Dark Moon (15 page)

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 further.’

‘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.

‘Perhaps you should speak a little louder,’ advised Tarantio. ‘I don’t think all the people in the tavern could hear you.’

Brune swung round. ‘Why would they want to?’

‘It doesn’t matter. It was sarcasm, Brune. I was trying to point out that it is not wise to talk so loudly about money; it could be that there are robbers close by.’

‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ said Brune, tapping his nose. ‘So, did you see him?’

‘Yes. We have done rather well. My investments have brought me almost two thousand silver pieces.’

‘Two thousand!’ exclaimed Brune. ‘In silver?’ Several people close by turned to look at the two men. Dace’s laughter echoed inside Tarantio’s mind. ‘
I am so glad we brought him with us
,’ said Dace.

‘What will you do with all that money?’ Brune asked.

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Tarantio told the sandy-haired youngster. ‘Anything you like.’

Brune thought long and hard. ‘Shame about the harp-man,’ he said, at last. ‘You should have been here last night. He was amazing. Can I fetch you some more ale?’

Tarantio nodded. ‘
Let me enjoy this one
,’ said Dace. ‘
It is a long time since I tasted good ale
.’

‘
No. I don’t want to see bloodshed here
.’

‘
I promise, brother. No blades. Just a jug of ale, and then I shall sleep
.’

Tarantio relaxed and faded back as Dace stretched and finished the last of the pie. Brune was on his way back to the table when a tall man, one of the troublesome nobles, turned suddenly, colliding with him. Ale swished from the two jugs Brune was carrying, splashing the man’s black silk shirt.

‘You clumsy dolt!’ he shouted.

‘Sorry,’ said Brune amiably, trying to move past the man. ‘But you did bump me.’

As Brune walked on the tall man’s fist struck him behind the ear, punching him from his feet. Brune fell against a table, striking his head on the back of a chair before pitching unconscious to the floor.

Dace vaulted the table and reached the scene just as the tall man was unleashing a kick against Brune’s body. Dace’s foot lashed out to hook under the man’s leg; then with a flick he sent the tall man crashing to the floor. The man rolled to his knees and drew a dagger. Dace grinned and reached for his own; then he stopped.

‘You are a bore, brother,’ he said aloud.

The tall man rose, eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll gut you for that, you whoreson!’

‘Don’t tell me, show me,’ said Dace contemptuously. The man lunged. Dace side-stepped, grabbing the knife wrist with his left hand, his right arm moving under the man’s elbow. Dace slammed down with his left and up with his right. A sickening crack echoed around the room as the tall man’s arm snapped at the elbow; the victim’s scream was awful. The tall man fell back as Dace released him, the knife falling from his fingers. White bone was jutting through the sleeve of his black shirt, which was now stained with blood. He screamed again. ‘Oh, shut up!’ snapped Dace, ramming the heel of his palm into the man’s nose and following up with a right uppercut that lifted him to his toes. Stepping back, Dace let the man fall and then walked to Brune, who was groaning and trying to rise.

A movement from behind caused Dace to spin. Three men were approaching, knives in their hands. Dace laughed at them, then he walked towards them.

‘Happily for you, I promised a friend I’d kill no-one tonight. However, that does not mean I cannot cripple you – like your friend on the floor, who will be lucky to use that arm again. So who is first? I think I’ll smash a knee-cap next time!’

He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. ‘What is the problem, children? Can’t make up your minds about who will be the first? What about you?’ he asked, stepping in close to a lean, bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace laughed at them. ‘What a trio of buttercups,’ he said. ‘Pick up your friend and get him to a surgeon.’ Swinging towards the bar, he called out, ‘Two more jugs of ale, if you please.’

The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace helped Brune to his feet. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

‘My head hurts,’ said Brune.

‘Ah well, you’re used to that,’ said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the jugs, and leaned in to Dace.

‘I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you … injured … is highly connected.’

‘His arm isn’t,’ said Dace, with a wide smile.

‘I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of Vint, the Duke’s Champion.’

‘Champion, you say? Is he any good?’

‘It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good – to my reckoning, anyway.’

Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. ‘It makes him interesting,’ he agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away.

‘
You promised
,’ said Tarantio.

‘
I kept my promise. I didn’t know someone was going to punch the idiot. And I didn’t kill him, brother
.’

‘
You crippled him!
’

‘
You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said about Vint?
’

‘
Yes. And we are going to avoid him
.’

‘
There is no sense of adventure in you
.’ The door opened and Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. ‘
Damn!
’ said Dace. ‘
Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I think I’ll sleep now
.’

Tarantio took a deep breath. ‘Where is the man who hit me?’ asked Brune.

‘He’s gone,’ replied Tarantio.

‘Did you hurt him?’ asked Brune.

‘I think I did,’ said Tarantio.

Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a full day as he tried to make his report. As night fell he sat shivering beneath an archway at the main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The officer looked at him long and hard. ‘I am Capel,’ he said. ‘For my sins I am the second in command of this … outpost. So tell me, child, your important news.’ Goran did so, and Capel listened without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons and monster warriors on monster horses.

‘You understand, child,’ he said, ‘that such a fanciful tale is likely to see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?’

‘It’s true, sir. I swear it on my mother’s grave.’

The officer rose wearily to his feet. ‘I’ll take you to the captain. But this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.’

‘I must see him,’ said Goran.

Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes.

The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘I would like to see this miracle,’ he said. ‘You will ride with me, boy. And if it proves – as I think it will – a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How does that sound?’

Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell. The door was locked behind him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a young soldier helped him mount a fine grey stallion, and the troop cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel.