Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

“But we stopped him from killing her, too, we rescued her, yes we did. I ordered the steward bound, and the guards, they bound him, and, and …” She looked down at Toragev’s body. D’Alik obviously had killed him before he had left, but who was to know? “And I ordered him executed.”

  With a shriek of impotent rage the prince leaped from his horse and began to hack at Toragev’s body.

  “Where is Her Highness?” asked Dolvienne as they looked on.

  “The slavemaster, D’Alik, arrived here from the south, ah, just an hour after all this had happened. He demanded that Her Highness be given over to him, and, er, not knowing that Her Highness was, ah, Her Highness, all that I could do was agree. He must have taken her—Her Highness—to his own house.”

  “He is not there,” someone reported from behind the line of nobles. “His groom said that he arrived back around midnight, emptied his gold and some supplies into a pack, then left again. Nobody saw which way he went.”

  Dolvienne appeared to have a rather strong influence over whomever was in charge, from what Madame Voldean could see. The girl sat thinking for a time, while the rain poured down on them. Clearly, inviting them inside for tea would do little good. Besides, inviting an ex-slave/ noblewoman inside for tea made by slaves would be less than diplomatic. Madame Voldean had not made tea herself in decades, and was a little unsure of just what was involved.

  By this stage the prince had finished hacking at the body of Toragev. The largest of the pieces could have easily fitted into a reasonably small saddlebag.

  “Take the remains of this—this thing back inside the slaver college,” he ordered. “Soak the place in lamp oil and set it afire. Not a trace of the flesh that violated my sister must exist when we leave this place.”

  “Your Highness!” Madame Voldean began to protest—

  The prince spun about, lashing out with his ax and striking her head from her shoulders.

  “Dolvienne, you will separate the slavers from the slaves,” he ordered as he wiped the blade in the mud. “The slaves will be taken to Baalder, given five pagols each, and set free. All others will be put to death.”

  “My lord, Your Highness—” began Dolvienne.

  “I am insane with grief and outrage!” he shouted. “I want death, and I shall have death. The Second, Fifth, and Ninth Pursuit Brigades will follow the three other roads and trails out of this place. Now!”

  The commanders concerned rode off through the rain and mud. Dolvienne went into the college, and returned with some clothing and combs that had belonged to Senterri. Prince Stavez snatched them from her, pressed them to his chest, then fell to his knees in the rain and mud and began weeping hysterically. The College of Domestic and Exotic Skills began to burn. Dolvienne identified the genuine slaves from the college. The lancers executed all the others. Presently the prince stood up and got back on his horse.

  “The Toreans clearly had nothing to do with the original abduction of Her Highness,” he told Dolvienne. “As a matter of honor we must stop the war. Now. I shall ride east, and order our forces back from Diomeda. Will you consent to come, too, Lady Dolvienne?”

  “Her Highness would want me to,” she replied.

  “Governor Roilean!” he shouted, and the governor urged his horse forward. “You will remain in charge here, with all the remaining men. Obliterate this village. Every stone is to be pounded to dust. The scene of the indignity and dishonor done to my sister must cease to exist!”

  The Sargolans had reacted as fast as mortals could have been expected to, but it had not been fast enough. The rains had already converted the desert ravines into torrents, and D‘Alik had begun traveling just ahead of the flooding. Most of his wealth had been invested in property and slaves, and neither of those was particularly portable, given his circumstances. He had seventy gold pagols in his saddlebags, some jewelry, a horse, and Senterri. Senterri was worth a lot more than the average slave; in fact, D’Alik knew she could fetch a hundred pagols to the right buyer. After that, he could vanish into the mountains, where he had a different name and persona as a wine merchant.

  “Where are we going?” asked Senterri as they sheltered beneath a rocky overhang for the night.

  “Urok, on the Leir River. I have a buyer for you there.”

  “A buyer? How much will he pay?”

  “A hundred gold pagols.”

  “But—but my father will pay a thousand times as much for my return.”

