Dark Moon (44 page)

‘You will not make me hate you,’ thought Ozhobar. ‘But I will kill you!’

The sounds of fighting died away. Ozhobar lifted the glass from his lantern, exposing the naked flame, then rose and glanced down the sloping tunnel. He could see no movement, so he closed his eyes and listened. At first there was nothing, then he heard the sound of boots upon stone. The mouth of the tunnel was over 100 feet from where he now stood. Lifting the lantern, he moved behind the huge pottery ball and lit the oil-soaked rags wedged into the holes.

Ahead he could see flickering shadows as the Daroth moved up the slope.

Ozhobar sat down with his back to the wall, placed his boots against the burning ball and thrust hard. It began to roll, slowly at first on the gentle slope; then it gathered pace. The Daroth came into sight. Ozhobar took up his crossbow and aimed it, sending an iron bolt into the ball, shattering a section of the pottery. Blazing oil spilled out, and flames erupted through the Daroth ranks.

Not waiting to see the result Ozhobar scrambled back, replaced the glass on the lantern and then climbed further up the slope, traversing a ledge that brought him out high above the cavern floor. He could clearly see the stream of burning oil flowing out of the tunnel. A flash of bright light came from the far side, and he saw Daroth warriors fleeing from the mouth of a second tunnel. Two of them were engulfed in flames, their comrades staying well back.

Ozhobar’s assistant, Brek, came into sight, emerging from a cleft in the tunnel. The Daroth saw him and surged forward. Brek ran towards a tunnel mouth, but a jagged spear smashed through his back and he fell.

High on the ledge, Ozhobar felt the sting of grief. Brek had been a good man, solid and trustworthy. With a sigh, Ozhobar watched the Daroth milling in the centre of the cavern. Then they broke into a run and surged forward.

Towards the waiting crossbow-men.

Three volleys of bolts plunged into the advancing Daroth, but there was no slowing them now. Tarantio killed two, then dashed to his left as a spear smashed into the rock by his head. Three huge warriors ran at him. Cut off from the main body of defenders, he ran into a narrow tunnel, then turned swiftly and drove his blade through the white skull of the first pursuer. A spear slammed into his left shoulder, the serrated blade tearing up through his collar-bone. Blood sprayed from the wound. Tarantio swept his sword across the Daroth’s belly, then backhanded a cut that half-severed his head.

The pain from his wound was intense, blood was flowing freely inside his shirt and pooling above his belt. Movement was agony, but he scrambled further back into the tunnel, searching for an exit. Another spear flashed past him.

Spinning once more, he swayed away from a wild, slashing cut. His riposte passed through the Daroth’s forearm, to send the limb spinning through the air. Still the Daroth rushed him, his great fist clubbing into Tarantio’s chest and hurling him from his feet. Tarantio rolled as the creature leapt for him feet-first. Pushing himself upright, the swordsman plunged his weapon into the Daroth’s chest. ‘Now die, you whoreson!’ he hissed.

As the sound of pounding boots came from the tunnel mouth, Tarantio swore and stumbled further back into the darkness. There were no lanterns here, and only the shimmering glow from his sword offered any light. He felt a touch of cool air brush his cheek. It came from above, but his left arm was useless and there was no way he could climb to the opening. The tunnel itself petered out into a black wall of rock. Two Daroth spear-men came into sight. The first lunged at Tarantio, whose sword swept across his body – slicing through the shaft – then reversed and tore open the Daroth’s throat. The second spear slammed through his side and deep into the rock behind. Cutting through the shaft he flung the blade like a knife. It slammed point first into the Daroth’s ridged brow, sinking in all the way up to the hilt. Tarantio tried to move forward to retrieve the blade, then cried out in agony, for he was pinned to the wall.

He could hear the stealthy footfalls of more Daroth approaching. His heart sank and he ceased to struggle. If that was death, so be it, he thought.

