The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Don’t let it frighten you, child,” Squireck said, noticing where her eyes were planted. “The man who wore it is quite dead.”

  “Are you collecting the stuff?” Jondralyn asked, eyeing the pile of red armor too.

  “As of now, they are my only worldly possessions.”

  “That reminds me,” Roguemoore said. “Tala has brought you something.”

  Squireck looked at Tala, curious. She stared back at him, not sure what Roguemoore was referring to, her mind on so many things: Jondralyn and gladiator training, Lawri and the Bloodwood; she even found herself thinking of Glade Chaparral and what he might think of all this.

  Then she remembered the wreath of heather she’d constructed. She pulled it forth from the folds of her cloak and held it out to Squireck.

  He took the wreath from her, holding it up into the light. “Where did you get this?” he asked, looking down upon her, eyes intense.

  “I made it.”

  Tala was shocked to see tears now welling in his eyes as he said, “You made this for me?” She nodded. He smiled. “The other gladiators will run scared from a man with naught but leaves on his head.” He laughed, admiring her handiwork in the dim light. “I shall wear this crown of flowers during my next match.” The emotion in Squireck’s voice was so real, so heartfelt and substantive, that she was left speechless.

  “I’m sure Tala would be honored,” Roguemoore said.

  “Such a beautiful gift,” Squireck said. “Such a perfect gift. It will cause quite a stir among Denarius and the quorum of five when they see this wreath about my head at the next match. Thank you, Tala.”

  She found herself actually bowing to him. “You’re welcome.”

  “I have nothing of value to give in return, though.”

  Tala recalled the last two lines of the assassin’s note: Your first clue is this: Retrieve the red helm of the dead demon and read what is inscribed therein. Without thinking, she took two steps toward the pile of armor and picked up the helm that had dominated her thoughts for so long. It was a heavy hunk of metal and she had to hold it in both hands tightly for fear of letting it clank loudly back to the floor. “Can I have this?”

  “What a gruesome thing to ask for,” Jondralyn commented.

  “Take it,” Squireck said. “I’ve no use for it. As a matter of fact—” He turned to Roguemoore. “Tell Denarius that I shall never don armor in the arena again. I choose to fight without worldly protection. I will forsake even my shoes. Tell him that I train as if everything depends on me, but that I fight as if everything depends upon Laijon.”

  “You walk a dangerous line,” Roguemoore said. “The bouts will only grow in difficulty. You must wear some armor. Or you will not survive.”

  “Exactly,” Squireck said with conviction. “No one can survive without armor. That is the point. What better way to prove the truthfulness of our cause? For when I win, people will cry, ‘Despite all odds, Laijon hath seen the Prince of Saint Only victorious!’ It will come to pass. Jovan, Denarius, the quorum of five, they will be forced to acknowledge the truth of The Moon Scrolls of Mia.”

  Tala had no idea what Squireck and the dwarf were going on about, so consumed was she with the red helmet. She turned it over in her hands, careful, so its spikes did not cut into her flesh. Something was clearly stamped into the metal inside the crown of the helm.

  Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. In the darkness she could barely read what was written there. Squinting, she could just make out the words.

  Property of the Filthy Horse Saloon

  * * *

  It is true that before the birth of my beloved—the great One and Only, the King of Slaves, the First Warrior Angel, the man named Laijon—common images did take root in the Five Isles. But I, your Blessed Mother Mia, say unto you now, the prophecy of his birth was not only carved on totem and in stone, but ’twas also written in the stars.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JONDRALYN BRONACHELL

  2ND DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON CASTLE, GUL KANA

  Jondralyn stood with the rest of Jovan’s court but felt all alone, damp heavy cloak wrapped tightly around herself. The ground was sodden underfoot. Gray clouds hung low in the noontime sky. It looked as if every single Silver Guard in the city lined the battlements of Black Glass Courtyard. In black surcoats and silver armor they stood vigil. The courtyard itself was jammed with Dayknights. There was an open circle about fifty paces in diameter in the center of the crowd. Within the circle stood Hawkwood and four Dayknights.

  Hawkwood, a thin cutlass in each hand, wore naught but a simple shirt and rough-spun woolen breeches, his face peaceful, his movements unhurried as he proceeded through a series of stretches and gracefully fluid exercises. The hilt-guard of each cutlass sprouted a profusion of serrated spikes designed to trap opposing blades and wrench them from the wrists of his foes.

