“I shall observe them with interest,” said Niro, rising.
Pooris smiled. “You are an optimist,” he said. “And if we do survive I shall make sure you achieve what you hope for.” Niro bowed and Pooris gave a dry chuckle. “Falling short, of course, of my own position.”
“Of course, sir.”
He was moving through the darkness of the tunnels, hearing the child’s cry for help in the distance. He came to the coal face, and here there was—as he knew there would be—a jagged crack just wide enough for a body to squeeze through.
“Help me! Please!”
Tarantio eased himself through the crack and into the greenish glare of the tunnel beyond. Opal-eyed creatures shuffled forward, picks and shovels in their hands.
“Where is the boy?” he demanded.
The cries came again from far ahead and, drawing his sword, Tarantio ran forward. The creatures scattered before him. At the far end of the enormous cavern stood a man, guarding a bolted door. Tarantio halted his run and advanced slowly on the swordsman facing him. His hair was white and stood out from his head in ragged spikes. But it was the eyes that caught Tarantio’s attention: they were golden, and slitted like those of a great cat.
“Where is the boy?” demanded Tarantio.
“First you must pass me,” said the demonic warrior.
In his mind Tarantio sought out Dace, but he was not to be found. Fear rose in him, followed by a quaking certainty that he was looking into the face of death. His mouth was dry, his sword hand wet with sweat. “Help me!” cried the boy. Tarantio took a deep breath and threw himself into the attack.
The demon lowered his sword and offered his neck to Tarantio’s blade. At the last moment he swung the blow aside.
“Why do you want me to kill you?” he asked.
“Why do you want to kill me?” the demon responded.
“I just want to help the boy.”
“To do so you must kill me,” said the demon, sadly.
Tarantio awoke in a cold sweat. Rising from his bed, he wandered out to the kitchen and filled a long goblet with cool water. In the main room Forin was asleep on a couch; the others had gone. Tarantio entered the room, moving silently to the fire. It was dying down and he added a fresh log.
“You can’t sleep?” enquired Forin, yawning and sitting up.
“No. Bad dreams.”
“The Daroth?”
“Worse than the Daroth. I’ve had the same dream for several years now.” He told Forin about it.
“Why didn’t you kill it?” Forin asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Silly things, dreams,” said the giant. “I once dreamt I was standing naked in a marketplace, where all the stalls were selling honey-cakes riddled with maggots. Everyone was buying them and extolling their virtues. No sense at all.”
Tarantio shook his head. “Not necessarily. You are a man of iron principles. Most are not. You know the values of loyalty and friendship, where others see only the price to be paid for such comradeship. Merchants, town dwellers, farmers—all despise warriors. They see us as violent and deadly, and indeed we are. What we come to learn, however, is that life is often short and always unpredictable. We fight for gold, but we know that true friendship is worth more than gold, and that comradeship is above price.”
Forin sat silently for a moment, then he grinned. “What has this to do with nakedness and maggoty cakes?”
“You do not value what they value. You would not buy what they buy. As to the nakedness, you have thrown off all that they are.”
“I like that,” said Forin. “I like that a lot. What then does your dream mean?”
“It is a search for something that is lost to me.” Tarantio felt uncomfortable discussing it further, and changed the subject. “I saw you and your men in that armour today. I see what you mean.”
“Ludicrous, isn’t it?” agreed Forin, with a wide grin. “But it works well. Especially the arm-plates; they are all individually hinged, allowing almost full movement. Incredible! I think I could take a Daroth wearing it.”
“You should be able to catch him unawares as he falls over laughing,” said Tarantio.
“Is there any wine left?” asked the giant, moving out to the kitchen without waiting for an answer. He came back with a jug and two goblets.
“Not for me,” said Tarantio. “Drinking that will only give me more dreams.”
Forin filled a goblet and drained it in a single swallow. Wiping his beard with the back of his hand, he leaned back on the couch. “What do you think of Vint?” he asked.
