Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  There was a constant trembling to the ground, not a movement within the earth—some minor temblor or other as the tectonic plates snugged themselves together, like a body shifting on its bed in a never-ending quest for the most comfortable spot to rest—but upon it. A puff of his power made the tiny puddle a scrying pool, a window through which InSight could show him virtually anyplace in the Realms, and he cast his vision outward to find the cause.

  The sight made him gasp aloud; that was sufficient to break his spell. Probably for the best. He saw what was needed; any lingering might lead to discovery by the horde’s own enchanters, and a duel was the last thing he could afford.

  “Geryn, up,” he announced as he reentered the main cave, the command in his voice snapping the Pathfinder instantly and completely awake. For the young man, it was like discovering that he was asleep inside a sleeping bag of spikes that were somehow simultaneously poking him both from without and within. It wasn’t pleasant and he said so in his most profane manner. Then, realizing Elora was close at hand, he flushed violently and stammered an apology.

  She took no notice.

  Thorn had no time for this, and less patience, the urgency of his manner so marked that the others almost immediately fell silent.

  “Morag,” he demanded of Ryn, “she’s waiting to pick you up again?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Will they take us as well?”

  “Wha’thehell?” protested Geryn. “I’m a Pathfinder, Drumheller, I don’t do boats. ’Specially when we’ve sound horses to carry us.”

  “Splendid, Havilhand, only we’ve nowhere on land to go.”

  “What’cher worried about, them yobs from the city? The Princess is a lone rider, mate, and I’ll stack my skill against them cursed Maizan any day. They’ll never find us, yeh’ve my oath on that.”

  “Save your breath, Pathfinder, you’d be forsworn from the start.” The young man looked perplexed, until Thorn explained. “They don’t have to find us, when they have the whole of the Thunder Riders to help. I felt the ground tremble, saw my proof in a Vision Pool. They’re coming from the south, sweeping the peninsula from shore to shore. Not just with men and hounds, Geryn, I could taste the forces bound to them. Seekers from among the Veil Folk. We have to find another way. Run or hide, or fight, it makes no difference. If we stay on land, we’re done.”

  Morag wasn’t happy, and she wasn’t shy about proclaiming it.

  “Damn well shoulda known better,” she said, accent as broad as her shoulders, eyes narrowed to slits against the wind slicing off the cove.

  There’d been no wind on the Bay side of the peninsula’s central spine; that began to change as soon as they began their descent to the seaward shore. It was cold and it was hard, as though it came straight off an ice cap. Cloaks were of little use; all of them were shivering by the time they reached the shore. There was no snow, the water in the air turned straight to ice and the spicules struck at exposed flesh like vicious little blades, leaving the skin unbroken but casting forth all the sensations of drawing blood.

  The cove was surprisingly calm, thanks mostly to a curving tail of earth and rocks that acted as a breakwater, the storm manifesting itself through the rolling thunder of the surf, with an occasional splash of spray over the top for emphasis. There was no cheer to the scene; even the still water had an angry slate quality to it that was a disturbing complement to the darkly clouded sky. Thorn knew where the sun was; by rights, they should have been in the warm lag end of the afternoon, building toward a lazy summer twilight. But lanterns were needed now, not merely for illumination or to provide benchmarks for people trying to get their bearings, but for the simple comfort of something warm against the overarching gloom.

  “How bad,” Thorn asked her, “is it?”

  Morag snorted, dismay and disgust leavened with black humor.

  “Got a fair lie here, Drumheller, good cover from both sea an’ sky. Only a fool sets sail in weather like this when she don’t have to. Better t’ ride it out, wait f’r a better day.”

  “And if that day isn’t coming?”

  “Damn, y’ talk bleak as Maulroon. Tell y’ true, y’r better on shore.”

  “We’re dead on shore, shipmaster.”

  “ ’Fore we’re through”—she grinned without humor—“that may be the more desirable fate. Y’r set on this, Drumheller.”

