Dark Moon (45 page)

Sitting down on the ground, he let fall the two shoulder-bags he carried. The canvas sack slid several feet down the gentle slope and the Eldarin Pearl rolled clear, moonlight shimmering on its surface. Duvodas blinked, and a tiny needle of regret pricked his soul. He remembered Ranaloth warning him of the perils of love, and he knew now what the old Eldarin had meant. Like light and shadow, love and hate were inseparable. One could not exist without the other. Rising he gathered the sack and reached for the Pearl. But as his hand touched the milky surface, he recoiled in pain and stared at his palm. Blisters had formed there, the skin burnt by the contact. Carefully covering the orb with the sack, he eased it back into place.

‘What have you become that you cannot touch it?’ he asked himself.

The answer was all too obvious. Duvodas returned his stare to the city, and thought again of his plan. It seemed awesome now in its evil. Shira’s beautiful face swam before his eyes, and he saw her once more lifted on the Daroth spear, the life torn from her. His resolution hardened.

‘You who bring death and despair to the world deserve no mercy,’ he told the distant city. ‘You who live for destruction and pain deserve no life.’

By what right do you judge them?

The thought sprang unbidden, as if whispered on the wind.

‘By the right of power, and the needs of vengeance,’ he answered.

Does that not make you as evil as the Daroth?

‘Indeed it does.’

Looping his bags over his shoulder, he walked on. There were no sentries, and he passed the first buildings without incident.

Then a Daroth moved into sight, carrying two buckets on a yoke across his shoulders. His black eyes fastened on the human. Duvodas pointed a finger and the Daroth died, his body crumbling to the ground with steam erupting from his eyes, ears and mouth. Duvodas did not even see him fall. On he walked through the night-shrouded city, searching for signs of his intended destination. Three times more he slew unsuspecting Daroth who stumbled across him. He had expected more of them to be on the streets, but the night was cold and the vast majority of the city-dwellers remained snug in their domed homes.

Duvodas saw twin towers in the distance, smoke drifting from them, and steadily he made his way towards them. Closer now, and he could feel the pulsing of life from the caverns deep in the ground. Ahead was a huge dome, where two sentries stood before the doors. Levelling their spears, they approached him.

He felt their feeble attempts to read his thoughts. This he allowed. ‘I have come to destroy you and all your people.’

‘Impossible, human. We are immortal!’

‘You are doomed!’ They rushed him then, but twin blasts of fire speared from his fingers, piercing their bodies and burning huge holes in the wall of the building behind them. Duvodas walked to the great doors and pushed them open. Within was a circular hall, and a vast empty table. Pulling shut the door he searched for a stairwell, finding it at the rear of the chamber. Behind him he could hear the city-dwellers running from their homes, a huge mob racing to stop him.

He did not increase his speed. Opening his thoughts, he reached out, feeling the panic in the minds of the Daroth. ‘I am vengeance,’ he told them. ‘I am death.’ The steps were shallow, and wound down deep below the city; there were no lanterns here, and the darkness was total. But Duvodas raised his hand, and his palm began to glow with a fierce white light. Down and down he moved, descending to a wide corridor and a second stairwell. The heat here was intense. Pausing, he knelt and touched the floor. The stone was warm, and he could feel hot air blowing against his skin. His glowing hand illuminated an air vent close to the wall.

Ahead was a wide entrance in the rock, blocked by a huge steel portcullis. Duvodas reached out and touched it and it began to glow – faintly red at first, then brighter and brighter. The centre sagged and melted away, smoke and steam hissing up from the floor as rivulets of molten metal swirled around his feet. He was about to enter the cavern beyond when he heard the sounds of booted feet upon the stairs behind him. Spinning, he threw out his hand. The first two Daroth warriors ran into sight; both burst into flames.

The pulsing of new life was almost overpowering now as Duvodas strode into the massive chamber. More than 600 paces long, and at least 200 wide, it was filled with thousands of yellow and black pods – huge cocoons, many of them throbbing and writhing.

The Daroth were indeed immortal. Twice in every generation they were reborn through these pods. And that, as Sirano had known, was their greatest weakness. That is why they feared coexistence – for should an enemy ever reach where he had reached, their immortality would be lost. A human had but one life to lose, and that was hard enough. But to lose eternity …? The fear was colossal.