  “Your Highness, the story is already abroad in Hadyal that my steward ravished you. My steward. That story will soon reach Sargol. That means that the entire Sargolan empire will be falling over itself to place my head on a spear. A princess has been ravished. That princess is you.”

  “But why would anyone blame you?”

  “I authorized Toragev to begin training my slaves for harlotry under certain circumstances. Those circumstances arose while I was away, so I am guilty. Besides, he is dead, and I am alive—and therefore eligible to be tortured.”

  “Your steward—dead?”

  “Yes. I killed him for robbing me of a hundred thousand pagols by mounting you. My temper is not to be taken lightly. Rob me of the hundred pagols that you can bring me now, and the consequences do not bear consideration.”

  Senterri did not need much thought to decide that her life hung by a thread held by D’Alik. He only had to leave her behind and she would soon die.

  “Who is to buy me?”

  “A rich windrel caravancer. He wishes to found a royal dynasty of desert princes, and has promised me a hundred gold pagols for any woman of royal blood who is also of childbearing age. You will be well treated, if you behave. You will be treated like royalty, in fact.”

  The Sargolan dash galley Waverider was well within sight of Helion’s beacon pyre, riding at anchor, with three hundred feet of anchor rope holding it against the current. One of Warsovran’s galleys languidly cruised past, checking that all the observer vessels ringing Helion were outside the ten-mile limit. No secret had been made of the fact that a second fire-circle would detonate precisely sixty-four days after the first; in fact, the event had been publicized by Warsovran’s agents and traders. As far as the emperor was concerned, the more who were terrified of his powers, the better. As the Torean ship receded into the darkness, Miral’s rings touched the horizon. Feran’s racing shell was uncovered by the crew.

  “Easy, easy!” barked Feran as they worked. “The sides have little more strength than parchment.”

  Frail it might have been, but it was also exceedingly light and had the streamlining of a spearhead. Druskarl’s padded suit was packed aboard, then the craft was gently lowered to the placid sea. Miral’s disk dropped below the horizon, leaving only a glowing arc of ring. Feran and Druskarl climbed into their seats with the care of someone stepping over a sleeping crocodile, then their oars were handed to them.

  “We should be back two hours after the fire-circle detonates,” called Feran as the current took the shell clear of the dash galley. “With luck there will be no pursuers.”

  “Are you sure Silverdeath will fall from the sky with this second fire-circle?” called the Sargolan captain.

  “Yes; this is not just a demonstration,” Feran replied. “Warsovran is refining his control of the thing.”

  Feran and Druskarl began to row, and within a few strokes they were clear of the galley and pointed directly at Helion’s navigation beacon.

  “We should be there well within an hour,” Feran panted as they rowed.

  “You are placing much weight on Silverdeath falling after this particular fire-circle,” Druskarl commented.

  “If it does not, we shall just hide all day and return to the ship after dark. There will be another chance.”

  “You have never said why you think Silverdeath will fall.”

  Feran did not reply.

  “Feran! It’s not as if I can tell anyone now.”

  “It was the diggings,” Feran conceded reluctantly.

  “The di
ggings? The underwater shelters the islanders were forced to build?”

  “No, not so. From my hiding place I watched Warsovran’s surveyors marking out a great arc across the isthmus between Helion’s two peaks. Its center is seven-tenths of a mile from the Metrologan temple and it is one hundred yards wide. Some very basic arithmetic will show that the islanders and marines could excavate this area to a depth of ten feet within sixty-four days, so that the circumference of the second fire-circle will be completely over water. The detonation will be at midmorning, which is also high tide.”

  “So, that is why Helion is barred to all outward shipping and messenger autons,” said Druskarl, genuinely impressed at Feran’s reasoning. “This is a vulnerable time for Warsovran.”

