Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "No."

  "Ah well. Have it your way. It must be quite a job, though, protecting stations in this wilderness."

  "I have an arrangement with the local warlord, one Grisharki. If he were a Grindark like his followers, I would trust him more, but he comes from the Ebonbane and boasts that he was the lieutenant of some famous brigand there named Bortis."

  "Grindark," Ardeth repeated thoughtfully. "An odd people, that, with an even odder connection to us."

  "Because they're supposed to have been the Builders' workmen?" Torisen asked.

  "Oh, there's no doubt that they were, my lord," said the young historian eagerly, spurring up level with them. "They were my specialty, you know, when I qualified for the scrollsman's robe. I know all about them."

  Ashe, riding a length behind him, cast up her eyes, but the two Highborn smiled at his enthusiasm. Ardeth gave him a half bow.

  "Well, scholar, will you share your learning or leave us in outer darkness?"

  The historian blushed—with embarrassment, gratification, or both. "It seems that once the Grindarks were like any other hill tribe, if poorer than most," he said. "Then the Builders came. They offered the Grindarks rewards and secret knowledge if they would work for them. Of course, the Grindarks agreed, especially since their first job was to seal off the Anarchies from the other rival tribes."

  "How?" Torisen asked.

  "I can't explain, lord, and neither can they. They've also forgotten how they built a city in the Anarchies, and the temples themselves. Oh yes, they also built Wyrden, just for themselves."

  "And I'll bet they don't remember how they did that either," Ashe muttered. "Forgetful bunch of buggers."

  The historian laughed. "Not as forgetful as the Chief Builder, though. He had something—a talisman, a device, I don't know what—that was supposed to protect him and his people from the Anarchies. When the temples were done and the Builders moved on, the Grindarks were to have it and the city in the Anarchies. Considering how all the hill tribes feel about that place—sacred ground and all that—you can imagine what a prize it was. So the Grindarks worked like madmen putting up eight of the temples around Rathillien and most of the ninth in Kothifir. Then one morning not a single Builder was waiting to direct them. Instead, they found this talisman, this Men-thari as they call it, just lying where the Chief Builder had apparently forgotten it the night before. Why finish the temple at all, the Grindarks asked themselves. Why not just grab this thing they'd been slaving to win and run with it?"

  "The Builders might have had something to say about that," Ardeth said.

  "Ah, but you see, lord, the Grindarks had convinced themselves that this thing, whatever it was, was the source of the Builders' power. They thought if they had it, they could do anything. But when one of them put it on, it quite neatly cut his head off."

  Torisen had been watching the scavenger jewel-jaws on the far shore. How many there were, five more flights at least, each one dancing over something hidden in the tall grass. Holly had been gone such a long time . . .

  Then the historian's words penetrated his abstraction and he started, one hand going to the silver collar of the Kenthiar, which he wore again. Ardeth noticed the gesture.

  "And that wasn't all, either," the young scrollsman was saying with relish. "They suddenly noticed that they were starting to lose their memories as well. Oh, not all of them, just those connected with things the Builders had taught them, like how to set step-back stones, or read the Builders' runes. It was the Builders' revenge, they thought, for their treacherous intentions. They panicked and bolted, all the way back to Wyrden. And there they've been ever since, dwindling in number, periodically under siege by the other tribes, who suspect they had something to do with closing the Anarchies."

  "That's quite a remarkable story," said Ardeth. "I commend your research. Now, about this Men-thari . . ."

  Torisen stiffened in the saddle. "Hoofbeats," he said tersely.

  Brithany tossed her head, nostrils flaring. "And smoke," said Ardeth.

  Lord Danior and his war-guard careened around a curve in the road, nearly barreling into the vanguard. "Tori, trouble . . ."

  Torisen spurred past him. The road twisted back and forth, hugging the curve of the river, past larch and maple. He could smell smoke now too, a stale, wet stink. He rounded a clump of red sumac and there were the ruins of the station, still smoldering. Four figures in hieratic robes waited motionless in the middle of the road. As Torisen rode up, he saw that each one was fixed on a sharpened stake driven up through the body. Each face under its hood wore a seething mask of blue butterflies. He brushed the insects away from one. Behind him, Donkerri leaned over his horse's neck, retching.

  "Does anyone know this man?"

  "He was the priest in charge of the mission to Karkinaroth," said Kindrie. Gingerly, he brushed clear the other faces. "These were his acolytes. I trained with them."

  Torisen glanced at him, then abruptly away. "Friends?"

  "No. When a Shanir has no liking for the priesthood, the other initiates consider it their duty to break him to it. But none of them deserved this."

  Torisen wheeled Storm away.

  "Holly, get these men down and ready for the pyre. Check the ruins for more bodies, and also the far bank of the river. Follow the jewel-jaws. Donkerri . . . get control of yourself, boy. All right? Then ride back for Harn. Tell him what's happened and where we've gone. Also tell him to keep the column moving on the main road. Kindrie, you'd better go with Donkerri."

  Because he still couldn't bring himself to look at the Shanir, Torisen didn't see the surprise and then the hurt in the young man's faded eyes.