‘
A pox on you, brother! I’m not ready to die yet!
’

Dace hurled himself forward, his wounded body sliding clear of the broken spear-shaft. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his broken collar-bone. Reaching out, he grasped the hilt of his sword and then struggled to his feet.

Four Daroth swordsmen rounded the bend in the tunnel and, with a bloodcurdling scream, Dace charged them – his sword slicing through the chest of the first, the skull of the second and the ribs of the third. The fourth stumbled; Dace leapt upon him, using his sword like a dagger which he drove down through the neck and into the lungs.

Dace fell with him, then staggered upright. ‘Where are you, you bastards?’ he screamed. ‘I’ll kill you all!’

‘
Dace, for the sake of Heaven, let’s find a way out of here!
’ cried Tarantio.

But Dace ignored him. He took three running steps, then pitched sideways into the wall and half-fell. Blood-drenched and swaying, he made it back to the main tunnel and saw the bodies of a score of Daroth and as many Corduin men. Picking his way through them he heard the sounds of battle up ahead.

‘I’m coming for you!’ shouted Dace, his voice echoing through the tunnels. He stumbled on, then fell to his knees.

‘
Stop, Dace
,’ Tarantio urged him. ‘
Stop now. We are dying
.’

Dace sat with his back to the wall and gazed down at his blood-drenched clothes. There was no feeling in his right leg now, and his vision was swimming. ‘I am not going to die in the dark,’ he said.

With a great effort he rolled to his knees, then got his good leg under him, forcing himself upright. As two Daroth warriors came into sight, Dace blinked sweat from his eyes. ‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come and die, you ugly whoresons!’

They rushed forward, but the first suddenly swayed to his left with a crossbow bolt through his skull. The second lunged at Dace. The swordsman’s blade flashed up with impossible speed, blocking the thrust. Off-balance, the Daroth fell forward and Dace’s blade swept through his thick throat. ‘Where are the rest of you?’ shouted Dace. Then he fell unconscious into the arms of Ozhobar.

Dressed in black leather leggings and a silver satin tunic shirt, the Duke stood silently in the park. Though surrounded by men he was alone, as he always had been. His eyes scanned the hillsides, remembering far-off days when he had played here with his brother. Bright and adventurous, Jorain had been the only person to reach the shy, introverted child the Duke had once been. When he had died he had taken a part of Albreck with him. A loveless marriage, and twenty years of ruling a people he neither liked nor understood, had been the life of Albreck following the death of Jorain. You would have been so much better than I, thought Albreck. The people loved you.

Albreck switched his gaze to the catacomb entrance. Reinforced by two elaborate stone pillars and a white lintel stone, there were steps within that led down to the crystal cavern. Jorain had told him it was an entrance to Hell, and the six-year-old Albreck had been afraid to enter.

Now the childish game had become a reality. It
was
an entrance to Hell.

And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made him smile, he didn’t know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke’s wife; around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her groom.

‘Why do you need the dress?’ he had asked her.

‘Don’t ask, my lord,’ she said.

Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line kneeling, the second standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of wagons.

The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could see anxiety in the warrior’s face.

‘There is no need for you to die,’ said Necklen, moving alongside Karis. ‘I could do it!’

‘I am not planning to die,’ she told him, ‘but it is a risk I cannot avoid. You said it yourself – how can we get them to mass in the centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.’

‘All right. But why you? Why not me?’

‘You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it was a ploy.’

‘And it isn’t?’

‘No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.’

‘I couldn’t kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.’

She put her slender hands on his shoulders. ‘Thousands of lives may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.’

‘Let someone else do it. I’ll stand beside you.’

‘No! If you cannot do your duty, then get you gone and I’ll find a man who can.’ The sharpness in her tone stung him, and he swung away from her. She called to him instantly, her tone contrite. ‘I love you, old man. Don’t let me down.’ He couldn’t speak, but he nodded and walked back to his ballista, checking the load and the release pin. Then he took up his hammer.

The Duke approached Necklen. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked.

‘Getting ready to die,’ whispered the old man.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She is going to talk to them, forcing them to mill around her. She’ll ask for peace. If they say no – which they will – she will raise her hand. When she drops it, the killing begins.’

