The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “Yes.” The dwarf’s answer was quick and left Nail in deep thought. It was obvious that the men at the table with him believed that the blue stone he’d taken from the mines was one of the angel stones, and that the ax was the Forgetting Moon. And that Shawcroft had found other stones and weapons of Laijon.

  There was much that still didn’t make sense to him. “If the ax is really of Laijon, and the stone is really an angel stone, then what are you going to do with them? What use are they to anyone? Why was my master set upon finding them? Did he find them? Did he give them away? Who has them? Or did he keep them in Gallows Haven and I never saw?”

  “He found them and then left them where he found them,” the dwarf answered, “to be retrieved when the time is right. Traps of every make were set about those mines in ancient times. Shawcroft was adept at sniffing out traps like that, circumventing them, or rendering them useless. But once the angel stones and weapons were found, what traps your master dismantled, he restored, then sealed the stones and weapons back up safe.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “He made a mistake with the first stone he found,” Hawkwood answered. “Gave it to his brother, a green stone, along with Lonesome Crown.”

  “And that started a war,” Godwyn added. “A war that has so far . . . gone badly. Aeros would have those around him believe his crusade is to reclaim lands stolen from Sør Sevier long ago. But it is the stones and weapons he most desires.”

  The dwarf went on. “And now the time is right to gather the stones your master once found. The return of the Five Warrior Angels and Laijon is at hand. The Moon Scrolls of Mia say that for Laijon’s return to come to pass, the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels and the five lost angel stones must be gathered. Not only that, but the stones and weapons can only be used by the rightful heirs of the Five Warrior Angels. Only then can Fiery Absolution be averted.”

  The dwarf looked at him expectantly. Nail looked back at him blankly.

  “At the time of Fiery Absolution,” Hawkwood continued, “it will be one of those five heirs who will step forward and claim his place as Laijon reborn and destroy the armies arrayed against Amadon. Laijon returned will use the weapons and stones to do this. That is the Brethren of Mia’s cause: locating all five weapons, all five angel stones, and then giving them to the heirs of the Five Warrior Angels.”

  Godwyn added, “It is Laijon’s will that we do this, or all of Gul Kana will fall under the yoke of Raijael and the beasts of the underworld will return. It is the sole task of the Brethren of Mia to bring about the return of Laijon. And Ser Roderic Raybourne, the man you knew as Shawcroft, has done more than most to hasten Laijon’s return.”

  Nail’s head was full of even more questions. He looked squarely at the bishop, cleared his throat, and began. “If Laijon needs us to have the stones and weapons, then why doesn’t he just provide them for us? Why did Shawcroft have to search for them? Why all the mysteries hidden in scrolls and hidden treasures in altars? Why did Shawcroft go to the trouble of searching for the ax from under the mountains? And why must you now risk journeying back to Deadwood Gate and the Sky Lochs to retrieve the ones he left there? Why would Laijon make it so hard? For my part, I do not believe any of it.”

  Godwyn frowned. Hawkwood leaned back in his chair. The dwarf looked at him straight and answered, “You have seen the ax, Forgetting Moon, with your own eyes. You have held an angel stone.”

  “Laijon is real, Nail,” Godwyn said. “It’s just that the version of Laijon’s history and gospel that you have been taught by the likes of Tolbret is apostate. The Way and Truth of Laijon is a false record. It has left the likes of Liz Hen and Dokie, and even you to a certain extent, hollow and confused.”

  “I am aware that Shawcroft believed little in the Church of Laijon,” Nail said. “Yet he always gave me leave to attend Eighth Day service in Gallows Haven when I desired. But as far as the angel stones and weapons go, why would an all-powerful Laijon hide them? Why create all this work to find them. It’s a ridiculous god that would behave thus.”