  “Believe me, if there was an alternative…” His eyes turned north, as though he could see through the lowering cloud base and perhaps even through the fabric of the land itself to the argent glow of cursed Angwyn. “But there’s intent behind all this and cold calculation.” He gave a rueful chuckle at the unwitting pun. “Think—since the destruction of Tir Asleen, Angwyn’s been the acknowledged seat of Daikini power. Now it’s gone, and with it the ruling caste of all the Veil Folk in the bargain. The whole world as we know it, Morag, is up for grabs; we’ve seen how, we don’t know why, nor even who’s responsible.” Eyes and voice turned bleak as the sea. “Our only hope in this enterprise, shipmaster, is Elora.”

  “Y’ know how much faith Maulroon has in her.”

  “Doesn’t matter anymore, she’s all we have. We have to buy time, to learn about our adversary, to prepare ourselves for the day when we can face him on fair and equal terms.”

  “Y’r damn daft, is what y’are, Drumheller. As am I, f’r doin’ as y’ask. Shando!” She was yelling into the teeth of the wind; it took two tries for her mate to hear. “Get our passengers properly kitted out. Skins an’ harnesses, the lot.”

  “Do we wait for the tide, Morag?” was his shouted reply.

  “Damn, no, man, y’re talkin’ daft as the Nelwyn! Storm surge’s pushed up the tide, we should have no trouble wi’ draft. Better that risk, I’m thinkin’, than trying to tack past the breakwater after dark.”

  Shando dropped ashore beside her, sweaters and waterproof oilskins transforming him into a bear of a man, with the bellows’ breath of someone pushed close to his personal limits. When he spoke, his teeth bared unconsciously into a silent snarl, as though he was facing a battle, the outcome no more than a toss-up.

  “Hatches triple-battened, Morag,” he reported. “Breakables locked away. Lifelines rigged, crew fed. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  “I’m sorry,” Thorn said lamely.

  “Ha!” Morag laughed. “Damn Taksemanyin, the fault’s his alone f’r talkin’ us t’ shore, that bastardly charmer. We’ll run y’ down the coast, if we can, move south as they move north, try t’ put some decent distance ’tween you an’ the Maizan. But I offer no guarantees, Drumheller, not on a day like this, wi’ storms blowin’ out o’ nowheres the like I’ve never seen.”

  “I understand.”

  She fixed him square in her gaze. “No,” she said, “y’ don’t. But y’ will. Get y’r folk aboard, we’ll be off.”

  “Morag.” A panicked cry from the masthead, face and outstretched arm pointing up and away toward the cliff trail they’d descended along.

  Eyes followed, narrowing in a mostly vain attempt to discern coherence from shapes that were little better than dark black blobs against a leaden sky. All Thorn could distinguish with the naked eye was a sense of movement, but he didn’t need OutSight to tell him what that meant.

  For a fateful moment everyone froze as both crew and fugitives assimilated the realization that they’d been found. In that moment Elora Danan hammered her heels into the ribs of her horse. The animal reared and bugled, bridle jerking from Ryn’s hands, and was running before its forefeet struck the ground again. The girl couldn’t ride, but that wasn’t necessary; there was only the single path, the horse experienced enough to negotiate it safely. All that was required from Elora was that she hold on.

  The Wyr was on her heels that selfsame instant, dropping flat to the ground, casting off his human stance in favor of a four-footed scramble that sent him up the sheer face of the cliff
with frightening speed. Geryn was barely a heartbeat slower off the mark, ignoring stabs of pain from his still-healing body as he leaped into the saddle and kicked his own mount into pursuit. Elora had the edge on raw speed; she’d so startled her horse and was projecting such fear of her own that the poor animal couldn’t help but respond, panic flooding its system with adrenaline and giving it supernatural strength. But Geryn’s skill more than struck the balance; he knew how to take every turn without losing stride, when to gallop, when to rein in, making it clear to those watching below that he would quickly close the gap between them. Unfortunately, the Maizan were descending at a similar headlong pace. He would catch her, that was certain, but there was every chance they themselves would both be caught in turn.

