Shiver the Moon

by Phillip M Locey

  “And what about you, Baron?” Ymrilad asked, noting the obvious flaw in his plan.

  Rogan locked eyes with Saffron, and they spent a moment divining one another’s intentions while hardening their own resolve. At last Saffron nodded, and Rogan spoke. “Lady Saffron and I have been in messes before; we will find a way out. Dhania’s safety is more important. Would you help us, Ymrilad, if it comes to that?”

  The Aasimar let out a physical sigh, before replying. “If it is what you both want…” He looked to Saffron.

  She nodded without hesitation. “It is.”

  “Then so be it.”

  The next hour passed torturously slow. Taurn had loyal orcs posted around his tent to defend against premature attempts on his life, but finally demanded some time alone to prepare for the oncoming battle. The sun was barely above the eastern peaks of the Fire-Wall Mountains, its light soft and golden.

  Opting for stealth, Rogan decided to leave his returned saber behind, trusting in his uril-chent dagger. He picked out a cave entrance he could reach without much danger of being noticed, and hoped the tunnel system Taurn had spoken of adjoined it to wherever Dhania was held.

  “I have a song for you, my friend,” Ymrilad offered as they walked to the edge of the tent clearing. “It will only last an hour or so after I stop, but will help attune your mind to the ways of the Panther – to be quiet and light on your feet.”

  “I would be thankful for any help. Thank you for standing by us on this mission, Ymrilad.”

  The Aasimar smiled. “I owe you and the Order a debt I can never repay. Life as a Damper was agony, and for me, without hope. To be restored to my former self,” Ymrilad bent his arms at the elbows and flexed his muscles, “is a second chance to be who I was meant to be.”

  He placed a hand atop Rogan’s head, closed his eyes, and began humming. Soon his lips parted and words joined the humming, which somehow continued. The song did not last long, and when it finished, Ymrilad’s lids raised. “Remember, only an hour.”

  Rogan nodded. “Wish Taurn fair fortune for me.” Then, he took position behind the largest survivor of a former rockslide to hide. Orcs soon sprouted from their tents, and many even left posts to make their way to the inner circle of the camp, vying for the best spots to watch the anticipated carnage. Ymrilad returned to Taurn’s tent, and Rogan waited a little longer before drawing his dagger. Once enveloped in its comforting shadow, he moved with astonishing fleetness from cover to cover, making his way to the chosen cave.

  After scaling the rock face he crawled into the opening, plunging into almost complete darkness. He held still as his eyes adjusted, but worried about navigating in the blackness. He assumed the orcs would have lit the passages with torches, but could not see even a distant source of illumination at the moment.

  One short step at a time, he pushed deeper into the cave, keeping his left hand pressed to the surface of the wall, while his right held his dagger. The tunnel opened up and turned sharply to the left. Relief washed over Rogan as the welcome glow of fire beckoned from further along the tunnel. He moved nimbly toward it and found a metal bucket full of torches resting beneath a hanging, burning brand. He selected one and lit the end, only to be presented with a new choice.

  Another cave entrance sat opposite the ensconced torch, and the tunnel he approached from continued, gaining elevation, but a wider corridor also headed deeper into the mountain. He stilled his breathing and listened for a clue. A sound, akin to an orc groaning, echoed off the stone from far away, but he could not be certain from which tunnel it originated.

  He looked either direction a second time. The thought of following the passage deeper into the dark of the earth raised the hair on his arms – so that is where he decided to go. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he extended his torch as far as possible and marched forward.

  Distance underground was difficult to guess, for the tunnel wound like a snake further into the world until he truly had no idea which direction he faced. The groaning sound came and went, and the air grew warmer, though he expected the opposite. Rogan began to wonder if he could somehow use the beads of sweat dripping from his forehead to count time. Finally, but without warning, the passage spilled into an open cavern.

  He stood on a natural balcony overlooking a narrow, underground lake. He saw fires reflecting off the water on the far side, so he dropped his torch and crouched to stay out of sight. He rolled his torch as best he could to conceal its light behind a stalagmite. Peeking from behind a second, he saw two forms carrying torches along the bank. They came to a bridge only a few planks wide, with no rails or ropes for balance, and began crossing.

