Jaiden gasped as he felt the wetness of her soft tongue on his neck, followed by her hand on his chest. Once again he felt a surge of vitality, and his manhood immediately responded to her touch. Could this be happening? He dared not open his eyes, nor even move, lest it cause her to stop. Her mouth moved from his throat, until he could feel her breath against his. “Join the Order, obey Amurel, and walk the path.”
Jaiden pursed his lips, anticipating the crush of the goddess’s against them, but was denied. The energy, her touch, the pleasurable sensation boiling below his waist all disappeared. When he finally forced his eyes open, it was to the sight of other soldiers packing their bedrolls. The camp was coming alive, deconstructing itself around him.
What was going on, he thought? Clearly he’d been dreaming, yet both times he’d dreamt of Criesha felt unlike any other midnight reverie he’d experienced. He felt present, lucid, alive – even more vital than during wakeful hours. Could there really be something more to it than his own imagination? He decided if he could figure out a way, he’d try to test these dreams in the future.
For now, however, he needed to wash up and get breakfast in a hurry, or risk being left behind. Jaiden slid awkwardly from his cot and propped his crutch underneath his arm. Limping toward the exit, he heard one of the soldiers call after him, “Hey, cripple, you need to break down your hammock before you leave so we can fold up the tent.”
Jaiden stopped and turned. “I was leaving it for your mother – she’s probably still in there somewhere.”
“Why you lazy sack of orc-dung!” the man yelled, scrambling to his feet.
“Ho, Geoffrey, calm down!” his neighbor called, racing to restrain him before he knocked the crutch out from under Jaiden, or worse. “It’s not worth it; you don’t want the lieutenant dogging you over this joke of a soldier. He’s not even one of us, friend.” The speaker stared over Geoffrey’s shoulder at Jaiden, a look of disgust on his face.
“Well, if you do stick around, gimp, you’d better start watching your back. And don’t expect us to pick up the slack for you!”
Jaiden had already cleared out of the tent before the final words were spoken, but he heard them, as did everyone nearby. His face was hot and his arms quivered as he steamed toward the breakfast table. People cleared a path in front of him, and no one else spoke a word in his direction.
Chomping on a sweet biscuit with ham shavings, he looked around the bustling camp, silently daring anyone to test his ire. He saw a boy, possibly ten years old, holding a water bucket and staring at him imploringly, half-a-dozen paces away.
“What are you looking at?” Jaiden barked. “Bring me that water.”
The boy did as he was told, carrying the wobbling bucket with two hands, intent on not spilling. Jaiden stuffed the remainder of his biscuit into his mouth and bent over to cup water from the bucket to his face. It was cold and refreshing, instantly improving his sour mood.
“Do you have a towel?” he asked after washing. His tone was firm, but without anger. The boy nodded and presented the rag he’d kept slung over his shoulder. When Jaiden had sopped up all the dripping, he saw the boy still watching him. “What’s your name?”
“Tikvi, sir.”
“What kind of a name is that? Nevermind. Why are you watching me, Ticky?”
“It’s Tikvi,” he retorted before drawing in and shrugging.
“Well, speak up. I’m not going to bite.” The boy just shrugged again, drawing a sigh from Jaiden. “Are you here with your father?”
“I’m an orphan, sir. And, I guess I was hungry.”
“Hungry? There’s food right here on the table, help yourself.” Jaiden gestured to the dwindling spread of morning rations.
Tikvi raised his eyebrows, “We’re not permitted to eat until the fighting men have finished, sir.”
Jaiden recognized the look that came from not truly belonging anywhere. “That’s foolish. You’re going to be a fighting man one day, aren’t you?”
Tikvi nodded eagerly.
“Well, then. Here you go.” Jaiden grabbed another biscuit and half an apple from the ration table, and tossed them to the page. “All right, off with you now. I have to go find the lieutenant.”
Tikvi stuffed the entire biscuit in his mouth, the apple in his pocket, and grinned, before taking up his water bucket and ambling off.
It took Jaiden ten minutes of inquiry before he finally located Lieutenant Orestes. “Jaiden Luminere, reporting, sir.”
