I buried her two moons ago, and still my naked tears,
Fall unchecked, they keep me blind to all but the vanished years…”
As Saffron sang the “Dirge of Ladeon,” Rogan watched the faces of the guards change; eyes softened, mouths slackened, and he felt the tension in his own muscles melting away. No one spoke while Saffron’s lyre and voice held sway. When the last note from her strings drifted too far on the night breeze for them to hear, she let the stillness fill the distance between them before making her plea.
“I am in desperate need of your help. There is but one chance to save the afflicted of your city. We need to rebuild this bridge as quickly as possible, so they may make a swift journey to Windhollow Rock before the setting of the moon.”
The foremost soldier nodded and broke his silence. “Of course, my lady. It shall be done.” He turned and instructed his comrades, “Alright, lads, let’s get to it.” Without complaint, the four of them worked in pairs to haul the long planks of the dismantled bridge from the stockpile to the stream.
Rogan knew he could not have denied her anything at that moment, but was fascinated that the same seemed to be true of Synirpa’s night-guard as well. He had seen her conjure fire through song, but this was something different.
When Saffron turned to face him, Rogan was still marveling at her. “Was that—” he started, before she cut him off.
“It would go faster with six; should we help them?”
Rogan stared a moment longer, but did not push. He could not be certain if magic was at work, but he understood Saffron’s desire to keep her newfound abilities secret. “Of course,” he said, finally. “We should have Dhania gather the others so they do not waste effort felling new trees.”
He looked up as a chill breeze stirred distant branches and then blew past him. Night-grey clouds had moved in, masking some of the stars with a threatening presence. The full moon continued to rise, as did progress on the bridge, and Rogan decided to put off attempting to decipher all the strangeness happening beneath it.
While he circumvented north and west around the city, Amurel could see plenty of lights shining beyond the wall, even at this late hour. The citizens of Synirpa were still on alert after the approach of the King-priest’s army, though it never reached them. Bastion snorted beneath him, testing the night air for hints of upcoming battle, and signaling his appreciation for the chance to stretch his legs in a gallop.
“No, boy, no enemies tonight – we are only fighting time.” Soon they arrived at the city’s northern gate, having crossed the water by a small bridge to the east, where the stream continued its northward course, parallel to the Dawn Way. Though the wide doors were swung open, a quartet of armed vigilants stood ready to greet him.
What sort of greeting he could not be sure, as two of them braced polearms against the instep of their boots, set to receive a charge. Another bore a shield and drew his longsword, flanked by a final man wearing the uniform of Rosegold. He held an outstretched palm toward Amurel, indicating he should cease his advance toward the gateway.
As Amurel reined Bastion in, his steed continued to stomp the packed earth of the trail leading into the city. Even with this noise, Amurel could hear the growing clamor of hooves in the darkness behind him as his men drew nearer.
The guard lowered his barring arm and spoke, “Who is it that rides in haste to the gates of Synirpa, armored but bearing no standard?”
Amurel bent to whisper in his horse’s ear, trying to sooth Bastion’s restlessness, so his coming answer could be heard more easily. He did not miss the silhouettes of a half-dozen archers coming into view along the ridge of the wall above. “I did not wish to raise alarm, good man, but I rode ahead of my standard-bearer. I am Sir Amurel Golddrake, Master of the Order of the Rising Moon. You are correct that I come with haste, for the night is short and there is no time to lose. I bring tidings out of the castle at Windhollow – all those with the plague should be ushered to the Duke’s hall before the setting of the moon. There, the divine power of my goddess shall restore them.”
The guards looked at one another as if verifying they had all heard the same declaration. “Forgive me if you are who you say, but to me you sound like the one who has been stricken with an illness of the mind. And now this host approaches in your wake; is this some trick?” The speaker turned and gestured anxiously to someone behind the wall beyond Amurel’s sight, and the gates swung a quarter of the way closed.
“Please, no! They are friends,” Amurel countered, realizing he may have gone too far mentioning an otherworldly power. Most men still viewed the gods as merely the characters of ancient tales.
“Archers, make ready!”