  The bishop stared at Nail with rigid, cold eyes. “Skepticism. Sarcasm. Cynicism. These are all traits of the weak-minded, Nail. Sometimes Laijon requires great sacrifice. We must humble ourselves before our Lord and prove our worthiness, and only then will Laijon see fit to save us from Absolution. Mia says that nothing in life that is great and worthwhile comes easily. Otherwise, how can we appreciate it? The hardest days of your life are before you, Nail. But you cannot face such tribulation alone. You must learn to let your guard down, if but a little, and you must learn to place your trust in others, even Laijon. Only then will you achieve your potential and do what must be done.”

  “You speak as if all this angel stone business has something to do with me.”

  “It does, in a way,” Roguemoore said. “You have touched the angel stone, and that is no small thing. Dormant for so long, each stone has the potential to claim the first who lays hand on it. That person will forever be drawn to the stone and the stone to them, be they an heir to one of the Five Warrior Angels or not. Let me ask of you, Nail—does the thought of someone holding the stone cause cold despair to grip at your heart?”

  Nail felt a chill fold around him like a blanket. He remained nearly motionless, only reaching forth to grab a chunk of Liz Hen’s sourdough bread from the bowl on the table. Nervously he chewed, elbows on the table, thinking of Gisela lying in the snow, angel stone clutched in her frostbitten hand. She’d been the first to touch the stone. “It just seems things should be less complicated,” he mumbled, tongue thick in his mouth.

  “So you wish things to always be made easy for you?” Roguemoore asked.

  Sounds like something Shawcroft would’ve said. “Nothing has ever been easy for me.” Nail scowled again, trying to ignore the dwarf’s frigid glare. He’d not meant to sound cynical. He did not want this dwarf, whom he somewhat liked, to think ill of him. He wanted to be a part of something. Wanted to belong. Wanted to believe in something. But do I want to become like Shawcroft, a cold murderer? Bloodwoods like the Vallè woman had been hunting Nail his entire life, or so Shawcroft had claimed. And these men had as much as confirmed it. Did he want to become one of the Brethren of Mia, gathering lost angel stones and weapons of Laijon? The notion held some excitement. And he generally did like the men sitting at the table.

  He raised his head and looked straight at the dwarf, finding resolve. “It is true, nothing worthwhile comes easy. I have learned that lesson. All of us have, Stefan, Dokie, Liz Hen, me. We all of us have had it hard. But we all of us survived. I cannot speak for them, but even despite my skepticism, I would desire to help you retrieve the stones of Laijon that my master once found in Sky Lochs and Deadwood Gate.” He looked at Godwyn. “For a number of reasons, really. To discover if they really do exist as you claim. And more importantly, to go to those places where I once lived with Shawcroft. To retrace my heritage. Perhaps I can learn the answers to my questions there.”

  The three men exchanged glances, none of them saying a thing.

  “If you’ll have me,” Nail went on, “I will pledge you my honor, Ser Roguemoore. I am in need of a new master, someone to look after me, anyway. I would desire to finish what Shawcroft started. I pledge to work on behalf of the Brethren of Mia in his stead.”

  The dwarf slid from his chair and bowed low to Nail. “I accept your pledge. But I will ask much of you. For the journey I take will be toilsome and full of much peril. The burdens I will place upon you may be too difficult to bear. For I fear, eventually you may discover the answers to those questions you seek. If so, do not lose heart, but take faith in the knowledge you gain. Because as you serve me, know this: I truly believe that to some are given the gift of faith. Yet for others, faith must be earned. And it is clear to me, Nail, that part of your journey in life is to acquire faith—faith in yourself, faith in others, and mostly, faith in Laijon’s plan for you.”

  * * *

  With mu
ch cleverness, the Last Warrior Angels have written destructive words into their Way and Truth of Laijon, that it is better one man be slain than an entire kingdom fall into destruction and unbelief. Thus, Avard Sansom Bronachell, first Lord of Amadon and first king of all Gul Kana, began his society of Dayknights, purging the “rotten stink” of Mia goddess worship from the Five Isles.

