Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  Close by, a black walnut grew just outside the wall, with its branches scraping against the stone. Torisen persuaded Burr to descend by the simple expediency of pushing him through a crenel into its boughs. When the Kendar reached the ground, swearing and sweating, his lord tossed the bundle of bones to him. But then, instead of climbing down, Torisen hesitated. He turned back to the courtyard.

  "What is it?" Burr hissed up at him, fairly dancing with impatience.

  "The Burnt Man is coming."

  Hoofbeats crashed in the hollow shell of the keep, followed by a hoarse, wordless shout and the crack of a whip. A fierce wind sprang up in the enclosed space. Blazing leaves whirled skyward, mixed with flakes of burnt skin like black moths.

  Torisen stood looking down. Wind lifted his dark hair. Fire haloed him.

  "Lord!" Burr shouted, trying to break the spell. Then he spun around, listening. From the south came a thin, high wail. Even at this distance, it scraped on the nerves, like some small insect trapped in the inner ear.

  Torisen had also heard. He vaulted over the parapet and swung down through the bare branches, dropping the last ten feet.

  "The watch-weirdling?"

  "Yes. Someone has crossed the border carrying weapons. Your guard from Tagmeth, perhaps?"

  "If we're lucky. If not, we'd better get out of here before someone cuts us off. This way."

  There was a postern in the wall not far away and the vestiges of a path leading down the steep, southern slope from it to the outer ward. They plunged down, first through rocks, then through a dark spinney of pines, into the overgrown meadow. Long, dead grass clutched at their legs as they ran. Behind them, the harsh roar in the courtyard grew. The tower keep roof burst into flames. Firelight sent their shadows leaping before them. The cloud-of-thorn hedges narrowed on either side as they neared the lower end of the ward. Ahead was the barbican, and Torisen's black horse plunging out of its shadow toward them. Burr's gray ran at Storm's heels, both his reins and the black's still tangled in the bush, which they had pulled out by the roots and were dragging after them.

  "You have more sense than I do, Storm," Torisen said to his stallion, disentangling the reins and springing up into the saddle. "Here." He reached down for the blanket bundle, which Burr handed up to him.

  Storm leaped forward, only to skid to a prancing halt a moment later as Torisen pulled him up sharply. Two riders on heavily lathered horses had emerged from the barbican. Burr's gray drew up level with the black. "Caldane, Lord Caineron," the Kendar said under his breath to Torisen.

  "And Donkerri's father, Nusair. But who . . ."

  A third horseman rode out of the shadows. Moonlight gleamed on his prematurely white hair.

  Torisen stiffened. "Kindrie, Caineron's tame Shanir." He forced himself to relax, although Storm continued to dance nervously. "All right. Easy does it." He rode at a crab-step toward the gate. Burr, following him, saw that the archway behind the three Highborn was full of the lord's Kendar retainers.

  "My dear Knorth," said Caineron genially. "What a delightful evening for a ride."

  "My dear Caineron. Yes, isn't it, although I'm a bit surprised to see you so far north."

  "Oh, I was at a hunting camp just south of Tagmeth when I heard about your little expedition. News travels quickly, even in the wilderness, if one has sharp eyes and ears."

  Meaning that he had had spies watching Tagmeth. Damn. Torisen hadn't anticipated that, but then he hadn't thought that Caineron was ready to move against him either. Even if he really wasn't, this situation must be tempting the man to the far edge of his caution.

  Behind them, the upper story of the tower caved in. Flames leaped up into the night.

  "Ah," said Caineron, watching them. "Nusair tells me that one can always tell where you are by the sound of falling buildings."

  "He should know. The last one he pulled down on me himself, oh, purely by accident, of course. At Tiglon, wasn't it?"

  Nusair glowered at him.

  "Or was it at Mensar? No. That was where that adder somehow got into my boot. I limped for a week, but the poor snake died."

  "Accidents will happen," said Caineron blandly. "Especially if people are careless. It strikes me, Knorth, that it wasn't too clever of you to come up here alone on such a night. The Merikit aren't gentle with trespassers. How unfortunate if they should catch you here, so far from all assistance, and you without a single blood kinsman to make them pay the price. Now, if you had given my granddaughter the baby she wanted . . . but we won't dwell on such blighted hopes."

  Burr tried to quiet his horse, knowing that it was only reacting to his own tension. Torisen wasn't handling this situation all that well; but then the presence of a Shanir always put him badly off stride, as Caineron well knew. What the rival lord apparently didn't know was that a Merikit hell hunt was about to ride down his throat.

  A hollow boom sounded in the keep. The wind shifted, pushing against Burr's back.

  ". . . and all for nothing," Caineron was saying. "Anyone could have told you that all the Highborn remains were retrieved years ago."

  "I see. Then the Kendar don't matter."

  A shadow of vexation crossed Caineron's broad face. He wanted the Kendar and Shanir to think of him as their champion, but they were just fools enough to take such a slip to heart.

  "Of course they matter," he snapped. "But it's hardly likely that—"

  "My lord!" Kindrie suddenly rode forward, pointing. "Look!"

