The Forgetting Moon

by Brian Lee Durfee

  “I’ve other news that weighs heavy on my mind,” Stefan said. “My uncle Brender sent word from Bainbridge this morning. The rumors are true. The White Prince’s armies have almost reached the Laijon Towers. They’re almost to the eastern shores of Wyn Darrè.”

  A chill traveled through Nail. Rumors of the White Prince’s complete victory over Wyn Darrè were true. It was dire news indeed.

  “Absolution is near,” Stefan said. “Fiery Absolution, as prophesied in The Way and Truth of Laijon. On a clear day, from atop the walls of Lord’s Point, you can see all five Laijon Towers lit up across the straits. Soon they’ll be completely dark, extinguished by Aeros Raijael. Adin Wyte is conquered. Now Wyn Darrè. The armies of Sør Sevier are coming. Soon Sør Sevier will own all the Five Isles.”

  “What of the beacon atop the Fortress of Saint Only?” Zane asked, patting Beer Mug.

  “Still afire,” Stefan answered. “But only at the sufferance of the White Prince. My uncle says Aeros Raijael will attack the coast of Gul Kana with his full might. Gul Kana is Aeros’ ultimate prize. Sør Sevier men are bred to war and hunt. I’m for getting out of Gallows Haven. Come with me to Bainbridge. We can join a real fighting company there. My uncle will sponsor us. If he sponsors you, Nail, you’ll no longer be ward to Shawcroft.”

  “You’re smack full of ideas tonight,” Nail said, though he did like the idea of no longer being beholden to Shawcroft—the man had a cruel streak in him that was unpredictable at the best of times. Stefan always kept abreast of the goings-on in the realm. Nail admired his friend for that. But though he was full of lofty ideas, Stefan was wrong about a few things. “We’d hang for sure if we abandon Baron Bruk and our duties to Gallows Haven,” Nail said. “Two years’ service to the church and the Silver Throne. We are all called to serve. We must all put in our time. Who would defend Gallows Haven if we up and left? Who’d protect the women and children?”

  “Nail’s right,” Zane added. “Conscripts like us can’t just skip from town to town.” He nodded at Nail. “Even bastards are not excused from service to Laijon.”

  Nail was not offended. Zane meant no harm. What he’d said was true: even bastards served Laijon and the Silver Throne. Everyone in Gallows Haven knew Nail’s heritage. His master, Shawcroft, was the closest thing to kin he had, save a sister Shawcroft mentioned on occasion—a lost twin sister Nail dreamed he would someday find. Never having known his real mother or father, he wondered if they’d ever existed at all. Those vague but real memories of the tender touch of the nurturing woman from his childhood were fading more each day.

  “If we flee to Bainbridge, Baron Bruk will hunt us down,” Zane said. “Bishop Tolbret would see to it. Your uncle would be hard-pressed not to turn us in himself. Why must you always see things so contrary to The Way and Truth of Laijon?” Zane snatched Nail’s beer away this time and stole a long drink. “Stefan the Skeptic, I name you. Always thinking too much. To question the laws of Laijon is to show a weak mind.”

  Nail felt stuck somewhere between Zane’s blind devotion to the tenets of The Way and Truth of Laijon and Stefan’s cynical view of things. Master Shawcroft was no help in matters religious. Seemed he had a huge dislike for all things to do with the Church of Laijon. But the man rarely explained himself. For his part, Nail enjoyed the church and its Eighth Day services—mostly for the social aspect, and as an excuse to get out of mining with Shawcroft and the tedium of swinging a pickax with the exacting precision his master required. Attending the weekly Eighth Day services brought Nail closer to his friends, closer to Ava Shay. Plus, the ritual Ember Lighting Rite was this spring. Nail had committed the Ember Lighting Prayer to memory, repeating it in his head daily to the point that he could recite it forward and backward.

  “Stay here and die by the blades of an invading army, or leave and become hunted by our own countrymen.” There was frustration in Stefan’s voice now, a resignation echoing the futility of their situation. “That’s if Baron Bruk doesn’t get us killed. Can’t he see our helms are lightning rods out there? We’re likely to be fried like chicks in a kettle. I daresay, even Bishop Tolbret’s white priesthood robes would offer more protection.”

  “Don’t joke,” Zane said. “The silk robes of Laijon are anointed by the grand vicar himself and rendered stronger than armor. Tolbret would be well protected in any squall.”

  “Tolbret’s priesthood robes are woven of silk, not iron, and certainly not magic. Tales of their holy properties are only fables meant to impress the children.”

