Dark of the Moon

by P. C. Hodgell

  "But I'm telling you," the poor Wolver cried, "there's someone else in there!"

  "I know. I stepped on at least two more bodies. If you want them, Grimly, you can have them."

  "But this isn't a changer!"

  "I don't care if it's the Witch-King's maiden aunt!" Danior snapped, and left with his own captive.

  The Wolver paced back and forth at the mouth of the hollow, torn with indecision. This place was almost as dangerous for him as for the changers, although in a different way and for a different reason. His ancestors had been little better than the dogs of the men who had worshipped here. None of his kind liked to remember that or to admit the effect places like this had on them; but he also couldn't forget the stranger with Torisen's eyes whose scent he had been following until the tide of battle bore him southward. She had gone into the hollow and not come out. His keen nose told him that. He paced a moment more, almost whining, then bared his teeth and dashed inside.

  Five feet over the threshold, he dropped to all fours. At five yards, he was padding through the ferns in his complete furs. At fifty feet, the human part of his consciousness had faded to a dim flicker. It was a wolf in mind and body that slunk through the fronds now, barely remembering what he sought, only knowing that this place was frightful. He found two twitching bodies and then, almost against the far cliff wall, one that lay still. The smell was right. Now what? His lupine mind held only the confused impulse to protect. He lay down close beside the motionless form, whimpering slightly until the cliffs caught the faint echo. After that, he lay still in watchful, frightened silence.

  Chapter 16

  Blood Rites

  The Cataracts: 30th of Winter

  TORISEN and his war-guard emerged from the wood into the lower meadow opposite the head of the Mendelin Steps in time to see Ardeth set his scheme in motion. The vanguard of the Horde was backed down the steps with some of it still spilling into the field. It looked a very compact, dangerous mass, black under the stormclouds that still hung over it despite the faint, predawn light gathering in the east. The Host faced it over a no man's land of about a hundred feet, as silent and keyed up as its enemy. One war cry on either side would probably have been enough to set them at each other's throats again.

  Then the Host parted, and Ardeth rode into the space between the armies. He stopped about fifty feet from the Horde and sat quite still. Behind him, his men came forward with the changers' bodies and laid them on the trampled grass. Actually, there were five bodies and six heads, the spare having been brought too, still fitfully grimacing. Then the Kencyr withdrew, Ardeth last, backing Brithany all the way to Storm's side. The entire Host fell back a short distance, waiting, hardly knowing for what.

  "It occurs to me," said Torisen softly to Ardeth, "that it might not be exactly tactful to show the Wasters what's happened to their revered founders. Just what are you up to, Adric, besides maybe getting us all killed?"

  "Think, my boy, think. If as you guessed, the Horde is only attacking us because its founders have told it to, and if they realize now that their so-called forefathers are no such thing . . ."

  "They might just turn around and go home. If they can still recognize their 'founders' in that lot; if they know what changers are; if they object sufficiently to having been tricked . . ."

  "And if you spin me one more 'if,' my boy, I'll . . . look!"

  A Waster had crept forward to the pile of bodies. Several more followed him. For a moment, they formed a dark knot around the changers, then from their midst came sudden yells of rage and grief. A Waster broke away and ran toward the Host, still screaming. The spears of the first Kencyr line came down. The man charged into them, trying to twist past the points, but they caught him, and he fell. The Host went forward a pace, war cries rising in their throats, and so did the Horde. Torisen spurred in front of the Kencyr line.

  "Still!" he snapped at it.

  Simultaneously, someone by the changers also barked a command, and the Wastelanders checked themselves, startled. An elder rose, holding the spare, severed head by the hair. He was wearing a death mask that might have come off of the changer's still-twitching face. He addressed the Horde's vanguard in Ka'sa.

  Where the hell were Harn and Ashe, Torisen wondered, trying to quiet Storm. Was he about to get caught without even a sword between two colliding armies or . . .

  But what happened next needed no interpreter. The Waster elder suddenly raised the changer's head and spat full in its face. Then the entire vanguard simply turned, muttering, and withdrew. The elder dropped the head, gave it a contemptuous kick, and followed his people. They all went out of the field, down the steps, onto the plain. The stormclouds followed them.

  A collective sigh rose from the Host.

  "Is that all?" demanded Essien incredulously.

  "It seems so anticlimactic," protested Essiar.

  Torisen turned in the saddle to regard the Edirr twins. They were wearing identical armor, riding twin stallions, and had both managed to get wounded on the left forearm. If he hadn't expected it of them, he would have thought he was seeing double.

  "Haven't you two had enough excitement for one night?"

  "Oh, never," they said simultaneously.

  Lord Brandan had ridden up. "Just the same, be glad things ended now. The main body of the Horde is almost here."

  "Will it turn?"

  "It's already started to, following the vanguard. I would say, Highlord, that you've just won a rather major battle. Congratulations."