“Jaiden, yes. Sir Golddrake mentioned you. You’re his personal project, it seems.” Lt. Orestes appeared to be the epicenter of the bustling camp. He finished instructing one man on what supplies needed to be acquired at their new location, and another on the precise route they would be taking there, before returning his attention to the Order’s newest recruit.
“Have you decided to join up, then?” Orestes’s tone was serious, and the full mustache hiding his upper lip made him look even more severe.
Jaiden immediately rethought the decision, but answered “I suppose so” nonetheless.
“There’s a brief ceremony involved, but it will have to wait for Sir Golddrake’s return.” The lieutenant appraised Jaiden’s crutch and unbalanced stance. “You’re not going to march all the way to Greyhorne, are you? Very well, hitch a ride in one of the supply wagons, and report to Captain Millstone when we arrive. He’ll get you sorted out with the infantry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jaiden talked his way into the back of one of the wagons, but only after threatening the driver with the wrath of his superiors. From that bumpy vantage he watched the hundred cavalry of the Rising Moon depart southward, white tabards and shining armor glinting in the midmorning sun, and longed to be one of them.
Chapter 8
Shared Enemies
“H ow much farther do you suppose it is?” Sir Kilborn asked Amurel as their horses trotted along the soft earth.
“Not more than a league or two. We should arrive before the Brotherhood, but make sure the troops are ready in case our intelligence is sour.”
“Aye,” Sir Kilborn answered and peeled off, riding back along the column of cavalry to assure their attention.
Amurel’s eyes were active, taking in his surroundings while watching for movement. Even with the visor raised, his helmet muted most sounds, though the constant drumming of the horses’ hooves still echoed in his ears, along with his heartbeat. It wouldn’t be long now.
They had indeed crossed into a foreign country. The scenery had transformed from the rocky valleys and rising cliffs of southern Halidor to a living landscape of soggy greenland. Though the true swamps were farther west, closer to the River Chelhos, the ground here seemed near saturation. A variety of wild tree groves broke up the gentle sloping lines of rolling hillsides.
Low-lying, grey clouds blanketed the region from direct sunlight much of the time, working their way around the mountains to the north. Amurel regarded the environment, not as unfriendly, but as decidedly less crisp than his ancestral homelands in the Cradle. The air, the land, the horizon, all bled together as if created by a distracted painter.
Observing the landscape atop Bastion, Amurel sought to calm his nerves by imagining he was no longer headed to battle, but visiting a new locale on holiday instead. Perhaps meeting friends of the family for a retreat in the country, he mused – not that he’d kept many such friends since the dissolution of his estate. Still, as the cool wind tightly whipped the banner on his lance, he felt awed by the possibility that any of the groves they were passing might be a sacred conduit for the magic of his mistress.
A mountain pool, a hollow tree, a ring of stones – the beauty of the natural world held myriad repositories of her magical influence, and it remained incumbent upon the members of his Order to protect such places. Most people simply weren’t aware how nature preserved the residual power from when the gods walked the world, even when they experienced that energy. The wonder inspired by these sites was rarely re
cognized for what it was – a seed of magic.
Lost momentarily in his appreciation, Amurel snapped to attention when he noticed the first wisps of dark smoke rising from the south. Upon clearing the nearest line of trees, the black columns that had birthed them came into full view. Half a league south, along a track of cleared timber, Amurel could make out the signs of conflict.
Thatched roofs blazed, and the delayed echoes of metal on metal clanged like tiny bells from afar. Sir Kilborn drew alongside him once more, and they shared a look before Amurel clipped his heels to increase their pace. The column followed suit behind him, their thundering hooves and brilliant white cloth casting a clear beacon of their approach.
As the cavalry of the Order drew nearer, Amurel counted a half-score of black-clad riders wheeling their horses to avoid a hastily constructed rampart. Some lofted torches over it as perhaps a hundred darkly dressed foot soldiers swarmed around them, clambering through breaches in the low wall.
