“That’s them,” said Tarantio. “The bodies just shrivelled away. The stench was dreadful for a while. I saw a snake shed its skin one time; it was something like that.”
“It was the same at the miracle forest,” Vint told him. “They really decompose fast, don’t they?”
“If that is what is happening,” said Tarantio. “That farmer who was taken by them . . . Barin. He said they were immortal—reborn every ten years. Maybe there’s a new body for them back in their city.”
“What a loathsome thought.”
The bearded soldier who had spoken to Vint just before the attack walked up the rampart steps. He was weaving slightly, and holding a jug in his hands. “What a day!” he said, slumping down beside the two men. “What an incredible day! Did you know the whores are not accepting money today? Everything’s free: women, drink, food. What a day!” The man lay down on the stone and, using the empty jug for a pillow, fell asleep.
“Let’s hope he has the same sentiments tomorrow,” said Tarantio. “People are treating this as a great victory, when in fact it is only the starting skirmish.”
Brune ran up the steps, tripped at the top, recovered his balance and then moved alongside Tarantio, handing him a package wrapped in muslin. Tarantio opened it to find fresh bread, salted beef and a pottery jar containing butter. “It’s amazing back there,” said Brune. “Everyone’s so happy. A woman kissed me!”
“She must have been drunk,” teased Tarantio.
“Yes, she was,” admitted Brune. “It was still nice, though.”
“How is the eye?” asked Vint.
The sandy-haired youngster gave a shrug. “It’s not as good as it was when it went gold. But it’s all right.”
“You can shoot straight now?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t tried.”
“Brune has decided that war is evil, and he will have no part in killing,” put in Tarantio. “Isn’t that right, Brune?”
“Yes. I don’t want to kill nobody.”
“Putting aside the double negative for a moment,” said Vint, “I think that is a laudable point of view. But what do you do when a Daroth warrior is about to behead you with a large sword? Do you just die—or do you fight?”
“I’ll die, I reckon,” said Brune.
“Could you offer some validation for this philosophy?”
“What did he say?” Brune asked Tarantio.
“I think he wants to know why you have decided not to fight.”
“Oh. It was the Oltor. I can’t explain it, but when he was . . . you know, part of me, I could feel what he was thinking. What he was feeling. And it was good, you know? It was . . .” he paused “. . . right. Yes, that’s it. It was right. You understand?”
“Not a word,” admitted Vint. “You think it would be better to be dead than to fight for your life?”
“Yes, I think so. That’s what the Oltor done.”
“And they were wiped out.”
“Yes, but they’re back now.”
“What is he talking about?” Vint asked Tarantio.
“It is a long story.”
Vint was about to question him further when movement began in the Daroth camp. Hundreds of Daroth warriors moved to the lower hillside and began to dig while others could be seen returning from the woods carrying the trunks of felled trees. Within minutes the area was the scene of frenzied activity. The diggers soon disappeared from sight, but the watching men could see earth being thrown up from the pit. The Daroth brought up empty wagons, which they filled with earth; these were then trundled away, returning empty minutes later. Ropes and pulleys were assembled above the pit, drawing up dirt, while planks and timbers were lowered down.
Realization dawned on Vint and he felt a chilling fear spread through him. “They’re building a tunnel,” he said. “They are going to burrow underneath us!”
Chapter Fourteen
The house was cold and Tarantio lit a fire. Brune was staying in the new barracks building with the other stretcher-bearers, and the house seemed lonely without him. “I miss him too,” said Dace. Tarantio smiled. “You remember that first day? ‘He hit me with a lump of wood,’” he mimicked.
“He is a good man. I hope he survives.”
Tarantio sat before the fire, enjoying the new warmth. “We don’t make many friends, do we, Dace? Why is that?”
“We don’t need them, brother.”