  It hardly seemed to Torisen that he had been involved in the main conflict at all, but it wouldn't do to say so. Others would point that out soon enough. Speaking of which . . .

  "What's become of Caineron? I would have expected him to be in the thick of things."

  "So he was," said Brandan dryly. "Rather more so than he intended, I think. For some reason, he was crossing the top of the middle field when his own riders came over the Lower Hurdles on top of him. I don't suppose he's stopped cursing since, although I couldn't swear to it because he seems to have dropped out of sight again."

  "The longer, the better."

  Brandan gave Torisen a sharp look. "You had better do the same for a while," he said bluntly. "On the whole, you look as if you've been fighting the entire battle single-handed." With that he rode away to look after his own people.

  "Sensible Brandan," murmured Ardeth, looking after him. "He's right, you know. You do look like something hardly worth warming over. For Trinity's sake, my boy, go get some rest."

  "My lord." It was one of Ardeth's Kendar, riding up. "The Wasters left those . . . those creatures just lying there. What should we do with them?"

  "That, I expect, was the final insult," said Ardeth. "The changers weren't even considered fit to eat. Tori?"

  "Build a pyre and burn them."

  The Kendar was shocked. "But, Highlord, three of them are still alive, and then there's that head."

  "Kill them and it with my blessings—if you can."

  He rode up through the meadows, through the dead and dying lying thick on the ground in the growing dawn light. His own people were here somewhere. For the first time, he hadn't fought beside them, and now every instinct told him to seek them out; but he couldn't, not just yet. First, he must keep his appointment with Danior. Here at last was his encampment, his own tent, and Burr waiting for him.

  "Where's Donkerri?" he asked as they entered the inner chamber.

  Burr told him.

  Torisen sat down on the cot. After a long moment, he said, "Does it ever strike you, Burr, that we have a very strange code of honor?"

  "My lord?"

  "Never mind. Just help me out of this gear."

  Burr gingerly removed the Kenthiar. Its gem still held the ghost of a glow, which lit the inside of its iron box with faint, opalescent hues until Burr slammed the lid on it. He unlaced what was left of Torisen's armor, both the rhi-sar leather and the chain mail byrnie. Under them, Torisen was wearing a padded shirt, w
hich had prevented the mail rings from cutting into him, but he still had darkening bands of bruises where the changer's arms and the axe blade had caught him. It hurt to take a deep breath. Blackie's proverbial luck hadn't prevented him from getting at least a few cracked ribs this time, although Harn would undoubtedly point out that again he had gotten off very lightly indeed. But where was Harn? He had just turned to ask Burr when a guard announced Danior.

  Torisen slipped into the soft black shirt that Burr handed him, taking his time, bracing himself.

  "Send in Lord Danior," he told the guard. "Burr, go tell our people to make a special search for Donkerri's body."

  Burr stood his ground. "Lord, I already have."

  "Then go help them, and take the war-guard with you. I want this tent cleared, Burr. Now."

  Burr left reluctantly as Holly entered, bringing his bound prisoner with him. He had stripped off the latter's distinctive upper armor and put a different helmet on his head, visor down, over a gag. Noting these precautions, Torisen gave Holly a sharp look.

  "As far as you know, this is one of the captured changers, right?"

  "Yes, but Tori . . ."

  "No 'buts.' Stick to what you know for certain and make no guesses. They aren't safe. Understand? Now I expect you'd like to get back to sorting out your people."

  "And leave you alone with this . . . this. . . ." He gave up on the word. "Tori, is that safe?"

  Torisen sighed. "On the average day, I usually do at least three stupid things before breakfast, but this isn't one of them— I hope. Now scoot."

  Holly started to leave, then suddenly turned back. "I almost forgot," he said. "Here." Almost reverently, he drew Kin-Slayer and handed it to Torisen. Even in the dim tent, the patterns on the blade shone coldly. "No one will ever question who you are again, Gray Lord's son."

  "I suppose not," said Torisen a bit dubiously, remembering how his father's sword had served him in the hollow at the heart of the woods.

  Holly left.

  "Turn around," Torisen said brusquely to the prisoner.

  He cut the cord that bound the other's wrists. The captive shook his hands to restore the circulation, then took off the helmet and spat out the gag. His was a young face that would have been quite handsome if not for a badly swollen nose. Touching it gingerly, he said in a petulant, nasal whine:

  "I think you've broken it."

  "That wouldn't surprise me. Why did you do it, Pereden?"

  "How did you know it was me and not another one of those damned changers?"

  "Several things suggested it. First, you called me 'Blackie' in the woods. Not many people outside of the Southern Host know that that's my nickname. Second, I recognized both your armor and your fighting style. Third, we were the only two to come out of that killing circle in anything resembling our right minds. But I wasn't really sure until just now, when you told me. Why, Peri?"

  "Oh God. What else had you left me to do?"

  "I?"

