“Sit you down, sir,” said Necklen, taking the Duke’s other arm and leading him to a bench seat. Sirano sat, but then swivelled and stared out over the ramparts. “They will be here tomorrow, with the dawn,” he said. “I have made a terrible mistake. And I cannot put it right. But the bowmen can. Fill the walls with them.”
“I’ll do that, my lord,” said Giriak, soothingly. “But let us first get you back to the palace. You need rest.”
He led the unresisting Duke back down to the lower level, then helped him to the saddle of his own gelding. With a wave to Necklen, he led the horse back along the deserted streets.
Chapter Eight
Sirano lay trembling on his bed, his body racked by painful sobbing. He had not cried since he was a child, but now all his defences had been torn apart like paper. Clea, who had loved him, was dead, sacrificed by him in order to gain the power of the Pearl. The Eldarin, who had offered no harm to the human race, had vanished. And now had come the crowning glory of his achievements: the return of the Daroth. Sirano lay on the broad bed, hugging the Eldarin Pearl to him. “Come back to me, old man,” he pleaded. “For pity’s sake, come back!”
Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep full of bad, hurtful dreams. He saw his mother killed again and again, and watched his father die, the snake wriggling in his throat. Worse than both of these, though, was the vision of the overweeningly arrogant man he had become, plunging the world into war. And for what? To prove his father wrong? To show that he, Sirano, was a towering figure in human history?
He awoke, and found himself lying not on his bed but on a field of green grass, surrounded by the scent of spring flowers. The madness brought on by exhaustion and lack of sleep had passed, and he was himself again. Beside him sat the silver-furred Eldarin elder. The creature had huge, dark eyes, that radiated sorrow.
“Why am I here?” asked Sirano.
“Why indeed?” answered the spirit.
“I did not know the Daroth would come. You cannot blame me.”
“I do not apportion blame, human. You were warned, and you chose to ignore the warning. Who would you blame? You are a student of history. You know the Eldarin do not lie.”
“But I didn’t know! If you had told me about the Daroth I would have desisted.”
“Would you?”
Sirano stayed silent. “Where did you go?” he asked at last.
“Where do you think? The Eldarin exist within the Pearl, held frozen, awaiting the Day of Awakening. Just as we did with the Daroth. You loosed the chains that held the Daroth captive. But only one living man can free the Eldarin.”
“Tell me what to do, I beg of you! Advise me!”
The Eldarin shook his head. “The situation is beyond my advice, Sirano. As of tomorrow, Morgallis will be destroyed. Nothing you can do can save it, nor save the thousands who still inhabit it. Death and destruction are upon you, and I pity you and all who serve you. Now go from here. And do not return.” The Eldarin waved his hand dismissively. Sirano felt a jolt, as if from a fall, and awoke again in his own bed. It was dark, and his body was cold. He crawled under the covers, shivering.
He lay there for half an hour, but as the sky lightened he pushed back the covers and moved to his study. From a large jar on the shelf above the window he took a dozen small glass balls, which he placed in a canvas bag. This he slung across his shoulder, and made his way down the stairs to the huge cellar beneath the great hall. There were hundreds of barrels here, scores containing lantern oil, others filled with brandy or fortified wine. One by one he placed ten of the glass globes among the lantern oil barrels. Lastly he turned on the taps. There were no drains here, nowhere for the liquid to go save to slowly cover the stone floor.
Moving upstairs and out into the night, Sirano ran through the deserted streets, heading for the north wall.
Giriak was there, with around 40 bowmen and some 200 soldiers. Sirano ran up the steps. “Are they here?” he asked.
“They will be soon,” said Giriak. “According to our scout there are thousands of them. They are not human, Sirano.”
The Duke ignored the lack of formality. “They are Daroth,” he said. The men gathered around him began to whisper amongst themselves. “We cannot hold here,” Sirano told Giriak. “The city is finished. Get your men back from the walls. Rouse as many of the citizens as you can, and try to reach Prentuis. Do it now!”
“What are you going to do?” Giriak asked.
“I’ll stay and talk to them. Perhaps we can reach an agreement.”
