At the foot of the hill Capel dismounted. Bones were scattered around the pit, and a small pile of skulls had been carelessly kicked into the ashes. A little way to the right was a mound of torn and bloody clothing. Goran jumped from his horse and began to search through the clothes. His father’s tunic was not among them.
‘Riders!’ shouted one of the three soldiers. Goran saw some twenty monsters approaching from the south. Running to his horse, he vaulted to the saddle.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Capel. Turning his mount towards the slope, he glanced up to see, far above them, the captain’s horse rear suddenly, pitching him to the ground. The sound of screaming horses filled the air. One gelding toppled head-first over the crest with a long black spear through its neck. Capel dragged on the reins
of his mount, his mind racing. Above him now he could see scores of white-faced warriors moving out onto the slope – behind him twenty more riders were bearing down. With three men he could make no difference to the battle being waged above, and if he tried he would be caught between two forces. To be forced to run from a fight was galling, but to stay would be certain death. Death did not frighten Capel, but if no-one escaped there would be no-one to raise the alarm back in Corduin.
Capel swung his horse towards the east. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted. The three soldiers and Goran obeyed instantly, and they galloped back down the slope to the level ground of the plain. The huge horses of the enemy could not match the speed of the Corduin mounts. They did not try. Capel glanced back to see the Daroth riding slowly up the slope.
And just for a moment he glimpsed the fat captain running witlessly along the crest. But then he was gone.
The dream was subtly different. The child was still crying and Tarantio was trying to find him – deep below the earth, down darkened tunnels of stone, he 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, yet the walls themselves glowed with a pale
green light, strong enough to throw shadows. As always
he emerged into a wide hall, the high ceiling supported by three rows of columns. The ragged men with opal eyes advanced through the gloom, hammers and pickaxes in their hands.
‘Where is the boy?’ he demanded, drawing his swords.
‘Dead. As you are,’ came the voice in his mind.
‘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 voice fell silent and Tarantio moved forward. The line of ragged men parted, and beyond them he saw a swordsman waiting for him. The man was lean, his face grey, his eyes golden and slitted like those of a hunting cat. His hair was white and spiky, standing out from his head like a lion’s mane. In his hands were two swords,
‘Where is the child?’ asked Tarantio.
‘Will you die to find out?’ the demon asked in return.
Tarantio awoke and swung his legs from the bed. The sound of Brune’s soft snoring filled the room. Tarantio took a deep, calming breath. Dawn light was shining through the leaded glass of the windows, making geometric patterns on the floor of the room. Tarantio dressed swiftly and went downstairs. One of the two fires in the dining hall had died, but the other was still flickering. Adding two thin logs to it, he blew the blaze to life and sat quietly before the flames.