Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  Subsequent interrogation of the wounded decoy prince revealed a thread of treason toward Warsovran—or loyalty to his empress, according to which side one was on. Burning slivers of bamboo were pushed under hundreds of aristocratic fingernails, their owners having been named by those who had already been broken. Several dozen noble and senior heads were then separated from their bodies.

  Even though she had been confined to the Kygar, the empress had managed to convince some Damarian guards to take messages to trusted men in positions of power. One of those had been the dash-galley commander who had had his vessel drawn up beside the Kygar. When the emperor had seen that the decoy was not Darric, a contingency plan was activated.

  The decoy revealed that Darric had been tricked into staying in the capital by a forged letter, and the prince had died when the final fire-circle obliterated the city. The empress had commissioned the forgery. Admiral Forteron was sure that Warsovran had intended Darric’s fate for the empress, but he kept his opinion to himself. For the very first time he now saw Warsovran genuinely distraught with grief, and thus at his most dangerous.

  “Some powerful sorceress took on the form of the empress and used Darric’s decoy to get passage with the fleet,” Warsovran declared to his council of shipmasters. “They hoped to get into my confidence, but the decoy was foolish enough to think that my son had been afraid of battle. When I stabbed him, the sorceress escaped to her true master, the former king of Diomeda.”

  The story was plausible, and most heads nodded. Forteron mentally noted which heads had not.

  “Prince Darric was probably killed by traitors within the royal palace,” Warsovran continued. “As we have seen, there were even traitors within this very battle fleet, but perhaps some of those were merely tricked into being loyal to whom they thought was their empress. Make no mistake, the empress is dead—only an impostor in the pay of a foreign king survives.”

  “But, Your Majesty, what was their intent?” asked Mandalock.

  “I had a reason for coming to Diomeda,” replied Warsovran. “I had made a pledge by the gods of the moonworlds, and because I sought to honor this pledge, we were all spared the fire that swept Torea away.”

  He paused, surveying their expectant faces.

  “I expect that you want to know my secret reason.”

  Several hundred shipmasters nodded.

  “It will become clear in time. For now, repair your ships and keep your men in fighting trim. This place is our only home and we must defend it.”

  The meeting broke up with a resolution of loyalty to the emperor. Warsovran and Forteron left the court hall together.

  “I do believe that the empress has been completely discredited,” Warsovran muttered quietly.

  “I never knew that she was such a powerful initiate,” admitted Forteron.

  “She is a renegade Metrologan, and carries one of their very rare death orders. That is the reason she has compelled me to persecute the Order for so long.”

  “What did she do to bring that upon herself?”

  “I do not know, it was before our marriage. Judging from what she has been trying to do to me, it must have been fairly serious. How ironic. In order to spy on me, she came here in disguise, allowing me to brand her as an impostor. She commanded loyalty among the Damarians, Forteron, but she was also an initiate of the twelfth level—even Einsel is only qualified to the eleventh. Those two things made her very hard to kill. When the fire-circles destroyed Torea, I thought the old bat was dead at last. Alas, she escaped, and that escape cost Darric his life. Still, at least I am free of her. That is some small compensation for losing my empire.”

  “And your son?”

  “Nothing is compensation for that.”

  Forteron thought quickly. Warsovran would not admit to knowing in advance what the fire-circles would do unless some sort of test was being conducted.

  “Sire, you know that I know,” Forteron said warily.

  “Yes. You saw through the empress, yet you were loyal to me. Why?”

  “The fleet is my life; you are my emperor.”

  Warsovran stopped and turned to face Forteron, his hands on his hips. He looked him up and down, then closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Had Darric lived, I would have asked no more than he turn out like you,” the emperor said with rare sincerity, then strode off alone.