He could feel it now in the panic of the Daroth as they surged down the stairwell behind him.

Several of the pods burst open and small, naked Daroth wriggled free. He felt the pulsing of their thoughts; two were the sentries he had despatched earlier. ‘
Tell me again of your immortality
,’ he pulsed at them.

Drawing in a deep breath, Duvodas spread out his arms. The temperature around him plummeted, ice forming intricate patterns on the walls – spreading, flowing, bright and white against the black rock. The heat from the vents caused sleet to swirl, settling on the pods and frosting them with death.

The ice cold power of Duvo’s hatred swelled out, and the nearest pods shrivelled and cracked. The three Daroth young who had emerged began to scream and writhe upon the ice-covered floor.

Duvodas began to walk the length of the immense cavern, radiating the bleakness of a savage winter with every step. Yellow-black pods cracked and burst all around him, disgorging their infant contents. The cavern echoed to their high-pitched, dying screams.

Hundreds of full-grown Daroth warriors ran into the chamber behind him. One charged at Duvodas but, as he neared, ice forming all around him, he began to slow. Desperate to save the pods, the warrior pushed on until his blood froze and he fell dead to the floor. Others hurled spears, but upon striking the walking man they shattered as if made of glass.

Within the chamber and throughout the city, thousands of Daroth adults began to scream and die, their bodies shrivelling as the symbiotic link between them and their pods was severed.

And Duvodas walked on.

A glistening column of white light opened out before him, and he saw the golden figure of the Oltor Prime, his hand outstretched.

The Daroth Duke dropped his sword and a strange high-pitched scream was torn from his throat. Karis stood stunned as the huge warrior suddenly crumpled. All around her Daroth warriors were dying, their inhuman wailing filling the air. Others merely stood, swords and spears dropping from their hands as they knelt beside the shrivelling corpses.

Forgotten, Karis moved back to the ballistae. ‘Do we shoot now?’ asked Necklen.

‘No,’ said Karis. ‘We wait.’

The old man cast her a quizzical look. ‘We can finish them, Karis.’

‘I’m sick of killing,’ she told him. ‘Sickened to the depths of my soul. If they pick up their swords we will attack them, but something is happening here and we may yet end the slaughter.’

The bodies began to putrefy at an alarming rate, and the stench was overpowering. Duke Albreck moved through to stand beside Karis. ‘Did you do this?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘They talk of immortality – but I think they have just experienced genuine death. I don’t know how.’

The kneeling Daroth suddenly rose. Not one of them reached for a weapon, but one of the ballistae engineers panicked and struck his release bolt. Iron shot tore into the enemy ranks, smashing a score of warriors from their feet. Thinking an order had been given, three of the other ballistae were loosed, and the crossbow-men added to the carnage.

The Daroth did nothing. They merely stood and they died. Horrified, Karis shouted for the killing to stop, but blood-lust and hatred were high now and the crossbow-men continued to shoot. She saw the ballistae arms being drawn back once more.

Running out across the killing ground with her arms held high, Karis continued to shout: ‘It is over! Stop shooting!’

Black bolts slashed the air around her, and Necklen scrambled from behind the ballistae, running towards her. Forin too dashed across the open ground, trying to reach her. Panic welled in him. ‘Karis!’ he yelled. ‘Get down!’ He even saw the bolt flying towards her. For a moment only he thought he could hurl his body across its deadly line, but it flashed by him to plunge into her back.

Karis staggered, but did not fall at first. Slowly she sank to her knees, blood soaking through the white dress. The crossbow-man dropped his weapon and put his face in his hands. Only then did the killing stop, as the Corduin army gazed in stunned disbelief at the kneeling figure of the dying Ice Queen.

Forin reached her side, dropping to his knees where she lay only yards from the surviving Daroth. He put his arms around her, holding her close. ‘Sweet Heaven, don’t die on me, Karis! Don’t die!’

The Duke, Vint, and Necklen joined them. Karis felt no pain as her head sagged against Forin’s shoulder. He kissed her brow. ‘Where is the surgeon?’ he shouted.

‘Calm yourself,’ she whispered. There was no tension in her now, no fear. The killing was over, and she felt strangely at peace. Looking up, she saw that fewer than fifty Daroth were still standing. ‘Who is the leader now?’ she asked, directing her question at the nearest warrior.

