Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  He pushed Elora away, hard as he could; she bounced back before he could recover. This time, though, he was a little more ready, and when she crashed against him, he took hold of the front of her gown and pulled as hard as he was able, rolling his own body at the same time in hopes of ending up on top.

  He felt a smear of icy wetness across his face and, while he planted his knees on her shoulders to pin Elora in place, took a look around to see what had changed.

  The escarpment was dusted with a mix of soggy snow that was melting as it touched down—hence, the sodden nature of the ground—but was falling steadily. Clouds had crept in while they slept; the sky was a mantle of sullen gray from end to end, as though some giant had spread his dirty eiderdown across the world. The air was chill, borderline freezing, but Thorn knew at that glance it would get no warmer during the day, and tomorrow would be worse.

  When he looked down at the still-struggling firebrand beneath him, he thought at first she’d managed to knock his sight silly. Or that the Deceiver had reached out to bleach the day of color as he had the night.

  “Stop,” he told her, and she spat up at his face, shrieking incoherently at him as she had her servants. He’d never seen a baby so out of control, couldn’t imagine it in a Royal Princess—or any decently raised child—much less Elora, who’d been the soul of joy, even when circumstances were most dire.

  “Stop,” he repeated, using nothing of his Power as a sorcerer but drawing instead on the skills of a father.

  She gulped, then hiccuped, the chain of her frenzy abruptly broken. The quality of her tears changed as markedly, as quickly, pouring now from her eyes in a desolate stream, while she gulped bellows’ breaths whose trembles had nothing to do with the unseasonable onset of winter.

  “What have you done to me?” she demanded again, in a voice from her belly, eloquent testimony to the depth of her heartbreak.

  He reached down, and felt a twinge in his own heart to see her flinch at his approach, as though his fingertips held knives to cut her to the bone. Gently, he brushed aside a scattering of snowflakes from her silver skin.

  She was warm to the touch, and her flesh felt as it should. Only its color had altered. He levered himself clear of her, casting a glance across the whole of her body that could be seen through her gown to confirm what he already suspected, that the transformation was all-encompassing.

  She gleamed, like she’d just come from the jewelsmith, more pure than the metal itself had any right to be. All the gold was gone from her hair as well; if anything, it had turned more pale than her skin, shot through with blue highlights, like the afterimage flashes reflected off an ice field. Only her eyes retained their color, a blue grown so intense it was mostly black. They were the wrong eyes for her face, no longer any good for hiding the pain that racked her soul.

  The Deceiver’s doing, but there was no way she’d believe that. A side effect, he assumed, of the Spell of Assumption. Or possibly some interaction of Elora’s own Powers with the energies the Deceiver routed through her when he attacked the dragon.

  But that shouldn’t be, he thought. How could he have gained such complete access, such complete control? And if he held such sway, how then was Elora able to cast him off? The false face spoke of knowing me, as though we were friends. Except I have no sorcerous friends, who also know Elora. Certainly none of such Power and malevolence. The Deceiver’s talisman seems to be the moon; both the light and the fire he casts are cold. Perhaps, since his intent was to displace Elora’s soul with his own, this was his way of remaking her psychically in his own image.

  He shook his head in dismay, because he could see where his logic loop was leading. Except, he finished in frustration, spells aren’t supposed to work on her, not to any lasting, permanent effect; I thought Fin Raziel and I made sure of that.

  She was awkward getting up, too much belly, no reserves of strength, and Thorn thought of how right Geryn had been last night. She was less able to sit a horse than he.

  “You’ll pay for this,” she told him raggedly. “For what you’ve done to me.”

  He had no answer for her, certainly not one she’d accept, and avoided the moment by casting a look about for Geryn Havilhand. No sign of the Pathfinder; only Khory, huddled snug under the lee of the ridgeline, where an umbrella of rock provided a sort of refuge against the snow.

  “Khory,” he called, annoyed that the DemonChild had left him to struggle alone. She’d been ferociously quick to protect him the night before; now it appeared she couldn’t care less. His next thought, which turned him quickstep all the way toward her, was that something had gone wrong. Body and soul had proved incompatible, his spell hadn’t forged a permanent bond.

