Shadow Moon

by Chris Claremont

  Exposed to view, Morag’s internal organs became subject to attack. Blood sprayed them all, immune to the action of wind or wave, turning the cockpit into an abattoir as separate strands of muscle, tendon, ligament, and ultimately nerves were torn from her. Thorn watched them braided into a foul rope, a barbed strand for every life aboard, and then the whip used to lash him across the face and body. In sensation, it was like being flayed to the bone, but while the vision was true, the feelings were not. The Deceiver, true to its name, was trying to break his concentration and thereby allow the spell to attack them as it had Morag. Thorn heard retching from beyond the frame of his vision, wished he could indulge in the same, as a joking semblance of the shipmaster took form in the air. She was being stripped to nothingness and then rebuilt.

  The cry burst from him again, without warning, throwing him forward in a galvanic movement to send his clenched fists hammering down on gleaming skeleton that was all that remained of Morag. He struck her on the breast, but it was as though he’d struck every inch of her, so completely did she shatter. In less than an eyeblink, clean bone was powder, and that, Thorn made sure, whirled far and away on the harshest gust of wind he could manifest, scattered across her beloved ocean beyond the Deceiver’s power to resurrect.

  But the bastard had a final card to play, as Morag’s skin popped back together before him, a dangling pennant of flesh until air puffed it full as life and gave it a coarse form of animation. She took the whip made of herself in one hand, beckoned with the other in a crude parody of sexual invitation, lips stretching into a smile that Morag never made, lids opening to reveal Shadow where eyes and soul had been.

  Thorn felt something hard, sharp-edged in his hand, realized without looking that he held an acorn, couldn’t help a smile of remembrance as he recognized the High Aldwyn’s gift to him, when he left on that first, fateful adventure.

  He charged the seed with power and tossed it, all in the same motion, to strike Morag fair, right over where her heart had been. In that twinkling contact, she was both transformed and condemned. Flesh became stone, of far more weight than any wind could support. And down she went, beneath the surface without a splash to mark her passing.

  A small victory, in the scheme of things, and all the Deceiver was in a mood to allow, as the same force that attacked them now turned on their vessel. In its way, the schooner was as near the end as its mistress had been; when the Deceiver struck, there was too little left for Thorn to save.

  Nails flew from planks, another assault to shield against, and then the wood itself tore, one piece from the next, as the glue that bound them—and the enchantments and blessings that reinforced the physical connections—were torn asunder. None of them went easily, the ship had far stronger wards binding it than those who sailed her, and the stresses quickly found release in a ferocious burst of energy, an explosion that created a false sunrise through a globe of light that reached all the way to the ocean floor.

  When it faded, the storm rushing with renewed, almost manic, fury to fill the space where it had briefly reigned, there wasn’t the slightest sign of the schooner. It was as if ship, crew, passengers had never been.

  * * *

  —

  He knew it was dawn, though you couldn’t tell by the sky. Clouds formed an impenetrable wall across the vault of the sky, so darkly aspected they had no shape to them, they were simply manifestations of Shadow. The wind was polar, worse ashore than afloat, tearing at the land as though its most fervent desire was to scour it down to bare and bloody rock. Waves, too, attacked with a rage he’d never seen before, and as he blearily blinked his eyesight into focus, he saw a promontory off the coast give way, a towering slab of rock calving free as an iceberg does from a glacier, undercut beyond the ability of the main body of the pillar to support it. The basalt split partway up its length, bowing outward like a piece of paper being folded, tumbling to the surf in that eerie slow motion that truly massive objects seem to have, landing one atop the other in a jumbled pile that was almost immediately swept by another legion of waves, as determined to do the same to the rest as the tower was to defy it. There was a natural rivalry between the elements; wind and water and land were always in opposition to each other in an eternal struggle that none could win. But here and now the battle was joined with a blinding hatred, a desire for mutual annihilation, that took Thorn’s breath away.

