Dark Moon by David Gemmell
“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:
Karis—the Ice Queen
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.
“I can’t stay in Corduin, Karis,” he said. “There is nothing for me here without you.”
He strode away in the gathering dusk, only pausing at the foot of the hill to look back. Seeing that a dark shape had moved out of the trees and hunkered down by the door, Forin retraced his steps. Stealer looked up as he approached, bared his teeth and growled.
“I don’t much like you either,” said Forin, reaching out his hand. For a moment it seemed that the hound would snap at him, then Stealer sniffed his fingers, and Forin ran his hand over the broad, ugly head. “How do you feel about travelling south?” he asked. “We’ll see the ocean and live like lords.” Rising, he took several paces down the hill. “You coming or not, you ugly son of a bitch?”
The hound cast a lingering look at the tomb, then rose and padded after him.
Epilogue
The Oltor Prime brought Duvo to the centre of the desert which had once housed the city of Eldarisa. There were no buildings now, sculpted in light, merely a great emptiness and an ocean of barren rock.
“Why did you come for me?” asked Duvo. “I would have killed them all.”
“That would be reason enough, Duvodas.”
“They deserve to die.”
The golden figure stepped back from Duvo and the human refused to meet his eyes. “I have brought you here so that you might learn a terrible truth. I wish it were not so.”
“What truth? I have no need of truth! There is a war being waged, Oltor, and I am a part of it.”
“There is no war, Duvodas. It is over.”
The young man surged to his feet, his clenched fist raised. “Then I did it! I ruined them!”
“I cannot say that your actions did not affect the outcome,” said the Oltor. “For they did. But what made the difference was not, ultimately, your slaying of the Daroth, but the death of a single human. Though that is a riddle you are no longer equipped to fathom. I wish you well, human.”
The Oltor Prime’s hands swept down and a curtain of bright sunlight opened onto the darkness. Without another word he stepped through, and then Duvodas was alone. He felt suddenly weary, and he slept until the dawn. Then, with renewed energy, he climbed the tallest peak and—careful not to touch the surface of the orb—removed the Pearl from its sack and wedged it deep into the rocks.
It took most of a day to climb down to the lowlands, but Duvodas felt a longing to see the return of Eldarisa, and to be with the Eldarin again. Pushing on without rest, he reached the Twins by late evening and carefully climbed to the ledge where he had stood once before with the Oltor Prime. Taking his harp in his hands, Duvodas prepared for the Creation Hymn. It did not concern him that there was no land magic here, for never before had he experienced such power as had flowed in his body since the Daroth slew Shira.
His fingers lightly stroked the strings, and a jangle of discordant notes jarred the night air. At first he was untroubled and tried to retune the instrument; then his fingers touched the strings again. The noise that came was a screeching travesty of music. With increasing panic he sought the notes of the Hymn, but there was nothing there. No music at all moved within him.
All night he struggled, but with the coming of the dawn not one pure note had sung from his harp. It was as if he had never known how to play. He thought of the simple melodies he had learned as a child, lullabies and dancing songs. Not one could he remember.
Through the long day he sat upon the ledge, and at the last he remembered the words of Ranaloth so many years before. “Many among the Eldarin did not want to see a child of your race
“What must I beware of, sir?” he had asked.
“Anger and hatred—these are the weapons of evil. And love, Duvo. Love is both wondrous and yet full of peril. Love is a gateway through which hatred—disguised and unrecognized—can pass.”
“How can that be so? Is not love the greatest of the emotions?”
“Indeed it is. But it breaches all defences, and lays us open to feelings of great depth. You humans suffer this more than most races I have known. Love among your people can lead to jealousy, envy, lust and greed, revenge and murder. The purest emotion carries with it the seeds of corruption; they are hard to detect.”
“You think I should avoid love?”
Ranaloth gave a dry chuckle. “No-one can avoid love, Duvo. But when it happens, you may find that your music is changed. Perhaps even lost.”
