Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  But perhaps things would change now. Torisen's sister had given him information that could give his patron great power, perhaps even make him Highlord. Surely that was worth something. Perhaps, finally, Graykin would be acknowledged.

  So he waited his chance, spoke his word in Caineron's ear, and then saw Jame up on the catwalk.

  Caineron's tent was close to the bridge that connected Hurlen with the west bank of the Silver. It was a huge affair with many internal compartments, rather like a canvas maze. Caineron led the way to his own quarters, poured himself some wine (without offering Graykin any), and sat down.

  "This had better be good," he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Graykin took a deep breath. Too late to back out now, he thought miserably, and told Caineron what had happened at Karkinaroth. When he finished, Caineron grunted.

  "That's quite a story."

  Graykin felt his pale face redden. "My lord, I'm not lying."

  "To me? Not even you would be that big a fool." He considered, heavy eyelids lowered. "So, the little prince is an impostor, a changer, no less, and out for our fine Highlord's blood. All right. Let him have it. Then we'll see who pulls the strings, Gerridon or me. But a sister, now, that's very interesting. She could be extremely useful . . . in the right hands."

  He considered this for a moment in silence, the corners of his thick lips slowly lifting. Graykin followed his thoughts without difficulty. What Caineron needed more than anything else was some blood claim on the Highlord's seat. This unknown Knorth girl mated to one of his sons could give him the grandchild he needed . . . or perhaps even a son.

  Graykin had reasoned all this out long ago, much faster than Caineron, but he tried not to think about it. This was no time for qualms, not at these stakes. Graykin swallowed.

  "Lord," he said, "if you want this girl, I can give her to you. She's here, in the city. I saw her not twenty minutes ago."

  "Well, now." Caineron's eyes opened. "Well, now." He rose. "Then I had better go make her acquaintance. The sooner the better, eh? Meanwhile, you fetch that sword. Oh, and here," He threw a handful of coins on the table—barely enough, Graykin saw, to get him back to Karkinaroth. "You're worth every bit of it, Gricki."

  "Please . . . don't call me that."

  Caineron gave him a blank stare. "Why not? It's your name, isn't it?" He disappeared into the recesses of the tent without waiting for an answer.

  Graykin stood there, swaying slightly, until a servant came in.

  "You were thinking of spending the night? Out, you, and take your pay with you."

  Blindly, Graykin scooped up the coins and left the tent. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Caineron would never acknowledge him. He had let himself be used for years for no more reward than this, and he would never be offered a greater one.

  He stood by the river in the dark, his quick mind sorting out new possibilities, killing old hopes. Then, because his wits and will were both stronger than his stomach, he hastily found a fair-sized bush and was violently ill behind it.

  Four Kendar and a shorter man muffled in a cloak went past. Graykin easily recognized Caineron despite his disguise. As the five started across the bridge to Hurlen, Graykin slipped out of the shadows and followed them.

  * * *

  IT TOOK JAME AND JORIN nearly twenty minutes to get back to the room. Even the catwalks were crowded now. It began to remind Jame of Tai-tastigon during the Feast of Fools when all gods are mocked and nothing is counted a sin. Citizens were starting to shut and bar their doors. Many were probably beginning to regret that the bridges had been left down so late tonight.

  Jame found Marc calmly polishing his war-axe by the light of a candle while Lyra slept on the pallet across from him.

  "It's getting lively out there," he said tranquilly. "Not much discipline, these foreigners."

  "Things may get worse fast. Listen, Marc: I want you to take Lyra to the Host's camp, to my brother. Now. Tell him about Odalian. Then you can return Lyra to her father, but not before."

  "Oh, I doubt if any of the soldiers will bother us up here."

  "It isn't the Karkinorans who worry me."

  She told him about Graykin. He listened soberly, then sheathed his axe and rose.

  "We'll go immediately. And you?"

  "I'll be all right. Anyway, we have a better chance of warning Tori if we separate. And Marc, you'd better take Jorin."

  He gave her a hard look this time, then shrugged and bent to wake Lyra. Long before Karkinaroth, he had realized that there were things in his friend's life that he couldn't understand and from which he couldn't protect her. Lyra woke and was herded, sleepily protesting, out the door. Marc paused on the threshold holding Jorin, who also didn't want to leave and was saying so, loudly.

  "Lass, be careful."

  "Aren't I always?"

  He laughed and went out.

  The room seemed suddenly very quiet, very empty, leaving Jame to wonder at the strong impulse that had made her send them all away. She could feel her blood stir as if before a fight; but if one came, it was hers, not Marc's or Jorin's. The fewer encumbrances now, the better. That included the Book. She had nearly lost it in Karkinaroth and didn't care to risk it again now. Best to hide it. She used the Ivory Knife to pry up some floorboards in the dark corner by the pallet. They came easily, their edges crumbling at the blade's cold touch. She put the knapsack into the hollow and fitted the boards back over it. There. The damned thing would take care of itself for a while. She slipped the Ivory Knife into her boot, hating its touch, but unwilling to give up so lethal a weapon. Hopefully, this crisis would be over before it ate through either the leather sheath or her leg.

