Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  She began to bind up her hair. This was something that did not require thought, and had not been permitted while she was a captive. In desert society, a respectable woman never showed her hair unbound in a public place. Her unbound hair was as much a symbol of her slavery as the padded shackle on her neck. They rode on in silence for a time, and presently the noises from within the cart’s tray ceased.

  “My lord, the caravan guards will soon be after us with dogs,” Senterri warned, suddenly remembering the fate of other runaways.

  “Dogs tend not to like tracking Velander,” replied Laron. “Maybe it’s because she likes dogs. It could be an acquired taste.”

  “She—she feeds on dogs, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many more such, such—well, demons are there?”

  “I told you, there is only Velander. She is quite enough, as you may have gathered.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Me? Oh, you mean these!”

  He removed his long fangs and dropped them into his purse. Senterri giggled before she could stop herself. How long since I giggled about anything? she wondered. Back in Diomeda, months ago, at a belly-dancing lesson. So it is true, this is no dream. If I can laugh, then I truly am free.

  “Have to keep up appearances, you know,” Laron explained. “I mean, when people see that Velander and I both have fangs, and then they see her tear heads off and get hit by arrows without showing any effects, well, they think I can do the same. Best way to win a fight is to frighten people into running away. Ah, this is a nice spot.”

  Laron reined in the horse and locked the wheels. Taking a body each, he and Velander carried them over to a ledge overhanging the river. Laron struggled under the caravan master’s weight, but Velander had no trouble with the much-heavier bodyguard. Senterri watched as Velander carried two large rocks over to the bodies. Laron was waiting with a coil of rope.

  “We always weight the bodies and sink them,” Laron explained as he tied a rock to the bodyguard. “The fish clean off the flesh, the clothing rots, and tracker dogs are not at their best underwater. We seldom leave her, er, table scraps in open view. They would eventually become a trail that someone might follow.”

  Velander lifted the weighted body above her head, then flung it at least twenty feet into the deeper water. By now Laron was tying the second rock to the caravan master. When he was finished, Velander heaved the body into the water, then returned to the cart.

  “You ruin this one!” she snapped at Laron as she lifted the decapitated body. “Never use strangle casting,” she added for Senterri’s benefit. “Big waste.”

  “As it stands, it seems as if the slaver and his bodyguard robbed and killed the caravan master, then escaped across the river to some hideaway,” said Laron, following with the bodyguard’s head. “Once the bodies are gone, we are just a boy and two women in a cart.”

  “But, my lord, I still wear the shackle of a slave.”

  Velander dropped the decapitated body, reached out with both hands, seized the shackle and twisted. The rivet broke. She tossed it aside. It traveled over halfway across the three-hundred-yard-wide river before hitting the water. Senterri rubbed her neck nervously as Velander continued to stare at her. Or at her neck, at any rate.

  “Apologies,” Velander suddenly muttered, looking away.

  Laron weighted the body with a rock, then attached the head by its hair. Velander heaved it out into the water.

  “Velander, wash your face,” called Laron, as she turned back to the wagon.

  “Am not finished,” she said, vaulting into the tray and staring down at D’Alik.

  Senterri saw that D’Alik’s eyes were open and bulging wide with terror. He had apparently been awake for at least part of Velander’s previous meal. He struggled against his ropes, but they had been tied with no less skill than a slaver would have used.

  “You little pig!” exclaimed Laron. “Well, don’t come running to me tomorrow night when you feel like a nice soft neck and there’s nobody to hand.”

  For just a moment D‘Alik caught Senterri’s eye. Death was looming over him, licking her lips. A flicker of pity batted somewhere at the edges of Senterri’s awareness. For so many months he had been her owner, her master, her monarch. Now he was Dinner Nineteen. Suddenly another thought crossed her mind. How many girls had D’Alik loomed over in the gloom of the bedchambers in Madame Voldean’s establishment? With a dark, sharp stab of malicious pleasure, Senterri smiled at D’Alik.

