She remembered him from her time in the Duke’s service—a good man, sound and cautious, but not lacking in courage. “What were they, Capel?” she asked him.
“They are Daroth. And I fear the world has changed.”
Chapter Six
Ardlin stood at his high balcony window, gazing out towards the north. The trembling had stopped now, but the fear remained. The dream had been vivid, rich with colour: the colour of blood, red and angry. Ardlin had found himself floating above the scene, watching a group of soldiers attacked by Daroth warriors. There was a fat officer, who fell from his horse and tried to run. The Daroth caught him and stripped him naked; then they dug a fire-pit. What followed was stomach-wrenchingly awful. Ardlin had jerked awake, his face and body sweat-drenched.
At first he had felt an overpowering sense of relief. It was a dream. Just a dream—born of his fascination with the ancient races. But as the morning wore on his concern grew. He was a magicker with a talent for healing; he knew spells, and could concoct potions. Above it all, however, he was a mystic. A Sensitive, as the Elders would have said.
Ardlin had tried to put the dream behind him, but it nagged and tugged at his thoughts.
At last, around mid-morning, he sat on the floor of his sanctum and induced the Separation Trance. Floating free of his body he flew to the north, across the rich hills and valleys towards the mountains of the desert. He did not consciously direct his flight, but allowed the memory of the dream to draw him on.
In the hills he found the fire-pit, and the remains of several corpses. The head of the fat officer lay beneath a bush, dead eyes staring up at the sky, flies crawling across the bloody stump that lay exposed beneath the chin.
Ardlin fled for the sanctuary of his body.
The Daroth were back.
For thirty years Ardlin had been a collector of ancient tomes and artefacts, and had spent many long, delightful hours studying the clues of the past. His main fascination had been with the Oltor. No-one now living had any idea how their society had been structured, nor how their culture had flourished. Ancient writings merely stated that they were a gentle golden-skinned race, tall and slender, and gifted with an extraordinary talent for music. It was said they could make crops grow through the magic of their harps. According to one tome, it was with this magic that they inadvertently opened two gateways—one to the desolate world of the Daroth, the other to the world of the Eldarin.
Ardlin remembered the story well. The Oltor had welcomed the new races, holding the barrier open so that great numbers of Daroth could move through. Their own land had become a desert, and the Daroth were dying in their multitudes.
The Oltor granted them a huge tract of land in the north, so that they could grow crops and build cattle-herds, in order to send the food back to their own world. But more and more Daroth came through the gateway, demanding ever more land. Being gentle and trusting, the Oltor allowed the migration to continue.
Several hundred Eldarin also came through, and built a city in the southern mountains, near the sea.
As the years passed the Daroth grew in numbers, and the land they had been granted became less fertile. Forests had been ruthlessly cut away, exposing the earth to the full force of the hot summer winds which seared the grass and blew away the topsoil. Over-grazed and badly used, the grassland began to fail. Then the Daroth dammed the three major rivers, bringing drought to the Oltor.
They sent representatives to the Daroth, urging them to reconsider their methods. In return the Daroth demanded more fertile land. The Oltor refused. And died . . .
Huge and powerful Daroth warriors had sacked the cities of the Oltor, destroying them utterly. Ardlin remembered the chilling line from the Book of Desolation. Invincible and almost invulnerable, the Daroth could not be slain by arrow or sword.
Now he stood on the balcony, wondering how he could escape the holocaust that would follow. Most men who knew him assumed him to be rich and, indeed, he had been. Fortunes had been paid for his skills, enabling him to build this fine house and to keep three mistresses. The fortunes had also funded his other great pleasure: gambling. There was no greater thrill than to wager on the roll of the dice, watching the cubes bounce across the ivory-inlaid walnut table—seeing the twin green eyes of the leopard and the staff of the Master appear as the dice came to rest. The ecstasy of that moment left a taste in the heart that was stronger than any opiate—better than the joys in the arms of his mistresses. It seemed to Ardlin that it was the very taste of life itself.