  Rogan tried to make himself as small as possible as they drew closer. He could hear the footsteps squeaking against the wet boards of the bridge, and the light grew brighter until it suddenly stopped moving.

  “Get the supplies I asked for while I deal with this upstart. This foolish tradition is a waste of time.”

  The voice was in Rogan’s head, but it wasn’t Ymrilad’s or Palomar’s, and he got the feeling it wasn’t speaking for his benefit. He wondered if another Aasimar had snuck in. Unable to suppress his curiosity, Rogan inched his head around, hoping to get a look at the owner of the telepathic voice.

  Whoever held the torches were standing beneath his rock balcony, identities obscured from his current angle. He would have to move closer to the edge. He heard the harsh cadence of an orc voice.

  “No. Do not touch her unless you want to be the next to volunteer,” came the answer.

  The telepath’s projection was smooth, but firm – definitely something other than an orc. With utmost care, Rogan sheathed his dagger and crawled toward the edge of the overhang on all fours, eager to see who else was down in these caves. He was taking too long, though – the light began to move again, dimming underneath the balcony. With a final lunge, Rogan grasped the edge of the rock and stretched his neck as far as he could in one motion.

  Viewing from upside-down, he identified two orcs, each holding a torch. A third figure walked ahead of them, but it bore no feathered wings. Slender, humanoid, and draped in a black cape, Rogan caught the definite outline of curved horns protruding from the side of its head.

  The threesome walked into an arched opening beneath where Rogan entered the cavern, and soon disappeared as they turned a corner down the passageway. His gooseflesh returned as Rogan realized the horned figure must be the Cursed One Taurn had spoken of. And who was the her the Cursed One referred to, if not Dhania?

  A sense of urgency seized Rogan. He could absolutely not let Dhania remain at the mercy of such a creature. He sprang to his feet, retrieved his sputtering torch, and looked for an easy way down from his perch. With no nearby handholds visible to help climb, Rogan decided to drop from the edge of the balcony. He threw his torch first, using its light to identify what looked like the flattest spot to land.

  The drop was almost two body lengths, but he had no choice. Time was running out. After hanging as low as possible from the edge of the balcony, Rogan simply let go. He landed on his feet, surprisingly, and maintained balance. The impact barely even registered on his joints, and he quickly scooped up his torch to continue across the bridge.

  He kept a look-out for other lights, but none showed on the far shore. The reflection of his torch on the water showed the lake was undisturbed by current, though he tried not to think what denizens might lay beneath its dark, mirrored surface. Once he spanned the entire reservoir, a fresh call of discomfort echoed from his left.

  Continuing to follow his gut, Rogan headed that direction. A narrow path ran along the shore for perhaps thirty-five paces, before the wall rising to his right gave way to an open chamber. Lying on the cave floor were two orcs. Rogan leapt back and drew his dagger, dimming the light of his torch. The orcs did not move, however, and as he stepped closer, he saw their hands clasped in irons. A chain connected them to the wall, though he could not be sure they were even alive.

  The
orcs’ arms and legs were spread and their heads tilted back, eyes and mouths open. Just as Rogan stepped closer to get a better look, one of the orcs let out a sorrowful groan. Its mouth didn’t move, but the sound rose from a sudden vibration of its throat. Rogan extended his torch toward the orc’s face, then yanked it back when something moved inside its mouth.

  A black tentacle, slick and slender like an oversized tongue, protruded from the open lips for a split second before retreating inside. Rogan was about to take a second look when the rattling of chains caught his attention. He looked at the hands of the orcs on the floor, but neither had moved. He heard it again, though the metallic sound came from somewhere deeper. Rogan stepped toward the far wall to find enough space existed to turn the corner into another alcove.

  Torch in one hand, his dagger in the other, Rogan tiptoed into the chamber beyond, though even the dimmed light of his torch sabotaged any stealth. Someone was huddled against the wall of the cave, trying to escape notice, but Rogan immediately recognized the glow of bronzed skin.