  “Do you think she wants some privacy?” asked Senterri, gesturing back to the tray as they set off down the road again.

  “No, but if you value your sanity you should keep your eyes on the road ahead,” Laron advised.

  They reached the frontier before dawn. It was no more than a pair of stones flanking the road and the ruins of a watchtower annihilated during some border dispute of decades past. Laron hobbled the horse and left it grazing. Velander climbed out of the tray of the wagon, then looked to the river.

  “For wash, is time,” she said to Senterri, then strode away across the shingles to the water.

  “She is right,” said Laron, who was dragging sacks and bags out of the tray of the wagon. “That is good—not too much blood on the sacks and none on the bags and tent. She is not as messy as she used to be. Poor little thing, it must be hard for her, but she does try.”

  “She—she has not been like this for long?”

  “Ah, no. Not at all, really. Only a matter of weeks. She saved my life once, you know. I tried to save her in turn, but I could not bring her back from the dead. Yet I did manage to bring her back, even though it’s not quite the same. I have been trying to look after her ever since. Ah, would you please take these sacks to the water’s edge and rinse out the blood?”

  “I—I …”

  Senterri stifled a sob. Laron took a pace back, looking concerned and still holding the sacks.

  “I am sorry,” he said hastily. “If blood upsets you I can do the washing. I would be grateful if you could tear up some grass for the horse’s nosebag, though. We cannot stay here long, and he must be getting hungry. Story of my life, really, looking after hungry things that depend on me.”

  “No! Laron, no, you don’t understand. Nobody has said ‘please’ to me for so very long. Yet again I realized that I was really, truly free, and it—it came as a such a shock. Give me the sacks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Dammit, Laron, do you think I don’t know how to wash clothes? I am an expensive and well-trained slave—well, until last night, anyway.”

  “Ah, damn, the slaver!” Laron exclaimed, as if remembering some minor and annoying detail.

  Laron heaved D’Alik’s body out of the tray and staggered unsteadily to the water’s edge. Dropping the slaver, he went in search of a suitable rock to weight it with. He will need rope, thought Senterri. Rope … and something to cut it with. She approached the slaver’s body with a coil of rope and an ax. Tossing the rope to the ground, she raised the ax and brought it down on the body’s neck. At the fifth blow the head rolled free.

  “What? Now I’ll have to tie it by the hair!” exclaimed Laron as he returned with his rock. “Why did you do that?”

  “A demon made me do it,” Senterri sighed, the ax over her shoulders.

  “A demon? Velander! Why in all hells did you tell her to cut off—”

  “Not Velander!” protested Senterri. “A little joke—I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Well, I like a girl with a sense of humor, but there’s a time and place for everything.”

  “I want to keep the head,” explained Senterri, and her tone made it clear that she was not open to negotiation.

  “Amberwood hairpins, I collect,” said Velander. “Laron, false fangs, you collect. Lady is liking heads, collect. Wasting other three. Sorry.”

  “You collect heads?” said Laron.

  “Just this one,” replied Senterri.

  “But why? It has no
particular virtues, and if searchers do find us, we are not just a boy and two women, we are a boy, two women, and a severed head. All that can be summed up by the word ‘suspicious’.”

  Velander nudged D’Alik’s head with her foot, then kicked it. The head arced through the air, and landed in the wagon’s tray.

  “Why are not you, ah, discarding fang collection?” she asked Laron. “Is suspicious, too.”

  “Well, point taken, but my fang collection is a lot smaller, and will not be reeking in a day or two.”

  “Miral down, myself am dead body,” declared Velander. “Bigger than head, very suspicious. Yes?”

  Laron opened his mouth, took a deep breath, then snorted and folded his arms. “Well, all right, keep your bloody head,” he muttered to Senterri. “I suppose everyone needs a hobby.”