  Not that he had much to lose. He lay beyond the tide line, in sand made soggy by rain alone, pummeled so hard his body had to be a single awful bruise. Every part of him was sore, to the extent that lying brought as much discomfort as moving. There was as much noise as on the ocean, the crashing surf vying with the rolling thunder of the wind to such an extent that he doubted even shouted voices could be heard.

  He levered himself up, realized with the first movement that he’d made a major mistake, but persevered nonetheless until he’d regained his feet. His stomach was a knot, probably from hunger, though the very thought of food filled the back of his throat with bile. Starving he may be, there was no way he’d keep down even the smallest scrap.

  He saw a figure staggering along the seafront, a scarecrow man whose rags and tatters made Thorn feel ashamed of his own clothes, protected by spells, left dry and unmarked despite the hurts inflicted on their wearer.

  It was Shando, his voice even more of a ruin as over and over again he screamed Morag’s name.

  “Shando,” called Thorn, the Daikini pivoting as if his back had been stroked by a hot lash, staggering stiff-legged to maintain his balance.

  “Bastard Peck,” was the retort, raw with grief, “you killed her!”

  Thorn should have expected the blow. Perhaps he did, in some secret inner part of himself, and chose to accept it as partial atonement for their mutual loss, he really didn’t know. Hadn’t the energy to care, as the man’s fist caught him across the cheek and stretched him full length on a dune that wouldn’t be there on the morrow.

  Shando put both knees to the Nelwyn’s back, landing on him with his full weight, using his hands to press Thorn’s face into the sand. He was ranting, words that made no sense except as a mad expression of his loss. Thorn thought of dying there, but his own conscience wouldn’t allow him the indulgence.

  Sand was far more porous than stone, and there wasn’t the additional obstacle of any binding spell. In less time than it took to tell, permission was asked and granted and he felt his substance flow into the earth, leaving behind a dim wail of frustration as Shando saw his prey sink out of reach. The man tore at the dune face with such fervor that nails ripped and his hands turned bloody in a vain attempt to follow, but Thorn was already pushing himself laterally along the beach, senses questing for sign of any other survivors. One in particular.

  He thought that would be Elora.

  But the lifelight that drew him once more into open air was Khory’s.

  He knew his surprise showed as he pressed hands to earth to push the whole of him into view, but she didn’t seem to mind. Hellsteeth, she didn’t seem to notice. He wondered if she really hadn’t a clue, or was simply being courteous. She still held the sword she’d taken off the slain old Lion in Angwyn, and he had the wry sense that the weapon had bound itself to her in much the same way as she had to him.

  “We need to find the others,” he said, receiving a solemn nod of acknowledgment in reply.

  Turned out not to be so hard an accomplishment. A shout came whizzing along the shore on the wind, a hawk-eyed look in that direction revealing Taksemanyin waving both arms upraised in greeting. He and Geryn had joined forces to save Elora—though once they were in the water, it was the Wyr who’d done most of the work. On the beach, it was Geryn who insisted on offering her the shelter of his arm, despite the fact that the Wyr’s fur would have proved more useful in that regard.

  Shando approached while they were clustered at the head of the beach, where dunes sprouted sea grass and sand began its transition t
o proper earth. Khory met him with drawn sword.

  He was calmer, in appearance and manner, but the set to his jaw, the way he carried himself when he related to Thorn, most especially the dangerous gleam from behind his eyes, bespoke a wound that would never heal.

  Thorn knew the words would sound hollow, but had to say them nonetheless.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The Daikini blinked. His expression didn’t change. He couldn’t come any closer, not with Khory’s point an inch from his throat, but neither did he back a step away.

  “You’re a welcome sight, Shando,” said Geryn, rising to step around Khory and pointedly offer his hand.

  Shando blinked again, released a huge breath as though laying aside some monstrous burden, then angled his body to face the Pathfinder and shake his hand.

  “Where d’y’ go from here?” he asked.

  “Only way we can,” Thorn said. “North beyond the end of the peninsula. Same basic plan as before, only a different direction.”

