David Gemmell - Dark Moon

A young cleric approached him and bowed. Pooris was so tired he could not remember the man's name.

'What is it?'

'A small problem, sir. We have run out of red wax for the Duke's seal. There is none to be found anywhere.'

Every official refugee was to be given a note of authority stamped with the seal of Duke Albreck, and each, upon presentation of the seal, was entitled to remove from the treasury a sum not to exceed twenty gold pieces -

assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum banked there.

'Red wax,' mumbled Pooris. 'May the Gods spare me! What colours are there to be had?'

'Blue, sir. Or green.'

'Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which gives authority.'

'Yes, sir.' The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet and sipped it.

The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little game and less shelter.

The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a day.

All told, the full journey might take three months.

And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent.

Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they remained in their own homes . . .

Pooris had been against the expedition from the start,

despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been against him.

'You will not stop people deserting,' said Karis. 'If heroes came in great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people have cowardly hearts.'

'And if we force them to stay,' put in Albreck, 'there will be panic when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; it will be escorted to Hlobane.'

'That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,' said Karis.

'I fear that is true, sir,' added Pooris.

'Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We will fight the Daroth - and we will beat him.' The Duke gave a rare smile. 'And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?'

'It is true, my lord.'

True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the arrangements for the civilian withdrawal.

A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped inside.

'Another problem?' he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug.

'Of course, sir. What else would you expect?'

Pooris gestured him to a seat. 'I was scanning the list of refugees. You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.'

'Yes. And?'

'Twelve of the city's fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and suchlike.'

'Indeed not.'

'Curiously, only two of Corduin's sixty-four bakers have applied to leave.' Niro grinned. 'Makers of bread are more courageous than makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don't you think?'

'I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?'

'None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder's execution.'

'Will you be leaving also?' asked Pooris. 'I understand that more than four-fifths of the city's clerics have applied.'

'No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood by his side.'

'Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once told me - and I have seen it to be true -

that nothing is as long-lived as a monarch's hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.'

'Even so, I shall stay.'

'You have faith in our lady general?'

'Her men have faith. They have seen her in action,' said Niro.

'As have I. I watched her bring a mountain down on a group of Daroth riders. More importantly, to do so she crushed several of our own people. She is ruthless, Niro. And single-minded. I do believe that we are lucky to have her. Yet . . . the Daroth are not like any human enemy we have ever faced. Every one of their warriors is stronger than three of ours. And we have not yet seen what strategies they are capable of.'

'I shall observe them with interest,' said Niro, rising.

Pooris smiled. 'You are an optimist,' he said. 'And if we do survive I shall make sure you achieve what you hope for.' Niro bowed and Pooris gave a dry chuckle. 'Falling short, of course, of my own position.'

'Of course, sir.'

He was moving through the darkness of the tunnels, hearing the child's cry for help in the distance. He came to the coal face, and here there was — as he knew there would be - a jagged crack just wide enough for a body to squeeze through.

'Help me! Please!'

Tarantio eased himself through the crack and into the greenish glare of the tunnel beyond. Opal-eyed creatures shuffled forward, picks and shovels in their hands.

'Where is the boy?' he demanded.

The cries came again from far ahead and, drawing his sword, Tarantio ran forward. The creatures scattered before him. At the far end of the enormous cavern stood a man, guarding a bolted door.

Tarantio halted his run and advanced slowly on the swordsman facing him. His hair was white and stood out from his head in ragged spikes. But it was the eyes that caught Tarantio's attention: they were golden, and slitted like those of a great cat.

'Where is the boy?' demanded Tarantio.

'First you must pass me,' said the demonic warrior.

In his mind Tarantio sought out Dace, but he was not to be found. Fear rose in him, followed by a quaking certainty that he was looking into the face of death. His mouth was dry, his sword hand wet with sweat. 'Help me!' cried the boy. Tarantio took a deep breath and threw himself into the attack.

The demon lowered his sword and offered his neck to Tarantio's blade. At the last moment he swung the blow aside.

'Why do you want me to kill you?' he asked.

'Why do you want to kill me?' the demon responded.

'I just want to help the boy.'

'To do so you must kill me,' said the demon, sadly.

Tarantio awoke in a cold sweat. Rising from his bed, he wandered out to the kitchen and filled a long goblet with cool water. In the main room Forin was asleep on a couch; the others had gone. Tarantio entered the room, moving silently to the fire. It was dying down and he added a fresh log.

'You can't sleep?' enquired Forin, yawning and sitting up.

'No. Bad dreams.'

'The Daroth?'

'Worse than the Daroth. I've had the same dream for several years now.' He told Forin about it.

'Why didn't you kill it?' Forin asked.

'I don't know.'

'Silly things, dreams,' said the giant. 'I once dreamt I was standing naked in a marketplace, where all the stalls were selling honey-cakes riddled with maggots. Everyone was buying them and extolling their virtues. No sense at all.'