David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Be very careful, Avil. If the mission goes wrong, do not allow yourself to be taken alive. They must not find out about our plans.'

'You can trust me, General. I will say nothing. I will cut my own throat before I betray you.'

Luck had deserted him yet again - for the last time. He had crept close to the Daroth camp, sure that he was unobserved; but then this terrible pain had struck his head and he had passed out. When he awoke he was in the centre of a circle of Daroth warriors. Their faces were blank, alien and unreadable, but Avil knew of their foul practices and his fear weakened his bladder. He felt the warm urine soaking his leggings and, for a moment at least, shame outweighed his terror.

'Give us your name.' said a deep voice. Avil jerked and gazed around, trying to identify the speaker.

'I am Avil,' he said, his voice trembling.

'You are frightened, Avil.'

'Yes. Yes, I am.'

'Would you like to be released to return to your city?'

'Yes. Very much.'

'Then tell me of the forces gathered there.'

'The forces? The Duke's army, you mean? I don't know how many there are. Thousands, I expect. Soldiers.'

A Daroth rose and, taking hold of Avil's hair, dragged him to his feet. The creature took hold of the young man's arm - and suddenly snapped it. Avil screamed. The Daroth released him and he fell to the ground, staring stupidly at the twisted arm. At first there was little pain, but it grew into a terrible burning that made Avil feel nauseous.

'Concentrate, Avil,' said the Daroth. Pain flared in his head again, then subsided. 'Tell me about the wizards.'

In all his life Avil had known no friends, and many nicknames - none of them a source of pride. But Karis had trusted him, and - merely with her conversation - had given him one of the finest evenings of his life.

Frightened of pain, terrified of death, Avil was determined not to betray her. 'I know nothing of . . .'

'Beware, Avil,' warned the Daroth. 'I can inflict great pain on you. The broken wing will be as nothing to what you will face if you lie to me.'

Tears flowed from Avil's eyes and his lip trembled. He began to weep. Around him there sounded a strange clicking noise. He took a deep breath, and tried to control his fear as the Daroth spoke again. 'The wizards.

Tell me of the wizards.'

'There are no wizards!' shouted Avil. I will die like a man, he thought, though I wish to all the gods that I could live to see the fire blast down on these devils!

'How will this happen?' asked the Daroth softly. 'How will the fire come?'

Avil blinked. Had he said it aloud? No, he wouldn't be that stupid. What was happening? 'Tell me of the wizard who makes fire from the sky,' the Daroth repeated.

Avil dropped his head, trying not to look at the Daroth. Then he saw his knife, still in its sheath; they had not bothered to disarm him! Grabbing the hilt, he dragged the weapon clear and plunged it deep into his chest. He fell back to the grass, and found himself staring up at the night sky and the bright stars.

I did not betray you, Karis. The bastards learned nothing from me. The clicking noise sounded again.

Hands pawed at the dying man, tearing away his clothes. Then he was lifted and carried towards a pit of burning charcoal.

'You realize the impossibility of what we are planning, don't you?' said Ozhobar, as he and Karis sat beside the forge, enjoying the last of its dying heat. 'You can't hide secrets from a telepathic race. Every weapon we have tested has been seen by our men. The Daroth will not be surprised.'

'That entirely depends on the manner in which their mental powers operate,' she said. 'Can they read all thoughts, or only those we are thinking as they view us?'

'We have no way of knowing,' said Ozhobar, stroking his sandy beard.

'Exactly. Therefore I will waste no energy in trying to second-guess their talents,' said Karis. 'Did you study Tarantio's swords?'

'Yes. Remarkable. It seems the spell has - among other things - significantly reduced the friction on the blades. But that is not what makes them so deadly.'

'Can you duplicate them?'

'Sadly, no. I am not a sorcerer, Karis. I am a scientist. The blades seem to shimmer in and out of existence.

It is not possible, for example, to hold the metal. I tried to put a clamp on one of the blades, but it just slid clear. They will cut clean through stone, wood, and leather. Even iron, though less cleanly.'

'I would give ten years of my life to have a hundred such blades,' said Karis. 'Why did Sirano have to allow himself to be killed?'

Ozhobar lifted a small linen sack and opened it, offering a biscuit to Karis. 'I do feel honoured,' she said. He chuckled.

'They were a gift from the Duke's chef. They are rather good - though not as fine as my own oatcakes.'

'This is why you are willing to share them?'

Ignoring the remark, Ozhobar reached down a second sack, considerably heavier than the first. From this he took a handful of what appeared to be small black pebbles. 'What do you think?' he asked, passing them to Karis.

'Better than stones,' she said. 'Iron?'

'Yes. Each ballista will loose around two hundred of these. The trick is to cause a spread that is not too wide. I think I have achieved it. Come and see.'

Together they walked to the rear of the building. In an enclosed area, hidden by high walls yet brilliantly lit by moonlight, there stood a giant crossbow with arms over ten feet wide, built on a criss-crossed timber frame. On each side of the frame were handles, which when turned drew back the giant arms. Striding past the machine, Ozhobar hauled an old door of thick oak to the far wall, resting it there. Then he returned to the machine and, together with Karis, wound the handles until the rope and its sling of leather dropped over a large bronze hook. Locking it into place, Ozhobar filled the leather cup with iron pellets. Having checked the alignments, he walked around to where Karis stood. 'The door is oak, almost two inches thick.' With a boyish grin he handed her a small hammer. 'Strike the release bolt hard. Do it from behind.'

Karis moved to the rear of the machine and struck the bolt. There was a sudden hiss, then a sharp clanging as the arms swept forward to strike the wooden restraints. Almost immediately came a series of small thunderclaps as the iron shot smashed into the door.

Ozhobar ambled over to the ruined wood.

'Well?' he asked, as Karis joined him. The door was peppered with deep holes that in many places had completely pierced the wood; in the centre it was torn apart, ripped to tinder. Ozhobar grinned. 'You like it?'

'It is incredible! What kind of killing range?'

'Against the Daroth? Who can tell? Though I would guess at around fifty feet. After that the momentum will start to slacken. Fifty down to twenty-five would be the optimum.'

'Why not inside twenty-five feet?' she asked.

'Oh, it will still kill, but the spread will be small.' He pointed to the door. 'As you can see, at a range of only about fifteen feet the pellets struck in a rough circle of ... what? . . . around four feet. That equates with one Daroth. But at fifty feet the circle of death will be much greater.'

'How many ballistae will we have?'

'That depends on how long the Daroth wait. If we can get five more days I can have three by the northern gate, two others ready for swift transportation across the city.'

'We will, I believe, have a few days,' she said. Something in her voice caught his attention, and he stared intently at her.

'You . . . instituted the plan?'

'Yes. The scout has not returned.'

'This troubles you,' he said softly.

'Would it not trouble you? I have no qualms about sending soldiers to their deaths, but this time I had to lie, to deceive. He was a dull man, but I don't doubt he deserved better than to be betrayed by his general.'