'Perhaps,' his father agreed.
Yordis returned with some twenty villagers, and the group rode down to the rich grassland. Dismounting, they walked around in silence for a while, then gathered together and sat in a circle. 'Someone should ride to the
garrison; they could send a rider to Corduin to let Lord Albreck know what has occurred,' said Barin.
'Who would be believed?' asked a village elder. 'I have seen it and I still do not believe it.'
'Should we go to the domed city and make ourselves known to them?' asked another.
'That will not be necessary,' said Barin. 'It seems they are coming to us.'
The men rose and turned to see a hundred horsemen galloping across the grassland. The horses were huge, taller by six hands than anything the villagers had ever seen, and the riders were large, powerful warriors, seemingly wearing helms of white bone. But as they came closer, Barin realized that they were not helms at all. The riders were not human. Fear rose in him and, grabbing his son, he lifted him to the saddle. 'Get to the Duke Albreck,' he hissed. Then he slapped his hand hard on to the rump of the horse, which half-reared and then bolted towards the south.
The riders ignored the fleeing boy and formed a circle around the villagers. One of them dismounted and walked up to Barin. The warrior was more than seven feet tall, huge across the shoulder. His face was flat, the bone of his ridged nose flowing up over his hairless cranium. The eyes were huge and black, showing no evidence of a pupil, and the beaked mouth was a curious M-shape, curving downward, lipless and cruel.
The creature loomed over the farmer, and a series of guttural clicks came from its mouth. Barin blinked and licked his lips nervously. 'I... I do not understand you,' he said. The creature paused, then made a motion with his hand, touching his own lipless mouth and then pointing to Barin. 'What is it you want?' asked Barin. The creature nodded vigorously, then gestured him to continue.
'I do not know what to say, nor whether you can understand my words. I fear you cannot. We are all villagers here, and we came to see the miracle of the desert. We mean no harm to anyone. We are peaceful people. The reason we came so far north was to avoid the wars that plague our lands.' Barin spoke on for some time, his eyes shifting nervously from the monster before him to the other riders who sat motionless.
After some time the creature before him lifted his hand. He spoke, but the words were strange and - largely - meaningless. But there were some familiar sounds now. He seemed to be asking Barin a question. Barin shook his head. The monster motioned him to speak again and he did so, telling them of problems with crops, of raising buildings on marsh land, of the plague that stopped short of their village but almost obliterated three others. Just as he was running out of things to say, the monster spoke again.
'What are you?' it asked, the voice deep and harsh, the dialect perfectly pronounced.
'We are villagers from the south. We mean no harm, sir.'
'You serve the Eldarin?'
'No, sir. We serve the Duke of Corduin. The Eldarin are no more; there was a war and they . . . disappeared.
Their lands became a desert, like this one . ..' He tailed off lamely.
'A desert, you say? What is the desert?'
'Barren .. . empty . . . devoid of life. No water or earth. No grass or trees. That is a desert. Until this very morning the desert was all around here. Red stone, not a handful of earth for thousands of square miles. But today - and my son saw this - a great black cloud rose up and everything . . . the city, the trees, flowed from it. That's why we came here.'
The huge warrior stood silently for a moment. 'There is much here to think on,' he said at last. 'And our mastery of your language is ... not good. This morning the sun rose .. . wrong. I think you . . . truth speak.
Eldarin did this to us with ... magic.'
'You are mastering the language wonderfully, sir,' said Barin. 'And with such speed . . . swiftness. In my judgement that is amazing.'
'We have talent for tongues,' said the creature. 'Your ... people . . . killed Eldarin?'
'Yes. Well ... no one knows what happened to them. Their land was destroyed. Our army was there to fight them, but what happened there was the . . . opposite of what happened here. The grass and trees and water disappeared. So did their cities.'
'You and I will . . . discuss . . . this further. But let us deal first with matters we can make judgement upon.
Which of you here is the strongest?'
There was silence as the villagers stood by, frightened. 'I am,' said the smith at last, stepping forward.
The leader approached him, towering over Yordis by more than a foot. 'What is your race called?' he asked.
'We are just . . . men,' the smith answered.
The leader called to one of his riders, who dismounted and approached. 'Fight him,' the leader ordered Yordis.
'We are not here to fight, sir,' put in Barin. 'We are none of us warriors.'
'Be silent. I wish to see your man fight against a Daroth warrior.'
Drawing his sword the leader tossed it to the smith, who caught it expertly by the hilt but then sagged under the weight of the weapon. Instantly his opponent drew his own sword and attacked. Yordis blocked the first blow, and sent a two-handed sweep that hammered against the warrior's shoulder, cutting deep into the white flesh. A milky fluid began to stream from the wound. The smith attacked again, but the warrior ducked under a slashing cut and rammed his own blade deep into the smith's belly, wrenching it up through the heart. Blood and air hissed from Yordis's open lungs, and his body fell to the earth. The wounded warrior sheathed his sword and drew a curved dagger; with this he cut a strip of flesh from the smith's forearm, and ate it. Blood staining his ghost-white face, the warrior turned to his leader. 'They taste of salt,' he said. A hissing staccato sound came from the other warriors, which Barin took to be a form of laughter. Yordis had been a dear friend, but the farmer was too shocked and frightened to feel despair at his parting. In that moment all he felt was relief that it was not him lying on the soft earth, with blood pooling beneath him.
The leader took Barin by the arm. 'Mount your pony and follow us,' he said. 'We need to speak further.'
'What of my friends?' he asked.
The leader barked out an order, whereupon the warriors drew their serrated swords and closed in. The villagers tried to run, but the circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. Within the space of a few heartbeats all the villagers were slain, the grass stained red by their blood.
Barin stood by, mesmerized by the slaughter. 'We meant you no harm,' he said. 'They are . . . were . . . peaceful people.'
The leader loomed above him, his huge dark eyes staring down unblinking. 'They were nothing, for they were not strong.'
It took Barin three attempts to mount his gelding, his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The leader stepped into the saddle of his enormous stallion. Around him the Daroth warriors were dismounting; they ran to the bodies and began to strip away the clothes.
'Your friends' lives will not be completely wasted,' said the leader. 'Salt flesh is a great delicacy.'
Chapter Five
Duvodas was troubled. Eyes closed, he stroked the harp strings, sending out a fluted ripple of notes. 'That is very pretty,' said Shira.
'It is wrong,' he said, opening his eyes and looking at the girl. Dressed in a skirt of russet brown and a blouse of cream-coloured wool, she was sitting on the round wall of the well. Putting aside his harp, Duvodas walked to her and kissed her cheek. 'I am not good company today,' he told her.
'You are always good company, Duvo. And what do you mean, it is wrong? What is wrong?'