Dark Moon Page 6
“Are you alone?” came a voice.
“Indeed I am, friend. Do I smell beef cooking?”
“You have a good nose. Ride in.”
Warily Dace did so. As soon as he came close enough to recognize the men he grinned. “Ride out! Now!” urged Tarantio.
“Before the fun has started, brother? Surely not.” Before Tarantio could wrest back control, Dace leapt from the saddle and led his horse towards the fire.
There were three men seated around a fire-pit above which a leg of beef was being turned on a spit by a fourth—the red-bearded warrior Forin. Two of the others were the comrades of the dead mercenary Brys. Dace tethered his horse to a bush.
“There’s too much for just the four of us,” said the first man, a tall and slender swordsman in forester’s garb of fringed buckskin. He was thin-faced, with an easy smile not echoed in his close-set pale eyes.
“The bowman in the bushes is not eating?” asked Dace, stepping in close.
“You’ve a sharp eye as well as a sharp nose,” said the other, with a wide grin. Turning his head he called, “Come in, Brune! There’s no danger here. Now, Tarantio, let me introduce you to my Knights of the Cess Pit. The clumsy bowman is Brune. I told him to lie low, but he bobs like a rabbit.” A tall, gangly, sandy-haired young man stepped from the bushes and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Useless, he is. I only keep him with me out of pity. The big man by the fire is a newcomer to our band. He calls himself Forin.”
Forin rose, the firelight glinting on his red-forked beard. “Good to meet you,” he said, his face devoid of expression.
“And I am Latais,” said the leader. “Welcome to my camp, Tarantio. You put the fear of Hell into my last two Knights. Step up, you dung beetles!” The two mercenaries rose and edged forward. “These two, who understand when to put wisdom before valour, are Styart and Tobin. When the gods sketched out their personalities, they failed to place courage high on the list.”
“Perhaps wisdom is preferable,” said Dace.
“It is a trap,” said Tarantio.
“Of course it is,” agreed Dace. “The question is, which side is Forin on? I should have killed him back at the cave. I wonder if he’s still got our gold coin?”
“Find yourself a place to sit,” said Latais amiably, “and I’ll bring you some food.”
Dace moved around the fire and sat on a tree-stump. Forin took up a wooden plate and cut himself some beef; then he sat away from the others. Latais brought Tarantio some meat and flat bread and the two men ate in silence. When he had finished, Dace cleaned the plate on the grass and returned it to the mercenary leader.
“So where are you heading?” asked Latais.
“Corduin. I think I’ll winter there.”
“You have enough funds to sit out the cold season?”
“No, but I’ll survive. What about you?”
Latais drew his dagger and picked a piece of beef from between his teeth. “There’s an army gathering near Hlobane, and Duke Albreck is offering thirty pieces of silver for veterans.”
“I’d hardly call your group veterans—save for the big man.”
“Yes, he has the look of eagles, as they say.” Styart and Tobin lifted the spit from the fire, while the bowman, Brune, added fuel to the fire pit, flames flaring up and illuminating the clearing. Dace’s gaze did not flicker. He sat calmly watching Latais, aware that the man still held his dagger. “You are younger than I expected,” said the leader. “If all your exploits are to be believed you should have been at least fifty.”
“They should all be believed,” Dace told him.
“Does this mean you really are swifter than a lightning bolt?”
Dace said nothing for a moment. “You know,” he said finally, “the resemblance is clear.”
“Resemblance?”
“Was Brys not your brother?”
Latais smiled. The dagger flashed for Dace’s chest.
His left hand shot out, his fingers closing around Latais’s wrist. The blade stopped inches short. “Faster than lightning,” said Dace, eyes glittering. Latais struggled to pull back from the iron grip. Dace’s right hand came up, and firelight gleamed on the silver blade of his throwing-knife. “And twice as deadly.”
