Tarantio felt Dace swelling inside his mind, trying to force a path to the world, but Tarantio fought back. 'Curse you!' screamed Dace. 'Let me out!'
'No,' said Tarantio, aloud.
'One day, Chio. One day I will find a way to set myself free.'
'But not today, brother.' He glanced at Browyn and gave a weary smile. 'You are safe, old man.
However, I had best be on my way.'
'It is a shame the Eldarin are gone,' said Browyn, as Tarantio stepped into the saddle. 'I think their magic could have helped you both.'
'We need no help. We are - if not happy - then mostly content. Dace is not all bad, Browyn. I sense the good in him sometimes.'
Browyn said nothing. Nor did he wave as Tarantio heeled the gelding and rode from the clearing.
Tarantio rode down into the valley, and once on flat, open ground, gave the gelding his head. The horse thundered across the valley floor, and Tarantio felt the sheer joy in the animal as it sped across the grassland in a mile-eating gallop. After some minutes he allowed the horse to slow to a walk. Then he dismounted and examined the beast again. Satisfied, he stepped into the saddle and continued on his way.
'I have the face of a demon,' said Dace suddenly.
'I cannot tell,' put in Tarantio. 'I have never seen you.'
'I have white hair, and a grey face. My eyes are yellow, and slitted like a cat. Why should I look like this?'
'I do not know how souls are supposed to look.'
'Am I a demon, Chio? Are you a man possessed?'
Tarantio thought about it for a while. 'I do not know what we are, brother. Perhaps it is I who possesses you.'
'Would you be happier if I were gone?'
Tarantio laughed. 'Sometimes I think I would. But not often. We are brothers, Dace. It is just that we share the same form. And the truth is, I am fond of you. And I meant what I said to the old man . . . I do see good in you.'
'Pah! You see what you want to see. As for me, I wish I could be rid of you.'
Tarantio shook his head and smiled. Dace fell silent and Tarantio rode on, passing the burned-out remains of two farming villages. There were no corpses, but a hastily built cairn showed where the bodies had been buried. The fields close by had not been harvested, the corn rotting on the stalk.
On the far side of the meadow he saw some women moving through the fields, carrying large wicker baskets. They stood silently as he rode by. Further on he came to a wide military road and passed a ruined postal station. Ten years ago, so he had been informed, there was an efficient postal service that connected all four Duchies. A letter written in Corduin, Gatien had told him, could be carried the 300 miles south-west to Hlobane in just four days. From Hlobane to the Duke of The Marches' capital of Prentuis - 570 miles east over rough country - in ten days.
No letters were carried now. In fact, any private citizen who considered sending one to another Duchy would be arrested and probably hanged. The Duchies were engaged in a terrible war, composed of pitched battles, guerrilla raids, changing allegiances, betrayal and confusion. Mercenaries plied their trade from the southern sea at Loretheli to the northern mountains of Morgallis, from Hlobane in the west to Prentuis in the east. Few common warriors knew who was allied to whom. At the start of this summer campaign the Duke of The Marches had been allied with Duke Sirano of Romark against Belliese, the Corsair Duke, and Duke Albreck of Corduin. Belliese had switched sides early in June, and then the Duke of The Marches had quarrelled with Sirano and formed a new alliance with Albreck.
Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring nobility. Most soldiers did not try. Tarantio had been part of a mercenary regiment holding a fort against the besieging troops of Romark and The Marches.
A herald brought news of his change of allegiance. It was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within the walls - some, like Tarantio, serving Belliese, others Corduin - found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the defenders - who should now be attacking it - were already inside it. The council meeting went on for five days.
Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could all march away with honour satisfied.
Three hundred and twenty-nine men had died during the siege. Their bodies were buried in a communal grave.
Two weeks later, Tarantio and a thousand men were back at the fort, rebuilding the walls.
The awesome follies of war, for which Tarantio received twenty silver pieces a month.
Four miles along the road, with dusk deepening, Tarantio saw the glimmer of a camp-fire in the trees to the west. Angling his horse, he rode towards the wood. 'Try to be careful,' warned Dace. 'We don't have too many friends in this area.'
'Would you like to ride in?'
'Thank you, brother,' said Dace. He drew in a deep breath, and felt the cool breeze upon his skin. The gelding became suddenly skittish, his ears flattening.
'He senses you,' said Tarantio. 'Best to soothe him, or he'll throw you.' Dace stroked the gelding's long neck and, keeping his voice low and soothing, said, aloud, 'Throw me, you ugly son of a bitch, and I'll cut your eyes out.' Still nervous, the gelding moved forward as Dace touched his heels to the beast's flanks. Right hand raised, Dace rode slowly towards the wood. 'Hello the fire!' he called.
'Are you alone?' came a voice.
'Indeed I am friend. Do I smell beef cooking?'
'You have a good nose. Ride in.'
Warily Dace did so. As soon as he came close enough to recognize the men he grinned. 'Ride out! Now!' urged Tarantio.
'Before the fun has started, brother? Surely not.' Before Tarantio could wrest back control, Dace leapt from the saddle and led his horse towards the fire.
There were three men seated around a fire-pit above which a leg of beef was being turned on a spit by a fourth - the red-bearded warrior Forin. Two of the others were the comrades of the dead mercenary Brys.
Dace tethered his horse to a bush.
'There's too much for just the four of us,' said the first man, a tall and slender swordsman in forester's garb of fringed buckskin. He was thin-faced, with an easy smile not echoed in his close-set pale eyes.
'The bowman in the bushes is not eating?' asked Dace, stepping in close.
'You've a sharp eye as well as a sharp nose,' said the other, with a wide grin. Turning his head he called,
'Come in, Brune! There's no danger here. Now, Tarantio, let me introduce you to my Knights of the Cess Pit. The clumsy bowman is Brune. I told him to lie low, but he bobs like a rabbit.' A tall, gangly, sandy-haired young man stepped from the bushes and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. 'Useless, he is. I only keep him with me out of pity. The big man by the fire is a newcomer to our band. He calls himself Forin.'
Forin rose, the firelight glinting on his red-forked beard. 'Good to meet you,' he said, his face devoid of expression.