  That assumption reckoned without the Wyr. Ryn sprang up before Elora’s horse well below the Maizan, her animal going up on its hind legs so high, so fast, that Elora lost her grip and was shot from her saddle as though from a catapult. Thorn’s heart surged to his throat as he watched and only began to beat sensibly again when Geryn charged up from behind in time to catch her before she struck the rocks. It was an incredible stunt; the Pathfinder literally plucked her from the air by a hefty clutch of her clothes; without breaking stride, he threw her facedown across the front of his saddle—he had to be counting on the impact to shock the breath from her body and keep her quiescent for those first critical moments—and immediately wheeled his mount back the way he came. Thorn lost sight of Ryn, thought in horror that the Wyr had continued up the escarpment to try to delay the pursuing Maizan, certain both men and animals knew full well how to deal with such foolishness. At the same time Morag was calling the last of her people aboard, slipping all her mooring lines but one. Thorn knelt to the ground, reaching out a hand in preparation for calling down a minor mud slide to throw a roadblock in the Maizan’s path…but some instinct made him pause and look again, with InSight, to see if his deceiver was riding with them.

  Geryn could ride, of that there was no question, as he tore off the trail and along the shore at a breakneck gallop, reaching the ship at roughly the same time as his Wyr companion.

  “Bloody foolishness, that was,” he stormed, yanking Elora to her feet without the slightest deference or ceremony, too upset to notice or care.

  “I’m not going with you,” she screamed, mostly at Thorn. “I want to go home!”

  “Bad as you think we are, Elora,” he told her flatly, “that way lies far worse.”

  “Liar! I’m the Sacred Princess. You stole me from my palace. They’re riding to my rescue.”

  A sudden shriek from above, as a horse put hooves fatally wrong on the slippery track, pitching beast and rider to the rocks below. The wind stole away the sound of their impact and distance made it hard to see, but Elora stared as though the scene were lit by brightest daylight.

  “Drumheller,” from Morag, by her wheel, a voice of such command she turned all their heads. “It’s now or never!”

  “Bring her,” he said with an inward sigh, because however necessary the decision was, he knew it was wrong. He was taking what should be freely offered, and probably losing her forever as a result.

  Elora struggled in Geryn’s grasp, the Pathfinder looking genuinely torn. It was a doubt Thorn couldn’t afford.

  “Bring her!” he snapped, his manner a match and more for the shipmaster, and Geryn frog-marched the girl over the gunwale. Ryn followed, Thorn came last, with a measured look at their pursuers. He slipped the final mooring and sprang for the rail as the swell pushed the ship clear.

  He didn’t move at first, but made himself as inconspicuous as possible by the counter as the crew busied themselves setting sails. This ship lacked the size of the dromond; paradoxically, there was an air about it of much more inner strength and solidity. The one built for cargo, this for sheer travel, like the difference between dray horses and Thoroughbred hunters. Long, sleek hull, two tall masts, nothing like the larger vessel’s massive freeboard. The sails were different as well, a gaff rig for this schooner as opposed to the dromond’s lateen.

  Thorn hazarded a look toward the shore, conscious that the low railing afforded little protection even to him, but the Maizan there weren’t shooting. Movement off to the side caught his attention, and he narrowed his gaze at the sight of a splinter group of riders racing pell-mell for the breakwater. They were led by a strongly built figure that Thorn recognized even from this distance; Anakerie quickly outstripped her fellows, refusing to slow her pace even when the others fell back and finally called a halt in the teeth of the surf. Her horse was equally fearless, plunging ahead regardless of wind, regardless of wave.

  “Total nutter,” noted Morag, eyes ranging from the course ahead to the sails above, fingers light on the wheel as she matched her course to wind and water.

  “Mad she may be,” he conceded, and pulled the silver hair clip from his sodden hair, “but magnificent.” He wished there was a way to return it to her, yet found himself strangely reluctant to part with it.

  “Anakerie, is it?” He nodded, but she didn’t see, so he answered again, aloud.

  “The Princess Royal, yes.” And then, “Shame we can’t bring her with us.”

  “Don’t talk daft,” Morag scoffed. “We let her aboard, we’re all ghosts. Even my best swords’d be no match for her.”