The oncoming charge of knights diverted some of the infantry from storming Salmarsh, and the enemy horses also gathered quickly into formation.
Assessing his opponents on the gallop, Amurel decided it was worth the risk to use their speed against the Chelpians. With the rampart to one side and teeming wetland behind their targets, the Order of the Rising Moon would have to take care not to extend their charge too far. With no pikes to threaten them, though, the dark-armored enemy presented a tempting target.
A few of the Chelpian riders broke ranks and bolted eastward, rather than face the oncoming force. The rest advanced and the two sides met – a colliding mass of muscle and steel, leather and wood.
Amurel lowered his lance and pierced an unlucky soldier. The impact yanked his arm back as he held his shoulder tight, the thud joining dozens of others, adding to the cacophony of battle-cries, trampling hooves, shattered shields, and screams of the wounded. As his well-trained cavalry penetrated the enemy ranks, leveling them as a scythe through sawgrass, Amurel caught a glimpse of flashing white light to his right, beyond the rampart. It vanished before he could turn his head, but he had no time to wonder at the cause as more immediate concerns consumed him.
Dozens of Chelpian troops had managed to scale the town’s improvised fortifications. No permanent wall surrounded Salmarsh, but from the look of things, a shallow pit had been dug recently, and the excavated earth packed behind it to discourage approach on horseback. However, it now also deterred the Order from aiding the town directly.
As Amurel wheeled Bastion around after their pass, he had to contend with the Order’s horses cramped together in tight quarters. Thick woods lay behind, and their momentum was completely spent. Sir Kilborn joined him in discarding their lances and drawing swords, pushing their way back into the fray, side by side. Their charge greatly depleted the enemy, but the resulting engagement was sure to be more chaotic. Unconcerned for his own safety, Amurel worried that every added moment securing the outer field would be hazardous for the townsfolk. For now, those who fought across the low wall remained beyond his aid.
Upon seeing the scores of horsemen approaching from the north, white coats and banners emblazoned with a crescent moon of brilliant violet, Baron Rogan’s instinct was to shake off the mirage of wishful thinking. However, since meeting Palomar, the boundaries of his expectations were being reinvented. “Did you summon them?” he called to the Aasimar hovering two body-lengths above.
Palomar broke into a broad grin, his perfect teeth just as bright as his luminous, pearlescent skin. White-feathered wings tipped with gold, each as long as his body, flapped rhythmically from his shoulder blades, keeping him aloft.
“I told you, Baron, the cause of justice is contagious.” He spoke telepathically, often leaving Rogan unsure who else could hear him. Even weeks after finding him, the effect remained uncanny.
“That you did, my friend. Perhaps we’ll survive the day, after all.” Rogan held a polished saber in his right, gloved hand. His armor was supple, reinforced black leather, permeated by holes designed to increase flexibility, leaving the scarlet tunic he wore beneath visible.
He stood his ground twenty paces from the rampart, within sight of the crossbowmen poised to cover him from their concealed positions down the adjacent alleys. Although eager to join the fray, Rogan had the patience to let the enemy come to him. Over the last four years of freedom-fighting, he had learned the value of a well-prepared ambush. It became especially difficult to hold back, though, as he saw several of the men he’d personally convinced to stand and fight, cut down before him. The blades of the King-priest’s soldiers did potent work against the crudely-armed citizens of Salmarsh.
“Palomar!” Rogan pleaded to the Aasimar, eyes not straying from the enemy.
“I need them closer, Baron,” he responded, his voice too calm for the situation, as usual.
“Fall back!” Rogan called to his allies fortifying the barrier, who eagerly obeyed. Several more perished during the maneuver, becoming easy targets during their withdrawal. In planning their defense, Rogan recognized the limited number of archers as a serious liability, and didn’t want to risk trading volleys against a superior number of marksmen.
He’d positioned the majority of defenders behind cover, with only enough at the rampart to discourage an entrance by the cavalry. Most of the townsfolk had already been evacuated to a camp hidden within the nearby swamp. He knew casualties were unavoidable, but such knowledge never fortified fully against the sting of loss.
