David Gemmell - Dark Moon

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.'

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.'