Moonblood

by Martin Ash

  But what of the Shadownight? I thought.

  Despite the warmth of the morning I felt a chill in me. But I made no further comment. I pushed past Darean Monsard and descended from the parapet, taking the steps three at a time. I made straight for Lord Flarefist’s rooms. The guard made enquiry within and I was admitted without further delay.

  Lord Flarefist was in his bed, propped against pillows. Markin the physician was endeavouring to have him sip some steaming concoction from a clay dish. A nurse was the only other person in attendance.

  Flarefist looked frail and sick in his night-smock. There was a bloody graze at his temple where it had knocked against the floor last night. He seemed barely aware of his surroundings, though he raised his eyes briefly as I moved to stand beside the bed, then lowered them.

  ‘It’s you, y’ villain,’ he slurred. ‘Y’ve a nerve, returning here. Have y’ brought back the silver?’

  I knew then that I was going to get little sense out of him. I correcting him, reaffirming that I was not Linvon the Light. Flarefist looked up again, staring at me fixedly, his scowl of pained indignation yielding slowly to perplexity, and then something else. His eyes brimmed and large, clear teardrops formed and tumbled down the old cheeks. With irritation he brushed aside the bowl that Markin held and tried to reach forward to grasp my hand. But the effort proved too much and he succeeded only in toppling sidewise across his pillows.

  Together Markin and I helped him sit erect again, and now he laid a feeble, clawlike hand on mine. His wet eyes implored and his jaw trembled, and at last a voice came, faint, broken and rasping, like the whisper of dry leaves over stone. ‘Find him, Bisding. Please.’

  ‘Who, Lord Flarefist?’

  ‘My son… I’ve waited so long… Redlock… He’s everything… Find him… Bring him back to me.’

  He gave a cough which racked his whole body. When the spasm ceased his eyes closed and his head lolled to one side as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Markin checked his pulse, then shook his head. ‘He is too weak.’

  ~

  Leaving Lord Flarefist’s room I stood for a moment in thought outside the door. A movement caught my eye. Looking up I spotted Lady Sheerquine passing across the end of the corridor. In fact, I had the distinct impression that she had been turning into the passage but something must have distracted her or caused her to change her mind and alter her course. She gave no indication of having seen me, or at least of wanting to speak with me, and I didn’t pursue her.

  I was making for Ulen Condark’s rooms, and then Ravenscrag’s gaol, anxious to reassure myself of the welfare of Condark and his family, and the others of Ravenscrag’s ‘guests’. I intended also to go to the cellar to find out the condition of its monstrous occupant. But something nagged at me as I went. A subliminal scratch, a psychic tingle just beneath the level of consciousness. A voice spoke inside my head.

  ‘Master, I am here.’

  ‘Yo! Have you brought news?’

  ‘I have been contacted. Somebody awaits you at the Meeting-Place of the Dead.’

  I changed direction and made my way immediately to my rooms. There I settled myself, entered trance, and abandoned my body into Yo’s care. I soared out of the corporeal world and sped straight for that hallowed local, Shalu, and the Meeting-Place of the Dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A ghostly figure waited beside the cairn, where lay the stick and the Drum of Calling. I suppressed a pang of disappointment, for it was neither my mother nor my father, both of whom I had hoped to speak with again. Instead a stranger stood there, a man, or the shade of a man, seemingly formed out of the flux, part haze, part solid stuff. He held the image of a man of stature, a warrior, noble and prepossessing, garbed in padded leather jerkin over a white blouson, blue cloak, leather boots and hose.

  ‘You are the sorcerer from Khimmur who fights to save Ravenscrag in the domain of the living?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I confess, I have been given little choice if I want to preserve my own skin – though my skin is imperilled either way. But innocents are threatened, and persons I care for. I will help them if it’s within my power to do so.’

