By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought)

by Crandall, John

  Selric, Fiona, Melissa, and Cinder sat at their usual corner table and it took a concerted effort by the other three to keep Cinder from pretending to be a working girl and slipping off for a handsome and rich man’s lap. She had already done it twice that night. To help curb her behavior, they placed her in the corner seat with a member of the group on each side of her. Though this did keep Cinder from slipping away, she was preoccupied with watching everyone and flirting with anyone who would make eye contact with her. Several times the group was mistaken for a table of customers, and others kept trying to join them. The party did, after all, have three of the most beautiful women in the house sitting there together. But each time, excepting Cinder, the members insisted on being left alone. Most of the revelers were accustomed to Selric’s presence, well aware that he was a Stormweather and, thus in a way, the owner.

  That night, Alanna was with Violet Stormweather who—after realizing that there were actually feelings of more than lust between this girl and her only offspring—asked her to go as her guest to a gathering of some of the other noble matrons. These women usually proclaimed to be weaving special fabrics, or trading family secrets regarding hearth and home, but all that really transpired was a great deal of gossip about the local news, politics (in which they had keen interest and, surprisingly, aptitude), and of course the other gentlewomen who were not present. So, Selric took the chance away from Alanna to meet once more with his friends.

  “I wish Dirk was here,” Cinder said during a stretch of silence at the table. They had just finished discussing the fact that winter seemed to be coming early that year. Cinder had basically been silent all night, as she’d been drinking and most of what she said was nonsensical or off the subject of the conversation the others were in at the time. She sat there like a child at a gathering of somber adults: quiet, lonely, and extremely bored. Her break of the silence mildly stunned her friends. Melissa glared at Cinder. She missed Dirk, too, and had momentarily forgotten about him and she resented being jerked back to painful, lonely reality. Cinder looked back at her, glassy-eyed but sincere.

  “What do you think is the matter with him, oh omnipotent one?” Selric said to Fiona. She laughed and looked at him.

  “I don’t know,” Fiona said. “Maybe my religion. Maybe that Melissa wants to marry him, or Cinder doesn’t, or that he finally got the money and recognition he aspired for, and now he doesn’t need us anymore. Maybe, like you, he thinks he’s in love.” She bit her lip, but too late. Melissa rose and went to the bar. “Mel, I’m sorry. Come back.” Fiona saw the futility of her apology and fell silent. Selric turned and watched as Melissa sulked alone with her beer. A man came up and placed a hand on her backside, though by her attire (pants, simple shirt and low-heeled boots) she could not be mistaken for a pleasure girl. But to her credit, her garments were fine and new and her hair was clean and fashioned more feminine than she customarily wore it, a sign of Fiona’s growing influence on her. Cinder was talking to Selric; he didn’t catch what she was saying, but she distracted him enough that he acted too late to stop Melissa.

  With the hand on her rump, Melissa put her beer down and said something to the tall, well-built man; a man Cinder had been eyeing and with whom she had tried to leave earlier. The man rubbed his hand slowly across Melissa’s well-rounded bottom, smiling and undaunted by her angry glare. Melissa, however, belted him in the jaw, knocking the patron back three steps. It would have ended there, but he was furious at being hit, especially so hard and by a woman. He stepped forward and if Melissa ever thought of herself as a lady there was no trace of it in her actions.

  When her assailant was within reach, Melissa hit him twice more while ducking under his curving blow. She brought her knee up into his groin and he fell straight to his knees. “Bitch!” he said, and Melissa drew back, ready to drive her knee into his face when she was grabbed by two guards. They were barely able to restrain Melissa in her ferocious rage. “You bitch!” he repeated, spitting blood from his lip onto the floor.

  “Bastard. Men are bastards!” she screamed, jostling the guards this way and that. “I’ll cut your balls off. Let me go!” With her last word, Melissa raised her foot and drove her boot heel into the man’s forehead. Selric’s eyes bulged and he took a large gulp of beer as he rose and sped over. He arrived just as Melissa elbowed a guard and broke her arm free and was about to flatten the second Stormweather man who still clung to the wildcat’s other side. Selric slipped behind Melissa and put an immobilizing grip on her neck. She immediately ceased her fighting, but did not calm.

  “Now, now, Mel. Come and sit down,” Selric said as he guided her over. Fiona came and took her arm and led her to the table. Selric held his grip until she had sat down. Meanwhile, he motioned with his other hand to toss the gentleman out. “Another round, on the house,” he called, noting the silence and the stares.

  “You’re gonna have to stop drinking,” Fiona said, “if you can’t control yourself.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Melissa snapped, glaring off angrily at nothing. “Just shut up, Fiona. You think you know everything. Well, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you don’t know Dirk. So, shut the hell up, or I’ll flatten you,” she finished, turning her icy stare to her friend. Selric reapplied his grip. “Ouch! Stop Selric,” Melissa whined angrily.

