Moon Dreams (The Jeremy Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by Brad Strickland

  Captain Gareth bowed. “Lady Melodia, you have powerful allies in the world of magic.”

  “A domesticated elemental!” Barach said. “Rare indeed is a friendship between one of their race and a human man or woman. A story is told of a fisherman who appealed to the elemental of water for a catch: ‘I am so weak and you so strong. Pray give me fish as an act of kindness!’ The element agreed and began to fling fish into the boat, so that within a few moments the fisherman's boat sank, drowning him. Beware the kindness of an elemental, for it is a blade that cuts the unwary hand! Captain, I believe you have wronged the Lady Melodia; this is not magic exactly, but it is a power even greater: simple friendship.”

  With a cheerful grin Gareth said, “If I did wrong you, it was through my ignorance, which is my own and honestly come by. But I apologize for my doubts! Now, let's see what we can do about a meal.”

  They managed a sort of stew, which Jeremy found very bracing. Melodia, though, refused to eat any. She contented herself with a cup of steaming tea, another of a sort of gruel made from sheaf, and some dried fruit. They lingered perhaps longer than they had intended, for the fire was gratifying after the chill of the rain, but at last Gareth declared that it was time to make more progress. Smokharin, by now a little humanoid creature a foot high, materialized, dwindled, and leaped back into the tinderbox, leaving behind glowing embers that immediately began to send up billows of blue-gray smoke. Cosk and Prechet, two of Gareth's men, bent to scatter dirt over the fire, and within a few minutes all trace of it was gone.

  The land was higher, the hills more like ridges running north and south, on the other side of the Arkhedden Forest Road. Far to their right, they could see pine trees, dark green against the yellow-brown background of last year's vegetation, but away to the west on their left hand, the land dropped and dropped until it lost itself in the winding toils of a river. Here were no living trees, indeed no living things at all, unless the green scum on the face of the river lived, or the dry stalks of sedge that sheltered in a few places yet held life. Melodia looked down into the dismal valley and shuddered. She reached for Jeremy's hand, and they walked holding hands for a long time but exchanged no words.

  The sun sank low, obscured by the thinning cover of cloud, breaking out at last just before evening. Nul, swinging along on his long legs just ahead of Jeremy, turned his head to the west. “Sun red. Maybe good sign; maybe rain stopping.”

  “Day is stopping,” Gareth said, “and so must we. But I don't like the idea of a camp up here on top of the ridge. Let's see if we can find a more protected spot, and one that we can defend at need.”

  The sun was halfway below a distant jagged horizon when they found a place that satisfied Gareth: the ridge they were on curled around, first to the west, then to the north, then back to the east again, and in the crook of the curl was a broad ledge where grass yet grew. It was a little below the crest of the ridge, and it faced east. They descended a few feet to a point where the ledge was perhaps twenty feet across. The grass was long, narrow of blade, and very springy. In good weather it would have been dry and pale gray, but after all the rain it was a dull yellow, except for the places where new shoots were working through.

  Gareth's men quickly prepared the site. Dalom and Wessowin, complaining good-naturedly about the task, went around the shoulder of the ridge to dig a latrine trench. Cosk, away up the hill, kept watch. Syvelin and Prechet went to work to provide a place to rest and eat. They spread groundsheets and broke out the provisions. As soon as the latrine detail came back, they all had a quick meal and then talked quietly in the early part of dusk. Gareth arranged a rotation of the guard, using his soldiers only. Jeremy objected, but Gareth pointed out that these men had had some little experience in keeping watch, that Nul had earned a rest, that Melodia and Jeremy, the magicians of the team, were to be protected. Finally, and without really regretting it, Jeremy let Gareth have the point.

  He, Melodia, Barach, and Nul slept in the center of a circle of sleepers. Despite their nearness to the Meres and to the Hag, despite the danger everyone seemed to feel they were exposing themselves to, Jeremy, exhausted, fell quickly into sleep. When Gareth awakened him only a few minutes later, he began to protest; then he realized the sun was up already and it was time to resume the march.