  “Dhania!”

  Saffron’s sister shielded her face with her arms, but lowered them at the sound of her name. “Rogan?”

  He sheathed his dagger just in time to catch her embrace. She held him so tight he thought he might suffocate, and began sobbing as she buried her face into his neck. He kept his right arm as straight as possible to put the torch a safe distance from her hair, while his left hand gently stroked her back. He wanted to hold her for as long as it took, but knew they did not have such luxury.

  Forcing himself to step back, he took a better look to make sure she was unharmed. Her feet were bare, her ankles clasped in chains secured to the rock wall. She had been dressed in a black, fur loincloth, with a leather harness around her torso, leaving most of her flesh exposed. A design was painted between her breasts in black – the same clawed hand and indecipherable runes from the farmhouse door and orc banner. Around her head rested an ebony circlet, supporting horns that were a miniature mirror to those of the Cursed One.

  “What were they planning for you? Are you hurt?” Rogan asked.

  Dhania wiped at the tear tracks running down both cheeks. “No, not really. Just get me out of here, Rogan.”

  “I will,” he replied. “I will never let anything hurt you again.” Rogan had never meant anything more sincerely. “Here, hold this.” He handed Dhania the torch, then fished in his belt pouch for his ivory lock picks. “We don’t have much time,” he said, working on her irons. “Your sister is near, but we may have to fight our way out if things go poorly.” With a satisfying click, the manacles swung open. “There we go,” Rogan said before standing and reclaiming the torch.

  “I cannot believe you came for me after how I left things.”

  Rogan shook his head. Looking at her, barely able to comprehend what she had been through, all he wanted was to protect and take away her fears. “Water under the bridge, Dhania.” He barely pushed it out past the lump in his throat.

  Her obsidian eyes were about to spill over again and her lips were quivering, though she fought hard to keep control. Rogan could not take any more. Overwhelmed by relief and the need to suppress the pain he saw rising in her, he clasped her cheeks, wiping her tears with his thumbs as they fell. And then, he was kissing her. Unlike the first time, this felt right, and Rogan did not want to stop, though knew he must.

  At last he relented, gave an encouraging smile and said, “Let’s get out of here.” He took her hand and led the way back, along the lakeshore and across the bridge. Unable to climb to the balcony, he had to choose another tunnel out. His heart worked at an unsustainable pace as he expected to find more orcs at every wrong turn, but they must have all been watching the battle for tribe supremacy. Eventually, he found a tunnel offering the promising smell of outside air and followed it to an opening.

  Rogan tentatively stuck his head out into the hillside breeze, unsure of the danger they might be returning to. Only the last, orange glow of the dying sun peeked from beyond the horizon, and bats burst forth from several nearby caves, heading out on their nightly hunt.

  “Baron, we were victorious!” Ymrilad’s voice greeted him before any awareness of the Aasimar’s presence. “Taurn is the new chief, and has kept to his word.” The flapping of wings finally caught Rogan’s attention and he looked up. Ymrilad’s white feathers stood out in the twilight, and Rogan could not have been happier to see them.

  Chapter 32

  The Battle of Naresgreen

  J aiden made it as far as the Ducal Palace at Naresgreen before requests for help started pouring in. Crowesdale and Meadowhold, towns north of Synirpa, had both suffered attacks by the Chelpian army. No word of Sir Golddrake or his faction had yet surfaced, leaving Jaiden to fear the worst.

  Having already mobilized with the intention of marching for Windhollow, Jaiden decided not to wait until the King-priest advanced upon Selamus. He redirected the messengers with dictates that any who wished to stand together, rally at Naresgreen. After years of self-reliance, it felt strange to suddenly have others looking to him. The province’s Duke was still relatively young and eager to earn prestige, so he readily pledged his own troops to the effort. Given it was a defense of his own lands, the generosity doubled as self-preservation, but Jaiden appreciated the contribution nonetheless.

  Within days, both new volunteers and the splintered remains of the other Provincial armies started straggling in – all except those of Dawn’s Edge. Prince Falcionus probably still patrolled the far hills of his province with his faction of the Order, while the bulk of his regular army dug in for a stand at Selamus. If Jaiden’s brethren did not materialize soon, he would have to plan his strategy without them.