“So why Brune? Why do we miss him?” Dace remained silent and Tarantio wandered out to the kitchen. There was a stale loaf there and he cut several slices from it, bringing them back to the fire and toasting them. He ate only one, then lay down on the goatskin rug, weariness washing over him. The Daroth were still digging, the mouth of the tunnel illuminated by lanterns. Soon they would erupt out of the ground somewhere within the city.
“We won’t die, brother,” said Dace. “I’ll kill them all.”
“I’ve always loved your sense of humour.”
“Don’t go to sleep yet. I feel the need to talk awhile.” Dace sat up and added a log to the fire. “Chio? Chio!” he said, aloud. He swore softly, and tried to summon Tarantio. He could now feel the weakness in their body, the muscle fatigue and the bone-numbing weariness. It was not a sensation Dace enjoyed. Pushing himself to his feet he walked to the kitchen and drank several cups of cold water, then scraped the last of some honey from a pottery jar. It was sweet and good.
His keen hearing picked up the sound of someone walking along the path to the door, and he opened it. There, framed in the moonlight, the hood of a dark cloak hiding her golden hair, was the Lady Miriac.
“Are you not going to invite me in?” she asked. Dace stepped aside.
Her blue silk skirts swished against the floor as she moved through to the fire and sat down. Dace could hardly believe this was happening. It seemed so long ago when Tarantio had bedded her and Dace had fought for control, determined to draw his knife across her slender throat. In terror Tarantio had run from the room of mirrors. Now she was here. And Tarantio was asleep.
“Why did you not tell me you were back in Corduin?” she asked.
“I did not know you were still here,” said Dace, his fingers idly stroking the hilt of his dagger.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked. “We . . . blended so well. I felt . . . I don’t know what I felt. But I have thought about you constantly.” She rose and stepped in close to him, putting her arms around his shoulders. He felt the warmth of her body, and pictured the blood gushing from her. Smoothly he drew the dagger, bringing it up behind her back. Her lips brushed against his cheek, then touched his mouth, and he felt her soft tongue upon his. All weariness fled from him, and he was suddenly filled with an aching need. Stepping back she loosed the cloak, letting it fall, then undid the ties at the front of her silk dress. Dace watched in silent amazement as the garment fell to the floor. “Why are you holding a dagger?” she whispered. He hurled it aside.
They made love before the fire, their passion fierce and uncontrolled, and when it was over Dace—for the first time in his life—began to weep. She held him close, stroking his back and whispering gentle endearments to him. It seemed to Dace that walls were collapsing in his mind, and emotions long hidden were washing out like the swollen waters of a flood. He saw his father hanging from the beam, and instead of being filled with a bitter hatred of the man’s weakness he remembered his father’s kindness and the love they had lost. He felt he was drowning in a sea of emotions he never knew he possessed. And he clung to Miriac, whose soft caresses and gentle words aroused him again.
He took her to the bedroom where they made love slowly and with great tenderness. Later, as she slept, Dace sat up and stared down at her as she lay with her golden hair spread out on the pillow, her slender left arm draped across the bed. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“And you wanted to kill her,” said Tarantio.
“I have wanted many things,” Dace told him. “But mostly I wanted us to sta
y together.”
“We are together.”
“You don’t understand, Chio. We are not real, you and I; we are both creations of the child trapped in the mine. He created me to deal with his terrors, and in doing so gave birth to you. For only you could control me. Don’t you see? And the pull is getting stronger. One day he will draw us both to him, and we will cease to be.”
“You cannot be sure of this,” argued Tarantio.
“Oh, I am sure. I can hear him calling me even now. And I can no longer resist.”
“Why?” Tarantio asked.
“Because I have known love—and that is not what I was created for. Goodbye, brother,” said Dace aloud, an infinite sadness in his voice.
Tarantio jerked back into awareness. “Dace!” he called, but there was nothing.
Miriac stirred. “Did you call me?” she whispered.
Tarantio sat very still, a yawning sense of emptiness sweeping through him.
Dace had gone . . .
