David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Where is the child?' asked Tarantio.

'Will you die to find out?' the demon asked in return.

Tarantio awoke and swung his legs from the bed. The sound of Brune's soft snoring filled the room.

Tarantio took a deep, calming breath. Dawn light was shining through the leaded glass of the windows, making geometric patterns on the floor of the room. Tarantio dressed swiftly and went downstairs. One of the two fires in the dining hall had died, but the other was still flickering. Adding two thin logs to it, he blew the blaze to life and sat quietly before the flames.

'You look troubled,' said Shira, limping in from the kitchen.

'Bad dreams,' he said, forcing a smile.

'I used to have bad dreams,' she said. 'Would you like some breakfast? We have eggs today.'

'Thank you.'

She left him with his thoughts, and he pictured the dream again and again. Still there was no sense to it. Tarantio shivered, and added more fuel to the growing fire.

Shira returned with a plate of fried eggs and a slab of steak. Tarantio thanked her and devoured the meal. She sat down beside him when he had finished, and handed him a mug of hot, sweet tisane.

Tarantio relaxed. 'This is good,' he said. 'I don't recognize the flavour.'

'Rose-petal, lemon mint, and a hint of camomile, sweetened with honey.'

Tarantio sighed. 'The best time of the day,' he said, trying to make conversation. 'Quiet and uncluttered.'

'I have always liked the dawn. A new day, fresh and virgin.'

The use of the word 'virgin' unsettled Tarantio, and he looked away into the fire. 'You were very frightening last night,' she said.

'I am sorry you witnessed it.'

'I thought someone was going to die. It was horrible.'

'Violence is never pleasant,' he agreed. 'However, the man brought it upon himself. He should not have struck Brune, nor should he have attempted to kick him thereafter. It was the act of a coward. Though he will, I think, be regretting his actions now.'

'Will you be taking Father's advice, and leaving us?'

'I have not yet found a dwelling that suits me.'

'This tavern never made any money,' she said suddenly, 'not until Duvo came with his music. Father worked hard, and we scraped by. Now he is on the verge of success, and that means a lot to him.'

'I am sure that it does,' agreed Tarantio, waiting for her to continue.

'But taverns with a reputation for violence tend to lose their customers.'

He looked into her wide, beautiful eyes. 'You would like me to leave?'

'I think it would be wise. Father didn't sleep last night. I heard him pacing the room.'

'I will find another tavern,' he promised her.

She made to rise, then winced and sat back.

'You are in pain?' he asked.

'My leg often troubles me - especially when it is going to rain. I shall be all right in a moment. I am sorry for having to ask you to leave. I know that what happened was not your fault.'

He shrugged, and forced a smile. 'Do not concern yourself. There are many taverns. And I will not need more than a few days to find a place of my own.'

Taking his empty plate, she limped back to the kitchen.

'Such a sweet child,' said Dace. 'And you fell for it, brother.'

'What she said was no more than the truth. Vint will come here looking for you . . . me.'

'I'll kill him,' said Dace confidently.

'What is the point, Dace? How many deaths do you need?' asked Tarantio wearily.

'I don't need deaths,' objected Dace. 'I need amusement. And this conversation is becoming boring.'

With that Dace faded back, leaving Tarantio mercifully alone.

Returning to his room, he filled a pewter bowl and washed his face and hands. Brune yawned and stretched. 'I had a lovely dream,' he said, sitting up and scratching his thick fingers through his sandy hair.

'Lucky you,' said Tarantio. 'Pack your gear. Today we look at houses.'

'I'd like to stay here and talk to Shira.'

'I can see the attraction. However, the man I fought last night is likely to come back with a large number of friends - including a sword-killer named Vint. They'll be looking for you and me. You're welcome to stay here, of course. But keep your dagger close by.'

'No,' said Brune. 'I think I'd like to look at houses. I don't want to meet any sword-killers.'

'Wise choice,' Tarantio told him.

'Boring - but wise,' added Dace.

The twelve targets were circles of hard-packed straw, four feet in diameter, placed against a wall of sacks filled with sand. The archers stood some sixty paces from the targets, their arrows thrust into the earth.

Tarantio and Brune had waited for almost an hour for a place to become free, and stood now on the extreme right of the line. 'Let me see you strike the gold,' said Tarantio.

Brune squinted at the circle. It was painted in a series of rings, yellow on the outer, followed by red, blue, green, and lastly a gold centre. 'I don't think I can,' he said.

'Just cock the bow, and we'll make judgements later.' Brune pulled an arrow from the earth and notched it to the string. 'Wait,' said Tarantio. 'You did not check the cock feather.'

'The what?'

'Put down the bow,' ordered Tarantio and Brune obeyed. Tarantio lifted an arrow and showed the flights to the bewildered young man. 'See how feathers are set into the shaft. Like a Y. Two sets of feathers are set close together, the third stands alone. This is the cock feather. When archers are told to cock their bow, this means that the cock feather should point away from the bow. Otherwise, it will strike the bow as it is loosed and deflect the arrow.'

'I see,' said Brune, taking up his bow again. Drawing the string back to his chin, the young man let fly. The shaft soared high over the target, striking the top of the sand-sack wall. 'Was that good?' he asked.

'Had your opponent been fifteen feet tall, it would have scared him,' said Tarantio. 'Let me see the bow.'

It was cheaply made from a single piece of wood some four feet long. The best bows were constructed of elm or yew, and often skilled bowyers would create bonded versions incorporating both woods. Tarantio cocked an arrow and drew back the string. The pull was no more than twenty pounds. Loosing the shaft, he watched it punch weakly home in the blue inner ring.

'You're very good,' said Brune admiringly.

'No, I'm not,' said Tarantio, 'but even a master archer would have difficulty with this bow. You'd probably be better off throwing a stone at an advancing enemy. This does not have the power to punch through armour.'

'I made it myself,' said Brune. 'I like it.'

'Have you ever hit anything with it?'

'Not yet,' admitted the young man.

'Trust me, Brune. If you are ever hunting deer with it, just run up and use it like a club.'

Several men approached them. The first, a tall slim bowman in a tunic of fine leather, bowed to Tarantio.

'Are you planning to practise further, sir?' he enquired. 'I have little time myself and was hoping to loose a few shafts.' His dark hair was close-cropped, his head shaved in two crescents above the ears, and he sported a thin trident beard. His clothes were expensive, and he was obviously a nobleman. Knowing how arrogant the nobility could be, Tarantio was impressed by the courteous way he phrased his question.

'No, you may have the target,' said Tarantio amiably. 'My friend and I are finished here. Where can I purchase a good bow?'

'For you, or your friend?' enquired the man.

'For him.'

'Have you considered a crossbow? I saw your friend shoot, and — with all respect - he does not have an eye for it.'

'I fear you are right,' agreed Tarantio. The slim bowman turned to one of his companions, calling him forward. The man held a black crossbow, its stock engraved with silver, which the bowman took and offered to Tarantio.