Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  Inside, several steps led down to the dirt floor of a large, low-beamed room. The air was thick with dust and the smoke of three ill-tended fireplaces. As her eyes adjusted to the murky light, Jame saw that the room's sparse furnishings were all pushed up against the walls. Perhaps the irregularities of the floor explained that. There were long earthen ridges running across it, hollows where water had collected, and even untidy piles of rocks.

  Mother Ragga had stepped out into this confusion of earth and rock, clutching Marc's present. Seen by firelight, she looked rather like an abandoned jackdaw's nest, all layered scraps of clothing held together with gewgaws, twigs, and what looked like dried mud. She also had the filthiest ears Jame had ever seen. For a moment, the Earth Wife stood there, irresolutely plucking at her lower lip. Then with a crow of triumph she scuttled to the northeast corner where she opened the sack, dumped its contents (which turned out to be dirt) on the ground, flopped down, and put her ear to it.

  "Hoofbeats," she said after a moment's scowling concentration. "Fast. One leg lame, Ha! Someone's gone tail over spout. My, what language!"

  "That's probably young Lord Harth, trying to ride Nathwyr again," said Marc bleakly. "Nath was old Narth's mount, a full-blooded Whinno-hir. We older yondri tried to tell the boy that no Whinno-hir can be ridden without its full consent, but he wouldn't listen. We insisted, and he ordered us to leave."

  Jame was startled. "You lost your place at East Kenshold because of a horse?"

  "Because of a Whinno-hir, one of the breed who have been with the Kencyrath almost from the beginning. Because of a friend."

  "Sorry," said Jame, chastened. She thought of those six aging Kendar driven out, beginning what for five of them had been a death march to Tai-tastigon, and all because of one arrogant Highborn, one of her own race. "But how did Mother Ragga know?"

  "Ha!" The Earth Wife glared at Jame around the patchwork bulk of her own broad behind. She scrambled to her feet, dusting off her hands. "Stepmother to you, girl, if even that. This isn't your world. But you, Kendar, you're a good boy. Now what?"

  "The Riverland?"

  "Done!"

  She waddled back across the room, stepping over one earthen ridge, then another before flopping down again.

  "Why, that's a map!"

  "Yes, of course," said Marc, "with the appropriate earth from each part of Rathillien. That's why she was so delighted to get a sample of genuine East Kenshold loam."

  He turned back to watch the old woman as she worked her way inches at a time up the trough that represented the Riverland. Jorin began to dig in a corner, but Jame quickly called him to heel.

  "Wait until we get outside," she said.

  Just then, someone kicked her in the leg. She spun around to find the ragged girl behind her, holding up an intricate cat's cradle. Without thinking, Jame raised her own gloved hands and the string web was deftly transferred to them. The girl shifted a loop here, another there, and suddenly Jame couldn't breathe.

  Binding magic! she thought, choking down panic. She had heard of such things, but had never had to cope with them before, much less while rapidly suffocating. The girl had stepped back and was smirking at her. Why, the dirty, little brat . . .

  Jame had a sudden, vivid image of herself, hands still trapped but nails out, lunging at the girl's throat.

  "No!" she gasped, recoiling.

  When she looked down at her hands, almost expecting to see blood on them, she found that she had in fact untangled the string without thinking.

  The girl was staring at her, thunderstruck. She thrust out her grubby hands, and Jame transferred the cradle back to them. Again, the girl wound up the charm and this time struggled with it herself. Jame watched without really seeing. What had possessed her even to dream of using her nails so freely, so wantonly?

  Torrigion, Argentiel, Regonereth—the three faces of our God. That-Which-Creates and That-Which-Preserves are terrible enough, but ah, Jamie, those Shanir with claws have an affinity to That-Which-Destroys, the most terrifying of all our god's aspects. Use yours as little as possible.

  That voice again, in memory this time, and ringing with authority. Yes, Senethari, I hear you, she thought automatically, then did a sort of mental stumble. Senethari? Was it Tirandys she had begun to remember?

