David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Anger and hatred - these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway through which hatred - disguised and unrecognized - can pass.'

'How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?'

'Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.'

'You think I should avoid love?'

Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. 'No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But when it happens you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps even lost.'

'Then I will never love,' said the young man.

'I hope that is not true. Come, let us walk into the Temple and pay homage to the Oltor.' Together they had strolled through the entrance. The vast circular building housed hundreds of thousands of bones, laid upon black velvet cloths. Every niche was filled with them - skulls, thigh-bones, tiny metatarsals, fragments and splinters. There was little else here, no statues, no paintings, no seats. On a high table, laid upon a sheet of satin, were a dozen red stones. 'The blood of the Oltor Prime,' said Ranaloth. 'One of the last to die. His lifeblood stained the rocks below him.'

'Why did the Eldarin gather all these bones?' Duvo had asked.

Ranaloth gave a sad smile. 'They were a fine people, who knew the songs of the earth. We learned their songs; you now sing many of them. But the Oltor will sing no more. It is fitting that we can walk here and see the result of evil. This is what it means to confront the Daroth. How many hopes and dreams are trapped within these bones? How many wonders lie never to be discovered? This is what war is, Duvo. Desolation, despair and loss. There are no victors.'

Now, in the quiet of the dawn, Duvo began the Song of Vornay - sweet and lilting, soft as the feather of a dove, gentle as a mother's kiss. The music filled the room, and Duvo was amazed to find that not only was the magic still there, but it had changed for the better. Where the power had been passive and impersonal, it was now vibrant and fertile. He was hard pressed to contain it, and found himself playing the Creation Hymn. As his fingers danced upon the strings he became aware of a nest upon the roof outside the window, and the young chicks within it. And below, from the alley, he felt the tiny, irrepressible music in the heartbeat of three new pups, born in the night. Duvo smiled and continued his song.

Suddenly he faltered.

The sense of magic was strong upon him and he realized, with both dread and longing, that new life was closer still .. . within the room. Putting aside his harp, he returned to the bed and lay down beside the still sleeping Shira. As the magic faded from his mind, he reached out one last time, and felt the tiny spark of what in nine months would be his child.

His son ... or daughter. A sense of wonder flowed through him, and an awesome feeling of humility linked with mortality filled his mind.

Shira awoke and smiled sleepily. 'I had such wonderful dreams,' she said.

Sixty miles north-east of Corduin, in a moonlit hollow, Karis studied the ancient map. According to the coordinates they were less than twenty miles from Daroth One. They had seen no Daroth warriors in the four days since they left Corduin, but everywhere there were signs of panic: small villages deserted, columns of refugees fleeing for what they perceived as the safety of the city.

The others were still asleep as the dawn sun rose. Karis added dry wood to the embers of last night's fire and gently blew it to fresh life. Autumn was fast becoming winter, and a chill breeze was blowing down from the mountains.

The politician, Pooris, rose from his blankets, saw Karis by the fire and moved across to her. He was a small, thin man, bald - save for a thin circlet of silver hair above his ears. 'Good morning to you, Karis,' he said, his voice smooth as winter syrup.

'Let us hope it proves so,' she said. He smiled, but the action did not reach his button-bright blue eyes.

'May we speak - privately?' he asked her.

'It does not get much more private than this, Pooris,' she pointed out.

He nodded, then swung a glance to the sleeping warriors. Satisfied they could not hear him he turned again to the warrior woman. 'I am not blessed with physical bravery,' he said. 'I have always been frightened of pain - suffering of any kind. I fear the Daroth.' He sighed. 'Fear is not a strong enough word. I cannot sleep for worrying.'

'Why tell me this?'

'I don't know. To share, perhaps? Is there some secret to your courage? Is there something I can do to bolster my own?'

'Nothing that I know of, Pooris. If trouble comes, stay close to me. Follow my lead. No hesitation.' She looked at him and smiled. 'Bear this in mind also, councillor -not many cowards would volunteer for a mission such as this.'

'Are you frightened, Karis?'

'Of course. We are all riding into the unknown.'

'But you think we will survive?'

She shrugged. 'I hope that we will.'

'I have often wondered what constitutes heroism,' he said. 'Tarantio and Vint are sword-killers. Most people would call them heroes. But does heroism come naturally to swordsmen?'

Karis shook her head. 'Heroes are people who face down their fears. It is that simple. A child afraid of the dark who one day blows out the candle; a woman terrified of the pain of childbirth who says, "It is time to

become a mother." Heroism does not always live on the battlefield, Pooris.'

The little councillor smiled. 'Thank you, lady,' he said.

'For what?'

'For listening to my fears.' He rose and walked away through the trees and Karis returned to studying the map. While the Duke's men searched for Forin she had spent her time in the library, reading everything she could find about the Daroth. It wasn't much. She had widened the scope, investigating stories - myths mainly — of a race of giant warriors said to have inhabited the north country. Perhaps these tales were also of the Daroth.

None of the research material she had found had supplied a clue as to what action she should take when they approached the Daroth city. Pooris had suggested riding with a flag of truce. Why should the Daroth recognize this convention? she had asked him.

Forin - who, as Tarantio had told her, knew many stories of the Daroth - had only one suggestion.

'Take salt as a gift,' he said. 'According to my father, who heard it from the Eldarin, the Daroth adore the taste. It works on their system like wine does with us.'

Karis had taken heed. But in order to offer salt to the Daroth, they must first agree to speak. They had not spoken with Capel's men, but had attacked swiftly and without mercy.

Pooris returned from the woods and began to neatly fold and roll his blanket. Forin awoke, belched loudly and sat up. He yawned and stretched; rising, he thrust his hand down the front of his leather leggings and scratched at his genitals. Then he saw Karis, and gave a sheepish grin. 'I like to check that the old soldier is still alive,' he said. Then he too strolled from the camp. He did not go as far as Pooris had done, and Karis could hear him noisily urinating against a nearby tree-trunk.

Pooris reddened, but Karis merely chuckled. 'Do not be embarrassed, councillor,' she advised him. 'You are not among the nobility now.'

'I rather guessed that,' he said.

Tarantio and Brune joined her, then Goran and Vint. They breakfasted on oats they had found in an abandoned village. Goran and Vint sweetened theirs with honey; Tarantio ate his with salt; Pooris was not hungry. And Forin refused the oats, chewing instead upon his ration of dried meat. Brune ate his portion, scraping the last of the porridge from the bowl with his fingers.