Dark Moon

Chapter Ten

The cleric Cellis was arrested at his home and taken to the palace dungeons, where he was offered the choice between confession and torture. An intelligent man, and not without bravery, Cellis knew that following confession they would torture him anyway, and he chose to remain silent.

Pooris, Niro, the Duke and Karis observed the beginning of Cellis's ordeal, then retired to the Duke's apartments. Niro was sent to man the small office at Warehouse Street.

Just after dawn, with the stove recently lit and the room still cold, Niro was studying Cellis' neat ledger when the door opened and a tall, burly man entered. Bald at the crown, his receding black hair cropped short, he removed a cloak lined with expensive fur and stood before the stove. 'Where is Cellis?' he asked.

'He has been taken ill, sir. I am Niro, and - temporarily one hopes - in charge here.'

'Ill? He seemed in good spirits yesterday.'

'Frightening, is it not, how swiftly the onset of illness can render a man incapable?' said Niro. 'How may I be of service, sir?'

'I have a convoy due today. But I fear it may be delayed until after dark.'

'I see, sir, and so you would like me to request written authorization for the guards to open the gates?'

'We could proceed that way,' agreed the man, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite Niro. He was wearing a heavy silk shirt of blue, embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined waistcoat of soft grey leather. If Niro saved his meagre wages for half a year he could not afford to buy either garment. 'But it would be simpler,' the man continued, 'to find another solution.'

'Another solution, sir? How can that be? The Duke's orders are specific. The gates are closed at dusk and there can be no traffic thereafter, save with written authorization.'

'Indeed that is the case,' said the man. 'But, in my experience, such authorization takes time, and effort, and - ' he grinned ' - a man's weight in paperwork. I am sure there is a good reason for the Duke to create such a rule, but poor merchants like myself need to earn an honest crust. Often that means conducting one's business swiftly - especially with perishable food.'

'I am sure that is true, sir,' said Niro, rising and adding two logs to the stove. 'However, my understanding is that there is no private trade in food at present. The Duke, through merchants like yourself, buys all available supplies to keep the city fed. Therefore, whatever food is contained in your convoy is already under the ownership of the Duke. Not so?'

'In theory, that is the case . . . Niro, did you say?' The cleric nodded. 'Well, Niro, I can see that you are an honest man. Do you know how I can make such a judgement?'

'Indeed I do not, sir.'

'Your tunic cost around eight copper pennies. The cloak hanging from the peg was no more than three.' He glanced down. 'Your boots are worn thin, the leather poor quality. Only an honest man would wear them.'

'I take your point, sir. But surely to take that point a

step further, I would have to say that you are a dishonest man, since your silk shirt must have cost . . . ten in silver . . . ?'

'Thirty.' The man gave a broad smile as he opened the pouch at his side. Removing two gold coins he laid them on the desk. 'Unless I am mistaken,' he said, 'your wage for the year is less than the amount you see here.'

'You are quite correct, sir.'

'Take the coins in your hand. Feel the weight and the warmth. Gold has a special feel, Niro.'

The cleric's thin hand gathered the coins. 'So it does. So it does.'

'My convoy will be here by midnight. There will be no need to register its arrival.'

The man rose and swirled his cloak around his broad shoulders. 'Might I know your name, sir?' asked Niro.

'I am Lunder. Serve me well, Niro, and you will enjoy great fortune.'

'I thank you, sir. And you have saved me a journey.' Niro opened the desk drawer and produced a folded sheet of paper bearing the Duke's seal in red wax. 'I was asked to deliver this to you this morning.'

'What is it?' asked the merchant.

'I have no idea, sir. I am not privy to the Duke's thoughts.' Lunder took the paper and broke the seal. Then he smiled.

'I am invited to dine at the palace this evening,' he said.

'Congratulations, sir. I am informed that the Duke's chef is exceptional.'

