Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “No, only Ninth is here, doing the sweeping and cleaning.”

  “It is large, open, yet totally private. I wish to hire it from you for a month, possibly longer.”

  “Really? This is a good week; everybody I meet wants to give me money. What do you propose to do here?”

  “When I was a youth, my master lived for five years on the island of Zurlan, off the Scalticar coast.”

  “I have heard of it. They use a strange ax with a curved handle and long, thin blade. Their word for people who use shields means ‘eunuch/coward/tax collector/man-who-does-unsavory-things-with-sheep-on-dark-nights.”’

  “Yes, well, the Zurlanese have an extreme code of honor. They have never been invaded, you know.”

  “They also execute visitors to test their ax-blades. How did you and your master survive?”

  “There is actually a small trade enclave on the north coast of Zurlan. The products of certain plants used in their medicine, cuisine, and sorcery do not grow in such a cold climate, so they are forced to have some contact with the outside world. When my master went there to learn their language and study with their sorcerers, he took me along. A local javat master took a liking to me, and decided that I needed to learn to defend myself. After five years, I was expelled after an incident involving a girl.”

  “It’s always the way.”

  “You do not understand. I challenged someone in defense of the girl’s honor, but Zurlanese girls are expected to defend their own honor, and … Well, I would rather not talk about it.”

  Sairet looked at Laron again, and the direction of the conversation suddenly became clear. “You are going to teach Laron javat, and you need the privacy of my dance space to do it.”

  “You have my intention to the very letter, dancemistress.”

  “Very well, I agree, as one teacher to another. Will you be starting tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, thank you. Oh, and one more little thing. Could you take the girl, Ninth, to Wensomer’s lessons? Javat is not to be taught to anyone considered unworthy by the Keepers of Style. That essentially means anyone who does not live on Zurlan.”

  “Which Laron does not.”

  “Actually, Laron has been to Zurlan, and is well regarded there.”

  “What? He cannot be fourteen.”

  “Seventeen—at least that is his story. Regardless, he is known to be worthy, and so can be taught some elements. A lot of javat teaches you to dodge, deflect, trip, bend bits of an opponent’s anatomy into excruciating positions, and generally put an opponent’s strength to one’s own advantage. It will be ideal for Laron.”

  Almost unconsciously Sairet rolled and swayed her hips as she thought, and Roval could not help but watch. Her sheer grace made her seem much younger than her years, and the sorcerer found himself attracted to, and even aroused by, the dancemistress.

  “No, I think that Ninth can do no harm here,” Sairet suddenly decided, breaking Roval’s trance. “There is a good number of wits missing from her original quota, but if you tell her to look the other way or not listen, she will do precisely that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have been teaching her to dance for fourteen days. Believe me, Learned Roval, she learns fast, but only when told to learn.”

  Roval considered now, unconsciously beginning to sway in time with Sairet. Abruptly he caught himself, then clapped his hands together.

  “Why not? Sometimes I need to stand back and watch while my student fends off an attacker with a knife or club.”

  “Knife, club?” Sairet exclaimed. “Ninth? I don’t want her hurt or frightened.”

  “Oh no, I promise no harm will come to her. The weapons will be harmless mock-ups.”

  “She will not be a convincing fighter.”

  “All the better. Just look at some of the fools who are already wielding knives, clubs, and axes all across Diomeda.”

  Two hours into the next morning’s lesson Laron was beginning to grasp the basics of Roval’s mysterious solution to his less-than-impressive physique. Roval and Laron were both stripped to the waist, and Ninth watched as man and youth squared off against each other again.

  “This time use my weight against me,” said Roval as he advanced.

  As Roval’s hand grasped Laron’s wrist, the youth pulled away for an instant, then stepped forward and hooked a leg behind Roval’s. His free hand snaked up to push against the big man’s throat and Roval tumbled to the threadbare rug on the floor.

