Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  In a quick succession of controlled movements – tuck, slide, reach – Rogan willed himself up the remaining length of the shaft. Surely the guards below would inform their fellows of his whereabouts within minutes. Finally, his arms reached over the lip of the chimney and he hoisted his exhausted body over the ledge.

  The afternoon was quickly fading, though his first taste of fresh air in three years invigorated him. Everything was alive. The wind carried heavy smells of the surrounding jungle, a pungent mix of aromas still preferable to the stale earthiness of the mines. The croaking of hundreds of frogs and insects was likewise a welcome exchange for the constant ringing of metal on stone. He hoped he could cover enough ground for the approaching darkness and thick shadows of the jungle to hide him.

  But, getting down was going to be a messy business. Blackthorn had once been a huge fortress, built on a strategic summit overlooking the Chelhos River. Through constant warring over the past decades, the Empire of Chelpa had expanded its territory until Blackthorn was no longer near the frontier, and the citadel had been converted to a prison. To the west, a steep trail led down to the docks where Blackthorn received all its incoming supplies – and free labor. A moat of slimy swamp sludge surrounded the prison, and beyond that, on all sides except the west, where a steep cliff dropped down to the river, a gradual slope of sharp and irregular rock threatened to break the ankles and shred the feet of anyone who did not travel on the solitary, northbound road. Where the rocks finally gave way to softer ground was a field of sparse vegetation, choked by thick layers of dark, thorny briars, for which the place had earned its name. Finally, beyond that, a couple hundred yards from where Rogan now crouched, was the inviting darkness of the dense jungle. Although dangerous in its own right, he wouldn’t start to feel safe until he reached it.

  Rogan had to be both quick and careful; there were sentries on the battlements. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of time until the general alarm was raised. He had to get at least far enough down the wall to jump before they either peppered him with arrows or managed to cut the rope he was preparing for descent.

  Staying close to the chimney to shield himself from the lookouts, Rogan tossed a length of rope around it and quickly tied a serviceable knot. He was about to tie the other end around his waist when the clamor of bells rang from the inner courtyard. No time now. He moved to the edge of the roof, casting the rope over before rappelling down the side of Blackthorn. He would have given a good night’s sleep for a pair of thick gloves, though as it turned out, he ended with rope burns on his hands and still came up two body-lengths short. He yearned to take the cordage with him but knew that if he didn’t move rapidly, no amount of future usefulness would bear him any fruit.

  Rogan dropped the remaining distance into the muck of the moat. Slimy vegetation clung to him as he swam to the rocky shore, too focused to think about what horrid things might be living in the cesspit. The alarm bells, now a thick mass of stone away, were muffled enough that he could hear the hounds barking. Weary arms lifted his fatigued body out of the moat, and as he made his way through the field of rough rocks, he gave thanks that at least the terrain prevented a pursuit from horseback.

  He turned just in time to see a pack of large hunting dogs rounding the corner from the north side of the prison. The animals, hungry for the chase, did not seem pleased with the sharp, broken ground between them and their prey. No sooner had Rogan turned back to picking out his own path than an arrow passed over his shoulder and shattered against a stone. He had to find cover soon. He crossed a couple of gaps where the rocks dropped off with two quick leaps, nearly losing his balance and plummeting into the space between. Combined with the slope of the terrain, he hoped these would give the hounds problems. Another near-miss from a barbed arrow later, he was crouched behind a boulder big enough to give him temporary cover from the archers.

  How was he going to make his way across the expanse of briars while under fire and pursuit? Rogan cursed the fact he hadn’t thought of these details during his incarceration. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his pulse beat in his ears. The dogs would navigate the small channels soon enough. Rogan drew his dagger in preparation, and was startled again as the light around him dimmed, leaving a sphere of twilight shadow.