The Duke's carriage - handsomely crafted from mahogany, and fitted with seats of luxurious padded leather - was drawn by six greys. Lunder sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Velvet curtains kept out the winter wind and two copper warming-pans full of hot coals hung from hooks in the roof, filling the compartment with gentle heat.

Lunder was as happy as any man born in a crofter's hut could be to ride in such a carriage. He wondered what his father would think of him, if he could but see what a man he had become! A house with twenty-six servants, a mistress of great beauty, and a personal fortune greater even than the Duke's. All this, plus an estate in the islands should the Daroth prove to be the menace everyone feared. Lunder could hear the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles, but inside the compartment there was little sense of movement. He gazed at the ornate panelling, wonderfully carved from red mahogany. I should have a carriage like this, he thought. And I will.

His thick fingers reached into the pocket of his velvet coat, drawing out a gold necklace and a tear-shaped amethyst set in filigree gold. An ancient piece, it had cost him 200 silver pieces. The amethyst was a present for Miriac, who loved such baubles. He would wake her when he got back, and watch her bright blue eyes go wide with joy. It was not a cause of irritation for Lunder that Miriac's ardour could only be awakened by such gems. Lunder himself found the acquisition of fresh wealth a continuing aphrodisiac.

Added to which, all the presents he gave her were, in fact, registered in his name at the treasury, with bills of sale. If ever he tired of her, all the jewels would be his again.

He heard the driver call out to the horses and the carriage slowed to a stop. The journey had been much swifter than he had calculated. Surely they could not be at the palace already? He rapped at the small hatch.

'Why are we stopping?' he called. There was no answer. Pulling back the curtains, he gazed out onto a grisly sight. The carriage had stopped in Gallows Square. Torches were lit all around it, and in their flickering light he could see ten corpses hanging by their necks. 'Move on!' he shouted at the driver. This was no sight for a man about to dine.

A figure moved to the carriage door, wrenching it open. A soldier in a plumed helm pulled down the steps.

'Out you get, sir,' he said.

'What are you doing? I am a guest of the Duke; he is awaiting me.'

'Indeed he is, sir. Now step down.'

Lunder's mind raced, but he could think of no reason to refuse further. Taking hold of the door frame, he pulled himself upright and climbed down the steps. Duke Albreck was standing there, the councillor Pooris with him, and that fellow Niro from the warehouse offices.

'Good evening, my lord,' said Lunder. 'I am at a loss . ..'

'You recognize this man?' asked the Duke, pointing to the first of the corpses. It was Cellis the cleric.

Lunder's mind reeled. 'You recognize him?' demanded the Duke again. The other corpses were sentries from the south gate.

'Yes, my lord, but I assure you . ..'

'Your assurances mean nothing, Lunder. You have defrauded me, and caused unnecessary suffering in Corduin. Your goods are forfeit; your lands are forfeit. Your wealth is forfeit.'

Lunder was trembling now. 'My lord, I allow that I have been . . . lax in my dealings. But I never intended to defraud you. All the goods are waiting in my warehouses. I... I make a gift of them to you.'

'They are already mine,' said the Duke coldly. 'Hang him.'

Lunder heard the words - but could not believe them.

'Sir, I beg you ...' he said, as two soldiers grabbed his arms and began to haul him towards the scaffold steps. As he reached them, he started to struggle, but a third man stepped forward and smote him hard in the face with a clenched fist. Lunder was half hauled up the steps. At the top his hands were tied behind him, a noose looped over his head and tightened around his neck. He began to sob, and scream for mercy. Then the floor gave way beneath him - and he dropped into darkness.

'I do not understand why he did it,' said the Duke. 'He was already rich. The prices he charged me were exorbitant, and his profits must have been huge.'

'For some men there is never enough wealth, my lord,' said Pooris. 'He knew that when the official warehouses were empty, people would pay anything for his goods. By smuggling them in, he would claim they were purchased before your decree was made.'

'I do not understand such greed,' said the Duke. 'But I understand the value of loyalty. You, Pooris, have done me a great service. You may have Lunder's house and his lands.'