  Laron secured his stone to D’Alik’s body, then Velander picked it up with one hand and heaved it out into the deeper water. Laron and Senterri applauded. Velander bowed. Laron began to tear up grass and stuff it into the feedbag, while Senterri attended the bloodstained sacks. The edge of the river flowed over stones, and was not at all muddy, so Senterri dumped the sacks into the water and trod them down. Not far away, Velander rose from the surface and began to strip off her black clothing. For a moment she stood naked in the green light of Miral, then tossed her tunic and trews to the riverbank. Ducking down again, she washed blood from her hair before striding from the water.

  She noticed that Senterri was staring at her, the sacks beneath Senterri’s feet forgotten.

  “Something is matter?” asked Velander.

  Senterri continued to stare, her mouth hanging open a little.

  “Am not threaten you,” said Velander. “Not afraid, being necessary. Ah, women of solidarity, I am believing in. Or is it solidarity of women, perhaps?”

  “The finest Zel vase ever crafted is not as beautiful, delicate, and perfect as you,” Senterri managed.

  Velander blinked, her hands on her hips.

  “Er, not understand.”

  “Compliment.”

  “Ah, compliment. Is peer, er … What is word? No hinting, please, trying to improve Diomedan … Approval! Peer approval. My thanks.”

  Velander gave a flourish with her arm, then bowed deeply. Laron came hurrying over with a bundle in either hand.

  “Dry clothes. Velander, get into them with all haste. Senterri, get your slave gear off—don’t worry, I shall not look—weight it with a stone, and throw it into the water. You can wear Velander’s spare tunic and sandals—oh, and my cloak, if you are cold. Can I have the sacks, Senterri? And Velander, your wet clothes?”

  Laron hurried back to the wagon.

  “Is good soul in Laron,” said Velander, wiping the water from her skin with her hand. “Him, if anyone hurts, I make sure is in pain of extremes, and takes long time to die.”

  Dawn was glowing on the eastern horizon as they set off for the west again. Laron had erected the wagon’s rain frame and tied tentcloth over it, after pointing to various colors in the sky and clouds, and insisting that it meant rain. Velander had the reins, ignoring Laron and Senterri as they breakfasted on dates and water.

  “Do you not eat, my lady?” asked Senterri.

  “Eat, that I do,” replied Velander.

  “She ate last night,” Laron added.

  “Ah, yes, I think I understand,” said Senterri, shuddering. “Silly me.”

  Miral was touching the western horizon, jagged with the Lioren Mountains. Laron estimated they could reach the first of the inland cities by nightfall. Presently Velander stretched, in a strangely sinuous way, then climbed into the tray of the wagon.

  “Soon to sleep,” she announced, looking straight at Senterri. “Being nice to Laron, yes? Looking after me, big strain. Not say cross words to Laron. Else, myself unhappy. Myself unhappy, very dangerous.”

  With that she crawled beneath the bags and wet sacks. Laron kept glancing at the western horizon until the last of Miral’s rings had vanished.

  “Velander will be asleep by now,” he explained. “Actually, she is dead, but best not to say it like that—it hurts her feelings. She will become active again when Miral rises. You’re stuck with my company for the next twelve or so hours.”

  Senterri was not sure what to think. Stuck with his company? Did Laron want her to pay for her rescue with the only currency she had to offer? At least it was the price of freedom, and he seemed nice enough, although a little scrawny. On the other hand, he seemed too … too well mannered and decent to demand that sort of thing.

  “My lord Laron, what is your pleasure?” she asked softly.

  Laron glanced from the road to her, then the tray, then west to the mountains.

  “Now that you mention it, I could get great pleasure from about a half hour of sleep,” he said as he handed the reins to her. “Just keep us pointed west, and on the road.”