  They all looked. There on the ground before Torisen was his shadow, Storm's, and that of a child sitting in front of him on the saddle. His arm tightened involuntarily around the blanket full of bones. On the ground, the shadow child turned to look questioningly up at the shadow lord. Trinity, he thought numbly. Sweet, sweet Trinity.

  "Who?" came the yelping cry from Kithorn. "Who? Wha? Tha!"

  Dark figures spilled out of the postern, their black skins laced with a glowing fretwork of lines. They disappeared under the pines, reemerged at the top of the ward. There was one more of them than before. They ran shambling on all fours, fire-mouthed, baying, and the dry grass burned in their wake.

  "Oh my God," said Caineron, staring.

  Torisen gathered Storm, holding him just barely in check.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm taking this child back to Tagmeth. I suggest you all follow me. In case you hadn't noticed, Burr and I aren't the only ones on Merikit land."

  As Storm sprang forward, Kindrie's mount jumped sideways with a squeal, straight into both the Caineron. While the three horses were still entangled, Torisen and Burr swept past them under the barbican. The Kendar opened a path. In a moment, they were back on the River Road, their horses' steel-shod hooves striking sparks from the ancient stones. The hanged man's shrill wail grew closer, louder. There he was, hovering ghostlike directly in their path. His voice buzzed in their ears, in their heads, like a swarm of trapped mosquitoes. Storm's stride faltered. He started to shy, shaking his head at the maddening sound, then steadied. In a moment they were past the weirdling. It turned with them, but its voice was already fading. The sound died away completely as the last rider crossed the border.

  Torisen fought Storm down to a canter. This could still turn nasty if Caineron thought he was running away. Would the man try something anyway? He must be tempted, and they were still at least twenty miles from Tagmeth. But suddenly, around a turn in the road, came more riders thundering northward. It was Torisen's guard, charging to the rescue at last. Caineron gave an ironic salute and fell back. Too late, my dear Caldane, too late . . . this time, at least.

  * * *

  "GOD'S CLAWS, but those Caineron are a public menace!"

  Torisen was again pacing the upper chamber. He had been seething ever since his return half an hour before, but as usual had kept himself well in check while others were present. Now, with only Burr as a witness, it all boiled over.

  "Of all the half-witted ambushes. . . . Caineron is the brightest of the lot, and even he
can't see beyond his own petty schemes."

  "Not so petty," said Burr to the cup he was filling.

  "Not really so stupid either. He nearly got me. I'm the one with mashed turnips for brains."

  Burr advanced on him. Not liking to be touched, Torisen backed away, straight into the chair that the Kendar had positioned behind him. Burr shoved the cup into his hand.

  "Drink, lord, and rest. Names of God, I've seen men three days dead that looked better than you do now."

  Torisen sipped the wine, grimacing. "If you want a pretty face, court Nusair."

  "Huh! You should challenge that smug toad. How many times has he tried to kill you?"

  "Who counts? Most campaigns are too dull anyway. And if I did challenge him, then what? Nusair won't lie, because that would cost him his honor, but Caineron isn't likely to sanction a duel, thereby forfeiting his right to a blood feud if I should win. At any rate, I'm no longer a mere commander of the Southern Host, able to fight as I please, nor am I all that secure as Highlord. It all comes to this: I can't afford to dignify Nusair's bungling with any attention at all, much less pick a fight with his father that, at present, I can't possibly win." He put down the empty cup and rubbed his eyes. "Odd that a Highborn can stab a man in the dark and keep his good name if only he doesn't disown the deed. I used to think that honor meant so much more."

  Burr refilled the cup. He didn't know if he could get Torisen drunk, even in his present condition, but it was worth a try. Anything to make him sleep, and dreams be damned. After fifteen years, Burr knew at least in general terms what Torisen was trying to avoid and had little sympathy with the evasion. After all, dreams never hurt anyone, did they?

  Turning to put down the ewer, Burr saw first the parcel of bones resting on the edge of the fire pit and then, with a start, the shadow on the wall of a small figure holding out spider thin hands to the blaze. He hadn't meant to say anything more, but this startled him into speech.

  "Lord, you should give that child to the pyre as soon as possible, here, near her home. Look. She's reaching out to the flames."

  "She's only cold. All those years alone, shivering in the dust. . . . My sister wasn't much older when . . ."

  "My lord?"

  Torisen shook his head, irritated at the slip. "Never mind. Anyway, we can't raise a pyre without a priest to speak the pyric rune."

  "Kindrie was in training for the priesthood before he rebelled. Lord Randir disowned him for that."

  "He's Caineron's man now."

  "After tonight? Probably not for long. I think he deliberately rammed Caineron's horse to let us pass—why, God knows. Ask him for the rune, lord."

  Torisen didn't reply.

  Burr opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. The other's head had begun to droop. About time, too, thought Burr, and retrieved the full wine cup before Torisen could drop it. The child would have to wait. It shocked his blunt nature to think of her soul trapped between death and oblivion a moment longer than necessary, but after eighty years, a few hours more would hardly matter. He put another log on the fire and carefully draped a coat over the young man's shoulders, then sat down opposite him. His own bones suddenly began to ache with weariness. Keeping up with Torisen Black Lord was no easy job at the best of times, but it was his job. He looked across at the dark, bowed head, at the touches of white among the black, and remembered the day that Torisen had put aside his commander's collar.