  She had not seen Hawkwood in days. He’d been kept under guard in the Hall of the Dayknights and had been allowed only one visitor, Roguemoore, who’d confirmed to Jondralyn the decency of his accommodations.

  The four Dayknights he was to fight stood at attention. Each bore the standard black helms, shields, and black-lacquered armor of their station. They all brandished Dayknight blades, thick leather-wrapped hilts, black opals set in their pommels.

  At the edge of the circle stood King Jovan, Sterling Prentiss, Grand Vicar Denarius, and the quorum of five: Vandivor, Donalbain, Spencerville, Leaford, and Rhys-Duncan. Roguemoore was also there. He wore leather armor, spiked mace strapped to his back. All of Amadon’s other dignitaries were lined up in ranks behind the king.

  All save the Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, who was walking into the center of the circle. “A fight to the death!” he announced loudly for all to hear. “Those are the rules!” And when he gave the signal, the fight began.

  The four Dayknights advanced guardedly upon Hawkwood, their caution born of experience. As the most highly skilled fighting force in all of Gul Kana, the Dayknights were trained to take no opponent lightly, especially one who had trained them.

  The four knights struck, their positioning and sword strikes perfectly timed. Hawkwood moved fast, both weapons whirling, his cutlasses thin and light in comparison to the longswords of the Dayknights. Still, he parried each strike with ease and stepped back, watchful. Then, just as quickly, he leaped, smashing the knight nearest him with the flat of his blade atop the helm. The knight crumpled with a heavy thud. Hawkwood had pulled the blow, sparing the man, leaving him sprawled in the grass.

  The three remaining knights advanced, heavy blades raining down on Hawkwood, precise and rapid. He spoiled each sudden thrust and arcing strike almost as soon as it had begun. He ducked a flurry of blows from all three, lashing out at the same time with each cutlass. His attack was fierce, smashing head, thigh, arm, keeping all three knights at bay. He gave ground for but an instant, boldly striking one of the remaining knights over the head, felling him instantly, the blow meant to stun, not kill.

  With a second knight fallen, the two remaining Dayknights quickly retreated out of harm’s way, nearly tripping over their downed compatriots in the process. Hawkwood set his stance firm. The two knights moved to either side of him and rushed, their black shields at the ready, blades poised to strike. Hawkwood lunged forward, braced himself, then lurched backward instantly. The two Dayknights collided, shields and breastplates clashing, swords still aloft in a useless position. They both tumbled to the ground.

  Jondralyn chuckled, as did others. The duel seemed almost a comedy now. Hawkwood fell upon one of the downed knights, bonking him on the head with the hilt of his sword before he could stand. The fellow flopped to the ground, unconscious.

  The one Dayknight remaining stood and lumbered toward Hawkwood, sword upraised, swinging hard. Hawkwood avoided the knight’s slow charge with a turn and retreated, then circled quickl
y and reversed with a skill that was beautiful to watch. The confused knight spun and swung wildly. Hawkwood parried and stepped aside and clubbed the man to his knees with a blow to the face from his elbow and backed away. The wearied knight stood, took a labored breath, and then unleashed a plodding attack. Hawkwood ducked away without moving his feet. He struck the knight’s helm from his head with a sweeping blow, then knocked the knight out cold with a punch to the face. All four Dayknights now lay on the ground, unconscious and unbloodied.

  “I have been trained by the best warriors in Sør Sevier!” Hawkwood’s voice boomed through the courtyard, both cutlasses still waving in each hand. “There are tens of thousands like me gathering across the Mourning Sea!” He slid both blades casually into the sheaths on his belt. “This is how the Sør Sevier army will fight you! Some of you even fought at Borden’s side! You know Aeros’ savagery! I see naught but a quick end for Gul Kana if you do not better prepare! If you do not offer up even a slim resistance, there will be none of you left alive! I know Aeros! He will slaughter all!”

  The whole courtyard was still. In the waiting tension, many held their breath, looking at the king. Jondralyn’s attention flew toward Denarius and the quorum of five. She felt a hollow prick of excitement. Sweat ran from the vicar’s bald forehead, beading down over the plumpness of his face. Sometimes it is best if you make them believe the trap is theirs, the dwarf had said last week. The duel was brilliant. In only a few minutes, Hawkwood had demonstrated not only to Jovan, but also to every Dayknight and Silver Guard in Amadon, how deadly their enemy truly was.