  As soon as the beacon pyre was eclipsed by Helion’s lesser peak, they slowed to long, deep, and quiet strokes. There was a small bay beside the vineyards of the former temple, and it was here they stopped. Standing waist-deep in the shallows, they strapped the oars to the sides of the shell and unpacked Druskarl’s heavy suit. While Druskarl waded to shallower water to clamber into it, Feran selected several large, heavy rocks and tied cords to them. With Druskarl wearing all but the helmet, they carried six of the rocks into deeper water, inverted the shell, and while Druskarl held the largest rock, Feran tied it to the shell’s midspar. The weight of one rock was not enough to sink the shell, but by the fifth rock it was almost beneath the surface. The sixth rock was enough to anchor it securely to the bottom. By now the sky behind the lesser peak was beginning to glow with dawn.

  A patrol galley glided past with its running torches burning brightly, but the two intruders were no more visible than driftwood among the rocks and shadows.

  “We should dive for the boat,” said Druskarl. “That will not be their last patrol.”

  “No, we should gather some seaweed and hold it about our heads on the surface until the sun marks off the eighth hour. The air in the boat may have to last us all day.”

  “So, you doubt your calculations?” asked Druskarl, still watching the distant galley.

  “No, but if the excavations are not adequate, we may not have Silverdeath in our hands.”

  “We could flee in daylight.”

  “Aye, and Warsovran would know that someone has a submersible that can speed away faster than a dash galley. You can be sure that he will have his entire bloody fleet ready and ringing Helion for the final fire-circle, and remember, the lightest dash galley is actually faster than our shell over moderate distances in choppy water.”

  Just after the sun had cleared the lesser peak, the next patrol galley came past. All that was visible in the bay were two clumps of kelp floating amid the wavelets. The galley moved on. It circled the lesser peak, which was now a separate island from Helion. The islanders and marines had completed their task, and Warsovran’s surveyors and engineers had been true in their work. As incentive, they had been promised an intimately close view of the last fire-circle if the channel had not been completed in time.

  On the western slope of Helion’s main peak, six observers sat together on a large rock with a jar of wine and half a round of cheese. Like some of the other islanders who had been digging the channel, their faces and hands were smeared with a mixture of olive oil and white clay, as protection against the sun. This also served as a convenient disguise. Their view of what was now the island of Helion South included a vantage over Warsovran and his official party, who were two hundred yards closer to the newly dug channel. As they watched, a battle galley entered the narrow channel, passed through carefully, then headed out to sea.

  “It would have to be over ten feet deep for that one to clear it so easily,” said Roval.

  “How deep you think it be?” asked Norrieav.

  “As deep as the Helionese were able to manage,” replied Terikel.

  “Thought I’d never live to see another o’ those fire-circles,” murmured Hazlok.

  “Thought I’d never live through the first,” added D’Atro.

  “Will it stop a fire-circle?” asked the deacon.

  “We’d be safer back on the Shadowmoon, a mile out to sea and ten feet down on the sandbar,” said D’Atro.

  “There’s not air for the lot of us to be breathing all day,” explained Norrieav.

  Roval stood up, stretched, and stood with his hands on his hips as he glanced to the sun.

  “Nearly the ninth hour from midnight,” he commented, then looked down to where Warsovran stood with his audience and squad of guards. “Time that I was moving closer.”

  “Closer?” exclaimed Norrieav. “Your view of something the size of a fire-circle will not improve for a few yards less.”

  “I want to hear what is said.”

  “It’s liable to be little more than, ‘Shit, look at that!’”

  “Be that as it may, I’m going. Remember, when you see Warsovran’s people crouch behind that wall, get behind this rock and close your eyes.”

  Roval strode off down the grassy slope. He was close enough to Warsovran to make out his face when a pair of marines challenged him.

  “Hie there, islander, back the way ye came!” ordered one of them, pointing back up the slope.

  “But I don’t want to miss the fire-circle,” protested Roval.

  “You’d have to be in Diomeda to miss it.”

  “Oi, have I seen you before?” asked the second marine.

  “Can’t say,” replied Roval calmly.

  “Don’t remember you.”

