Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Pronunciation Guide

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  Author's Note

  Etolié and the Horrible, Awful, Messed-Up, Worst Kind of Day

  About the Author

  S D SIMPER

  © 2019 Endless Night Publications

  Blood of the Moon

  Copyright © 2019 Endless Night Publications

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permissions, send a query to admin@sdsimper.com.

  Cover art by Jade Mere

  Cover design and interior by Jerah Moss

  Map by Mariah Simper

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7324611-8-5

  Visit the author at www.sdsimper.com

  Facebook: sdsimper

  Twitter: @sdsimper

  Instagram: sdsimper

  For Kristen,

  My dearest friend; my beloved wife

  THE ROYAL COUNCIL OF STAELASH

  Marielle Vors – Mair-ee-el Vohrs

  Etolié – Eh-toh-lee-ey

  Thalmus – Thah-muhs

  Flowridia – Floh-rid-ee-uh

  Sora Fireborn – Sohr-ruh Fire-bohrn

  Zorlaeus – Zor-ley-uhs

  FOREIGN DIGNITARIES

  Alauriel Solviraes – Ah-law-ree-ehl Sohl-veer-es

  Casvir – Kas-veer

  Murishani – Mer-eh-shah-nee

  Xoran – Zoh-ran

  Lunestra – Loon-es-truh

  OTHER PLAYERS

  Demitri – Dih-mee-tree

  Ayla Darkleaf – Ai-luh Dahrk-leef

  Khastra – Kas-truh

  Odessa – Oh-des-uh

  Soliel – Suh-lil

  Mereen – Mer-een

  Zoldar—Zohl-dar

  VARIOUS GODS, ANGELIC AND DEMONIC

  Sol Kareena – Sohl Kuh-ree-nuh

  Eionei – Eye-uhn-eye

  Alystra – Ah-lees-truh

  Staella – Stey-luh

  Neoma – Ney-oh-muh

  Ilune – Eye-loon

  Izthuni – Iz-thoo-nee

  Ku’Shya – Koo-shy-uh

  Onias – Uhn-eye-uhs

  Kingdoms did not fall in flame or to the sword. They fell to pestilence, to disease, to corruption from within, the usurping of power. Ravage the body, and the body would heal. But cut off the head, and all would fall.

  Khastra had seen it hundreds of times, the rise and fall of empires. She knew the intricacies of warfare like the flow of her weapon, felt it in her blood. Thus, she saw the writing on the walls, the unspoken reality of her kingdom’s plots.

  Kingdoms fell, and Khastra accepted that like she had learned to accept all things. Change was a cycle, and Nox’Kartha’s rise to supremacy was inevitable, just as it was inevitable that it would someday fall. Truthfully, excitement welled in her gut at the oncoming conflict, the opportunity to embrace her birthright, to once again live up to her name as Bringer of War.

  People would die. She would bathe in their blood. Within her, the monster laughed with glee.

  Yet, an unspoken truth plaguing her heart drove her to step into Casvir’s office, a map in her hands. She knocked, as was polite, and waited for the curt reply of, “Enter.”

  Imperator Casvir sat hunched over his desk, quill in hand, and spared Khastra a glance before returning his attention to the documents before him. Khastra would never admit aloud that his straightforward approach to life was refreshing. “Imperator, we need to speak.”

  Casvir set his quill aside and turned to her, saying nothing but that was true to form. He gave her the respect of his time; Khastra accepted nothing less.

  “At our last meeting, you presented the outline of your plans and asked me to work on details.” She unraveled the map in her hand and spread it out on Casvir’s desk. “The Theocracy falls first, for they would join in any conflict,” she said, her finger tracing the lengthy borders, “but no one will join them for fear of unbalancing the delicate peace we hold. Shock and awe—scare the rest into submission.”

  Casvir glanced between she and the paper, waiting to hear something new. Khastra, unfortunately, had little to add . . . only a concern to voice.

