Dark Moon (35 page)

‘How many fighting men will we have, Karis?’ asked Necklen. ‘Already the numbers listed for the refugee columns have reached ten thousand, and they are still rising. Councillor Pooris says he and his department are weighed down by the requests.’

‘The closest estimate is fifteen thousand fighting men,’ said Karis. ‘We should outnumber the Daroth by three to one. However, that statistic is meaningless, since our troops will need to be spread around the four walls. It is likely we will be evenly matched on the north wall.’

Brune brought in several trays of meat, bread and cake, and a large flagon of red wine.

‘Prentuis fell within a day,’ said Necklen. ‘One blood-filled, terrible day!’

‘This is not Prentuis,’ said Karis. ‘And they were not led by me.’

The logistics of the problem had initially excited Pooris. Several thousand refugees to be shepherded to the city of Hlobane, just under 300 miles south-west, and then a further 410 miles south and east to the port city of Loretheli. The problem was now much greater, and Pooris sat with Niro and a score of clerics in the hall above the Great Library, frantically trying to collate statistics.

Fourteen thousand people had now declared their wish to leave Corduin, almost 20 per cent of the adult population. The Duke’s riders had made a score of hazardous journeys south with messages to and from Belliese, the Corsair Duke, who had demanded five silver pieces for every refugee, a further ten for any who wished to be transported on to the islands. The sum was not extortionate, but was now coming close to emptying the treasury.

Considering the fact that there were more than 10,000 mercenaries now in Corduin who demanded payment on the first day of every month, the problem was serious indeed. Without the windfall of the executed Lunder’s fortune, the project would never have been begun. Even with it, Pooris now doubted whether the city’s finances would stretch far enough.

The spidery figure of Niro loomed over his desk and Pooris glanced up. ‘There are not enough wagons, sir,’ said Niro. ‘Not by half. The price of those there are has trebled already. It will rise higher.’

‘How many have we purchased for movement of food and silver?’

‘Thirty, sir. But the main holding yard was broken into last night, and five were stolen. I have placed extra guards there.’

‘Were our wagons marked as ordered?’

‘Yes, sir. A yellow strip hidden by the rear axle.’

‘Order a full search. When the wagons are found the owners are to be hanged.’

Niro hesitated. ‘You are aware, sir, that they will have been sold on in good faith? The people who now have them will not be the thieves.’

‘I am aware of that. Before they are hanged they will be questioned as to those who sold them the vehicles. Anyone named will also be hunted down and hanged. We will leave no-one in any doubt as to the severity of punishment should such thieving continue.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Niro moved away and Pooris leaned back and rubbed his chin. The bristle growing there surprised him. How long had he been in the building? Fourteen hours? Eighteen?

A young cleric approached him and bowed. Pooris was so tired he could not remember the man’s name. ‘What is it?’

‘A small problem, sir. We have run out of red wax for the Duke’s seal. There is none to be found anywhere.’

Every official refugee was to be given a note of authority stamped with the seal of Duke Albreck, and each, upon presentation of the seal, was entitled to remove from the treasury a sum not to exceed twenty gold pieces – assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum banked there.

‘Red wax,’ mumbled Pooris. ‘May the Gods spare me! What colours are there to be had?’

‘Blue, sir. Or green.’

‘Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which gives authority.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet and sipped it.

The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little game and less shelter.

The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a day. All told, the full journey might take three months.

And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent.

Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they remained in their own homes …

Pooris had been against the expedition from the start, despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been against him.

‘You will not stop people deserting,’ said Karis. ‘If heroes came in great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people have cowardly hearts.’

‘And if we force them to stay,’ put in Albreck, ‘there will be panic when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; it will be escorted to Hlobane.’

‘That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,’ said Karis.

‘I fear that is true, sir,’ added Pooris.

‘Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We will fight the Daroth – and we will beat him.’ The Duke gave a rare smile. ‘And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?’

‘It is true, my lord.’

True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the arrangements for the civilian withdrawal.

A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped inside.

‘Another problem?’ he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug.

‘Of course, sir. What else would you expect?’

Pooris gestured him to a seat. ‘I was scanning the list of refugees. You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.’

‘Yes. And?’

‘Twelve of the city’s fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and suchlike.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘Curiously, only two of Corduin’s sixty-four bakers have applied to leave.’ Niro grinned. ‘Makers of bread are more courageous than makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don’t you think?’

‘I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?’

‘None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder’s execution.’

‘Will you be leaving also?’ asked Pooris. ‘I understand that more than four-fifths of the city’s clerics have applied.’

‘No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood by his side.’

‘Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once told me – and I have seen it to be true – that nothing is as long-lived as a monarch’s hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.’

‘Even so, I shall stay.’

‘You have faith in our lady general?’

‘Her men have faith. They have seen her in action,’ said Niro.

‘As have I. I watched her bring a mountain down on a group of Daroth riders. More importantly, to do so she crushed several of our own people. She is ruthless, Niro. And single-minded. I do believe that we are lucky to have her. Yet … the Daroth are not like any human enemy we have ever faced. Every one of their warriors is stronger than three of ours. And we have not yet seen what strategies they are capable of.’

‘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.’