Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

Both men rose and advanced again. ‘You have already shown a lack of wisdom, lads,’ said Sigellus, his voice now cold and steady. ‘There is no need for you to die.’

‘We don’t intend to die, you old whoreson,’ said the first man, blood dripping from the wound in his upper arm.

As Tarantio watched he saw a movement behind the swordsman. Another corsair stepped silently from the shadows, a curved dagger in his hand.

‘Behind you!’ yelled Tarantio and Sigellus spun instantly, the sabre hissing out, the blade slicing through the corsair’s throat, half decapitating him. Blood sprayed out as the man fell. The other two attackers rushed in. Tarantio watched them both die. The speed of the swordsman’s movements was dazzling. Wiping his blade on the shirt of one of the corpses, Sigellus stepped across to where Tarantio stood open-mouthed.

‘My thanks to you, friend,’ he said, returning the sabre to its scabbard. ‘Come, I will repay your kindness with

a meal and a jug of wine. You look as if you could use one.’

A jug of wine was always close to Sigellus, recalled Tarantio with a touch of sadness. It was wine which killed him, for he had been the worse for drink when he had fought the Marches Champion, Carlyn. He had been humiliated, and cut several times, before the death stroke was administered. Dace had instantly challenged Carlyn, and they had fought in the High Hall of Corduin palace the following night. As Carlyn fell dead not one cheer was raised, for Dace had cruelly and mercilessly toyed with the swordsman, cutting off both his ears and slicing open his nose during the duel . . .

A log fell from the hearth and rolled on to the rug at his feet, jerking Tarantio from his memories. Using a set of iron tongs, he lifted it back to the fire and then stretched out on the floor. ‘When you draw your sword, Chio,’ Sigellus had warned him, ‘always fight to kill. There is no other way. A wounded man can still deal a death stroke.’

‘You didn’t fight to kill against those corsairs. Not at first.’

‘Ah, that’s true. But then I’m special. I am – and I say this humbly, dear boy – the best there ever was. And, drunk or sober, the best there ever will be.’

He was wrong. For now there was Dace.

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.