Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  He didn’t know how he survived, knew even less how the ship managed, but that was what happened. His lungs lost their breath with that first shock, and he was certain he’d never draw another when a blast of wind slapped his bloody scalp, the salt in the spindrift making him hiss with pain.

  “We’re alive,” he said aloud, as though the act of speech, and the hearing of it, made it real.

  The schooner was a shambles. Even to his untutored eye, its survival was the most extreme of miracles; by rights, the boat should have gone straight to the bottom. The masts had been shorn away at less than a man’s height above the deck, and with them pretty much every piece of gear on that deck, no matter how thoroughly tied. Jagged holes in the planking, along the gunwale, marked where lashings may have held but the ship itself, not. Inexplicably, the sea anchor hadn’t given way. It alone gave a semblance of order to their bedlam universe. But that was only a transitory respite. The waves were as monstrous as ever, and the transom had developed a nasty crack that made its ragged, uneven way past the waterline. It wouldn’t be long before a combination of wave motion and the drag of the anchor itself tore the whole stern loose; then, even Thorn knew they’d sink in a matter of racing heartbeats.

  The deck was mostly awash, the schooner reduced to a few handspans’ worth of freeboard that no amount of work on the pumps would improve. Thorn coughed salt water, coughed blood, choked, and finally heaved forth the roiling nothing that remained in his belly, with spasms so brutal it was like someone had hooked a fishing line through his middle and then bounced him continuously from a height. A stretching cat couldn’t bend its spine through so extreme an arch.

  Shando was yelling, but to Thorn the man sounded very far away, with hardly any voice to him. He wanted to help as the Daikini struggled forward to the companionway, but the best he could manage was a roll onto his backside, with his shoulders propped high enough along the rail to keep from drowning.

  It was Geryn who pulled Morag free, both their faces pale as sheets of new-pressed parchment, only his was from lack of warmth and hers, lack of life. The men had to hurt her, bringing her onto the deck, she was broken in too many places for them not to, but she didn’t make a sound or even a twitch to show that she’d noticed.

  Shando loomed, managing to hold himself erect despite the logy, wild-ass motion of the ship.

  “My wife needs you, wizard,” he said in a flat-toned demand that allowed for but a single outcome.

  Thorn didn’t respond quickly enough to suit the mate, so Shando scooped him up by the harness and deposited him beside the locker where Morag lay. The Nelwyn collapsed where he was dropped, which brought Shando a glare of preternatural rage from Khory, so intense it made the man back off a step and once more take his post at the wheel.

  “We’re a pair, Peck,” the shipmaster offered with wry humor, in a voice as deathly as her appearance.

  “We really must stop meeting like this,” was his retort.

  “No more worries on tha’ score, I’ll wager.”

  “Save your strength, Morag,” he told her, scrabbling for balance as a sudden lurch sent the deck into a steep upward tilt. He didn’t believe it possible to feel colder than he was, but when the boat began to move, his first thought was that they were going to roll again; it was as though a specter had taken lodging within him, coating every organ with hoarfrost.

  “ ’S all right, m’ wee friend.” She smiled, setting a finger trembling in cruel mockery of the intended pat on his hand. “Tha’s a wave we can ride.”

  “Don’t try to talk.”

  “ ’S all I’ve left me. Canna feel anything, ’cept bein’ so cold. S’pose I should be thankful…small favors, eh?”

  He wiped her face clear of blood, feeling the crack to the skull just beyond her hairline.

  “Toren?” She meant the other crewman below. Thorn looked to Geryn, caught an image from the young man’s memory that he thrust as quickly from his own thoughts. Morag caught the flash behind his own eyes and her lips tightened in sorrow.

  “Burys, too,” she said. “Saw the rigging take him.”

  “Hush, Morag,” Thorn implored. “Please.”

  “Hush, y’rself, Drumheller.” She spoke with a pinch of her normal asperity. “Whereaway are we?”

