Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  To hear another person, someone he respected, assert that he was meant for more than a slow death from disease, or even a quick death so early in battle, gave him chills. He wanted to believe as well, but such faith seemed the shortest path to disappointment. Whatever his fate, his choices brought him here, sailing down the River Chelhos with a future undetermined.

  Though dubious at first, never seeing a ship so large, Jaiden was coming around to the merits of water travel. One could move great distances with little effort, and his cabin was eminently more comfortable than the saddle. He was contemplating his possible future as a sailor and beginning to drift off to sleep, soothed by the steady movement of the boat, when raised voices and a loud thump from above stirred him abruptly.

  “What is going on?” another soldier asked, his feet dangling from the bunk above. Another yell, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood, and suddenly the entire cabin was scrambling to put on boots and find a weapon. Jaiden found his crutch and was rising from his bunk as the first of his neighbors ascended the steps and unlatched the door to the ship’s deck.

  Beyond the door was chaos. The first man who stepped beyond it was pierced by the point of rapier and spilled back down the steps. Yelling, cursing, orders being shouted, and the clamor of steel against steel exploded before the door was kicked closed. Several cabin mates picked up their fallen comrade and lay him on an empty bunk. One tore the sleeve from his tunic and pressed it against the wound to stanch the bleeding.

  No one seemed eager to try the door again. Jaiden picked up the injured soldier’s discarded sword and steeled his nerve, then limped up the three steps to the cabin entrance. After a deep breath he shouldered the door open and stepped out onto the deck. It was worse than he imagined.

  One of the sails was on fire, and the ship swarmed with what he presumed to be river pirates. Another, smaller boat bobbed alongside the Riverdog, latched with thick ropes and grappling hooks. Bodies from each side littered the slippery deck, which pitched wildly back and forth as the two hulls bumped one another.

  Jaiden saw the Cutthroat attempting to move into position beside them, but it was having trouble battling the current, outpacing the stagnant pair threaded together. Their help might come too late – the Riverdog may have to fight its way through this alone, he realized.

  The two hulls smacked again, and the deck lurched beneath his feet. His crutch slipped, losing contact with the floor, and he tumbled into the back of one of the attacking pirates. The pirate turned and pushed him off to create separation, then hacked at Jaiden with his cutlass. Stumbling backward, Jaiden was barely able to raise his sword high enough to deflect the blow.

  A stray rope hanging from the damaged rigging swung to his left. Jaiden took hold of it and wound once around his wrist, stabilizing his shaky stance. He parried high then low, following the second with his own cut to the midsection, too fast for the unsuspecting pirate. His longsword cut easily through the unarmored belly of the outlaw, whose surprised look quickly drained with the loss of his intestines.

  In the midst of the fighting, Jaiden heard singing from above. Stealing a glance upward he saw a white form that must have been Palomar, hovering, enveloped in a mist that saturated the flaming sail. Instantly reassured, he called on his cabin mates, who were waiting on the steps for an opportunity to join the fight.

  More soldiers spilled out of the forecastle as well, and the pirates suddenly had the collective look of a scared dog who picked the wrong fight. Although more used to fighting on vessels such as the Riverdog, they were no match for a larger, trained fighting force, not to mention a roused Aasimar.

  The Order cut down another ten of their enemy before the objective obviously shifted from looting to retreat. Some tried to dislodge the grappling hooks, while others jumped directly overboard, opting for the quickest route of escape. Within minutes, the deck of the Riverdog had been cleared of still-breathing assailants and separated from the parasitic, pirate vessel. Palomar had completely doused the fire from the sails, and a victorious cheer went up from the remnants of the crew.

  Sir Golddrake did not cheer, however. All told, they were now sailing south with a dozen fewer men. When Rogan got word of their losses on the Cutthroat, he cursed himself for his earlier prayer. He was a fool for ever asking – bad luck had struck anyway, and now he would have to reconsider his plan.