  —THE MOON SCROLLS OF MIA

  * * *

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  STERLING PRENTISS

  19TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Sterling put his eye to the thread of light emanating from the crack in the wall. He had finally found the girl. Backing away from the light, he pushed his fingers into the small fissure, prying at the brick. He heard the small chunks of dried mortar rain to the floor on the other side as he widened the unstable crack and put his eye back to it.

  Lawri Le Graven was not more than four paces from him, her lips blue, eyes closed. She lay on a cot in the center of the next room. Candles flickered on the table at the foot of her bed. And from what little Sterling could see of the poor girl, she was reduced to naught but skin and bones, her chest barely rising and then falling with breath.

  The dank and dim closet was adjacent to her brother’s bedchamber. Two of the walls were made of fairly solid-looking stone. But with the other two walls, there were places where the brick had crumbled until just slats and mortar remained, and one of those walls was no more than a wedged mass of broken stone. Sterling could see that someone had lined the two crumbling walls with thick cedar planks to hold up the disintegrating stone. There were chains and irons along with leather leg harnesses fastened high on the walls. At some point, the room had been used as a prison cell.

  Sterling stood on his tiptoes for a better view and pain shot through him—the lingering effects of his injury when Glade Chaparral had cracked him with the Vallè chain-mace. He wasn’t fully healed; the wrong kind of movement hurt beyond imagination. He shifted the weight of his legs, giving his still-sore groin room to breathe in his leather armor.

  With the discovery of Lawri, Sterling would soon get his revenge. Of that there was no question. The lies Tala had spread about him would soon be at an end and his honor would be restored. With that thought, Sterling closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. His heart felt heavy with weariness from battling back the wraiths that had plagued him ever since suspicion for the girl’s disappearance had fallen upon him. He knew that Jovan would have had him hung days ago if not for the holy vicar’s intervention. Sterling knew that he owed Denarius and the Church of Laijon his life. He was now questioning some of his own choices. He’d loved Borden as a brother, but his own recent involvement with the Brethren of Mia had thus far netted him nothing but trouble.

  But that was over now. He would soon return Lawri to the care of the vicar and regain the trust of the king. He had resolved within himself that if he found Lawri, his days of helping Roguemoore and his schemes were at an end.

  Sterling again focused his eye on the crack in the wall and Lawri Le Graven. Before the sickness had shriveled the skin up around her bones, she had been such a beautiful young woman—seventeen and ripe with beauty. Such perfection could only be found in youth, Sterling believed.

  So how can her brother be so ugly? Lindholf Le Graven, with his dark beady eyes, crooked grin, and bread-dough face covered in scars. That sad sack of rotten cabbage didn’t seem to be the most lively candle in the sconce, either. Once Sterling regained favor with Jovan, he would see to it that both Glade Chaparral and Lindholf never advanced in the Silver Guard. And they would never become Dayknights so long as Sterling lived. With that thought, he took one last gander at Lawri through the crack in the wall and backed away, satisfied.

  Sterling hadn’t gone far before realizing he was lost. He knew the secret ways of Amadon Castle could be tricky. That was why he always marked his trail. A scratch from the tip of his sword marked the floor before him, yet he would swear on the grave of the Blessed Mother Mia that he had never been in this particular corridor before. It was fragrant with dust and rat droppings, old stone and rotting wood, and completely unfamiliar. Not a few paces from his mark was a stairway that led up to a crooked, narrow doorway at the corridor’s far end. A spray of red light shone from a crack under its ill-fitting door, as if there were a large hearth fire in the room beyond.

  He drew his sword and scratched an X over his previous mark, and the faint whisper of metal on wood drifted up around him, sending a shiver up his spine. He cast a wary eye in each direction. But there was nothing. Blade in hand, he advanced up the stairs toward the narrow door and the faint red light, his senses now attuned to any danger.