The mood in the Meeting Hall was sombre as Vint gave his report. The Daroth had moved mountains of earth from their tunnel, and by morning would be close to the walls. By late tomorrow they would be under the city. Duke Albreck listened in silence, but cast a searching gaze around the room and its occupants. The little councillor, Pooris, looked glum and uncertain. Karis sat with eyes downcast, contributing nothing. The giant Forin was only half listening to Vint; he was casting furtive glances towards Karis, and his look was one of concern. The dark-haired, skeletal cleric, Niro, sat forward attentively with his eyes fixed on the speaker. Neither Tarantio nor Ozhobar had so far arrived. “I cannot see,” concluded Vint, “how we can combat this new initiative. If it were men we were facing, I would suggest digging down to intercept them. But Daroth? They would cut us to pieces in moments.” He sat down, and the silence that followed his words was ominous.
Duke Albreck waited for a moment, then took a deep breath. “Our thanks to you, Vint. Your report was clear and concise. Any comments?” The silence grew again. “General, do you have anything to add?” Karis shook her head, but did not look up. The Duke chose his words carefully, speaking without any hint of criticism. “My friends, we have worked hard and long to plan our defences, and to secure a future for the thousands of Corduin citizens who remain. It would be less than courageous to give in now, before the enemy has breached our walls. There must be something we can do.” He glanced at Pooris. The little man wiped the sweat from his bald head.
“I am not a warrior, my lord, as well you know. But I fail to see how we can combat these tactics. The Daroth could come up anywhere, and the only real weapons we have against them are too cumbersome to haul around the city. The way to the south is still open; the Daroth have not surrounded us. It seems to me that we should order a mass evacuation.”
“How far would we get?” asked Forin. “At best such a column could make eight miles in a day. The Daroth riders would be upon us within the hour.”
The door opened and Ozhobar strolled in, carrying a bundle of scrolls under his arm. He gave a cursory bow to the Duke, then pulled up a chair. “Have I missed anything?” he asked.
“You appear to have missed out your apology for lateness, sir,” chided the Duke.
“What? Ah, I see we are still observing the niceties. That’s rather good. We dangle from the crumbling lip of the precipice, but we retain our manners.”
“We do, sir,” said the Duke curtly.
“My apologies for my late arrival, my lord,” said Ozhobar, rising and bowing once more, “but I needed to obtain these items from the Great Library. Some fool of a cleric told me that it was closed, but would reopen at its usual time tomorrow. He too was observing the niceties.” His pale eyes gleamed with anger. “This of course meant that I had to waste time fetching a large hammer from my forge and beating down the door. However, that is largely of no consequence now. I have, I believe, found a way to fight the Daroth.”
Duke Albreck swallowed his irritation. “Would you enlighten us, my dear Ozhobar?”
“Certainly, my lord.” He passed one of the scrolls to the Duke, who opened it. He recognized it instantly.
“These are your plans for a city sewerage system. I recall you brought them to me last year.”
“Indeed I did. After examining them you passed them on to the City Council for perusal. From there, it seems they were sent to a treasury team, then to the councillors responsible for public works. Lastly they were lodged in a small room at the rear of the Library, perhaps waiting for future generations to study them. It took me a long time to locate them, but here they are.”
“I see the plan,” said Vint dryly. “We swiftly build a sewer system, and when the Daroth break through they are washed away. I think it is brilliant.”
“Dolt!” said Ozhobar, passing the other scrolls around the table. “I am talking about the reason why such a sewerage system was feasible in the first place.”
“The catacombs,” said the Duke, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
“Precisely, my lord. They spread under the city in all directions. I believe the Daroth will break through into one of the natural tunnels below the old barracks building. Now, if they have any sense at all they will not dig any farther, but follow the tunnels to any one of seventeen exits within the city itself.”
“And that is a help?” sneered Vint, his face pale and angry.