  "Yes, you, damnit!" he said explosively. "Taking my rightful place as commander of the Southern Host, turning my father against me. You reported every little mistake I made to him, didn't you? You deliberately gave me impossible tasks so you could tell my father how incompetent I was!"

  "Peri, I never asked anything of you that I wouldn't have of any officer under my command, and I've never told Ardeth more about anything than I've had to, especially about you. Now I wish I'd told him more."

  "You lied to him!" It came out almost in a shriek. "You stole his love! Now you're his son, not me."

  "Peri, that's not true . . ."

  "True!" He began to pace. "You want the truth? You never gave me a scrap of authority you didn't have to. You never trusted me, so neither did your officers. And when they became mine, when I finally got command, did they give me their loyalty? No! They still reported to you, still told me at every turn how the great Torisen would do this or that. Damn."

  He snuffled and drew the back of his hand across his face. His nose had started to bleed. Torisen silently gave him a handkerchief.

  "Then word came that the Horde was marching north," he went on. "My randons said that the wise thing would be to harry and delay it. That was what you would have done. But I knew I could turn it, I knew, and I would have, too, if those precious officers of yours—yes, and the troops too—hadn't failed me."

  "I see," said Torisen. Suddenly, he felt almost dizzy, both with fatigue and with knowledge that he had no desire to possess, but there was no stopping now. "What happened next?"

  "I was captured. The changers told me what a fool I'd been not to demand my rights from the first. They showed me how I could still take my rightful place. My place?" He gave a wild laugh. "No, yours! The Knorths forfeited their power over thirty years ago when your father slunk off into exile like a whipped cur."

  "So they promised to make you Highlord." Torisen sighed. "Peri, you are and always have been a fool."

  "Maybe, maybe not. But I'll still have my revenge. How d'you think my father will react when he hears what I've done, and why?"

  "It will kill him. And I promised to protect his interests."

  This time Pereden's laugh was distinctly nasty. "Try," he said. "Just try."

  He dropped the stained handkerchief on the floor and turned, sneering, to leave. Torisen came up behind him in three swift strides. His left hand slid around Pereden's neck to brace itself against the other's right shoulder. His right hand caught Pereden's chin.

  "I keep my promises, Peri," he said in the young man's ear. Then, with a quick twist, he broke Pereden's neck.

  The young man tumbled down into an untidy heap. Torisen stood staring down at him, breathing hard. Suddenly, there didn't seem to be enough air in the tent. The canvas walls moved . . . no, he was falling. Something dark moved in the chamber's entrance and strong hands caught him. He blinked. The cot was beneath him now, and Harn was bending over him, his broad face like a full moon incongruously stubbled with beard.

  "All right, Blackie, all right. Don't fret. He wasn't worth it."

  "You heard?"

  "Enough. He deserved worse. Now what?"

  Torisen pushed him back and sat up. His mind felt clear again, rather like the ringing vault of a cloudless sky. "Put him on the pyre with the other changers—and, Harn, make sure he's unrecognizable first."

  "With pleasure. There'll be no dirges for this one." His expression changed.

  "Now what?"

  Harn hemmed and hawed, but finally told him about Singer Ashe.

  "Sweet Trinity," Torisen said heavily. "If we won this battle, why do things keep getting worse? This is my fault, too. I should have made sure she had those haunt-bites tended to. What did you do with her?"

  "Nothing. She's down in the lower meadow now among the wounded, helping to sort the dying from those likely to recover."

  "A haunt, being useful?"

  "I don't understand it, either. She has the oddest attitude toward the whole thing—not glad it happened, mind you, but interested in what will happen next. A strange woman, that, and rapidly getting stranger. I don't know what to say to her. Ah!" He shook himself. "Where's a helmet?" He picked up the one Pereden had worn and clamped it on the young man's head to hide his features. Then he slung the corpse over his shoulder. "You get some rest, Blackie."

  "But what about my people?"

  "A lot of good you'll do them, falling down in a heap every ten minutes. Be as stubborn as usual, Blackie, but for God's sake don't be stupid on top of it. Get some rest."

  He left.

  Torisen sighed and stretched out again on his cot. Harn was right. A few hours of dwar sleep wouldn't entirely restore him, but it would certainly help. Trinity, but he ached. Senethar techniques controlled the worst of it, but not his restlessness. After about five minutes, he swore out loud and got up.

  "Stupid, stupid," he muttered as he found and put on the oldest clothes he could, including a dull red jacket of Burr's. Then he went out.

  * *
*

  THE SUN WAS JUST coming up when a very tall man strode through the woods, following a golden ounce. The cat led him straight to the hollow and bounded in. The mist was thinning. Two changers, one of them headless, lay on beds of crushed ferns, writhing slowly. Their flesh was as puffy as drowned men's and mottled with bruises, which even now kept appearing in new patterns. A third changer lay motionless nearby. The ounce skirted them all warily and darted toward the far wall, only to bounce back, all his fur on end, as a large gray wolf rose snarling from the ferns.