The dream was the same. A child was crying and Tarantio was trying to find him. Deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, Tarantio searched. He knew the tunnels well. He had worked them for four months as a miner in the mountains near Prentuis, digging out the coal, shovelling it to the low-backed wagons. But now the tunnels were empty, and a gaping fissure had opened in the face. Through this came the thin, piping cries of terror.
“The demons are coming! The demons are coming!” he heard the child cry.
“I am with you,” he answered. “Stay where you are!”
Easing himself through the fissure, he moved on. It should have been pitch-dark in here, for there were no torches, and yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale green light strong enough to throw shadows. As always in his dream he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. Ragged men moved into sight, grey-skinned, opal-eyed. At first he thought they were blind, but they came towards him steadily. In their hands were the tools of mining—sharp pickaxes and heavy hammers.
“Where is the boy?” he demanded.
“Dead. As you are,” came a new voice in his mind. It was not Dace. In that moment Tarantio realized he was truly alone. Dace had vanished.
“I am not dead.”
“You are dead, Tarantio,” argued the voice. “Where is your passion? Where is your lust for life? Where are your dreams? What is life without these things? It is nothing.”
“I have dreams!” shouted Tarantio.
“Name one!”
His mouth opened, but he could think of nothing to say. “Where is the boy?” he screamed.
“The boy weeps,” said the voice.
Tarantio awoke with a start, his heart beating fast. “I do have dreams,” he said, aloud.
“Indeed you do,” said Browyn, “and that one must have been powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.” The old man was sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost dead. Adding thin pieces of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over the blaze. “You are very pale,” he said, leaning forward and squinting into Tarantio’s face. “I think it was more of a nightmare.”
“It was,” agreed Tarantio. “I have it often.” Rubbing his eyes, he moved to the window. The sun was high over the mountains. “I do not usually sleep this late. It must be the mountain air.”
“Aye,” said Browyn. “Would you like some rose-hip tea? It is made to my own recipe.”
“Thank you.”
“Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?”
Tarantio shrugged. “I don’t know. A long time ago I worked as a miner. I hated it. They lowered us into the centre of the earth—or so it seemed. The days were black with coal dust, and twice there were roof falls that crushed men to pulp.”
“And you dream of digging coal?”
“No. But I am back in the mine. I can hear a child calling. He needs help but I cannot find him.”
“It must mean something,” said Browyn, moving to the hearth. Wrapping a cloth around his hand he lifted the kettle from its bracket and returned to the table, filling two large cups with boiling water. To each he added a small muslin bag. A sweet aroma filled the room. “Dreams always have meaning,” continued the old man.
“I think it is telling me to avoid working in mines,” said Tarantio as, rising, he moved to the table. Browyn stirred the contents of the cups, then hooked out the bags. Tarantio tasted the brew. “It is good,” he said. “There is a hint of apple here.”
“How will the war end?” asked Browyn suddenly.
Tarantio shrugged. “When men are tired of fighting.”
“You know why it began?” Browyn asked.
“Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.”
Browyn laughed. “Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With their terrible magic and their arcane weapons. Bloody nonsense! Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people. They had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever caused a war? Look to history. They were a scholarly people who kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?”
“What other games are there, Browyn? A man must eat.”
“And you can see no end to the madness?”
“I don’t think about it. It is hard enough trying to stay alive.”
Browyn’s face showed his disappointment. Refilling the cups and adding two more muslin bags, he remained silent for a while. “I was there, you know, seven years ago when the Holy Army marched to the Eldarin borders. We had three sorcerers who claimed they knew a spell to breach the magical barrier. We were full of righteous anger against the Eldarin, and we believed all the lies about their preparations for war. We were also in a rage because of the village that had been massacred: women and children torn to pieces by Eldarin talons. Three years later I spoke to a scout who had been the first on the scene. He said there were no talon marks. The villagers had been killed by swords and arrows, and they had been robbed of all copper and silver coin. But we did not know that then. Our leaders fed us with stories of Eldarin brutality.