  “That was better, but you don’t have to put so much force against my throat, Laron. Throats are soft, if you push against them they yield very easily.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Laron panted. “I’m still trying to use strength to do everything.”

  “Well, don’t. Pretend that you are weaker than you are—and speaking of strength, time for a break—”

  “Praise the gods of the moonworlds.”

  “—to do thirty push-ups.”

  Presently Roval stopped for a genuine rest, and Laron drank greedily from a waterskin as he lay against the wall.

  “That post over there is a thief and he wants your purse,” said Roval.

  Wearily Laron drew his dagger and flung it. The point thudded squarely into the post. While Laron had lost the strength of being undead, he had retained some of the weapons skills he had accumulated over seven hundred years. The trouble was that he had tended not to bother with weapons for most of that time.

  “Now his two friends have jumped out with their axes drawn,” Roval added.

  Laron drew a second dagger from behind him and flung it at the same post, then breathed a thin etheric streamer onto his hand. He stood up and held the yard of glowing fire like an ax.

  “Now what?” Roval asked.

  “I advance on him, hoping he does not realize that the casting cannot stand against a steel ax-blade.”

  “For whatever reason, he does not run,” said Roval.

  Laron shut his eyes and clenched his fist. The casting-blade collapsed in a soundless but brilliant flash. Ninth had not quite raised her hand in time, and afterimages of a jagged starburst of brightness danced before her blinking eyes.

  “I now step forward, cross-block his ax arm,” Laron continued, “bending my right wrist up while hooking a leg behind his and pushing his wrist up and twisting to force him to drop his ax as he falls. I then bring my forearm down against the back of his elbow, breaking it, then snatch up his ax and chop him through.”

  “Actually, you run away as soon as he is dazzled,” said Roval.

  “What? But—”

  “Only ever fight when there is no other way, Laron. He might flail about with his ax and slash you by blind chance—no pun intended.”

  Laron groaned. “I should hope not.”

  “Having been cut open, you are now in pain and losing blood every second, while the third thief is quickly recovering his eyesight. Can you see as yet, Ninth?”

  “Seeing, yes. A little.”

  “Who has the advantage?” asked Roval.

  “But if I was cornered—” Laron began.

  “Ah, but you were not cornered this time. Repeat this to yourself every hour of every day, my friend: You are no longer supernaturally strong and your wounds do not heal overnight. Walk with confidence and take no nonsense from anyone, but never fight unless you have no choice.”

  Roval departed, to go about other business. Laron was left with Ninth, conducting a bland but cheerful conversation. Above them one of Diomeda’s rare thunderstorms was developing, and the beginnings of a lightning bolt was building up. A massive static charge between Diomeda and the clouds increased as rain poured down. An immense amount of the etheric energy suddenly began to discharge through Ninth. She collapsed, arching around and writhing on the floor of the dance space. By the time Laron reached her side she had gone limp. Then she opened her eyes.

  “What—Where the hell am I?” Ninth exclaimed.

  “Ninth?” said Laron, although he already knew
that whatever he was talking to was not Ninth.

  “What is this?” demanded the creature that had possessed Ninth. “Who are you?”

  “Er … Penny?” Laron ventured.

  “What’s going on? Why are you in fancy dress? What happened to my school? Where is my cell phone?”

  “I do not understand your words,” said Laron.

  She put a hand to her chest, then shrieked and snatched it away. “I’ve got two hearts!”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  “If I feel my ears, are they going to pointed, just like yours?” said the elemental, suddenly looking very worried. “I have never, never had a dream like this. I remember going to the school fancy dress ball. Absolute bore, none of the boys would dance with me, they are all frightened of me for some reason. I got back to my room, I just lay on my bed without getting changed … . I must have gone to sleep.”

  “Penny? Is that you?”

  “Penny—? Penny, as in my grandmother?”

  “I do not understand,” pleaded Laron. “Who are you?”

  There was a pause.

  “I might ask the same question.”

