Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  This wouldn't do, Jame told herself firmly. If she kept thinking about the darkness, it would consume her. To steady herself, she turned her mind back to the mystery of the cracks, and soon came up with some guesses that made her even more uneasy.

  "Marc . . ." she said. "Suppose the Builders did try to claim the Anarchies. Then suppose the rathorns came back, maybe through these tunnels, and . . . and used the imus to scream the city to pieces, with the Builders still in it. I found a skeleton in that house I explored. It wasn't human. There could have been more there, hidden in corners and holes all over the city, where they crawled trying to escape. Perhaps all the Builders are dead, and if they are—"

  "There'll be no more temples," Marc finished, his voice echoing hollowly in the darkness. "If we have to retreat to the next threshold world, we'll be completely cut off from our god."

  "Oh, I don't like the old grump any more than you do, but without him . . ."

  "Or her, or it."

  ". . . we're helpless."

  "So, if the Builders are dead, this is it: Rathillien, the Kencyrath's last battlefield. But if that's true, just who or what is holding onto my hand?"

  She didn't get an answer. Jorin had been walking beside her, his shoulder brushing her leg. Suddenly she felt him stop. His keen ears had caught a faint, distant sound. Jame heard it too, somewhat distorted, through his senses: many claws on stone, rapidly getting closer. The cat began to growl.

  "Lass?"

  "Company, and no more fire to make them welcome."

  "Then let's not be at home when they get here."

  Their guide seemed to agree for that cold hand tugged impatiently at Jame. They ran, tripping, stumbling in the dark. Behind them, the scratching sound grew closer, louder, and a thin, excited whistling filled the air.

  Then between one step and the next, light exploded around them. Half-blinded, Jame skidded to a stop, with Jorin tumbling over her heels. She turned in bewilderment and saw Marc standing behind her, rubbing his eyes. There was a wall close behind him—so close, in fact, that his pack seemed to be embedded in it. Then he gave a startled grunt and rocked back on his heels, as if something had given him a sharp pull from behind. The next moment, he surged away from the wall and hastily shrugged off what was left of his pack. It had been ripped open and its contents half dissolved by a slimy gray substance through which white larvae wriggled.

  "It must be the breeding season," said Marc grimly, and kicked the pack back through the apparently solid wall. "I've heard old songs about gateway barriers like this. Ancestors be praised the songs were right. Now, where's our guide? We apparently owe him more than we realized."

  But the small gray figure from the Anarchies was nowhere in sight. Then Jame realized that she was still holding something. She opened her hand. In it lay the long, slim finger bone from the Builder's house. It crumbled into dust.

  "Good-bye, friend." She let it sift through her fingers. "Now, where on earth are we?"

  They were standing on the edge of a large, nine-sided chamber. Its walls were painted in a continuous sylvan mural, and rib girders rose from each angle like tree trunks to meet overhead in a tangle of painted leaves, branches, and sky. From the apex of the ceiling hung a light sphere. Jame had seen others like it in Tai-tastigon, but this one was much larger and dimmer. The blinding glare was actually no more than a twilight glow now that her eyes had adjusted to it, and apparently hadn't been more than that for some time, for the real grass carpeting the room had had begun to die. But what really astonished her was the white, windowless structure standing in the middle of the floor.

  "Why, it looks just like a model of our god's temple in Tai-tastigon!" she exclaimed.

  "That's no model," said Marc. He looked around in amazement. "I've heard of this room. We're in Karkinaroth, Prince Odalian's palace. But how? That's three hundred leagues south of the Anarchies."

  "The step-forward stones! I thought we'd probably gone quite a distance, but this . . . !" She stopped, struck by a thought. "Marc, there are supposed to be nine Kencyr temples on Rathillien, aren't there?"

  "Why, yes."

  "There were ten doors in that underground chamber."

  "Well, there's Wyrden in the Oseen Hills. That's Builders' work, too. Grindark hillmen live there now, but there's a tradition that their ancestors were the Builders' craftsmen."

  "So they would have to get to the building sites, too, maybe by a step-forward tunnel to that room under the Anarchies and then on by one of the other nine doors. Well, it's a thought, anyway. It would at least explain how we got here." She approached the miniature temple cautiously, wary as always in the presence of her god. "But are you sure this thing is real? It's so small."

  "Only on the outside. The Builders could be very playful about space. Three priests and nine acolytes are supposed to serve here."

  "It doesn't look as if anyone has for some time. Why, the door is even bolted shut." She put her hands on it, then jerked them away with a startled exclamation. "There's power in there. Too much of it, barely under control. Where are the priests? Trinity, don't they know how dangerous this could be? Tai-tastigon nearly got ripped apart when the temple there was mismanaged."

  "I think I hear someone in there."

  They leaned as close to the door as they could without touching it. From inside came a whisper of a voice crying over and over in Kens:

  "Let me out! Oh God, let me out, let me out . . ."