  Someone was climbing the stair. Several people. The only other way out was the door opening onto the decrepit balcony. Jame backed toward it, out of the candle's feeble sphere of light. Perhaps the soldiers had run out of sport on the lower stories. Perhaps . . .

  A man stood in the doorway. He was muffled in a cloak, but something about his swaggering stance reminded Jame forcibly of the Highborn whom Graykin had approached in the street. She knew instinctively that this was an enemy.

  "My lady of Knorth."

  "My lord Caineron." It was a guess, but apparently the right one. "I wasn't expecting you quite so soon, much less in person."

  "Now, would it have been courteous to send a servant for such a distinguished guest? As for finding you so quickly, I had a stroke of luck there. You see, I met my daughter Lyra and her escort on the bridge. You sent them right out into my arms, my dear. Lyra told me where to find you."

  Jame hid her dismay. Damned if she would give this smug toad any more satisfaction than she had to. "A family reunion. How nice. And the escort?"

  "Safe enough, although perhaps not very comfortable at the moment. One of my guards had to give him a clip on the head to make him more . . . cooperative."

  Poor Marc. That was the fourth time he'd managed to get himself hit since they had left Tai-tastigon, "And the ounce?"

  "Oh, I would never harm a royal gold, even a blind one. He will make an excellent addition to my cattery as breeding stock." Caineron stepped forward. Candlelight caught the gloat in his narrowed eyes.

  Jame had involuntarily gone back a step, onto the balcony. Caineron stopped short in the middle of the room.

  "Don't move, girl."

  Now, what did the fool think she . .

  The balcony sagged. Nails screeched in wood. For a moment, Jame balanced precariously, feeling her heart pound. Someone in the nearest tower cried out. It sounded like Graykin. Then one end of the structure tore loose, and she fell, thirty feet down into the river. The impact knocked the breath out of her. When she surfaced, gasping, Hurlen was already fifty feet away and rapidly receding. The swift current had her. From ahead came the sullen roar of the rapids, and beyond that, the Cataracts' boom.

  Chapter 15

  The Killing Ground

  The Cataracts: 30th of Winter

  The
first skirmish came shortly after midnight on the thirtieth when a dozen Waster scouts from the Horde ran into a Kencyr ten-command on wide patrol about a mile from the foot of the Mendelin Steps. The result was eleven dead scouts and one prisoner.

  News of this encounter spread through the Host in quiet ripples from camp to camp. Because the Horde itself wasn't expected until midmorning, however, no one leaped to arms. The older veterans, in fact, went back to sleep. For a good many, though, this was their first major battle, and they began quietly to prepare for it.

  Harn walked up through that subdued stir, bringing the prisoner under guard to the Highlord's tent.

  Burr barred his way at the outer door. "Sir, I've finally managed to clear out all those Karkinoran nobles and to get my lord to lie down. He's asleep."

  "No, I'm not," Torisen called from the inner room. Harn entered to find the Highlord stretched out on his cot, fully clothed, hands behind his head. He opened his eyes. "What is it?"

  Harn told him about the clash beyond the stairs. Torisen immediately rose and went with him back through the war-guard's quarters to the outer chamber where the Wastelander was being held. They all regarded the prisoner curiously. He was clad in a patchwork of poorly cured hides, some still tufted with mangy fur, others that looked human. Charms made of teeth and hair hung about his neck. Around his waist was a belt studded with nipples.

  "B-but what's wrong with his face?" Donkerri blurted out, staring.

  The man seemed to have two of them, one inside the other. The outer skin was wrinkled and translucent. It looked dead. Other features moved ghostlike beneath it. Harn reached out. The man tried to lurch back, but the guards held him. The outer skin came off in Harn's hand, and the scalp with it. Underneath was a smooth face and shaved head. The Waster glared at them with yellow eyes slit-pupiled as a cat's, while Harn held his trophy at arm's length.

  "What is this thing?"

  Torisen took it from him and spread it out to show the Wolver who had just come in. Grimly nodded.

  "It's a death mask," said Torisen. "Surely you've heard stories about them, Harn, even if you've never seen one before in the . . . er . . . flesh. The Wasters believe that a man's strength passes to whoever wears the flayed mask of his face. Each elder is supposed to wear the face of his tribe's founder. If that's true, some of these masks must be centuries old."

  The prisoner suddenly exploded into vehement speech that sounded like the yowl of a cat fight. He ended with a burst of scornful laughter, baring filed teeth.

  "Ka'sa dialect, I think," said Torisen. "That's one of Ashe's specialties. Where is she?"

  "I sent a messenger," said Harn, "but he apparently hasn't found her. Come to think of it, I haven't seen her either since the White Hills. As near as I can make out, though, this chap says we're all going into his tribe's cookpot now that—someone—has come back to lead them."

  "Who?"