  “My worldname is Laron. Where is Penny?”

  “Penny Gisbourne is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “That is a matter of some debate. The coroner said she just stopped living. Did you know her?”

  “We met once,” said Laron. “Sort of.”

  Suddenly Laron understood. Intense, immense quantities of etheric energy surrounded them. This creature was Penny’s grandchild. Penny was dead, but her grandchild had now inherited the circlet and oracle stone on the other world. She must have worn it to the ball and not taken it off. It was a chance in a million.

  “What is your name?” Laron asked.

  “No sensible sorceress would tell her name to strangers.”

  A sorceress from another world, thought Laron. Even better. A whole new scholarship of magic. She might even be of use against Silverdeath.

  “No sensible sorceress would be without a worldname,” Laron explained.

  There was another pause.

  “You may call me Elltee.”

  “Elltee, a name with good definition. Listen carefully—this link between our worlds will not be open for long. We can be of great benefit to each other. Are you interested?”

  “I am interested in anything strange,” said the girl from some inconceivably distant world.

  Feran looked carefully at the sign that hung above a doorway in the outfall level of the port. The sign bore the symbol of a charmshaper and healer. He took out a dagger and flung it at the door. The timbers oozed blue scintillations that swarmed over the dagger, burning away the wood, horn, and leather handle, but leaving the steel blade untouched.

  “You might have knocked,” declared a voice from behind the door.

  “You might have ignored me,” replied Feran.

  A bolt rattled back. A man of early middle-age, dressed in robes of a priestly cut, opened the door. His hair and beard were very short, and his eyes were large and unblinking.

  “That was a Torean dagger,” he commented.

  “What I have to offer comes from Torea,” Feran replied in a tone that was more eager than confrontational.

  He reached into his robes and took out a thorn of glass as long as his hand from which five spirals of milky glass hung suspended by thin, flexible glass strands.

  “I am saving this in case I ever have to ransom a king, but I may be inclined to part with something else in return for a favor from you.”

  He held up a tiny spiral of clear green glass. It looked for all the world like the horn of a unicorn no bigger than a cat.

  “What is it?” whispered the charmshaper.

  “Apart from beautiful, I cannot say. The vitrified death throes of a mouse caught in the fire-circles, according to the rather poetic lad who collected it. Personally I think that any mice in the area would have been long dead, and that it is the manifestation of some tortured forces of enchantment. Can we talk?”

  The Sargolan charmshaper motioned Feran through the door. It closed behind him, untouched. The Sargolan spoke a short, sharp word and blue tendrils leaped from his mouth to the door, penetrating the boards and binding into the door’s frame.

  They stepped through a sparkling, insubstantial curtain that tingled on Feran’s skin. Something seized his wrists, and the Sargolan barked a casting that surged along his arms and down his body. The tingling stopped.

  “The visitor carries an ocular, two knives, and what appear to be several powerful tether charms, Tilbaram,” reported the curtain behind Feran. “He has initiate training to level two, but his skills are of a very basic nature and he can do no more than minor heal-castings.”

  Satisfied, Tilbaram led Feran to a stone room where they both spoke guard words before sitting down within a hemisphere of interlaced tendrils of light blue.

  “I expected something more impressive to be hidden upon you,” said Tilbaram.

  “It’s in my nature to disappoint, what with being a merchant,” Feran replied.

  “Apart from those toys, what could someone with such weak powers as yours have that I would want?”

  “If it would profit me to impress you, I would indeed impress you,” said Feran. “Tell me, what is your interest in Torea?”

  “Torea? I have no interest in Torea.”

  “Why do you lie to me, Gasmer Tilbaram? The Placidian Rim kingdoms have been in turmoil for the past six months. There is no precedent for death on such a scale as happened in Torea, or swiftness. You pay real silver to question mere sailors who have walked the melted sand of Torea’s shores, you even have a blackened knife blade found in the ruins of Gironal and several Helionese silver coins made from silver recovered from the melted cities. Oh yes, you have an interest in Torea, Gasmer Tilbaram. You and all the other initiates and charmshapers of Acrema want to know what unleashed the fire-circles.”