  “The Way and Truth of Laijon speaks of their sacredness and strength.”

  “All I am saying is our armor is naught but rusty relics dug out of that old keep. We can’t stand against Sør Sevier with but forty of us village conscripts and a few codgy sailors and farmers with rakes. Jubal Bruk. I know he’s the baron of our lands, the owner of the grayken-hunting ship upon which I work, but sometimes I think the man’s brain has been addled.”

  “Addled?” Baron Jubal Bruk materialized from the crowd and stood over their table, his son, Jenko, at his side. The baron was wrapped in a rain-soaked cloak that smelled of wet horse. Beer Mug sniffed the man and backed away.

  “Baron.” Stefan stood abruptly, bowing, looking like he’d just swallowed a frog.

  “How goes it with Dokie?” Nail stood also and bowed. Despite what Stefan claimed, Jubal Bruk was no dribbling fool. His eyes darted angrily over the table. The baron had broad brows and deep-set eyes that always appeared fixed in a fearful squint. With a bearded face and forehead sloping back to a scruff of gray hair, the baron intimidated all in town—especially with his huge sword and its thick, leather-wrapped hilt and black opal–inlaid pommel. Rumor was, before he had settled in Gallows Haven five years ago, he had served as one of Amadon’s famed Dayknights. Most in town thought him a good fighter, but ill-equipped as a leader of men.

  “Dokie is burnt, but not bad.” The baron motioned for Stefan and Nail to sit. “Bishop Tolbret watches over him. With the blessings of the priesthood, Dokie’ll recover.”

  “A lucky slip in the mud, Nail.” Jenko smiled. “Otherwise it would be you cooked instead of Dokie.” Still wearing most of his battle gear, the baron’s son had a leather scabbard at his hip and a black shield slung across his shoulder. Jenko was a strong, swaggering fellow of eighteen. Tousled brown hair crowned his head and fell to just above his shoulders. Towering even over his father, arms stacked with muscle, Jenko was probably the stoutest man in Gallows Haven.

  “In battle, you need to keep your feet,” Baron Bruk said. “Lying facedown in the muck whilst garbed in heavy armor is a horrible position to find oneself in. Truth is, I don’t think any of you boys have a holy prayer’s chance against the White Prince’s army. Regardless, the Silver Throne requires land barons to train all conscripted young men the length and breadth of Gul Kana in the art of warfare. That’s my charge. Believe me, if for some reason Sør Sevier should ever reach Gallows Haven, I guarantee, they won’t wait for a sunny day just so you fellows don’t have to get your feet wet. I was in the Iron Hills with King Borden when Sør Sevier first invaded Wyn Darrè. A snowstorm and freezing wind struck the walls of Oksana like needles of ice. Did that stop Aeros’ slaughter? No. Our legion of Amadon Silver Guards and Dayknights lent Wyn Darrè what aid we could, but our numbers were few. The White Prince marched straight through the snow and straight over us. Very few of us were lucky to escape that day. I saw King Borden fall with my own eyes. I have seen war.”

  The baron leaned over, planted scarred and calloused hands on their table. His steely gaze, angry and filled with purpose, cleaved through Stefan like a sharp knife. “In battle, not all die gloriously. Not all die instantly. Lest you forget your lessons, when armies face off, there first comes an onslaught of arrows. A Sør Sevier longbow is a six-foot-long affair. And their archers can launch near twenty arrows a minute. And when armies finally do clash, be glad for what plate armor you have, even if you it’s naught but rusted junk from
that old keep. It will block most attacks. A well-placed sword thrust may not cleave chain mail. But it can drive the links down into your flesh. Then you’ve got yourself a real mess of a wound to deal with. Try running around the battlefield with chunks of your own mail lodged in your gullet as you slowly bleed out. Take your training seriously, all of you.”

  “I’m good with a sword,” Nail interjected. “Getting better with the—”

  “Where is Shawcroft?” Baron Bruk tersely asked. “Still pissing his time away at the mines, I wager?”

  “He went to the mines early this morning,” Nail answered, stung that the baron had so casually dismissed his swordsmanship skills. “He made mention he would be gone digging for a week. I’m to stay with Stefan’s family whilst he’s away.”

  The baron met Nail’s gaze. “I was hoping your master would see fit to help me with you conscripts. But, Laijon knows, everything that man does in those gold mines is of utmost import.” With that, Baron Bruk withdrew from their table and made his way toward the tavern’s front door.

