The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Spades drew her crossbow, nocked a quarrel, and fired.

  The bolt cleaved the air and punched through the back of Dokie’s thigh. He went down, tumbling. Undaunted, he did not cry, but kept going, crawling on his stomach, inching forward, plowing through the sand, arrow-pierced leg dragging a bloody trail.

  Hammerfiss lumbered down the beach, picked up the struggling boy, and carried him back under the crook of one arm. He set Dokie on the ground before Spades.

  Despite the quarrel dangling from his tender leg, Dokie stood defiant before her.

  “You really must hate our company, lad,” Spades said, admiration for Dokie’s strength in her voice. “So I’ll make a deal with you.” She pointed to the legions of Sør Sevier warships anchored a hundred yards offshore. “If you can swim to the nearest ship and back without getting eaten by a one of the sharks circling about, I’ll let you go free.”

  “You’ll let me go free?”

  “Aye.” Spades untied Dokie’s hands. “I swear it.”

  With his hands free, Dokie threw off his bits of armor and leather tunic and dashed into the ocean. In just his shirt and breeches, he was quickly in water up to his knees, then thighs, then stomach. Soon he was swimming, thick quarrel still lodged in his thigh.

  “That little fellow is bloody mad,” Hammerfiss said, watching Dokie go.

  The fins of the sharks were like tiny white sails slicing through the sea between the distant ships, quietly slipping below the water, then resurfacing. Ava felt her breath catch in her throat when she lost sight of Dokie momentarily among the choppy waves. There was a sudden thrashing of water where he should have been, and her heart sank.

  “I see him!” Hammerfiss pointed. “Look!”

  Dokie was pounding the palm of his hand against the nearest ship’s hull, letting all ashore know that he’d reached it. The dull banging was faint, but Ava heard it.

  “He’s still got to swim back,” Spades said. “He’ll be bitten in half soon enough.”

  As Dokie swam back, one of the swerving fins darted toward him with the speed of an arrow. The distant splash of his paddling arms and feet ceased, and he vanished under a boiling blanket of water. An eerie calmness came over the ocean. A few tense heartbeats passed, then to Ava’s relief, Dokie surfaced, swimming vigorously. It wasn’t long before he was wading ashore, limping, quarrel still lodged in his thigh. What little was left of his shirt hung in ragged shreds over his chest, and blood oozed from a shallow furrow of teeth marks that cut an arcing swath across both his back and belly. Despite all, Dokie Liddle, breathing heavily, stumbled from the bay and stood before Spades.

  Hammerfiss’ booming voice was dripping with amusement. “Them shark bites ain’t more than a fingernail’s breadth deep.” His dancing eyes fell on Spades. “I’m relieved you didn’t tell the whelp our entire army would leave Gul Kana.”

  Spades pointed Dokie toward town. “You’ve earned your freedom. Now git, before I change my mind.” And just like that, Dokie limped away from her, crossbow bolt in his leg, shark bites lining his body.

  Ava stood a little prouder as she watched Dokie gather his armor and make his way back into Gallows Haven. His small victory over their tormentors had given them all hope. “If I swim out there, may I go free too?” an eager voice sounded from the line of captives.

  Spades’ eyes were alight with anger as she drew her sword. “You’ll find yourselves lucky if I don’t just slay you all now!”

  Moments later, two Sør Sevier knights, one bald, the other bearded and wearing a black patch over one eye, broke through the line of prisoners, dragging Baron Jubal Bruk between them. The baron’s hands were tied behind his back. He was brought directly to Spades. She appraised him with unbridled disgust.

  “Found him in a shed near the chapel,” the dark-haired knight with the eye patch said. The man carried a deadly-looking sword in one gauntleted hand. Scars ribboned his face. His one good eye cast stony indifference at the prisoners. “The fool who rode out to offer us his surrender. Baron Jubal Bruk.”

  “I can see that, Stabler,” Spades snapped. “I have two eyes.”

  Stabler backed away, face reddening under his eye patch, a sneer spreading across his scarred face. “Lest you forget, I lost this eye saving your skin in Agonmoore.”

  Spades’ full attention was on Baron Bruk. “My bolt shoulda killed you. Running you down with my horse shoulda killed you. Yet here you are. Still alive.”

  “Aye. I am lucky in that,” the baron said.