  He managed a half-dozen steps before the thump of hooves, the jingle of a bridle, announced the Pathfinder’s return.

  Turned out that was true, only not quite the way Thorn assumed—as the young man’s bound and battered body was pitched over the crest, to skid downslope to Thorn’s feet.

  A stranger rode his horse, but he hadn’t come alone. A half-score bravos lined the ridge, hefting whatever weapons had come most immediately to hand. Salty lot, a veritable hodgepodge of men and gear, which Thorn recognized as whoever must have happened to be in the tavern when Geryn rode in.

  “Fortunes made, boys,” the rider announced, to the rumbled approval of his fellows. “We’re all rich men, sure!”

  * * *

  —

  The air inside the roadside ale house was so thick with smoke and the stench of unwashed bodies that breathing was sheer torture, but Thorn had learned the hard way the price of complaining. He was struck more in reflex than by intent; these were men to whom violence came as naturally as a heartbeat, the kind ever eager to demonstrate their courage and prowess against those weaker than themselves. The only reason they’d made a move against Geryn, it turned out, was that the Pathfinder was too weary from his own travails to realize his danger until the bung starter clapped him upside his head.

  Geryn was the one most physically like themselves, which in their eyes made him the only credible threat. Thorn was too small of stature, useful mainly as the butt of increasingly crude gibes, and Khory, a woman. She hadn’t said a word since well before their capture; her basic expression hadn’t altered a whit. If prodded, she’d move and keep going until stopped, or she ran into an obstacle; that provoked a round of cruel merriment as she was pointed toward a wall and sent on her way. She’d walk forward, an idiot’s expression on her face, eyes wide and unfocused, seeing without comprehension, right into the wall, and then she’d stand there, face and body pressed against the rough-hewn timbers, without the slightest notion of what to do next.

  That fun quickly paled and one of the bravos shoved her into a corner, where she sank to a loose-limbed seat on the floor. Thorn yearned to reach her with InSight, but he didn’t want to risk giving her away if she was shamming and wasn’t prepared to deal with the pain of discovering that she wasn’t.

  Elora they gave a wide berth to. None present would touch her; most weren’t willing to even approach. They took her from the escarpment in a pole harness—essentially a lariat loop at the end of a ten-foot quarterstaff, intended to both secure and restrain an animal.

  She, of course, was outraged and told the men so in no uncertain terms. They turned out to be less patient than Thorn. Before the child knew what was about, their captors had slapped in place a leather mask that covered the whole of her head, leaving Elora able to breathe but not to speak or see. A broad belt went around her waist, with buckles to secure her wrists behind her back, and once they’d reached the tavern, she was shackled to a ringbolt on the wall, with a set of hobbles at the ankles as insurance. Geryn they hog-tied with two stout lads poised to kick him back to unconsciousness whenever he so much as stirred. As for Thorn himself, a neck collar was fastened to yet another ringbolt, and his hands tied behind his back by leather cords.

 
Much was made on their arrival of a flyer that a post rider had brought during the night, so fresh from the printer that the ink had partially smudged in transit but amazingly comprehensive in its descriptions of the fugitives: a girl, a Nelwyn, a renegade Pathfinder, and an unknown woman. The reward was very impressive; more money, Thorn knew, than this entire village would see in a score of lifetimes. That was why the prisoners had been humiliated but not substantially harmed, save perhaps for Geryn; none present wanted to jeopardize their windfall.

  Still, when one of the men wanted to take Geryn’s horse, to take word of their capture to the Princess Royal, the leader sent him off on shank’s mare, as a runner. Even with a fortune in the balance, he wasn’t prepared to give up the horse.

  “Mebbe she’s a Magick,” posed one of the men, tossing a thumb to where Elora sat in an awkward huddle, legs together, knees bent to the side. “Not just silver t’ look at, I’m sayin’, but the real thing through an’ through.”

  “So what if she is?” asked another, burping the foam off his rotgut beer.

  “Worth a lot more then, I’m thinkin’, than what’s been offered.”

