Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

‘Indeed you do,’ said Browyn, ‘and that one must have been powerful indeed. You were talking in your sleep.’ The old man was sitting at the table. Tarantio rose from the floor. The fire was almost dead. Adding thin pieces

of kindling he blew the flames to life and Browyn hung a kettle over the blaze. ‘You are very pale,’ he said, leaning forward and squinting into Tarantio’s face. ‘I think it was more of a nightmare.’

‘It was,’ agreed Tarantio. ‘I have it often.’ Rubbing his eyes, he moved to the window. The sun was high over the mountains. ‘I do not usually sleep this late. It must be the mountain air.’

‘Aye,’ said Browyn. ‘Would you like some rose-hip tea? It is made to my own recipe.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Why do you think this nightmare haunts you?’

Tarantio shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A long time ago I worked as a miner. I hated it. They lowered us into the centre of the earth — or so it seemed. The days were black with coal dust, and twice there were roof falls that crushed men to pulp.’

‘And you dream of digging coal?’

‘No. But I am back in the mine. I can hear a child calling. He needs help but I cannot find him.’

‘It must mean something,’ said Browyn, moving to the hearth. Wrapping a cloth around his hand he lifted the kettle from its bracket and returned to the table, filling two large cups with boiling water. To each he added a small muslin bag. A sweet aroma filled the room. ‘Dreams always have meaning,’ continued the old man.

‘I think it is telling me to avoid working in mines,’ said Tarantio as, rising, he moved to the table. Browyn stirred the contents of the cups, then hooked out the bags. Tarantio tasted the brew. ‘It is good,’ he said. ‘There is a hint of apple here.’

‘How will the war end?’ asked Browyn suddenly.

Tarantio shrugged. ‘When men are tired of fighting.’

‘You know why it began?’ Browyn asked.

‘Of course. The Eldarin were planning to enslave us all.’

Browyn laughed. ‘Ah yes, the evil Eldarin. The Demon People. With their terrible magic and their arcane weap­ons. Bloody nonsense! Stop and think, Tarantio. The Eldarin were an ancient people. They had dwelt in these mountains for millennia. When had they ever caused a war? Look to history. They were a scholarly people who kept to themselves. Their crime was to appear rich. Greed, envy and fear began this war. It will take a hero to end it. Why are you a warrior, my boy? Why do you play their game?’

‘What other games are there, Browyn? A man must eat.’

‘And you can see no end to the madness?’

‘I don’t think about it. It is hard enough trying to stay alive.’

Browyn’s face showed his disappointment. Refilling the cups and adding two more muslin bags, he remained silent for a while. ‘I was there, you know, seven years ago when the Holy Army marched to the Eldarin borders. We had three sorcerers who claimed they knew a spell to breach the magical barrier. We were full of righteous anger against the Eldarin, and we believed all the lies about their preparations for war. We were also in a rage because of the village that had been massacred: women and children torn to pieces by Eldarin talons. Three years later I spoke to a scout who had been the first on the scene. He said there were no talon marks. The villagers had been killed by swords and arrows, and they had been robbed of all copper and silver coin. But we did not know that then. Our leaders fed us with stories of Eldarin brutality.

‘However, I am losing the thread of the story . . . From where I stood on that day I could see, above the mist, the

green mountains of Eldarin, the forests and the woods, the fields and the distant spires of a beautiful city. Then an old man came out of the mist and stood before our battle-lines. His back was bent, and the fur of his face was cloud-white. Like a ghostly wolf. “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

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