Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

I think it will – a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How does that sound?’

Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell. The door was locked behind him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a young soldier helped him mount a fine grey stallion, and the troop cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel.

‘Tell me again about these monsters,’ said the soldier.

‘They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. Their horses were giants.’

‘You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird’s, perhaps?’

‘Yes, sir. Like a hawk’s beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and pointed.’

The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a white linen towel.

After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran’s village an hour after noon. It was deserted.

Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside the captain’s mount. ‘Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the boy said.’ The captain looked around nervously.

‘How many in the raiding party?’ he asked, sweat breaking out on his plump face.

‘No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than any I’ve seen.’

‘I think we should go back, don’t you?’ said the captain.

‘We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the Duke?’

‘Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.’

‘I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now be between us and the garrison.’

The fat man’s eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. ‘Yes, of course. You think then we should .. . push on?’

‘With care, sir.’

The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning himself at the centre of the troop. Goran edged his mount alongside Capel. ‘The captain doesn’t seem much like a soldier,’ he said.

‘He’s a nobleman, lad. They’re a different breed – born to be officers.’ He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills and valleys, woods and plains.

The fat officer moved alongside Capel. ‘It is like a dream,’ he said. ‘What can it mean?’

‘When I was a lad our village storyteller told tales of ancient days. The Three Races – you remember, sir? The Oltor, the Eldarin and the Daroth?’

‘What of it?’

‘Our storyteller’s description of the Daroth matches what the boy saw. Huge, powerful heads of white, ridged bone. A beak of a mouth.’

‘It cannot be,’ said the captain. ‘The Daroth were destroyed by the Eldarin centuries ago.’

‘And a few days ago this was the Great Northern Desert,’ pointed out Capel. Around them the thirty men were sitting their horses nervously. There was no conversation, but Goran could feel the tension.

‘And that looks like no human settlement I have ever heard of,’ went on Capel, gesturing towards the distant city of black domes. ‘Should we send a delegation?’

‘No! We are not politicians. I think we have seen enough. Now we will ride back.’

One of the soldiers pointed to a small hollow at the foot of the hills, where the remains of a fire-pit could clearly be seen.

‘Go down and check it,’ the captain ordered Capel. ‘Then we’ll leave.’

The officer beckoned three men to follow him and rode down the slope. Goran heeled his horse forward and followed them.

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