  “From there, the conflict goes north to Tholheim. They are stubborn, but their military is primitive. I hold to my opinion that Solvira should be usurped by insidious means—war would be suicide, but their leadership is fallible. The empress is wise, but she is young and capable of being manipulated. However, in all of this, there is no mention of Staelash.” Khastra looked up to Casvir, scrutinizing his stoic countenance. “What of Staelash, Imperator?”

  “Are you sentimental?”

  “No,” Khastra replied, and it was no lie. “Their goals are admirable but short-sighted. They were doomed the moment they faced a new generation of leadership. I saw this from the start. But I cannot help but notice a pattern in the treatment of their founders—the truth of Clarence’s assassination is suspected among the council, and my own convenient demise, while not your doing, did work well to your cause. What of Etolié?”

  Casvir replied, “Whatever must be done.”

  Khastra shook her head. “She is brash at times, but she will not fall to manipulation. Marielle is weak and corruptible, and while Sora is loyal, it is to Sol Kareena—not to Staelash. They will be yours with no bloodshed, but what of Etolié?”

  “As I said—”

  “Imperator—!” Khastra shut her mouth, seizing control of her tongue. Her blood pulsed; the Bringer of War so often fought to escape. But weakness would not be tolerated, not by herself or by Casvir. “Forgive me. I forget my place.”

  Wordlessly, lest she reveal her hand, Khastra rolled up the map, and when she gripped the doorknob to leave, Casvir said, “General Khastra, should you do it yourself, it would guarantee it be painless.”

  The doorknob crumpled like paper in her grasp. “I respectfully decline,” she muttered, and saw herself out.

  The worth of her presence far outweighed a gilded doorknob—Khastra knew this to a numerical value. She would be left alone for her slight.

  “General Khastra? A moment, if you would.”

  Khastra saw Murishani draped casually against the wall, grinning like a viper. She crossed her arms, purposefully flexing, knowing full well the threat of her form. “Viceroy?”

  Never come to them, she knew. Let them grovel. Murishani approached, hands outstretched in a false show of comradery. He smelled of pretentious perfumes and the barest traces of magic, but not of fear. “Casvir is boorish in his methods, I know, and stubborn to a fault. His plan is decided, infallible in his own mind, and this . . . irks you.”

  Khastra had built decades-old walls around her core of self-control, and though Casvir’s words had stripped them of layers, they held. Murishani’s gentle jab cracked the very foundation.

  “If I thought I held a hope to sway him, I would try, but you and I both have our hands tied. He will not be convinced, but . . .” The benevolence of his mask faded, revealing a smile as wicked as his soul. “You and I both know you have cards you’ve yet to play. One in particular,
and you keep her very close to your heart.”

  Again, with his placid words, poisoning her resolve by degrees. She knew his kind. Her grip on her arms tightened, for he had revealed a card in his own metaphorical hand, a weakness she could not purge.

  A weakness her mechanical heart ached to contemplate. “Cease your rambling. Tell me what you want.”

  “I have a proposal, one to work in everyone’s favor—yours and mine and Casvir’s. Will you listen?”

  She hated him down to his slimy core. But cracks spread across the walls of her control, revealing soft light reminiscent of ethereal wings.

  “Tell me.”

  Murishani beckoned her to follow.

  Faced with the sea, Flowridia was nearly blinded by the sun’s reflection off the waves. Salty air whipped at her face, her auburn hair sticky from the elements as she gazed out over the ocean. All of it lay secure in a single, impossibly thick braid, lest it irrevocably tangle. Trousers felt strange, the rough cloth confining around her thighs, but Casvir had insisted on them for this particular adventure.

  For days, she had spent most of her time standing upon the deck of the ship, enthralled by the sight of the sun on the sparkling waves. The warm, ochre tones of her skin had darkened beneath its light, bringing with it a faint splatter of freckles. Sailors moved about, largely ignoring her as they maintained the ship.