  The shade appraised me, and I in turn studied him. His features were not well-discerned in a physical sense. Being non-corporeal we were not reliant upon accustomed perceptual modes. What I gained, then, was more an intuition of the make-up of his psyche, a sense of his being, his spirit, and it was an uncomforting experience. I was assailed by a profound mournfulness and a great and intense longing; a sense of tremendous age, of unspeakable weariness, of deepest anguish and dreadful sorrow. I sensed a person borne down by the weight of a pained existence. Into my thoughts floated an image of Lord Flarefist, on hands and knees upon the dirt floor outside the cellar door against which a monster pounded.

  Age, ruin, disconsolateness, crushing despair, yearning, regret, broken hopes and tormented dreams… a sense of all these flooded through me as I stood before this revenant. But also there was a cognizance of a spirit not quite destroyed, a resoluteness, a feeling of grim and unswayable purpose, a character weakened, yet still ennobled, by intense suffering.

  And finally, I thought, there was an inkling – the faintest susurration – of hope renewed.

  I mentally withdrew, for the anguish of this shade was oppressively intrusive upon my own spirit.

  He seemed satisfied with his appraisal of me. ‘Be seated,’ he said, and lowered himself cross-legged onto the powdery grey sand beside the crystal cairn. ‘We shall talk.’

  I settled myself before him. The soughing of cosmic winds was the only sound, serving as background to our conversation. The fluxing, swirling essence was broken by occasional flickers of colour or light, and brief streaks or shudders of fiery substance, sometimes close, sometimes distant.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you from your divine rest. It was my only – ‘

  He shook his head, a mournful smile forming on the impression of bloodless lips. ‘There has been no rest. Not for long ages. Not for me. Though it’s what I long for, more than anything, it is denied to me even in death. I am not permitted to forget, nor to escape into peaceful re-mergence with the Essence. I’ve only the endless torment of limbo, in eternity, unless I can redress the past.’

  I perceived his eyes as pale, almost luminous grey as they rested intently upon me, and again I felt myself shrinking from the appalling intensity of suffering that emanated from his soul. He spoke on, sombrely. ‘When your revered parents pass word of your quest among the dead, they were surprised that there was one who responded so quickly. They knew nothing of me. But their surprise lasted only as long as it took for me to tell them my tale, and it is this that you are about to hear. So listen, and I shall tell you all there is to tell about the woman I loved more than life itself, my cherished heart, my beloved wife, Molgane.’

  I started, taken completely unawares. ‘You are Lord Draremont?’

  He gave a slow nod. ‘That is the name and title by which I was known on the last occasion that I walked among the living. In Shalu, among the dead, I’m known only as the One Who May Not Pass On. For shades come from the world of the living and are slowly re-merged, some to return eventually to life in other forms, others to be absorbed entirely into Moban’s Essence. But I remain, doomed by my burden to suffer this fate. And let me anticipate another question: yes, a bane was cast upon Ravenscrag, but though it came from Molgane’s sweet, agonized lips, it was not she who uttered it. That I know, and have known since before my death.’

  I waited there in silence, considering the ambiguity of his words. He spoke again, and this is the tale he told me. ‘When, ages past, I dwelt in the world as Draremont, Lord of Ravenscrag, with the woman I loved, my wife Molgane, at my side, magic was known to some degree in Wansir. As in other lands, it was practised by only a very few. The majority of these were women, who seemed to have a greater and more natural affinity with the mysterious art than m
ales.’

  I nodded, acknowledging a correspondence with the Zan-Chassin Hierarchy, which was essentially matriarchal in character.

  ‘The magic practised in Wansir was not overtly powerful, and was generally beneficent,’ Lord Drarement continued. ‘Its use and instruction were carefully monitored to guard against malpractice. The body responsible for both the application and the guardianship of what magical power we possessed was called the Us’temmid Hassut, which translates approximately as the Sisterhood of the Hallowed Blood. The title was a reference firstly to their ideology, which held that magic was the province, not of one but of all, and was to be used for the benefit of all; but primarily it was to the blood of womanhood, which is first shed by every girl-child as she passes across the threshold from childhood into adulthood. The blood was seen as both the burden and blessing of womanhood, to be shed and renewed with each cycle of the moon, throughout adult life unto old age, ceasing only for the creation of new life. Magical power and efficacy is associated both with the lunar cycle in its various phases, and with the corresponding cycle of female fertility.’