Unfortunately the eyes and the staff appeared all too infrequently when Ardlin threw. And he had wagered greater and greater sums.
Now he had nothing left to wager, and instead of possessing fortunes he owed them.
On the balcony, he ran his slender hand through his thinning hair and sighed. Fortunes meant nothing now. What he needed was a good horse, some supplies, and enough gold to purchase passage on a ship from Loretheli to one of the larger, settled islands.
Heavy and huge, the Daroth were said to fear crossing water and on an island he might be safe. At least he would be a lot safer than here, in this doomed city.
The problem was that he had no horse, nor money to purchase one. The great house was now empty of all valuables, and all of the friends he had made during his stay in Corduin had been sucked dry. He could think of no-one who would advance him a single copper piece.
How long, he wondered, until the Daroth army reaches the gates of Corduin? Two days? Five? Ten? Panic caused him to tremble once more. In the old days he would have gone to his medicine store and chewed on the Lorassium leaf. That would have calmed him. But there were no leaves now, and no money to buy them.
Leaving the balcony, Ardlin walked down to the kitchen and pumped water into a jug. Then he filled a goblet and drank. The water only highlighted his hunger . . . and there was nothing to eat.
A loud knock came at his front door, causing him to jump. Silently he made his way to the observation panel and slid it open.
There were two men standing outside, one lean and slim, his hair dark and short-cropped to the skull; he was dressed in a black leather jerkin, dark leggings and boots. Beside him was a gangling young man carrying a longbow. They were not creditors . . . but they could be collectors. The dark one looked like a collector—hard and lean. On the other hand they might be in need of his services, which meant money. Ardlin bit his thin lower lip. What to do?
“There’s no-one here,” he heard the hulking young man say. “Maybe we should come back later? Anyway, I’m not sure I want someone poking around in my eye. Maybe it will get better on its own.”
Ardlin ran to the front door, took a deep breath to compose himself, then smoothed down his silver hair. He opened the door. “Good day, my friends,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “How may I be of service to you?”
The dark-haired young man had eyes of the deepest blue. “My friend here has an injury to his eye. We were recommended to you.”
“Indeed? By whom?”
“Vint.”
“A charming fellow. Do come in, my friends. Despite this being my day of rest, I will see you—as a mark of respect to the noble Vint.”
He led them through to his sanctum and seated Brune on a low chair by the window. From a mahogany box he took a thick piece of blue glass which he held over Brune’s right eye, peering through it for some moments. “The injury was caused by a blow to the head, yes?” he said.
“With a lump of wood,” said Brune.
“Tell me, do you experience stabbing pains behind the eye?”
“In the mornings,” admitted Brune. “But they go away quick.”
Ardlin returned the glass to its box, then sat down behind an elaborately carved desk of oak. “The damage to the eye is extensive,” he said. “I cannot make this any easier for you. You will lose the sight in that eye completely.”
“Got the other one, though, eh?” said Brune, his voice shaking.
“Yes. You will
have the other one.”
“There is nothing to be done?” asked the dark-haired young man.
“Not with the eye in its present condition. I could . . .” Ardlin paused for effect. “But no, such a solution would be far too costly, I fear.”
“What is the solution?” asked the man. Ardlin’s heart leapt.
“I have in my possession an orb, a magical orb. I could replace the eye. But the orb is an ancient piece, and its worth incalculable.”
The young man rose and stood facing Ardlin. In the light from the window it seemed to the magicker that the man’s eyes had changed from dark blue to arctic grey. “My name is . . . Tarantio,” he said. “Have you heard the name?”
“Sadly, no.” Ardlin felt a touch of fear as he gazed into those eyes.
“Like Vint, I am a swordsman.”
“Each to his own,” said Ardlin smoothly.
“Now you name a price, magicker, and then we will dicker over it.”
“A hundred gold pieces.”