  Marc pushed Jame aside. He gripped the rod bolted across the door and pitted the whole of his great strength against it. Muscles bulged, bones creaked, but the rod didn't move. He let go and looked rather blankly at his hands, blistered by the power from within the temple.

  "This calls for a lever," he said. He unsheathed his war-axe and regarded its wooden shaft critically. "It might hold up against that rod, but then again . . ."

  At that moment, three guards wearing the Prince's buff and gold livery entered the room. They carried steel-shafted spears.

  "Now, one of those will do nicely," said the big Kendar and stepped forward. "Here, friend, lend me your weapon. Someone is trapped inside . . ."

  The guard reversed his spear and struck with its iron shod butt. By skill or luck, he clipped Marc on the head just where Bortis's brigand had hit him four days earlier. The big man crumpled without a sound. Jame found herself facing two poised spears.

  "What about the cat?" one man asked another.

  "We have no orders about that. Kill it."

  "Jorin, run!" Jame cried, and threw herself forward, twisting. One spear point passed under her arm and the other clashed against it as the second guard tried too late to block her. She dropped the first man with an elbow to the throat. The man who had struck Marc tripped her with his spear shaft. She came up rolling and saw Jorin disappear in a golden streak out the door. The next moment, the back of her head seemed to explode.

  But these people are supposed to be our allies, she thought with amazement, and then thought nothing more at all.

  Chapter 8

  Interlude with Jewel-Jaws

  Wyrden: 12th of Winter

  TWO DAYS after leaving the Riverland, the Host of the Kencyrath seemed to have left behind impending winter. While Kithorn had been cold and stark, here in the Oseen Hills some three hundred and fifty miles to the south, maples and sumac still blazed red and gold on the slopes and migrating birds flew overhead. Holly, Lord Danior, still rode beside Torisen, shying stones at every dorith tree he saw. Whenever he hit one at just the right moment, in just the right way, all of its leaves fell off at once with a most satisfying "whoosh." Torisen finally sent the young lord and his riders on ahead to scout the next stretch of road.

  "Running you ragged, is he?" said Harn with a chuckle, pulling up beside the Highlord. "Now you know how I felt when I was your commander."

  "At least I never tried to bury you in dorith leaves. How are things down the line?"

  "Just stay away from the Coman. Demoth and Korey are rea
dy to cut each other's throats or, preferably, yours. Which reminds me. Although you've sent your regular guard back to their respective commands, you haven't picked your war-guard yet. Now, I've got my eye on a score or so of your randons who—"

  "Harn, no. We won't reach the Cataracts for nearly three weeks. Let it wait."

  Harn bristled. "You think nothing can happen before then? You've got more enemies than just the Coman, boy, and you're too valuable to risk. You need protection."

  "Harn, I'm not going to spend the rest of this march tripping over a parcel of well-meaning bodyguards. I just don't like to be followed about. You know that."

  "In case you hadn't noticed, you're being followed by the entire Kencyr Host."

  "That isn't quite the same thing. Drop it for now, Harn. I promise, I'll be as sensible as you like—when we get to the Cataracts. Now, how are the foot soldiers holding up?"

  "Well enough," said Harn grudgingly, "as long as they get at least one night of dwar sleep out of three. We must be covering a good sixteen leagues a day. Not bad. But to have our strength cut by a third every night when we're this spread out . . . d'you realize that the line of march stretches back nearly ten miles?"

  "We'll be out of these mountains in two or three days."

  "Aye, and on the edge of the White Hills. What d'you think of Caineron's suggestion that we cut through them instead of following the River Road? It would save us nearly three hundred miles."

  Torisen snorted. "That wasn't why he suggested it. My lord Caineron simply wanted to remind everyone of what happened there and whose fault it was."

  The White Hills—white with the ashes of the dead after Ganth's defeat . . . no Kencyr had walked there since, and Torisen didn't want to be the first. Who knew what might wait in a place like that?

  "Harn," he said abruptly, changing the topic. "You served with Pereden for a year after I left. How has he shaped up?"

  The randon scratched an unshaven chin, his nail rasping on stubble. "Well now, that's not so easily answered. It was a quiet year, without much to test the boy's mettle. I would say, though, that Pereden wanted to be a great leader without having to work for it. He seemed to think that command of the Southern Host was only his due."

  "So it would have been from the start, if Ardeth hadn't given it to me. You know the tradition: where there's no Knorth heir, the heir of Ardeth commands in the field—except when Caineron got his finger in the pie just long enough to pull out Urakarn."

  "But you were the Knorth heir."

  "Yes, but Pereden didn't know that. No one did but Ardeth until I came of age. You thought I was delirious when I told you in that ruined desert city where you and Burr tracked me down."

  "Oh aye. And stayed drunk for a week along with half your staff when we heard you'd actually made the other lords accept you."