  So three full days passed. Their progress north was slowed as the ridges began to heel away to the west, and Gareth began to seek landmarks. “There is, or used to be, a little stream that leads almost directly west from these hills,” he said on the morning of the fourth day. “It joins the river before long and so turns south, but just beyond the river is Illsmere. That is the most direct route to the Hag's homeland.”

  “Best-guarded too,” Nul muttered. “She know we coming before we reach river.”

  “Yes,” Barach agreed. “Though she could not sense Smokharin's magic—at least, I have never heard of a mage who could detect that of an elemental—she will certainly become aware of us as we descend the western slopes of these cursed bare hills. Sooner, if we dared use any magic other than that of the fire.”

  “That may be,” Gareth said. “But her power has grown great, and we could not long keep our approach a secret in any case, no matter what direction we attempted. Still, we will do what we can. We have not much cover anywhere, either here or in the valley, but such as we have we will use, and we will do our best to make speed our cover, too.”

  At least the rains had eased. On the second day they had only intermittent misting rains, and after that none at all. A few days even saw bright sunshine, still wan from a sun that had not the strength to climb all the way to zenith at noon, but giving them heart and reminding them that to the south of them, the land already was turning green in the height of spring. Jeremy wondered, from time to time, about Tremien. Barach, unusually quiet, advised Jeremy not to worry. “Tremien is an old fox, and he knows a trick or two that will puzzle the Hag and even the Great Dark One. Still, I too wish we had his counsel. I would use the communication spell, but we are much too near the Hag's domain; she would be certain to detect it. Cover or no, I think it would be unwise to fly banners as we come into her influence.”

  Finally, early on that fourth morning, when the valley below was lost beneath a shining mist which they saw from the ridge as the top of a ground-hugging cloud, Gareth found what he had sought: a deep cut in the hillside led away to the west, and down in the bottom of the cut a clear stream leaped gurgling from stone to stone. “Here is the stream,” the captain said. “Now, if I remember right, we can climb down into this bed a little farther on, and that will give us some cover until we come out into the valley.”

  Nul looked uneasy. “What if Hag's soldiers come? They on top, we caught in crack.”

  “It's a chance,” Gareth admitted.

  Barach laid his hand on Nul's shoulder. “Nul, my friend, once a man encountered a great hungry longtooth. The cat scented him and gave chase, and the man fled. Finally he found himself on the very edge of a steep precipice, with the longtooth crouching to spring. In desperation the man threw himself over the precipice and barely managed to grab a little tree that grew out from the side of the cliff. There above him, he could see the snarling face of the longtooth, just far enough away so that the cat could not get him. Then, hanging by his arms, the man looked down between his dangling toes. On the ground below, just far enough down so she could not spring up to him, was the longtooth's mate.”

  Barach finished and for a long time Nul stared at him with his great orange eyes. “That not make any sense at all,” he said.

  “It's a parable,” Barach explained. “It's meant to show that—”

  “Why was man walking around without weapon?”

  “Well, I don't know. It's just how the story—”

  “Everybody know you don't run from longtooth. Climb tree maybe, but not run.”

  “But there weren't any trees!”

  “Then it not a longtooth. Longtooths—” Nul broke off and looked puz
zled. “Longtooths or longteeth?”

  “Longtooths,” Barach said, “but—”

  “Why longtooths if it tooth and teeth? I break out my tooth, but new one grow back among my other teeth. Tooth, teeth. Longtooth, longteeth. Human talk not make sense!”

  “But ‘longtooth’ is the name of an animal. One longtooth has two long teeth—”

  Nul put his hands to his head. “Why mate of longtooth at bottom of cliff?”

  “I don't know! That's not the point of the story!”

  “What point?”

  “The point is that sometimes one cannot choose between dangers!"’

  “Then why not just say that? Why story about man in first place?”

  “Because it's a parable!”

  Nul blinked. “Look. One foot, two feet, right?”

  Gareth burst out as if he could stand no more: “This way. Follow me.”