His arm snapped forward, the knife slamming into the unprotected neck of the mercenary leader. Blood gouted from the severed jugular, drenching Dace’s hand. Latais’s struggles grew weaker, and he slumped against the tree. Bright images flashed across Dace’s mind: his mother lying dead in her bed, the plague boils still weeping pus, the child crying for her and calling her name; his father hanging from the long branch, his face bloated and black, and old Gatien running through the burning house with his hair and beard ablaze. The sharpness of his sorrow faded away in the pulsing red light that flowed in his brain, eased by the warm red blood that bubbled over his knife hand.
Dace sighed and pulled clear the blade, letting the body of Latais fall. Wiping the knife, he returned it to his boot and rose to his feet drawing his swords. The flames were six feet high now, and Dace could not see who stood beyond the fire. But he guessed that Latais had ordered his men to be ready.
“Come on then, you gutter scum!” he yelled, leaping through the flames and across the fire-pit. As he landed, ready for battle, he saw the bowman, Brune, lying on the ground, Forin standing above him with a wooden club in his hand. “Where are the other two?” demanded Dace.
“You’ve never seen men run so fast. Didn’t even stop to saddle their horses. You want to kill this one?”
The answer was yes, but Dace felt his irritation rise. What right had this man to offer him a death? “Why should I?” he heard himself say.
Forin shrugged. “I thought you enjoyed killing.”
“What I enjoy is none of your damned business. Why did you help me?”
“A whim. They saw you coming. Latais thought Brune could bring you down as you entered the camp. But you put the horse between you as you dismounted. Smooth move, my friend. You’re a canny man.”
Brune groaned and sat up. “He hit me with a lump of wood,” he complained.
“You were about to shoot through the fire and kill me,” said Dace, wishing he had killed the man as he lay unconscious. There was still time.
“That’s what I were told to do,” said Brune sullenly.
Dace looked into the man’s face. “Your leader is dead. You want to fight me?”
“I didn’t want to kill you in the first place. He told me to.” Dace could feel the longing for blood growing in him, but he looked into the hulking young man’s plain, open face and saw the absence of malice there. A farm boy lost in a world at war. Dace could see him lovingly working the fields, caring for stock, raising a family as dull and as solid as himself.
“Gather your gear and move out,” he said.
“Why do you want me to go? Aren’t you the leader now?” Brune reached up and rubbed his sandy hair. His fingers came away bloody. “Anyway, my head hurts.”
Forin chuckled. “Tell me,” he said to the injured man, “is there a lot of in-breeding in your village? You’re not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” admitted Brune. “That’s why I do what I’m told.”
“Come back to the world, brother,” said Dace. “This numbskull is too stupid to kill, and if I stay here any longer I’ll rip his throat out.”
Tarantio found it hard to keep the smile from his face as he resumed control. “Let me see that head,” he told Brune. “Move closer to the fire.” Brune obeyed and Tarantio’s fingers probed the bowman’s scalp. “You’ve a lump the size of a goose egg, but it doesn’t need stitching. Go and get some sleep.”
“You’re not sending me away then?”
“No. Tell me, are you skilled with that bow?”
“Not really. But I’m worse with a sword.”
Forin’s laughter boomed out. “Is there anything you’re good at?” asked the red-bearded warrior.
; “I don’t like you,” said Brune. “And I am good at . . . things. I know livestock. Pigs and cattle.”
“A handy talent for a soldier,” said Forin. “If we’re ever attacked by a rampaging herd of wild pigs, you’ll be the man to plan our strategy.”
“Go and rest,” Tarantio ordered the young man. Obediently Brune stood up, but he swayed and almost fell. Forin caught him and half carried him to where his blankets lay. The young man slumped down and was asleep within moments. Forin returned to the fire.
“You mind if I travel with you and your dog to Corduin?”
“Why would you want to?” countered Tarantio.
Forin chuckled. “No-one ever gave me a gold piece before. Is that good enough?”