  “I’m sorry, Mel,” Fiona said. She paused, but could think of nothing she could immediately say to make her dearest friend feel better. But she did think, rather sadistically, of what Melissa would do to Tallow if she were convinced Dirk was falling in love with the whore. Fiona thought, with a touch of sincerity, that she might even kill Tallow and make Dirk love Melissa. Fiona cared deeply for her girlfriend and it hurt her to see Melissa miserable. She could sacrifice anyone and anything, but herself, to make her friend happy, but she needed a way to do it so that she would not be found guilty. She knew she’d be the first suspect, especially in Dirk’s eyes. Fiona, secretly, admired Dirk and his purity, and her plotting against Tallow wasn’t aimed at hurting Dirk: Fiona believed he and Melissa belonged together and he would be as happy as Fiona knew Melissa would be if they were to become exclusive.

  “I’ll take care of it, Mel,” Fiona said, hugging Melissa’s head to her chest. “Fiona will take care of everything.” Melissa relaxed and Selric released her, looking at Fiona. She met his gaze and quickly turned away, afraid he might guess her own thoughts. Meanwhile, Cinder had slipped off to another table, and Selric went to retrieve her...

  Dirk walked on through the night. Twelve bells had just sounded, and he was cold, even though he had the hood of his heavy woolen cloak pulled up over his head. He didn’t know why he had no parents, or why he liked Tallow, or even why he didn’t want to see the friends who helped him achieve the life he had always dreamed of having. He knew that he didn’t like what Fiona did, and that she had corrupted Melissa into doing her bidding. Fiona had always been nice to him, even healing him and, probably, saving his life. But he still felt betrayed. All the tricks and deception. Fiona knowing what he thought and her sly looks and flirting; her manipulation, as if he were a pawn made him feel dumb and expendable in a way. Cinder manipulated him even more, though with a sweeter result. “When will they betray me for real?” he wondered. He was tired of defending Fiona’s religion and of letting her do it: Tired of Selric seducing every woman who came along, tired of Cinder being promiscuous, and tired of Melissa trying to use guilt to lasso him into marriage.

  He pondered all this; all he didn’t like about his old friends. Then he realized what he did like. They worked well together, they were always there when he truly needed. Selric let him use the academy with no strings attached. Melissa listened for hours upon hours as he spoke of Andrelia as if he were the most knowledgeable tour guide in the city. Fiona taught him history and during those times she never harassed, teased or made him feel dumb or slow, but nurtured his love for one of her few passions. And Cinder, Cinder made him realize what life was for: its richness, diversity, t
he power of the sun or cold sea spray on your face or being drenched to the bone in a warm summer rain or listening to the bells in the harbor or the simple smell of your lover’s skin. Basically, his life seemed empty without them.

  While he sought to avoid them at that moment, he knew that if didn’t see them at least every week, his life would be very lonely. Thinking of never seeing his friends again, made Dirk want to turn and run back to The Unicorn’s Run and take his seat with them, where he knew they would be that moment; sitting and drinking and laughing…without him.

  Dirk had no basis for his distrust: they had always been there when he needed them most. Selric’s confidence and charisma guided them all; his leadership and their trust in him. Fiona’s knowledge and her sense of humor, sometimes dark and strange, kept Dirk loose and certainly from being bored. Melissa’s fire, determination, and country-wise straight forward approach to issues guaranteed that they never lost sight of what important values the group members should all have as people, either rich or poor, famous or common. She was never-changing, except for Fiona’s reins on her. But Cinder was different. She offered nothing to their group, but without her, they would not be what they were. She was the glue which bound them, the catalyst for the closeness that they felt. She was a rally point, a banner around which they gathered for unity and defense; a mascot of sorts, their treasure to be guarded.

  Dirk brightened. His friends were worth accepting what he did not like, simply for the fact that they were friends, bound by feelings none could explain, but that each day seemed stronger. He realized then that he missed them and it was time to go back. Looking around, he had no idea where he had gone in his aimless wandering. He saw a group of four men huddled under an overhang, talking and laughing. Dirk walked past, peering into the shadows to see what they looked like, out of empty curiosity only, as he tried to retrace his steps to a street he recognized in the dark.

  “What are you lookin’ at?” a voice snarled. The tone and the words hit Dirk like a gauntlet and he reeled, his mind flashing back to his youth. He remembered a scrubby youth: pock-marked face, stringy black hair, and wicked gray eyes. He would taunt and push a chubby, sweet, and harmless little boy named Dirk everyday at the orphanage. If Dirk complained or cried out, he was beaten worse. As Dirk remembered this, a man stepped into the light. Dirk saw a scrubby beard struggling to grow over the man’s scarred cheeks, and dark locks dangled from under his hood. But what caught Dirk’s attention were the gray eyes. They seemed to glow, to pierce Dirk’s heart, sending him back fifteen years. Dirk felt fear and stepped back, tensing up, preparing for the blow. But by tensing, Dirk felt his immense muscles bulge and he realized he was no longer a little fat boy.

  “I said, what are you lookin’ at?” the man snarled. “Give us your purse and maybe we won’t thrash you.”