“You hired me and my men. If you wish us to stay and fight, we will.”
Sirano smiled, and clapped the warrior on the shoulder. “You are a good man, Giriak. You are all good men. Go now, and live!”
For a moment only Giriak stood his ground, then he swung away. “You heard the Lord Sirano. Let’s go!” Gratefully the warriors left the walls, leaving Sirano alone.
The sky was lightening now, the bright stars fading into the grey. The dawn sun crept over the eastern mountains, bathing the city in gold. Sirano sat on the ramparts and gazed back over Morgallis. Some of the buildings were ancient, built with love and care centuries before. This was his city. And he had destroyed it.
He hoped Giriak would rescue most of the city-dwellers, but knew that was unlikely. These last few thousand had endured earthquakes and war; they would not leave their homes. The lucky ones would die under the swords of the Daroth. The young and tender faced a different fate.
Sirano was alone. Not a human in sight. Suddenly he realized he had always been alone. This moment before the storm epitomized his life. The child ignored by the man he thought was his father, had grown into a man apart. Incomplete. Unfinished.
And self-pitying, he realized . . .
The sun rose higher, the land awakening. Sirano looked at the distant tree-line, waiting for the Daroth. As a child he had gone hawking in those woods, hunting rabbit and pigeon. He had swum in the streams, and climbed the tall trees. And in a glade, near the centre, he had played the mighty hero—fighting imaginary foes, defending his people.
Now the game was real and, unlike his childish fantasies, doomed to failure.
The first of the Daroth riders emerged from the woods. They came in a line, fifty abreast, and rode slowly towards the city gates. Sirano climbed to the ramparts and looked down on the riders. Creatures out of nightmare, colossal and unreal, they moved forward in silence. From the woods came thousands of foot-soldiers. There were no battle cries, only the slow drumbeat of their boots striking the ground in perfect harmony.
“What do you want here?” called out Sirano, as the first of the riders neared the wall.
The Daroth did not reply. Forty foot-soldiers dragged a bronze-headed battering-ram forward, lining it up against the gates. They swung it back, then thundered it forward. Sirano heard the splintering of the wood, and felt the impact on the parapet under his feet. Taking one of his remaining two glass globes, he hurled it down. It smashed against the ram. Fire exploded outward, engulfing the Daroth. Their armour glowing red, they staggered back, slapping at the flames which sprang from their clothing. Some fell, and not one of their comrades ran forward to help. The stricken Daroth blazed like torches, and died where they fell.
Forty more Daroth made their silent way to the smouldering ram. Four times it swung—and the gates gave. Sirano ran down the steps as the Daroth swarmed through, then sprinted along the street, heading for the palace. Daroth riders galloped after him.
He was breathing heavily when he reached the long, tree-lined avenue which led to the palace building, and could hear the pounding of hooves behind him. Swinging round, he threw the last of his globes. It struck a rider in the chest. Flames enveloped him. The huge horse reared, throwing the Daroth back from the saddle.
Sirano sprinted on, up the twelve steps to the main doors and on into the Great Hall. At the far end, beneath a huge stained-glass window, was the Ducal Chair, carved from mahogany and inlaid with ivory and silv
er. Upon it was the Eldarin Pearl.
Sirano ran to the chair and, taking the Pearl in his hands, sat down. Drawing in a deep breath he shouted out a single Word of Power. Below the Hall one of the globes scattered in the oil ignited, the flames spreading quickly across the cellar floor, licking at the wooden barrels.
Daroth warriors swarmed into the Hall. “Welcome to Morgallis,” said Sirano, with a broad smile. “Who is your leader?”
The Daroth approached him, spreading out in a wide circle. He stared at their bone-white features and their dark, soulless eyes. “Afraid to speak?” he asked them.
A towering figure stepped from the ranks. “I am the general,” it said. “And tonight I shall feast on your heart.”
“I think not, you ugly whoreson! But let it not be said that Sirano did not give his guests a warm welcome.” Rising, Sirano shouted once more. All the remaining globes flared into life, the heat rising like a volcano. Beneath the feet of the Daroth the huge flagstones shifted. A wall of flame seared out. Then came a second explosion that tore the walls asunder, collapsing the roof.