“However, I am losing the thread of the story . . . From where I stood on that day I could see, above the mist, the green mountains of Eldarin, the forests and the woods, the fields and the distant spires of a beautiful city. Then an old man came out of the mist and stood before our battle-lines. His back was bent, and the fur of his face was cloud-white. Like a ghostly wolf. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.
“No one answered him. A young man with a sling moved forward and let fly. The stone struck the old man high on the head, he staggered, then stepped back into the mist. Soldiers charged forward, but they struck the invisible wall that separated the mountains of the Eldarin from the valleys of men. The sorcerers stepped forward then, and began to chant. Behind them ten thousand soldiers waited. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and the mist that shielded the barrier disappeared. It was an astonishing moment, Tarantio. The sun shone brightly upon a barren landscape. Grey rock as far as the eye could see. No grass, no forests and woods. No city. To our right there was a river that, moments before, had flowed down through the mists to water the valleys. Eighty feet wide, and very deep. Now there was no flowing water, and we watched the last of the moisture soaking into the clay at the river bed. The Eldarin had gone. In an instant. Gone! Ahead of us the earth was scored away, and we stood on the edge of an earth wall maybe ten feet high.
“We moved into the mountains, searching for them. There was nothing to find. Then a search party came back with the body of a single Eldarin. It was the old man. They had caught him hiding in a cave. He had with him the Pearl.” Browyn’s eyes shone with the memory. “It was so beautiful, the size of a man’s fist, and swimming with colour—opal grey, dawn pink, holy white . . . You could sense its power. But I digress . . . The Demon War was over before it had begun, and our army of ten thousand had killed one old man. Within weeks the new war had begun, the War of the Pearl. How many thousands have died since that day? Plagues, starvation, drought and famine. And we are no closer to a conclusion. Does it not make you long to change the world?”
“I cannot change it,” said Tarantio.
They finished their drinks in silence, then Browyn led Tarantio out of the cabin and into the sunlight. “There’s something I’d like to show you,” said the old man. “Follow me.” Together they walked up the hillside, along an old deer trail flanked by tall pines. At the top was a clearing, and at the centre, on a raised scaffold, stood a fishing boat, its sides sleek and beautifully crafted. There was a central cabin, and a tall mast from which hung no sail. The craft was fully forty feet long. Tarantio stood amazed for a moment, then he walked to where a ladder rested against the scaffold. Swiftly he climbed to the boat’s deck, Browyn following. “What do you think?” asked Browyn.
&nbs
p; “She is beautiful,” said Tarantio. “But we are a mile above the lake. How will you float her?”
“I don’t intend to float her. I just wanted to build her.”
Tarantio laughed. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “I am standing on a boat on a mountain. There is no sense in it.”
Browyn’s smile faded. “Sense? Why does it have to make sense? I always dreamed of building a boat. Now I have achieved it. Can you not understand that?”
“But a boat must have water,” argued Tarantio. “Only then can it fulfil its purpose.”
Browyn shook his head angrily. “First we speak of sense, now of purpose. You are a warrior, Tarantio. Where is the sense in war? What is the purpose of it? This boat is my dream. Mine. Therefore it is for me to say what purpose it serves.” Stepping forward, Browyn put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “You know,” he said, sadly, “you do not think like a young man. You are old before your time. A young man would understand my boat. Come, let us get back to the cabin. I have work to do. And you have a journey to make.”
Chapter Three
Browyn gave Tarantio an old cooking pot, two plates and a cup cast from pewter, a worn-out rucksack and a leather-bound water canteen. Tarantio strapped his swords to his waist. “I thank you,” he told the older man. Striding out from the cabin, he approached the bay gelding owned by the dead Brys.