  “Luck for a coward,” Spades sneered. “They found you in a shed. Are all Gul Kana barons such cowards, Jubal? Are all barons trained to hide?”

  “I ran to save the women in the chapel from slaughter. My purpose was to lead them into the mountains. Any sane man would’ve done the same.”

  “Listen, you overgrown sack of chickenshit,” Spades snarled. “Don’t insult me or the few survivors standing here who yet live.”

  “He guarded no women,” the one-eyed knight named Stabler said. “And he offered scant resistance when we pulled him from the shed.”

  “Nobody in this place has yet offered resistance.” Spades stepped up to Baron Bruk, appraising him. “An entire town sacked, and Sør Sevier did not lose one fighter. Not one of us even injured. I daresay the codfish and herring offered us more concern when we rowed ashore.” A grunt and chuckle from Stabler bespoke similar sentiment.

  It was then that the bald knight with Stabler looked at the prisoners, looked right at Ava Shay. At first his eyes were flat and watchful as his gaze traveled over her. Something in his eyes flowed raw and dangerous in his quiet stare. Ava found she could not turn away. She felt an immediate connection. He was handsome—strikingly appealing, but in a brutal way. His bald head and neatly trimmed goatee were a stark contrast to the dark splatters of blood and gore that covered his armor. His shoulders were angular with plate armor and his shortsword hung low on his hip. The longsword strapped in the baldric across his back looked well used and deadly. She wanted to drop her own gaze, look away, but his eyes lingered upon her with such bold curiosity, she wondered what he saw. There was one certainty: lust did not live in his eyes as it had in most men who looked at her. His eyes were filled with something she could not quite define.

  He looked away from her and up the grassy knoll. Ava followed his gaze. A weaponless man with short-cropped black hair was riding down the hill on an equally black horse. He was dragging a wooden crate by a length of rope tied to the horse’s pommel. Beast and rider seemed bleak and rootless as they galloped by, the crate dragging behind, pushing up sand. The surface of the man’s dark cloak and leather armor seemed to be seething with endless death. The glowing red eyes of his mount looked feverish, demonic. Ava was sure that his fiendish-looking steed was a wraith from the underworld, kin to the nameless beasts. Veins followed twisting paths beneath its glistening hide, and its corded muscles appeared taut. Ava’s heart hammered. She’d seen a similar horse before; with Stefan Wayland and Nail high on the Roahm Mine Trail.

  This evil newcomer heeled the demon-eyed charger in front of Spades and dismounted. He offered Spades and Hammerfiss a curt nod before untying the rope and pooling it in the crate. “The box you requested.”

  “Baron Jubal Bruk lives,” Spades said. “Perhaps you’d like to test your skills against the baron in a duel? After all, it seems neither one of you have used your weapons today.”

  “Some other time.” The black-clad man appraised the baron with flat, vicious eyes. “Despite what you believe, today’s battle has taxed my strength.”

  “I’m simply swooning with sympathy, Ser Spider. But I’m not interested in your pouty complaints. I say you should fight this man.”

  “Would be a waste of my time.” The one Spades had called Ser Spider mounted his demon-eyed charger, set heels to flanks, and galloped away.

  “Insolent fool,” Spades sneered.

  “He does tend to go his own way,” Hammerfiss said.

  “As
do most like him,” Stabler chuckled, earning a dark look from Spades. Her hand traveled to the sword at her hip. “Are you still under the misapprehension that Hawkwood fights for our cause?” Stabler continued. “His allegiance lies elsewhere now, with his new lover, Jondralyn Bronachell.”

  Spades’ knuckles were white with strain, hand tightening around her sword.

  “Even the Spider wants him dead,” Stabler went on. “Shouldn’t that be answer enough for you?”

  “Stop it.” The bald knight stepped between the two. “You speak too boldly in front of the captives.” Ava liked the sound of his voice, the command it held.

  Spades moved toward the crate, and with the tip of her sword pried the lid off. Ava craned her neck. From her angle, the wooden box appeared empty. It wasn’t large by any means, just big enough for a child to curl up in and hide.

  Spades returned to Baron Bruk. “That boy who swam through the sharks has put me in an unsavory mood.” She stepped behind the baron and cut his bonds with her sword. “I aim to offer you a deal.” The baron’s hands swung free and he rubbed his wrists, working the circulation back into them, the muscles of his jaws bunching.