  Forteron was left contemplating his future. The truth about his loyalty had actually been that Warsovran was a superb commander and Forteron enjoyed winning. Had the emperor been a bungling incompetent, Forteron would have taken his services elsewhere many years earlier. More than anything else, Forteron feared the prospect of inglorious death resulting from some idiot superior’s stupid decision. Now he was the emperor’s favorite and possible heir, all the while sure that Warsovran had deliberately left the families of every man on the fleet to the fire-circles. Perhaps the emperor was showing favor to buy silence and complicity? Forteron doubted it, but a good tactician always considered every possibility.

  It was twelve days after leaving Gironal that the strains on board the Shadowmoon began to tell on the crew and passengers. The winds and currents were against them, and the small vessel was very cramped with five extra people aboard. The stores definitely would not last all the way to Helion no matter how Feran calculated the allocations. Worse for Feran, Velander had forsaken him for Banzalo, and they had appropriated his cabin.

  By now Miral was rising well after sunset, and Druskarl was on the night watch. Feran joined him as the sunset splashed the sky with lurid colors.

  “No fish on the lines, boatmaster,” reported Druskarl.

  “If you were a fish, would you go near Torea?” sighed Feran.

  “Not being a fish, sir, I cannot venture an opinion.”

  There was a prolonged giggle from below their feet. It was from Feran’s cabin. The two men glanced at each other.

  “Your romance with Velander has, ah, foundered?” asked Druskarl.

  “The wench has all the constancy of a weather vane shaped like a rabbit.”

  “Banzalo?”

  “Who else did you think—Hazlok? Banzalo is no longer an emperor, but he is still a regent. A very minor regent, perhaps, but a regent nonetheless. Start with a boatmaster and work up, hah!”

  “Sir, Laron did mention that her behavior was a little—”

  “Laron! What would he know? Cold, bloodless little fish, he has no life in him. He must be the only man on the Shadowmoon that she has not flirted with.”

  “She obviously takes no interest in me,” Druskarl protested.

  “That’s not the point! I am boatmaster but I must bunk with the men. How can I maintain my authority? I must have a cabin. Come to think of it, Laron has no right to a cabin of his own.”

  “Laron has special needs.”

  “Laron just goes limp when Miral is down, I saw it on the journey to Larmentel.”

  “Crossing Laron is not a good idea. Banzalo could tell you that. Besides, he knows deepwater navigation.”

  “I know some deepwater navigation, too. Laron challenges my authority—and the authority of our regent. He needs to be constrained; my mind is made up. I’m going to fetch the carpenter. Laron will be taken from his cabin while Miral is down, and he will be bound.”

  Feran studied Druskarl’s face, but the eunuch gave no sign of caring. Leaving Druskarl at the steering pole, Feran went below. The sound of splintering wood soon came from beneath Druskarl’s feet as the hatch to Laron’s little cabin was smashed in. A cry of alarm followed.

  “Dead!” shouted Feran. “The navigator’s dead!”

  An hour later Laron’s body lay on the middeck with the passengers and crew gathered around. It was meant to be a service, but had taken the form of an argument.

  “He had to sleep undisturbed,” Druskarl muttered as he prepared Laron’s body to go over the side. “You killed him by smashing in that panel.”

  “He was long dead,” Feran retort
ed. “He had no pulse and his body was cold. He must have died hours ago.”

  “When he slept, he slept close to death. Any shock would tear loose his grip on life. He explained his affliction to me when I first came aboard.”

  Banzalo spat on the deck. “What is one more death after all the death we have seen?” he sighed.

  “This youth’s death removes the only qualified deepwater navigator from the Shadowmoon, Regent,” Druskarl replied. “How do you suggest we navigate across the Placidian Ocean to Helion without him?”

  This problem had not crossed Banzalo’s mind. He glared at Feran.

  “I can do anything that Laron could have,” retorted Feran.

  He paced the tiny length of deck, annoyed and embarrassed, then seemed to make a decision. Laron’s body was a symbol of bad judgment, so it had to be disposed of.

  “Druskarl, prepare to drop him over the side.”