Tarantio shook his head. “I do not think so. Ten.”
Ardlin forced a laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
“Then we will trouble you no further. Let’s go, Brune.”
Ardlin waited until they had reached the door. “My friends, my friends,” he called, “this is no way to behave. Come back and sit down. Let us discuss the matter further.”
In his heart he knew he had lost.
But ten gold pieces would get him to a safe island . . . and that was worth a dozen fortunes.
“Will it hurt?” asked Brune.
“There will be no pain,” Ardlin assured him.
“How long will this take?” asked Tarantio. “I am meeting Vint later today.”
“The process will take around two hours. Do you have the gold with you?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you when I have seen the results.”
“Not a trusting man, then? Very well, you can wait here. Follow me, young man,” said Ardlin.
“You’re sure this isn’t going to hurt?” asked Brune, rising.
“I’m sure.” Ardlin took him through to a back room and bade him lie down on the narrow bed by the window. Brune did so. Ardlin touched the young man on the brow, and instantly Brune fell into a deep sleep.
The magicker moved to the wall, opening a secret panel and removing a pouch. Opening the drawstrings, he tipped out the contents into the palm of his hand. There was a silver ring, a copper locket, a lock of golden hair wrapped in silver wire, and a small round piece of blood-red coral. Each of the items was of great value to his profession. The ring aided him in the Five Spells of Aveas; the locket kept him free of the diseases which afflicted many of his clients, and the lock of hair boosted his mystic insight into the cause and cure of most ailments. The Oltor coral, however, was the masterpiece in his collection. It could rebuild ruined tissue, muscle and bone. When first he had acquired it, the coral had been the size of a man’s head. But each time it was used it shrank. Now it was no larger than a pebble.
The damage to the eye would make no perceptible difference to the coral, he knew, for though extensive in human terms, the injury covered only a small area of tissue. Holding the coral above the sleeping Brune’s right eye, Ardlin focused his concentration, feeling the coral grow warm in his hand. Lifting the eyelid, he took the round glass magnifier and examined the eye. All the damage had been repaired. However, he had promised them a magical orb in place of an eye, and it would take but a small spell to recolour the iris. Green would be pleasant, he thought. Holding the coral once more over Brune’s face he began to speak one of the Five Spells of Aveas: the Spell of Changing. As he was almost finished he heard footsteps outside the room, and the creak of the door opening. In a rush he finished the spell, his whispered words tumbling out. The heat of the coral surged in his hand.
Ardlin’s jaw dropped. Opening his hand, he stared down at the pink skin of his palm.
The coral had vanished.
It was impossible! There was enough power left to heal the wounds of twenty, perhaps thirty men. How could it have exhausted itself with such a simple transformation? He heard Tarantio speak, but was too stunned to understand the words. The swordsman repeated them.
“Is he cured, magicker?”
“What? Oh, yes.” Ardlin lifted Brune’s eyelid. His right eye was now covered with a golden sheen, the pupil hidden beneath it. Ardlin was both surprised and relieved. How had he made the mistake? And would the young man be able to see? Sweat broke out on Ardlin’s face.
“What is troubling you?”
“What troubles me? You have witnessed the end to my career as a healer. I had a magic stone, but now it is used up, the power gone. Ten gold pieces!” He gave a wry laugh and shook his head. “A man once paid a thousand pieces of gold to heal a crooked arm. It took less power than your friend’s eye.” Ardlin sighed and fell silent as Tarantio counted out the coins and dropped them into his outstretched palm. “Tell me, swordsman, why were you so confident that I would take such a paltry sum?”
“Look around you, magicker,” answered Tarantio. “This grand house is empty of ornament. There are indentations in the rugs where furniture once stood. You are poorer than a blind beggar, and in no situation to haggle.”
“Sadly true,” admitted Ardlin. “But at such times is it not cruel to take advantage of a man’s misfortunes? The work I have done for your friend is worth far more than ten coins. He has the eye of an eagle now.”
