David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Your veins are full of stimulants to violent activity,' Ranaloth had told him, as they sat beneath the shadow of the Great Library. 'Humans are essentially hunter-killers. They glory in physical strength and heroism. This is not in itself evil, you understand, but it prepares the soul for potential evil. The human is ejected from the mother, and its first instinct is to rage against the violation of its resting place in the womb.'

'We can learn, though, Master Ranaloth. I have learned.'

'You have learned,' agreed the old man. 'As an individual, and a fine one. I do not see great hope for your race, however.'

'The Eldarin were once hunter-killers,' argued Duvodas.

'That is not strictly true, Duvo. We had - and we retain - a capacity for violence in defence of our lives.

But we have no lust for it. At the dawn of our time, so our scientists tell us, we hunted in packs. We killed our prey and ate it. At no time, however, did we take part in random slaughter as the humans do.'

'If you hold the humans in such low regard, sir, why is it that the Eldarin invest the rivers with magic, keeping the humans free of disease and plague?'

'We do it because we love life, Duvo.'

'And why not tell the humans about the enchantment in the water? Would they not then lose their hatred of you?'

'No, they would not. They would disbelieve us and hate us the more. Now, once more, try to reach the purity of Air Magic.'

Duvodas dragged his mind from the warmth of his memories now and gazed down at the hunter.

Without the healing waters, plague and disease had ripped across the land. Lifting the harp, his fingers touched the strings, sending out a series of light, rippling notes. The scent of roses in bloom filled the cabin, rich and heady. Duvodas continued to play, the music swelling. A golden light radiated from his harp, bathing the walls, flowing through doorways, sending dancing shadows on the low ceiling. Dust motes gleamed in the air like tiny diamonds, and the atmosphere in the cabin - moments before pungent with the smell of disease - became fresh, clean and sharp as the breeze of spring.

There was a pitcher of curdled milk on the table beside him. Moment by moment it changed. First the fur of mildew on the pitcher rim receded, then the texture of the semi-liquid contents altered, re-emulsifying, the lumps fading, melting back into the creamy richness of fresh milk.

The music continued, the mood changing from lilting and light to the powerful rhythms and the rippling chords of the dance.

The hunter groaned softly. The black boils were receding now. Sweat bathed the face of the singer as he rose from his chair. Still playing his harp he opened his grey-green eyes and slowly made his way into the back bedroom. The music flowed over the dying woman, holding to her, soaking into her soul. Duvodas felt a terrible weariness weighing down on him like a boulder, but his fingers danced upon the strings, never faltering. Moving, on he came to the second bedroom. The golden light of his harp shone upon the bed and the faces of the two girls, the oldest of them not more than five.

Almost at the end of his strength, Duvodas changed the rhythm and style once more, the notes less complicated and complex, becoming a simple lullaby, soft and soothing. He played on for several more minutes, then his right hand cramped. The music died, the golden light fading.

Duvodas opened the window wide and took a deep breath. Then moving to the bedside, he sat down. The two older children were sleeping peacefully. Laying his hand upon the head of the dead toddler, he brushed back a wisp of golden hair from the cold brow.

'I wish I had been here sooner, little one,' he said.

He found an old blanket and wrapped the body, tying it with two lengths of cord.

Carrying the corpse outside, he laid it gently on the ground beside two freshly dug graves a little way from the cabin. There was a shovel leaning against a tree. Duvodas dug a shallow grave and placed the body inside.

As he was completing his work, he heard a movement behind him.

'How is it that we are alive?' asked the hunter.

'The fever must have passed, my friend,' Duvodas told him. 'I am sorry about your son. I should have dug deeper, but I did not have the strength.'

The man's strong face trembled, and tears flowed, but he blinked them back. 'The Eldarin did this to us,' he said, the words choking him. 'They sent the plague. May they all rot in Hell! I curse them all! I wish they had but one neck, and I would crush it in my hands.'

The fist struck the old man full in the face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. Bright lights shone before his eyes and, disoriented, Browyn tried to rise. Dizziness swamped him and he fell back to the soft earth. Through a great buzzing in his ears he heard the sound of smashing crockery coming from his cabin, and then an iron hand gripped his throat. 'You tell, you old bastard, or I swear I'll cut your eyes out!'

'Maybe it was all just lies,' said another voice. 'Maybe there never was any gold.'

'There was gold,' grunted the first man. 'I know it. He paid Simian with it. Small nuggets. Simian wouldn't lie to me. He knows better.'

Browyn was dragged to his knees. 'Can you hear me, old fool? Can you?'

The old man fought to focus on the flat, brutal face that was now inches from his own. In all his life he had enjoyed one great talent: he could see the souls of men. In this moment of terror his gift was like a curse, for he looked into the face of his tormentor and saw only darkness and spite. The image of the man's soul was scaled and pitted, the eyes red as blood, the mouth thin, a pointed blue tongue licking at grey lips. Browyn knew in that moment that his life was over. Nothing would prevent this man from killing him. He could see the enjoyment of the torture in the blood-red eyes of the naked soul.

'I can hear you,' he said, tasting blood on his lips.

'So where is it?'

He had already told them about the single nugget he had found in the stream beyond the cabin. It was with this he had paid Simian for last winter's supplies. But he had never found more, despite long days of searching. The nugget must have been washed down from higher in the mountains, and wedged itself in the bend of the stream.

The third man emerged from the cabin. 'There's nothing there, Brys,' he said. 'He's almost out of food.

Maybe he's telling the truth.'

'We'll find out,' said Brys, drawing a dagger and pricking it under the skin of Browyn's eye. The point was needle-sharp and the old man felt a trickle of blood on his cheek. 'Which eye would you like to lose first, scum-bucket?' he hissed.

'Brys!' the third man called out. 'There's someone coming!'

The mercenary let go of Browyn's throat and the old man fell gratefully from his grasp. Blinking, he strained to focus on the newcomer. He was a slim young man, with dark, close-cropped hair; over his shoulder he carried a heavy woollen coat of storm-cloud grey, and around his waist was a sword-belt from which hung two short swords. Browyn could also see the hilt of a throwing-knife in the man's knee-length boot. As the warrior came closer Browyn rubbed sweat from his eyes. . . the blows he had taken must have blurred his senses. The newcomer had not one soul - but two. The first was almost a mirror image of the man himself, darkly handsome, but golden light radiated from the face. But the second . . . Browyn's heart sank. The second had a face of corpse-grey, and a shock of white hair like a lion's mane. The eyes were yellow, and slitted like those of a hunting cat.

'Good morning,' said the newcomer, laying his coat over a tree-stump. Moving past the three mercenaries, he helped Browyn to his feet. 'Is this your cabin, sir?' Browyn nodded dumbly. 'Would you object to me resting here for a while? It is a long walk from the lowlands, and I would be grateful for your hospitality.'