Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “But Banzalo said that Warsovran’s whole fleet attacked.”

  “What would you say? ‘Er, sorry, I left the ships unguarded, and while I was watching them being captured without a fight, someone sneaked up behind us, pulled our collective kilts over our collective heads and tied a knot’? Warsovran has defeated the second-biggest fleet on the Placidian Ocean, gained thirty undamaged ships, and captured five thousand slaves at the cost of one dead marine—he was killed by a falling sack of gold, apparently.”

  The elemental licked her lips, which were pursed and engorged with blood. “Warsovran must be a military genius,” she purred, gazing into Laron’s eyes.

  “He was well informed. Someone betrayed Banzalo, someone from his fleet or colonies. Warsovran followed in Banzalo’s wake, most probably. First the colonies, then the fleet, and now the Damarians are proceeding south in search of other looters. There would have been only thirty ships in their original fleet, according to Banzalo’s marines. Fast, deadly, but few.”

  “Faster than us?”

  “The galleys? Oh yes, but then they have continued south while we have turned north. I think we are safe.”

  “If Banzalo has been defeated, why do we still obey him?”

  “Banzalo still rules Helion. Just how long he will continue to rule is quite another matter, judging from his scorecard so far. He has the right to requisition any ship on Helion’s tax register, and the Shadowmoon is certainly in that particular book. He also has four fighting men to back up his orders.”

  “So he can force us to go to Helion after we check the colonies.”

  Interesting—she does not know we were going to Helion anyway, Laron thought.

  Interesting—he has no interest in women, thought the elemental.

  “I noticed that you sleep with your cabin’s hatch locked from the inside,” she observed invitingly.

  “Ah, yes,” Laron replied flatly.

  “Why?”

  “My mother told me never to trust sailors.”

  As Feran and Laron had predicted, the settlements had been annihilated, and seabirds and seals were feeding on the bodies of the dead. Having convinced Banzalo the worst had happened, they began the long journey around the continent and back to Helion. There was still no sign of Warsovran’s battle squadron, and the tropical skies were overcast and dull.

  “The fleet would have come in from the north,” Feran speculated to Banzalo, based on an earlier conversation with Laron. “If they razed the settlements first, then smashed your ships at Gironal, my guess is that they continued south, working their way around the coast and setting upon anyone they found scavenging in the ruins. When they have circled Torea, they will establish their own mining settlements in the richest of the melted cities, and keep other ships on patrol.”

  Banzalo looked down at the waves. “There is so much for everyone in Torea. Why did he have to do this?”

  Laron thought back to when Banzalo had claimed the entire continent as his own, then thought better than to mention it. “This way he can control the amount of Torean gold that finds its way into Acrema and Lemtas,” was what Laron actually said. “If he spends only a moderate amount at a time, it will not cheapen the value of gold elsewhere.”

  “Wise words from a little boy,” Banzalo sneered.

  “Your pardon, Regent, but you asked the question.”

  Frustration and anguish had been building in Banzalo for a long time, yet wise rulers know better than to vent such emotions on their subjects without discrimination. Though a noble, Banzalo was neither a wise nor an experienced ruler. He had led his subjects into the unknown, but he had never needed to rally goodwill in the face of defeat. He straightened, then backhanded Laron across the face. At least, he attempted to backhand Laron’s face. The youth’s hand snapped up and seized Banzalo’s. He squeezed. Banzalo cried out, drowning the soft crackling sound of his hand being crushed.

  Two of Banzalo’s men clambered up the steps to his aid, but stopped at the sight of Laron’s huge, gleaming eyes and bared fangs. Slowly, Laron fought down the hunger that had been given its head for a moment. Finally he released Banzalo, whose hand was by now only about as wide as his wrist.

  “Nobody else aboard the Shadowmoon knows deepwater navigation, Regent,” said Laron. “I suggest you show a little more respect for those who stand between you and a very unpleasant death.”

  Banzalo dropped to his knees, holding the wrist of his stricken hand.