Sirano, his clothing ablaze, was hurled up and back, his burning body smashing through the stained-glass window, where it crashed into the upper branches of a willow tree in the Ducal gardens. He fell through the branches into a deep pond.
His body a sea of pain, he dragged himself from the water and, still clutching the Eldarin Pearl, staggered out into the street beyond.
Behind him a tower of flame was roaring up a hundred feet, through the broken roof of the palace.
The Daroth army swept on towards the south, sacking villages and towns, until they reached the outskirts of Prentuis. There for the first time they came up against a human army, of 2,000 horse, 500 bowmen and 3,000 foot-soldiers. The humans were cut to pieces, the army scattered. The carnage inside the city was awful to behold, and the few survivors who made it to Loretheli on the coast told grisly stories of the massacre, and the terrible feasting that followed it.
In less than a month two of the great cities of the Four Duchies had fallen to an inhuman enemy. The Duke of The Marches had been killed on the battlefield outside Prentuis. Of the Duke of Romark there was no news.
The snows came early, and the Daroth withdrew. But no-one had any doubts that the spring would bring fresh terror.
Chapter Nine
Brune’s fever was high, his body sweat-drenched. The elderly doctor leaned over him, closely examining the yellow-gold of his skin. “It is not the plague,” he told Tarantio. “But I do not like his colour; it suggests the blood is bad. However, I have bled him and leeched him, and there is little more that I can do.”
“Will he live?”
The doctor shrugged his thin shoulders. “To be honest, young man, since I do not know what ails him I cannot say. I have seen yellow skin like this in patients before. Sometimes it indicates the kidneys are failing, at other times jaundice or yellow fever. In this case I do not know. You say the colour of his eyes was caused by the magicker, Ardlin. Were I you, I would seek out the magicker, and find out what he has done.”
“He left Corduin,” said Tarantio.
“As well he might. I have no time for magickers: a tricksy bunch, if you take my meaning. Now a man knows where he is with leeches. They suck out the vileness. Nothing magical there.”
Tarantio showed the man to the door, paid him, then returned to the bedside. “You should have made him eat his leeches,” said Dace. “The man was an idiot.”
“There was something in what he said. I think this illness is down to the magicker. You saw Brune’s eyes. Both are golden now. There was no magic orb; it is just a spell of some kind. And it is spreading over him.”
“Yes,” said Dace cheerfully, “it is—and we should have killed Ardlin too.”
“Is that your answer to everything, brother? Kill it?”
“Each to his own,” said Dace. Brune groaned, then spoke out in a language Tarantio had never heard. It was soft, lilting and musical. Tarantio sat beside the bed, laying his hand on Brune’s fevered brow. He was burning up. Fetching a bowl of warm water, he drew back the covers and bathed Brune’s naked body, allowing the evaporation to cool the skin. “He is losing a lot of weight,” said Dace. “Maybe you should cook a broth, or something.”
Brune’s golden eyes opened. “Oh, it hurts,” he said.
“Lie still, my friend. Rest if you can.”
“I am cold.”
Tarantio felt his brow again, then he covered him with blankets and walked out to the kitchen area. The young woman he had hired to cook for them had fled when Brune’s fever began. There was no food in the house. Returning to the bedroom, Tarantio built up the fire then threw his cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the snow. It was a long walk to the Wise Owl tavern and he was frozen long before he reached it. Snow had begun to fall again, and his shoulders and hair were crowned with white.
He rapped on the door and Shira opened it. Stepping inside he brushed the snow from his shoulders. “I am sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but I have a friend who is sick, and there is no food. Could you prepare something for me to take back?”
“Of course,” she said brightly. As she turned away, he saw that she was pregnant.
“My congratulations to you,” he said.
She reddened. “We are very pleased, Duvo and I.”
“Duvo?”
“The Singer. You remember?”
“Ah yes. I wish you both happiness.”