  Harn scratched his shaggy head. "Well, I think he said the tribe's forefather, but that hardly seems likely."

  "I wonder. Have all the founders come back?"

  Harn laboriously translated this question into dialect and got another spat of snarling syllables in reply. "He says the Horse-head and the Goat-eye tribes have, as well as several others. They all follow his people in the circling and apparently are allies of a sort. The other tribes are fed-chi . . . dog's pus. So are we, by the way, and then some."

  "By which I gather that news still only passes among one's immediate connections, unless the elders are better informed," said Torisen. "Interesting."

  He fell silent, pursuing his own thoughts, while Harn made another halting attempt to question the scout and in return got what sounded like a ritual chant extolling the great strength and vast appetite of his tribe's founder. The uproar stopped abruptly when Harn, in disgust, rapped the Wastelander on the head with his knuckles. The guards took the man out, reeling between them. Harn threw the death mask after them, then turned on the Highlord.

  "What's interesting?" he demanded.

  "Why, that the Horde hasn't suddenly become one big, happy tribe, all bones buried and never mind who ate whose grandfather. It isn't primarily a question, then, of unification but of motivation. The Horde is marching against us because its founding fathers have returned and told it to. It needn't even be all of the founders, either. If any sufficiently large clump of tribes broke the circle and set off on a tangent, the others would probably follow out of sheer habit."

  "That's right," said the Wolver excitedly. "They've been like dogs sniffing after each other for so long that it's probably second nature now. In that case, if you somehow manage to turn the ones under orders, the rest will follow."

  "Yes, but under whose orders?" Harn growled. "Who are these so-called founders when they're at home? Are we up against three-hundred-year-old ghosts now?"

  "After the past few weeks," said Torisen dryly, "it wouldn't surprise me. But I'll give you a more likely name: changers."

  "Eh?"

  "Well, consider: We already know from Tentir that at least one of them is mixed up in all this. What if there are more, masquerading as the tribal forefathers? The death masks would give them faces of a sort to copy. You know that I've always thought some darkling influence was at work in the Horde. This isn't quite what I had in mind, but it would still explain a good many things."

  Harn snorted. "Yes, everything except how to fight them, unless you mean to dig firepits all over the landscape and shove them in. Hello, what do you want?"

  A breathless messenger had appeared in the tent opening. "Sir, our wide patrols have apparently run into the vanguard of the Horde . . . less than two miles from the Steps."

  "What!" Harn sprang up. "Why didn't the lookout on the escarpment spot them?"

  "Sir, they're coming on without torches. We think they must have started a forced march just after dark. The main body of the Horde is still apparently hours away."

  "Ancestors be praised for that at least. Off you go, then, and sound the alert. If you're right," he said to Torisen as the messenger darted off, "this vanguard is the lot under orders. Nice to know who one's enemies are, isn't it?" He bared his teeth in a fierce grin and left the tent.

  Just outside, the Knorth warhorn sounded. Like the rathorn battle cry, it began with a shriek, then abruptly deepened into a roar that made cups on a nearby table rattle. Before it hit the second, deeper note, it was joined by the howl of Danior's horn and a moment later by those of the other seven houses as the alarm spread. The Host awoke with a shout.

  "So now it starts," Torisen said quietly to the Wolver.

  As the wild cacophony of the horns died, thunder could be heard growling in the south, and stars began to wink out one by one before the coming storm.

  * * *

  "DO YOU MEAN TO SAY," said Danior, shouting to make himself heard, "that it's always like this in the heart of the Wastes?"

  "Worse, my boy," Ardeth shouted back. "Much worse. The Horde circles a perpetual maelstrom. Be glad they only brought a touch of it with them."

  "Hold on," said Torisen sharply.

  Another blast of wind hit, making Brithany stagger and the two heavier war horses brace themselves, ears flat. They were on top of the escarpment. The leading edge of the storm had reached them, bringing strong, shifting winds and a darkness hard even for Kencyr eyes to penetrate. Far back in the plain's gloom, the Horde's torches sparkled fitfully like stars fallen to earth. From below came the confused sounds of battle. Then lightning split the sky almost overhead with a crash that made the horses jump. In the darkness that rushed in again, the image remained of a seething mass extending from the foot of the steps almost a mile back onto the plain. The full body of the vanguard had arrived.

  "Now that, as Lord Brandan said, is moderately impressive."

  No one had noticed Prince Odalian ride up. His voice, speaking in a lull, made them all start.

  "I've been settling my people in at the second barricade, relieving yours, Lord Danior, a
ccording to plan," he said. "Lord Ardeth, your people seem to have the first barricade well under control, although I think they're getting tired. One hour is too long a stint, considering the opposition."

  "Still bad, eh?"

  "Worse than ever. They just keep coming, and the bodies are starting to pile up. That lower barricade may have a twelve-foot drop on the far side, but if this keeps up, they'll be able to climb over it soon using their own dead as a ramp."

  "Nasty," said Torisen.

  "And then some."