  But all the way down the draw, Nul kept muttering to himself, “Tooth, teeth, tooths. Foot, feet, foots. Rock, rocks. Reeks?” Barach rolled his eyes to the heavens. The hillside was still slick and muddy, and they slipped a bit. Jeremy and Melodia both took falls, neither of them serious, while two of the soldiers assisted Barach over the worst places. Finally, though, they stood beside the stream, on a rocky bed of smooth-worn stones.

  Gareth suggested they fill their canteens. “This water is good,” he said, “and I doubt if any in the valley can be trusted. We may have two days’ march before we come to the river, and then perhaps another day before we reach the Hag's abode.”

  “We can't carry enough water to see us there and back,” Jeremy said.

  Gareth shrugged. “If we succeed, you or Barach can use a purification spell. If we fail, well, we won't need the water.” Which was true enough, so Jeremy offered no more complaints but filled both of his large canteens with water. He felt considerably heavier as they resumed their march westward and downward.

  One of the soldiers, the taciturn, blond young man named Syvelin, ranged ahead as a scout. As they descended, the mists closed in, and before too long Syvelin was out of sight. Nul grew increasingly more uneasy, swiveling his shoulders as he turned his head on his short neck to peer through the thickening fog, almost pricking up his small pointed ears as he listened. Jeremy, for his part, felt safer; if the mists made it harder for them to spot enemies, it made them equally hard to see. But the countryside was changing as they moved on and down, and not for the better: again, the rank, sour smell of stagnant mud was in their nostrils, and underfoot the rocky bed of the stream began to grow muddy and clinging, sucking at the heels of his boots when he made a misstep, making each foot weigh a hundred pounds.

  The others moved more silently. Syvelin suddenly ran back toward them, not making a sound, and Gareth held up a hand to call a halt. The young soldier panted up, then gasped, “Some creatures, Captain. A patrol, I think, making their way across the mouth of the draw. Coming up from the south, maybe six of them.”

  “At least the wind, what there is of it, is in our faces,” Gareth said. “Well, there's no place to hide, and I'll not go back. There's nothing for it but to try to take them by surprise. Wessowin, you take the rearguard with Barach, Nul, and the lady. The rest of you, forward, and as quietly as you can foot it.”

  Jeremy unslung his crossbow. He began to cock it, noticed the brand-new leather footstrap that Fallon had put on, and carefully wiped the mud from his boot sole before slipping his toe into the loop. Then he pulled the string into place, locked the trigger, and had a bolt ready to fire. He went forward with the others, but very cautiously, looking where he placed his feet with every step.

  He was looking down when the creatures first came into view, but Gareth's sudden cry jerked his eyes up. They had taken the patrol by surprise, for the manlike things were just going for their weapons. Four bows sang almost at once, and one creature screamed and fell sideways.

  Jeremy was frozen. The creatures were indeed like enormous frogs or toads, but with a manlike build to their bodies, with swollen arms and legs. They roared at the attackers with deep voices, and in their hands they swept short swords through the mist; as a group, the five of them still on their feet charged.

  The other bowmen had gone for their swords. Gareth met the first onrush together with Syvelin, and their blades rang against those of the creatures; then Jeremy was faced with an attacker of his own, a pop-eyed horror whose mouth was wide open, showing no teeth but an arc of what looked like white bone. In reflex, he fired the crossbow, and a black bolt sprouted as if by magic in the thing's throat. It stumbled, gurgled, dropped its sword, and clawed at the protruding shaft; its momentum carried the thing right to Jeremy's feet.

  It looked up at him with huge eyes rolling, pawed at his boots, and a fountain of blood jetted from its mouth. It made gobbling sounds deep in its throat. Jeremy was transfixed.

  From behind the creature a man thrust a sword suddenly and hard into the skull. The whole body stiffened, jerked, and went limp. Syvelin pulled the sword out, grating it against bone, and grinned at Jeremy. “All down,” he said.

