The four unlikely companions headed northeast. Yennic scouted ahead of the others, staying mostly beyond sight, but dropping back occasionally to re-establish visual contact. Rogan meant to speak with each of them during the trip to assess their skills, but he was already getting a picture of what Yennic brought to the table. Despite his coarseness and sarcastic wit, he had a way of remaining unseen until desired. A few hours into the trip, when Rogan decided to stop for a rest and bite to eat, Yennic returned with a wild rabbit already in hand, no doubt brought down with an accurate shot from his crossbow. He tossed the hare directly to Groscil, who gave a horrifying, appreciative grin before tearing into the raw meat with his tusk-like teeth.
Rogan and Yennic both opted for the prepared rations they’d brought, but the Damper sat quietly to the side, not eating a single bite. Rogan took advantage of the break to question Groscil.
“So what’s your story, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Not much to tell, Baron. Same story as anyone been in Blackthorn, I wager.”
“Well, you are a half-orc, right? There must at least be a story there?”
“I suppose, though I don’t rightly know that one.” Groscil paused to take an enormous swig from his waterskin. “Never met my parents, Baron. I got teased plenty when I was younger – being the only child with tusks an’ all.”
“Ah, they was just jealous, mate,” Yennic chimed in and Groscil gave a toothy grin, acknowledging some shared joke between them.
“I’d wager you’re right,” Groscil responded, stroking the tuft of rough hair on his chin in mock contemplation. “Anyhow, that all stopped soon as I got big.”
“And when was that, age three?” Yennic snorted. “You probably came out of the womb half-way to humongous.”
“If you must know, I was somewhat of a late-bloomer, like an Autumn Flame or Turtleweed,” Groscil responded.
Yennic gave a short-lived laugh, “Did I hear you right, mate? You just compare yourself to a delicate flower?”
“So what landed you in the mines, then?” Rogan tried to steer the conversation back on target while sounding casual. He sensed honesty from the half-orc, but didn’t want to trust too much until he knew more.
“I don’t really like to talk about it much, Baron, if you’ll forgive me.” Groscil’s expression became suddenly sullen.
“He killed a man.” Both their heads snapped toward Yennic, who nonchalantly scraped mud from his boot heel with a stick. “He killed a man, no different than any of us… well, maybe not Darky L’Melody over there. Of course, I killed lots of men, but that’s not the point. You couldn’t throw a stone in Blackthorn and not hit a killer. It’s not like most of us didn’t deserve to be there, but not this chap.” He discarded his soiled branch and lowered his foot to the ground. “The big brute’s just got more strength than he knows how to manage sometimes, and his crime was no crime at all. It was an accident, a bar-fight-gone-bad. He was actually trying to break things up, though you can guess how far that story went with the Inquisitor, with this one being three hundred pounds of vicious, toothy muscle.”
“Is that it, then?” Rogan asked Groscil, who avoided his gaze. “You killed a man by accident, and it landed you in Blackthorn?” It was important for Rogan to know, so he could best choose what roles each would play in their upcoming plot. He also felt some pity for the half-breed – even more evidence of the injustice of the King-priest’s regime.
“I suppose that’s the way of it, Baron. Things happen when the pints start piling up, eh? But don’t feel sorry for me. I did kill a man who didn’t deserve it, and there’s a price to pay for that. But I reckon, what with the hell that goes on in them mines, I’ve just about paid my debt. So, here I am.”
“I don’t think it’s the killing that makes a man bad, Groscil.” Rogan’s comment drew a rise from one of Groscil’s bushy eyebrows. “If you want my opinion, it’s the callousness of the deed, or the cruelty behind it that tells the tale of a man’s soul.”
“And I suppose that means my soul’s as black as my mask, if I get you right,” Yennic contributed. “Look,” he added casually, “I am what the world made me. I don’t ask your forgiveness, nor anyone else’s, for that.”
