By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought)

by Crandall, John

  “No,” Dirk agreed, “goddesses of perversion usually aren’t well liked.” He softened. “I’m sorry, Melissa, and I hope you’re all right, Fiona.” Unseen by Dirk, Melissa glared at Fiona then left quickly.

  “Why don’t you kiss it and make it better?” Fiona asked, as Dirk started after Melissa.

  “Where?” he asked, walking back over to her bed compassionately, remembering her care of him during his recent beating. As he stood near, she rubbed her right breast. “You got shot in the...the...thing!” he stumbled, aghast.

  “No, but if you kiss it, I’ll feel much better.” Dirk laughed and kissed her forehead, feeling strangely close to this devious and playful woman in a girl’s body. Then he turned to leave. Fiona called to him as he went out. “By the way,” she said, “you didn’t knock again.” He smiled, knocked twice then closed the door softly on his way out.

  Dirk sat on the couch and talked to Melissa and Aldren for over an hour. Aldren was indeed a ranch hand who tended horses all summer in the North, and after driving them south for this coming winter, decided to stay in Andrelia instead of a cabin with the other hands, as he had done for the past three winters. Dirk and Aldren got along well and Dirk’s jealousy was soon quenched, mostly by the fact that Melissa would be going away with him in the morning. When he heard Fiona would be well enough to travel the next day, and he had visited long enough, Dirk said good-night and went home. He stopped to make sure Cinder was ready also, and surprisingly to him, she was. She convinced him to stay for a “few hours” on their last night in the city and Dirk reached home later than he had wished.

  Over the past week, Dirk, Melissa and Fiona each purchased a horse. Selric had his own mount and Cinder insisted that they buy her a wagon, refusing to ride a horse. Such a request was not too outlandish, since the wagon could be used to carry supplies out and the expected loot on the return trip. All the mounts were kept with the other animals in the Bessemer stable until the departure.

  Dirk bought a huge roan destrier: twenty hands high and weighing almost a ton. Dirk named him Thegoric, after the king whose city was the objective of his quest for glory. The animal was young and full of spirit and challenged Dirk at every opportunity. Melissa rode a brown mare she called Gem, nearly as large as Thegoric. Gem was fierce and fleet footed, resembling a regal, proud farm horse more than a steed of war. Fiona bought herself a good-sized horse, though not nearly as large as the other two, white with black splotches, so Fiona ingeniously called her Spot.

  Selric brought his Stormweather stallion on the overland journey. It was a grand, intelligent, swift runner which would only let Selric mount him. Typhoon was his name, and he was black as the Pit. Cinder rode in the wagon drawn by a draft horse and Candy, who, while under Melissa’s care, had grown strong and seemingly young again. Selric, Fiona, and Dirk took turns driving the wagon, which carried their friend and their supplies for the journey. On a bright, warm afternoon they rode out the south gate and across the land as summer drew to a close.

  Part II

  8

  The Fiend went on; the coming of autumn did not cool Its hunger. It had just finished devouring another sweet urchin: the Fiend caught her and ripped her apart, leaving only tiny bits and a pool of blood which the vermin and dogs would consume by morning. The Fiend did not make it a habit of killing the young; their fear was common and weak. They never knew the hopelessness that they faced. But older humans did, and the Fiend grew from their fear; It killed the young not only to satisfy Its lust for taking life, but for the fear, despair and anger that such a deed spread by word throughout the city.

  As It passed through a dark alley, the Fiend spied a radiant figure, flitting from window to window of an old abandoned house. The Fiend hoped that an elven female was within range, though oddly It smelled nothing of flesh. There was, however, the slight tingle of magic in the air. It slid closer in the shadows, sniffing the air for her smell, but still detected nothing. The Fiend sprang through the window, ready to snatch her, but found it no female; no living creature at all! It had never seen anything like the figure standing before Its eyes; some sort of specter, an apparition. The wraith, once a human, now had the appearance of a slim, silvery man dressed in heavy clothing common a century earlier. He acknowledged the Fiend, and they studied each other for several minutes, the Fiend still sniffing hopelessly for a scent long ago dead. The ghost beckoned It to follow down into the cellars. Fearing naught, the Fiend followed, curious about what this creature was that felt no fear from It.