The Duke said nothing, staring at the woman in the white dress standing in the moonlight. She looked so frail now, ghostlike and serene. He shivered.

A soldier at the catacomb entrance called out: ‘I can hear them. I can hear the screams.’

Karis strode forward. ‘Get back to your position,’ she told the soldier. Gratefully the young man ran back to the wagons, climbing to the back of one and retrieving his crossbow. Karis stood some thirty feet from the white stone of the entrance and waited, longing to see Forin emerge unscathed. A few crossbow-men made it into the torchlight, and stood blinking; their friends called to them and they sprinted for cover. Then Vint appeared, blood on his face and arms. He ran to Karis, but she ordered him back. ‘The Daroth are right behind. You must take cover,’ he said.

‘Get back. Now!’

He hesitated, then ran to where Necklen stood, his face pale, his eyes haunted.

Forin came last, his armour once more dented and split, a deep gash upon his brow masking his face with blood. He stumbled towards Karis and grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Her hand lashed across his face, the sound like a whiplash. ‘Let go of me, you stupid ox!’ His hand fell away and he stood staring at her. ‘Get back now!’

‘They are upon us.’ He reached for her again.

Spinning on her heel she pointed to a crossbow-man. ‘You! Aim at this man’s heart, and if he isn’t moving when I drop my arm – kill him!’ She raised her hand. ‘Now move, goat-brain!’ she thundered. Furious, Forin stalked back towards the wagons.

Karis let out her breath. She wanted to call out to Forin, to explain. But there was no time. The first of the Daroth moved out into the torchlight, which glistened on his ghost-white face and beaked mouth. ‘No one shoot!’ yelled Karis. ‘Where is your leader, Daroth?’ she asked. Heat began to grow inside her head.

‘It is time to end this war. It is time to end this war! It is time to end this war!’ She repeated the thought over and over, like a prayer. ‘I wish to speak to your leader,’ she said, aloud. More and more Daroth were moving out of the entrance now, spreading out, staring at the ballistae and the crossbow-men, their jet-black eyes unreadable. A warrior taller than the others stepped through the mass. ‘I am the Daroth Duke,’ he said. ‘I remember you, woman. Say what you have to say, and then I shall kill you.’

‘And what purpose will that serve?’ she asked him. ‘In the few months since we have learned of your threat, we have already designed weapons that can destroy you in great numbers. We are an inventive people, and we outnumber you vastly. Look around you now. How many more of your people must die in this insane manner?’

‘We do not die, woman. You cannot kill us. We are Daroth. We are immortal. And I tire of this conversation. You have gained time, and you will now destroy more of our bodies. Then we will sack the city and kill everyone in it. So give your order – and let it begin.’

‘That is not what I wish, my lord,’ she told him.

‘Your wishes are of no consequence.’ His sword came up and Karis raised her arm.

Duvodas had not eaten or slept for five days, yet there was no sensation of hunger or weariness. Nor did he feel the biting wind from the north, nor the heat of the midday sun as he crossed the mountains and descended into the verdant valleys below.

There was no sensation for him, and his mind was empty of all emotion – save one: the burning need to wreak revenge upon the Daroth. His clothes were filthy and mud-spattered, his blond hair greasy and lank as he moved through the darkness towards the domed city. No Daroth riders were in sight as he walked in the moonlight, and he made no attempt to move stealthily.

For two days now he had been aware that the land below his feet was devoid of magic. It did not matter, for sorcery, dark and terrible, coursed through his veins – feeding him, driving him on. The power within did not lessen; instead it seemed to grow with every step he took towards the city.

There were no walls. The Daroth, in their arrogance, did not believe that an enemy would come this close. Had there been walls, Duvodas would have broken them. Had there been gates, he would have torn them asunder. He paused for the first time in five days and stood, staring at the moonlit city. An owl swooped above him, and a small fox scuttled away into the undergrowth to his right.