Moonblood

by Martin Ash

  MOONBLOOD

  First Chronicle of the Shaman

  Also by Martin Ash

  Enchantment’s Reach (Volumes I-VI)

  Heart of Shadows (Second Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Citadel (Third Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Copyright ©2015 by Martin Ash. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, transferred, leased, licensed, reproduced or publicly performed or used in any way without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Any unauthorised distri bution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Copyright©2015Outside Publishing&Martin Ash

  A Chronicle of the Shaman:

  MOONBLOOD

  (Being the adventures of the young Zan-Chassin shaman/sorcerer, merchant-adventurer and spy, Ronbas Dinbig of Khimmur.)

  Chapter One

  It was not entirely coincidence that brought me to Ravenscrag at the time of its troubles. Of course, I had no inkling of what was about to ensue, but I was well aware of the imminent birth of a second child to Ravenscrag’s ailing lord, Flarefist, and his spouse, Lady Sheerquine. And I knew, too, that major celebrations were planned to mark the occasion.

  Taking into account my interest in foreign affairs, the significance of this birth could hardly have escaped me. Elmag the farseer had been summoned to Ravenscrag castle the moment Lady Sheerquine’s pregnancy had been discovered. In a fug of smouldering incense and herbs she shook mistletoe and juniper sprigs over the proud lady’s belly, cast runes, rolled bones, rattled beads, uttered chants and invocations, examined Sheerquine’s spittle and piss, and declared that the baby would be a boy – the longed-for heir to the Ravenscrag fortune.

  Irnbold, Ravenscrag’s astrologer, applied himself with diligence to his charts and records, arranging his complex instruments just so! – eventually to announce the date and hour of the birth. ‘Great joy!’ proclaimed Irnbold: the stars, moon and planets smiled most beneficently upon the unborn babe. The child would be born strong and in robust good health, and would live a long and illustrious life; Ravenscrag would at last be rescued from the failing fortunes that had dogged it for so long, and would see the restoration of its former ancient glory.

  Over weeks and months Irnbold, encouraged by his initial reception, augmented his claims with further insights into the forthcoming life. All boded so well! Irnbold charted the passage of the celestial bodies over a period of years. Their alignments spoke of unprecedented harmony. Irnbold began to predict wondrous events that would befall Ravenscrag’s heir.

  Few gave more than passing note to the specifics. Irnbold was known to be of an imaginative bent, fuelled by the finest Wansirian spirits which, with the passing of the years, he turned to in greater quantities as palliative against inflamed joints and debilitating melancholy. But the broad tenor of his words held the message that all wished to hear, none more so than Flarefist and his family. Ravenscrag had suffered decline for too long, through irresponsibility, lack of insight, and simple misfortune. Now there was widespread hope, even belief, that those days must soon come to an end. Thus Irnbold found himself courted at Ravenscrag in a manner he had not known for many years.

  ~

  I had scheduled my itinerary to include Ravenscrag in anticipation of the forthcoming celebrations. The town is isolated deep in Wansir’s remote heart, and ordinarily is visited by few foreign merchants. But its market at that time was adequate, and such an important event would attract a deal of interest and ensure that business was brisk.

  Accordingly, in Twalinieh in Kemahamek I had stocked three of my seven wagons with a variety of exotic items from far climes. I knew from experience that such goods would be well received by the insular folk of Ravenscrag. And Wansirian spirits, cloth, earthenware and perhaps a few of their famed harps, would fetch good prices in Jihrango and Kemahamek, or back home in Khimmur.

  I rode into Ravenscrag late one afternoon in summer, in the middle of a freak storm, only a day, as it happened, before Flarefist and Sheerqine’s son was born. My spirits were undampened by the weather. I foresaw days and nights of merriment, of eating and drinking, dancing and lovemaking in prodigious quantities, and a handsome profit at the end of it.

  Rarely have I been so mistaken.

  ~

  Bris, my most trusted henchman, rode up beside me as we first came in sight of Ravenscrag. His back was bent against the driving rain, hunched in a strong waxed cape.

