Dark Moon Page 11

  “What are you?” it asked, the voice deep and harsh, the dialect perfectly pronounced.

  “We are villagers from the south. We mean no harm, sir.”

  “You serve the Eldarin?”

  “No, sir. We serve the Duke of Corduin. The Eldarin are no more; there was a war and they . . . disappeared. Their lands became a desert, like this one . . .” He tailed off lamely.

  “A desert, you say? What is the desert?”

  “Barren . . . empty . . . devoid of life. No water or earth. No grass or trees. That is a desert. Until this very morning the desert was all around here. Red stone, not a handful of earth for thousands of square miles. But today—and my son saw this—a great black cloud rose up and everything . . . the city, the trees, flowed from it. That’s why we came here.”

  The huge warrior stood silently for a moment. “There is much here to think on,” he said at last. “And our mastery of your language is . . . not good. This morning the sun rose . . . wrong. I think you . . . truth speak. Eldarin did this to us with . . . magic.”

  “You are mastering the language wonderfully, sir,” said Barin. “And with such speed . . . swiftness. In my judgement that is amazing.”

  “We have talent for tongues,” said the creature. “Your . . . people . . . killed Eldarin?”

  “Yes. Well . . . no one knows what happened to them. Their land was destroyed. Our army was there to fight them, but what happened there was the . . . opposite of what happened here. The grass and trees and water disappeared. So did their cities.”

  “You and I will . . . discuss . . . this further. But let us deal first with matters we can make judgement upon. Which of you here is the strongest?”

  There was silence as the villagers stood by, frightened. “I am,” said the smith at last, stepping forward.

  The leader approached him, towering over Yordis by more than a foot. “What is your race called?” he asked.

  “We are just . . . men,” the smith answered.

  The leader called to one of his riders, who dismounted and approached. “Fight him,” the leader ordered Yordis.

  “We are not here to fight, sir,” put in Barin. “We are none of us warriors.”

  “Be silent. I wish to see your man fight against a Daroth warrior.”

  Drawing his sword the leader tossed it to the smith, who caught it expertly by the hilt but then sagged under the weight of the weapon. Instantly his opponent drew his own sword and attacked. Yordis blocked the first blow, and sent a two-handed sweep that hammered against the warrior’s shoulder, cutting deep into the white flesh. A milky fluid began to stream from the wound. The smith attacked again, but the warrior ducked under a slashing cut and rammed his own blade deep into the smith’s belly, wrenching it up through the heart. Blood and air hissed from Yordis’s open lungs, and his body fell to the earth. The wounded warrior sheathed his sword and drew a curved dagger; with this he cut a strip of flesh from the smith’s forearm, and ate it. Blood staining his ghost-white face, the warrior turned to his leader. “They taste of salt,” he said. A hissing staccato sound came from the other warriors, which Barin took to be a form of laughter. Yordis had been a dear friend, but the farmer was too shocked and frightened to feel despair at his parting. In that moment all he felt was relief that it was not him lying on the soft earth, with blood pooling beneath him.

  The leader took Barin by the arm. “Mount your pony and follow us,” he said. “We need to speak further.”

  “What of my friends?” he asked.

  The leader barked out an order, whereupon the warriors drew their serrated swords and closed in. The villagers tried to run, but the circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. Within the space of a few heartbeats all the villagers were slain, the grass stained red by their blood.

  Barin stood by, mesmerized by the slaughter. “We meant you no harm,” he said. “They are . . . were . . . peaceful people.”

  The leader loomed above him, his huge dark eyes staring down unblinking. “They were nothing, for they were not strong.”

  It took Barin three attempts to mount his gelding, his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The leader stepped into the saddle of his enormous stallion. Around him the Daroth warriors were dismounting; they ran to the bodies and began to strip away the clothes.

  “Your friends’ lives will not be completely wasted,” said the leader. “Salt flesh is a great delicacy.”

  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 farther.”

  “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.