  The baying of the closing dogs made him unsure of exactly what it was he heard – a song of some sort, haunting and alien, but at the same time beautiful. From the direction of the jungle it carried on the wind, sweet and forbidding, holding a power that seemed to take grip from the inside. To his amazement, the thick bed of thorns just paces from him peeled back to form a path, too narrow to notice from a distance, but perhaps just wide enough for him to escape. For all his wonderment, Rogan had time for naught but acceptance, and with a deep breath made a dash for the fortunate gap. The briars continued to part before him, closing again just after he passed. All the while, the haunting tune stayed with him, its source remaining just beyond reach.

  Occasional arrows whisked toward him, but the thick thorns caught them in their tangled mass. Within moments Rogan was through the hazardous field, and the enchanted melody broke off to fade on the wind. Looking back he couldn’t even see the dogs – the thorns were so thick – but he heard their angry, yelping complaints at being cheated from their hunt. When he sheathed his dagger it was still dim, the sun gifting its final rays of the day. As he slipped into the shade of the thick trees, Rogan knew the hardest part was behind him. Blackthorn’s isolation and unforgiving terrain were now his boons, for it would take a hunting party some time to go all the way around and approach his position from the north. This part of the rainforest was trackless, and he had no doubt he could stay ahead of guards forced to travel on foot.

  As soon as he felt a safe distance from the prison, Rogan took out the map tucked in his belt and unrolled it. There was scarcely light to read by, but he wanted an idea of his heading before looking for a place to spend the night. A cave was marked as his destination, and it appeared to be some miles to the northeast. He rolled the parchment closed and put it away. He would make his way there in the morning, but in a roundabout way. Rogan did not want to head there straight off as it would bring him closer to settled patches of jungle, increasing the chance he would be seen before reaching the cave. He could only wonder what awaited, but found himself willing to trust the dark conspirator. Some sort of magic was in play – this much he realized already. First the uril-chent dagger, then the song clearing the thorns. Rogan didn’t know who or what was behind either, let alone the assassination plot he had agreed to participate in. No, to lead. Whoever it was obviously had influence beyond mere political persuasion. Perhaps even enough to get the deed done.

  Rogan walked until near-dark, but couldn’t afford the luxury of a fire. Since he missed supper and had no rations to quell the grumbling of his stomach, the best thing was to find somewhere to sleep and start fresh in the morning. He found a likely spot, settling at the base of a large tree further sheltered by a gentle rise of nearby earth. Weariness overtook him as soon as he was off his feet. The trials of the day left him bone-tired, and even amongst the strange sounds of the jungle, sleep quickly claimed him.

  Rogan woke gradually, his first morning in three years not started with the clanging of metal on metal. A snake, green and brown as the leaves and the earth, crept its way down his shoulder, curiously sniffing the air with its frenetic tongue. He watched, motionless, as it continued a slow path down his leg and onto the ground.

  Once his heartbeat returned to normal, the acute realization that he was absolutely famished set in. With a deep sigh he rose and checked his map in the new light of morning. If everything went well, Rogan guessed he might make the cave by that afternoon. Hopefully a meal of some sort would be waiting for him there, or he would have to go hunting.

  Hunting – he had enjoyed the sport immensely in his old life. Chasing wild boar, and then later in the season, vibrant, long-antlered deer, used to occupy much of his le
isure time. The smell of the woods, the galloping of his horse, and stories of his fellow huntsmen were all things he took for granted, yet lost in one hellish night three years ago that still haunted his dreams.

  He was returning one evening on horseback from a ride in the hills, full of his own thoughts. Several of his friends who dared to defy the King-priest set a plan in motion to overthrow their cruel Lord, and tonight was the night. Although he sympathized with them, Rogan could not take part. He just had too much to lose. His young wife, Riah – the center of his world – had recently given birth to their first son. They were the air he breathed, and he would not put them at risk for the sake of dangerous politics, however just.