  ‘It may be better to halt a while, Master Dinbig. If the descent is steep, the wagons could get bogged in mud or even slip from the trail.’

  I glanced up at the sky, the rain lashing my face. The cloud was uniform, dark and lowering, but to the west was a hint of brightness.

  ‘The way twists and loops, but the gradient is not particularly demanding, Bris,’ I called against the storm. The wagon shuddered under a powerful gust, the rattle of its tarpaulin cover almost drowning my words. ‘The storm won’t last. Send two men ahead to check that the trail hasn’t been washed away. I deem it safe to proceed.’

  Before us, compressed into a narrow valley between dramatic upthrusts of tree-covered limestone, Ravenscrag was just visible through the rain: a chaotic huddle of distant rooftops behind a rotting stone wall. It was a typical Wansirian township, badly maintained, proximal to nowhere, largely unaware or indifferent to events in the outside world. True, rumours from abroad would filter in from time to time, usually hoary and wildly exaggerated or warped. And folk would prick up their ears in passing excitement, briefly debate the import of the news. And then it would be forgotten, pushed out of mind by more immediate concerns. Wansir is a wild and secretive land. Its scattered communities live in intimacy only with the forests and mountains that surround them, small universes unto themselves.

  At the back of the town Ravenscrag castle loomed, an ancient hulk clinging to a windy crag, all mouldering turrets and bowed walls. In fairer weather, true to its name, ravens could usually be seen circling overhead. The crag and castle precincts had been their home since ages past.

  The road, barely more than a track, had been transformed from hard, sun-baked earth to mud in minutes by the deluge. Tired, I scanned the wet, grey landscape as we advanced gingerly towards the town. I was relieved to have come so far without major incident. My men had been troubled when they’d learned we would be leaving the main trading routes to travel into the heart of Wansir. Giants once roamed this land, and may have done still, though I had never set eyes on one. The forests were said to be the haunt of dire creatures: ogres, gaunts, the ferocious, reviled rhakk, witches and other unnameable things. It had been necessary to augment the men’s wages in order to retain their services for this venture.

  The way had not been easy. Two days beyond Khimmur’s border, in the mellow grasslands of Kutc’p, we had been attacked by brigands riding up out of the Hills of the Moon. My men put up stalwart resistance, but we were outnumbered. Two were killed and I feared we were about to be overrun, robbed and murdered to the last man, but by chance a Kutc’p patrol came to our aid, driving off our assailants. The Kutc’p escorted us north to the White River and the main trade route into Kemahamek. On the way I learned that they were in the pay of the Kemahamek authorities, who were concerned at a recent surge of banditry along the southern trade road, which was affecting traffic into Kemahamek. Unemployed mercenary bands was the explanation. They had recently fled Daxhau to the west, where they’d pledged themselves to the wrong side in a fierce and prolonged civil war. Rootless and prevented from returning west, they had fallen back upon brigandry, finding relatively easy pickings along the Kutc’p trade routes of Wetlan’s Way and the Great Northern Caravan Road.

  In
Kemahamek itself, as we had travelled northeast towards Twalinieh, the capital, we were delayed by foul weather, ever Kemahamek’s bane. Trade stops in Kemahamek took up more time than I had planned for. We passed on through wild Nirakumi and eventually crossed into Wansir more than six weeks after setting out from Hon-Hiaita in Khimmur.

  The trade road bore eastwards, holding close to the north shore of the great White River. Four days into Wansir’s wilds we abandoned the road and struck north along a little-used track that would eventually bring us to Ravenscrag. Much work was required. The track was overgrown. We were obliged to halt several times a day to clear fallen boughs, boulders and dense undergrowth, and on occasion a toppled tree, to allow the wagons to pass. And all the time my men muttered among themselves and peered nervously into the trees, more troubled here by the unseen and half-suspected than by all the bandits in Kutc’p.

  The greater irony, then, to come so far and lose a wagon here, in sight of Ravenscrag’s old walls. So it seemed at the time. I would later have cause to wonder whether a power more oracular and unfathomable than mere irony had played a part.

