Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "Now, chief?"

  "Now," said Bortis hungrily.

  Suddenly he gave a yelp of pain. Jame twisted out of his grasp as he went down with Jorin's teeth sunk in his leg. The brigands were staring at them, caught off guard. When Jame darted at them, two of the hulking men actually flinched away as if from some small creature with bared teeth and sharp claws. Jame somersaulted over one of them, using his broad shoulders as a springboard. Her foot caught the man with the knife in the face. He dropped. The others were too tightly packed to defend themselves properly. She stepped on shoulders and heads, lashing out at everyone within reach. They surged back. Marc's would-be killer was groping in a dazed way for his knife. As his hand closed on it, Jame landed on his back. Her long fingers slid around his muscular neck. He fell forward, gurgling. She crouched over the Kendar's body, claws fully extended and dripping.

  "Next."

  There was a moment's startled silence, and then a commotion began near the door. More men were crowding into the room. If these were more brigands . . . but no. Here came the innkeeper, triumphantly leading the city guard. As a fine battle took shape around them, Jame bent anxiously over her friend. Blood was pooling under his head from a torn scalp, but his skull seemed intact and his breathing was regular. Ancestors be praised for a good, hard head.

  She was dragging him out from under the combatants' feet when someone grabbed her. Jame twisted around in her attacker's grasp and a pair of strong hands closed on her throat. The hooded man bent over her. She grabbed his little fingers, remembering in time that he had two left hands, and jerked them back to break his hold. They shifted disconcertingly in her grasp. He laughed down at her. Gasping, she struck up at him, and his hood fell back. Instead of breaking his nose, her blow had only shoved it up between his eyes. Even now it was settling back more or less in place. He grinned. His mouth angled across his face, splitting it open like a rotten fruit. He was another changer.

  "Well met, Jamethiel. Like our bearish friend, I thought I would have to use the Black Band to get you out of Tai-tastigon, but here you are."

  Jame clawed desperately at his hands. When her nails broke the skin, his blood seared her. He tightened his grip.

  "Naughty, naughty. Be grateful when someone does you a favor, or would you rather be a guest in Bortis's camp? At least this way you can die knowing that your death will lead to the eventual downfall of the Master himself. Good-bye, Jamethiel."

  Through the roar of blood in her ears, Jame heard a crash behind her as the table that she and Marc had been sitting at overturned. The humble pie landed beside her, miraculously right side up. Simultaneously, a small object shot past her, hitting her assailant in the face. It was the clay medallion. The changer let go of her throat and clawed at it as it sank into his flesh with a muffled hiss. Wailing, he staggered toward the door, crashing into furniture and men. Brigands and guards alike scrambled out of his way. On the threshold, he got his nails hooked under the clay disc and tore it away with a wet, ripping sound. He lurched out into the street, hands over his mutilated face. The imu medallion lay on the doorstep, the changer's blood slowly eating away the stone under it.

  Jame sat up gasping, one hand on her bruised throat. Sore again, damnit. This was getting monotonous. Jorin slipped up to her out of the corner, chirping anxiously. He wasn't really used to people, much less to tavern brawls, and this one looked as if it could still turn into a massacre. The guards were clearly getting the worst of it. Despite the advantage of numbers, they were up against tougher men and dirtier fighters. Marc groaned. Jame helped him to sit up, anxiously noting his glazed eyes and dazed expression. They might still have to fight or run at any moment.

  Their movement had been noted. "They're getting away!" a brigand shouted across the room to Bortis.

  "Stop them, damn you!" bellowed the robber chief. "A hundred gold altars to the man who brings me their heads!"

  Four brigands advanced on them. Jame felt Marc tense. He came off the floor with a howl, sending three attackers flying. The fourth he grabbed and jammed up the chimney. The rest backed away from his wild eyes and bristling hair. He tore apart a bench with his nails and teeth and charged at them, brandishing a six-foot plank. Foam and blood flecked his gray beard. One brigand jumped out a window, and then another. Suddenly there was a struggling knot of them at the doors, all fighting to get out. Two of Bortis's lieutenants grabbed him and hauled him with them, kicking and swearing. On the threshold, he fought free and spun around.