  The girl's face was starting to turn blue. Jame hastily untangled the string for her and then did it again more slowly so that the other could see how it was done.

  "Present," she said, with a rather shaky smile.

  "Hooves," said the Earth Wife, settling back on her hams with a grunt. She pointed to the extremes of the Riverland, then brought her plump hands together near the lower end of the valley. "Many hooves, many more feet, coming south, coming north, coming here."

  "Gothregor," breathed Marc. "Lord Cat was right: The Host is gathering. But why? What could be important enough. . . . Ragga, where is the Southern Host?"

  The old woman scurried on all fours down the furrow that represented the Silver and plopped down again to the left of its base. Here she listened one place, then another. "Moving south from Kothifir."

  "South? But the only thing in that direction—"

  "Is the Horde." On hands and knees, she scuttled a few more feet, then again put her ear to the ground, only to jerk back a moment later with a sharp hiss. "Yes. Moving northeast."

  "Oh my God," said Marc. "It's happened at last."

  "What has?" demanded Jame. "The Horde—isn't that that mass of people down in the Southern Waste who've been chasing their own tails for the past few hundred years?"

  "In a way. I think it all began when one desert tribe drove another from its water hole. The displaced people moved into their neighbors' territory and uprooted them in turn. And so it went, one tribe dislodging another, until eventually scores of thousands of square miles had been set in motion. That was nearly three centuries ago, and it hasn't stopped since. Now there are some three million people down there caught up in it, circling, circling . . ."

  "Here," said the Earth Wife, stabbing a finger at the map. "And there." She spat on the ground beyond its edge.

  "Yes, that's the most worrying part of it. As their numbers have grown, the circle has expanded until part of it lies across the Barrier in Perimal Darkling. There are rumors that the Wasters have mixed their blood with what crawls there in the shadows until many of them are barely human themselves. Certainly, they've come to live on whomever they can catch. Their drink is the blood of men and beasts and their way is obscured by a perpetual cloud of powdered human bones. It's very windy down there, you see. The part of the Wastes that they circle has become a continual maelstrom. I've even heard stories that they throw the most deformed of their babies into it and that whatever lives in the heart of the storm feeds on them. When I was with the Southern Host, we used to wonder what would happen if the Horde ever stopped circling. Now it looks as if we're going to find out."

  "And you think the Riverland Host will march south to help?"

  "If the Highlord can mobilize it in time. The other Highborn may resist. One way or another, we've picked quite a time for a homecoming. Home—" He hesitated, then drew a second leather pouch out of his shirt. "One final listening, Ragga. Please."

  The Earth Wife gave him a shrewd, not unsympathetic look. "Same as last time, eh? Of course." She took the sack and trotted back to the top of the Riverland, where she placed it on the ground unopened and put her ear to it.

  "Quiet," she said. "Very quiet. Leaves blowing, thorns rattling, dry grass singing . . ."

  "The cloud-of-thorn berries would be ripe now," said Marc as though to himself. "So would the chestnuts. We used to roast them on cold autumn nights and Willow would usually burn her fingers."

  Scowling with sudden concentration, the Earth Wife pressed one ear harder against the sack and stuck her finger in the other. "Small bare feet, running, running . . ." she said. Marc stiffened. "Other footsteps, booted, heavier, and someone else running, pursued. Fire, hoofbeats, howl
s. Fading now . . . gone."

  "The earth has a long memory," said Marc heavily. "That must have been nearly eighty years ago, the night the keep fell."

  "No, not years. The earth warms, cools, warms . . . two days ago."

  "And now? The running child?"

  Ragga listened for a moment, then sat back on her heels, shaking her head. "Gone."

  "Willow," said Marc, looking stunned. "My little sister. I recovered the rest of my family for the pyre, but not her. I searched the ruins for her body more times than I can remember, that red winter when I hunted the Merikit and they hunted me. In the end, I thought she must either have escaped or been carried off, alive or dead, by the hillmen or a wild animal. And all this time she's been there, up until two days ago."