  Three of the wagons had already passed safely when a section of the edge of the track fell away. The road, criss-crossed by torrents of rainwater, had doubtless been loosened by the storm. No measures had been taken to prevent it falling into a state of general disrepair, and an unaccustomed influx of traffic in recent days had probably undermined it further, for Lord Flarefist and Lady Sheerquine had demonstrated unwavering confidence in their advisors, broadcasting news of their forthcoming happy event far and wide. Invitations to the celebration had been dispatched weeks earlier, establishing a rare contact between Ravenscrag and other Wansirian communities, and resulting in unusual numbers of visitors now arriving in the town. Even so, there was little to indicate the danger.

  The driver of the fourth wagon was a boy named Moles, thirteen of fourteen years of age. Lacking great experience, he had allowed the wagon to run a touch close to the outer lip of the narrow road, although any driver might easily have done the same. Just a couple of feet from the wheel-rims a rock-strewn slope led down to a small, fast-flowing river fifty feet below.

  A section of track gave way without warning. Mud, brush and clumps of sodden grass slid away and left a gaping hole beneath the rear outer wheel of the wagon. Even then, the wagon might have been saved, for it did not tip immediately. But amid warning shouts the boy-driver became confused.

  At first he did the right thing, urging his two draught-horses forward. Then he seemed to change his mind. With frantic movements he began jerking the reins. The animals grew alarmed. They snorted and stamped. Their movement pushed the wagon backwards.

  I saw what was coming and cried out, but it was too late. The boy had lost control. The wagon began to list.

  Bris leapt from his mount and groped for the harness of the nearer of the two now terrified draught-horses, struggling to bring them under control. The rear of the wagon sagged into the space beneath its axle. A front wheel lifted off the ground. Beneath the undercarriage more earth and rocks slid free. The wagon groaned and slewed. The other front wheel lifted and the wagon started to slip from the road, dragging the two horses with it.

  Moles leapt for his life as the wagon tipped over. The horses, eyes rolling in terror, pawed helplessly at the crumbling road. But though the slope was not particularly steep, the heavy rain made it slippery and gave them no purchase. The full weight of the falling wagon, laden with goods as it was, was too much for them to bear. Attached by harness to the wagon’s wooden shafts the poor beasts were hoisted from the road and flipped spectacularly onto their backs. Their squeals cut through the drum of the rain as they were thrown over and over with the wagon as it tumbled towards the foot of the slope, spewing goods as it went.

  I leapt from the road to the stricken boy. He had fallen against rocks, smashing his hip and shoulder. A stain of dark blood soaked his trousers, and more blood poured from his nose and cheek. I guessed the nose was broken, probably the cheekbone too. His face was ashen and contorted with pain. I gave him into the charge of two of my men, and ran on with Bris and three others, skidding and sliding towards the river.

  The wagon had come to rest on its side in shallow water. The horses were beside it, still trapped in their harness. The nearest lay still, breathing hard, its head on the pebbles at the water’s edge. The eyes were open and bloody foam bubbled at its mouth. Its body was horribly twisted, the spine plainly broken.

  Its companion was in the water, thrashing against its harness in a vain struggle to regain its feet. Around it the water clouded deep red.

  Bris waded into the river. He swiftly examined the second horse, then looked back, shaking his head, the rain streaming down his ruddy cheeks. ‘She’s opened her belly on rocks or something. And at least one leg is broken.’

  I stared at the two beasts. ‘Do what you have to.’

  As Bris drew his sword I went to inspect the wagon’s contents. Much was strewn over the slope. More lay in the water. I waded around to the back – nervously, for I am never happy in the company of water in any quantity – and there I found fine Kemahamek silks and chiffons ruined in the muddy swirl. Expensive ceramics were in pieces at my feet.

  I instructed my men. ‘Salvage what you can.’

  A few feet away a wooden chest lay up-ended in the mud. Rivulets of rainwater tumbling down the slope divided around it, throwing spray high. The lid hung open, iron hasp and brackets buckled. Its contents had spilled around it in the mud.