  Druskarl held Laron over the rail. The others bowed their heads. Druskarl slipped a noose around Laron’s ankle, then intoned a few words of the burial service for seamen:

  “Why should those, who have sailed upon the waters for so long, have fear of their dark and soothing depths? Sleep well, Laron, and rise again as a reflection of your life’s worth.”

  He heaved the body over the rail, and it splashed into the water and sank immediately. Twenty minutes later Miral rose on the eastern horizon.

  Laron awoke being dragged along by one leg through the dark water. Twisting his body around, he seized the rope that attached him to the Shadowmoon, then began to drag himself back to the little vessel. Druskarl had attached the other end to an outboard rigging pin, and before long Laron was clinging to the side of the Shadowmoon and listening for voices. There were none. He peered over the side. Two of Banzalo’s guards had been stationed to watch for other ships, but they seemed to be asleep. Apart from these and Druskarl, all the others were below.

  Laron slowly eased himself over the rail. Druskarl saw him, but the two marines were sitting dozing, their backs to Laron. Druskarl lashed the steering pole, then stepped forward and jammed the hatch shut with his knife.

  Laron and Druskarl attacked together. Druskarl spun his marine and simply hit him squarely on the jaw. Laron seized his companion, twisted him to the deck with the skill of frequent practice, then bit. Druskarl watched Laron feeding with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion. Once the bodies had been dropped over the side, they sat on the quarterdeck, whispering.

  “They must all be asleep below,” said Druskarl. “I heard the giggles from Banzalo’s cabin cease about half an hour ago. Velander sang for a while, and the marines on deck slumbered. The words of her song were from some very strange language.”

  “Her singing induced sleep, except in those whose ability to appreciate female charms is impaired.”

  “Such as us?”

  “Well … you have been subjected to a few modifications, and I am dead.”

  “So what now?”

  “Banzalo will be asleep, and she will be astride some man of lesser rank.”

  “I can hardly credit the change in Velander.”

  “It is not Velander. I have been studying her. She is as stealthy and cautious as a rat robbing a cat’s food bowl, but I have caught her out several times. She did not know we were returning to Helion before Banzalo came aboard, and she thinks Terikel is her friend. Something possessed Velander in the ruins of Larmentel. A succubus, is my guess. It is in the oracle sphere held in the circlet.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Velander changed from prude to temptress within mere hours while in Larmentel. Around the same time I saw a soul being torn to shreds by elementals while darkwalking. That was when I heard my name being called. I am now sure that I witnessed Velander’s death without knowing it. Everyone aboard except us has been increasingly lethargic ever since Velander returned from Larmentel. I can recognize a fellow elemental, Druskarl. We both feed on the life force of others; I just do it more violently.”

  “So what now?”

  “I am weary of the whims and orders of fools and idiots. I am going to do some serious eating, then I am going to take command.”

  Laron slipped quietly belowdecks and made for the boatmaster’s cabin. Banzalo was asleep, and alone. Laron fed quietly, then moved on. Feran was asleep in the navigator’s cabin, while the succubus was visible in the blackness, astride one of the marines. The other marine was behind them. Again Laron fed. Presently the elemental left the remaining marine in a deep sleep and slipped from his bunk. Laron seized her by the throat and pressed hard on the main artery. The elemental struggled soundlessly as he held her at arm’s length. Presently she went limp. Laron bound and gagged her.

  Back on deck, Laron held up a little chunk of glass from Larmentel. Now he whispered a truename to the fragment of glass and spoke a more complex casting. Faint violet fire skittered over its surface for some seconds, then expanded to surround it like a faint bubble. He put it on the lid of the iron casket.

  “We are over the Arcosta Sandbanks,” said Laron, leaning on the rail with his hands clasped. “The water is only about ten feet deep, but that should be more than sufficient. Furl the sails and drop anchor while I bring out the dead.”

  Soon there were three bodies on the deck. The elemental’s eyes were open as Laron tied a small sack of gold to her feet.

  “Druskarl, throw Banzalo and his two marines over the side,” Laron said without looking up.