Tarantio saddled him and hooked his rucksack over the pommel. “I’ll be on my way. But before I go, tell me why my reaction irritated you? What did you expect of me, Browyn?”
“You know what I like about the young?” countered the old man. “Their passion for life, and their ability to see beyond the mundane. They don’t look at the world and see what can’t be done. They try to do it. Often they are arrogant, and their ideas fall from the sky like weary birds. But they try, Tarantio.”
“And you judge me unworthy because I fail to see the point to a ship on a mountain?”
“No, no, no! I do not judge you unworthy,” insisted Browyn. “You are a good man, and you risked yourself to save me. And it is not your reaction to the boat that depresses me; it is your reaction to life itself. God’s teeth, man, if the young can’t change the world, who can?”
Tarantio felt his anger rise as he looked into the man’s earnest grey eyes. “You have known me for a few hours, Browyn. You do not know me. You have no idea of who I am, and what I am capable of.”
In that moment Dace awoke and Browyn stepped back, the colour draining from his face. Tarantio’s soul shimmered and changed, separating. To the left now was the face of corpse grey, with the shock of white spiky hair. Browyn looked into the yellow slitted eyes and blinked nervously.
“I do not want to die,” he heard himself say, fear making his voice tremble.
“What are you talking about? I wouldn’t kill you.”
“He sees me,” said Dace. “Is that not true, old man?”
“I see you,” admitted Browyn.
Tarantio stood for a moment, stunned. “You . . . can see Dace? Truly?”
“Yes. It is a talent I have, for seeing souls. It has helped me in my life . . . knowing who to trust. Don’t kill me, Tarantio. I will tell no-one.”
“What do I look like, old man? Am I handsome?”
“Yes. Very handsome.”
“I can hardly believe it . . . he does exist, then,” said Tarantio. “I am not insane.” He walked to a carved bench of oak built around the bole of a beech tree and sat down. Browyn stood where he was. Tarantio beckoned him over. “Have you ever seen a man with two souls before?” he asked.
“Once only. He was standing on a scaffold with a rope around his neck.”
“Do you have any idea how this happened to me . . . to us?”
“None. Will you spare me, Tarantio? I am near death anyway.”
“Sweet Heaven, Browyn! Will you stop this? I have no intention of harming you in any way. Why would I?”
“Not you . . . but him. Dace wants me dead. Ask him.”
“He knows, Chio. He must die. I will make it quick and painless.”
“No. There is no need. No danger. And would you really know joy by killing a harmless old man?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He lied to me. Said I was handsome. I am ugly, Chio. I could see my reflection in his eyes.”
Tarantio felt Dace swelling inside his mind, trying to force a path to the world, but Tarantio fought back. “Curse you!” screamed Dace. “Let me out!”
“No,” said Tarantio, aloud.
“One day, Chio. One day I will find a way to set myself free.”
“But not today, brother.” He glanced at Browyn and gave a weary smile. “You are safe, old man. However, I had best be on my way.”
“It is a shame the Eldarin are gone,” said Browyn, as Tarantio stepped into the saddle. “I think their magic could have helped you both.”
“We need no help. We are—if not happy—then mostly content. Dace is not all bad, Browyn. I sense the good in him sometimes.”
Browyn said nothing. Nor did he wave as Tarantio heeled the gelding and rode from the clearing.
Tarantio rode down into the valley, and once on flat, open ground, gave the gelding his head. The horse thundered across the valley floor, and Tarantio felt the sheer joy in the animal as it sped across the grassland in a mile-eating gallop. After some minutes he allowed the horse to slow to a walk. Then he dismounted and examined the beast again. Satisfied, he stepped into the saddle and continued on his way.
“I have the face of a demon,” said Dace suddenly.
“I cannot tell,” put in Tarantio. “I have never seen you.”
“I have white hair, and a grey face. My eyes are yellow, and slitted like a cat. Why should I look like this?”
“I do not know how souls are supposed to look.”