  There, at the helm, Imperator Casvir shone as a beacon of menace in his black armor. In his hands, he held an artifact of depthless power—a black, crackling orb. But though he cast a daunting aura, his frightening, demonic physique no longer filled her with fear. Behind his horns and claws was civility, and though he held the strength to smash through the mast of the ship, she loved him as a mentor. Perhaps even a friend.

  The expansive sea spread in all directions, and Flowridia found the sun upon the sparkling waves as magical a sight as she’d ever seen.

  Retching from beside her interrupted the serenity. Demitri’s head leaned over the ship as he vomited the contents of his stomach—it had become a daily thing. Wolves weren’t meant for this.

  She soothed his fur as he continued vomiting. “It won’t be forever.”

  As distracted as she was, she didn’t notice Casvir’s approach—not until his shadow loomed above her. “We have arrived.”

  Demitri snorted beside her. I don’t like this. Not one bit.

  “I’ll be fine, my dearest Demitri,” Flowridia said. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “But you’ll be much safer up here than down there.”

  A De’Sindai woman had accompanied him, a witch perhaps twice Flowridia’s age. She glanced nervously between Flowridia and Casvir. “The spell is ready,” she said stiffly. Like Zorlaeus, she flinched at Casvir’s every movement, ready to spring into a bow at any moment.

  Casvir looked to Flowridia. “Are you prepared?”

  Flowridia nodded and kissed Demitri one last time. “Stay dry. I’ll return with an orb.”

  His tongue lashed gently across her cheek. She cringed at the scent of vomit but suspected he hadn’t meant to be rude. I won’t sleep until you’re back. That’s a threat.

  “I believe you.” She turned to Casvir. “Let’s go.” From her bag, she pulled out a pair of goggles, designed specifically to protect her eyes from the salt and the murky ocean environment. She secured them on her face.

  When offered a pair of boots by Casvir, she looked at them oddly, noting the metal at the bottom, almost like a horseshoe. “You will only sink so far on your own,” Casvir said as she thrust her feet inside, and when she tried to walk, it felt like trekking through a bog.

  The witch pulled a small stick out of her satchel and crushed it between her hands. Blue mist swirled around her fingers. She blew with the gentleness one might blow a kiss, and the mist settled around Flowridia. “Breathe deeply,” the witch said, “then jump into the ocean.”

  Flowridia obeyed, a sharp sting lacerating her throat as she did. She coughed, gripping at her neck, but when she tried to breathe again, she felt nothing but a burning sensation. Casvir’s clawed hand pushed her towards the waves. “The price for breathing water is that you cannot breathe air. Go.”

  When she panicked, he shoved her; she toppled overboard.

  The icy waves shocked her body. She sank deep, weighted down by her clothing and hair and metal boots, but when she might’ve panicked, she stole a breath.

  All was well.

  Bubbles blocked her vision. Something sharp grabbed her waist. Casvir’s entire hand clutched at her core, dragging her down as he, weighed down by his armor, sank to the bottom of the sea.

  “You can speak freely,” she heard him say, and when she looked over, she saw he had no difficulty breathing.

  It had never occurred to her that Casvir didn’t need to breathe.

  She reached up to touch her neck and felt deep cuts along the tender skin. “This isn’t permanent, right?” Deeper and deeper they sank; the ocean darkened.

  “No,” Casvir said, his voice clear despite the ocean depths. “You should have nearly a day’s worth of transformation. Plenty of time to reach our destination.”

  Tiny silver fish darted past them, and Flowridia moved to cover her long braid for fear of them getting caught. Their feet touched solid ground—sand and rock and unstable terrain. She took tentative steps around the treacherous seafloor, the metal-plated boots doing well to keep her from floating away.

  “Research has told me,” Casvir continued, “that there was once a great underwater city called Stelune. The merfolk who lived there were a rich and prosperous people, protected by a great dragon.”