  “Medicar, get the medicar,” Banzalo wheezed, barely able to breathe from the shock.

  “Ah, that would be me,” said Laron.

  Warsovran stepped from the gangplank of the deepwater trader and onto Diomedan soil. In fact, it was actually the stones of a Diomedan pier, but the symbolism was no less potent, for that. The emperor had arrived, Torea had conquered a slice of Acrema. Warsovran had had plenty of time to be impressed by the grandeur of Diomeda and its island palace as his ship was being towed into the harbor, and now his gaze was steady on the representatives of his new subjects.

  The most senior of the local nobles and merchants had been assembled at the base of the pier, and were under the scrutiny of several hundred Torean marines. Warsovran stopped before the assembly, arms folded.

  “You have been told who I am,” he said, in smooth but accented Diomedan. “You are my subjects.”

  “Kneel!” barked one of the marine captains.

  Every Diomedan merchant and noble present knelt. Warsovran paced before them, alternately looking from the sky to the cobbles at his feet. It was more symbolism, for those caring to look for it.

  “I am not a privateer. I am a conqueror. I have conquered Diomeda, and I have conquered you.”

  He continued pacing, but now in silence. His audience realized they were required to ponder his words. They pondered.

  “I have no intention of plundering your wealth. I am very, very rich. I have no need of plunder.”

  Warsovran raised a hand into the air and snapped his fingers. Two dozen marines strode forward, half of them carrying baskets. The other marines reached into the baskets and began to pelt Warsovran’s captive audience with pebbles of pure gold. The nobles and merchants cowered, then some sprawled, stunned by the rain of precious metal. Warsovran snapped his fingers again. The shower of gold ceased. Bloodied faces looked up to him.

  “As long as you continue to produce more wealth, I shall leave you alone. Cross me or resist me, and I shall destroy you. I shall destroy you by having you flayed alive, then flung into a pool of hungry crayfish. Should you be loyal, however, you are safe. If anyone crosses you, tell me and I shall crush them. Now, go forth. Trade, prosper, and build my new empire’s strength.”

  With that he turned his back on them and walked away. The guards dispersed as well, leaving the gold pebbles scattered on the ground.

  After inspecting his makeshift royal palace, Warsovran unpacked Silverdeath. His court sorcerer, Rax Einsel, was standing before him as he ran Silverdeath’s metal fabric through his fingers, pensively examining the shimmering circles and linkages with their multihued highlights. Einsel watched, nervous in the presence of a weapon that could sear all traces of life from an entire continent.

  “The Vidarians should be out of the way by now, so I have the gold of Torea behind me and all Acrema before me,” Warsovran said calmly. “I also have Silverdeath beside me. What do you think, Einsel?”

  “It is a superb talisman, Warsovran. The craftsmanship—”

  “Does not concern us. It is to be used, not admired.”

  These words alarmed Einsel. If it came to that, they would alarm anyone. “It reduced Torea to melted glass when Ralzak tried to use it to take a single city,” Einsel pointed out deferentially.

  “Ralzak knew none of Weapon’s rules, powers, and limitations. I can use it without losing control. What do you think of my plan for Helion?”

  “It is a gamble, master, you cannot know how Silverdeath will act,” Einsel pleaded, emboldened by f
ear.

  “I will be using it a long way out to sea, when at Helion. Nothing can go wrong.”

  “On Torea a great deal went wrong.”

  “On the contrary, Einsel. On Torea nothing went wrong at all.”

  The pop-eyed little sorcerer bowed his head in Warsovran’s direction, trying to look at Silverdeath while averting his eyes. What little he could understand made him frightened.

  “You have observed Silverdeath from the etherworld,” Warsovran prompted. “What did you see of this fine machine from there?”

  “Silverdeath sat as a heavy mass in the darkness of the etherworld,” Einsel replied, studiously composing the neutral response as he spoke. “It is like nothing I have ever seen. Massive, powerful capabilities, able to drain energies in from other etherworlds, able to channel torrents of radiance and heat.”