Rogan tensed as the last of the wall-defenders hurried past him, a wave of black-clad soldiers close behind. Palomar’s hovering presence seemed to dismay them, granting a gap between escape and pursuit. When the angelic figure made no move to attack, though, they closed on Rogan.
His saber was poised, and his left hand gripped the smooth, stone handle of his uril-chent dagger, ready to unsheath. He opened his mouth to remind the Aasimar, but as he did, the singing started.
Two notes of his haunting, celestial voice was all it took to call forth the magic. A blinding globe of white light formed around Palomar and accelerated outward in all directions. The Chelpians were caught off guard and staggered to a halt before the overwhelming radiance, their eyes singed by its brightness.
Rogan knew what was coming and had closed his eyes as soon as the first sound issued from Palomar’s lips. Still, he perceived the white blast through shut lids, pausing four heartbeats for it to fade before drawing his dagger and opening them. His naked blade created a sphere of dimness, absorbing the natural light and painting everything inside with shadows.
Taking advantage of his enemies’ disorientation, Rogan leapt forward and quickly dispatched two of them with his saber. He easily skirted their neighbors’ awkward responses, then backtracked, hoping to lure his opponents after him. The Aasimar flew higher and started singing a new melody, bolstering Rogan and the woodsmen of Salmarsh with a sense of bravery that defied the odds they faced.
As the Chelpian infantry staggered forward, blinking in hopes of returning their compromised sight, they wandered directly into the path of the waiting crossbowmen and hunters. The archers of Salmarsh let loose their arrows, swiftly felling half a dozen more surprised foes.
Rogan watched as the new frontline of Chelpian soldiers assessed first him, wreathed in unnatural dimness, then the winged Aasimar above, chanting mysterious words of power. Doused in bewilderment, they turned to retreat, only to find their comrades on the other side of the wall already slain, or surrendering to the invading cavalry. Unanimously, they gave themselves up as well, casting down their weapons.
Sheathing his dagger to return to light, Rogan mustered forth his remaining charges, waiting behind the shelter of buildings to strike from concealed positions. Palomar ceased his song and descended, folding his wings behind him, his golden hair wild from the wind.
“Round up the enemy and seize their weapons,” Rogan called to the warriors of Salmarsh. Then, to Palomar, “Let’s go meet our saviors, shall we
?”
“I must see to these fires before they spread, Baron.”
“You’ve got a song for that?” Without giving an answer, Palomar took flight again, heading toward the roofs set ablaze by the Chelpian marauders.
Rogan sheathed his saber and bounded atop the earthen rampart. He saw scores of mounted knights in white tabards starting to separate into lines, as two stationary riders called out orders. A half-dozen prisoners in dark armor were being forced to their knees on one edge of the field.
One of the riders pointed Rogan out to the speaking commanders, who halted their instructions to gaze upon him. They spoke briefly to one another before one removed his helmet and steered his horse closer to the wall.
“Hail!” He raised his right hand in greeting. “I am Sir Amurel Golddrake, Master of the Order of the Rising Moon. Do you speak for this town, or are you one of our enemy, come to parley?”
Rogan bowed deeply before responding – no easy feat atop the narrow precipice. “Greetings, Sir Golddrake, to you and your men. My name is Emmert Rogan, former Baron of Thispany, and I am no enemy. I speak for the free people of Salmarsh.”
“Then let us talk more, so we may give each other wise council, friend. But first, is there a place in your town we may keep the prisoners secure and our horses less visible?”
“Certainly. Send your delegate in on foot, and I will have a man assist him. More have surrendered inside. I will meet you, Sir Golddrake, on the north end of town, if you would be kind enough to lead your horses in that direction?”
Rogan leapt back down the wall to give instructions to the townsfolk. He headed west toward the interior of the town, to the edge of where the fire had spread earlier. “Palomar, would you come with me?” he yelled to the rooftops, where steam rose instead of the black smoke of burning thatch. “I was thinking of using the Public House to host our formal introductions. I would prefer if you waited inside so we could reveal your presence to only a few, at first.”
Shiver the Moon Page 10