“In what way?”
“I was just wondering. He seems very . . . close with Karis.”
“They are lovers, I should imagine.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Common knowledge. Karis always has a lover somewhere; she’s that sort of woman.”
“What sort . . . exactly?” said Forin coldly, his green eyes narrowing.
The swordsman saw the anger there. “Is there something here that I don’t understand?” he countered.
“Not at all,” answered Forin, forcing a smile. “As I said, I was just wondering.”
“Karis is an unusual woman, that’s what I meant. Whenever I’ve served with her, she’s had a different lover. Sometimes more than one. But it does not affect her talents. She never seems to fall in love with any of them.”
“How many has she had?”
“Gods, man, how would I know? But Vint was one of them. Now he is again.”
Forin drained another goblet. “I wish I’d never met her,” he said, with feeling.
Tarantio remained silent for a moment. “When did you meet her?” he asked softly.
Forin glanced up. “Is it that damned obvious?”
“What happened?”
This time Forin did not bother with the goblet but raised the jug to his lips, tilting it high until all the wine was gone. “She came to me one night, asking questions about the Daroth. Then we . . . well, you know. Something happened to me; she got into my blood somehow. Can’t stop thinking of her.”
“Have you talked to her about it?”
“To say what? She avoids me, Chio, unless she is already in company. Why would she do that?”
“I’m the wrong man to ask. I have never understood women.”
“Have you ever been in love?” asked Forin.
“Yes,” said Tarantio, surprising himself.
“Well, I haven’t. I don’t even know if this is love. Maybe if I slept with her again, it would all fall into place and I’d be able to smile and say goodbye, and she’d vanish from my mind.”
“Ask him if she was good in bed,” suggested Dace.
“Maybe that is her problem too,” said Tarantio. “Maybe she feels something strongly for you. I don’t think she wants to fall in love, and usually picks men merely to satisfy a need—a physical need.”
“I’ve never known a night like it. Maybe never will again,” said Forin. He gave a long sigh. “If this is love, I don’t think I like it.” He lay back on the couch, and within minutes was snoring softly.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Dace. “You could have asked for details.”
“Do you dream, Dace?”
“I’ve told you before that I don’t.”
“I know. I believe it to be a lie. Why would you lie to me?”
“That is a premise built on a foundation of feathers.”
Tarantio returned to his bed and lay down, drawing the blankets over him. As he drifted into sleep he heard Dace whisper, “Thank you, brother.”
“For what?” asked Tarantio sleepily.
“For not killing us.”
As the thaw continued, a sense of urgency surrounded all aspects of city life. Karis and Ozhobar met often, planning late into the night, testing new weapons in secret so that no knowledge of their purpose could leak out to the troops manning the walls. Vint led scouting missions to the north, watching for signs of the app
roach of the Daroth. Forin drilled his fifty soldiers constantly; always in full armour, until the heavy plate felt like a second skin. The Duke, Pooris and the other bureaucrats worked ceaselessly to prepare for the evacuation.
At last the day arrived—four days later than planned. Thousands of citizens assembled in the fields to the south of the city while the veteran officer, Capel, in charge of the exodus, tried to assemble the wagons into a convoy. There was a sense of joy about the proceedings, and safety beckoned for the refugees. Shira and Duvodas, having said farewell to the tearful Ceofrin, were in the last wagon to leave. They sat together on the driver’s seat, waiting their turn. Duvo’s hand absently strayed to the canvas pouch he wore, his fingers tracing the outline of the Pearl. I will bring you back, he promised silently, recalling the frozen figures in the silent city.
“It is a beautiful day,” said Shira.
“I don’t think Capel would agree with you,” he answered, pointing to the grey-bearded officer as he rode up and down the line of wagons, seeking to instil some sense of order. The head of the convoy had set out almost three hours before, but the wagons in the rear were still waiting.
