David Gemmell - Dark Moon

No letters were carried now. In fact, any private citizen who considered sending one to another Duchy would be arrested and probably hanged. The Duchies were engaged in a terrible war, composed of pitched battles, guerrilla raids, changing allegiances, betrayal and confusion. Mercenaries plied their trade from the southern sea at Loretheli to the northern mountains of Morgallis, from Hlobane in the west to Prentuis in the east. Few common warriors knew who was allied to whom. At the start of this summer campaign the Duke of The Marches had been allied with Duke Sirano of Romark against Belliese, the Corsair Duke, and Duke Albreck of Corduin. Belliese had switched sides early in June, and then the Duke of The Marches had quarrelled with Sirano and formed a new alliance with Albreck.

Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring nobility. Most soldiers did not try. Tarantio had been part of a mercenary regiment holding a fort against the besieging troops of Romark and The Marches.

A herald brought news of his change of allegiance. It was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within the walls - some, like Tarantio, serving Belliese, others Corduin - found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the defenders - who should now be attacking it - were already inside it. The council meeting went on for five days.

Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could all march away with honour satisfied.

Three hundred and twenty-nine men had died during the siege. Their bodies were buried in a communal grave.

Two weeks later, Tarantio and a thousand men were back at the fort, rebuilding the walls.

The awesome follies of war, for which Tarantio received twenty silver pieces a month.

Four miles along the road, with dusk deepening, Tarantio saw the glimmer of a camp-fire in the trees to the west. Angling his horse, he rode towards the wood. 'Try to be careful,' warned Dace. 'We don't have too many friends in this area.'

'Would you like to ride in?'

'Thank you, brother,' said Dace. He drew in a deep breath, and felt the cool breeze upon his skin. The gelding became suddenly skittish, his ears flattening.

'He senses you,' said Tarantio. 'Best to soothe him, or he'll throw you.' Dace stroked the gelding's long neck and, keeping his voice low and soothing, said, aloud, 'Throw me, you ugly son of a bitch, and I'll cut your eyes out.' Still nervous, the gelding moved forward as Dace touched his heels to the beast's flanks. Right hand raised, Dace rode slowly towards the wood. 'Hello the fire!' he called.

'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' 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.