  He didn’t need to look; he could feel Angwyn’s infernal chill burning into his back more intensely than the sun. She gripped his hand, with more strength than he thought left her, tight enough to make him wince as she gave him entry to her knowledge of the sea. To his mind came a vision of the scene in large, as though he’d once more assumed his God-like perspective to gaze down on the world from among the stars. He beheld the storm as an enormous swirl of clouds, racing toward and around Angwyn as though the city had become an open drain, sucking in the air; and, as with any such circle, the closer one came to the center, the faster one spun. A stationary cyclone, brought into being by the cold flames that had claimed Angwyn, with the city itself paradoxically safe in its eye. He looked more closely, his perceptions sharpening accordingly as he incorporated the ocean currents into the view. He saw a great river of water sweeping along the coast from south to north, casting off lesser tributaries just as its landlocked counterparts did. One such curled through the King’s Gate.

  At the last, he saw their schooner, mostly adrift, its base course defined by the joint movement of wind and wave. They were fast approaching a junction in the stream, that would either take them on up the coast or sharply east and into the Bay. Already, eddies were snaking about the keel, drawing the hulk ever farther to the side, making it that much easier to be ensnared.

  With a start, he found himself back in himself, his bright-eyed stare of wonderment and dismay mirrored by Morag’s.

  He thrust himself to his feet, floundered a few steps forward to brace himself on the stove-in roof of the cabin, eyes slitted as narrowly as possible as he strained to see what lay ahead, beyond the next wave. Khory took him by the arm, a relaxed grip but also one that left no doubt that the arm itself would be torn from her body before she let him go. There was a tremendous reservoir of strength in her and he partook of it with the care of a man dying of thirst, desperate for succor yet painfully aware that too much of a good thing would be as damaging as too little.

  “Duatha Headland,” he said when he once more crouched beside Morag. Her nod was even more tremulously weak than the earlier twitch of her hand. There was no pulse that he could feel; life was pouring from her faster than warmth from the world.

  “It’s like a breakwater,” he went on, mixing her certainty with his own inspiration, “acting on both sea and sky, splitting the force of the storm. Part goes up the coast, the rest into the Bay.”

  Another nod, the brightness of her eyes belying the ongoing fragility of her flesh.

  “The main current stays without, the wind pushes us in. We have to stay with the current.” He saw what had to be done and shook his head. “There must be another way. The schooner won’t hold together.”

  “Long enough, with your strength.”

  “My strength is a shadow of what’s needed. And casting an active spell is as good as raising a flare to tell the Deceiver precisely where we are.”

  “An’ he’s sure t’ come f’r us, hey?”

  “With all the Powers at his command. I’m not sure I can match him.”

  “Damn you, then!” She took a hard breath, as deep and forceful as she could manage, to restore a semblance of normal vigor to her voice. Her breast hardly stirred. “Damn him more! That infernal city makes shadows of us all. Burns out of us what’s true, leaves only the shade, form without substance. Elora’s the best of us, y’ say; look what it’s done to her.”

  “Morag…” he began, but she willed him to silence.

  “What, Thorn?” she muttered in a rushing outbreath of impatience. “Canna save my boat and save me? Y’ wee damn, daft bugger, don’t save the boat, t
here’s no point what y’ try wi’ me? Make some sense, will y’?”

  “I brought you to this. I made you sail.”

  “Y’re worth it.” She jutted her chin weakly, vaguely in the direction of Angwyn. “If tha’s wha’s ahead f’r us, wizard, she sure as hell better be.”

  “Khory,” he called, marveling that his voice could still make itself felt over the surrounding violence. “You stay by Morag, understand? Whatever comes, you’re to save her. My wish, my orders.” The DemonChild flashed defiance, as though his was the only life that would ever matter. “Please.”

  “Damn you, Peck,” said Shando, “what’s happening?”

  He couldn’t look at the man. He ached enough already, lives pouring away like sand through his fingers, friends he couldn’t save. His mouth twisted as desire swept over him like the great wave that had smashed their boat, not for an ending, because he was sure that would come soon enough, but for there never to have been a beginning. “The Great Mystery,” he’d heard the High Aldwyn announce in days that came as rarely to him in memory as in dream, “is the bloodstream of Creation. And the way we divine that mystery, the path by which we become One with All, is called sorcery.” Being a Nelwyn, the challenge Thorn faced had been to dip his finger into that mythic “bloodstream.” Now he felt like he was drowning in it.

