Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “Ma ’yie Hulmork?” asked Laron.

  “Aye, but me ’usband’s not ’ere.”

  Laron held up the dead man’s purse. “Your husband has just had a seizure of both hearts,” he said solemnly.

  “He’s seized what?”

  “He never knew what hit him,” said Roval, somewhat more accurately.

  “People’s always ’itting ’im. Then ’e comes ’ome and ’its me.”

  “Please accept our condolences on his death,” added Laron.

  Suddenly catching on, the widow Hulmork swooned. Laron caught her and carried her to where a small fire of offcuts was burning in a stone grate. Five children in patched nightshirts sidled into the room as Laron held a vial of something sharp-scented beneath Ma ’yie’s nose. She revived with a jolt, then began rocking back and forth while moaning her dead husband’s name over and over. Roval donated his kerchief to her.

  “Your father is dead,” Laron announced to the children when it became clear that Torea’s most recent widow was not going to say anything coherent for now.

  “Ooh … promise?” a boy of about five responded. A girl no more than fourteen smiled darkly for a moment, then put a hand to her face. “Can I ’ave ’is dinner?” asked a spindly child of about eleven. At that suggestion all five children turned and scrambled for the kitchen door.

  “This is for the funeral of your much-lamented husband,” Laron said as he dropped half a dozen silver crowns beside the purse on the table. After a sidelong glare Roval added two more. “And now we really must be going.”

  “Ye’re true gentlemen,” sniffled the widow. “Ye’re too, too kind.”

  They swept off their tricorner hats, bowed, then left the household to cope with its loss.

  “What was all that about?” demanded Roval as they hurried along.

  “Hulmork drank his wages,” Laron explained. “His wife’s washing paid the rent and put food on the table. The family will eat better now, and live in peace.”

  “Obviously, but—”

  “I always try to spread a little happiness when I select my prey.”

  “A chivalrous vampyre?”

  “I was raised in the way of chivalry. In a sense, it is all I have left.”

  “Can’t you prey on dogs, or maybe sheep?”

  “The vitality of animals can sustain me, but the taste is foul. Imagine having to drink a jar of vinegar when a goblet of chilled Angelhair 3138 chardonnay is at hand.”

  The analogy struck a chord with Roval, who was five thousand miles from home and unimpressed by the local wine.

  “I thought you can’t have the food or drink of mortals.”

  “On the voyage from Scalticar there was a wine fancier aboard who could talk of nothing but wines, grapes, and famous vintages,” Laron explained. “An intensely annoying man, but I learned a lot from him before I yielded to temptation. After I had drained him and flung his body to the sharks, I became unsteady on my feet, and the next day my head hurt. Something strange was in his blood and vitality.”

  “Can’t you just drain off a little vitality?” asked Roval, who was not looking forward to traveling on the same ship as Laron. “Must you kill your victims?”

  “Once I bite I am no longer in control. It is a type of frenzy.”

  Roval shivered, remembering the look on his face as he glanced up from Hulmork’s neck. Do not disturb while feeding, he noted mentally.

  “Now then, our bags have been put aboard the Shadowmoon, upon which you are to act as medicar and navigator,” Roval said as they walked out along the breakwater.

  “The Shadowmoon?” exclaimed the vampyre.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “The Shadowmoon is a tubby little schooner with a crew of six and the speed of a constipated jellyfish.”

  “Nevertheless, it is the most advanced vessel in Torean waters, and probably the world.”

  “And one of the smallest. What about my needs? I must have somewhere private and secure to sleep when Miral is below the horizon.”

  He gestured to the huge, ringed planet that loomed pale green in the eastern sky.

  “A cabin has been added beneath the quarterdeck, although it is little bigger than a coffin,” explained Roval.

  “How appropriate. Are we liable to be at sea for more than a week? Longer than that, and my self-control begins to slip.”

  The word “slip” was like a dagger’s blade being drawn clear of its scabbard. Roval shivered.

  “After what I just saw, no way! I’ll tell the boatmaster that you have special needs, like sleeping while Miral is down and going ashore weekly for fresh food.”