  The ghost passed through a basement which appeared very normal, and from there through an old door leading to a dark stair. This way led down to an old and unused sub-cellar that was more than dusty, having been literally overtaken by the fine powder. While the spirit passed through without disturbing anything, the Fiend’s heavy feet stirred a great cloud and It coughed and sneezed the particles from It’s sensitive nose. The apparition sat in an ancient chair which clearly would not have held any living weight, then began to speak, though his mouth did not move. “I’ve felt you. You have given me the strength to form that I have not had in a very long time,” he said. The Fiend grunted and moved closer. “We’re allies, of sorts. I know what you’re trying to do. I tried the same thing, but was betrayed, and I shall stay in this world until I have my revenge.” The Fiend stood then, wondering what it was that the odorless, bodiless, creature wanted from It. It certainly had nothing to offer the Fiend, not in the way of fear or blood.

  “I want you to succeed,” the spirit continued. “If you do, then I will be able to fulfill my needs, and be set free. I need to end this wicked line of kings, but he is too heavily guarded with magical wards which prevent my approach into his home. Your success will chase him out, and then...then I will have him. I will help you, if you let me feed off of the life souls of those you kill.” The Fiend looked confused. “I will come with you to your lair, where I can protect it, and where I can steal the souls of the dying. I hunger for souls the way you hunger for death and I cannot linger much longer without some. I will be doomed to roam the netherworld with no place for my soul if I cannot complete my life’s task before my aura fades.”

  “I don’t need you,” the Fiend growled, It’s voice like death itself.

  “You will. All I ask in exchange for watching your home while you’re away, is souls. You can’t use them.”

  The Fiend seemed to relax momentarily, then without warning It leapt at the apparition. The Fiend slashed at the ghost and clawed and reached, but he simply passed through strike after strike, blasting the ancient chair to splinters. The Fiend raged, screaming Its growl as It came on again and again. The ghostly man laid a hand upon the Fiend, but his chilling touch, enough to draw the life from a living being, had no effect upon the massive murderer. The Fiend, exhausted after his relentless attack, crouched on the floor, dust filling the chamber with a choking thickness, every bit of rotten furniture in the room shattered into useless, unidentifiable shards.

  The Fiend slowly nodded Its consent, as long as the creature did not try to share in Its killing: there was no reason It should not have an ally to help trim the herd of humanity. The ghost rose and passed through the wall, and the Fiend leapt at the sight. Soon he came back, bearing a dusty old scabbard and sword. He held it out and the Fiend took it.

  “An ancient and enchanted blade. It will help you. Succeed and set me free. Kill him.” The Fiend looked at the ghost with suspicion and quickly drew the sword, raising it over his head, ready to strike. “No!” the ghost cried, “If you strike me with an enchanted weapon, you will destroy even this form, and I will be doomed forever, or until granted peace by Aurauch. Please, we are so close, you and I. Our path lies together...can be completed together.” The Fiend stopped, content, only wanting to test the creature’s loyalty, and fear. He did fear It, now, and that was enough for the Fiend. Their relationship, the first in the Fiend’s life since Its master, could now advance.

  The warmth of the sun was te
mpered by the cool wind blowing in off the Great Sea as the group approached the gate. They had not seen those familiar walls in over month. Cinder looked over to the rocks; the rocks where she and Melissa had sat, waiting for Fiona to return from her swim. Dirk sat beside her, driving the booty-laden wagon, Thegoric trotting along behind, trailing on a long tether. They were returning, most of them wiser and all of them wealthier by far. They could now face, especially Dirk, the long, boring winter days ahead with some contentment.

  “All right, Dirk,” Selric called back from his horse a short distance ahead, “when the gate closes, you can let her go. But wait til it closes, we don’t want to lose her again. Who knows how far she’d get this time.” They all laughed, except for Cinder, who wrinkled her nose at him in her characteristically bratty fashion.