  He looked at his hands, and saw them bleached of all color. There was no light to their world, this small patch of existence, as lost on the wild sea as the globe seemed amidst the stars.

  The cry was a wonder. It boiled out of some deep and hidden place within, that he had never before encountered, transcending the limits of flesh and even imagination, casting itself up and out as though by sheer volume it could cow the storm. The image came to him once more of that frightful wave, only this time he stood alone atop its crest, giddy with delight, terror mixed in equal measure, as the trough dropped away before him, far beyond the depth of any abyssal canyon. He danced along the edge of disaster, flush with Power he no more truly understood than desired. He didn’t know how to hold on, he didn’t dare let go.

  Khory had seen a danger the others had missed. The transom had developed a nasty crack that made its ragged, uneven way past the waterline. It wouldn’t be long before the combination of wave motion and the drag of the sea anchor tore the whole stern loose; then, even Thorn knew they’d sink in a matter of racing heartbeats.

  Unbidden, the DemonChild sprang to the stern, to release the anchor the only way she knew how, her booted foot lashing out against the broken transom before Shando or any of the others were even aware she’d moved. With a sickly pop, the top of the weakened panel gave way, which in turn placed far more pressure on the remaining coupling than either wood or iron could endure. After a moment’s resistance, the cleat exploded free.

  The schooner shot forward like a bolt from a crossbow, Shando screaming the foulest of curses as he struggled to keep control of the wheel, bracing himself in place with spread-eagled feet as the hull hissed diagonally down the face of the swell. The wave began to form a curl overhead, threatening to overwhelm the boat, but they had too much speed to be caught, making an easy transition from trough to scend. Thorn knew they wouldn’t be so fortunate much longer, but took the opportunity to shunt them squarely into the heart of the primary current. He couldn’t overmaster the storm; these were primal forces, they didn’t much care for dictats, as Elora had discovered. The trick was to manipulate the elements, to do with bands of energy what Shando was attempting with wheel and rudder. The danger was that Thorn’s display of power would mark their position as surely as any beacon. He had no idea of what else the Deceiver was capable of, and no desire to learn, but they likewise had no alternative. The risk had to be taken.

  The hull broke clear of the wave for better than a third of its length, crashing down with a spectacular burst of spray. It was a magnificent sight, as impressive a ride, though Thorn would rather have a Death Dog by the tail as he cast ahead for the course that would carry them past the Gate.

  “Doing well, little wizard,” Morag said, lips unmoving, sound barely stirring the chords of her larynx. He marveled at her tenacity, the will that continued to bind spirit to flesh long past the point when flesh could do no more. He started to offer some of his strength, telling himself it wasn’t too late, there was still a chance to save her, but she spoke before the desire was even fully formed, as though their thoughts were twinned.

  “No.” There was no force to her voice, that didn’t matter. She spoke to him with all the authority of a shipmaster and expected to be obeyed.

  “I can manage,” he protested.

  “No,” she said again, and there wasn’t a hint of weakness to the glare in her eyes or the set of her features. “Trust me, Drumheller. I know my ship. I feel how she moves. Y’ have precious little strength left y’ as ’tis, none at all to spare for me.”

  “I’m the best judge of that, Morag.”

  “Not on my deck.”

  “We have a problem.” This from Taksemanyin, fur so plastered to his skin that it gave him gleaming, sculpted lines, as though he were some polished statue come to life. His proximity was to Thorn and Morag, but his words were meant for them all. He’d brought Elora with him, the child apparently unhurt, her face slack with shock. Ryn had tethered their harnesses together, on a short enough lead so that she was always within reach; she wasn’t giving him any trouble, initiating no action, moving when bidden, staying where put. Thorn had seen more animated sleepwalkers.