“What the world made you?” Rogan’s voice rose a notch. “The world has given me more sorrow than a man like you can understand, but it is not the world I blame. My revenge shall be kept for those who have wronged me, not delivered indiscriminately, for that is the way of the Tyrant and his Brotherhood!” Rogan realized he was yelling and took a moment to regain his calm before continuing almost in a whisper, “The world doesn’t make you who you are; it merely provides the opportunities for you to show it.”
They finished their meal in silence, and were soon back on their way. The closest human dwellings were still a day away, beyond the jungle. They spent the night in darkness, unwilling to risk fire as they drew nearer to civilization. Rogan lay on his back, staring up at the constellations, thinking of his wife and son and wondering why his life had to change so drastically. Destiny was either a cruel matron, or her benevolence was too complicated for him to comprehend. Sleep would not come, though he was tired, so he set to figuring out how to get close to Ebon Khorel.
The next morning Rogan woke with a start; he couldn’t remember falling asleep. He thought he heard the fleeting notes of an enchanting melody, but couldn’t be sure if they were anything more than the echoes of a dream. He felt refreshed, however, and pleased to find the others already packed and ready. According to the map, he calculated they would reach Lucnere later that day. Rogan hoped enough daylight would remain to scout the grounds where the Black Sun ritual would take place.
Checking the contents of his traveling pack, he noticed the Damper sat quietly on his own, perhaps twenty paces away. That seemed to be the way of things; it was obvious Yennic, and to a certain degree Groscil, was unnerved by his presence. Actually, Yennic seemed to loathe the creature, though Rogan could not recall a single story of a Damper causing harm to anyone. With a few exceptions, he barely noticed them in the mines. They were present so the other prisoners could work, but they never spoke, never harassed anyone, and never caused any problems as far as he knew. That wasn’t to say they never received their share of punishment. The guards seemed to erupt in anger around them sometimes, for no apparent reason.
Rogan remembered one day while in the mines, seeing a crowd on the verge of frenzy, all roaring and cheering encouragement. Drawing closer, he saw a guard fiercely whipping a Damper. A spike had been driven through one of its hands, nailing it to the rock of the cavern. Weak as it was, it had no chance of breaking free. The strokes of the lash were so harsh that depressions were scored into the soft, wet flesh of the Damper. It did not cry out or show any emotion Rogan could recognize, yet each peeling crack of the whip against its skin was followed by a sound like a soft note, broken off in mid-song. Rogan could never decide whether the creature was somehow able to remain sublime in the face of great cruelty, or just lacked the capacity to express the pain it felt. Eventually, a prisoner joined in. He picked up an iron shovel and speared the Damper’s thin, black leg. The head, blunt from overuse, still had no problem passing right through. At that point Rogan abandoned the crowd, hoping death came soon after to end the creature’s suffering.
“We have all felt much pain.” The voice in his head was soft and gentle as a lullaby. The Damper was standing only a few yards away. “My kind has been through much – as have you, perhaps?”
“What do you know of my pain?” Rogan said harshly, unsure why he felt defensive. Was it a natural response to the intrusion of hearing this voice in his mind?
“Nothing in particular; I did not mean to offend. I just sense you carry much pain with you.”
For all the melody in that voice, Rogan was still unnerved by the proximity of the grotesque, oozing body accompanying it. It almost made him nauseous. “I’m sorry,” he offered, “but I don’t really know anything about your kin
d. Do you have a story you would like to share?” Even while asking, he silently hoped the Damper would choose to keep to itself.
“My story is one of woe, Lord Rogan, and not one many are inclined to believe.” The voice in his head went quiet, but the Damper continued to stare at Rogan, as if evaluating him. “Perhaps that does not matter, in the end. Perhaps the telling alone serves some purpose. I can see you are anxious to begin our travels, however, so I shall tell it as we walk.”
“Agreed.” Rogan was thankful he didn’t have to endure that stare for the duration of the Damper’s personal history. The heavy sounds of the jungle, insects and frogs communicating in summer melodies, filled the silence before the Damper actually began.