'I thank you, my lord,' said Pooris, bowing deeply.

'And now my dinner awaits,' said the Duke, moving to his carriage and stepping inside. Niro approached Pooris. 'My congratulations, sir,' he said, with a bow.

The little politician chuckled. 'Seventeen warehouses packed with food - enough supplies to last most of the winter, and the treasury fuller than at any time since the war began. A satisfactory day, I think.'

'Indeed, sir.'

'Are those new boots I see, Niro?'

'Yes, sir. I bought them this afternoon.'

'They look expensive.'

'They were, sir. Compliments of the merchant Lunder.'

'What a benefactor he proved to be,' observed Pooris.

Early the next morning, Pooris rapped at the door of Lunder's house. Together with a troop of guardsmen, he entered the main hall and called for the Lady Miriac. She emerged from an upstairs room and, dressed in a gown of white, walked down the long staircase. Pooris marvelled at her beauty - the shining hair like spun gold, the porcelain loveliness of her skin. He took her into the main room and, as gently as he could, explained the circumstances of his visit. She sat demurely, saying little and showing nothing of her emotions.

'So,' she said, when he had finished, 'Lunder is dead, and the house is yours. How soon must I leave?'

'There is no need to leave, my lady,' said Pooris. 'In fact, I would very much like you to stay. I have brought with me a small gift for you.'

Reaching into his pocket he produced Lunder's necklace, with the shining amethyst shaped like a tear-drop. With delight he saw her eyes sparkle, and her hand reach out.

The walls of Karis's apartments were covered with sketches on paper. On the north wall were delicately drawn landscapes, showing the highlights of the land to the north of Corduin; the hills and valleys, the level ground close enough to the city walls for the Daroth to deploy catapults. On the west wall were sketches of the city's fortifications, the numbers of men needed to man the ramparts, the logistics of supplying them with food. On the south wall a huge map of Corduin itself, which Karis had marked with symbols denoting buildings to be used as hospitals or supply depots.

She was sitting on the couch studying the reports submitted by Pooris, concerning the manufacture of crossbows and bolts. With luck, they should have almost 800 weapons and more than 10,000 bolts by the first day of spring. A servant tapped on the door and entered, bowing. 'There is a man wishing to speak with you, my lady,' he said. 'He claims to be a friend.'

'He has a name, this friend?'

'Necklen, my lady.'

'Send him in.' Karis rose, and hid her sense of shock as the wiry soldier entered. Skeletally thin, his eyes sunken, Necklan looked twenty years older than when she had last seen him. A blood-soaked bandage covered the stump where his left hand had been. 'Come in and sit down, my friend,' she said, then ordered the servant to bring food and wine.

Necklen slumped to a chair and closed his eyes. 'It has been a murderous ride,' he said, his voice slurred with weariness. His head sank back and his breathing deepened. When the servant returned with bread, butter, cheese and smoked meat, Karis told him to fetch the surgeon. Moving alongside the silver-bearded warrior, she touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. His blue eyes opened and he gave a weak smile. 'I am not dead, Karis. Though by rights I should be.' With a groan he sat up. Karis brought him a goblet of red wine, which he drained. He reached for the bread with his left arm, then stared bemused at the stump. 'Damn, but I can still feel my fingers. Strange, isn't it?' Karis cut him two thick slices, which she buttered. Then she sliced a thick chunk of cheese. Necklen ate slowly, then leaned back once more. 'I was at Prentuis. I tell you, no-one should have witnessed the slaughter I saw there. We rode out against the Daroth. Giriak led the charge, but our swords were like willow sticks against them. I slashed my sword across the neck of one: it bounced off! Didn't even gash the skin. He struck my shield with a return blow which clove the shield in two and tore off my hand. Within moments we were ruined, cut down in our hundreds. I saw a Daroth with maybe ten arrows jutting from him, but still fighting, unaffected. You want to know about Giriak?'

She did not, but she nodded anyway.