“Am I a demon, Chio? Are you a man possessed?”
Tarantio thought about it for a while. “I do not know what we are, brother. Perhaps it is I who possesses you.”
“Would you be happier if I were gone?”
Tarantio laughed. “Sometimes I think I would. But not often. We are brothers, Dace. It is just that we share the same form. And the truth is, I am fond of you. And I meant what I said to the old man . . . I do see good in you.”
“Pah! You see what you want to see. As for me, I wish I could be rid of you.”
Tarantio shook his head and smiled. Dace fell silent and Tarantio rode on, passing the burned-out remains of two farming villages. There were no corpses, but a hastily built cairn showed where the bodies had been buried. The fields close by had not been harvested, the corn rotting on the stalk.
On the far side of the meadow he saw some women moving through the fields, carrying large wicker baskets. They stood silently as he rode by. Farther on he came to a wide military road and passed a ruined postal station. Ten years ago, so he had been informed, there was an efficient postal service that connected all four Duchies. A letter written in Corduin, Gatien had told him, could be carried the 300 miles south-west to Hlobane in just four days. From Hlobane to the Duke of The Marches’s capital of Prentuis—570 miles east over rough country—in ten days.
No letters were carried now. In fact, any private citizen who considered sending one to another Duchy would be arrested and probably hanged. The Duchies were engaged in a terrible war, composed of pitched battles, guerrilla raids, changing allegiances, betrayal and confusion. Mercenaries plied their trade from the southern sea at Loretheli to the northern mountains of Morgallis, from Hlobane in the west to Prentuis in the east. Few common warriors knew who was allied to whom. At the start of this summer campaign the Duke of The Marches had been allied with Duke Sirano of Romark against Belliese, the Corsair Duke, and Duke Albreck of Corduin. Belliese had switched sides early in June, and then the Duke of The Marches had quarrelled with Sirano and formed a new alliance with Albreck.
Few could follow the twists and tantrums of the warring n
obility. Most soldiers did not try. Tarantio had been part of a mercenary regiment holding a fort against the besieging troops of Romark and The Marches. A herald brought news of his change of allegiance. It was laughable. After three weeks of intense fighting the men within the walls—some, like Tarantio, serving Belliese, others Corduin—found themselves in the ludicrous situation of sharing the inner walls with a new enemy, while men who had been trying to kill them for weeks were now friends who waited outside with their siege engines. The captains arranged a hasty council to debate the question of who was now attacking what. Some of the troops besieging the fort now wished to defend it, while one group of the defenders—who should now be attacking it—were already inside it. The council meeting went on for five days.
Since no agreement could be reached, the three captains came up with a new solution. All four groups of mercenaries set about undermining the walls of the fort, bringing the old stones crashing down. Hence there was no longer a fort to defend, and they could all march away with honour satisfied.
Three hundred and twenty-nine men had died during the siege. Their bodies were buried in a communal grave.
Two weeks later, Tarantio and a thousand men were back at the fort, rebuilding the walls.
The awesome follies of war, for which Tarantio received twenty silver pieces a month.
Four miles along the road, with dusk deepening, Tarantio saw the glimmer of a camp-fire in the trees to the west. Angling his horse, he rode towards the wood. “Try to be careful,” warned Dace. “We don’t have too many friends in this area.”
“Would you like to ride in?”
“Thank you, brother,” said Dace. He drew in a deep breath, and felt the cool breeze upon his skin. The gelding became suddenly skittish, his ears flattening.
“He senses you,” said Tarantio. “Best to soothe him, or he’ll throw you.” Dace stroked the gelding’s long neck and, keeping his voice low and soothing, said, aloud, “Throw me, you ugly son of a bitch, and I’ll cut your eyes out.” Still nervous, the gelding moved forward as Dace touched his heels to the beast’s flanks. Right hand raised, Dace rode slowly towards the wood. “Hello the fire!” he called.
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