  “Weekly,” sighed Laron. “I shall get ever so hungry.”

  As they walked Roval noticed that Laron cast no shadow in Miral’s light, although in torchlight the vampyre’s shadow was no different to his. The Shadowmoon was ready to cast off as they reached its berth. The schooner was short, broad, and squat, with two lateen-rigged masts, and a cargo gigboat clamped upside down to the maindeck. Instead of a steering oar there was a hinged pole projecting through the quarterdeck.

  “That is the most advanced weapon the cold sciences can produce to counter Silverdeath?” asked Laron as they paused at the gangway.

  “Yes.”

  “You are doomed.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was told to help.”

  Down on the middeck a couple was embracing in Miral’s light while the crew made ready with the sweep oars and rigging.

  “That is boatmaster Feran,” explained Roval. “He has something of a way with the wenches.”

  “Given my circumstances, I shall not be competition.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am liable to bite anyone that I come close enough to kiss, and being cold-blooded and dead is something of a social liability. I also have the body of a pimply, fourteen-year-old, pigeon-chested wanker, and after seven centuries I am getting mightily sick of it.”

  Roval noted the annoyance in Laron’s tone. By now Feran was escorting his most recent lover up the gangplank. Laron and Roval swept their hats off and bowed to the girl, who giggled before embracing Feran one last time. They stood watching as she went mincing off along the breakwater.

  “Is the special cargo aboard?” asked Roval.

  “Carried on in a sack this afternoon,” replied Feran. “Is this our new officer?”

  “Boatmaster Feran Woodbar, may I introduce Laron Alisialar, accredited deepwater navigator with the Scalticar Marine Traders, and certified medicar with the Sargol Academy of Healers.”

  Feran looked him up and down. “Impressive credentials, but a little young to have been long at sea,” he concluded in spite of Laron’s carefully applied beard. “And I have been told that you are also sickly and have special needs. Do you have the strength to pitch in and be a useful member of my crew?”

  The crew of the Shadowmoon paused to watch and listen. Laron removed his glove and extended his hand. Feran grasped it firmly and squeezed hard. Almost immediately he gasped at the icy chill of Laron’s skin. Laron squeezed back. Feran tried to pull away, then cried out and fell to his knees. Laron’s lips began to curl back and his eyes bulged as Roval picked up an oar and struck at Laron’s wrist. At the third blow Feran rolled free.

  “Laron has the strength of five extremely strong men, and tends to become a little excited when challenged to such crude contests,” Roval explained. “I trust you will take pains to spare him from any initiation roughhousing or … well, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

  Not a single man aboard the Shadowmoon required further convincing.

  “Is—is there anything else?” asked Feran.

  “Never stay at sea for more than a week, and never, never disturb Laron while he is asleep,” said Roval.

  The lateen-rigged schooner crept past the sleek, moored galleys of Warsovran’s navy under full sail, keeping between the torch buoys. Feran stood at the steering pole, enduring je
ers from idle marines and sailors aboard the galleys while his crew prepared to trim the sails once they passed the breakwater and reached clear winds. Feran was short, clean shaven, had curly brown hair, and looked younger than his age even though he was brawny. Some of the insults were about cabin-boy boatmasters. Most were far worse.

  It was only when they were well out to sea that a passenger emerged from below and walked haltingly over the rolling deck to where Feran stood with Laron and Roval.

  “You’re safe for now,” said Feran to his charge. “This is Roval, from the Special Warrior Service of Scalticar. He is here to protect you. Laron, here, is acting as the Shadowmoon’s medicar and navigator.”

  Laron’s eyes gleamed green in Miral’s light. The passenger scrambled backward and stepped behind Feran.

  “He is also here to protect you from your enemies,” Feran concluded.

  “I never thought I’d feel sorry for my enemies,” said the Shadowmoon’s only passenger, regarding the hawkish youth with suspicion and unease.

  “Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite,” said Feran.

  “Much,” added Roval.

  “A Scalticaran name,” the man said slowly.