  “It’s wrong to leave her with the Maizan.”

  “Weather’s wrong. Whole face of the world’s gone wrong. Why should she choose different?”

  “You think I’m making a mistake, with Elora?”

  “Dunno y’ well enough to judge, nor her neither. Maulroon, he trusts y’, asks me to do the same, there’s the end of that. But that wee bit, she don’t seem the kind of lever t’ move mountains. Don’t seem much of anything, t’ tell y’ true.”

  “That’s the problem. We’re walking a fresh trail, mainly blindfolded. No true notion where it leads, or what we’ll face along the way. Only hope. And the certain knowledge that the journey must be made.”

  “Daft. Not f’r you, Drumheller, wouldn’t have the brat as passenger.” There was a cry of outrage from the cabin below; Elora wasn’t going quietly. “Damn sure wouldn’t have her f’r crew—tacking!”

  Morag was all business again, reflections shunted aside by their turn toward the breakwater. There were crashes and groans all about as massive booms swung across the deck from one side to the other, Shando and the two sailors hauling on lines to pull the sails once more taut, water hissing alongside as the ship settled on the new tack.

  The shipmaster held out an arrangement of straps and buckles.

  “We’ve foul-weather gear f’r the rest,” she told him apologetically, “but nowt y’r size.”

  “Not to worry,” he told her. “My clothes are proofed against water.” And snow, he thought, and sleet, and hail, and grit, and even normal wear and tear. Being a mage, he conceded to himself with an inward smile, occasionally does have its practical uses.

  “Y’ll wear the harness nonetheless. Unless y’r as much a’home i’ the water as tha’ bloody muskrat!”

  “No fear, shipmaster,” Ryn said with his infernal good cheer, already wearing his. “On a day like this, I’d much prefer the ride. And, of course, the company.”

  Thorn pulled the contraption across his shoulders, settling the harness into place much as he would a backpack. A larger strap went straight across his front, locking into place directly over his breastbone. Attached to the lock was a wide-diameter shackle, through which would be threaded any safety lines.

  “Once we clear the breakwater,” Morag told him, spacing her words, careful with pronunciation, to make absolutely sure he understood. He was the last to hear the speech, it had lost not the slightest intensity in the retelling. “Y’ make sure y’re on a line. Use another shackle, or tie yourself a bowline, so long as y’re on deck y’ must be anchored. Go over the side, there’s not a chance in hell y’ll be
saved without it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can y’ moderate wind or water, cast us a fair path through t’ where it’s clear?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Bugger me wi’ a marlinespike else,” she fumed in exasperation, “why’s it the likes o’ you’re never sure o’ what y’ c’n do, while the opposition has itself a fine old dance?”

  “No regard for the consequences, generally.”

  “No bloody balls, is more my thinkin’.”

  “Morag,” came the call from her mate, “come up a few points, we’re passin’ too close to the rocks!”

  “At least we’ll miss ’em, Shando,” was her reply. “Another tack’ll put us more broadside t’ the main swell wi’ too little room t’ beat free o’ the opposite shore. We’ll ha’ too little headway t’ thread our way through the reefs.”

  “Look!”

  Thorn followed Ryn’s cry and outstretched arm, and wasn’t surprised to see Anakerie right at the end of the breakwater. Her horse stood right behind her, both as still as statues, as though the rocks had claimed them for their own. In the short time it had taken to cross the anchorage, the storm had visibly worsened, surfspray exploding constantly over the breakwater, presenting clear evidence that it was only a matter of time, and the still-rising tide, before the mole was wholly overwhelmed. The Princess seemed lit by an inner light, her own variant on the spectral silver that had claimed Elora. To Thorn, the contrast couldn’t be more marked, or more sad. The child appeared to have been claimed by the otherworldly aspect of her heritage; she had been stripped of the outward portions of her being that marked her as human. Anakerie was like looking at a ghost, someone with the facade of humanity, who had cast aside all within herself that gave it substance. Each was at a crossroads. The Princess Royal had freely chosen her path; the Sacred Princess was being dragged kicking and screaming down hers.