  At the top of the stairs, he pressed his ear to the wooden door. There was no sound. He set his shoulder to the door and pushed. With a creak, it moved inward and red light rained over him. The room was warm and as he stepped in, sweat immediately sheathed his forehead. High on the far wall was a large stained-glass window, the noonday sun blazing through. Each pane was such a deep shade of red, a scarlet radiance showered down upon everything in the high-ceilinged room. The place was lined with dusty wooden benches. Its white-plastered walls were so discolored and streaked by smoke as to be almost black. Along the near wall hung a tall tapestry, a beautifully stitched likeness of the Blessed Mother Mia gracing its center. This scarlet-hazed room looked spacious enough to hold twenty people. A stone altar in the shape of a cross sat in the center of the room.

  Anger flared within Sterling. It was forbidden to construct an altar in the shape of a cross. He shuddered at the thought of what fell rituals may have been played out in this unholy place. There were ashes and fragments of bone strewn about the floor, and the altar’s cross-shaped stone top was stained with a dark substance. Dried rivulets of blackness ran down the sides of the evil construct like tar. His eyes followed those twisting, weeping trails of blood down to the floor.

  Then he saw the carvings. At the base of the altar, they stared back at him in all their unadulterated blasphemy: jagged teeth, scaly flesh, burning eyes, hooked wings, and snakelike tails. Beasts of the underworld! It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. He could not tear his eyes from the hundreds of tiny foul images.

  Dragons!

  Something stirred above. A sound no more than a lonely breath, the swirling of the stale, dust-filled air. He whirled, sword at the ready. There was nobody. He lowered his blade, feeling foolish that the carvings had spooked him so.

  Yet he heard it again, like a hollow whisper. Frantic, his eyes roamed the room, sword held high, ready. But there was nothing. He relaxed the blade a second time and wondered about his own sanity.

  “Where did Hawkwood and the dwarf go?” an indistinct voice said from all around him, the sound of it mellow and easy.

  Sterling jumped back, eyes swiftly scanning the room. “Show yourself,” he commanded, bluster in his voice, sword firm in hand. “Show yourself now.”

  Nothing. A moment passed. Then, as rich as fine wine, the voice moved over him a second time. “Hawkwood. Roguemoore. They set off from Rockliegh Isle on a boat. I know you arranged horse and transport. Have they made you a full-fledged member of the Brethren of Mia? You and Culpa Barra? I can see glimpses of the future. Some call it fey witchcraft. Some call it the workings of the wraiths. But I saw your death. In this very spot. Saw it many moons ago.”

  He was slowly circling now, eyes on everything at once. “Show yourself, I say!”

  “What did Hawkwood find under the city?” the voice asked. Sterling faced the door he had just come through. Was I followed? But now the voice came at him from behind. “I will pull the information out of you. Then I will have one of my pets kill you . . . though I doubt she will enjoy the task.”

  He caught a flicker of movement in the red light above. Turning slowly, sword ready, he looked up. A dark silhouette clung to the stained-glass window there. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the br
ightness of the light filtering around the figure, but once they did, Sterling could see there was somebody perched on the wide window seat, leaning casually against the stone window frame, faceless, dressed in a black hood and black leather armor, a glinting black knife in one hand.

  “The grand vicar rapes the girl,” the dark figure continued, voice now sensuous, deep and liquid. “But of course you know all about Denarius’ dark lusts, don’t you? You stand guard at the doors and let him have his way.”

  His spine tingled as if chill fingers crawled the length of it. “That the holy vicar chooses to bless the sick in private is none of my concern,” he answered.

  “It is not just prayers and washings and anointings the vicar performs.”

  “You falsely accuse the holy vicar. You are misled.”

  “You like to watch him with Lawri. But she is meant for another, one more important than even your vicar.”

  “Are you the assassin who attacked Jovan?”

  “Aren’t you the clever one. I was given the name Silkwood by my master, Black Dugal. I am Bloodwood.”

  Bloodwood! Shards of ice lanced through Sterling’s veins, slicing nerves with each beat of his heart. “Come down from there and I will show you the grand vicar’s true wrath. Or do you dare not?”

  “Oh, I dare.” The assassin silently dropped from his perch, almost seeming to float as he landed silently, knife still in hand, glinting.