  “Yes, Einsel. There is nothing so powerful as this engine, even though it has some limits. All the kingdoms of Acrema together could not stand against me now.”

  “Warsovran, surely you cannot be thinking to use Silverdeath on another continent. It is so far beyond our understanding. Why not build on your fleet?”

  Warsovran continued to run the metal fabric through his fingers. “Build what on my fleet?”

  “You have a powerful fleet. None on the Placidian Ocean can stand against you. You now also rule the biggest port on the east Acreman coast. Why use this doomsday thing on Helion? Surely the monarchs of Acrema will heed the lesson of Torea.”

  Warsovran shrugged. He was a trained initiate in his own right, but of indeterminate power and rating. He was also a scholar of great and deep learning, and had good tactical and strategic judgment. The combination of talents had given him half of Torea without Silverdeath’s help.

  “Why, Einsel? Because poison is leaking into our world. I have cut off the infected limb, and now I must cauterize the wound. Helion is that wound.”

  Einsel wrung his hands together, then finally sat down and uncorked a jar of fortified wine. He swallowed several mouthfuls.

  “I have been to Helion,” he said sadly. “It is a pretty, tranquil little island.”

  “The Metrologans have been pouring poison into our world for a thousand years. With the main temple in Larmentel gone, along with all the regional temples like that at Zantrias, there is only one surviving. It is on Helion. The Metrologans were destroying magic in the name of knowledge, Einsel. Somebody had to stop them, and I am doing just that.”

  Warsovran shook his head, as if trying to recall something amid a maelstrom of issues calling for his attention. The city had fallen, his fleet was at full strength, trade was continuing …

  “My son,” he said suddenly. “Where is Darric?”

  “Ah, er, Admiral Forteron wishes to see you about that,” said Einsel.

  Forteron was expecting to be summoned, so he was already at the palace. He was sitting in the supplicants’ room when Einsel had him fetched. As Forteron knelt before Warsovran, Einsel stood to one side. He was trying hard to seem inconspicuous.

  “I wish to see my son,” said Acrema’s newest monarch.

  “He is said to be aboard the flagship, Your Majesty,” Forteron replied.

  “‘Said’? Admiral Forteron?”

  “‘Said,’ Your Majesty.”

  “Do I have to start killing people before anyone will give me a straight-forward answer?”

  “No, Your Majesty. I am speaking as plainly as I can.”

  “Then speak until I comprehend.”

  Forteron wanted to pace, wave his arms, embroider the truth, and flatter his monarch, but he knew from experience that Warsovran liked cold, hard facts from cold, hard people.

  “Just after Diomeda fell, I was approached by galleymaster Mandalock of the Kygar,” Forteron began, his arms folded tightly behind his back. “He said that your son had been acting strangely for most of the voyage, and that his courtesan was now acting even more strangely.”

  “How so? Is he ill?”

  “Not ill. His manner, voice, health, and appearance were all unchanged from when last you saw him, but he seemed somehow … empty.”

  “‘Empty’? Please explain.”

  “He was reluctant to talk on any but the most superficial of topics, and when he spoke at all he said very little. It was as if he were hiding a secret.”

  “That is odd. Darric is generally a little too open than is good for a future monarch. Perhaps he is trying to rein himself in, now that he has been trusted to go on campaign.”

  “Perhaps. In fact, I thought just that myself until Mandalock went on to tell me about his courtesan.”

  “What about her?”

  “She is no younger than forty, and she claimed to be the empress, after we took Diomeda.”

  Admiral Forteron knew when to stop and let other people draw conclusions. Warsovran put a hand to his chin and frowned with thought for a moment, then his eyes stretched wide to protrude more alarmingly than those of Einsel. His breath became quick, snatched gasps and his jaw hung open, working soundlessly.

  “Where?” he whispered at last.

  “I had them locked in their cabins on the Kygar, and posted a strong guard. They have been held there ever since.”

  “Take me there,” Warsovran demanded, his voice so contorted that the words were scarcely intelligible.