  "Some child was there, anyway, but how can you be so sure it was your sister? It could have been anyone."

  "Not quite," said Mother Ragga, peering up at them through her stringy gray hair. "This one had footsteps and a shadow, but no weight. This one was dead." She returned the leather sack to Marc. "Here, Kendar. No other earth on this world will ever be so nearly yours."

  Turning to go, Jame nearly collided with the ragged girl, who thrust something into her hand.

  "Present," she said, with a gap-toothed grin, and bolted back into the shadows.

  Out in the morning light of the street, Jame saw that her gift was a clay medallion with a crude, eyeless face printed on it. It made her gloved hand tingle in a not altogether pleasant way.

  They walked back up through the town with Marc deep in somber thought and Jame not liking to intrude. Jorin found a tub of earth and dead petunias in which he was happily industrious while Jame mounted guard. Back at the inn, the Kendar roused himself and ordered breakfast. Then he asked to see the medallion.

  "Careful," Jame said sharply, but he had already picked it up.

  "Why?"

  "Somehow, I had the feeling that it might not be safe to touch bare-handed. Don't you feel anything?"

  "Some warmth and maybe a slight vibration, but nothing else."

  "Well, Mother Ragga liked you. Maybe this thing does, too. But what is it?"

  "An imu, I think. I've run into them all over the more primitive parts of Rathillien. Many people carry them as charms."

  Rather gingerly, Jame took back the medallion. "There's certainly some kind of power bound up in this thing, and in Mother Ragga's earth magic too. Now, where have I come across something like it before? Ah. In the Temple District of Tai-tastigon among the Old Pantheon gods, I think. This seems different, though, as if the only force invoked is that of the earth itself."

  "The power of the earth," said Marc thoughtfully. "We had a priest at Kithorn who used to talk about that. He claimed that there are thick and thin areas in Rathillien. The thin spots are like the Haunted Lands, with Perimal Darkling just under the surface; thick areas are more like the hills above Kithorn and down by the Cataracts where Rathillien is most itself and least susceptible to any encroachment. The thickest spot of all is supposed to be the Anarchies, in the western foothills of the Ebonbane. We'll be skirting it on our way to the Riverland."

  "Marc, will we get there before the Host marches?"

  "Possibly, if the Highlord is delayed that long. It could be disastrous if he is, though. I don't know where the Horde is bound or what it thinks it's up to—assuming it thinks at all—but the longer we put off meeting it, the worse things will be."

  "Maybe the Southern Host can deal with it without help."

  "Outnumbered two hundred to one?" He laughed, a bit ruefully. "We're good fighters, the best in Rathillien, but not that good. At best, the Southern Host can only hope to delay the Horde, unless King Krothen demands a pitched battle. He could. After all, despite its Highborn officers, the Host is his elite guard, made up of yondri from nearly every house in the Kencyrath."

  "Whose pay goes to enrich some lord snug at home in the Riverland," said Jame bitterly. It made her furious to think that a displaced Kendar like Marc could spend most of his life as a yondri, only to be cast off by his sometime lord when he grew too old for active service. "How can the Highlord permit such a thing?"

  "He isn't omnipotent," Marc said mildly. "It's a pity, of course, that anyone has to be a yondri, but it's been a long time since there have been enough lords to give all the Kendar real homes. Then too, not all lords are all that rich. The Riverland may be nearly two hundred and fifty miles long, but it's only about ten miles wide, and very little of that is fit to grow crops or even graze cattle. We have to buy most of our food, and sometimes the yondri pay for it with their blood. Perhaps that isn't fair, but it's the way things are."

