The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  Gault tore his gaze from the girl and looked up the beach. Hammerfiss was leading a stout draught mare toward them. The dapple-gray horse was pulling a flatbed cart with a crate, propped at an angle, strapped to it with roughened leather straps. Four torches, each attached to a corner of the cart, bobbed and swayed in the darkness as the cart lurched toward them, illuminating the contents of the crate—Baron Jubal Bruk. The once stout baron was nothing more than a naked torso now, the stumps of his arms and legs cauterized with black-hardened tar just above his nonexistent elbows and knees. Without his extremities, what remained of him fit surprisingly well in the box. He was alive, moaning, face pale beneath the matted tangles of his beard. The man’s severed arms and legs, now blackened and dead, were stored in the small triangular space under the propped-up box.

  “The Spider rubbed pungent salt under his nose,” Hammerfiss said on arrival. “It woke him, though I don’t know how long he will last.”

  Spades examined the four stumps of tar that used to be the baron’s arms and legs, tapping one gently with her fingertip. “Can he understand me?” she asked Hammerfiss.

  “Aye, he’s lucid enough.”

  Spades pulled the Gul Kana coin—the one emblazoned with the face of Jondralyn Bronachell—from her pocket, tossed it once, then made it dance lithely between her fingers as she spoke to the baron in the box. “Normally one who has allowed himself to amass such a vast array of injuries would be dead from the trauma and blood loss. It would take a miracle for you to make the journey to Amadon, even in a box so filled with comforts. But you can thank our Bloodwood for the lesser degree of pain you now feel. He has tended to your wounds with tenvamaru, a rare serum used only by the torturers in the dungeons of Rokenwalder. Its design is to act as a numbing agent and keep prisoners alive for—well, let us say for various purposes. So, fear not, you will arrive in Amadon quite alive, and in surprisingly good comfort, all things considered.”

  Jubal Bruk’s bearded jaw quivered as he said, “You savages hadn’t the decency to leave me with one hand to feed myself.”

  “You won’t be able to wipe yer own arse, either,” Hammerfiss scoffed. “Or fiddle yer own cock. You should consider yourself lucky we left you with that.”

  “He won’t be much good for fighting anymore either,” Stabler said, one eye asquint, head tilted to the side as he looked down into the box at the baron.

  The fat, red-haired Gallows haven girl who stood beside Stabler wore a look of horror on her face as she stared at Jubal Bruk. She was dressed in naught but a thin doeskin smock tied at the waist with a thong of leather. “He lives and even talks,” she muttered, then purged an endless stream of vomit in the sand at their feet.

  Spades stopped fiddling with the coin in her hand, pocketed it, and pulled forth a dagger. She stepped over the puddle of vomit and cut the girl’s bonds. “You’re a plump one, aren’t you?”

  The fat girl rubbed the circulation back into her hands, tears welling in her eyes as she wiped the puke from her chin with the sleeve of her smock. “My pardon,” she stammered, crying. “I ate a lot last night. It was the Mourning Moon Feast, you know.”

  “Forgive my manners,” Spades said. “I had no desire to make you cry.” She held forth the dagger, hilt first, to the girl. “What is your name, sweetheart?”

  “Liz Hen Neville.” The girl eyed the dagger with apprehension.

  “What a beautiful name.” Spades forced the hilt of the dagger into the big girl’s trembling hands. “You’re a natural with a blade, I assume?”

  The girl looked frightened beyond measure, staring at the dagger now in hand.

  Spades asked, “What do you propose we do about Baron Bruk’s sudden lack of fighting abilities?”

  The girl shrugged, eyes never leaving the dagger.

  Spades took the fat girl by the arm and guided her toward the baron. “Well, Liz Hen, clearly your copious girth strangles your imagination.” Spades snatched the torch from one of the corners of the cart and waved it dangerously close to the baron’s face. He flinched, trying to move his head away from the heat. But propped up there limbless inside the box, there was not much he could do beyond leaning slightly.

  Spades turned to the girl. “Seeing as I am a trifle more intelligent than you, Miss Liz Hen, how about I explain how you yourself can magically restore Baron Jubal Bruk back to the great and deadly fighter he once was.”

  Liz Hen’s eyes traveled over Jubal’s illuminated face. The look that came over her round features was one of both horror and pity. She fingered the hilt of the dagger nervously in her hands. “Do you want me to kill him?” she asked, voice hoarse.