  Into my mind came the word ‘Moonblood’. I struggled for a moment, reeling as I tried to take in what I was hearing. The full import was more than my comprehension could grasp.

  ‘Molgane had displayed an aptitude for magic from an early age, long before we met,’ said Lord Draremont. ‘When she entered womanhood she was therefore initiated into the Sisterhood.’

  He paused, staring sightlessly, lost, I believed, in his memories. ‘According to ancient lore, magic came originally to Wansir out of the mysterious land of Qol, known to many as Enchantment. No doubt you are familiar with legends and tales from Enchantment, with accounts of the Enchanter Wars of the First Era, and in particular with the tale of the Witch Queen, Yshcopthe, who gave up her life that the world might be saved from catastrophe?’

  I nodded, afflicted with sudden foreboding at the mention of dark Qol. ‘The tales are well known in Khimmur and other lands.’

  Magic is said to have originated in Qol, more widely known as Enchantment. Over millennia, following Yshcopthe’s Ruse by which the godlike Enchanters were tricked into yielding up much of their power, its potency gradually dwindled. Lore held that the nature of magic further altered when it passed beyond Enchantment’s strange borders, so that it again lost much of its awful power and became a force which might be harnessed and utilized to some limited extent by lesser races, such as mankind.

  Lord Draremont continued: ‘At some point, I believe some years after Molgane’s initiation, the Sisterhood was approached by a stranger. At the time this was not known to myself or anyone outside the Sisters of the Hallowed Blood. Molgane was by then a prominent adept.

  ‘The stranger professed himself a zinoja brujo, a man of great knowledge and power, who came from somewhere deep within the forest. He called himself Mososguyne, and demonstrated to the Sisterhood impressive powers, essentially similar to their own but of a broader scope. He hinted at secrets and knowledge of more powerful magics, and proposed linking with the Sisterhood, pooling his talents with theirs. He was by all accounts a charming and charismatic personality, and after some debate and a period of trial, even though permitting a man access to their knowledge was unheard of, he was granted his wish.’

  Dark shadows coursed across Draremont’s form, as if to betray the agitation he felt. He resumed in trembling tones. ‘In that very act was contained the first demonstration of both his power and his true nature, for he had placed them under his will, undetected and almost without effort. It was the beginning of their downfall. It was not discovered until much later, but Mososguyne had come out of Enchantment where he had spent long years studying foul sorceries. He is believed to have been a student of one of the surviving Enchanters, who sent him back beyond Enchantment’s borders to spread his master’s influence. Whatever the facts, Mososguyne brought to our land a malign power and a perverse need to gain ascendancy over us, no matter the cost.

  ‘We should, I suppose, be thankful that the magic of Enchanters is not what it was. Even so, Mososguyne brought tragedy and devastation to Ravenscrag, against which we had little defence. His designs were unsuspected for many years, and during that time he gleaned from the Sisters what they knew, and took effective steps to corrupt their magic and deprive them of power.

  ‘Despite their experience and wisdom, the Sisters fell under his glamour. He sowed dissent among them and caused them to mistrust one another. Their unity dissolved; several succumbed to fatal illness or accident. It happened over a period of time and nobody suspected villainy, but within ten short years the Sisterhood of the Hallowed Blood was effectively gone, at least as a unified entity. Their power and place had been usurped and corrupted by this creature, this zinoja brujo.

  ‘Still, I knew nothing of all this. Molgane and I were close; we shared secrets, but the esoteric nature of the affairs of the Sisterhood was sacrosanct, and I rarely sought to encroach in any way upon their privacy. Still, we discussed their growing disunity, which troubled Molgane. But we saw the problem as being one of internal politics, of personalities and sheer ill-fortune, and had no inkling of what was really happening.