Tarantio awoke at dawn. He yawned and stretched, enjoying the sense of emotional solitude that came when Dace slept. Forin lay wrapped in his blankets, snoring quietly, but of Brune there was no sign. And the body of Latais was gone. Tarantio rose and followed Brune’s tracks, finding him some fifty feet from the campsite. The body of the dead leader was wrapped in its cloak, and Brune was humming a monotonous tune as he dug a shallow grave in the soft earth. Tarantio sat down on a fallen tree and watched in silence. With the grave some four feet deep Brune scrambled out, his face and upper body streaked with sweat and mud. Carefully, he pulled the body to the edge of the hole, climbed in himself, then lowered the dead man to his resting place. The act was tender and gentle, as if Brune feared bruising the corpse. Slowly, reverently, Brune scooped earth over the grave.
“You must have cared for him,” said Tarantio softly.
“He looked after me,” said Brune. “And my dad always said dead men should go back to the earth. That’s how plagues start, he said—when bodies are left to rot in the air.”
“I suppose there is some good in all men,” said Tarantio.
“He looked after me,” repeated Brune. “I didn’t have nowhere to go. He let me ride with him.” He continued to fill the grave, pressing the earth down with his hands. When he had finished he stood and slapped his hands together, trying to dislodge the mud clinging to his fingers.
“You should hate me then, for killing him,” suggested Tarantio.
“I don’t hate nobody,” said Brune. “Never have. Never will, I ’spect.” For a moment he stood staring down at the grave. “When people in the village died, there was someone to speak for them. Lots of pretty things were said. I don’t remember them. Does it matter, do you think?”
“To whom?” asked Tarantio, mystified. “You think Latais will hear them?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Brune. “I just wish I knew some of the pretty words. Do you know any?”
“None that would suit this occasion. Why not just say what’s in your heart?”
Brune nodded. Clasping his hands together, he closed his eyes. “Thanks, Lat, for all you done for me,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you asked, but they hit me with a lump of wood.”
“Touching and poetic,” said Dace. “It certainly brought a lump to my throat.”
Despite the jeering tone, Tarantio sensed an undercurrent of emotion in Dace. He thought about it for a moment, but could find no reason. Then Dace spoke again. “Are we taking the idiot with us?” The question was asked too casually.
“By Heaven, Dace. Have you found someone you like?”
“He amuses me. When he ceases to do so, I will kill him,” said Dace. Tarantio heard the lie in his voice, but said nothing.
Suddenly all the birds in the trees took flight, the leaves thrashing under their beating wings. Tarantio felt a quivering sensation under his feet. Forin stumbled into the small clearing. “I think we should saddle up and move out,” he said. “I’m getting a bad feeling. Maybe there’s a storm coming.”
The horses were skittish, and Tarantio needed Brune’s help to saddle the gelding, who tried to buck each time the saddle was placed upon his back.
“What in Hell’s name is happening?” asked Forin. “Nothing feels right.”
The earthquake struck as Tarantio, Forin and Brune moved out onto the plain. The ground vibrating beneath them caused the horses to panic and rear. Brune, who was leading the three spare mounts, was unseated and fell heavily, his horse and the others bolting. A section of hillside close by sheared away and a huge crack, hundreds of paces long, opened up in the earth ahead of them, swallowing the fleeing animals. As suddenly as the crack had appeared, it closed, sending up a shower of dust and earth. Tarantio leapt from the saddle, holding firm to the bridle. “Easy, boy! Easy!” he said soothingly, stroking the beast’s flanks. Forin’s horse fell as the ground heaved. The big man rolled clear, then scrambled up and caught hold of the reins.
The tremors continued for several minutes, then died away. Dust hung in the air in great clouds. Tarantio hobbled his mount and ran to the fallen Brune as the young man sat up, blinking rapidly. “Are you hurt?” asked Tarantio.
“Hit my head again,” said Brune. “Made it bleed.”
“Luckily your head is the thickest part of you,” observed Forin. “You lost the horses, you dolt!”
“He could have done nothing to save them,” put in Tarantio. “And if we had ridden a few yards further we would have all been sucked into the abyss.”
“Have you ever heard of such a thing in Corduin lands?” asked Forin. “For I have not. Down by Loretheli the earth moves. But not up here.”
