David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Do not be too sure,' warned Karis. 'When my horse leapt the gully I put an arrow into the throat of one of them. It was a lucky shot, but it struck true. Not only did it not kill him, but he clambered out of the gully, tore the arrow loose and threw it aside. They are huge, these Daroth, and mightily muscled.'

'Karis is quite correct,' said the Duke. 'No arrow or sword can kill them. That's what it says here, in this ancient book. In war they are sublime killers, impervious to pain. Their strength is prodigious. Many of the stories here are -in essence - myths. But all myths contain a grain of truth. According to this source there were. . .are?. . .seven cities of the Daroth. Twenty thousand or so Daroth live in each city. There is a map here. Five of the Daroth cities are too far away to trouble us now. One other is more than two months' ride from Corduin. That leaves only the last; it has no name, but we will call it Daroth One. Let us assume that there are twenty thousand Daroth living there. What size of army could they muster? And what must we do to combat them?' His dark eyes scanned the assembly. 'Let us begin with reaction to what we have heard.'

One by one the councillors spoke, asking questions of Capel, Goran and Karis. The warrior woman coolly read the mood of the councillors: they were stumbling in the dark, confused and uncertain.

After the meeting had been in progress for an hour, she stepped up to the Duke. 'If I may, my lord?' she said, with a bow. 'I do have a suggestion.'

'I would be glad to hear it,' he told her.

'There is little we can do to plan until we know the intentions of the Daroth. This we cannot ascertain until we have sent a delegation to them. I propose that a small group should be selected to ride north and meet with their leaders.'

'We do not even know the language they speak,' objected Vint. 'And from the way they attacked Capel and his men, one would surmise they are in no mood to negotiate.'

'Even so,' said Karis, 'there is really no alternative. We need to know their numbers, their fighting style, their weaponry, their strategies. Do they have siege-engines? If not, no matter how strong they are they will not breach the walls of Corduin. Language is not the greatest problem here. Lack of knowledge is what could destroy us.'

'Would you lead this group, Karis?' asked the Duke.

'I would, my lord - for a thousand in silver.'

Vint's laughter boomed out. 'Ever the mercenary, Karis!'

Albreck, Duke of Corduin, entered his private apartments and sat down on a richly embroidered couch. One of his manservants knelt before him, pulling off the Duke's boots. Another brought him a crystal goblet filled with cooled apple juice; Albreck sipped the drink, and handed the goblet to the servant.

'Your bath is prepared, my lord,' said the man.

'Thank you. Is my wife in her apartments?'

'No, my lord, she is dining with the Lady Peria. She has ordered her carriage to be ready for her return at dusk.'

Albreck stood. The two servants undressed him and removed his rings; then he strode naked to the rear rooms and slowly descended the steps into the sunken bath. Servants scurried around him, bringing buckets of warmed, perfumed water which they added to the bath, but the Duke was oblivious to them.

The War of the Pearl was a costly nonsense, which Albreck had tried hard to avoid. But there was no escape from Sirano's ambition, and the army of Hlobane had been drawn into the conflict. Now, his army depleted and supplies short, he faced an enemy of unknown power.

'Close your eyes, my lord, and I will wash your hair,' said a servant. Albreck did so, momentarily gaining enjoyment from the rush of warm water to his crown. Nimble fingers massaged his scalp.

All the ancient stories told of the horrors of the Daroth, their ferocity, their malevolence and their cruelty.

Not one spoke of art, or love. Was it possible that an entire race could be devoid of such feelings? Albreck doubted it -and in that doubt there was a seed of hope. Perhaps a war could be avoided? Perhaps the old stories were exaggerated.

The servant rinsed his hair, then dried it with a warmed towel. Albreck rose from the bath and donned an ankle-length white robe held out for him. Then he returned to his room and sat beside the fire.

Even if the stories were exaggerated, the truth came through like a searing flame. The Oltor had been wiped out, their race annihilated, their cities rendered to dust. No-one now knew for sure what the Oltor had looked

like, nor what kind of race they were. They had saved the Daroth, and in return the Daroth had destroyed them. There was not a great deal of hope to be found in such deeds.

A burning log fell to the hearth. A servant stepped forward swiftly, taking up a pair of brass tongs and lifting it back to the flames. Albreck glanced up. 'Fetch the Chief Armourer,' he told the man.

'Yes, my lord.'

'And bring me the Red Book from my study.'

'At once, my lord.'

Albreck sighed. All his life he had loved the arts: music, painting, poetry. But he also had a passion for history, and would have liked nothing better than to spend his days in study. Instead he had been born to this title, with all its concomitant burdens.

The servant returned within moments, carrying a large book bound with red leather. Albreck thanked him and opened it, scanning the pages which were filled with a neat, flowing script. Each page bore a date, and Albreck found the entry he was looking for. The Chief Armourer had introduced a Weapon Maker to him last summer. The man had designed a new siege engine, which he claimed would help Albreck win the war.

Albreck had long since decided the situation would be resolved - once men realized the true futility of the exercise of war - around a negotiating table, and had no desire to invest in new weapons of destruction. He recalled the Weapon Maker as a large man, brilliant of mind, with a pompous turn of phrase. The pom-posity he could ignore, the brilliance was what was required.

The Chief Armourer arrived, breathless and red from running. Albreck thanked him for arriving so swiftly, and asked him if the Weapon Maker was still resident in Corduin.

'Indeed he is, my lord. He is currently working on a new sabre for the swordsman, Vint.'

'I would like to see him. Bring him to my apartments this evening.'

'Yes, my lord. Are we then to build the new siege-engines?'

The Duke ignored him and returned to his reading. He did not see the man bow, nor hear the door click shut behind him.

Karis was given a suite of apartments on the first floor of the palace. At her command, servants prepared a perfumed bath for her; then she dismissed them. Vint arrived soon after, just as Karis was undressing.

'May I join you?' he asked.

'Why not?' she answered, lowering her lean frame into the water. Vint chuckled, then doffed his boots, leggings and shirt.

'By Heaven, Karis, you are still the most desirable woman I've ever known.'

'Beautiful sounds better,' she admonished him.

He paused and stared at her critically. 'Well. .. you're not a great beauty, my dove. Your nose is too long, and your features too sharp. Also - to be frank - you are a little too lean. However, that said, I never knew a better bed partner.'

'How coy,' she said, with a smile. 'As I recall, we have not yet rutted in a bed. The back of a wagon, the bank of a river, and ... oh yes, the hay-loft of a barn. No bed that I can recall.'

'Nakedness and pedantry do not go together,' he said, sliding into the water beside her. 'And now it is your turn to compliment me.'

Reaching out, she stroked the skin of his shaved temples. 'I preferred it when it was long and braided,' she told him.

'One has to remain in style, Karis. It shows the populace where true wealth lies. Now play the game and offer me a compliment.'