David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Pottery?' she repeated. 'Glazed or unglazed?'

'Sarcasm does not become women,' he said. 'In order for the catapult to be accurately used, it will be necessary to place it where the men operating it can see the enemy. That leaves three choices. The first places the weapon outside the city. This is not - one would imagine - to be desired, for the Daroth could charge forward and capture or destroy it. The second is to place it on the walls. The parapets are around twelve feet wide, therefore the machine would have to be small, hence restricting the range.

The third choice would be to strip the roof from the barracks building by the north gate, and set our catapult upon a platform there.'

Karis nodded. 'That sounds a good plan. But it does not explain your use of pottery.'

'We make hollow balls and fill them with flammable material - rags drenched in lantern oil, for example.

Lighter than lead, our range would therefore be increased. What I need to design is a method of ignition that would allow the men loading the machine to be safe. One wouldn't want such a ball exploding on the barracks roof.'

'And you can do this?'

'I will think on it.' He reached into the jar and took another cake.

'They look good,' said Karis. 'May I try one?'

'No, you may not,' he told her sternly. 'They are mine.'

Swallowing her irritation, Karis thanked Ozhobar for his time and rose to leave. 'Come back and see me in three days,' he said. 'And send your man Necklen to me. I need to ask some more questions about the Daroth weapon. Oh yes . . . and we are running short of iron. I suggest you ask the Duke to requisition gates, old cooking pots, railings .. . you know the sort of thing.'

'I'll see to it,' promised Karis.

Outside it was snowing once more, but the temperature had lifted. Children were playing in the street, throwing snowballs at one another. Their squealing laughter lifted Karis's spirits as she strolled towards the practice field.

There were already forty men present, the largest and the strongest in Corduin. Forin and the officer Capel were putting them through a series of tests. Karis stood in the shadows and watched as they lifted rocks, or bent bars of iron. Forin was moving among them, issuing orders and directing events. She found herself strangely hesitant about seeing him again. He had been ever-present in her mind since the night in the tavern. But why? He was not an exceptional lover. Poor dead Giriak had been just as powerful. Yet something had moved within her at his touch, as if a rusted lock, long unused and almost forgotten, had given way, revealing . . . revealing what, she wondered.

This is nonsense, Karis, she admonished herself. The man means nothing to you. Put it down to the stress of the day. And, more importantly, cast it from your mind! She heard his laughter echoing across the field, the other men joining in. A donkey had strayed on to the field and taken a dislike to one of the contestants.

It was chasing him, and nipping at his buttocks. Karis grinned - and regained her composure.

Stepping into view she strolled to a picket fence. Forin saw her and ambled across to where she stood.

'Good morning, lady,' he said. His voice was even, his manner guarded. Karis was pleased that there was no wink, or leer; no forced intimacy.

'How goes it, Forin?'

'There are some powerful men here. All are anxious to win the pouch of silver. I'd like to try for it myself.'

'Get me fifty strong men and I'll give you such a pouch.'

'What do you need them for?'

Karis climbed to the fence and sat back, looking down on the red-bearded giant. 'At some point the Daroth will storm the walls. Nothing will stop that. I need men who can stand against them; they will be armed with heavy double-headed axes, with hafts and blades of steel. So it is not only strength I need. I want men with courage. You will lead them.'

'Is this a promotion or a punishment?' he asked. 'Hand to hand against the Daroth? Not a thrilling prospect.'

'It is a promotion. You will be paid well.'

He stood silently for a moment. 'Why did you leave the other night?'

'I had matters to attend to,' she said, keeping her voice cool.

'And I had served my purpose? Ah well, I have used many as you used me. I have no complaint. I will find you your fifty men.' He turned away and strolled back across the field.

Karis swore softly, then leapt from the fence and strode back towards the palace.

'How are you feeling today, Brune?' asked Tarantio.

'Better, thank you,' replied the golden-eyed young man. 'I slept well.' His voice too had changed, becoming more gentle, almost melodious.

Tarantio sat down beside the bed. 'I have been concerned about you, my friend.'

'You are a kind man, Tarantio, and I am in your debt.'

'It is not him,' said Dace.

'I know.'

The sun was high in a cold, clear sky, and the bedroom was bright and warm. The fire still burned in the hearth, and the pale golden figure lay back with his head on the pillow, his body relaxed. 'Where is Brune?' asked Tarantio.

'He is here with me. He is not frightened, Tarantio. Not any more. We are friends, he and I. I will take care of him.'

'Who are you?'

'Not an easy question to answer. I am the Oltor Prime, the last of my race. Does this mean anything to you?'

'The Oltor were destroyed by the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 'Perhaps a thousand years ago.'

'At least. Do not ask me how I came to be here, for I do not know. If I could leave I would. If I could surrender this body to Brune, I would. I have no purpose any longer.'

The figure rose from the bed and stood, naked, in the sunlight streaming through the window. He was thin and tall, his six-fingered hands long and delicate. His eyes were larger than human and semi-protruding, his nose small with the nostrils widely flared. 'I stood in the forest on that last day,' he said sadly, 'and I watched my people die. I surrendered myself to the land. And I died too.'

'Did you have no magic to use against the Daroth? Could you not fight?' asked Tarantio.

'We were not death dealers, my friend. We killed nothing. We were not a violent people, we had no understanding of its nature. We tried to befriend the Daroth, helping them through the Curtain, giving them land that was rich and green and full of magic. They dug into it for iron, tore at it for food, and drowned the magic with their hatred. When we closed the Curtain on them, preventing more from joining them, they turned on us with fire and sword. They devoured our young ones, and slew the old. In despair we tried to run, to open the Curtain on another world. But the magic was gone, and before we could find new, virgin land they were upon us. I was not the Oltor Prime then. I was a young Singer, wed to a beautiful maiden.'

'What does this title mean? What is the Oltor Prime?'

'It is a difficult concept to verbalize in a tongue that is new to me. He - sometimes she - is the spiritual leader of the Oltor, possessing great power. When he died in the forest he turned and pointed at me. I felt his power course through my veins. But I surrendered it and died. Or so I thought. Somehow the magicker who tried to heal Brune brought me back. The "how" is a mystery.'

'You say you surrendered your life. Did the Daroth not kill you?'

'Yes, they pierced my hearts with harsh swords, pinning me to the ground. Then they struck off my head.'

'I believe I know the answer,' said the voice of Duvodas, and Tarantio turned to see the Singer standing in the doorway. Dressed now in a tunic of green silk, his blond hair held in place by a gold circlet, Duvodas entered the room and bowed to the Oltor Prime. 'Your blood soaked into the earth: the blood of the Oltor Prime. It lay in the stones. The Eldarin found them and took them back to Eldarisa, and they lay in the Oltor Temple for generations. Forty years ago one of the humans - allowed into the city for a special meeting - stole one red stone. It was for this reason that no human was ever allowed to enter again. I have spoken to some of the people cured by Ardlin, and they claim he held a block of red coral over their wounds. Used carefully, the magic would have no ill-effect on the patients. However, Tarantio told me of Brune's healing. It seems that Ardlin lied - he told them he had a magic orb to replace the injured eye, but there was no orb. What he cast was a spell of disguise - of changing! In his haste he made an error - and released the essence that had remained in the stone for generations. He released you, Lord of the Oltors.'