'This is not wise,' he told the corsairs, his voice slurred.
The first of his attackers leapt forward, the cutlass slashing from right to left, aiming for the swordsman's neck. As Sigellus dropped to one knee, the corsair's blade sliced air above him and his own sabre licked out to nick the man's bicep. A flash of crimson bloomed on the yellow silk shirt. Off balance, the corsair stumbled and fell. Sigellus rose smoothly as the second man lunged. He parried the thrust, spun on his heel and hammered his elbow against the man's ear. The corsair tumbled to the cobbled stone.
Both men rose and advanced again. 'You have already shown a lack of wisdom, lads,' said Sigellus, his voice now cold and steady. 'There is no need for you to die.'
'We don't intend to die, you old whoreson,' said the first man, blood dripping from the wound in his upper arm.
As Tarantio watched he saw a movement behind the swordsman. Another corsair stepped silently from the shadows, a curved dagger in his hand.
'Behind you!' yelled Tarantio and Sigellus spun instantly, the sabre hissing out, the blade slicing through the corsair's throat, half decapitating him. Blood sprayed out as the man fell. The other two attackers rushed in. Tarantio watched them both die. The speed of the swordsman's movements was dazzling. Wiping his blade on the shirt of one of the corpses, Sigellus stepped across to where Tarantio stood open-mouthed.
'My thanks to you, friend,' he said, returning the sabre to its scabbard. 'Come, I will repay your kindness with
a meal and a jug of wine. You look as if you could use one.'
A jug of wine was always close to Sigellus, recalled Tarantio with a touch of sadness. It was wine which killed him, for he had been the worse for drink when he had fought the Marches Champion, Carlyn. He had been humiliated, and cut several times, before the death stroke was administered. Dace had instantly challenged Carlyn, and they had fought in the High Hall of Corduin palace the following night. As Carlyn fell dead not one cheer was raised, for Dace had cruelly and mercilessly toyed with the swordsman, cutting off both his ears and slicing open his nose during the duel . . .
A log fell from the hearth and rolled on to the rug at his feet, jerking Tarantio from his memories.
Using a set of iron tongs, he lifted it back to the fire and then stretched out on the floor. 'When you draw your sword, Chio,' Sigellus had warned him, 'always fight to kill. There is no other way. A wounded man can still deal a death stroke.'
'You didn't fight to kill against those corsairs. Not at first.'
'Ah, that's true. But then I'm special. I am - and I say this humbly, dear boy - the best there ever was.
And, drunk or sober, the best there ever will be.'
He was wrong. For now there was Dace.
The dream was the same. A child was crying and Tarantio was trying to find him. Deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, Tarantio searched. He knew the tunnels well. He had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in the face.
Through this came the thin, piping cries of terror.
'The demons are coming! The demons are coming!' he heard the child cry.
'I am with you,' he answered. 'Stay where you are!'
Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, and yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light strong enough to throw shadows. As always in his dream he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. Ragged men moved into sight, grey-skinned, opal-eyed. At first he thought they were blind, but they came towards him steadily. In their hands were the tools of mining - sharp pickaxes and heavy hammers.
'Where is the boy?' he demanded.
'Dead. As you are,' came a new voice in his mind. It was not Dace. In that moment Tarantio realized he was truly alone. Dace had vanished.
'I am not dead.'
'You are dead, Tarantio,' argued the voice. 'Where is your passion? Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life without these things? It is nothing.'
'I have dreams!' shouted Tarantio.
'Name one!'
His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. 'Where is the boy?' he screamed.
'The boy weeps,' said the voice.
Tarantio awoke with a start, his heart beating fast. 'I do have dreams,' he said, aloud.
'Indeed you do,' said Browyn, 'and that one must have been powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.' The old man was sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost dead.
Adding thin pieces of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over the blaze. 'You are very pale,' he said, leaning forward and squinting into Tarantio's face. 'I think it was more of a nightmare.'
'It was,' agreed Tarantio. 'I have it often.' Rubbing his eyes, he moved to the window. The sun was high over the mountains. 'I do not usually sleep this late. It must be the mountain air.'
'Aye,' said Browyn. 'Would you like some rose-hip tea? It is made to my own recipe.'
'Thank you.'
'Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?'
Tarantio shrugged. 'I don't know. A long time ago I worked as a miner. I hated it. They lowered us into the centre of the earth — or so it seemed. The days were black with coal dust, and twice there were roof falls that crushed men to pulp.'
'And you dream of digging coal?'
'No. But I am back in the mine. I can hear a child calling. He needs help but I cannot find him.'
'It must mean something,' said Browyn, moving to the hearth. Wrapping a cloth around his hand he lifted the kettle from its bracket and returned to the table, filling two large cups with boiling water. To each he added a small muslin bag. A sweet aroma filled the room. 'Dreams always have meaning,' continued the old man.
'I think it is telling me to avoid working in mines,' said Tarantio as, rising, he moved to the table. Browyn stirred the contents of the cups, then hooked out the bags. Tarantio tasted the brew. 'It is good,' he said.
'There is a hint of apple here.'
'How will the war end?' asked Browyn suddenly.
Tarantio shrugged. 'When men are tired of fighting.'
'You know why it began?' Browyn asked.
'Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.'
Browyn laughed. 'Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With their terrible magic and their arcane weapons. Bloody nonsense! Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people.
They had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever caused a war? Look to history.
They were a scholarly people who kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?'
'What other games are there, Browyn? A man must eat.'
'And you can see no end to the madness?'
'I don't think about it. It is hard enough trying to stay alive.'
Browyn's face showed his disappointment. Refilling the cups and adding two more muslin bags, he remained silent for a while. 'I was there, you know, seven years ago when the Holy Army marched to the Eldarin borders. We had three sorcerers who claimed they knew a spell to breach the magical barrier. We were full of righteous anger against the Eldarin, and we believed all the lies about their preparations for war. We were also in a rage because of the village that had been massacred: women and children torn to pieces by Eldarin talons. Three years later I spoke to a scout who had been the first on the scene. He said there were no talon marks. The villagers had been killed by swords and arrows, and they had been robbed of all copper and silver coin. But we did not know that then. Our leaders fed us with stories of Eldarin brutality.