  Spades grabbed the black-tarred stump of Jubal’s left arm, thrusting her torch up under it. “I want you to turn him into a great warrior.” Tar bubbled under the torch’s flame as the baron tried to squirm away. Soon the once-hardened tar that had earlier cauterized his arm was a black and boiling and dripping mass. Satisfied, Spades pulled the torch away and turned to the plump girl. “Jam the hilt of that dagger into his stump. And make haste, Miss Liz Hen, before the tar hardens.”

  Without questioning why, the fat girl pushed the hilt of the dagger deep into the softened tar. “Not too far,” Spades advised. “Bury just the hilt.”

  Liz Hen left the dagger’s hilt buried in the cooling tar of the baron’s stump, only its thin silver blade poking out.

  Spades pulled forth another dagger, melted the tar on Baron Bruk’s other stump with the torch, and had Liz Hen push the hilt of the second dagger into it as well.

  Spades placed the torch on the bracket on the corner of the cart and admired the fat girl’s handiwork. “You’ve turned Jubal Bruk into a warrior again.” The baron now had dagger blades protruding from either stump. “Not that the coward will ever use them to fight,” Spades said, and looked at Liz Hen with a wry grin. “But at least he’s armed.”

  Jubal Bruk had passed out.

  “You deserve a reward, Miss Liz Hen.” Spades smoothed the fat girl’s skirt with her hand. “For turning the hardy baron into a warrior again, I won’t brand you. That will serve as reward, and save you some pain, I suppose.” Liz Hen’s round, frightened eyes were fixed on Baron Bruk’s stumpy arms and the dagger blades sticking out.

  Spades was looking down the beachhead toward five advancing horsemen.

  Aeros Raijael, atop his white charger, was galloping toward them. He wore his white cloak over chain-mail armor, his blue sword, Sky Reaver, at his side. The Bloodwood, on his gaunt Bloodeye stallion, followed a few paces behind. The horse’s ribs gleamed with the oils that had been rubbed into its velvety-black hide, and the beast’s eyes glowed red.

  Gault knew that Spiderwood, like all Bloodwoods, injected his mount with rauthouin bane serum daily. The injections, over time, turned the horse’s eyes, along with its entire disposition, into a fiery torrent. A fully drugged Bloodeye horse was like a rabid dog, ferocious, deranged, and ready to strike at any foe in defense of its master. The beast’s sharpened hooves could thrash and claw, whilst its crushing jaws had razorlike teeth. A few lengths behind Aeros and Bloodwood rode three young Rowdies.

  Upon Aeros’ arrival, Gault, Spades, Hammerfiss, and Stabler bent their knees to their lord.

  The Angel Prince dismounted and glided toward the cart holding Jubal Bruk. Spiderwood dismounted and followed Aeros toward the cart. The three Rowdies dismounted too, yet stood a little way off, subdued.

  “You assured me this man would be fine.” Aeros cast a harsh eye at Spiderwood.

  “Last I saw Baron Bruk, he was awake.” Spiderwood glared at Spades. “Of course, last I saw the baron he wasn’t sporting two blades from the stumps of his arms.”

  “You dour-faced bastard,” Spades growled. “I’m growing weary of your looming over every bit of my happiness like a damp cloud.”

  “Your idea of fun is another man’s box of horrors.”

  Aeros snapped, “I grow tired of your bickering already.”

  “Pardon,�
�� Spades said, bowing, and motioned to Liz Hen. “But it was the fat girl who stuck those knives in him.”

  Liz Hen cowered, as if realizing it was she who might be blamed for the disfigurement of Jubal Bruk.

  Aeros looked from Spades to the Bloodwood and back. “I’m beginning to think that landing in this forsaken village was a mistake. Rosewood was to meet us here. She has not. The information she obtained about this pathetic place has yet to prove correct. No Roderic. No boy.”

  “Information gathered by a Bloodwood is always reliable.” Spiderwood bowed. “Rosewood will be here soon.”

  Aeros grunted dismissively, looking down at Jubal Bruk. “Wake him.”

  Spiderwood pulled a small flask from his cloak and waved it directly under the baron’s nose, then slapped the man’s face. Jubal Bruk sputtered awake.

  “Can you hear me, man?” Aeros asked him.

