Dark Moon Daughter

by J. Edward Neill

  “We have hope yet.” She stood with him. “His spell failed.”

  “Magic...” He closed his eyes. “I came here to kill, and so far I have slain only those who were already dead.”

  He talks calm, but inside his blood is boiling. She snared his hand and rolled her thumb on the inside of his palm. “Someday, after we survive this, we will talk of your revenge. But until then, there is something you must do. Do not do it for vengeance. Do it for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Destroy Grimwain.”

  “I want the warlock.”

  “You cannot hope to overcome his magic. You must leave him to me. If we are to survive, this is the way it must be. Do not question it. Just say you will do it.”

  He looked to her, and the hatred in his eyes was gone. “Take me out of here,” he said. “Grim for me. The other for you.”

  She threw her arms around him and willed the Nightness to make shadows of them both. As before, she knitted her body with his. She and he ascended from the tower bottom, bubbles of shadow rushing past her, the sudden pressure of the real world flooding her ears. The veil of her father’s mind parted, and in fewer than ten breaths she reawakened in the Undergrave. Garrett stirred in the very place he had fallen, while she knelt beside him, her clothes shabby and wet. The Ur tower loomed ten paces away, its door still open. Have I done wrong? she agonized. Father is not here. The Pages are gone. The sounds of battle have ended.

  Rellen.

  Nemesis

  Away too long. Likely everyone else is dead.

  Garrett stood in a sea of bones. He held the Ur torch high, the dark, brilliant flame crackling at the end of a Sarcophage’s femur. ‘Use it find Grimwain.’ Andelusia had given it to him before vanishing to pursue the warlock. ‘Save Rellen and Saul.’

  And kill anyone who tries to stop me.

  His blood pounded hot in his ears. The Ur tower weighed upon his soul. As he gazed into the blackness covering the isle, he steeled himself for the battle to come. Do this not for me. Do it for Ona.

  Alone, he ran. The Ur flame carved the shadows to ribbons. With his swords clattering at his waist, he sprinted to the place he remembered seeing Grimwain moments before falling to the warlock’s spell. He roved a swath of the island not far from the graveyard of fallen Sarcophages, and yet he found nothing he expected. No blood, no bodies, no broken blades. He heard thunder erupting behind him. Ande battling the warlock.

  He listened, but heard nothing else. He stalked ever farther from the Ur tower, and with each footfall resisted the temptation to join Andelusia in her war.

  A faint sound grazed the edge of his perception.

  The faraway cough fluttered through the void. Brandishing his Thillrian blade, he changed direction and padded for the noise. As he hunted, he discerned a glow barely visible in the blackness. An Ur candle, he knew. No other light is so pale.

  When he reached the Ur candle, its glow alive in the pommel of a Sarcophage sword, he skidded to a stop and lowered his blade.

  “Garrett?” he heard Saul say. “Is that you?”

  His torch lit a miserable scene. Saul and Rellen’s blades lay on the isle’s ground, dulled against Grimwain’s swords. Battered and bleeding, Saul cradled Rellen, who lay limp in Saul’s arms, eyes bleary, face whiter than the moon, and blood bubbling on his lips.

  “Where did you go?” Saul peered up at him.

  “Away.”

  He knelt beside Rellen. At a glance, he knew his friend was gravely injured. Blood dripped from Rellen’s shirt and puddled in the lines of Ur language graven on the island’s glass surface. Two wounds scarred his left flank, blood black as midnight darkening the bandage Saul had prepared. Garrett touched Rellen’s arm. His flesh is cold, his eyes are dimming. My truest friend, I have failed you.

  “He got me.” Rellen lolled. “Can you believe it?”

  “We did our best.” Saul shook his head. “But Grimwain was too much. Even had there been ten of us, we could not have stopped him. He is no ordinary man, Garrett. I might have pursued him, but with Rellen’s wounds…”

  “…not as bad as they look,” Rellen managed a meek smile.

  I know you, Rellen, Garrett wanted to say. Even in your direst hour you cling to your humor. He lifted Rellen’s bandages and hid his horror at what he saw. Both of Grimwain’s slashes were deep, cut cleanly through the meat between Rellen’s ribs.

  “You will make it.” His words felt empty. “You might not even scar.”

  Rellen returned a knowing smirk. “Garrett, you old crow. I missed you. You should’ve been down here. But they took you away, didn’t they? We lost you, and now you are back. I knew it. I knew you would be too much for them. Before I sleep, tell me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Tell me she lives. Say it so I can shut my eyes.”

  He wished he knew the answer. The thunderous spells on the island’s far side were silent now, and likely someone is dead. If Andelusia and the warlock were still locked in battle, they did so in utter darkness, for when he glanced he saw no fires, nothing to discern one ocean of shadow from the next.

  “When last I saw her, she was alive.”

  “Oh.” Rellen grinned. “Good.”