  Jovan stepped forward, eyes on Hawkwood. “It was to be a fight to the death.” His voice was calm, assured. “But every man involved yet lives.”

  “He spared them, Your Excellency,” Roguemoore growled, then coughed, harshly clearing his throat. “Gul Kana cannot afford to lose good fighters.”

  Jovan thrust his finger toward the four downed knights. “I say turn around and finish those men, Hawkwood!”

  “I will not,” Hawkwood said without emotion.

  “Then you refuse a direct command from your king?” Jovan scowled.

  “You are not my king.” Hawkwood met Jovan’s gaze.

  The king spun, looking squarely at Sterling Prentiss. “Bring forward your most trusted man,” he ordered.

  Sterling removed his helm and tucked it under the crook of his right arm. Turning to the mass of knights behind him, he shouted. “Ser Culpa Barra, step forward!”

  Jondralyn instantly recognized the name. There was a jostling from near the back of the courtyard, and a lone Dayknight made his way through the parting throng and stood before his king. He was taller than most. And when he pulled his black helmet off with two black-gauntleted hands, it was him, the man Jondralyn knew, square jawed, with a firm look set in his dark blue eyes. He looked older than Jondralyn remembered, but still familiar, though she hadn’t seen him in years.

  “Your age, Ser Culpa?” Jovan asked.

  “Twenty-eight, if it please Your Excellency,” the Dayknight answered, lifting his chin, chunks of his tousled blond hair clinging to his forehead in sweaty ringlets.

  “Young for a Dayknight.”

  “I’ve earned my place.”

  “If memory serves, you were a friend to that murderer, Squireck Van Hester.”

  “I no longer hold friendship with the Prince of Saint Only.”

  Jovan turned to Prentiss. “Can this man alone kill Hawkwood?”

  “He cannot.”

  “In that case, let us bestow an easier task.” Jovan pulled a pearl-handled dagger from his belt and held it out for Culpa. “Cut the throats of your four disgraced fellows.”

  Jondralyn’s heart lurched at the injustice of her brother’s command.

  Without hesitation, Culpa Barra nodded and placed his helmet on the grass and took the dagger. He set his jaw and walked toward the center of the courtyard and the fallen Dayknights. Hawkwood moved to block the young knight’s path, a dangerous look on his face. Culpa stopped, wary. He looked back at his king.

  Jovan signaled to the Silver Guards lining the battlements. Instantly, there were a hundred bows stretched taut and a hundred bristling arrows aimed right at Hawkwood.

  Jovan nodded for the young Dayknight to continue. Culpa Barra pushed his way past Hawkwood, kicked the helm from the head of the closest fallen Dayknight, and cut the unconscious man’s throat. Blood oozed over the green grass as Culpa moved to the next fallen man and did the same. Anger welled within Jondralyn. After the third Dayknight’s throat was cut, the fourth had regained his senses enough to stand and locate his sword. He rushed Culpa, but his charge was aimless and slow. Culpa effortlessly avoided the ponderous swing and thrust Jovan’s dagger up under the Dayknight’s throat into his brain. The man gasped. Blood sprayed over Culpa’s silver surcoat in ropy splatters. The dying knight slid to the ground.

  Culpa stood in the center of the four dead Dayknights, face devoid of expression.

  “That dagger is yours to keep, Ser Culpa,” Jovan said, and turned to Hawkwood. “And you will hang for your disobedience.”

  “He won the duel!” Jondralyn shouted, wanting to rush forward and put an end to this whole farce. But she didn’t know how. There was no answer to this madness.

  “Yes, he won the duel,” Roguemoore followed.

  “He will be held in Purgatory,” Jovan continued. “And then—”

  “You lack honor?” Roguemoore interrupted.

  Jovan yelled, “In the arena, before the final match, Hawkwood will be hung!”

  “You lack honor!” the dwarf raged, standing solid, his shouting like claps of thunder. “You! Lack! Honor!”

  “Silence!” Jovan’s eyes smoldered and fumed. “Hawkwood refused to carry it to its rightful end—death. He won nothing. It is he who is lacking in honor.”

  Jondralyn stepped forward, her voice a growl. “He’s to be hung for sparing the lives of four Dayknights that you in turn killed?”