  “Aye,” Baron Bruk mumbled, face clouded with confusion. “I can hear you.”

  “I’m going to ask you about a man, Ser Roderic Raybourne, an ex-Dayknight who goes by the name of Shawcroft. I’ve news that he was living here in Gallows Haven. Both my father and I are desirous to know the man’s whereabouts.”

  Jubal Bruk remained silent, looking woozy.

  “This won’t do.” Aeros looked at Spades accusingly. “The man is a mess.”

  Spades grabbed one of the baron’s severed arms from behind the triangular alcove under the propped-up crate and used it to slap the baron’s face repeatedly. “Wake up!” she yelled. “Ser Roderic, where is he? Answer!”

  Jubal Bruk’s eyes darted between Spades and Aeros to the two dagger-blades protruding from the tar-covered stumps of his arms. His eyes lit up with terror.

  “Answer, else I will cram your own arm down your throat,” Spades threatened.

  The baron sputtered, “I know n-n-nothing of Roderic’s whereabouts.”

  “There is a boy with him,” Aeros said, “About seventeen. Do you know him?”

  “Aye. Shawcroft and his ward are likely dead. You didn’t leave many alive.”

  “There are some who enjoy slaughter too much.” Aeros’ eyes settled on Spades.

  “You are all evil.”

  “Even if Shawcroft were alive, I doubt he’d give me the information I seek. It would bode well if the boy were found alive.” Aeros turned to Stabler. “Have we interrogated them all? Do we know the names of our captives?”

  “Between Spades and me, yes, we’ve spoken to all. Aye, Spades?”

  But Spades was not listening to Stabler. She was stroking the side of Jubal Bruk’s cheek with the stiff fingers of his own detached limb. “When was the last time you were in Amadon?” she asked.

  “Eight moons ago,” the baron answered, “end of last summer.”

  “What do you know of a man named Hawkwood?”

  “I know that he’s from Sør Sevier, a good fighter. He helps Ser Prentiss train the Dayknights. There are some in Jovan’s court who don’t trust him, I hear.”

  “What about Hawkwood and Jondralyn?”

  “Rumor from Amadon is, the princess grows fond of him.”

  “Princess,” Spades repeated in disgust, and tossed the severed arm in the box with Jubal Bruk. It came to rest half on his chest. A look of utter desperation came over him as his now useless body rocked back and forth in the box, trying to move away from the offending object. It seemed Baron Bruk was just coming to realize that his new body lacked the ability to do much at all.

  The Angel Prince motioned to the three Rowdies behind him. “Baron Bruk, may I introduce Ser Marcus Gyll, Ser Patryk Laurents, and Blodeved Wynstone.”

  The baron’s eyes fixed on Blodeved, a tall blond woman in her early twenties who, even in her armor, radiated beauty. Gault himself had taken notice of Blodeved many times.

  Aeros continued, “These three will accompany you by ship to Lord’s Point. From there, you will travel overland along the King’s Highway to Amadon. You were once a Dayknight, Jubal—use what influence you have to speed your journey over the King’s Highway and to keep my soldiers safe. Shouldn’t take more than seven days. If these three honorable Sør Sevier fighters do not return to me unharmed, things will go poorly when we meet again. Do you understand, Baron?”

  Jubal Bruk’s face remained still.

  “I consider your silence an answer of affirmation,” Aeros said. “The news you will deliver to the Silver Throne is simple enough. You tell Jovan Bronachell that our warships are returning to Wyn Darrè now. They will continue to sail back and forth until all of my finest warriors are on Gul Kana soil and ready to march on Lord’s Point. Do you understand?”

  Baron Bruk nodded.

  “Excellent,” Aeros continued. “Jovan Bronachell can meet us at Lord’s Point to offer up his surrender. You tell all in Amadon—the king, the grand vicar, the quorum of five—tell them that I, Aeros Raijael, am the supreme spirit, the Lord of both heaven and the underworld—of all worlds, the preexistent world, this world, and the next, and the ones beyond that. I am the long-awaited return of the great One and Only, whose arrival was foretold by the Warrior Angels long ago. I am the giver of life and the bringer of death, created before the very foundations of the world. I am known by many names: the Angel Prince, the true and living Heir of Laijon, the great One and Only—and yes, I am even sometimes called the White Prince. And as the prophecies in The Chivalric Illuminations have foretold, I, Aeros Raijael, the heir of Laijon, Mia, and their one and only son, Raijael, have returned to reclaim what is rightfully mine and the time is coming when all will call me God. Tell all in Amadon that any who refuse to pray to Raijael will be slaughtered.”