“Perhaps if I speak more slowly your simple mind might be able to keep up,” said Ozhobar.
Vint fought for control. “Be careful, fat man. Your life hangs on a thread.”
“Somewhat similar to your brain, then,” observed Ozhobar. Vint lurched to his feet at the insult.
“That is enough! Both of you!” said the Duke, without raising his voice. “What is your plan, Ozhobar?”
“I don’t make war plans. I leave that to Karis. But there are many chambers in the catacombs. I have walked them, and I know.”
Karis looked up. “Before I speak it is vital for Vint and Forin to leave the room.”
“Why?” asked Forin.
“Because both of you will be fighting the Daroth, face to face. Ask no more questions. The answers should be obvious.”
“Indeed they are, Karis,” said Vint. The warrior swung to Ozhobar, and when he spoke his voice was flat and cold. “You have nerve, fat man; I’ll give you that. And because of your discovery, I will not kill you for your insolence.”
“Decent of you, I’m sure,” retorted Ozhobar.
The two warriors left the room. Karis rose, and Duke Albreck was delighted to see the glint in her eyes. “We can lead the Daroth to the exit we prefer,” she said. “We need a fighting force below ground. They will attack the Daroth, then retreat before them. The Daroth will follow. If we can maintain a fighting retreat, we can ensure that we have ballistae, crossbow-men and catapults waiting for them above ground. The difficulty will be in preventing the Daroth from recognizing the plan; if our men are retreating towards a set exit, they may well suspect a trap.”
“I see the problem,” said the Duke. “If our men are told of the plan, the enemy will read their minds. Yet if we don’t tell the men which way to retreat, the scheme is doomed anyway.”
“Then what do you propose, Karis?” asked Pooris.
“I don’t know yet. But I will, Councillor. Be assured of that.”
Necklen poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it. It was a fine vintage, yet its flavour was lost on the veteran. The stump of his left arm was throbbing, and he felt every inch his fifty-seven years. Normally he avoided mirrors but, fortified by the wine, he sat before the oval mirror set above the dresser and stared gloomily at his reflection. There was not much dark hair left in his almost silver beard, and his leathery skin was criss-crossed with wrinkles. Only the eyes remained alive and alert.
No-one knew exactly how old he was. He had always lied about his age, for few captains would have knowingly hired a mercenary over fifty. I hate being old, he thought.
I hate the aches and the pains that come with the winter winds and snow. But most of all he hated the chasm it created between himself and Karis. He could still remember the day four years ago when he discovered—to his utter amazement—that he was in love with her. It was after the victory at the Boriane Pass, when she had wandered away to sit alone by a small waterfall. She was by the waterside, surrounded by daffodils, when he had taken her some food the camp cook had prepared, and was surprised to find her weeping.
“One usually weeps when one has lost a battle,” he said softly, sitting down beside her. Her dark hair had been tightly drawn back into a ponytail. Karis loosed the tie and shook her head. It was in that moment, her hair hanging free, tears in her eyes, that Necklen fell in love for the second time in his life.
Karis wiped her eyes. “Stupid woman,” she said. “I thought they would have surrendered. Outnumbered, outflanked, what else could they do? But no, they had to fight to the death. And for what? A little village that will still be there when we have all gone to dust.”
“They were brave men,” he conceded.
“They were fools. We are fools. But then war is a game made for fools.”
“And you play it so well, princess.”
She looked at him sharply. “I don’t think I like that term.”
“I’m sorry,” he had said, reddening. “I haven’t used it in years. It was what I used to call my daughter.” That was a lie; it was the pet name he had called Sofain, his wife.
“Where is she now?” asked Karis.
“Dead. She and my wife were visiting their family in the islands when the boat was caught in a storm. They were washed overboard.”
“I am truly sorry, Necklen. Did you love them very much?”
“It is curious, but I loved them more when they had died. You don’t know how valuable love is, until something takes it from you.”
“How old was your daughter?”