  Spades held forth her sword, hilt out.

  Baron Bruk immediately grabbed the weapon. Courage seemed to wash over his face with a sword in hand. He held it up as if preparing to strike. But Spades turned her back to him and began unhooking her crossbow and quiver of quarrels. She tossed them to the sand, then donned a pair of leather gloves taken from her quiver. Turning to the baron, she held her arms away from her body, gloved hands empty, weaponless.

  “Here is the deal,” she began. “Fight me to the death. If you win, you get the privilege of delivering a message to the Silver Throne for the Angel Prince. If you lose, well, you’ll still be delivering the message to Amadon, only”—Spades pointed to the crate lying in the sand—“you’ll make the journey in that.”

  The baron’s face revealed a moment of dismay, his courage ebbing. Ava risked a glance at Jenko. But he was looking straight at the ground, hair covering his face.

  Spades cocked her head, hands still held out from her body, palms up as if in supplication. “You can strike at me whenever you chose.”

  A short, sharp laugh burst from Baron Bruk. “To the underworld with you, bitch!” He swung. Spades grabbed the sword by the blade in midflight and yanked it from his hands. She flipped it in the air, caught it by the hilt, and rammed it through the plate armor covering his thigh. The baron wobbled back, the sword buried in his leg almost to the hilt—half the bloody blade sprouting from the other side. Spades kicked with the flat of her foot, connecting with the baron’s chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. She snatched the hilt of the sword and pulled it from his leg. He cried out as the blade screeched free of his armor. Spades stood over him, bloody sword at his throat. “Stand up.”

  “My leg!” he spouted.

  Hammerfiss stalked forward, grabbed the baron by his shoulders, and pulled him to his feet. Baron Bruk listed to the side, favoring his injured leg as blood pumped from it. The red-haired woman ripped off her leather gloves and threw them at Baron Bruk’s feet.

  “Take off your armor.”

  “What?” the baron said between pain-clenched teeth.

  “Strip!” Spades shouted.

  Baron Bruk managed to unbuckle his leg and shoulder armor without falling over. Then he slowly divested himself of his outer plate armor. Tears flowed freely from his eyes in the effort. His leg bled profusely as he stood before Spades in a mixture of sweaty gray shirt and woolen under-leggings, bloody from the thigh down.

  “Take it all off,” Spades said.

  The baron removed his shirt, revealing a broad chest of dark, matted curls of hair.

  “All of it.” Spades motioned to his leggings.

  “I’m liable to bleed to death as it is.” Baron Bruk’s lips quivered in pain.

  Hammerfiss shoved the baron to the ground, then snatched the man’s pants by the ankles and yanked them from his legs. The baron hollered in pain, then curled into the fetal position, clutching at the wound in his thigh. From head to toe, Baron Bruk’s naked body was a ratted mess of sweaty hair. Dark curls even covered the vast expanse of his bunched and clenching buttocks.

  “For fuck’s sake.” Hammerfiss pulled Jubal to his feet. “Handle it like a man.”

  The baron could barely stand. He leaned against Hammerfiss for support, blood gushing down the pale skin of his leg. He bore a thick thatch of graying pubic hair, and his scrotum dangled beneath the short stump of his manhood like the wrinkled face of a bearded old man. Spades stood there, eyes traveling over the naked man before her. “Well,” she said after a moment of reflection. “I suppose you could call that a cock.”

  Hammerfiss laughed. So did Stabler. The bald knight remained silent.

  “The boiling tar for our ships,” Spades said to Stabler. “Fetch me a kettle.”

  Smiling, Stabler ambled toward the line of Baron Bruk’s black cauldrons, a renewed energy in his step. Spades snatched up her bloody sword and spun about, eyes crazed. As she made her way ominously down the line of prisoners, many cowered from her. Even Ava tried not to meet the deranged woman’s stare.

  Spades stopped in front of Jenko Bruk. “The baron will soon bleed to death,” she said. “What say you to that?” Jenko looked beyond her, refusing to meet her gaze.