  “Maybe if I’d been protected, nothing would have happened,” she said.

  “You’re right,” Fiona said. “But you make too good of bait. “Cinder and the Rat-Men.” What a story that is. I bet you would have liked it better if the ogres would have gotten you. They’re so big and strong,” she mocked, imitating Cinder’s voice.

  “And ugly,” Cinder added.

  “You’re stupid, Fiona,” Dirk said, taking an apple from one of the three full bags behind the seat that they had gathered from an orchard a day’s ride back. He took a bite, nearly half the apple, and let the rest fly at Spot, striking the horse in the flank and causing it to buck and kick. “Just like “Fiona and the wild horse,”” Dirk yelled as Fiona struggled to bring her mount under control.

  After they rode under the gate, Selric stopped. “I’d say...tomorrow night,” as he thought, “at The Unicorn’s Run. No, let’s make it the Harvest Hearth, for dinner: my treat. Right?” All agreed and Melissa and Fiona rode north with the youngest Stormweather. Dirk went with Cinder to Bessemer’s where he locked the wagon, loaded with booty, in the warehouse and then walked her home.

  He unlocked her door and stepped over what must have been hundreds of notes that had been slid under the door. Then he checked to see if all was safe and unchanged. That is when he noticed the empty bird cage. “Where’s that bird?” he asked.

  “Amber’s,” Cinder said as she gathered all the paper, with Dirk’s help. He then kissed her goodbye on the top of the head.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  “Yes,” she chuckled, sorting the letters. But then Cinder glanced up from her knees with that look in her eye that let Dirk know what was next. Though eager to check the store, the thought of being in Cinder’s bed was extremely inviting; not on the ground or in the wagon, or even in an inn room, but back in her bed where he had first learned how marvelous she was for, and to, him.

  Selric waved farewell as he turned off eastward. Fiona and Melissa continued north and home. He leapt off his stallion before it had come to a stop in the compound, and strode in, throwing open the doors to the hearth room. “I’m home!” he called as the doors hit the walls with a “boom” resounding through the empty hall. He had never imagined no one being present for his grand return. Soon, however, Violet, his mother, came into the room through the door on the opposite side of the hall.

  Selric could see the sparkle in her deep blue eyes from across the way. She moved quickly, but no footfalls could be heard and her long dress hid her feet from view; she seemed to glide across the room, as if floating. He took her hand and helped her into her chair at the table, kissed it several times, touching it softly to his cheek. Violet pulled Selric close and hugged him to her breast; her heart beating quickly, but still softly and he relaxed against her warmth. His mother, despite how beautiful he thought her, was the only woman he could hold and not long for sexual pleasure with: his love for her was pure and true.

  His brother, Mendric, came in from his room. “Well if it isn’t Selric the Adventurer?” he quipped, a faint tone of jealousy in his voice. Selric nuzzled deeper into his mother’s bosom, smiling at Mendric.

  “That’s right,” Selric said smartly. “I have the most beautiful mother in this world, and I adventure.” Mendric’s mouth curled at the corner.

  “Now Mendric, you know you’re too important to go off on dangerous games.” Violet said then she realized her words and looked down at the only child to grace her womb. “I mean...” she stuttered, “...to your father...being the heir.”

  “I know, mother,” Selric said, smiling as he rose, still holding and stroking her delicate hand.

  “She’s my mother, too,” Mendric said, almost childlike.

  “Sort of,” Selric replied, not understanding his own cruelty.

  “Boys!” Violet snapped, her tender voice barely able to top their talking. Selric picked up a cup from the table and hurled it at his brother, who caught it and threw it immediately back. Selric caught it. “Now stop it,” she said. “Take the rough play outside. Aren’t you too old for this, anyway?” Mendric stalked Selric around the massive table, smiling wickedly.

  “You might have those things, but I have Angelique,” Mendric said with a grin.

  “No you don’t,” Selric snapped. “Mother!” he cried, looking at her. “Is he lying?”

