Dark is the Moon

by Ian Irvine

Again he inspected her. She felt irritated. What did this rigid old soldier, with a face as hard and square and red as a brick, want from her?

  The brick softened a little. “You were good for Yggur.”

  Maigraith laughed ironically. “Good in parts, bad in parts, like the famous egg.”

  “I sometimes wish I’d not given my whole life to the army,” Vanhe reflected. “What sadder thing is there than an old soldier? Still, I chose, and I have seen many things. To business!” He gave a sketch of the situation. It was grim. “We’re losing the war. Lost it, I should say. Of our five armies, all but my own, the First, have been undermined by the Ghâshâd. I don’t have enough troops to defend the city.”

  “What do you require of me, Marshal Vanhe?”

  He swallowed, losing control for a moment. The man was afraid. “Maigraith—”

  “Yes?” she snapped. The situation must be disastrous, for him to show it.

  Vanhe mastered himself. “You have surprised me.” He hesitated.

  “What?” she said anxiously. “What do you want?”

  “I can’t stand up to Thyllan. He knows it, and I know it, and so do my troops. If I try, the army will be annihilated and Thurkad ruined! Will you be our commander until Yggur returns… or otherwise?”

  Maigraith was completely taken aback. “You jest, sir marshal!”

  “Indeed I do not,” said Vanhe steadily.

  “I know nothing of leadership or armies.”

  “I’m not talking about war. We need a strong leader to negotiate our surrender.”

  Surrender! Suddenly Maigraith felt very afraid.

  “I cannot do it, nor any of my officers. If Thyllan invades the city it will be bloody! You are clever, you are a thinker. You have power; you are Yggur’s…”

  Don’t say woman, or concubine, or any vulgar soldier’s term, Maigraith thought, or you will undo your case.

  “You are Yggur’s partner,” said Vanhe. “His equal.”

  “But I do not know how to command… I shrink from dominating.”

  “I have spies and advisers aplenty. I need someone who looks a leader.”

  “You want a figurehead,” said Maigraith, feeling depressed. The man was as bad as Faelamor. “A puppet!”

  “I’m desperate, Maigraith. The city will fall within days.”

  “What can I do that you can’t?”

  “Thyllan is a mancer of some skill, and so are you. I’m just a soldier. I can never match him, but you can. Make him think we’re still strong, then negotiate favorable terms for our surrender.”

  “I can’t,” she said weakly.

  “You held Yggur for hours back in Fiz Gorgo. No one else has ever done such a thing.” He seized her hand. “I’m begging you. Will you take it on?”

  Maigraith took up the teapot, laughing nervously. It was empty. Seizing the excuse, she hurried out to the kitchen for hot water. She had always been tormented by self-doubt, had come to adulthood believing that she was of little worth, that whatever task she undertook would be badly discharged. Faelamor had never been satisfied. This offer was incomprehensible.

  On returning, Maigraith realized that the marshal was still waiting, and she had laughed at his offer. Perhaps she had insulted him. She could never understand the protocols, the manners of these people. She squirmed under his gaze.

  “I did not mean…” she began, but he dismissed her apologies with an inclination of his head. She tried again. “I’m not even master of myself. How can you ask it of me?”

  “You do not want power,” observed Vanhe. “That is a good start.” He repeated his earlier arguments. “We need strength—you are strong! We need wit and guile; you have these things. And to escape a brigade of Ghâshâd the other day… My whole army is in awe of you.”

  Maigraith was afraid. Afraid of daring; afraid of failing. “You need me?” she murmured.

  “Only you can do it,” said Vanhe. “If you dare not, Yggur’s empire will fail. It does already, for all our efforts. Would you give it away?”

  “I don’t care for empires,” she said quietly.

  “Do you care for people? If we fight over Thurkad there will be bloodshed not seen here for a thousand years. Do you want that?”

  “I do not,” she said, almost inaudibly. “But I am incomplete; insufficient.”

  “I did not say that you were the best we could hope for,” said Vanhe bluntly. “Plainly you are not! But you are the best we have.” Then he hit upon a winning formula, the only words that would do. “Do you not see a duty here? Surely, having made this alliance with Yggur, there is a duty that comes with it. Will you not take it up?”