  “Won’t they follow?”

  “How? Weather’s near as wild within the Bay as without, certainly more than any ferry can manage. To catch us, the Maizan’ll have to circle near the whole circumference of the Bay; even walking, we should be well clear before they come close.”

  “Not the Maizan I’m thinkin’ of, wizard.” The way he said the word, it became as cruel a gibe as “Peck” often was.

  “This is sacred ground. First-growth forest, Shando, that dates back to when this land was born, consecrated to Cherlindrea. I don’t think the Deceiver can touch us here.” Unbidden, though, came the remembrance of that Faery Queen, snared by the Deceiver’s Web within Elora’s hall along with all the rest, her perfect features stretched into an idiot’s grin, eyes lost in a wonderland that left her helpless while her power, her very essence, was stolen by her captor.

  “If y’ say so.” Subtext, as clear as if he’d shouted it: But you’ve been wrong before, Peck. “Me, I’m thinkin’ I’ll be makin’ my own course.” And doing so alone, that too was made plain.

  “Don’t be bloody daft!” The heartfelt protest came from Geryn.

  “I’m no lander, lad. I’ll follow the shore till the weather slips, try my hand with a signal fire or maybe a skiff, make my way home.”

  “You’ll be missed.”

  “Better this way.”

  “Is there anything we can give yeh?” Geryn asked, upon the realization that Thorn wasn’t about to speak.

  Shando returned a small grin, that actually encompassed the Nelwyn, accompanied by a sidelong glance. Personable enough on the surface, but with jagged, bloody edges beneath, man made shark.

  “Nowt y’ll be willin’ t’ offer, am I right, Peck?”

  “I would have saved her if I could.”

  “Y’ should ne’er ha’ put her in harm’s way at all.”

  “Food, Shando?”

  “I’ll find my own, Pathfinder. Same as I’ll make my own way.”

  Thorn watched him stride away, with the exaggerated gait of a man used to walking on loose sand. Geryn said nothing, but there was condemnation in his eyes as they flashed back and forth from Shando to the Nelwyn. Khory didn’t relax her stance, sheathe her sword, until the man was out of sight beyond a natural jetty formed by an age-old rockfall. Geryn’s back was hunched, arms wrapped snug about himself, the quintessence of chill, thanks to a cold that had to reach his bones. Elora wasn’t much better; she was just too far gone to show any sign beyond a bluish cast to her skin that gave her the appearance of dulled chrome; Taksemanyin tried as best he could to wrap himself about the pair of them, tucking both deeply into his chest and belly fur, combining the mass of the dune plus his own body to blunt the wind.

  Alone among them, Thorn was dry, his clothes fresh as the day they were made. Most embarrassing.

  He cast his eyes upward, following the rise of the cliffs to their crest.

  “Time for us to go as well,” he told the others.

  “We need rest, Peck!” snapped Geryn.

  “Agreed, but this isn’t the place for it.”

  “We’re well above the tide line, we’ll be safe enough.”

  “Against a normal surge, a normal storm, perhaps. It’s a risk I refuse to take.”

  “Suit yehrself.” The young man wasn’t willing to move.

  “Have you no wits whatsoever, Trooper?” Thorn spoke with nearly a snarl, surprising himself as much as his companions with his vehemence as Geryn became the lightning rod for a whole host of pent-up rage and frustrations. As the words boiled from him Thorn scrambled within his skull to regain at least a semblance of control, lest rage manifest itself with a tangible display of power. He needed the Pathfinder as he was, not transformed into a newt.

  “There are Powers at play here far beyond our comprehension. Believe me, I saw it happen. So did she,” his arm lashing out to indicate Elora, who visibly flinched, which in turn prompted warning glares from both males.

  “I don’t really care”—he spaced his words with deliberation, as much to gain time to restore his own inner equilibrium as for external effect—“how you feel right now, Pathfinder. About me personally, or my decisions. All I require is obedience. If that’s beyond your desire, then by all means join Shando.”

