David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'We have great hatred for you,' said the Daroth, 'and we cannot coexist. For one to prosper, the other must die.'

Karis said nothing, and the silence grew. 'Oh, no,' said Forin. 'Oh, no!' He hugged the dead woman close to him, cradling her head. Tears streamed to his cheeks as he rocked her to and fro.

'We cannot say whether this be true,' said the Daroth, still holding to the limp hand. 'We have no experience of it. But we shall do as you say.'

'Who are you talking to?' asked the Duke.

'The woman. She speaks still. You cannot hear her?'

The Duke shook his head. Releasing Karis's hand, the Daroth stood. 'Your wizard with the face of blood has destroyed our Life Chamber. Half of all our people are dead now, never to come again. Karis says we should return to our city. We will do so.'

'To prepare for war - or peace?' the Duke asked.

'We cannot say . . . not at this time.' The Daroth gazed down at the dead warrior woman. 'There is much to consider. You are not immortal - and yet Karis gave her one life to save ours. We do not understand it. It was foolish, and yet ... it speaks to us without words.'

'Is she with you still?' asked the Duke. Forin glanced up.

'No. But her words remain.'

The Daroth swung away and walked to the catacomb entrance. One by one the surviving warriors followed, vanishing down into the dark.

Tarantio remained unconscious for eight days, and missed the state funeral the Duke gave for Karis, the Ice Queen.

All of the citizens of Corduin lined the route, and Karis's body was borne in the Duke's carriage, drawn by six white horses. Karis's war-horse, Warain - led by Forin -walked behind, followed by the Duke and the army she had led. Spring flowers of yellow, red and blue were cast into the street ahead of the procession, and the carriage rolled slowly on over a carpet of blooms.

Vint did not attend. He sat in his apartments at the palace and watched the procession from his balcony. Then he got drunk, and let his grief flow where none could see it.

Karis was laid to rest in a tomb built on a high hill, facing north. A bronze plaque, cast by Ozhobar, was set into the mortar. It said simply:

Karis — the Ice Queen

The Duke made a speech at the tomb. It was simple, dignified and, to Forin, deeply moving. Then the crowds were allowed to file through, past the open coffin, to pay their respects. It remained open for two days, then was sealed. In the months to come a statue would be raised upon it of a warrior woman, her sword sheathed, her hand extended towards the north.

Tarantio opened his eyes on the morning of the ninth day to see Miriac sleeping in a chair beside the bed. His mouth was dry and his body ached; he tried to move, and groaned. Miriac awoke immediately and leaned over him. 'They told me you would die,' she said. 'I knew they were wrong.'

'Too much to live for,' he whispered.

'That's true,' said Dace.

Tarantio felt a surge of emotion that brought a lump to his throat. 'Thank you for coming back, brother!'

'Don't go maudlin on me, Chio. Where else could I go?'

Tarantio closed his eyes.

'What about the child in the mine?'

'He can wait for a while longer. One day, maybe, we'll find him together.'

Tarantio felt the warm touch of Miriac's hand on his own. 'Don't go back to sleep,' said Dace. 'Tell her we love her, you fool!'

Forin stood alone before the newly sealed doors, remembering what had been and mourning what could have been.

'I can't stay in Corduin, Karis,' he said. 'There is nothing for me here without you.'

He strode away in the gathering dusk, only pausing at the foot of the hill to look back. Seeing that a dark shape had moved out of the trees and hunkered down by the door, Forin retraced his steps. Stealer looked up as he approached, bared his teeth and growled.

'I don't much like you, either,' said Forin, reaching out his hand. For a moment it seemed that the hound would snap at him, then Stealer sniffed his fingers, and he ran his hand over the broad, ugly head. 'How do you feel about travelling south?' he asked. 'We'll see the ocean and live like lords.' Rising, he took several paces down the hill. 'You coming or not, you ugly son of a bitch?'

The hound cast a lingering look at the tomb, then rose and padded after him.

The Oltor Prime brought Duvo to the centre of the desert which had once housed the city of Eldarisa. There were no buildings now, sculpted in light, merely a great emptiness and an ocean of barren rock.

'Why did you come for me?' asked Duvo. 'I would have killed them all.'

'That would be reason enough, Duvodas.'

'They deserve to die.'

The golden figure stepped back from Duvo and the human refused to meet his eyes. 'I have brought you here so that you might learn a terrible truth. I wish it were not so.'

'What truth? I have no need of truth! There is a war being waged, Oltor, and I am a part of it.'

'There is no war, Duvodas. It is over.'

The young man surged to his feet, his clenched fist raised. 'Then I did it! I ruined them!'

'I cannot say that your actions did not affect the outcome,' said the Oltor. 'For they did. But what made the difference was not, ultimately, your slaying of the Daroth, but the death of a single human. Though that is a riddle you are no longer equipped to fathom. I wish you well, human.'

The Oltor Prime's hands swept down and a curtain of bright sunlight opened on to the darkness. Without another word he stepped through, and then Duvodas was alone. He felt suddenly weary, and he slept until the dawn. Then, with renewed energy, he climbed the tallest peak and - careful not to touch the surface of the orb - removed the Pearl from its sack and wedged it deep into the rocks.

It took most of a day to climb down to the lowlands, but Duvodas felt a longing to see the return of Eldarisa, and to be with the Eldarin again. Pushing on without rest, he reached the Twins by late evening and carefully climbed to the ledge where he had stood once before with the Oltor Prime. Taking his harp in his hands, Duvodas prepared for the Creation Hymn. It did not concern him that there was no land magic here, for never before had he experienced such power as had flowed in his body since the Daroth slew Shira.

His fingers lightly stroked the strings, and a jangle of discordant notes jarred the night air. At first he was untroubled and tried to re-tune the instrument; then his fingers touched the strings again. The noise that came was a screeching travesty of music. With increasing panic he sought the notes of the Hymn, but there was nothing there. No music at all moved within him.

All night he struggled, but with the coming of the dawn not one pure note had sung from his harp. It was as if he had never known how to play. He thought of the simple melodies he had learned as a child, lullabies and dancing songs. Not one could he remember.

Through the long day he sat upon the ledge, and at the last he remembered the words of Ranaloth so many years before. 'Many among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race among us. But you were lost and alone, an abandoned babe on a winter hillside. I had always wondered if a human could learn to be civilized - if you could put aside the violence of your nature, and the evils of your heart. You have proved it possible and made me happy and proud. The triumph of will over the pull of the flesh - this is what the Eldarin achieved many aeons ago. We learned the value of harmony. Now you understand it also, and perhaps you can carry this gift back to your race.'

'What must I beware of, sir?' he had asked.

'Anger and hatred - these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway through which hatred - disguised and unrecognized - can pass.'