  “He’s just kidding you dear,” she said. As Selric relaxed at the news, his momentary relief gave Mendric a chance, and he rushed at Selric. Selric nimbly leapt onto the table, eluding his large brother’s grasp. But Mendric, the great warrior he was, anticipated Selric’s next move, and as his brother came down onto the floor on the opposite side of the table, Mendric dove underneath, between two great chairs, and grabbed Selric’s legs, dragging him to the floor.

  The brothers had only been showing their affections in their rough and tumble way, but with each word and grapple, the smiles faded and their anger, stemming from natural sibling jealousy in the other, grew. Mendric repeatedly punched Selric’s stomach, ever more roughly. Selric became annoyed, and he kicked Mendric right up and over his body, and onto his back. Selric rolled and applied an ineffective hold on his brother, causing Mendric to scream at the pain and he stood, dragging Selric with him as he jumped and twisted, trying to break the painful grip. Violet pleaded with them to stop, unable to do anything else but plead.

  As Selric tried again for a better hold, Mendric flipped him across the room and he landed at the foot of a vase stand. The expensive pottery teetered then fell. Selric caught the vase just before it the floor, but to no avail. Mendric dove onto him and the pottery flew from his hand, smashing into a hundred shards. Violet squealed as if stabbed, then rose and fled from the room screaming. “Andric! Father! Andric! The boys are killing each other. Help! Help!”

  Selric pulled his head forward and removed the meat from his blackened eye, placing the steak on the table, calling for another round. Mendric rubbed the bump on the side of his head; a bump caused by Selric’s boot.

  “So tell me brother: how was your ‘adventure’?

  Selric laughed for quite a while before he shook his head several times, looked his brother in the eye and said, “Interesting.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “Well,” Selric said, as if he—for once—was tongue-tied. “You know, I have some close friends,” he preempted, nodding slowly, his eyes serious and loaded with affection.

  “So lots of action?” Mendric asked eagerly, wanting to hear of the martial conflicts and the glory and the treasure.

  “Oh loads of it,” Selric laughed. “Much of it not typical on an adventure.” He paused, composed himself then asked as seriously as he could: “Have men and women adventured together before? Or were we the first?” Again he began to laugh.

  “So no real adventure? Tis a shame,” Mendric said, shaking his head sadly, having been hoping to hear grand tales of things he was forbidden to do.

  “Oh eventually, yes. The kind of adventure you refer to found its way across our path, thanks to Cinder.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well first, to let you know how our trip began, the first night out, while checking in to the Red Swallo
w Inn, whether because Cinder was along or perhaps to prod Dirk into some sort of decision, I think Melissa tried to make him jealous.”

  “Dirk? The big fella you brought to Sellore’s?”

  “Yep.”

  “Melissa? Is she the farm girl who got that bow from Ponjess?”

  “That’s her,” Selric said. “So she thought to make him jealous, or he just took it on himself, for when she stood a little too close to me and smiled a little too much he grabbed a hold of Cinder and hit her with a hot kiss.”

  “How hot?” Mendric asked with a smile.

  “Hot enough to make Mel explode. She took her mug of ale—full—and let it fly. She pegged him in the head and he dropped like a stone.”

  “Whoa,” Mendric laughed, draining his own mug and motioning for another. “Those two—they are…romantic?”

  “Hmm,” Selric sighed. “It is hard to tell sometimes. But Cinder can confuse things…so many things. But anyway, luckily for us, Melissa was in the resultant mood for much of the trip and she is skilled with a bow like none I have ever seen. She’s like me with my sword,” Selric bragged, half-believing his words, but saying them more to get a rise out of his half-brother.

  “Oh, naturally,” Mendric scoffed, punching his slighter brother in the shoulder. “So how did this adventure start?”

  “Well, once on the moors, Fiona woke me in the middle of the night, saying she woke to find Cinder missing.”

  “Oh dear,” Mendric said. “Fiona? The short…”

  “Yep. So we roused the others and Melissa was able to track Cinder’s barefoot tracks down the slight rise to the edge of the river.”

  “What was she doing at the river?”

  “Drinking perhaps, or something elves do at night…who knows.”