  "I'll be back, do you hear? I'll rally every brigand in the five bands and come ba—umph!"

  The humble pie hit him squarely in the face. His men dragged him out as the Kendar charged them again, howling like a wolf. All four disappeared down the street. A few minutes later, Marc came back, wiping his beard and laughing. He found an unspilt tankard of ale on the mantelpiece, drained it, and looked around.

  "Hello, where is everybody?"

  One of the innkeeper's slippers landed on the floor in front of him. Looking up, he saw the innkeeper himself and half the guard clinging to the rafters, staring down at him. The rest peered warily out of the kitchen and Jame and Jorin from around the edge of the overturned table.

  "Oh, come out," he said, grinning at them. "I won't eat you."

  "Is that a promise?"

  It took awhile to retrieve everyone and even longer for them all to recover. The innkeeper helped with plenty of free ale. Soon a festive mood set in, compounded as much of relief and exultation as of alcohol. They had actually beaten the Black Band, or at least part of it. Never in the history of Peshtar had there been so great a victory for the rule of order. They celebrated by sending down to the cellar for more ale and by putting matches to the feet of the brigand still jammed up the chimney. Meanwhile, Jame bandaged Marc's head.

  "That's exactly where I got hit the last time Bortis and I tangled," she said, examining the wound. "The man is at least consistent." She daubed at the torn skin with a wine-soaked cloth. Marc yelped. "Serves you right. You nearly scared the boots off me, pulling a stunt like that."

  "The splinters are a nuisance, but on the whole I'd rather break furniture than heads. Too bad I didn't remember that before my own got broken. I did tell you that I used to feign berserker fits in battle, didn't I?"

  "Oh yes," said Jame, winding a strip of cloth around his head, "but that was hardly adequate warning. I did get a bit suspicious, though, when you threw that pie. Bortis should wear tripe more often. It suits him. There." She secured the end of the bandage, a troubled frown clouding her face. "I wish I knew what's going on, though. It's natural enough that Bortis should come after me, but why the changers? That's two of them in a week, the first for the Master, the second against, if that's possible. Then too, why in all the names of God should my death mean Gerridon's ultimate ruin? It's like a puzzle with half the pieces missing."

  Just then, the innkeeper came bustling up with an ewer of wine. "What, my masters, not drinking? Here, the best in the house!" He refilled their cups to overflowing. "Drink to the rout of the Black Band and of Bortis, the worst bully on the western slopes!"

  "Doesn't it worry you that he's promised to return?"

  "If he does, we'll lick 'em again," said the innkeeper with relish. "But, just among the three of us, why should he? After all, in the final reckoning it was just a tavern quarrel, spectacular, I grant you, but nothing all that serious."

  Marc looked up at Jame. "You'd better tell him."

  Jame nodded. "I'm afraid it was and still is serious enough," she said to the innkeeper. "You see, I'm the one who cost him his eyes."

  The little man stared at her. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "Excuse me." He put the ewer down on the table with a thump and scuttled over to the carousing guards. They listened to his urgent whisper, laughing at first, but not for long.

  "I take it the party is over," Jame said to Marc.

  The captain of the guard stalked over to the table. "What's all this nonsense?" he demanded
, giving Jame a scornful look. "As if a famine's filly like this was worth any man's eyes."

  Jame glared at him. Not having seen her fight, he apparently assumed that Bortis had been blinded fighting over her— which, she suddenly realized, was partly true.

  "Gently, gently," said Marc in Kens, chuckling. "At least he knows you're a girl. That's an improvement over last night. How many men can Bortis actually rally?" he asked the captain.

  "Not the five bands, perhaps, but certainly the rest of his own, and there are four times as many of them as we let into Peshtar yesterday. That means we could be under siege by some four hundred brigands by nightfall. You had better be gone by then."