  ‘So, as I say, the group dissolved, the surviving members going their own ways. Now Mososguyne was free to concentrate his energies on one alone, she who was closest to policital power in the region: my wife, the mother of our two sons, and the woman I worshipped and adored, Molgane.’

  Lord Draremont paused. His head was bowed and he let out a long sigh. ‘In retrospect I consider him to have been insane, driven perhaps by the potencies he strove to command, or by his experiences within that unnatural land of Enchantment. I can see no real reason or pattern behind his acts, other than destruction for its own sake, power for the sake of more power. After all, had he wanted political power or rule he could have directed his efforts at kings or princes in other nations, who were far wealthier and stronger than we of Wansir.’

  ‘Perhaps he was testing himself,’ I offered, ‘in preparation for greater prizes later on.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he was not so clever. The power he gained in Wansir came through those he controlled, the Sisterhood of the Hallowed Blood. But his acts of senseless destruction were ultimately self-defeating.’

  ‘By then, though, were not his immediate objectives already achieved? Hadn’t he proved himself to his satisfaction, and that of whoever had sent him from Enchantment? Was he ready to move on elsewhere?’

  The shadows flickering across Draremont’s form became deeper-hued, more pronounced. He shook his head, his ghostly jaw clamped shut, and I sensed his grief, his emotion, so profound even after centuries.

  ‘I will cut a long story short,’ he said. ‘Molgane was possessed by this vile sorcerer. She had become, unknowingly, his slave. He controlled her mind, and through her he was able to manifest his corruption.

  ‘I’d noticed small changes in her behaviour. Moods, tantrums, which were not in her character. But I was too busy to pay great heed. Remember, I’d witnessed nothing to alert my suspicions. Ah, but reports began to reach me, disturbing reports. A trickle at first, vague and unsubstantiated. Then more, of greater substance. People came to me complaining of Molgane’s behaviour – something none would have dared to do without total conviction and the impetus of fear and despair which far outweighed any anxiety about how I might respond. I couldn’t help but take notice.’

  ‘What was the nature of these complaints?’

  ‘They varied. Cows had produced curdled milk after Molgane had blessed them. Pigs contracted swine fever after she had merely passed by. A child she visited suddenly took sick and perished. Then another. She treated a woman for a growth upon her leg; after the treatment the growth rapidly spread and took the woman’s life within days. Crops were inexplicably eaten up with mildew and rot, or became infested with mites and beetles…’

  Lord Draremont turned away, shaking his head. ‘It grew worse. Tales of her consorting…
consorting with beasts.’ He gave a great shudder. ‘I was under terrible pressure. At length I had no choice but to question my wife.

  ‘I spoke to her privately at first. She professed no knowledge of the incidents, and… I believed her. You see, while undeniably Molgane caused terrible turmoil and suffering, it was not her doing. She was not the real cause. The true cause was the evil that drove her, directing her actions. She was possessed and knew nothing of it. She did not even perceive that the effects she manifested were the opposite of her intentions.’

  ‘Then the accusations were true?’

  ‘Oh yes. Some, at least. There was no doubt. But it was not her. Her mind was affected, her reason, her very being, had been usurped. Mososguyne’s grip upon her had blighted her very perception of the world. But I learned this only later, after much research. At the time I saw what was before me: my beloved wife was guilty of monstrous acts, all of which she vehemently and plaintively denied.

  ‘In effect, I was rendered powerless. My advisors and kin – themselves distraught, for they loved her too – made it plain that I had only one recourse. I was forced to invoke an ancient law that prescribed punishment for any person convicted of practising harmful magic. Molgane was tried and found guilty. Her punishment was terrible: she was boiled alive in oil, her agony prolonged so that all traces of evil would flee her flesh, leaving no vestige or residue behind, and be forever discouraged from returning. Once dead, she was dismembered in accordance with the law, and her remains scattered, buried separately in unmarked graves where none might find them.’

  Lord Draremont choked as he spoke these last words. He rose suddenly with a loud sob and strode to the edge of the circle, where he stood between two of the standing stones, staring into the primordial swirl beyond. I left him until he could bring himself to return and sit with me again.