  “Yer a daft bugger, Mallow,” said the leader, with a cautionary shading to his laugh.

  Mallow got the message. “Jus’ thinkin’ aloud, is all, Simya, meant no harm.”

  “I’m as greedyguts as the next, Mallow, but I also wanner be around t’ spend the coin, once it’s mine. Y’heard the herald, di’ntcha? Warrant bears the seal of Royal Angwyn, an’ the Princess wants ’em all breathin’.” He sucked thick foam from his upper lip and made a great show of waggling Khory’s sword, making clear by the demonstration that he had no training and less innate ability. “B’sides, where’dja go t’ get tha’ kind of price for her? You think the corsairs carry that much cash in their strongbox? An’ what’s to stop them takin’ her from us? Law wants her, law’s willin’ t’ pay, let the law have her. It’s our civic duty, am I right?”

  Gruff round of agreement from the others, thick with amusement at finding themselves on the proverbial side of the angels. Mallow hunched farther over his own stein, projecting a disposition as sour as its taste, while Thorn busied himself persuading his bonds they’d be much more fulfilled undone. That was the advantage of working with materials that had once been alive, rope as opposed to iron, for example; they had an inherent memory of animation, which made them that much more open to the right suggestion. Steel had to be reshaped, same as it would in a forge, using the power of will rather than strength of arm; leather moved of its own accord.

  Unfortunately, personal freedom meant nothing unless he could come up with a means to help the others. He was still tired; that was the main reason he’d been taken unawares; not only were his senses dulled, he hadn’t the discernment to pay them proper heed. Moreover, power used here might not be available later on, when truly needed.

  He felt a pang like a knife slash as he thought of the brownies. This was the kind of situation they excelled in; turn them loose, they’d have this place in such an uproar, he and the others could walk out unnoticed.

  Mallow was sidling glances toward Khory and not bothering to mask at all the thoughts behind them.

  “If’n I don’t harm the bitch, Simya,” he announced, swiveling on his stool to put his back to the bar, resting insolently on his elbows, “who’s to object t’ my havin’ a bitta fun with her, eh?”

  Simya didn’t think the question worth open comment; he simply waved a hand in acquiescence. Thorn said nothing; there was no purpose to it since none would listen, and he couldn’t afford another thump to the head or worse.

  Mallow had other ideas, reaching down to scoop him up by a handful of tunic till they were face-to-face. The movement yanked Thorn to the limit of his throat chain, which in turn left him strangling.

  “Got no objections, do ya, Peck?” The man’s teeth were rotten, his breath enough to kill. Thorn put every aspect of defiance and fury under lock and key, presenting as innocuous a front as possible, letting the men continue to believe he was a lamb among lions.

  “Please, sir, we mean none harm. You don’t want to mess with the lass, her wits are gone, she won’t know what’s happening, you’ll get no pleasure from the act.” He was gabbling, running one word over the next, like clerks in such a scurrying rush they clipped each other’s heels.

  Mallow’s smile was a view that put some sties to shame, the man as filthy within as without.

  “Wrong there, Peck. I’ll be havin’ myself a fine old time.”

  He let Thorn fall, to a landing that sent a flash of pain across an ankle and brought forth a snarl he had to duck his head to hide. The Daikini hitched up his pants and swaggered the length of the bar to the cheers and applause of his fellows, even Simya joining in by hauling Khory to her feet. Mallow raised his hands in a triumphal gesture and spun all the way around, before he put a hand under her shirt, the other under her trousers, and his lips on hers.

  It was a long kiss, and when he was done, she looked the worse for it. Through it all, Khory reacted not a bit. Her eyes didn’t blink, nor did her expression change; if he gave her pleasure, or as was far more likely, pain, she didn’t appear to notice.

  There was more laughter, but the humor was directed at Mallow rather than the circumstance. The Daikini himself looked a bit confused and almost embarrassed. He was almost ready to step away when Geryn’s hoarse voice broke through the din.

  “Leave her be, damn yeh!”