  What does Shawcroft know of swordsmanship or archery? Nail knew there had been some tension between his master and the baron as of late. It had something to do with the gold mines. Nail thought it of little import. But Jubal Bruk had just now said his master’s name like it was poison on his tongue. That the baron wanted Shawcroft’s help with the conscripts seemed laughable in many ways.

  Jenko Bruk remained. He sidled up to their table, looking at Nail unflinchingly. “My father’s right, you know. All the gold was stripped from the mountains centuries ago. No Mourning Moon Feast was ever held for gold digging. Grayken hunts are what Gallows Haven was built upon. The grayken are what sustains Gul Kana. Spend your days at sea doing men’s work, Nail. Bring home a grayken or a load of salmon. Feed the entire town. Now that’s a true living. When is your master going to realize that?”

  Nail cared little for Jenko’s tone. Jenko’s two-year conscription to the church and crown was nearly over. It was well known that he would soon inherit his father’s grayken-hunting vessel. Jenko’s position in Gallows Haven was firmly set. Nail, on the other hand, was heir to nothing. Still, as much as he agreed with the baron’s son that mining was a waste of time, Nail knew the hard work Shawcroft had set him to all these years had built him up as a man. Swinging ax and pick had made him strong. He took some pride in that and was loath to see Jenko slander it.

  “Nail means to join us on your father’s grayken hunt,” Stefan said.

  “Is that so?” Jenko Bruk gave Nail a sharp look.

  “I’ve Shawcroft’s permission, of course, to learn the fishing trade whilst he’s at the mines,” Nail answered, knowing his words were a lie. Shawcroft would have no clue if he went grayken hunting and would disagree with it strongly. But the man was working the mines for the week. The average grayken hunt took less time than that. Nail knew he would be in open defiance of his master. But he didn’t care. The man could be demanding, stubborn, disagreeable, and cruel. Nail was completely dependent on Shawcroft, yet at the same time, to be free of the man was his greatest desire.

  “You wish to be a grayken slayer?” Jenko asked. “You’ll more likely get shark bit or gill-fucked by one of the merfolk than become a hero.”

  “Nail will come back a hero all right,” Zane piped up. “A hero covered in grayken blubber. Ava Shay can do naught but fall more in love with him then.”

  “Ava Shay, huh?” Jenko raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, she’s one ripe skinny lass.”

  Nail looked over his shoulder toward the bar, where Ava was wiping her hands on a towel. She glanced at their table and smiled. Jenko threw her a nod. Nail’s heart leaped in his throat. That the baron’s son might see the same in Ava as he had never crossed his mind. But the look that crept into Jenko’s eyes was alarming, and challenging. In fact, the baron’s son was staring at Nail. A smile played at the corners of Jenko’s mouth, and there was a smoldering, fierce squint to his eyes. “What say we spar for the right to Ava Shay’s hand at the Mourning Moon Feast, Nail?”

  “Well, kiss my pickle.” Zane Neville slapped Jenko on the back. “The gauntlet thrown. A bit of fun to top off an otherwise sorrowful evening, right? Dokie would love it were he here!” Beer Mug even seemed excited by the prospect, tail thumping the floor.

  Jenko was grinning now, fingers poised at the hilt of his sword. His gaze never wavered from Nail. “What say you, a spar in the street? Like Zane said, a bit of fun to lighten the mood around here. Or do you dare not draw swords with me?”

  On the training field, Nail had bested Jenko on occasion. Jenko had also beaten him. Every conscript knew he and Jenko were evenly matched. But to spar in the village street was another matter altogether. In front of the Grayken Spear, Ava Shay could finally witness his prowess. At the same time, he could put Jenko in his place.

  “Do you lack courage, Nail?” Jenko said, his smile growing. He snatched Nail’s charcoal drawing from the table, crumpled it, and tossed it to the floor.

  Nail looked at his ruined drawing through the stray strands of blond hair that now covered his face. Anger welled. The back of his right hand flared in pain, the cross-shaped mark stinging. He knew the baron’s son was only goading him. Until now, he had never harbored any ill will toward Jenko Bruk. Sure, he was the son of the richest man in town and could behave boorishly at times, but it was all talk to be ignored. However, this time his insults had done their job. Jenko’s cocky grin was now poised above Nail, and Nail wanted to smack it from Jenko’s face. A challenge followed by a friendly spar was normal fare at the Grayken Spear once the beer took hold. The only problem was, Jenko wasn’t drunk and this challenge had grown personal.