  A shark swam past, not twenty feet away, but Flowridia realized undersea creatures held the same fear of Casvir as those on land. Plants appeared as they walked, vibrant and colorful, the coral blossoming in various shades of pink and orange.

  “But the dragon was defeated,” Casvir continued, “by a great monster. The creature that slew the dragon slaughtered the people in its charge.”

  “That’s awful.” Flowridia’s small hands gripped at Casvir’s forearm, perfectly happy to let him drag her forward. “So, we’ll be fighting whatever slew the dragon and stole the orb,” Flowridia speculated, her heart beating fast at even the thought.

  “It would seem so.”

  The ground ceased to be at a decline, and Casvir continued trudging forward. Ruins, massive and made of stone, appeared. Enormous structures, cracked and covered in aquatic plants, dotted the scenery, rich in detail and form. Remains of an entire civilization did not disappear easily, and Flowridia saw unnatural pockets of light—perhaps some sort of residual magic.

  Unnerved at the scenery, she noticed something odd. Though she was long used to creatures fleeing at Casvir’s approach, this was something else entirely. There simply was nothing—no fish, crabs, nothing. Colorful plants dared to live on, but no animals met her view. “And you know we’re close?”

  “The black orb resonates,” he said simply. “It hums. We are very close.”

  A cloud of black suddenly billowed toward them. Casvir pulled Flowridia into his armored chest. “Do not breathe,” he said, and then they were consumed.

  Never in her life had such crippling darkness blinded her. She hid her face in his side, feet weighted against the ocean floor. A voice, a deep, earth-shaking rumble, met her ears and vibrated through her bones. “Little mortals. I have no time for little mortals.”

  Flowridia kept her breath in her chest but dared to look out. Consuming black still covered the area.

  “I sense power. What have you brought with you?”

  Finally, the cloud dissipated. Casvir’s calm whisper met her ears. “You can breathe now,” he said calmly. Flowridia looked out again and gasped when she saw what looming monstrosity stood before them. Tentacles, hundreds of feet long each, floated leisurely against the undersea current. Round pustules lined their undersides, enormous suckers larger than Casvir. But the shadowed, deep green creatu
re those tentacles were attached to stared from a distance with a single, illuminate yellow eye. “This noble leviathan has asked you a question, Lady Flowridia,” Casvir continued, loud enough so the monster could hear them.

  Flowridia had been sung to sleep with songs of leviathans, the monstrous spawn of a mortals and the demon god, Onias. They appeared as gargantuan squids capable of crushing and devouring ships. But they were residents of Sha’Demoni, or so she’d heard.

  A faint light—an unmistakable blue—caught her attention. But she maintained eye contact and smiled politely. “I am Lady Flowridia—” She hesitated but managed to cover it with a bow. Would titles impress an undersea behemoth? It couldn’t hurt to try. “I am Lady Flowridia, Grand Diplomat of Staelash. With me is Imperator Casvir, First and Last of his Name, Tyrant of Nox’Kartha and Marshall of the Deathless Army.”

  “What use have I for mortal titles?” the leviathan replied. “You did not answer my question.”

  Flowridia took a stabilizing breath, masking it under what she prayed was boundless civility. “What you sense, perhaps, is a companion to your blue orb. I seek these orbs and use them to find others.”

  “So you would steal from me?”

  “Certainly not,” Flowridia, knowing it was a blatant lie. “But I would strike an agreement with you.”

  A single black tentacle slowly snaked towards them. “But you have no intention of leaving without it.”

  From her peripheral vision, Flowridia saw it slowly twist around the back of them. She kept her gaze forward. “Consider what Nox’Kartha can do for you—”

  The tentacle shot back in, Casvir in its grasp. A purple glow appeared from his hands, but before he could swing his summoned weapon, he disappeared behind the leviathan’s enormous, beak-like mouth.

  “No!” she cried, but she bit back the rest, her hands covering her mouth lest she sob. She could not have grabbed him—no chance to have saved him.