“Aye, maybe it is,” admitted Tarantio. “But that was the bargain. And I have honoured it.”
Ardlin’s thin face sagged. “I need to get out of the city, Tarantio. These coins will book me passage on a ship from Loretheli. But I have no means to purchase a horse to get there. I beg you to reconsider. My life depends upon it.”
Brune awoke and sat up, blinking. “I can see everything,” he cried happily. “Better than ever before!” He moved to the window and stared at the trees outside. “I can see the leaves, one by one.”
“That is good,” said Tarantio. “Very good.” Turning to the magicker, he stood for a moment in silence. Then his face relaxed and he smiled. “Go to the merchant, Lunder. Tell him I sent you. Tell him Tarantio says to supply you with funds for a good horse and supplies.”
“Thank you,” said Ardlin humbly. “In return, let me offer you this advice: Leave the city. It is doomed.”
“The armies of Romark won’t lay siege to Corduin,” said Tarantio. “Too costly.”
“I am not talking about the wars of men, swordsman. The Daroth have returned.”
Karis, Capel and the boy, Goran, were led into the Duke’s private rooms. The ruler of Corduin looked older than Karis remembered; his thin beard, closely shaved to his chin, was salt and pepper now, but his dark hooded eyes were as coldly alert and intelligent as ever. He sat on his high-backed chair, leaning forward, his slender arms resting on his knees as Capel gave his report. Then he turned his hawk eyes on Karis.
“You saw all this?” he asked her.
“I did not see the attack on his men, nor the dark moon rising. But I saw the Daroth. He speaks the truth, my lord.”
“And how was it that you were riding into my lands, Karis? Do you not serve Sirano?” He almost spat out the name.
“I did, my lord.” Swiftly Karis told him of the experiments with the Pearl, and of the ghostly vision of the Eldarin. “He warned Sirano that a great evil would be unleashed. Sirano did not listen. I believe the Daroth were the evil he spoke of.”
Turning to a manservant standing close by, the Duke ordered his Council to be gathered. The man ran from the room. “I have studied history all my life,” said the Duke. “History and myth. Often have I wondered where the two meet. Now, thanks to the insane ambition of Romark, I am to find out.” Rising from his chair he walked to the bookshelves lining the far wall, and selected a thick leather-bound tome. “Come with me to the Meeting Hall,” he said. With the book under his arm he made for the door, where he stopped and
waited; just for a moment the ruler of Corduin seemed lost and confused. Karis suppressed a smile, wondering how long it had been since he had been forced to open a door for himself. Then she moved forward to open it for him. The Duke strode out into the hallway beyond and led them deep into the palace. There was a huge, rectangular table in the Meeting Hall, and seats for thirty councillors. The Duke sat at the head of the table and opened the book, tracing the words with his fingers as he read. Karis, Capel and the boy, Goran, stood silently beside him.
The first of the councillors arrived within minutes, but they did not disturb the Duke; they merely sat quietly in their places. Gradually the chairs began to fill. The last to arrive was the swordsman, Vint, the Duke’s Champion. Dressed in a stylish tunic of oiled leather embossed with silver swirls, he looked just as cruelly handsome as Karis remembered. He had not sported the shaved crescents above his ears when last she had seen him, nor the two silver earrings in his left ear. But then fashions among the nobility changed faster than the seasons. He flashed her a broad smile, and gave an extravagant bow. “Always a pleasure to see you, my lady,” he said.
The Duke looked up. “You are late, Vint.”
“My apologies, my lord. I was on my way to a duel, but I got here as fast as I could.”
“I don’t like you fighting for anyone but me,” said the Duke. “However, that is a small matter. I hope the man you killed was not a friend of mine?”
“Happily no, my lord. And there was no duel. Your servant found me as I was on my way to his home. I have, of course, sent a message to him, apologizing for the necessity of postponing our meeting.”