  Nail brushed the hair from his eyes, stood, and gathered his blade. “It’s not lack of courage.” He met the baron’s son eye to eye, then jammed his sword into the table, point first. At the sound, Zane’s dog jumped, as did the village conscripts sitting nearby. Nail kept his eyes trained on Jenko. “It’s because we are not yet outside that I haven’t knocked that smile from your face.”

  Zane yelled, “Nail has just accepted a challenge!”

  The Grayken Spear erupted in cheers. Soon the tavern began to empty, the eager spectators spilling out onto the street. “No steel,” Stefan said, looking nervously at both Jenko and Nail. “We wrap the blades in sackcloth as usual.”

  Jenko nodded, smile gone, eyes no longer fixed on Nail. The baron’s son strode from the tavern without looking back. A snub. As if Nail was of no account.

  A circle of spectators had already formed outside in the dark. Many bore torches, lighting the puddle-stained street in front of the Grayken Spear and the blacksmith shop next door. The rain was just a drizzle now. Still, footing would be treacherous in the mud. Nail stepped from the wood-plank porch of the tavern down into the sludge. Zane stood there with his dog. Stefan wrapped Nail’s sword in a long strip of sackcloth and handed it over.

  The crowd parted. Jenko waited in the middle of the circle, cinching his armor. His sword, already wrapped in strips of cloth, was near his shield at his feet. He donned his helm, snatched up his shield and sword, and stepped forward. Nail looked toward the Grayken Spear. Several of the tavern girls were on the porch among the onlookers—Tylda Egbert, Polly Mott, Gisela Barnwell, Liz Hen Neville, even Ava Shay.

  “I’m over here!” Jenko banged his sword against his shield.

  Nail put his helm on, wincing as he slipped his gauntlet over the cross-shaped wound on his sword hand. Once geared up, he felt outmatched before his foe. Jenko’s sword was long and sleek with a fine leather-strapped hilt. His iron-bossed shield was painted with a silver-wolf’s head. Nail’s shield was all wood and painted with nothing, his sword an old blade found in the catacombs of Gallows Keep. Baron Bruk had scraped it free of rust before giving it to him last year. It was a solid blade, if a tad stumpy, and came with a crooked hilt and a patched leather scabbard lined with rotted fleece. Overall, it was thick, clumsy, ill-weighted, and terri
bly unbalanced. Still, ever since the baron had handed it to him, Nail had worshipped the thing and slept with it near his pillow.

  Stefan stepped between Jenko and Nail and yelled for all to hear, “You spar in the normal fashion, as if the baron himself watched. Slash and counter. No thrusting. First with three strikes wins!” Stefan moved back and the way was clear.

  Jenko swung. Nail thrust his shield forward, and there was a clash of sackcloth-wrapped iron on wood. Nail stumbled back and Jenko’s next swing whistled over his head. Jenko swung four more times with rapid ease. Nail blocked each, but his shield arm grew weary. Jenko’s next blow struck heavy and hard. Jenko then faked high. Nail raised his shield and Jenko stabbed under it, striking the armor covering his stomach. Nail reeled back. “No thrusting!” Stefan yelled. “That strike doesn’t count! Slash and parry!”

  Jenko backed away. A good ten paces separated them now. Nail was embarrassed. He hadn’t swung yet, to Jenko’s flurry of blows. Nail used the time and space to get a much firmer grip on his sword and shield and, more importantly, his confidence. He was wheezing for breath under his helm and tried to calm down. There were cheers for him, the loudest coming from Stefan and Zane. Their cheers bolstered him. He advanced with his head down under the rim of his shield, peering over it, sword poised. Jenko lunged, swinging for his legs. Nail lowered the shield, spoiling the stroke, and slashed at Jenko’s helm. His sword connected with a thud, snapping Jenko’s head back. The baron’s son stumbled sideways. Nail hammered Jenko with his shield, and his foe fell to the ground.

  “One strike for Nail!” Stefan yelled, and a smattering of applause sounded from the crowd as Jenko scrambled away on hands and knees, mud sloshing under him. Nail, with the advantage now, swung again and connected with Jenko’s back. “Strike two!”

  Before Nail could finish him, Jenko sprang to his feet and lunged with two quick blows. Nail blocked them with ease. Now that Nail had gotten in two good hits, there was a bounce in his step. Jenko backed off, and there was space between them again. The baron’s son plunged ahead with two more strikes that landed fast and hard against Nail’s midsection. “Two for Jenko!” Stefan yelled. Nail reeled back, angry, side throbbing. He came up swinging as Jenko’s third blow connected the same time as his.