  The battle had ended almost before Jeremy was aware it had begun. One of the soldiers had a cut on the arm, and several had minor cuts across their knuckles, but none was really injured. All of their foes had been struck down. The one first hit by Gareth's crossbow bolt had not been killed, but had dragged his body several yards away. Gareth followed the trail of blood and killed the thing. “Two-eyes, all of them,” he said, wiping his sword. “If Tremien was right, if the three-eyes are the Hag's spies, she is not yet aware of us.” He rolled over the creature at Jeremy's feet. “Pretty things, aren't they? The Hag raised them out of the creatures of the swamp, gave them just enough intelligence to be her slaves. Get your bolt, Jeremy. You may need it later.”

  Jeremy looked down in revulsion. The being's eyes were still open, the right one flecked with mud. Below the shelflike chin the shaft of his arrow protruded perhaps a hand's breadth. “How do I do it?” he asked.

  Gareth gave him a look of surprise, then put his boot on the thing's chin and pressed it back and down. The captain reached for the arrow, worked it around in the wound, and pulled it free. He took a few steps to the stream, stooped to rinse the shaft clean of blood, and brought it back. “Here you are.”

  Jeremy took the bolt and dried it on the tail of his tunic. Then he dropped it back in the quiver. Gareth clapped him on the arm. “That was a good shot,” he said. “Never mind, Jeremy. The thing wasn't human, and it would have cut your heart out had you given it the chance.”

  “I know,” Jeremy said. “But it suffered.”

  “It doesn't suffer now, at any rate. Let's get rid of these bodies, men! The rest of these beauties will be looking for us when this batch fails to report at sundown. We may as well make it hard for them to find us!”

  The six bodies were quickly buried in shallow graves, the bloodstained earth turned over. Then the soldiers collected the rearguard and the party hurried on into the mist and into the valley. Jeremy walked mechanically, distant and abstracted. He had killed a second time now, and he found it disturbing.

  True, the creature he killed looked more animal than human—but then, so did Nul, for that matter. And there had been anguish in those great eyes, and a plea for mercy. But that was not what bothered Jeremy the most.

  For, in truth, in the instant when he had loosed the bolt and knew it would hit its mark, in the moment before the creature jolted, stumbled, and fell forward, gagging on its own blood, Jeremy had felt a sense of excitement, of power.

  And he had loved it.

  As they went farther into the valley, the mounting sun thinned the fog to a haze that opened before them and closed behind. Jeremy estimated their range of visibility at perhaps a quarter of a mile or a little more. The walls of the streambed fell away and behind, and at last they squelched along on the bank of the stream, occasionally crossing miry rivulets that fed into it. Jeremy found the silence unnerving, realizing only now how muc
h he had really heard while they were still up on the high ridge: the cries of birds passing overhead, the rustle of little mouselike things in the dry grass, the soft voice of the wind in his face. All was silence down here, silence and treacherous, trembling mud underfoot. It was hard going, and by midday they were sweating and weary, their boots heavy with clots of clinging muck. Still, they paused only long enough to eat a quick meal while standing up; then they started forward again.

  Melodia struggled especially hard, and so did Barach. Finally Gareth decided that the way was just too muddy, and he struck away to the left, heading for what seemed to be higher and drier ground. They followed this path for a while until it turned to the south, and then they plunged down into the muck once again. They had left the stream behind, and here the footing was a little better. At length Prechet, who was taking his turn as advance scout, came into view out of the haze, standing quietly. Without turning, he beckoned them on.

  Jeremy could see now that Prechet stood on the margin of a round pool of water, its far side hidden in the mist that rose in ghostlike swirls from the dark surface, but from the curving border that he could see, the pond must have been several hundred yards across. “One of the meres,” Barach puffed. “Deep they are, and treacherous.”

  The party made a way through brittle stands of reed. The water looked foul, scummed with green, still and dark; it would have been a mirror had there been anything but haze to reflect. Greasy clusters of bubbles rode on the surface, but no living thing disturbed the water, no breeze of wind rippled the surface. “Dead,” Prechet said as they came up. “The Hag's work.”

  “There are small fish, at least,” Gareth said, nodding toward a clump of reeds growing from the edge of the water. Shadowy little torpedo shapes clustered there, riding as if at anchor in the tideless pool. “And perhaps larger things, out where the water is deep. I do not like this spot. Let's see if we can make our way around this.”