Amurel hissed and turned Bastion away from Synirpa. He rode toward his followers to slow their advance before they were fired upon as enemies. The last thing he needed was to lose more soldiers to a misunderstanding in the dark.
How could he make these men believe him? “Criesha, show me the path to further your will,” he whispered, just before reaching Sir Kilborn and the others.
“What news, Sir?” his commander asked as soon as they halted their mounts.
“It appears they mean not to allow us entry to the city. Unsure of our allegiance, by my measure.”
“Utter ridiculousness,” Sir Kilborn countered. “They should recognize our banner, once we advance.”
“If we advance,” Amurel said, “I am afraid we’ll have a hail of arrows to contend with.”
“Hrmmm. Is this what our land has come to – friends cannot even assist one another without a threat attached?” Sir Kilborn looked back at the train of soldiers, waiting for a command. “Let me talk to them, Sir, with just a banner man. We’ll leave the rest of the men out of range for the moment.”
“I leave it to you.” Amurel waved his hand toward the city gate.
“Logan, with me,” Sir Kilborn ordered. He urged his steed toward the lights of Synripa, the sigil of the Order of the Rising Moon unfurling from the lance of the rider behind him.
Amurel watched them shrinking in the dark. When their forms became illuminated once more by the torches near the wall, he thought about what Rogan had said to him about leadership. He realized he should be there, with them, demonstrating his will.
Instructing his followers to wait for his return, Amurel urged Bastion once more toward the gates of Synirpa. When he reached them, his second-in-command was leaning forward in his saddle, hands folded over one another on the pommel, and the city guards were laughing.
Sir Kilborn swiveled his head at his Master’s approach, then turned back to the gate. “Sir Golddrake, may I introduce Lineus Redfeather of Crimsonmoon.” The apparent leader of the night’s watch raised his palm in greeting. “I have no doubt your fathers knew one another. Lineus remembers me from my jousting days, if you can believe it.”
“I loved watching the Prince’s tournaments as a lad.”
“Then we will have no more trouble entering the city?” Amurel wanted to get straight to the point. Lives were at stake tonight.
“Of course not, milord. Pardon me for my duty.” Lineus bowed.
“Excellent. Then, I shall summon the men. If you wish to help,” he raised his voice to include anyone posted on the wall as well, “we need to gather all the infected citizens of the city, and lead them to Windhollow Rock. There is one at the castle who can heal them, but we only have until the moon sets.”
Without waiting for a response, Amurel made haste drawing forth the riders of his Order and dispersing them into the streets. Further delays could not be tolerated. He ordered them to fan out, sending a small contingent to start in each quarter of the city, and authorizing them to do whatever necessary to complete their task. He began with a small group in the southwest quadrant, which consisted of buildings constructed on wide, gradually elevating terraces. They went from door to door, seeking out those who were ill, and beseeching neighbors to spread the word as well.
Most of the stricken w
ere bed-ridden, the plague robbing them of nearly all vitality, but some were in the streets, unable to move. Those had been left to die, as no healthy soul dared to risk contracting the disease in order to aid them. Amurel realized they would need to gather wagons in order to save all the people who were alive, yet too far descended into their illness to walk.
Some of the city guard joined in the evacuating effort, but only with those tasks not requiring physical contact with the sick. Amurel couldn’t blame them, and directed a volunteer passing by to secure as many carts for transport as possible. Amurel had an eye on a neighborhood further south, far enough up a sloping embankment that none of his men had yet approached. He wondered how many might be tucked away, unnoticed in such a place. Coaxing Bastion forward to investigate, the heavens broke, loosing a cold rain thick enough to obscure his vision.
Bastion whinnied his disapproval, but trudged forth until they reached the base of the rise. The dirt path that cut its way between the stone-lined terraces had already been transformed into a channel of mud, with overflow coursing down to form a widening pool at the feet of Amurel’s horse.
“There-there, boy.” Amurel absently patted Bastion’s neck as he strained to scan the top of the incline for movement. He found the torrent no more inviting than his steed, but wanted to assure no one was left behind. Just as he was ready to move on, he spotted what looked like a child hobbling across the courtyard, heading for shelter. His perspective only put the upper half of the girl in view, but suddenly the child dropped below the ridgeline, as if she collapsed from her effort.