  He knew Rellen’s look. He remembered seeing the same white cheeks and watery eyes on soldiers’ faces moments before their deaths. But Rellen is a soldier no longer. He won his war already. He should be in Gryphon, Ande at his side, a baby bawling in his arms. He should be laughing in his hall, for though he was a warrior, his best moments were among his family and friends. He should be doting on his mother, raising monuments to his father, and walking the woods at twilight. He should not be here. This darkness is mine to tread. These monsters are mine to destroy.

  He wanted to drop his blades and sit beside his friend. He wanted to coax Rellen into shallow sleep, but no deeper. He dwelled on his hopes, and then he remembered his promise to Andelusia. Destroy Grimwain.

  “There is something I must do.”

  “What about Rellen?” said Saul. “We’re too far down. He might not make it to the top.”

  “You must help him. I must go.”

  Saul looked betrayed. “Go where? To find Ande? To die?”

  “No.” Rellen gestured into the dark with a bloody, trembling finger. “I know what Garrett wants. He wants Grimwain. Am I right, old friend? Yes, of course. I know I am. Grim went that way, to the shore. It was not long ago. Get him for us. Show him who the best is.”

  Garrett rose. If ever he could have wept, it would be now. “Stay here,” he said as though Rellen had a choice. “I will return.”

  “You cannot mean to leave!” Saul protested. “You have to stay! What purpose is there in fighting? Grimwain is gone. Whatever plot the warlock had in bringing us here has failed. It’s over. Stay here. Help me save him.”

  He raised the Ur torch, saturating Saul and Rellen’s faces with violet light. He remembered the look in Andelusia’s eyes. It does not end here, not unless we make it so.

  “The creature Grimwain must die. I have failed in many things since coming to Thillria. In this, I shall not.”

  Saul fell silent. Garrett looked to Rellen, who sputtered, but who managed a grin. “It’s a lie, Garrett,” Rellen coughed. “The tower was not empty. Grim got what he came for. Get it back. Carve him up. Tell Ande I love her.”

  “I will.”

  “I know.”

  He retreated. His mind fell into shadow, his eyes like grey embers frosted with the Ur torch’s radiance. He slid into the void, marching toward the shore with only one thing in mind.

  Death.

  He became a hunter. With each step closer to the water he discerned tiny traces of Grimwain’s flight. He spied droplets of blood and steel shavings from collided blades. He followed the red patters, and as the last glimmers of Saul and Rellen’s Ur candle disappeared behind him, he arrived at the edge of the lake.

  I am not alone here.

  He gazed upon th
e black water. A tiny craft bobbed against the shore, a flat-bottomed boat whose planks were wide enough for but one man to occupy. We are far from the skiffs. He means to escape alone.

  He heard a footfall.

  “You came,” Grimwain uttered from somewhere in the shadows behind him.

  “You waited.”

  “And why not?” His enemy slunk nearer. “A handful of deaths here will go unnoticed. A thousand in Thillria will barely make the wind blow cold. But what if everyone were dead, my dear Garrett Croft? That would be something worth savoring. Don’t you agree?”

  He spun to see his enemy stride into the Ur torch’s light. Grimwain’s shirt hung in tatters from his ropey, gnarled muscles. Wet and inky, his hair clung to his neck as if it were painted on. Most terrifying of all were his eyes, the pupils gleaming white as stars.

  “That girl of yours,” Grimwain growled. “She has too many martyrs.”

  “I would have come for you anyway.”

  “Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you? I know the stories about you. You take your work very seriously.”

  Garrett dropped the Ur torch to the ground and unstrung his Sarcophage sword from his waist. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his arms, readying himself to kill.

  “He told me you would come,” said Grimwain. “I admit I was curious. ‘The hero of Grae, the destroyer of Furyon,’ he said to me. But then of course he said other things as well. Now I think, how clever of you. How noble that you should be the one to come for me. Tell me, do your friends know what sort of man you really are? Do they know what I know?”

  He advanced, but Grimwain withdrew into the dark. Beyond the Ur torch’s radiance, he saw only the deathly glaze in Grimwain’s eyes. “Knowing what I know, you and I could have been such wonderful partners,” the fiend mocked. “Why, between your swords and mine, we could have murdered the entire world. We would never have needed the Anderae. Think about it.”

  He took two strides closer.

  “Look at you, Grae hero,” Grimwain laughed. “You’re so eager, but bone-weary as well. Your leg is half-lame. You’re exhausted from murdering the warlock’s puppets. You’re an artist come to paint with a broken brush. I’ve killed children whose fires burned hotter than yours.”

  He did not wish it, but the insults touched some tiny part of him. Ready to cleave Grimwain’s head from his neck, he held himself back. “Tell me who it was,” he demanded. “Whether you or him.”

  “Pardon?” said Grimwain. “Narrow the subject. Whom did I kill that upsets you so?”

