Gemmell, David - Dark Moon

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DARK MOON A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14253 0

Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,

a division of Transworld Publishers

PRINTING HISTORY

Bantam Press edition published 1996 Corgi edition published 1997

The right of David Gemmell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and

78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other

than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition including this condition being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

Set in 10/12.3pt Sabon by Hewer Text Composition Services, Edinburgh.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd

18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd, Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham plc, Chatham, Kent.

Dark Moon is dedicated, with much love, to the memory of Olive 'Lady' Woodford, who taught me that

style is everything. A former dancer, she lost her left leg to cancer. The day after the operation she ordered

a bottle of champagne to 'toast the leg on its way' and six months later, with an over-size NHS artificial

limb strapped to her knee, stepped out onto a dance floor to waltz.

My thanks as always to my editor Liza Reeves, copy editor Jean Maund, and test readers Val Gemmell and

Stella Graham. Thanks also to Big Oz for the inspiration, and Mary Sanderson for the fingers of bone.

Special thanks to Alan Fisher for his many valuable insights into the mysteries of the craft.

Chapter One

Tarantio was a warrior. Before that he had been a sailor, a miner, a breaker of horses, and an apprentice

cleric to an elderly writer. Before that a child: quiet and solitary, living with a widowed father who drank in

the mornings and wept in the afternoons.

His mother was an acrobat in a travelling group of gypsies, who entertained at banquets and public gather-

ings. It was from her he inherited his nimbleness of foot, his speed of hand and his dark, swarthy good

looks. She had died of the plague when Tarantio was six years old. He could hardly remember her now,

save for one memory of a laughing girl-woman who threw him high in the air. From his father he had - he

believed - inherited nothing. Save, perhaps, for the demon within that was Dace.

Now Tarantio was a young man and had lived with Dace for most of his life.

A cold wind whispered into the cave. Tarantio's dark, curly hair had been shaved close to the scalp to

prevent lice, and the draught chilled his neck. He lifted the collar of his heavy grey coat and, drawing one

of his short swords, he laid it close to hand. Outside the rain was heavy, and he could hear water cascading

down the cliff walls. The pursuers would surely have taken shelter somewhere.

'They may be just outside,' whispered the voice of

Dace in his mind. 'Creeping up on us. Ready to cut our throats.'

'You'd like that, Dace. More men to kill.'

'Each to his own,' said Dace amiably. Tarantio was too tired to argue further, but Dace's intrusion made him

sombre. Seven years ago war had descended upon the Duchies like a sentient hurricane, sucking men into

his angry heart. And in the whirling maelstrom of his fury he fed them hatred and filled them with a love of

destruction. The War Demon had many faces, none of them kind. Eyes of death, cloak of plague, mouth of

famine and hands of dark despair.

War and Dace were made for each other. Within the beast's hungry heart Dace was in ecstasy. Men

admired him for his lethal skills, for his deadly talents. They sought him out as if he were a talisman.

Dace was a killer of men. There was a time when Tarantio had known how many had died under his blades.

Before that, there was a time when he had remembered every face. Now only two remained firmly in his

mind: the first, his eyes bulging, his jaw hanging slack, blood seeping over the satin sheets. And the second,

a slim bearded thief and killer whose swords Tarantio now wore.

Tarantio added two logs to the fire, watching the flame shadows dancing on the walls of the cave. His two

companions were stretched out on the floor, one sleeping, the other dying. 'Why do you still think of the

slaughter on the beach?' asked Dace. Tarantio shivered as the memories flared again.

Seven years ago the old ship had been beached against a storm, the mast dismantled, the sail wrapped and

laid against the cliff wall. The crew were sitting around fires talking and laughing, playing dice. Against all

odds they had survived the storm. They were alive, and their relieved

laughter echoed around the cliffs, the sound drifting into the shadow-haunted woods beyond.

The killers had attacked silently from those woods -appearing like demons, the firelight gleaming from

raised swords and axes. The unarmed sailors had no chance and were hacked down without mercy,

their blood staining the sand.

Tarantio, as always, had been sitting away from the others, lying on his back in the rocks, staring up at

the distant stars. At the first screams he had rolled to his knees, and watched the slaughter in the

moonlight. Unarmed and unskilled, the young sailor had been powerless to help his comrades.