How could he move on knowing even one remained who could be saved? Amurel looked around and did not see anyone who could help. I am that girl’s only chance at survival.
He considered the slick pathway upward with apprehension, but prodded his steed onto the rise. Bastion’s hooves splashed in the basin of rainwater at the foot of the hill, and he stepped up one leg at a time. When his second foreleg planted, the weight of Bastion’s body and Amurel atop him sank his hooves several inches into the mucky path. He skipped forward in an attempt to compensate, but that only set him scurrying for secure footing as he slid back down.
“Whoa!” Amurel spoke to the mud as much as to his steed. He shared Bastion’s trepidation – his horse’s feet were his feet – and an injured leg would be catastrophic for them both. Amurel pulled the reins and circled back behind the pool, where he could be sure of level footing. The rain continued to plummet, and he knew the conditions would only deteriorate.
It was too much weight, he and Bastion together, to scale the terraces. His horse alone probably could not make it either, and little good it would do the plague victims above. Amurel already knew the answer to the problem, and that more than the cold was the cause of his shivering. Racing clouds obscured the moons, and he desperately desired a sign from Criesha. Without her presence, or the help of his horse, he may as well be on an island.
Amurel sighed and patted Bastion’s neck once more. “You are not to tell anyone about this.” He gazed to the top of the path and judged the distance. “Perhaps seven body-lengths,” he said to himself. “You can do this.” He swung down from his saddle and momentarily held onto his horse to keep steady. Then, leaning forward, he hobbled a few awkward steps to the embankment, splashing through the ankle-deep, rising water, until his hands planted into the mud of the ascending path.
The mail gloves gave him a better grip in the slick torrent, and he dug one hand, then the other, into the slope as he hauled his body upward. Rain poured into his eyes when he lifted his head to check his progress, so he tucked his chin and concentrated on making sure his hands gained sufficient purchase before hoisting his body further.
Amurel’s chest and biceps were on fire by the time he reached level ground. Looking back down, the distance seemed further, though Bastion kept a patient watch, putting Amurel slightly more at ease.
The courtyard looked more like a killing field than a neighborhood plaza. Bodies lay strewn across the grounds, their blackened, pocked bodies ravaged by the plague. The number of deaths overwhelmed him, and Amurel wondered if perhaps this area was known to have been hit hard. That might explain why no one from the town militia headed this direction in the first place.
Focus on finding the girl, he thought. Surely she, at least, was not yet dead. Propping up his torso on his hands, Amurel slid his strong leg underneath him to rise. Once standing, he could differentiate more clearly among the bodies. A slight twitching brought his attention to the form of a young girl, not yet ten summers, face down on a cobbled pathway. She appeared on her way toward shelter when she’d collapsed.
Amurel limped more slowly than usual, taking care as the downpour had made the footing treacherous. When he reached the lass, she was in poor condition, though still alive. Her skin had not deteriorated as much as the corpses around him, but painful-looking blotches of sores marred her exposed arms, and though her eyes were open, Amurel would not vouch for her consciousness.
“It will be all right, child.” He thought it important to talk, to offer hope, even if the girl could not hear him. “I am going to take you to get better,” Amurel said, though still unsure how. First, he gave the courtyard a final scour to make sure no one else showed signs of life. “Can anyone hear me?” he called. Unclear they could, above the rain, duty demanded he make the attempt. “If you can,” he shouted at the houses with closed doors and shutters, “take your sick to the castle before dawn, and they shall be cured.” He had to believe that Criesha, through Jaiden, would not betray him on this.
No response arose. “Come, lass, let’s get you out of here,” he said more softly, though not looking at the girl as he spoke. Instead, he was checking over the rest of the courtyard, searching for anything to help him actually fulfill his promise. He could not drag another body with him – he would need both hands – and he could not carry the girl and still walk.
An untethered hand-cart, lying just off the walkway near a house, offered possibilities. Amurel approached to investigate, finding a case of garden tools and a short length of wire abandoned underneath. They would have to do.