  He didn’t realize danger might find them anyway, until he heard Riah’s screams. Shrill and piercing, they were punctuated by dreadful sobbing, before picking up again. Rogan seemed to be moving through quicksand as he dismounted and ran through the open door of his house. As soon as he entered, black-clothed men hiding on either side of the doorway seized him, and with alarming proficiency, bound his arms to his side. He struggled, but his legs were kicked out from under him and he fell painfully to his knees. His captors deftly tied his wrists and ankles, then raised his head by a handful of hair to watch what was happening to his wife.

  His curses were cut off by shock and rage so overwhelming it baffled his senses. She was bent over the low table where she kept her pottery collection, face pressed by a heavy hand against its polished surface. The pottery was spread across the room in shards. Riah’s screams had stopped, but tears streamed down her face as her eyes met his. Her body lunged harshly against the table, in time with the thrusts of the man behind her. Her lips mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” though no sound escaped.

  Finally, Rogan’s rage found expression. He howled so loudly that, to his own ears, it seemed to come from someone else. He smashed his head against the man to his right, but was struck by a skull-jarring blow, and everything went black.

  The smell of smoke brought him back for a moment. He was being carried like a sack of meal into the courtyard. His house was on fire, and he could not see his wife. He was deposited into the back of a wagon, and noticed a black dagger tattooed on the back of the neck of the man who put him there. He had just enough time to worry for his son’s safety before passing back into a thick darkness.

  Rogan shuddered as he shook off his thoughts. The time for justice would come soon enough. First, he had to make it to the cave without getting caught. He headed for a stream marked on his map, thinking to relieve his thirst before cutting north. The rest of the day became a wash of navigating the thick jungle growth, finding ways around obstacles with no visible paths. At last, exhausted as the light softened with the sun’s decline, Rogan burrowed into the leaf litter of the jungle floor and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  Within an hour after starting off the next morning, Rogan was sure he must be close. He checked his map again when a voice from up ahead nearly made him jump out of his boots.

  “That’ll be far enough,” it informed Rogan. A man dressed in black, with a dark cloth covering his mouth and nose, stood atop a capsized tree trunk, aiming a crossbow at him. “What are you doing in these parts, stranger?”

  Chapter 2

  The Lure of Battle

  H is father’s firm hand gently jostled Jaiden’s head from side to side, rousing him from sleep. “Come, son. Get some breakfast, then it’s time to see your Papa off.”

  Opening his eyes, Jaiden found the room nearly as dim as with them shut. It couldn’t be much past dawn. Jaiden grudgingly climbed down from the stiff bunk above his father’s with sloth-like deliberateness. It always took a few moments in the morning before he was ready to move at regular speed.

  Their home was near the base of the Fifth Hill of the metropolis of Selamus – a modest home compared to the splendorous mansions further up the hill. Composed of two small rooms, the abode was shared by Jaiden and his father, who was off fighting half the time, so it would be unfair to call it cramped. A professional mercenary, Wendell Luminere often commented on the foolishness of extravagance when Jaiden complained about what they didn’t have.

  “There’s food in your belly, no?” That was always his closing argument, and one Jaiden had yet to penetrate. Though his father was far from wealthy, Jaiden loved and looked up to him. He did the best he could with the skills he had to provide for his son – and could certainly wield a sword.

  As long as Jaiden could remember, he had been fascinated by his father’s adeptness with a blade. He spent countless childhood hours watching quietly while his father sparred with other soldiers or honed his craft. When Jaiden turned ten he was taught how to care for the weapon, oiling the steel to keep it free from rust, and sharpening the blade to keep it lethal.

  Once he had earned the trust that came with practiced responsibility, his father gave him weekly lessons, and allowed Jaiden to practice on his own on the rare occasions the sword was free. Over the last three years of strict training, Jaiden had come to respect that sword nearly as much as his father.

  Jaiden slogged over to the table in what served as both the kitchen and common room, pulling out one of the cracked, wooden chairs that always seemed to find a way to give him splinters. A bowl of porridge waited for him, though his father had not. He was scooping the remnants of his portion into his mouth just as Jaiden dipped his wooden spoon into the lumpy concoction. At least it was still warm.