“Then I will never love,” Duvo had promised.
But he had loved, and the Daroth had stolen it away, torn it from him on the point of a spear.
In despair now, Duvo returned his harp to the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he climbed from the ledge and, leaving the Pearl where he had placed it upon the mountain-top, began the long walk from the desert.
For weeks he wandered, coming at last to a high mountain valley. There, on top of a hill a mile above a lake, he came upon an old man sitting in the captain’s chair of a fishing boat. The old man waved to him as he approached and Duvo climbed to the deck.
“Why are you staring at me so?” asked Duvo.
“You have flames around your soul, young man. You must be in great pain.”
“You see a great deal, sir. Tell me, why have you built a boat upon a mountain?”
“First you tell me why you have scarred your face with blood.”
As they sat quietly in the sunshine Duvo told him of the death of Shira, and the war against the Daroth, and lastly of the Pearl and his failure to bring back the Eldarin. The old man, Browyn, listened, and at dusk led Duvo back to his cabin, where they ate a simple meal of hot oats and milk sweetened with fruit syrup.
“I think you should stay here for a while, my boy. Rest. Let the mountain air clear your mind.”
Duvodas had nowhere else to go, and was grateful for the invitation. He stayed throughout the summer, and on into the autumn. Then, as the weather grew colder, Browyn caught a chill which became pneumonia. Duvodas could not help him, for he had lost the power to heal.
“It does not matter,” Browyn told him, lying back on his pillow with eyes closed. “I am ready to die.”
“I think that I am too,” said Duvodas.
“Nonsense. You have not yet brought back the Eldarin.”
“I cannot. I have told you—the magic is lost to me.”
“Then find it, boy! Don’t you understand? Nothing in terms of the soul is irrevocable. Once you were pure, and the magic flowed in you. It will do so again. Already, in your time here, I see the chains of fire have died down. You know what you must do. Begin the journey back to what you were.”
“It is not possible.”
“Pah! Nothing is impossible—especially not in terms of the human soul. If that were true, every soldier would become evil and every priest would have healing hands. You know what talent makes us great?”
“No.”
“The best of us just never know when to give up.”
True to his own description Browyn survived the pneumonia, much to his surprise, and lived throughout the winter and the spring of the following year. But in the summer he developed a hacking cough and began to lose weight. By the first day of autumn he was barely skin and bone, and Duvodas knew that he was dying. Towards the end Browyn became delirious. Duvodas took to carrying him up into the mountains, where the old man could sit and look out over the vistas and the distant lake.
On the last morning of Browyn’s life, as he sat on the mountainside, he became suddenly lucid. “I have always wondered,” he said, “if my boat could sail.”
“We shall see,” said Duvo. Taking a large hammer, he knocked away the restraining planks and focused his energies on the earth below the boat, drawing up water from deep in the ground. It bubbled through the grass and pooled around the hull, slowly lifting the vessel, which began to move down the hill on a cushion of water. The slender craft sped down into the valley, spearing into the lake before bobbing up gently on the surface, its momentum carrying it forward towards a pine-crested island.
“Ah, what a beautiful sight,” murmured Browyn. He died soon after, and Duvodas buried him in the shade of a spreading oak.
“Farewell, my dear friend,” he said, when the grave was completed. Then he sighed as he realized, with a touch of regret, that Browyn had never told him why he had built a boat on a mountain.
Duvodas stayed on in the cabin. There was nowhere else he wished to be. On the last day of autumn he tried to play the harp again but, as ever, the music was a travesty. Laying the instrument on the floor, he walked out into the meadow beyond the cabin.
And froze.
Twenty Daroth horsemen were riding slowly up the hill. Gazing at them, he knew he could kill them all without effort. The thought was not a good one, and a great sadness fell upon him. I will kill no more, he told himself, and he strode out to meet them.
