David Gemmell - Dark Moon

Ozhobar's assistant, Brek, came into sight, emerging from a cleft in the tunnel. The Daroth saw him and surged forward. Brek ran towards a tunnel mouth, but a jagged spear smashed through his back and he fell.

High on the ledge, Ozhobar felt the sting of grief. Brek had been a good man, solid and trustworthy. With a sigh, Ozhobar watched the Daroth milling in the centre of the cavern. Then they broke into a run and surged forward.

Towards the waiting crossbow-men.

Three volleys of bolts plunged into the advancing Daroth, but there was no slowing them now. Tarantio killed two, then dashed to his left as a spear smashed into the rock by his head. Three huge warriors ran at him. Cut off from the main body of defenders, he ran into a narrow tunnel, then turned swiftly and drove his blade through the white skull of the first pursuer. A spear slammed into his left shoulder, the serrated blade tearing up through his collar-bone. Blood sprayed from the wound. Tarantio swept his sword across the Daroth's belly, then backhanded a cut that half-severed his head.

The pain from his wound was intense, blood was flowing freely inside his shirt and pooling above his belt.

Movement was agony, but he scrambled further back into the tunnel, searching for an exit. Another spear flashed past him.

Spinning once more, he swayed away from a wild, slashing cut. His riposte passed through the Daroth's forearm, to send the limb spinning through the air. Still the Daroth rushed him, his great fist clubbing into Tarantio's chest and hurling him from his feet. Tarantio rolled as the creature leapt for him feet-first.

Pushing himself upright, the swordsman plunged his weapon into the Daroth's chest. 'Now die, you whoreson!' he hissed.

As the sound of pounding boots came from the tunnel mouth, Tarantio swore and stumbled further back into the darkness. There were no lanterns here, and only the shimmering glow from his sword offered any light. He felt a touch of cool air brush his cheek.

It came from above, but his left arm was useless and there was no way he could climb to the opening.

The tunnel itself petered out into a black wall of rock. Two Daroth spear-men came into sight. The first lunged at Tarantio, whose sword swept across his body - slicing through the shaft - then reversed and tore open the Daroth's throat. The second spear slammed through his side and deep into the rock behind. Cutting through the shaft he flung the blade like a knife. It slammed point first into the Daroth's ridged brow, sinking in all the way up to the hilt. Tarantio tried to move forward to retrieve the blade, then cried out in agony, for he was pinned to the wall.

He could hear the stealthy footfalls of more Daroth approaching. His heart sank and he ceased to struggle. If that was death, so be it, he thought.

'A pox on you, brother! I'm not ready to die yet!'

Dace hurled himself forward, his wounded body sliding clear of the broken spear-shaft. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his broken collar-bone. Reaching out, he grasped the hilt of his sword and then struggled to his feet.

Four Daroth swordsmen rounded the bend in the tunnel and, with a bloodcurdling scream, Dace charged them -his sword slicing through the chest of the first, the skull of the second and the ribs of the third. The fourth stumbled; Dace leapt upon him, using his sword like a dagger which he drove down through the neck and into the lungs.

Dace fell with him, then staggered upright. 'Where are you, you bastards?' he screamed. 'I'll kill you all!'

'Dace, for the sake of Heaven, let's find a way out of here!' cried Tarantio.

But Dace ignored him. He took three running steps, then pitched sideways into the wall and half-fell.

Blood-drenched and swaying, he made it back to the main tunnel and saw the bodies of a score of Daroth and as many Corduin men. Picking his way through them he heard the sounds of battle up ahead.

'I'm coming for you!' shouted Dace, his voice echoing through the tunnels. He stumbled on, then fell to his knees.

'Stop, Dace,' Tarantio urged him. 'Stop now. We are dying.'

Dace sat with his back to the wall and gazed down at his blood-drenched clothes. There was no feeling in his right leg now, and his vision was swimming. 'I am not going to die in the dark,' he said.

With a great effort he rolled to his knees, then got his good leg under him, forcing himself upright. As two Daroth warriors came into sight, Dace blinked sweat from his eyes. 'Come on!' he called. 'Come and die, you ugly whoresons!'

They rushed forward, but the first suddenly swayed to his left with a crossbow bolt through his skull. The second lunged at Dace. The swordsman's blade flashed up with impossible speed, blocking the thrust. Off-balance, the Daroth fell forward and Dace's blade swept through his thick throat. 'Where are the rest of you?' shouted Dace. Then he fell unconscious into the arms of Ozhobar.

Dressed in black leather leggings and a silver satin tunic shirt, the Duke stood silently in the park. Though surrounded by men he was alone, as he always had been. His eyes scanned the hillsides, remembering far-off days when he had played here with his brother. Bright and adventurous, Jorain had been the only person to reach the shy, introverted child the Duke had once been. When he had died he had taken a part of Albreck with him. A loveless marriage, and twenty years of ruling a people he neither liked nor understood, had been the life of Albreck following the death of Jorain. You would have been so much better than I, thought Albreck. The people loved you.

Albreck switched his gaze to the catacomb entrance. Reinforced by two elaborate stone pillars and a white lintel stone, there were steps within that led down to the crystal cavern. Jorain had told him it was an entrance to Hell, and the six-year-old Albreck had been afraid to enter.

Now the childish game had become a reality. It was an entrance to Hell.

And I have come here to die, thought Albreck. The thought made him smile, he didn't know why. Are you waiting for me, Jorain? he wondered. The Duke had brought no sword or dagger and he stood now, arms folded, waiting patiently for whatever would follow. He glanced at Karis. The warrior woman was now wearing a dress of white silk she had borrowed from the wardrobe of the Duke's wife; around her slim waist was a blue sash. She looked so incongruous now, surrounded by warriors, like a virgin bride waiting for her groom.

'Why do you need the dress?' he had asked her.

'Don't ask, my lord,' she said.

Under torchlight, Karis was organizing the placements of the five ballistae, forming a wide semi-circle some hundred paces from the entrance to the catacombs. Four hundred crossbow-men, in three ranks, were positioned between the weapons: the front line kneeling, the second standing, the third, higher still, positioned on the backs of a circle of wagons.

The Duke saw the veteran warrior Necklen approach Karis and take her by the arm. He could not hear their conversation, but he could see anxiety in the warrior's face.

'There is no need for you to die,' said Necklen, moving alongside Karis. 'I could do it!'

'I am not planning to die,' she told him, 'but it is a risk I cannot avoid. You said it yourself - how can we get them to mass in the centre of the killing circle? This is the only way I could think of.'

'All right. But why you? Why not me?'

'You have no rank, old man. They would believe in an instant that it was a ploy.'

'And it isn't?'

'No, it is not. Now go to your position. And do as I bid.'

'I couldn't kill you, Karis. Not if my life depended on it.'

She put her slender hands on his shoulders. 'Thousands of lives may depend upon it. And if it comes to it, promise me you will obey my order. Promise me, Necklen, in the name of friendship.'