Gemmell, David – Dark Moon

Tarantio looked down into the flickering flames of the camp-fire now, and remembered the great, roaring blaze which had engulfed the house of Master Gatien. He saw again the soldiers of the Duke of The Marches, holding their torches high, and with immense sadness he recalled the old man running back into the burning building, desperate to save his life’s work. His last sight of Master Gatien was of a screeching human torch, his beard and clothes aflame, staggering past the windows of the upper corridor.

Up until then Dace had merely been a disembodied voice in his mind. He had first heard him when he looked up at his father’s body, hanging by the neck from the balcony rail, his features bloated and purple, his trews stained with urine.

‘We don’t care,’ said the voice. ‘He was weak, and he didn’t love us.’

But when Gatien burned, Dace found a pathway to the world of flesh. ‘We will avenge him,’ he said.

‘We can’t!’ objected Tarantio. ‘He lives in a castle surrounded by guards. We … I . . . am only fifteen. I’m not a soldier, not a killer.’

‘Then let me do it,’ said Dace. ‘Or are you a coward?’

Two nights later Dace had crept to the walls of the Duke’s castle and scaled them, slipping past the sleeping sentries. Then he had made his way down the long circular stairwell to the main corridor of the castle keep. There were no guards. The Duke’s bedroom was lit by a single lantern, the Duke himself asleep in his wide four-poster bed. Dace gently pulled back the satin sheet, exposing the Duke’s fat chest. Without a moment of hesitation he rammed the small knife deep into the man’s heart. The Duke surged upright, his mouth hanging open; then he sagged back.

‘Gatien was our friend,’ said Dace. ‘Rot in hell, you miserable bastard!’

The old Duke had died without another sound, but his bowels had opened and the stench filled the room. Dace had sat quietly, staring down at the corpse. He had drawn Tarantio forward to share the scene. Tarantio remembered his father’s face, bloated and swollen, his tongue protruding from his mouth, the rope tight around his neck. Death was always ugly, but this time it had a sweetness Tarantio could taste.

‘Never again,’ whispered Tarantio. ‘I’ll never kill again.’

‘You won’t have to,’ Dace told him. ‘I’ll do it for you. I enjoyed it.’

With a surge of willpower Tarantio dragged control from Dace. Then he fled the castle, confused and uncertain. He had been raised on stories of heroes, of knights and

chivalry. No hero would have felt as he did now. The soaring, ecstatic burst of joy Dace had experienced filled the fifteen-year-old with disgust. And yet he had also tasted that joy.

Now by the lake, with such sombre thoughts in his mind, Tarantio found sleep difficult, and when at last he did succumb, he dreamt again of the old man. ‘The truth burns, Chio,’ he said. The truth is a bright light, and it hurts so much.’

It rained in the night, putting out his fire, and he awoke cold and shivering. Rolling to his knees he pushed himself upright, slipped, and fell face first into the mud. The sound of Dace’s laughter drifted into his mind. ‘Ah, life at one with nature,’ mocked Dace. Tarantio swore. ‘Now, now,’ said Dace. ‘Always try to keep a sense of humour,’

‘You like humour?’ said Tarantio. ‘Laugh at this, then!’ Closing his eyes, he opened the inner pathways and fell back into himself. Dace tried to stop him, but the move was so sudden and unexpected that before he could summon any defences Dace found himself hurtled forward into control of the wet shivering body.

‘You whoreson!’ spluttered Dace, water pouring down his face.

‘You try being at one with nature,’ said Tarantio happily, safe and warm within the borders of the mind. Dace tried the same manoeuvre, struggling to drag Tarantio from his sanctuary, but it did not work. Furious now, Dace looked around, then took shelter within the bole of a spreading oak. The huge tree had at one time been struck by lightning, splitting the trunk, but amazingly it had survived. Dace climbed inside. There was not much room for a full-grown man, but he removed his sword-belt and wedged his

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