Using the head of a spade, he quickly dug notches into the wet, wooden handles of the cart. He wound the ends of the gardening wire around them, leaving a loop of slack between, hoping it would serve. He pushed the cart across the wet stone path, which was level and fairly smooth. Leaning forward, Amurel used the cart to maintain balance, though its unencumbered weight was slight enough for his one good foot to push along. Carrying the child would prove another matter.
When he reached the girl, thunder roiled from above. The stars were completely blotted out. Unable to bend far enough while standing, he kneeled in order to cradle the child, then awkwardly lifted her over the lip of the cart to deposit her. The girl’s limbs folded at Amurel’s manipulation, but their owner never escaped her haze of debilitation. “You are going to hold on for me, yes?” With no response, he decided his own determination would have to suffice.
Amurel tried, but as he feared, the added drag of the girl lying in the cart proved too much for his lameness to overcome. He simply could not stand and push off hard enough to budge the cart through the mud between them and the path leading down from the terraces. Subjugating his dignity, he spun the cart so its handles faced the slope, and got on all fours between them.
He strung the wire across the top of his chest and shoulders, his mail protecting him from its bite, and crawled forward on his hands and knees like an ox. For a moment, he feared it would not be enough, but then the wheels came loose from their rut and the cart followed behind Amurel, sharing his progress.
The mud was slick and he knew, as he clawed his fingers into the ground, there was no way he could have kept his feet while attempting to carry the girl. Exhausted, he reached the edge of the top terrace and saw Bastion below, worrying at the absence of his master, but waiting all the same. With a last effort he dragged the child from the cart, hugged her to his chest,
and slid feet-first, on his back, down the slope. Water sprayed to either side as he cut down the channel, until he landed with a splash in the shallow pool at the bottom.
The sudden stop after the rush of the drop surprised him, and his bottom stung briefly from the impact, but neither he nor his unconscious charge seemed significantly worse for the wear. Bastion lowered his head to nuzzle Amurel’s face.
“Kneel, Bastion,” he commanded. His horse complied, though settling down onto the wet ground disturbed him, and he shook his mane in complaint.
“I am sorry, my friend, I promise to make it up to you.” Amurel worked the limp body of the girl onto the saddle first, before straddling behind her. “Up, now, up,” he called, and Bastion struggled to rise to his feet with the extra burden. After a shaky misstep, he succeeded. “Good boy, there you go,” Amurel praised before turning them eastward, off to find how the rest of the evacuation was progressing.
Thankfully, none of the other neighborhoods proved so difficult to access, and word spread quickly through Synirpa, though the rising storm made some residents reluctant to come forth. The presence of so many already in the street, however, proved too much of a lure for most. Their curiosity, coupled with the fear of being left behind, seemed to triumph over the deterring elements.
Amurel was pleased to find Saffron and Baron Rogan had not let him down. It took several hours, according to their report, but by the time the masses accumulated at the city’s eastern gate, his uninitiated comrades had repaired the bridge to at least the point of functionality. The rain started to abate, and as Amurel led Bastion beyond the outer wall, a sliver of green moonlight slipped forth from the veil of black clouds.
His heart lightened, and he felt confident enough to whisper to the girl propped in his lap, “You are going to be just fine.”
The storm worried Jaiden. The rain announced itself in force, pounding upon the roof of the castle. Not one for omens, he still realized the downpour would make travel from Synirpa to Windhollow Rock more difficult. He considered going out to meet the sick, but determined his initial decision was more prudent. Though impossible to know how many might need his help, he guessed the number would be great. If so, it would be dangerous tending them in the open. Not only would they be easy targets, should agents of the King-priest be lurking, but the risk of masses closing in at once would be real. Innocents might be trampled or suffocated by the eagerness of their neighbors. Furthermore, the wind, rain, and thunder would all make communicating instructions more difficult, and it was important to minister efficiently. Unnecessary time in the rain was also an invitation to further sickness, even if of a mundane sort. No, the sour weather only increased the importance of having a dry, orderly place to share his gift.
Shiver the Moon Page 35