  Chapter 19

  Assault on Blackthorn

  F rom Sir Amurel Golddrake’s perspective, the Order of the Rising Moon was already heading into the endeavor light on numbers. The attack of the river pirates, and subsequent loss of soldiers, only exacerbated the problem. He was uneasy relying so heavily on subterfuge for martial success, but the losses gave him little choice other than to trust Baron Rogan’s plan.

  Rogan’s contacts were in play, and his knowledge of prison operations made them dependent. Amurel could only pray to Criesha he was not sending his men to a meaningless slaughter.

  A wide mudflat, several leagues north of Blackthorn, provided an opportunity for them to anchor the ships close to land. In the shallows, the twenty-five horses they brought were unloaded. After the animals were led ashore, Amurel, Sir Kilborn, Jaiden, and the other designated riders made their way to the road. It saw few visitors, and was the only path from which Blackthorn was accessible. The knights headed south until they were within sprinting distance of the fortress. There, at the edge of the jungle, all they could do was stay hidden and wait for the gates to open from the inside. That was Rogan’s job.

  After depositing the cavalry, Baron Rogan and the others took the ships to dock at Blackthorn Prison. The day was pleasant enough, as mid-spring days in Chelpa often were, and Rogan took a moment on the deck of the Cutthroat to close his eyes and bask in the warmth of the sun on his upturned face. The cool wind blowing through his short, thick hair, allowed the brief illusion this was just an innocent, spring day.

  But it was not – this was Mating Day. The prison guards at the docks would not be expecting a shipment of goods, so suspicion at the arrival of his ship – the Riverdog trailed behind and would join them later – was to be expected. Mating Day would serve as his excuse, his way in. An old observance, its customs were renewed and perverted when the King-priest came to power.

  Originally meant to celebrate the natural fertility of the season, Mating Day occurred on the middle day of spring, included feasting to honor the earth’s bounty, and private acts of coupling, behind closed doors, to honor the gift of children. Rogan remembered such a celebration with his wife years ago – the day they conceived their son.

  Under the current regime, however, it had essentially devolved into a public display of sanctioned rape. In many communities, young women were selected and forced to publicly mate with a chosen male, which sometimes became several men.

  The military population at Blackthorn was denied such a celebration, due to the astute concern that if the inmates caught wind of it, a riot might ensue. If the temperament of the guards was anything like it used to be, however, Rogan saw little chance of them turning down a special gift from the King-priest.

  The danger to Saffron would be severe, but she insisted on volunteering once he shared the plan, recognizing it was the best way to gain the tactical advantage they desperately needed. At least a hundred, seasoned guards with military experience resided on site, and though it was now a prison, Blackthorn still possessed all the strategic defenses of the fortress it was designed to be. Strong walls, a moat, anti-siege engines, and skilled archers combined to make a forced infiltration beyond foolish.

  The prison sat high on the cliff ahead – a daunting vision. A lump stuck in Rogan’s throat. How did he ever imagine he could pull this off? He was wearing the new armor Natrone had made him. Saffron had donned hers that morning. Dhania would remain in the deepest hold of the ship until one of them retrieved her after the fighting was over.

  His saber and dagger already sheathed at his hips, Rogan swept and fastened a crimson cloa
k, bearing the Royal insignia of the Inquisitor’s Office, around his shoulders. He would carry Lady Saffron’s spear and shield, as well. Playing the role of the Mating Offering, she would have to enter unarmed.

  The ship was about to anchor, and Rogan went below to find Saffron. She was standing beside Palomar, his hands clasped over hers. Their heads were tilted forward, his chin buried in her hair. Though their eyes were closed and neither made a sound, Rogan had no doubt Palomar was speaking to her, perhaps sharing some final words of encouragement. He felt he could use some, too.

  Finally, the Aasimar lifted his head and looked at Rogan. “She is ready. I cannot thank you both enough for this – I understand the danger you face. My people shall never forget your compassion and bravery.”

