David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'We'll never know, will we?'

At dusk Tarantio ate the stew. It was bitter and good, but the memory of his last meal with added salt back among the mercenaries eroded the pleasure. Dace had fallen silent, for which Tarantio was grateful. He could still sense his presence, but the lack of conversation was welcome.

The following morning he continued on his way, across narrow valleys full of alder and birch and pine. The weather had cleared and the sun shone now in a clear sky, the snow on the distant peaks glowing like white flame.

As he walked, his mind was far from battles and war, recalling gentle days with Gatien, researching ancient texts, trying to make sense of the tortured history of this fertile continent. If ever these wars end, I will become a scholar, Tarantio decided.

Even as the thought came to him he could hear Dace's mocking laughter.

Three hundred miles to the north-east, at the centre of a new desert of barren rocks, a slender, blond-haired man climbed to the top of what had once been Capritas Hill. His green cloak was torn and threadbare, the soles of his shoes worn thin as paper. Duvodas the Harp Carrier stood at the summit and fought to hold down a rising tide of desolation and despair. His gentle face and soft grey-green eyes reflected the sorrow he felt. There was no magic left in the land. Black and grey mountains bare of earth reared up from the plains like rotting teeth, and Duvodas felt as if he was sitting in the jaws of death. Where once had been sculpted beauty, amid forests and streams and verdant valleys, now nothing remained. The flesh of the land had been stripped to the bone, clawed away by a hand larger than eternity. The four cities of the Eldarin had vanished, and even the whispering wind flowing over the dry rocks could find no memory of their existence. Not a trace. Not a broken cup, not a tombstone, not a child's toy.

His grey-green eyes scanned the jagged peaks, pausing at the Twins, two pinnacles of rock that for centuries had been an elegant backdrop to the city of Eldarisa. Upon reaching the age of majority the children of the Eldarin would climb Bizha, the left-hand peak, then leap the eight feet to the rugged platform atop the neighbouring Puzhac.

The pinnacles had graced the Enchanted Park, and many and glorious were the flowers that grew there.

Now all was dead stone. Not a single blade of grass grew here now, and even his memories could not flower in this barren place. Duvodas rose and unwrapped his small harp.

It seemed almost blasphemous to consider music in such a cold and empty landscape, but music was all he had, and his slender fingers danced upon the strings, sending out a stream of melancholy notes to echo among the rocks. Closing his eyes he sang the Song of Elyda, and her love of the Forest King, his voice almost breaking as he reached the chorus of farewell, where Elyda stood by the dark river watching as her lover's body was borne away to eternity on the black barge of the night.

The music faded away and Duvodas covered the harp and swung it to his shoulders.

Leaving the hillside, he took what once had been the forest road and walked swiftly towards the distant plains. Eight years before he had travelled this way, striding under the overhanging branches, watching sunlight dapple the trail, listening to the ceaseless music of stream and river. Bird-song had filled the air then, sweet and piping, and the scent of the forest had intoxicated him. Now dry dust billowed around his feet, and not a sound disturbed the graveyard silence.

For most of the day he walked, angling his journey to the north-east. By dusk he could see the long black line of earth, like a ten-foot dike thrown up against a threatening sea. It stretched for miles across his path.

He reached it as night was falling and scrambled up its loose banks, pausing at the crest. This was once the northernmost border of Eldarin land. Shrouded in mist, protected by magic, it was here that Duvodas had crossed during that long-ago autumn night. There were still oaks growing here, but it was no longer a wood. Many trees had died through lack of water.

He had expected to feel more comfortable with earth once more beneath his feet, but it was not so. The smell of grass, wet from the recent rain, made a bitter contrast to the desolation he had left behind.

Duvodas trudged on through the trees. Eight years ago he had come to a village, a thriving farm community on the banks of the River Cruin. Unlike the furry-skinned Eldarin who raised him, Duvodas, being human, could walk among the races of Man without fear. Even so, without coin he had not been welcomed, nor offered a place for the night. Not even a bowl of soup. The villagers had viewed him with suspicion, and when he offered to sing for his supper had told him they had no need of music.

Tired and hungry, Duvodas had moved on.

Now he stood at the edge of the village once more. The houses were deserted, the forty-foot-wide river bed dry and cracked.

Whatever dread force had ripped away the soil of the mountains had sucked the river dry. Without water the farmland had been robbed of its sustenance. In the moonlight Duvodas could see that the villagers had vainly tried to sink wells to feed their crops.

He sheltered for the night in a deserted barn, then moved on at first light to higher country, remembering the kindness of the hunter and his family whose long cabin had been built in a fold of land bordering the tree-line of the hills. Eight years ago he had arrived there wet and miserable, a victim of hunger and desperate weariness. When a huge dog had rushed at him, baring its teeth, Duvodas had no time to react. One moment he was on his feet, the next the dog had leapt, crashing into his chest and hurling him to the ground. All air was punched from his lungs and he lay gasping under the weight of the mastiff, listening to its low, rumbling growl. A man's voice had sounded. The dog reluctantly backed away.

'You must be a stranger to these parts, my friend,' said the voice. A powerful hand gripped his arm, hauling him upright. In the moonlight the hunter's hair seemed to glint with flecks of steel, and his pale grey eyes shone like silver.

'I am indeed,' Duvodas told him. 'I am a ... minstrel. I would be pleased to sing you a song, or tell a story in return ...'

'You don't need to sing,' said the man. 'Come, we have food and a warm cabin.'

The memory lifted his spirits and he walked on, coming to the cabin just after noon. It was as he remembered it, long and low beneath a roof of turf, though the second section built for the children had now weathered in, losing its newness and blending with the old. The door was open.

Duvodas strode through the vegetable patch and entered the cabin. It was dark inside, but he heard a groan and saw the hunter lying naked on the floor by the hearth. Moving to him, Duvodas knelt. The man's skin was hot and dry, and black plague boils had erupted on his neck, armpits and groin; one had split, and the skin was stained with pus and blood. Leaving him, Duvodas moved to the first of the back rooms. The hunter's wife was unconscious in the bed; her face was fleshless, and she too had the plague. Duvodas opened the door to the new section. When last he had been here the couple had only one child, a boy of nine. There were three youngsters in the room, two young girls and an infant boy all in one bed. The boy was dead, the two girls fading fast. Duvodas pulled back the blanket covering them.

Duvodas unwrapped his harp and returned to the main room. His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast.

Pulling up a chair he sat in the centre of the room, closed his eyes, and sought the inner peace from which all magic flowed. His breathing deepened. He had learned much in his time among the Eldarin but, being human, healing magic had never come easily to him. The power was born of tranquillity and harmony, twin skills that Man could never master fully.