“We were not always as you see us now, my kind. This body I inhabit is part of a curse – punishment for a crime I will not try to explain. We were once Aasimar, immortal beings living in a realm beyond this world.
“Memories are a strange thing, my friend. When we were cast down, inheriting these weak and hideous bodies, our memories were taken as well. Only a distinct impression of loss remained. We were sure we didn’t belong here, but couldn’t remember where we were from. We were isolated, full of misery. All we knew was that it hadn’t always been so. Though as cruel and total as our punishment seemed to be in those early days, Rogan, it got worse. All who saw us were frightened and repelled, until it became clear how physically weak we were. Ebon Khorel sent his soldiers to round us up, and we have been captives ever since.”
Rogan watched the Damper walking ahead, but he had no need to look back as he talked.
“Being sent to the uril-chent mines was surely the work of fate. Though you rightfully think of them as the pits of hell, that is where our rebirth began. The energies that harm and eventually kill your kind are absorbed by whatever remnants of divinity still reside within us. Some of this, you already know. But our secret, what none save us knows, is the effect those energies have on our memories. As time passes and our exposure continues, we remember more. The memories come faster to some than others.
“Before our fall we would sing – beautiful songs.” The voice in Rogan’s head took on a wistful tone, as if transitioning to pleasant memories. “There was movement, grace, life – power – in those songs. But the songs themselves were forgotten. Our lives here were designed precisely to remind us of everything we had lost. In that way, the memories add to our curse. Before, we only knew that we had lost, but not what we had lost. That knowledge haunts and torments us more than the cruelty we face at the hands of your people.”
Although there was no judgment in that last statement, Rogan felt the impact of it. He had long considered himself a man apart from those the Damper was talking about, but he also realized from the Damper’s perspective, they were likely the same. Feeling uncomfortable, Rogan cleared his throat, but continued listening. Incredible as it sounded, he couldn’t deny the story felt like truth.
“And yet, the songs too return. What began as fleeting traces of notes in the recesses of our minds have grown into melodies, and as they come back to us, so does our ability to use their magic.”
“So that is what I heard before?” Rogan interjected. “When I was escaping, it was you who made a path through the thorns?”
The Damper answered with a nod. Rogan’s mind flooded with the possibilities. “What else can you do with these songs? Is that why you were picked to come on this mission?”
“Unfortunately, my songs are still incomplete. Some are just fragments, really, and the memories along with them. I am not sure what use my melodies can be to you. This body, my body, is still so weak. I am here, I think, to absorb the divine power the King-priest might call down against you.”
A flatness to this last statement caught Rogan’s attention. It was the first time anything the Damper had said felt like a lie. Even so, Rogan didn’t press the issue. He had enough to consider, wondering how best to utilize the Damper during the assassination attempt. Although not strictly requested of him, Rogan decided to keep the Damper’s secret. The only ones he had to share it with were a pair of criminals, or perhaps the King-priest himself. His thoughts occupied him for hours as they wound their way through the rich green of the rainforest, fording several small streams, to avoid the denser marshland.
A sudden bird-call from Yennic put Rogan on alert. He crouched and quickly made his way to where his scout stood behind a thick tree trunk, using it for cover. The canopy and undergrowth had gradually become sparser, and here they ended. Beyond Yennic, the ground sloped downward, nothing but lush grass covering the hill. Where the ground leveled out again, perhaps a hundred paces from the tree-line, stood a small farmhouse. A slow curl of grey smoke rose from its stone chimney. Further on, the landscape was peppered with houses and cottages. Time had come for their reemergence into civilization.
They could perhaps hope to be stealthy, making their way to the capital by darting from house to house, or hiding in the jungle and taking a longer route. But he knew they simply didn’t have the time, not if they were going to reach the King-priest’s citadel with hopes of even meager preparation. No, they would walk down to the road minding their own business, and hope anyone who saw them would mind theirs as well. He was counting on the sheer presence of the bulky Groscil being enough to discourage any questions, even if someone bothered to wonder why a half-orc was wearing the robes of the crown.
