David Gemmell - Dark Moon

It began to snow. Ozhobar ordered the catapult to be covered with a tarpaulin, then made the long perilous descent to the ground, four floors below.

Striding back through the city, he stopped at a tavern for a brief meal, then walked the mile and a half to his workshop. His burly assistant, Brek, was talking to Forin and the female general, Karis.

Ozhobar moved to the forge, holding out his hands to the heat. 'Are we ready?' he asked the black-bearded Brek.

'It is mostly assembled, Oz. A few minor additions will be needed to the helm.'

'Then let us go through,' he said. Aware of his earlier discourtesy, he bowed to Karis. 'After you, General.'

Karis moved through to the rear store-room. There, set on a wooden frame, was a curiously wrought breastplate of polished iron, with bulging shoulder-guards and a raised, semi-circular neck-plate. Brek walked to a nearby workbench and came back with a huge helmet which he fitted inside the neck-guard. 'It looks like a huge beetle,' said Forin, with a deep belly laugh.

'Put it on,' said Karis.

'You're joking!'

'I never joke. Put it on.'

Forin stepped up to the frame. Brek removed the helm, then lifted the breastplate clear, placing it over Forin's broad shoulders. The jutting shoulder-guards made him look even more enormous. The open sides were protected by chainmail, which Brek hooked into place. 'Now the helm,' said Karis.

The large, conical helmet was lowered into place, then hooked to the neck-guard. Forin's green eyes shone with humour as he gazed out of the slitted visor. 'I feel like an idiot,' came his muffled voice.

'How appropriate,' observed Ozhobar.

'What did he say? I can't hear a damned thing in here.'

Lifting a heavy broadsword from beside the black forge, Ozhobar swung it over his head and brought it down hard against the side of the helm. Forin staggered and almost fell; then he whirled on the Weapon Maker. Ozhobar struck him again. This time the sword snapped in two.

'Remove the helm,' ordered Ozhobar. Brek climbed on a bench and lifted the helmet clear.

'You whoreson!' stormed Forin. 'I'll break your . . .'

'You are alive, idiot!' snapped Ozhobar. 'Had you not been wearing the armour, I would have cut your head from your shoulders. I do not know how strong the Daroth will prove, but I am stronger than most men and I could not dent the metal!'

'He's right,' said Karis. 'How does the armour feel?'

'Damned heavy. But the helmet needs padding; it felt as if I was inside a town bell. I can still feel it ringing in my ears. Also we'll need eye-slits at the sides. The helmet isn't made to turn with the head; the head turns inside it. We need side vision.'

'That is already in the design,' said Ozhobar. 'As Brek said earlier, we still have to complete the helmet.

That said, I am pleased with it. If it meets with your approval, General, I shall have the Armourer begin work on the others.'

'What about protection for the arms?' asked Forin.

'I am developing a complex design of interlocking arm plates,' Ozhobar told him. 'The first set should be ready by next week. The elbow section is the problem at present, but I will find a way around it. How are the axes?'

Forin shrugged. 'At first I thought they would prove impossible to wield, but we are getting used to them.

The men improve day by day. Why did you design the blades to flare at the base and tip? They look like butterfly wings.'

'As indeed they were intended to,' said Ozhobar. 'The problem with the simple half-moon design is that when it smashes through the ribs it can catch within the body. The butterfly design will help to prevent such a possibility. I hope you have also noticed that the upward flare of the blades allows it to be used as a stabbing weapon.'

'An axe is not a stabbing weapon,' objected Forin.

Ozhobar moved to a bench at the rear of the room, lifting a black short-handled axe. Holding it like a spear, he suddenly threw it at a nearby door. The upper points of the head slammed deep into the wood. Ozhobar walked to the door, wrenching it open. Two shining points of steel had completely pierced the door, and were jutting like dagger blades from the wood. 'My axe is also a stabbing weapon,' he said. 'It just takes a little imagination to see it.'

'Your point is well made, Oz,' said Karis. 'And I am delighted with the armour.'

Only Ozhobar's closest colleagues were allowed to use the short form of his name, and inwardly he bridled at her casual use of it. But, almost in the same moment, he realized that he liked the sound of it from her lips. Reddening, he muttered something banal. She smiled then, thanked him and Brek for his time and, with Forin, walked from the room.

Brek was grinning. 'Don't say a word!' Ozhobar warned him.

'Perish the thought,' answered Brek.

Outside the snow had turned to sleet, the temperature just below freezing. 'Only a matter of weeks now,' said Karis.

'Ay,' agreed Forin. 'You look tired, Karis. You need some sleep.'

She chuckled. 'You were right. You did look like a giant beetle.' Then there was silence. Karis was loath to walk away from the green-eyed giant, and he too seemed ill at ease. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' she said at last.

'It is already tomorrow,' he pointed out. She shrugged and walked away. He called her name, his voice soft and low. Karis paused, then walked on. Damn the man, she thought. Why does he fill my mind?

As she strode on, a large black hound padded out from an alleyway and began walking alongside her.

She stopped and glanced down. 'Where do you think you are going?' she asked. The hound cocked its huge head and looked at her. Squatting down, she stroked the squat muzzle, then patted its back; she felt the bones of its ribs under her hand. A figure shuffled out of the darkness and Karis rose, one hand on her dagger.

'You won't need that,' said the elderly man. 'I'm harmless enough.' His back was arthritic and bent and he was struggling to carry a bundle of firewood.

'It is late to be out,' she said.

'The house was too damned cold, so I took the opportunity of ripping a few sticks from a rich man's fence.' He gave a gap-toothed grin, then looked down at the dog. 'He's called Stealer,' he said.

'Your dog?'

'No-one's dog. He lives by his wits - and by catching rats. Good judge of character, is Stealer. He has a nose for a soft heart.'

'His nose has betrayed him this time,' she said.

The old man was unconvinced. 'I don't think so. Anyway, the chill is getting to me, so I'll say good night

to you.' He shuffled away into the moon shadows and Karis walked on, the dog padding alongside her.

At the gates of the palace she waved at the guards and made her way to her rooms. A servant had lit a fire some hours before, and the coals were glowing with a dying red. Stealer loped across the room and stretched himself out on a rug before the hearth. A covered platter had been left on the table. Karis lifted the lid and saw a plate of salted beef, a round of red cheese and a loaf. Suddenly hungry, she sat down. Stealer was immediately beside her, staring up at her with his large brown eyes. 'You are a beggar, sir,' she said.

His head tilted. She fed him the meat, then tucked into the bread and cheese. Stealer watched until the last morsel was gone, then padded back to the fire. Karis added the last of the coal, then wandered into the bedroom.

Blowing out the lanterns, she took off her clothes and slipped under the blankets. Almost immediately a terrifying growl sounded from the main room. Throwing back the covers, she ran out to find Vint standing against the wall, knife in hand, the huge hound before him with teeth bared.

'Come here!' she called.

'Me or the beast?' enquired Vint. Karis chuckled. Stealer did not move. Karis strolled across to him and knelt down, stroking his muzzle.