“Sit down by the fire and I will fetch you some mulled wine while you wait.” She limped away towards the kitchens. Tarantio removed his cloak and squatted by the fire. He shivered as the heat touched him. Staring into the dancing flames he began to relax, and did not hear the soft footfalls behind him. But Dace did, and surged into control—rising and twisting, his sword flashing into his hand.
A lean, blond-haired man with green eyes stood there. “I am Duvodas,” he said.
“You’re lucky not to be a dead Duvodas,” said Dace. “What are you doing sneaking up on people?”
“I was not sneaking, Tarantio. You were lost in thought. Shira tells me you have a sick friend and I was wondering if I could help.”
Dace was about to spit out a reply when Tarantio dragged him back. “Are you skilled in medicine?” he asked. Duvodas said nothing for a moment, but his eyes narrowed. Tarantio wondered if, somehow, he had seen the transformation.
“I know a little of herbs and potions,” Duvodas said.
“Then you would be most welcome at my home. I have become rather fond of Brune. He is not the brightest of men, but he is honest and he doesn’t talk much. And forgive me for my earlier rudeness. I have lived too long amid wars and battles. People appearing silently behind me usually wish me harm.”
“Think nothing of it, my friend.”
Shira returned with a canvas shoulder-bag, bulging with food. “This should keep the wolf from the door for a day at least. Come by tomorrow, and I will have a hamper for you.” Tarantio offered to pay, but Shira refused. “We still owe you a meal for the day you left, sir. Pay me for tomorrow’s food.”
Tarantio bowed, then accepted the bag which he slung over his shoulder. Donning his cloak, he made for the door. Duvodas walked out into the snow with him. Tarantio looked hard at the man, who was wearing only a shirt of green cotton, thin leggings and boots. “You will freeze to death,” said Tarantio.
“I like the cold,” said Duvodas, and the two men strolled out into the snow-covered street. An icy wind was blowing against them as they walked, the snow swirling round them. Tarantio glanced at Duvodas, wondering that the man seemed oblivious to the cold. Twenty minutes later Tarantio pushed open his front door and stepped inside. The living-room fire had burned low and he added fuel.
“You are a strange man,” he said. “Were you raised in a cold climate?”
“No. Where is your friend?”
“In the first of the back bedrooms.”
The two men wa
lked through the house and found Brune mumbling in his sleep. “Do you recognize the language he is speaking?” asked Tarantio as Duvodas sat by the bed. Brune suddenly began to sing, and the room was filled with the scent of roses. Then he groaned and was silent.
“Where did that scent come from?” asked Tarantio. “No rose blooms in the snow.”
“What magic was worked on this man?” asked Duvodas. Tarantio told him of the damaged eye and the visit to Ardlin.
“I did not see what he did. But Brune’s eyesight is now phenomenal.”
“He is not dying,” said Duvodas. “He is changing.”
“Into what?”
“I cannot say for sure. But the magic is powerful within him, and it is growing.” Brune’s golden eyes opened and he stared at Duvodas. The Singer took his hand and spoke in the Eldarin tongue. Brune smiled and nodded; then he fell asleep once more.
“What did you say to him?”
“I thanked him for his song and the scent of roses.”
“Can you do anything to help him?”
“No. He needs no help from me. Let us leave him resting.” Duvodas returned to the living room and sat down by the fire. Tarantio offered him wine but Duvodas refused, requesting water instead. Tarantio brought him a goblet, then sat down opposite him.
“You are the man who killed the Daroth,” said the Singer. “I have heard of you. The whole city has heard of you. You make the enemy seem mortal.”
“They are mortal.”
“They once destroyed an entire race,” said Duvodas. “Wiped them out. Now they are lost to history. I was once in a temple that housed their bones. They were called the Oltor; they were Singers, Musicians and Poets. They believed the Universe was the Great Song, and all life within it merely echoes of the melody. Their music was magical, their magic was music. Their cities were said to be gardens of great beauty, at one with the land, harmonious and joyful. The Daroth destroyed the cities utterly, dashed the statues to dust, burned the paintings, tore up the songs. They are devourers, these Daroth. They live to destroy.”