  Rogan stepped forward and clasped Palomar’s shoulder. He was so nervous, he felt even trying to speak might cause him to lose his breakfast, so he trusted in Palomar’s perceptiveness, leaving his thoughts unsaid. He offered his hand to Saffon, who clasped it with her own trembling hand and followed as he led her back up to the deck to disembark. Selling their story from the outset would be important.

  Wrapped in a brown travelling cloak, she drew the hood to conceal her sex from the general prison population. The River Chelhos flowed well beneath the fortress proper, so anything unloaded from the docks had to be brought through the mines. Neither Rogan nor the prison guards wanted to deal with the frenzy that would break out if the prisoners knew a woman walked amongst them.

  “I will be ready for your signal, and to unleash the wrath of Mount Celestia. Good luck, and may Criesha’s light shine upon us.” Palomar stayed below as Rogan and Saffron broke into the sunlight.

  The Cutthroat came to a halt, and no fewer than five guards awaited an explanation on the docks. A pair of archers covered them from the small, defensive post near the mine entrance. As the boarding plank was put in place by the sailors, Rogan could already hear the demanding questions of the commanding officer.

  “What is this ship, and what is the purpose of its landing at my dock?”

  “No need to yell, captain.” Rogan tried to use his most entitled tone of voice. “His Imperial Highness, Ebon Khorel, has sent me to extend his gratitude for the faithful service of all of your men. In other words – I have a gift for you.” Rogan grabbed the edge of his cloak and whisked it around, making sure its insignia became visible.

  “Inquisitor,” the captain’s insistent inflection tapered considerably, “how unexpected. What kind of a gift?”

  “A Mating Day gift.” Rogan extended his hand sideways and Saffron stepped forward to take it, simultaneously pulling back her hood. She kept her eyes low in appropriate deference to the men, and Rogan winked at them for good measure.

  Gasps and murmurs of instant appreciation followed, culminating in the captain’s stammering response, “What, here?”

  “Oh, certainly not,” Rogan responded, trying to sound insulted. “A specimen this exquisite must be used for the viewing enjoyment of all. The ceremony will commence in the main yard, as soon as everyone can be gathered, of course. Now, if you would be so kind as to provide an escort, I am sure we would all like the festivities to begin as soon as possible.”

  His idea seemed to be working even better than Rogan had expected. No one asked questions about who the ship’s other passengers might be, or any business other than the one he proposed. He found it easy to play along, making up simple answers while stringing along the guards’ hopes they might be picked as volunteers for the demonstration.

  Stepping back into the mines, though, was accompanied by a rush of memories – the work, the pain, the lost years of his imprisonment, all packed into unwanted flashes. Rogan pushed aside the distraction the moment he saw the first Damper. He had forgotten how repellant their forms truly were, and how it tainted the way everyone treated them.

  He alone knew their complexity, how twisted their story. No one else wanted to think of them as anything other than a tool. Rogan didn’t blame the other prisoners for feeling that way, for he had done the same. He tried to hide his interest in the Dampers, stealing glances to get a count of how many might still be around.

  By the time he and Saffron were climbing the long, winding Tower of a Thousand Stairs, word had gone out to the staff, and all the prisoners were being rounded up for an early return to their cells. None of the guards wanted to miss the upcoming show, and did their best to clear the mines as soon as possible.

  Rogan was impressed by Saffron’s restraint as well, silently enduring the soldiers’ crude comments about what they would like to see done to her, and the creative ways they would use her if given the chance. Once they transitioned to the halls of the prison, Rogan could appreciate just how hot and stuffy the mines were. Sweat dripped from their climb, and the fresher air was a welcome guest.

  “This way,” said the guard captain, taking a left turn down a short hall, while the rest of his men continued forward. Preparations to lock down the prison for the afternoon were no doubt numerous. The captain led them to a courtyard, where the return to daylight temporarily blinded them after the dark of the underground tunnels.