At last Duvodas received the signal to move, and he flicked the reins against the backs of the four oxen. The beasts leaned in to the traces and the wagon jerked forward. The land was hilly at the start of the journey, and before they had gone more than a mile from the city they came upon the first casualty. A wagon, taking a turn too fast, had tipped over and slid down the slope. Furniture was strewn over the snow-patched grass, and one of the oxen was dead. Soldiers were cutting away the traces as Duvo and Shira drove up.
Hitching ropes to their rear axle they hauled the other wagon upright. The soldiers repacked it, and the journey continued. On the last of the high ground, Shira swung round to see the distant city of Corduin, brilliantly lit by sunshine. “Oh look, Duvo! What a wonderful sight!” He glanced at her and saw that her eyes were moist, her lips trembling. Putting his arm around her, he drew her to him.
“Your father will be fine.”
“I don’t know. I just wish he had come with us.”
“So do I, my love. But, as he said, his life is in Corduin.” Cupping her face in his hands he kissed her. “I will do everything in my power to make you happy for as long as we live. I will keep sickness from you and our son, and we will know great joy.”
“I already know great joy,” she said. “From the moment you came into my life.”
The oxen had halted. Now Duvo rapped the reins and they moved on. For several hours they rode. As far as the eye could see, the line of wagons stretched out towards the south-west. Soldiers rode up and down the line, checking on the stragglers.
Towards mid-afternoon the rear of the line halted once more. To the right was a high cliff-face, to the left a wide-open section of gorse and heather. Duvo climbed down from the wagon. “I’ll see what’s holding us up,” he said, loping off towards the south.
As he neared a bend in the trail he saw a wagon some fifteen paces ahead, its left rear wheel shattered. Men were unloading boxes and furniture, lightening the load so that a spare wheel could be lifted into place. There were enough bodies for the work, and Duvo turned back and strolled along the line. Suddenly a woman screamed.
Duvo’s eyes sought her out. She was middle-aged and stout, and she was standing on the driver’s seat, pointing to the east. He turned. Half a mile away, across the gorse, a long line of riders was moving slowly forward. They rode huge horses, and the faces of the riders were bone-white. Other people began to shout. Then to run.
He started to sprint back towards his own wagon. As it came into sight, he saw Shira standing up and waving to him—and behind her, two Daroth riders, galloping along the trail. Fear welled in him, and he continued to run towards her.
One of the Daroth levelled a long spear. “No!” Duvo screamed. “No!”
Shira turned. The spear took her in the belly, lifting her high in the air, the bloody point emerging from her back. Almost casually the Daroth flicked the spear and Shira was flung from it to the ground. All his life Duvodas had been taught to eliminate anger from his soul, allowing it to float through him, leaving him untouched. But it was not anger he felt in that dread moment.
It was a blind, bottomless rage.
Letting out an animal scream he pointed at the Daroth, sending out a heat spell which burst to life inside the creature’s skull. With a hideous shriek, the Daroth dropped his spear and grabbed at his temples.
Then his head exploded.
The second Daroth bore down on Duvo. There was no fear now in the Singer, and a second heat spell exploded in the Daroth’s chest, sending white blood and shards of bone spraying through the air. Duvo continued to run, coming alongside Shira and dropping to his knees. The wound was terrible, and he cried out in anguish to see it. Her body was almost torn in half, and Duvo saw the tiny arm and hand of his dead son protruding from the wound.
Something died in him then, and a terrible coldness settled on his soul. Trembling he touched his hand to Shira’s blood, then smeared four bloody lines down his own face.
Duvodas rose and walked slowly towards the Daroth line. There were hundreds of riders, but they were not moving with speed. It was as if they wanted to delay the moment, so that every ounce of fear could be extracted from the helpless refugees.
“Fear,” hissed Duvodas. “I will show you fear!” Raising his hands, he drew on the magic of the land. Never before had it felt so strong within him, pulsing with a power he had not realized could be contained in a single human frame. Darkly exultant, Duvodas extended his arms, redirecting the magic, flowing it like a storm over the gorse and the heather. Every seed and root beneath the earth swelled with sudden, rushing life, writhing up from the ground, the growth of years erupting in seconds.
