The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “It’s none of your business why I’m taking her. Because I want her.” He buttoned his pants and pulled on his shirt, tucking it in before he fussed with his belt, finding his own hands shaking a bit. “You’re here, fixing to waste her away on blue piece takes and men, and you’ve a set on you big enough to ask me what I’m doing with her? It’s shameful, really.” Derk pulled on his coat and hat, grabbing his bag and the sack, swinging it over his shoulder before he took the dagger up, pointing it at her again. “You think your men will like coming here, knowing their pie monies ain’t safe? Don’t worry about this girl’s well-being. I’ll see to it she grows up proper. Gold don’t belong with brass.” He sneered at her as he tightened his grip on the neck of the sack, turning around and unlocking the door.

  “Please…please, Derk, don’t take her.” Prisca’s voice was muffled by her sobs. Derk sighed, looking over his shoulder at her.

  He just stared at her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t wait for her to explain why she wanted or needed the girl. Instead, he walked out and shut the door behind him, letting it slam. The dagger was still in his hand as he walked down the hallway, down the stairs and out the front door, into the fetid night air. People strolled around after vespers, hawkers shouting their wares, the aromas of beer and evening meals making their way through the scent of dirty people. Other denizens of Fenwick pressed upon him, pushing against him and giving him dirty looks as he paid them no mind.

  Derk had the girl. The girl was in the bag. His hand gripped it at the top, slung rather awkwardly over his shoulder as he made his way down the street. Singing to himself, Derk cut across the main street to the bar where he was to meet Jezlen. He passed by Gia and Sera in the street as he went on his way and Derk was sure to tip his hat to them as he went by.

  Book Three

  Red Moon Rising

  PROLOGUE

  Love Me, Tender

  Tender noticed her as soon as she walked in. He set down the glass he was cleaning and watched as the young woman pulled back her hood, her dark eyes locking with his. He must have smiled at her because she smiled back, the din and bustle of the bar fading away as she approached him. It was more of a smirk, to be honest. As the young woman strode toward him she ran her fingers through her hair, pulling her dark, straight tresses over her ears, slipping past the occupied seats and tables of the establishment.

  The young woman shrugged her pack off of her shoulders before she hopped up onto the stool, tucking her bag beneath her feet. Tender noticed the rough brown tunic she wore, her woman’s belt tied with a white ribbon at the front. Tied at the front meant she was single. The barkeep placed a clay mug in front of her, pulling a jug of ale out from under the bar top.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said. Her voice bordered on husky, the tone and cadence of a girl from the city. Which city, he had no idea. Generally Tender kept bar and helped the town priestess run services. He rarely traveled far from his hometown of Whitend and mostly served drinks to locals, who were free to tell him their business over drinks or over prayers. He hadn’t had a new face in town for two phases, and this customer…she smiled at him. Tender grinned, taken by the young woman sitting before him. Her full mouth parted slightly before she smiled. “What do you have to drink?”

  Tender shook the jug he had just pulled up. “I’ve the house barley brew.” He looked back at the wares on his shelf. Bottles of glass and clay, labeled and clean of any marks, lined the wall. “I’ve ground apple brandy made from last year’s harvest,” he started. “Thinny in six varieties, all made in my own cellars. Bluewine from the Southlands in three varieties, honey smacker from the base of the Holy Bowl and, well…milk, if you’re interested.” He meant the last bit as a joke. The new patron seemed a bit too young to be traveling on the borders of the Freewild alone; most people went in groups. Tender was hoping to get a rise out of her, as he wanted to see what happened to her mouth when it became angry. Instead, the dark traveler nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  “I’ll have a mug of milk, please,” the young woman said, leaning in a bit more, her voice lower, as if wanting a mug of milk was to be kept a secret. Was she pressing on him? The barkeep couldn’t help but lean in as well, the sounds of the bar dampened by his lack of attention.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something else?” Tender asked. “Do you not find other…appetites lacking?”