  Spades grabbed his chin in her hands and forced him to look at her. “I confess to having some skill at figuring men, in both body and character. You have a vicious streak, I can tell. Quick to anger. Quick to notice weakness in others and exploit it. Yet, I imagine, you were well liked in town.” She jerked Jenko’s face down to hers, until their eyes were level. “A real scoundrel, you. And proud of it.” Jenko remained silent, nostrils flaring in and out as he breathed.

  “The truth is”—Spades released his jaw—“I like what I see in you.” She forced Jenko around and cut through his bonds with her sword. His hands were free. She stepped back from him quickly, the tip of her blade poised between them. Instead of attacking her, Jenko hung his head, hair covering his eyes.

  “The baron will bleed to death soon,” she said. “I wish you to finish him for me.”

  Jenko looked up, eyes glowering beneath the locks of his hair.

  “You will kill Baron Bruk.” Spades placed the tip of her sword under his chin.

  “I will not.” Jenko’s voice was low, menacing. Despite all, there was still courage in him. It was clear the woman did not know that Jenko was Jubal’s son. Ava could tell that Spades, despite her insanity, did not intimidate Jenko at all. Perhaps it was the inevitability of all their deaths that had caused such callousness within him. Either way, Ava knew that he would never do what Spades asked. He would die first. Not out of loyalty to his father, but out of pride, a need to never do what anyone demanded of him, especially under these circumstances. She was proud of him for his defiance.

  Spades removed the sword from under his chin and stepped in front of Tylda Egbert, who stood trembling. “What is your name again?” Spades asked, lifting the girl’s face. Tylda seemed devoid of speech as she raised her downcast eyes. In her face welled a depth of hopelessness and despair. A bright tear coursed slowly down her cheek, cutting a wet, cleansing path through the dirt and soot. Spades placed the tip of her sword under Tylda’s chin whilst looking at Jenko. “Kill Jubal Bruk for me. Or I kill this girl.”

  Ava held her breath. She saw a brief moment of indecision cross over Jenko’s face. As Ava watched him, her heart breaking, she could see the pain and confusion in his red-rimmed eyes. Then he looked away from Spades, seemingly unconcerned.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Tylda whimpered, her trembling eyes fixed on the red-haired Sør Sevier woman before her. “I beg you.” The bleak sadness in Tylda’s voice was so raw that Ava had to blink back her own tears.

  Spades rammed the sword up under Tylda’s chin and into her brain. The girl jerked, head instantly skewered on the end o
f the weapon. When Spades pulled the blade free, Tylda’s body folded to the sand, her woolen shift flying up around her hips, exposing the full length of her legs, which now twitched and spasmed.

  Ava felt a flash of rage, a flash that vanished a heartbeat later as she realized Spades had moved to her. The tip of her sword, still fresh with Tylda’s blood, was now poised under Ava’s own chin. “And your name again, darling?” Spades asked.

  Ava’s voice cracked as she spoke her own name. Thirst was lodged like a broken bottle in her throat, yet she answered with a voice that was far calmer than she felt.

  “Will the lad let you die too, pretty Ava Shay?” Spades pressed the tip of her sword against the flesh of Ava’s neck. “Well, girl, will he—”

  “I’ll do it,” Jenko said. Spades turned.

  “I said I’ll do it!” he repeated, voice laced with venom. “I will kill him.”

  Spades lowered her blade. “I could see you didn’t care much for yourself,” she said. “But I figured I could eventually find one you did care for.”

  Ava felt a measure of relief at not being killed. At the same time, she found herself shivering in fright as Jenko followed Spades toward Baron Bruk.

  Hammerfiss shoved the baron to the ground. Jubal Bruk held his wounded leg gingerly out of the sand in both hands. His cold, dark eyes were trained on his son. But those eyes betrayed nothing. Jenko’s eyes were vacant too.

  Stabler returned, carrying a black iron kettle of tar in one hand and a horrific-looking longsword in the other, its inner serrated edge honed sharp. He handed the jagged sword to Spades and set the kettle in the sand in front of the baron, steaming tar sloshing over its sides. The baron eyed the boiling broth with a concerned look.

  “I don’t actually want you to kill the baron.” Spades handed Jenko the serrated sword. “He is of more use to us alive. But I did promise Jubal that if he lost the duel, he would be making a trip to Amadon in that box. So cut off his injured leg first. And then I’ll decide how many more limbs need to be removed before he’ll fit in the crate.”