  “What do you know about it, merchant?”

  “I am in a position to offer certain items for sale,” Feran said casually. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Probably the anchor for your ocular.”

  “Correct. Would you like to inspect what my ocular has imaged?”

  The charmshaper spoke a casting at the anchor. A point of light appeared in midair, then drifted slowly across to a wall hung with cheap Sargolan tapestries depicting some of the more noteworthy frolics between their gods and goddesses. As the ocular touched the wall it spread out into a white, featureless disk. When the circumference was touching both the floor and the ceiling it ceased to grow and the charmshaper spoke a control-casting into the palm of his hand. He flicked it at the disk with his finger. The wall suddenly presented them with a view of a sunlit plain with a hamlet and a few trees in the foreground. People were visible going about the business of staying alive and earning a living. Quite without warning, and in less than a heartbeat, a wall of flame lashed up from the horizon. There was a moment in which pure, white light overwhelmed the ocular. Feran and Tilbaram blinked the afterimages out of their eyes, but now there were only swirls of thick dust and smoke over a blighted countryside.

  “My ocular recorded a fire-circle,” Feran explained.

  The scene winked out, leaving the blank, glowing disk.

  “I must see that again,” the charmshaper said eagerly, standing up.

  “You may see it as often as you like, once my price has been met.”

  “What is your price? I do not have the gold of the highborn amateurs farther up the hill, but I can teach you words, grant energies to you, even give you books of etherworld links.”

  “I want none of that. I wish only to have an introduction to the local representative of the Sargolan Governance of Initiates, with a view to affiliation.”

  “What?” Tilbaram hooted. “They even have apprentices with greater etheric powers than yours.”

  “Have your apprentices walked the shores of Torea and colle
cted objects there? Have they been to Helion and spoken to the surviving Metrologan priestesses? I have done all of that. I have chunks of fused glass from the ruins of Larmentel. Would you like one?”

  Strangely enough, there was more gold and silver from the dead continent available in Diomeda than fused sand from the Torean beaches. The prospect of a gift also had a curiously powerful allure for the Diomedan charmshaper. Feran held up a long, tapering sliver of glass.

  “I can speak words on your behalf, but why do you want to affiliate with our Governance?” he asked suspiciously. “Granted, we have a good name, but why us?”

  “Certain initiates from Torea did survive the fire-circles,” said Feran. “I am acting on their behalf, scouting out the cities ringing the Placidian Ocean.”

  “For what?”

  “For support.”

  “And what is the nature of that support, and its end?”

  “That is not for me to say; it is of a confidential nature. I have only goods to trade with, and instructions on what to look for. I also note that you are of a suspicious nature.”

  Feran had been watching Tilbaram, while allowing his eyes to scan the shadows at the edge of his vision. Tilbaram was standing quite still, with only his lips moving. That was marginally suspicious, as behavior went. The light from the blank viewing circle was casting his shadow on the opposite wall, however, and Feran had turned so that he could watch that shadow. Now there was another shadow moving behind his, that of an ax in midair.

  Feran whirled and stabbed behind him with his shard of glass, thrusting into something like thick jelly. The ax that had been floating without apparent support dropped to the floor. Blood began to drip out of midair, then there was a hissing crackle as a casting collapsed. Tilbaram toppled forward on his chair, clutching his abdomen. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  “Dangerous things, simulself-castings,” said Feran. “They transmit damage just as effectively as they hold weapons.”

  Tilbaram writhed and gasped, too agonized and shocked even to cry out.

  “I could get help, but do I really trust you anymore?” continued Feran. “I’ll tell you what: Why not croak out the name of someone on the Sargolan Governance, and he can come to your aid after I have met with him?”