  The elemental’s eyes watched as the bodies were heaved over the side, one by one. Laron now lifted her, weighting and all. He bared his teeth at her, then spoke.

  “A captured succubus is worth far more than the gold I am weighting you with,” he said as he lifted her above the rail. “I know that Velander is dead, so what happens to her body is unimportant. You are alive, however, and I have prepared a tether amulet and entrapment-casting on deck. You may stay with this body and drown. You may also leave it and flee into the blackness of the ocean and be lost. Then again, you may consent to be captured. The other tethers are sealed in the iron casket. Think quickly.”

  The elemental’s eyes glared, and her head shook emphatically from side to side. Laron released her without another word. Velander’s body splashed noisily and vanished. Laron began to count, and sat down to watch the bubble of violet around the chunk of glass. The sound of men stirring came from below, but Druskarl had jammed the hatches again. Laron reached one hundred twenty-seven.

  The elemental held on, hoping this was a trick. When her host body’s lungs began to burn she tried to dissociate, but she could not speak the word. She breathed water, thrashing and struggling. Velander’s body was dying. Serenity replaced terror, then the body’s life force ebbed so low that the elemental was able to tear free. There in the etherworld was a well of light and a violet sphere, just as Laron had said, and beside it was an ocular. Laron was patiently watching the chunk of glass on the iron case. Druskarl sat nearby, cleaning his fingernails with the point of a knife. If they reeled in the ocular and closed the casket there would be total blackness. There was really no choice involved for the succubus, and in her despair she had not noticed another, gossamer-thin line of light with a vanishingly faint cloud of glow surrounding it.

  Laron saw the surface of the glowing bubble shimmer, then change to red. Instantly he spoke a bright ball of yellow fire into his hand and leaped straight over the side.

  Velander’s bound body was just below the ship, and one tug at the slipknot freed it from the bag of coins on the shallow oceanbed. Moments later Druskarl was helping him to haul the body over the rail and onto the deck.

  “Cut off the gag and bindings, quickly!” barked Laron. “Now turn her on her back, breathe into her mouth like I showed you.”

  Laron ripped open Velander’s tunic, then spoke more tendrils of fire onto his hands. Spreading his fingers, he pressed down on her upper chest. The body heaved, and Druskarl pulled away.

  “Keep breathing for her!”
Laron cried, clamping his glowing hands down again.

  Velander’s body convulsed. This time it coughed, vomited water, then lay still, breathing raggedly. Laron sat back and absorbed the etheric fire into his hands.

  “I thought you said Velander was dead,” Druskarl asked.

  “She is; she died at Larmentel. This is a body with no soul, no consciousness.” He tapped the sphere held in the newly visible circlet that she wore. “The subsequent tenant has just been evicted.”

  Laron spoke a casting. Velander’s body became wrapped in glowing threads that skittered over the surface without binding. He spoke another casting. Druskarl recognized some words from the experiments he had helped with.

  “Luckily, I am the devious type,” said Laron. “Back at Larmentel I gave her more than the settings to render the circlet opaque, I also had her reset it to release itself to this type of casting.”

  “What? You mean you knew back then?”

  “No, I just wanted control of the circlet restored to me.”

  Druskarl whistled. “Your paranoia has no bounds.”

  “Who told you to say that?”

  They both chuckled, then Laron twisted a ray on the circlet. Tendrils of fire danced along the metal, then soaked into her skin.

  “Her hair!” exclaimed Druskarl. “It seems to be growing right through the metal.”

  “That is because the metal does not quite exist.”

  Laron shook the body by the shoulders.

  “Ninth?”

  Her eyes opened. She stirred. “Laron?”

  “I am here.”

  “Laron, there was a thing in here with me. It was burning and greedy, and it was terribly strong. I was so frightened—”

  “Ninth, Ninth, just calm yourself. It will never be back.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Am I to practice walking again?”

  “No more practice. This body is yours.”

  The auton girl slowly sat up, again clumsily because of the new body.

  “My clothes. They are wet.”