  Duty! She hardly heard the rest. How often had that obligation beaten upon her brow. The very word made her withdraw into herself, so that she could not question, once it was put upon her. Why had it been her duty to serve Faelamor and obey her will? She scarcely knew. It was, and she did. Somehow with her alliance with Yggur, duty to Faelamor had failed. Now a new one was forced upon her. All the joy had gone out of the day.

  “I will do my duty,” she said. “What would you have me do?”

  Maigraith sat at the head of the war table, awaiting her first test with an empty feeling in her stomach. Thyllan had come into Thurkad to parley, though not to bargain. His strength was overwhelming.

  Vanhe was on her right; the other senior officers on either side. A remnant of the Council and the Assembly were here too, a ragged lot. Time passed. Thyllan was late.

  “Bindy,” said Vanhe to the messenger boy, “slip outside, run down the street and watch for Thyllan. Keep an eye out for any funny business.”

  Beaming, Bindy ran out. “The boy loves to feel useful,” grunted Vanhe. “He’ll make a good soldier one day.”

  Maigraith’s skin prickled. “Now, Maigraith,” said Vanhe, “remember what I said earlier. You must look the part. You must steel yourself to power and to command.”

  “I have never held power. I don’t know how.”

  “Try! You cannot appear to be a puppet.”

  “But I am a puppet—a mouthpiece for your orders.”

  He ignored that. “You must learn domination, or appear to have it. No soldier of mine has the discipline or the capability to do what I saw you do yesterday. Just take this as a fiftieth of your puzzles, which you must also solve. But first: Listen! Question! Think! Decide! And when you decide, know that you are right. Let the will burn within you like a flame. And then enforce your will!”

  So here she was, maintaining an outward, regal self. In this she was helped by her striking if chill beauty, her stern demeanor and her reputation. Maigraith was little known but the subject of much rumor, from her first appearance at the Conclave to her reappearance as Yggur’s consort. Rumor held that she was a woman of terrible power.

  Save for Vanhe himself, the officers were sullen, afraid, and in one case openly insubordinate; but they would follow if she could prove her strength. The governing Assembly had always been puppets—they were of no account but to fill up the empty seats. The Council likewise, except for saggy old Hennia, a Zain who had betrayed Mendark’s ragtag group at the fall of Thurkad.

  “Thyllan is quick-witted, bold, fearless, aggressive,” said Vanhe. “A confirmed opportunist. Don’t trust him an ell, even though he comes under a flag of truce. If he knew how weak we are he wouldn’t be here at all. The best we can hope for is to exact a few concessions in exchange for our surrender.”

  “I still don’t know what you want me to do.”

  “Look confident, and when it comes to negotiation, consult your advisers and give ground grudgingly. We may yet escape with our lives, and Thurkad intact. Drat that Bindy—why has he been so long?”

  At that moment the iron-bound doors were pressed open. A standard-bearer appeared, holding high a blue truce-flag. Marching up the room he slammed the pole into a socket at the head of the table. The flag hung limply, as if ashamed.

  “All rise for Lord Thyllan,” the standard-bearer t
hundered.

  A tall, red-faced, scarred man stood in the doorway, waiting until every eye was on him. Tossing back his cape, he strode to the empty chair. A smaller man followed, gliding across the floor as on oiled castors. He was beautifully dressed, his black close-cropped hair gleamed with oil and his long mustachioes were waxed and coiled at the ends.

  “Berenet!” said Vanhe in her ear. “He was once Men-dark’s lieutenant, and being groomed to succeed him, but they fell out as Mendark fled Thurkad. Watch him—he’s smarter than Thyllan, and almost as cunning.”

  Berenet sat down at Thyllan’s right hand. Thyllan stood, twirling the skirts of the mancer’s robes he affected. Further down the table, Hennia kept shifting her dumpy body in her seat, her eyes darting from Maigraith to Thyllan and back again. Maigraith knew her only by reputation—a brilliant woman for all her appearance, but as unsteady as quicksand. Her support could only be relied on when it was not needed.

