David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'I like the cold,' said Duvodas, and the two men strolled out into the snow-covered street. An icy wind was blowing against them as they walked, the snow swirling round them. Tarantio glanced at Duvodas, wondering that the man seemed oblivious to the cold. Twenty minutes later Tarantio pushed open his front door and stepped inside. The living-room fire had burned low and he added fuel.

'You are a strange man,' he said. 'Were you raised in a cold climate?'

'No. Where is your friend?'

'In the first of the back bedrooms.'

The two men walked through the house and found Brune mumbling in his sleep. 'Do you recognize the language he is speaking?' asked Tarantio as Duvodas sat by the bed. Brune suddenly began to sing, and the room was filled with the scent of roses. Then he groaned and was silent.

'Where did that scent come from?' asked Tarantio. 'No rose blooms in the snow.'

'What magic was worked on this man?' asked Duvodas. Tarantio told him of the damaged eye and the visit to Ardlin.

'I did not see what he did. But Brune's eyesight is now phenomenal.'

'He is not dying,' said Duvodas. 'He is changing.'

'Into what?'

'I cannot say for sure. But the magic is powerful within him, and it is growing.' Brune's golden eyes opened and he stared at Duvodas. The Singer took his hand and spoke in the Eldarin tongue. Brune smiled and nodded; then he fell asleep once more.

'What did you say to him?'

'I thanked him for his song and the scent of roses.'

'Can you do anything to help him?'

'No. He needs no help from me. Let us leave him resting.' Duvodas returned to the living room and sat down by the fire. Tarantio offered him wine but Duvodas refused, requesting water instead. Tarantio brought him a goblet, then sat down opposite him.

'You are the man who killed the Daroth,' said the Singer. 'I have heard of you. The whole city has heard of you. You make the enemy seem mortal.'

'They are mortal.'

'They once destroyed an entire race,' said Duvodas. 'Wiped them out. Now they are lost to history. I was once in a temple that housed their bones. They were called the Oltor; they were Singers, Musicians and Poets. They believed the Universe was the Great Song, and all life within it merely echoes of the melody. Their music was magical, their magic was music. Their cities were said to be gardens of great beauty, at one with the land, harmonious and joyful. The Daroth destroyed the cities utterly, dashed the statues to dust, burnt the paintings, tore up the songs. They are devourers, these Daroth. They live to destroy.'

'I am not a student of history,' said Tarantio, 'but I know how to fight. The Duke has commissioned new weapons, powerful crossbows that can put a bolt through six inches of teak. We will kill a lot of Daroth.'

'Sadly, that is probably true. There will be a lot more killing,' said Duvodas, 'but I shall not wait to see it.

Shira and I will be leaving as soon as the snow melts. I will take her to the islands, far away from the war.'

'One day the Daroth might reach them,' said Tarantio. 'What will you do then?'

'I shall die,' replied Duvo. 'I am not a killer. I am a Singer.'

'Like the Oltor? A race that will not fight does not deserve to live. It is against nature.'

Duvodas rose. 'I was taught that evil always carries the seeds of its own downfall. One can only hope that it is true. When your friend awakes, feed him no meat and give him no wine. Give him bread, hot oats or dried fruit. And plenty of water.'

'Meat makes a man strong,' observed Tarantio.

'It will make him vomit,' said Duvodas.

'What is it that you are not telling me?' Tarantio asked.

'If I knew for certain, I would tell you. I will call again when he is awake.'

'Again!' shouted Karis, and began to count slowly. The fifty crossbow-men placed the heads of their black bows on the icy ground and began to turn the iron handles on both sides of the stock. By the time Karis had reached the count of twelve, they had notched the thick rope. Sliding bolts into place, they hefted the heavy weapons, rested them on the long support tripod, and took up their positions. The last man was ready as Karis reached fifteen. 'Shoot!' she called.

Fifty black bolts flashed through the air to hammer home into targets of solid oak set thirty paces from the bowmen. Karis loped across the target field. The bolts had all struck home, but not deeply.

Vint strolled across to where she stood. 'The accuracy is fine,' he said.

'The penetration is not,' she told him. 'At twenty paces the bolts smash through the wood. At thirty they barely scratch it.'

'Then we wait until the Daroth are within twenty paces.'

'Gods, man! Is your imagination dead? Yes, we will cut them down. Then, as the reloading takes fifteen seconds, they will be upon us before a second volley can be loosed. The Duke believes we can have five hundred crossbow-men ready by spring. We will need to kill more than five hundred Daroth.'

Vint shook his head. 'That presupposes we will be facing them on open ground. Surely the majority of our crossbow-men will be shooting from the walls?'

'The bows are too heavy for accurate use upon the battlements,' said Karis wearily. 'And shooting downwards lessens the target area. Two-thirds of the bolts would miss. We need something more.

There must be another weakness we can exploit.'

Strolling back to the waiting bowmen, she signalled them to load again and to shoot without the tripod support. Half the bolts missed the target. She kept them hard at work for another hour, then dismissed them.

Back in the barracks building she studied the reports of the massacres at Morgallis and Prentuis.

Sirano had destroyed his own palace, killing scores of Daroth in the process. The Duke of The Marches had been less successful. Reliable reports claimed that no more than fifty Daroth were killed in the battle. Several thousand trained men had been slain, and scores of thousands of civilians.

A servant brought her a meal of black bread and soft cheese. She ate swiftly then donned a sheepskin jerkin and made her way to the stables. Saddling Warain, she rode the grey out through the northern gates and across the open ground before the walls. Pausing a hundred paces from the walls, she looked back, picturing the line of crossbow-men. Heeling Warain into a run, she began to count once more. Three times she made the run at the wall, watched by perplexed soldiers on the ramparts. Then she turned away from the city and rode into the hills.

It was past dusk when she returned. Leading Warain to his stall, she rubbed him down with fresh straw, filled his feedbox with grain, and covered his grey back with a thick woollen blanket.

Returning to her rooms, she found Vint waiting for her. 'Did you clear your head, Karis?' he asked, offering her a goblet of mulled wine. She drained it in a single swallow.

There was a log fire blazing in the hearth. Karis moved to it and removed her wet, cold clothing. Vint crossed the room and began to massage her shoulders and neck. 'You are very cold,' he said, his voice husky.

'Then warm me,' she told him.

Later, as they lay naked beneath satin sheets and heavy blankets, Karis waited until Vint's breathing deepened, then slid silently from the bed and returned to the fire. It had died down and she placed two fresh logs upon it.

In order to use the crossbows to maximum effect, the Daroth charge would have to be slowed. Three volleys would cause carnage in their ranks, but that would involve holding up the Daroth for almost a minute within a twenty-pace range. Karis drank two goblets of wine, and still felt no drowsiness. She thought of waking Vint for another session of love-making, but decided against it. He was a caring and thoughtful lover, taking his time and making the moments last. At this moment Karis did not need such drawn-out intensity. Instead, she donned fresh leggings and a white woollen shirt, buckskin boots and her hooded jerkin, and walked from the palace into the night.