David Gemmell - Dark Moon

Then she remembered the night she had seduced the sentry, Gorl. She and her mercenaries had struck a wagon convoy sixty miles south of Hlobane, when she was under contract to Belliese. That's where the willows were, and she had chosen Gorl because of the lustre of his beard and his deep, soft eyes. Her spirits lifted. Having remembered, she filed him away to be forgotten once more.

'I hope you find a good man,' her mother had said, as Karis prepared to run away into the night. Her father was stretched out on the floor in a drunken stupor.

'You should come with me,' she urged the tired woman.

'Where would I go? Who would have me now?'

'Then let me kill him where he lies. We'll drag the body out and bury it.'

'Don't say that! Please. He. . . was a good man once. He truly was. You just go, my dear. You can find employment in Prentuis - you're a good girl, with a fine body. You'll find a good man there.'

Karis had walked away without a backward glance. Find a good man? She had found scores. Some who made love tenderly, whispering words of endearment, and others who had been rough and primal. Never had she considered wedding any of them. Never had she made the mistake of loving any of them. No, the men who made her stomach tremble she avoided. Sirano had been one.

Tarantio another ...

'You I will never forget,' she said aloud. She had first seen him swimming in a lake with twenty or so soldiers. It had been a long, dry, dusty march, and when they camped by the lake the men threw off their armour and clothes and ran into the water, splashing each other like children. Karis had dismounted and sat at the lakeside watching them whoop and dive and laugh. But one slim young man did not join in the revelry. He swam away from the group, then walked naked into the undergrowth, emerging moments later with handfuls of lemon mint which he rubbed across his skin. His face and arms were tanned gold, but his chest and legs were white. He was lean, and beautifully muscled, the dark hair on his chest tapering down to a fine line pointing like an arrow to his loins.

'I will have you,' Karis had decided. She had called him over, and he waded to where she sat.

'What is your name, soldier?'

'I am Tarantio.'

'My captain spoke of you.' His eyes were a deep, dark blue, his hair thick and tightly curled. 'He said you were a ferocious fighter. With a thousand like you, he says he could conquer the world.'

He had smiled then and turned from her to swim away. The smile had been dazzling, and in that moment Karis knew she would never take him to her bed.

Warain pulled up now, his ears pricked and his nostrils flaring. Karis looked around, but could see nothing untoward. But she trusted Warain. Angling to the right through the trees she came to a rise and looked down upon the green plain. In the distance four riders were heading towards the hills where she waited. They were being pursued by a score of warriors wearing huge white helms. Karis shaded her eyes.

Below her, hidden in a gully, was another group. These were closer, and she saw the reality - not helms at all, but heads of stark white bone. They were armed with serrated swords, and the fleeing riders were heading straight for them.

Karis pulled her bow clear, strung it, and notched an arrow. Then she heeled Warain into a run down the slope.

The pounding of the gelding's hooves alerted the warriors below and they swung as she thundered towards them. Her arrow slammed into a white neck, then Warain leapt the gully and galloped on towards the riders. Karis pointed to the hills. 'You are in a trap!' she shouted. 'Follow me!' Swinging Warain, she rode hard for the high ground. The riders turned after her, and together they made the long, slow climb.

The pursuing enemy angled up the slope to cut off the escape. Heat flared inside Karis's head, and she felt the onset of a terrible fear. The horses were affected also, and Warain almost stumbled. The grey gelding righted himself, but he slowed almost to a stop and Karis could feel him trembling with terror. 'It is sorcery,' she thought. 'On, Great One!' she shouted, touching her heels to Warain's flanks. At the sound of her voice, his muscles bunched and he surged forward. Three of the enemy riders had cut across the line of escape, and their huge mounts bore down on the fleeing group.

Warain galloped on. Karis angled him towards the first of the massive horses. He needed no urging; he could see the enemy mounts - they were larger and more powerful than he - but Warain was a war-horse of enormous pride.

Striding out even faster, the great grey charged at the enemy, his mighty shoulder striking the first horse with tremendous power. With a whinny of pain and terror the enemy horse toppled, pinning its rider beneath it. Warain surged through the gap, and on to open ground, the four smaller horses coming through in his wake.

Karis swung to see the warriors scrambling out of the gully. One still had her arrow in his neck, and she watched him tear it clear and throw it aside.

Then she was over the crest and out of sight of the pursuing horsemen. Outpacing their pursuers, the group rode on for an hour heading south-west. At the top of a high hill Karis pulled up and looked back. From here she could see for miles; the pursuit had been abandoned. Leaning over Warain's neck, she stroked her fingers through his white mane. 'I am proud of you,' she whispered. A middle-aged man, wearing the armour of a Corduin lancer, approached her. 'My thanks to you, Karis,' he said. 'The Gods alone know what would have become of us had you not been to hand.'

She remembered him from her time in the Duke's service - a good man, sound and cautious, but not lacking in courage. 'What were they, Capel?' she asked him.

'They are Daroth. And I fear the world has changed.'

Ardlin stood at his high balcony window, gazing out towards the north. The trembling had stopped now, but the fear remained. The dream had been vivid, rich with colour: the colour of blood, red and angry.

Ardlin had found himself floating above the scene, watching a group of soldiers attacked by Daroth warriors. There was a fat officer, who fell from his horse and tried to run. The Daroth caught him and stripped him naked; then they dug a fire-pit. What followed was stomach-wrenchingly awful. Ardlin had jerked awake, his face and body sweat-drenched.

At first he had felt an overpowering sense of relief. It was a dream. Just a dream - born of his fascination with the ancient races. But as the morning wore on his concern grew. He was a magicker with a talent for healing; he knew spells, and could concoct potions. Above it all, however, he was a mystic. A Sensitive, as the Elders would have said.

Ardlin had tried to put the dream behind him, but it nagged and tugged at his thoughts.

At last, around mid-morning, he sat on the floor of his sanctum and induced the Separation Trance. Floating free of his body he flew to the north, across the rich hills and valleys towards the mountains of the desert.

He did not consciously direct his flight, but allowed the memory of the dream to draw him on.

In the hills he found the fire-pit, and the remains of several corpses. The head of the fat officer lay beneath a bush, dead eyes staring up at the sky, flies crawling across the bloody stump that lay exposed beneath the chin.

Ardlin fled for the sanctuary of his body.

The Daroth were back.

For thirty years Ardlin had been a collector of ancient tomes and artefacts, and had spent many long, delightful hours studying the clues of the past. His main fascination had been with the Oltor. No-one now living had any idea how their society had been structured, nor how their culture had flourished.

Ancient writings merely stated that they were a gentle golden-skinned race, tall and slender, and gifted with an extraordinary talent for music. It was said they could make crops grow through the magic of their harps. According to one tome, it was with this magic that they inadvertently opened two gateways - one to the desolate world of the Daroth, the other to the world of the Eldarin.