'He died bravely. Killed one of them, lanced him through the body at full gallop. Then he was cut down.

You would not believe how short a battle it was, Karis. Within a few minutes we were cut to pieces and fleeing for the city. Thousands died on that plain. I was with the few hundred that made it through the gates; we thought we might be safe behind those walls.' Necklen shook his head. 'They brought up huge catapults which they used with stunning accuracy, hitting the same section of wall again and again. They smashed two broad holes in the north wall, then surged through. They know no weariness, Karis: they killed and killed from midday to midnight. Men, women, babes. Shemak's Balls, it was terrifying! I hid in a loft. Me and three women. You could hear the screams outside for hours. We escaped through the sewers. I was almost delirious with pain. The surgeons had covered the stump with hot pitch, and the agony was indescribable. The women half-carried me. But we made it to the outskirts and fled south-west towards the coast.' His voice tailed away.

'You need to rest,' Karis said. 'We will talk more in the morning.' Helping him up, she led him to her bed, undressed him and covered him with thick blankets.

'Satin sheets,' he said, with a smile. 'How good . . . they feel.'

He was sleeping when the surgeon arrived. The man felt for Necklen's pulse and the warrior did not stir.

'Exhaustion,' said the surgeon, 'but his heart is strong.' Carefully he unwrapped the bandage and examined the blackened stump. 'No gangrene. The wound is clean,' he announced, applying a fresh bandage. 'He needs red meat and wine to fortify his blood and hot oats to clean his system. Honey is also good for strength.'

Karis thanked the man and offered payment. He shook his head. 'I am in the Duke's employ,' he said. 'He pays me well.'

After he had gone, Karis sat down once more with her notes. But she could not concentrate. Karis had never been a sentimental woman, but she was touched by the arrival of Necklen. The little man, maimed and hurting, had made a journey of almost 600 miles with no other purpose than to reach Karis. He would have been safe in the port city of Loretheli, screened as it was by high mountains. Instead he had come to her. Necklen had never been one of her lovers, but she had always considered him a friend she could trust - the kind of man she wished her father had been. Karis put aside her notes and walked to the window. The moon was high in the cloudless night sky, and the snow in the Ducal gardens shone with an eldritch light.

The city beyond was silent and serene.

The door opened and a cool draught touched her back. Karis turned to see Vint striding across the room. 'I hear you have a man in your bed, my dove,' he said. His voice was light, but the smoke-grey eyes showed no humour.

'An old friend,' she told him. 'He was at the fall of Prentuis.'

Vint unhooked his black sable cloak and draped it over a chair. 'Was it as bad as we feared?' he asked.

'Every bit as bad. The Daroth breached the walls within a single day, and butchered the inhabitants.'

Rubbing his hand over his trident beard, he turned away and poured himself a goblet of wine. 'I have seen those walls. Corduin's are no stronger, Karis.'

'There is less level ground here,' she said. 'But I will worry about catapults and siege-engines when the snow begins to thaw. Until then there are enough problems to consider. Have you rearranged your duel with Tarantio?'

He shook his head. 'I took your advice and went to the tavern. The story was as Tarantio told it. I have offered him my apology, which he accepted. Fairly gracefully, I might add.'

'I am glad. I need you both alive.'

Vint grinned. 'It touches my heart that you care so greatly for me.'

'Do not be too overcome,' she warned him. 'If you are to die, then I would prefer it to be in a useful manner.'

He stepped in close and made to stroke her hair. 'Not tonight, Vint,' she told him. 'Tonight I must make plans.'

He spread his hands. 'As you wish. Is there any way in which I can help?'

'I don't think so.'

Vint gathered up his cloak, then strolled through to the back bedroom. He returned within moments, looking embarrassed. 'I see what you mean by old friend,' he said.

'That he is. Good night, Vint.'

After he had gone she returned to the bedside, where Necklen was sleeping deeply. Tenderly she stroked his hair. 'I am glad you are here,' she whispered.