The leader climbed down from his horse and approached. He was carrying a small, sleeping child wrapped in a blanket. “You are the harpist Duvodas?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant.
“I am.”
“I am the ambassador to Loretheli. We came upon an old human dying on the road; he told us his name was Ceofrin. He was trying to reach you, to bring you this child, but his heart was not strong.”
“Why should he send a child to me?” asked Duvo.
“He is your son,” said the Daroth.
“My son died,” declared Duvo, feeling the anger rise in him. “Torn from life by a Daroth spear.”
“Not so, human. As Ceofrin lay dying we touched his mind. We know how Shira died, but when they came to bury her a female saw the child move. Nursed to health and taken to Loretheli, he was returned to his blood kin Ceofrin when the war ended. The old man tried to find you, but no-one knew where you had gone. Then word reached him of a man with the face of blood, living in the mountains. Ceofrin knew he was dying and wanted the child raised by blood kin, so he tried to reach you. You understand this?”
As Duvo stepped back, his mind reeling, the Daroth spoke again. “You are the sorcerer who destroyed our Life Chamber.”
He nodded dumbly, unable to think clearly. For a moment there was silence and he looked up into the face of the Daroth, then ran his gaze along the line of riders. No-one spoke. Then the Daroth leader stepped forward. “Here is your son,” he said, offering the child.
Duvodas reached out and took him. His hair was dark, like Shira’s, and he could see her beauty in the lines of his face. The boy yawned and his eyes opened. In that instant Duvo heard Shira’s voice echoing in the halls of his mind. “I will show him to the sunrise and the sunset. He will be handsome, like you, with fair hair and green eyes. Not at first, for all babies are born with blue eyes. But they will turn grey-green as he gets older.”
“Why should he not have beautiful brown eyes, like his mother?” he had asked.
“Perhaps he will,” she had said.
The boy’s eyes were brown, and shining with the innocence only the young can ever know.
Duvodas looked up at the Daroth towering above him. “I thank you,” he said.
“The war between us is ended,” said the
“Yes, it is,” agreed Duvodas.
Without another word, the Daroth strode to his horse and mounted. The troop rode away down the hillside. Duvodas carried the child into the cabin and sat him on the floor. Rolling to his hands and knees, the boy saw the harp and crawled towards it, his chubby hand reaching out and dragging at the strings. A jangle of discordant sounds rang out.
But within the sounds was one clear, pure note.
And, for a moment only, the scent of roses filled the room.
By David Gemmell
Published by Ballantine Books
LION OF MACEDON
DARK PRINCE
ECHOES OF THE GREAT SONG
KNIGHTS OF DARK RENOWN
MORNINGSTAR
THE DRENAI SAGA
LEGEND
THE KING BEYOND THE GATE
QUEST FOR LOST HEROES
WAYLANDER
IN THE REALM OF THE WOLF
THE FIRST CHRONICLES OF DRUSS THE LEGEND
THE LEGEND OF DEATHWALKER
HERO IN THE SHADOWS
WHITE WOLF
THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE
GHOST KING
LAST SWORD OF POWER
WOLF IN SHADOW
THE LAST GUARDIAN
BLOODSTONE
THE RIGANTE
SWORD IN THE STORM
MIDNIGHT FALCON
RAVENHEART
STORMRIDER
PRAISE FOR
DAVID GEMMELL
“I am truly amazed at David Gemmell’s ability to focus his writer’s eye. His images are crisp and complete, a history lesson woven within the detailed tapestry of the highest adventure. Gemmell’s characters are no less complete, real men and women with qualities good and bad, placed in trying times and rising to heroism or falling victim to their own weaknesses.”
—R. A. SALVATORE
“In the best sense of the word, you could say that Gemmell’s a brand; an assurance of passionate, cleanly written prose, imaginative plots, and, above all, terrific storytelling. For anyone who appreciates superior heroic fantasy, David Gemmell’s offerings are mandatory.”