Dark Moon

After his time with Sigellus, he and Dace had wandered through the warring Duchies, taking employment with various mercenary units and twice holding commissions in regular forces, taking part in sieges, cavalry attacks, minor skirmishes and several pitched battles. Mostly they had the good fortune to be with the victorious side, but four times they had - as now - been among the refugees of a ruined army.

The camp-fire burned low in the shallow cave and Tarantio sat before it, the heat barely reaching his cold hands. By the far wall lay Kiriel, his life fading. Belly wounds were always the worst, and this one was particularly bad, having severed the intestines. The boy moaned and cried out. Tarantio moved to him, laying his fingers over the boy's mouth. 'Be strong, Kiriel. Be silent. The enemy are close.' Kiriel's fever-bright eyes opened. They were cornflower blue, the eyes of a child, frightened and longing for reassurance.

'I am hurting, Tarantio,' he whispered. 'Am I dying?'

'Dying? From a little scratch like that? You just rest. By dawn you'll feel like wrestling a bear.'

'Truly?'

'Truly,' lied Tarantio, knowing that by dawn the boy would be dead. Kiriel closed his eyes. Tarantio stroked his blond hair until he slept, then returned to the fire. A huge figure stirred by the far wall, then rose and sat opposite the warrior.

'To lie is a kindness sometimes,' said the big man softly, firelight reflecting in his twin-forked red beard, his green eyes shining like cold jewels. 'I think the thrust must have burst his spleen. The wound stinks.'

Tarantio nodded, then added the last of the fuel to the fire as the other man chuckled. 'Thought we were finished back there - until you attacked them. I have to be honest, Tarantio, I had heard of your skills but never believed the stories. Shem's tits, but I do now! Never seen the like. I'm just glad I was close enough to make the break with you. You think any of the others survived?'

Tarantio considered the question. 'Maybe one or two.

Like us. But it is unlikely. That was a killing party; they weren't seeking prisoners.'

'You think they're still following us?'

Tarantio shrugged. 'They are or they aren't. We'll know tomorrow.'

'Which way should we head?'

'Any way you choose, Forin. But we'll not be travelling together. I'm heading over the mountains. Alone.'

'Something about my company you don't like?' asked the big man, anger flaring.

Tarantio looked up into the man's glittering eyes. Forin was a killer - a man on the edge. During the summer he had killed two mercenaries with his bare hands after a fight over an unpaid wager. To anger him would not be wise. Tarantio was seeking some conciliatory comment when he felt Dace flare up inside him. Normally he would have fought back, held the demon in check by force of will.

But he was bone-weary, and Dace flashed through his defences. Dace grinned at Forin. 'What is there to like? You're a brute. You have no conscience. You'd cut your mother's throat for a silver penny.'

Forin tensed, his hand closing around his sword-hilt. Dace laughed at him. 'But bear in mind, you ugly son of a bitch, that I could cut you in half without breaking sweat. I could swallow you whole if someone buttered your head and pinned your ears back.'

For a heartbeat the giant sat stock-still, then his laughter boomed out. 'By Heaven, you think a lot of yourself, little man! I think I would prove a mouthful even for the legendary Tarantio. However, such talk is foolishness. We are being hunted and it makes no sense to fight amongst ourselves. Now tell me why we should not move on together.'

Within the halls of his own subconscious, Tarantio felt

Dace's disappointment. In that moment Tarantio surged back into control; he blinked, and took a deep breath. 'They will have seen our tracks,' he told Forin, 'and know that one of us is wounded. They are unlikely therefore to follow us in strength. I would think eight to ten men may be on our trail. When we part company, and they find the tracks, they will be forced to either split their numbers or choose just one of us to follow. Either way the odds will be better for all of us.'

'All of us? The boy will be dead by morning.'

'I meant both you and I,' said Tarantio swiftly.

Forin nodded. 'Why did you not give that reason in the first place? Why the insults?'

Tarantio shrugged. 'Gypsy blood. Don't be too offended, Forin. I don't like anybody much.'

Forin relaxed. 'I'm not offended. There was a time when I would have paid considerably more than a silver penny for the privilege of cutting my mother's throat. I was a child then. All I knew was that she had broken my father's heart. And she'd abandoned me. So you were not too far wrong.' He gave an embarrassed grin, and idly tugged at the braids of his beard. 'He was a good man, my father. A great story-teller. All the village children would gather at our home to listen to him. He knew history too. All the stories of the ancient kingdoms, the Eldarin, the Daroth and the old Empire. He used to mix them with myth. Wonderful nights! We would sit with our eyes wide open in terror, our jaws hanging. He had a great voice, deep and sepulchral.'

'I frightened him,' said Dace. 'Now he wants to be our friend.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Tarantio. 'But then you frighten everyone - including me.'

'What happened to your father?' asked Tarantio aloud.

'He caught the lung sickness and faded away.' Forin

lapsed into silence and began to brush the mud from his brown leather leggings. Tarantio saw that the big man was struggling with his emotions. Forin cleared his throat, then drew his hunting-knife. From a deep pocket he produced a whetstone and began to sharpen the blade with long, smooth strokes. At last satisfied with the edge, he took a small, oval, silver-edged mirror from the same pocket and began to shave the stubble above the line of his red beard. When he had finished he sheathed the blade and returned the mirror to his pocket. He glanced at the silent Tarantio. 'My father was a good man. He deserved better. He weighed no more than a child when he died.'

'A bad way to go,' agreed Tarantio.

'No-one's yet told me of a good way,' Forin pointed out. 'You know, I saw an Eldarin once. He came to see my father. I was about seven years old then. Frightened the life out of me. But he sat quietly by the hearth and I peeked at him from behind my father's chair. It wasn't the fur on his face and arms that was so disturbing; it was the eyes. They were so large. But he spoke softly and my father insisted I step forward and shake hands. He was right. Once I was close, I lost my fear.'

Tarantio nodded. 'I was apprenticed to an old man who wrote histories. He described the Eldarin. Said they had faces that resembled wolves.'

'That's not exactly right,' said Forin. 'Wolves gives the wrong impression. It suggests savagery, and there was nothing savage about this one. But then I'm seeing him through the eyes of a trusting seven-year-old.

He let me touch the white fur on his face and brow. It was soft, like rabbit pelt. I fell asleep by the fire as he and my father talked. In the morning he was gone.'

'What did they talk about?'

'I don't remember much of it. Poetry. Stories. The

Daroth massacres fascinated my father, but the Eldarin would not speak of them.' Forin's green eyes caught Tarantio's steady gaze. 'If you don't like people, why did you carry the boy here? You hardly knew him. He only joined us a few days ago.'

'Who knows? Let's get some sleep.' Using his heavy woollen coat as a blanket, Tarantio lay down by the dying fire.

The dream was sharp and clear. Once again he and the other mercenaries were surrounded, the enemy rushing in out of the darkness with sharp swords in their hands. Caught in a trap, scores died within the opening moments of the charge. Tarantio had frozen momentarily, but Dace had not. Drawing both his swords, Dace scanned the advancing line, and then charged. He did not know that Forin and Kiriel had followed him. Nor did he care. His deadly swords slashing left and right, he cut a path through the attackers, then sprinted for the darkness of the trees. Forin and Kiriel got through, though the boy took a terrible stab to the stomach. There was little moonlight, but Dace's night vision was good and, eyes narrowed, he led them deep into the heart of the forest. Kiriel collapsed against a tree, blood soaking his shirt and leggings. Safe now, Tarantio resumed control of his body and had half-carried the boy on. Then, when Kiriel finally collapsed, Forin had lifted him into his arms and brought him to the cave.