  “What gives y’ the right t’ decide for the Sacred Princess Elora, hey?”

  “A debt. A vow.”

  “Whether she wants it or not? Shouldn’t that be her choice?”

  “Elora Danan?”

  “She won’t hear,” Ryn said calmly.

  “Is she hurt, then?” Geryn, concern plain in his voice as he shook free of Tak’s grasp and knelt before her.

  The Wyr shook his head. His ears were never at rest, they reacted independently to every wayward sound, no matter how slight. His eyes responded only to those sounds that merited closer scrutiny. At the moment their focus was shared by Geryn, Thorn, and Khory. The Nelwyn had his sorcery, the DemonChild a good sword, but Ryn had fangs that would do any predator proud, with claws to match and a speed and grace that demanded respect. Should a battle flare between them, a victor might well emerge, but that triumph wouldn’t be worth the price. To remind the others of that, Ryn bared his teeth, ostensibly in a yawn, stretching his lips up and away until his canines were exposed to the gum line.

  “Nothing bruised, nothing broken,” he reported. “I wager she came out of the water in better shape than the rest of us combined. Except”—and here, he indicated Khory—“perhaps for her.” She had her back to the gathering, her eyes roving what passed for a horizon, sweeping a constant circuit of trees and sea and shore.

  “I don’t much like you, wizard,” Ryn continued, to Thorn, “but you have a point. Staying in place is asking for trouble. And while I like a good scrap more than most…” He let his voice trail off; nothing more needed being said.

  Geryn, true to talent and training, found them a way up the cliff, a narrow switchback trail that, fortunately, soon gave way to a sloping meadow. It was a hard climb, as much due to the steepness of the pitch as the distance they had to travel, and there were frequent rest breaks. Their pace was defined by the slowest among them, Elora, and there was no change in her withdrawn manner as grassy, windswept fields gave way to groves made up of dwarf trees, stunted and twisted by the constant blasts off the ocean.

  If anything, the land here was even more folded than the southern peninsula, forcing them to traverse a series of deep rills that created a topography most akin to an accordion bellows. It was a trek that soon reminded Thorn of an early conversation he had with Maulroon, on his first visit to the Islands, when he wondered how far it was from one village to another just down the coast.

  “As the crow flies, as the boat sails,” the big man had said, in all seriousness despite the gleam of humor in his eyes, “not so far. Following the shore trail, though, y’re talkin’ near a hunnert mile, easy.”
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  In direct line, over the space of the whole day, Thorn knew they hadn’t come more than a couple of miles, yet it felt like ten times that as they trudged up one murderous slope and down the next, in an extreme slow-motion repetition of what the schooner had gone through at sea.

  After the first ridge, which acted as windbreak for any weather blasting in off the water, there was a marked evolution in ground cover. Grasslands along the crest became true forest once they began their descent on the far side, the trees growing in height and breadth as they continued inland.

  They were in a spectacular stand of timber, that was obvious from the very start. Thorn and the others stood on the meadow, looking up-country toward the mountain fastness of Doumhall—the ancient peak that dominated the entire Bay, one that wouldn’t have looked out of place among the continental spine—taking in the level plain of treetops that filled the space between, not realizing until they proceeded onward that many of those trunks stood hundreds of feet tall and that their journey was in no way going to be as easy as it first seemed.

  The sole saving grace was the realization that it would be just as difficult for anyone trying to follow.

  Thorn soon gave up trying to sightsee. Not that he was jaded or uninterested, quite the opposite; he simply couldn’t endure the cricked neck from constantly bending his spine near double in vain attempts to see what soared above them. The trunks themselves were powerful things, he saw more than a few so big around that all five of them with arms linked and outstretched couldn’t surround it, larger in fact than the floorspan of many a Nelwyn house. They rose up bare of branches for half to two thirds their length mainly because the trees were clustered so closely together that too little sunlight reached past the interlaced canopy of leaves and nettles.