  "So much for the celebrated rule of order," said Jame.

  The captain turned dusky with anger, but his men shuffled their feet, embarrassed. He was a mercenary brought in from the Central Lands, but they were townsmen, and they had their pride.

  "Now, lass, don't taunt them," said Marc softly. "There's a delicate balance here between rule and chaos. We don't want to be besieged anyway."

  "No, of course not. But if they want to keep their civic pride at our expense, let them pay for it. We can't leave until we're refitted," she said to the townsmen. "Most of our clothes were burned in the mountains, and if we're going to be on the run, we won't have time to hunt for food. We'll need supplies for at least two weeks."

  "No problem there," said one of the guards eagerly, disregarding his captain's sour look. "We'll collect what you need. I'm sure the Council will even be glad to foot the bill."

  "And we need a pack pony."

  There was a moment's disconcerted silence.

  "Yes, of course," said the little innkeeper, glaring at the others. "I'll pay for that myself, if necessary. It's the least we can do. Thank you, my dear. Now, make out your list and these chaps will attend to it while I fix you both another breakfast. And will someone please get that man out of my chimney?"

  By the time the Kencyr had eaten, their supplies were ready and packed on a shaggy little beast with shrewd eyes. Someone had even found Jame a new pair of gloves. As she put them on, she remembered the brigand whose throat she had slashed and was uneasy for a moment. Of course, it was wrong to use her claws so freely . . . but the man had deserved it, and that was that.

  At the gate, Marc fished something out of his pocket. "I almost forgot to give you this," he said. "It was still lying on the doorstep."

  She took the medallion gingerly. The clay face was softened by a mask of molded leather, which Jame suddenly realized must be skin from the changer's face. Only the mouth remained uncovered, with a trace of dried blood on the lips. Its power seemed muted, or perhaps just temporarily sated.

  "I'm beginning to wonder just what sort of a present this was meant to be," she said. "Amazing that that stampede of brigands didn't smash it to a powder, but then, like the Book, perhaps it can take care of itself." She slipped it into her pocket. "Ready?"

  Marc hesitated. "There's one more thing. Mind you, I think we can outrun this wolf pack, but if Bortis should catch up with us, he had better not take you alive. Agreed?"

  Jame swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Agreed." They went out Peshtar's western gate and started down the caravan road. The Central Lands spread out before them, shining in the morning light.

  Chapter 4

  First Blood

  Tentir: 7th-8th of Winter

  BY DAWN on the seventh, Tagmeth seethed with life. Everyone had heard the news of the Horde's march. The packing was already done and the cook fires ready to douse. Torisen had listened to the messenger's full report and sent him down to snatch half an hour's sleep in a corner of the main hall. Now while Brishney tore a spare shirt into squares, Torisen rolled up his sleeve, and Burr carefully nicked his arm. Morien caught the Highlord's blood in a silver bowl. Donkerri, watching, turned a dirty shade of white. He got up, trying to appear unconcerned, and nearly walked into the fire pit before Rion caught him.

  "Blood-blind," said Morien scornfully. He began to dip the corner of each cloth square into the bowl.

  Torisen regarded Donkerri. When Caineron had spoken of having eyes and ears at Tagmeth, had he meant his grandson? It would be like Caldane to use his own blood-kin, and a child at that, as a spy. Torisen decided that he didn't like spies, whatever their age.

  Donkerri huddled by the fire, feeling sick and miserable as he always did at the sight of blood. He felt the Highlord's cold, considering eyes on him and turned paler still.

  Torisen's herald entered the room. He gave her the scraps of cloth. "Pass the word down the river to every keep that there will be a High Council meeting at Gothregor on the ninth and a general gathering of the Host no later than the tenth. Give each lord one of these squares and say to him: 'The blood calls. Answer or be foresworn.' "

  She bowed and left.