  “Listen to me, all as one!” Thyllan had a booming voice. He played at being an orator, though he lacked the subtlety for it. “I speak as Magister, with the authority of the Council and the Assembly. The old fool Mendark is gone, the upstart usurper fled too, terrified of these Ghâshâd that he liberated but could not control. There is only one authority now—mine!”

  He strode the length of the table, staring into the eyes of each of them. Maigraith was astounded at his arrogance. His forces had fallen like cornstalks before the march of Yggur. But then, Yggur was not here anymore.

  “Your army is a rabble, Vanhe,” Thyllan roared in his face. “Surrender the city and you will be spared! None of us want this war.” He thumped away again, thrusting his face at each of them, all the way down.

  You’re a strutting liar, she thought. This is a charade so you can play the general. “Is he speaking truth?” she said out of the corner of her mouth to Vanhe.

  “I doubt it! The only prisoners he takes are those worth ransoming.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stirred. If he would not spare a humble foot-soldier, what chance did they have? She felt panicky.

  “We are not leaderless, Thyllan,” said Vanhe as steadily as he could. “Maigraith was nominated by Yggur before he… went away. Our expectation is that he will soon return. Until that time we follow her.”

  Thyllan was taken aback. His darting gaze weighed her up. Then he laughed, a harsh braying that echoed in the bare room. Maigraith trembled. The explanation was hollow, else she would have taken charge weeks ago, before the war was lost.

  “We did not fear Yggur in his strength,” he boasted. “Why would we listen to the slut he abandoned when he fled? Let go the strings, Vanhe. Your puppet is a rag woman, and you so gutless that you cower in her knickers.”

  A different approach might have undone Maigraith but insults never would, for she’d had worse from Faelamor the whole of her life.

  “What is your answer?” cried Thyllan. He rasped his sword out of its scabbard. No one spoke. “Would an example help you to make up your minds?”

  Vanhe signaled frantically but Maigraith could not think what to do. How could she negotiate with this monster? As she agonized, Bindy slipped through the door. “Marshal!” he cried, sliding between the guards to dart up the room. “Treachery! The enemy—”

  He was only half way when Thyllan stepped out in his path.

  Maigraith sprang to her feet but she was too far away. “Bindy!” she screamed. “Go back!”

  Bindy froze, staring up at the scar-faced man. “The enemy—” he repeated.

  “Stay where you are, boy,” grated Thyllan.

  Bindy trembled as the big man stalked toward him. He wanted to run but was too afraid. Thyllan walked right up close and calmly thrust his sword through the boy.

  With a barely audible sigh, Bindy slid to the floor. Thyllan turned to the staring room. “Well?” he roared.

  Maigraith ran and took Bindy in her arms. He was in great pain. He did not cry, but his face was wrung with sadness. “My poor mother!” he whispered.

  “I will see that she is taken care of,” said Maigraith.

  Bindy gave her a brave smile, then died.

  She laid down the crumpled body. What hopes he’d had. How little it had taken to let the life out of him. Tears grew on her lashes. She did not try to hide them. Inside her a fire had begun to smolder. She fed it into fury.

  Treating Thyllan as just another problem to be solved was hard, but she did it. After all, her whole life had been discipline. The man was a butcher. If they surrendered he would slay them all as casually as this poor child. She had no option but to take him, right now. Terror almost overcame her—her life had been submission, too. How could she hope to win?

  She took charge of herself and in her expressionless rage she was so beautiful that it was terrifying. “The boy was my friend,” Maigraith said quietly. She stood up, a quite slender woman, not tall. “Thyllan, I am arresting you for murder. Yield up your tokens of office. You will be tried fairly.”

  “Murder?” he said in astonishment. “There is no murder in war!”

  “Put down your weapon.”

  “You refuse my peace offering!” he said with a grim smile. He threw up his arm, holding the stained sword high. “Then I will give you war until the streets flow with blood.”

  “Making war on children is all you’re capable of,” she spat.

  The room was in uproar. “Maigraith!” hissed Vanhe. “What are you doing?”

  “What you put me here for,” she said. “The boy is dead. Support me or we will all follow him!”