  "Well, Burr, that's the end of that. From now on, I will go under my own name and claim my own power. But what about you? What will you do now?"

  Burr had swallowed, dry-throated. Here it came at last. "Lord, I had hoped to serve you at Gothregor."

  "Indeed? And does my lord Ardeth still need someone to spy on me?"

  "Lord, I broke with Ardeth this morning."

  A long moment of silence had followed. Burr could still recall vividly how sick and empty he had felt, masterless for the first time in his life.

  "I see, "Torisen had finally said, in a gentler tone. "You never were much good at planning for retreats, were you? Well then, I suppose you had better swear to me." And he had held out his beautiful, scarred hands.

  The fire in the pit had sunk to embers. Burr groaned and straightened out his stiffened joints, surprised to find that he had slept. It must be almost dawn. But something had awakened him. What? Hoofbeats, down in the courtyard. Burr rose as quietly as he could and went to the window. Below, one of Torisen's Kendars held the reins of a post horse. Steam rose from its flanks. The rider must have already entered the main hall below. Yes, he could hear hushed, urgent voices. Burr slipped past the still sleeping Highlord and went quickly down the stairs.

  A few minutes later he came back, making no effort this time to move quietly.

  "My lord, wake up! There's news . . ."

  The dark head moved. "Burning," murmured Torisen, in a voice Burr had never heard him use before, higher pitched and somehow younger than his own. "Burning, burning . . ." He was still asleep.

  A cold wind seemed to blow through the Kendar's heart. He remembered the last time he had heard Torisen speak with a voice not his own, in a bone-white room, in a bleached city, in the heart of the Southern Wastes. He and Harn Grip-Hard, Torisen's randon commander, had tracked Torisen there after his sudden disappearance from the Southern Host. Three years ago, that had been, just before he had claimed the Highlord's power. They had found him raving in a deep, hoarse voice that sounded so like Ganth's and had thought that he was delirious or, worse, mad.

  "He has no eyes," said that strange voice, through the flash of Torisen's clenched teeth. "That damned book killed him. They're after me. Run, run, run . . ."

  He half rose, would have pitched forward into the glowing embers, if Burr hadn't forced him back into the chair.

  "Blood and flies, crawling, crawling. . . . His skin is a tattered cloak . . . rope . . . tied down. C-can't move."

  His head whipped back against the chair. The eyes, half open, showed only white.

  Burr shook him, now thoroughly alarmed. "My lord!"

  "Knives. They have knives . . . no!"

  The Kendar seized the wine ewer and dashed its contents into his lord's face. Sputtering, Torisen fought his way out of sleep.

  "Blind . . ." he said, almost in his own voice, covering his eyes. Then he forced his hands to drop and stared down at them, blinking. His pupils reappeared. He slumped back in the chair. "A dream, a stupid dream. . . . Why are you staring at me like that? Everyone has them."

  "Yes, lord."

  Torisen wiped sweat and wine from his face with a shaking hand. "You could at least have used water. Trinity, what a mess. Wait a minute. You said something about news."

  "Yes, lord. A post-rider has just arrived from Gothregor . . ."

  "Well?"

  "The Horde has stopped circling and is moving northward."

  "Oh my God. All three million of it?"

  "Apparently. The Southern Host has marched out to meet it."

  "That damn fool Pereden. What does he think fifteen thousand can do against three million? But then King Krothen probably didn't give him any choice. Where's that messenger now?"

  "Below, lord."

  "Well, fetch him, man. Hurry."

  Burr bowed and left the room.

  Torisen found a bucket of water in a corner and plunged his hands into it. Wine stained the water like blood. He washed the stickiness from his face and hair, scrubbing long after both were clean, as though trying to rinse away the last traces of nightmare. But if one bad dream had ended, another was about to begin. He thought of Krothen, King of Kothifir, gross and greedy, but oh so rich. Kencyr troops were hired out all over Rathillien. Only Krothen, however, could afford so many of them that the resulting force could properly be called a host. The Southern Host was his elite guard and the Kencyrath's major source of income, as well as its field training ground for young officers and troops. Krothen had used the Host at Urakarn to lead a hopeless assault against his
enemies, but would even he pit it, apparently unsupported, against such an overwhelming foe as the Horde? And what about young Pereden, Ardeth's son, who had taken command after Torisen had left to become Highlord? Why had he consented to such a suicidal use of his troops?

  Torisen sighed. The first major threat since he had become Highlord, and it had to be this.

  He dried his face and hands on a cloak. Ready? No. The parcel of bones still sat beside the fire. On the wall, shadow lord and shadow child confronted each other. Torisen stood there a moment, biting his lip, then picked up the bones. On the wall, the child put her arms trustingly around the lord's neck. He carried the bones to his pallet and covered them with his cloak.

  Footsteps echoed on the stair. Torisen, Lord Knorth, sat down again by the fire and waited.