  The young woman cocked her head to the side and she rested her elbow on the bar top, chin on her hand. A smile sparkled in her dark eyes and she drew closer, taking the empty mug in her hand.

  “I do, as a matter of fact. I’m sure you’d be able to help me out.”

  Tender felt his heart thump in his chest. Who was this woman who had just shown up in his bar? Someone called for him but he didn’t care, at the moment. She smiled wider at him, her short, dark hair shifting so he could make out the slight point to her ear. A Forester? He thought she was a southerner, perhaps but the slight point was no mistake. What was this strange Forester doing in his bar, making eyes like this at him?

  “And what might your name be?” she asked, a hint of curiosity playing in her voice. The barkeep laughed, finding himself not as famous as he thought.

  “I’m Tender,” he said. Tender turned around and grabbed the pitcher of milk he kept for the few patrons who wanted it. He waited for her to laugh but the traveler just nodded and watched him fill her mug. Her brow furrowed slightly as he poured the milk, looking up with a quizzical expression. He placed the pitcher back on the shelf and brushed his hair back with his hands. “And you?”

  “I’m Point,” she said after a moment, picking up her mug and tilting it toward her, looking down into her cup. Now Tender laughed, again ignoring the calls of someone in the bar.

  “That hardly sounds like a real name,” he said, walking around the counter. Tender decided to sit down next to her. The woman named Point watched him as he approached and eased back slightly as he took the seat beside her. She smelled good, he decided. Like leather and flowers and something spicy. Things he couldn’t place, but they were pleasant all the same. Point leaned away from him slightly, taking her sweet scent with her, her mouth pulled in with a bit of disdain.

  “My name don’t sound real?” she asked. “And Tender does?”

  Tender laughed, a loud, deep laugh that rang throughout the bar. “Tender is my real name,” he chuckled. “My family name. Braxton Tender. I thought I was more well-known than that but…I guess not.” He took her cup from her hands and took a sip of it, the white cream sticking to his mustache.

  “Who’s the owner of this establishment?” Point asked, shifting in her seat. Her voice became more businesslike, authority straightening out her spine. She was tall. Tender probably weighed as much as two of her, though.

  “Well, I am the owner of this bar,” he said, wiping his mustache clean with his hand. “I am the owner, as well as the tender, as well as a Tender. Is Point your personal name or your family name?”

  The young woman turned her face away from him so all he saw of her was the back of her head. Her hair was a bit too short for his liking but it seemed to suit her face, her slender frame. Point finally turned her attention to him again, the same smile she’d originally had playing on her face, her dark eyes narrowed, long lashes framing them.

  “It’s a family name,” Point said finally. The way she spoke dispelled any doubts Tender may have had about her name. She took her drink back from him, looking into it before bringing it to her lips, draining the contents in one gulp. She set the mug down on the bar top with a thump and sat straight on her stool, facing the bar once more and away from Tender. “Now,” she said, with the same businesslike tone from before. “Could you get me a proper drink? I need one. Desperately.”

  Braxton rose from his chair to fulfill her request, taken aback by the subtle yet obvious change in the young woman. A sudden weariness had settled over her face, a weariness he didn’t expect to see. “I’ve come a long way,” she added, �
��and I still haven’t found out where the temple is so I can say my morning prayers.”

  “This bar serves as the temple, Miss Point.” Tender walked behind the bar again, looking over his bottles before he settled on the ground apple brandy. “People head to the Barony proper for festivals and White Night, but here, Sister Kella holds services in the bar, if she can manage to make the words. Mysteries she speaks, generally, from the bottom of a bottle or under a chair, though the gray robes still fit her well enough.” The liquid gurgled as it swirled out of the bottle, dancing up the sides of the cup before settling, the sweet scent of last autumn’s ground apples and liquor wafting up into the air. Tender corked the bottle and set it back in its spot, making a mental note to pull another one up from the cellar next time he was there. “I generally hold service, truth be told.”