Crouching down he hid, trembling, on the cold stones, the incoming tide lapping at his legs. He could

hear the thieves plundering the ship, tearing open the hatches and unloading the booty. Spices and

liquor from the islands, silks from the southern continent, and a shipment of silver ingots bound for the

mint at Loretheli.

Towards dawn one of the attackers had walked into the rocks to relieve himself. Terror filled Tarantio

with panic and Dace rose within him, flaring like a light within the skull. Dace reared up before the

astonished reaver, crashing a fist-sized rock against the man's head. The thief pitched forward without

a sound. Dragging him out of sight of his comrades, Dace drew a knife from the man's belt and

stabbed him to death.

The dead man wore two short swords, their black hilts tightly bound with leather. Dace had unbuckled

the sword-belt and swung it around his own waist. Relieving the man of his bulging purse, Dace had

stolen away through the rocks, leaving the scene of the massacre far behind.

Once clear, the panic gone, Tarantio dragged Dace back and resumed control. Dace had not objected;

without

the prospect of violence, and the need to kill, he was easily bored.

Alone and friendless, Tarantio had walked the thirty miles west to the Corsair city of Loretheli,

looking for a berth on a new ship. Instead he had met Sigellus the Swordsman. Tarantio thought of

him often, and of the perils they had faced together. But the thoughts were always tinged with sadness

and the velvet claw of regret at his death. Sigellus had understood about Dace. During one of their

training sessions Dace had broken loose, and had tried to kill Sigellus. The Swordsman had been too

skilled for him then, but Dace managed to cut him before Sigellus blocked a thrust and hammered his

iron fist into Dace's chin, spinning him from his feet.

'What the Hell is wrong with you, boy?' he had asked, when Tarantio regained consciousness. For the

second time in his young life, he talked about Dace. Sigellus had listened, his grey eyes

expressionless, blood dripping from a shallow cut to his right cheek just below the eye. When at last

he had told it all, including the murders, Sigellus sat back and let out a deep sigh. 'All men carry

demons, Chio,' he said. 'At least you have made an effort to control yours. May I speak with Dace?'

'You don't think I am insane?'

'I do not know what you are, my boy. But let me speak with Dace.'

'He can hear you, sir,' said Tarantio. 'I do not wish to let him free.'

'Very well. Hear me, Dace, you fight with great passion, and you are uncannily fast. But it will take

you time to learn to be half as good as I am. So understand this. If you try to kill me again, I will spear

your belly and gut you like a fish.' He looked into Chio's dark blue eyes. 'Did he understand that?'

'Yes, sir. He understood.'

'That is good.' Sigellus had smiled then, and, with a silk handkerchief he had mopped the trickle of

blood from his face. 'Now I think that is enough practice for today. I can hear a jug of wine calling my

name.'

'I hate him,' said Dace. 'One day I will kill him.'

'That is a lie,' Tarantio told him. 'You don't hate him at all.'

For a time Dace was silent. When at last his voice whispered into Tarantio's mind it was softer than at

any time before. 'He is the first person, apart from you, to ever speak to me. To speak to Dace.'

In that instant Tarantio felt a surge of jealousy. 'He threatened to kill you,' he pointed out.

'He said I was good. Uncannily fast.'

'He is my friend.'

'You want me to kill him?'

'No!'

'Then you must let him be my friend too.'

Tarantio shivered and pushed the painful memories from his mind.

The War of the Pearl had begun, and the Four Duchies were recruiting fighting men. Few had even

seen the artefact they were willing to kill - or die - for. Fewer still understood the importance of the

Pearl. Rumours were rife: it was a weapon of enormous power; it was a healing stone which could

grant immortality; it was a prophetic jewel which could read the future. No-one really knew.

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

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DARKMOONACORGIBOOK:0552142530OriginallypublishedinGreatBritainbyBantamPress,adivisionofTransworldPublishersPRINTINGHISTORYBantamPresseditionpublished1996Corgieditionpublished1997791086Copyright©DavidGemmell1996TherightofDavidGemmelltobeidentifiedastheauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedinaccordancewithse...

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