Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

‘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 re-open 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 further, 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.

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