David Gemmell - Dark Moon

Sirano rose and put on his clothes, which were scorched, blackened and bloodstained. The three men left the room and made their way back to the parapet door. Tarantio stepped through and peered down into the courtyard. Five bodies lay there, blood drenching the snow around them. There were no sounds of screaming now. Swiftly Tarantio led the others across to a second door and along a corridor, stopping to look into each room. Moving silently down another flight of stairs, they came to a store-room where there were barrels of wine and ale, casks of dried fruit, sacks of salt and flour.

In the corner lay two coils of rope. Sounds of booted feet on stone came from outside, and the three men ran to the rear of the store-room, ducking down behind the barrels.

The door opened and two Daroth entered. Duvodas heard the hissing sound of their breathing, and was sure they could hear the pounding of his heart. A clicking noise sounded, and Duvodas heard the scraping of a sack on the stone. Then there was silence. Cautiously he peered over the barrels: the Daroth had gone.

'They wanted the salt,' whispered Tarantio. 'I would guess they are about to feed.'

'Maybe we can slip by them,' suggested Duvodas.

'I doubt it. Any time now they will find Sirano gone; then they will search the monastery. Our best chance is to use the ropes and slip over the battlements.'

'They will be able to see us from the main building,' objected Sirano.

'You have any other suggestions?' Tarantio asked.

'Let them find me. Then you two can slip through the gate.'

Tarantio stared at the scarred young man. 'You want to die?' he asked.

'It holds no terrors for me. I brought the world to this. I destroyed the Eldarin and allowed the Daroth to live again. My city is destroyed, my people slain. Look at me. Disfigured and grotesque. Why should I fear to die?'

'He has a point,' said Dace. 'He is an ugly son of a bitch.'

'It is true that you have been responsible for great evil,' said Duvodas, 'but no man should ignore the possibility of redemption.'

'I don't want redemption,' declared Sirano. 'I want revenge! That will best be achieved if you succeed with the Pearl. The Eldarin can destroy the Daroth. They have the power.'

'Even if we brought them back, they might not do it,' said Duvodas. 'They are not killers.'

'The more fool them,' said Sirano. 'But at the least they could cage them again. You have magic. You understand the heat spell?'

'I do.'

'Good.' Sirano moved to the shelves on the back wall. There were scores of empty bottles there; he took down several and laid them on the floor. 'Apply great heat to the necks and melt them, making a complete seal,' he said.

'For what purpose?' asked Duvodas.

'Because I ask it.'

Duvodas knelt on the floor and held his hands over the neck of the first bottle. Tarantio watched as the blue glass neck swelled, then sagged over, melting like candle wax. When six bottles had been heated, Duvo glanced up at Sirano. 'Now what?' he asked.

'Now you leave me. Get as close to the gate as you can. You will know when the moment to leave has arrived.'

Sirano knelt by the sealed bottles and began to chant.

'Sorcery!' whispered Duvodas.

'Yes, sorcery,' answered Sirano wearily. 'Black, evil sorcery.' Looking up at Tarantio, he smiled. 'I will give you a gift, warrior. Let me have your swords.' Tarantio pulled his short swords clear and laid them by Sirano. The Duke of Romark lifted the first and sliced the blade along his left palm. Blood welled and he smeared the blade with it. The chant began again. The blood on the sword hissed and bubbled, and the blade shimmered and shone like polished silver. Cutting his right palm, Sirano repeated the process with the second sword. 'Be careful as you sheath them,' he said.

'Why?' asked Tarantio.

Sirano lifted a sword and lightly swung it at a barrel filled with dried fruit. The blade sliced through the wood as easily as a wire through a round of cheese. Dried apricots spilled from the barrel. 'As I said, sheath them with care. Now leave me.'

Carefully Tarantio scabbarded the blades, then took Duvodas by the arm. 'It is his life,' he said. 'Let him live it - or lose it - as he will.'

As they reached the door Sirano's voice called out. 'Tell me, who is in charge of Corduin's defences?'

'Karis,' answered Tarantio.

Sirano smiled. 'Give her a message for me. The Daroth burn like wax. Naked fire is a terror to them.'

The two men stepped into the corridor and silently made their way to the ground floor. Ahead of them was the door to the courtyard. Bodies lay sprawled in the corridor; Tarantio noted that all of them were older men.

'What now?' whispered Duvodas.

'Now we wait,' said Tarantio.

In all his young life Sirano had never experienced the focus he now applied to the Five Levels of Aveas.

The bottles trembled with the power he transmitted, the glass warm to the touch. Lifting the last of them he unwittingly saw the horror of his reflection - the scarred bald head, the empty eye-socket, the side of his face melted away as if white candle-wax had been poured over the skin. 'What an evil countenance,' he said, aloud.

Evil. The word jolted him.

Are you evil, Sirano? he asked himself. Are the Daroth evil? It was an interesting thought. There were those who believed evil was an absolute - priests and holy men, mostly. In their view evil hung in the air, touching every man, woman and child, promoting the seeds of hatred, lust and greed, planting them in hearts and minds. Others, as Sirano himself had believed, considered it to be a movable feast. What appeared as evil to one man could be considered good by another. Much depended on the moral codes and laws that governed each society. What moral codes had the Daroth broken? Perhaps none, by their reasoning. Therefore were they evil?

Sirano chuckled. What a time, he thought, to be considering philosophical points. All that he knew for certain was that he himself had broken the codes of his society. He had killed a woman who loved him, had overseen the destruction of his people, and had brought horror and desolation to his lands. A great sadness touched him then, a sense of something lost which could never be recovered. Duvodas had spoken of redemption. For some crimes there could be no redemption . . .

Wearily Sirano rose and searched the store-room, finding a small pile of empty sacks. With his dagger he cut a four-foot length from a coil of thin rope. Making two slices in the neck of a sack, he tied the rope to it.

Filling it with the six bottles, he looped the rope over his shoulder and stood, the bottles clinking against one another.

Tarantio had asked him if he wanted to die. Oh, yes, he thought. I can think of no greater relief than to fall into darkness.

Slowly he made his way out into the corridor, then along it and through a series of rooms until he came to a narrow staircase. He had last been here ten years ago, when he had endowed the monastery with a gift of gold. Then he had wandered the place and marvelled at the labyrinthine design. The large hall where now the Daroth would be feeding was on the lower level, but above and around it was a gallery. Sirano recalled his visit, trying to remember the routes through the monastery. Descending the stairs he cut left, then padded through a long library, checking his bearings by peering out of a window. Now he knew where he was. Down two more flights of stairs, and along another corridor he paused at the last door. Taking a deep breath, he eased it open and slipped through to the gallery. Smoke was swirling around the rafters and he could smell the sweet, sickly scent of roasting flesh. Glancing over the rail, he saw the Daroth below. They had torn up the slabs of the floor and broken them to form a low wall around a carefully fashioned cooking area. Red-hot charcoal burned within it and a body was spitted over it. There were bloody bones scattered around the floor, and most of the Daroth were sitting well back from the fire, eating in silence. Two others were standing by the open door, overlooking the gates.