  Naresgreen’s eastern border was marked by the great forest of Luin Menel, which superstition held was the realm of the fey Eladrin. Whether they existed or not, the woods were rooted in mystery, and men who valued their lives dared not enter. When he was a lad and heard stories of the Sky Kingdom, as it was commonly translated, Jaiden boasted he would brave its alpine peaks one day. From atop them, it was said one could see to the edge of the world.

  As he surveyed the mustering soldiers amidst the brewing mists of war, he wondered if the Eladrin were real. He had believed when he was younger, then grew to doubt by the time he first left the streets of Selamus. After living amongst the Aasimar, however, visiting the dreamlike world of Criesha and witnessing the birth of Saffron’s fire-shaping, he knew what sounded fanciful was sometimes true.

  Jaiden shook his musings aside when he spotted Palomar approaching. His friend had been diligently gathering intelligence from their allies trickling in from the South, with the special intention of discovering any news regarding the other Aasimar. No sightings were reported yet, and Jaiden knew Illicurus’s failure to surface drew Palomar’s deep concern.

  “What news, friend?”

  Palomar grasped Jaiden’s wrist in greeting. “The King-priest’s propaganda machine is hard at work; I cannot yet separate all the truth from the lies. Refugees share tales of a hundred thousand men, all in black with glowing red eyes, wiping out their villages. From more seasoned soldiers, the estimate is closer to a tenth of that number, though the enemy appears to be attacking on multiple fronts.”

  “Any word on the fate of Sir Golddrake or the Aasimar?” Jaiden asked. His stomach churned slightly at the prospect of what he might learn.

  Palomar clasped his hands together and raised them to his lips. “I heard something about the Master, yes.”

  “Did he fall at Windhollow?” Jaiden barely got the words out.

  Palomar shook his head slowly, his golden hair catching the sun. “I am afraid it’s worse.” He paused, and Jaiden could feel the blood draining from his face in dreadful anticipation. “I spoke with a captain assigned to the vanguard at the failed defense of Crowesdale. He seemed an honorable man. He had met Sir Golddrake when the Order visited his garrison in Rosegold once to barter for surplus, so he knew his fac
e.

  “He says the enemy had him on display in a stockade upon a cart, surrounded by Blood Tear assassins. He was dressed in a tabard of the Order, but had been maimed to resemble the Dread Tyrant – eyes gouged and a circle of thorny roses pressed upon his head.”

  Jaiden raised a hand. “Stop.” He could hear no more. A torrent of anger and guilt rose in his chest, but it erupted from his mouth as vomit. He turned to the side and folded in two as the shame purged from his body. If he had stayed by Sir Golddrake’s side, his fate would have been different. Jaiden spit to remove the bitter taste and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We cannot leave him like that, Palomar – suffering. We have to do something.”

  “Are you unwell, Master Luminere?” Palomar dipped his head, assessing Jaiden from a lower angle.

  “I’m fine. How far is the King-priest’s encampment?”

  “Surely not far. They could have been here already if pushing hard. Or, they may bypass us altogether in a bid for Selamus.”

  “Ebon Khorel won’t risk it. His spies certainly know we’re here, and he is not foolish enough to let us close in behind when the capital lies ahead.” Jaiden stared westward, though the Dawn Way was beyond sight. “No, he will come for us – but not before you and I visit him…” he looked over his shoulder at the stalwart Aasimar, “if you’re with me on this.”

  “Of course,” Palomar answered. “What did you have in mind?”

  “We are going to find Sir Golddrake,” he said, plainly. With Palomar in tow, Jaiden hiked to the stables and saddled Inferno. He found Lieutenant Orestes at the freestanding guard tower they requisitioned from the Duke for the Order’s on-site headquarters.

  “Orestes, Palomar and I are doing some quick reconnaissance. We need all these newcomers assigned to units by midday. Anyone with experience needs to be identified for leadership. I don’t want our formations falling apart at the first charge because a commander freezes.”