Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

‘Yes, he has the look of eagles, as they say.’ Styart and Tobin lifted the spit from the fire, while the bowman, Brune, added fuel to the fire pit, flames flaring up and illuminating the clearing. Dace’s gaze did not flicker. He sat calmly watching Latais, aware that the man still held his dagger. ‘You are younger than I expected,’ said the leader. ‘If all your exploits are to be believed you should have been at least fifty.’

‘They should all be believed,’ Dace told him.

‘Does this mean you really are swifter than a light­ning bolt?’

Dace said nothing for a moment. ‘You know,’ he said finally, ‘the resemblance is clear.’

‘Resemblance?’

‘Was Brys not your brother?’

Latais smiled. The dagger flashed for Dace’s chest.

His left hand shot out, his fingers closing around Latais’ wrist. The blade stopped inches short. ‘Faster than light­ning,’ said Dace, eyes glittering. Latais struggled to pull back from the iron grip. Dace’s right hand came up, and firelight gleamed on the silver blade of his throwing-knife. ‘And twice as deadly.’

His arm snapped forward, the knife slamming into the unprotected neck of the mercenary leader. Blood gouted from the severed jugular, drenching Dace’s hand. Latais’s struggles grew weaker, and he slumped against the tree. Bright images flashed across Dace’s mind: his mother lying dead in her bed, the plague boils still weeping pus, the child crying for her and calling her name; his father hanging from the long branch, his face bloated and black, and old Gatien running through the burning house with his hair and beard ablaze. The sharpness of his sorrow faded away in the pulsing red light that flowed in his brain, eased by the warm red blood that bubbled over his knife hand.

Dace sighed and pulled clear the blade, letting the body of Latais fall. Wiping the knife, he returned it to his boot and rose to his feet drawing his swords. The flames were six feet high now, and Dace could not see who stood beyond the fire. But he guessed that Latais had ordered his men to be ready.

‘Come on then, you gutter scum!’ he yelled, leap­ing through the flames and across the fire-pit. As he landed, ready for battle, he saw the bowman, Brune, lying on the ground, Forin standing above him with a

wooden club in his hand. ‘Where are the other two?’ demanded Dace.

‘You’ve never seen men run so fast. Didn’t even stop to saddle their horses. You want to kill this one?’

The answer was yes, but Dace felt his irritation rise. What right had this man to offer him a death? ‘Why should I?’ he heard himself say.

Forin shrugged. ‘I thought you enjoyed killing.’

‘What I enjoy is none of your damned business. Why did you help me?’

‘A whim. They saw you coming. Latais thought Brune could bring you down as you entered the camp. But you put the horse between you as you dismounted. Smooth move, my friend. You’re a canny man.’

Brune groaned and sat up. ‘He hit me with a lump of wood,’ he complained.

‘You were about to shoot through the fire and kill me,’ said Dace, wishing he had killed the man as he lay unconscious. There was still time.

‘That’s what I were told to do,’ said Brune sullenly.

Dace looked into the man’s face. ‘Your leader is dead. You want to fight me?’

‘I didn’t want to kill you in the first place. He told me to.’ Dace could feel the longing for blood growing in him, but he looked into the hulking young man’s plain, open face and saw the absence of malice there. A farm boy lost in a world at war. Dace could see him lovingly working the fields, caring for stock, raising a family as dull and as solid as himself.

‘Gather your gear and move out,’ he said.

‘Why do you want me to go? Aren’t you the leader now?’ Brune reached up and rubbed his sandy hair. His fingers came away bloody. ‘Anyway, my head hurts.’

Forin chuckled. ‘Tell me,’ he said to the injured man,

‘is there a lot of in-breeding in your village? You’re not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, are you?’

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