  “I couldn’t go below to be sure,” continued the Wyr hurriedly, “but I think the water’s rising. Each time the bow goes under, when we cross a swell, it doesn’t come up as high or as quickly as before.”

  “Told y’.” Morag smiled at Thorn.

  “Prob’ly cracked the keel when we flipped,” Shando offered from the wheel. “Not an outright hole, thank the Makers, else we’d be swimmin’ a’ready.”

  “Pumps?”

  Morag’s head twitched fractionally from side to side, the pain of that acknowledgment far worse than any of her body. Her love for the boat was a tangible thing, as intense as any Thorn had known, colored with an undertone of true regret because it was more than Morag’s love for her husband. She would miss him, but miss her schooner more.

  “No more subtleties, then,” Thorn said. “I’ll push us to the shallows as hard and fast as I can and hope both hull and luck hold.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Shando.

  Thorn took a last sight of where they wanted to go and where they feared, then reeled in momentary shock as Morag’s hand grasped his—in a grip as firm as ever he’d felt from her—and a charge of energy swept through him as she cast over the last of her life. She gave him no chance to protest or refuse; by the time he turned about her eyes were glassy. His suddenly burned with tears, his heart wrapped tight with hot wire, branding another scar alongside all the rest, his own private memorial for those he’d loved and lost.

  He gripped his chest, unable to speak, hardly to breathe, mutely waving aside any offers of concern or assistance, conscious of Khory’s eyes on him. She alone kept her distance, respecting his need for momentary solitude. She had strength to spare, that he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. He felt tainted enough by the process of her birth; he thought of her like a vampire or a were, and feared what repeated contact would do.

  Without straightening, he clenched one hand into a fist and punched down at the air before him, his face twisting darkly as emotions manifested themselves in concert with the blow. About them, the storm reacted as if it had been physically struck. The wind seemed to hiccup—had they been under sail, they’d have been in real trouble, as gusts roamed the compass, whirling in on them from every direction and every intensity, from breeze to gale. The sea was no less outraged, but it was a denser medium and thereby far more ponderous in its response. Swells grew visibly in size and number,
with less time between for a recovery, which quickly taxed Shando’s abilities to their limit and beyond as he struggled to maintain proper headway. Before, they’d simply been running ahead of the storm, wherever wind and current would take them. Now they had a goal, and as the helmsman played with his wheel to keep them from being overwhelmed, so, too, did Thorn shape each wave in turn, smoothing the best slope for ascent and recovery.

  It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  It was magical.

  It didn’t last.

  His last coherent recollection was a sullen mutter from Shando. The headland was marginally visible, a more solid darkness against the murk of the sky, and he was wondering where they were going to come ashore, a fairly relevant concern along a coast mostly noted for the ships that ended up smashed on its rocky, inhospitable shore. He felt a surge up the length of his back, as if someone had reached within to twist his spinal cord into a corkscrew. He tried to cry a warning, but the moment between thought and execution was too long. Doom was upon them all before the words were spoken.

  It was a Spell of Dissolution. Not the one that attacked Elora’s soul, but a purely physical assault, a savage attempt to reduce them all to their component atoms. In sensation, the image came to him of an infinite number of fishhooks, all cruelly barbed, sunk deep into every particle of his being, tugging outward with the kind of strength necessary to topple mountains. His response was as quick, matching strength for strength, countering by wrapping everybody in swaddling cloth that snugged them back together while also muting the worst of the pain. For this assault wasn’t simply meant to kill, but hurt them as much as possible in the process. He wanted to protect Morag as well, but there wasn’t enough of him to stretch that far, not if he was to do a proper job of protecting the living. Her flesh spiked outward, until gaps began to appear, not because the skin had been torn; it was like a piece of fabric expanded to the point where one could see between the constituent threads of even the finest weave. From Shando came a hoarse wail that mingled measures of grief and rage, but above all, the shame of utter helplessness, at this desecration of his wife’s body, and Thorn realized with horror that the mate didn’t know she was already dead. He thought he was witnessing her murder.