  “Maybe,” laughed one of the others. Dirk stepped forward, years of abuse which had welled up inside exploded through his arm without so much as a thought. With a bone shattering snap, Dirk broke the man’s jaw and spun his head around to the side, knocking him to the street. His friends stepped forward, but Dirk paid them no heed. He leapt on the man and straddled him, pulling him by the hair to look at his face. Dirk threw his own hood back. “I’m looking at you, Rolar! That’s what I’m lookin’ at!” he bellowed. “Do you recognize me? It’s Dork, the little fat boy from Aurauch-home. I bet you never imagined my revenge hurting so bad. I never hurt you, never threatened you, never promised to get you back, but I am hurting you. I am threatening you and I am getting you back!” he said, shaking the bully and slamming his head back onto the stones, tears rolling down Dirk’s cheeks as he shed his fear of intimidation forever.

  Rolar’s friends attempted to pull Dirk off, but the first to feel his rock-hard muscles beneath the cloak fled. Dirk shrugged off the other two as they grabbed him, then he stood up and stepped forward. The second thug ran off and the third held his hands up in peace. Dirk looked down at the bully and resisted the temptation to kick him, saying, “Ten minutes ago, I would have hacked you to pieces, you...you asshole.” Dirk stepped over Rolar without another glance and walked home, howling once with fierce exultation as he looked down at his huge, clenched fists, now spattered in blood, his spirit raging and his pride swelled and vindicated.

  The shutters in the high tower windows were closed against the blowing wind. Selric and Mendric sat at the table with Brandon, Marshal of the Stormweather estate. Brandon was only five years Mendric’s senior, but at the age of twenty, distinguished himself most honorably in the war. By twenty-two, he was a general, the second youngest in Andrelia history. The only one younger, Andelar the Bold, lived over four hundred years earlier.

  Brandon received much of the credit for bringing The War to a victorious end. But then, in a controversial move, he left the new King’s service after only five years as general, claiming that he had done his duty in the war and was tired of the military life. His great respect for a fellow officer in the war, Lord Andric Stormweather, who had been one of Brandon’s officers after he became General of the Army, caused him to seek employ in the lord’s service. Starting only five years earlier, he took the reins of the estate security, as well as the protection of all holdings like the Harvest Hearth, The Unicorn’s Run, two apartment buildings, and several warehouses, as well as overseeing the entire operation of the Brawny Arms Academy.

  Brandon saw to the ordering and training of the personal Stormweather guards and thus was responsible for the protection of the family itself. He had a good rapport with the Stormweather boys and became close friends with Mendric. Selric had been away for most of the past five years and this did not allow for much friendship, but like Mendric, Brandon was proud and protective of the flighty younger son. Mendric and Brandon were both knights of great strength and stature, though Brandon exceeded any man in Andrelia in skill, including Mendric. He was a warrior of great renown and won his valor through his sword as well as his charisma and leadership. He would claim til his death, however, that Andric Stormweather had been the tactician behind the plans, and he was only the sword which led the way. Brandon would always be remembered for defeating champions of opposing armies, as well as single handedly slaying beasts such as war elephants and lions, winged griffons, minotaurs, ogres, trolls, demons from the Abyss and, in a great victory on the field, a dragon.

  Now all three young warriors sat at the table in Brandon’s room, directly above Selric’s own, talking and drinking from a cask of Thrillian ale, the finest in any land, which they had directed the servants to haul up to the room. Brandon’s walls were decorated with a vast amount of trophies; being only the most memorable of the hundreds he had garnered in his military career which started at age sixteen.

  “Yep,” he said, “first winter off in...oh...seven, no, eight years. Roxanna is still up at her parents’. I’ll be basically locked in a small house for four to five months with the heavy snowfall they experience up there. And when you can get out the door, there are only two hundred people to see in the entire village anyway.

  Brandon had met Roxanna as the army moved through her village seven years ago, on his last campaign hunting down a band of raiding northmen. Brandon had gone there for at least a week, sometimes two, once every year since meeting her, totally taken by the girl, and it seemed to Selric and Mendric that he would wait forever for her hand. Brandon never really explained why he did not wed, but the brothers believed there to be some village custom against marrying outsiders, and being a knight of tremendous honor, Brandon had refused Roxanna’s request to secretly steal her away. He patiently played the family’s games and would soon—though ‘soon’ had come and gone a long time ago—marry his love.

  Brandon could have avoided the long wait if he had gone earlier to live in the village for one year. But his oath and loyalty belonged to the Stormweathers and though relieved of his obligations by both Stormweather lords, he refused to shirk his duty. Brandon was truly a remarkable man who, other than the delay
in his marriage, led a wonderful and gifted life. No ill ever seemed to befall him. The sun always shone on his life and Mendric admired him above all others, except his father.

  “Well,” Brandon sighed, “maybe this time will do it, and I’ll come home with a bride,” he said hopefully, his handsome face bright with optimism as he nervously swilled a great gulp.

  “You could always sneak into her bedchamber,” Selric mused. Both cavalier gents looked scornfully at him.

  “Impossible,” Brandon said.

  “Your honor?” Mendric asked.

  “No. She sleeps in her parents’ room,” Brandon said laughing. It had broke many girls’ hearts when the news spread that he would not marry an Andrelian because a girl from the north had captured his heart. “Yes,” he continued, “I’m sure you two will handle everything just fine without me. Mendric will handle the work, and Selric, you will handle the fun, I’m sure.”