  “Inquisitor…”

  “Captain,” Rogan responded with flare.

  The guard gave an uneasy laugh, before stammering, “Might I, well, that is, I was wondering…”

  “Out with it, man. No one here but the two of us.” Of course, Saffron didn’t count.

  “Well, if you do need a volunteer to start things off, I was wondering if I might have the honor. The men, well, they look up to me, and I think it would help morale. Also, the rotations are going longer with the war, and I have not seen my wife in two moons.”

  “Ah, I get your meaning,” answered Rogan. “Sir, I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more.” And may you be the first to die, he thought.

  The captain broke into a wide grin. “Thank you. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

  A platform near the center of the yard was set up with a chopping block for executions. Rogan led Saffron to it, explaining to the captain, “I suppose we will set things up over here.” Once he’d put some distance between them and the guard, Rogan whispered to Saffron, “How are you holding up so far?”

  “I can think of an honor or two I would like to bestow upon the captain,” she hissed from under her hood.

  “All in due time; it will not be much longer now.” Rogan, still holding her shield and spear in his left hand, used his right to shade his eyes as he looked around the top line of the outer wall. None of the posted guards seemed to have any cause to be alarmed yet. Rogan worried some ally would get over-anxious and act too soon. He hoped for enough of a distraction inward to keep the sentries from noticing Palomar, or the delayed approach of the Riverdog.

  “We should sit,” Rogan determined. Once they were both settled on the platform, Rogan set the spear down as nonchalantly as possible so it would not roll, and lay the shield flat as well. “Your arms, should you need them, my lady.”

  “My thanks, sir,” she mimicked his tone. Rogan smiled, glad Saffron’s sense of humor was intact. “Am I ready for this?” Saffron spoke the question aloud, but Rogan got the impression she asked it of herself. Her heels tapped repeatedly against the base of the platform.

  After a sigh, she drew down her hood, then apparently thought better of it and removed her cloak altogether, deciding it was time to draw more eyes to her. Her hair was braided into its long ponytail, and although she wore armor, it was unlike anything the men of the prison had ever seen – supple and crimson, with flashes of skin beneath piquing their interest.

  Almost immediately, men began to spill from various inner doorways of the fortress, gathering into the courtyard, ready for the Mating Day ceremony to begin.

  “Do you think our soldiers will be in position?” Saffron asked quietly. “The moments between us starting and them showing up are likely to be the longest, most intense of our lives.”

  “Saffron, I am shocked to hear a lady s
peak so bluntly.” Rogan tried to jest, though his heart pounded the truth of her words. “They will be in position,” he added soberly, “or this will be over extremely quick. Either way, there is naught we can do about it now.”

  The crowd had swelled, but it parted as two armored figures, trailing black capes and wearing frightening, beast-like helmets, made their way from the fortress to the execution platform. Rogan and Saffron stood at their approach.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the metallic voice behind one of the helms asked. “On whose authority have you ordered this spectacle? All ceremonies must be approved and overseen by the proper servants of the Dread Tyrant.”

  “I would not have dreamed of starting until you arrived to preside, good sir. The event, however,” the glee in Rogan’s voice quickly departed, “is sanctioned by the King-priest himself, and as his appointed officer, I am only seeing through his wishes.”

  A stare-down ensued, though Rogan felt certain he could not win, since the eyes of his opponent were hidden. Nevertheless, it was the Gholdur war-priest who flinched first and backed off his initially harsh approach.

  “We are here now, Inquisitor, and shall take over enactment of the ceremony.”

  Boos rained down from the crowd, who were obviously aware that wherever the Dread Tyrant got involved, enjoyment seemed to evaporate. The priests must have been used to it, for they walked to the platform without a reaction or hesitation.

  “You will want to be off the platform when I get started,” Saffron whispered as Rogan passed. They shared a look, but he knew better than to doubt her.