  “He’s to be hung for consorting with the thief and murderer and traitor to Gul Kana, Squireck Van Hester, Prince of Saint Only.” Jovan stepped toward her. “Odd thing, one moment the guards at the arena claim that Squireck has the red helm of the Wyn Darrè gladiator in his cell, and the next moment it’s gone, replaced with a sack of food and a crown of heather and white flowers. Now, I am aware that some of the noblewomen in Amadon like to sneak away from their husbands and fuck the gladiators, but you see, there were no visitors recorded entering the arena dungeons yesterday. Nor do I peg Squireck as the sort to dally with a married noblewoman. Nor do I think he is some form of magician, conjuring up crowns of heather from the air.”

  Jondralyn’s heart thundered. She wondered how much her brother actually knew.

  “For conspiring to help the criminal, Squireck Van Hester, against my direct orders, Hawkwood’s execution will be in the arena in five days’ time!” Jovan shouted, his face ugly with triumph as he motioned for Sterling Prentiss and Culpa Barra to bind Hawkwood’s hands. “Take him to Purgatory!”

  To Jondralyn’s surprise, Hawkwood offered no resistance. He should be fighting for his life to stay out of Purgatory! Those cells under the Hall of the Dayknights were the worst, most dank, rat-infested dungeons in all of the Five Isles. Many had gone insane confined within them in less than a moon.

  A halfhearted cheer rose up from the Silver Guards and Dayknights in the courtyard as Hawkwood’s hands were bound and he was led away. Jondralyn’s face was frozen with bitterness. Every cheer from the Dayknights and Silver Guards ate away at her until she could stand it no longer.

  Jovan, always Jovan. They fawned over him. No matter what happened or how dishonorable and unfair he was, her older brother garnered more unwarranted praise than any ten men. Amadon deserves a ruler of dignity and honor. Not a Jovan Bronachell, looking out for nothing more than the glory of himself.

  Jondralyn momentarily thought of talking some sense into her brother. Yet the thought hung there
uneasy in her mind. That she might be able to converse with Jovan as equals was a notion long dead. She’d scarcely shared more than a few arguments full of terse words with him since he’d been crowned. And the curtness and distrust between them were all his doing. Wrapped in her cloak, she met her brother’s eyes through the crowd.

  Jovan was standing right next to her now. “You must know that I forgive you,” he said softly.

  “Forgive me?” Jondralyn feigned surprise.

  “You wish to be a man. So I now give you a manly job. The punishment for your part in this crime is to build a pyre and burn the four pathetic fools who died here today. They are an embarrassment. Still, their souls will take flight into heaven. They did only as I bade them do. Hawkwood is right about one thing. The Dayknights have grown soft.” Jovan paused, actually looking introspective. “As for you, Jon, don’t ever assume that I don’t know about everything that is said or done in this city. I will not forgive you or Tala a second time. Her punishment will be soon in coming, I assure you that.” Jovan spun and stalked away.

  Jondralyn’s heart felt as empty and hollow as a Sky Lochs cave. Jovan had just as much as admitted that he knew Hawkwood had nothing to do with her and Roguemoore’s jaunt down into the dungeons to visit Squireck. Yet he’d still sentenced Hawkwood to hang for it.

  She looked from Jovan’s retreating form to the four dead Dayknights, then to the Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, who was whispering something into the ear of the grand vicar. Both men then followed Jovan from the courtyard.

  But as the vicar passed by, Jondralyn could clearly see, Denarius had a vicious little smile hiding behind his lips.

  Less than one hour after she had burned the four Dayknights, Jondralyn unhooked her sword belt and leaned it against the arm of the settee in her bedchamber and sat—collapsed onto her settee, more like, then slouched, totally exhausted. She took comfort from the simple colors of the walls and columns and arched ceiling that encompassed the room. She even took comfort in the mahogany bookshelves full of the hundreds of books that she had collected over the years. Her pastel settee and couches were pleasing to sink into and let the strains of the day’s burdens fade away. The silken bedspread that folded over the arm of the settee was cool to the touch, and comforting. The stark cleanliness of her room never failed to ease her mind. She rested her eyes on the patterns of the rich maroon rug under her bed. There was a knock at her door. Too lazy to stand, she shouted, “Come in!” Roguemoore entered her room.