  Warsovran approached the Kygar aboard a harbor gigboat. They had to board from the port side, as a small dash galley was anchored hard to starboard as part of some sort of battle-damage inspection. A boarding ramp was lowered, and he went aboard with Einsel and Forteron. His bodyguards flanked the group. The fifty marines who lined the deck saluted, then Warsovran turned to galleymaster Mandalock.

  “Bring both of the prisoners out on deck,” he ordered, his voice soft but his words as cold as a polar gale.

  Mandalock strode the length of the deck and spoke to the guards at the aft hatchways. Moments later two figures emerged. Darric looked quite normal, but his courtesan had been working hard at her face, hair, and clothing for the whole of her incarceration, and was now the very image of the empress.

  “Darric, come here!” barked Warsovran.

  The prince began the long walk along the one hundred twenty feet of the Kygar’s main deck. After what seemed like an eternity, he arrived before Warsovran.

  “Well, Darric, did you enjoy your first campaign?” asked Warsovran, embracing the prince.

  “Oh, Father, I would like many more.”

  “But did you enjoy it?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Well, I hope you are overcoming your fears. When do you think you will be ready to actually fight in a battle?”

  “After seeing Diomeda fall, anytime you say. My fears are gone.”

  Warsovran’s left hand reached into his right sleeve and drew out a dagger. Darric’s decoy first became aware that he had not lived up to expectations as the blade plunged into his back and found his right heart. There was a loud shriek from the other end of the Kygar’s deck.

  “Kill her!” barked Warsovran, but the empress had already spoken a casting, and a dazzling flash burst from her hand.

  Forteron blindly tripped Warsovran and flung him down on the deck as Einsel burst a dazzle-casting toward what he hoped was the direction of the empress. The blinded Darielle had the sense to drop to the deck and crawl between the legs of the marines who were chopping at each other in search of her. She moved to the right, felt the starboard rail, slipped under it, and fell to the water between the two galleys.

  Moments later people’s vision began to clear aboard the Kygar. Two marines were dead and several more had wounded each other. Forteron had flung himself across Warsovran.

  “Where is she?” demanded Warsovran.

  The empress was nowhere to be seen. Marines flanked by ethersmiths made for the aft hatch as Einsel stood blinking with a fire-casting held high. When someone finally thought to look over the side, the dash galley’s oars were already digging into the water. />
  Warsovran ran to the rail, in time to see the dripping-wet Darielle fling her own fire-casting. He dropped and twisted aside as it hit, leaving the rail charred, splintered, and smoking. Einsel flung a casting at the deck of the dash galley, setting the galleymaster and several marines afire, but missing the empress. Marines on both ships began exchanging arrows as more ethersmiths came to the rail and flung castings. The gap between them widened.

  “Chop through the anchor ropes—after them!” shouted Mandalock.

  “Signal the patrol galleys. Have them rammed!” cried Forteron.

  The Kygar was four times heavier than the dash galley, and although it was under way in less than thirty seconds, the gap between them continued to widen. The patrol galleys moved to blockade the harbor, but the dash galley was not headed their way. It was being steered straight for the island palace, and it had a truce pennant flying from its mast.

  A few rocks from the palace, catapults splashed into the water around the dash galley before someone on the walls noticed the truce pennant and ordered it to be given safe passage. No such consideration was given to the Kygar. As the larger ship approached through a shower of rocks and fire arrows, the dash galley was beached and those aboard jumped into the shallows and ran for the opening gates. Galleymaster Mandalock ordered the Kygar brought about just as those on the walls found its range. A rock crashed through the deck, killing several rowers below, then its forward ballista landed a clay pot of hellfire oil on the dash galley. Arrows were falling so thickly that everyone but the steersman and ballista crew took cover. A second shot hit the oar ports of the dash galley, setting the interior awash with burning oil, but moments later a rock from the palace hit the ballista, smashing it to kindling and killing three of the crew. By the time the Kygar was out of range again there were five gaping holes in its deck, but it was still afloat. The dash galley was burning fiercely.