Ozhobar was a huge man with sandy hair and a chin beard that straggled like an old brush. He gazed at the sketch Karis offered him, then leaned forward, reaching into a pottery jar and drawing out a thick oatcake biscuit which he devoured swiftly.

'Can you make such a catapult?' Karis asked him.

'All things are possible,' he said.

'I did not ask what was possible. Can you do it?'

'There is no indication here as to what the arm is constructed from, nor the weight of the stones. You say the range is around two hundred paces?'

'That is what Necklen tells me, and he is reliable. And it does not throw stones, Master Weapon Maker. It hurls balls of lead.'

'Hmmm,' said Ozhobar. 'That is how they maintain accuracy. The weight of each ball is identical.'

'Can you make it?' she repeated, her irritation growing as Ozhobar ate two more oatcakes, brushing the crumbs from his beard.

'I think we can do a little better than that. I take it the purpose will be to destroy the Daroth catapults?'

'That is my plan.'

'We do not have the means to make lead balls of the size your man describes. I would suggest a small refinement. Pottery.'

'Pottery?' she repeated. 'Glazed or unglazed?'

'Sarcasm does not become women,' he said. 'In order for the catapult to be accurately used, it will be necessary to place it where the men operating it can see the enemy. That leaves three choices. The first places the weapon outside the city. This is not - one would imagine - to be desired, for the Daroth could charge forward and capture or destroy it. The second is to place it on the walls. The parapets are around twelve feet wide, therefore the machine would have to be small, hence restricting the range.

The third choice would be to strip the roof from the barracks building by the north gate, and set our catapult upon a platform there.'

Karis nodded. 'That sounds a good plan. But it does not explain your use of pottery.'

'We make hollow balls and fill them with flammable material - rags drenched in lantern oil, for example.

Lighter than lead, our range would therefore be increased. What I need to design is a method of ignition that would allow the men loading the machine to be safe. One wouldn't want such a ball exploding on the barracks roof.'

'And you can do this?'

'I will think on it.' He reached into the jar and took another cake.

'They look good,' said Karis. 'May I try one?'

'No, you may not,' he told her sternly. 'They are mine.'

Swallowing her irritation, Karis thanked Ozhobar for his time and rose to leave. 'Come back and see me in three days,' he said. 'And send your man Necklen to me. I need to ask some more questions about the Daroth weapon. Oh yes . . . and we are running short of iron. I suggest you ask the Duke to requisition gates, old cooking pots, railings .. . you know the sort of thing.'

'I'll see to it,' promised Karis.

Outside it was snowing once more, but the temperature had lifted. Children were playing in the street, throwing snowballs at one another. Their squealing laughter lifted Karis's spirits as she strolled towards the practice field.

There were already forty men present, the largest and the strongest in Corduin. Forin and the officer Capel were putting them through a series of tests. Karis stood in the shadows and watched as they lifted rocks, or bent bars of iron. Forin was moving among them, issuing orders and directing events. She found herself strangely hesitant about seeing him again. He had been ever-present in her mind since the night in the tavern. But why? He was not an exceptional lover. Poor dead Giriak had been just as powerful. Yet something had moved within her at his touch, as if a rusted lock, long unused and almost forgotten, had given way, revealing . . . revealing what, she wondered.

This is nonsense, Karis, she admonished herself. The man means nothing to you. Put it down to the stress of the day. And, more importantly, cast it from your mind! She heard his laughter echoing across the field, the other men joining in. A donkey had strayed on to the field and taken a dislike to one of the contestants.

It was chasing him, and nipping at his buttocks. Karis grinned - and regained her composure.

Stepping into view she strolled to a picket fence. Forin saw her and ambled across to where she stood.

'Good morning, lady,' he said. His voice was even, his manner guarded. Karis was pleased that there was no wink, or leer; no forced intimacy.

'How goes it, Forin?'

'There are some powerful men here. All are anxious to win the pouch of silver. I'd like to try for it myself.'

'Get me fifty strong men and I'll give you such a pouch.'