The ground below the Daroth writhed and trembled. At first it only slowed the huge horses, whose powerful legs broke the new roots and branches.
Stronger and faster grew the plants and bushes and trees. The horses were forced to a halt and the Daroth swung in their saddles, their dark eyes seeking out the sorcerer. Duvodas felt their power strike him, and he staggered. He sensed their hatred, and their arrogant belief that they had defeated him, and he allowed them a brief moment of exultation. Then he fed upon their hatred, and hurled it back at them with ten times the force. The nearest riders shrieked and pitched from their saddles. Sharp roots pricked at their skin, then burrowed through muscle and around bone. Horses reared and fell, toppling their riders. The Daroth tried to hack their way clear of the eldritch forest, but even their massive bodies were no match for the power of nature.
One Daroth tried to reach Duvodas, his huge sword cutting left and right to smash through the surging growth, but he stumbled and fell to his knees. A fast-growing oak sliced into his stomach, lifting him upright. One branch burst through his lungs and out through his back, another surged up his throat, slithering from his mouth like a grotesque tongue.
Roots clawed their way into flesh—ripping into bellies and chests, lancing through legs and arms and necks.
And still the forest grew. The struggling bodies of the Daroth and their mounts were lifted higher and higher, dangling like corpses on a colossal gibbet.
The refugees watched in awe-struck silence as hundreds of Daroth were destroyed.
At last Duvodas let fall his arms, and men, women and children gazed upon the dangling corpses which moments before had been a terrible threat. There were no cheers from the saved. No one rushed forward to congratulate the blood-smeared young man who stood staring malevolently at the dead.
The officer Capel rode slowly towards him, dismounting by his side. “I don’t know how you did it, man, but I’m grateful. Come, let us bury your dead. We must move on.”
Duvodas said nothing. He stood stock-still, his body rigid. Capel placed his hand on Duvo’s shoulder. “Come now, lad. It is over.”
“It is not over,” said Duvo, turning his f
ace towards the officer. Capel blanched as he saw the blood-red lines on the young man’s face. Pulling a scarf from his belt, he gave it to Duvodas.
“Wipe your face now,” he said. “You’ll frighten the children.” Dumbly Duvo wiped the blood away. But it made no difference. The crimson lines remained, as if tattooed upon his skin.
“Dear Heaven,” whispered Capel. “What is happening here?”
“Death,” said Duvodas coldly. “And it is but the beginning.”
The Pearl at his side was forgotten now, as was his mission, as slowly he began to walk towards the new forest. Trees and roots shrank away from him, creating a path.
“Where are you going?” Capel called out.
“To destroy the Daroth,” said Duvodas, striding on faster now.
And the forest closed in around him.
Leaving his lieutenant in charge of the convoy, Capel made the seven-mile ride to Corduin to report the bizarre events of the day. Despite the imminence of the Daroth threat, the Duke felt compelled to ride out to the scene of the slaughter. With Vint, Necklen and twenty lancers, the Duke arrived at the scene just before dusk.
The group drew rein at the edge of the forest. The bodies of the Daroth horses hung, skewered into the treetops. The Daroth corpses had withered away to dry skin, flapping in the evening breeze.
“I have never seen—or heard of—anything like it,” said the Duke. “How could this happen?” No-one answered him.
“I wish the sorcerer had come back to Corduin,” said Vint. “We could certainly use him there.”
“Who was he?” asked the Duke.
“A harpist, sir. He sang at the Wise Owl tavern. I heard him once or twice; he was very good.”
“His name is Duvodas, my lord,” put in Capel.
The Duke turned his hooded eyes on Capel. “My apologies, Captain, for doubting your story. It sounded incredible. But here is the evidence, and I do not know what it means. You had best rejoin the column, and I wish you good luck on your journey.”