  A sodden mass of ruined material lay at my feet, half in and half out of the chest. I stooped and gathered it up. It was an elaborate ball-gown of dark crimson satin and cream lace, set with gold braid and tiny glass beads. The gown had been made in Twalinieh in Kemahamek, whose masques and grand balls were legend. I had intended to present it as a birth-gift to the proud Lady Sheerquine.

  Close by was a gift I had brought for her husband: a terracotta figurine, about fifteen inches tall, of a huntsman slaying a boar. It had been crafted by Corthren of Sigath, one of Khimmur’s most celebrated sculptors. The figurine was wrapped in cloth and I lifted it carefully, with hope, and began to unwrap it. My hope was not rewarded: an arm was broken and the huntsman’s head had been dislodged. I let it fall back into the mud.

  One other gift had been carried on this wagon: that which I had brought for the unborn child. It was some yards away up the slope, wrapped in good strong sackcloth. It was the model of a Thontine war-galleass, a magnificent example of Dirian workmanship, constructed in a variety of woods. The ship was perfect in every detail, right down to unfurling sails, tiny figures on rigging and deck, and working catapults and ballistae in prow and stern. As I picked it up I knew that it too had failed to survive the fall. Two of its three masts had snapped, and the wood had splintered on one side of its hull.

  I straightened and stared at the upturned wagon. Out of seven, it had to be this one that was lost. I had no inkling then of how portentous this accident would turn out to be.

  Something beyond the wrecked wagon drew my gaze. For moment I thought I’d glimpsed a figure, in green, observing us from the shadows of distant trees. I blinked and raised a hand to shield my eyes from the rain. When I looked again there was nothing to be seen.

  I discarded the smashed ship and went back to join my men as they struggled to salvage those goods that were not ruined.

  Chapter Two

  Thankfully the way was not so badly damaged as to prevent the remaining wagons from passing, with due care. We rolled on towards Ravenscrag, each of us anxious to wash the dirt from our skin and change into dry clothes. The storm began to abate as we approached the town gate. The rain thinned then ceased, and wide beams of misty golden sunlight fell upon the landscape.

  Townsfolk came from shops and homes to watch as the wagons rumbled down the main thoroughfare to Ravenscrag’s market-place. Even with the relative influx of visitors we were enough of a spectacle to command attention. Child
ren scampered beside the horses, calling up and holding out their hands. A few mangy hounds trotted with us, hopeful of scraps.

  At the market-place I made enquiries for a physician for the injured boy. I had done what I could for poor Moles but my Zan-Chassin healing abilities were limited more or less to placing a fug upon his mind to dull the pain. A physician lived in a neighbouring street, and Moles was taken there on a stretcher. Next I made arrangements to store my goods in a warehouse, then left my men to the task of unloading. With Bris and one other good fellow, Cloverron, as bodyguards, I went about my business in Ravenscrag town.

  I chose an inn called the Blue Raven for lodgings. It was set at the edge of the market square. The Blue Raven made claims to being Ravencrag’s finest hostelry, as did at least three others, and was a boast that carried no great cachet. The inns and boarding-houses of Ravenscrag generally left much to be desired. A traveller was fortunate if he found himself an establishment – like the Blue Raven – which could offer serviceable, dry and almost rat-free chambers, and provide clean linen and a bathtub of hot water. And he could count himself doubly lucky if the food he was served did not keep him up at night with gripes and trots or worse.

  Such basic amenities did not come particularly cheap, but I was a fellow of some achievement and found no advantage in frugality. I took the chamber I had occupied on my previous visit to Ravenscrag some eighteen or so months earlier. Its balcony looked onto the market square with its rows of faded coloured awnings. I bathed and changed into a long, blue, wide-sleeved tunic with scarlet trimming and slashed hems, then stood for some moments at the window and observed the comings and goings in the market-place.

  The sun eased its way towards the horizon, leaving all but one side of the square in shadow. The moss-grown roofs were already almost dry, though large puddles still lay in the streets. The stalls and booths appeared to be enjoying better than average trade. Many of the customers and browsers were well dressed, in the manner of visitors of some distinction. Once or twice I caught accents from Jhirango, and noted the pale faces and distinctive garb of a couple of Kemahamek nationals.