The Daroth’s white face turned towards her. ‘You will now destroy us,’ he said. ‘The Daroth will be no more.’

‘We do not … want to destroy you,’ Karis told him. Gentle heat grew inside her head, and she sensed that all the Daroth were now mind-linked to her. ‘What we desire … is an end to war.’

‘There can be no end,’ said the Daroth. It seemed to Karis that a wealth of sorrow was hidden in those words and then, as if a door had been opened, she was allowed to share the emotions of the Daroth, their anguish at the death of their kindred and their fears for the future.

She could scarcely feel Forin’s arms around her now, and she was almost overcome by a need to let go, to fly free. Struggling to hold on she whispered to the Daroth: ‘Come closer.’ Clumsily the Daroth knelt before her. ‘Take my hand,’ she said, and his thick fingers reached out to curl around Karis’s slender palm. ‘There can be no … end without … a beginning. You understand?’

‘We have great hatred for you,’ said the Daroth, ‘and we cannot coexist. For one to prosper, the other must die.’

Karis said nothing, and the silence grew. ‘Oh, no,’ said Forin. ‘Oh, no!’ He hugged the dead woman close to him, cradling her head. Tears streamed to his cheeks as he rocked her to and fro.

‘We cannot say whether this be true,’ said the Daroth, still holding to the limp hand. ‘We have no experience of it. But we shall do as you say.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked the Duke.

‘The woman. She speaks still. You cannot hear her?’

The Duke shook his head. Releasing Karis’s hand, the Daroth stood. ‘Your wizard with the face of blood has destroyed our Life Chamber. Half of all our people are dead now, never to come again. Karis says we should return to our city. We will do so.’

‘To prepare for war – or peace?’ the Duke asked.

‘We cannot say … not at this time.’ The Daroth gazed down at the dead warrior woman. ‘There is much to consider. You are not immortal – and yet Karis gave her one life to save ours. We do not understand it. It was foolish, and yet … it speaks to us without words.’

‘Is she with you still?’ asked the Duke. Forin glanced up.

‘No. But her words remain.’

The Daroth swung away and walked to the catacomb entrance. One by one the surviving warriors followed, vanishing down into the dark.

Tarantio remained unconscious for eight days, and missed the state funeral the Duke gave for Karis, the Ice Queen. All of the citizens of Corduin lined the route, and Karis’s body was borne in the Duke’s carriage, drawn by six white horses. Karis’s war-horse, Warain – led by Forin – walked behind, followed by the Duke and the army she had led. Spring flowers of yellow, red and blue were cast into the street ahead of the procession, and the carriage rolled slowly on over a carpet of blooms.

Vint did not attend. He sat in his apartments at the palace and watched the procession from his balcony. Then he got drunk, and let his grief flow where none could see it.

Karis was laid to rest in a tomb built on a high hill, facing north. A bronze plaque, cast by Ozhobar, was set into the mortar. It said simply:

The Duke made a speech at the tomb. It was simple, dignified and, to Forin, deeply moving. Then the crowds were allowed to file through, past the open coffin, to pay their respects. It remained open for two days, then was sealed. In the months to come a statue would be raised upon it of a warrior woman, her sword sheathed, her hand extended towards the north.

Tarantio opened his eyes on the morning of the ninth day to see Miriac sleeping in a chair beside the bed. His mouth was dry and his body ached; he tried to move, and groaned. Miriac awoke immediately and leaned over him. ‘They told me you would die,’ she said. ‘I knew they were wrong.’

‘Too much to live for,’ he whispered.

‘
That’s true
,’ said Dace.

Tarantio felt a surge of emotion that brought a lump to his throat. ‘
Thank you for coming back, brother!
’

‘
Don’t go maudlin on me, Chio. Where else could I go?
’

Tarantio closed his eyes.

‘
What about the child in the mine?
’

‘
He can wait for a while longer. One day, maybe, we’ll find him together
.’

Tarantio felt the warm touch of Miriac’s hand on his own. ‘
Don’t go back to sleep
,’ said Dace. ‘
Tell her we love her, you fool!
’

Forin stood alone before the newly sealed doors, remembering what had been and mourning what could have been.