'What do you need them for?'

Karis climbed to the fence and sat back, looking down on the red-bearded giant. 'At some point the Daroth will storm the walls. Nothing will stop that. I need men who can stand against them; they will be armed with heavy double-headed axes, with hafts and blades of steel. So it is not only strength I need. I want men with courage. You will lead them.'

'Is this a promotion or a punishment?' he asked. 'Hand to hand against the Daroth? Not a thrilling prospect.'

'It is a promotion. You will be paid well.'

He stood silently for a moment. 'Why did you leave the other night?'

'I had matters to attend to,' she said, keeping her voice cool.

'And I had served my purpose? Ah well, I have used many as you used me. I have no complaint. I will find you your fifty men.' He turned away and strolled back across the field.

Karis swore softly, then leapt from the fence and strode back towards the palace.

'How are you feeling today, Brune?' asked Tarantio.

'Better, thank you,' replied the golden-eyed young man. 'I slept well.' His voice too had changed, becoming more gentle, almost melodious.

Tarantio sat down beside the bed. 'I have been concerned about you, my friend.'

'You are a kind man, Tarantio, and I am in your debt.'

'It is not him,' said Dace.

'I know.'

The sun was high in a cold, clear sky, and the bedroom was bright and warm. The fire still burned in the hearth, and the pale golden figure lay back with his head on the pillow, his body relaxed. 'Where is Brune?' asked Tarantio.

'He is here with me. He is not frightened, Tarantio. Not any more. We are friends, he and I. I will take care of him.'

'Who are you?'

'Not an easy question to answer. I am the Oltor Prime, the last of my race. Does this mean anything to you?'

'The Oltor were destroyed by the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 'Perhaps a thousand years ago.'

'At least. Do not ask me how I came to be here, for I do not know. If I could leave I would. If I could surrender this body to Brune, I would. I have no purpose any longer.'

The figure rose from the bed and stood, naked, in the sunlight streaming through the window. He was thin and tall, his six-fingered hands long and delicate. His eyes were larger than human and semi-protruding, his nose small with the nostrils widely flared. 'I stood in the forest on that last day,' he said sadly, 'and I watched my people die. I surrendered myself to the land. And I died too.'

'Did you have no magic to use against the Daroth? Could you not fight?' asked Tarantio.

'We were not death dealers, my friend. We killed nothing. We were not a violent people, we had no understanding of its nature. We tried to befriend the Daroth, helping them through the Curtain, giving them land that was rich and green and full of magic. They dug into it for iron, tore at it for food, and drowned the magic with their hatred. When we closed the Curtain on them, preventing more from joining them, they turned on us with fire and sword. They devoured our young ones, and slew the old. In despair we tried to run, to open the Curtain on another world. But the magic was gone, and before we could find new, virgin land they were upon us. I was not the Oltor Prime then. I was a young Singer, wed to a beautiful maiden.'

'What does this title mean? What is the Oltor Prime?'

'It is a difficult concept to verbalize in a tongue that is new to me. He - sometimes she - is the spiritual leader of the Oltor, possessing great power. When he died in the forest he turned and pointed at me. I felt his power course through my veins. But I surrendered it and died. Or so I thought. Somehow the magicker who tried to heal Brune brought me back. The "how" is a mystery.'

'You say you surrendered your life. Did the Daroth not kill you?'

'Yes, they pierced my hearts with harsh swords, pinning me to the ground. Then they struck off my head.'

'I believe I know the answer,' said the voice of Duvodas, and Tarantio turned to see the Singer standing in the doorway. Dressed now in a tunic of green silk, his blond hair held in place by a gold circlet, Duvodas entered the room and bowed to the Oltor Prime. 'Your blood soaked into the earth: the blood of the Oltor Prime. It lay in the stones. The Eldarin found them and took them back to Eldarisa, and they lay in the Oltor Temple for generations. Forty years ago one of the humans - allowed into the city for a special meeting - stole one red stone. It was for this reason that no human was ever allowed to enter again. I have spoken to some of the people cured by Ardlin, and they claim he held a block of red coral over their wounds. Used carefully, the magic would have no ill-effect on the patients. However, Tarantio told me of Brune's healing. It seems that Ardlin lied - he told them he had a magic orb to replace the injured eye, but there was no orb. What he cast was a spell of disguise - of changing! In his haste he made an error - and released the essence that had remained in the stone for generations. He released you, Lord of the Oltors.'