  Jorin had stretched out on the bench beside Jame with his chin on her knee. Suddenly he raised his head and began to growl. Now what? Out in the street, the patter of swift, stealthy feet. . . . The handful of patrons in the hall exchanged quick glances, then rose and hurriedly left—all but two. There at a table in the far shadows by the kitchen door sat the hooded man whom Jame had seen watching her the previous night from a second-story window. Beside him lounged a big man in brigand garb with a strip of black cloth knotted over his eyes. Jame put her hand on Marc's arm. Following her eyes, he tensed.

  "Bortis."

  The innkeeper emerged from the kitchen, staggering under the weight of a tray piled with brie tart, shortbread, and an enormous humble pie. He plumped down his burden before the two Kencyr.

  "There, masters! Now, can I get you anything else?"

  "Yes. My war-axe."

  The innkeeper stared for a moment, then began to chuckle.

  "Ah, the wit of an empty stomach. You know perfectly well, sir, that this is a restricted area. No unsheathed weapons here, if you please."

  "Don't tell me," said Marc, getting slowly to his feet. "Tell them."

  Thirteen big men, all armed with the distinctive curved knife of the brigand, had entered by the street door. They ranged themselves in an arc across the room facing the two Kencyr, blocking the windows and door. Bortis and the hooded man rose.

  "By the Dog," the innkeeper said, staring. "Black Band himself and his pet necromancer." He made a dive for the kitchen, only to run head-on into several more brigands who had entered by the back way. They let him pass. A moment later, the rear door slammed.

  "Well, now, Talisman, isn't this nice," said Bortis, grinning. Once he had been handsome in a coarse way. Now he was only coarse, with a bulging stomach, greasy hair, and an unwashed smell that reached Jame across the room through Jorin's senses. "I was just getting the lads ready for a visit to Tai-tastigon come spring to see you again, and here you turn up on my doorstep. Now, I call that accommodating."

  "Hello, Bortis. If you'd visited the Res aB'tyrr a few days ago, you would have been in time for Taniscent's funeral."

  "So the old girl finally keeled over. Good. That's one less senile slut to soil the world's sheets."

  "That 'slut' loved you, and died of old age at twenty-four because you gave her an overdose of Dragon's Blood."

  "My, my, you do keep score, don't you? Well, so do I. You owe me for a pair of eyes, Talisman. I'm here to collect."

  "I wouldn't advise it," said Marc quietly.

  The brigand cocked his bandaged head at the sound of a new voice. His grin deepened. "So now we find out how many men a Kendar is really worth. Not to fret, though, Talisman. There'll still be enough of us to make things interesting for you, and more in the hills afterward. All right," he said to his men, his voice suddenly hoarse with a gloating eagerness. "Take them."

  Marc pushed Jame back against the wall behind him. "Stay out of this as long as you can," he said over his shoulder. "This isn't your kind of fight."

  Jame eyed the advancing mob. "Is it yours?"

  The biggest of the brigands rushed forward with a roar. There was a sharp crack, and he staggered back, hands to his face, blood streaming between his fingers from a shattered jaw. Marc stood there gently rubbing his knuckles.

  "Next
," he said.

  They all rushed him at once. He shrugged off one attacker, floored another, and then went down under a welter of bodies.

  Jame circled the heaving mass in an agony of helplessness. Marc had been right: This wasn't her sort of combat at all. Her friend might be killed if she didn't help, but what could she do? Dance. Yes, that was it, but not as she had at the Res aB'tyrr. Paralyze these bastards. Strip away their souls, shred by shred . . .

  A hand closed on her arm and wrenched it up behind her back. Pain shattered her thoughts.

  "Well, well," Bortis' voice wheezed in her ear. His breath stank. "So you couldn't stay away from me even this long." He twisted her arm harder, making her gasp with pain. "Patience, pretty eyes. Watch for both of us."

  The mass split open, and Marc struggled halfway to his feet, dragging men up with him. A brigand rose, clutching a short-handled mace. He brought it down hard on the Kendar's head. Marc collapsed. Two brigands caught him by the arms and held him up. A third jerked his head back by the graying hair and put a knife against his throat. Its edge drew blood.