  One eye was swollen completely shut, the other marginally better, with bloody bubbles on every breath from a rib too badly broken. His minder didn’t kick him silent; why bother when a solid nudge would do as well? He poked Geryn’s side and the Pathfinder twisted in agony, locking his cry away behind teeth clenched so tight that by rights they should have shattered.

  His charge was all the motivation Mallow needed. He gave the trooper a leer in return, yanking Khory’s shirt open to bare a breast as he hustled her past the bar to the cubicles beyond.

  Simya dropped down on his heels before Geryn and pulled the young man’s head up by the hair, waggling a finger before him and making clicking noises.

  “Shoulda kept’cher mouth shut, laddie,” he said chidingly. “Mallow woulda been content with what he had; prob’ly have more fun playin’ with hisself than the likes of her, daft little bint. But you had to go an’ call him on it. Comes a point a’ pride then, y’see. He backs down, it’s ’cuzza you; he won’t stand for that. Hadda spit in your eye. Too bad for her.”

  “And suppose”—Geryn coughed, spat froth and blood to the floor; his broken rib made it hard to draw a decent breath, and the way his head was held made it worse—“suppose…the Princess wants her…untouched.”

  Simya hadn’t thought of that and clearly didn’t like the implication.

  He dropped Geryn like a stone—Thorn had to wince at the clunk the Pathfinder’s head made when it hit the floor—and bulled his way to the back of the tavern, bellowing Mallow’s name as he went, together with the injunction that he stop what he was doing, right straightaway, or suffer the consequences.

  He managed a step around the corner to the cubicles before Khory’s booted foot took him in a splendid high kick right across the bridge of the nose. He stumble-staggered backward as if he’d been poleaxed by a battering ram, features splashed with blood, face broken beyond easy repair. Khory herself stepped immediately into view, a wriggling, terrified Mallow in her grasp for the few moments it took to pitch him into the crowd closest to her. As they collapsed in a jumbled mess she hopped with feline grace over the bar and grabbed up the bung starter, essentially a broad-headed mallet on a double-handed haft, used to hammer spigots into beer barrels. The first man to follow caught a short jab to the head, the next a full-fledged swing that doubled him all the way over and was sure to leave him with a wicked ache in the belly for a fair while to come.

  Thorn yanked his hands free the mo
ment Khory made her move, tearing open the buckle of his collar and dropping flat to the floor as the nearest thug made a lunge for him. For the instant the man was off balance, Thorn shifted into a sideways roll that tripped him up quite nicely. As he landed Thorn scrambled onto his back and clamped the collar around the Daikini’s neck. One down, but so many more to go.

  He scooped some powder from his other pouch—where he kept his working tools and materials, as opposed to the necessities of life—and puffed it toward the men watching Geryn. Each tiny dust mote was instantly imbued with a manic life of its own and the combined properties of a burr and a very hot coal. Compared with these, hornets were a blessing; by the time Thorn reached Geryn, the Daikini were yelping and hopping like madmen, slapping at itching little horrors they could barely see, but who gleefully inflicted torments far out of proportion to their size. Thorn saw one man clutch his groin, heard another utter a rowlowlowl ululation as a swarm attacked his backside.

  “I can’t lift you, Pathfinder,” he told Geryn. “I sure can’t carry you. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to get out of here on your own.”

  “Not without my weapons,” hissed the young man.

  “The hell with them, it’s Elora Danan who’s important!”

  Khory was a marvel. She’d watched the men roughhouse all through the night while they manhandled her, and somehow managed to gather their rude skill unto herself. More importantly, Thorn could see her improving with every exchange of blows. She was learning as she went, drawing raw knowledge from the world around her as a sponge would water.

  Good as she was, though, better as she got, she was still alone. When she aimed a swing at one man, Simya stepped in with surprising speed for so bulky a form, especially considering the blow he’d already taken, and put a ham-sized fist into her side beneath her ribs. The force of the blow would have killed any ordinary person, turned kidneys to pulp; it doubled Khory over, mouth forming an “O” of shock as she struggled for a next breath that refused to come. Thorn was out of time and out of alternatives. He pulled an acorn from his pouch, that would turn the floor and every unprotected thing on it to eternal stone, and made ready to throw it.