  “The warlock used his youngest against me,” he said with a shiver. “But in the end he was not the one to order her death. Ona was his blood, and not nearly as great a threat as Andelusia. So tell me. I want to hear it from your cursed lips. Say it was your men who did the deed. Admit it was your sword prodding the Thillrians’ to murder.”

  He heard Grimwain smack his lips. “It’s true, Croft. They were to kill both of you. You first, her second. I wanted Ona to watch you crumble as the poison razed you from the inside. I wanted her to suffer. It was to be her punishment for helping you escape. Pain and death, two lovers dead. And yet, that you live is all the sweeter. For now you’re here…with me.”

  “You knew.” Garrett swallowed his rage. “You saw us escape.”

  “Escape? I think not. It was only a matter of time before the old man let her loose. He cared too much for her and feared you not nearly enough. A weakness, his compassion. Easily remedied.”

  Now. His patience shattered. Now I am ready.

  With a cry and a flash of steel, he stormed his enemy. Grimwain stripped a moon-shaded sword from his rotten scabbard and met him where the Ur torch shined coldest. Garrett led with his Thillrian longsword, spearing at Grimwain’s neck, but for all his speed, his enemy was just as fast. Thrice he stabbed and thrice he swept the Sarcophage blade, and six times Grimwain slapped his strokes away as if he knowing exactly when and where they would come.

  Faster and faster he swarmed, his strokes falling like rain, his two swords making dreadful music against Grimwain’s one. Showers of sparks lit the Undergrave air. Pale reflections of both men’s faces shined in the isle’s glass surface. For all Grimwain’s calm, Garrett sensed an advantage. He clipped a lock of black hair away with one slash. With another, he cut one of the fiend’s empty scabbards from his belt and crushed the rotten thing beneath his boot. His Sarcophage blade dulled against Grimwain’s every parry, but it mattered not. Gone unblocked, any of his blows would have been fatal, and he will never have the time to draw his second sword.

  He pressed his foe backward, hewing ten times for every one breath taken. He advanced the same as thunder, a wave of steel and sweat and vengeance crashing against a hated shore. A hundred times he carved the air where his enemy’s throat had only just been, and each time it seemed Grimwain escaped by a margin smaller than the time before. In circles he made his enemy move. He backed Grimwain against the shore, but the fiend bounded atop his boat and back to the island, narrowly escaping. He hacked, speared, and ground the teeth from his Sarcophage blade to nothing, and though a hundred times he nearly cut Grimwain down, always his enemy slipped away.

  Panting, he backed away, and Grimwain drew his second sword. In a storm of moon steel, his enemy attacked. Garrett knocked aside a stab at his gut, swept away two slashes meant for his throat, and ducked a stroke deadly enough to fell a tree. Grimwain became a blur of motion, feinting, darting, and attacking from angles he least expected. One withering blow tore off the tip of his Thillrian blade. Another clipped the meat of his thigh.

  And still another shattered his Sarcophage sword.

  With one broken sword against his enemy’s perfect pair, any other man would have died. But for the sisters, I will not. When Grimwain spun and struck high and low, he slapped both blades aside with an artist’s precision. When his enemy dove inside his guard, he kicked up the Ur torch and retreated in a cloud of frozen embers. Grimwain’s swords made keening music as they tore holes in the darkness and whistled past his head. He matched their wailing songs with his poetry of motion, gliding serpentine between each stab, stinging away each mortal slash. He bled, but dared not die. He tired, but only became stronger.

  In all the eras of swordplay, no battle could rival theirs. Twenty times he and Grimwain circled the Ur flame, the ringing of their blades never slowing. Some thousand strokes echoed in the pitch before they parted again, and when finally they broke, they kept their swords leveled for each other’s hearts. The Ur torch lay between them, lighting their faces grey and violet. No victor, Garrett ruminated. The battle wanes. The battle will begin anew.

  Shining with sweat, Grimwain retreated to the water and knelt. “A fine dance we’ve shared, Croft. Now I think I shall go my way, and you shall go yours.”

  “No…” Garrett panted.

  “Your heart isn’t in this. You’re distracted. We might war for an eon and never come to the end you desire. Walk away, Grae hero. Make a child or two and tell them the story of our war. You’ve a little while before the world burns.”

  He stood tall. The Ur torch burned behind him, hurling his shadow across Grimwain. “You took something from the tower.” He glared. “Tell me what it was.”

  “They say you’re a wise man, Croft. You knew the Anderae warlock, the man they called Dank, who told you all the tales of old. So it seems you’ve asked a question for which you should already know the answer.”

  “Tell me, and then die.”

  “Five objects.” Grimwain smirked. “Five now, and five always. The Tower, rising just behind us. The Pages, collected by your pretty little lover. The Orb, shattered in the heart of Furyon. The Eye, who you’ve yet to see, but who counts your breaths at night and waits for you to expire. And the Needle, the fragment, the death-maker. I wonder where it could be.”