  Thyllan whistled. The double doors were flung open. A band of twenty civilians ran in, but as they came through the door they cast their disguises away, revealing them to be Thyllan’s elite troops.

  “Treachery!” Vanhe shouted, springing to his feet. It was too late; his guards were already being disarmed. “How dare you violate the blue flag!”

  “You see?” said Maigraith sadly. “Bindy was right. Thyllan planned this all along.”

  Vanhe understood, but he did not imagine she could do anything about it. Hennia the Zain half-rose to her feet, as if trying to make up her mind about whom to support, then sat again. The whole room stared at the soldiers, and down at the messenger boy. Their fate was written in the coils of blood on the floor beside him.

  3

  * * *

  BATTLE OF WITS

  Rage was burning Maigraith up, fury for little Bindy, dead at her feet, and for all the innocents who would die for Thyllan’s ambition. She must bring down this monster even if she died trying. She would bring him down! But how? She was unarmed while he had twenty soldiers in the room.

  As she hesitated, half a dozen of his most senior officers appeared, come to witness his triumph. Somehow they must be neutralized too.

  Thyllan’s guards were disarming the people at the table. Suddenly only Vanhe was between him and her. His strategy in ruins, Vanhe snatched out his sword and prepared to die.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulder. “Fall back, marshal!” she said, and her voice was one that must be obeyed.

  “My duty is to defend my captain,” he said. “I will not go behind.” He moved to one side, but in an instant the soldiers surrounded and disarmed him.

  “Take her,” roared Thyllan.

  Maigraith put on her most arrogant expression. “I challenge you, Thyllan—you against me. Do you dare? Are you the equal of one frail woman, or must your dogs do the job for you?”

  His face glowed red. He darted a glance at the watching officers. He dared not lose face in front of them.

  Without a word he sprang, his sword making a blazing arc in the lamplight. Maigraith put out a slender arm toward him, jerking her outstretched fingers up in the universal gesture of contempt. The action looked incongruous coming from this elegantly attired woman, but it was more than a gesture. Thyllan’s legs tangled and he fell on his face, the sword clattering on the floor.

  There was a long silence then
someone guffawed and most of the room joined in. Thyllan’s troops went rigid in outrage, though two of his officers were smiling. They hated him! They followed him only because he was stronger.

  Thyllan sprang to his feet, his mouth bloody. Every breath forced scarlet bubbles out of one nostril. Then he hesitated. Maigraith’s confusion had been so subtle that he could not tell if it had been power or accident. But he could not afford to be shown up. He lunged at her with his sword, at the same time using his Art to weaken her and make her fear him.

  There was strength in his sorcery, if little subtlety, and though the strength shook her, fear was the wrong weapon. Her rage for little Bindy burned it to ashes. She’d endured worse from Yggur in Fiz Gorgo: stronger, more cunning, more subtle and for longer. She brushed the attack aside with a casual flick of one wrist, and again Thyllan went flying. Once more he was left wondering what had happened, unsure if she had power at all, let alone what it was.

  Berenet shouted advice in a language Maigraith did not understand. Standing well back this time, Thyllan spoke the words of a different spell. It attacked her self-confidence, something she had always been short of.

  Maigraith froze, trapped in indecision. Thyllan was a great general, a great mancer too, one who’d overthrown Mendark himself. She was nothing compared to him! There was no possibility of defeating him. The whole room went still. She felt their eyes on her, knowing how insignificant she was. Hope ran out of her, drop by drop.

  Thyllan had learned his lesson. He stood with his sword upraised, weighing her up. Blood dripping off the hilt red-handed him. Bindy’s blood! Her rage suddenly rekindled; she laughed in his face. He flushed and she knew his weakness. He had a very short fuse; she must drive him beyond the point where he could control himself.

  “You’re a murderer, a liar and a fraud,” Maigraith said. “Your pathetic Art wouldn’t have troubled me when I was a child.” While speaking, she was using her own talent to reinforce her words. She turned to his officers. “Did you hear how Mendark humiliated Thyllan in the wharf city? How he fled like a cur?”