David Gemmell - Dark Moon

What would I do there? He ate the toast and, still hungry, went back to the kitchen to cut more bread. The loaf was gone.

Puzzled, Tarantio walked to the rear of the house, opening the door to Brune's bedroom. The bed was empty, and there was no sign of the young man. Retracing his steps he returned to the kitchen. The back door was still locked from the inside, the windows shuttered. Pulling back the bolts Tarantio opened the door. A blast of icy air struck him as he stepped out into the garden.

Brune was sitting, naked, on the wooden bench. All around him birds were fluttering, landing on his arms, and head and hands, pecking at the bread he offered them. A wide circle of grass was all around the bench, without a flake of snow upon it, though the rest of the garden still lay beneath a thick white blanket.

Tarantio pulled on his boots and walked out across the garden. The birds ignored him, continuing to fly around Brune. As Tarantio sat down he felt suddenly warm, as if Brune was radiating heat in defiance of the elements.

The golden-skinned young man continued to feed the birds until all the bread was gone. Most of them flew away but several remained, sitting on his shoulders or on the back of the bench. They were, as was Tarantio, enjoying the warmth.

Reaching out, Tarantio laid his hand on Brune's shoulder. 'You should come in,' he said softly.

'I heard them call to me,' said Brune, his voice melodic and low.

'Who called you?'

'The birds. Up to two-thirds of their body weight can be lost on a cold night. They die in their thousands in the winter.'

Suddenly Brune shivered and the cold swept in, bitter and deadly. He cried out, and the birds around him panicked and flew away. Tarantio helped him back into the house, taking him to the fire. 'What is happening to me?' came the true voice of Brune. 'Why was I in the garden?'

'You were feeding the birds,' Tarantio told him.

'I am really frightened. I can't think. It's like there's someone else in me.' He was shivering, and Tarantio fetched a blanket which he wrapped around Brune's shoulders. 'I feel like I'm dying,' said Brune.

'You are not dying. It's the magic that cured your eye. It's spreading somehow.'

'I don't want this any more, Tarantio. I want to be what I was. Can't we get the magic taken out?'

'I don't know. Tell me what you remember about feeding the birds.'

'I don't remember nothing. I was asleep, and I had this dream. Can't remember much now. But I was in a forest, and there were lots of people - no, not people. They were all golden-skinned; they were . . . dying.

Oh yes . . . there was Daroth there. Killing them. It was horrible. And then .. . there was nothing until I was sitting in the garden.'

'How are you feeling now? Is there any pain?' asked Tarantio.

'No. No pain. But. ..' Brune's voice tailed away.

'What? Tell me!'

'I'm not alone in here. I'm not alone.'

'Of course you are not alone. I am here,' said Tarantio soothingly.

'No, you don't understand. I'm not alone in my head.' Brune began to weep and Tarantio's anger flared, remembering the surprised look on the face of the magicker as he had entered the room.

The sudden anger woke Dace. 'What is happening?' he asked.

Tarantio told him. 'Someone else in his head? Sounds familiar,' said Dace. 'I knew Brune would be an entertaining companion. Perhaps what you and I have, brother, is contagious.'

'It is not funny,' said Tarantio sternly. 'Brune is frightened. He thinks he is dying.'

'Everybody dies sometime,' said Dace.

'I think the Singer knows more than he is saying,' said Tarantio. 'He is coming back today. I'll ask him.'

'Let me ask him,' Dace urged.

'Perhaps that will be necessary,' Tarantio agreed.

Taking Brune by the arm, he led him back to the bedroom. 'Get some rest, my friend. You will feel better for it, I promise you.' Brune climbed back into the bed, drawing the blanket over him and resting his head on the pillow.

'Look at his ear,' said Dace. Tarantio had seen it at the same time: the lobe was no longer smooth, but ridged like a seashell.

'If I ever find that magicker I'll cut his heart out,' hissed Dace.

The councillor Pooris stood shivering by the southern gate, counting the wagons as the oxen slowly hauled them into the city. The War of the Pearl had been a ruinous venture, disrupting trade, destroying farms, and taking young men from the fields and turning them into mercenaries.

Even without the threat of the Daroth, Corduin was slowly starving to death. Corn was five times last year's price, and the city treasury was emptying fast. A census ordered by the Duke showed that almost 70,000 people were now resident in Corduin. Many were now starving, and crimes against individuals and property was soaring.

As the last of the twenty-two wagons rumbled through the gate, Pooris ran alongside it and clambered up to sit alongside the driver. 'I expected forty wagons,' said Pooris. 'That is what was promised.'

The driver hawked and spat. 'This is all there is,' he said, brushing the ice from his beard. 'Be thankful for that.'

'We paid for forty.'

'That is not my problem, councillor. Take it up with the merchant, Lunder.'

Pooris hunkered down inside his hooded sheepskin coat and thought of the city's bakers, who later tonight would be queuing at the warehouses. Forty wagons would have been barely enough to supply the bakers with half what was needed. Twenty-two would mean riots in the streets tomorrow.

At Warehouse Street Pooris jumped down from the wagon and entered the small offices beside the guard gate. For several minutes he stood in front of a wood stove, warming his hands and thinking the problem through. The bakers were already rationed to 40 per cent of their needs. Now they would suffer a further 50 per cent cut.

A young cleric approached him, offering a mug of hot tisane, heavily sweetened with sugar. Pooris thanked him. The man returned to his desk and continued to fill in the ledger, noting down the wagons and the time of their arrival. Pooris glanced around the room. The ill-fitting windows had been sealed with paper, which was now sodden and dripping water to the walls below. 'Not the most comfortable of working-places,' remarked Pooris.

The young man looked up and smiled. 'I like it here,' he said. The cleric rose and donned a fur-lined cape. 'I must leave you, councillor. I need to check the unloading of the wagons.'

'Of course. My thanks to you.' Pooris held out his hand. The young man shook it, then opened the door and stepped out into the snow.

Pooris removed his coat and moved to the desk, scanning the ledger. The cleric's script was neat and easy to read. During the last two weeks some 320 wagons had been checked through, bringing corn, grain, salted meat, spices, dried fruit and wine from the islands. Almost all of the food had been shipped in through the port city of Loretheli, much of it arranged through the merchant Lunder. Flicking back through the pages, Pooris saw that the amount of food shipped had steadily decreased during the past three months, the prices rising in direct proportion. It was a simple economic law, Pooris knew, that when demand outstripped supply prices would take off like startled pigeons.

The young cleric returned, and looked surprised to see Pooris sitting at his desk. 'Is there anything I can help you with, councillor?' he asked. Pooris glanced up, and saw the nervousness in the man.

'I was just studying the shipments,' he said. 'We are fast approaching famine status.'

'I'm sure the Duke will think of something, sir,' said the young man, relaxing. 'May I offer you another mug of tisane?'

'No, I must be going.' Once more they shook hands. 'What is your name?'