  “I may be gone for a while this time, Jaid, so I left what silver I could spare in the chest. You remember where the key is?”

  Jaiden nodded, his mouth full.

  “Good. If you run out, Pendarin said he could use help bringing in his mid-season harvest, so see him if you need work. Probably ought to anyway to keep yourself occupied and out of trouble. I don’t want you spending too much time with those boys from the Nest, huh?” He paused a moment until Jaiden made eye contact. “Most of them are on their way to picking pockets if they’re not there already. You’re better than that, right?”

  Jaiden nodded again.

  “That’s right. You keep up with your swordplay, and maybe you’ll end up in the Prince’s Guard one day.”

  “But how am I going to practice when you’re gone, Papa? I need a sword of my own.” Jaiden raised his eyebrows, hoping this was the time his father would relent to his repeated plea. A tight-lipped “Hmmm,” was all Jaiden received, however.

  Jaiden finished his porridge while his father left the table and gathered the supplies for his journey. Jaiden was used to being alone. His mother had died shortly after he was born, leaving him without siblings, and his father was off fighting in skirmishes for weeks or months at a time. When he was younger, that meant being dropped off to stay with friends of his father. More recently, depending on the campaign and the associated danger, he would sometimes get to tag along to the initial encampments. Jaiden loved that.

  Nothing quite compared to the smell of a hundred campfires and the songs of courage men sang to convince themselves they too would be brave when the moment of truth arrived. There were always opportunities to get some sparring in with the younger soldiers as well, or their sons with similar circumstances. Story-telling, horses, men in polished armor, the silent shroud of impending danger lingering over everything – all of it a real-life fairy tale.

  This new excursion didn’t offer such opportunity. “Who are you fighting this time, Papa?” Jaiden asked as he stood and cleared their bowls from the table. He remembered, of course, but liked hearing about his father’s enemies as much as possible, each detail feeding his imagination when he’d pretend to battle them later. His father didn’t realize that almost every day he was gone to battle, Jaiden defeated the same opponent over and over – it helped him feel connected.

  “I’m going south, past the boundaries of the Cradle, too far for you to join me. The self-proclaimed ‘Empire’ of Chelpa is trying to spread beyond the jungles again. This time is different, though. Their new k
ing is supposedly some fanatical zealot who worships one of the old gods.” Jaiden’s father stopped talking to heft his bulging pack over his shoulders and across his back.

  “You’ve fought against Chelpians before, haven’t you?” Formerly vanquished foes made for more reassuring opponents in Jaiden’s eyes.

  “Yes, years ago. They have long been aggressors toward their neighbors.” He placed his hands atop Jaiden’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Son, I know some of your friends must give you a hard time about me being a sword for hire.” He laughed grimly, possibly remembering an insult from his past. “Some may think the Grey Wastes of Limbo are lined with souls like mine, devoid of loyalty. I want to make sure you know the truth. It’s important to me.”

  Jaiden got an uneasy feeling in his stomach. His father had left on missions numerous times before, but this time there was too much talking. Jaiden didn’t blink and nodded slightly to indicate his attention, suddenly scared at the possibility of silence.

  “I take money for my services, of course I do; a man has to earn a wage. But what most don’t realize is that I don’t always work for the side offering the largest coin purse. A man gets to choose what he fights for, and will always have to live with that decision, whatever the payoff.”

  Jaiden nodded his understanding and his father withdrew his hands, putting them to work tightening the straps of his pack. “Minor lords constantly squabble for the pettiest reasons, son. Usually a victory means very little to anyone not directly involved.” His attention returned to Jaiden, who was still soaking up every word. “However, every so often a conflict arises that could shape the world around us for years to come. There is evil in the world, after all, and sometimes it bears a clear standard.”

  “Is this such a fight?” Jaiden asked, barely able to get the words out.