  Senterri had never driven a wagon in her life, but she managed to more or less keep control while Laron tried to get comfortable on the narrow, bouncing driver’s bench. Presently he began to doze, still sitting up. They proceeded west at a steady pace, and Senterri waved to the occasional peasant they passed. Light rain began to patter down, and slowly grew heavier. Laron teetered, Senterri put out a hand to steady him, then gently pulled him over until his head was resting on her thigh. He remained asleep. She stroked his wavy hair, then his beard. A tuft came off in her fingers. She choked down a giggle, then kissed the scrap of beard and gently pressed it back onto his cheek.

  Laron awoke with his head resting on Senterri’s lap, her arm draped over his chest. He immediately tried to get up, but Senterri pressed him down again.

  “Is the wooden seat more comfortable than my lap?” asked Senterri in a regal, confident voice.

  “Ah, no,” Laron admitted.

  “Then stay where you are.”

  The girl is used to giving orders, thought Laron as he resigned himself to the warmth and softness of his unexpected cushion. She stroked his hair, then let her hand rest on his.

  “You still look exhausted,” observed Senterri. “When did you last sleep?”

  “Ah, somewhere in the desert.”

  “I asked when, not where.”

  “Er, not sure.”

  “You do not look after yourself properly.”

  “I’m still alive,” he pointed out. “That is not a bad test.”

  Laron finally noticed it was raining quite heavily, but the wagon’s covering was doing a good job of keeping them dry.

  “According to the milestones, we should be in Gladenfalle by sometime in the late afternoon,” Senterri announced.

  “Seems too quick,” said Laron. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Perhaps eight hours, maybe ten.”

  “Eight hours!” exclaimed Laron, sitting up before Senterri could press him down again.

  “Yes. My lap must have been very comfortable.”

  Laron blushed. Senterri giggled. Laron rubbed his hands together, hugged his knees, ran his fingers through his hair, stared at a rock they were passing in the hope that it was a milestone, then blew on his fingertips and rubbed his hands together again. They passed a real milestone.

  “Well, goodness me, we must be quite close to Gladenfalle,” he ventured.

  Senterri reached across, put a hand behind Laron’s head and kissed him very firmly on the lips. They avoided swerving off the road only because the horse was paying attention to where it was going.

  “Velander said to be nice to you,” whispered Senterri. “Was that nice?”

  “Ah, yes,” Laron admitted. “But I do not think she quite had that in mind.”

  “Oh. Would she be jealous?”

  “No, but she does get sad about having cold blood and being dead. She cannot do things like, well, kissing. Too dangerous.”

  “I would not like her to be sad,” said Senterri, turning back to the road.

  “I feel that same way.”

 
“Perhaps we should not talk about this to her.”

  “I agree. I am not sure I believe it, anyway.”

  “Why not?” asked Senterri, genuinely surprised.

  “Well, you are lovely, and I am—Ah, well, I do not like talking about myself. It makes me depressed.”

  Senterri handed the reins back to Laron, then pressed against him and draped her arms around his neck.

  “I’m cold,” she said as she rested her head on his shoulder. “And don’t you dare offer me the cloak in the tray.”

  Laron managed to take the cue, and he put his free arm around her. They passed another milestone. It was another hour to the city.

  “What will you and Velander do now?” asked Senterri.

  “Spread a little joy, do some charitable works in Gladenfalle, then move on. We like to think we do good, but we are never welcome.”

  “You mean killing evil and obnoxious people?”

  “‘Kill’ is a rather strong word. ‘Selectively cull’ is the expression I prefer.”

  “Are, er, Velander and you … That is, are you …”

  “Are we what?”

  “Intimate?”

  “No!”

  The vehemence of his reply suggested the idea was actually unthinkable, not just merely untrue.

  “Yet you look after her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am all that she has.”

  “But what do you get in return?”

  “Nothing. It’s mixed up with the idea of chivalry. Well, mostly. I get gratitude, I suppose. In her own way she has become such a sweet little thing since she died.”

  “You mean when she was alive she was worse?” asked the astonished Senterri.

  “No—well, yes, but … it’s complicated.”

  They rode in silence for another minute or so, but with the city so close Senterri felt emboldened.