  “You?” Point laughed. Dark, slender hands wrapped around the glass, beads from a prayer bracelet she wore clinking gently. She brushed her hair over her ear, the bemused smile staying on her lips as she took a sip, eyebrows raising as she swallowed. Tender watched as she shuddered slightly, obviously taken with the drink. Point licked her lips and looked up at him, her gaze again seeming to dampen the sounds of the tavern. “I doubt that,” she mused. “Your tits aren’t big enough to fill those robes and well…that seems silly to me. You hardly seem the priestessy type.”

  Tender’s mouth dropped open, slightly surprised by her choice of words. “Maybe I am a priestess, in a veil, presented as a man. Perhaps the Goddess disguised me to aid me in my religious duties, to better serve her people. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Or maybe she made you a man as a punishment,” she offered, obviously not taking his words very seriously. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to drink quite a bit more to believe that. Actually, I’m not sorry. But I am in need of another drink.” Tender looked down and indeed, the girl had somehow downed it, glass completely empty. She tapped the top of her cup, indicating he should fill it. “Besides,” Point added, tilting her head to the side slightly. “You sound like a man. You talk like a man. And you’ve been eyeing me like a man. It’s more likely the priestess is a drunk, as you say, and you’ve taken over her duties. To what end?” The young woman shrugged and tossed her drink back, swallowing half of it without flinching this time. She wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, tapping the top of the drink for yet another refill.

  “The end is not the reason I do it, Miss Point, though I hope to do it till my end.” Again, someone shouted his name. There was a crash from the left side of the bar and the sound of glass shattering. Point looked at him, an amused smile playing on her face as she listened to his words. “I tend bar and I tend to people because they need the pale light to illuminate the paths they choose to take. People have it hard enough without someone to confide in. After their drink and our talks if they feel brand new, let them go their way. If they feel like they need another go, there is always another bottle or another ear. Now,” Tender said. He reached under the bar counter and pulled out a large wooden club, the end wrapped in fabric. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Damn you, Halls, I told you to stop lording over people in my bar. Leave them be and be on your way, in the name of the peace and sovereignty!” With the threat shouted so loud the entire bar seemed to shake, Tender jumped onto the bar and down onto the man named Halls who barely had time to scream.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Breaking New Ground

  Tavera grabbed her drink and slid off her chair, sidestepping to avoid colliding with fleeing patrons. The solid smack of the padded club against a bare skull rang through the bar. She lazily slurped her drink while slipping a dagger out with her free hand, holding the blade upside down so the cool metal of the blade lay flush on her wrist.

  Braxton Tender. Was he a tender or a priest? He was brawling with no less than three men. He picked up the man called Halls by his collar, readying another blow with his club. “I’ll teach you to cheat people of their money,” Tender yelled. Before Tender could teach Halls anything, a thug pushed a table into Tender from behind, hard. Tender stumbled forward, grimacing as he tripped and fell on top of Halls. The thug tried to upend the table on top of Tender but the bartender rolled away. He jumped up, club in hand, and rushed the thug. He feinted left, then right. A quick shot to the knee made the man’s leg buckle under him, his face red with pain. The thug bellowed as he careened to the floor. In front of Tender stood the other thug, who had been waiting on the sidelines.

  The sound of metal scraping against metal drew gasps from the remains of the crowd as a shortsword was drawn, a devilish grin lighting up the swordsman’s face. Tavera knew the man was scared. Despite his grin, his grip was tight on its hilt. Tavera saw his knuckles were white.

  “I’ll cut you in two, Tender!” the man screamed. “Cut you in two and take your town!” The man swung forcefully, the club catching the sword just inches from Tender’s face. The sharp blade ate into the wood. The sword stuck in the wood, much to the dismay of its wielder. When the man pulled to get it out, Tender let go of the club. The force sent the man wheeling back, hitting himself in the face with his own sword. Tender knelt down on top of him and punched the man in the face with a bare fist.

  Tavera shifted her weight, draining her glass but keeping it in hand, watching the second man regain his footing and exchange punches with Tender. “I’ll rid my town of you all,” Tender shouted, a short, sharp groan spilling from his mouth as the man punched him across the chin. “By Her Bosom, the farmers don’t need protection from the likes of you.” He punctuated his words with the sick sound of knuckles against flesh and bone.