  “Perhaps the oil clay on my face makes me look unfamiliar.”

  “Don’t remember anyone with a shaved head diggin’ the canal.”

  “I shaved it this morning, to celebrate the canal being finished.”

  “You been diggin’ the canal, then?”

  “Aye, like everyone else on Helion.”

  “Then yer hands ought to be callused. Show me.”

  Roval’s hands did have a few blisters from a week of helping with the Shadowmoon’s rigging, but not the sorts of calluses that sixty-four days of digging would have developed.

  The fire-circle saved him.

  “Oi, the nobles are ducking behind their wall,” cried the other marine.

  Everyone on the island had a pile of stones, earth, or rock to shelter behind, and the marines were no exception. They flung themselves into a shallow trench, dropped their spears and lay flat. Roval joined them.

  “Get out, this is ours!” shouted the marine Roval was lying over.

  “Thought you wanted to see my hands.”

  “Pox take your hands—”

  Brilliant, soundless light blotted out everything. The next sensation Roval became aware of was the scent of burning grass. A thunderclap and groundwave lifted them into the air with a confusion of rocks and dust, then a blast of air lifted them again. Roval smothered the smoldering patches on his tunic as he blinked the dazzle out of his eyes. A pillar of smoke, steam, and flame seemed to reach right up to the vault of the sky itself, and a continuous, rolling thunder was all around him. As he rose to his knees a hand seized his shoulder and spun him around. It was Warsovran.

  “Get down there and help—the wall’s fallen on the ambassadors!” shouted the emperor, who then kicked at the two marines who were still lying with their hands over their helmets.

  Beneath the steaming surface, a few yards off Helion South, the water was beginning to heat up.

  “Much more of this, and we’re stew,” warned Druskarl.

  “It’s tiny compared to the fire-circles that killed Torea,” Feran reassured him. “The hot air will disperse quickly over the smaller area. Time to go up.”

  “This is too soon,” Druskarl warned, even as he fumbled for his helmet in the cramped darkness. “The surface water will be scalding hot.”

  “Everything is too soon or too late in this life,” replied Feran. “Better to be too soon. Besides, you have the suit and cooling machine. Only one man in the entire world could walk on Helion’s south island just
now, and that man is you.”

  Druskarl stepped out from under the shell and began to walk. The suit contained enough air for two or three minutes’ breathing. After that he would have to open the pipes to the water cooler on his back. His head broke the surface, into thick steam and buffeting wind, and he rammed a short spear down in the shallows.

  “Three thousand six hundred feet of this,” he said as he lumbered out onto the shore.

  Feeling his way through the hurricane of smoke and steam with an iron staff, Druskarl set out across the inferno. After perhaps three hundred feet he unstoppered his air pipes, and began to gasp air through the jars of cooling water on his back. It was still blazing hot and seemed like pure steam, but after a few more steps he had not collapsed so he guessed that Feran’s device was working.

  After a thousand feet the turbulent air began to clear a little, and he shambled out onto a level strip. This was the road to the temple, the road that led between the vineyards. To the right was to the former isthmus, and left was to the temple. He jammed his iron staff between two rocks as a marker, then turned left. Now his progress was faster, but the heat was winning. The outer layer of leather in his suit’s joints was already crumbling char, and the heat was penetrating the steel, leather, and felt that separated him from a quick but excruciating death. The slab of crystal in his visor steamed up continually, and he pumped the lever on the side of the helmet that worked an internal wiper blade.

  A pile of stones and tumbled columns loomed out of the swirl of dust and smoke ahead. If Silverdeath had fallen onto a building, he had virtually no chance of finding it, especially with his strength and breath failing in the heat. The center of the little temple complex was an open plaza, as he recalled, but would Silverdeath have considered it to be the center? The road led between two pillars that had fallen parallel.

  The place was littered with ash, heat-shattered stones, and pools of things that had melted in the heat. Silverdeath would not be easy to find … but then suddenly Silverdeath was before him.