Dark Moon

'When will we eat?' asked Dace. Tarantio had been aware of his presence from the moment he sighted the pursuers.

'Perhaps you would like to catch the fish this time?' he said, aloud.

'Too boring. And you do it so well!'

Tarantio removed his shirt, leggings and boots and waded slowly out into the cold, clear waters of the lake. Here he stood, staring down at the gravel around his feet.

It was spawning time for the speckled trout and after a while he saw a female with red lateral spots upon her body. She swam in close to the motionless man and began to make sweeping motions with her tail against the loose gravel, scraping out a hole in which to lay her eggs. Several males were swimming close by, identified by the reddish bands upon their flanks. With his hands below the surface Tarantio waited patiently, trying to ignore the fish with his conscious mind. The cold water was seeping into his bones, and he felt a rise of irritation that the males kept circling away from him.

Be calm, he told himself. The good hunter is never anxious or hasty.

A good-sized male, weighing around three pounds, swam by him, brushing his leg. Tarantio did not move. The fish glided over his hands. With an explosive surge Tarantio reared upright, his right hand catching the trout and flicking it out to the bank, where it flapped upon the soft earth. The other fish disappeared instantly. Tarantio waded from the lake, killed the fish, then gutted it expertly.

'Neatly done,' said Dace.

Preparing a small fire in the rocks Tarantio sat down, naked, and cooked his dinner. The flavour of the trout

was bland; some would call it delicate. Tarantio wished he had kept just a pinch of his salt.

As the sun sank into the west, the temperature fell. Tarantio dressed and settled down by the fire.

He should have quit last season when Karis joined Romark. The Duke of The Marches was a poor general, and a miser to boot. With Karis leading the opposition cavalry, the prospects had been none too good for the mercenary units patrolling the border. He wondered about the 6,000 gold pieces. What would she do with such a sum? He grinned in the fading light. Karis was no farmer. Nor did she seem to enjoy what men termed the good life. Her clothes were always ill-fitting; only her armour showed the glint of great expense.

Oh, and her horses, he remembered. Three geldings, each over sixteen hands. Fine animals, strong, proud and fearless in battle. Not one of them cost less than 600 silver pieces. But as for Karis herself, she wore no jewellery, sported no brooches or bracelets, nor did she yearn to own property. What will you do with all that gold, he wondered?

'You just don't understand her,' said Dace.

'And you do?'

'Of course.'

'Then explain it to me.'

'She is driven by something in her past - that's what Gatien would have said. A traumatic event, or a tragedy. Because of this she is not comfortable being a woman, and seeks to hide her femininity in a man's armour.'

'I don't believe Gatien would have made it sound so simple.'

'Yes,' agreed Dace, 'he was an old windbag.'

'And a fine foster-father. No-one else offered to take us in.'

'He got a cleric he didn't have to pay for, and someone to listen to his interminable stories.'

'I don't know why you pretend you did not like him. He was good to us.'

'He was good to you. He would not acknowledge my existence, save as an imaginary playmate you had somehow conjured.'

'Maybe that is all you are, Dace. Have you ever thought of that?'

' You would be surprised by what I think of,' Dace told him.

Adding fuel to the fire, Tarantio leaned back, using his coat for a pillow. The stars were out now, and he gazed at the constellation of the Fire Dancer twinkling high above the crescent moon.

'It is all mathematically perfect, Chio,' Gatien had told him. 'The stars move in their preordained paths, rising and falling to a cosmic heartbeat.' Tarantio had listened, awe-struck, to the wisdom of the white-bearded old man.

'My father told me they were the candles of the gods,' he said.

Gatien ruffled his hair. 'You still miss him, I expect.'

'No, he was weak and stupid,' said Tarantio. 'He hanged himself.'

'He was a good man, Chio. Life dealt with him unkindly.'

'He quit. Gave up!' stormed the boy. 'He did not love me at all. And we do not care that he is gone.'

'Yes, we do,' said Gatien, misunderstanding. 'But we will not argue about that. Life can be harsh, and many souls are ill-equipped to face it. Your father fell to three curses. Love, which can be the greatest gift the Heavens can offer, or worse than black poison. Drink, which, like a travelling apothecary, offers much and supplies nothing. And a little wealth, without which he would not have been able to afford the dubious delights of the bottle.' Gatien sighed. 'I liked him, Chio. He was a gentle man, with a love of poetry and a fine singing voice. However, that is enough maudlin talk. We have work to do.'

'Why do you write your books, Master Gatien? No-one buys them.'

Gatien gave an eloquent shrug. 'They are my monument to the future. And they are dangerous, Chio, more powerful than spells. Do not tell people - any people - what you have read in my home.'

'What can be more dangerous than spells, Master Gatien?'

'The truth. Men will blind themselves with hot irons, rather than face it.'

Tarantio looked down into the flickering flames of the camp-fire now, and remembered the great, roaring blaze which had engulfed the house of Master Gatien. He saw again the soldiers of the Duke of The Marches, holding their torches high, and with immense sadness he recalled the old man running back into the burning building, desperate to save his life's work. His last sight of Master Gatien was of a screeching human torch, his beard and clothes aflame, staggering past the windows of the upper corridor.

Up until then Dace had merely been a disembodied voice in his mind. He had first heard him when he looked up at his father's body, hanging by the neck from the balcony rail, his features bloated and purple, his trews stained with urine.

'We don't care,' said the voice. 'He was weak, and he didn't love us.'

But when Gatien burned, Dace found a pathway to the world of flesh. 'We will avenge him,' he said.

'We can't!' objected Tarantio. 'He lives in a castle surrounded by guards. We ... I . . . am only fifteen.

I'm not a soldier, not a killer.'

'Then let me do it,' said Dace. 'Or are you a coward?'

Two nights later Dace had crept to the walls of the Duke's castle and scaled them, slipping past the sleeping sentries. Then he had made his way down the long circular stairwell to the main corridor of the castle keep. There were no guards. The Duke's bedroom was lit by a single lantern, the Duke himself asleep in his wide four-poster bed. Dace gently pulled back the satin sheet, exposing the Duke's fat chest. Without a moment of hesitation he rammed the small knife deep into the man's heart.

The Duke surged upright, his mouth hanging open; then he sagged back.

'Gatien was our friend,' said Dace. 'Rot in hell, you miserable bastard!'