  Torisen laughed, then caught his breath sharply. Flashing across the road scarcely a dozen paces away was a rage of five rathorns. The lead stallion spun around to face the Host, fangs bared. Sunlight fell on the blackness of his coat, blazed off his two horns and wealth of ivory. Every war horse in the vanguard rocked back on its heels, wild-eyed. Not one would have stood its ground if the great beast had charged. Instead, he gave a scornful snort and bounded over the Silver after his rage. A moment later, all five had vanished as if the hills had swallowed them whole.

  "Trinity!" breathed Harn, soothing his frightened mount. "That was quite an omen."

  "Of what? I think the emblem of my house just laughed in my face. But where on earth did they come from?"

  He dismounted and followed the rathorns' path, clearly marked by trampled grass. Ahead there seemed to be nothing but a vine-covered cliff face. As he drew nearer, however, Torisen saw darkness behind the leaves. He pushed the vines aside. Behind them was the mouth of a tunnel, high vaulted, lined with smooth, expertly fitted stones. The shaft seemed to go back a long, long way. Its cold breath, heavy with the smells of earth and rathorn, breathed in his face. A faint, confused murmur arose from the black distance, almost like the sound of voices.

  "Hello? Is anyone there?"

  His voice echoed back harshly again and again and again. He caught his breath, feeling as if he had shouted down into a place better left undisturbed. Then, somewhere, far, far away, someone called his name.

  The unburnt dead come for you out of darkness, calling, calling, and if you answer, you are lost.

  But that was only how he and Jame used to frighten each other as children. It was just a silly game born out of a stupid superstition . . . about as stupid as believing that someone down there in the dark actually knew his name.

  Harn called to him from the road. "Blackie! Here comes Ardeth."

  The Lord of Omiroth was riding up toward the vanguard on his gray Whinno-hir mare Brithany, a matriarch of the herd and Storm's granddam. Kindrie, the two Kendar scrollsmen, and Ardeth's war-guard followed him at a distance.

  Harn grunted. "Confrontation time, huh? I'd better take myself off, then." He cantered back toward the main body of the Host, saluting Ardeth as he passed.

  Torisen swung back up onto Storm and waited, not without some trepidation. He and Ardeth had not spoken since Gothregor when the older man had dressed him down for not honoring his obligation to Kindrie.

  "My lord, my lady." He included both Highborn and horse in a wary salute. Ardeth, to his surprise, looked almost embarrassed.

  "My boy, it seems I owe you an apology. I didn't know that the changer who attacked you at Tentir was a Shanir, much less that he was bound to a darkling wyrm."

  "Kindrie saw the wyrm? Good. I was beginning to think that I'd imagined it. But he waited this long to tell you?"

  "You never told me at all," said Ardeth, a trifle sharply. "Still, what cursed luck that it was a Shanir. The Old Blood can be dangerous. It opens us up to god-born powers few of us still know how to control. But is it necessarily so foul a thing, say, to share senses with an animal? Now, if it were Brithany here instead of some crawling thing, wouldn't that at least tempt you?"

  "Wo," said Torisen, and gave a startled yelp as the mare nipped his leg. "Sorry, my lady. Forgive me?" He held out his hand to her. She made as if to snap at his fingers, but only grazed them with a velvet lip.

  "You always were one of her favorites," said Ardeth, smiling. "That was in part why I took a chance on you in the first place."

  "So that's why you introduced us that first night. The lord of Omiroth, taking advice from a gray mare. Hey!"

  Storm, growing jealous, had turned to snap at Ardeth's foot.

  Brithany put back her ears. Her grand-colt subsided, chastened and a bit sulky.

  "The idiot child," said Ardeth, regarding him coolly. "Why don't you look for a full-blooded Whinno-hir? I know of at least one three-year-old in the herd who would be honored to bear you."

  "Even a half-blood wouldn't have the weight to carry me into battle. Storm does. Besides, he'll take me straight through a stone wall if I ask him to, without an argument."

  "As I said, an idiot. Look!"

  Across the river, a flight of azure-winged butterflies rose from the tall grass at the sound of the horses' hooves, then settled back again out of sight.

  "Jewel-jaws," said Torisen absently. "There must be something dead in the grass." He peered ahead down the road. "Holly's been gone a long time. I sent him ahead to check out the next post station."

  "You expect trouble?"

  "I don't really know. We should have had news from the south before now, unless the post-rider has been waylaid somewhere along the line."

  "Or no one escaped to send word," Ardeth concluded bleakly. He turned to watch two more swarms of butterflies dancing above the grass, then gave himself a shake. "Your pardon, my boy. It's an old man's weakness to think too much of death. This post system of yours is really remarkable. Imagine, news from the far side of Rathillien in only ten days. Of course, if you put the Shanir to work on it, they might come up with something even faster . . ."
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