  “It is something to do with being Scalticaran,” replied Laron, with good grammar but an old-fashioned accent.

  “Part of his beard is peeling off.”

  “He can be trusted,” Feran said dismissively. “How do you want to be known to my crew?”

  “Lenticar is my real name,” he replied as he gazed at the receding port’s lights with relief. “I have had so many assumed names that I sometimes wonder who I might really be. Yes, let me be Lenticar for a while.”

  Lenticar was lean, tanned, and stooped from years of hard work in the open air and sun. He also had the fearful, furtive gaze of one who had been the slave of brutal masters for too long, and he wrung his hands and bowed involuntarily each time he spoke.

  “How long before we reach Zantrias?” he asked, snatching at the wooden rail as a large wave rocked them.

  “Fifty days would be a fair estimate,” said Laron, examining his beard with his fingertips.

  Feran nodded in agreement.

  “Fifty days!” Lenticar exclaimed. “I could swim there faster.”

  “Then I suggest you dive overboard,” said Laron. “We need to collect and discharge cargo to maintain the guise of a coastal trader.”

  Laron removed a strip of beard and licked the backing. Lenticar saw two long, gleaming fangs. The officer stuck the patch of beard back.

  “But fifty days may be too late.”

  “Fifty days is all we can offer,” agreed Feran.

  “Is it about that fire-circle weapon Warsovran used to break Larmentel?” asked Laron.

  “It may be.”

  “Did you know he used it again?”

  Lenticar’s eyes widened. “No. Which city was burned?”

  “It was only a test over Larmentel’s ruins, and apparently no lives were lost. It may have been to impress a prince from Zarlon who was in the area, but that’s just rumor. In a circle of over a half mile across, there was not a scrap of wood, cloth, flesh, or food left.”

  “So it was bigger than the first time?”

  “Oh yes, everything improves with practice,” said Laron.

  While they were speaking, Roval had breathed a tangle of etheric energies into his cupped hands, then spoken directive and formative words into it. Now Laron went to a wicker cage and took out a seagull. Roval spread the etheric energies over the bird like a tight-fitting net, and it ceased struggling. Laron put it on the warrior-sorcerer’s arm.

  “Messenger auton, listen carefully,” said Roval. “‘Cargo loaded, sailed with the tide. Arriving in fifty from twenty-fifth of second.’ Speak this to Elder, Metrologans, at Zantrias. Now go.”

  The englamored seagull took off at once, climbed into the darkening sky, then turned east under the messenger auton’s control. It was soon lost to view. A steady wind filled the sails and drove them through the waves. The Sbadowmoon was too small to be a warship, and sufficiently like a fishing trawler to move freely between the ports of all alliances. With so many of Warsovran’s warships on the waters around Torea, the Shadowmoon’s company had little to fear from privateers. In a sense it was the emperor himself who gave them safe passage to Zantrias.

  At that very moment Warsovran was in the port of Narmari, on the other side of the continent. The port was the base of his fleet, and contained the largest shipyards in the world. Admiral Forteron was a very junior member of Warsovran’s Council of Advisors, but was a particularly brave and capable leader. He was from an old but respectable seafaring family; in fact, his ancestors had founded the port of Fontarian six hundred years ago. These qualities are precisely what are needed just now, Warsovran thought as they walked along a pier where a squadron of battle galleys was tied up. Behind them were the three sorcerers and three marines of the emperor’s personal guard.

  “I have been giving orders in the shipyards,” the monarch said. “No new ships are to be commenced, and all hands are to work on ships currently under construction. Provisions for a campaign of four months are to be assembled, and fifty thousand elite marines are to be equipped and kept ready.”

  Forteron did not comment. Warsovran was the emperor, after all. They reached the flagship of the Damarian fleet, the Thunderbolt, and the deck crew stood to attention as they came aboard. The ship was an oceangoing battle galley, and could carry six hundred rowers, sailors, and marines. Warsovran did a tour of inspection, then climbed the stubby command tower at the rear of the big ship. For a moment the emperor gazed out over the vessels moored or at anchor on the placid waters of the bay, then he looked west to the horizon.

