pooris.

‘We have more than a hundred of your older humans. We have no use for them; we will trade them for their weight in salt.’

‘Do you have a man here named …’ Pooris swung to Karis and gave her a questioning look.

‘Barin,’ she said.

‘He is here,’ said the Daroth Duke. ‘He is important to you?’

‘His son is with us. That is how we know he was captured by you. We would like him returned.’

‘He is owned by one of my captains. He does not wish to trade him; he will, however, allow you to fight for him.’ The clicking sound came again from the gathered group. Karis took it to be laughter. All her adult life Karis had been skilled in the reading of men. The skull-faced Daroth were not men, but even so she could sense their contempt for the human embassy. In that moment she realized that their chances of leaving alive were slender at best. Under normal circumstances Karis was a cautious leader, but sometimes, she knew, recklessness could carry the day. Calmly she stepped forward, laying her hand on the shoulder of the councillor and drawing him back.