Standing behind the last of the trees, Rogan realized the other three were looking to him. He asked Groscil to get out the rope, then turned to the Damper. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to need to bind your hands. It’ll look better if you appear to be our prisoner.” The Damper said nothing, but quietly placed his wrists together and stretched out his arms. They were black, sticky, and covered with scars. Rogan tried to keep his hands steady as he tied knots around them, guilt rising through his core.
“What’s the plan, then?” Yennic finally asked.
“Well,” Rogan pointed down the hill, “I can see by the direction of the road that it probably leads to Lucnere, so we’re going to take it. I’ll travel in front alongside Groscil, and lead the Damper. You follow a few paces behind and watch our backs. It probably wouldn’t hurt to show off that crossbow.”
Rogan was expecting some sort of resistance, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because if he were following someone, he’d hope they had a better plan than that. But with no dissent, he nodded, took the end of the rope, and stepped onto the open expanse of green ahead.
He didn’t detect anyone about, at least until they reached the first farmhouse. There, Rogan heard the sounds of people through an open window, talking and preparing for the midday meal.
“Psst!”
Rogan turned, visually following the direction of Yennic’s nod. Thirty paces away, in the shadow of an open barn, a large wooden wagon was already hitched to a pair of horses. It was partially loaded with what appeared to be baskets of vegetables, though a heavy tarpaulin was thrown over most.
Rogan didn’t like the thought of stealing from innocent farmers, but he looked at his crew and knew this wouldn’t be his last harsh decision; they were, after all, planning an assassination. His own sense of morality, however distasteful to subdue, would have to be retired for the length of this mission.
He nodded and they made their way as inconspicuously as possible to the barn, where they boarded the wagon. “Groscil, cover the Damper and ride in back with him. And untie him, please. Yennic and I will drive the horses.” They moved quickly, as if they had worked together and done such things a dozen times before. Within moments, Rogan gave the reins a snap and the horses pulled onto the wide, packed-earth road.
The door to the farmhouse suddenly flew open and a middle-aged man with a heavy beard hustled into the yard. He carried a long, wooden staff, which he raised to threaten them. “Hey! Just what do you—” the question cut off mid-yell, and the staff resigned.
Yennic’s crossbow was pointed directly at the man’s heart, bu
t Rogan wondered if it wasn’t the cloaks they wore that stayed his protests. People expected to lose things at the hands of those in service to the crown.
Chapter 4
Assassinating the Crown
T he wagon clicked along at a pleasant speed. The horses were well-kept and familiar with the route. Lucnere came into view as the sun was beginning its fatal dip below the horizon. Rogan knew it made little difference that the light was fading. The streets were paved with obsidian, and many of the buildings were constructed of the same black stone. Smoke from numerous blacksmiths and armorers filled the sky, signs of a kingdom perpetually preparing for war. Neighboring countries remained on edge because of it. Using his backward logic, Ebon Khorel used this fear to justify being ready to launch a campaign at a moment’s notice.
Things had been bad for a generation – crops struggling and outside trade nearly cut off. They were made even worse when the King-priest came to power and mandated worship of Gholdur the Tyrant, one of the absent gods from an earlier age. Whether or not they believed, his newfound followers used Gholdur to justify absolute control and a disdain for empathy. In his name the spirits of the people were suffocated. A jest arose amongst the more rebellious nobles that even the official flower changed to the black rose.
Given the hour, it became obvious night would be fully upon them by the time they reached the palace. Rogan considered seeking sanctuary at the manor of one of the nobles he knew before going to prison, but dismissed the idea. How could he possibly trust anyone he hadn’t seen in years? He had to remember he was an outlaw in a kingdom that punished without mercy. He couldn’t put such friends in danger, should they prove to still be friends.
They couldn’t risk staying at an inn either – not while pretending to be officers of the Royal Inquisitor, and certainly not with a Damper. A deserted street or building close enough to scout the palace would have to do.
Shiver the Moon Page 4