Tarantio stared down at his hands; they were trembling. “I think we all need to rest for a while. The horses are too skittish to ride.” Unhobbling the gelding, he led him towards the ruined hill. Above and to the left of the sheared mound was a stand of trees. Tethering the two horses, Tarantio and Forin sat down while Brune wandered away to empty his bursting bladder.
“I think my heart is beginning to settle down,” said Forin. “I haven’t been that scared since my wife—may she rest in peace—caught me with her sister.”
“I have never been that scared,” admitted Tarantio. “I thought the earth was shaking apart. What causes it?”
Forin shrugged. “My father used to talk of the giant, Premithon. The gods chained him at the centre of the earth, and every once in a while he wakes and struggles to be free. Then the mountains tremble and the earth shakes.”
“That sounds altogether reasonable,” said Tarantio, forcing a smile.
Brune came running up the hill. “Come see what I’ve found,” he shouted. “Come see!” Turning round he ambled down the ruined hill. Tarantio and Forin followed him to where the hillside had been cut in half, exposing two marble pillars and a cracked lintel stone.
“It is an ancient tomb,” said Forin, scrambling up over the mud which half covered the entrance. “Maybe there’s gold to be found.” Tarantio and Brune followed him, sliding over the mud and into the entrance. All three men halted before a huge statue, which stood guard over a broken stone doorway.
The sunlight shone down on the marble of the statue and Tarantio stood staring at the carving, trying to make sense of it. The statue stood almost seven feet high. On its left arm was a triangular shield, in its right hand a serrated sword. But Tarantio’s attention was not taken by the armour but by the face, which was not human. The bony ridge of its curved nose extended up and over the bald cranium, curving down the thick neck to disappear beneath the sculpted armour. The creature’s eyes were large, protruding, and slanted up towards the thick temples. The mouth was lipless and open, showing pointed teeth behind a ridge of sharp bone, like the beak of a hunting bird . . .
“It is a demon,” said Brune fearfully.
“No,” said Forin. “It is a Daroth. My father described them perfectly. Six-fingered hands, and eyes that can see in a two-hundred-degree semi-circle. The neck is heavily ridged with bone and sinew. It does not articulate like the human neck, therefore the Daroth needed better all-round vision.”
“You mentioned them back in the cave,” said Tarantio. “I have heard of them. But they are just myths, surely?”
“No.”
“Barely an ounce of soil over twenty thousand square miles. According to the legend, the Eldarin used great magic to annihilate the seven cities of the Daroth. Fire from the sky, and all that. The same magic that later destroyed the Eldarin themselves, searing the earth away.”
“They look very fierce,” said Brune.
“They were all mighty warriors,” Forin continued. “They had two hearts and two sets of lungs. The bones of their chest and backs were twice as thick as ours, and no sword, nor arrow, could pierce their vital organs. A heavy spear could injure them, but it would need a strong man to plunge it home.” He paused and looked up at the cruel, beaked face. “Hell’s teeth, would you want to fight anything that ugly?” he asked Tarantio.
“I would,” said Dace.
“I dread to think what the females looked like,” said Tarantio to Forin.
“From what my father said, this could be one of the females. There was little difference between them; they bred like insects and reptiles, laying eggs, or pods. There was no physical union between mating pairs—and little apparent physical difference between the sexes.”
“Why would anyone want a statue of a Daroth guarding their grave?” asked Tarantio.
Easing past the statue, they pushed their way into the main burial chamber. The sunlight was weaker here, but they could see a massive lidless coffin set by the far wall. The answer to Tarantio’s question lay within. The coffin contained a massive skeleton, taller even than the statue guarding the tomb. Shocked, Tarantio gazed down on the colossal bones of the chest and back. The body had been laid on its side and the immense ridge of the spine could clearly be seen extending up the neck and over the cranium. Reaching inside, Tarantio lifted clear the immense skull. Dust and grit trickled from it. More than ever, the ridge of bone above the mouth looked like the beak of a hunting bird. “Incredible,” whispered Tarantio. “He must have been awesome in life.”