  Tavera stepped closer but kept her back against the bar. She was used to being around brawls, though she had the sense to stay out of them. Down on the ground, the man reached for the shortsword, Tender kicking the sword away. Red in the face with anger and exertion, the man checked Tender at the knees instead, both of them crashing to the floor.

  Halls stood up from where he had fallen, his eyes finally focused. Tavera saw the anger in his face, malice darkening his visage as he glared at the back of the barkeep. Another blade was drawn, this one bent and twisted looking, though the sentiment behind drawing such a blade was much nastier. Halls snarled as he gripped its hilt, raising his arm to strike his distracted foe.

  Tavera smashed her cup into his skull, a rain of pottery shattering across the back of his head Shards of clay bit into her palm as she grabbed him by his hair. If the cup was not enough, surely the edge of the bar top would suffice. Catching Halls off balance, Tavera quickly turned him and pushed him face first into the bar. There was a significant “crunch” as the bridge of his nose buckled under the force. A shriek of pain shredded the air. The man crumbled to the ground, covering his now bleeding face with his hands.

  The man who was on Tender looked to Halls, his face filled with dread. His expression turned to surprise and then pain when Tender punched him in the throat. All the thug could do was gag, clawing at his neck as Tender picked up the swordsman by the collar and the back of his pants, tossing him outside with a grunt. Tavera watched as he grabbed the choking thug and then Halls by the necks and dragged them both outside as well, the two men clearly defeated in body, if not in spirit.

  Tavera stood in the doorway, watching the impressive shape of the bartender stand over them. A light, chilly spring rain was falling, dampening the shoulders of his shirt. She couldn’t see Tender’s face but already she could imagine it. The triumphant but calm expression, the peace in his eyes though he had just brawled with enemies. Even when Tender was being strangled, there had been no desperation in his face, no manic struggle to survive. Just determination to make happen what eventually did happen.

  “You are unwelcome in my establishment,” Tender said, spitting to the side. Claw marks on his neck dripped with blood. “Neither for drinks nor prayers. I will not have you pressuring farmers for your protection. I will not have you lying to impressionable folks for you
r own benefit. May you pull back your veils.” He then turned around and walked back into the bar, apparently done with the pile of moaning men lying in front of his bar.

  Tavera blinked as he walked past her. That’s what this had been about? Extortion? “Wait,” she said as she walked back into the bar, disbelief in her voice. “You fought those men because they were blocklords?”

  Tender laughed, sauntering behind the bar. He pulled down two cups and a bottle, filling them. The bar seemed oddly quiet after the brawl. Bruised and bloodied fingers wrapped themselves around the glass and he tipped it back. A bit of it trickled from his bleeding mouth as he looked to her, smacking his lips. “Blocklords? Do you see any ‘blocks’ around here? These are more like stupid grip-grabbers who turn intimidation into a lifestyle. Parasites.”

  “Ain’t the magistrate supposed to deal with criminals?” Tavera said, leaning up against the door frame. “Send the browncloaks after them?”

  “No magistrate, not this year,” Tender said, pouring himself another drink. “Whitend didn’t make it into the Barony proper this Baron’s Day. His horse suffered an injury in Redwell, so the territory was cut short this year, with me and my people outside of it. Not under the baron’s sword and seat, so I’ve got to swing my club a bit more.”

  “His horse gets a lame leg, you get booted. It’s a shame,” Tavera said, sounding more cheerful than sympathetic. She had spent Baron’s Day in the Freewild. The secular holiday was a day barons rode their horses as far as they could for one day. Every town, city and village within a day’s ride was in the baron’s territory and under their jurisdiction. Any land outside was the Freewild Green, a place of no rules. Early spring always saw a small migration of people to either order or chaos. Tavera knew this town was in the Freewild because of the lack of browncloaks but didn’t know it’d been outed so recently.