  "Y-yes, my lord," Donkerri was stammering, "but where are you going?"

  "Why, to Wyrden, Grisharki's stronghold. Where else?"

  * * *

  THE WARLORD'S FORTRESS was barely five minutes' fast ride back into the Oseen Hills. Torisen caught a glimpse of its square white towers as Storm burst from a defile into the narrow valley that housed it. Ardeth and Burr rode at his stirrups with the former's war-guard thundering after them.

  Behind, someone shouted.

  Torisen twisted around to see the first of Ardeth's guard crash down, entangled in a net thrown from above. Thrashing horses blocked the mouth of the defile.

  " 'Ware attackers!" Burr shouted, and the next moment toppled from his horse with a grunt as a rock hit him.

  Grindarks rushed in on them down the steep slopes. Ardeth was thrown as Brithany sprang nimbly away from her assailants. A body crashed into Torisen. He fell, locked in powerful arms, but twisted in midair to land on top. A bearded face snarled up at him. He smashed the man's larynx with a fire-leaping strike and sprang clear, drawing his short sword. A stone hit his elbow, numbing it. The sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He made a grab for it with his other hand, but at that moment his arms were seized from behind and wrenched back. A Grindark picked up the fallen blade. Torisen stared at him.

  My God! he thought with blank amazement. I'm going to die!

  The man drew back his arm to strike. Then his eyes fell, widening, on Torisen's throat, laid bare in the struggle. The Kenthiar gleamed coolly against the tanned skin. The Grindark fell back a step, then another, whining. He dropped the sword. For a moment, it looked as if he might bolt, but then he flopped down suddenly and lay groveling in the dirt.

  Torisen's arms were released. He turned sharply, ready to strike, but this assailant too stood staring as if thunderstruck. Then his eyes rolled up and he tumbled down in a dead faint.

  "Men-thari," another Grindark breathed, and dropped to his knees.

  "Men-thari, Men-thari . . ."

  The word went through the hillmen's ranks like the breath of terror, and they went down, one way or another. The smell of voided bowels arose. Torisen was left standing in their midst, rubbing his bruised arm and looking rather bemused. Then he saw Burr nearby and went quickly to him, stepping over prostrate bodies.

  "Are you
all right?"

  "Yes, lord." The Kendar rose unsteadily, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead. "They were only after you."

  "Brithany, back, lady. Careful. . . ." The mare had been standing over Ardeth protectively. Now she stepped back, placing her delicate hooves as if among unbroken eggshells. The Highborn stirred, groaning. Torisen helped him up. "My lord?"

  "All right, my boy, all right. What happened?"

  "I guessed correctly about the Kenthiar and so, I think, did you."

  Meanwhile, Ardeth's guard had disentangled itself and came galloping down to secure the unresisting prisoners. The trap could only have held them a few minutes in any event, but if its sole purpose had been to kill the Highlord, a few minutes were all the attackers would have needed.

  "Now what, my lord?"

  "We pay our little visit to Grisharki."

  They rode down the valley to Wyrden, taking their prisoners with them. Grisharki's stronghold was partway up the far slope with steep cliffs behind it. It was square, with a tower at each corner and a crenellated battlement lined with the decaying heads of tribesmen from farther back in the hills, with whom the Grindarks waged continual war. Brown stains ran down from the crenels. The whole fortress was not very large, but its white walls gave the impression of great strength.

  Torisen rode within hailing distance of the closed gate. "Announce me," he said to Burr.

  The Kendar took a deep breath. "Torisen, Lord Knorth, Highlord of the Kencyrath, summons Grisharki, Warlord of the Grindarks!" he roared.

  An arrow struck the ground between Storm's forefeet, making him dance backward. Laughter sounded.

  "You fool!" It was Grisharki himself, leaning out between two merlons, the wind in his black bush of a beard. "You escape one trap and walk straight into another! I can shoot you down from where I stand, you and every half-wit with you!"

  "Do that, and you'll bring the entire Host down on you!" Burr shouted back.

  Grisharki spat. "That, for your Host! Run away while you can, little lord. You can't take this place by storm and you haven't time for a siege."

  "He was willing to risk both before when he ambushed us," said Ardeth. "Why settle for a warning now?"

  "I expect friend Grisharki has had second thoughts. Who knows what the Host might do with sufficient provocation?"

  "Hmmm. Just the same, he's right: we can't waste any more time here."

  "Waste?" Torisen gave him a sharp look. "With the priests' blood price still unpaid? Yes, damnit, we haven't the time, but how does he know?"

  "Sir, can you read the runes over the door?" Burr asked the historian in an undertone.

  "No, unfortunately. If I could, we could order the gate to open and it would, whatever bars Grisharki has put on it."

  Torisen overheard. "Perhaps we still can. You." He gestured imperatively to the captured Grindarks. They shuffled forward apprehensively, so close together for mutual support that they practically trod on each other's toes. "Do you believe that this collar is the Men-thari?"

  Twenty dark heads nodded in unison.

  "Do you still believe that the wearer of the Men-thari can do anything—even destroy Wyrden?"