  “Admiral, I want you to blockade Helion,” he ordered.

  “Helion?” Forteron exclaimed in surprise.

  “Yes. The weather is mild at this time of year. The sailing should be easy.”

  “Emperor, do I have permission to speak my mind?”

  “I would treasure true words, no matter what they be,” replied Warsovran “One hears so few of them.”

  “With respect, Emperor, Helion is no prize. It is just a pair of volcanos, two miles long and a mile across.”

  “It is under the rule of my enemies.”

  “Emperor, half of the continent is under the rule of your enemies.”

  “Maybe so, but Helion is well placed between Acrema, Lamaria, and Torea. Whoever rules Helion will dominate trade in the Placidian Ocean.”

  That is certainly true, thought Forteron. But why the sudden interest in controlling the ocean? Is he losing control of the Torean continent?

  “Your orders are mine to obey, Your Majesty,” replied Forteron. “I shall take a squadron and secure the island. Do you want the prisoners brought here or sold as slaves in Lamaria?”

  “Not a squadron. My entire fleet.”

  “The whole fleet?” Forteron exclaimed before he could stop himself. “Emperor Warsovran, it is scattered right around the Torean coast. It would take over two months to gather all ships together.”

  “You have one. Have the despatch vessels sailing within the hour.”

  “But, but … Helion? You could take the place with twenty ships and a thousand marines.”

  “Admiral, I said blockade Helion. Under no circumstances are you to attack the place. Any approaching deepwater traders are to be turned away. Any trying to leave are to be seized, but not one single sailor or marine is to set foot upon the island.”

  “Emperor, I do not understand,” Forteron admitted.

  “Splendid, that means that my enemies are unlikely to understand, either. I have already sent riders and carrier autons ordering some of my warships around Torea to assemble here, so it may not take even two months. On the twenty-fifth day of next month, and not one single day later, the fleet is to leave for Helion with every marine, sailor, weapon, sack of biscuit, and barrel of water that can be crammed aboard. Blockade the island as s
oon as you arrive. After another two weeks you shall receive further orders.”

  Warsovran paced the deck in silence for a time. Forteron paced respectfully beside him, but he was frowning. Not the face of a man just granted a massive advantage over his peers, .thought Warsovran, with a glance to his admiral.

  “You look troubled, Admiral Forteron,” he observed.

  “I am only ninth in rank among your admirals, Your Majesty. This appointment will breed ill will.”

  “Let me take care of that. Just get the fleet to Helion and have it battle-ready.”

  Forteron considered both his orders and position carefully. Warsovran liked his commanders to think as he did, and to act as he would if they ever found themselves cut off from the line of command.

  “Would I be correct in assuming that Helion is not the real objective, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  “If you were, I would not tell you.”

  That told Forteron all he needed to know. He bowed and set off to carry out his orders.

  Within the hour the first swift, high-masted despatch clippers and dash galleys were sailing out of the harbor with Warsovran’s orders. By then the Thunderbolt was being prepared to be beached, careened, and tarred, and Admiral Forteron was in his villa at the edge of the port, studying charts of the Placidian Ocean. Diomeda, he decided. Diomeda was a large port on the Acreman coast, and eight days due west of Helion. Diomeda was an important trade center; in fact, it was the hub of all commerce up and down the Acreman coast, but why Diomeda? There was still half of Torea’s coast to conquer. Larmentel had fallen, monarchs everywhere were falling over themselves to negotiate treaties with the empire. Still, a promotion is a promotion , Forteron thought as he unrolled a scroll of common Diomedan phrases. Tomorrow he would visit the slave market, and the girl he selected as his companion for the voyage ahead would just happen to speak Diomedan, the common trade language of the Acreman east coast.

  Warsovran did not go to his palace until the gathering of his fleet had been ordered and set in motion. He was met at the inner gates by his son Darric, who had just turned fourteen. Unlike a certain seven-hundred-year-old teenager aboard a schooner on the other side of the continent, the prince was already tall, handsome, and well proportioned.