  "That should make them jump," said Torisen to Burr. "By tomorrow night, every Highborn in the valley is probably going to wish I'd never been born, if they don't already—and what are you staring at? Is my face still dirty?"

  "No, lord." Burr gave him a critical look. "That bit of sleep did you some good. Now you only look as if you've been dead one day instead of three."

  "It's nice to know that I improve with age," said the Highborn tartly. "Hello, what's that?"

  From the north came a distant rumble. Black clouds were beginning to pile up beyond the white peaks, towering higher and higher.

  "A storm is brewing up near the Barrier," said Burr, looking out.

  "Yes. With our luck, it will probably chase us all the way to Gothregor. We aren't leaving the north a moment too soon."

  They rode out of Tagmeth within the hour, the light already dimming around them and an unseasonably warm wind pushing fitfully at their backs. It was fifty leagues to Gothregor, past five pairs of keeps. Lord Caineron and Nusair joined the cavalcade as it passed Restormir, leaving Sheth Sharp-Tongue, their randon commander, to bring the troops after them. Caldane chatted cozily with Torisen for a way about their lucky escape the night before and then dropped back to ride with his own retinue. The blood summons bound him as it did every other lord in the Riverland; if he had any new schemes in mind, he would probably wait until the Council session to spring them.

  At Mount Alban, the scrollsmen's keep, a cheerful historian and a gray-haired singer joined them, one to record the facts of the coming campaign (assuming there was one), and the other to immortalize it in song, using the singer's cherished prerogative of the Lawful Lie.

  All day, the storm clouds built up, growing blacker, towering higher, but they didn't burst until dusk. The wind, fitful until now, began to rush past the riders, driving dead leaves with it. Thunder boomed in the near distance. Caineron spurred his mount up to Torisen's.

  "This looks bad," he said, uneasily regarding the lightning-shot darkness now rolling down on them. "We had better turn back."

  "Tentir isn't much farther away than Mount Alban. Surely you aren't afraid of a little rain, my lord."

  "Of course not," said Caineron with a bland, superior smile, buttoning up the collar of his red velvet coat against the blast. "It's simply that no well-bred Highborn rides in all weather like a leather-shirt trooper if he can help it."

  Torisen suppressed a smile. In his serviceable riding leathers, allowing for his slighter build, he could easily have passed for one of his own Kendar retainers.

  "As you please, my lord. We're going to make a run for Tentir, where supper should be waiting for us. You're more likely to get wet going back anyway."

  Storm sprang forward. Torisen heard one of the boys give a whoop and reined in until Morien drew up level with him. Brishney and the others weren't far behind. Then he let Storm go again. The black stretched out in a full gallop, his ears back as he listened to the other horses thundering after him. Lightning was striking the peaks above them now. Its glare briefly gilded bare branches bent in the wind and the ruffled surface of the River Silver running swift beside the road. T
he boys were shouting, their voices shrill against the tempest's oncoming roar. Torisen laughed. As if they had a chance of catching a quarter-blood Whinno-hir like Storm. There was a blinding flash, a boom like the sundering of worlds, and a forty-foot pine crashed down ahead of them, its tip across the path. Storm shied, then steadied. He took the jump gallantly, his hooves barely skimming the fallen tree's needles. The saddlebag containing the bones thumped against his side as he landed.

  "Hold on tight!" Torisen shouted over his shoulder.

  Then, there across the river, was Tentir, the randon college, black against the mountains. Lights shone in the guest quarter windows. Torisen galloped across the bridge, up between the training fields, and through the gate house. Raindrops stung his face. The door swung open, and he rode full tilt into the main hall of the old keep. Storm skidded to a halt on the age-slick flagstones. The boys clattered in after him, shouting friendly insults at each other. Burr and the others followed, with Caineron's group last of all. By now, it was pouring outside. Nusair rode in looking like a half-drowned cat, and Caineron, as proud as ever, but with his fancy red coat bleeding dye over his hands.