The Oltor Prime sighed. 'And here I stand - without purpose, or reason for being. Locked in my hearts are the histories of my people, each one of them. What am I to do?'

'You could help us fight the Daroth,' said Tarantio.

'I cannot fight.'

'Even after they destroyed all your people?'

'Even so. I am a Healer. It is not what I do, Tarantio; it is what I am. If I saw a wounded Daroth, I would heal it without a moment's hesitation. In that way I feed the land with magic. I create harmony.'

'I call that the coward's way,' said Dace aloud. 'Life is a struggle, from the agonies of birth to the railing against death. Devour or be devoured. The law of the wild.'

'This land was not wild until the Daroth came,' said the Oltor.

'Did the lion not hunt the deer, leaping upon it, tearing out its throat?'

'Yes, Dace, the lion did that, for that is the lion's nature. But at no time did the deer develop fangs and claws and rend the lion.'

Dace was stunned by the use of his name. 'You can see the difference in us? You can tell us apart?'

'I can. You were born in that terrible moment when a child, Tarantio, saw his father hanging from a beam.

He could not face the sight, and in his terror he created a brother who could - a brother who could survive all the terrors the world could hurl at a child. You saved him, Dace. Saved him from madness and despair.

Now he saves you.'

'I need no-one to save me. I am Dace. I am the best there is, the best there ever was. Hell's teeth, I am the best there ever will be! I am not weak. When an enemy comes for me I slay him - human or Daroth, lion or wolf.'

'And yet you wept when Sigellus was cut down. You tried to stop him duelling; he was drunk, his powers fading. You almost begged him to let you fight in his place. But he was proud. When he died, you felt as though a hot knife was being dragged across your soul.'

Dace's hand flashed for the dagger at his belt. He staggered. 'I did not know that,' said Tarantio, his hand dropping to his side.

'He lies!' shouted Dace.

'There was never a need for lies in a culture that knew no violence, no anger, no despair,' said the Oltor. 'That is why the Daroth fooled us. They are telepaths, and they presented a mental wall through which we did not pass. It would have been discourteous to try.'

'We are now facing the Daroth,' said Tarantio. 'Your help would be appreciated.'

'I will heal your wounded, but more than that I cannot offer. I will rest now. Perhaps you would like to speak with Brune?' The Oltor closed his eyes. Brune opened them. 'He is very sad,' said Brune. 'He wants to die.'

Moving to his clothes, Brune dressed himself. His leggings were too short now, and his clothes hung upon his slender frame. He sat down by the window. 'Can you do nothing for him?' he asked Tarantio.

'What can I do? He is the last of a dead race.'

'But he's so sad,' said Brune. 'And he's my friend.'

'Yesterday you were frightened,' said Tarantio, 'and rightly so. Can you not see that he is taking over your body?'

'I don't mind,' said Brune. 'All my life I've been frightened. Never knowing what to do, what to say. So many things I couldn't understand. People. Wars. I couldn't remember things. Places. I used to get lost.

I'm not lost now. He teaches me things, he looks after me.'

Tarantio smiled, and patted Brune's shoulder. 'We all look after you, my friend. That is why we are concerned.'

'I'll be all right, honestly I will. You won't let no-one hurt him, will you? He's not like us. He won't fight.'

'I'll do what I can,' Tarantio promised.

'He has knowledge that could end disease and famine,' said Brune. 'The Oltor may be gone, but we humans could learn so much from him.'

'If we survive the Daroth,' said Tarantio.