  "Y-yes."

  "Then go and tell your brothers that."

  They gawked at him for a moment, then turned and bolted for Wyrden in a compact knot, tripping over each other's heels. The main gate opened a crack and they piled in. It shut again with a clang. Up on the battlements, Grisharki crowed with triumph.

  "It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that you could have taken the priests' blood price from that poor rabble," said Ardeth. "After all, they're the ones who attacked us."

  "Only under orders, I suspect. No, I want the man who swore to protect the post station and then broke his word. I want Grisharki."

  Ardeth gave him a sidelong look. "You know, my boy, sometimes I find you almost alarming—just like your father."

  Torisen stiffened. Then one corner of his mouth relaxed into a wry, twisted smile. "If you're going to insult me, I'm leaving."

  "My dear boy, where?"

  Torisen stripped off his heavy black coat and handed it to Burr. "Guess."

  "Here now," said Ashe sharply, spurring her horse in front of Storm. "You aren't thinking straight. They're all back inside Wyrden now, behind virtually impregnable walls. D'you think they're still going to fall flat at a word from you?"

  "After having been scared literally shitless? It wouldn't surprise me. Move, Ashe, please."

  She did, reluctantly, and he rode forward, sunlight glinting on the Kenthiar.

  "Grindarks!" His voice rang back from Wyrden's wall. "Open your gate for the Men-thari!"

  Grisharki jeered down at him from the battlements, his voice sounding strangely far away. When Torisen glanced up, he saw that the walls rose higher and higher as he approached them, looming fifty feet, seventy-five, one hundred. No wonder besieging forces down through the millennia had lost heart before this place, even if much of that height was probably an illusion.

  "Stop right there!" Grisharki shouted down at him in a voice rapidly growing fainter with distance. "All right, damn you, you've been warned. Archers!"

  He should never have left his coat behind, Torisen thought. Its braided inserts of rhi-sar leather would have turned aside any shaft. Giving the Grindarks another clear glimpse of the dreaded collar was hardly worth being turned into a pincushion by their arrows. The shadow of Wyrden fell across him, striking cold through his thin shirt. Storm crab-stepped nervously toward the gate—fifty feet, thirty, twenty, and still no arrow fell.

  "Archers?" The warlord's voice barely reached Torisen now. "Where the hell . . . ?"

  Inside the fortress, there were sounds of confusion. Fifteen feet to the gate, five, and it swung open before him. The inner courtyard was full of kneeling Grindarks.

  Ardeth, Burr, and the others charged in through the gate after him, swords drawn, and had to pull up sharply to keep from plowing into the crowd.

  "Well, I'll be damned," said Ardeth, staring about him.

  Torisen had also been scanning the bowed heads. No black bushy beard, and fewer Grindarks than he had expected.

  "Where are the rest of you?" he demanded.

  "Sent east on the road to Peshtar, one, two, three days ago," answered a grizzled tollman. "I swear it." He touched his forehead, which was scored by a band of scars very similar in shape to the runes on the Kenthiar.

  "Our priests bound for Tai-tastigon must be halfway to Peshtar by now," said Ashe.

  "See that a one-hundred command is sent after them to provide protection," Torisen said to Burr. "If they've been molested too, I want the head of every Grindark responsible. Now, bring me Grisharki and his first lieutenant."

  He dismounted and walked into the main hall. Outside, it didn't look very large, but inside it was enormous. Flagstones stretched nearly out of sight in both directions, a vast, stone-laid field under the smoke blackened sky of a roof so far up that it could barely be seen. Here the Grindarks camped, their habitual squalor scarcely noticeable in such immense surroundings.

  The Grindarks shoved a narrow-faced man into the hall— Grisharki's second-in-command, apparently. And the warlord himself? The hillmen shook their heads. He wasn't outside, and as for the hall, well, my lord could see for himself.

  Torisen looked down to find a small, incredibly grubby child tugging at his sleeve. It pointed to the huge fireplace. Clinkers of corroded soot were rattling down onto the hearth.

  "Build me a fire," Torisen said.

  Ardeth's riders piled filthy straw bedding in the grate and kindled it while the children all gathered around, delighted. Flames and black smoke roared up the chimney. Inside, there was a muffled howl. A man tumbled out onto the hearth, smeared with soot, his clothes smoldering. The children cheered. Ardeth's riders seized him.

  "Well, Grisharki," said Torisen, "what have you to say for yourself?"

  The warlord drew himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height
and glared down through the singed remains of his beard. "This is the way you honor our contract? What's the matter with you, man? Can't you take a little joke between friends?"

  "A joke. I swore to deal with you as you dealt with me, Grisharki, and I always keep my word. Someone, prepare a sharpened stake."

  Grisharki crumpled as if the bones had melted in his legs. "No, lord, no!" he babbled. "I was against that, but he made me do it. He said it would bring you running, and then . . . and then. . . . Lord, he bewitched me into it!"

  "Who, Grisharki?"

  "T-the stranger with the imu burned into his face—a demon, I swear! All his features kept shifting. Why, he couldn't even keep his nose on straight!"