  Aeros paused, taking a breath. With a hiss of steel, the Angel Prince unsheathed his sword, Sky Reaver, and held it up before Jubal’s face. When he spoke again, there was a calm malice in his voice. “And you tell Jovan Bronachell that if he refuses to surrender at the appointed place and at the appointed time, with a certainty, our war to reclaim Gul Kana will be fought with extreme savagery.”

  Gault’s gaze drifted from the baron to the sharp blade in Aeros’ hand, a keen blade that shimmered crisp waves of blue in the light of the torches, an ancient and merciless blade responsible for the stark and bitter death of thousands. And every one of those cold deaths was reflected right back into Jubal Bruk’s eyes.

  * * *

  All shamans claimed to know the day of the boy’s birth. They spoke of him not only as a great hero who would save man from the Fiery Demons, but also as a savior who would purge man of all sin. Such thinking was a common thread, bonding all men together. The prophets foretold that the carvings on the standing-stones would be the same signs found upon his flesh, and such symbols would give him dominion over all.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TALA BRONACHELL

  3RD DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Bloody rotted angels,” Lindholf Le Graven cursed as his foot skidded through a steaming heap of brown. Tala stifled a laugh, as did Glade Chaparral. The docks of Amadon were proving to be a filthy place indeed.

  Glade helped Tala over the offending pile. “Don’t want to get your feet wet with horse dung, my sweet Tala.” Tala’s heart fluttered; hearing her name on his mouth felt like a caress. She wholeheartedly admired Glade for his gallantry. Even concealed behind the bulky armor and helm, Glade looked dashing, his mere bearing vastly more regal in comparison to Lindholf’s clanking about.

  This was the most daring thing she’d ever done—a quick trip to the stables in the still-dark hours of the morning, an open grate under a stack of hay, and down they went, barely escaping the eye of the stable marshal, Terrell Wickham. Tala led the way, along the same route she and Roguemoore and Jondralyn had used to visit Squireck’s cell a week ago. Tala’s deft fingers opened all the locked iron grates, and she showed Lindholf and Glade what stones to push on to reveal more secret
tunnels, eventually finding the stairway that Roguemoore had claimed led up to the docks. The stairway was a long, sloping affair, but it had led to a heavy sewer grate that had opened up into a dank and narrow dockside ally. Now the three of them—Tala concealed under a coarse woolen cloak and hood, along with Glade and Lindholf, hidden within stolen Silver Guard armor and helms—stood before the Filthy Horse Saloon. The saloon itself festered alongside the cramped road, with its back to the bay and its crude sign hanging on rusty hooks over the door.

  The sun had risen about an hour before. The brightening morning revealed a side of Amadon so repugnant it caused Tala’s stomach to roil with its unwholesome stink. The mud of the narrow streets had been churned into a putrid broth, and tides of rubbish clogged the alleys and side streets. Beggars loitered in doorways, whilst scabby street urchins with bleating little voices played in piles of garbage. Not far from where she stood was a group of bloodletters, flagons of blood at their feet and purple bruises on their necks. These wretched, degenerate souls would open the veins in their own wrists and necks, drain what blood they could before passing out, and then sell it to hungry oghuls. This dirty, poverty-stricken place made her feel alive yet, at the same time, disgusted her to the core.

  Tala clutched the gunnysack that hid the red helmet of the Wyn Darrè gladiator tightly in her hands. She’d hidden it inside the hearth in her room for a week, trying to decide how to proceed, finally coming up with this plan. But the helmet was proving to be one uncomfortably spiky, heavy bulk to lug around.

  Glade had advised against their journey, claiming it unwise for a princess to venture uninvited into the seedier parts of the city. But Tala had assured him that her face would be hidden under her the hood of her cloak. And with him and Lindholf dressed as Amadon Silver Guards, they would be safe. She had also appealed to his adventurous side, claiming she had a secret delivery to the docks on behalf of Hawkwood, knowing both her cousin and Glade would probably do anything to help the man. Despite his recent imprisonment, they were both infatuated with him and his fighting styles. She’d also promised Glade that she’d have them back by morning’s end, in time to attend the arena matches.