David Gemmell - Dark Moon

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.

'Tell me again about these monsters,' said the soldier.

'They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. Their horses were giants.'

'You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird's, perhaps?'

'Yes, sir. Like a hawk's beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and pointed.'

The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a white linen towel.

After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran's village an hour after noon. It was deserted.

Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside the captain's mount. 'Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the boy said.' The captain looked around nervously.

'How many in the raiding party?' he asked, sweat breaking out on his plump face.

'No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than any I've seen.'

'I think we should go back, don't you?' said the captain.

'We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the Duke?'

'Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.'

'I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now be between us and the garrison.'

The fat man's eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. 'Yes, of course. You think then we should

.. . push on?'

'With care, sir.'

The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning himself at the centre of the troop.

Goran edged his mount alongside Capel. 'The captain doesn't seem much like a soldier,' he said.

'He's a nobleman, lad. They're a different breed - born to be officers.' He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills and valleys, woods and plains.

The fat officer moved alongside Capel. 'It is like a dream,' he said. 'What can it mean?'

'When I was a lad our village storyteller told tales of ancient days. The Three Races - you remember, sir? The Oltor, the Eldarin and the Daroth?'

'What of it?'

'Our storyteller's description of the Daroth matches what the boy saw. Huge, powerful heads of white, ridged bone. A beak of a mouth.'

'It cannot be,' said the captain. 'The Daroth were destroyed by the Eldarin centuries ago.'

'And a few days ago this was the Great Northern Desert,' pointed out Capel. Around them the thirty men were sitting their horses nervously. There was no conversation, but Goran could feel the tension.

'And that looks like no human settlement I have ever heard of,' went on Capel, gesturing towards the distant city of black domes. 'Should we send a delegation?'

'No! We are not politicians. I think we have seen enough. Now we will ride back.'

One of the soldiers pointed to a small hollow at the foot of the hills, where the remains of a fire-pit could clearly be seen.

'Go down and check it,' the captain ordered Capel. 'Then we'll leave.'

The officer beckoned three men to follow him and rode down the slope. Goran heeled his horse forward and followed them.

At the foot of the hill Capel dismounted. Bones were scattered around the pit, and a small pile of skulls had been carelessly kicked into the ashes. A little way to the right was a mound of torn and bloody clothing.

Goran jumped from his horse and began to search through the clothes. His father's tunic was not among them.

'Riders!' shouted one of the three soldiers. Goran saw some twenty monsters approaching from the south.

Running to his horse, he vaulted to the saddle.

'Let's get out of here,' said Capel. Turning his mount towards the slope, he glanced up to see, far above them, the captain's horse rear suddenly, pitching him to the ground. The sound of screaming horses filled the air. One gelding toppled head-first over the crest with a long black spear through its neck. Capel dragged on the reins of his mount, his mind racing. Above him now he could see scores of white-faced warriors moving out onto the slope - behind him twenty more riders were bearing down. With three men he could make no difference to the battle being waged above, and if he tried he would be caught between two forces. To be forced to run from a fight was galling, but to stay would be certain death. Death did not frighten Capel, but if no-one escaped there would be no-one to raise the alarm back in Corduin.

Capel swung his horse towards the east. 'Follow me!' he shouted. The three soldiers and Goran obeyed instantly, and they galloped back down the slope to the level ground of the plain. The huge horses of the enemy could not match the speed of the Corduin mounts. They did not try. Capel glanced back to see the Daroth riding slowly up the slope.

And just for a moment he glimpsed the fat captain running witlessly along the crest. But then he was gone.

The dream was subtly different. The child was still crying and Tarantio was trying to find him - deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, he searched. He knew the tunnels well; he had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in the face; through this came the thin, piping cries of terror.

'The demons are coming! The demons are coming!' he heard the child cry.

'I am with you,' he answered. 'Stay where you are!'

Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light, strong enough to throw shadows. As always he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. The ragged men with opal eyes advanced through the gloom, hammers and pickaxes in their hands.

'Where is the boy?' he demanded, drawing his swords.

'Dead. As you are,' came the voice in his mind.

'I am not dead.'

'You are dead, Tarantio,' argued the voice. 'Where is your passion? Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life without these things? It is nothing.'

'I have dreams!' shouted Tarantio.

'Name one!'

His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. 'Where is the boy?' he screamed.

The voice fell silent and Tarantio moved forward. The line of ragged men parted, and beyond them he saw a swordsman waiting for him. The man was lean, his face grey, his eyes golden and slitted like those of a hunting cat. His hair was white and spiky, standing out from his head like a lion's mane. In his hands were two swords,